#mosquito writes

[azuremosquito]

Gratitude.

It was not a concept with which Astarion had much experience. Two hundred years of seducing people and luring them to their deaths for his master lent itself more to resentment and hatred. But this gratitude thing was rather nice.

Sure, he had saved Halsin for selfish reasons, of course - he had a mindflayer worm in his head and he did not fancy losing his good looks to tentacles, thank you so very much - but in doing so, Astarion and the other survivors of the crashed nautiloid had also cleared the road to Baldur’s Gate for the tiefling refugees and restored peace to the druid’s grove. The refugees had been so elated, they’d insisted on joining the camp for the night and celebrating properly.

Properly, it seemed, included a great deal of wine. The vampire had already had several bottles and mugs thrust into his hands from people who gazed at him like… like… some sort of hero.

At first it had alarmed him, his finely honed self-preservation senses tense and wary. Surely this was some sort of trap or ploy. He mustn’t lower his guard for a moment because that was how people ended up as vampire food. He should know because he’d been very good at it.

But these happy faces around the campfire seemed… genuine. He didn’t know what to make of it. All these innocents smiling at him, unafraid. Old habits urged him to lure them off in secret one by one but… Cazador wasn’t here. Astarion, for the first time in two centuries, was free.

And he had to admit, it felt good to have these people looking up to him. Very good. In fact, he could quite get used to this sort of adoration. He deserved nothing less, if he were being honest with himself. Although, it did admittedly have some downsides. He thought back to Lae’zel’s ‘proposition’ and a shudder squirmed its way down his spine.

While he had been forced to seduce women and men alike to feed Cazador’s insatiable hunger, he had a preference for male companionship, and certainly none that sounded quite so violent as Lae’zel had hinted at.

“You should be out there mingling. Everyone wants to celebrate with you,” a quiet voice spoke somewhere behind and above him.

Astarion felt another tremor through his body. How had a man as big as Halsin managed to sneak up on him in utter silence? Rearranging his face into a flirtatious smirk, the pale elf turned in place and gazed up at the taller man through his eyelashes. “I was looking for you, actually.”

Halsin was a giant of an elf, towering over him (and everyone else, for that matter), with arms like muscled tree trunks; Astarion was fairly certain those arms were bigger around than his waist, and the thought sent a tingling heat to his loins. Halsin was a powerful man who commanded respect, a renowned healer who led with fairness and kindness, not through fear and domination. And yet, Astarion had seen firsthand how ferocious the druid could be in a fight, when something he cared about was threatened.

Here was a valuable ally, if only he could properly ingratiate himself with the gentle giant. Astarion had been flattering Gale previously; what better source of protection than an eminently powerful and skilled wizard, one who had caught the eye of a very goddess? And then the blasted man had gone and revealed that he was a walking bomb, disgraced by said goddess. Astarion had enough problems without adding that to his list.

He purred at Halsin, taking a step closer into the big man’s personal space. “I thought we could find ourselves a little privacy. Get to know each other better.” He waited a beat before dangling the carrot. “Or, perhaps there’s something else you’d rather do besides talking?” The flirting came easily to him, as natural as breathing had once been. A means to make himself useful. A way to protect himself.

He saw interest kindle in the tall druid’s eyes, felt the man take a deep, steadying breath, his snug leather robes creaking around his barrel of a chest. A gentle smile played around the man’s lips as he gazed down at Astarion.

His words, however, were a gentle rebuff.

“Hmm… I’m sure there are. You strike me as extremely… resourceful. But there are many grateful people here who want to spend time with you. I must not keep you all to myself.” Astarion felt a sinking sensation in his gut, until Halsin added, “as enjoyable as that may be.”

Playing hard to get, was he? Astarion generally chose easier marks but something about this massive bear of a man called to him. Certainly, ingratiating himself with Halsin would have many advantages, not the least of which was having his very own resident healer with a great deal of knowledge about these damned illithid tadpoles squirming around in their heads.

No, he could be patient.

In the meantime, he rather thought he could go enjoy being adored.

“Some other time, then.” With a last, lingering glance at the druid, Astarion left the shadows and rejoined those gathered around the campfire in celebration.

[theshitpostcalligrapher]

whenever i feel the need to write poetry I stay up way too late and watch at least 10 scishow videos and I'm good to go

[spaceistheplaceart]

found an old ekurei comic rotting in my files, decided to finish it. upon my rewatch of mp100 i kept noticing how many times dimple was referred to as a pet- but he's not ! ! ! he's a friend :)

[melooooo17]

@openphrase123 your fanfic(s but i mainly made art of the mira and siffrin one because i cant remember words for the life of me for i do not speak french) IS???? ? SO GOOD. SO GOOD IM FOAMING AT THE MOUTH finally something to look forward to in the week fr

Mild spoilers for it ig!! But nothing too explicitly groundbreaking i dont think it'll kill your mom to look at these without having read the ff first

Don't mind the shit quality i??? I drew all these so fast theyre kinda shit and i have yet to fully acclamate isat to my artstyle so it's mid

Teehee me when i make shitty rushed fanart to show my appreciation that i cannot put into words for my faovorite games and also authors

peep the rant in the tags

[holdmymallowsweet]

A Wisp of Affection

Richard Jackdaw x f!MC

Word count: 1,635

A chance meeting in the depth of a summer night leads to some playful banter, and an intriguing question.

Also on AO3, properly tagged

a/n: I’ve been feeling a certain way about this ghost boy lately, and then I came across Sasha Alex Sloan’s “Dancing with your Ghost” by chance and it put me in a wonderfully melancholic mood. And now that you know what to blame for this, enjoy.

There was something enticing about the Forbidden Forest at night. Laced with a prickling sense of danger, it promised adventure and glory- or perhaps notoriety, for those bold enough to venture into it. He might not have met an untimely death, if it hadn’t been for his odd fascination with the place.

Soft footsteps and rustling in the grass told him someone was approaching, and he felt her presence before he even saw her.

She found him again.

He turned his head to look at her, which always startled her a bit-

But then, where was the fun in getting his head cut off, if he couldn’t use it for comedic effect? And it always made her laugh in the end.

This time was no different, eyebrows raised in a slightly disturbed frown, corners of her lips twitching upwards, she gave him a quick huff of laughter before closing the distance between them. 

“Hello, Jackdaw.”

She strode over to him, disturbing a swarm of fireflies as she went, before she sat down.

“Hello, you. Out for a midnight stroll?”

“Always, you know me.” She flashed him another one of her playful smiles.

He returned it fondly. They both liked to pretend that she came across him by accident when they met like this, usually in the depth of night, when everything was quiet, save for the ambient sounds of the forest. He always found it romantic, although not many agreed, at least not the girls he tried to court when he was alive.

She took a deep breath of air. The fireflies illuminating her skin when they flew close and the serene look on her face made her feel like something out of a dream. More of an apparition than himself. The sight would have made his heart flutter, if he’d had one. She brushed a flyaway strand of hair behind her ear, only getting it at the second try, and he wished he could have done it for her.

He’d known they were kindred spirits when he sent her off into the cave where he met his demise. When he noticed she still had her head, the next time he saw her, he was both relieved and disappointed. He wasn’t entirely sure how tangible relationships between ghosts could be, but Merlin, he’d have liked to discover it with her, if it had come to that.

Curious, fearless, playful and teasing in a way that felt warm and endearing rather than malicious. Traits that Anne had once shared with her, before Azkaban cruelly burnt them away. Perhaps that’s why he’d briefly entertained the notion of picking up where he left off with this one.

It was quite pointless to think about, really. He wasn’t of her world, and she wasn’t from his time, not even born yet when he was alive. It was no matter, he’d never mature- mentally or physically- beyond his 17 year old self. Whatever it was that they shared on these summer nights, it was a fleeting sensation. Soon enough, she’d outgrow him, worry about employment and other adult responsibilities, perhaps remember him as a schoolgirl crush as she aged while he would be no different than he was now. Waiting around for the next lass or lad who’d indulge him, but she’d likely always be one of his favourites.

He looked up at her- which reminded him that he was still holding his head, which he promptly replaced on his neck- waiting for her to speak. In the beginning, he’d tried to woo her with tales of his adventures, but she wasn’t easily impressed. Understandable, as she had plenty of adventures of her own under her belt. Over time, he realised that it was more rewarding to enjoy the silence with her, until she’d suddenly have a thought, or a question that led to something- a jaunt through the forest or sometimes just a bit of teasing back and forth between them, but he loved it all the same. 

“How’s Anne?”

All right, not what he’d hoped for. 

“Much the same, really, but I don’t want to talk about Anne right now.” He only ever visited her in St. Mungos out of a sense of moral obligation, she only vaguely remembered him and they no longer had anything to talk about anyway. Being ultimately responsible for her fate, the guilt would forever stay with him, but he didn’t want to let it spoil the moment.

She said nothing, only measured him with those piercing eyes of hers that seemed to see right through him, in more ways than the obvious one. She’d always been the perceptive sort, had a knack for figuring out what went on in the heads of others. It could be quite unnerving, but thrilling at the same time.

“How come I never see you around the castle?” she asked, evidently content to drop her previous question.

“Why, did you miss me?”  

He’d avoided her on purpose. She had her own life in the light of day, and he didn’t want to constantly fight the temptation to invade her privacy. This was at most a dalliance, not the romance of the century, and it was better that way, considering their circumstances.

“Do you remember the deathday ballroom? I thought I’d see you there sometimes, but I never do.” 

He made a face. “Not really my preferred choice of location. Or company.”

She chuckled. “Not one for dancing, are you?”

“Did you happen to take a look at the other ghosts? Hardly anyone there who’s not old enough to be my mother. Or my grandmother.”

She raised an eyebrow. “I’m fairly certain at least some of them died after you.”

“That’s not really how this works.”

She laughed. If only he could dance with her- 

Actually, perhaps he could. One of those stiff, boring dances that didn’t involve touching. He watched her as she pushed back that strand of hair again. It was hard to imagine her curtsying in a pretty dress anyway, she looked much better running and scrambling through the forest, with the hems of her robes frayed beyond the capabilities of even the most potent repairing charms.

“You know, speaking of dance partners…” 

“Yes?” He was perfectly willing to change his mind though, if that’s where she was going with this.

“Have you ever kissed someone?” she asked, giving him a curious look.

“I’ve done more than kissing, little fledgeling. I was quite popular with the girls in my time.”

She raised an eyebrow and gave him a derisive snort. “Oh? How’d that work out for you?”

He grimaced. Poorly almost seemed to be an understatement, but then neither of them had ever been as good a match for him as her. More willing and able to follow his clues and solve his riddles than Anne, more intrigued by the treasures in his thief’s den than Apollonia- she was a bit of a magpie herself, much like him. They would have been so good together.

“Why, looking to take advantage of my expertise, are you?” She had no shortage of male acquaintances she might possibly want to kiss. Personally, his galleons were on the freckled brunet- that one reminded him a bit of himself. He wasn’t sure what she would have wanted with the sarcastic, blind one, but then there was no accounting for taste, and she always was a bit unpredictable. He wouldn’t blame her either way, there could never be anything real between the two of them, and she had needs like any other person.

“Do you miss it?”

“Obviously.”

She didn’t respond immediately, staring at her outstretched legs, tapping the tips of her boots together.

“If someone kissed you… uhm, had their lips close enough to yours that you would be kissing, I suppose, do you think you could feel it?”

He took a moment to stare at her. “Of course not.” 

She turned to meet his eyes. Was he imagining the slight blush on her cheeks? It was hard to tell in the darkness. Was this going where he thought it was?

“I mean emotionally. You can clearly feel joy, and sadness-”

“Only one way to find out.” He swiftly grabbed his head again, holding it so that he was at eye level with her- if she wanted to, she could laugh, play it off as a joke.

Merlin, that startled expression was even more adorable up close, and her theory was already proven right. He couldn’t remember ever being so excited and nervous about a kiss, not even when he was alive. But there was no way he’d tell her, not while there was still a chance that she’d close the distance, and he could perhaps feel the tiniest sliver of her warmth, or get an idea of what she tasted like.

He almost couldn’t believe his luck when she leaned forward, close enough that he could count her eyelashes, only to stop a finger’s width away from his lips. 

Then she smirked. “Did you think I was going to give you my first kiss? Just like that?”

“Well, it wouldn’t have to count-�� he pouted.

She laughed. “If you want my kiss, you’ll have to earn it.”

“How?”

She stood up, brushing dirt off her robes. “I’m sure you’ll think of something,” she said, flashing him a last, teasing smile before she turned around and started walking back the way she’d come.

“You’re leaving?” 

“For today.”

His mind feverishly tried to come up with something, anything, to get her to stay.

“Wait.”

She turned around, looking at him expectantly.

“How about a riddle? Just for you. In exchange for the kiss.”

Her eyes sparkled.

There was no version of forever that they could share, but on these summer nights, for a brief, fleeting moment in time, she was his.

a/n 2 : So there you go, I wrote this over the course of two glorious moody summer nights and it was so much fun. They always say ‘write what you want to read’, and this really is just something I really, really wanted at that moment, but if you liked it as well (let me know if you did) I’m happy. ❤️ This little encounter takes place after the whole Ranrok issue is resolved and Mc is just another (adventurous) student, Anne has been released from Azkaban and is living at St. Mungo’s permanent care ward, while Jackdaw is trying to settle in as one of Hogwarts’ ghosts. Also, I always imagined Jackdaw as a Slytherin (but I’m coming around to Ravenclaw!Jackdaw) and both MC and Anne as muggleborn Hufflepuffs (I just like the idea of those two being awfully similar, but with the crucial difference that Mc really is as adventurous and clever as Jackdaw expected Anne to be), but in the end none of their houses came up 😅 And finally, english isn’t my first language, so if you liked the story but you had a “she keeps using that word, I don’t think it means what she thinks it means” moment, feel free to let me know (just be nice about it) Cheers!

[fatehbaz]

hi! SUPER interesting excerpt on ants and empire; adding it to my reading list. have you ever read "mosquito empires," by john mcneill?

Yea, I've read it. (Mosquito Empires: Ecology and War in the Greater Caribbean, 1620-1914, basically about influence of environment and specifically insect-borne disease on colonial/imperial projects. Kinda brings to mind Centering Animals in Latin American History [Few and Tortorici, 2013] and the exploration of the centrality of ecology/plants to colonialism in Plants and Empire: Colonial Bioprospecting in the Atlantic World [Schiebinger, 2007].)

If you're interested: So, in the article we're discussing, Rohan Deb Roy shows how Victorian/Edwardian British scientists, naturalists, academics, administrators, etc., used language/rhetoric to reinforce colonialism while characterizing insects, especially termites in India and elsewhere in the tropics, as "Goths"; "arch scourge of humanity"; "blight of learning"; "destroying hordes"; and "the foe of civilization". [Rohan Deb Roy. “White ants, empire, and entomo-politics in South Asia.” The Historical Journal. October 2019.] He explores how academic and pop-sci literature in the US and Britain participated in racist dehumanization of non-European people by characterizing them as "uncivilized", as insects/animals. (This sort of stuff is summarized by Neel Ahuja, describing interplay of race, gender, class, imperialism, disease/health, anthropomorphism. See Ahuja's “Postcolonial Critique in a Multispecies World.”)

In a different 2018 article on "decolonizing science," Deb Roy also moves closer to the issue of mosquitoes, disease, hygiene, etc. explored in Mosquito Empires. Deb Roy writes: 'Sir Ronald Ross had just returned from an expedition to Sierra Leone. The British doctor had been leading efforts to tackle the malaria that so often killed English colonists in the country, and in December 1899 he gave a lecture to the Liverpool Chamber of Commerce [...]. [H]e argued that "in the coming century, the success of imperialism will depend largely upon success with the microscope."''

Deb Roy also writes elsewhere about "nonhuman empire" and how Empire/colonialism brutalizes, conscripts, employs, narrates other-than-human creatures. See his book Malarial Subjects: Empire, Medicine and Nonhumans in British India, 1820-1909 (published 2017).

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Like Rohan Deb Roy, Jonathan Saha is another scholar with a similar focus (relationship of other-than-human creatures with British Empire's projects in Asia). Among his articles: "Accumulations and Cascades: Burmese Elephants and the Ecological Impact of British Imperialism." Transactions of the Royal Historical Society. 2022. /// “Colonizing elephants: animal agency, undead capital and imperial science in British Burma.” BJHS Themes. British Society for the History of Science. 2017. /// "Among the Beasts of Burma: Animals and the Politics of Colonial Sensibilities, c. 1840-1940." Journal of Social History. 2015. /// And his book Colonizing Animals: Interspecies Empire in Myanmar (published 2021).

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Related spirit/focus. If you liked the termite/India excerpt, you might enjoy checking out this similar exploration of political/imperial imagery of bugs a bit later in the twentieth century: Fahim Amir. “Cloudy Swords” e-flux Journal Issue #115. February 2021.

Amir explores not only insect imagery, specifically caricatures of termites in discourse about civilization (like the Deb Roy article about termites in India), but Amir also explores the mosquito/disease aspect invoked by your message (Mosquito Empires) by discussing racially segregated city planning and anti-mosquito architecture in British West Africa and Belgian Congo, as well as anti-mosquito campaigns of fascist Italy and the ascendant US empire. German cities began experiencing a non-native termite infestation problem shortly after German forces participated in violent suppression of resistance in colonial Africa. Meanwhile, during anti-mosquito campaigns in the Panama Canal zone, US authorities imposed forced medical testing of women suspected of carrying disease. Article features interesting statements like: 'The history of the struggle against the [...] mosquito reads like the history of capitalism in the twentieth century: after imperial, colonial, and nationalistic periods of combatting mosquitoes, we are now in the NGO phase, characterized by shrinking [...] health care budgets, privatization [...].' I've shared/posted excerpts before, which I introduce with my added summary of some of the insect-related imagery: “Thousands of tiny Bakunins”. Insects "colonize the colonizers". The German Empire fights bugs. Fascist ants, communist termites, and the “collectivism of shit-eating”. Insects speak, scream, and “go on rampage”.

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In that Deb Roy article, there is a section where we see that some Victorian writers pontificated on how "ants have colonies and they're quite hard workers, just like us!" or "bugs have their own imperium/domain, like us!" So that bugs can be both reviled and also admired. On a similar note, in the popular imagination, about anthropomorphism of Victorian bugs, and the "celebrated" "industriousness" and "cleverness" of spiders, there is: Claire Charlotte McKechnie. “Spiders, Horror, and Animal Others in Late Victorian Empire Fiction.” Journal of Victorian Culture. December 2012. She also addresses how Victorian literature uses natural science and science fiction to process anxiety about imperialism. This British/Victorian excitement at encountering "exotic" creatures of Empire, and popular discourse which engaged in anthropormorphism, is explored by Eileen Crist's Images of Animals: Anthropomorphism and Animal Mind and O'Connor's The Earth on Show: Fossils and the Poetics of Popular Science, 1802-1856.

Related anthologies include a look at other-than-humans in literature and popular discourse: Gothic Animals: Uncanny Otherness and the Animal With-Out (Heholt and Edmunson, 2020). There are a few studies/scholars which look specifically at "monstrous plants" in the Victorian imagination. Anxiety about gender and imperialism produced caricatures of woman as exotic anthropomorphic plants, as in: “Murderous plants: Victorian Gothic, Darwin and modern insights into vegetable carnivory" (Chase et al., Botanical Journal of the Linnean Society, 2009). Special mention for the work of Anna Boswell, which explores the British anxiety about imperialism reflected in their relationships with and perceptions of "strange" creatures and "alien" ecosystems, especially in Aotearoa. (Check out her “Anamorphic Ecology, or the Return of the Possum.” Transformations. 2018.)

And then bridging the Victorian anthropomorphism of bugs with twentieth-century hygiene campaigns, exploring "domestic sanitation" there is: David Hollingshead. “Women, insects, modernity: American domestic ecologies in the late nineteenth century.” Feminist Modernist Studies. August 2020. (About the cultural/social pressure to protect "the home" from bugs, disease, and "invasion".)

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In fields like geography, history of science, etc., much has been said/written about how botany was the key imperial science/field, and there is the classic quintessential tale of the British pursuit of cinchona from Latin America, to treat mosquito-borne disease among its colonial administrators in Africa, India, and Southeast Asia. In other words: Colonialism, insects, plants in the West Indies shaped and influenced Empire and ecosystems in the East Indies, and vice versa. One overview of this issue from Early Modern era through the Edwardian era, focused on Britain and cinchona: Zaheer Baber. "The Plants of Empire: Botanic Gardens, Colonial Power and Botanical Knowledge." May 2016. Elizabeth DeLoughrey and other scholars of the Caribbean, "the postcolonial," revolutionary Black Atlantic, etc. have written about how plantation slavery in the Caribbean provided a sort of bounded laboratory space. (See Britt Rusert's "Plantation Ecologies: The Experiential Plantation [...].") The argument is that plantations were already of course a sort of botanical laboratory for naturalizing and cultivating valuable commodity plants, but they were also laboratories to observe disease spread and to practice containment/surveillance of slaves and laborers. See also Chakrabarti's Bacteriology in British India: laboratory medicine and the tropics (2012). Sharae Deckard looks at natural history in imperial/colonial imagination and discourse (especially involving the Caribbean, plantations, the sea, and the tropics) looking at "the ecogothic/eco-Gothic", Edenic "nature", monstrous creatures, exoticism, etc. Kinda like Grove's discussion of "tropical Edens" in the colonial imagination of Green Imperialism.

Dante Furioso's article "Sanitary Imperialism" (from e-flux's Sick Architecture series) provides a summary of US entomology and anti-mosquito campaigns in the Caribbean, and how "US imperial concepts about the tropics" and racist pathologization helped influence anti-mosquito campaigns that imposed racial segregation in the midst of hard labor, gendered violence, and surveillance in the Panama Canal zone. A similar look at manipulation of mosquito-borne disease in building empire: Gregg Mitman. “Forgotten Paths of Empire: Ecology, Disease, and Commerce in the Making of Liberia’s Plantation Economy.” Environmental History. 2017. (Basically, some prominent medical schools/departments evolved directly out of US military occupation and industrial plantations of fruit/rubber/sugar corporations; faculty were employed sometimes simultaneously by fruit companies, the military, and academic institutions.) This issue is also addressed by Pratik Chakrabarti in Medicine and Empire, 1600-1960 (2014).

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Meanwhile, there are some other studies that use non-human creatures (like a mosquito) to frame imperialism. Some other stuff that comes to mind about multispecies relationships to empire:

Lawrence H. Kessler. “Entomology and Empire: Settler Colonial Science and the Campaign for Hawaiian Annexation.” Arcadia (Spring 2017)

No Wood, No Kingdom: Political Ecology in the English Atlantic (Keith Pluymers)

Archie Davies. "The racial division of nature: Making land in Recife". Transactions of the Institute of British Geographers Volume 46, Issue 2, pp. 270-283. November 2020.

Yellow Fever, Race, and Ecology in Nineteenth-Century New Orleans (Urmi Engineer Willoughby, 2017)

Pasteur’s Empire: Bacteriology and Politics in France, Its Colonies, and the World (Aro Velmet, 2022)

Tom Brooking and Eric Pawson. “Silences of Grass: Retrieving the Role of Pasture Plants in the Development of New Zealand and the British Empire.” The Journal of Imperial and Commonwealth History. August 2007.

Under Osman's Tree: The Ottoman Empire, Egypt, and Environmental History (Alan Mikhail)

The Herds Shot Round the World: Native Breeds and the British Empire, 1800-1900 (Rebecca J.H. Woods, 2017)

Imperial Bodies in London: Empire, Mobility, and the Making of British Medicine, 1880-1914 (Kristen Hussey, 2021)

Red Coats and Wild Birds: How Military Ornithologists and Migrant Birds Shaped Empire (Kirsten Greer, 2020)

Animality and Colonial Subjecthood in Africa: The Human and Nonhuman Creatures of Nigeria (Saheed Aderinto, 2022)

Imperial Creatures: Humans and Other Animals in Colonial Singapore, 1819-1942 (Timothy P. Barnard, 2019)

Biotic Borders: Transpacific Plant and Insect Migration and the Rise of Anti-Asian Racism in America, 1890-1950 (Jeannie N. Shinozuka)

[aka-indulgence]

Guess who got dengue fever!!! 🤪🤪🤪

[jaguarys]

Thinking about a Jedi Maul AU where Palpatine decides to send him out too early to hopefully Kill Some Jedi and he ultimately picks possibly the worst target imaginable in going after Mace Windu. Both because Mace is inarguably the best swordsman of the Order and just not menaced at all and also because he's way too tired for a feral teenager bouncing off him with seemingly never-ending energy to continually try to kill him. And so Mace kind of picks him up by the scruff of the neck and carts him off to the Order like "Um. Evil child. Help" but at this point Maul has imprinted on him with some really warped form of respect and so. Mace ends up with a fucked up little padawan who's more domesticated than really redeemed. But if the results are the same, who really needs to know

[fsnavratil]

critters

//fs navratil

[creatore-is-an-amarena-addict]

HUMANS ARE SPACE ORCS: TREAT OF EXTERMINATION

Alien: sorry to interrup... whatever you're doing... but what exactly are "mosquitoes"?

Human: *stops trying to lick elbow* you mean mosquitoes? Oh those are a species of insects with an itchy bite that suck your blood when you are distracted

Alien: wait WHAT? you mean that there is a creature that would suck the blood out of you?!

Human: yea i don't think there is human that has never been bitten by one

Alien: you mean that having your blood, the fluid that keeps you alive, sucked by an insect is a COMPLITELY COMMON experience for a human?!

Human: pretty much

Alien: how do you survive that? From what i understoad humans die if they lose too much blood

Human: that's true, but mosquitoes are actualy really small and take an insignificant amount of blood, what is really annoying is that their bite is itchy

Alien: oh, that doesn't seam like that much of a pro-

Human: but you could also get infected with a likely fatal parasite

Alien: WHAT?!

Human: yea they carry some real nasty parasites, that's why them and parasites kill so many peoples in less developed countries.

Alien: wait so are you telling me that a single minuscle insect that can suck your blood whitout you noticing can infect you with a mortal parasite or illness?!

Humans: they also shit and piss on your skin witch further irritates the bite.

Alien: That's terribles! Humans had to deal with this for hundreds of generations?!

Humans: yea but over the years we found ways to cure most of the viruses they carry but the parasites are still a problem so we found a more permanent solution

Alien: oh that's inspiring, you humans usualy ignore this kind of problem after you resolve the bigger issue, what did you do? Perhaps did you ingeneer the human race to be less desirable to those creatures? Or, or you made a special repellent with a 100% rate of success? Or a special vaccine that creates a special film around your body to protect you from the bit-

Human: we exterminated them

Alien: i should have expected that

Human: at least we tried, but then we realized that would impact the ecosistem greatly so we are just back to spraying them to death whenever we get bitten

Alien: That's... That's weirdly considerated for your species standard... im gonna hope you did the same with the parasites

Human: oh no those one are basicaly extinct

Alien: normaly i would be bafled about how you made an entire species go extinct but from what i understoad those species where hazard to human health so i understand the decision this time

Human: nah i can assure you we did this only becouse they where annoying and painfull to deal with, health hazards or not.

Alien: ok so you decided to punish an entire species with total extinction just becouse they where annoying your population?!

Human: don't be silly we just eradicated the 3 main species that attack humans, also we constantly deal with creatures that we put under treat of extinction, that's kinda what we do with things we consider "ugly" or "annoying" like most bugs or small animals

Alien: *becomes the alien version of pale from fear* thank you for your time... *goes away to warn the galaxy of the human habit of extermination creatures*

[unjustgalaxy]

perhaps i will writ e another cannibalism fic...... this time lint eats a little snackie (full meal) (the meal is troy)

YEAAAHHHH❗❗❗❗ cheering and jumping like people who watch sports. i loooove a cannibalism. any time there is blood involved or whatever im Down!!

hell yes. lint deserves a snackie... troy shouldnt have been so tasty idk what to tell him🙄🙄

[azuremosquito]

The start of bad decisions...

Notes: Fic contains trauma mention, Astarion's memory of Cazador's abuse, and dishonestly leading Gale on.

Full NSFW version can be found here.

It had been marvelous, while it lasted.

For a precious few weeks, Astarion had allowed himself to believe things could be different. That he could be free, that he could make different choices. Help people, instead of hurting them. It had felt so good to inspire hope, instead of fear. Well, still a little fear; he was still himself, after all. But this time, to those who deserved it. He had savored the heady sensation every time his companions looked to him to take the lead. Even fancied himself an excellent leader.

That all ended, crashing around his delicate pointed ears, when they reached the shadow-cursed lands and came across the fallen bodies of the tiefling refugees. The very same faces he had last seen cavorting with joy around his campfire mere weeks before. How they had adored him that evening.

And now, those faces were contorted in grimaces of pain and fear, anguish overwriting the happy memories in his mind. A few dead cultists lay strewn about among the dead, showing the refugees had not all fallen in vain, but too many had, just the same. As he gazed upon the slaughter, Astarion felt the old familiar pit of despair rising up to meet him.

Even reaching the Last Light Inn, discovering some precious few had survived, meeting and saving Isobel, receiving the cleric’s blessing… none of it reached his heart as he attempted to lock it away again. He should have known it was foolish to give in to hope. Two hundred miserable years under Cazador’s thumb should have killed that pointless notion long since.

It was no surprise, then, that his memories returned to his old master when they made camp that evening. He rarely rested well, but that night something was different, unease flooding his veins. Again and again, his thoughts returned to memories of pain, of suffering.

In the meditative trance elves partook instead of sleep, Astarion remembered his small cruelties, his sadistic whims. The long, torturous night Cazador had carved ‘poetry’ into his back. It all felt vividly real again. Every jagged cut of the ‘needle’ Cazador had used, the shapes he carved into Astarion’s flesh. For the briefest moment, he started to see the pattern of the design in his mind, to make sense of it. But his panic and pain won out, pushing the vampire spawn to sitting, drenched in sweat and panting with fright.

Trembling, he pushed himself upright on shaky limbs, thinking only to get away from the others, perhaps a late night swim in the stream to rinse free the last of the unwelcome, clinging thoughts. A faint glow at the edge of his vision halted him, however, and he gave a slight start to see a translucent image of Gale standing nearby, smiling at him. He had seen the wizard’s mirror images often enough to recognize it, but what he couldn’t fathom was what one was doing here in the camp, instead of the man himself.

“Good evening,” the image said brightly in Gale’s own voice. “I am here on behalf of Gale of Waterdeep. He wishes to extend you an invitation for a private conversation in a more suitable locale.”

Astarion blinked slowly, considered rejecting the offer. He was still shaken by his memories and uncertain he wished to be around the wizard just then. Those same memories, however, urged him to accept the offer. He wanted to feel something, anything else but that haunting pain. He remembered the way Gale had looked at him after the battle to save the inn, earlier that day. Yes, that might do nicely.

“Very well, show me the way,” he sighed.

“Gladly!” the mirror image replied. “Simply follow yonder path and soon you will find him.” The figure extended its arm toward a passage between the trees bathed in soft moonlight. They were camping in the shadow-cursed lands, there should be no moonlight at all, and Astarion knew at once this was Gale’s magic at work.

He set off down the path, and it wasn’t but a moment until a clearing opened before him revealing a stunning starscape, beautiful rainbows of aurora arcing across the sky. And the wizard himself sitting in the midst of it, hands raised in delicate, graceful gestures, plucking the Weave like a master played the harp.

Astarion sauntered closer, slipping into old seductive habits like a familiar mantle, one he had draped around himself many times. Gale lowered his arms and smiled up at Astarion as the pale elf alighted beside him. The way the wizard gazed at him, oh this would be so easy. The man had been making eyes at him since almost their first meeting.

Not that anyone could blame him, of course. Half the camp had thrown themselves at Astarion’s feet already. He had resisted their efforts thus far, luxuriating in being offered a choice, that he needn’t use his body or his looks to survive. Tonight, however, was different. Tonight, he wanted this. He wanted to feel something else, to erase the memories of Cazador’s cruelty and replace them with anything else. That he felt nothing for Gale romantically was unimportant; all that mattered was that Gale was available, interested. Obtainable.

The elf’s thoughts drifted briefly to Halsin, but he pushed them away almost as quickly. The big druid had become increasingly withdrawn as they approached the cursed lands, departing the camp as soon as they reached the inn. Astarion was good and well rid of him, then. It certainly didn’t hurt his feelings, not one bit.

“I love this time of night,” Gale spoke, drawing Astarion’s attention back to him. The wizard was leaning back on his hands, gazing up at the sky. Astarion had to admit, the man was quite fetching in this light. A suitable companion to pass the time. And what little time it was. He knew the wizard still planned to follow through with Mystra’s cruel command, more the fool, he. Definitely safe enough to dally with in the meantime.

“There’s an almost reverent silence that accompanies the peak of darkness, when you’d almost believe the dawn will never break.” Astarion stifled an eyeroll at Gale’s penchant for romantic poetry and remained silent. “The cradle… of eternity,” Gale continued, oblivious, gesturing at the aurora overhead. “The timelessness of lovers.” He paused and gazed pointedly at Astarion. “That most beautiful of fantasies.”

His thoughts on the poetry notwithstanding, Astarion knew his role well, had played it countless times over the last two centuries. He shifted slightly, just enough for their shoulders to brush together, a flirtatious smirk curving one corner of his mouth. “It’s breathtaking, Gale,” he cooed praise for the other man. “Is this starry sky your doing?” Flattery would get him everywhere with this one.

“Indeed.” Gale seemed pleased as he gazed back up at the heavens. “The curse is still present, of course. Just veiled at arm’s length, for now. Not a trick I can repeat often, but tonight? Tonight is different.” His eyes drifted back to Astarion, drinking him in. “This may be my last night alive. I wanted it to be under a canopy of beauty and wonder… and with company to match.”

Astarion smiled again, holding the wizard’s gaze and letting his pinky brush over Gale’s near his in the grass, hearing the other man’s breath hitch. Felt his heartrate stir. So simple. Astarion had whispered many such honeyed words of his own in the past, valuable tools in his arsenal of seduction. Gale had no need for them with Astarion, the man was simply a true romantic at heart. Pathetic. Astarion would have the wizard eating out of his hands before morning.

Gale blushed and cleared his throat, gazing back at the stars. “I thought this place might bring me peace. I thought it might make the weight of what I must do feel a little lighter… but I am not so sure.” His brows furrowed in pain and, for the briefest moment, Astarion felt a pang. Romantically he might not feel toward the man, but Gale had proven himself a true friend time and again.

“I refuse to believe this is the end. We’ll find another way, I promise.” The words were out of Astarion’s mouth before he could stop them and he silently cursed himself. Not that they were a lie, per se. He didn’t wish for Gale to blow himself up to save the gods' damned world, but he failed to see why he should stop the man if it would save all of their skins.

“Thank you,” Gale sighed, turning his hand over and curling his fingers against Astarion’s palm. “But, even if we do find another way, perhaps this is the right way. The end fate wishes for me.” Gods preserve him from melancholy fools determined to be martyrs. “There is no point in running from it,” Gale continued his mournful monologue, gazing away. “Better to meet it on my own terms.”

“Why are you so sure it’s inevitable?” Astarion demanded, hearing the petulance in his own voice and scowling faintly. “We haven’t even found this ‘Heart of the Absolute’ yet.”

Gale ignored his question, perhaps reciting a speech he had rehearsed in his head for days, and would not be swayed from it. “One moment with you could sate me for a lifetime, and prise the fear from my heart. I’m so very glad you came, to share this with me.” He nodded back at the magical sky overhead, bathing them in shades of teal and indigo. “I know this is all unreal, but I created it for you. You must know that you’re…” Here, his pretty words finally faltered. “That you’re very special to me.” His brows knit together, his gaze earnest as he turned back to Astarion.

Oh no.

“If things were different, if we were home, I’d have taken the time to do things properly. To say it all better,” Gale continued. “But time is short.”

Oh no. Stop, don’t say it! Astarion begged in his mind. “I’m in love with you.”

No…

Astarion swallowed a painful lump in his throat. This wasn’t right. He didn’t want this. Not… not that. Not love. Absolutely not. This ridiculous wizard, wearing his heart on his sleeve, giving it to anyone who wasn’t cruel to him for five minutes!

He couldn’t stand to hear it, not another word. Instead, he closed the distance between them, palm sliding up the side of Gale’s neck, thumb gently caressing the man’s jaw and coaxing his head up before sealing their lips in a hungry kiss. He felt Gale’s breath hitch, the man tense against him for the briefest moment before his own hands came up to cradle Astarion’s face, kissing him back urgently.

Yes. Yes! This was more like it.

Astarion began to push Gale back into the grass, but the wizard struggled free. “Wait, wait!” He rose to his feet, shaking his head. “I want it to be perfect - to bond with you in the way that gods do… intertwining our spirits in visions of the Weave.”

Astarion growled under his breath as he followed Gale to his feet, impatient with the unwanted romance. “I don’t need illusions.” He reached for the wizard again and felt the other man’s confusion.

“...are you sure? I could conjure up any sight that you could dream of, and a few you could not. I could use the Weave to make us feel sensations beyond reckoning. I could do more than woo you - I could wow you.” The man gazed at him so earnestly and Astarion stifled a sigh. Gods preserve him from romantic fools.

“You don’t need to impress me, Gale,” he sighed, drawing the wizard into his arms again. “I’m no god.” The admission brought a faint hint of bitterness to his tongue and he ducked his head, hoping to rinse it away with another kiss.

“Yes you are,” Gale murmured, adoration in his eyes, and Astarion felt his own dead heart stutter painfully, against his better judgment. “Alright then, let’s do it your way. So long as it’s with you.”

Astarion moved to draw Gale toward the ground once more, suddenly desperate to stop this beautiful mooncalf from saying another word, but the wizard got one final say in.

“A small gesture to your comfort.” He nodded over Astarion’s shoulder and the vampire turned his head to discover a plush, luxorious canopied bed had appeared in the center of the clearing. Well, that would certainly be more pleasurable than in the grass…

Smirking, he took hold of Gale’s hand and backed toward the bed, drawing the wizard along with him. Falling back onto the soft cushions and trusting Gale’s magic, he pulled his companion down atop him, kissing him heatedly once more. At last, Gale finally seemed content to let the conversation die, kissing him inexpertly but with an eagerness that more than made up for skill.

Astarion rolled limber hips and was rewarded with a desperate groan from the wizard atop him, the man’s need rock hard against the rogue’s leg. Beyond impatient by this point, he slid his hands down to unfasten Gale’s belt and pull that gaudy tunic off over his head and cast it aside. The wizard cuddled shyly against him but Astarion’s hands wandered appreciatively over the man’s skin, deft fingers tracing a map of his body and finding all the places that made Gale sing. Oh and what a vocal lover he was, the noises bubbling up from his throat guiding Astarion with ease.

Hooking a leg around Gale’s waist, Astarion effortlessly flipped them over, gently pinning the wizard beneath him as he bent for another kiss. Gale’s fingers twitched and threads of the Weave began loosening the elf’s clothing, the wizard dividing his attention between the kiss and magically undressing the man atop him.

“Oh my,” Astarion purred with a grin, breaking the kiss to shimmy out of his billowy shirt, his lean muscular chest on display. “That’s certainly new.” Bracing his hands on Gale’s chest, he gave another deliberate roll of his hips, grinding their bulges together and earning another pretty moan from the wizard. “I trust you brought along supplies for this little… seduction…”

Gale tensed beneath him and blushed in adorable embarrassment. “I… er… that is…”

“Oh gods help you,” Astarion sighed with a playful eyeroll. “You thought of everything else.” He reached into one of many hidden trouser pockets and produced a small vial of oil, pressing it into the wizard’s hand. “It’s a good thing you’re cute.” He leaned down to nibble on the man’s ear before adding in a sultry whisper, “and that I am always prepared. Now. Get naked for me, darling.” 

[the-lonelybarricade]

This is Mr. LB’s first trip to the states and I’ve been having the time of my life getting him to try all my favorite things from childhood

Yesterday I got him to eat one of those really soft sugar cookies with the neon frosting and you would have thought I gave him curdled milk from the expression he made 😂

[merakiui]

okay but what about mangaka jade who is known for writing some of the most batshit insane stories? they’re always so bloody and graphic, scenes depicting victims having their organs removed are always so… realistic in their portrayal some internet users have begun suspecting him of the bodies found around the city! but it’s just fiction, of course - it’s not like he derives any pleasure from seeing the human body disfigured beyond belief, until it’s but a lump of flesh and organs in disarray. just don’t question too much when you receive a request to model for mangaka! jade, even if the location he sends you is hours away from the city >_<

OOOOOO imagine being an internet sleuth trying to decipher the strange and mysterious mangaka known only by the pen name: naoh. They're a very talented artist and storyteller, but they're just so shrouded in anonymity! naoh never attends any conventions or events, but they do self-publish and sell their works through doujinshi and manga websites. naoh is rather particular when it comes to their work. They never resell works that have already been published. In essence, once a work is sold out it's never going to be sold again, and they only ever create a maximum of two works each year with limited numbers of copies. naoh themself isn't very active on their social media, only ever posting the rare WIP or an update on when a new work will be up for sale. Despite their quiet social media presence, they have gained quite the following. naoh never follows anyone on their account, and it seems like they rarely engage with fellow mangaka and creators with similar interests. They work alone.

You're a fan of naoh's work. The way they draw the human body is fascinating. It's something that could be seen in an anatomy textbook; it's always so realistic and yet still so eerily beautiful and stylized! You'll never forget how they draw emaciated bodies. It's an image imprinted in your brain: horrifyingly realistic and skeletal, a figure so gaunt it's quite literally skin and bones drowning in clothing that can no longer fit comfortably. You've always wondered how they manage to draw such visceral scenes (like the ones depicting clinical dissections or decaying corpses). And then there's the way they depict fear. It's almost always raw, stretching the characters' features into something horrific. It looks so real; it feels tangible. Fans often speculate if naoh has a job in law enforcement or any other profession that deals with the more grotesque and graphic sides of humans, which could be references for some of their horror stories and could explain why they're so good at depicting details.

But then there are the fans who go beyond simple, innocent curiosity and begin to ask disturbing questions: What if naoh isn't with law enforcement? What if, rather, they're the exact opposite: a criminal? It feels like a silly theory, but when you flip through the physical copies of their work and compare the plots to the yet-to-be-solved cases throughout the past few months you begin to spot a few minor similarities. They're never glaring; after all, naoh is a master of crafting both cutthroat terrors and subtle horrors. The type that builds suspense over time. The type that crawls into your head through your ear to whisper nonsense at night. The type that slowly forms a picture over time, but once you realize this it will have been too late.

In their most recent work, a young man is out for a hike when he takes a stumble and falls down a dangerous slope, landing on a rocky outcrop that breaks his leg and leaves him trapped many feet above the ground. He tries to call for help, but no one seems to hear his voice. He spends days on the outcrop, slowly losing hope and sanity. By the end of the story, he's so certain he's going to die that he drags himself over to the edge and free-falls to the ground below. He lands in a spattering mess of shattered bone and stringy, bloody muscle. A lump of a human. The cruel twist is that his hiking partner had actually left to get help as soon as he had fallen and that the man had only been stuck up there for ten hours. Not even a full day, yet panic seized him and left him in hysterics. Had he remained calm and waited, he would have been saved.

It's a terrifying concept made even more scary when you realize there was a story just like this that hit the news. Only it wasn't a man who had slipped. A woman had been out for a run through mountainous woods; she was training for an upcoming cross-country journey through uneven terrain when she sustained blunt force trauma to the head. Many suspect her running buddy to be at fault, as she was never found, and it's theorized she's still on the run. The woman had attempted to flee, but with her head injuries her senses were vastly impaired and she took too many wrong turns. Police suspect she unintentionally ran herself to the edge of a cliff. From there, the story is foggy and difficult to piece together, but it ends terribly: she was found at the very bottom days later, decomposing in thorny bushes, her body mangled and twisted and smashed beyond recognition. The pathologist noted her body was in such disrepair that it's unclear what truly killed her, whether the fall or injuries she had sustained prior to the fall.

And it isn't just this story that somewhat mirrors naoh's works (often it's a setting or a circumstance or a facet of the true crime itself incorporated. Very rarely is it about the victim). You read up on very long threads regarding naoh and their identity, and slowly you find yourself doing research of your own. You have no idea where to start, so for now you keep track of each story you hear on the news and try to match pieces of it to naoh's works in hopes of learning anything new. Unsolved cases, though plentiful and murky, are where you turn to, as well as the discussion boards online. So many people are convinced naoh is a killer. After reading a few rational theories, you're beginning to think so, too. (Though something tells you it could be coincidence, or it could be naoh taking inspiration from reality. They might not even be a murderer like some think; it might just be hateful people trying to sully their name.)

One day, while scouring naoh's social media for any clues, you get the idea to type the pen name into the search bar as if it might yield something interesting. And the first thing that pops up is: Sodium hydroxide (NaOH), known commonly as lye or caustic soda, is... You stop reading and scramble to grab naoh's first-ever work: a work in which that same chemical plays a major role in murder. NaOH is a substance that, when heated to a certain degree, can dissolve a human body into a syrupy liquid in just three hours.

And that's the pen name of a mangaka who writes and illustrates horror stories about the sordid sides of humankind. A mangaka who might just be a murderer racking up a horrifying kill count, and no one knows anything about them or where they might be in the world. Most of all, no one knows where they'll strike next and who will fall victim to a dangerous killer.

naoh is a mangaka catalouging their murders, and you're determined to prove it.

[cao-tick]

I be like "no don't do it let my boys rest please" in your rbs and meanwhile on my ao3 they're both going through it and by it I mean copious amounts of trauma

Of course they would be! Although at least you have control there

Here they are in my hands and you can stop me from giving Tubbo all the guilt of all the pain of Ghosboo >:)

Just for you <3

[wilteddreamsofbaldursgate]

*takes one deep breath of vacation air* Ah, yes, is this writing inspiration? 👀✨