#nor fermenting

[toxictoxicities]

What is it called when you turn a cucumber into a pickle?

[ty-bayonet-betteridge]

just realized that riley could probably make KILLER fucking booze

[blujayonthewing]

small brain: melliwyk likes a lot of pickled foods because pickling is really common in traditional gnomish cuisine for [worldbuilding spiral] reasons

big brain: melliwyk likes pickles because they're very forgiving of being purchased and then forgotten about

[impish-baby]

HEAR ME OUT!!

Demon king caretaker! You are a sacrifice from the people of your village to have another decade or peace and prosperity,but instead of sending the normal sacrifice how is a adult woman/man to became one or his "partners" they send a child!

The rest is with you;)

-💫

So rot, ferment, and decompose so all the things can grow - platonic! Yandere demon x child reader

Your head hurts and your knees are scraped and there's rope burns on your wrists-

You feel pitiful whining and sniffling, but it hurts! It hurts and you're upset, you're allowed to cry! Doesn't seem that way though when a woman from the village snarls at you to be quiet. They're just idiots, the whole lot of them..

They can't whisper to save their lives either, although they're obviously trying to. Hushed utterings echo around you as the council drags your already battered body through the forest, "the changeling child, we'll be rid off it and ensure our good tidings." with a stupid smug grin on their faces!

You're a plain old human like them! Just.. just because father said you weren't doesn't make it true. You wish the demon would just wipe out the entire village for a moment before quickly dismissing the thought. There's the farm... what would happen to the animals if the village was gone? There'd be no one to take care of them! You... you aren't going to see them again...are you? Nor pet a dog or or share a loaf of bread with the birds..

Before you know it, big fat tears are rolling down your face. What were once sniffles turning into broken sobs. The woman from before is about to snap at you again, but the village cheif shakes his head. It does not matter if you cry. No one is going to save you.

The alter used to be pretty, now it only feels like it's taunting you as you're made to kneel on its steps.

"Aeron," the chief's voice booms in the night, even the crickets silencing in the wake of it. "O Mighty Lord, we have once again come to offer a gift in exchange for your blessings. Please, heed us.." There's nothing. Not a sound, not a sign, nothing.

The chief clears his throat, about to speak again before suddenly choking and dropping to his knees clutching at his neck. Whoever was holding the rope tied around your wrists drops it as the rest of the counsel rushes to his side. You.. you think there's blood, but your attention is quickly drawn away when a hand cups your face.

"Oh, poor dear.." the man looks like an angel, despite the mangled wings. "How foolish of them, giving away something so precious.."

He hums, and before you know, you're lifted into his arms. You.. weren't so tired before, you're sure. All you can do now is lie weakly in his embrace, eyes drooping even as there's screams in the distance. An adoring smile graces his face as he gently pushes your head against his shoulder, hiding anything from view. "Sleep.. you'll be safe when you awaken, little one.."

[pissvortex]

Shadow of the Erdtree spoilers

Marika’s home village of shamans was believed to be capable of divinity. The hornsent believed it was their lot in life to be branded and melded together in pots, fermenting into a saint. This didn’t work, obviously. But Marika made a pact with an outer god whose intentions she did not understand nor care to: the greater will. Ascending to divinity, she erected a golden kingdom with the germination of a gigantic, alien fauna (the erdtree). She appropriated the brand her oppressors carved into her as the symbol of her kingdom. She sent her son Messmer the Impaler to enact a crusade against the hornsent, who had against their better judgement finally created a saint. Messmer massacred the hornsent and excised the scadutree and its people, an entire portion of the continent, from Marika’s kingdom (Lands Between map and Lands Between map with the Shadow Realm map overlaid):

After enacting her perfect, holy order, Marika’s progeny become mutated by the crucible of nature she has denied with the alien Greater Will. Eventually, her children are born with horns.

The player character exists in a world stunted by the legacy of Marika’s decision. Like a smaller plant being strangled under the canopy of a larger, invasive tree, your dying world literally exists in the Shadow of the Erdtree.

[dropsnectar]

Pollen and Potions: Bee-men x afab!reader

PART SEVEN

NSFW

You woke up alone. 

The cot was warm under where you had laid but the spots beside you remained cool. You reached your mind out through your bonds, experimenting. You could tell that Rena was somewhere nearby, emotions calm and smug. Lyith seemed to be outside of the hive, worry fretting itself in iridescent specks in your minds eye. That was another thing you noticed. Your minds eye was a little more present, like you were looking in two worlds at once.

You pull yourself up and start looking for Rena, tipetoing down the tunnel hall. You don't stop until you make it to the huge open room, filled with about twenty or thirty bee-men of varying appearances, colors and sizes. You could taste magic in the room, now what you recognized to be the mana of the hive, pulsing through the air. 

Everything smelled fresh and sweet, and something about the place, despite having no windows, felt refreshing and calming to you. You glance around looking for Rena, nodding and waving to Bee-men you have met before. They are all exuberant today, buzzing about you happily and greeting you with the customary hand squeeze or forehead bump. There is such a lightness about them, unlike you've seen in them before. 

You come to the corner of the room where there is another tunnel, brightly light by cool glowing orbs. The familiar orbs had been all about the area, expanded light and cool air. You welcomed the feeling, as you couldn't imagine how hot and humid the hive would be without them. You felt a sudden pulse of magic from the tunnel, and an increase in the scent of sweet honey. 

You come to a room where maybe six or seven Bee-men are working. Their are pots as large as people spanning the walls, several of which the Bee-men are working with. They all seem to be holding onto a string of magic rope tying them together as they sing out in a noise that is equal part bug and human. Surprisingly, it is a comforting, pleasant noise.

 You watch, as the thread seems to pulse wide, like a snake who is swallowing and digesting a mouse, slowly moving from one Bee-men, to one pot to another. You watch as one Bee-man, unconnected to this rope of magic, brings a jar of pollen with him, keeping pace and messaging the bulge.

 On his neck is a large block of obsidian, tied with twine. He is chanting, a dark green, almost black magic working from his hands. You recognize the cute little nose and brown hair. Haven.

“If you watch closely, you will notice that young Haven is using a type of magic we call Kvasir.” A hand is on your elbow and you turn to see Elder Bisou. 

“The magic is neither personal, nor Shared Magic. He… i do not know the word in your terms. He calls on the Kvas of old, our first ancestors, and they lend him the ability to bake the pollen's life into something we can layer into our magic. Much like salt is to humans. It is a hard skill that takes many hours. He must not falter his breath or devotion, lest he have to start all over again.”

You blinked, surprised your favorite gossip had such a vital role. Though in some ways it made sense. Haven had such a way with words, he could spin an enthralling story over the most minute of details. He really was a good orator. And apparently a Bee like Priest? You wondered what Bee-men afterlife looked like. 

Elder Bisou however, had more to say.

“After the nectar is fed through our magic and blessed by the Kvas, it is to be fermented for three days out in the sun, and then portioned and dried until it is the proper consistency. Of course, we dry the honey with our wings, and that too is considered a blessing from the wind.”

Elder Bisou was all but chanting, a preacher on his pulpit, relaying the word of his Gods.

“The nectar is of earth and water, the Kvasir, a blessing of spirit, the Sun and the wind to ferment, a transformation that fortifies our bodies, our mana, our souls. We are one with all in the gathering, in the making, in the consuming. We have not forgotten our roots, young witch.”

His eyes were like steel as he met your gaze. “Though I hear you are much more now. It is a miracle. I thank you for saving the lives of two of our children. And your efforts to save our hive in the ways you can.” He paused here, as if their was more he wanted to say, something that made his chest stick out, the graying fur their puffing.

“Lyith and Rena shall have much to explain to you I am sure. Even if they are terrible drones, leaving you alone in your most vulnerable time. More rest will do you well.”

He turned around, about to leave you, but you put a hand to his shoulder, excitement filling your chest as you remembered.

“Actually, I wanted to talk to you about your gardens! You see, I have this theory about the magic in the soil! I think its because of the beast men leaving. Well more specifically their… um. Waste. You guys have a treaty with the wolfmen a few miles out from here, right? I was thinking that maybe we could. Idk ask for their… fertilizer and see how that effects the ecosystem?”

Elder Bisou gave you tired eyes. “While I appreciate your passion, this is already a thought we have entertained. The issue is that we have no way of funding this “transaction”. Waste is not an easy thing to transport, or a topic welcome in embassy meetings. We only receive groceries through you humans from charity. I do not see any… kindness around the wolfmen shoveling their ‘shit’ into our backyards. I am sorry to disappoint you.”

He said it kindly but it felt like a slap in the face. You hadn't meant to open your mind to his emotions but you could feel them now, a sort of… disdain? The sort of smugness an adult holds in their throat while explaining to a child why they can't have a puppy. 

It occurred to you that this old Bee-man was a politician. And your well meaning intentions might have seemed like a slap in the face to his intelligence. Maybe. Something else seemed to be afoot here, as there was more complexity to this. You didn't need to taste his emotions in the air to know that.

You were feeling kind of dizzy.  Elder Bisou had left but you had leaned against the far wall. You could feel the bee-mens emotions without them throwing them at you, but it drained you. When your gaze focused again you noticed that the Bee-men in the room were trying their hardest to continue to sing and magic their honey, but their eyes still rested on you. Even Haven, who was supposed to be in communion with the holy of his ancestors, had eyes on you as he rubbed and chanted. 

Shame filled your heart. You had butted into a necessary and sacred process without any care. You wobbled up and out of the tunnel, hoping you had not done any harm.

Rena was on you in seconds. 

“What are you doing in there! You should have stayed in the infirmary, I was looking all over for you.” Worry, with a blood like tang filled the connection of your bond. You couldn't quite understand the emotions there, but there was pain in it. Like she had been hurt.

“Are you okay?”

“No! My Queen decides to go gallivanting around the hive before I can even tell her she is very vulnerable right now. Look at you, already stressing your mana.” She uses her hands to dust your shoulders and clothes of dirt from the floor of the hall, the only place in the hive with it, as the floors everywhere else were covered in what could only be linoleum like beeswax. 

“Where's Lyith?” You venture, feeling his own worry and a rush, as if he was flying fast, in your mind. 

“Hes getting you human food! All we have is honey here, and from what I can't tell, its not conducive to a healthy human diet.” She pulls your whole body into her arms and buzzes you off back to what you now knew as the infirmary. 

She had a small cup that steamed in one of her many hands. She set you down on the cot, leaning you so your back was braced by the wall, then covered you in several of the room's blankets before tucking the cup into your hand. You suddenly realized you were ravenous. 

You carefully sipped on the liquid. It was sweet. Hot water and honey, and possibly a little fruit juice glided itself upon your tongue. You smiled over at Rena, your heart full as she fussed over you, picking at your hair and braiding what she could. 

“So whats this about me being vulnerable?”

Rena continued braiding, her eyes not leaving your hair.

“I don’t want to say too much until Lyith gets here. But I’m sure you’ve noticed some changes by now. Your body is very weak because your mana is growing.”

“Is that why I can hear everyone's emotions so clearly?” You grimaced. You still had a bit of a headache. At least it only happens when you talk to someone. 

“That's part of it. You're so tense, come here.” She pulled you into her lap and started messaging the tight spots in your neck, another hand gently rocking on the skin between your shoulders. You shivered, as a wave of tingles worked down your spine.

“We were hoping you’d let us keep you here for a few days so we can watch you. Until everything gets figured out.” Her voice was even but you could tell their was anxiety in the pit of her stomach. She was pushing it down though. You continued to let her wrestle your muscles into soft, relaxed flesh. She sighed in satisfaction.

“Y/n!!!” A happy voice interrupted your quiet peace. It was Haven, the small brown drone vibrating with excitement as he flew towards you. Rena acted immediately, pulling you further into her lap and crushing you to her with the wall of her arms.

“Its the middle of the day, you should be working.” Her tone was gruff.

“We are on break!” He replied, before giving her and indignant eyebrow quirk. He then pushed his full attention to you and sat on the cot. 

“Congratulations on your recent mating! It was about time, with how much those two hung off you!” His words were hollow, as you were hit hard by Haven’s intense curiosity and hope. It almost choked you as you scrambled to adjust your mind's eye. 

“We are busy Haven. And you are stressing her out. She’s still adjusting.”

“So it IS true, you can feel us!” Haven must have been concentrating his mind at you, because you were met with a tsunami of emotions. His pleasure was palpable, a variety of reds. His fondness was warm and smelled of vanilla, as well as something else you couldn’t quite understand, mixed with the hope. A hunger?

“Get out. Now.” Rena stood up, carrying you up with her before pushing Haven off the bed.

“Whats going on here?” Lyith’s tone was hard, it echoed through the infirmary.

“I just wanted to know if she had made a decision yet! Besides, we are friends, right?” He looked at you hopefully. You sighed.

“Haven, I’m not really sure what's going on, but maybe you could come back later? I think I’m out of the loop here.” You realized then that all the talking and emotions had started to make you shake. 

Haven noticed too and looked somber. His voice then turned delicately light, and he organized his face. 

“Maybe we can talk tomorrow. See you guys!” He gave you one last look and then walked out the door. Lyiths eyes followed him. He didn’t seem upset, like Rena did, but you could feel that Lyith seemed torn. Noticing your touch on his mind his eyes met yours, and a loving smile blazed across his golden features.

“You need to eat.” He brought you a plate. It was a tuna sandwich and an apple. Your stomach roared to life, and you grabbed the plate out of Lyith’s hands, tearing through the fish and bread. You ate the whole sandwich in 10 seconds and tore into the apple. Rena relaxed her grip around you and nuzzled her nose into your hair, muscles relaxing. 

Lyith took Haven's place on the cot and opened his arms. Rena wouldn’t let you move. The two of them in the room, you started to feel at peace. But there was a conversation that needed to happen, and it had to happen soon.

“So, I’m your.. Queen now huh? What does that mean exactly?”  Lyith exchanged glances with Rena. 

“Well, it’s a lot like being married. Rena and I have sworn to love and protect you for the rest of our lives. And you accepted us into your mind, heart and body, fortifying us.” He crawled forward so he could take hold of your hand, caressing the curves of your fingers.

“Exiled Bee-men often survive dying by Queen Bonding with someone who has compatible pheromones. Thats how we are able to share our emotions. But you’re experiencing more then that right?”

You nodded slowly. “I could kind of tell where you guys were at.”

“And you were able to hear Heaven's emotions without him sharing them with you. You were able to pick up his pheromones and read them, despite not having a bond.”

“A Queenbond to another species is something that takes several weeks of mating to take. Not to mention, when you were healing Lyith, your magic should have only temporarily stabilized his magic. Instead you healed all the damage that he had accumulated from enacting magic without a Queen. Even if he had bonded to a normal Queen, he would not have been able to fully use his mana again.”

“You’re mana is turning into something like a true Queen. We don’t understand it.”

Your heart started pounding hard in your chest. You took stock. Did you feel any different? No. You were tired, but you were still you. Your mind went back to all the Bee-men who’s been eyeing you in the hall. The Joy, the hope, Haven’s hunger.

“The rest of the hive… they..,”

“No. Little One, there are two hives now. Ours and theirs. They are letting us stay here now in hopes of you becoming their Queen. That you would heal them all, and stop their inevitable walk towards death.”

The stakes are so high. 

You felt sick. You had only meant to save Lyith, but the whole hive?

You had wanted to help them, sure, but they wanted you to give your whole life away to them? You wanted to save them, but this might just be too much. 

“I’d have to give up my human life. And I’d have to become some baby making factory.”

“A Queen IS the mother of the hive, but she is so much more. She is also the heart. Like you are our hearts now.” Lyith leaned forward and the three of you were in a full embrace.

“We aren’t asking you to do anything you don’t want to. You don’t have to become their Queen if you don’t want to. But either way, we need to stay here for a few days. If you move your body too much, it might affect your mana and make you sick. Its possible that the stress of it could even kill you.”

Lyith pulled away and kneeled onto the floor so he could rest his head on your lap. His eyes didn’t leave you. Rena continued. “We are not able to hate you anymore, little one. We will not judge you if it's too much to ask. After all, another Queen could find her way to the hive.”

Twenty years.

 Your eyes started to water. You wanted to weep for them, for these Bee-men. For Lyith and Rena and Haven and everyone you had met here. You suddenly felt so young and small. You sat there and cried for what felt like an hour. It was all too much.

When you stopped you were bone tired. You tugged on your bonds between Rena and Lyith, and their minds consumed yours. Their pain for you, their worry, but also their love filled your mind. It was a balm to you. It was so intimate, this feeling of being one with them, but you had to admit you loved it. You loved them. 

You felt a wet warmth rubbing on your thigh. You looked down to see Lyith, his eyes big and round as he kitten licked your pants. You got goosebumps. You watched him for a second, the warmth flooding your cheeks.

“Lyith…”

“I think you’ve had a really stressful day, my Queen.” Lyith’s tone was innocence itself, but he continued to lick long stripes, causing a wet patch. You swallowed.

Seeing you not pull away, he shimmied his head up to the zipper of your pants and pulled it down with his teeth.  He then licked between the zipper, once, twice, three times. His hands snaked up to the top of your pants. Rena, seeing where this was going, pulled you out of her arms. 

She motioned Lyith off you and laid you down near the edge of the cot. She tossed Lyith a pillow. He rolled you over gently and positioned the pillow under you. Your entire face started to heat at the thought of how easy this was for them. Heavy arousal from both sides filled your mind, making you feel sensitive all over. Rena took hold of one of your thighs and pulled it closer to her side on the left. She started to reach over and message the skin of your chest as she pulled your chin to kiss her. 

Her breath was hot and her lips soft. The fluff of her chest felt good against your belly, as she had pushed up your shirt. Her tongue played hopscotch with yours, moving over and under, as if to tease you more. You whined at her as you felt Lyith kissing a slow trail on your inner thighs. His hand pulled your puffy lips apart, and he blew cool air onto it. The tension in your stomach wound deeper, waiting. 

He started licking wide flat lines from your entrance up your vulva. He took breaks, kissing and licking at your labia, before working his way slowly back to your clit, sucking. The texture made you groan, as he took his time. You don’t know how he did it, maybe he had practice, maybe he--fuck. 

He moaned into you, letting you know of his own pleasure as he humped the edge of the mattress. You ached for him, as Rena nibbled and sucked on your neck. You are writhing under them now. From Lyith, from Rena, from the utter devotion the were laying in waves upon your mind. It made your core boil, their emotions coating your consciousness with the blanket of their devotion. Despite the fact that they were the ones playing your body like some kind of instrument, you were the one with the power here. The one making them so crazy all they wanted to do was make you come one more time, scream out one more time. 

“You're our universe, my Queen. Won’t you come for us, just a little bit?” Rena whispered in your ear. Despite her words, Lyiths mouth was the center of your universe right now, building you to a peak so high, you weren’t sure where it would go. Then he sang into you, a high pitched needy note, and the tension broke. Your body was pleasure and stars filled your eyes.

You were panting when you looked over at Lyith, who was staring at you with the same adoration one would give a puppy who successfully carried out a trick. His mouth was glistening.

Seeing you watch him, he dragged his long black tongue around his mouth and swallowed. 

“Are you feeling more relaxed now?” He asked with some amusement. You pouted at him, then pulled yourself up. 

You patted the seat to your right, giving him a heated stare. He obeyed with poise. You could see his dick, long and as golden as his face, with a darkening brown near his tip. It held ridges on several points and was glistening, covered in his precum.

You looked back to Lyith, giving him an innocent expression as you dragged your finger around the bumps of his dick. The skin was smooth and slippery, but it gave a little under your touch. You pulled yourself out of Rena’s arms and off the cot. You plopped down on the spot between his legs, lining your face up with his dick. 

Lyith was completely taken off gaurd, eyes wide, then rolling back into his head as you took the tip into your mouth. Huh. Even his precum had a sweetness to it that you quite liked. You tried to swallow down more of it without chocking, causing him to gasp and shudder over you. When you looked up, his eyes were soft and glazed, mouth open. He didn;t hold back his moans as you continued to lick and suck his dick. You traced the ridges of it with your tongue and pumped him with your free hand. He was quite large.

He keened and gasped, letting out whiny thank yous and sputters. When you glanced over at Rena, you saw her with her own hands on her cock, her eyes never leaving your mouth as you worked Lyith down to babbles. Eventually it was too much for him and he came, beautifully blond lashes fluttering as he shot his load down your throat. You coughed and let go of him immediately, not used to how much fluid was coming out of him. You almost swore you swallowed down something small and squishy? Like a boba ball, but you were probably imagining it. There was just so much cum. 

“Was that.. Good?” You asked sheepishly. All he could do was nod at you as he laid back in the cot. It had seemed like at some point Rena had gotten off too. The room was full of panting and you took your place in the middle of your lovers, sated and happy.

“So… do you guys have showers in this place?”

Guys I would love some criticism for my smut. I've written so much lately that they all just kind of blend together. I will probably come back and edit this entire part at some point, but for now, here it is in all its unedited glory! And yes, at some point Lyith will have his turn inside reader, but for now, he will have to make do with being one of readers favorite sweets~ I hope you liked it! And yes, their will be more parts and more smut.

PART EIGHT

[pxeachfuzz]

DESIRE / LIVE / EAT 2024

i wrote something to go along with this under the cut but you can also read it here

“UNDERSTANDING A DEMON’S NATURE

I. TEMPTATION + TRICKERY

Demons prepare their food for as long as they see fit. In order to wring an unsuspecting victim out like a wet towel, it must make one world a miserable reality. It creates this world stripped of misery, another world, as if there can be any other. In a victim’s desperation, that becomes an illusion of choice, or a trap. What one must understand when face-to-face with a demon’s lure, is that to the beast, the victim is an ant in a farm or a fish on a hook.

Having had so many meals, they are well acquainted with what humans need and want. Demons take that knowledge to their advantage quite swiftly. They plant seeds of ideas into their victim’s heads, which grow into the real world. However, the desire that first drew the demon forward can never be fulfilled. Demons know better than to eat their prey at first sight. They could end it all, but that wouldn’t be a filling meal. Food like desire should be thoroughly marinated and grilled, or fermented into fine wines and savored.

II. GAMES

As much as a demon can tempt and lure, it is reminded the fun ends when its stomach cannot growl any louder. These creatures have a certain proclivity to games, or more specifically a sickening ecstasy when it comes to the idea of achieving victory. A very powerful demon, fattened with many egos and vices, may choose to gamble with the source of its own power. These beasts are greedy by nature, and simply cannot help themselves. In order to understand this, one must understand that demons know human nature, not demon nature. They have studied it since the beginning of humankind, but as humankind knows, it is a much more difficult task to study the self.

Typically, in a demon’s own thick blanket of trickery and deception, it has also deceived itself into a hubristic state. While demons have the powers to create and destroy like gods, it is a farce. Really, they are any other hungry animal, albeit a very intelligent one. What it has lied to itself about is the fact that it was never at the top of the food chain, nor nature itself. Even with gods, there is always something much older and much stronger: the forces that drive all living beings to eat.”

[circeius-invidioso]

I do not get why the Red Corsairs are not a popular choice.

Like.

Like here is the elevator pitch for the warband and then we can come to some justified conclusion.

What isn't there to love?

You want me to turn into an infomencial and make a top 3 reasons why the Red Corsairs are great?

Cause I can.

And I will.

The Diverse Working Enviroment

Here in the Red Corsairs we might have started as Ultramarines but the barrier for entry is on the floor. So anyone can join.

You are Night Lord with a bad rep and no ship.

Buckle up we got you covered.

You are a Fallen and have 20 Dark Angels all up in yo business? Trying to shoot down the boss babe you are?

Fear not, or in our case. Know no Fear. We are strapped and don't get clapped.

You are a traitor that likes their Legion but sadly you got in our way?

Tough luck buddy, you will join or die and your geene seed will join our cause. Nothing personal battle brother. Just business as usual.

Everyone is welcome as long as they follow Huron's guidelines and don't aggitate the topless sweaty Khorne worshipping Ultramarines in the basement.

Sustainability

Unlike the corrupt Imperium of man and the corpse Emperor our leader is powered by miracles (which is trully a miracle how he survived but that on the next section), and we use 0 psyckers to power our crap.

Our carbon footprint is also minimum as we use salvaged goods and don't indulge in toxic industries that destroy worlds.

The Red Corsair base of operation is in the Eye of Terror and from there we expand our scope. A place greatly known for its constant shifts, and horrible conditions but the tan our serfs have are spectacullar from all that cosmic radiation.

Finally we are commited to recycling. As in we take from our victims benefactors and put those stolen goods to some great use. Nothing goes to waste, neither mortal, nor static object. If something is not nailed on the floor we will take it.

In fact we might take the floor too and the nails used to set it in place.

Nothing goes to waste!

Unmatched Leadership

Last, but certainly not least.

The man.

The myth.

The Legend.

Huron Blackheart.

Aka Lufgt Huron.

Aka what would happen if we gave a compressed Guilliman a daemonic familiar and left him to ferment in a warp storm.

Not only the name is so edgy you might cut yourself by saying it out loud. But also it's complex enough that if you say it quickly three times without twisting your tongue theres is a chance furniture might start levitating.

The man has put his Ultramarine brain to use and amased enough influence and power to put the Black Legion to shame.

Huron went from 0 to 100 in no time, he is a self made Warmaster. With no daddy issues or troubles in the world, he goes into battle blasting Alestorm in the voxxcasters.

He does not care.

He probably wears this when he wants to relax.

You think he cares?

He does not care.

He has a biker gang specifically organized to hunt down those who have betrayed him.

They slap those things on their armors not for the usual biker reason

(which fun fact the meaning is, 99% of the bikers are law-abiding, where the 1% are not. That's where the 1% comes from. The more you know 🌈)

no they wear that 1% because that's how high are your chances of escaping from them are.

Is that a bit extreme?

Yes.

You think he cares?

He does not care.

The dude once gathered his buddies and decided...

to you know. Have a casual outing. Nothing too serious, it was a sunday afteral.

So they decided on.

Kidnapping Guilliman.

Which they almost did if not for a Fallen of all people getting in the way.

But still.

The mad lad took Macragge's Honour and went on a joyride/ mini civil war.

Who in the galaxy can turn and say.

Yeah, I stole Macragge's Honour, almost captured my old Primarch. Told a daemon prince they are irrelevant on my way there. Anyway after crushing a fool who thought he could take my crown as king of the space pirates, I went to the home planet of the White Scars and kidnapped and tortured their Chapter Master. What did you do this week? 💅

Who wouldn't want to be a part of that?

You tell me I can be an immortal, gorgeous chaos Ultramarine goth boy going on pirate adventures across the galaxy?

Where do I sign up?

I don't need ink for a signature.

I will use my own blood.

[anundyingfidelity]

INTERROGATION GONE WRONG – Cleon XIII/Brother Day

Summary: Cleon XIII interrogates his statisticians about Hari Seldon's predictions. His in-turn maid remains there hearing the conversation, unbeknownst to him, knowing the answer - at least part of.

Pairing: Cleon XIII/Brother Day x female maid reader.

Word count: 2.9k.

Warnings: extremely dub-con, smut, abuse of power, forced orgasm, choking, fingering, degradation, p in v, creampie, not the soft aftercare you're waiting for. The author is also non native English speaker.

Notes: this is based on that scene of 1x04. This is the most non-con thing I've written ever. I gave my warnings. Also please watch Foundation lol, this show reminded me of how much I loved Lee Pace since like 2014. Once I'm in, I will never get out and I needed to write something for Cleon I love him he is an idiot.

☕ if you like my writing, support me with a ko-fi !

GEN MASTERLIST!

The man fell with a thud on the floor. You should be scared, surprised, trembling with fear, but this was not new behavior for you or anyone in the palace. Since Seldon's exile and the disaster shaking the Empire gradually, the response of the new Cleon was clearly expected after being a witness of a poor reunion and inconvenience with the staticians. More than a conversation, it felt like a judgment, a death one.

"Dining, now," he ordered passing by your figure on his way to leave the throne room. With a bow, you followed in an instant and ready to serve him.

Cleary, you could tell he was not in the good mood that day, already skipping the meal for breakfast with his brothers earlier; something that was out of the itineraries. Once a change of the routine happened, it meant something was off, so you thought. Demerzel was also not around, attending other meetings, so this left you alone with Empire, opening the door of the sole dining room the Brothers used privately, with the tall figure of Cleon XIII waiting impatiently for his midday meal and looking every move you made around the place to please him as fast as your feet allowed.

The cooks served the meal arranged from the menu after your order and they left as rapid as they came in, Brother Day dispatching them with a hand gesture once they were done. You took a couple of steps back, standing close to the table but ready in case he dispatched your presence as well.

"Not you, you stay," he commanded after sipping his wine for the first time, eyes focused on the plate he would eat.

"Yes, Empire."

You had to obligue, and that is what happened. You watched him from the corner of your eye, from time to time in silence, pretending to be unconcerned and collected, though that was far from being true. The whole meal time was eternal, specially that day. With no Brother Dawn nor Brother Dusk around for Brother Day to have a bland talk with, only the sound of fine cutlery clinking against porcelain as Empire ate. Boring, your head began to spin around, thinking in non-senses and theories of what you heard and read from Seldon's predictions of the fall. Empire was cruel, but it had you working, serving food to your plate, and probably that was enough. But it didn't stop your curiosity of learning further the philosophy of Hari Seldon.

When in front of Empire, your gaze seemed lost but your mind was working. You never said a single comment about studying Seldon's theory, of course. You were just a maid. Science and university never were a good pair for a woman who served the Empire. However, you still found the math behind his calculations as something intriguing and fascinating for some reason...

"Maid," the loud voice of the Emperor interrupted your daydream. "I said, wine."

The intense look on his eyes forced you to attend his order fast, serving more of the fermented liquid on the cup standing besides his plate.

His large hand took the cup when you filled it with wine and he sipped again, his eyes scanning you slow and deep. You knew he sensed something was wrong with you. Swallowing, you noticed he already had finished with his meal, so you finally you dared to speak.

"Can I retire your plate, Empire?"

"Is there something you want to share, maid?" he responded, blatantly ignoring your question and dragging your title like it was nothing but a shameful word to spill.

"At all, Empire," your voice came as a whisper.

Brother Day stood on his feet with such grace and started a slow walk towards your figure. You wanted to step away, but you feet were glued to the ground, so his tall and intimidating form washed over you soon.

"Speak," he instructed coldly. You started to tremble, unable to take off your scared eyes from him, bitting your bottim lip as he leaned. "Or do you want to be punished?"

His hand forced around your neck all of a sudden. As an act of reflection, you tried to pull back from his grip, but he was much stronger, having you in place and cutting your breath. "I know you hide enthusiasm around Doctor Seldon's theories," he whispered darkly on your ear. "I am not giving you a choice, speak!"

As he yelled down his last words, he pushed you harshly, body falling to the grown. Air filled your lungs once again and you coughed, sitting down and watching that he was coming closer with big steps. You dragged yourself on the floor using your hands and feet trying to not tangle yourself with the fabric of your dress. Fighting the tears on your eyes, your back touched the wall and sobbed. There was nowhere to go now. So you finally confessed.

"Your staticians would not give you a number because it's true!" you cried out. Brother Day stopped on his tracks just a couple of inches before you. "It's all true, Doctor Seldon is right. And it all began with the Star Bridge, I know you were a child when it happened because I was a child too when the crisis started. There is a probability, but is not zero," you said, recalling his words.

You saw his face changed. He was exhasperated already, but rage appeared in his eyes in a very visible way; a rage that you had yet to see from Empire. Fear took over you, afraid of what would happen next. Should you keep talking? Should you continue crying? Scream for nobody to come around for your sake? As you questioned yourself, he lowered himself to be at your level on the ground. Brother Day never sat down, but he was making sure to get under your skin. His powerful gaze had a quick effect to do that.

"Go on."

Too scared to speak, you opened your lips but no sound came out. Empire waited your words for a moment, scrutinizing your face. And still, nothing came. He grabbed your arm with a rough grip, forcing you to stand up, colliding with his body until your back hit the empty part of the table he had been eating in.

"You have ten seconds to continue or I will force everything that is in your head out of you, maid," Cleon threatened. "Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three-"

"I said it was probability," you shuddered. "Life is a probability by all means and Seldon knows that," you breathed, aware that Brother Day was feeling your shaking body under his piercing eyes. "I studied Doctor Seldon's psychohistory and theory for the last four years, learning math and other sciences on my free time on the library. So even if I don't posses a title, I know his hypothesis was only that at the time; a hypothesis can be null, but also be provable, and thus now is not untrue."

He slowly leaned away.

"So you say there is no error on Seldon's ecuation," he concluded, jaw clenching.

"None that I could find."

Brother Day paced in front of you, back and forth, hrad processing what he just heard. You could tell he was getting what he wanted, but nothing was what he really longed for. And what you found was nothing but the truth. Maths don't miss, it was useless to lie.

"How do you simply fall into a conclusion like that? Prophecies of the Empire declining into a dark age after centuries of rising. Of our legacy!" he stopped again and went back to your figure, trapping your body between himself and the dining table. You felt his breath when he leaned close, the smell of wine and fruits mixing with his cologne was intoxicating your nostrils as the last tears flowed down your cheeks. Sooner or later, you thought he was going to end up with your life. You had nothing left to lose by now.

"It's simple history and logic. Everything that goes up has to go down, even empires."

All you felt was his big palm slapping your face, your back hitting the edge of the table. A hurted moan filled the room, and he forced you to look at him grabbing your chin with the same strenght he had used on you all this time, like you were nothing more than a doll to play with as he pleased.

"In other circumstances, I would find you amusing," he breathed gainst your lips. The touch of his thumb on your cheek, wiping away your last tears, contrasted the roughness of his words, his body between your legs and his weight pressing you to lie down on the surface.

"Psychohistory words, not mine," you whispered, your hands running to wrap around his wrist, but his aura repelled instantly your touch. It was useless to keep trying. So here you were, ready for Brother Day to end with your life in just the blink of an eye. "Maybe Brother Dusk made a mistake," you continued, giving up on leaving the room alive. "Make Hari Seldon stay instead..."

Brother Day pressed further against you, almost crushing you with his significant huge frame.

"Such a talented brain and mouth, why don't I put you to good use? I think I deserve it."

He forcefuly turned you around until you were bending over the table, a loud gasp falling from your mouth. One of his hands making its way between your legs caused your thighs to press together, trying to stop him, but it was impossible, so you had nothing to do but beg.

"Please, Empire," you felt like crying again at his touch, his fingers cupping your clothed pussy in a slow motion. "Stop, please-"

"Shut up, whore," he grunted, rubbing his crotch against your ass and slammed your face with his free hand so you had your cheek lying against the cold surface. "I had enough from you."

Heartbeat rising, you tried with no results to escape from his body cage. The sway of your hips caused Empire to grow eager. His slender fingers pushed your panties aside, coating them with your own wetness, and that was certainly something you did not expect to be down there. He hummed in response, rubbing your folds, and you exhaled once he entered one finger.

Your body responded to his ministrations, his growing erection pressing against the curve of your ass while he played with your cunt as he wanted, easing a second digit inside your walls. Probably you should just give in by now as you felt your muscles tighten, already reaching your high. Almost. The first moan of pleassure escaped your throat and you regreted the answer of lust coming from your body the following instant, your palms holding yourself on the table.

His long digits fucked you faster and your legs trembled, his thumb played with your clit so deliciously you thought you were passing out soon. He leaned down until you could feel his breath on your neck.

"Fucking take it," he groaned, feeling your warm walls pulsing around his fingers.

Almost not having control over your body, your legs further opened, like his voice just ordered you to do it.

"Please, please..."

Again, you cried and begged, not sure of the reason. For pleassure, shame, mercy... Anything was possible at that moment as whimpers and moans fell from your mouth.

The sensation grew stronger down your belly, feeling him exploring your insides too deep, touching a place no man nor your fingers reached before. It happened repeatedly, it felt so sweet and sinful. Like something you never knew but you were sure would leave you aching for more. His fingers making you so drunk and pleading for a release, and the seconds that passed by were endless until you finally blissed out with a loud moan, convulsing by the work of his hand.

Brother Day gave himself a wicked smile, watching you squirm and gasp. Such a strong orgasm he ripped out of you. He pulled his fingers away from your pulsing cunt and admired your wetness coating them before he raised the skirt of your dress and took off your panties until they were hanging between your ankles.

You grimaced at the feel of his big palms rubbing your ass cheeks, parting them to get a view of your throbbing heat, still clenching around nothing. You could listen to him undoing his pants. He hissed, taking his hard lenght to rub the sensitive skin of your ass and his thick tip teased your slit, sliding slowly inside. You gasped at the sudden intrusion as he stopped from filling you up completely, feeling your tight cunt embracing him.

"Empire, please not this-"

"This is how I prefer you," Cleon whispered on your neck, you stopped your plea. "Submissive and quiet. You are not so bold now, are you?"

And he slowly entered your pussy further. You whined, nails scratching the fine material of the table. You were so tight and warm. He had to control himself of not pounding into you right away. Being filled up by the Emperor shouldn't arouse your body like this, but your heat welcomed his cock like it was the perfect missing piece of a puzzle.

"Are you a virgin, maid?" he asked, hips giving a couple of shallow, slow thrusts. Your hips moved in sink with his own, your nipples were now hard and erect against the surface, scratching the fabric of your bra and dress, giving up into heavenly bliss. Sweet mewls left your lips as he stretched your cunt. And it was oh, so long since you felt this full.

"No, Empire."

Your response was the green light. He started to rut into you. Rough. Even if your answer was to be different, you knew Empire would not care. He used to get away with what he wanted, and right now he wanted you. His own grunts made eco along with the sound of his skin hitting your ass, your moans escaping without any shame now. The small amount of discomfort he caused was transformed into pleassure and arousal, keeping his hands firmly on your hips.

"Then you can take it, you've done this before," he mocked, increasing his rough pace.

His grip was strong on your sides, you knew his fingers would leave marks on your skin once you finished. But nothing mattered, you decided, the only on your mind was reaching sweet climax and release. You could not escape from him, not ever. So your body and mind could go through it.

Cleon's eyes found the perfect spot of view to see his cock entering and sliding out your perfect pussy, his shaft glistening with your wetness and his own precum. He stopped and pulled out for a moment, teasing with entering and pulling out, watching himself sliding inside your body.

"Oh gods," he listened to your broken moan, breath hitching.

He again cupped your neck with his palm, fingers roaming around your throat, forcing your back to meet his chest. Your moans were cut by his firm hand, air being a privilige as seconds passed by. He sucked and bit the skin of your neck, burying his cock until his balls met your ass repeteadly, finding that sweet spot of yours.

"Cum," he ordered. "Cum or you will not breath again."

You knew you were close, but you needed it faster. You needed to breath, as good as his cock felt, fucking you and splitting you open, you still needed to make it until the end. Your fingers found your clit and played with your bud as Empire bucked his hips fast and rough. Finally, your muscles tensed and forced a hard orgasm out of you, walls pulsing around his dick. He grunted, not slowing his thrusts, softening the hand around your neck allowing you oxygen again.

"Merciful am I?" he groaned and you felt his seed painting your insides, cock throbing as he also came from his high.

"You are, Empire," you breathed out.

Your back arched and you held yourself on his hands and chest. You heard the sound of one of the chairs being taken out, being dragged by him until you felt he sat down, you on his lap with his cock still burried deep inside you. His slick cum ran down your inner thighs as he parted your legs, touching your abused cunt and clit, feeling how you were still connected. He rubbed your pussy in slow, gentle moves, collecting his cum mixed with your juices. He offered his fingers to your lips, so you licked them as he wished, sucking them clean. Your walls pulsed again.

"So obedient now," Cleon purred.

His hands undid your dress to free your chest, groping your tits as he pleased. He played with your nipples, just like he had played with all of you in a few minutes.

"What will happen to me?" you asked in a murmur.

"Such a pretty cunt you are," Brother Day began, tracing kisses on your shoulder. His voice made you shiver. "You would please me a lot as a cuncubine of the Gossamer Court."

You swallowed hard, not capable of speaking or fighting back. He felt your body tensing so he continued his speech in your ear. "No worries, I can play with you some more before it happens. And you will tell me everything you know about Seldon."

[gwenllian-in-the-abbey]

Do you think Rhaenyra would have killed her siblings or it was mere paranoia on Alicent's side? The book doesn't provide a solid answer for this, and in the show it's clear that Rhaenyra would never harm her siblings.

Hi anon, I kind of went into it in this post, and although that ask was about Jace vs. Aegon III, I think the principle remains the same. In short, no, I don't think it was paranoia, but to understand why, we have to understand why Rhaenyra's brothers pose a particular threat to the stability of Rhaenyra (of Jace's) rule. Keep in mind, this isn't a moral failing specific to Rhaenyra, but simply a byproduct of the conditions of her inheritance.

I don't think Rhaenyra would have wanted to kill her siblings (or their kids), or even have planned to kill her siblings, but I also think that ultimately what she wanted wouldn't matter very much. All it would take would be someone wishing to rise in her esteem claiming that Aegon was fermenting rebellion, perhaps producing a forged letter as evidence, or an eyewitness who would swear that he had been secretly meeting with former greens. Could she risk it? Her brothers are weapons that can always be used against her. And at some point, it would be out of her control. Rhaenyra won't live forever, nor will Daemon, and when Jace attempts to take the throne, with no less than 7 legitimate male claimants alive who would have a claim ahead of him, there are bound to be challengers. The Blackfyre rebellion began with much flimsier pretexts.

We have real life examples of this. Henry VII intended to keep the remaining Plantagenets alive when he took the throne, as long as they stayed loyal. After all, they were his wife's family members, and killing them off would not be a good look. But the remaining Plantagenets would always be a threat to the Tudors. Ten year old Edward Plantagenet, the son of George of Clarence, was imprisoned in the Tower of London for 14 years before he was executed in 1499 for a supposed connection to Perkin Warbeck's scheme. Henry VII finally took action at least in part because he was negotiating a betrothal between his heir and the daughter of King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella. The Spanish monarchs did not want their daughter marrying a man whose succession could be challenged, and so Edward, the strongest claimant at that point, had to go. Henry VII's son, Henry VIII, increasingly worried about the stability of his own succession, became vulnerable to the whisperings of opportunists looking to rise in the king's esteem and eliminate their own political enemies. At this point, the remaining Plantagenet claimants became a source of paranoia, justified or not. The arrest and execution of Margaret Pole, the niece of Edward IV and Richard III, was based upon a tunic found in her home that supposedly represented her support for her son's claim to the throne and the restoration of the Catholic church in England. The tunic was almost certainly planted by Henry VIII's chief minister, the protestant Thomas Cromwell, the same man who orchestrated Henry's divorce from Catherine of Aragon (yes, the same princess whose hand Edward Plantagenet had died to secure). And Henry VIII liked Margaret, she'd been the governess to his daughter, and though they had their ups and downs, he certainly didn't hate her. Still, when her son was put forward as a rival claimant and she was accused of supporting him, she had to go too. And of course, going backwards a bit, there are famously the princes in the tower, Edward and Richard, sons of King Edward IV, who despite having been officially declared bastards (a law, you see, was not enough), were still enough of a threat to the throne that they were (most likely) murdered, whether by Richard III or one of his associates. Mere rumors that those boys still lived sparked rebellions during the reign of Henry VII.

And you can say well, there's a difference, surely, in that Rhaenyra is the rightful queen, and these other people were not? But "rightful" is not some inherent state of being, it's dependent upon who is in power. Every person who sits the throne believes themself to be the rightful king or queen. But Rhaenyra in particular gained her position because her father exercised his power and declared her heir in defiance of the expected order of inheritance, contradicting the very decision that made him king in the first place. After Viserys dies though, for all intents and purposes his wishes cease to matter. He is no longer king, and lacks any mechanism by which to enforce his wishes from beyond the grave. At that point, people will choose to support one claimant or another, based upon their own concerns (dragon math, precedent, oaths, promises made by one or the other, existing family bond) and to consider Rhaenyra or Aegon (or any other claimant down the road) the rightful king/queen. Rhaenyra's security upon the throne, like the position of Henry VII or Richard III, is inherently weaker because she comes to the throne through unconventional means. All it takes is a plague year, a famine, or a foreign invasion for any random group of lords to decide that the true king Aegon/Aemond/Jaehaerys/Maelor should be on the throne and that they should start a rebellion in his name. If Rhaenyra feels insecure in her rule, or in Jace's ability to peacefully inherit after her, it only makes sense to eliminate any potential rivals, and her brothers and their children will always be a threat, no matter her original intentions. Even if Rhaenyra keeps her word and does not harm her family, her brothers and their line pose a threat to Jace and his line as long as both lines exist.

So Alicent is not being paranoid at all, she's being realistic. If Viserys were to disinherit Rhaenyra, or were Rhaenyra to accept the peace terms and give up her claim, she would become simply another sister, but Aegon can never be just another brother to Queen Rhaenyra because in the eyes of some, he will always be a potential rallying point for dissenters, and if not him then his brothers, or his children, whether they want to be or not. That's the point Alicent is making. It's not a reflection on Rhaenyra's character, it's just that if it came down to a choice between securing her reign/Jace's succession, and the lives of her potential political rivals, it's not difficult to guess what Rhaenyra would choose.

[separatist-apologist]

The Sweetest Con

Summary: Nesta Archeron has been trapped in witness protection for the past five years, hiding a secret no one can ever learn. All she has to do is wait out the criminals back home determined to punish her and her sisters for a lie they told years before.

She can handle anything- even the new agent sent to keep her safe.

Read on AO3 | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2

Nesta Archeron had bread in the oven. 

It had been Cassian’s idea that morning. Why not check on the sourdough starter they’d been fermenting and try it in some bread? It was obvious he merely wanted to spend time with her in the kitchen and Nesta was hard pressed to think of a reason they shouldn’t. It was moody that morning—a thunderstorm had rolled through and showed no signs of relenting.

They were stuck inside and she’d reasoned it was better to do something rather than what they were usually doing.

And still, with twenty minutes left on the oven timer, Nesta found herself on her knees anyway, Cassian’s massive cock in her mouth. It started with a kiss that became two, became four, became Nesta up on the table while Cassian pressed himself between her legs. And then everything became frantic and desperate. She’d just managed to get his pants around his ankles first, but if she’d waited another thirty seconds, she’d be spread across the table.

Not for the first time, either.

She told herself just liked to watch him (a lie). Cassian was terrifying, a force to be reckoned with. He was an immovable object right up until Nesta was sliding her hands between his legs—and then he was as malleable as clay in her hands. Did he genuinely like her, she wondered? Or was she merely a distraction? 

There was only one way to find out. Nesta had been plotting for the same amount of time she’d been touching him to get her hands on his phone. Sitting next to him on the sofa the night before had revealed his passcode—0000—and now all she needed was to so thoroughly exhaust him, he wouldn’t notice her snooping through his messages.

She just wanted to know, once and for all. What was his plan for her? Had Rhysand instructed Cassian to kill her? And what of her sisters? Nesta told herself once she knew, she could better plan…but that didn’t account for her actions right then. Nor was it entirely true to act like this was merely all part of some brilliant scheme. Not when Cassian threw his head back, hand holding her jaw while Nesta struggled to take the rest of him into her throat.

“Fuck, Nes—just like that,” he panted, his grip tightening ever so slightly. Nesta could feel the bulging vein just under the head of his cock, a tell-tale sign that he was about to come. She braced herself, eyes fluttering shut, just as Cassian grunted with pleasure and poured himself into her mouth. 

The timer went off at the exact same time, thwarting Cassian’s obvious plans to reciprocate his pleasure. That was both disappointing and for the best, she decided. The night before, Nesta had passed out with her cheek stuck to his chest and woke to bright sunlight and the smell of burning coffee. 

Not this time. This time, Nesta intended to wear Cassian out and stuff him full of food and let the Georgia heat do the rest. While she made her way to the oven, Cassian hastily pulled up his shorts.

“Is it wrong that I want to know every man you’ve ever practiced on?”

Nesta bent over the steaming oven to examine her sourdough. “What are you going to do, shoot them?”

“Yeah,” Cassian replied, elbowing her out of the way. His hands were clad in bright pink oven mitts and his dark hair was a tangled mess around his otherwise handsome face. It was the exact kind of logic a mobster would employ—she belongs to me, so I’ll pretend no one else has touched her.

Like a toddler hoarding toys at the playground, she thought wryly. She’d grown up in this life and had always rebelled at the idea that men owned their wives. And yet…yet, Cassian’s possessive nature wasn’t awful, either. Maybe because she knew the entire affair was time limited. Either he’d try to kill her or he’d be discovered by the actual feds and wind up in a prison cell.

So what did it hurt to enjoy herself for now? 

“Looks good. Want me to grab butter, or—”

“We should let it cool down,” Nesta said, eyeing his naked, tattooed chest. “Want to do some yoga with me before we eat?”

The look on his face screamed no even as Cassian smiled easily and said, “Sure thing, baby.”

What followed was torture for them both. It was already miserably humid and insufferably hot. Nesta wanted to claw herself out of the clingy fabric she wore and hoped none of it showed on her face. She was one with the world, serene and unbothered. The sun could not hurt her so long as she slathered a thick layer of sunscreen all over her body. She’d bullied Cassian into putting some on, too—a careful ruse to run her hands up and down the toned muscles of his body though he needed it, too. 

They practically crawled back into the cold air, with Nesta flinging open the freezer to stick her head inside while Cassian drank straight from the kitchen faucet.  

“You’re a masochist,” Cassian accused, eyes squeezed shut as replaced his mouth with his entire face beneath the stream of cold water. 

“I didn’t think it would be so bad,” Nesta said, taking some frozen, bagged broccoli out to place against her bare stomach. Cassian watched with open fascination, though he didn’t move to touch her. 

“No more outdoor workouts. Lets go to a gym like civilized people,” he breathed, rising to his full height. 

“The gym is unairconditioned—”

“Nesta, I can’t live this way,” he half pleaded, half joked. “I’ll put weights in the basement and run at two am.”

Nesta bit her bottom lip, thinking of the life Cassian was proposing. It was so easy to picture—and dangerous, too.

“I’m gonna shower, and then we’re going to eat some of this bread,” Cassian promised, pressing a quick kiss against her cheek. “Don’t go anywhere.”

“You got it,” she lied, eyes snagging on his phone. It was exactly where he’d left it, tossed casually to the kitchen table along with all the mail she didn’t want to look at. Nesta waited unmoving, listening as the bathroom door clicked shut. A moment later the sound of water hitting the porcelain tub filled the silence. Nesta counted to ten before lunging, typing in the passcode.

There, pinned at the very top of his messages, was a group chat with no other descriptor than a bat emoji. She wondered the significance as she scanned the names.

Rhysand: I don’t care what you need to do—drag E back and lock her in a closet if you have to. 

Azriel: Easy for you to say while you’re playing house. She broke my fucking nose with that stupid bat—and she’s with a goddamn agent.

Cassian: How hard could it possibly be to keep track of one oblivious woman? 

Azriel: Eat shit. 

Rhysand: Are you tracking her? What does the agent know?

Azriel: He’s got family up in Appleton. Headed that way—as far as I know, they don’t know who I was. 

Rhysand: Take the agent out, no questions asked. Secure E through whatever measures necessary—do not kill her. 

Azriel: Wasn’t planning on it, but got it. 

Nesta’s heart hammered in her chest. E—that had to be Elain. She hadn’t spent much time thinking about Elain but now…fuck. A quick search of her phone told her Appleton was in Wisconsin. If Elain was headed that way, Nesta needed to find her and warn her. 

With shaking fingers, Nesta sent a text.

Cassian: Want help with a trace? Send me her number.

Please, please, please let them buy it, she prayed silently. Nesta’s heart was the loudest sound in the house, beating so violently she could barely hear the sound of Cassian’s shower over it. Her hands shook, holding his phone as she waited. The water cut off and Nesta was certain she’d been caught—Cassian would get the text later, realize what she’d done, and the entire thing would be blown.

Azriel: Sure. 555-201-9855. See if you can figure out where Vanserra is taking her. I’ll continue following behind. 

Cassian: Meet me in Chicago? I can help lure her home with Nesta.

Azriel: Will she cooperate?

Cassian: Got her eating out of the palm of my hand.

Azriel: See you soon. 

Nesta scribbled the number down on the back of an unopened bill before deleting the messages she’d sent. Nesta scrambled for her own phone, punching in the number to the sister she hadn’t spoken to in years. That ought to buy Elain some time, she reasoned, heart still pounding. Just enough for Nesta to get to her before anyone else did, anyway. 

Nesta: Elain? This is Nesta. Rhysand is after you—they’re tracking you. Hide and tell no one where you are until I can get closer. I’m on my way—we have to find Feyre. 

There. With that sent, and a clock ticking loudly in her head, Nesta all but ran to her bedroom and the gun she had hidden in her bedside table. Nesta had it in her hands, a small bag thrown together years ago slung over her shoulder, when she and Cassian met in the hall. His eyes dipped to the gun in her hand before he offered her a lopsided smile.

“Everything okay, Nes?” he asked, running a hand down his naked chest. The towel he’d wrapped around his waist was almost too small for him, accentuating the vee of his abdomen and the appendage hanging just between. 

“I know what you are,” she whispered, hating the waver in her voice. Cassian’s smile only widened. “I’ll shoot.”

“Put the gun down, baby,” Cassian murmured, his voice honeyed and sweet. “Let's talk about this.”

“I’ll kill you,” she warned, well aware that her words were a lie. She couldn’t—even knowing who he was and what he was capable of, Nesta knew she couldn’t kill him. 

Cassian advanced, unconcerned with the gun in her hand. She supposed he was used to seeing them, used to having them pointed directly at him. He was The Lord of Bloodshed, after all. That didn’t stop Nesta, who’d been going to the gun range long before feds ever dumped her in this swampy nowhere town. 

Kill him and be done with it.

“Then why were you on your knees this morning, Nes?” Cassian whispered, those hazel eyes glittering with amusement. “You had my cock in your mouth. I didn’t even have to ask.”

“What happens in the bedroom and what happens out here are two separate things, Cass,” was all Nesta could think to say in response. She really was sorry, in that regard. She knew he didn’t see it that way. 

Cassian shook his head, the loose ends of his wavy, dark hair brushing those muscular shoulders. “I’ll find you.”

“You’ll be dead,” she replied, willing the words to be true.

“You can’t kill me and we both know it,” Cassian told her. She hated that he was right, just like she knew that if she didn’t, he would hunt her down. This was personal, now—beyond the lies she’d told on her sister's behalf.

It didn’t matter. Rhysand had found them and Nesta needed to get to Elain before something horrible happened. Then they’d find Feyre and pray Rhysand hadn’t gotten to her first.

“I’m sorry,” Nesta whispered before she pulled the trigger. Cassian howled, crumpling to the ground. He wasn’t dead—just wounded. She’d shot him in the leg. 

Nesta turned, knowing she only had minutes to put distance between them before Cassian rallied, caught her, and did god knows what to her. He looked enraged as she made her way toward the front door.

“This isn’t over between us, Nesta! I’ll have you back by the end of the week!” 

She grabbed the keys to his jeep and made her way outside, fingers shaking. Nesta tossed the gun to the passenger seat before pulling her phone from her pocket. She had the car out of the gravel drive before she pulled out her phone, texting people she knew better than to drag into this mess.

Gwyn and Emerie were waiting for her when she pulled up to Emerie’s place.

“Start from the beginning,” Emerie ordered the moment Nesta swung from the blue vehicle while Gwyn held a shotgun in both hands, eyes pinned on Nesta. It was an odd moment, telling her friends—who were like sisters in a different sort of way—everything that had transpired half a decade before.

Gwyn and Emerie wouldn’t turn on her, though. Nesta didn’t know how she knew that, only that it was true. As Nesta drove, she told them everything they didn’t already know—starting from the beginning with the murder of their father. Nesta told them how she’d lied to the police for her sister, how it had been her idea to kill two birds with one stone and frame Rhysand. She hadn’t expected to be put in witness protection or she might have decided to take all the money their father had and flee the country instead.

One decision, made by a young, impulsive woman, had cost the three of them so much. Nesta couldn’t bring herself to regret anything that happened, a fact she told her friends while clenching her jaw. Let them see her, she supposed. Calculated and cold when necessary, and willing to make the hard decisions no one else would. Better they knew upfront than to find out later and decide they wanted nothing to do with her.

“So there’s a mobster after your sisters?” Gwyn confirmed, the shotgun now resting in her lap.

“Rhysand will kill Feyre if he finds her,” Nesta lamented, squeezing the steering wheel so violently her knuckles were bloodless. “I knew when Cassian came, but…I figured they hadn’t found her if he was still with me.”

“It sounds like they only have you and Elain,” Emerie reminded the pair, reasonably, sitting in the middle back seat so she could position herself between Nesta and Gwyn. “If we can get to Elain first, we could go to the police and tell them what we know.”

“Did you take his phone?” Gwyn asked.

Nesta sighed. “I didn’t.”

“That’s okay,” Gwyn reassured her, teal eyes hard with determination. “We’ll figure it out while we drive.”

“I’ve never been to Wisconsin,” Emerie added cheerfully. 

And that was that, Nesta supposed.

CASSIAN:

“What the fuck do you mean, Nesta Archeron shot you?”

Gritting his teeth, Cassian held a lighter over the wound in his thigh, having already poured alcohol in an attempt to sterilize it. He didn’t have time for a hospital nor the inclination to spend a night hooked up to machines while nurses fussed over him. 

“Don’t know how to make it anymore clear, boss,” Cassian snapped, his pain making him mean. “She fucking shot me, she knows who I am, and she’s on the run.”

“What the fuck is wrong with you and Azriel?” 

“Enough to fill a textbook probably,” Cassian mumbled, wincing as he rose to his feet. When he got her back he was going to teach her how to aim better. If she’d been going for his heart, she’d failed abysmally. Not that he wanted her to kill him, of course. Cassian wanted Nesta back in his bed even if he had to tie her up to get her there. 

“When Az and I are back together, we’ll have fewer problems.”

“You’ve got forty eight hours before to lock this whole thing down,” Rhysand warned. Cassian didn’t need to be told twice. Practically, if Nesta and Elain slipped their leashes, they’d go straight to the cops and it would be hard to deny his involvement this time. At least where their father was concerned, Rhysand was actually innocent—one of the Archerons had killed their father. Cassian’s money was on Elain given her use of the bat against Azriel, though in truth it could have been any one of them. Nesta had a penchant for violence that rivaled her bastard father. 

But more realistically, Cassian simply wanted her, reason be damned. If she’d just come to him, he could have reassured her that no one wanted to hurt Elain. Hell, for all Cassian knew, Azriel was in love with her, too. It seemed to be their current curse, after all.

He’d been down fifteen minutes—long enough to give her a moderate head start but not so long Cassian couldn’t easily catch up with her. She’d need to make stops…and she’d taken his jeep. Cassian could track its progress as he slid into Nesta’s smaller coup, leg screaming in pain. At least she hadn’t shot his driving leg, he reasoned before swallowing an ungodly amount of ibuprofen. It would have to do.

The last thing he needed was to get pulled over for being under the influence. 

What Cassian really needed was sleep, preferably with Nesta curled up beside him. As he drove, his mind wandered to the sight of her flushed cheeks and shaking hands as she held that gun between them. Was it deranged, he thought, to admit he’d been turned out?

Would she use it in the bedroom, he wondered? 

God, he hoped she would. Cassian intended to ask her when he had her back. With the location of his jeep tracking on his phone, Cassian set his course and tried to keep his mind off his leg. Azriel was after Elain, but had promised to help Cassian if they caught up with each other, and it was clear Nesta was headed toward them both. It had been easy enough to guess what she’d sent Azriel and Azriel, frustrated with the situation, hadn’t bothered to ask himself why Cassian would offer to help track Elain’s technology.

As if he knew jack shit about that sort of thing. 

There was more than enough time to ruminate on his failures. While Rhys waxed poetic about moving Feyre without her figuring out the truth, Cassian focused on catching up with Nesta. He caught her just outside Bowling Green, Kentucky. She’d brought her friends with her—Gwyn, with her vibrant hair and a shotgun tossed casually in the passenger seat and Emerie, her dark hair pulled off her face in a messy ponytail and flip flops on her feet. They could have been on a road trip.

They weren’t. 

Cassian could have dragged Nesta back and killed her friends if he’d wanted to. Watching her outside a truckstop, he weighed the pros and cons of the killings before ultimately deciding against it. Nesta would never forgive him and Cassian didn’t like killing people without a reason. Gwyn and Emerie were innocent—it didn’t sit right with him to take their lives.

Besides—Cassian wanted to see what was going to happen next, Rhysand be damned. Everything was a mess already—if the FBI agent hadn’t already alerted his superiors, well, he would before Cassian crossed into another state. Rhys might come up with some lie that explained what they were doing, but Cassian doubted anyone would believe them.

Might as well enjoy himself.

And trailing Nesta was immensely enjoyable. He liked the way her mind worked. She was logical, picking the most expedient routes and when she stopped, it was always somewhere populated. Somewhere people could hear her scream. Cassian might have liked that, but practically, didn’t want to sit in a holding cell for twenty four hours waiting on a judge.

She’d have to stop eventually, and stop she did a day and a half later in Chicago.

Cassian knew Nesta and her friends were exhausted. They’d traded driving, but he very much doubted any of them were getting quality sleep. Neither was Cassian, truthfully, but he reasoned that he was better at keeping himself up, his instincts sharper.

Azriel was waiting for him when he arrived, his face a mask of sharp, cold fury. “Give up?” “I’m not getting fucking arrested,” Azriel snapped, hands jammed in his well-fitted jean pockets. “What are you doing?”

“Watching,” Cassian replied, nodding his head across the busy intersection where Nesta, Emerie, and Gwyn were standing. They hadn’t noticed him, laboring under the belief they’d lost him. 

“What happened to your leg?”

Cassian grimaced. “She shot me.”

Azriel’s brow furrowed as he ran a scarred hand through dark, mussed hair. “And she’s alive?”

“I’m bringing her home,” Cassian said, throwing a wink at his exasperated friend. “What’s Elain’s apartment like?”

“A death trap,” Azriel replied without emotion. “They can get in, but they can’t get out.”

“Where’s Morrigan?”

“Ahead of you,” Azriel muttered, whipping his phone out to make a call. It would be easier if they had a third person helping them, and unlike Azriel and Cassian, Mor was cold-blooded in a way that made even Rhys hesitate at times. Cassian watched from his spot behind a street cart selling tourist items as Nesta and her friends jogged toward the towering skyscraper and vanished inside.

Good girl.

Getting her out without causing a scene would be another thing entirely. It was a big city, he reasoned. He’d have Mor park right out front, flashers on, and just dump Nesta in the back before anyone could say anything. He doubted anyone would be racing to rescue her, besides. 

Mor arrived in tight jeans and a tank top, blonde hair pulled in a thick, deceptively messy ponytail. Cassian knew her well enough to know she labored over it, every wispy strand placed by Mor’s own immaculate hands. 

“What needs cleaned up?” she asked, flashing them both a perfect, white smile. 

“Upstairs,” Azriel muttered, beckoning for Mor to follow after him. She was Rhys’s second in command and even Cassian didn’t know everything she did for her cousin. Only that she was called in when shit went south. Things were so far south that they might have been at the equator. Could Mor drag the missing Archeron back, too? 

That was Azriel’s problem. All Cassian needed to worry about was Nesta. Trailing behind Mor, the three made their way into the immaculate lobby and Cassian was struck at the incredibly elegant life Elain Archeron appeared to have been living. While Nesta was holed up in rural Georgia, Elain got to live in screaming civilization. It irked Cassian, even as he recognized the solitude had served him well.

Azriel pushed the number thirteen, staring anywhere but at Mor, who was too busy examining her nails to notice how awkward things were. Cassian said nothing because it was none of his business. Something must have happened, though—Azriel wasn’t standing too close, wasn’t shooting furtive glances. And Mor wasn’t using Cassian as a shield like she often did. 

Had they talked, then?

Cassian didn’t ask. Instead, he followed Azriel down a blue carpeted hall that smelled like someone's two day old cooking. Azriel pulled a keycard from his pocket and opened the door to find a shotgun waiting for him.

“Not another step, pretty boy,” Gwyn said in that southern drawl of hers.

Behind Az, Mor rolled her eyes.

“You think I’m pretty?” Azriel asked casually, unconcerned with the danger he was in. 

“That ain’t a compliment,” Gwyn snapped.

“Sounded like one to me,” Azriel replied smoothly. Cassian and Mor exchanged a glance. Since when did Az engage in witty repartee? “What else do you like?”

“Shut up,” Gwyn ordered, but it was too late. Azriel had the upper hand and they all knew it. With the speed of a man used to being threatened, he wrenched the barrel of the shotgun out of her hands and yanked, pulling both the weapon and the woman into his waiting arms. Gwyn yelped, arms pinned to her side as Az tossed the gun behind him for Mor to pick up.

“Quickly,” she ordered as Cassian swept in. Az hadn’t lied—Elain’s apartment was turned upside down, furniture shoved against the walls for his little traps and cameras. Nesta and Emerie had clearly walked right into one, legs tied to the floor in some contraption that shouldn’t have fascinated him as much as it did.

“Hey, Nes,” he said with a grin.

“Fuck you,” she replied, sweet as ever. 

“Are you gonna come with me nicely? Or am I going to have to carry you out?”

“Don’t you touch me,” she warned, answering Cassian’s question all the same. Just beside him, Mor was pulling rags from her bag like they were mints, handing one to Cassian before making her way toward the flailing, fighting Gwyn. Cassian let Nesta watch Mor smush the rag over Gwyn’s face so she knew what was waiting for her.

What he’d do if she didn’t agree to come like his good little girl. 

Gwyn went limp against Azriel, who merely scooped her up like she was nothing. 

“What do you want to do with the two of them?” Mor asked Cassian, eyes finding a silent, but furious looking Emerie. God—this plan was so off the rails it was almost embarrassing. There was only one thing they could do.

“Take them home,” he said. 

“Their home? Or our home?” Mor clarified.

“Ours, for now.” Cassian turned back to Nesta. 

“Cass,” she tried, the pretty little liar. “You don’t understand. My sisters, they—” “It’s too late for them,” he said. He wasn’t even a lie. “Rhys has Feyre and Elain is on her way back home. The only hold up is you.”

She shook her head. Nesta was smart not to believe him, even if it irked him deeply. Cassian made his way toward her, trapped by Azriel and unable to do anything but watch. 

And slap. The moment he crouched in front of her, Nesta slapped him hard. Her nails raked down his cheek, wounding him just enough to rankle him. He shook his head. “Don’t do that.”

“Let me go.”

“I can’t,” he replied with some regret. 

“Make a decision, Cass,” Mor said as she leaned beside Emerie. Emerie didn’t hit, grimacing as Mor brought that rag to her face. “I don’t have all day.”

“You’re a cunt,” Emerie hissed at Mor, who only grinned back.

“I’ve been called worse.”

Mor held the rag to Emerie’s face as Nesta watched, face pale and eyes wide. “Cass,” she whispered. 

“Come with me,” he urged, knowing she wouldn’t. Nesta couldn’t. She’d fight him until she decided this was her decision, and then she’d likely fight him a little more. The rest of his life would be a fight—and Cassian wanted it. 

“It’s time to go home, baby,” Cassian murmured, pressing a kiss to Nesta’s temple as she tried to wrench away. Putting the rag over her face felt like a betrayal and Cassian had to remind himself that she’d shot him not two days earlier. Mouth to the shell of her ear, he murmured, “We’re even now.”

Hardly, though. Cassian hadn’t held it against her to begin with. Nesta never took her eyes off him, holding her breath until she couldn’t, only to suck in a gasp of poisoned air. It went faster after that, leaving her limp in his arms as Mor undid the traps. 

“You’re a bastard for these,” Mor said, looking down at Emerie with an expression Cassian couldn’t quite place. 

Azriel onlys shrugged, still holding Gwyn in his arms. “It worked, didn’t it?”

“Come on,” Cassian interrupted, not interested in another argument between the pair. “I’m fucking tired and I want to go home.”

Cassian’s leg was killing him, he was bone weary, and a little afraid of what was coming for him. Either the US government or Rhys—and Cassian didn’t know which scared him more. For now, Cassian was resolved to get her home and hope that Feyre wasn’t far behind.

Elain was already lost. There was no getting her back. The best they could hope for was utter silence as Rhys hunted them down, killed the agent hiding her, and brought her into the fold, too.

But it would take time and right now they were nearly out of it. 

And it was time to go home.

[creativitycache]

Alright everyone hear me out.

Morgoth and Sauron can’t create life, they have to twist what beings they can get their hands on. Another way to get the results with less power used is to do what Sauruman did and breed & crossbreed orcs/etc to be more their liking.

Crossbreeding can get out of hand if not carefully monitored, and the results can become their own strain (see mountain goblins vs orcs).

Sauron didn’t create orcs, Morgoth did. Sauron had every reason to want his own creations but couldn’t build them from scratch, nor could he afford to make them his main mission. Sauron was locked away from things for long stretches at a time.

Hobbits are called Halflings. Half of what? Size, or bloodlines?

Hobbits have traits similar to all the other Free Peoples mixed together. (Height of dwarves, lifespans of man, fey glimmers like distant elves.)

Hobbits have some goblin naming conventions. (Farmer Maggot, auctioneers Grubb & Grubb, hard glottal stops like Gorbadoc)

Sauron loves order and the proper way of doing things. Hobbits love order and the proper way of doing things.

Sauron was the Lord of Rot. Hobbits love mushrooms and fermented things like cheeses and beers. Hobbits are hardy to all poisons.

Sauron loves clever machinery. Hobbits build someone the most advanced architecture and farming technology shown. Round doors are hard af to make, and they don’t go in for fancy spires or elaborate elegant decor but goddamn if their farming infrastructure isn’t so perfectly managed that their crop harvests make them the breadbasket of the west.

Sauron created a persona that was the Lord of Gifts. Hobbits LOVE giving gifts.

The Ring finds it very difficult to drive Hobbits to full madness. Hobbits are the most likely creatures to be able to harmoniously use a part of Sauron’s soul for their own small ends without being totally corrupted.

Nobody knows where Hobbits come from.

Hobbits are newer than all the other races.

Sauron doesn’t even know where hobbits were, or much of anything about them.

THE CONCLUSION IS CLEAR.

Hobbits were an original attempt by Sauron to create his ideal citizens who could feed his armies and have the world work as he wanted.

Hobbits were not done by the time he got curb stomped and proto-hobbits spread out after Sauron was vanquished. They bred on their own and created their own culture and civilization, with their own sense of justice and How The World Should Be.

Gandalf set up Sauron to be killed by his own creations. Sauron could have peacefully lived among creatures that were perfectly attuned to him as he once was if he hadn’t been so focused on domination.

[gingergofastboatsmojito]

Apologies

IMO Carmy apologizes just fine and not just to Syd, has always done that actually.

Sometimes he just admits his wrongdoing though, and this tone was set very early in the relationship.

This is almost better than saying "I'm sorry" if you ask me BUT only if followed by an actual change in behavior. THAT'S THE PART HE FALLS SHORT AT, NOT THE APOLOGIES PER SE. (keep reading if you wanna know why because there’s a scientific explanation for that, it’s not his fault yet it is his responsibility to overcome it)

Brigade | 01x03

Braciole | 01x08

Braciole | 01x08

OK, OK! He didn't say "I'm sorry", true. He just admitted his behavior was not OK, which still counts. And then he tried to redeem himself by offering to share his lifelong dream with her. Whether that's even better than an apology or not, I'm not willing to debate, some may think it might be. I'm not one of them, I think a change in behavior is the best apology

BUT to be fair:

Syd didn't apologize either for leaving the take-out option ON, she just offered him a second chance, which means that at that point neither one of them were apologizing with words, they were BOTH using actions instead.

The reason being, the feelings that started brewing beneath the surface, they didn't wanna acknowledge them, they deliberately chose not to and intended to move on. The decision was made. They decided to "keep it profesh", thus they couldn't voice them out because if they did they were gonna upgrade them to "real/official" and they were nowhere ready for that nor were they willing to do it, for that matter. So, in fact, at that point, they probably even decided they were never gonna be and gave up before even giving it a second thought.

In his case the progression of that was quite obvious:

<That's why C showed up shortly after, btw. It just fits the timeline they both tacitly started building since Braciole.>

AND BECAUSE LOVE FOR CARMY MEANS THIS↓

"It always gets fucked."

In her case, I can only guess because the sadist completely deprived us of her juicy background story pretty much, but I could bet an obscene amount of money on Syd having a similar idea of what love might entail, that's why no matter how loving and nurturing she is, she doesn't really let anyone in - refer to her tattoo for symbology pls -

She puts up walls:

More about that here:

Luckily in S3 they are getting flimsier by the minute, but still.

Back to his apologies

Pasta | 02x02

In Pasta he apologized and taught her the "Sorry" sign, even when he wasn't the one who did anything wrong because it was Syd who fucked up the lacto ferment.

Then he did apologize when appropriate a few days later:

Sundae | 02x03

Bolognese | 02x08

Omelette | 02x09

Omelette | 02x09

The Bear | 02x10

Tomorrow | 03x01

Apologies | 03x09

So as you can clearly see, he has no problem apologizing to anyone when he means it, his problem starts after the apology because even when he meant it, even when he's truly repentant, he fucks up, which IMPO is actually a trauma response → linked to his C-PTSD to be more precise. He self-boycotts because his brain is wired that way after years of enduring abuse. Meaning, Carmy has ABI (Abusive Brain Injury), which is a type of non-traumatic brain injury (although it could also be TBI if the abuse was also physical) that leads to damaged brain tissue resulting from years of consistent psychological and sometimes physical abuse, like the one he suffered when around Donna and Eleven Madison Dickhead. His 2 main abusers.

In other words, he's wired for failure till he overcomes his trauma, which as I keep saying, will happen in S4 because he has already started his healing process and had his breakthrought in 03x10.

You can read more about the correlation between ABI and abuse here.

Why he doesn't apologize to the C person?

Glad you asked, I already answered that question a while ago:

But it could also be because Syd didn't greenlight him in 03x01 or because C actually told him: "Never apologize". OR because:

I'm going to stick to the theory of it being a denial by-product, though, as I explained in the 1° meta above about GUILT being his main driver just because it's very IC of him. However, it wouldn't be a stretch if it were a combination of all these factors.

Bonus track: He doesn't have a problem with saying ILY either (if he really means it that is, he won't take it lightly), the problem is being on the receiving end of those words because they usually are the preface of a very painful story for him, a story where he usually ends up getting hurt and disappointed.

Remember to follow my tag #Gingerpovs 💋

[tartsinarat]

Soooo here’s Pip further perpetuating both his napoleon and slight superiority complex at the same time.

Basically Pip got tired of Amity’s top student complex and was in the most basic terms like; “abominations ain’t shit any bozo can make one” so he decided to create an abomination that was on the same level as Amity’s, if not better!!

……Pip doesn’t know the first thing about creating abomination’s or even what they’re made of….

But through pure spite, a horrific combination of black potion magic and determination, he ended up creating an affront to all things holy and pure in the shape of an abomination.

Technically it’s a homunculus (though he wouldn’t call it that as it’s extremely illegal to create them as it’s against the titans wishes so it’s an “abomination” lmao) that’s been created with his blood and then fermented in some abomination goo he stole from Amity but that’s neither here nor there

Also Amity was horrified upon seeing Pip’s beautiful creation but Luz was amazed and wants to make one herself.

Amity called a truce between them after this event because she was genuinely scared of what ever creation Pip was going to make next in order to upstage her top student status

Btw Pip’s abomination is kinda shitty ngl and genuinely disgusting because it’s constantly gurgling in pain, as it’s rotting and remaking itself but Pip refuses to acknowledge that and will defend with weird melting creation with all his honour.

[yhwhsdaughter]

credit

Gojo Satoru x Female Reader

“Suguru is dead.”

His vibrant eyes note the tiredness in your expression, the solemn look that overtakes your form. He had yearned that meeting you would have been under different circumstances, one where he didn’t kill your soulmate.

You blinked. “I see.” It went unsaid how you’d felt part of you fracture, the string of fate pulling your feet here. Every step you took was for him, though all in vain. You couldn’t take his body, even if you tried, not that there was a point. Nothing could bring Geto Suguru back. Turning heel, you began to walk away.

Satoru’s hand shot out, securing itself around your wrist, “Where are you going?” There was a hint of desperation in his voice. Your gaze trailed down, observing how his slender fingers grazed your soulmate mark— Suguru.

“Away.”

Satoru’s brow twitched at the vagueness of your statement. “You can’t go out there alone. They’ll come for you.” He says sternly, almost as if reprimanding you. He wouldn’t let them take Suguru’s body nor you. “I’m not going to let anyone hurt you, [Name].” Headquarters would order for your execution. His fingers squeeze at the notion, and as you try to pry away, “Stop.” It was for your sake, though it was mostly for his. Gojo Satoru could not lose you.

“I don’t need you to worry about me.”

How can you say that? As if it’s something he could actually do. “You have to listen to me, [Name]. I won’t let you leave.” Your skin pulsates at his touch, wondering if the bruises that would inevitably form— would they erase Suguru’s name, the ink that marred your flesh? Would he vanish completely? After all, that was the only physical evidence of the connection you shared.

“Please, I’m trying to help.”

Satoru kept his voice even, although it was obvious that the situation was bothering him. He shouldn’t have to fight you over this, knowing of your tendency to prioritize others before yourself, especially when it came to Suguru.

“I don’t want your help.”

You couldn’t even look at him, your gaze focused behind Satoru. The wind ruffled through the wild tuffs of your hair. “Don’t be so stubborn. I’m trying to protect you!” He’s frustrated that you don’t acknowledge the gravity of the situation. “I think you’ve done enough.” Your voice is soft yet firm. There’s no anger behind the words, just coldness. Were you that uncaring? Satoru wishes he knew what was going through your head—what your silence signified.

He spent years contemplating your absence, wondering if you even thought of him at all. There was no goodbye. Suguru had taken you with him without notice. Satoru felt robbed of your presence. “[Name], you need to understand,” he says, his tone pleading.

“You need me.” I need you.

“I don’t need you.”

That statement hurt him deeper than you could ever realize. Only you could be so cruel with your words. His affection towards you was a curse, one that had attached itself into his being, fermenting.

“You’re wrong.”

You needed him. He would take care of you. He could take all the love you had for Suguru. He would take your sorrow, if you wished. “Let go.” He couldn’t. Even if his arm was amputated, it would not sever his will to release you from his grasp. “Why?! Why do you keep fighting against me?!”

Satoru felt that he was failing in every way. He couldn’t save Suguru, but he could protect you—his beloved. He was the strongest, after all. “Why can’t you just listen?”

You pulled, “Stop.”

“No,” Satoru says stubbornly. “I’ll never let you go.” His face is tense. “I’ll never let you leave, [Name],” he repeats. He wouldn’t let you leave again. “Stay with me.” The words pour out of his mouth desperately, blue eyes flickering over your face, trying to memorize every line and curve. He wanted to understand, he wanted to know the baggage that you carried under those deep eyes. “Why?” For a moment Satoru feared he’d voiced those thoughts aloud. His hand tightened against your wrist to the point it hurt, enough to break a bone. “Please, [Name].” He repeats the words he’s said a thousand times already, hoping for a different answer this time. “I… I need you.”

“I need you,” he repeats softly.

You sighed, defeated. Satoru released his hold, staring at you in silence. You rub your wrist, and his face stiffens at the red imprint of his hand on your skin. Without warning, his body moves and envelopes yours in a hug. His chest heaves as he tries to catch his breath, like he’s in a rush to hold you as close as possible. Satoru’s large hands press against the back of your head and waist, securing you to himself. He feels you motionless, arms hanging at your side, not making the effort to return the embrace.

[sgiandubh]

When clueless, silence is golden

I was just browsing around while looking for something completely different and stumbled upon this quintessential Mordorian POV:

Disclosing a username is crass and I usually never do this, unless really necessary and relevant. So spare me the ad hominem argument you usually fumble around with, Disgruntled Tumblrettes. Yet, for all its intellectual paucity, this is interesting dissection material, since clearly this person hasn't got the slightest idea of what she is so confidently talking about.

First scenario at play: The Tasting Alliance, 'a company no one has ever heard of', booked and paid for the suite.

Not necessarily booked, nor necessarily paid, madam. In the real business world you are so clueless about, these arrangements are seldom - if ever - monetized. It's rather all about barter.

That company no one ever heard about - except, perhaps, #silly and totally irrelevant Forbes (https://www.forbes.com/sites/joemicallef/2023/04/13/the-tasting-alliance-and-reserve-bar-are-set-to-launch-top-shelf/?sh=b45f7085f6f1) - is the parent company of the San Francisco World Spirits Competition (SFWSC), largely acknowledged as at least one of, if not the world's leading spirits award contest. Google is your friend, you should try it some time:

The operative info here is that this evaluation comes from the Beverage Trade Network, a professional portal for spirit dealers. Having determined this, Tasting Alliance's IG number of followers is completely irrelevant, since we are talking about two very different targets, here. Its real leverage and weight on the global market does not really need the boost of an aggressive social media presence and the kind of events it hosts are not your favorite junior hockey league or elementary school cake and bake sale.

Let's look a bit further. It takes one click to get on the Tasting Alliance's website (https://thetastingalliance.com/). Granted, not all the information you need to understand its business model is right there and I had to go dig a bit (not without some help - merci encore!) to even get a grip on how these wheels are really turning.

The way they sell themselves is sober and confident. And completely disinterested in social media impact, to be honest:

So, in lieu of glitz and sequined bras, we have a success story in its own right, which started in Frisco in 1980, then continued in 2000, with the addition of the San Francisco World Spirits Competition. Further expansion followed in 2018, with the New York World Wine & Spirits Competition and 2019, when Dias Blue set a firm foot on the emerging Asian market, with the Singapore World Spirits Competition.

I doubt an explanatory drawing is needed as to the why of this expansion choice: it's all about baijiu, the old/new Chinese sorghum spirit and the everlasting love of the Far East for anything fermented. Lao-lao, the unspeakable Laotian homemade rice whisky, comes immediately to the mind of this blogger: the last bottle I saw, somewhere along the unexploded ordnance ridden Route 13, had a plump snake inside, as a naïve Viagra of sorts. Took a mouthful and thought I was going to die - but when spending the night in a longhouse with the Tai Lü people, you can't afford a faux-pas, can you? /end of travel memories intermezzo

By all my estimations, The Tasting Alliance is very profitable business. Let's unpack ( for current fees, see source: https://callingallcontestants.com/contest/2023-san-francisco-world-spirits-competition/):

Considering the 500 USD fee /entry (550, in 2023) in the competition and the fact that in 2022 there were approximately 5000 entries in the Frisco spirits' competition, we have a very rough turnover estimation of 500x5000= 2.5 million USD. That figure is just for one of the spirits competitions, mind you, and does not take into account what the winners probably pay for the right to mention their medals on their bottles (I am yet to see them on the SS gin bottles, btw), nor the multiple sidekick profit (e-shop sales, consulting and/or other distribution deals, etc). So, at the end of the day, I would comfortably multiply that base by 4, assuming a similar scale for all the other events they organize, which takes the yearly turnover at around 10 million USD and keeping in mind this is very probably a conservative estimation. I also assume costs are negligible, taking into account the discretion with which major players traditionally operate on that particular niche. Real expenses are probably limited to the activity of a handful of offices, sparingly and intelligently staffed. Advertisement is probably bartered and social media, well... you just saw the effort, haven't you?

But then there's the brand's real power on that market and this is the right time to talk about influence and impact. Perhaps this recent (2021) Men's Journal article will help us see better: https://www.mensjournal.com/food-drink/inside-the-san-francisco-world-spirits-competition

With a bit of luck, this could happen:

Sounds familiar? Of course and I bet that was S's strategy. If you imagined him doing the same exhausting booze tour every year (groping on top and seriously cringe on the sides), I think you might want to reconsider. I told you Sassenach Summer was a sandbox for more serious things to come and until now I have no reasons to change my mind. He did it for a reason and, mind you, that reason is not that the booze did or does not sell. It does. Restaurants start to feature it. Podcasts are being produced. The press starts to mention it (that recent New York Times article is evidence enough). This is not Lucky Luciano dealing in bootleg alcohol during the Prohibition and making obscene money over a fortnight. This is a serious business project that was delayed by COVID. That's all. And it takes time and patience and consistence. We know he has all those aplenty.

We also have the totally inane take on production costs for that podcast. It suddenly made me remember again my media expert past. It is with complete and educated confidence that I tell you: a potential 5K USD extra cost for renting that damn suite for the day is peanuts, even for a two-minute clip (let alone, in reality, a podcast interview, and I stand corrected if wrong), if such costs are covered by The Tasting Alliance. But my money is on a barter with The Shutters on the Beach, which would be, again, common business practice.

Second scenario: 'Shutters comped the room for free promo (...) for an actor most people haven't heard of.' You can throw timelines down my throat as many times as you wish and tell me he already stayed there several times and yell and screech, but here is what I think. Shutters didn't comp that suite for S, an actor most people haven't heard of, a decent, hard working start-up entrepreneur. If so (I doubt it), it would be logical to think Shutters comped that suite for The Tasting Alliance, which has a long documented history of partnerships with hotels that host their competitions:

So Shutters might have comped that room for a major player of the alcohol lobby world, happy that S, a returning client, picked them out of several possible options, because it was convenient. I don't believe for a second he stayed there.

This guy knows what he's doing and C's gin success completely depends and I bet will rely on that relentless networking effort. If anything, the Keepers of the Quaich recent development is only confirmation of all the above. But that's another story - very soon on this page.

IYKYK. The rest is uneducated cackle. But Mordor people were never the brightest bulbs in the fandom's chandelier, were they?