#object conundrum

[funnymothguy]

Doodoo 👻👻👻👻

[maulfucker]

[adds a stupid sp- before "anglerfish" to make it a fictional creature] perfect

[evocatiio]

if chibnall was the one writing this season you lot would be talking VERY differently

[frustratedasatruar]

Have you considered The Ancient Advice Of The Sages (by which I mean the Evil Overlord List) advising one to monologue only after killing someone and not before, so as to minimize their ability to stall for time and escape?

if a supervillain said "you wont kill me thatd make you just like me" i would simply say "no it wouldnt id be saving millions of people" and the villain would say "but youd be dooming yourself. could you really live knowing youre a killer" and id say "well id certainly have trouble. ill probably be very sad about it. definitely a lot to unpack" and theyd say "so you wont do it" and id say "oh no im still gonna" and theyd say "what" and id say "youre a supervillain responsible for countless deaths and yet here you are desperately trying to bargain for your life. you want to live. which means you can easily live with yourself after being responsible for countless deaths. i, on the other hand, will at the very least have tremendous difficulty with even killing just one person and at worst might just jump out a window right after i do it. the very nature of this whole conversation about whether we are the same has proven to me we are very much not the same and i am certain killing you to save millions is the morally correct decision here" and theyd say "what" and id say "get killed idiot"

[sapphiccup]

Lovely silence… with Sevika

You laid ontop of her, as she rubbed your back, soothing you by her touch. Her calloused fingers pressing just right into your shoulder blades, reaching down your spine, sometimes near your rib cage, then right back at the start. You’d sigh, longingly with a puff of air, calmed. Feeling safe in her arms. She knew how much you adored physical touch, and today was one of those days that you just needed to be on top of her. To just relax on her as warmth cuddled you in a lovely tune of sweet carameled tending. Kissing your temple every now and then, silence not being your enemy, instead your friend to the both of you. It was quite meditative with how you both would turn off every noise adding object off, lighting a few candles, wrapped between each other's limbs, in the bliss of needing to be close, yet to be hushed, a hush that was completely welcoming. You used to be so scared when it was silent between the both of you, thinking you did something wrong, or she must hate your voice, or maybe even that she wanted to break up. Instead you both talked about this ongoing conundrum that had you driving yourself into the corners of your mind that halted the experience of a relationship. Your relationship.

You both guided each other in this tiny issue, and it blossomed to being more than whispers of anxieties for the both of you. It was almost as if talking, communicating, the why’s, and the how’s melted those inkling thoughts away. Now you share a time of the week where you both get to be silent, you getting comforting kisses, rubs, and all sorts of love, and she the same. Sometimes you’d shift your body upwards to kiss her ear, or the scars on her cheek. Not exchanging any words, just a squeeze of her arms embracing you more, and the curve of her lips, making your eyes dilate. Pupils that could stare at her for hours, tracing every perfect feature of her face. She stared right back into those dark pupils that were full of lifetimes experience that she was or was not there right back, and could tell, you were smitten with her. She’d hide her face in your shoulder by bringing you closer to her. You’d beam from her retreat, already reassured by a kiss to your shoulder. Even though— you've been together for a while she still gets surprised with how much love someone could give just by simply sharing long gazes at her. She felt as though she wasn’t just being stared at, she was being looked through, so deeply, so enamored, so kind, your eyes had a love language of their own. A language that she doesn’t mind as long as it’s you silently speaking it.

An.) Guys I wrote this so late without proof reading it, I was so sleepy.. 🤣 Some words or sentences are probably janky!

[missaengg]

Love Next Door: A Skyhaven Conundrum

Pairing: Caleb x f!reader Tags: nsfw - suggestive and language, eventual smut, developing relationship, modern au, use of pipsqueak and princess, use of oppa, humor/slight crack, featuring mom's-best-friend's-son/next door neighbor Caleb Word Count: 6.6k In which you face the aftermath of your last mortifying encounter with Caleb and discover that perhaps there's more to your fantasies... A/N: Part 2 of what I am now dubbing the "Love Next Door" series! Much thanks to @wistfulwanderingone for helping me outline the series, beta reading, and for KEEPING ME SANE throughout the process! And to @candiedcoffeedrops for beta reading and breathing new life into my motivation whilst writing the second part to this mini series! I love and appreciate you both so so very much 🥰

Part 1

It’s silly.

You know it’s silly.

Doors are inanimate objects. Their sole function is to act as an entrance or an exit. They can’t think. They can’t emote. And they most certainly can’t mock you.

But this particular door is different.

This particular door belongs to Caleb’s apartment.

And this particular door, you swear, is judging the ever living shit out of you.

You hate it…or maybe you love it because it’s currently the only thing separating you from Caleb. This being the first time you’ll be seeing him since…the garage incident…of which you do not speak.

It wasn’t your idea to come visit Caleb. Quite the contrary. If anything, you would’ve been more than happy to never see him again for the rest of your life—not after what happened during your last encounter. But your mom being your mom, had packed a disgustingly excessive amount of food for her “son” because “he’s all by himself in Skyhaven and starving to death”, insisting that you personally deliver the food to him despite your rather vocal protests that he’s a grown ass man and a far better cook than you.

Which is precisely how, instead of spending the day joyfully away from Caleb, you’ve found yourself here. In front of his apartment. Fidgeting. Sweating. With only that stupid, offensive door keeping you from being in his presence.

Laughing at you.

Glowering at his door, you shift your weight from one foot to the other, chewing on your bottom lip and rolling your shoulder to ease the fatigue from the comically overstuffed bag you’re holding—somehow still intact despite looking as though it might burst at the seams from the slightest of jostles. You raise a hesitant fist to knock on his door, only to lower it immediately, repeating the cycle a few times before letting it fall listlessly back to your side.

How? How are you supposed to face him again after what happened? How are you supposed to pretend that nothing happened? That he didn’t catch you having a humiliating, visceral reaction to his deliciously chiseled, Greek god-like body…?

And if the incident itself wasn’t mortifying enough, the explicit wet dreams that followed have plagued you, slowly depriving you of your sleep and your sanity. The number of…showers you’ve had to take. The questioning glances your parents have given you as you took your third shower of the day.

Maddening…Absolutely maddening…

Squaring your shoulders and taking in a deep breath, you muster as much courage as you can scrape because…well, it’s not like you can stand there forever. And also because your mom would kill you if you returned without personally delivering the food.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

The silence that follows is suffocating, hanging in the air like the humidity of a muggy summer day.

Anticipation and dread churn in the pit of your stomach, twisting your organs into painful knots. Time drags on as you wait, your throat holding your breath captive, each passing second feeling even more stifling than the last.

Why the hell is it taking so long for him to open his door?

After what feels like an eternity—though realistically, it was probably closer to a few minutes at most, the door hinges open. Your face contorts into a scowl, ready to greet your mom’s-best-friend’s-son, childhood friend with some snarky comment about not being his errand boy.

But the snark withers away before you can even utter a single word.

Because when the door opens, you’re face to face with the most beautiful man tits you’ve ever seen in your life.

Caleb’s man tits.

Have they always been this breathtakingly magnificent?

You know you must look like a fool with your mouth hanging open and your eyes bugging out, but you can’t stop staring. You can’t help it! In your defense, it would be hard for anyone to stop staring when subjected to such a luscious view of glorious, firm, meaty mounds. Mounds dotted with a set of perky, pink nipples just begging to be sucked. Mounds connected to a—at present—naked Caleb, fresh out of the shower and dressed in only a low-slung towel, his hair still wet and slicked back, dripping water onto his broad shoulders.

A wayward drop slides down his shoulder, and your eyes unwittingly trace its descent—down past the necklace nestled in the divet between his tits, down past his abs and his belly button, all the way down to where a faint trail of dark hair begins.

Oh, what you would do to be that drop of water…

Your thighs quiver, trembling in their need to rub together and relieve the growing ache in your weeping sex. Thankfully, a single brain cell has somehow managed to retain its lucidity, saving you from embarrassing yourself in front of Caleb. Again.

Why? Out of all the outfit choices you had in your closet this afternoon, what demon possessed you to believe it would be a good idea to wear a short skirt to see Caleb? Have you learned nothing from the last time you saw him?!

“Pipsqueak?” Caleb’s deep voice cuts through the absolute insanity overtaking your malfunctioning brain. “What’re you doin’ here?”

Blinking rapidly, you awkwardly hold up the bag as your brain takes a moment too long to catch up. “My mom made you food.”

Caleb’s attention flitters to the bag, a stoked smile forming on his lips—lips you want to catch between your teeth and nibble…

Oh god, brain, please stop…

“It’s really heavy,” you mumble, shaking the bag as best you can considering its weight. “You gonna let me in or what?”

“Ah, sweet,” Caleb drawls, pulling the door wide open. “Perfect timing. I was just cravin’ your mom’s cooking.”

He invites you in, and as you step inside, the steam radiating from his post-shower body curls around you, enveloping you in the overpowering scent of his body wash. He smells clean. Fresh, with a woody undertone. Manly.

It takes every ounce of willpower you have not to rip that goddamn towel off of him.

“You mind putting that in the kitchen?” Caleb asks, shutting the door. “I’ll take care of it after I get dressed.”

“Sure,” you mutter, distracted by your woeful endeavor to conceal how flustered you are by the sight of his gorgeous, bare chest. “Anywhere on the counter?”

“Yep,” he calls out behind him, already halfway to his bedroom.

As soon as Caleb disappears, you mindlessly shuffle into his pristine kitchen and plop the ridiculously loaded bag on the dark marble countertop. Letting out a sound somewhere in between a feeble whimper and a whine, you crumble, bracing yourself on the counter as your knees give out, praying the cool marble will ease the fire ravaging your out of control cunt, rendering your underwear useless.

But it does fuck all to abate the fire.

Not even a little.

Cursing under your breath, you weigh your options. While Skyhaven is only a short train ride away from Linkon City, it would still take over an hour to get home to your blissful shower head, which frankly, is an hour too long, and while you do have the option of using Caleb’s…you would rather die than utilize his.

You need some other way to cool down.

Fast.

Before this heat kills you.

Ice. Yes, you’re a genius, ice. A mouthful of ice should do the trick. Nothing like chewing on ice to ease sexual frustration—at least that’s what they say, right?

Rushing to Caleb’s fridge, you rip the freezer door open only to find… nothing. No ice. None, whatsoever. Not even an ice crumb.

Fuck.

Water then. While less than ideal, cold water will have to do. Or any cold beverage. It doesn’t matter what as long as it’s cold. Frantic, you dig through his fridge searching for anything that might calm your burning loins.

Nothing.

How is it possible for the inside of his fridge to be like a cold Sahara desert?!

You’re on the verge of ripping every single strand of your hair out when you spot it, sitting by its lonesome self at the very back of the top shelf, hidden behind a hunk of beef.

A single can of cold beer.

Driven by desperation, you grab the can, wasting no time popping the tab and bringing it to your lips, downing the entire thing in giant gulps. Only once it's empty do you stop, exhaling and wiping your mouth with the back of your hand.

Refreshing.

And from the subsiding fever in your lower body, the answer to your prayers.

Thank fucking god.

“Pipsqueak, what’re you doin’?”

Startled, you jump, twirling around like a teenager caught raiding their parents’ liquor cabinet. You scramble to think of some excuse to explain yourself, but as soon as your eyes settle on Caleb, your mouth drops open yet again. Because for some unknown reason, he’s still shirtless despite changing into a pair of sweatpants.

Before the sight of Caleb’s tits can undo the magic of the beer you just drank, you squeeze your eyes shut, angling your body away as if to preserve his modesty instead of your own sanity. “Why the fuck are you not wearing a shirt?!”

“Why’re you being weird?” Caleb snorts derisively, and though you can’t see him, you’re certain he’s doing that thing he does where he arches an eyebrow and crosses his arms. “You’ve seen me without a shirt on all the time.”

That…is true. You have seen Caleb without a shirt on before. Many, many times. But never, in all those times, have you been so affected. Never, in all those times, have you felt the urge to raze the landscape of his naked torso with sinful, red blemishes…

“That—” you sputter, “That was when we were kids!”

“Pipsqueak, what’s going—Whoa, why the hell are you havin’ a beer?”

Shit.

Say something. 

Quick.

“I was thirsty.”

Not quite the complete truth, but not quite a complete lie either.

You crack one eye open, peeking at him to gauge whether he’s bought it.

Caleb narrows his eyes. “So you had…a beer?”

“You had nothing else to drink,” you retort, shooting him a reproachful look as you turn back to face him.

Caleb tilts his head towards the sink as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “The sink is right there.”

“I wanted something cold. You need to stock your fridge or something ‘cause this,” you gesture to his fridge, “is just pathetic.”

“Water is free.”

“And you make a decent enough salary to have something on hand for guests, butt munch.”

“Okay, okay, okay.” Caleb raises his hands in mock surrender. “I’ll make sure my fridge is stocked to your satisfaction the next time you unexpectedly come by. Happy?” Without waiting for your response, he grins, his eyes twinkling with mirth. “But seriously, butt munch? What’re you, five?”

Ugh, of all the insults you could throw at him, why butt munch? You haven’t used that insult since you were in middle school!

Bristling, you double down, stubbornly lifting your chin. “What’s wrong with butt munch?

“Nothing,” Caleb laughs. “Nothing at all, Pipsqueak.”

Caleb pops the ‘p’ in ‘Pipsqueak’ causing your hand to twitch, itching to smack him.

Deep breaths…Deep breath in…Deep breath out…You are not choosing violence today. Not today. Your situation is already precarious enough as it is.

As you remind yourself to remain civil, which can be difficult to do sometimes considering it’s Caleb, you miss him eyeing the can you’re holding until he swipes it from your hand.

“Hey!” You lunge for the can, but he holds it just out of reach, sticking out his tongue as your hands grasp nothing, but air. “Give it—” you lunge again, “back!”

Why the hell is he so freakishly tall?!

You can only helplessly watch as Caleb shakes the empty can by his ear—evidence of your shame—and frown when no liquid can be heard sloshing around.

“Pipsqueak, did you just drink an entire beer?”

“Yes,” you bluntly state, planting your hands on your hips. “So?”

“Aren’t you…Aren’t you a lightweight?”

You scowl, feeling your blood pressure skyrocket so high you fear you might have a stroke. “For your information, jerk face, my tolerance has gone up significantly since we last drank together.”

Caleb stares at you for a moment before doubling over, raucous guffaws violently racking his body. “Jerk face?” he gasps, struggling to catch his breath in between bursts of uncontrolled laughter.

Seriously, what is with you and juvenile insults today?

It’s gotta be the man tits. His stupid man tits are clearly robbing you of your ability to think.

“Yes, jerk face,” you snap. “Also, not that it’s any of your business, but I’m no longer nineteen and new to drinking.”

“Sure, whatever you say, Pipsqueak,” Caleb snickers, reaching out to tweak the tip of your nose with a cheeky grin. “That’s not what your face is sayin’ though. Your face is almost as red as when I caught you starin’ at my ass.”

And there it is…the bane of your existence…the incident he’ll never let you forget for the rest of your pathetic life.

“Oh my god!” You swat his arm away, glaring at him with a scathing indignance. “So what if I did?”

Caleb lumbers forward, invading your personal bubble, forcing you to stumble back until your lower spine bumps the counter. In a disturbing re-enactment of your last encounter, he leans forward, leveling his gaze with you. He places both of his palms on the counter’s edge, effectively trapping you between his arms.

His voice dips into a silky murmur. “You should stare at my ass more often.”

That bastard.

Of course he’s enjoying riling you up and watching you get flustered.

“Knock it off, Caleb,” you warn.

“Why should I?” Caleb asks, innocently poking your cheek. “You’re adorable when you blush.”

“Caleb, stop! You’re being—”

“Being what?”

“You’re being annoying!”

“Oh?”

Caleb leans in even further, holding your gaze as if challenging you to a game of who’ll look away first. Refusing to give him the satisfaction, you meet his challenge, staring deep into his purple eyes with a brazen insolence. While you’re the perfect picture of defiance on the outside, your inside tells a different story as your heart begins to race, thundering in your ears, and your throat constricts, making it difficult to breathe.

Too close. He’s too fucking close. Close enough that you can count the number of freckles dotting his sun-baked cheeks. Close enough that you can smell his natural musk beneath the fragrance of his body wash. Close enough that if you were to lean forward just an inch, you could press your lips to his and taste him…

“Why do you even care? You have girls staring at your ass all the time, Mr. Hotshot Pilot!” you blurt, practically shouting.

Stunned, Caleb draws back, his eyes wide, his lips slightly parted. You freeze, your own face mirroring his expression, also surprised by the amount of vitriol you just spewed. Surprised by the undercurrent of frustration and…jealousy you’re feeling.

“Whatever,” you grumble, glancing away. “My mom told me to bring you food. I brought you your damn food.” You gruffly shove his arm out of the way, creating an opening for you to wiggle out from between the counter and his tree-trunk of a body, more than eager to make your escape. 

Caleb’s arm falls back to the counter, where he remains motionless. “I never said I don’t care,” he whispers, so quietly you barely catch what he said.

What does that even mean? Does he mean the act itself or you, the person who was doing the staring? Your footsteps falter, abandoning their mad dash for freedom. “What?”

“I said, I—” Caleb sighs, his shoulders slumping forward. “Never mind.” 

You wait to see if he’ll continue, but he stays silent, his mouth pressed together into a thin line, his brows tightly knit together, his attention fixed on the marble before him. When it becomes apparent he has nothing more to say, you mutter, “Whatever. I’m going home.”

“No—” Caleb pushes off the counter, following you out of the kitchen. “C’mon, Pipsqueak, you just got here. Have dinner with me.”

Had this been any other day, you would’ve stayed. You love Caleb’s cooking. But not tonight. Tonight is about self-preservation. Tonight, you have to get out of here before you do something you’ll regret, something that would irrevocably change the course of your friendship with Caleb.

“I’m not hungry,” you lie, hastening your pace. “I’ll just eat when I get home.”

“Wait—” Caleb catches your wrist, preventing you from progressing any further to the exit—another act eerily reminiscent of the last time you saw him, almost as if he’s intentionally trying to recreate your last encounter. 

“Caleb, let go.”

“No,” he says petulantly, wearing a mischievous grin, but there’s a tension in his jaw that betrays his carefree attitude. “Why’re you in such a hurry to get home anyway? You got a hot date or somethin’?”

Being around Caleb when he’s like this tends to bring out the brat in you and sensing an opportunity to rile him up for a change, you shoot back, “Yeah, the hottest.”

Caleb’s expression instantaneously darkens, and his grip around your wrist hardens. A possessiveness you’ve never seen before radiates from him in dense waves. Despite his relentless teasing, Caleb has always been gentle and patient, but this is new. Different. The turbulent storm brewing in his eyes should scare you, but it doesn’t. If anything, it excites you. Even more than you were.

“Well, too bad, it’s cancelled,” Caleb growls, jerking you towards him. “Cause I’m not sendin’ you on a date with some jackass drunk.”

“Caleb, I can handle myself just fine. And I’m not a child. I can drink a beer without getting drunk,” you argue, your voice an octave higher than you intended. “And who the hell do you think you are telling me what I can and can’t—”

Just then, a vein of lightning streaks across the sky, casting an ominous glow across Caleb’s face. A giant crack of thunder soon follows, booming through the apartment, causing you to flinch.

No. No, no, no. No. This can’t be happening. You checked the weather forecast this morning. You checked. It said nothing about rain, let alone a thunderstorm. But fuck, if it’s storming, that means—

“Flights are going to be cancelled, aren’t they?”

Something sinister flashes through Caleb’s eyes as he regards you in a manner that tickles your burgeoning desire. “Yeah, ‘fraid so.”

“It’s not gonna end anytime soon, is it?”

“Nope. Looks like it’s just you and me, Pipsqueak.”

Great, just great.

Stuck in Caleb’s apartment overnight with your raging hormones and his luscious man tits.

A strangled wail of despair erupts from somewhere deep within you, and Caleb promptly pulls you into his arms, mistaking your guttural panic for your fear of thunderstorms.

While it’s true that you fear thunderstorms—something about the way the dark clouds drown out the light, the way lighting flashes in the sky, and the way the wind howls and rattles the windows—it’s the least of your worries at the moment. What you need is to get away from the sexual temptation that is Caleb and home to your magical shower head!

“Hey, it’s okay,” Caleb murmurs, cradling your head against his chest, burying your face between his tits—the same tits currently driving you to the brink of combusting. He holds you so tight you can’t even turn your head, not even to free your nose from being squished. His breath tickles the shell of your ear as he pats your back in a steady, soothing rhythm, just as he did when the two of you were kids. “I’m here. I’ve got you.”

Every part of your body is intertwined with his, almost as if your bodies are melting together into one—to the point it's difficult to discern where you end and he begins.

The soft murmur of his voice. The calming cadence of his heart. The bewitching scent of his natural musk. The searing warmth of his body. The impressive bulge of his dick…

They muddle all of your senses and sensibilities. 

It’s dizzying. Perplexing. Exhilarating. And yet his embrace feels like the most natural thing in the world, as if you belong in his arms. His embrace feels like home.

It’s the most wonderful feeling.

And the most dangerous.

Perturbed by this new revelation—and by your overwhelming urge to rut against him like a dog in heat—you wrench yourself out of his arms, unintentionally shoving him back in the process. Caleb staggers back, his arms still hanging in the air as he studies you with an expression of utter bafflement. You look away, clearing your throat and sheepishly rubbing your arms. The sudden loss of his warmth causes you to shiver, which in true Caleb fashion, he clocks instantly.

“You’re going to catch a cold in that skirt,” Caleb muses, more to himself than for you to hear.

Grimacing, you glance down at your bare legs, tugging on the hem of your skirt. Of course he noticed. But…isn’t that what you wanted? Isn’t that why you wore this skirt to begin with?

Who the hell knows anymore…

“Why don’t you go wash up?” Caleb suggests, gently nudging you in the direction of his bathroom. “I’ll bring you a change of clothes.”

In a daze, you nod, absentmindedly stumbling down the hallway at Caleb’s prompting. One foot in front of the other, plodding along on autopilot while your brain tries to make sense of what’s changed. While you still want nothing more than for him to fuck you senseless, something had shifted. It wasn’t just about wanting to fuck him anymore, there was something else, something you couldn’t quite put your finger on.

Why did his embrace feel like home? Why did you want to stay wrapped in his arms forever, hoping he never lets go? And why now, instead of all the previous times he’s held you before? 

He was still just Caleb, for god’s sake—annoying, infuriating, juvenile, mom’s-best-friend’s-son, childhood friend Caleb who got under your skin every chance he had. But the sexual lunacy aside, he wasn’t just Caleb anymore. He was…Caleb.

“Guess you’re going to have to cancel that date, huh?”

Between the vexing arousal running rampant in your sex and the confounding chaos of what else you might be feeling, your brain only vaguely registers Caleb’s question drifting after you. Before your brain can sync with your mouth, you answer, “There was no date.”

“What?”

Caleb’s ask for clarification hurtles you back into the present, and you wince, realizing what you just admitted. Well, no use hiding it now. You’ve already said it.

Heaving a sigh of resignation, you turn to face him. “I said, there was no date.”

A look of surprise crosses Caleb’s face for a split second, and then his face lights up like a child on Christmas morning, his eyes crinkling with what appears to be sheer joy. “Were you…Were you trying to make me jealous, Pipsqueak?” 

You purse your lips, fixing him with a withering stare. “Not even in the slightest, asshole.”

“I mean, it’s okay if you were,” Caleb sings with a cocky, self-satisfied smirk. “You’ve got nothin’ to worry about, Princess. You’re the only Pipsqueak for me.”

“...Shut up, Caleb.” 

Expelling an exasperated grunt, you swiftly flip back around, making it your number one mission to reach your destination—away from him. Caleb’s chuckles float after you, but you don’t dare look back. Not even once. Not even as you enter his bathroom and shut the door.

It’s only once you're inside and the door locked that you allow yourself to relax, releasing the breath you didn’t know you were holding in the form of a long, suffering sigh.

Why did you do that, admit that there had been no date, that you made it up?

And…why did he look so overjoyed?

Dismissing the notion that his joy carried any deeper meaning, you cross over to the shower and turn on the water. Knowing Caleb, it likely meant nothing. He was probably just overjoyed to have more arsenal in which to torment you in his pocket.

“I left a change of clothes outside the door.” Speaking of the devil, Caleb’s chipper voice drifts into the bathroom. “Take your time. I’ll be in the living room.”

“Okay, thanks.”

You wait for the creak of his floor as a sign he’s walked away before slipping out of your clothes, loosely folding each item and placing them in a pile on the vanity. You slip out of your underwear last, quietly groaning at how dark the gusset is compared to the rest of the garment—a pitiful reminder of how hysterically depraved you become around him.

Making a face, you place your underwear with the rest of your clothes, and as you look up, you catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror. Your hair is disheveled as if Caleb had run his fingers through them. Your lips are swollen as if you were biting them in restraint to stifle your moans. Your cheeks are flushed a rosy pink as if in the throes of passion.

Caleb standing behind you, his hands on your shoulders. Gliding them down your arms as he presses kiss after kiss to the crook of your neck. Leaving behind lovely, little bruises as if to say, “she belongs to me”. A calloused hand cupping and kneading your breast while his thumb rolls your hardened nipple. His other hand sliding between your legs, gathering your arousal on his finger.

His mouth breathlessly moaning your name and hoarsely whispering, “I love you”…

Holy shit, what was that?!

Horrified, you snap out of your lust-fueled reverie, dragging your hands across your face and digging the heels of your palms into your eyes.

God, you must really need that shower or something because clearly you are losing it. There could be no other explanation. You are losing your damn mind, and it’s all because of Caleb and his goddamn sex appeal.

Aggravation rippling in your throat, you step into the shower, welcoming the warm cascade of water falling on you like a gentle rain, but it does nothing to relieve the turmoil roiling through your lower body or your mind. It can’t. Not by itself. Not without some assistance.

Caleb’s detachable shower head looms above you, shining through the steam like a lighthouse in the midst of a foggy afternoon as if guiding you to your solution. Goading you into using it for a depraved means other than its intended purpose.

It’s tempting. So very tempting. Caleb’s bathroom is most definitely not an appropriate location for what you have in mind, especially with the risk of being discovered by the cause of your distress—which would only then serve to add to your distress. You know you shouldn’t, but…

Fuck it.

It’s not like you have much of a choice—not if you want to survive spending the night with Caleb.

You grasp the shower head, freeing it from its perch, and position it between your thighs. You gasp as the stream hits your swollen clit and bite down on your knuckles to keep from crying out, suppressing the subdued whimpers threatening to escape. After all the pent up frustration, the pressure feels good—more than good, it feels amazing.

As the water works its magic, your imagination returns unbidden to where it was before—Caleb moaning your name. His erection digging into your lower back. His finger slipping through your folds and gathering your slick, shuddering at how wet you are for him. His finger sliding to your clit and stroking it in languid circles, teasing you before plunging deep into your waiting cunt.

A stifled cry squeaks past your knuckles as you feel the familiar tightening of your abdomen. As the coil winds taut, your cunt clenches around nothing. Your muscles tense in anticipation. Your head lolls back, your mouth in the shape of a silent ‘O’. And then you let go, your breaths coming out in short puffs. Your legs turning to jelly. Your eyes rolling back as you’re overtaken by a burst of ecstasy. Waves of pure, unadulterated pleasure coursing through you as sparks traverse your body. All while you hear Caleb murmuring a throaty “good girl” as you come for him.

The shower head lingers between your legs while you ride out your orgasm. And through another. And another.

It takes three rounds for you to lose the deranged absurdity clouding your judgement and for the unbridled fervor to wane. Three rounds to drain yourself to a state of exhaustion—enough that you’ll hopefully remain clearheaded and sane when back in Caleb’s presence. 

Your feverish insanity now satiated, you wash up and get dressed in the clothes Caleb left for you—a plain, cotton T-shirt and a pair of soft pajama pants, both of which hang loosely off your frame. You emerge from the sauna his bathroom has turned into, padding to his living room. Caleb doesn’t notice you enter, and you don’t make a point to announce your arrival either. You quietly observe him, still shirtless, lounging on his sofa with a headset on his head and a controller in his hands, one foot propped up on the coffee table. 

It’s been a while since you last saw him so engrossed in a video game with his friends, playing some first-person shooter game he had you try once. Back then, it annoyed you how absorbed he’d become because he’d ignore you for hours, but now, you find it endearing. Not only did it prevent him from noticing how long you took in his shower, he looked…adorable, laughing at something his friend said as he quipped something equally as childish back.

Caleb’s attention flickers in your direction, his face lighting up when he notices you by the entrance. “You’re done?” he beams, lowering the controller and sitting up, dropping his leg to the floor. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I didn’t want to bother you,” you respond with a shrug, unexpectedly feeling shy of all things.

“That’s ridiculous. You’re never bothering me.” Caleb gives you a lopsided grin so cute your heart skips a beat, but before you can process your reaction, his attention is back on the TV. “Yo, I gotta go.” He pauses, listening to something being said on the other end. “Yeah, that’s right. Your boy’s got a girl over. Be jealous, assholes.”

Out of reflex, you roll your eyes, but you can’t help wondering…

Does he mean “girl” as in you? 

Does he see you as a woman the same way you’ve been seeing him as a man? Could it be that he sees you as something more than just a “little sister” or even a friend?

The thought causes your heart to flutter. Something unfamiliar blooms in your chest, filling it with…hope? Or longing? Some strange emotion you’ve never associated with Caleb before. Not like this.

“Pfft, nah, it’s just Pipsqueak,” Caleb sniggers. “Seriously though, I gotta go.”

And just like that, the fragile illusion—or delusion—shatters, deflating the unidentified emotion budding in your chest, which confuses you because why did you “flate” to begin with?

You’re reeling from this new development when Caleb suddenly frowns. “No, fuck you. I’m not giving you her number,” he snarls, venom dripping from every word. “Not cool, man. Whatever, I'm gone. See ya.” He rips the headset off his head and tosses it onto the coffee table before turning off his TV system. “Assholes.”

Gingerly taking a seat on the couch as far away from him as you can without appearing unnatural, you study him curiously, fiddling with the hem of your shirt. “What did your friends say?”

“Nothing,” Caleb mutters, brooding at the dark screen.

“Didn’t seem like nothing,” you prod carefully.

“It’s nothing.” Caleb shakes off his mood, giving you a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry about it.” He reaches out to ruffle your hair, but his frown returns when he notices the towel wrapped around your head. “You didn’t dry your hair.”

“Hm?” You look up, brushing your fingers along the damp fabric. “Oh, yeah, I didn’t feel like it.”

Caleb gives you that look, one you know all too well—the mother hen look that always comes with a side of nagging. “You’re going to catch a cold like that, Pipsqueak,” he chides, heaving himself off the couch. “Wait here. I’ll be right back.”

“No, that’s okay—” you begin, but Caleb’s already on the move. “Caleb, it’s fine!”

Your protests fall on deaf ears, and as Caleb disappears into his bathroom, you click your tongue, following it with a tiny chuff of laughter. Typical Caleb. Scolding you about your wet hair, just like he used to before he went off to college.

Caleb quickly returns and plugs the dryer into the outlet. He comes around the side of the sofa and takes a seat, patting the cushion next to him. “Come here. I’ll dry it for ya. Just like old times.”

You hesitate, contemplating whether it would be wise for you to sit next to him in such close proximity, but…he’s just drying your hair. It’s perfectly innocent. Plus, you’ve pacified your raging hormones so it should be fine, right?

Despite your apprehension, you comply, scooching down until you’re sitting in front of him with your back to his chest. Caleb unwraps the towel from your head and sets it aside. Then he turns the dryer on to the lowest setting, checking the temperature on his palm before directing it to your scalp.

“Remember?” he asks. “I used to do this for you all the time.”

“Mmm,” you hum in agreement, basking in the sensation of his fingers combing through your hair and brushing along your scalp. It’s a sensation that’s both familiar and soothing, evoking memories of how often he would do this for you growing up. And by often, you mean often because you were notoriously awful at drying your own hair. You still don’t understand why it’s such a big deal. It’s just hair. It’ll dry just fine on its own, but Caleb would scold you, insisting that you’ll get sick, and force you to sit down so he could dry it. 

Just like he is now.

Feeling his fingers tousling your crown, it dawns on you how much you’ve missed this.

“It really has been a while, hasn’t it?” Curious, you tilt your head back, musing at the ceiling through half-lidded eyes. “Why did you stop?”

Caleb’s hand stills—a momentary pause before he guides your head back to its original position. “We got older,” he replies with no further explanation.

Squinting, you mull over his answer. “Why would that change anything?”

Caleb softly sighs. “It just did, Pipsqueak, okay?”

Feeling unsatisfied, you scrunch your face and pucker your lips, but sensing his reluctance, you don’t press any further. A part of you rationalizes that it’s because you want to honor his boundaries, but if you’re being honest, it’s mostly because you’re not sure you’re ready to hear the answer either. The uncertainty of what he might say scares you.

Caleb clicks the dryer off and gives your hair one last ruffle. “Okay, done.”

“Already?” You twist around to face him, shooting him an impish smile. “You didn’t leave it looking like a bird’s nest, did you?” you accuse him playfully.

“Please,” Caleb scoffs, a half-amused smirk tugging on the corner of his lip. “I am the master at drying your hair.”

“Uh huh,” you hum, narrowing your eyes at him in mock disbelief.

Caleb merely quirks an eyebrow in response, holding your gaze as if to dare you to say otherwise. It’s only then you realize how close you’re sitting next to him. How close his face is to yours for the second time that evening.

As if he realizes it himself, Caleb swallows. Hard. Your eyes flicker to his lips—the same lips that have haunted your dreams—where you detect what appears to be a tiny quiver. As if he’s just as nervous as you.

And then you feel it—your heart stuttering in your chest before fluttering wildly against your ribs like a captive bird trying to escape its cage. 

Ba-dump…Ba-dump…Ba-dump…

Your lungs refuse to work, depriving you of oxygen. They’re only capable of taking in shallow breaths, which you attribute as the cause of the intoxicating dizziness shrouding your head. Without thinking, your lips part, and as if drawn to him through his gravitational Evol, you lean forward. Slowly. Inch by inch. Closer and closer, wavering just short of your lips meeting.

Caleb stiffens, his breath hitching in his throat. But as if he too is under a spell, he’s unable to break the trance binding you together. His free hand curls into the fabric of his pants. His eyes tremble with a hesitant uncertainty. But his gaze remains fixed on you.

Time screeches to a halt. 

Holding your breath, you search his gaze, silently imploring whether he too wants to cross that line. A line you’ve never considered crossing even in the face of your most deviant fantasies. A line that, if crossed, would change the course of your friendship forever. A line that leads to a new world, unexplored and potentially perilous.

But he has yet to pull away, and you wonder…you wonder…you wonder…perhaps he wants this just as much as you.

As if compelled by a siren’s song, you surrender. You creep forward in timid, imperceptible whispers with your eyes half-closed and your lips softly parted, ardently seeking his touch. But before your lips can meet, Caleb falters. He pulls away, exhaling a shaky breath of air disguised as a chuckle before putting on a tentative smile.

“I should…I should go make dinner before it gets too late.” Caleb gets up from the couch, unplugging the hair dryer and wrapping the cord around the nozzle. “You should call your mom to let her know you’re staying the night.”

The spell breaks.

You wake from what feels like a fever dream, and the gravity of what almost happened—what you almost did—sinks in. “Right, yeah—I should—Right—” Stammering, you clench your hands into fists, your fingernails biting into your palms. You scramble to your feet, your eyes darting about the room, your focus on anything but the man you almost kissed. “She’s going to worry—Need to—Gonna go—Need my phone—”

Your blood pounding in your ears and adrenaline coursing through your veins, you dart towards the guest bedroom under the guise of finding your phone, despite it being safely tucked away in your pocket.

Fuck, what was…what the flipping shit was that?! What were you thinking?! You weren’t thinking, that was the problem, but fuck…what the hell just happened?

You tell yourself it was because of your hormones. Just your damn hormones. Nothing else. Nothing more. But deep down you know it wasn’t. It wasn’t. It was something more than that. Something more tender and vulnerable and intimate. Something that terrifies you the more you linger on it. Something that you can’t deny any longer.

You don’t want to just fuck your mom’s-best-friend’s-son…you’ve developed feelings for him. Feelings you don’t fully understand. Feelings that change everything.

But…it wasn’t just you.

Caleb didn’t pull away either. Not at first. Like he wanted it too. Like he might also have feelings for you. And if that’s the case then…then things just got more complicated.

You’re in treacherous, uncharted territory.

But first…

First, you need to survive the night.

Survive the night, and then…and then you can deal with all this nonsense.

May God have mercy on your soul…

Taglist: @xaviersknight, @godoffuckedupcats, @flwerie, @opalesquegirl, @calebsbabyapple, @matanetuyo, @candiedcoffeedrops, @rxelarailuj, @ama1lv

If you'd like to be added to my taglist, please fill out this form here or comment below. Thank you!

Divider courtesy of @saradika-graphics

[lazyjellyfish300]

merriment shrine 🎄⛩️

synopsis: you're the newest concubine in Lord Sukuna's household and the object of his unrelenting ruminations (or is it desire?). When Uraume tasks you with being in charge of the Christmas festivities while Sukuna is away, you can only hope you'll deliver. What could go wrong? 🎄 largely inspired by this fic by @/sttoru 💕 words: 7.5k

cw: minors dni, x FEM!READER(Yuri), concubines, smut(p in v, double penetration(not too detailed), monster sex? I guess bc true form!Sukuna sex is not normal sex, oral f and m receiving, titty fucking, degradation, creampie(not too detailed), cum eating), violence, blood, Sukuna is a warning on his own, true form!Sukuna, SUKUNA HAS BEEF WITH BABY JESUS. MOCKING OF RELIGION/BLASPHEMY (PLS DONT READ IF THAT BOTHERS YOU. IT'S SUKUNA FFS) decapitation, bullying, heian era but it's all over the place historically and NOT accurate. angst, fluff, crack

a/n: For the secret Santa fic exchange event by @nanamiscocksleeve written for @heian-era-housewife ! I deeply apologize for the late entry! I was very intimidated writing for him for the first time but I hope you like it. 😩🎅🏽🎄💕 Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays!✨

my holiday smut masterlist 🎄

dividers by @/saradika-graphics. pics from pinterest

You mused peacefully as you took in the gentle dance of snowflakes outside your chamber windows, thinking if you squinted hard enough you could make out the intricate shape of each one before they landed silently on the thin dusty layer of those that fell before on the undisturbed gardens.

You hugged your kimono a little tighter around you as you sipped your tea you had laced with some ginger and cinnamon, much to the confusion of the cooks in the kitchen. The distant glare of the fireplace bestowed a soothing warmth that kept you locked in place.

Since you arrived, it quickly became no secret that you, the newest concubine to join the harem under the formidable king of curses, brought with you a peculiarity. Certain quirks that endeared you to the servants and annoyed the other concubines.

You emitted a humble air about you like the shades of aqua and seafoam green you gravitated towards. You often opted for untouched corners of the garden next to the pond and the library where you could read and write in solitude that became mistaken for arrogance by the others.

And for whatever reason or another, you insisted on this...holiday business or whatever the hell you called it, gently humming those insufferable tunes under your breath that carried though the marble hallways and adorning your room in makeshift tinsel and boughs of holly you strung together from stray pieces of greenery you found by the koi pond.

It was a very frustrating type of conundrum Sukuna didn't appreciate that was causing ripples in his vast household, especially now, as he studies you from his neighboring window on the opposite side of the estate, stroking his chin, eyes narrowed.

"My Lord." Uraume bows as their smaller frame appears in his doorway.

"Speak." Sukuna responds, not tearing those eyes of a deep rose away from where you were perched in your window, a pointed black claw gently scratching the sharp ridge of his jaw in deep thought.

"I need to know of your plans for the winter feast preparations."

"What of it?" Sukuna answers coldly.

Uraume doesn't flinch, being all too familiar with Sukuna's temperament. They knew he would rather fork out his eyeballs than waste time with frivolous matters like festive planning. Too reminiscent of the folly those disgusting humans preoccupied themselves with.

But, Uraume also knew the blind fury that would await them should they make arrangements for anything impacting the routine functions of Sukuna's household without his knowledge.

"A proposal, my lord." Uraume continues calmly. "Since we are not expecting your grace's presence until the 24th, perhaps we leave the bulk of the planning to someone else?"

Sukuna scoffed. "And who would that be?"

"One of the concubines."

"Who? He asks, slight incredulity now mixed in his sternness. "Her?"

"She...brings a new set of traditions."

"I am aware, I was not born yesterday."

"...I thought his majesty would appreciate-"

"Appreciate? Uraume, do not speak foolishly." Sukuna scolded, now fully turned to face them, his two upper muscular arms folded across his body.

Uraume merely stayed where they were, silent, undemonstrative of any reaction which they knew Sukuna preferred while he strode about the room, beginning to pace.

Finally, Sukuna came to a stop. "So be it. As long as I am not to be trifled with such matters again until my return, I do not care what the little brat does."

He paused, his expression unmoving as he addresses them one more time. "I have the most trust in your judgement, Uraume. Do not disappoint me."

"Yes, my Lord." Uraume bows again as Sukuna takes his leave, but not before eyeing you one more lingering glance before he departs, a shred of annoyance when he realizes despite the distance, he wouldn't be rid of you from his thoughts anytime soon.

-----

"My lady." Uraume addresses you from your doorway and you stand abruptly, bowing in acknowledgement.

"Uraume, good to see you."

"Thank you." Uraume answers pleasantly, a slight inflection in their tone carrying a fondness at your usual kindness towards them.

Although you were aloof, odd, and provided more than an earful that Uraume had to bear witness to from the other concubines, at least you treated them respectfully, unlike them.

"Lord Sukuna has departed on business with no plans to return until the 24th."

You stood up slowly, quirking a curious brow at the unexpected news.

"It is tradition that his grace hosts a feast for the winter solstice." Uraume explains. "To usher in the cold season and provide festivities. But, due to his absence, we are in need of someone to make arrangements..." Uraume clears their throat, clearly a little nervous at what your response will be, since the success of it was mostly riding on your willingness to participate.

"Would you be willing to lead the preparations, my lady?"

Silence hangs in mid air before you speak. "Me?"

"Of course." Uraume hums. "I don't doubt you'll be more than capable. I, along with many others, have noticed you celebrating this-Christmas? You call it?"

"Yes, that's right." You straighten up a little. "I mean, I'd love throw a celebration for Lord Sukuna. But, why me?"

"Well, my lady. As I said before, you are very capable. I noticed you seem to have an eye for these kinds of details between your drawings, writings, and your.." Their fuschia eyes flicker briefly to the parchment ornaments adorning a potted plant in the corner. "...creations." Their lip curls upward in a meek grin.

"Between you and I, I have never cared much for the traditions, either. Too overwhelming. But, I am curious about yours. You've caused quite a stir among the ladies of the house and, if I may speak openly..." Uraume gulps and looks at the walls nervously as if they had eyes into the conversation before lowering their voice.

"You are the first in a long while whom I have been able to tolerate, and who has treated me kindly unlike so many before you."

You give Uraume a sympathetic glance, now determined to deliver on your promise of a celebration worth waiting for.

"We'll start tomorrow."

----

The shrine slowly transformed day by day. The halls became lined with pine needles accented by soft candles that emitted a heavenly glow. As the snow piled up, you recruited the help of the servants, smiling at their bewildered expressions that turned to pure joy as they touched snow for the first time, constructing an army of snowmen with various hats, scarves, and other accessories they could find around the estate, complete with carrot noses provided by the kitchen.

You, Uraume, and a team of gardeners from the palace ventured into the woods and hand selected multiple spruce trees, and, with their help, chopped them down, strapping them with ropes and dragging them back so the shrine could have its own assortment of Christmas trees, complete with what seemed to be nearly hundreds of crochet and parchment snowflake ornaments.

You had fashioned them with Uraume and some of the other ladies in waiting during craft hours in the evenings. Presents wrapped in scarlet ribbons and offerings to Sukuna began to encircle the bottom of the largest tree in the grand hall.

Across the way, however, the group of other concubines avoided the spreading merriment with disdain and scowls on their faces, not even touching or wandering in the vicinity of the Christmas trappings as though it contained a plague.

You began hosting caroling rehearsals and only you, Uraume, and a few other members of the kitchens staff had joined while your bitter cohorts tried their best to drown out the noise on the far side of the shrine, the leader of the group shooting a fiery glare at one of her minions when she began to blindly hum the catchy tune.

As Christmas Eve drew closer, the warm baked goodies become more innumerable as they popped out of the kitchen and the bakers perfected their abilities to whip up treats worthy of the season. The shrine had adopted a permanent scent of gingerbread, cinnamon, pine and peppermint that followed and clung to your robes.

----

On the 23rd, the day before Christmas Eve, you and Uraume were baking and laughing with flour stained faces,

"To think, we did all this in just a few weeks' time." Uraume mused as they squished the gingerbread dough between their fingers. "Lord Sukuna will be pleased. Yes, very pleased with you indeed."

The sentiment left you with a very healthy dose of fluster as you grinned at the thought of his majesty marveling at all the work you did just for him, possibly rewarding you with something much better than you could imagine as those eyes of deep rose bestowed you subtle admiration that had not graced anyone else.

Unknown to you, an eavesdropping ear belonging to one of the concubines catches wind of this statement and skitters away quickly to spread her message to the others.

----

"Spit it out already!" The cruel eyed leader of the concubines hisses to the messenger.

"I overheard that Lord Sukuna chose her specifically to lead this Christmas tradition and intends to reward her and place her higher above the rest of us, earning his grace's favor so that we might be cast out into the streets!"

Shock, fury, outrage, and blind jealousy erupted among the other concubines.

"What shall we do?" "That goddamn slut, I knew she was no good." "She needs to go!"

"Silence!!" The leader screeched over the others. "She will be dealt with. We must take matters into our own hands so Lord Sukuna is displeased and has no option but to execute her. Listen to me, I have a plan..."

And the other concubines huddled around her eagerly as they plotted your downfall.

----

Everything was ready for the elaborate Christmas Eve homecoming feast for Lord Sukuna.

The finest beast was being roasted on a spit over fiery coals under careful supervision by Uraume. In the kitchen, the chefs were hard at work chopping vegetables they had culled from the winter harvest. Puddings and treats were being whipped up and presented beautifully in festive arrangements on fine platters.

The smell of Christmas cooking overwhelmed you as you stood in the great hall, clad in a new royal jade kimono with golden ornate leaves woven in your hair that never made you appear more elegant than on this Christmas Eve of festivities.

You thought of Sukuna and what he might think when his powerful presence graced these halls again. An odd mixture of fear and admiration you harbored for him that inspired you to want to please him. Feelings about him you couldn't quite place ever since he selected you to live in his shrine even though your head had not yet graced the silk of his bedsheets.

Lord Sukuna's carnal appetites were of no mystery to you. You had heard plenty of rumors about how rough and relentless he could be. His preferences seemed to be both selective, yet apathetic if that even made sense.

You had heard the screams and loud noises of primality from behind his sealed oak doors that echoed into late hours. Though all of his concubines would walk away with their own satisfaction eventually, his copulation apparently came with scars and rough treatment.

Seldom, if ever would his fucking deviate into lovemaking territory, much less tenderness and intimacy. That is where his selectiveness came in. The gentle sighs, gasps of mind melting pleasure, soul binding thrusts, consuming kisses dotted lovingly all along your nape, breasts, and inner thighs while being brought to the pedestals of pleasure you craved to know one day from the touch of a man you were deeply in love with, seemed to be reserved for someone of an unattainable caliber to Sukuna.

Until he met someone worthy, his concubines were nothing more than warm vessels of temporary satisfaction until his thirst returned.

But, here you were daydreaming that you could be the recipient of such love from him despite all odds.

----

"Whore, we're trying to speak to you!"

An indignant voice rips you out of your thoughts and you turn around, jarred at the sight of the head concubine with her supporters close by. You were outnumbered one to many. A piece of meat left to the wolves. Subtle panic slithered in and wrapped around your throat when Uraume was nowhere to be found.

The leader's scowl melted from her face into a honeyed grin, her long nails outstretching and wrapping around a delicate glass reindeer from a gorgeous wintery scene Sukuna's craftspeople had spent countless hours on.

"P-please be careful-" You raise a shaky hand.

The leader hisses at you, stealing the reindeer out of reach, her icy stare renders you speechless again. Her expression then morphs back into a sugary tone, a snake's venomous fangs concealed behind her pretty face.

"Tell me, darling. Does Lord Sukuna know you've been defiling his shrine this entire time he's been gone?" She asks as she turns the reindeer in between her graceful fingers.

"Defiling...?" You choke out, perplexed.

"Yes, defiling. With these, disgusting-"

You jump in alarm as she abruptly hurls the glass deer to the ground, watching it explode into shards as soon as it meets the unforgiving marble.

"filthy-" she reaches this time for a wreath of holly, casting it onto one of the glowing candles, setting it ablaze.

"pathetic-" the others have now joined in, breaking and trashing all your beloved Christmas decorations, hours of hard work and care being ripped, torn, shredded, and cast into the fire one after another.

"Stop, stop, please!!!" You cry and shriek, voice drowned in anguish but when you raise your hand to stop her, she turns on you immediately, the others coming to her aid, ripping and tearing at your gorgeous kimono.

"You think Lord Sukuna gives a shit about you and your stupid little Christmas traditions?" She snarls as her and the others claw the golden leaves out of your hair and they clutter on the floor, your robes now nearly in tatters. "You're just another slut. A weak, useless, ugly-"

You cower and brace for the worst, but your insides turn when you hear a warm squelch as blood splattered against the walls. A shudder runs through you at the unmistakable sound of dismantle and cleave; the King of Curses had returned.

You look up and you see him first, averting your gaze immediately and kneeling for fear of losing your head next. You're not sure how many of the concubines or servants within the vicinity were slain, but you're guessing a lot, if not all, based on the sea of blood on either side of where you were crouched.

"We'll have no more of that." Sukuna tsk'd. Those stern eyes raked over the scene, seething in annoyance at the mess in front of him. His eyes land on you and he squints as he draws closer, sensing the tremble of your frame as you didn't dare move from your spot.

"Breathe, for gods' sakes, human." He commands. "Stand up, now. Don't keep me waiting."

You rise on shaky knees, keeping your gaze downwards until you straighten up completely, looking into the formidable face of your lord and unexpected savior.

"My Lord."

"Tch." Sukuna clicks his teeth, looking over you. "This is what you call a celebration for the King of Curses?"

"I-..." You shake your head, the lump in your throat obstructing both the oxygen and words in your brain. "I can explain..."

"I do not require an answer." He growled, and you shut your lips, gaze averted downward once again in fearful shame. "You are a mess." His eyes appraise you in scrutinizing pity.

He had seen enough to know this fiasco wasn't entirely your fault. But still, the irritation he felt towards you prior for sticking out so prominently in his brain was rearing its ugly head. It was unlike Sukuna to ruminate, to toil in his mind for hours, especially over a human like you, no less.

He will deal with that later. For now, he still expects a proper feast and celebration after his lengthy travels.

"Uraume." His voice reverberates off the stony walls and Uraume is immediately at his side, their pupils dilating slightly at you in alarm at the devastating state of the grand hall that was beautifully adorned and decorated less than an hour before.

"Clean her up immediately and bring her to my chambers. In the meantime, have any available servants scrub up this mess."

"Right away, my Lord."

----

A while later, you walk slowly towards Sukuna who's standing by his window. You're dressed in fresh robes chosen by him specifically of a bleeding garnet like his eyes. You take in the grand sight of him, the way the darkened shadows would bend at his back and wrap around whatever he was facing, nearly suffocating them with his presence that commanded reverence, humility, but most of all, fear. His broad shoulders, back, and booming voice with a majesty likened to the powerful mountain range that surrounded his shrine.

Even now, as he turns to face you with his monstrous appearance in his full glory with those four eyes, his harshness he exudes stirs a suppressed part of you that never desired to be removed from him. A forbidden kind of beauty not obvious to many that brimmed underneath that thick shell you were only barely skimming the surface.

"Better." Sukuna remarks, seemingly pleased with this new ensemble. "Now..."

He took a step towards you and you held your breath, preparing for the moment where you would inevitably be forced to give yourself to him and be at his non-existent mercy for whatever plans he had next. However, he surprises you.

"Are you just going to stand there, or will you join me for dinner?"

"Dinner?"

"I do not intend for my winter feast to go to waste." Sukuna frowns. "Seeing as my entire harem is now dead except for you, I have no choice but to rely on you to remedy this."

You look at him, dumbfounded. That wide gleam in your eyes that was brought out by the light hitting your irises whenever you had to crane your head to look at him(which was every time) almost pulls at him, for a moment. Almost.

"My Lord?"

"You may start from the beginning." Sukuna instructs, the top pair of arms folding seriously across his chest with the second pair on either side of his thick, muscular waist.

"Use this opportunity to prove yourself worthy and show me these ridiculous Christmas traditions you insisted on imposing on me before I change my mind, brat. "

----

"These are called snowmen, my Lord." Your teeth chatter slightly as you two come to a stop in front of the wall of snowmen you, Uraume, and the servants had constructed over several weeks in the courtyard.

Sukuna stares boredly, a rush of annoyance bubbling inside him as he lays eyes on their pebble smiles, goofy hats, and multi colored scarves.

But, his eyes widen ever so slightly when he takes notice of the biggest snowman that stood out towards the back. This one towered over the others with four sticks for arms instead of two, meeting Sukuna directly at his eye level. It had four sets of pebble eyes on its face with carefully carved markings, eerily similar to someone he knew...

"What is this?"

You gulp. "It is you, my Lord."

Sukuna stares, silent. "What is the purpose of this?"

"For visual display." You answer, slowly. "Personal enjoyment. Sculpting them and playing in the snow is half the fun."

"I care little for that." Sukuna waved his hand. He studied his snowman some more. "I suppose I will allow my likeness to be erected into snow. This is supposed to represent myself and my subjects?" His eyebrow raises slightly as his pair of undereyes flicker back to look at the dozens of other, smaller snowmen in front.

You nod, slightly encouraged by this reaction that wasn't all good, but wasn't all bad either. "Yes my Lord, it is."

"Hmph." Sukuna shoots air out of his nostrils in disapproval. Then, without warning he raises his arm. You duck quickly, and simultaneously each head of each snowman besides his own is sliced off and goes flying, shooting in the air and then landing and exploding like mashed pumpkins back onto the ground.

Sukuna looks with pride at his handiwork, his glorious snowman standing tall over his now decapitated army of snowy subjects.

"Now, it is perfect."

He joins his hands behind his back and walks off with a hum back towards the shrine, leaving you both endeared and confounded.

-----

Next tradition.

"Alright, my Lord." You wring your clammy hands nervously as you stand in front of Sukuna, who's opted to take a seat at the head of his banquet table.

He was stuffing his face with the roast beast that was at least spared by Uraume, his stomach mouth's comical tongue wagging in anticipation with drool before he tossed a couple bones for it to gnaw on obnoxiously like a crazed animal.

"I wish to share with you the legend known as Santa Claus. Otherwise known as Father Christmas, Saint Nicholas, Kris Kringle, among others."

Luckily, the feast seemed to make Sukuna more receptive, if that was even possible. Perhaps some of the restlessness (since he couldn't exactly experience hangry-ness that was exclusive to humans) was resolved by the smoked meat, giving his stomach mouth something to preoccupy him besides nagging Sukuna relentlessly.

"If you must." Sukuna rolls his eyes at you and then at the dopey expression his second mouth gives him while it's utterly high off the fresh bones it was chomping on.

"Well, this Christmas Eve night, he is said to fly and deliver presents around the world to all good children, spreading cheer and climbing into chimneys to leave presents under Christmas trees."

Sukuna's eyes narrow. "I will slaughter anyone who dares enter my household without permission." His stomach mouth gave a little belch. "I do not care for this Santa Claus you speak of."

This was true Sukuna fashion. Normally, you'd be mortified at his dramatics but by now, you had to do your best to stifle a giggle. "My Lord, it's merely a legend."

"That does not matter. If this Santa Claus you speak of attempts to enter my home, he will lose his head." Sukuna vows as he takes a hefty sip of wine before turning his glass to his stomach mouth. "Tell me about something else besides this ridiculous Santa Claus legend."

"Well..." You think for a moment then snap your fingers. "His grace might appreciate the legend of Krampus instead?"

Sukuna raises an eyebrow, corners of his mouth still turned downward in displeasure.

You clear your throat, "Krampus is a legend, like Santa Claus except he is a half goat, half demon monster who punishes naughty children. As opposed to Saint Nick whom delivers gifts, Krampus will appear and punish children who misbehave with bundles of branches, or by eating them or taking them to hell... Erm, oh! He looks like this!" You grab a piece of parchment and ink brush, pausing for a moment to make a quick sketch of Krampus.

Sukuna leans back, folding his arms, as he watches you, patiently, expectantly for this new Christmas tradition you spoke of to be better than the dreaded Santa Claus. When you're done painting Krampus, you turn your makeshift masterpiece in Sukuna's direction.

To your delight, a rare, smug expression of satisfaction tugs at the corners of his mouth when he lays eyes on Krampus for the first time.

"This is much better. I will absorb all of this Krampus's cursed energy when he appears tonight. He would be very useful to me, indeed."

You don't have the heart, or bravery to remind Sukuna that Krampus also is just a myth. Sukuna folds his arms, signalling he's done with his dinner.

"This Krampus can stay. Now, on to the rest of your silly traditions, brat."

-----

As the night continues on, you demonstrate more traditions for Sukuna, slowly bringing him into your world of decked out halls and yuletide merriment, albeit with his own, Sukuna-esque spin on things.

Needless to say, he loathed most of them.

"These are what are known as Christmas trees, my Lord." You gestured to the dozens of pines you and Uraume and the servants spent so much time decorating, shortly before Sukuna lit them all on fire.

Your jaw fell open and he stood there proud as the orange flames engulfed the trees in a mini forest fire within the shrine as the glow did a dance in his pupils. Sukuna inhaled, savoring the smoky wood against the releasing smell of the burning spruce.

"A much better way to enjoy the trees." He insisted.

---

Slowly, the Christmas you thought was nearly ruined was salvaged little by little as you entertained the King of Curses.

He spat out all of the overly sweet Christmas goodies immediately. However, his stomach mouth couldn't seem to get enough. Sukuna rolled his eyes as the pair of chompers devoured cookie after cookie that he fed it steadily with his lower pair of hands while his free hands rubbed his temples in defeat.

"I suppose these will do."

---

He liked the Christmas presents and offerings, but not because of the origin story behind it.

"So you see, my Lord, the tradition of gift giving on Christmas came from the nativity story, of the three wise men who delivered presents to the infant Jesus, who was believed to be the son of God."

"Hmph." Sukuna sneered. "How boring. An infant? I would smite him with ease." He looked at the pile of presents. "Tch, we will continue the gift giving tradition, but only for the King of Curses, for I am the most powerful being in this realm, not a newborn baby."

You smile and bow. "Yes, my lord."

----

And when it came to the Christmas carols, he quickly nipped those in the bud.

"Enough!" He groaned, covering his ears when you and Uraume didn't even make it through the first verse of O Holy Night.

"Who is this Savior you speak of in the lyrics?" He glared as he glanced over the sheet music. "Is this about that damn infant again? How pitiful. Change it. I can barely tolerate these insufferable ballads."

Sukuna seemed to come around, but only slightly when the lyrics were more modified to his tastes:

"O holy night! the stars are brightly shining;

It is the night of the mighty Lord Sukuna's return.

Long lay the world in sin and error pining,

Till he appeared and the soul felt its worth.

A thrill of hope- the weary world rejoices,

For yonder breaks a new and glorious morn!

Fall on your knees! O hear the angel voices!

O night divine, O night when Lord Sukuna returns!

O night, O holy night, O night divine!"

"An improvement." Sukuna frowns again, scratching his jaw. "But I cannot stand either one of your voices."

In short, Christmas carols didn't make the cut.

----

Many of the servants had retired for the night at Sukuna's request to give you and him some space alone. The fires were nearly extinguished, lingering smoke and pine permeated the air with the faint brush of cinnamon and gingerbread. The embers of the fire are boiling in a low cackle as you stand in front of your king who now sits atop his throne slightly above you.

"This last tradition is called mistletoe..." You tried to disguise your shyness as you reached in the pocket of your robes and showed him the small bundle, wrapped up in a red bow. "The leaves and white berries are actually considered poisonous." You explain, which catches Sukuna's interest immediately.

"And? What is the significance?"

"In a Norse legend, the goddess of love, Frigg, promised to kiss anyone who passed underneath it.

The tradition of kissing under the mistletoe was born shortly after in an ancient festival in Greece."

A faint glint of mischief dances in Sukuna's eyes as he leans forward with a smirk.

"That so?"

His gaze roams over you, this realization of several hours that have passed between you and the mystique surrounding his lack of physical contact with you fuels his intrigue that was beginning to simmer alongside the exhausted flames.

"And what else happens after you humans kiss one another under this tradition?" His voice now drips with honey, a contrast you were not expecting from him.

"Well, I suppose that is up to the participants. Surely, things can become a bit, intimate, I suppose."

"Hm." Sukuna outstretched a large veiny hand, taking the mistletoe from you and hanging it from the ceiling above where he was perched on his throne. He leans a hand on his chin, while one of his lower arms comes to cup you around your waist.

"Demonstrate."

He waits, and your eyes spread slightly in alarm as you were brought closer to him than you have been in the entire time you've known him.

Your lips part hesitantly, laced wetly by your wine ladden tongue. Sukuna does not budge, however his hand pressed against your back a little more urgently, his black nails lightly puncturing the garnet threads of your kimono as though he were requesting not to be kept waiting a moment longer.

Your eyes glance upwards at the arrangement of mistletoe dangling perfectly over your heads, then directly at his supple lips that part in seething wait, before leaning in and pressing yours against them without another word.

Sukuna's mouth is warm and rough, just like every last inch of him you discover shortly after when both of his lower arms bring you in between his enormous thighs, so that you are directly up against pure muscle.

His skin is heated, and practically hot to the touch between all of the formidable strength that lay encased in his looming form. Sukuna wastes no time deepening the kiss. As his mouth opens against yours, you feel as though you are being swallowed directly by rays of sun on a sweltering day, the very opposite of the present chilly night bogged with snow that now covered every inch of the land surrounding the quiet shrine.

The delicious and precise slither of his tongue in between your lips causes you to release the most beautiful gasp into his mouth. Sukuna exhales deeply,

"More."

And his lips move feverishly, low grunts escaping the opening space between them as his tongue slides against yours. Aroused, scorched by this ethereal being as he kissed you as though he were the kindling catching alight and you were the flame instead.

Your hands bravely slide up both sides of his expansive neck, your nails entangling themselves in the unruly locks of orchid. The King of Curses shudders, seemingly offput by a mortal touching him so boldly, but every passionate grind of you against him allows him to ignore it for now, as that insatiable thirst bubbles deep in his belly and begs to be relieved.

"Ahh..." A breathy moan peels softly at first then snaps as he rips the ending from your throat with a harsh gnash of his teeth to your bottom lip, as one his hands immediately snaked into the opening of your robes.

His touch is molten, but his stare is unmoving as he forces your gaze to stay captured underneath his as his hand works quickly to part your thighs, riding the hem of your kimono up your legs, cold air tickling your pussy which he's more than pleased to discover is already bare, shiny with slick underneath.

"Closer, and do not stop looking at me." He mutters. All four of his heavily hooded eyes greedily drink in the way your expression liquefies to silk when you feel that first long, languid, warm stroke between both lips of your sensitive cunt.

"I said, look at me." Sukuna growls, a clawed hand coming up to cup your cheeks, both of them pinched between his thumb on one side and the rest of his fingers on the other. He runs his tongue over his lips, a slow sneer spreading out at your gradual fucked out expression as his tongue from his belly slowly licks, savors, and swirls against your dripping entrance.

High pitched whimpers flood past your lips, the corners of your eyes begin to prick with tears as profound warmth blooms upwards from the epicenter of unrelenting pleasure Sukuna's second mouth is wringing from your swollen clit. The tongue begins to slowly curl inside of you, each groove of its wet, meaty surface gliding against the soaking velvet of your tight walls, while the upper lip encircles and sucks over your soft pearl.

"Good." Sukuna whispers, stifling a groan when he feels you involuntarily pulse around his tongue, leading to a greedy string of juices dribbling down the second throat. "Who's your king? Tell me, pet."

He tauts his abs as he maneuvers you around his stomach slightly, still keeping you locked in an iron grip but allowing you to lightly bob as he guides you to ride his tongue, his other pair of hands coming to knead your breasts, his eyes tearing into your soul.

"You, Sukuna..." You managed to sigh, as you felt the soaking warmth linger over a tried and true spot, before Sukuna promptly removes it, irritated at your unsolicited use of his name.

"Tch." He grins wolfishly at the abrupt whimper that followed when you mourned the loss. "Do not get greedy with me, brat. You will feel only what I allow you to, understood?"

He breathes out as he lowers you back onto his awaiting open mouth on his belly. "And you will only address me as your Lord, woman, understood?"

"Yes, my Lord..."

"Mm."

And you continue to feel his tongue's meticulous exploration of you with your thighs parted on either side of his large waist, however it only became more agonizing as it coaxed and only teased around all the spots that amplified euphoria, dangling that peak of arousal frustratingly out of reach.

"My Lord, p-please, I wish to cum..." your nails dig into the hollows of his chest and he glances down briefly, internally bemused at the needy mess he was turning you into, thin trails of your juices softly dribbling down the soft meat of your inner thighs.

Your eyelids flutter and the intonations of your voice begin to quiver as his second tongue began to wetly prod your sweetest spot.

Sukuna glowered briefly at his second mouth that had a mind of his own, displeased at its less sadistic nature than his and its determination to drive you off the edge whereas he was in the middle of enjoying your desperate state. He cannot place it, but this idiosyncrasy between him and the rest of his body was betraying him.

Perhaps it was due to this question that was slowly being answered in his mind of just how soft you'd be for him in the throes of pleasure, silencing his ruminations of you at long last. As you knew, he cared little about the appearance of the concubines he chose to feed his ravenous sexual appetites.

He had rarely encountered a pretty face, and, for the first time, the King of Curses felt compelled to worship.

"Hmph. Cum for me then, brat." He croons harshly to disguise his waning willpower. "Be a good mistress and cum for your king. Don't you dare hide your eyes from me..."

And the dam quickly burst and you soaked his lap, tears releasing in your eyes as well, your blurry gaze burning as you obeyed Sukuna's command to keep your eyes on him.

The second mouth panted as it worked to clean you up, guzzling your arousal like it was nectar as it stuck to its lips and Sukuna's powerful torso in a shiny sopping coat of sheen.

"Good." Sukuna praised, pulling you off him as he undid the remainder of his robes, the subtle sound of the garment hitting the floor causes you to clench your thighs, even more so as you saw him, completely bare in front of you for the first time.

If you were any other whore, he would not have stopped after you finally came, if he had let you cum at all. Sukuna delighted in denying his partners their utmost release until it was practically unbearable, then would push them well over the threshold of normal stimulation, until he sunk his teeth in their shoulder and fucked them roughly with his dual cocks.

Now, as he tears off his robes, allowing the element of anticipation to linger with the promise of what was to come next, and the heat to smolder lying in wait, he realizes this first time with you would be much, much different. With you, things were unhurried and slow.

His black markings continued below where his dark robes previously concealed, all along his sculpted collarbones, pecs and chest. His muscles were rigid with the tension you were slowly building up in him this entire time. He possessed burly thighs that were covered with small forests of hair, as well as on his arms with sinewy veins and lightly flushed pink skin.

But, what stood out most of all were two staggering, meaty cocks that bloomed red at both tips that flopped against his belly. Veins adorned both sides, running purplish blue, a very large, plump, taut set of balls dangled in a flesh colored sack underneath.

You couldn't help but get on your knees, entranced as you slowly sank to the floor. Your mouth began to salivate as you took in the bulbous tips that had to pass for almost three of your fingers alone, mind fuzzy with both excitement and intimidation as you wondered how you could possibly accommodate both.

"My Lord, m-may I?" You lick your lips, whimpering as the throb of your clit begins to pulse as your warm pussy squeezes around nothing. You were still worked up from your orgasm, however having already been brought to heaven and back, you were eager to please Sukuna. After all, as you were repeatedly coached in your trainings as a concubine, a good one always pleases her Lord.

"Excuse me?" Sukuna frowns, ice in his tone.

"P-please my Lord? I wish you pleasure you, to suck your cocks..." You swallow, the blinders of arousal causing all shame to disappear out the window.

Sukuna scoffs pridefully. "Really? And why would I let you do something like that, brat? You think I require your mouth so badly?"

He taunts, noticing the way your pussy still bore no shortage of wetness. As a matter of fact, it was trickling even more as the thoughts of taking Sukuna's cocks in your mouth only aroused you to nearly primal levels.

"Please, please my Lord..." You breathe slowly as your teeth brushed your bottom lip, his hands coming to undo the knot of your kimono, allowing the garment to slide in a sensual display down your shoulders like seafoam receding over a shoreline, until all of your bareness lay exposed to his hungry eyes.

Sukuna stared at you, wrestling internally at the hazy feelings the sight in front of him was conjuring up. You were so desperate, panting and waiting. The smell from your soaked heat was earthy yet sweet, an aphrodisiac to his nostrils. You were so needy, so eager to allow you a taste of him, the way you tilted your head so sweetly as you begged permission.

"Very well..." Sukuna's jaw slackened just a tad before running his thumb along your glossy bottom lip, the pointed edge of his nail and thumb just barely poking your tongue, which you indulged him and slowly licked it into your mouth.

"Fuck, such a needy little thing, you. God, such a whore..."

He presses his thumb onto the middle of your tongue. "Open..." He pumped one of his shafts with the other, as you gently opened your lovely lips, gradually and steadily feeding you his cock, twinkling eyes peeking through your lashes.

"Fuck..."

The utter groan he lets out is music to your years, and you meet him more than halfway immediately, stuffing his cock quickly into your mouth and almost hitting the back of your throat.

Sukuna grits his teeth as you accept him so greedily. His size was such that the entire thing didn't quite fit, filling up such a pretty mouth and throat until your eyes watered, the stretch eased by how much you ached for him, and how delicious his heated skin tasted in your mouth. So warm and rigid as you feel him pulse with life with the faintest trace of salt from the blooming precum.

Your eyes roll back and you begin to bob your head, squeaking with surprise when Sukuna pushes your head, relishing the glistening coat of drool you leak every time the heavy shaft withdraws from your reddened lips. His hand tangled in your hair, guiding you up and down his cock.

Sukuna panted and grunted, falling backwards on his throne with you at his feet, his hips rippling as he couldn't help but fuck himself into your plush, silky, mouth. His other cock aches for attention as well, and he gets an idea.

"Your breasts..." He rasped. "Touch yourself, present them to me."

Mouth still stuffed with cock, you innocently batted your lashes as both your hands came to grip your tender globes, lifting them slightly as you gently pushed them together, creating the perfect, sinful little valley for Sukuna to slide his second cock.

Using the mixture of slick and spit and sweat from his other cock, he coats the second one with his hand and throws his head back as it meets that slippery canal, squished in between your two yummy tits.

You groan loudly, hugging the velvety length between your breasts as you continued to slobber all over the other. You cooed and whined sweetly, rubbing your thighs together, a practical second orgasm almost inevitable from watching this being, this king, this God, so wanton and so aroused.

"I'm going to cum. Don't stop, don't stop gazing at me like that, my goddess..."

He looked down at you, his lovely little slut, so filthy and carnal. This alluring, sexual siren he awakened that was concealed beneath a pair of glittering shy eyes and quiet exterior this whole time. You were a treasure to be guarded, a goddess of Earth and flesh, worthy of his devotion, of his love, and he finally snaps.

Both cocks ooze generous spurts of silvery white cum. It paints both of your supple tits like jelly. It's warm and thick as it coats the inside of your throat and mouth. Sukuna marvels at this masterpiece he's made out of this celestial canvas of you, slowly drawing out his slick, sticky cock and tracing your puffy lips with the milky gloss.

"My Lord..." You purred.

"Mine." He whispered before he yanked you against his lips again, greedily and messily tasting himself off of you, both hands nearly covering both sides of your face as he drank the breath from your lungs.

-----

Sukuna's bed is warm just like the heat that runs rampant throughout his body. His pillows and linens bend to accept you and embrace you like you have always belonged there despite this being the very first time you did.

A galaxy is born in that moment when both heads of his cock begin to rub and slowly push inside both of your holes, stretching you in a way no other man or being for that matter has ever done before.

"Look at me..." Sukuna commands again. His booming voice is reverent and his gaze is eternal as he bites back more groans that simmer at the back of his throat. You grip the sheets, sweetly calling his name.

"Sukuna..."

And he doesn't correct you this time. His face softens and the callouses of his hands run and squeeze over the expanse of your thighs as he becomes one with you over and over again.

"My queen." He utters at last as your heart sings and blooms within your ribcage.

The world shifted that night as the King of Curses irrevocably bound himself to you.

And when the exhaustion had claimed you, when you could no longer be flooded, filled, and fucked, when the sheets felt like silk and your tired limbs and his wove together like emerald leaves of holly, as his seed gushed inside your womb and buried a mixture of each other so deep and raw and new in a way that could not be conceived again.

The nighttime was quickly forgotten as you fell asleep to the King of Curses' heartbeat, the dawning hours of Christmas morning ushering in a gentle wave of steadfast snow.

[funnymothguy]

Here's the teams and the guys in my show

[strawbunni-shortcake]

i think motogp should have kept this approach to gender equality actually

[mariacallous]

Almost a year ago, Russian border guards removed half the buoys that had been placed to mark the border between Russia and Estonia in the Narva River. Estonia’s government has repeatedly (and politely) reminded Russia to return the buoys, without which users of the Narva River have no way of knowing on which side of the border they are. Perhaps unsurprisingly, Russia has failed to do so.

Altering maritime borders is no trivial matter—especially when Russia is using force to try to redraw the map of Europe.

The Russian border guards arrived in the middle of the night between May 22 and 23, 2024. When they left, they took with them 24 buoys marking Estonia’s border with Russia along the Narva River. Although maritime borders are typically marked only on naval charts, not through visible cues, such buoys have long demarcated the two countries’ maritime border and allow anyone using the Narva River to know which side of the border they are on—which is particularly important for Estonians being careful not to stray into Russian waters.

Before Russia’s invasion of Ukraine, the arrangement worked satisfactorily. Since riverbeds shift, every spring—just before the summer season, when all manner of anglers, small-boat owners, and canoeists use the river—the two sides would assess the Narva’s riverbed and correspondingly adjust the light buoys marking the border.

Last spring, Estonia repeated the procedure the way it has done every year. But there was one major difference: In 2023, Russia had declared that it disagreed with Estonia’s proposed positioning of the buoys. So last year, “we decided to release the floating marks into the water for the summer season according to the 2022 agreement, because they are necessary to avoid navigational errors, so that our fishermen and other hobbyists do not accidentally wander into Russian waters,” Eerik Purgel, the head of the Estonian Border Guard Bureau of the East Prefecture, said in a statement.

Russia, though, objected to the locations of around half of the planned 250 floating marks. What to do? Estonia decided to install the buoys anyway, in Estonian waters, on the basis of the border as it had been agreed in 2022. On May 13, 2024, Estonian authorities installed the first 50 buoys. Nine nights later, the Russian border guards removed half of them. Because the buoys were on the Estonian side, fetching them involved Russian guards intruding into Estonian waters to execute the removal.

Since then, they’ve been gone. Estonia could put them back, but Russia would simply take them away again. Instead, Estonia has been asking Russia to put the buoys back, arguing that they form the official marking of a legitimate border. Russia, alas, has not complied. The maritime border (or rather, its visible part) is gone.

Imagine if Russia or another country had unashamedly removed border markings on land. We’d notice it; in fact, it would be a huge deal, especially if it involved a NATO member state. But until now, water has been different, the borders more flexible and less visible.

Since the early 2010s, China has exploited the world’s lack of attention to maritime borders by starting to build artificial islands in parts of the South China Sea that belong to the Philippines and other countries. It was a blatant violation of internationally agreed borders, but since the construction proceeded gradually, a few concrete layers at a time, no one could think of what, exactly, to do about the violation.

Turning to an arbitral tribunal under the U.N. Convention on the Law of the Sea, as the Philippines did, changed nothing: Even though the tribunal unanimously sided with Manila, China simply ignored the ruling. Now China possesses artificial islands, complete with military installations, in these waters.

The buoys place Estonia in a conundrum. Russian nationalists have long indicated that they want to retake the Baltic states, annexed by force in 1940 and not freed until 1991, and they have plenty of advocates in the Kremlin. Removing border buoys is hardly the equivalent of a full-blown invasion, but it’s also not a negligible act. It is, in other words, gray-zone aggression—or, as former Estonian President Toomas Hendrik Ilves calls it, geopolitical microaggression. “It’s another silly game the Russians play,” he told me. “Just in the past few months, we’ve seen them put explosives in sex toys in Lithuania, we’ve seen the shadow fleet, we’ve seen cable cuts, and at the moment there’s a lot of GPS jamming in Estonia. It’s a constant policy of harassment. They’re letting us know that they’re there and can be a problem.”

Removals of maritime borders are far from the only Russia-related headache in the Baltic region these days. For the past 18 months or so, nations in the region have been affected by GPS jamming, most of which originates in Kaliningrad, a Russian exclave sandwiched between Poland and Lithuania. Last year, Estonian authorities received 307 official reports of aviation disruptions, 85 percent of which related to GPS. The cause appears to be Russian jamming to protect its military installations, Estonian authorities say.

Regardless of the cause, GPS disruption poses a risk to aviation. Estonian authorities say civil aviation in Estonian airspace remains safe—if only because pilots and air traffic controllers know how to navigate without GPS. “Fortunately, there was a time before GPS, and people still remember the procedures and the equipment that ensure safety and navigational capability,” Mihkel Haug, a member of the board of the Estonian Air Navigation Services, told public broadcaster ERR News.

And this spring, Polish authorities uncovered Russian-steered aggression involving explosive-laden sex toys. The Polish authorities allege that on instructions from a GRU officer, a Ukrainian residing in Poland had inserted explosives into cosmetics, pillows, and sex toys; driven to Vilnius, Lithuania’s capital; and handed them over to a woman also working for Russia, whose task was to get the items to different places in the region where they would explode and harm, even kill, people.

Last fall, parcel bombs were discovered in airliner facilities in the United Kingdom, Germany, and Poland; prosecutors and intelligence agencies linked the parcels to Russia and said some of the parcels originated in Lithuania, though it’s not clear whether they too had been handled by the as-yet-unidentified woman with the sex toy explosives.

Compared with the risk of explosions, heaven forbid aviation accidents, the removal of maritime border markers may seems manageable. But a border is a border, even if it’s in the water. If Russia can remove the Narva buoys with impunity, it’s likely to conclude that it can disregard or alter other maritime borders, too. The removal of border buoys, though, falls short of the military attacks that NATO was set up to counter, and so does other gray-zone aggression.

“Even getting something onto the NATO agenda as an Article 4 matter is big,” Ilves said. “Even when we were targeted by the big cyberattack in 2007, we were blocked from putting it on the NATO agenda. Whenever we raise issues like these at NATO, we’re being told that it’s just below the level of outright aggression.” NATO’s Article 4 states that the “Parties will consult together whenever, in the opinion of any of them, the territorial integrity, political independence or security of any of the Parties is threatened.”

In The Defender’s Dilemma, I set out ways in which the Western alliance can better detect and counter gray-zone aggression. Many of them include building and enhancing societal resilience. When I wrote the book, I didn’t think of border buoys as vulnerable to gray-zone aggression, but societal resilience can help there, too. Imagine if Russia (or China, for that matter) tried to alter another maritime border and ordinary citizens turned up in such numbers that taking action would result in civilians being harmed or even killed. Ilves has another solution: Europe, he said, needs an organization that focuses on threats that don’t quite meet the level of collective defense under NATO’s Article 5.

Either way, Estonia’s border buoys belong along its side of the maritime border with Russia. If we keep highlighting the issue, the Kremlin might just decide that altering the border isn’t worth the price.

[saint-ambrosef]

I think the big problem with a lot of post-modern concepts of morality is that so much of it (e.g. gender theory) is ultimately based on the assumed premise that "not hurting others" is the end goal of all moral philosophy and social behavior.

Conflict with these theories and concepts primarily stems from a rejection of this fundamental premise. "Not hurting others" is a highly subjective goal that is difficult to define or qualify, since it requires an agreed understanding of everything that constitutes "hurt". But it's highly idiosyncratic by nature because it's such an individual response, so morality then becomes an incredibly difficult dance of knowing every individual person's tiniest preferences and sensitivities in order to be a good person. When hurt is held as the ultimate evil, there is never a reasonable justification for not validating sensitivities. If what you know that what you think, say, or do hurts people, you're a bad person - full stop. (Although it usually comes with the unspoken understanding that this only applies to certain groups of people you have arbitrarily determined are not problematic, i.e. it's okay if your beliefs hurt bigoted people).

And yet it also raises the major moral conundrum of self-inflicted pain; if you believe suicide to be "hurt" and therefore immoral, but the person in question does not see it as such, is it morally correct to let them commit suicide or to stop them? If we admit that not all perceptions of hurt are equally valid, then we must question how we distinguish the legitimate from the illegitimate. And if we consider that self-inflicted hurt is still bad even when consented, the oft-cited counter-argument, "Let people do what they want as long as it's not hurting others" falls hopelessly flat - because what if the 'other' they are hurting are themselves? Who gets to determine what constitutes self-harm? "Hurt" is such a highly subjective perception, and everyone will argue that their perception is the moral standard, while arguing that everyone else is unfairly projecting their own standards for "hurt" on others (thereby causing hurt in the process). It's chaos.

This is why basing an entire moral philosophy off "not hurting others" is bananas. It's one thing to hold that philosophy for yourself, to determine what you think is the true standard for "hurt" and avoid that as much as possible in your choices. It's another to assume that everyone agrees with your assumed premise that avoiding hurt is the basis for all moral decisions.

There have been multiple times I've been in an argument with someone over a perceived injustice, and it's fascinating how often their point ultimately boils down to "it's mean to make people feel bad". But that's not what I base my morality on. I base morality on what I perceive to be objectively true, and although I never wish to make others feel hurt, others' subjective emotional response to confrontations with moral truth is not my responsibility.

[mysticstronomy]

WHAT IS THE OLDEST KNOWN GALAXY??

Blog#491

Welcome back,

Wednesday, March 26th, 2025.

Astronomers calculate distances to remote objects by measuring redshifts, a yardstick of how deeply stretched the galaxy’s light is (and redder means farther away). GS-z14-0 was discovered to have a redshift of 14.3, besting the 2022 record of a galaxy found with a redshift of 13.2 that corresponded to a formation age of some 325 million years after the Big Bang.

And GS-z14-0 is some five times more luminous than that prior most-distant galaxy, according to Kevin Hainline, a professor at the University of Arizona, who helped lead the discovery.

“Nobody dreamed that there would be galaxies this bright at this high redshift,” says George Rieke, another University of Arizona astronomer who is the former deputy director of Steward Observatory.

According to NASA, members of the JADES team explained recently that “the light we see is coming mostly from young stars and not from emission near a growing supermassive black hole. This much starlight implies that the galaxy is several hundreds of millions of times the mass of the Sun! This raises the question: How can nature make such a bright, massive, and large galaxy in less than 300 million years?”

The galaxy is surprising for another reason, too. JADES researcher Jake Helton, also of the University of Arizona, identified an unexpected abundance of dust and emission lines from hydrogen and oxygen in the galaxy’s spectrum. The oxygen suggests that generations of massive stars have come and gone in the galaxy.

And there’s more.

The galaxy’s number of massive stars poses a dark-matter conundrum. Dark matter accumulates as the cosmos expands. Rieke says that “the problem with this galaxy is it’s pushing against what we think is the maximum mass for a dark halo at that time.”

The findings were made with JWST’s Near-Infrared Spectrograph, Near-Infrared Camera, and Mid-Infrared Instrument. In the latter case, researchers noted the irony that during the budget woes of JWST, the Mid-Infrared Instrument was frequently targeted for budget cuts. Now, along with its companion science packages, it’s targeting the earliest galaxies in the cosmos.

The findings from GS-z14-0 did not come easy. The team first observed the object more than a year ago, but its brightness and proximity to another galaxy was puzzling. While they had a preliminary redshift finding, the team later obtained a spectrum that confirmed the galaxy’s distance, along with its other puzzling properties, measurements that push but do not overturn models of stellar and galactic formation. The “naïve assumption,” said Helton, had been that these earlier galaxies would be smaller and fainter.

That’s why Hainline would go on to compare the finding to excavating a cellphone among ancient ruins in Rome because this galaxy is so much brighter than the previous record holder and seems more evolved in terms of composition.

Hainline and his colleagues were initially skeptical of the findings and later threw hands in the air with excitement. Hainline told Astronomy that the finding was “one of the weird great moments of my scientific career.” This is especially so because he recalls sleeping under a table during the Texas landfall of Hurricane Harvey. He was part of a skeleton crew left at NASA facilities to shepherd JWST during the storm. The GS-z14-0 discovery reminds him, he stresses, of the dedication of everyone who made the Webb Telescope and its ongoing findings possible.

Certainly JADES-GS-z14-0 won’t be the record-holder forever. As time rolls on, astronomers are destined to find even more distant, younger galaxies.

Originally published on https://www.astronomy.com

COMING UP!!

(Saturday, March 29th, 2025)

"WHAT IS THE COSMIC MICROWAVE BACKGROUND??"

[slowd1ving]

hello!! Your fic is so cool and if your request is open, can I request DG x male reader when DG still in his James lee era while reader is the King of Busan

XENIA ゜゜・DG

Xenia, noun: the classical concept of hospitality to strangers. This, unfortunately, includes a wandering dog and his conniving owner—a most irritating, tooth-grinding conundrum the King of Busan has with Charles Choi and his boy-genius. sorry for the wait anon I was away from my laptop for the past week or so! and I couldn't write :'( first meetings and onwards for this particular work haha chicken and egg problem.. haha introspection on business and corruption... haha capitalism pairing: dg (james lee) + male reader warnings: male reader, canon typical violence, arguing (bickering) wc: 3.3k

LOOKISM MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION

In the lengthy chronicles of Charles Choi’s grand plan—to mould the precarious South Korean underground into something far more profitable—James Lee finally came across his very own cause-and-effect conundrum. 

What came first, the chicken or the egg? Plutarch initially posed this question in The Symposiacs: a symbolic tug of war between creator and creation. James supposed, in his bored sort of way, that this question described the relationship between cities and Kings as well. Chronically, objectively, the cities existed first—tall structures and unique ecosystems that forged shadowy figureheads to rule the violent underbelly. But poetically, it was rather hard to ignore the hands etching—pummeling—a pathway for the power to flourish. Without those in charge, what were the cities? And without the cities, who were the people in charge?

Parsing the matter, it distilled into who influenced whom.

Of course, the dazzling sprawl of Busan refracting from the glass under his feet was no exception. Even he, who satiated his youthful wanderlust with blood on his fists, couldn’t deny his reluctance to sully this city more. But, what did it matter? The second most important city in South Korea (some would froth at the mouth and argue it was the first for its gateway to Eurasian trade, or at least for its world-class ports) was built from perfectly respectable trade; but alack! it was also protected by its snarling underworld. It had already been befouled: polluted by fists no better than his, trodden by legs more filthy than his own. Blood and toil smeared its golden sand, and its money was just as dirty.

 Sure, the city was propped up by honourable (hah) commercial deals, but it was shielded by the illicit ones. 

A defiled aegis, if you would.  

It was clear the current glitzy glamour of Busan night-life was carefully orchestrated by someone: from the specific mouthfeel the night air had, to the businesses that ran late into the witching hours. Those mythical beings and chaebols who fed and extracted money from this place, in endless loops, were culpable for these towering skyscrapers and glittering lights. 

Creators. 

In turn, the city cradled your grimy little body—chubby hands wrapping around index fingers of the metaphorical hounds—and made you. 

Did this metropolis represent you, or did you represent the metropolis?

It was not in a polite setting that James Lee scouted the venerable King of Busan: arguably the second most esteemed figurehead for the Kings of South Korea. In theory. In theory, since Busan’s reputation as a hub for trade and exalted trade (rather than the mere cold, hard cash ill-reputed other cities offered Choi) entwined with your own. Except, in practice, you were a far more reticent King than anyone could imagine. A shadow to fade into obliquity more than any other shadow. 

Underbelly, yes. This was the turf you were most at home in; he could forget all about the glamorous, illegal casinos in basements, he could forget about eavesdropping on business moguls and their lackeys, he could forget about waiting in the entertainment districts for the proverbial snake to finally rear his head. 

You were the fucking microcosm of this city: draped with expensive fabric and chainmailed with gold, but the blood on your knuckles stank of impurity. In a parking lot nestled on the outskirts of Busan, he witnessed the King in his court: complete with the luxury, the opulence, and the hamartia of brutality that came with capitalism. Yes, Busan had minted you as a shadowy side to a glitzy coin—as your eyes snapped to where he lounged against concrete, he couldn’t help but observe how your imaginary hackles raised. 

Thwomp. Casually, you tossed the grunt beaten black-and-blue to the frigid asphalt, with the magnanimity of tossing breadcrumbs to ducks in a pond. Like the lackey was the bread and James fucking Lee himself was the duck. A bloodied cheek squished into his sneaker, but you merely stared at him owl-like. No, cat-like, because it seemed to be the same nonplussed stare a cat would give someone after bringing them a dead rat. 

“Nice city.” Since you clearly had no intention of speaking first. Deftly, his fingers unravelled the mystic plastic of a lollipop: popping the cherry-flavoured candy into his mouth to soothe the acerbic irritation he tasted. “You treat all your guests like this, or do kings not follow xenia anymore?” 

It was a rather futile attempt to lighten the mood. After all, if he could help it, he’d rather negotiate to pave the way for the second generation before resorting to throwing his fist. No, that was a lie. His flexing fingers wanted nothing more than to curl into a fist to let off some of the steam he’d garnered from searching for you in this uselessly big city, but fate had him making stupid jokes based on The Odyssey he’d read just last week for his Classics competition. If he rummaged in his pocket, he could probably find the gold medal clanking against hard sweets. 

Your expression changed minutely—a slight disturbance in your brows. They furrowed, and for a brief moment James Lee thought his joke fell flat. With all the blood soaked into your expensive garb, maybe you just valued fists over Homeric hexameter. Violence over prose. Brawns over brains. You slinked like shadows. Crude. Ominous. He could barely see your face even with the city lights flashing neon in the backdrop, but when your loping gait came to a halt, there was an exasperation that afforded more subtle nuance to your character. A bitterness to tinge what he thought was mindlessness. 

“Mr. Lee.” Your voice curled low in your throat, as quick and elusive as mercury, and perhaps just as poisonous. Shadow King of Busan, the man who never introduced himself to you noticed. Silence was golden, and he suddenly understood why Charles Choi so badly wanted sway over the young King in charge of this port city. “I hope you’re aware that beating my subordinates would invalidate any sort of hospitality between us. You’re no god amongst men either, so ritualistic hospitality is a very weak premise to coerce my amiability with. Try again.”

Deity in the flesh. Perhaps James Lee was the closest thing to breaking the limits of humanity, but all men were fallible. That wasn’t what caused his brow to rise though; going in blind may have been risky, but it was worth it to find someone with a silver tongue like this. 

You looked about his age—treading on the precarious cusp between First and Second Generation, fists stained as red as his hair—but you spoke as if you were triple your years. 

“You wanna transfer to my school? It’d be fun to have you in the Debate Club,” he said on a whim, but it wasn’t really a whim either. His instructions were expressly to negotiate with Busan—the city was far too volatile to create a power vacuum in. For cities like Ansan, struggle was welcomed; but Charles Choi had too little of everything to contend with Busan, of all places. Just like in Seoul, the situation would resolve itself, and it was far too soon for the HNH Group to meddle in a place like this. “You talk like a teacher.”

His tone was as syrupy as his candy, but there was half-provocation, half-probing-curiosity entrenched in his cadence. Go on, it coaxed, throw a punch. Argue back. Unorthodox was his means of securing cooperation, but he’d have to be a little unorthodox to secure the deal old man Choi had painstakingly written out. A contract between Elite and the capricious man before him, between HNH Group and the microcosm of Busan himself; it sounded like every capitalist’s wet dream. 

“Good question, kid,” you smiled, but it was less of a smile and more of a sneer as you ghosted closer to him. Kid, like you weren’t one yourself. 

Crack. You stepped, heavy, on the hand of the man you’d pummelled—only his unconscious groan of pain re-alerted James to his existence. “The term isn’t over. You should still be in school. Playing around like this makes me far less likely to listen to whatever you’ve followed me for. Try again.”

The thick scent of metal invaded his personal space as you peeled your black gloves off; the rings beneath them were tinted with the blood that had seeped through the material. Just like that, you callously tossed the garment onto the slumbering man under your feet—though he truly wasn’t sure whether it was a final affront to a beaten man or throwing down the gauntlet towards James Lee himself. 

It was a reminder, once again, to not be hasty. There was the real possibility of fucking Charles Choi several times over if he didn’t get this right, but the thought of his imminent doom didn’t seem all too unappealing. On the contrary, he found his heart beating faster—pulse hot on his tongue as an intriguing challenge presented itself before him. 

“I’m sure your informants have relayed more intel than just my name,” he mirrored the jagged stretch of your lips. The Legend of the First Generation. The Genius. The original, associated with the base moniker of the Ten Geniuses to show just how unparalleled James fucking Lee was. “Take a guess as to how my scholastic life is going, then consider the opportunity that I’m bringing you.”

Ambiguous. His words were dusted with just enough information to seem straight to the point, but vague enough that it was tantalising. A hook to ensnare the snake of Busan himself. And rather than sating the itch in his fists, he found himself looking forward to a parley instead. 

You studied him, appearing to consider his words seriously. Syllables phrased like he was the one with the upper hand, when in fact the HNH group was still tentatively unfurling and in the process of negotiations with both yakuza and Triad alike. He awaited your favourable response, hearing the stats roll into your mind as you calculated the preliminary gains and losses to joining hands with Charles Choi. 

Bloodied fingers tapped a rhythm into your jacket absentmindedly. He watched, anticipating your invitation. 

“Fuck off.”

“Huh?” he spluttered. Maybe he misheard you. Maybe he finally choked on his candy and induced a coma in which he was now dreaming of your response. 

“Your boss sent a high-schooler to broker a deal with Busan.” Your fingers now drummed in irritation against your forearm, but he was just as irritated. He took care of every other prefecture and province, only to have this guy who was his age, nonetheless, tell him his presence wasn’t good enough. Like, what? “Tell old Choi to come himself to negotiate if he wants any sort of foothold in my city. If he truly wanted a respectable contract, why would he send you as a messenger?”

“Excuse me?” If he wasn’t restricted from fighting you—the only exception was valid self-defence—he would’ve made the asshole in front of him eat shit. Alas, Choi wasn’t that generous or lenient. “He sent one of the Ten Geniuses, the primero, for this. I’m one of his greatest assets.”

“Are you a damn car or a person?” you snapped, and it suddenly felt as though he was looking upon an ancient wizard as he lectured a troublemaker outside his tower. His eyelid twitched, and he was finding it quite hard to keep a cool head. “Talking about assets… can’t believe Choi’s sent the guy who’s fucked up all the smaller provinces to deal with us.”

The latter sentence was more grumbled to yourself; it appeared he annoyed you just as much as you annoyed him, which he found a delighted satisfaction in. 

“Tell Elite to come himself,” you uttered finally, not even letting him get in a word edgeways as you ambled back into the shadows—not even sparing a glance for the pile of bodies left in your wake. 

And despite his objective, despite the imminent yelling he’d no doubt face, he couldn’t help but stare at your blood-soaked coat fluttering in the frigid coastal wind. 

Out of hatred, obviously. 

・゜゜・

Charles Choi was a conniving bastard. You already knew it, but seeing him in the reception hall really drove the image home. He was polite, a little too polite; yet as soon as you slid that manila folder across the mahogany table, his demeanour prickled into something knife-like. 

Snake of Busan, you were nicknamed, but this guy was something else entirely. Once he sank his teeth into your determination to keep Busan flourishing, you could practically see his pupils contract into thin slits. Of course you’d dealt with tricky deals. Weaving through negotiation as though it were a riptide was how you clawed your way to the very depth of Busan’s underworld—navigating until you finally found that crown mired in cess. 

Or, more accurately, it was Miss Crystal Choi who’d pierced her venom right where it hurt. A Genius of Business, her father had called her—and boy, did it take all your wit to match her expertise in trade. 

But did he really have to bring that guy along?

The scion of the Geniuses was also in your office, leaning against the wall far behind Elite and his daughter. And though nobody asked for his input—not even old Choi spared his prodigy a glance—it still irritated you to no end that he’d tagged along. A bright, cheerful grin cast the sun against the city nightlife on the top floor of your building—one directed right at you, considering the only other two people he knew had their backs facing him. Quite the foolish move, but you weren’t one to concern yourself with people who were basically daylight robbing you. If the dog they’d raised bit them, all the better.

Or maybe he was beaming right at your bodyguard-turned-assistant, who stood discreetly in the shadows of the blinds: slatted light gently cresting over his tall build. Well. It certainly was one of the less strange things Mr Lee had done.  

Still, for someone who’d been glaring at you just a week ago, the change felt far too eerie to ignore. 

“—and onto the temporary personnel exchange section—” A feeble attempt to pry open the walnut that Busan was, which would only end with the unfortunate bastard failing. You’d choose a loyal subordinate, they’d select someone who was doomed to only grunt work—far from the impenetrable fortress of this building. Boredly, you tapped the pen on the contract, before freezing up at Miss Choi’s next words. “—we’d like to recommend James Lee to transfer to this office.” 

A pen snapped, and ink spilled onto the page. Dumbfounded, you barely registered her sliding over a fresh sheet, as though she knew full well this would happen. 

No, it was no recommendation. Her very mention of his name was a forceful shove of him into your office. No wonder he was grinning like the devil. No wonder he was here in the first place. At that moment, you wanted nothing more than to leave Busan behind. 

Your eye twitched. 

He kept smiling—an ominous prelude to the brimstone and fire you were sure to experience promptly.  

・゜゜・

“Aren’t I a better bodyguard than that useless one you keep around?” 

James Lee had been a bit too quiet these past few days; duly loping around behind the lower-ranked subordinates as they made their rounds, never crossing the proverbial line when you’d handed him his duties as interim grunt. Though, whenever you passed him, his eyes followed the shadows of your fluttering hem—two pinpricks of an arid glare sweeping on your back. 

But James Lee was a dog, and whatever command Elite gave him, he’d obey. Heel. Roll over. Serve under the King of Busan for a month. A jester, if you would, with a leash around his neck that kept drawing more and more blood from him. What were the limits? Just how far would he go for the man with a crimson shadow?

“No,” you said. He stood, far too proud, on a summit of lackeys that had been sent your way by one of the companies who’d attempted to cheat their way to getting a more favourable deal. It would’ve been a simple ambush—one doomed to fail—fated to end with you tossing blood-soaked gloves right on them before you postponed the meeting you were on your way to. 

But not today. It appeared the limit of the dog of Elite was passing up petty competition with the man two paces behind you.

“Unlike you, Song’s actually pleasant to listen to.” Yes, Song wasn’t the most useful of bodyguards point-blank, but it wasn’t like you particularly needed someone to take care of protecting you. He made people lower their guards. And he made a mean cup of tea. “I don’t have any use for you, so you’re still worse.”

“Semantics,” he shrugged. “I made your life much easier, did I not?”

He was smart. Too smart, but you already knew that from the intel that had not yet been erased. Hushed up, because of course Elite would painstakingly conceal his cards. 

And unfortunately, you were always drawn to a risky hand. A pleasure far removed from the mundane violence of your everyday life—a heart-pounding thrill of betting all your chips in a hazardous (though not desperate) gamble. 

“Maybe.” For it was one day removed from the multitudes of late meetings and burdensome glove changes. Your hands weren’t seeped in oily red, sliding and dripping onto your expensive clothes that were tailored—though still felt so fucking ill-fitting that it made you sick—right to your body. 

You considered the man toeing carefully past the dogpile located against a cargo container: donning what could’ve been your life. A beige school uniform, pinkie slightly indented from books and study, pen marks still dotting his fingers. Closer. He ambled lazily to your direction, and as he approached with the dying sun behind him, you could see his smile. Just as languid as the day you first met him, and just as irritating. 

Closer. Strawberry candy laced the iron odour, though you could faintly taste lemon in the profile too—testament to the yellow wrapper stuck crudely on one of the men. Closer—he was far too close now, standing chest to chest while he stared directly at you. 

If there was one thing that came from this ill-fated encounter, it was probably the permanent furrowed brows that decorated your perplexed face—the bloodhound had been reduced to this fluffy thing demanding your attention. 

And it was just as unfortunate that your impression had been chipped away for him too—a King whose expressions were utterly delightful to witness. A straight mouth, grinning ever-so-slightly when a deal went your way. A routine rhythm to your biro tapping your notepad. Eyes that shone with practical constellations as you breathed the briny air of the port in. 

A particularity to the way you treated others, steely to the strong, awkward with the weak. So utterly flustered, when it came to tiny kids tugging on your long coat, or the grandmas you lent your arm to on the streets. If he had to compare it, he’d attribute your personality as a non-Newtonian fluid: your very own mix of cornstarch and water. Tough with pressure, all soft without. 

Like now. 

“Come on,” he whined. Psychologically, he was doing a damn good impression of pitifulness—even if you’d just witnessed him commit a beatdown so one-sided that you could feel the second-hand pain. And little by little, he was watching you falter: breath caught in his throat as he watched your brows default to their furrow once more. “I saved you a good few minutes, didn’t I? Don’t tell me Busan can’t even acknowledge hard work and effort.”

“Fine, whatever,” you crumbled just like that, under the heavy weight of his triumphant eyes. “Good job.”

So cute, he thought, then froze almost immediately the moment the words came to mind.

Fuck. 

・゜゜・

[kirkenovak]

Interesting that John was the only one that got penetrated stabbed by Void during the lab fight.

Interesting that Void decided that John should have a long hard object inserted into his flesh.

Interesting.

Whatever could that mean.

It is a conundrum.

[entelodante]

Wanted to figure out how chimera’s wrote and ended up starting on their written language proper. MASSIVE info dump below! 

Writing

They write using four fingers of one hand, usually the right, coated in ink. Think like a stamp almost. The three middle fingers draw with the tips of the teeth whilst the thumb will alternate between tip and back. All words are written simultaneously inward. The remaining fingers grip the source of ink, usually a length of hardened pigment only wetted on one side OR those who write often could invest in a pen. A pen for a chimera is a fanning brush saturated with ink that the writing teeth brush through when needing to reink. It allows for much faster wetting of the teeth, but can be messy when learning or refilling. 

Most chimera are right handed but left handed individuals exist, they will simply need to learn to use the two fingers opposite the middle in reverse of how someone who is right handed would! Luckily all fingers can move pretty independently of each other and it is an easy task.  As chimera mostly communicate through direct broadcast most find the written word lacking, so it is a common occupation among Chimera to write for others. It is an impressive skill to eloquently convey ideas/feelings through writing. Though their language set up lends to it MUCH more than others. 

The Nitty Gritty

All subject to change as this is very first drafty. 

Chimeric is a logographic language, there is no set alphabet and all ‘words’ stem from symbols representing things and ideas. Sentences are kind of two sentences atop one another, with one being the literal and the other the reactionary. It is read from out to in and sentences are written in a circle divided into 4 quarters. We’ll start with the top moving counter clockwise. 

Quarter 1 (Red) is the subject area, now subjects function the same as nouns for the most part, people, places, and things. But something important to note is that there must always be an ‘audience’ for the words being spoken. An audience basically means pronouns though they are a lot more encompassing with: I, You, Us, Them, Them excluding me/you, Us excluding you, Everyone, and a bunch of others. These are all acceptable audience subjects to top off your sentence. For instance you wouldn’t say “This pizza tastes good!” you would instead say “I enjoy the taste of this pizza” or “Everyone enjoys the taste of this pizza” the opinion/emotion needs to be applied to a source to make sense grammatically. 

Quarter 2 (Green) is all about emotions and opinions. Chimeric language is an exchange of ideas but also importantly emotions and feelings. Q2 is dedicated to how the sentence is supposed to be interpreted or felt by the reader, as obviously in ‘spoken’ chimeric speaker and listener technically feel the same about what is currently being said. Listener opinion is very distinct from speaker and in writing the speaker takes priority. So for example the statement “Who finished the box but left it in the pantry?” would instead have to be translated into something akin to “I am pissed and questioning who had the audacity to finish the box and did not care enough to remove it from the pantry thus leaving me to find it and become disappointed?” Basically chimeric lends itself to very long translations due to their feelings.  

Quarter 3 (Blue) is the action section of the sentence. The verbs if you will. This is where things are happening and is VERY tied in with Q1. Subjects in Q1 and Q2 will be linked together with lines that follow the same slice through the circle.

When a subject is linked to an action that means that the subject is the one performing the action, whereas subjects closer to the center and unaligned with an action are what is being acted upon. Like with the audience conundrum though an action needs a subject to actually act, whether it is an individual/s or an object or place. This is usually the least word heavy portion of the sentence as it is almost supplemental to Q1, and in contrast to the thin, crisp lines of the other quarters, Q3 will often be smudgey and more messy due to being written mostly with the back of the thumb. 

Quarter 4 (Yellow) is generally not going to have any words written there, as it functions as the anchor point for the hand. The outmost finger rests here on the page to stabilize the hand as it closes during writing. When writing in a ream of papers this is where the hole to hold them all together is punched through. However in modern fanciful writing styles Q4 is also used as a secondary emotional quarter. This style will use Q4 as the reactionary emotion of the reader, more so the expected reaction and emotion from the reader. This is an EXTREMELY class based writing style and it is a GIANT NO NO to write like this for someone of higher status to read. Typically only Clan heads will freely use this writing style, especially towards each other lmao. The writing style of the passive aggressive power struggle. 

All together Quarters are read at once! And I mean that there is no one word the chimera will start with. Every word of the sentence is absorbed at the same time, no following along a line like how I’m currently typing. But what indicates the order of which things are meant to be perceived is how close they are to the outside of the circle. Things closer to the center come later in the sentence and will be understood to be lower in the hierarchy of words. However only subjects and actions are directly linked to each other, emotion/opinion words are to have a more natural seep throughout the entirety of the sentence with only a loose idea of where they are to be felt. In this way while a subjects actions may be concrete, the writers feelings about them are more fluid and organic. 

Chimeric conlang yay! I wanted to make modern Mirum script but decided I needed to start at the roots. So technically two written languages originate from Mirum, but they are extremely similar with one directly branching from the other. Chimeric is the original and Miran is the derivative, they mostly share characters but their sentence structure is different. Chimeric keeps the circular structure whereas Miran is a zigzagging horizontal and completely drops quarters 2 and 4. Leading to modern Miran being a very literal language vs Chimeric’s emotion heavy focus. But if you know one you can pretty much read the other, albeit with some culture shock. 

[solarisfortuneia]

— grace and coordination? who?

them with a clumsy reader. (ft. kaeya, thoma, tighnari, diluc, alhaitham, ayato, zhongli, childe.)

notes: pinkie swear this'll be the last repost for a while, bc i'm working on some new stuff mwah <3

kaeya's reaction to your mishaps depends on the situation. sometimes he's literal prince charming, the very picture of concern and worry. and other times, when you're not in a lot of danger— like when you've tripped down a set of four stairs, for example— he'll try really really hard to keep a straight face to protect your feelings.

over time, he'll develop a sense of when and where accidents are most likely to happen and take measures to either remove the obstruction, or guide you away from it entirely. however, if the situation is inevitable, he'll try his best to catch you. one downside though— or upside, depending how you see it— is that he'll always hit you with an overused, cliché line.

"looks like you're falling for me all over again, sweetheart."

this sweet, sweet boy is the most worried of all. initially, thoma thinks every scratch and every bruise is a consequence of something serious, but soon learns that they're most probably a result of your klutziness. even if you stumble lightly and regain your balance, he's instantly at your side, asking you if you're alright. he won't just take you at your word though, he'll check you himself from head to toe, and only then will he be satisfied.

he'll also carry bandages, antiseptic liquid, lotion, anything he thinks you might need. his pockets are endless. he'll even have small treats to console you after a bad fall.

"oh, dear! here, let me help you up. no injuries? good. here's a candy to cheer you up."

frankly, he's exasperated. and also very concerned. whenever you bump your head on a branch or fall backwards on your butt, he just sighs and shakes his head before helping you. he knows you're no careless fool, just very prone to unlucky incidents, so he'll spare you the lecture.

tighnari is a firm believer in the fact that prevention is better than cure. so, he'll make sure your footwear is comfortable and supportive and make you change if any parts of your outfit have the potential to be a tripping hazard. if you wear glasses, he'll remind you to keep your prescription up to date. all in all, he'll minimize the possibility of you tripping due to things in your control.

"you'll trip on that robe of yours if you walk outside wearing it. go put on something else, i'd rather not see you fall into a hole in the ground again."

diluc never expresses anything because he'd rather not come off as overbearing, but he's very careful with you. you can see it in the way he brings a hand to the edge of the table to stop you from hitting your head when you bend to pick up a spoon you knocked off the table, the way he keeps any sharp objects out of your reach, the way he's always scanning his surroundings.

he'll find himself doing all that even when you're not with him, and he'll be glad you weren't there to witness that. he'll baby proof his entire house just for you, and if he can, he'll baby proof yours too. he's the type to use the high quality silk handkerchief he carries around to bandage a scuffed knee.

"don't worry about it, cloth can be washed. the injury should be our first priority."

there is no question alhaitham can't answer and no puzzle he can't solve, except, of course, the conundrum of how you manage to stumble over air, or slip on a completely dry surface. he'll observe you carefully, try his best to figure it out but eventually he'll chalk it up to circumstances being arranged against you.

he takes matters into his own hands and just fixes said circumstances for you. beyond that, he knows he cannot do much. he has the uncanny ability to know exactly when you're about to do something where you'll end up with a bump on your head, even if you're miles apart. he's also not too worried, he knows that a tumble isn't the end of the world. the problem only arises when you don't get back up again.

he'll firmly refuse to go dancing with you though, both for his sake and yours. he'll turn you down gently and suggest alternatives.

"dance with you? i'm not sure that's such a great idea. how about we spend the evening at the café?"

kamisato ayato is grace, elegance and perfection. so it comes as a surprise to most of inazuma when they see that his partner is a walking disaster. he's fond of this trait of yours though; he thinks it's endearing. he's also very forgiving if you happen to step on his toes or bump into him. he has no issues replacing anything you break on accident too.

he knows he cannot personally keep an eye on you, so he'll have someone watch over you from afar to make sure nothing serious happens.  that's not to say he won't tease you, no. even though he knows the answer, he'll always ask playfully about any recent 'misfortune' you've been a part of every time he sees you.

"ah, there you are. have you fulfilled your daily quota of disaster for the day? now now, don't give me that look, you know i'm just teasing~"

he's unfazed, really. he's seen many types of people and creatures over the years, from the most poised rulers to the most unsteady fawns. one thing he does do for you is carefully consider any gifts he's thinking of giving to you, and dismisses the item if it has pointy corners or is fragile.

zhongli's the type to fall with you so you're not alone. he was once a powerful archon, a little accident in a busy hall is nothing for him. and seeing him mimic you with a stoic face to help you feel better is always a treat to witness. then, he'll dust himself off as if nothing happened, and offer you a hand.

"think nothing of it, dearest. i simply wish to accompany you on any journey i can, even if it is a short one to the floor."

childe's first and foremost reaction is to laugh when you hit your head on a pillar right in front of you, then he'll chuckle at the face you make at him when you're offended. he can't help it! it reminds him way too much of his siblings.

he sincerely promises, with a hand over his heart, to kiss any boo-boos better. and he'll insist on lifting you in his arms, and won't take no for an answer.

"no buts! i'm carrying you home like this. after all, the best way to stop you from tripping is to make sure your feet don't touch the ground, wouldn't you agree?"