#one-cavity mold

[gudmould]

Injection molding materials and mold design professional knowledge sharing (Part 1)

Plastic mold design process requirements To design an advanced plastic mold, we first need to have a high-level design idea, and we must also study product processability, characteristics and uses of plastic materials, selection of mold steel, processing methods, mold structure design, molding schemes and injection machine models. Among them, it is very necessary to study processability of mold…

[t1red-twilight]

soft peter headcannons

summary: might cause cavities

content/warnings: gn!reader, andrew!peter, fluffffff

word count: 0.4k

masterlist p. parker masterlist

- peter is not that much of an outspoken guy (outside of spidersona, lmao)

- this is mirrored in how he loves you

- he’s super gentle. he kisses you very gently, holds you gently, isn’t super rough at all

- ushy gushy mushy loser make outs

- he loves going on little outings with you

- whether that’s a dinner reservation, or coffee while you sit in silence doing copious amounts of homework.

- he always pays, but he does so very quietly. you don’t notice most of the time

- “you already paid? good god peter. i have money, you know” (jokingly, of course)

- you might as well be an rn with the amount of times you’ve patched him up and disinfected his wounds

- your first aid kit has expanded to be like a cabinet full of anything that you may need at a moment’s notice

- he got you matching necklaces for christmas one year

- he wears his every day.

- when someone asks him about it, he gets all giddy and tells them all about you

- “its a matching necklace with my partner! y’know they actually-”

- he's not super big on pda

- you asked him once about this, and he had told you that he didn’t want to ‘commodify’ your relationship. he wanted to keep that part private and just to yourselves

- showers together </3

- before you move in together, showers together had become so commonplace that he took pictures of your shampoo and body wash and stuff and just kinda bought them for his place

- will just hold you in the shower for an unprecedented amount of time

- full length version of that one here

- CANDID PHOTOS AND VIDEOS

- petey boy loves his camera and will take pictures of you whenever he feels prompted

- in the beginning you would point out when he would take pictures, but now you’re just used to it.

- think ‘dead wife montage’ from the beginning of a movie (minus the deceased part, i suppose)

- lowkey gives the best hugs

- he’ll hold the back of your head and tuck his face into your neck and just squeeze

- he teases you semi-regularly

- he’s super playful with you and likes to show his affection that way

- your morning routine is memorized at this point

- sometimes you don’t even to talk to each other, you just naturally know your way around each other super well

- he’s super domestic, actually

- loves making dinner together, reading the same books and talking about them, movie marathons (followed by over analyzing them, of course)

- if you’re in college, he’ll help you with your homework

- he’s very good at explaining things

- rewards you with little smooches

- puts his glasses on you

- your closets have molded into one massive super closet

- you wear each other’s t-shirts and hoodies all the time

- buys you little trinkets

- concluding thoughts: soft is peter’s middle name. he so loves to be around you and he loves even more that you love being around him.

[mothernaturesthings]

Thy Kingdom Come Undone | Part One: “I’ve Missed You So.”

Father Charlie x Reader

synopsis: old lovers meet again, under the unprecedented spell of nighttime rainfall.

Nightfall.

An ominously lit sky with raindrops making the descent from above, many trickling onto the umbrella of a woman lingering in the marrow of it all. A rumble of thunder erupted, a sliver of lightning severing the darkness with winding white.

She sidled towards one of the modest, two-story homes, casting her head down to shield her face from the impact of rain. She hooped up the steps and approached the front door. There was a fear in her belly that bubbled to her chest, her hand open-palmed on the doorknob.

Her breathing was erratic. Clipped. She swallowed hard. As she hand-molded the shape of the doorknob—she knocked. Over and over, until her knuckles gave way to bruised flesh.

The door opened, revealing a man dressed in shirtless loungewear, standing at the threshold. Hair tousled. An eyeful of sleep. He rubbed them and reopened his eyes, recognizing the woman that instant.

“Rory?” He questioned, doing a once-over in disbelief. Her name falls off his tongue handsomely. Yearnful. Ardently, if so.

Rory merely stared at the man, lips parted, unable to speak. She could only stare, coquettish and in shock. It was quite evident that she wasn’t expecting that door to open.

“Sweetheart, it’s cold and rainy out here. Come in.” He reached out and placed a heated palm on her lower back. Her reactive body squirmed at the sudden heat, although she obliged to his request, albeit hesitantly as he ushered her into his home.

He led her to the couch, beckoning her to sit. She listened and seated herself, fidgety but seated nonetheless. He straddled the couch, muscular arms flanking her, their faces a kiss apart. Rory leaned in closer, whispered, “Father,” then breathelessly. “I’ve missed you so.” Her bottom lips brushed agonizingly slow against his. He grimaced; a breath cloistered up in his chest. 

“I’ve missed your touch," she combed her fingers through his scalp, "your skin,” a mouthful of the skin of his reddened cheek, teeth puncturing deeply. Painfully. He hissed, “And alas, your lips.” She faced him once more, lips swollen pink. He was expressionless, the brown of his eyes emoting the best he could. Needy. Hungry.

He pressed his lips onto hers, greedily becoming one muddled fusion of teeth and lips. Rory gasped, him using that vulnerability to edge his tongue into her mouth, exploring the meaty oral cavity there.

He rid himself of her mouth, an audible popping sound erupting. Remnants of her lipstick on his plump lips. They composed themselves respectively, Rory visibly upset.

“I can’t do this.” Was all that was uttered—heartbreakingly low. He clawed at his hair. 

“Can’t do what, Father?” Rory placed a hand atop his own, to which he immediately recoiled.

“Don’t call me father. I’m no longer a minister.” He face blanched now, out of frustration or embarrassment, or the latter.

“I’m sorry,” a moment of prolonged silence, “I never intended to offend you in any way.”

He doesn't exchange a similar sentiment. Rory ultimately understood and stood up on her feet.

“I understand. I’ll excuse myself.” She had begun her walk towards the front door when she abruptly felt a taut, possessive grip around her midsection. She froze.

“Make love to me.” Straightforward. Every syllable wisped the strand of hair at the nape of her neck. He pivoted her to face him. 

“Take me to bed?” It proceeded as a question more so. He decided to hoist her up by the waist, her limbs latching to his lower spine like second nature. He carefully guided them both up the staircase, Rory nibbling on the concha-shaped flesh of his ear.

He arrived at his bedroom door and pushed said door, flying open with the might of his foot. He stepped to the footboard of the bed and draped her body across it, to where her face was angled at his beltline. He cupped the underside of her jawbone, stroking his thumb over the mandible with delicate-like strokes. Rory purred like a kitten, putty to the feeling of his touch.

“Once we do this, there's no reversing it. We’ll be back at square one. Are you ready for the fallout when the time comes?” As he said that, his thumb achingly grazed the corner of Rory’s lips, begging to be sucked. At his expense, her mouth was now agape, allowing him to slide the thumb into her mouth. She closed it and began to suck, hard, the ridges of her teeth pricking the delicate skin.

She nodded. A definite understanding of what was to come.

[vilebird]

BOTH TOO MUCH AND NOT ENOUGH

1) "I have been found wanting, Natalie thought; I have made myself unacceptable and am not worthy." - hangsaman, by shirley jackson

2) text: "meat must be beaten brutal into tenderness, that any body softens with violence, she grinds salt into the carcass, like a wound, a memory". image: a carcass of beef, cleaned, with the ribs on prominent display, painted in oils and rendered in thick strokes of red, orange, tan and white, on a plain dark red background. the text is cutouts on top, dark red text on light tan. - Family Portrait as Unfinished Meal, by Torrin A. Greathouse and Le Bœuf by Chaim Soutine. collage put together by @invisiblemonstrosity

3) a pale hand crushing ripe red strawberries, green leaves still attached, on a plain white background. - apparently by ouiloved on flickr, but they seem to have deleted.

4) bust photo of a tan person with a spotlight on them outside in the dark, head turned down, shoulder length messy wet black hair obscuring their face. their hand is raised to their chest and they are wearing a white tank top. fake blood is splattered and wiped around their chest and mouth. - i can't actually find this one all my attempts lead back to unsourced tumblr posts if you know where its from. help me

5: "You have no one who has any sort of consideration for you. You have had patience and endurance, and what have they done for you? Half-killed you." - carlyle’s house and other sketches, by virginia woolf

6: "try your whole life to be righteous and be good, wind up on your own floor, choking on blood" - sept 15th 1983, by the mountain goats

7: "such a waste of a girl, such rumination. i am obsessive. i contain nothing but the replay. i am blood and blood and replay. i am please don't go." - i put the coffin out to sea, by lisa marie basile

8: an image of a partially bald baby bird begging for food, drawn in the desaturated greens and black of a trailcam, on top, the text reads "i am asking you for something i need", on bottom, the text reads "why is it so hard to give it to me?" - trailcam baby, by @quezify

9: "was i raised without love? / or was i born unloveable?" - @psychwarded

10: "I, in my corner, with my monstrous needs." - As Consciousness Is Harnessed to Flesh, susan sontag

11: "oh, i know that i'm not whole, and sometimes feel the flies swarming, like much of me is rotten." - roadkill ode, chad abushanab

12: a photo of a cut tree where much of the centre is rotted from fungus, accompanied by the text: "heart rot in pine. heart rot is the softening of a pine trees resinous heartwood, caused by an in-dwelling fungus. not all pines have it, but those that do make the excavation of a tree-hole next cavity easier for the red-cockaded woodpecker."

13: "rot made a home inside my body." - i know it's from "bloat" but cant find the authors name again. i think it starts with a c?

14: photo of an abandoned house in shades of brown and beige and orange, the walls are wet and scuffed and the drywall has been torn open in places, exposing the old lath. - abandoned, by @jaggedplains

15: photo of a mouldy strawberry, fading from bright red to grey-green fluff - Strawberry Gray Mold disease stock photo, by MediaProduction on gettyimages

16: "you ever feel like you were born with something rotten inside you and if people get close enough they're gonna find out" - tumblr post by @twoheadedfawnn

17: "we are meat, we are potential carcasses,' he once said. 'if i go into a butcher's shop i always think it is surprising that i wasn't there instead of the animal." - francis bacon

18: "you dangle on the leash of your own longing; your need grows teeth." - speeches for dr frankenstein, by margaret atwood

19: photo of a python hanging off a roof coiled around a black and white bird, poised to eat it - i heard some noise on the roof this morning, by candycane7 on reddit

20: "all that matters is that you want to hurt me. all that matters is that you want me." - when rome falls, by yves olade

21: "god told me i was forgiven and then he split me open" - god is made of hunger and i am made of dreams, by katie maria

22: "but this is not about love. once a pig is hung and cut straight, cut from rectum to neck, step inside her death like it is a room: that is how to touch her now. the lord said, you must not eat their meat or touch their carcasses. then came the end of the rib." - oh let's just be hogs, by gregory emilio

23: photo of a strawberry cut in half with its leaves attached. it is bright red, steel knife wet. the background is bright white and plain. - cut strawberry by liz west on flickr

24: photo of a handmade cloth sculpture of a dead autopsied pigeon, red zipper like an incision opening to its empty red interior, small cloth and thread organs arranged around it. - pandora: city pigeon, by jessica bartram

25: '"u need a therapist" actually i need to be euthanized' - tumblr post by deactivated user @122mg

[widowsofchaos]

𝐝𝐨𝐜𝐭𝐨𝐫’𝐬 𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐬

synopsis: your menstrual cycle always pushes you to pure hysterics, thankfully your entrusted doctor is always there for you.

pairing: dark!loki laufeyson x brown!reader

ao3 // victorian au

warnings: dubious consent (slight sexual grooming), vaginal fingering, oral, nefarious medical practice, motional grooming.

a/n: for @cake-writes . I love you so much. :) did you know that in the Victorian period, physicians would perform pelvic massages that involved clitoral stimulation with early electrical vibrators to cure hysteria? traditional pelvic massages had been conducted for thousand of years, until western technology caught up. Dr. Silver Tongue prefers the old fashioned methods, hehe. hope ya’ll enjoy, this has been a draft for over 2+ years!

Spilling ichor is a woman’s curse.

Even worse, the womb begins its horrors at the precipice of girlhood. The excruciating pain that follows in its wake, so intense it feels as if fingernails are clawing at uterine walls.

Screams and wails for God’s sweet mercy, for the pain to cease. Bodies shivering in sweats, left so fatigued that one will rot away in bed. Praying under your breath, begging to just die.

Fits of rage and delusions—- once, at the high of your agony, you thought demons were crawling through your pink wallpaper, ready to devour you. Riddled with anxiety—- paranoid of everything.

Girls call it hell. Doctors coined it hysteria.

It’s nearing noon. He’s late.

Rattles of wheezes knock against your cavity, eyes sheening wet, as your bodice sinks and molds against the mattress. Lazily picking at your reddish cuticles, and the scent of copper lingering in the air.

The compulsive urge to throttle your bodice up and down in possessed fashion against the bedding, to gnash at the air with your canines, and howl —- perhaps, your calls would beckon him.

Groans slip from your mouth, as your abdomen is throbbing and swollen. Counting sheep mindlessly, trying to inhale deeply the packaged herbs that were prescribed to you —- but nothing is working.

The moans become more undignified. Your face is scrunching up, with tears kissing your lashes.

Faint footsteps creaking against the wood flooring, and voice muffled—- a tired gasp of relief and want escapes you. Strained whines stretch and bubble at the pit of your throat, eyes hawking your door.

The knob turns and creaks open—- what a glorious sight, to be greeted by emerald hues, and that pretty smirk. Those lovely cheekbones, and smooth ivory skin.

The dull glow of the sun illuminates through the heavy stitched curtain, and through the bedroom, with pretty pink wallpaper—- but the light shines his eyes ever so gracefully. Angelic.

A courteous bow of his head, that black hat over-casting his brow; lean and stands tall in such poise. Followed by your father, imposing and watchful.

Both can see you are too weakened to speak pleasantries, but can only greet them with a small smile and lazy eyes. Your father nods and leaves you both alone, but you could have sworn for just a glance, your father’s eyes are sharp from the sliver of the door.

A click of the door, and the air shifts.

He’s smiling with a hum. Ever so the gentleman, he lifts his hat off. He puts his leather gladstone bag gently by the edge of the bed, sits his hat on the nightstand, and begins to unbutton his long coat.

Loki holds his coat by the collar, neatly folding and placing it over your velvet chair.

It’s a quiet routine.

To be honest, this is the highlight of your day. Life of a curious socialite, stuck in your overbearing parents’ manor, primed to be a proper young lady, and young eyes to see only through a theological veil.

Dr. Laufeyson is a kind, and gracious man.

He came into your life last year. The menstrual cycles have gotten worse, and it has begun to worry your parents. He was recommended by your neighbors, the Maximoffs.

He is quite different from any man you have met.

“Hello, my dearest.” His voice is liquid smooth. His hand captures yours, bringing your knuckles to his lips. Mustering all the strength to speak, “Hello, doctor.” A bashful smile soon drops to a quivering frown.

A sharp pain that slices at your gut prevails.

Loki tauts sympathetically.

His slender fingers graze gently against your thighs, feathery touch. By the glide of his palms, he lifts your sheath. Cupping the meat of your thighs, the pads of his thumbs denting, already memorizing the sore points.

It’s an unspoken ritual.

How salacious to undress an untouched lady of society —- he barely takes his eyes off of yours. Heat radiates off of you in waves.

Shivers of shyness and an foreign need for want sweeps over the hills of your legs. It is wrong for a man to touch an unwed girl.

But he is a doctor, your doctor. He has to inspect your body. He has always assured you that his touch has always been for the good of your health.

Unusual methods Loki practices. Not like any doctor you had as a growing girl. Over the time, you have known Loki, he has bathed you, fed you, and massaged you all through the cycles. So intimate, yet not befitting of your unmarried status.

Any remnants of shame melts away as his bare palms begin to massage your thighs, maneuvering your legs to part. With an expert flick of the hem of your undergarments, dragging the now stained white fabric down, and off from your body.

A strong scent of blood fans the air, making you wince at the smell—- but Loki doesn’t deter. No sign of revulsion, you watch through your lashes—- he moves with a calm focus.

Loki’s presence has been comforting.

The way he speaks with such eloquence. Speaking to you as he would to an equal, rather at you. It’s natural to him to see you as you are, instead of a porcelain doll to be seen, not heard.

Conversations of shared love of literature, and the arts. His charming words bloom warmth inside you. He has a taste for histories, and has taught you the lessons he has learned back as a young man in university.

It is not for a girl to learn academic skills, for it is more important for boys to gain knowledge. But Loki told you many things—- and in return, you confined to him.

There were many occasions where Loki has found you forlorn. The root of your problem is your father, being overbearing, and callous. Either you weren’t being dutiful enough in your responsibilities, and pressuring the idea of marriage.

Loki would comfort you, tell you that a man should not speak so cruelly to his daughter. Private conversations that bordered on flirtatious tones—- how pretty you are, and that such a cherub face shouldn’t be dew with tears.

He is your only companion. You don’t encourage yourself to socialize in the circles your family frequent in, often seeking your solitude—- many high societal folks are too boring, and vain.

But Loki is colorful and adventurous. He speaks of wonder. He is not like any other man you had the displeasure of meeting —- boring sons of the men who work with your father. Stuffy and shallow men who only want a brood mare and a slave for a wife.

Loki excuses himself, as he walks to the wash stand perched near your vanity. Putting the stained underwear in the nearby basket. Rolling up his white sleeves up to his elbow joints, readying to fetch the wash basin and pitcher.

Loki’s fingers pat the smooth glide of the pitcher, humming contently—- the water is still warm. Quickly, and securely, he grabs the handle, begins to pour the lukewarm water into the basin.

The anticipation is intense. Breathing heavily now, a filthy part of you yearn for this touch. To feel his bare smooth fingers fondle with your mound, the sensation of his hands bathing your wet pubic hair, and his fingers slipping between your folds—-

The haze is ripped from you as he feels his knuckles caress your cheek. Shyly, you sink more into your chest, your lips purse into a coy smile. Loki towers over you as a gentle giant, a smile curling at the corners of his mouth.

In one hand, he puts the basin down on the nightstand, and on the other hand with a towel. Loki leans down, unraveling the towel, and maneuvering it underneath your bum.

The dull ache of him lifting you makes you whine. Loki shushes you, his thumbs stroking the path between your inner thighs and lower belly.

He turns to retrieve a clean rag and the soap.

Loki seats, dipping his palm in the water, twirling the red soap. Soap suds form and the scent of the carbolic solvent is heavenly.

His hand nears and the droplets rain on your abdomen, earning a sigh of relief from you. Rubbing the bar of soap in circular motions on your pubic bone, diving between your vaginal lips, soaping up your bush—- it was simply amazing.

Your head leans back into your pillow, practically moaning at the feeling—- at the feeling of his hand, and the sensation of being cleaned.

The dried crust of blood now being scrubbed away by the accompanying wet rag—- you didn’t even realize Loki moved to soak it, too immersed in the cleansing.

Completely lathery now, the towel underneath you sodden, and the water in the basin crimson. Loki puts the soap in the basin, it sinks.

The rag feels nice, soaked in warm water, washing away the excess of soap. Loki wrings the wet rag, the water dripping into the basin.

Washing away the soap from your mound, Loki’s thumb simultaneously stroking between your folds, ensuring there are no remnants of soap.

Cheekily, his fingertips slither more into your sopping hole. Tender and swollen, Loki’s two fingers flex slowly into your quim. Halting at the sound of a whine, but resumes when you mewl under your breath.

Loki muses to himself, delights that your whimpers are akin to a kitten. His fingers curl and bend as he sinks deeper inside you. Leisurely, his fingers twist— staining his fingers red.

“I do believe you are due for your massage.” Loki spoke with a silky husk. He spread his fingers, roving over your thighs, heavily petting you. A gasp leaves your mouth, as Loki’s fingers fuck you a little faster.

“Such tension.” Loki says with an empathetic smirk. You huff of breath, a strained moan. Smug satisfaction floods Loki, his smirk morphs to a pearly grin.

He playfully clicks his tongue, “She weeps on my fingers.” Loki can feel your essence dripping, coating his knuckles now. You’re panting into your pillow, as a thirsty stray, eyes pinched shut.

Your muscles are tightening around his fingers, sucking him inside, needing more. Curling at the soft spongy spot that sparks fluttery delight, jolting your head up, eyes moon-wide.

Chin to chest now, mouth gaped in a lazy O, unabashed wanton moans. Toes curling against the bed sheet, as fresh blood coats your thighs, and Loki’s thrusting hand.

Your hair clings to the beading sweat of your forehead, gripping the wrinkled sheets. Unabashedly, your hips thrust and follow Loki’s electric thrusting.

His fingers flee from your thigh to your bush, playfully his thumb and index split it open, as he slows down his fingers. His eyes never leave yours, as the pad of his thumb begins to play with your clit.

You nearly choke on your breath, you inhale so deeply, it feels like your belly caves against your ribs. Leisurely and purposefully, Loki does it slow, leaving you in desperation.

Whimpering for him to move in haste. Edging you just near the cliff, but not yet there. The sharp strain of your menstrual blurs with pleasure— so unladylike of you, to be as a starving animal, but it relieves you greatly.

You crave it, his touch, his scent—- you adore him. How lovingly his eyes bore into yours, as you lose yourself. The flesh of your thighs shiver, the knot in your belly tightening, making you whine.

“Yes, my sweetling.” Loki whispers, as your body twists, and your toes curl, “Release your pain.”

A flood of pleasure washes over your body. Your head tilts back as your mouth hangs open. Throat clenching but no sounds, just an airy gasp. Eyes pinching shut, and nose scrunching.

The euphoria of your orgasm is sensational—- you’re delirious with it. Chest heaving and hands clasping at the air, giggling with relief. Loki softly seethes his fingers from your moist cavern.

Wiping his finger clean with a towel, as your erratic breathing simmers down. He finds it amusing to see you flustered, he can see your bashfulness seep through—- down-casting your gaze, staring at your legs.

In a second, your eyes flutter upwards, to catch his penetrative stare. Loki’s hand dents into the bedding, right next to your forearm, more so trapping you.

His nose just hairs away from yours, his warm breath fanning your face. It only fuels you more.

“Faring well, darling?”

All you can do is nod, with a titter.

-

Placid ease settles over you. Comfortable and clean. Not yet in your undergarments, Loki says that it’s best to air you out, with your nightgown wrinkled at your midriff.

Loki rummages through his bag, searching through his medical equipment, to grasp the dark green bottle.

Loki grabs the bottle by its neck from his bag. Revealing brown printed lettering on crismon wrapping, Loki unplugs the cork. It catches your eye, it makes your nose scrunch.

Laudanum.

A very strong poison that your palate has not yet been fully accustomed to. Over the months, Loki has insisted that you drink this in small doses.

Very small doses.

Loki spills just a little more than a drop into the spoon. The reddish-brown liquid wafting by your nose, you groan childishly, but you make no fuss. Sweetly, he puts the spoon into the cave of your mouth, your lips wrinkling into a pout.

It’s so grotesquely bitter.

“I know,” he chuckles, “but now you can rest.” His words make the drink’s icky taste more appealing, for he does it to ensure you are content, and comfortable.

-

The laudanum has settled in your belly, and lulled you to a slumber. A cocktail of poppy, morphine and codeine. Administered for the most severe of pains.

Loki seats in silence, watching your chest fall to a steady rhythm of breath. He smiles. Loki muses to himself, you look like a sleeping beauty.

A smile forms at his mouth, relishing in the granted opportunity. His slender hands flex expertly, hovering over your belly, to your cotton-clad chest.

Loki twirls and unties the strings of your nightgown between his fingers. Revealing your bare chest, plump brown breasts display. He whispers marvelous under his breath. Tilting his head downwards, his teeth scrape your skin.

Every chance there is of you falling to a pacified sleep to the poison, Loki snatches the chance to taste you. His lips leave open-mouthed kisses, littering your breasts. Inhaling your essence as he ravages you. His warm wet tongue licks and twirls against your pebbling nipple.

His nose traces your skin down to your navel, to your abdomen, and finally to your lower pelvis. The scent of faint copper hits his nose, accompanied by the fresh scene of carbolic.

He doesn’t mind. Rather, Loki enjoys your blood connecting with his palate. Leaning more to your core, Loki’s pink tongue slithers out between his lips, and flicks at your clit.

His sculpted nose connects with your mound, his lips now suckle on the hood of your clit. Grazing his teeth ever so cheekily, earning a small wheezing pants.

You stir in your sleep, your body reacting to the pleasure he’s pulling from you —- as if he tugs on the silk rope, snagging the knot in your belly.

A savage urge overtakes him. Loki bites the supple brown flesh of your thigh—- nibbles melt to a few pecks, then back to devouring you.

Loki has plans. Too sweet and pure to let go of—- oh no, he yearns for you. The chase for you has heightened. Monthly visits can no longer sustain him.

Loki intends to ask your father for your hand in marriage. His income is more than satisfactory, able to provide you a life of comfortability, and passion. As a wolf who must tear apart his prey from the inside out, to ruin you— possessive over his prey.

None of his female patients have bewitched him. All were so eager for him to defile them, so haughty and pompous. Neither of them saw beyond his beauty.

But you, ever so sweet, only sought out a friend, and how easily you entrusted him. And Loki must enact his plan now. Last month, as he walked up the stairs to your room, he overheard your father discussing with your mother, over the prospect of marriage for you.

Loki has already purchased a ring, waiting in a velvet box.

He has already begun stripping the petals of your modesty. Small stepping stones to soon deflowering you completely. His cock swells at the mere thought.

Your velvety lips tug by the scrape of his canines. He moans a gust of hot breath, this sinful act causing your body to quiver unconsciously.

Loki’s pink tongue slurps your folds into his mouth, back to sucking on your clit. His lips are wet with your slick, and, menstrual, the corners of his mouth with splotches of red.

An impulsive urge vibrates from his knuckles to his fingertips.

Loki’s fingers itch with compulsion. Instead of sweetly plunging inside you—- oh, he thinks, an act done with gentility. But, I cannot awaken her from slumber. We have not yet reached this stage of our courting.

Traditionally, a doctor must massage his patient’s genitalia, not have his fingers explored, as he has done so freely. But, ever so naive and sweet, you do not know any better—- to you, Loki is simply doing his job.

A chaste darling, to approach you with the advance of tasting you, would have had you flying to your father. No—- he must break you down, piece by piece.

He stifles the thought, keeps his fingers at bay. Loki’s mouth keeps eating at your weeping welt, his warm tongue flickering against your sensitive clit. Unconsciously, your hips shutter gently against his mouth, spasming in your slumber.

Loki can taste your essence, moaning at your taste hitting his tongue. His eyes rolling in the back of his eyelids.

He turns his face a bit, still attached to your core, pecking small kisses on your inner thigh.

-

Loki dips his palm in the now chill bowl of water, snagging the sodden rag. Squeezing in his tight grip, water dripping, and splashing, a bit of soap is left.

Wiping away your essence, and ichor. Soothingly caressing your inner thighs with the rag, until all is gone. Loki puts the rag back, standing to his feet, as he goes to wash his mouth.

A simple routine where he finds peace. It’s a quiet shared between you two.

Patting dry his hands with a cotton white towel he found from one of the vanity’s drawers. Quietly and leisurely, Loki walks with a stride towards your bed. Standing over you, admiring his work.

A familiar routine: placing a rag inside your underwear, snuggling and cladding your mound, tying the strings to your nightgown, and pulling the rest of the fabric down your body.

Loki’s checks your pulse—- a perfect rhythm. Redressing himself, a swell of pride casts him. The sensation of your velvety core still dancing on his tongue. With a click of his bag, and flick of his coat buttons—- Loki begins his departure.

Softly closing your bedroom door, Loki walks down the stairs. His ears catch a few hushed words, one of them is marriage. No doubt, they were conversing about you.

As Loki reaches the bottom of the stairs, from his side-eye, he can see your father and mother waiting in the family’s living space.

“Ah, Dr. Laufeyson.” Your father stands from his chair with a weak grunt. A peculiar strain upon his face, he can’t meet Loki’s eyes.

“My apologies, but we cannot afford your services,” your father stammers at the sight of Loki’s pinched brow. “We had no other choice, as you know our daughter can be ill—” his panicked tone is interrupted.

Loki tilts his head, those green eyes ever so observant, a slick smirk curls. Savoring the sight of this man squirming.

“And how would you propose we solve this dilemma?”

“We can pay you in food, I can provide from my garden.” Your mother’s fragile voice pleads, standing to cling to her husband’s arm. Her fingers wrinkled his sleeve. Her eyes were blood-shot red. “You are a kind man, please understand.”

A memory of your bliss-stricken face flashes before his mind, and it provokes a breathy hum. An opportunity delivered to his feet by fate itself.

“Perhaps, I have a solution to satisfy both our needs.”

[chiliyue-archived]

Self care

↬dressing his wounds/scars

includes; dazai x gn!reader

entry; ❛ just relax and let me take care of you. ❜

[Event Navi | M.list] | [Bsd M.List] ♡

dazai wanted to chagrin.

the scars littering his arms gawk back at him tauntingly, provoking a surge of memories to consume him in a numbing pulp. but it was hard to remain wrap in his own demons, not when he felt compelled to copy the smile plaster on your lips. it was the very one he came to be smitten over.

you were seated in his lap, the bathroom too tiny to accommodate the pair of you but he hardly seemed dejected by it. if anything, a grin began to play on his lips when you held onto his shoulders for support, shifting until you got a good angle to work with. " hold still."

he nods, waiting patiently as you brush your lips on his nose and reel away. he stops the urge to bring you back, finding content in just having you close with a hand settling on your back.

he does revel at the glances you steal from him - attention divided between dressing the molded wounds and risking a look. he relishes in the way you display a lift in your lips whenever you catch his familiar brown orbs - only for him to poke your cheeks before you could stray too far from your adjective. and when you went to brush aside the loose hairs that tickle your forehead, his hand was already in the process of tucking it behind your ear for you. his fingers linger a second longer each time - reluctance growing like a tide before holding onto your shoulder.

" my own personal nurse," he sighs, leaning close enough to press his lips on some part of you. the laugh you sent him was infectious.

he found it terribly even cuter, however, how your face became scrunched up as you handle the materials with foucs or when the putrid waft of antiseptic permeated your cramped bathroom. he was sure to kiss the pinched area whenever he saw the crease form, brightening in how it disappears. but internally he prays this wasn't the work of a lucid dream.

the hands on his face tell him otherwise, your thumb trailing the apples of his cheeks and reminding him that you're right there with him.

it was almost easy to forget how vulnerable he was setting himself up to be. almost.

" i'm gonna start."

the grin that found itself on his lips when you first cuddled up nearly fades as soon as you start fiddling with the gauze in your fingers, peeling back his shield and revealing flesh that has been long voided of light. it was instead replace with an anticipatory flutter in his heart, trompering in his sternum as though ero's own blessing was bestowed upon him in that moment.

" does this hurt?" he watched as you carefully ran your fingers over the scars - almost ghostly in its approach.

"it doesn't," he admitted.

"perfect."

and for the first time in so long, skin that has been starved of human touch became filled with vitality again. he wanted to shudder at the exposure, and he felt as though your reassuring rubs were the only thing keeping him from running away. he was so accustomed to patching himself up that it almost felt unreal to how welcoming your touch was.

even when he supposedly got use to it, he still has to suppress the urge to recoil when you feather against him for nth time, shivers riveting along with his spine and eyes squeezing shut.

your hands were so much softer than his, he mentally notes. he couldn't help but be mildly entranced when you handle the material with a steadiness unmatched to his own. you were treating him far better than he has ever and will presumably ever treat himself.

" you're getting distracted." he remarks with a poke to your forehead when he catches you staring again. it was futile to resist the twitch in his mouth that when you bat your eyelashes at him, an unsullied face gleaming unapologetically.

"sorry, you're just handsome." he swallows the lump in his throat but he was powerless to subdue the warmth that flickers in his chest cavity, meandering to the other cold parts in his body.

a form of silence furnishes the bathroom as you coil the new gauze around his arms, mindful to not produce any discomfort. it takes everything in his willpower to not shake when you lean down to capture the covered area in a kiss.

"do you find me handsome with these scars?"

dazai finds himself sucking in a breath when you smile against his second skin. "even more so."

"not many would agree with you."

he blinks when you suddenly shift the limb in your hands, sparing only a quick glance at him as you shuffle closer. and you really surprised him this time. very quickly, his pensive gaze dissipates with a shiver trembling along his body, fingers flexing in your grasp when you capture his knuckles this time in a kiss.

he swore he felt the breath in his throat was about to squeeze away, brain too hazy to recognize anything else. his stupor was accentuated when you blinked at him, irses meeting his own through your eyelashes.

" they're wrong."

"you're so certain?" you nod, moving to kiss the corner of his mouth.

in an effort to garner control the situation, he hand slips to clasp your chin gently, maneuvering your head until your lips met. you savor the way his breath prickles your lower lip, something akin to a breathy hum emulating from him. it's timbre ricochet along from the chaste kiss, jolting your nerves.

you're too engrossed in the exchange to notice the way his fingers weaved into your palm properly, exposed wrist meeting yours. he lets out a sigh as he felt the pulse echo against his, rhythm growing in sync to each other perpetually.

when he withdrew, he didn't let you get too far, a hand resting on your nape and keeping in proximity. his pinky and thumb played with baby hairs, lazy motions in contrast to his palpitating nerves. he was close enough to rest his forehead on yours, eyes peering down to watch you dress the rest of him.

"now, just relax and let me take care of you. okay?"

"okay." you saw him smile in the corner of your eyes, paired with a squeeze of your hand. you couldn't help but reciprocate the same gesture, and once again, the same tickling came to fill his barren husk. he smiles, reaching out to sweep your loose strands aside when it came to sweep over your eyes again but he stills when you capture the limb in your hand. he blinks hard as you adjoin it to your lips, placing a butterfly kiss on each pad.

"you have the most beautiful hands and fingers." he freezes knowing if he wasn't cautious he could reach the cusp of breaking down at any moment. "i could hold your hands forever."

as though proving your point you offer him a tight squeeze - but inwardly the squeezing of his chest was far more pronounce.

he attempts to collect himself with an exaggerated breath. "you're too good for me," he whispers. "i might get addicted to this."

your lips brush on his forehead and he almost shakes, unable to do nothing more than recline into you until it was just impossible.

"good" you hum. "you're also very pretty."

for the first time since he entered the bathroom, a swatch of red began to streak his cheeks. it certainly felt inevitable now with your ceasless antics, not that he didn't complain - the guilty and almost shaky grin that came to his lips was telling of that. notably; it was absent of the mischievous gleam that commonly orbits him; instead, it spoke both of his gratitude and effervescent affections that brew rampant the more you indulge him.

dazai allows his head to fall forward; forehead meeting your collarbone. his fanning breath reminds you of his presence, even when he grows silent as you curl the bandges into its proper orientation. he angles his head just enough for his ear to rest right over your chest.

you could barely hear the words that left him, voice just loud enough to cut the calming ambiance. "you're pretty too."

the thrum of your heart echoing in his lobe, pair with the heedful glides of your hands reaches a form of pinnacle for him; weighing him down to the city of yokohama, in your shared tiny cramp bathroom and encompassing care, covering him with a duvet so thick he could feel his eyes grow heavy.

but he wonders if you knew just how heavy his heart was for you.

-

this was really out of my comfort zone and style but I really like it :) giving all lowercase a try ! i like how causal it feels

anyways, i have a lot of dazai works brewing (and some tecchou :>)

taglist; @eynnwwyjth @anqelically @seisitive @iheartpieck @seiiblue @averagebsdwatcher @solandis

be added or removed here ♡

[ms-demeanor]

Hello, dumb teeth question. How do you rinse toothpaste out? Like, with water, obviously, but like, the only cup in the bathroom is the one I used when I was a kid that's been collecting dust since then and would be difficult to wash now. I never washed it when I was a kid and ended up rinsing with (and also drinking) mold until my sister noticed and eventually I just stopped using it cause washing it was too much trouble and so I haven't used toothpaste for years. My dentist though said I had to use toothpaste and ig that's why I have cavities now.

Ig most of that's not super important. I don't see how my family is rinsing and at this point I'm too embarrassed to ask. Do I just like collect water in my hands and slurp it up? This is such a dumb question I should just wash the damn cup on a regular basis but it's hard enough for me to brush regularly without having to change my System and I don't see any other containers in the bathroom so like how is my family doing it and if there's just an Easier Way then I'd like to know about it, alternatively I'd like to give my brain a reason to just shut up and start using toothpaste

I don't rinse, and neither should you! You should spit, and whatever toothpaste that remains in your mouth is safe to swallow. Rinsing removes fluoride that protects your teeth after brushing and is not recommended best practice these days. (I was taught rinse-and-spit as a kid and I had to specifically ask for brushing information from my dentist to find out about this)

If you find having a strong minty taste lingering in your mouth unpleasant, look for other toothpaste flavors that aren't as overpowering - there are a lot of options available in fruit flavors. Sometimes I'll drink some water from my water bottle if the toothpaste taste is too much, but I don't intentionally swish and rinse when I do that. Also don't use mouthwash immediately after brushing! It does the same thing and removes the helpful fluoride.

But you should be using a fluoride toothpaste! Tell your brain you've got a good reason and go out and find some fun toothpaste - I just did a quick search and found watermelon, strawberry, coconut ginger, and mango sorbet flavored toothpastes. (I also found cinnamon clove flavored toothpaste and will probably get some of that because I am the opposite of someone who has a problem with mint, I want something even more obnoxious and also I want goth toothpaste)

[vaspider]

Hi hi hi!

I saw your 'yeeterus soon' tag and my one braincell devoted to self-control on my day off was crushed to death by a stampede of 'hey! I had one of those and I have opinions!' braincells.

I got mine out last year (?? I think? Time is a lie) and I deeply regret not being specific enough with my surgeon about wanting pictures.

What I wanted: crime scene/evidence style photos of the miserable organ once it had been evicted. So that I could look up on my defeated foe and experience the satisfaction of victory.

(what I REALLY wanted: pickled baby maker in a jar that I could make a mold of and then cast in bronze and mount on my wall. As a conversation piece.)

What I got: two pictures of the inside of my abdominal cavity with the surprise (!!) ovarian cysts that nobody had thought to look for.

What I got after a LOT of bitching: gross room photos of my uterus sliced up into stir fry sized strips and each of the cysts opened up to reveal a truly disgusting amount of hair.

Anyways, this is all to say that I think a lot of OBGYN-focused medical professionals are just kinda systematically unprepared for dealing with neurodivergent/gender queer folks and our baseline level of weirdness.

P.S.: I strongly encourage you to quote any and all parts of this story if you think you can leverage it into being taken seriously. 👍 Wishing you a Happy Hysterectomy.

This is delightful to me. Fortunately, my surgery team was pretty great & my anaesthesiologist had the same first name as my daughter's Hebrew name. They came in and asked if she'd been in to see me and despite talking to like a dozen people in different masks and surgical hats, i was able to say pretty firmly NOPE, I NEVER TALKED TO ANYONE NAMED MIRIAM, I WOULD HAVE REMEMBERED THAT.

[ragsy]

The Hole to Nowhere in Your Kitchen Floor (2nd Edition)

This morning, you find a hole.

It's not huge-- about the size of your fist, punched straight through the kitchen's yellowed vinyl tile and underlying subfloor. It's dark inside this hole; a dense, viscous black that suppresses any chance of seeing the bottom. Loose crumbs from the floor, nudged into the gap, make no sound when they drop. Especially curious, given that you're pretty sure there should be another apartment below you.

You add it to your growing pile of concerns: Dishes. Food. Rent. Medical bills. The hole to nowhere in your kitchen floor.

You kick a rug over the hole to nowhere in your kitchen floor and finish getting dressed. In a flurry of shoelaces, jangling keys, and slammed car doors, it is forgotten.

But later, at work, your mind wanders to the hole to nowhere in your kitchen floor. Was it there yesterday? Was it something you did wrong? Did it happen on its own? Will it get bigger? Are you going to get billed for this?

You had only given it a cursory glance. Maybe you were mistaken. It's probably not even a hole to nowhere in your kitchen floor, it's just a a hole to your downstairs neighbor's kitchen ceiling. This wouldn't be the first time they've had a reason to complain about you. It probably won't be the last.

Suddenly it's six in the evening. You barely remember the drive home.

Inside your apartment, you kick off your shoes and toe away the rug over the hole to nowhere in the kitchen floor. You stare into it. You sit next to it. You trace it with your finger. It could almost be a natural, like an animal burrow or a knothole in a tree. You think about measuring it, telling people about it, you want to drop small objects down its throat. What would happen? Doesn't everyone want to know? You want to know.

Your cat winds around your ankles. She touches her paws to the edges of the hole to nowhere in your kitchen floor; You swat her away and conceal it with the rug again. Somehow, it's after midnight. Your stomach churns. You don't sleep. You resolve that tomorrow, you'll tell your landlord about the hole to nowhere in your kitchen floor.

In the morning, you find the rug heaped in a rough pile at the opposite end of the room. The hole to nowhere in your kitchen floor lies naked. Is it bigger?

A warm, humid breeze wafts out of the hole to nowhere in your kitchen floor. You text your landlord. Mold problem, you suggest.

The vinyl flooring curls away from the edges of the cavity in tiny waves. The hole to nowhere in your kitchen floor sits stoic, silent, and empty. You want it gone. You want to be part of it. Is it bigger? You could probably fit your head inside it now. You should eat. A firm headbutt from the cat reminds you that she should eat too.

You pour her some kibble. You resume your place by the hole to nowhere in your kitchen floor. Maybe it's hungry too?

You blink. That's stupid. It's just a hole. You haul yourself to your feet.

You search in vain for the rug, and with an unceremonious clunk drop a baking sheet over the hole to nowhere in your kitchen floor.

You go to work.

You come home.

You go to bed.

Once again, you don't sleep.

At dawn, you find yourself crouched at the precipice. Is it bigger? The emptiness inside it smells just as warm and wet as it did yesterday. You could definitely shimmy your aching body in there now.

You nudge one of your shoes over the edge. You watch as the darkness swallows it whole. You wait for the echoing impact that will never come. For good measure, you prod the other shoe in after it. Hate to waste one of a pair.

You drop more objects into the hole to nowhere in your kitchen floor: a spatula, a lamp, a family-size bottle of ibuprofen, canned goods from your pantry. You imagine the rush they would feel as they fall. You're beyond embarrassment of your envy of that can of peas.

It's two in the morning, and you drag yourself to bed. Has your stomach ever hurt this badly? Did the cat even bother you for her dinner?

You don't sleep. Your sheets are saturated with cold sweat. A rumble echoes through your apartment.

As objects around your room vibrate themselves from their shelves, a chorus of crashes and shatters and sweet farewells accompany the thrumming.

In the morning, the hole to nowhere in the kitchen floor is waiting for you. You pour a dustpan full of broken figurines into its mouth. Breakfast.

You pull up a chair and sit in its company. Does anyone else have a hole to nowhere in their kitchen floor? You perish the thought. You never get to feel special.

Later, your fatigue draws you from your seat and onto the ground. Later still, you lie, face against the sticky vinyl, next to the hole to nowhere in your kitchen floor. It's only a little wider than you are tall. You could slide inside it with little effort. You still can't see its bottom. Maybe it's rude to be looking for one. You close your eyes.

The rumbling, like a monstrous purr, soothes your body. Occasionally, the ground quakes. Somewhere in your apartment, a framed picture crashes from the wall.

The day passes. Crawling to bed, you collapse just inside your bedroom door. For once, you're blessed with sleep.

When you stir, the hole to nowhere in your kitchen floor meets you at the threshold of your bedroom; its yawning gullet now having consumed your fridge, your stove, your pots and pans. Water gushes from severed plumbing, jetting out gallon after gallon that glitters in the morning sun before dropping silently into the void below. Your tongue is dry on your cracked lips.

Now, you seat yourself on the edge of the hole to nowhere in your kitchen floor. You dangle your feet into darkness. You can just barely make out the tips of your toes; everything beyond them falls away from view. You note the set of small, frantic claw scratches that are trenched into the floor along the edge. She's fine, you tell yourself. There's no bottom, after all.

A knock at the door, and your attention returns in a snap. Your muscles and joints are sore. How many hours have you been sitting there for? When did the hole to nowhere in your kitchen floor swallow your dinner table? Just as well, you hadn't needed it recently anyway.

There's that knock again. You wait for it to go away. The ground before your door crumbles, and you watch as the doormat slides helplessly into the hole to nowhere in your kitchen floor.

You hear the rattle of a key entering the lock, and then the clack of the deadbolt. When the door swings open, your landlord is silhouetted against the hall lights outside your apartment. What is he yelling about? Why is he here, again? He should just leave. Can't he see you're busy?

The floor beneath you tremors. You lock eyes with him. He's saying something to you. He's reaching for you. Your lips move, but your words are lost to your ears. The color drains from your landlord's face, and he takes a step backward in fear. His footing slips. Arms flailing, key ring launched from his grip: From the edge of the crumbling floor, he topples headfirst into the hole to nowhere in your kitchen floor. His scream is cut short as he is engulfed. It's like he was never here.

You release your held breath. Lucky bastard. Maybe your cat will bother him for kibble as they fall together.

Alone again, you lie down next to the hole to nowhere in your kitchen floor. Your body trembles and your limbs are leaden. The ground convulses violently beneath you. Across the chasm, your living room wall has just fallen in.

You fill your chest with the warm, humid air. You extend a hand toward the ink-black brink of nothing.

Meanwhile, our couch is consumed, followed by your TV. Your coffee table tips over the edge after them.

You inch your body toward the precipice of the hole to nowhere in your kitchen floor. The rolling growl chatters your teeth. Your heart skips several beats.

Your front door collapses. Long tongues of hallway carpet dangle into the opening, soon joined by toppling chunks of drywall.

You close your eyes.

You slide yourself forward, past its jagged incisors, down, down, into its embrace, into nothing, into everything.

If there's a bottom, there's nothing left of you when you find it.

[porcelainseashore]

The Other Son - WoD HalloZine "Haunting"

Commissioned art by @medeaft

Author's Note: It’s been such a joy to take part in @vampemoqueen’s WoD HalloZine—my very first zine! Thank you so much for this experience and putting it all together. Here’s a short story of Kai, my beloved Ventrue, and the shadows of the past that haunt them.

Content Warnings: Brief references to drugs, self harm, maybe suicide (if you squint?), nihilism, and murder of a child.

“Jesus!” they cursed as their feet plunged into the silty drainage and mud squelched underfoot.

It had only been a little over half an hour since Kai entered this godforsaken place, burrowing their way underground like vermin. Beyond the manhole covers overhead, cars zoomed by and train tracks rumbled. They were still close to the surface, close enough to hear the city breathe.

However, down here, filth and grime carved out names for themselves on the grooved walls. At first, they gagged at the stench, finding it unbearable, but as their senses adjusted, one smell blended into another, like a sickness they could no longer distinguish. 

Under normal circumstances, they would never be caught dead wandering around the sewers downtown. But since when were things normal? Like all fledglings turned neonates, they had been obeying tall and elusive orders every night since their Embrace. Except, they weren’t like the others—they were groomed to succeed and never to fail.

There was another splash as the ground sucked them in, causing them to sink knee-deep.

“For Christ’s sake!” they yelled again in frustration.

All at once, they heard the scolding voice of Liezel, their mother, resounding in their head just like it was yesterday, “Kai! How many times must I tell you? Don’t take the Lord’s name in vain!” 

They mouthed the words as it came. Liezel’s arms were akimbo, her brows furrowed as spittle flew across the room. She had rapped their knuckles harshly with the wooden handle of a feather duster for good measure.

Kai could feel the sting of pain upon their hand, as clear as day, but sharper still was the humiliation, the hurt pride. Their younger stepbrother, Alfie, had giggled to himself in the corner. They clenched their fists. People said they took after their mother’s temper, and more often than not, they found themself agreeing.

At this point, their tailored pants and leather shoes were soaked through and ruined. Even dry cleaning wouldn’t be able to salvage them in their miserable state. Grimacing, they brushed beads of waste water off their waistcoat—it was Sisyphean, almost—as new drops replaced old, blooming in piss-drunk patches across silk weaves. 

Why had their sire, Elena, sent them here again? Oh yes, “The sewer rats,” she said. “They’re hiding something from us. Find out what it is.”

They flipped their damp bangs away from their face in annoyance. Nearly two decades as a Kindred and they were still an errand runner—to Elena, to Lady Josephine, and in turn, to Baron Judge, the overarching Camarilla… Stringing them along with faint promises of power, like seductive wisps of smoke unfurling from their tongues, slithering into their ear and making a home in the hollow cavity of their skull.

Well, there were no sewer rats here. Through the dimmed shadows of light, all they could hear was the sound of sewage flushing through the system, pipes hissing and shaking, and molded moisture leaking from the arched ceilings. As they took a right, a group of vagrants huddling over a naked fire in an oil drum eyed them suspiciously. One crawled out from his tattered cardboard bed and shambled over to them.

“You got any er—”

Fentanyl. Meth. Heroin. He probably thought he could score some. The mole people—the homeless, the addicts, the outcast. They lived underground, in the flood tunnels, because there was nowhere else to go. Sometimes the water would reach so high that a bunch of them would drown. Not being quick enough made them easy pickings for the Nosferatu, but still bad blood all around.

Kai scrunched their face in disgust before relaxing their expression. Maybe they would have some use for this pitiful thing in front of them. With a practiced smile, they simpered, “I do… but first, tell me, how well do you know this place?”

The man coughed and shivered, grinning with swollen gums and putrid teeth. “Like the back of my hand.”

A guide. The gatekeeper of the sewer entrance had talked at length about its subterranean depths. Perhaps this man would know more. Raising an eyebrow, Kai focused their gaze, making sure their eyes met. A thin ring around their irises glowed—subtle, enticing, yet demanding. “Take me to its belly.”

He blinked slowly, once, twice, and then nodded. “This way,” he beckoned, turning around and trudging off through the labyrinth like a good soldier.

And so, Kai carried on, past winding corridors and forgotten lairs, crushing soiled glass and used needles beneath their heels. At the sides, strange altars decorated with melted wax candles and rotting pomegranates honored secret gods. The tunnels got darker and colder, so much so that they had to rely on their phone light to brighten up the path, but the guide didn’t seem bothered. In fact, he became livelier the deeper they went, as if he were drawing energy from some unknown source.

“Albert and Persephone would have a field day with this,” Kai grumbled under their breath, mocking the two absent members of their coterie behind their backs. Sarcasm dripped from their lips, cloying and condescending. 

They recognized that same unease they felt whenever Albert conducted one of his ceremonies, or the time they witnessed Persephone casting eerily-shaped shadows from her bare hands. The taint of Oblivion clutched at their unbeating heart and made their skin crawl.

Distant screams and moans from an alley interrupted their thoughts and a gnarly hand tugged at their arm. “Not there,” the guide warned before taking off again along another passageway.

The metallic stairs they descended afterward screeched on its hinges, clanking against the wall. Kai wondered how far down they went. It felt like they had been walking for miles. At some point, their phone light flickered and went out, and they stood in total darkness on the suspended staircase swaying in the chilled air.

It was so silent you could hear a pin drop, which was weird, precisely because they heard nothing. No creaking, no footsteps, not even the sound of one’s breathing.

Where had their guide disappeared to? Was this some kind of twisted prank they had fallen for? But it couldn’t be, that mortal should’ve succumbed easily; they saw him submit, enslaved by their will, he couldn’t—

“Kai! Help me, please!” a shrill cry pierced their left ear, shocking them to the core as they stumbled blindly forward, tumbling down the flight of stairs.

When they finally hit the rock-hard ground, something wet and sticky trickled down the side of their face as a dull, throbbing ache blossomed from the crown of their head. “Shit,” they muttered, tasting tangy iron on their lips, like licking a battery.

Dazed, they tried to pick themself up, only to slip on the waxy surface, falling into the muck on all fours. Shame and embarrassment rushed in twofold, rising like waves of heat towards their chest. That prickly feeling at the back of their throat returned, threatening to come apart. This couldn’t be happening—not to them, they didn’t deserve this.

“What do you think you deserve?” the same voice whispered in their ear. Cold, unnatural, and unfeeling, but uncomfortably familiar.

“I deserve a lot more than you!” Kai had screamed, back when they were kids playing on the cliffs along the coast. Resentment reared its ugly head as they glared down at their stepbrother. His chubby hands grasped the cliff’s ledge while he dangled in mid-air, squirming beneath Kai’s feet.

“I deserve all of this!”

They could crush him right now, that stupid weakling who’d never worked a day in his life, who’d everything handed to him on a silver platter, just because he was the favorite. 

No one would know. 

Crush him.

Do it.

The whispers grew louder as they buried their head in their hands and growled.

“Kai! Help me, please!”

They took one more look at their stepbrother’s soft brown eyes and the ocean of tears that had welled up in them, before setting their foot down on his tiny fingers, treading on them like ants. Alfie lost his grip and Kai had watched quietly as his body was reduced to a simple ragdoll in the tempestuous wind. His limbs tossed about wildly as the howling gust drowned out the boy’s cries. Jagged bedrock by the cliffside framed its subject like a moving watercolor painting. If they squinted, they could pretend it was a bird diving to catch its prey.

They waited, patiently and then some more, until the red sea foam turned pale, and all that was left was a memory of what once was. One less mouth to feed, one less child to fawn over, one less rival to tussle with. Time didn’t bring any remorse. Perhaps they had been a monster even before they were reborn.

From afar, an unearthly roar and mechanical whir shredded through the stillness, jolting them back into the present. Was this what the Nosferatu were hiding? Kai had heard stories of otherworldly entities that existed on this plane, undecipherable, unseen to the naked eye. There were more than just Kindred around, and they were beginning to realize that they weren’t on the top of the food chain.

Bolting forward, they couldn’t care less if they looked more animal than human as the sludge clung to their feet. It felt like a mass of hands creeping up their legs, dragging them down into the dirt where they belonged. They should’ve been put down for what they did. But they felt nothing. Years and months of nothing. At the funeral, they pressed a shard of glass into their palm, squeezing it within the pocket of their trousers, so that they would cry. Liezel couldn’t look at them for weeks.

Maybe this was the day of reckoning, their last chance to repent, but was there really something to feel guilty for? They had merely taken what was rightfully theirs from the beginning—before their mother remarried another man they were forced to call father, before they were told to sacrifice whatever they had for the sake of the other son.

They had reached the end, knowing this to be so as loose stone and rubble gave way, crumbling into the void pit below. It was pitch black, a long drop into a vortex of emptiness. For every second they stopped to pause, the darkness enshrouded them further, heavy and suffocating as it seeped in through their orifices.

And they were back on the cliff, at the scene of the accident. Although, instead of Alfie, it was Kai who was standing at its edge, waiting to be pushed.

“How does it feel to be in my shoes? How does it feel not to exist?” The tone was derisive, contemptuous.

Did Alfie expect them to accept their fate? To beg for forgiveness and mercy? They convulsed with laughter, the sound ricocheting off the walls. Their body was hollowed out, empty, a vacuum where nothing could be replaced.

There was only one thing left to do. Fear and weakness had no place in the Clan of Kings.

“Don’t you know?” they remarked, eyes black as coal. “I always win.”

And then, they jumped.

Dividers by @diableriedoll

[the-marshals-wife]

Broke The Mold (Ken x Reader)

─ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ⋅☆⋅ 𝐀𝐎𝟑 ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─

A/N: Ken is a sweetheart and all he wants is to be the best boyfriend he can be. I know this is not my normal content, but the depression has been real lately and the Barbie movie has been a huge comfort to me, especially Ken. This is wholesome fluff for my own indulgence. Premise: Ken followed Barbie's example and became human, learning to live and love in the real world.

Description: Ken x Fem!Reader (both human), cavity-inducing fluff, hurt+comfort flavored | Warnings: absolutely none except kisses | Word count: 1,805

Gif credit: user weirdobarbie

Imagine your boyfriend Ken cheering you up when you're feeling down, and spending a cozy evening together

What was supposed to be an evening of sweet escape was turning into a complete disaster. After getting home later than you'd planned thanks to traffic, and taking an extremely rushed shower, your bathroom looked like a tornado had gone through.

You appraise your reflection in the steamy mirror and despair at the sight. Your dress sleeve is slipped off your shoulder after already putting it back a dozen times. Your right eyeliner wing is smudged from five frustrated attempts at getting them to appear even. Your empty stomach ached from working through your lunch at work so that you'd get to leave on time to get ready, just for these to be the results. After spending so long on trying to repair your makeup, you had yet to even finish your hair.

"I just wanted a break," you lament, vision blurring, "Just one night."

Overwhelmed by the feeling of failure, you sink to the floor. You bring your knees up to your chest and start to cry into your hands, knowing all your effort had just been undone, but too upset to care.

The sound of jingling keys and your apartment door opening reaches your ears, ripping you back to reality.

"Oh Ken," you breathe, guilt washing over you.

He was on time, as always, and you were no where near ready.

Panicked, you consider springing up and hurriedly trying to wash your face, but it's too late for that. It's only a few seconds before he's noticed your absence and is standing outside the bathroom door, knocking on it lightly.

"Babe? Are you in there?"

"I'm here," you call out, quickly wiping your eyes.

"Are you okay?" you hear him ask, concern in his voice.

"Yeah," you reply weakly, "Kinda...not really." You croak out the last word.

There's a pause before he speaks again. "Can I come in?"

"Yeah," you say, choking back a sob.

You watch the knob rotate, and take in the sight of your beloved beau, well-dressed and perfectly groomed just as you knew he'd be. His expression of worry turns to fright the instant he sees you on the floor. He drops to his knees without hesitation, looking over you frantically.

"Did you fall?! I warned you about the water, it is SO slippery here. I fall like every day."

You chuckle a bit through the tears. His innocence never fails to warm your heart.

"No, I didn't fall."

He exhales and clutches his chest before narrowing his gaze.

"Is there a spider in the shower?" he questions, glaring at the curtain, "How dare he threaten you. Where is he?"

"There's no spider, babe. I'm okay, I promise," you reassure, touching his arm. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to scare you."

He relaxes and turns his softened eyes back to you, "What happened, sweetheart?"

"I was getting ready for our date, and I accidentally knocked my hairbrush into the toilet. And then I ran out of my favorite lip gloss and I couldn't find the new tube I bought. I thought I put it in the drawer, but I couldn't find it and then I messed up my mascara trying to fix my eyeliner and then I go so upset, I started crying and ruined it all," you answer all at once, punctuated by sniffles, "Also I think my boss is mad at me because of a mistake I made yesterday and I don't think I'll get the promotion I wanted. I already thought he didn't like me, but this just made it worse and I've been so stressed about it."

You take a shaky breath and see that he is hanging on your every word.

"I'm sorry, that was a lot. I just...wanted to have some fun tonight and look pretty for our date."

Ken stares at you bewildered. "But you are pretty."

"Right," you scoff and point at yourself. "Have you seen my face?"

"I'm looking right at it, and it's the same pretty face I see all the time. Makeup doesn't change that."

"Ken," you begin to protest, but you stop as he soothingly thumbs away your tears.

"Pretty isn't even a good enough word. I think you're beautiful," he says, wholly sincere.

You gaze into his kind eyes a moment before the emotions overwhelm you. You throw your arms around his neck, nearly knocking you both backward.

"Thank you," you say, clinging to him tightly.

"Of course," he replies, holding you close, "I only told the truth. And don't worry about the promotion. If they can't see how smart and talented and valuable you are, someone else will. It will all work out in the end, you'll see."

You lean back and admire him. "You don't know how sweet you are, do you?"

"Oh, I've heard a thing or two. Mostly from my girlfriend," he smirks.

"I bet she's absolutely smitten with you," you remark.

"Not as much as I am with her," he counters, "Wellll, almost as much. Maybe."

You both laugh, enjoying the moment of levity.

"What do you think my girlfriend would say to staying in tonight and having a date at home instead? Say, pizza and a movie?" he proposes.

You nod excitedly. "That actually sounds amazing."

Ken leans forward and softly kisses your forehead. "Then it will be done, my lady. I'll take care of everything. You just put on your coziest pajamas, and come out whenever you're ready. No rush."

"Okay," you grin.

Ken stands and returns to the doorway to leave, but looks back over his shoulder at you.

"Love you," he mouths the words.

"Love you more," you mouth back.

"No way," he whispers, shaking his head dramatically as he closes the door.

Your heart flutters as you get to your feet and face the mirror. The girl in the reflection is the same as before, from the runny mascara to the half-straightened hair, but now you smile at her. No other guy had ever made you feel good about yourself the way Ken does. If they said anything nice, it had typically felt like a means to an end. But it wasn't that way with Ken. He never pushed you for anything in your relationship, and his patience and affection seemed to have no end. He would do anything for you, and he was happy to do it.

The girl he was originally made to be with was literally the standard of beauty, and you were far from being as perfect as Barbie, but he still treated you as if you were. Not only did you feel special, but you were incredibly grateful to have such a man in your life. Especially on a day like today.

♡

A few minutes later, you emerge from your room, face washed and hair braided up, donning your favorite pair of long, cozy pajamas and your fuzzy bunny slippers. Both were presents from your thoughtful boyfriend for your recent four month anniversary, and you loved them dearly. You walk down the hallway, and as the living room comes into view, you gasp. Ken stands by the couch expectantly, wearing his matching set of pajamas and a big grin on his face.

"Oh my gosh, you had those with you?" you ask, beaming.

"I always have them. In my trunk, anyway. You never know when there's going to be a cuddle emergency," he says, totally serious.

"You're so cute," you say, eagerly walking into his open arms.

"The pizza should be here in a few minutes. Pepperoni and extra cheese, with a side of cinnamon bites, just the way you like it," he says, rubbing your back.

You lay your head upon his chest, his heartbeat a comforting sound in your ear. "You think of everything."

"Anything for my girl," he declares, "You can have any kind of food you can think of delivered here, it's crazy. I bet they can even deliver to the beach."

You look up at him and smile. "Say that again."

He raises an eyebrow, "I bet they can...even deliver to the beach?"

"Not that. The first part," you correct, giving him a knowing look.

His confused expression turns to understanding, "Anything for my girl."

"I love hearing you call me that."

"Then I'll say it a million times more," he says, carefully brushing a loose strand of your hair away from your eyes, "Would my girl like to pick out a movie while we wait?"

"Only if my man will help me decide," you giggle.

His eyes grow wider as he puffs out his chest with pride, "It would be my honor. For what my girl wants, my girl gets."

You take his hand and lead him to the couch. Together you sit, fingers interlaced, and begin scrolling through endless lists of titles.

♡

After a few minutes of debating, a list of top picks formed. Ken's choices were all horse movies of course. While you knew he would defer to whatever you wanted, you didn't mind finding out if Black Beauty was still as good as when you were a kid. After all, his unending love of horses was one of your many favorite things about him. Once you settled on your entertainment for the evening, your food arrived shortly thereafter.

Now, with your stomach full and heart even fuller, halfway through the movie, your focus drifts from the TV to your date. With your head resting on his shoulder, and his arm snuggly around your waist, you peer up at him. You expect him to be mesmerized by the screen like usual. Instead, he's gazing down on you, smiling to himself.

"What?" you ask reflexively.

"Just thinking about how lucky I am that you're my girl."

You can feel yourself blushing, somehow still taken aback by his honesty after these many wonderful weeks.

"Not as lucky as I am to be your girl," you say, before flashing a teasing smirk, "Welllll, almost as much. Maybe."

He chuckles at your parroting of his words.

You sit up straighter and turn toward him. "Thank you for tonight," you continue earnestly, "I was a mess, and you made me feel so much better. You always do."

"You're not a mess to me. They broke the mold with you, sweetheart," he smiles, reaching to caress your cheek, "And I came from one, so I would know."

You grin, heart aching with love for him. Becoming more and more lost in his deep baby blues, you lean in closer. He gently cups your face and closes the distance between you until your lips finally meet. The kiss is tender and full of warmth, and you're left breathless when you pull away.

He sighs, completely in awe of you.

"Sublime."

[athena-gunpla]

RG 1/144 S.N.R.I Prototype Mobile Suit XM-X1 "Crossbone Gundam"

RG Crossbone!!!! This is the 2015 remake of the kit under Gunpla Evolution Project, and it's one of the most detailed gunpla in terms of features that I've build so far!

The Crossbone was a bit of a tricky build, due to its much smaller size and large amount of small moving parts. This can make assembly pretty fiddly. Furthermore, being a newer RG it lacks the pre-built inner frame, apart from a specialized piece for the X-shaped booster unit/core fighter, which made it take a lot longer than I was expecting.

The set builds the X1 Crossbone Gundam, as well as the accompanying and iconic Jupiter core fighter.

This little fighter slots in neatly to the Crossbone's chest cavity by folding down the nose and folding up the vulcan cannons. A neat feature is that despite the absolute miniscule size of the fighter, the cockpit opens and you can even see a little headrest and console! You can even see the core fighter cockpit when you open up the cockpit access hatch from the front.

The kit also comes with a large number of optional parts, including 8 pre-moulded hands and a number of weapons.

There's a plastic moulded anti-beam coat, as well as a really neat beam rifle (the Zanbuster) that can split apart into the Buster Gun (modeled after a flintlock pistol) and the high powered beam saber, the Beam Zanber. This comes with a really nicely molded effect part that is UV reactive.

There are also parts on the arms that swing forwards to either produce a beam weapon called the Brand Marker, or alternatively a Beam Shield (both also moulded in the same UV reactive trans-pink plastic).

One of the most fiddly sections of this build was the front-skirt, as this piece can transform into a scissor-anchor (similar to the shoulder mounted ones from SEED). A neat detail is the plastic moulded chain that attaches to the anchor, however, the use of this instead of the more common malleable wire makes it difficult to pose the part in anything other than a rather stiff position.

The kit even includes the hidden leg-daggers, although unfortunately only the handle fits into the calves, with the blade being a separate piece.

Overall this is one of the most impressively detailed RGs I've even built, especially in terms of the included gimmicks and optional parts.

The kit itself is pretty impressively posable, with extra forearm rotation, although the kit does have trouble raising its shoulders too far, and like a lot of RGs it can feel a little unbalanced.

Despite these issues I definitely recommend this kit, although probably for more experienced builders due to the more complex techniques.

[sparklepocalypse]

Hi! I've been largely absent from tag games for a bit, but thanks to everyone who routinely adds me! I wasn't ignoring you, I promise -- I was finalizing my @aroyallybigbangrwrb fic, though, so today's snippet comes from chapter 4 of Meet Me on the Other Side, which will be posted on Friday sometime shortly after 12 AM.

Snippet, tags, and a bonus mood board behind the jump!

Henry awakens to the dull patter of raindrops against canvas. Outside, he hears shuffling, and a moment later the tent flaps part and as Henry sits up in his bedroll, Alex ducks inside, two tin plates balanced in one hand and the handles of two steaming mugs in the other. His hair hangs in wet, black ringlets that stick to his forehead and his ears, and his jaw is freshly shaven. The better part of Alex himself is wet as well, and Henry realizes he’s completed his grooming and prepared their meal in the rain. He’s decidedly unsure of how to respond to this sort of treatment. Thankfully, Alex saves him from analyzing things too deeply by mumbling, “Mornin’,” as the tent flaps whisper shut behind him. “Good morning,” Henry returns quietly. He accepts a plate gratefully when Alex offers it to him. Alex hands him one of the tin cups as well, and Henry is surprised to see that unlike Alex’s cup, which is full of coffee so dark that the night would be made bright by comparison, his own cup contains only hot water. “F’r your tea,” Alex says gruffly, and something in Henry’s stomach warms as much as the water warms his hands through the molded tin. Alex turns towards his pack, but as Henry watches, the back of his neck reddens. After a moment, Henry shakes himself back to reality and reaches for his own rucksack. He retrieves the little parcel Shaan had sent for him and pulls out the silver infuser spoon first, pinching open the clasp and filling the cavity within with the aromatic black tea. Setting the parcel aside for a moment, Henry reaches for the cup of hot water and gently places the infuser within. The citrusy tang of bergamot begins to rise slowly from the cup as the tea brews, and he savors the comforting scent. “I knew you Brits were serious about your tea,” Alex drawls, “but d’you need me to leave the two of you alone?”

Plus, because I can't stop making things in Canva for this fic despite @lieselsart's really incredible illustrations, have a mood board!

And some tags! If I missed you, no I didn't -- this open tag is for you in particular.

@kiwiana-writes, @eusuntgratie, @hgejfmw-hgejhsf, @cha-melodius, @firenati0n,

@orchidscript, @onthewaytosomewhere, @duchessdepolignaca03, @anincompletelist, @cactusdragon517,

@blueeyedgrlwrites, @porcelainmortal, @priincebutt, @ninzied, @inexplicablymine

[ddarker-dreams]

Calcified Cage.

Yan Bucciarati x F Reader x Yan Fugo.

A glimpse into a "bad end" from Scarlet Ribbons.

Warnings: Yandere themes, unhealthy relationships, implied power imbalance. Word count: 1.5k.

Pannacotta Fugo knew on an intrinsic level that nothing good was to come from this private meeting with Bucciarati. 

For someone who prefers to make judgments on empirical merit, this odd bout of premonition felt uncharacteristic, further adding to his unease. For all intents and purposes, it shouldn’t be anything out of the ordinary. Bucciarati often consulted him in private over various Passione concerns. 

In private, yes, but never in the total seclusion of his humble home along Napoli’s outskirts. 

Fugo can count the number of times he’s been here on one hand. Normally, if Bruno needed to discuss an issue with Fugo, he’d ask him to stay behind after the gang finished eating their meal at Libeccio. The mixing of business and home life is considered taboo in this profession. Although Bucciarati is a bachelor who lives by himself, Fugo figured that he adhered to this unspoken virtue on principle alone. 

When Fugo finishes reading the letter in his grasp, it’s no longer a mystery why his leader has taken these precautions. The paper trembles like a leaf in the wind, Fugo’s grasp on it weakening. 

“You understand what this means, don’t you?”

Bucciarati’s voice sounds far away, despite his position a few feet across the table. Ringing resounds in Fugo’s ears, quiet at first, yet building in an all-consuming crescendo. The melody it weaves is melancholic at its core. A tragedy cast by the indifferent divine, thrusting him into the spotlight, where he stumbles through his lines as a lead character. 

He has to tell himself to breathe. 

Inhale. 

For if what’s written crawls into reality— 

Exhale. 

—He’ll no longer have a reason to.

Fugo downs a glass of water his host generously had the forethought to provide. His fingers grip the rim tight enough that his knuckles nearly turn as white as his complexion. 

“Are you asking for my legal counsel?” he manages to get out. There’s a rasp in his voice that he can’t hide, regardless of his best efforts. He can feel his collected mask melting from his face like wax on a candle. There won’t be any welding it back into place once it’s gone. It’ll require time to mold one in its predecessor's likeness — time he most certainly doesn’t have.

“No,” Bucciarati gives an answer he somehow already expected. “I want to hear your personal opinion.” 

“My… personal opinion? Is that really necessary?”

“It is.” 

It shouldn’t be. This is about as black and white as a dilemma can get. Trying to mix the colors on a palette to form gray would be impossible; a fool’s wish. The shades are so diametrically opposed that he’d sooner find success in combining oil and water. 

His esophagus burns like he’d just drunk hard liquor instead of water. 

“This is… good,” he fights back a wince at the wooden delivery, “For— for her, I mean.” 

Something tells him that even if he had put on the performance of a lifetime, Bucciarati still wouldn’t have believed him. 

“For her,” Bucciarati echoes dryly.

Fugo inwardly curses his clumsy word choice. There’s no point in concealing his cards, he may as well have just laid them all out for Bucciarati’s viewing pleasure. He loosens his tie. The quiet intensity radiating from Bucciarati is suffocating. He’s reminded then that while he greatly cares for and respects the man sitting across from him, Bruno Bucciarati is, at his core, a mobster. 

And there’s nothing more dangerous than a mobster who feels his family is under threat. 

You are, in essence, the heart of Bucciarati’s ragtag team. 

This letter is proposing to transplant you into another body. An objectively healthier body. 

To do without you would be to live as a dead man walking. 

Fugo feels the phantom pain as if his chest cavity was being split in half by spectral hands. No anesthetic, no scalpel. Just raw, brutish force. Your nonsensical questions he pretends to find irritating are his veins. The blueberry pancakes dutifully arranged in a smiley face on his birthday, the arterioles; how you reach for his hand in crowded areas so as not to get lost, the capillaries. 

You are snowball fights and hot cocoa in the winter, beach trips and shared gelato in the summer. 

(“I can’t ever decide which flavor I want,” you’d lament, wilting all the while. It never took long for you to blossom again. “I know! Fugo, get this flavor, and I’ll get this one. That way I can try both!” 

He’d sigh and pretend to consider it as if he hadn’t made up his mind the second you smiled at him. “Fine. I’d rather not hear you complaining if you ordered something you don’t like, so… just this once.” 

“Just this once,” you repeated. 

He’s never turned down your request in the times you’ve asked since). 

Bucciarati leans back in his seat. He crosses his legs, folds his hands onto his lap, and smiles. Fugo is so put off by this shift in demeanor, the dissonance both perplexing and unsettling him. He sets the damning paper down for the temporary reprieve straightening it out provides. It points west, toward the window behind Bucciarati, where the sun’s final rays for the day crawl through. 

“You love her,” Bucciarati says it as casually as one describing the weather. 

Fugo’s entire body goes numb. 

“... I do.” 

“Do you love her enough to make her hate you?” 

He’s been on the defensive throughout this entire interaction. He’ll allow himself one retort, one provocation. 

“Do you?” 

The softening of Bucciarati’s expression says it all. 

“We shouldn’t be having this conversation if I didn’t.” 

Right. Fugo isn’t sure if this is a conversation so much as it is an interview, his most pivotal test since joining Passione’s ranks. For once, he didn’t need to study. Passing with flying colors isn’t the issue. It’s deciphering the purposefully cryptic manner that Bucciarati has been conducting himself that poses an obstacle. 

However, when he stares into Bucciarati’s resolute eyes, he thinks he might be starting to crack the code. 

The promise he made to himself to reprise his role of an obsequious soldato is broken as easily as it was made. 

“Forgive me for being blunt, Bucciarati,” he means it too, “But what exactly are you getting at here?” 

“I won’t be able to conceal this for long.” 

Nausea swirls inside him and bile claws its way up his throat. He swallows it down, despite how dry his mouth feels. 

“The way I see it, we have two choices,” Bucciarati takes a deep breath. Pausing like this must mean he doesn’t savor the flavor of what he’ll say next. “Her happiness or ours.” 

It’s debt that brought you into Passione and debt that’ll keep you here. Fugo considered how you were taken advantage of in such a desperate position truly unfortunate. Cruel, even. The offer of a loan that’d take considerable financial strain off your family. You didn’t know to look for jargon that’d increase the interest rate to something unholy, Passione was clever like that. 

The worst mistake of your life is what led you to be the best thing in his — and so many others would attest the same.  

However…

You are bright, but even the most radiant light is destined to flicker. 

Living under the same roof as you for two years has taught Fugo much. He sees it, how you hesitate to take the phone when he tells you your parents are on the line. He hears the telling hitch in your voice when you spin another falsehood about why you can’t come home for the holidays again this year. He feels the wetness on your pillowcase when he goes into your room to retrieve a book you borrowed from him. 

Your debt is what shackles you here and this letter is offering to break the chains. 

You've successfully won over many key individuals during your tenure. The would-be benefactor who penned this letter — Signore Conti — had deep influences and even deeper pockets. His wife had taken a particular liking to you during a bodyguard assignment. She must've caught wind of your predicament somehow and beseeched her husband to intervene.

Fugo sighs and runs a hand through his hair. "There's really no other way?"

"I'm open to suggestions, Fugo."

Questioning Bucciarati's resolve is just a weak attempt to stall for time. For Fugo to still be sitting here, even entertaining the possibility of snuffing out your future for the sake of maintaining his, he must've already made up his mind. The mere implication of Bucciarati's designs would've inspired righteous anger in most — not this internal weighing of pros and cons Fugo is neatly arranging on a scale.

"... We'll need to handle this delicately," Fugo says. His stomach feels like it's turning inside out. "We can't outright reject an offer like this from such an influential figure, it'd be considered an insult. Accept it on her behalf. Then... to ensure she can't go anywhere, I'll reach out to our contact in the bank and have her account frozen."

Bucciarati steeples his fingers. "It's a start."

That night, innumerable plans are formed, with you unknowingly starring as the centerpiece.

No matter how cruel, how unfair, it is silently agreed upon that you are their lifeblood, an organ essential to their survival.

And a heart cannot remain in place without the bones that make up its cage.

[ruumirmir]

Reprise of a rolling mist

Part 1 Part 2 (soon)

☽◯☾ Summary - You, the revered God of Healing and Mist, one of the oldest friends of Zhongli, are not one to be easily taken down, but alas, in the Archon war of brutal massacres, you can’t escape death for long.  ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ☽◯☾ Characters - Zhongli, (minor) Cloud Retainer, (minor) Madame Ping ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ☽◯☾ Tags - Zhongli x Reader || Gender Neutral || Angst || Eventual happy ending || Description of blood, violence, and fatal injuries || Mention of death   ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ☽◯☾ Word count - 1.2k ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ☽◯☾ Rumour◇ says - my first ever fanfic to be published on tumblr. In case you haven’t seen my previous post, please do! It has some context in it. I hope i did peepaw some justice,, as much as I love him, it was slightly hard to pin his personality down especially in this wild scenario. I’ll probably belt out the part 2 really soon cause I’m done with it, just gotta decorate the post lmao.

‎• ——————————————————————— The nearby corpse of a beast twitches once before falling still. The loud ringing in your head gets louder by the passing minute. Mouth set into a grimace, you roll onto your back and hack out a wet cough.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ It's hard to breathe with a gaping hole in your torso, still fresh and bloody. Your half-lidded eyes focus onto a speck of ash, floating up to melt into the night air. ‎  ‎

‎ ‎ ‎

The God of War doesn’t fear. No. He is the one who’s feared. And yet...

“No...”, Morax kneels there, watching his old friend, laid upon the charred grass.‎ ‎ ‎ ‎

Your once lustrous hair, now melds into the soot-stained ground, tainted by blood and grime. Your breaths come shallow and short. For all the dust and debris left in the battle's wake, Mt. Tianheng had a pleasant breeze to offer.

His palm find its way to yours; cold to the touch. Fingers tighten around you, and the clarity slowly returns to your hazy eyes.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎

The stench of burnt flesh permeates the air. His gaze lingers over the yawning cavity in your body; charred at the edges. From such a pair of gods, its not Morax who wields the power to heal and mend. It’s not you who possesses the energy to do so.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ And so. his hands tremble uselessly over your gut, or the lack thereof.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎

His most trusted. His closest companion. His oldest friend... The one who shares countless memories with him. The one who had promised to do so for many more years to come.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎

"M-morax," his name spoken like a sigh. The corners of his mouth twitch into a small smile. Your stomach flares in pain when you fight back a strangled whine. "I am... not your burden to bear amidst a battle."

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎

He sits by you, pained. “Hush... do not strain yourself by talking.” You lie before him, bleeding.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎

“O great Rex Lapis, won't you be kind? Won't you be wise? Renounce your lands and people? Spare us all a calamity from befalling those subjects of yours? It’s the least of your payment... for eons of slaughter caused by your hands”

A great many creatures had cackled, with many more swarming in. The seething mass of... beastly wasps, misshapen and overgrown, were all too eager for a massacre. A hivemind; disgustingly coordinated in brains and brawn. ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎

By the first rumbling of his meteorite that bombed over Mt. Tianheng, a familiar billowing mist had rolled forward to assist. Whether in your solid body, or a lashing mist, it was hard to quell the pyro gnats. ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎

The grass is stained red by now.  He takes your hand and grips it tight, to his chest. You brush your fingers over his bruised knuckles.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ By the second rumbling of raining spears, Morax’s harsh orders had sent the adepti and yakshas scrambling towards the unprotected city of Liyue. . . . By the third rumbling of his shield molding around you... a flaming projectile had already shot clean through your torso.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎

You need to fight to keep your eyes open.  From a simple flesh wound... what a joke. Your not the admired deity of recovery, just in name, are you?

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Your fingers twitch, tightening around his robes. "Help me sit upright..."

His sharp exhale falls upon your brows, and with the utmost softest touch, You’re pulled up against his torso. Your head sags against his shoulder, where you can feel the thick pool of sorrow under his skin.

"Please... I do not want to cause you more hurt," The words fall hollow from his lips. He holds you up gently, and you can finally focus on his face.  … where you’re met with a wet shine to his eyes.

"What... are you trying to do?" His mouth trembles downwards ever so slightly.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎

But you... you break out in a rebellious smile, don’t you?

The pain is unbearable. And you laugh all the harder for it. Sweat beads your forehead, and your fingers dig into his arm when he presses into your stomach to slow the bleeding. You bite out a groan. It burns.

"Don't look at me like that Morax", you pant. "This... this is but child’s play for a healer of my caliber...."

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎

Yet, your life trickles out like the grains of sand in an hourglass, and your vision flickers. 

He wipes the blood off your lip, clearly vexed, "You are still yourself, I see. Even as you lay here, near death, you are still joking."

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎

"Just... won’t you humor me one last time?" You rasp out, feeling faint. All sensations except the gritting pain have left already. "Lend me some energy- so my body can return to what it once was..."

"Because... I, the Healer God of Mist, am alone the revered one... who holds mortality at my fingertips..." your voice breaks towards the end, but you still flash a smile of dogged arrogance, don’t you? (There is nothing but a theory borne from your feverish thoughts.)

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎

He gazes at you; minutes away from the end. The god who holds no regrets, who has not one ounce of fear in their voice. (You have never been more terrified of death, for you only know how to run from it.) With a melancholy rustle of feathers, comes another soft voice, "Ever so conceited, until the very end...”, Cloud retainer murmurs into the night.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎

His skin glows alight, veins illuminated on his chest and arms. His gnosis ignites for your fanatical whims. It always did.  "How could I ever refuse you...?", his trembling voice, so quiet. You’re met with a familiar embrace.

‎ … ‎ ‎ ‎ “If mortals pray to gods in their time of need, who does a god pray to?”

Two drops fall to your neck, rolling away until they wet your clothes.

“No one.” His smile is soft, and voice raspy. “A god can only pray to himself... but, he may have hope in others.” ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎

Your body slowly starts to dissipate into millions of droplets of condensation that scatter into the air, where the wind blows parts of you away, and away. ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ The soft tunes of a zither ring out into the air, permeating the atmosphere with a slow melody. An adeptus sits atop a nearby rock, her eyes downcast.

ah. ‘Ping's zither’, you sigh. ‘How kind of her.’

And he smiles through his tears.

Isn't it beautiful?

A great rolling mist dissolves into the air. With dust and ash in the air, it swirls and rises up and above. The wasted grassland is littered with thousands of droplets that shimmer like stars as the moonlight reflects off them. It is as beautiful. as it is empty.

On a night like this, Streetward rambler’s tune graces the wind, until her fingers bleed. Cloud Retainer sheds no tears, but know that she holds your memory well.

And you, Rex Lapis,

Morax,

you weep for me.

Taglist - @ainescribe ||  @theorchardcollective  || @flos-historia​ || @nightrayseishina ||  @thesparklingwriter

[katsigian]

𝙏𝙃𝙀 𝙏𝙍𝘼𝙂𝙄𝘾 𝙇𝙊𝙑𝙀 𝘼𝙍𝘾𝙃𝙀𝙏𝙔𝙋𝙀 ⋆.𖥔 ݁ ˖

This quiz was sent to me and it hurt good bad so I figured maybe the mutuals would also wany to do it, too ♡ While my OCs are CP77 and BG3 based, you can do this for any OC from any setting. I'm going to tag some people, but if you'd rather not share your results, there's no pressure to do so! There's also no pressure to interact with this post

────────── Find the quiz here

@rindemption @noirapocalypto @spicyraeman @alphanight-vp @swanfey @quickhacked @westealtoys @mercymaker @vanoefucks @hazellblogs @seluned @kharonion @nncc77 @peaches-n-screem @balverine2077 @humberg @strafethesesinners @envergothash @duskfey @mrdekarios @feykiller @aggravateddurian @dameayliins @wilxfyre @opaleyedprince @daedricshrine @ncytiri @nokstella @ruinbringer @cyberneutral @yharnams @thedeadthree @shellibisshe @hibernationsuit @aelyosos @wistereia @leota-nexus @baldurians @togepies @florbelles @ronqueesha @roarmoreau @molochka-koshka @devilbrakers @elvenbeard @zyana-wyvern @estevnys @gortash @vayneoc

𝙑𝘼𝙇𝙀𝙉 // 06. 𝘿𝙀𝙑𝙊𝙐𝙍𝙀𝙍 ⋆.𖥔 ݁ ˖

❝ Love's a knife to skin to you, a vein to woven muscle, a blood puddle before you. You listened to all the promises of a stranger's relief and feel the drain of a shower head running it all down again. You committed another murder; kissed and bruised skin with a clench to a quivering wrist and went home in the defeaning quiet of a taxi. There's mold covered rage within you. If to take a heart home with you, you'd bite your way through muscle and ribcage first. Pleasure comes, but there will be no devouring past it. There is fear in settling down and being seen. There is a glass screen between these bodies and you. Relax your tight jaw and feel the real canine fear beneath that scabbed up cavity. The sacrifice of opening up is needed if to be loved as you deeply wish is inside. Desire doesn't discriminate between hands or spoken word. Why should you? ❞

I really liked this one for Valen specifically because it talks about how lonely he once was; how he'd find the most temporary comfort within a stranger and then go home alone to have to face the quiet again. I love how it compares love-making to a murder because there's not many things Valen likes more than leaving loving bruises behind on soft skin from kissing too roughly. He also felt like for the longest time like he had a thick glass barrier between him and everyone else - you can look, but don't get too close to me. He wanted so badly to be loved for so long in spite of how he'd keep everyone at arms' length. It was a safety measure, because the past kept coming back to remind him that when he let others inside, past the walls, all they did was grab his heart and twist. Imagine wanting to be loved so badly you ached but at the same time feared it. All Valen wants is to be devoured by another who'll keep him safe within themselves.

𝙑𝙀𝙎𝙋𝙀𝙍 // 01. 𝙈𝘼𝙐𝘿𝙇𝙄𝙉 𝙈𝘼𝙂𝘿𝘼𝙇𝙀𝙉𝙀 ⋆.𖥔 ݁ ˖

❝ An embrace with the shivering figure of a ghost. You cut your hair at 3 a.m. to change it all but it is no use. Love is a war to endure to you. You comfort and hold, kiss pressed to temple and cheek while feeling the numbness filling your nights to brim. What used to feel honorable has now become chore of breathing to sustain another. What else is love, but your lap to lay another's head into? Your fingers turn blue in the announcing dawn, the cold figure of what you used to know of yourself remains asleep next to them. Another version of you has crept out of your old body, has ripped and eaten itself out of a cast that was fused into the position of nurturing comfort. Remove yourself from your lovers before they become part of you, conjoined with your arms to anothers head you have no life apart of maudlin magdalene. You have given endlessly, but this isn't all there is to you. Acknowledge the good that has been done and let yourself be free. You deserve to feel held as well, you are more than what you can give of yourself before breaking down. ❞

This one again feels pretty fitting for Vesper. He's not like his brother Valen - he gives much more easily than he does and is more open with what he truly wishes for. But it's become more of a burden for Vesper to keep opening up his heart and not getting those things he really wants. He gives very easily, tries to support the people he's let inside, but it gets tiring when he gets not enough in return. Eventually, he does find someone who will give him all he needs and more, but everything up until that point was Vesper thinking that he had to be a giver, whether it was his body or his affection or anything else.