#produce junction

[thefantasyfish]

Go ahead and buy yourself the flowers

[helpfulhannah-blog1]

roses are red, violets are blue, but pineapple plants are more fun this year if you can find them. They seem to be all sold out as they are the rage this year. These mini pineapple plants are so adorable even if you cannot eat the fruit no one seems to care. Check out  

[hirocimacruiser]

JUNCTION PRODUCE PREMIUMS

INFINITI Q45(MCM) WIDE BODY PARTS

Junction Produce Premium Infiniti Q45 mc Wide Body Parts

Junction Produce

Premium long-awaited new work

Infiniti Q45 blister!

The last big kit of the year is decided by this

Junction Produce Premium is already making a big break. Junction Produce was newly launched as a brand specializing in wide bodies, and the 20-series Celsior, 10-series Celsior, and Y30 Cima, which were initially announced, seem to be attracting considerable attention. And, as I announced on this page before, the next new work was the Infiniti Q45, but the actual car has been completed, so let's take a look at it right away.

As was the case with the previous three models, the blisters do not protrude so much from the fender. As per the basic concept of this brand, it is a wide body kit that makes the car look bigger. Each part basically inherits the design of the previous Junction, but this 45 has a lot of design added. In particular, the front part has been treated to clearly separate the lip part and the side part, and has a design that has never been seen before in junctions. As a result, the existing 45 aero is changing not only the wide body but also the impression from the front.

The rest of the year is finally coming to an end, but how about 45 owners installing this kit as soon as possible and welcoming the new year with a new version of their favorite car

PIC CAPTIONS

The fenders don't protrude that much, but the space between the front and rear fenders is narrowed, so the blister effect is surprisingly large.

Junction's lineup as a wide body kit will show calmness for the time being with this Q45. This kit, which is currently on the break, is sure to attract attention at year-end and New Year gatherings.

The all-stainless muffler series can be either Type

A scalar developed specifically for this kit. The front is 18×9.5J+12 and the rear is 18×11.5J+6.

The rear fender which is the feature of this kit is beautifully put together

The front has a slightly different surface configuration from this one. The opening has two louvers, and the design has been changed from the existing one.

[garageishima]

[ranticore]

some thoughts about Clothes For Horses

out of practicality the average ironwall citizen wears a blanket made for horses (even if they are not horses). the blankets are bulk-ordered by specialist ironwall tailor shops and modified on the premises, sometimes while the customer is waiting. the modifications lengthen the straps so that they can be easily reached. this is considered okay for casualwear but tacky for formal occasions.

the upper body can usually just wear whatever mass produced human clothing they like. the only item of clothing which is made specifically for these guys is the waist sash (sometimes with an additional cloth drape on the front, which can smarten up an outfit). these are people whose culture has a deep seam of embarrassment at being part animal, and this fact should be hidden if at all possible even though it isn't possible but you just have to try. the junction between fur and skin is always hidden. the orange blanket pictured above is about as skimpy as you could get away with in public. mane hair is usually shaved off for practicality's sake.

for practical work where harnesses and tack are required, these are usually worn over blankets and modified to include no reins/other control apparatus. for those for whom it is possible, horse-shoes are worn on the front feet for daily city life, and on all feet for hard manual labour or any activities/hobbies/etc which require good traction on the hind legs. shoes are usually not made of metal but of a composite into which grip studs can be inserted if necessary. the imagery of hard metal shoes is associated with counterculture movements and sometimes if you wanna look hard you can have your shoes spraypainted to be shiny. barefoot is actually fine in most circumstances

dedicated centaur clothing is stupid expensive because very few manufacturers produce it and the fabric yardage is insane so it is a class signifier. the garment shape & purpose is unisex though due to influence from dominant human cultures in the area, there's still a difference between a Stallion's Manly Robes and a Demure Filly Dress. ideally the full body is covered and the overall impression is of a human strapped to some mysterious shape idk what could possibly be under there. normal human legs i bet.

[thoughtsfromlayla]

26 Ways of Taking You: B for Breeding

Summary: You, Swan Maiden of the Lake become King Morpheus's favorite concubine, but it's not enough.

Notes: ~1.7k words, this is just straight-up depressing. Also, don't have a child because you think it would be unconditional love.

Warnings: MDNI - 18+, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it seriously), p in v, minor fingering, unrequited love, toxic love (from both parties honestly), manipulative love, slight AU? I don't really know, angst no comfort

⠄･ ⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠄･ ⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠄･ ⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄

Masterlist | Series Masterlist

A for Aphrodisiac ⇆ C for Cockwarming

The grandfather clock strikes 12 when the door to your bedroom opens. He comes, always, on the last strike of midnight. His footsteps are quiet when he enters your space but just loud enough for you to hear him. You sit slowly from your lying position on your large bed. You’re decorated head to toe in silk and lace, just how he likes it. 

The Dream King has one queen that he is devoted to only in marriage. In his spare time, he has six concubines to satisfy his needs whenever he needs them, wherever he needs them. Politics was never a subject you understood much, but you understood enough as to why your parents all but gave you to him when he first saw you. He thought that there was no other creature as beautiful as you. 

The first time he saw you, you were a swan swimming languidly in a pond far off in the Dreaming. When you come to the surface, soft white feathers retract, your neck shortens, and your legs lengthen until you stand naked in your human form. You didn’t even notice the Dream King staring at you as you brushed your wet hair with your fingers and admired your reflection on the pond’s surface. 

From that day forth you were nothing but a concubine in Morpheus’ harem. He showered you in gifts, courted you, and wooed you all in an effort to decrease the sting of missing home. You never came in contact with the other five concubines, unknown to you that they kept their distance on purpose. Their disdain for you comes from spite as jealousy wraps its hands around them like a parasite. You were his majesty’s favorite and each moment he spent with you means less time with them instead. The Queen never visited you either, neither did she the other concubines, insisting she was simply better than common whores. She could produce an heir to the throne, you could not. 

Life in the palace gets lonely, so you learn to latch onto Lord Morpheus quickly. If you performed well then perhaps he will stay the night. Talk to you until your eyes are closed or take you out for more than 10 minutes to walk to the palace gardens. You put on a smile when he comes near you, kneeling by the bed so you two are the same height. 

“My sweetness,” He calls to you and caresses your cheek.

You lean into the touch, starved for attention as you have been stuck in your room for the past few days, alone. He chuckles at your reaction as he retracts, your face chasing him but stops quickly. He keeps his eyes on you when he strips himself of his robes, the fabric creasing against itself as it slumps onto the cold floor. His cold hand comes into contact with your shoulder, wasting no time, as he guides you to lie down under him. 

“Forgive me for neglecting you, my dear,” He murmurs against your soft skin, followed by a bruising kiss to the junction of your neck. You only respond with a whimper, your fists clenching at the satin sheets below you. The love bruises he gave you a few days ago still haven’t healed and new ones always appeared. Your once pure skin is now always stained with his love. 

Your legs rub against each other as you try to satiate the gnawing arousal that is growing in your core. You kept your eyes on him when his fingers traced lightly over your clothed breast. The pleasure of it is just as good as the time before. Good enough to close your eyes and feel it all, but he doesn’t like it when you close your eyes, you remind yourself. 

His hands bring the bottom of your camisole over your hip and the night air hits your legs. He hikes it higher and removes it over your head and throws it on the floor near his clothes. Shivers run down your spine, goosebumps prickling at your thighs and hardening your breasts. Your hands go to his upper arm and squeeze at the muscle underneath. His knee prys your legs apart and pushes onto your cunt, which elicits another whine from you and you grind yourself onto him. 

“Patience, dear,” He whispers, his lips leave your neck, and trail slow kisses down to close his mouth over your tit. 

His hand wanders closer to your core, tickling the sensitive skin of your inner thigh before pressing his palm into your clit. He looks at you again when he does it and a smug smile grows on his face seeing the way your face contorts to his feverish touch. Your hands trail upwards and trace his jawline, admiring his face lovingly. 

His eyes grow darker as his lust continues to grow and you swallow down your fear. You lean your face closer to his, his soft lips within your reach. Lord Morpheus ducks away instead and focuses his attention on giving you more love bites, not bothering to soothe the pain after he clamps his teeth on your skin. You swallow again, willing the loneliness of his actions to the bottom of your stomach, to will it never to show its ugly face again. 

Instead, you run your fingers through his unruly hair as his hands now take your underwear off. He throws it to the growing pile of clothes on the floor. This time, when his fingers return, they tease your aroused entrance. The wetness of you aiding him as his fingers enter, your needy cunt sucking the finger in. 

Your breath grows rapid and heavy as his fingers move deliberately, its sole purpose to get you opened and ready for him. He guides your legs and rests one over his hip and presses himself into your core, his arousal slipping across your slit. 

He presses his lips to your collarbone before fully sheathing himself into you, grinning as he feels the way your body trembles underneath him. He doesn’t find the patience to wait and removes his cock and fills you again. Your head is thrown back by the familiar pleasure and you clamp your mouth shut, embarrassed to make noise at such a late hour. 

“No, my treasure,” Morpheus voices with displeasure on the tip of his tongue. ���I want you to scream my name. I want everyone in the palace to know who the King’s favorite concubine is. Can you do that for me?”

You nod quickly as another forceful thrust enters you. 

“With words,” He commands, leering down at your flushed body. Your hair was starting to get tangled amongst itself and your lips dry from heavy breath.

“Yes, my King,” You weep out, thoughts preoccupied with what he was giving you and your nails run down his back, leaving red streaks of pleasure across his pale skin. 

The Dream King hums in satisfaction before he turns his attention to your skin again, trying to find unmarked spots to mark you again. Your pleasure becomes overwhelming and almost on the verge of pain. His next stroke hits the deepest part of you and you can’t help the scream that is ripped from your throat. Your cries of ecstasy echoed in the large room and slipped through the hallways of the castle. 

“Mhm, just like that,” He praises and you turn into jelly under his words. He murmurs his worship about your skin, your hair, how beautifully glowing you looked underneath him, skin dewy, and muscles trembling. 

His hand caresses between your two bodies, pressing down on your lower stomach. The action causes your sensual pleasure to increase tenfold and your skin feels feverish. He rubs a small circle just under your stomach and hums above you again. 

“I want to see you round with my child, to see you glow with the effects of pregnancy,” He voices and in the back of your head you’re shaking your head no. 

You knew the consequences of siring a bastard. You may be the King’s favorite but that would not protect you against the wrath of her majesty, the Queen. Yet, another part of you silences the doubt quickly. Your child would be something of both you and the king’s. With a tear sliding down your cheek you wished for your child to love you in a way that Lord Morpheus never would. To give you the attention you deserved, to give you something to love. 

Your body spasms and your cunt clenches as your orgasm comes to you unexpectedly, another wonton cry leaves your lips. Morpheus groans at the sudden tightness before emptying himself into you. The only sound that fills the room is the panting of your heavy breaths. Your arms hang behind his neck again and you look at him with adoration. 

“My king,” You whisper like a prayer to him. “Will you keep true to your wish?”

He cocks an eyebrow at your sudden words. “Do not think too deeply about it, my treasure.” His pet names for you feel empty to you now. 

Your arms drop from his neck at the abrupt change in attitude. You suddenly feel very self-aware of your vulnerable body and cross your arms over your chest to both cover and ground yourself. 

Morpheus removes his body from yours and the cold night air takes his place instead. Your thighs are sore and sticky from your coupling but all it does is make you feel dirty. 

“Your child would be of no use to me, it was only said in the moment.” He picks up his clothes from the floor, leaving yours untouched. 

He leaves you just as he came to you, quietly and without warning. The soft click of the closing door brings you back to the presence. His words hang heavy in the air and swim around your head just like the little tetra that used to swim around your body in the lake. 

Your hand delicately swipes across your lower stomach and you clench your thighs closed. If you hope to become with child this time around, then you wouldn’t need Morpheus. Silent tears run down your cheeks and you hug yourself. 

He wouldn’t spend the night again, leaving you in an empty bed of your combined lovemaking. The satin sheets under you suddenly feel too rough, the air too cold, and the shadows in the room dance as they point and mock at you. 

As if the king could love you back. 

A for Aphrodisiac || C for Cockwarming

Main Masterlist ⇆ Series Masterlist

Is it unhinged of me to say that that gif of Dream crying is hot? No? What's that? I'm just ovulating? Oh, ok.

♡ Yours, Layla

[reallyhatethiswebsite]

Raphael spoils his favourite pet (you). Afab reader, nsft

Read on AO3

-

Freshly-bathed, you wandered into your private room in the House of Hope. You wore nothing but an expensive silken bath robe tied loosely at the front. Your skin was still pleasantly damp. You towelled off your hair and sat in front of the big dark oak vanity you'd been given, searching for a comb. You’d already begun pulling it through your wet locks when your magic tingled excitedly, sensing your Patron's presence. 

“Hello, little mouse,” he murmured. 

“Hello, Raphael.” You could see the devil leaning against your door frame from the reflection in the mirror. His infernal orange eyes were fixed on you and the motions of the comb in your hand. His gaze was heated, but you had long learned not to assume what he might want. Acting demure was in your best interest for now. “Was there something you needed?”

“Hmm…there are many things I want, but I can't say there's much that I need.” Raphael pushed himself up and over. His gait was full of purpose. “And I have you to thank for that, don't I? Always so eager to serve. Such a good pup…” He took the comb from your hand. “Allow me.”

“Oh…alright.” 

You experienced a strange thrill with the first stroke of the comb's teeth. This wasn't quite what you expected but you certainly weren't going to complain. Raphael was usually predictable, but not always. Even after knowing him for so long, he was incredibly hard to read. The devil brushed your hair slow and methodical, almost reverent with his care. He took his time to work any knots free. It was so good, so relaxing, that your eyes began to close. The more you relaxed the more you leaned back into your Patron's broad, warm chest. You felt spoiled. You could easily drift off to sleep like that. Raphael had other ideas.

“I have a gift for you,” he declared, his free hand - oh so warm and soft - stroking the flesh between your neck and shoulder. You gasped quietly. Your eyes snapped open. In the mirror you saw Raphael's burning hunger and felt its equal awaken from dormancy in your blood. You weren't sleepy anymore.

“What kind of gift?”

In response he abandoned the comb, producing a gorgeous gold and leather jewel encrusted choker from his pocket. Branded on its front was a silver ‘R’. Through the mirror you watched him fasten it around your neck. It was enchanted; you felt the runes spark and settle with your magic.

“Consider it an accessory of protection,” he purred into your ear. “Insurance for my best asset.”

“Thank you.” You had no doubt it was far more than what he claimed, but you stopped caring right then because Raphael nuzzled your jaw, dropping rough, open mouthed kisses across your neck. His facial hair, perfectly cultivated evening shadow, created an incredible sensation in junction with his plush thin lips; one of the few advantages his human form had over cambion. “Ah…Raphael…”

“Such a diligent, loyal little warlock I have.” His hands slipped inside your robe, making journeys up your tummy. They left goosebumps and searing heat in their wake. “And how good you look wearing my jewels, my symbol���I could just devour you.” He tugged the lobe of your ear with his teeth. You tried not to squeal.

“Raphael…!”

“I do so love the way you say my name.” The devil at last cupped your breasts, kneading both in his hands. His deft fingers reached your nipples and tweaked them, rubbing over them with his thumbs. He circled again and again and again until the fleshy nubs were almost sore with pleasure. You let your head roll back, baring your neck for your master to kiss and bite. Raphael didn't disappoint. He bit and sucked bruises everywhere; under your jaw, along the column of your throat, your shoulders as he peeled your robe down your shoulders to reach them. He liked to do this as a cambion, sink his fangs in deep, sup on your sweet blood and leave you with marks that lasted weeks. His blunt human teeth, still sharper than a normal person's, gave a different kind of pain. Perhaps you'd been more sensitive from the bath, because you felt like you were on fire. “I think you deserve a reward, don't you?”

You could not answer. Raphael's left hand slid back down your sternum. His fingers tangled into your little patch of pubes, resting just above where he knew your swollen clit was, begging for attention. He grazed it with two fingertips, either on purpose or by accident - likely the former. Your hips bucked. 

“Please,” you whispered, “please, Raphael.”

“Please what, little mouse?” The devil cooed.

“Please touch me…”

“Oh, but I am touching you.” He punctuated the statement by tweaking one of your abused nipples again. You whined. “You need to be more specific than that.”

“Touch my clit. Please, master.”

“Good girl,” the devil growled. You couldn't help it, your entire body shuddered at the praise. “Open your robe for me, then.”

With shaking hands you did as you were told. You undid the sash of its knot and pushed the fabric aside, spreading your legs. You sighed at the cool air's caress. Raphael hummed with approval and circled your clit, pushed his fingers between your mons. With expert precision he dipped them into your entrance and gathered your hot slick, enough to make his next rub of your desperate cunt slicker, harder. You groaned, rolling your hips into his touch, his rhythm. Your bare toes curled into the plush carpet with pleasure.

“Oh, fuck…”

“Look at yourself,” Raphael demanded. From the moment he touched you, you'd been avoiding the mirror. “Look at how debauched you are. Look at how you're falling apart in my hands. Look.”

You could not deny him. You saw yourself, face flushed, half-lidded pupils blown wide, mouth open. You saw your legs spread shamelessly as you jerked your hips with every motion Raphael made. You saw your cunt, soaked and lewdly on display by the devil’s scissored digits, your clit desperately hard and fat with blood being coaxed even further out of its hood by the skill of Raphael's tawny, clever fingers. You saw your hands, one reaching back to grasp at the devil, the other gripping your own thigh, white-knuckled. You saw your heaving chest, one breast still swallowed by the devil's hand. You saw your tousled locks and the blooming marks and bites on your throat. You looked obscene. You looked…good. Behind you, Raphael took in every iota of your image with fierce, possessive desire and dark satisfaction. 

“Yes, that's right,” he snarled, husky and low, “now you see what I see. And all of it is mine.”

“Yes, it's yours,” you choked out, “I'm yours, I'm yours!”

You wouldn't last, watching Raphael touch your cunt like that. Your climax was roaring to the surface with reckless abandon. Your guts were taught and your pussy ached, screaming for release. Raphael pushed the pad of his thumb down hard on your clit, his index and middle fingers rubbing directly on your leaking hole. You felt the tell-tale pulse of infernal magic set your nerves ablaze.

“Watch yourself, little mouse,” he commanded, voice rough, “watch yourself finish for me.”

“Gods…Raphael…!”

Yet again, you did as you were told. You watched your back arch and your expression twist then go slack as your orgasm rippled through you. You watched your cunt spasm, clench, ooze your release all over Raphael's fingers. You watched your hips give a few shallow thrusts as Raphael drew out your orgasm, rubbing until you whimpered for him to stop. You watched yourself relax in the afterglow. You watched the devil watching you; ravenous, terrifying, beautiful. You watched him hold up his hand, showing you your hot cum clinging to his digits. You watched him use that cum to draw a letter on your quivering stomach, smirking as he did so.

‘R’.

[beom-pyu]

brighter ☆⋆｡𖦹°‧★ choi soobin

choi soobin x fem!reader , tags; nsfw , established relationship , pushing my sweet bf soobin agenda just hear me out okay

warnings: smut (minors dni!!!) , face sitting , cunninglus (fem!receiving) , insecure!reader + slight and brief mentions of weight (pls don't read if this can be triggering for you!!! always take care of yourself first <3) , manhandling (?) idk soobin is strong , making out

a/n: requested here !!! tbh i feel like this is kinda sucky but i'm so obsessed with this soobin so this is the best my mushy smooth brain can produce at the moment HELP

also a big thank you for 250+ followers!!! i appreciate all of the love and support for my works <3 you all are absolutely amazing

wc: 1.2k+

“i want you to sit on my face.”

you freeze at the words that tumble out of soobin’s mouth as he marks up your neck from where you sit in his lap. your hand stills in his hair, your heart pounding in your ears. 

“what?” you breathe out, quiet and restrained. soobin’s lips stop their attack on your neck, pulling back to look up into your eyes. his pupils are blown out wide, lips puffy and swollen from your makeout session. he looks completely fucked out—your stomach flips at the sight.

“i want you to sit on my face, baby,” he mumbles before his lips are kissing up your jaw, his big hands gripping your waist firmly. you sigh softly at the feeling of his teeth grazing your skin, your hands continuing their movement in his hair.

“what if i suffocate you or something?” you reply and you feel soobin chuckle at your words, his laugh leaving butterfly tingles on your skin. his nose nudges the junction between your neck and your shoulder, taking in every inch of you.

“what if i want you to?” he finally replies and you can already feel yourself growing dizzy. his hands reach down to massage your thighs before they make their way up your dress to rest on your bare waist, thumbs pressing into your skin as he rolls his hips up into your throbbing core.

you can’t do anything but moan as he captures your lips, his tongue swiping over your bottom lip. you gasp in his mouth, his tongue running across your teeth. it’s intoxicating, addicting, and you already feel yourself losing whatever ounce of self-control in your body. he pulls away for a second, still so close that his breath fans over your wet lips, his forehead pressed against yours.

“please, baby. wanna make you feel good,” he pants, one of his hands coming down to play with the waistband of your panties, reaching around to trail his fingers down your spine. your back arches into his touch and he smiles that beautiful dimpled smile, his eyes so innocent and sparkling—a complete opposite from the way his fingers sinfully dance against your skin.

“don’t wanna hurt you,” you mumble, your arms coming to wrap around his shoulders, leaning in to kiss his lips once again—you just can’t get enough of him. he smells so good, his body so strong and sturdy. a moan leaves your lips as his hand dips into your panties to rub your clit before trailing down your soaking slit, drinking up the noises leaving your mouth.

“just let me taste you, gorgeous. you won’t hurt me, i promise,” he speaks against your lips, and you finally give in, nodding a bit in his hold. he smiles brightly as you raise up off of his lap so he can scoot down the bed, laying flat against the sheets.

he looks too good under you, eyes gleaming and eager, chest rising and falling quickly as his hands keep a strong grip on your hips. his shiny hair is splayed out against the duvet, all messed up and wild from your hands.

you lean down to press a small kiss to his lips, your noses bumping softly from the action. you feel one of soobin’s hands tug at your dress, ordering a quiet “take this off for me” and you quickly oblige, pulling the fabric off of your body hastily.

his eyes ogle at your figure, darting from your perfect boobs to your cute belly button, his hands roaming over any piece of you he can reach. you try not to shy away from his gaze—how could you when he stares at you with the biggest hearts in his eyes, simply out of breath by your presence? 

“come here, baby.” 

his fingers tap your thighs and you move to climb up his body until you’re hovering right above his perfect face. his fingers are gentle as they pull your panties to the side, his eyes flicking up to yours for a brief moment. you shiver at his warm breath against your sensitive folds, feeling his hands find home on your waist. you slightly lower yourself towards his lips, still too anxious to put all of your body weight on him. 

soobin kisses your clit lovingly before licking a long stripe up your pussy, moaning against your core at your taste. you whimper at the warmth, loving the way his tongue flicks against your pussy like he has been starved for years. your eyes flutter shut at the way his skillful lips eat you alive, his tongue burying itself in your sopping hole, thumbs rubbing small circles into your skin.

he lips are slow as they make out with your cunt, sucking at your clit, soaking up the little noises that leave your lips. your legs begin to tremble from holding yourself up and soobin notices—he wraps his arms around your torso before pulling you fully down on his face, holding you still as he ravages your pussy, licking up your juices as his nose nudges at your clit. your hand shoots up to cover your mouth as your moans grow in volume, completely wrecked from soobin’s mouth alone.

your muffling doesn’t last long though—soobin reaches up to grab your hand away from your mouth, holding your hand down by his head as your back arches, pushing yourself further down on his lips.

soobin lets out a deep groan when your hips begin moving back and forth, chasing your impending high. his tongue fucks in and out of you, swirling around your sensitive bud, sucking your folds. your juices run down his chin, spit and slick covering his cheeks and nose as you practically ride his face. 

“soob—feels so good, fuck,” you babble out, tears pricking at the corner of your eyes from the intensity of it all. you can feel the blood rushing through your veins, your heartbeat pounding in your ears. your entire body shakes in his stronghold, getting lost in the way he grunts and moans with your weight on top of him.

“gonna—fuck—-gonna cum.” soobin’s tongue simply speeds up at your words, flicking over your overwhelmed clit as your cunt gushes into his mouth. it’s nasty, it’s lewd, and it’s everything and more. your eyes are tightly screwed shut as pulses of pleasure run through your body before your hips stutter, white exploding from behind your eyes.

and soobin doesn’t stop, his lips kissing your spent pussy as you come down, keeping you in place against his face as if he’s your personal chair. you wouldn’t mind that at all.

you eventually move off of his face, sitting on his hard chest as you gaze down at his ruined state, feeling heat rush to your core again at the mere sight. his eyes are glazed over, a dazed smile on his glistening lips, his chin literally dripping with your cum and his spit. his hands come to rest on your thighs, drawing soft shapes into your skin as he gazes up at you. his dark eyes are filled with so much love and affection, your chest burns at the passion of it all, your body heating up at his stare.

“see? you didn’t kill me.”

reblogs are highly cherished!

masterlist

©️BEOM-PYU

[resident-idiot-simp]

(x)

Logan doesn't realize he is drooling he's already half out of his mind with hunger. Wade is all but dragging him to their room as they get worried stares that are waved off.

As soon as the door is closed and locked with instructions that Wade expects regular meals Logan is as good as lost as he begans to take deep inhales and starts lightly mouthing at the junction of Wade's neck. His already existing fangs are longer and Wade looks like he might combust.

Logan is panting now as he mouths more purposely at the mercenary's neck and Wade drags him the rest of the way to their nest. "You can drink as much as you like peanut." Wade reassures and as if waiting for that permission Logan immediately latches on fangs punching scared skin. Both men let out a delightfuly sinful noise and Logan begins to drink deeply.

Wade isn't surprised at the sheer volume of blood Logan quickly drinks he knows full well Logan's metabolism is a wonder not unlike his own. He's most likely metabolizing every drop the instant his body can. It's all Wade's healing factor can do to produce the life necessary essence for Logan to greedy suck down.

Wade barely had the right mind to grab onto the mutant and hold him close as he drunkenly strokes Logan's hair. Logan for his part is nothing but instincts as he growls and shakes his head slightly from side to side like an animal would to their prey.

The mutant drinks and drinks and Wade has definitely lost his sense of time as he is at the mercy of this beast. Eventually the feeding slows and Wade distantly thinks the worst of it must be over. He almost mourns it and if he's planning a future ordeal just like this well who can blame him?

(I have more ideas but I'm not going to do that because Tumblr will nuke me off the face of the earth)

(x)

[hiebies]

hold my hand (as long as you want to)

˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗ | desc; how does it feel to hold a hand, one that fits as if it were meant to do so with your own?

˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗ | pairings; barnabas tharmr : clive rosfield : benedikta harman : cidolfus telamon : dion lesage : joshua rosfield : jill warrick : hugo kupka -> x gn!reader

˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗ | mlist

holding hands with clive is a bit awkward- the first few times, especially. your hands will bump together, fingers half mangled and mashed together; the first few times are those for trying. his hands are warm, always. warm from the heat of the fire they produce, warm from his own nerves that heat his palms and make his skin perspire, warm from nervous tendencies where he wrings his hands together or against his clothes; they are warm, but earnest, as is clive himself, to be held just as earnestly.

when holding hands with benedikta, beware; she is always thinking on ways to pull you in closer. scheming away, thinking of an advantage to seek out further contact with the skin of her beloved. her hands are calloused along her palms from long years of swordplay, though they are long from loosing their softness. typically she prefers to link just a few fingers together- perhaps just pinkies- and progress her way to pressing your palms together, arms knocking together if walking and body creeping closer if simply sat or layed together.

joshua’s hands are softer than one might expect; perhaps even after so many years, certain self care habits are engrained, perhaps it’s his preference in not using a blade perhaps it’s just something so.. joshua, that it just is. his fingers are long and slender, like one might picture of a pianist, slight calluses formed on his thumb and the heel of his palm juxtapose the other parts of his hands. holding hands with joshua is like a new spring- a rebirth for your emotions and his, life anew, peace, every time you hold his hand. the feeling of home.

as much of a titan of a man hugo is, his hands are surprising in their dexterity. large fingers and even larger hands work tirelessly, work until his hands are practically dust so that they may curl around your fingers and your hands. all he wants is their reciprocal touch, their wandering over his- simply holding, admiring the security each lover brings to the other through simple touches. and he does, really does try, to convey the cadence of his admiration through the touch of his hands to your own- caressing your palms, rough fingers dragging over knuckles and lips ghosting over fingertips.. sometimes simple adoration is all he needs.

the feeling of his hands is a conundrum- dion’s hands both provide shelter in their adoration and cause calamity in their overwhelming sweetness. worn but well cared for, his hands are those of a warrior, blemished yet soft and dexterous while while still remaining strong. his thumb is somehow always dragging over your palm- slowly and in small circles when calm, backwards and forwards over your knuckles when sad, gripped a smidge too tight in anxious moments.. his hands, ones that will always seek to cradle, will always seek your hands out.

though his hands are clumsy and calloused, barnabas will never reject the offer to hold your hand. call him greedy, he’s perfectly fine with the acceptance of such a title, just please keep your hands pressed into his. let him feel your fingers tracing the backs of his palms, the dull thrum of your pulse in your fingertips and the one more steady at the junction of your wrist. let him sink into his subconscious, let him feel you, feel how real you are and how steady your presence is in front of him. please stay close to him, let him have this.

upon first thought, holding hands with jill would not ever lack sincerity- she has such honesty that she wears like a suit of armour, such sincerity that breaks through the crack of every falsehood that ever has been, is or will be. holding jill’s hand is like the first night sleeping on clean linen, like the reprieve of being rebuilt with cool air after standing outside in the summer heat to melt, like dandelion fuzz in the wind or the satisfaction one feels upon returning home after a long trip away. holding hands with jill is kisses to knuckles in quiet moments and whispered confessions in moments of twilight wakefulness.

scars, burns and other marks in every shape and size may litter the skin of his hands and arms- his entire body really- but cid’s hands, mighty as they are and have ever been, will always be tender upon the first contact with yours. the faded and fresh scars on his hands, from scrap ups as a younger man and years of continuous use of a blade make his skin rough and raised, not at all smooth but with its own story to tell. each scar, each burn and old battle wound is worn with pride- he will tell you the story of each and ever one (no matter how silly some may be, believe me some are), with an arm around your waist and one hand holding yours, mapping out the stories of the marks on his skin.

˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗ | notes; first post done weeeeee!! :D (mayb i’m jus thirsty for content that this was my first one too) i might do more of this same thing for dif fandoms depending on how i feel

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ hiebies 2023 ©

[maniculum]

An Excerpt from the Aberdeen Bestiary

I've started preparing the bestiaryposting, and have encountered one entry that doesn't really fit into what we're doing. Not only is it one of the longest entries, but instead of "let me tell you about this animal", it's taking more of a "we all already know about this animal, so I'm going to share some stories about specific ones" approach. But out of a sense of completionism, I can't just not post it, so here you go.

Dog

The Latin name for the dog, canis, seems to have a Greek origin. For in Greek it is called cenos, although some think that it is called after the musical sound, canor, of its barking, because when it howls, it is also said to sing, canere. No creature is more intelligent than the dog, for dogs have more understanding than other animals; they alone recognise their names and love their masters.

There are many kinds of dogs: some track down the wild beasts of the forests to catch them; others by their vigilance guard flocks of sheep from the attacks of wolves; others as watch-dogs in the home guard the property of their masters lest it be stolen by thieves at night and sacrifice their lives for their master; they willingly go after game with their master; they guard his body even when he is dead and do not leave it. Finally, their nature is that they cannot exist without man.

Also of the nature of dogs

We read that dogs have such great love for their masters, as when King Garamentes was caught by his enemies and taken into captivity, two hundred dogs went in formation through enemy lines and led him back from exile, fighting off those who resisted them. When Jason [Licio] was killed, his dog rejected food and died of starvation. The dog of King Lysimachus threw itself in the flame when its master's funeral pyre was lit and was consumed by fire along with him. When Apius and Junius Pictinius were consuls, a dog that could not be driven away from its master, who had been condemned, accompanied him to prison; when, soon afterwards, he was executed, it followed him, howling. When the people of Rome, out of pity, caused it to be fed, it carried the food to its dead master's mouth. Finally, when its master's corpse was thrown into the Tiber, the dog swam to it and tried to keep it from sinking.

When a dog picks up the track of a hare or a deer and comes to a place where the trail divides or to a junction splitting into several directions, it goes to the beginning of each path and silently reasons with itself, as if by syllogism, on the basis of its keen sense of smell. 'Either the animal went off in this direction,' it says,'or that, or certainly it took this turning.’

Again on the nature of dogs

Often, also, when a murder has been committed, dogs have produced clear evidence of the guilt of the accused, with the result that their unspoken testimony is for the most part believed. They say that at Antioch, in a distant quarter of the city at dusk, a man was murdered, who had his dog with him on a lead. A soldier had been the perpetrator of the deed, with robbery as his motive. Undercover of the growing darkness, he fled elsewhere. The corpse lay unburied; the crowd of onlookers was large; the dog stayed at its master's side, howling over his sad fate. It happened that the man who had committed the crime, acting confidently in order to convince people of his innocence - such is the cunning way in which men think- joined the circle of onlookers and, feigning grief, approached the corpse. Then the dog, briefly abandoning its doleful lament, took up the arms of vengeance, seized the man and held him, and, softly singing a pitiful song, as in the epilogue of a tragedy, moved everyone to tears; and the fact that the dog held that man alone, of the many that were there, and did not let him go, lent weight to its case. In the end, the murderer was at a loss because the evidence in the case was so plain; he could not clear himself by objecting that he was the victim of anyone's hate, enmity, envy or spite, and he could no longer rebut the charge. Because it was very difficult for him, he suffered punishment, because he could offer no defence.

A dog's tongue, licking a wound, heals it. A dog's way of life is said to be wholly temperate. A puppy's tongue is generally a cure for internal injuries. It is characteristic of a dog that it returns to its vomit and eats it again. If a dog swims across a river carrying a piece of meat or anything of that sort in its mouth, and sees its shadow, it opens its mouth and in hastening to seize the other piece of meat, it loses the one it was carrying.

In some ways preachers are like dogs: by their admonitions and righteous ways they are always driving off the ambushes laid by the Devil, lest he seize and carry off God's treasure - Christian souls. As the dog's tongue, licking a wound, heals it, the wounds of sinners, laid bare in confession, are cleansed by the correction of the priest. As the dog's tongue heals man's internal wounds, the secrets of his heart are often purified by the deeds and discourse of the Church's teachers. As the dog is said to be temperate in its ways, the man who is set over others diligently studies wisdom and must avoid drunkenness and gluttony in every way, for Sodom perished in a surfeit of food. Indeed, there is no quicker way for the Devil, his enemy, to take possession of man than through his greedy gullet. The dog returning to its vomit signifies those who, after making their confession, heedlessly return to wrongdoing. The dog leaving its meat behind in the river, out of desire for its shadow, signifies foolish men who often forsake what is theirs by right out of desire for some unknown object; with the result that, while they are unable to obtain the object of their desire, they needlessly lose what they have given up.

Some dogs are called licisici, wolf-hounds, because they are born of wolves and dogs, when by chance these mate. In India bitches are tethered at night in the forests to breed with wild tigers, by whom they are mounted, producing very fierce dogs, so strong that with their grip they can pull down lions.

[doodle-pops]

Sunshine and Peaches

Elladan x reader

Kinktober 2023: Somnophilia

Warnings: fem!reader, somnophilia (consensual), groping, spooning sex, a little cockwarming

Words: 1.8k

Synopsis: Returning from a hunt, Elladan stumbles upon his loving spouse, garmented in nothing but the unconditional desire for him to devour you on such a beautiful morning.

List of Requests

A sensual moan escaped your lips the moment you felt the tingle of pleasure growing in your abdomen, leaving butterflies floating around in your cunt. Your walls naturally clenched around the length that was traversing your moist passageway like a smooth criminal. Deep in your dream and yearning for his touch, his presence, just him, you couldn’t distinguish between illusion and reality. But your body knew it was Elladan; it was being pleasured by a familiar touch, his hips gently rolling against your backside. Hot breath, raspy and desperate, washed over your neck from behind, and an iron grip encircled your waist, holding you securely. Your body trembled under the recognizable sensation.

The sensual rolls of his hips, bumping gently against your ass, and the barely audible sounds they produced were eclipsed by his passionate whimpers. He whispers your name, a mix of cries and praise for the wonder of your body and how much he had missed your warmth. In response, your body instinctively adjusts to heighten the moment's pleasure. You nestled your head deeper into the pillow and rested it on his shoulder, letting out a breathless sigh and a soft hum. This dream felt more vivid than you had experienced in the past week.

The weight and warmth, the texture and vibration, the scent and sound—they all felt remarkably real. No mirage could conjure such an intense and pleasurable experience that exceeded the limits of the mind, body, and soul. Yet, you allowed yourself to be drawn deeper into the dream, unwilling to walk away from the boundless pleasure enveloping you. Somewhere in the midst of it all, your right leg was lifted into the air, bent at an angle that allowed him greater access to your heat. It was then that the rhythmic sound of his hips meeting your ass reverberated through the open expanse of your chambers.

The slight increase in his panting shifted from being moaned into your neck to your ear. With each change in pitch and the passionate words he uttered, you found yourself growing wetter, drowning in your own arousal, with squelches that echoed in harmony with the increasing tempo. While his right hand was gripped your right leg, his left shifted to your waist to grope your breast, while his mouth found the junction of your neck and nibbled. The sweet scent of peaches from your skin, a reminder of your nightly bath, lingered, driving him wild with the knowledge that you had prepared yourself using his favourite fragrances. Just how much had you been thinking of him during his absence?

The rhythmic sound of his hips thrusting and the soft slap of his balls against your skin echoed in your ears. After weeks of being out in the cold, this sensation felt remarkably real, unlike any dream you’d ever had. As you sank deeper into Elladan’s embrace, your hand instinctively reached for his wavy hair, giving it a gentle tug. “Hmm...feels so good,” you whispered as his pace quickened.

Grinning against the curve of your neck, he found your drowsy state utterly endearing, especially when you mumbled without awareness. His fingers squeezed your breast, teasing and tweaking each nipple. You arched into his touch, allowing the tip of his cock to brush against your most sensitive spot. A gasp and a groan escaped your lips as pleasure surged through you. In your semi–conscious state, he found it impossible to be gentle, interpreting your eager responses as an invitation to heighten the intensity.

Moving his hands from your breast, he ventured lower to your clit, where your arousal had already coated your folds. It was effortless for him to trace circles around your sensitive nub. Despite the temptation to take you roughly in the morning light, he continued to tenderly play with your clit while intensifying his thrusts. The bed frame shook, emitting squeaks and groans in response to the force of his movements. Your grip on each other tightened, eliminating any space between you. Your sweaty bodies rocked against each other, slipping and sliding beneath the morning sun’s gentle rays. Your hands clung to each other both consciously and unconsciously, desperately trying to stay close. Breathless moans and whimpers escaped your lips, intermingled with words of praise and affection.

At this point, it was impossible to remain in slumber, given the mounting pressure and heat welling up in the pit of your stomach. Even the vigour of his thrusts as his cock slid in and out, fitting perfectly into your cunt, eventually roused you. Twisting in his arms with a groggy expression and sleep still lingering in your eyes, you gazed at the familiar face whose eyes were closed, his head buried in your neck. The mop of inky hair in your peripheral vision and the rhythmic motion of his length caressing your sweet spot repeatedly confirmed that your dreams were indeed real. “E–Elladan?” you attempted to greet, but it escaped as a questioning moan that caught his attention.

He bit your shoulder and then leaned in to bequeathed a messy kiss. Your heads bumped against each other, causing you to laugh and fully wake from your slumber. While your lips reconnected in a passionate kiss, his hips fervently pumped, bringing you both to your morning climax. Your other hand reached down to join his, which was already drawing circles on your sensitive nub. The shiver that coursed through your body as your fingers joined his made him smile into the kiss. He always appreciated it when you helped or joined him in pleasuring each other; it added an extra layer of intimacy.

“Are you close, dearest?” he panted against your lips, breaking into a whine as his hips stuttered from the sudden squeeze of your inner muscles. “Finish with me this morning.”

“Uh–huh.” You nodded your head, and as he whispered his request, you pulled his head closer to meet your lips once more, ignoring the occasional clash of teeth. On the other end, his hand slipped from its grip on your leg, quickly readjusting to rest in the crook of his elbow. A flick of his tongue past your lips stole your breath, and the combination of his kiss and the rapid rhythm of his thrusts left you breathless. You could attest that he was more eager during this encounter than the last. Whimpering into his mouth was all you could do as the kiss grew increasingly passionate, and he took control of the rhythm.

As you gasped for air and pressed your face into the pillow, his relentless thrusts persisted, each one sending ripples of pleasure coursing through your body. The intensity of the moment was overwhelming, and you found yourself surrendering completely to the sensations that engulfed you. Your heart raced, pounding in your chest like a drum, synchronized with the rhythm of his passionate lovemaking. Your fingers dug into the sheets, clutching them tightly as you writhed beneath him. The world outside faded into insignificance, leaving only the two of you in this electric, intimate connection.

His primal desire and your unbridled arousal mingled in the room, creating an intoxicating atmosphere. Beads of sweat glistened on your skin, a testament to the fervour of your shared passion. The room seemed to grow warmer with each thrust as if the very air around you crackled with desire. With every powerful push, he took you to the edge and then pulled you back, expertly teasing your senses. Your moans and gasps were a symphony of desire, echoing through the room as your bodies moved together in perfect harmony.

The pillow muffled your cries, but they were a indication to the ecstasy that consumed you. This was a moment where words failed, where the language of the body spoke volumes, expressing a depth of connection that words could never convey.

“Ah! Feels so...good. Ngghh!” Your words were cut short as your whimpering escalated into a loud moan, your orgasm suddenly washing over you, spreading its cool flames throughout your body. You clung tightly to him, fingers gripping his hair strands and tugging sharply as you arched into his slower thrusts, guiding his tip against your already sensitive sweet spot. As intense as the sensation was, coursing through your body and reducing you to a quivering puddle of pleasure, the gentle rocking of his hips was surprisingly soothing now that his fingers had left your clit.

You both ground against each other slowly, holding each other close as the waves of your orgasms flooded your bodies with bliss. You took a moment to revel in his warmth and presence. His scent filled your nostrils, a mixture of your passionate encounter, the warmth of the morning sun, and his own natural fragrance. He nuzzled his cheek against yours and peppered your shoulder with wet kisses, although it was mostly you spooning him rather than the other way around. You giggled at the ticklish sensation, and slight shivers and goosebumps still adorned some parts of your arms and legs from his relentless gyrations.

He was quite fond of the intimate closeness that followed their passionate sessions. “You’re back earlier than I expected, El,” you giggled as his hair tickled your skin while he nestled his head further into your neck, showering you with a cascade of affectionate kisses.

His hands, filled with playful intent, roamed up your body, pausing to gently cup your breast, eliciting delighted laughter from you. “Hmm, I am,” he replied, “I missed you dearly, hence my returned before the moon reached its peak.” He continued to squeeze your breasts while sensually moving his hips against yours, enticingly teasing you. His expert touch and movements left you momentarily speechless, and a soft sigh escaped your lips. Your hands reached around to interlace with his, aiding him in massaging your breasts. As you did so, his lips trailed along your earlobe, nibbling and kissing the delicate flesh, intending to share his pleasure–filled moans with you. He knew how much you enjoyed his whispered affections.

“You should wake me up like this more often...”

His right hand ventured downward, tracing ticklish paths along your abdomen before cupping your pussy. His middle finger delicately slipped between your folds, caressing your clit. Your body responded with a gentle shiver, encouraging him to apply more pressure, watching as you slowly surrendered to his touch. As your hips began to sway against his finger, causing his length, still nestled within you, to stir, you panted with growing desire.

“Then another round it is.”

Masterlist

Taglist: @lilmelily @eunoiaastralwings @koyunsoncizeri @ranhanabi777 @someoneinthestars @mysticmoomin @aconstructofamind @rain-on-my-umbrella @the-phantom-of-arda @singleteapot @wandererindreams @asianbutnotjapanese @ilu-stripes @justellie17 @justjane @silverose365 @bunson-burner @batsyforyou

[anonsickficker]

{blade x kafka} four days [short_scenarios]

CONTENT BENEATH THE CUT CONTAINS MENTIONS OF {ERUCTATION}, {STUFFING} PLEASE BE WARNED!!!

Kafka kneads Blade’s slightly puffy abdomen, registering the vibrations of the contracting muscles of his stomach, processing every bite that he’s being fed.

She knows he’s not full— at least not as full as she’d like him to be.

“Kafka… no more, please…”, he pushes at her shoulder, turning away to choke out a stifled belch. Kafka frowns a little at the disregard that he shows towards his obvious discomfort, but returns to her straight face when Blade decides to face her once again.

“You’ve neglected four days' worth of sustenance, as I’ve heard from Silver Wolf. What exactly do you do with the allowance that I grant you?”, Kafka loops the last few noodles around her chopsticks, cupping her palm underneath them as she lifts the bite-sized portion to his mouth. She pushes the tips of the chopsticks against his bottom lip with unwavering, steady fingers.

The noodles do indeed slide through Blade’s lips, which he parts only in fear of soiling Kafka’s pristine white shirt. From one of his many concealed pockets, he produces a stack of bills, handing them to her. She eyes the bills, then shoots a dissatisfied look back at him, balancing the chopsticks onto the rim of the now empty bowl as he chews, without so much as a word concerning the unused currency betwixt his battered fingertips.

“I gave that to you to use. Not for you to act as my personal bank account.”, she scowls, reaching for yet another dish. This time, it’s fried rice, prompting her to pick the spoon, allowing the chopsticks a brief moment of retire.

In a moment of dissatisfaction, she digs the utensil into the rice, but nudges the spoon to his mouth tenderly as always. Though the reluctance in Blade’s eyes is apparent, he accepts the food, only swallowing when Kafka nods, and decides he’s broken it down enough in his mouth not to choke.

Blade eats without a word, only ducking away to swallow any burps that had threatened to escape his lips, and to reduce any hiccups to subtle hitches of breath. Kafka’s worry only grows, yet her expression refuses to let such debilitative emotions show themselves.

“Kafka— urp— please… I’m so full…”, at this point, they’d made it through seven different dishes, all of which had been selected by Kafka herself.

“We still have another five to go, Bladie.”, she coos, pressing a palm flat on his now noticeably distended stomach, “To make up for all of those missed meals.”

And right then, Kafka feels as if she’s gained true understanding of the phrase ‘expect the unexpected’.

Blade falls into her, leaning his forehead into the junction of her neck and shoulder, resting his hands on her trim waist. And, for the first time, he properly whines into the crook of her neck, quietly, begging for her to cease. She can only blink in surprise for a few seconds, freezing up to register her current position.

“Oh, alright.”

Blade exhales softly as he’s wrapped in warmth, and lifts his head when Kafka calls his pet name once more.

The groaning of his insides have become unbearably loud at this point, and Kafka confirms her previous worries as she pushes lightly into his side, the action immediately forcing a thick belch from Blade’s oesophagus. Blade stutters in response to his lapse in manners, eventually settling on lowering his flushed face and muttering a ‘sorry’ in an amendment to his rudeness.

Blade swallows down the next burp that threatens to leave his lips, but it remains somewhat audible nonetheless. Kafka does not take kindly to his seemingly polite behaviour, taking hold of his lower jaw and fixing it in place.

“You’re keeping this open.”, she glowers, freeing him from her grip. Much to her content, his jaw does not move from the position she’d set it in. Kafka uses this opportunity to push both palms into his previously nonexistent underbelly, fingers enveloped in the groaning mess it had become.

She feels the movement of his innards, squirming to dislodge another bout of air as it makes its way up his throat. She watches his Adam’s Apple bob, before he parts his lips, just a little, ducks his head, and releases a long, satiated belch, something that manages to shock even Kafka for a split second. She massages any smaller after-burps out of him, focusing on the underside of his abdomen, as he clings onto her, refusing to allow their eyes to meet.

“No worries, Bladie.”, Kafka smiles, as she’s finally able to witness the effects of her endeavours, stroking firmly on Blade’s stomach now, each moment of pressure on his hopelessly over-capacitated abdomen displacing another section of air, eliciting another string of deep, satisfied burps, which the man can only dip his head down to stifle. Blade grasps at Kafka’s shoulders when he gets a little too out of breath, and she rubs reassuring circles into his broad upper back before moving onto another tight spot, working every little pocket of excess air out, each low, heavy belch from him soothing her aforementioned worries just a little bit more.

Once all of his helpless burps have been reduced down to stuffed hiccups, she lets him off, giving his now firm, distended upper belly a few final pats. She cards the fingers of her unoccupied hand through his tangled hair, scratching her fingernails against his scalp gently. He instinctually moves away, before relenting to his natural reaction to the comforting act, by leaning into her touch.

Kafka basks in their now shared warmth for just a little while longer, before moving to clean up the empty dishes. Honestly, he’d done a number on all of the food she had ordered, obediently finishing off enough for a family of four, and then some.

“Kafka…”, his fingers wrap around hers, effectively shackling her in place. Though he doesn’t say much, Kafka doesn’t need another word from him to know his desires. She picks a throw blanket from the pile, prioritising covering him before shifting herself beneath it as well.

Their hands are still joined as she watches him finally fall into a much-deserved slumber.

another 1000 words of weird stuff.. thank you for reading this far 🙇

this is based on {tumsnstuff}'s kafka and blade post.. i recommend it.... without that this writing would not have been made 🙇

i chose 4 because 4 and die/death in chinese are similar sounding (for blade), but its also a convenient number

[moonshynecybin]

you had a fantasy au forever ago… how does marc find out vale loves him

i for one. always believe rosquez is just as horny as it is tortured and just as stupid as it is horny. i think it’s this fraught thing where after a LONG saga of trying to keep marc safe and worrying about him (marc is captain of the guard/general!!! it’s his whole job to keep VALE safe but vale thinks about any scenario where marc sacrifices his life to save him and it feels like open HEART SURGERY…) and after trying to ease him into a more bureaucratic role as “advisor” (luca voice comma dryly. pecco already does all that. you are teaching him things a consort knows. you do realize that. it’s important to me that you’ve realized that.) by involving him on strategy and policy he i think. entirely without thinking through the emotional implications wherein. decides marc needs to get married to him. truly the only way he can make marc safe the only way he can physically keep him off the battlefield the only way he can. marriage is a political and transactional enterprise to him and he SHANT fall in love anyways so whatever. get married to marc present his most cogent military mind as unequivocally allied with him and keep marc from killing himself 8000x problem solved. the small ruthless part of him also is like. marc cannot leave me and stage a coup with our neighbors to the west if he is legally bound to me :) forever :)

(i would say they have a break up in this universe because vale is a lil insecure about marc’s ability to rule slash uccio meddlings but. it all brings glory to vale here. it’s all under his banner. that’s part of what he liked about marc to begin with… now if marc came from another noble house?? late stage royal parentage reveal??? then shit would get cwazy)

and he lays this all out to our capricorn moon queen marc marquez who sees the logic here and despite KNOWING it’s a bad idea because he is ass over teakettle in love with vale he ALSO sees this as like. the ultimate way to keep vale safe. he can contribute the same way he does now and he knows he’ll never have all of vale but at least he’ll have SOME of him… be able to produce an heir… so he says yes and vale’s like cool. chill. married as work associates. cool.

it’s all this emotional distancing/repression/denial that plays out into what they THINK is a business transaction until it’s the NIGHT OF. and they have to go in there and consummate their MARRIAGE. and vale lays marc out on their fine silken marriage bed and kisses his scarred arm and asks him if it’s okay and watches the way marc’s eyes squeeze shut when he pushes inside of him and the way he shivers when vale’s presses his mouth to the junction of his shoulder and his neck. the flex of his stomach the splay of his thighs the way he’s looking at vale like he’s something new. something that no one has ever seen before… feeling things no one has ever felt before (marc marquez may very well believe valentino rossi invented the prostate orgasm here) and THATS when vale thinks. uh oh !

[morihaus]

Breath

"I thought it would make for a good story!"

A son of Skyrim sits on a log far, far away from the snowy shores of his birth. Beside him sit two fellow warriors, one from this land of dragons in the East, and the other from a land of swords even further East than that. When Njorri bellows out his explanation, the Yokudan cracks a small smile, while the Tsaesci's eyes bore into him.

"It's a lovely fine country you have here. It's hot! But not as hot as Morrowind, so it suits me more! And I ain't got any ash in my beard, like my cousin Holf is always complaining about."

"That's why you're interfering with our sacred hunt?" Siek-Shirue asks, eyes sharp like her tongue.

Njorri laughs and waves a massive hand. "Oh, nooo, I wouldn't say 'interfere!' I'm fit to help you! My da use to hunt dragons all the time."

A laugh bubbles up from Ensaf, the third who has merely played the spectator up til now. "Quite the name to live up to."

"Ain't nothin' special. Not like traveling all this way out East-- across that cursed ocean no less!"

The armored Akaviri turns to Ensaf now. "And why are you here?"

The trained fighter can recognize an itchiness about her 'host's sword-arm, the way her hand sits on her opposite thigh, inches from her scabbard; she knows that, even without any apparent weapon, Ensaf could produce one out of thin-air with only a breath.

"Me? Well, I'm looking for a story of my own." She adjusts herself on the log, easing up on her posture to try and relax the other woman. "You see, in the land where I come from, just about every swordsman's done something incredible. There's nothing left to make a name for yourself. But here... I can do something no one else has. At least no one from Yokuda." Leaning back, she tears her eyes away from her host and looks up at the clear skies of the steppe where the day is giving way to nightfall. "I'd heard rumors from sailors about an island full of dragons to the West... wasn't sure they were true until today."

"You've got no dragons back home?" Njorri asks, leaning over Siek to do so.

Ensaf shakes her head. "Afraid not. Plenty of serpents, but none that fly through the air like that... I would've picked a better opening if I had realized how fast they move."

"No dragons??? Skyrim used to be lousy with dragons, and so did this place, I hear, before Sek here and her pals--"

At this junction, Siek shoves the tall Nord back with a sudden burst of force, barking out a single syllable as the thrust of her hand sends him spilling across the grass of the camp. "Siek." She affirms, curling her lip up at the boisterous foreigner. Her fellow blades look over at the commotion, hands at their swords before she waves them off, assuring them things hadn't broken down... at least not yet.

Ensaf narrows her eyes in the split second it takes place, perking an ear and trying to tune in. As Njorri's dusting himself off, she leans forward again and looks to the Tsaesci. "That was the same technique you used to disarm my Shehai, wasn't it?"

Siek turns to face her, but defensive walls are clearly still up. After a moment of eyeing her up, she replies. "Yes. The Kiai is the greatest power we wield as Tsaesci."

"It's a lot like the Thu'um!" Njorri remarks, unbothered as he returns to his seat.

Siek whips her head around to him, riled up by that notion. "NO, it is not!

"You shout, things happen, sounds like Thu'um to me."

"You are a moron and an interloper! Your know nothing of what you say!"

Ensaf interjects. "Care to explain what it is then?"

"Ooh, please! I'd love to hear a story from a Tsaesci!" Njorri enthusiastically chimes in, the two warriors looking to their interrogator with inquisitive eyes.

She stops and takes a breath to center herself, finding it important to tell this story right, even if it's only for the benefit of two strangers who meddled with their hunt.

"Long ago... these lands were ruled by dragons. Our ancestors worshiped them as gods, fearful of their power, but in truth, their power came from the spirits of the world itself. Our arbitrary masters had stolen it with their domineering language. Our Mother, Tserida-Shak, learnt this from the Teacher, Boesha, who taught her the path of Tsaescence and the secret language of creation. Using the world's alphabet, Tserida-Shak spoke the first Kiai into the world, using it to kill the word in the dragon's throat. With our new martial art, we began our hunt to destroy all dragonkind and our duty to defend creation."

Njorri and Ensaf listen intently, poring over the words of this legend.

Predictably, the affable Nord replies first. "Not a bad story, but, it's a little tired, ain't it?"

"What?" Siek asks, disgusted.

Njorri waves his hands to and fro as he talks. "Men ruled by dragons, someone teaches them how to fight back, they do-- I mean, we Nords for example, we learned it from Paarthurnax, since Kyne told him so--"

"'Paarthurnax?'" Siek grows suddenly inquisitively, as well as revolted. "A dragon??? You were taught by a dragon???"

"Well, sure! How else do ya expect a man to learn dragon’s talk?"

Siek suddenly regards Njorri with an odd mixture of pity and loathing, wondering whether his people were still living under a different sort of tyranny, or if they were all-too willing servants who traded their dignity and humanity for power over other mortals.

Ensaf cuts through the tension. "It's actually not too different from how we learned sword-singing..." She offers, successfully distracting Siek from her disgust. With both of the other warriors looking at her, she elaborates. "Our people have always had many enemies, without and within, and many gods of the sword took pity on us. Onsi taught us how to make them, but it was Leki who sang us the secrets of mastery. She made the sword our soul. From there, we learned to make our souls to swords."

The Yokudan stretches out her open hand and begins to speak, or sing, her own language, belting out a few syncopated notes. A bright glow emanates from her whole body before beginning to coalesce, traveling down her arm and taking shape in her hand. With a flash, she now holds a long, curved sword that seems to shimmer like the surface of a pond. Even as Ensaf stops singing, Njorri and Siek can still hear the blade humming the tune.

"That's..." Siek begins, her voice fallen to a hush.

"Shor's Bones! You're doin' that all on your own???" Njorri interjects, leaning in closer to inspect the weapon. "That right there's some clever craft if I've ever seen it! Never thought of usin' the Thu'um for somethin' like that!"

Ensaf laughs, taking the Nord much more lightly. "I'm not sure it's all too similar to what you two do with your voices... I'm not communing with any spirits. Put simply, this is all me." She takes a moment to admire her Shehai, a great point of pride for her as a Sword Saint. Even if the battles she's won or the quests she's gone on pale in comparison to many of her illustrious peers, this sword still stands as her one grand accomplishment, totally unique to herself.

"You're right..." Siek is still quite amazed at the display. "We use our own spirits in the Kiai as well, but we don't... at least, I have never heard of a Blade who could call upon such a well of power from within." She manages to tear her eyes away from the still-singing sword and look Ensaf in the eye. "That aerial slash of yours-- I thought Ilni's winds had carried it for you, yet it was this 'Shehai' of yours?"

Ensaf nods. "Though now that you mention it, I suppose I could've used some help in landing it. Maybe next time I'll ask them." She offers Siek a smile along with this well-meaning jest. In all honesty, the woman's story had piqued her curiosity. It could be interesting to bring a few of her tricks back to Yokuda with her.

Njorri loudly concurs with Siek's observation. "I've heard rumors-- tall tales and all that, not so trustworthy as they are entertaining-- that some Tongues can use the Thu'um to change themselves, the way we can change the Qethsegolle by arguin' with 'em."

"Arguing?" Siek interjects, glancing back at Njorri as he once more leads her to question his morals.

"Aye, arguin'. Y'see, we Nords can't go about it exactly like dragons. With dragons, they just shout so great and loud that the Qethsegolle go 'alright, alright!' and do whatever it is they want. Blast this mountain over there, blow these clouds away, set that man on fire-- that sorta thing." The way he describes the interaction so simply, like a children's game, rubs her entirely the wrong way. Whether Njorri is blissfully ignorant of this or simply affords fellow men the same irreverence as he does the spirits, she does not know, but he continues speaking nonetheless. "We men ain't as loud as dragons by nature, so we've got to be a little more subtle, eh? Persuade the spirits! It's all about spinning the right words with the right tones, making this-do-that or you-go-here or whatever it is you're tryin' for! The Qethsegolle aren't a prickly sort-- 'least most of 'em aren't. They're busy keepin' the house Shor built standin' upright, so they're distracted most of the time. It's easy to slip things by 'em if you say 'em right."

It sounds like just another deceit to Siek, but Njorri, of course, views it all in good fun.

He turns back to Ensaf and guffaws. "Guess your sword-singin' cuts out the middle man, eh?" The Nord bellows out a laugh.

Ensaf joins him, but she also notices Siek still hasn't quite come around to the two strangers just yet, fascinated as she may be by her Shehai. If they were going to have any chance of sticking around and seeing this hunt through, they'd need to find some more common ground.

Her spirit sword still singing, Ensaf looks up at the stars above them. "We have a lot in common... but there's an old saying in Yokuda: 'you can't see the view from atop his feet.'" She gracefully turns the point of her blade down to the ground, resting it against the earth. "No two people can really, truly see the same thing the same way. Right now, we can't see the same stars, because I can't sit where you're sitting. I don't know anything about dragons or earthly spirits because we couldn't be farther apart when we were all children. We could spin yarns all night and we'd still be no closer to understanding it all."

Njorri easily accepts this treatise on subjectivity given his cultural proclivity towards tale-telling, though Siek waits to hear where the Yokudan is going with this.

"But different as we may be, I've always seen two things that all us folk have in common." Ensaf smiles. "We breathe, and we sing."

"Sing?" Siek raises a brow.

"Oh yes! We Nords love to sing! I s'pose I should've guessed Yokudans do, given the sword and all!" Njorri cranes his neck down to look at their captor. "What of you, Siek? Do the Tsaesci sing?"

"Well of course." She replies almost defensively. "But I don't see why that--"

"Go on, share a song with us." Ensaf urges. "All this talk of your great hunts and dragon-slaying, you must have some raucous ballads."

At the continued insistence of these two interlopers, Siek-Shirue relents. She begins to regale them, softly at first, with some anthems of war, rhythmic lyrics that sing to the glories of Tsae and the noble cause of the Tsaesci. Njorri begins to slap his knee to the beat, while Ensaf nods her head and taps her foot. The two even start to pick up some of the words.

Their impromptu and largely unintentional revelry does not escape the attention of the rest of Siek's unit, who become easily gripped by the infectious songs of their people. Before Siek knows what's happened to her, she's leading her whole company plus two foreigners in the devotional ballads of Boesha 1-13.

It's only natural that a Tongue and a Sword-Singer would take to song so easily, learning more, perhaps, from the joint fervor of this merry ritual than they ever could have through idle conversation. As the night wears on and tensions subside, they even share some of the songs of Skyrim and Yokuda with their new fellows, and just as they had learned, now the Tsaesci learn of their new companions through the most expedient method: their breath, and their songs.

[probablyasocialecologist]

While home interiors depicted a blissful atomic future, their occupants lived in an age of revanchist conservatism. American society had become increasingly atomized and patriarchal during this time. Women were important contributors to wartime atomic science: Maria Goeppert-Mayer worked on the Manhattan project, and was awarded a Nobel Prize for her contributions to science by 1963; Leona Woods Marshall Libby worked in Enrico Fermi’s lab at the University of Chicago, where she demonstrated the first self-sustaining nuclear chain reaction. When men returned from war, many women were discouraged from continuing their careers as scientists, technologists, and academics. As mainly white working women became wives in picket-fenced suburbia, they turned to the domestic affairs of the home to regain some control. As such, the demand for Atomic Age style was created by these women’s purchasing decisions. Atomic aesthetics in the home eventually served to “feminize” the atom, further domesticating its image.

[...]

Beauty queens and pin-up girls proliferated after World War II. The new vogue for radioactivity reached pageantry, with new beauty contests celebrating all things nuclear. From Miss Atomic Blast to Miss Atomic Bomb, this cheerful embodiment of lethal nukes has been described variously as commercializing, feminizing, and disarming the atom. By 1955, atomic pageantry had diversified to celebrate and normalize uranium mining and nuclear energy, as Colorado and Utah became home to expansive uranium mining programs. In a contest sponsored by the Uranium Ore Producers Association and the Grand Junction Chamber of Commerce to celebrate Colorado’s uranium mining boom, the winning Miss Atomic Energy was rewarded with a truckload of uranium ore worth approximately $5000 in today’s money — and a trophy in the shape of Rutherford’s iconic atomic model. The bikini bathing suit debuted in 1946, taking its name from Bikini Atoll, where the U.S. undertook its first nuclear weapon detonations since Hiroshima. Louis Réard’sdesignwas itself derived from a less revealing French design created by Jacques Heim, known as “L’atome.” Both garments played with the semiotics of nuclear warfare. Models were initially scandalized by the bikini’s skimpiness and refused to wear it. By 1951, however, a bikini round had been integrated into the annual Miss World competition, further linking the atom with ideals of feminine beauty.