#Recurrent layer

[softlabsgroup05]

Discover the fundamentals of artificial intelligence through our Convolutional Neural Network (CNN) mind map. This visual aid demystifies the complexities of CNNs, pivotal for machine learning and computer vision. Ideal for enthusiasts keen on grasping image processing. Follow Softlabs Group for more educational resources on AI and technology, enriching your learning journey.

[unopenablebox]

evilly convinced my girlfriend to massage my ankles (by asking them to) and i have to tell you. that was an outrageously relaxing and pleasant experience. frankly my ankles have no business being tense or sore in the first place unless it's like referred family death tension somehow but god. really recommend having someone who likes you a great deal gently manipulate your ankles for a while

[ghostarii]

SILK STRINGS & PEARL RINGS, SCARAMOUCHE

ʚɞ kisses with the weight of pain and bruises colored like love — his heart hits like a punch and you’re the sucker to catch it.

WARNINGS ݈݇- fem!reader, referred to as kuni, impact play, asphyxiation, biting / marking, hair pulling, degradation, name calling, praise, creampie, overstimulation, more scaramouche than wanderer, minors & dc antis do not interact!

NOTE ݈݇- hey . . hey . . how y’all doin ^w^ ive been gone a while becuz tumblr wasnt it anymore nd life was lifeing ! am back now bc i missed u guys nd missed being a freak :c theres sm of u now — thank u sm for 900+! ! i loveee youu loads xoxoxooo Anywayyy i hope u enjoy this quick littl drabble to flex my muscles :3

WORD COUNT ݈݇- 1.1k

LIMBS LIKE STRINGS OF silk: soft, pliable, and delicate, all in the hands of an unworthy sinner. His rough callouses rub burning patches on your skin as he runs his hands across your supple skin. Even the finest silks blemish under unclean hands and you are no exception — you're the example.

The name he bears stumbles out of your mouth in broken gasps and he only wishes you would shut up; he tells you again and again in hopes of your compliance, to no avail. Your voice is a constant reminder of who he is to you and, otherwise, who he’s destroying for superficial, fleeting pleasure. He’s far too deep to pull away now and scurry away—he has no choice but to double down and bump the sense out of your brain in hopes of fogging your memory. It works in a skewed way: condensing your mind to the two syllables of his name. “Kuni! Kun—i!! God, Kuni—!!!” Your pitiful screeches play on broken recurrences.

And as the master weaver he is, your pleasure is sewn up to its peak for what feels like the millionth time. Your body quakes and trembles, quivering under his weight and attempting an escape jaggedly. A hearty, choked-up whine jumps out of your chest, “Sto—I can’t! K-Kuni, please—!”

Deaf ears ignore your cries and pound deeper, harder—slamming his pelvic bone against your twitching clit. His hands move from the expanse of the mattress to your neck: pressing you into the mattress with pressure on the sides of your neck just right. “Shut the fuck up,” he grits, rolling his hips into you. “Just shut up and take it.”

Your eyes roll into the back of your head, lashes fluttering rapidly as, quickly, your brain computes nothing but pleasure.

His hips snap against you with such intensity, that it makes you feel like he hates you. It borders on painful, eliciting sharp lightning rods to pierce and prod around your body. The sheer weight of this impassioned thrusting has you jolting up the bed and thrashing around under him, looking to escape the white-hot harvest of pleasure pulsing in your pussy.

On top of you, he burns a pretty rose that can only be described as fire. The tight grip around his cock fills his head with foggy air—but it's the wetness that spools around his length: splat, splat, splat, that sings out the lost orgasms from rounds previous and ample arousal. It’s that that has him grumbling out blurbs of pleasure, chasing his orgasm that rests in your depths.

Every sensation is heightened tenfold with the ever-demanding charge that is being fed in your tummies. Every pulse, squeeze, leak, prod—all of it is akin to plugging you up to an orgasm charge-port and capping off the battery.

It’s too much; you scream that out enough until you can't gather enough air to breathe, let alone speak. Kuni agrees with you but he really, really, wishes you would shut up. He can't think and with every sound you make, he’s urged on in this unshakeable, carnivorous desperation to fuck harder. He's not immune to pleasure; he may be more susceptible to its threats, in fact. Knitted brows and screwed eyes blind him to the overstimulated writhing you enact, wriggling under his touch in vain hopes of reprieve.

Tears stream down your cheeks to mix with a layer of slobber splayed on your skin—a pitifully nasty mess, born out of the relentless palms of your man. He has the liberty to see you at your most vulnerable: degeneracy painting itself all over your body. A beautifully disgusting mess, you are, and he only makes it worse.

Stirring around your guts is his angry hard-on, circling your walls in shaky rolling manners, letting you both rest against the other and heave out deep breaths. The tip grinds against your g-spot and has you whimpering weakly, slapping his forearms and rolling your stomach. “I’m gonna—”

“Don’t you fucking dare.” He grits, grabbing a fistful of hair and tugging your head to the left. The stinging burn that dances at your roots has you wincing and whining, scrunching your face up. “Hold it.”

“I c-can’t, Kuni!” Just as the words leave your mouth, his hips are re-angled to push up into your pussy, the right-bound hook he sports curving right up to a gummy cushion in your walls. They contract around him and he groans, tightening his grip on your hair.

He dives into you, letting his hands grip your waist as his head wedges itself between your chin and shoulder. “Get it through your thick fucking skull,” he berates, nipping your collarbone. “You can't cum until I say so,”

His hips grind upward, drilling his dick deep into your depths that the hoarseness in your voice is shaken off for a shrill yelp to be squeezed out. He laughs at you menacingly, sinking his teeth into your shoulder to then circle the mark with his tongue. “Take it like a good bitch and I may be nice to you.”

Not a word he said will be upheld. You're so good—the best girl for him and he still dangles your release in front of you. Like a dog to a thick bone, you pant and whine in anticipation of being thrown your Achilles heel.

Exhaustion catches up to him and he can only lazily rock into you. His left hand presses on your stomach as he does so, trapping pressure in your tummy and mixing deliciously with your pleasure.

Heat swims beneath your skin and spills out beads of perspiration, gluing your bodies together.

Proximity; your bodies are so close and burning up fervent flames that swallow you down. Like the pliable silk you are, you slip around under his hold and that knot your stomach is tied up in easily unwinds.

“You’re coming, aren't you?” He shakily asks, exhaling deeply. If you aren't, he is.

Your non-answer is answer enough—he moans pathetically in your ear, falling apart as he ruts into you.

Holding on is a thing of the past as he slams against your sweet spot, unfurling his orgasm into you in milky ropes. Simultaneously, you release your biggest orgasm yet, splashing against his stomach and streaming down your legs. The pressure pushes him out with a grunt, a sadistic laugh of his echoing in your head.

Your swollen pussy is shining in pearlescent, bubbled strings, rolling out of you in a gushing mix. Oh, it's nasty; and you're utterly destroyed—flushed and blemished and patterned in bites, bruises, and prints. Your lips are swollen and bitten; your eyes are low-lidded and teary; your face is sweaty and tear-stained; your body quivers and spasms and Kuni thinks that you've never looked better.

Reprieve only lasts a mere moment before your legs are pushed up to your shoulders, spreading and stretching your limbs to their limits. Drawing out a whine, you speak hoarsely, “What’re you doing? No more..”

“I never told you to cum, did I?”

A break quickly becomes a distant memory.

[diejager]

Hallo! Truly loved the MonsterAU stories! Wonderful, amazing writing!

Would it be possible for you to write: what if human!reader was turned into a chimera?

Akin to this:

Feel free to ignore!

Chimæra

Pairing: Monster 141 x Chimera!reader

Cw: science experiment, human torture, human testing, gore?, blood, canon-typical violence, unethical human experiments, kidnapping, child abuse, malnutrition, child neglect, tell me if I missed any. Wc: 3.6k (A/N): credit to @bluegiragi’s monster 141 designs.

They were tipped off by an anonymous source that some shady and highly illegal things were being done in a small and remote town near the border of Belarus, their ongoings unknown to both the government and public of their country, but someone had given Laswell a file containing all the horrific tests conducted within the closed walls of the innocuous-looking compound —a laboratory dressed as a simple military base. The folder held snapshots of emails and files sent between scientists and researchers, small indications of what was being done to both humans and monsters, yet withholding important intel about certain things. It disclosed the location, the names and faces of every worker and leading figure in the compound, the number of security and their schedules, and what was done, but not what was truly happening, it left small clues, sublet words here and there with hidden meanings —never clear images, blurry ones as if the person was in a rush.

Despite not having clear indications of the illegal activities, Laswell had enough to have 141 sent to take it down, to bring the dehumanising lab to its ground and burn it down. She didn’t have trouble convincing them, it was telling enough to let them read the condensed files for them to read, to see themselves the monstrosity being done to children and monsters they took, kidnapped from around the world to be left at the deceitful hands of crazed scientists. There wasn’t much to be found outside it, the base wore the facade of a benevolent patron, bearing the crest of kindhearted investors wanting to rebuild rundown houses and reconstruct rough and broken roads and paved streets in the town they took to hide. It worked for the most part, they profited from this by acting without raising any suspicion from anyone, neither the authorities nor the people. 

“Christ,” Gaz swore, looking down at the words in the file he received, the teased truth and the dreadful treatments through a thick layer of secrets and subtle wording, the only clear intel was from the straightforward emails sent to and from researchers and the heads of the facility, unabashed and shameless bragging of their success and the narrative to which these subjects could be used. “Why did it take so long?”

A recurrent theme of these was about a certain subject, it was about C34, spoken with such pride and joy about their creation, the work of the new world and the future made within these walls. Most emails were the exchanges between them about C34’s training, the ongoing treatments and every successful mission and exercises, they spoke of C34 as if they were a dog, a rabid mutt they captured and took on the task of domesticating it. It was demeaning, degrading and cruel, to look at another being as something lower, something needing domestication —it went against every rule and law put in place to protect humanity, the many conventions sworn to protect the goodwill and security of the innocents.

“We’ve had our suspicions before,” Laswell sighed, the images of the screen switching with the small click of her control, laser pointing at the images of various weapons cache and illegally procured weapons. “There was a slip up in the shipping, it was dropped here-” she motioned to a circled area in the map, a closeup of a secluded road near the town, “and we were able to retrace it to the facility. We needed more intel about the facility before acting and we needed to know what we're facing here, if we should send a team or send you.”

“What now?” Price tilted his head back, smoke leaving the sides of his frown, a deep and unpleasant one. He couldn’t even look at the intel given with a straight face, the shadowed truth of cruelty and dehumanising acts done by humans. “Figured you send us after seeing this, Laswell?”

Laswell nodded, jumping to another slide, showing blurred images of subject C34, a blurry figure, tall and imposing in every way possible. They stood high, stature seemingly one belonging to a monster or hybrid: on four legs and the wide, familiar shape of wings, everything about C34 cried monster. Perhaps one they captured as a child, taken from their mother and kept in this cell. There were many pictures of this one, blurry and disfigured, but others had smaller shapes, the size of children with various characteristics. 

“Steamin’ bloody Jesus!” Soap spat, disgust dripping from his tone in waves, unending as were the other’s curses, each holding their level of horror and repugnance. His face was wound tight, brows dipped lowly and lips pursed, he balled his fists, anger rising within him with every image he saw, the deplorable conditions and the care given to the monsters —what could they even expect from this shady company engineering monster and human DNA to fit their preferred narrative, for money, for reputation, for strength. “We ‘ave tae do somethin’ about this, Price!”

Soap - Johnny - had always been the more emotional one, letting his good heart lead his decisions when the situation seemed to fit it. His wolf made him more susceptible to emotional attachment, a pack mentality driven deeply into his mind and heart, he was viciously loyal and wore his heart on his sleeve, uncaring of how he’d be hurt by a betrayal, he simply saw the best in the world, something many couldn’t after a while, but Soap could, Johnny was a good man at heart. That’s why he reacted the most out of everyone, voicing his distaste and hate, his need for revenge and the sanctity of the lives being stolen in the facility. 

Soap pushed Price to agree, seeing no reason not to lead the breach, to uncover everything done to innocent lives. His eyes connected to the man hidden in the darkness, his blue eyes gleaming with fierce justice, a contrast to the wraith who lay in silence, abhorrent and seething quietness. Ghost peered at him, head tilted up with white pupils darkened by black eyes, death layering off him with calmness. He gave Soap a curt nod, affirmation for him to continue to voice his mind, to help those in need. 

“Seems like it’s been decided, Kate,” Price gave her a lopsided smirk, amber eyes narrowed with what could be read as anger, teeth sinking into the girth of his cigar, ash falling. “When are we going?”

Her lips parted in a proud grin, eyes gleaming with something dark and wrathful. She leaned on the table, head held high and shoulder broad while she flicked off the projector:

“Wheels up at 1500 tomorrow.”

You stared down the man before you, watching him tremble under your cold gaze, steps hesitant to approach you despite being seated, body prone on the hard floor you called a bed. He was new, possibly recently employed and his boss - or his direct manager - played a dirty game with him. It was some kind of rite of passage for every new employee courageous enough to accept their recruitment, all bright-eyed geniuses wanting to build their place on earth with forthgoing discovery, desperate and narcissistic; yet they were so easily tricked into you cage, locked in by cackling and grinning guards and coworkers. 

He smelled young, fresh-faced and a bit nervous, most were when they first saw you. You remembered everyone who walked in, the smell of fear and anxiety, the disgusting scent oozing off their bodies, rotten and putrid like a rotting corpse. You would’ve gagged and choked if you weren’t used to it, having grown close to the smell of death, calling the reaper your friend. You weren’t bothered by him, only the cart he was wheeling over, a big and heavy cooler that smelled fresh. He was made to bring you food by his boss, a cruel joke played on every new scientist who was always so eager to meet you before cowering in terror once the lock clicked. 

Standing before your third cage, he unlocked the small hatch and, with effort and a loud grunt, pushed the cooler into the hole, big enough for a big cooler but small enough to fit your arm through it. You waited until he stumbled away, distancing him from you before reaching for the container, it was light, weighing little in your palm. They fed you raw meat, sometimes buying the fresh catch of a Belarus hunter, usually an elk or a wild boar, but if they were lucky, a bison or a bear, other times they would have conserved meat shipped from outside the town, bigger cities or outside the border. 

Today was an elk, the meat cold and free of rot, it smelled as good as a fresh kill did, bloody and heady. You ripped into it without care, tuning out the loud retch from the scientist as you gorged on your meal, claws tearing it in half and biting into the bloody meat. Blood rolled down your lip, painting your cheeks crimson and staining the cream-coloured rag they considered a shirt. It would be changed after your meal, as it always was. Despite the elk weighing around six hundred kilograms, you finished it quickly, with pointed teeth cutting and pulling flaps of meat and ligament, blood spraying and dirtying the metal ground near the hatch. 

It was filling, albeit cold. You cleaned your hands of blood, licking it off like a grooming cat, tongue laving over the sharp edge of your claw and under your blunt fingernails. You peered at him from under your lashes, eyes gleaming in the darkness. You watched - pleased with yourself - him shudder, face growing green with unnerve at your show. You knew he was desperate to leave, to get a breath of fresh air outside of your cell, you understood his fear and wanted him to suffer for helping your owner, the man watching over your training, but you wanted him gone before he emptied his stomach on your floor. So you pushed the cooler out, clawed arm breaching past the hatch to leave it farther from your cage. 

He left hastily, legs shaky and face pale. 

“I want a bison next time,” you growled, words rolling off your tongue huskily from its rare use. 

It looked as inconspicuous through the NVGs as it did in the pictures, a few grey buildings built lowly to hide an immense labyrinth dug into the ground, secret passages crossing unending halls with locked doors and tipped with surveillance cameras to watch over the whole facility. They studied the very walls that made this place a secret fortress, from the body to its heart, like mounting a brigade against a castle, Laswell’s team found the few hidden entrances that connected to the lesser-used passages, winding through many hallways and wide vents, big enough for humans but too tight for monsters the size of C34. Task Force 141 led the mission, infiltrating the base under the darkness of night where they could crawl and slink through shadows to catch what they hunted. They were joined by Marines, all experienced and skillful, wearing scars like a badge of honour. It would either be a quick in and out, or a long and strenuous infiltration. 

Price took Gaz and led half of the Marines through the west, breaching the lab from above. They pushed in steadily, relaying information and physical cues to Watcher - Laswell - with a body cam recording everything they saw, the facade they wore above ground, hiding their dark enterprise. Ghost, as usual, has Soap watch his six, following closely behind him with puppy-like loyalty and the other half of the Marines. Team Two’s - Delta - mission started through the underground passage they sniffed out, a long and unwinding hall that went straight through the heart of the facility. Ghost’s team went dark, needing the cover of silence to stay hidden in a highly protected area of the base to run this clandestine mission. They spoke only when needing to, to make calls, to reaffirm intel or to let both Bravo and Watcher know a change, the tech team in the temporary safe house a few miles away from the compound watched through the cams, from the subtle change in the air to a jarring lead to what was happening. 

While Price and Gaz worked on creating a distraction, taking a load off team Delta’s shoulders, they could work through the system faster and more efficiently with the fire taken off their backs and front. It was controlled chaos for both teams, creating a mass discordance within the enemy lines: panicked higher-ups at the sudden attack, while they had a small squad of personal soldiers, they were unprepared, taken by surprise by both teams attacking on two fronts; and confused mercenaries, their quiet and boring schedules made them lose the edge of suspicion, of wariness towards what awaited them and the sheltered job with little to no action apart from a few failed escape attempts by the subjects.

“Delta 0-1 moving in,” Ghost mumbled into the coms, his team following him closely, rifle held tightly with the muzzle pointed forward as they crossed the threshold of section C, heading towards the one holding the monster subjects. 

They left behind them groups of bodies, slumped over the walls or limp on the ground, blood painting the sterilised and glossy walls, turning the once white hall into a grotesque place, dead bodies covering the length of the corridor like the ones they walked through before, leaving the stench of death that even the Marines could sniff out. It wasn’t clean - they weren’t aiming for it to be clean - but they wouldn’t need it to be clean when the Laswell would send a clean-up team to deal with this, Ghost would steal a bite before they arrived, quenching his hunger for revenge with them. 

A few guards stayed to watch over the cells, doors unlocked by a keycard that most guards kept in their back pocket, Ghost would have to take one off a dead body. Under Ghost’s cover, Soap dashed to the other side of the hall, taking a few with him to corner the mercenaries, boxing them into a closed hallway until they all died. Despite a few of the Marines taking shots, bruising the skin under their plate, black and blue blossoming like a bloody flower under the thin layer of skin, they kept their heads high and minds clear, moving forward without a misstep or hesitation. Soap swiped a few cards from the bodies, throwing one to Ghost. 

“Delta 0-1 to Watcher, can you hear me?”

“Solid copy, Ghost,” Laswell voice rang out clearly, reaching his ears in seconds.

“We found the cells,” his eyes roved over them, white paint over thick, cement walls to hold whatever they locked into the cells, perhaps the children the saw or the big one, C34.

“Do you have the keycards?”

“Affirm,” Ghost growled slowly, hearing Laswell's confirmation to continue. “Going in.”

He tapped the pad, a loud beep ringing in their ears as the lock’s mechanism creaked to life, unlatching from its metal hold to let them in. Both he and Soap walked in, leaving the others to watch their backs while they surveyed the first room. It was dimly lit as it was bare of any decorations apart from a visible toilet, a small sink and a few metal beds. It looked like any usual cells they came across, made barren and empty of anything useful to prevent the prisoners from escaping or causing a ruckus, but the people they kept in these cells were children. Soap swore under his breath at the sight of children huddled together, seemingly no older than 12, he lowered his rifle. They were backed into a corner, three older kids holding a younger one in their arms, protecting her from them, from whoever meant to harm these children. 

They looked malnourished, left to slowly rot in these cement boxes until the scientist found something worthwhile in them, their cheeks sunken in, eyes droopy and swollen with bruises - they were beaten, it made something ugly rear its head inside Ghost dead heart - and lips dried. One was armless, having wings that they used to cover both of their cellmates, naked with only feathers covering their body, this one looked more like a harpy than it did human. The two others had arms, both having the lower half of a mammal, neither of them was sure which four-legged mammal it was, but one had a pair of wings, while the other’s back was bare of anything. 

“We’ve found the children.”

You could hear the chaos from your cell, the blaring alarm and the smell of death. The building shook from its foundation, vibration emanating from both the ground floor and the basement, just farther from your hall, the closed and sectioned-off area. They separated you from the defective ones, all your young mistakes they made after achieving success —you. They tried to recreate it, but it never came out how they wanted it. Maybe it was a mistake on their part or maybe it was the lack of a certain gene in their DNA, a subtle difference that you and the rest had. You didn’t want to know and you didn’t want them to succeed a second time, it was painful, the shift, the tests and the change, the storm of pain, terror and confusion weren’t worth this power. 

You could hear the booming sound of gunfire, a loud ricochet of the bullet when the nitrocellulose sparked and sent the bullet outwards, finding its destination in the warm flesh of human guards. You usually enjoyed this kind of chaos if you knew what started it, and laughed when something caused trouble for your captors, but you were cautious of this one. You neither knew who thought to disturb the peace nor did you know who was behind this, their scents strange and the sound of steps unknown. All you knew was that their steps were heavy, out of breath but pushing their way into - what you thought to be - section C. The place they kept the young and willful. 

You might be blinded by your cell, but the guards outside your confinement knew how to talk, their chatter and barking orders loud enough for you to hear through the thick walls. From them, you knew they were strangers, unknown players on your board of pawns. You didn’t know their goal, whether they were here to let you out or keep you in a cage of their making, but you knew they were a gamble on your fate. As the noise got closer, you sat down, crossed your paws and waited, cautiously awaiting to see what your verdict would be.

Strangely enough, there was a different section, separated from the other one by many gates and stricter security, but they were able to break through it. Security was concentrated in one hall as if the monster they locked at the end of this hallway was of big importance. It had higher security, stronger and thicker. Ghost wondered if it was to keep the monster in or keep people out, either way, this meant that they found the thing they first came here for: the trained and dangerous subject C34. 

Ghost was apprehensive about opening this metal door, built taller than any doors he’d seen, it was as wide as it was tall, metres over what would be considered normal for a human or monster, similar to the wide gates that protected British castles, tall and imposing, but the most worrying was it’s vast amount of security measures. He thought back to the blurrier giant he saw in the picture, their shape indescribable and otherworldly, almost alien-like. His eyes met Soap’s reassuring ones, standing steadfast and unyielding to do good in the world. So with a nod, Ghost worked through the locks and scans of the heavy, metal door made to keep this cement cage closed. This door clicked loudly, echoing down the hall with ominous intent, foreseeing something damming and destructive. 

Yet they hadn’t expected to see another cage within the cage, a box made of reinforced glass, large and robust and inside of it was another cage, a rough metal one with bars for walls, a sick joke of a bird’s gilded cage. It would’ve seemed almost exaggerated to have three layers - three different cages - to keep one subject safely locked up until he caught sight of the monster. Lying on the cold, metal ground with legs folded in, tail curled around them and staring at both him and Soap with cautious curiosity. It looked like a gryphon if it were more reptilian than a mammal, this monster had a human torso, a head wearing a stoic expression, dressed in rags. Where there would normally be legs was the body of a bird, an eagle perhaps from the golden-brown plumage and reptilian legs from the knee down, followed by a fully scaled back, hind legs and a strong tail. Each toe was tipped with a sharp claw, big and deadly if it got its hands on someone, it could easily rip into anyone without putting in much effort. The biggest thing about it was the folded wings, feathered and equipped with a talon. If it could fly, these wings would be powerful. 

He understood why they kept it locked, it was neither man, monster or hybrid. It was a beast of human creation, a creature made to be at the peak of its condition. It was smart, he could see it, the glint in its eyes and the pursed lips, mien kept monotone and calm —observant. 

What did Laswell sign them into? 

Taglist: @craxy-person @crowbird @dead-cipher @iwannabealocalcryptid @iizx7y @mxtokko @yeetusspagheetus @capricorn-anon @perfectus-in-morte @sae1kie @yeoldedumbslut @tallmanlover @distracteddragoness @konigsblog @vxnilla-hxrddrugs @havoc973 @angelcakes-22 @cassiecasluciluce @ramadiiiisme @ramblingsofachaoticthinker @ki-cant-spel @im-making-an-effort @love-dove-noora @jinxxangel13 @daisychainsinknots @0alk0msan @mul-pi @danielle143 @dont-mind-me-just-existing-sadly

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Writing Notes: Fashion History

for your next poem/story (pt. 1/2)

1850-1879

The Civil War began in 1861 and ended in 1865, heavily impacting the lives of those living during the time period. In fashion, the rise of the sewing machine allowed more decorative effects to be used in dress, and new aniline dyes paved the way for brighter shades of dress.

This time is known as the Crinoline Period because cage crinoline made of whalebone or steel hoops replaced heavy layers of petticoats, and were commonly worn under dresses by women of the time.

One trend that hit its peak in the 1870s was the bustle, an item women secured under the back portion of their skirts to add volume.

In terms of silhouette, a narrow waist with a fitted bodice and full skirts was the recurrent style. Popular sleeve styles included pagoda sleeves, gathered bishop sleeves, and the coat sleeve.

During the day, high necklines were appropriate, but women often wore lower necklines in the evening.

Wraps and shawls were commonly worn, and accessories such as parasols, gloves, snoods, and bonnets were highly desired.

1870-1900

The years 1870-1900 include what is known as the Bustle period, in which the popular silhouette shifted from full skirts to a more fitted look characterized by fullness in the back.

Throughout the Bustle period of the 1870s and 1880s, a variety of padded devices were utilized to create back fullness, as the bustle took on different forms.

The bustle of the first stage (1870-1878) was achieved through manipulation of drapery and the use of decorative details such as flounces and bows at the back.

From (1878-1883) fullness dropped to below the hips and decorative effects of the skirt became focused low as a result.

Long trains and heavy fabrics also helped to emphasize the focus on the rear.

The latter part of the decade (1884-1890) saw the bustle at its largest. Often referred to as the shelf bustle, it was rigid and took on the appearance of an almost horizontal projection. At this time, skirts shortened to several inches above the floor and rarely had trains, with the exception of some evening dresses.

Additionally, they include the 1890's, which are often referred to as the Gay Nineties or La Belle Epoque. Times were good, Paris was the center of high fashion, and for those who could afford it, dress was lavish and highly decorative.

The corset continued to be worn, aligning with the fashionable silhouette of a full bust and hips with a narrow waist.

Dress ensembles typically consisted of two pieces -- a bodice and matching skirt.

The one-piece princess dress, worn by some during the latter part of the period, was an exception. Bodices were often fitted, with the cuirass bodice style emerging from around 1878-1883.

Sleeves were close-fitting and ended at either three quarters or at the wrist.

Evening dresses were differentiated by their lavish trimmings, level of ornamentation, trained skirts, and short sleeves. Weighted silk offered greater body and was a popular choice for dresses beginning in the 1870s.

Full sleeves were at their largest in 1895, before they gradually decreased in size towards the turn of the century.

By the 1890s, sleeve with fullness were only seen with small puffs at the shoulders.

Tailor-made costumes consisted of wool or serge skirts worn with a shirtwaist blouse. and were considered ideal for traveling.

Shirtwaist blouses were often accessorized by cravats and jabots. The variety of outerwear for women increased during the late nineteenth century and was dominated by coats, jackets, and wraps.

Accessories of the period included small hats, gloves, muffs, decorative fans, and parasols.

1900s

The first decade of the twentieth century is often referred to as “La Belle Époque” - French for "the beautiful age." During this time, Paris reigned as the capital of art and fashion, extravagance and opulence was in, and French couture became all the rage.

Edward VII became King of England with the death of Queen Victoria in 1901, ushering in the “Edwardian Era.”

Additionally, Henry Ford's Model-T was introduced in 1908.

Art Nouveau influenced fashion and ornamentation with the popularity of curvy shapes, floral prints, and ornamentation.

And with the introduction of Ford's Model-T, "motoring garments", such as duster coats and goggles, became essential for automobile riding.

The dominant silhouette of the period was the S-bend hourglass shape, which was achieved through the use of long bell or trumpet skirts that swept the ground, and the “monobosom” fullness of the front bodice.

Voluminous sleeves were another popular feature of turn-of-the-century fashion. Women still wore tightly-boned corsets, along with layers of petticoats. Two-piece ensembles were introduced, consisting of a skirt and a shirtwaist blouse. Garments often featured necklines with high standing collars for daytime and exceptionally low décolleté necklines for evening wear.

Lingerie dresses — flowing white gowns with lace detailing — were a popular choice for outdoor hot weather. Pale colors and un-patterned fabrics adorned with lace or embroidery were favored in this style. Shoes and boots exhibited pointed toes, and parasols were a must-have accessory for outdoors. Elaborate, often large hats decorated with bird feathers enjoyed heightened popularity.

1910s

The War Years (1914-1918) resulted in simpler styles, with moderation in fabric usage as well as the use of darker hues. As a result, garments of this period often have a more utilitarian and masculine appearence.

The “teens,” as the 1910s are often referred to, saw sweeping changes in fashion due to the work of French designer Paul Poiret, who was largely inspired by both the exoticism and color of the Far East and the Ballet Russes. “Orientalism” in fashion became all the rage and was seen in kimono-shaped coats, capes, saturated colors, and exotic embellishments.

Popular trends included the “peg-top” silhouette with hip fullness, Paul Poiret’s narrow-at-ankle “hobble skirt”, and Mariano Fortuny’s “Delphos gown” which featured his secret pleating technique.

Tunic dresses were also introduced, and featured a short skirt layered over a longer one. Necessitated by the new shapes in fashion, the hourglass S-bend silhouette transitioned into a more column-like, tubular form with a higher waistline. Brassieres replaced tight corsets and accommodated the soft, unfitted tea gown, a popular choice for afternoon hosting. The wide-brim hat continued to be a fashionable accessory and shoes began to replace boots.

1920s

The year 1920 marked the beginning of Prohibition, as well as the end of the Suffrage Movement, with women gaining the right to vote.

King Tutankhamen’s tomb was discovered in 1922, further fueling the taste for the exotic, and creating an obsession with all things Egyptian.

The Harlem Renaissance ushered in the Jazz Age; sleeveless dresses with shorter hemlines and sequin, bead, and fringe embellishment enhanced and enabled the fast-paced dance movements of the Charleston and Fox Trot.

The "Roaring Twenties" were years of major change for both fashion and society.

Besides major cultural events inspiring change, fashion was also influenced by Art Deco through the use of straight lines and geometric forms in both silhouette and decoration. The twenties silhouette was straight and tubular, and dresses deemphasized female curves, breasts, and hips.

Chemise dresses hung straight from the body and helped created this fashionable linear silhouette. The “flapper,” with her bobbed-hair and boyish silhouette, became the epitome of the fashionable look of the period. Hemlines rose, revealing more of the female leg for the first time in dress history, and shifting the focus to shoes for the first time.

During the period, Gabrielle “Coco” Chanel popularized costume jewelry — as well as wool jersey suits.

The cloche, a bell-shaped hat, was “the” hat to have.

Small beaded purses and long beaded necklaces were popular accessories.

1930s

The defining event of the 1930s was the Great Depression.

The stock market crash of 1929 and the ensuing depression created a need for less expensive garments without elaborate ornamentation. Designers of the period therefore relied on seam lines and darts as major forms of embellishment. Clothing that was cheaper and diversified was critical, thus creating the need for ready-to-wear fashion.

The overwhelming popularity of the movies in the 1930s helped perpetuate the ideals of “Hollywood glamour.” Women began looking to screen stars for inspiration in fashion, hairstyles, makeup, and even demeanor. The movies, and the glamorous lifestyle they portrayed, were a way for the public to escape the harsh realities of the Depression.

Designers such as Elsa Schiaparelli incorporated concepts of Surrealist Art into fashion designs, offering fantastical creations that also provided a flight from reality.

The 1930s also saw the birth of American sportswear and two-piece bathing suits for women. The decade saw a continuation of the linear shape of the 1920s, but with a leaner, longer, more feminine silhouette. The waistline returned to its natural position and hemlines dropped. Evening fabrics tended to be pale or white solids of silk or satin, and the backless evening gown was introduced at this time.

French designer Madeleine Vionnet created the “Bias Cut”, which produced a “liquid” clinging effect on the body. Hats of all varieties were widely worn, and a right-angle tilt was a common way hats were styled. Shoes featured low heels and rounded toes. Costume jewelry and fur added the final touch of fashionable glamor.

1940s

World War II began in 1939, ushering in a new conservatism in fashion. Fashion designers were forced to close their houses in Paris, and “practicality” became the new buzzword in fashion, with a focus on producing sensible styles and “utility garments” which required a minimum quantity of fabric.

In the United States, the L-85 Limiting Order aimed to freeze the war-time silhouette and stop rapid seasonal changes in styles in order to conserve fabric use. Tailored suits and military-influenced styles were seen in items such as belts, breast pockets, high necklines, and small collars. Both clothing and hair were influenced by the war.

For women who worked in factories, superfluous decoration and long hair posed safety threats. Hairstyles and makeup became an integral way to achieve personal style, since clothing and accessories were rationed.

Hollywood stars such as Veronica Lake, Rita Hayworth, and Bette Davis were significant influencers of fashion. American designers began developing sportswear collections, spurred by the necessity of the war-time focus on the ideals of simplicity and utility.

Casual separates, shirtwaist dresses, slim skirts with patch pockets, and halter and square necklines became popular. Women could also be seen wearing trousers, although it was mainly for utilitarian purposes, not everyday wear. 

The 1940s silhouette was tailored and narrow, with a nipped-in waistline and squared shoulders achieved through the use of shoulder pads. Hemlines rose to just below the knee. In light of rationed fashion, hats allowed an individual fashion statement, and small styles such as veiled pillboxes and berets, often worn at a right angle, were most popular. Shoes were usually chunky with rounded toes and featured either low-heeled or wedge soles.

Leg makeup was also introduced and offered women a remedy to the rationing of nylon stockings.

More Notes: On Fashion ⚜ Writing Notes & References

[lumierexfics]

Chat Log Name : Opium kisses

chat description : Your husband, Jason Todd tries to find remedies to cure your ailments despite your pleas to not send for a physician.

online users : Husband! Jason Todd, Wife! Reader.

Chat Log Status : Victorian AU

‼️ CONTENT WARNINGS : 18+ MDNI, Second POV, Inaccurate medical treatments for the time period, Female genitalia for the reader, OOC! Jason Todd, some medical terminology, Fingering, Eating out.‼️

a/n : first time writing for Jason!

<< ao3 link

You winced in bed while your brows furrowed and your trembling and clammy hands gripped the collar of your nightgown. The painful gasps escaped your lips; pain kissed your chest underneath the layers of flesh and muscles towards your heart.

“We have let your agony stir for far too long.” Jason sat in the spare chair, holding a damp rag. “Please allow me to ring aid from the physician to cure your ailments…”

“No,” you gasped out. “I cannot—Please…”

“Please, every remedy that we have used has not been working,” He pleaded. “Nitroglycerin pills have not been working for your chest pains…”

“The physicians…” You rolled on your side, back now facing him. “I—I cannot…”

“I will be by your side.” His warm hand held your trembling shoulder. “You do not have to fear them when I am here.”

Your trembling hand gripped his hand as this thumb rubbed back and forth on your shoulder.

The breath in your throat was caught, leaving the pain in your body to ache more like a never ending wound that only bled and bled—your eyes stared at the physician, hearing the metal thud from the Gladstone bag when it was set down on the cleared bedside table.

“You say that she has been experiencing recurrent angina/chest pain and dyspnea/shortness of breath?” The doctor glanced over to Jason who was suppressing the urge to pace like a caged animal. “And she was given previous treatment by another physician who recommended bed resting with nitroglycerin pills. Am I correct, Mr. Todd?”

“Yes.” He crossed his arms. “Yet any of the treatments that any physician has given her have not helped her recover from these ailments. The pills stopped being effective last month—“

“Why have you waited this long to come for my services?” The Doctor unclamped the bag, pulling out the poorly cleaned equipment and putting it back in. “It seems that your wife has been suffering from hysteria. Unfortunately, it is a common illness nowadays but it is easily treatable.”

“Treatable, you say?” Jason walked over to your side, holding your trembling hands. “What is the treatment to cure this hysteria?”

“Internal pelvic massage till she reaches an orgasm is the recommended treatment,” The Doctor replied.

“What?” Jason replied. “There’s another treatment, right, Doctor?”

The familiar bird chirping echoed from the window that was cracked open to allow some fresh breeze inside yet it didn’t soothe the slight tension in Jason’s face that desperately tried to remain calm.

“It’s the only treatment that is viable currently, Mr. Todd.” The Doctor adjusted his wire-framed glasses. “Shall I start with the treatment now?”

“I—No, you shall not, Doctor.” Jason looked around the room to try and focus on something; other than harming the Doctor. “My apologies, Doctor but I must insist that you leave my home.”

Jason’s lips kissed the temple of your forehead, his hand interwoven with you while his knee bounced; lost in thought with his brows furrowing together.

“I am sorry, my love.” His lips kissed your inner palm. “I—I did not expect the treatment to be that invasive towards you.”

He had that look in his eyes—that somewhat mischievous glare in his eyes. He stood up in a hurry, pulling back the chair to not fall over onto the floor.

“Jason?” You asked.

“Do not worry, my love.” He went to the bedroom door. “You should rest—I will come back.���

You rubbed your eyes while you tried to focus on him—he was panting like an animal, bits of snow on his cloak, seeing the green gemstones on the false buttons of his cloak.

“Jason?” You murmured.

Jason sat down on the spare chair next to the bed, on his lap were medical books—thick ones with multiple bookmarks peeking out from the top. You sat up, staring at his furrowed brows to his downward glaze.

“My love.” He rubbed his temples while putting the books on the floor. “It looks like the pelvic massage is the only remedy that we have yet to try. Do you want to try the treatment out?”

“Doesn’t a physician…need to carry out the treatment?” You asked, your hands clutched the bedsheets.

“Indeed but I have been reading.” Jason held your hand. “My love, I will be your physician for tonight if you’ll let me care for you.”

“Jason.” You looked at him. “Be my husband not my physician…You can care for me as my husband.”

Jason peeled off his snow-covered cloak, his waist coat and he pulled back the bedsheets. The bed creaked due to him kneeling between your legs as his calloused hands parted your legs—rolling back the skirt of your nightgown, making it pool around your stomach.

His hand soothingly rubbed on the faint scars that were scattered on your legs due to previous medical treatments that didn’t work. He moved closer, between your thighs—mumbling softly. His thumb lightly grazed your folds and his other hand held your cheek.

His lips softly kissed yours, your hands gripped the back of his linen blouse while his cold nose brushed against yours which made you shiver. His hand tugged at the collar of your nightgown while the sound of fabric tearing echoed throughout the bedroom—exposing your chest.

“I’m sorry—I’m sorry, love.” He feverishly kissed your neck. “I know—your favorite…I’ll buy you another one…”

His hand hitched up your leg to wrap around his side as he left bite marks and love bites on your chest and neck. His free hand now played with your folds—up and down trying to prepare you. His lips kissed a trail from your chest to your folds while your hands gripped his curly black hair causing a trembled moan to escape your lips.

“Is it working?” His grey eyes looked up at you. “My love, are you beginning to feel better?”

“Yes—yes,” you stammered out.

His lips kissed a trail from your chest to your folds while your hands gripped his curly black hair causing a trembled moan to escape your lips.

“Is it working?” His grey eyes looked up at you. “My love, are you beginning to feel better?”

“Yes—yes,” you stammered out.

His hands lifted up your lower half as your hands gripped the bedsheets and your legs were trembling—wrapped around his head. Your gasps of pleasure echoed loudly throughout the room while his lips kissed your hip bone to your folds.

“ ‘m going to put—can I?” He asked.

“Please…Jason,” you gasped.

He slowly inserted his fingers while going in and out at a gentle pace, his eyes watched your hand rubbing your clit in a circular motion and his hand pulled your hand away from your aching clit. He leaned towards, using his thumb to rub in circles on your clit and kissing your sternum. The noise of him thrusting his fingers became the accompanying melody to your moaning.

You gasped loudly as his fingers were coated with your cum yet it wasn’t enough—he wanted to make sure that your ailments were gone. A slight pause happening, his panting breathe mixed yours—his hand cradled your cheek and a sloppy kiss started when he pulled away; the string of saliva connected you both.

“Let’s—do you want to?” He kissed your marked neck. “ ‘m going to make you feel better…”

“Yes…yes,” you said.

You helped Jason undo his cravat and undid his suspenders that now pooled at his waist. He unbuttoned his pants and leaned to gently insert him while a gasp escaped your lips.

“Are you alright?” He asked

You nodded. His lips kissed yours once more, tasting the faint juices of yourself on his tongue band and his hands held your face while he thrusted at a gentle pace.

You saw stars despite it now being the afternoon and now pressed against the mattress. You felt the bed moving due to Jason’s thrusts— his hips smacking into your backside. Your moans escaped your lips, his hands held you close and softly kissed your nape.

“Just a bit more.” His lips kissed your lips. “Can you last a bit more, love? I know that you’re gonna be a good girl for me.”

[thegreatmelodrama]

In The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes film, a line is added which reveals that Crassus Snow, Coriolanus’s father, was killed by rebels in the woods of District 12. This adds a whole new layer of depth to Snow chasing Lucy Gray through the woods in the film and the book’s climax. Specifically it makes Snow’s fear and delusions that much more complex. Not only is he deluding himself into thinking that Lucy Gray has it out for him, but he also has this added fear of not wanting to have the same fate as his father: killed by a rebel in the woods of District 12, a place that is “beneath” him in every sense of the word.

And this is a recurrent theme in both the film and the book: this struggle between becoming like his mother or his father—between that which represents good and that which represents bad.

He convinces himself that Lucy Gray must be trying to kill him and that she is a loose end that has to be taken care of. He feels completely out of control, something which he absolutely despises. This fear and powerlessness, sends him spiraling even further. He will do everything to ensure that he ends up on top and will not suffer the same fate as his father. Yet in doing the former, he essentially ensures the latter. There was some truth in the statement that Snow killed the old version of himself, however it wasn’t until his chasing of Lucy Gray through the woods that this became cemented. Coryo died that day in the woods and re-emerged Coriolanus: the spitting image of his father.

(However, it’s important to note that Snow wasn’t destined to become like his father. He had every opportunity to do and choose otherwise, and yet he didn’t)

[purrlockswatson]

Susan Kay's Phantom, WHY?

Lord save me from Erik and Christine's child. I'll never recover from all the times the existence of that child hurt me - not in a good way.

The last 80 pages really turned the grasshopper for me. Kay built a beautiful opera house, then sent a flaming, gunpowder-loaded chandelier through the roof. I enjoyed the first three-quarters of the book. It took incredible storytelling and research to build up that sprawling history only hinted at in the closing of original novel, and I love how the story made a spectacular Frankenstein Phantom from many adaptations.

But then came Christine.

Kay's afterword makes it worse for me. She states she doubts that A) Raoul would doubt Christine's love for him, and B) whether pity is a strong enough motivation for Christine to go back to Erik in spite of her fear. Ergo: Raoul was right when he suspected Christine loves Erik.

Well, I can clear up both of those points - A) Raoul is an insecure, jealous boy; B) aside from pitying Erik, Christine thought she could pacify him by going back, making pity AND fear her motivations, which she explains in Apollo's Lyre.

But Phantom's loyalty to the original is beside the point. What disturbed me about this explanation is that Kay meant it to be a love story. But there is no love.

I have already harped on to two friends about Phantom of the Opera and sexuality (thanks to @blackforrestpunk and @blackghostm2o for putting up with me). I think I can write an essay on the subject. After all, vampire fiction is my area of expertise.

⚠️Warning: Heavier subjects discussed below. I don't usually post content like this, so I thought i should give a heads up.⚠️

Leroux's Erik was never sexually attracted to Christine. All his fantasies he concerning her were purely romantic, even domestic ('a wife to keep amused on weekdays and take out on Sundays') whereas in Webber's adaptation, seduction is a recurrent theme in the Phantom's songs. There is nothing wrong with adding this extra layer to Chrsitine and Erik's relationship, as long as it doesn't overshadow their artistic bind through music.

But in Kay's Phantom, towards the ending, Erik's music becomes purely a sexual euphemism. It's a hypnotic drug that he uses to control Christine, and of course, there is that scene where he describes himself assaulting her by playing Don Juan Triumphant.

That is deeply misguided. Erik's music was his one connection to the purest, truest part of humanity. He was treated like a monster and often lives like one, yet he could express and evoke feelings that no most people could never, through his song.

And there is the child.

Erik thinks that Christine looks exactly like his mother. He speaks of her as his daughter. He is, self admittedly, old enough to be her father. And they still have a son together. There is no context, no possible way, that this is romantic. Horrible things can happen in a book. But it needs to be clear that it is horrible. Not so with this abominable ending. It was written as a romance, the bittersweet parting of starcrossed lovers. If Kay set out to write a love story for Erik and Christine, she did not do it: there is no evidence whatsoever in the text I read that Christine and Erik love one another. Erik lusts after her; Christine is drawn to his dark broody mystery. That is not love; it's Twilight.

I will reread this book for the sake of the brilliant child Erik, who I see myself in, and for Nadir and my feline lady Ayesha, but I will never be reading past Erik's delightful meetings with his old friend. As far as I'm concerned, he lived in his damp cellar in peace, with a large salary, to the end of his days.

More rants, I mean, very dignified and reasonable reviews of POTO adaptations here.

[semi-otaku]

agenda

paring: Suguru Geto x female reader summary: You are the personal assistant to Geto-sama. warnings: reader afab, pwp, semi-public sexual acts and delicious indecency, fingering, spit play?, unprotected p in v, creampie word count: 1.9k+ author’s note: I am just reviewing (perpetually editing) and reposting my stories from my main blog. Enjoy!

“What is next for today?”

You glance down at the tablet in your hands–the very same that Suguru Geto initially scoffed at when you were first hired, but slowly warmed to it as it enabled you a meticulous proficiency with his schedule. “There is the quarterly board meeting,” you muse, your finger sliding to the bottom as you review his agenda for the day, the glow of the screen reflecting your furrowed brow. “That starts in about twenty minutes. It was supposed to be a review for budgeting, but I believe it is a ploy from Kanemori-san to complain about that curse that has been plaguing him for some time now…” 

His large hand wraps around your wrist to pull you closer until you are flush against his chest, the screen pressed between you both. He tilts his chin down for his nose to follow from your earlobe along the slope of your neck, goosebumps rippling in the wake of his touch. He places a gentle kiss on the curve of your shoulder before lowering until his lips scarcely touch your collarbones that peak above the neckline of your blouse. 

A smile curls on your mouth, a delightful shudder up the length of your spine. This is a game that he often plays with any lull in his schedule–his deliberate, airy touches that make your skin rise in response. Your body was already reacting, a familiar heat coiling in your lower abdomen–something recurrent with his close proximity–and it begins to pull to the surface, burning bright.  

“You don’t want to be late, Suguru,” you almost purr his name with your exhale, but your dutiful reminder is just another part of it. Your resolve is already crumbling beneath his teeth that nip at your pulse. 

His voice is low and warm against your skin. “They can wait.” His arm moves to wrap around your waist to guide your steps backwards from the empty hallway into an adjacent, vacant room. Light is spilling through the edges of the drawn blinds, a soft golden glow that allows you enough to keep his pace until you feel the edge of a table pressing into your ass. 

He presses closer, burying his face back into the curve of your neck with a low hum that reverberates through you. 

You are still smiling–it cannot be helped with him–and you set aside the table on the table as Suguru lifts you enough to seat you on top. His hands squeeze your thighs, pushing your skirt up to slot his trimmed waist between, his touch moving behind to follow the curve of your backside and cupping your ass, pulling you back towards the edge. 

You gasp at the sudden movement, at the pressure of him, hard and heated through the wrapped layers of his yukata. It is tantalizing and you arch against him for friction, your pleasure licking back down your spine. 

He chuckles, reaching one hand to cup your chin to place a warm, chaste kiss on your mouth. 

The simple gesture broke the dam and you are desperate to drink him. Your hands grab at his broad shoulders to pull him close, wrapping around his neck and molding yourself against him, knotting your legs around his waist. You turn your head to capture his lips. 

He is smiling, you can feel it. His arms wrap back around you, just where you belong, and he nips your lower lip hard enough to earn a small whimper that he swallows. 

You gasp from the passion that he pours into you, and his tongue curls in with an intensity that licks the roof of your mouth, pulling the air from your lungs. You moan as his hand slides to your hips, his fingers dimpling into his hold of your plush thighs to anchor his slow grind against your clothed cunt. 

It thrills you. “Suguru–” you gasp again, but he stops you with two fingers coming to press onto your lips, pushing past and onto your tongue. You grab his wrist with one hand, your other holding onto him as your lips wrap around to suckle his fingers lewdly, loudly. 

His smirk stretches across his sharp jaw, and you feel his cock twitching against you. His other hand dips into the soft divot between the apex of your thighs, tracing the lace of your underwear and moving to the damp patch that formed to your folds. 

You moan again with his touch, your mouth full, and his low groan echoes, his eyelids fluttering at the sounds that spill unabandoned from you, at how wet and wanting you feel. 

His fingers hook in the band, pulling them aside as his other hand pulls away with a wet pop from your mouth, reaching to curl into your cunt. The intrusion burns at first, his touch deliberate but delicious, his dexterous fingers searching until you emit the softest sounds. Suguru hums again as you clench around him, and he returns to your sweet spot with a focused fervor, finger fucking you so deep the heel of his palm rubs against your clit that is blossoming with his ministrations. 

It pulls your pleasure hot, bright, sparking white across your eyes. You clutch to him, panting through the fabric still covering his solid chest, your arms shaking as you struggle to hold yourself upright and against him. 

But Suguru wants your focus on the heat building from his fingertips; he pulls back, his hand pressing onto your chest until you obediently lay back on the table, his other hand never faltering. You stay propped on your elbows, watching as he tilts his chin to his chest and letting spit roll off his pink tongue, falling into the wet mess between your trembling thighs. It allows him to coax a third finger into your cunt, pushing deeper with a sinful stretch that shudders through you. 

Your pleasure spills, rolling over in waves from your core with a pulse matching the rhythm of your beating heart. You try to hang on, trying not to drown as it returns to coil tightly at the base of your spine. 

“I can feel you,” he teases, leaning over until his lips ghost your earlobe. “I know you are close.” His voice is warm and husky with his rasped command: “I want you to come for me, pretty girl.”

Before you can cry out, he turns his head to capture your lips with a kiss that pushes you fully over into that promised euphoria. He continues to swallow your cry, and you gush around his digits that continue to finger fuck you to completion. 

You fall back onto the table breathless, welcoming the polished wood that cools your heated backside through your business casual. Suguru watches you for a moment before leaning over again to place an intimate kiss to your bloom of nerves above; it jolts through you, another whimper spilling from your kiss-swollen lips. 

He shifts between your thighs and you find the strength to push back to your elbows, watching as he uses the spider web sheen you left on his fingers to coat his freed cock, adding a glisten over his red flush. He steps closer to the cradle of your hips until you feel the blunt prod as he lines himself between your silken folds, with shallow thrusts that allow him to slowly sheath inside of you. 

Your mouth opens with a wordless cry, arching into the sensation, the fullness, the delicious stretch still despite how he always prepares you. White stars burst in front of your eyes with the slow rhythm of his hips against yours that push deeper, deeper. 

The sound you finally make is a pitiful mewl, and you grab to pull yourself upright to cant your hips to meet with his motion, rocking into his powerful thrusts. His large hands help to hold you as he continues to fuck you and you look up to see his rosy cheeks, his brow furrowing, almost entranced with the in-and-out motion. 

He stops with the beginning flutter of your velvet walls, a pause on your pleasure. You whine at first, and again when one of his hands moves between the valley of your breasts with a gentle push until you are laying back on display for him to tower over. 

He loves to savor the salacious sight you made: your thighs spread to accommodate him and your skirt bunched up around your waist, your blouse wrinkled with your bralette peering through the few buttons undone. He loves this sense of control over you, relishing in how you unravel around his fingers or his cock, watching the sticky suction of your pussy pulling him back in and the white ring that wraps around the base of his cock. 

You also enjoy these stolen intimate moments, but you prefer the privacy that allows you to see him, to see all of him–his chiseled chest and broad shoulders stained with rose tones, his trimmed waist taught as he pistons between your thighs. 

But you will take what you have in this moment and you watch him under your hooded gaze, your tongue touching your fingertips before you dip to touch yourself, a bit of spit breaking onto your chin. You can feel your blood rushing to meet your fingers and the gesture ignites something primal within Suguru: the black swallowing the amethyst of his eyes, his pace growing brutal, almost desperate. 

Your pleasure returns with a torrid pour over. Your tears pearling and streaking down your cheeks as your cunt clenches with your second release that pulls Suguru after. He continues to pound into you, pulsing hot and deep, his hips pressing flush against yours. 

Silence settles over, a quiet moment for you to peer up at him. He looks godly above you with the muss of his obsidian hair that is framing his flushed features. His eyes take you in before he leans over once more for another sweet kiss on your mouth. 

“Geto! Give me Geto!”

The panic shrill echoes out in the hallway, tearing through this sliver of solitude. 

And it continues, relentless, grating through the thin walls. “Damn it, do you know how much I’ve paid you?!”

Suguru pulls away from you. He is quick to straighten his robes and tuck himself away, his green and golden kāṣāya positioned to hide away any possible unsightly stains. His large hands reach to unknot his hair, his fingers combing through to smooth. 

Geto-sama is now poised in front of you. “How much?” He asks as he twists half of his hair up.

You sit upright, ignoring the spill between your thighs that soaks through your already ruined underwear, and you grab for the tablet. “About one hundred and five million yen,” you report, looking up to meet with his gaze, “but there have been no donations for the prior six months.” 

He hums and moves close to press a kiss to your hairline; it flutters through you. “You are dismissed for today. Have my driver take you back to my place to clean up.” 

You do not want to leave him. “I can pick up Mimiko and Nanako from school after that,” you offer. 

His eyes settle back on you before he captures your lips again, a proper kiss with the lustful curl of his tongue that draws the air from your lungs. You feel as if you are floating. “Only if you stay to have dinner with us,” he counters, his finger curling under your jaw and his thumb pressing into your chin. 

You nod, rooted with his touch, and he gives you another quick kiss before he slips back out into the hallway, leaving you alone.

arcie's navigation // jujutsu kaisen masterlist

[pumpkinbxtch]

𓇼 the sun & the sea 𓇼 〰✷〰

— apollo / lester x daughter of poseidon!reader

part i | part ii | part iii | part iv

☆ radiostar is playin': a 1000 times by hamilton leithauser + rostam…!

warnings: if you had already read trials of apollo… none, mentions of death (you know who) taglist: @emidpsandia

Five months. 

Five months had passed since you couldn't have a good night's sleep. At first, it bothered you as they were just visions of something you didn't understand, then… upon seeing those brown curls, blue eyes.

His blue eyes were filled with determination, he was going to do it. Your heart raced, and you denied it while trying to do something, although you knew it was useless.

If Apollo let that arrow pierce him, everything would end, but he would save his friends (who were also yours), then your heart skipped a beat, seeing him like that; with his hands fighting his own survival instinct, the arrowhead threatening to sink deeper into his chest. All for Meg, for Jason and Piper. You realized he was indeed changing.

When one of those strange creatures approached him trying to remove the arrow, he clenched his lips and forcefully plunged it into his chest. Without a word. His blood soon soaked his shirt and you saw him fall to his knees.

—Apollo! —You woke up screaming one night and your roommate at the New Rome campus looked at you closely from her desk, and you knew she wasn't doing it because was friendly, but because it was too recurrent.

— Again —she said with noticeable annoyance in her voice as she went back to writing in her notebook. You settled back into your bed and covered your face in embarrassment, Romans could be too cold.

For almost the rest of the night, you tossed and turned in your bed trying to calm your breathing, you simply couldn't get used to it.

“In fact, it's quite normal, sister…” Percy said months ago, with a nervous expression. He knew exactly what was happening, but he preferred you to figure it out on your own, something you had already done more than enough by now.

You worried about your friends and you couldn't stay still, especially after what you just dreamed. But there was no way to communicate with them, apparently any form of communication had been failing for a while, and if everything went to hell…

You touched your chest at the same spot where Apollo had plunged the arrow, it was as if you could feel that pain too. You closed your eyes and only imagined him. His brown curls that played peculiarly with the blue eyes. Some freckles surrounded his nose and the pimples added a special touch, although you must have found him unattractive, over time you found him adorable. Your brain battled daily with the mix of feelings it had to process, and then another question attacked you overwhelmingly.

If that was shown to you, could he have also had a dream about you? And if so, what would he have seen? Maybe you studying, staying up those nights when the university cruelly took you by the neck or when visions of him and Meg roamed your mind, leaving you with so many questions. You grabbed the sheets anxiously and felt heat in your cheeks, did he see when you cursed him the first nights?, when you started crying for him?, when you started longing for him? You sighed and covered yourself up to your nose.

"One will long while the other fight, nothing more to do even if you try."

Everything still felt stupid, senseless, but you wanted to know.

And although you didn't know it, the answer was yes, and even if it wasn't as often as your visions, Apollo didn't need more to love you. Over time, on his mission, that feeling had only grown and matured.

He wouldn't lie to himself, he was at your knees the first time he saw you. But his layers of selfishness and superiority only forced him to see you as a mere mortal, probably capable of making him probably happy, all looking at him unilaterally and as an experiment. Considering that, he looked back, and he understood perfectly Poseidon and all those who doubted that prophecy, because of his ways and the risk that such a beautiful person as you would run. 

Apollo only hoped that would change from now on with the new vision he had, being honest with himself, especially because now he not only wanted to be loved, but also to love you, to make you happy. He wanted to be a good man for you and he would not stop working for that.

Neither of you was prepared to face the following week. You just made your way through the crowd, spotted Reyna and Frank up front with hardened looks, but you could see Frank biting his lips, which never indicated anything good. Hazel made her way through the crowd and everyone looked to the center, you resisted the urge to run when you saw Apollo in the middle as the center of attention along with Meg, both holding hands and looking tired. Beside him, a coffin. And if they had traveled from afar to get to Camp Jupiter…

The world seemed to stop when Apollo's voice spread as much as it could singing the news, and while everyone held a scream, he made everyone's fear real. Jason was dead.

You couldn't believe it, five months, and the first time you saw Apollo again was carrying the coffin of one of your friends. You just ran back to New Rome again.

—Come on, get out of there —Reyna said, after Hazel tried for an hour. That was playing dirty because you couldn't refuse Reyna, the scandal that would be made in the dormitories would be too much. You opened the door. Both girls sighed in relief and hugged you.

—What the hell, Reyna? —You sobbed and looked into the eyes of the brunette. She just bit her lip, but her watery eyes betrayed her. Hazel just kept that face where she tried to control herself.

—We'll talk about it later, okay? I think you have pending issues that need to be addressed. You know Lester is here.—You frowned, and your teary eyes started shedding new tears.

—What? —Your voice broke in the middle of the word and Reyna took you by the cheeks, nodding, trying to calm you down.

—We'll cry and celebrate the funeral as it should be. But we're still here, you're still here.—Hazel nodded and both dragged you back to your bedroom, closing the door behind them.

—I think if you don't talk to him, he won't be able to concentrate and he'll end up ruining everything—Reyna said with a hint of humor in her tone while she braided your hair. Hazel wiped away your tears and smiled weakly.

—Oh, How? —You didn't remember sharing anything with anyone.

—The last time Percy came—Hazel laughed seeing your expression and you closed your eyes trying not to curse your brother.

—He's a damn gossip —You muttered.

New Rome had never looked so empty and sad, you walked through the almost empty streets and saw the vendors holding a sad smile on their lips. Then, you looked at him and it was like looking at light in a dark place.

—Um, Hi —he said, cheeks noticeably flushed. His hands were hidden behind his back, and he constantly swayed back and forth on his heels and tiptoes. You had no idea how you should react.

—Apollo?—your surprise was too evident and he didn't avoid nervously smiling, you took a step and he took another step back, preventing you from getting closer. You raised an eyebrow and Apollo showed what he had hidden behind his back, which was a bunch of freshly cut flowers. He had asked Meg to grow a few for you.

Seeing that this time, you didn't try to advance towards him, he felt embarrassed because he had probably crossed a line and tried too hard to his luck.

—I'm sorry, —he took another step back— I just know you don't feel so much revulsion towards me and they told me you know, well, I…— He fell silent feeling your arms carefully wrapping around his torso and that confirmed to him that you had also had those visions, there would be no other way for you to know about his wound.

His scent flooded your senses, it was a kind of mixture between soap and cologne that they probably would have lent him after showering upon arrival. Although your head was resting on his shoulder, you could hear his heartbeats almost shouting in your ear and Apollo never felt so close to dying, even with those difficult months on his back, visible on his skin with every mark and scar, some visible in places where the clothes didn't cover. When he placed a hand on your back closing the hug, you reaffirmed your grip, you had never held someone like this before.

Apollo didn't know how to react. His hands started sweating and he prayed not to do anything dumb, but the butterflies in his stomach didn't seem to be helping. Never in so many years did he feel like he had arrived at some home until you hugged him like that, and the least he wanted to do was make you feel the same. 

When he couldn't resist the urge to look at your face anymore, he pulled away and you looked at him attentively, although in your mind you were still dealing with processing that. Were you already lovers? Were you something? It was hard to know because you had never exchanged more than two words.

—I think I've dreamed about you at least a thousand times—He said, laughing painfully struggling, so his voice wouldn't break. He felt terribly sorry that his meeting with you wasn't merely another stop on his mission, even without knowing what the result of all this would be and especially that the emotional disposition of both of you was fragmented by Jason's death, he feared you would blame him, but you didn't. 

You smiled, and his knees failed him. He didn't want all that to stop him from having a couple of moments with you, after all, he wasn't a hundred percent sure of coming out of it safely either and, but yes, that if he had to give his life for others… even he surprised himself by not hesitating for two seconds.

—Me too—You admitted and took the flowers from his hand, keeping your gaze on the ground and he sought your eyes, he leaned down to your height and with his index finger on your chin gently lifted your head. He didn't know where he got that bold move from, but shortly after, Apollo felt his face burning.

—I don't have much time, nor will I be around for long because nothing is close to ending, but I want to spend with you the time I can.— Even though Apollo sounded determined and very serious about it, you let out a small laugh. He was completely flushed and biting his lips eagerly.

It seemed fair to you. And so it was, you took any opportunity to be together, to get to know each other and talk. never talked about the prophecy or what happened before because you could do that later, what mattered now was being able to share. To be honest, Apollo was also about to die at Camp Jupiter, but at least you could help him, be by his side and when they finished dealing with a bunch of zombies…

—I'll see you…—He wanted to say “soon” but he couldn't lie to you. He stroked your cheek and smiled shyly. His cinnamon curls waved with the breeze that brought the smell of your perfume and Apollo never wished so much to kiss you, but he had to resist.

—We still have things to talk about…—He nodded and you pulled him from the edge of his sweater to hug him.

Meg rolled her eyes while Reyna, Hazel, and Frank looked like the audience of a wedding, the son of Mars seemed to be on the verge of tears.

—It's just that he's so…—He blew his nose and Hazel stroked his arm.

—Don't get distracted by this. My wife has to graduate—He joked as he let go of your hand. You raised an eyebrow and smiled.

—I never said I was going to marry you.—Apollo nodded with a stupid smile and began to walk towards the camp's exit, he turned his head and widened his smile even more. He didn't want to stop seeing you until he really had to.

—But come back! —You shouted and he said goodbye, waving his hand. When he turned his gaze forward, fear invaded him.

“Do you think you can do it, Apollo?” Python asked in his dreams the night before. “Maybe just imagining her dressed in white is all you have”

—We will achieve it—Meg said, taking his hand, which he thanked.—You will see her again and you will do your stupid little romantic things.—Apollo let out a nervous laugh and nodded with tears on the edges of his eyes.

—Of course.

[fusionsprunt]

Wait, if hunter then wears layers and layers of clothing to evade contact with sunrays, does he feel heat when he goes outside like that? Like, he can have a heat stroke?

Heat strokes would be a recurrent issue for Hunter, if it wasn't for these:

The water he consumes is stored in a reservoir and primarly used to cool his systems down.

[logorrhea5mip]

As you might know, the sky is due to get a new star any time now, in a few months at most.

What is happening? The recurrent nova T Coronae Borealis, by far the brightest one known, is a star* in the northern constellation Corona Borealis that, once every 80 years or so, increases in brightness from completely invisible by naked eye to among the ~100 brightest in the night sky. This increase is called a nova, from the Latin word for new, as it looks like a new star has appeared.

Where can i see it from? Basically all human inhabited latitudes, all except the far south. In the northern latitudes, however it is visible the entire night, while near and below the equator you will need to 'catch' it at the right time of night, which in August and September is just after sunset.

How will it look? Let's not get your hopes up too high. It will, at the brightest, reach a magnitude around 2 at most, so about as bright as the north star, relatively unremarkable and completely unnoticeable as unique to someone who doesn't know where to look. But still, it's the most visible sudden change to the relatively fixed pattern of the heavens any of us will live to see, so you should still go give it a look.

Where is it? Currently, the constellation is best visible about 1 or 2 hours after sunset. You will need to be relatively far away from light pollution, so at least a couple dozen stars are clearly visible. While learning the constellations, and finding the star by orienting via those is imho half the fun, you could use one of many sky map apps and websites to tell you the star's location. If it didn't happen yet, there should be nothing visible at that location. However, if there is, congrats! You just did an astronomy™ :3

It will appear in the circle next to the star labeled ε

Why is this happening? Most stars spend most of their lives in a stable, hydrogen fusing state. However, when hydrogen in their cores begins to run out, they switch to helium fusion, which makes them swell up to enormous sizes, turn red due to lower surface temperature, and are thus called red giants. After this helium runs out, the star will (in most cases) throw off the inflated outer layers, while its hot, dense core shrinks and keeps on glowing due to how hot it is, while not actually doing any fusion and not producing any new energy. Those are called white dwarfs, and because they don't fuse, aren't technically stars at all, therefore the asterisk in the first sentence of this post. The T-CrBo system is a red giant and white dwarf binary, where the red giant has grown so big, that the parts of it closest to its partner aren't gravitationally bound to it anymore. Therefore, the gas falls and accumulates on the white dwarf's surface (which otherwise has no hydrogen on its own), untill a critical point is reached where the pressure of the gas causes it to all fuse at once, resulting in a huge thermonuclear explosion bright enough to be seen from over 2500 light years. The explosion however, isn't big enough to blow the dwarf apart, and it starts accumulating new matter from its partner right away. Because of this, it with re-explodes every 8 decades, and it is due to go any day now.

@green-mountain-goose @brightgreendandelions

[koenigami]

swimming lesson gone wrong with wriothesley. tags : fem!reader, fluff, pining, reader cannot swim wc : 1,4k

-

Rays of sunshine glimmer in the reflection of the sea while its distinct salty odour invades your nostrils, a light breeze sweeping through your hair. And while desperately trying to tame the wild locks, you realise that this could be such a wonderful scenery to enjoy if it weren’t for your clammy hands and the gigantic ball of doom resting in the pit of your stomach.

“Can’t we just sunbathe?” You sound rather sheepish as you let your naked toes wiggle in the sand, feeling the tiny corns slip through their crevices while you unconsciously dig yourself deeper into the ground beneath you. 

“We can.” Wriothesely states throwing a lazy grin at you over his shoulders before shedding each layer of fabric off his body, revealing scarred, bare skin and muscles that would make any other woman let herself drown in the sea just to get rescued by this adonis of a man. However right now, it’s not his astonishing looks that make your pulse ricochet but rather the sight of the recurrent waves that wash up on the shore and retreat back to the sea. Others consider it a pleasant, even relaxing movement while your body reacts as if it were the most vile thing you had ever laid your eyes upon, leaving you with nausea and dizziness. “But not now. Ever heard of work first, play later?” 

The lighthearted chuckle that he lets out when you mockingly repeat his words is enough to ease your mind for at least a little bit. Though in lieu of being in need of his comfort, you would much rather appreciate it if you could just stay on dry land, sprawled on your dry towel in a dry bikini. Instead, you feel the tight, stretchy fabric of the one piece swimsuit that you’re wearing cling to your body in a way that seems like it is restricting and suffocating you more and more with each passing second. 

Your fear is evident, Wriothesely can tell by the way you’re unintentionally making yourself look smaller, arms folded over your chest, and gaze not going any further than five feet in front of you. The view of the vast ocean obviously intimidates you now that you know that you’ll soon be inside of it. 

With tentative steps, he pads through the hot sand and approaches you. “You know that you have the last say in this, right?” What the sun does to you on the outside, is what his deep, steady voice does to you on the inside. You redirect your stare when you feel a reassuring hand of his settle on your shoulder, forcing you to look into another deep pool of blue. “We don’t have to do this today. Or at all.” 

Even though he’s speaking his words truthfully, Wriothesely has to admit that it would appease him a lot if he knew that you would not sink like a rock as soon as you stepped into water. 

“Is there anything that you can’t do?” He had uttered his rhetorical question earlier this week after you brought him a freshly brewed cup of tea and the exact documents of a newly admitted inmate. Getting his hands on them had turned out to be not quite as easy as he had initially thought, though with you being a renowned lawyer at the Palais Mermonia and having more than a handful of connections, you had managed to get access to all the official papers that Wriothesley needed. Leaning your hip against his desk, you lightly tapped your chin in thought with that sweet smile of yours that could brighten even the darkest corner of his office. 

“I can’t swim.” You confessed simply as if telling him that the sky was blue. “P-Pardon?” 

Wriothesley’s reaction was one that you were used to, especially because most Fontanians reacted similarly after telling them that you were a non-swimmer. Being afraid of water while living in a region that was surrounded by nothing but water and even ruled by the hydro archon; yes, a little ironic. 

You don’t remember what part of your conversation had deviated into Wriothesley offering you swimming lessons on your free days, and what part of your brain deemed it smart to accept said offer, but what you know was that there is no going back. 

So with a deep sigh and lopsided smile, you reassure him that you want to do this. That you can do this. 

-

In fact, you cannot do this, you realise once you feel the waves slosh around your waist.

Their weight pulls and pushes you back and forth, and even though you’re aware that it’s not some incredible strength, you and your fear stricken mind can’t help but imagine scenarios of you helplessly being carried through the depths of the ocean like a weightless leaf being thrown around by the winds. 

“You’re too tense.” Your lips part in a silent gasp when warm air tickles your ear, and Wriothesley’s hands settle on your upper arms. The light, barely tangible circles that his thumbs draw along your skin are something that he does unintentionally, though they make your stiff shoulders drop the slightest bit and let the air flow easier into your lungs. 

You’re safe; a constant reminder to yourself once you become aware of his proximity as the steady rhythm of his breaths lulls you into a trance.

For a short moment, you’re at peace. You let your fingers dance along the surface of the sea, dipping your hands inside and pushing the water back and forth as if being able to wield the power of hydro. Yes, you’re in control. You’re safe. You’re in control. You’re safe. You’re-

“Wriothesley-” There’s a sudden splash in the distance. Loud noise. Children screaming and laughing all of a sudden and ducks frantically quacking and flapping their wings as they flee the scene, flying away above your heads into the far distance of the horizon. 

You don’t realise how fast everything happened until you find yourself in the Duke’s arms, his sturdy chest against your soft breasts, so close that you swear he can feel the fast beat of your heart. He caught you. Of course he did. “Seems like we got some company.”

Looking past his shoulder, you see a group of people not too far away from you. Two adults and two children…a family. You watch the young girl and boy look up the cliff with wide sparkling eyes, amazed by their father as he jumps and dives into the water. Applause and more happy giggles and laughter follow, though all you can feel right now is the heat in your face as you unintentionally bury it back into Wriothesley’s neck. 

So that is what scared you. 

“Hey.” You feel his body vibrate against yours as he laughs, and you witness yourself refusing to look at him. “It’s alright. I should have expected that other swimmers might make you feel uncomfortable.”

“This is so embarrassing.” You miss his toothy grin as you mumble against his skin, pressing your face further into him as if he were a portal through which you could make yourself disappear forever. 

“It’s not.” And he laughs again when you smack his chest, a response to the hidden sarcasm behind his words. “Alright, maybe a little.” But he truly could not care less. You’re always so pulled together, so determined, so placid, so… you. Countless times, he has tried to get under your skin, be it with overly exaggerated sweet talk that would make you roll your pretty eyes in faux annoyance, or certain gestures just to get a reaction out of you. It never happened. You take everything he gives you with a certain naturalness that would make it seem as if his casual compliments are a matter of course, as if the gentle brush of his hand to get your hair out of your face while you work on a report is normal between people like you and him. Whether it is because you’re overly comfortable in his presence or because you’ve decided for yourself that you’re too far out of his reach to give his moves any mind, Wriothesley tries not to think too much about it. And if this current side of you might be one that not many people get to see, then he’ll absolutely make sure to treasure it like a precious, fragile gem. Just like he does with every other interaction that he has with you.  

[1800titz]

Chapter 3 of Fetish: coming to tumblr (5/12/25) at 2 PM EST

little sneaky

“Hi. I, uh— I have scones. There’s, uh. Three of them, here,” Y/N launches, glancing down at the paper bag and nearly prying it open as she over-explains the unanticipated visit. “They’re not poisoned,” she tacks on, lashes fluttering as her nervous system forges on in overdrive, and the idiotic statement nearly has her gnawing her tongue in half the second the words slip off its textured, wet landing, “…don’t worry.”

With all the energy of a man limned in fatigue, facing a door dash delivery he’d never ordered, Harry blinks.

Y/N is a nice girl. Up until only a few days ago, in fact, Y/N had been just about the picture-perfect definition of Harry’s ideal next-door tenant; relatively reserved and just polite enough to bypass the awkward inconvenience that rode on the recurrent issue of their mail interchanging. There was, of course, the misaligned streak of vigilantism, but at her core, Harry’s sure that Y/N is still a nice girl. 

This theory in mind, the curly-haired brunette genuinely feels a little bad at the level of amusement swelling up within him as he watches her, with no apparent trigger, self-destruct in real time. Although, if he’s being entirely honest, it’s only a faint echo of a thought— all things considered— and is significantly outweighed by his mirth.

There’s a flavor of entertainment— a rare, emotional genre that lives in that exclusive umbra between secondhand embarrassment and morbid fascination, the kind that morally treads the same bandwidth as laughing at a video of someone getting hurt in an unpredictably ridiculous manner. And Harry— still fuzzy around the edges with the kind of creeping, misty stage of somnolence that dozing off midday entails (he’d been in the midst of a particularly important ritual; lying spread-eagled on the couch with one leg kicked up onto the back, half-engrossed in a documentary on luxury trains, eating dry cereal out of the bag when the drowsiness started settling like fog in the hollows of his limbs)— watches Y/N flounder with the same mild fascination he reserves for Youtube compilation videos of cats falling off of countertops. 

Her hair is slung up into a messy, haphazard updo, loose strands climbing out and stretching in soft static wisps to cup her cheekbones, and she’s wearing a short sleeve brown tee with a small Sip Happens logo embroidered over the left corner of her chest. It’s a coffee shop that the existence of vaguely lives in the dells of his memory, based on how often the man passes by it on his runs, and the wardrobe choice implies she’s either an avid punch-card user, or she works there. Tiny, almost imperceptible dry flakes of mascara cling to the soft skin of her under-eyes, like the layer of pigment has crumbled off her lashes over the course of the morning. Her cheeks are flushed as if she’s run a mile, and her grin (if it can even be called that) resembles trembling enamel more than friendliness. It’s cute in a way that probably shouldn’t be, doesn’t intend to be. Oddly endearing.

Apparently she has baked goods— scones, three of them, unpoisoned (which is a mildly relevant detail)— and she feels the need to announce it, so, based on context clues, he can only assume this element is related to her presence at his doorway. He thinks he can deduce what this is supposed to be (apology with a capital A; one that comes wrapped around café-sourced penance), but he hasn’t quite uncurled the warmth from the stretch of skin where his forearm had pressed into the couch for two hours too long, and her dewy pupils are cha-chaing behind her lashes like she wants something from him, so.

“Hey,” Harry murmurs, finally. His voice sounds thick (aggressively all too familiar to the kind of husky sounds she’s heard from the other side of the wall); vocal cords blatantly weathered in sleep, (verve cudgeled in sex, palm probably all sore and stingy from)—

The curly-haired brunette clears his throat, and Y/N simmers in the heat welling up under her skin. 

“Are these—“ Harry nudges with his chin, pointedly into the direction of the paper bag lodged under her clammy fingers, “…are you sharing?” 

“Yes! Yeah. They’re, well,” she holds the bag out to him, her tone laced with only the kind of over-enthused notes nervousness could conduct, “they’re for you, actually.”

Slowly, one of his hands reaches out, and as he locks his fingers over the side of the bag— right beneath where she’s got her own grip clasped over the haphazardly rolled top— the only thought that the young woman can conjure is a hysteria-laden mental-screencap of an image she’d rather not describe out loud.

As if entirely to dismantle Y/N’s sanity, the sheer size of his palms and the way they cradle the bag as she hands it off is enough to make her feel like something vile and wicked is clumsily somersaulting in her stomach. The indisputable fact is this: they are just hands. Long, delicately svelte fingers; colossal, massively, unjustifiably large hands, but hands nonetheless. 

The other irrefutable fact? These are hands Y/N has watched in incredibly obscene action. 

The thing is, by all technicalities, he is so soft, and his current state does no favors to dispute this impression. Right now, sleep-tousled and low-toned, words spilling like honeyed molasses in the languorous husk of his words, the whiplash spills through her like dense ink. Delicate tattoos reside over and under his kneecaps in fine lines, and in every other circumstance, a soft beam chisels dimples into his cheeks as he casually toes the line between real, alive man and fresco escapee. Behind the door somewhere, he’s got a rabbit called Snuggles, and that’s the brutal anomaly, Y/N decides. It is the foundation to which the geometric edges of her brain refuse to bend around. Because there is a fine, fine line in the way his soft, indigo-lacquered hands stretch out to accept an olive branch sown from overly-processed carbohydrates, and the way they move on camera; the way they plant flat, open-palmed blows on warm skin like bruising kisses, the way they trace the pink welts smacked alive in their wake with a delicacy reserved for reverence. They’re strong, rugged, steadfast, mean—

The young woman’s molars squeeze into the smooth, gummy lining along the inside of her cheek. There’s a little vein that runs up along his wrist, and that tendon bracketed by that jut of bone flexes in a manner so heavenly when he pauses to shake his fingers out. The bag, by no surprise, is dwarfed in his grip, and Y/N stands there with his eyes feeling like sticky, heavy inkpools drilling her into place. 

“How thoughtful,” Harry responds, eventually, faux musing, and an undeniable, little smile teases at the corners of his mouth on the latter fragment of the statement, “thank you for the… unpoisoned scones.” 

Sensing the man’s amusement at her awkward introduction, Y/N restrains the vivid sense of embarrassment that buoys to the surface, instead opting to tell him, “Right! Yeah. You’re welcome,” as her face flushes. With the original point of the delivery in mind, the girl clears her throat. “It’s… well, it’s actually, like, an apology-slash-please-don’t-sue-me gift,” she admits, gnawing into her lower lip. 

He leans a shoulder onto the doorframe then, brows shifting (rising) just a smidge, as an almost imperceptible symbolism of intrigue, before they settle back into place. “Is that hyphenated?”

Y/N stares. 

“Apology-slash-please-don’t-sue-me gift.”

“I— maybe?”

For a moment, her neighbor doesn’t say anything. Meaty arms crossed, paper bag hanging out from the hand that’s tucked under inky, smooth muscle, dark, cherubic ringlets coiling around his forehead. He purses his pink mouth like he’s biting back another simper, and then he sighs theatrically. 

“I won’t sue you,” he murmurs, faux-rolling his eyes playfully, as if the notion involves him being the bigger person and shedding a grudge, rather than letting her settle into a rightfully earned consequence. “Do you wanna come in, then? Miss Hyphens. I’ve got tea.”

His teeth— the front two, blocky and just a tad longer than the others— gently lodge over his plump lower lip expectantly. “Or coffee,” he tacks on, casting his gaze briefly onto her workwear. “Whatever goes with… scones.”

[shadowgast-recs-weekly]

Works in Progress Recs

This week, we've got nine (nein) works in progress to ring in the new year with! Check them out beneath the cut, and as always (but especially for works in progress) - if you like them, be sure to let the author know!

A Favor Accepted by Samjoinedthereconcorps (211727, General)

Reccer's Content Notes: Graphic Depictions of Violence

Picks up after canon right after the Essek reveal, Essek goes to Rumblecusp with the Mighty Nein and works to earn back their trust. Feelings with Caleb ensue.

Reccer says: The slow burn for the two builds up off of what has been shown in canon but viewed through a Shadowgast lens, making the characterizations feel grounded and accurate. The Mighty Nein dynamic and how the bring Essek into their fold is just great :)

Re-sublimity by OMGitsgreen (18505, Mature)

Reccer's Content Notes: No Content Notes

What happens when one who should be long dead is suddenly once again in front of you? Their voice, their face, even seemingly their morals and inclinations? A Shadowgast Jupiter Ascending AU, where Caleb while visiting the planet of Roshona with the Nein for spaceship repairs learns his existence itself proves astronomically impossible odds: a true Recurrence.

Reccer says: I'm StreetwiseFool on Ao3. I have ADORED this work for the years since it's latest update. I will adore it evermore. Please give it love, as I yearn for that final chapter. It takes the most fun concepts from the (not so great) film where derives its au plot and makes it SO heartrenchingly shadowgast and spectacular. There's whump, there's affection, all of the Nein are wonderfully done here. Plus I love how they adapted the film's worldbuilding to Exandria's and vice versa. My heart broke in the best way and you can't help but fervently wonder how it'll all play out as you read. I hope the author sees this and knows no matter finished or unfinished I'll love this work forever. I'm stoked for the chance to recommend it.

Wizard Brunch by RainbowBard (25485, Mature)

Reccer's Content Notes: No Content Notes

Essek gets a mysterious message from a stranger asking if he wants to join him for brunch.

Reccer says: I love this. The idea of Essek meeting and hanging out with Gilmore is something that should happen all of the time.

Fortune's Favor (Fortune's Fools) by Flashhwing (30289, Teen)

Reccer's Content Notes: Choose Not to Warn

Essek gets stuck in the past and meets the M9 while they are still disorganised hot messes. Artagan is along for the ride.

Reccer says: It was probably the first Shadowgast and M9 fic I read and it set the tone.

the golden thread around your neck whispered visions of my undoing by MarsBar2019 (191412, Explicit)

Reccer's Content Notes: Choose Not to Warn

Caleb Widogast does not belong here.

Reccer says: The best sort of plotty smut.

Soak me in your sin by witches_chant (12712, Explicit)

Reccer's Content Notes: Dubcon/Consensual Non Consent

When Essek and Caleb confess that they have had secret, slightly exotifying fantasies about each other, they decide to test it out in role-play. The indulgent weekend brings them closer together, and reveals new layers of both their sexuality and darkness.

Reccer says: Delicious cnc rp between Caleb and Essek!

Cascade Effect by firefright (6867, Teen)

Reccer's Content Notes: Omegaverse

Essek follows the Nein into Aeor, where the already daunting task of saving the world is further complicated by yet another twist in his and Caleb's fractured relationship.

Reccer says: Always here for some good omegaverse! A wonderful take on how Essek and Caleb's relationship has become strained after the exposure of Essek’s lies.

Temporal Shunt (The Art of Vanishing in Place) by Inanerial (43419, Mature)

Reccer's Content Notes: Graphic Depictions of Violence

Essek struggles with past trauma and his eating disorder

Reccer says: A wonderful look into a possible Thelyss family dynamic that takes into account the religious trauma Essek might have experienced. The food struggle is real and handled very well.

The Kitchen Sink by mousecookie (17126, Mature)

Reccer's Content Notes: No Content Notes

Modern AU - Caleb has many odd jobs, which means he keeps accidentally running into supermodel Essek Thelyss, who is concerned Caleb might be following him (he’s not)

Reccer says: Very cute and scratches multiple ‘modern AU’ tropes at once (coffee shop, superstar, museum curator, etc)

This is one of our weekly communally-generated shadowgast rec lists. Every week we announce a new theme and allow anyone to submit a fic recommendation. 

And hey, anyone includes you!

Next week, we'll be featuring BDSM!

Any fics coming to mind? Well, then use this form to submit!

[nekohime19]

Macaque study # S3 SPECIALS

Macaque in season 3 was a whole ride, really. The specials are quite literally the following of season 3 and it ties up quite nicely everything that has been already established beforehand!

So I would like to creates this time frame of Macaque in season 3 before we dive in the specials :

EP 1 : Macaque being established as a villain working for LBD yet we see he's nervous and frantic which is unusual for him.

EP 2 : Macaque as a threat that follows the team (and thus was not defeated the previous episode, it establish him as a recurrent villain this season)

EP 4 : Macaque goals does not align fully with LBD, he's about survival and he's playing a two-faced game by trying to balance the scale between LBD and MK.

EP 8 : Macaque first betrayal of LBD after learning of the samadhi fire but she gets a hold of him and chains him.

EP 9 : Macaque being desperate and his second betrayal of LBD, he goes after the samadhi fire for himself.

EP 10 : Macaque achieving his goals of freedom and fleeing away from this mess + MK proving Macaque wrong about heroes.

-> All in all, I do think season 3 was really tied up nicely concerning Macaque developpement. Like I said in my first study, LMK is a short series with not a lot of time, so every appearance is pivotal. We cannot have multiple episodes of Macaque hating LBD to really dig into our heads that he's not on her side, one or two scenes are enough for that, they have to be enough. You can feel like Macaque development is fast-paced but in reality it's just the kind of show LMK is, every appearance is meant to add layers. Here everything follow a logical order : you cannot have Macaque's first betrayal in EP 8 without establishing that his goals do not align with LBD beforehand (EP 4).

Now let's delve into the specials!

By theory, Macaque shouldn't return. He has everything he wanted this season : freedom. Yet he does return. He saves MK from the possessed Wukong by portalling him away.

This lil action tells us two things :

First, Macaque never left. He presumably stayed close to MK to watch the events unfold and when MK was put in danger he decided to intervene. This shows that Macaque does care about MK enough to stay behind even if he has the choice no to, but at the same time Macaque doesn't feel confident enough to reveal himself until MK is put in danger. And even then he doesn't show himself, perhaps because a possessed Wukong is quite intimidating and LBD is still near.

Second, Macaque portals MK where Mei is training with Red Son. This is not a coincidence. Clearly he meant for MK to be in a safe environment with known faces. And it also shows that it's not just MK that Macaque has been keeping an eye on after his flee but the whole team.

This scene serves us as an audience to indicate that Macaque did not leave but at the same time he's not fully on the team yet, even if he helps he does not reveal himself.

We see Macaque again some time after when the team are all together. It's interesting to see that Macaque chose to appear from Red Son shadow.

At the moment Red Son was the most isolated person of the team, while everyone was at the front of the frame, he was in the background.

Macaque chose to appear in Red Son shadow specifically because :

First, he came as an ally and didn't want to appear threatening. It would have spooked the team way more if he suddenly appeared in front of them. He was also perhaps more nervous than he appeared and wanted to put some distance between him and the team.

Second, it held significance. Red Son is here as a “reformed villain”, or at least he's here to help. Having Macaque emerge out of Red Son's shadow is a way to portray the same intentions : Macaque wanting to help.

Macaque : I hope I'm not interrupting. But if you're making a plan to defeat the Lady Bone Demon, I know a guy who might be able to help.

He makes his intentions clear by calling out the team plan, and offers them what I'll call a “peace offering” to be more easily accepted. We know that the not-mayor will not be of any help to create the plan (as we can see in the next episode) but Macaque, here, was more looking for a “proof of his goodwill” than a truly helpful hostage. By giving the team the henchman of the Lady Bone Demon he's proving how he's not on her side anymore.

The not-mayor reveals himself to be quite useless. And we got this shot of Macaque :

We can see how he's completely cut from everyone. He's cut from the circle, alone to the side of the frame, yet he's also tied up. I think it physically represents Macaque right now. The team is still suspicious of him, they tie him up, but at the same time he's not being interrogated nor being circled by the team. His place is ambiguous, in a weird in-between.

I think it's telling how it's Macaque who provides the inside information that the team tried so hard to pull out of the not-mayor. Macaque, out of anyone here (except the not-mayor), is the one who knows LBD best. He spent a lot of time with her. Moreover we already established that Macaque is a good observer (we can see how throughout season 3 he successfully gets a lot of the team characters simply by observing them), so we can easily assume that as much as he observed the team, Macaque also observed LBD.

And then, perhaps because he showed he was willing to go against LBD, MK includes Macaque in his plan to defeat her. And this is Macaque answer :

Macaque : Look, I brought you the Lady Bone Demon's lapdog but I'm not up for being a hero, kid…

I think it's pretty telling that Macaque is not fully on board with being a “good guy”. He spends so much of his life painting himself as the darkness to oppose Wukong's light, so much time building his act as a villain, even if he wants to oppose LBD, he's still reluctant to join the team and call himself a hero.

Even when MK proved how wrong Macaque's idea of a hero was, it's difficult to change the way you see things overnight. Macaque spent much of his rebirth hating heroes because of what happened with Wukong. He blamed everything on Wukong's status as a hero. So calling himself a hero stings for him.

And MK knows this, perhaps that's why we get this exchange :

MK : Stop you keep playing at being this bad guy, acting as if you're just in it for you. But I know, deep, deep down, you're not that guy. Help us. Make it right.

Macaque : I'm not a hero, bud.

MK : Then be a warrior.

MK just got it. He knows Macaque has been putting on an act since the beginning. He's acting as if he's only caring about himself yet he comes back to save MK even after he has the choice to flee far away from this. MK calls out everything we established about Macaque those previous seasons, how everything Macaque showed was just part of a performance to either enact his vengeance or appear more intimidating in stressful situations.

MK's words “Make it right” are pivotal in Macaque redemption processus. It can be interpreted as MK asking for help but it's also a way to offer Macaque a chance at proving his goodness, at setting the records straight. MK offers Macaque a chance to right his wrongs.

And while MK is doing his lil speech, Macaque is not trying to put on another mask either :

Macaque is genuinely surprised that someone calls out his act, or even picks up on it.

Yet still Macaque looks away and refuses, not because he doesn't want to right his wrongs but because calling himself a hero would be too much for him. It would question everything he is, everything he built those last years, and Macaque is not ready to abandon everything about himself and become a “hero.”

That's why MK's next words are Macaque saving grace. Because that gives Macaque familiarity. He doesn't have to cast away everything he is, or even the entire identity he built, instead he can be something familiar while still trying to right his wrong.

He can be a warrior.

It's important that Macaque doesn't jump on the occasion of being a good guy. It wouldn't have felt genuine otherwise. The fact he has the occasion to right his wrong but still doesn't call himself a hero provides a balanced in-between.

Macaque : What can I say? I'm dramatic.

Yes. Yes you are. Look at how dramatically you put your cape on!

Both Macaque and Red Son preparing themselves in the same shot is not coincidental. It's an emphasis on both their journeys to get here. If you don't see Red Son as a villain, you can't see Macaque as one either, there are differences between the two but at this very moment the show portrays them in the same way : the redeemed villains.

Macaque and MK confrontation with LBD is very important because Macaque is not just helping MK in a roundabout way, he's directly confronting the one who tormented him all season (LBD), the one he preferred to flee rather than fight before the specials.

LBD : MK the Monkie Kid and the Six-eared Macaque, here to embrace oblivion?

Macaque : The opposite actually. I'm kinda on this whole living streak thing right now, so we were hoping maybe you could call off this whole end of the world thing? Would really help us out.

We can see Macaque is still trying to diffuse the situation but this time it's interesting to notice that instead of doing it like he used to (with sarcastic quips and threatening smiles) he adopts an attitude closer to what Wukong would have done. Wukong is always the one to joke around and make light of a situation. Macaque actions and words are closer to what Wukong could have said if he wasn't possessed. Perhaps Macaque is trying another method to handle stressful situation without his villain persona now that he's in the good guy team, or in his way Macaque unconsciously imitates Wukong because Wukong is the only example of a hero he has.

This similarity between Wukong and Macaque in this particular scene is further emphasized by this action :

I don't have the exact episode in which Wukong twirl MK above his head the same way Macaque does in this scene but I know it happens in season 1.

I think the fight between Macaque and Wukong is quite interesting because the sequences is the exact same as their fight in s1 ep9, yet Wukong uses something he never used before : his laser eyes. It does makes me think that LBD is pushing Wukong to be way more violent than what he is and forces him to use power he doesn't naturally wants to (like his laser eyes that are particularly destructive). That could explain why Macaque is so easily defeated and so soon too, because Wukong is pushed beyond his limits and forced to abandon his fighting ethics.

I do love that to defeats LBD everyone in the LMK cast have to steps up and join forces together. But what I really love is the two scenes we got that emphasize Wukong and Macaque in particular. How they acknowledge the other despite everything that happened between them :

First we get their shared look and nod when everyone is coming together to merge their forces and power up MK's mech. This simple look speak volumes of how easily they can understand each other, they're on the same wagelenght even after years of being ennemies, it speak for itself of their bond.

The second is when they're side by side to push the staff on LBD, it's a nice way to hint at their rekindling relationship. They are in this together despite being ennemis since the start of the show.

Even if not everything is good between the two of them, far from it, this wordless acknowledgement that we see in those two scenes, of them fighting side by side, really ties up Macaque redemption quite nicely.

Then, after LBD defeats, we get the after-fight party that nicely ties up the series.

And obviously we get a fight between Wukong and Macaque.

Macaque : You're done with that right?

MK : actually I -

Wukong : Actually he was saving that for me. Cause you know, I'M his mentor *agressive eating*.

Macaque : Still the same Wukong. Doing what he wants with no regard for other.

Wukong : Oh yeah, yeah I'll keep that in mind next time you scheam with the ennemy and almost get us all D.E.D.

MK : You know you two are the same right?

Wukong/Macaque : I'M NOTHING LIKE HIM!

Macaque wanting MK's bowl of noodle because perhaps he doens't feel comfortable enough to ask Pigsy for one and MK is the only one in the team he feels comfortable talking too right now is one of my personal headcanon.

So first, I think that might be the first healthy fight between Macaque and Wukong. Instead of any of their other fights where they hid their true feelings between mask of nonchalance, here they are openly expressing their anger and frustration to the other. We can see Wukong is still salty about Macaque taking his place as MK's mentor, mayhaps he felt like his place was endangered. Macaque answers with a comment on Wukong's selfishness. Wukong, probably hurt by this, reply with a comment on Macaque working with LBD and endangering them all. Unlike before, all their bickering are direct and more in tune with the present. They're not trying to purposefully hurt the other by digging at past insecurities (Macaque fear of not being enough, Wukong unhealthy way of coping), instead they comment on recent events (Wukong stealing MK's noodles, Macaque working for LBD). Which I think is an improvement, no matter how tiny it is. It shows that they're not trying to hurt the other as much as before, they're not going at the other throat, even if they're still frustrated and angry.

Also, MK is so right when he says they're the same, it's even more funnier because they have the exact same expressions on their faces.

Wukong : Hey! Where do you think you're going!?

Macaque : Don’t know, somewhere I could do a bit of scheming probably. See you around MK.

Wukong : Eugh, I hate that guy so much. Acting like he's so cool!

I do like to think Wukong is questioning Macaque about where he's going because he doesn't want to see him go, 😌.

Macaque callback to Wukong comment minutes earlier is a funny lil quip to annoy him before disappearing. Also his soft tone when addressing MK does really shows he cares about the kid in his own way.

Wukong last line is so funny because no one said Macaque was cool, you're betraying your own thoughts here Monkey King.

All in all, I do think Macaque redemption was handled really well. Each episodes showed us a new layer of his character. His evolution, based on his actions alone, was logical. No matter how much you think Macaque hurts the team, you cannot erase the fact he saved MK twice this season, and keep doing so in later seasons. But I think we also have to remind ourselves that Macaque character arc is not finished yet!

Also, the voice over talking about “redemption” and having one of Macaque first genuine smile in the entire series is so heartwarming for me. The fact MK also draw Macaque smiling 🥺🥺

That was my study of Macaque in season 3 specials! Hope you liked it. If you have any more theories or if you simply disagree you can talk about it, I'll be glad to hear about it.

I'll post my study of Macaque in season 4 in another post!!

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