#bolt securing methods

[fixdex-fastening-technology]

🧐 bolt inspection methods, What bolts need to be inspected?

[ofbatsandballads]

Yay! I’m so glad you take requests. Feel free to decide if you want to write this or not, it’s fine either way :)

So, I was thinking about Jason dating civilian!reader, and her coming home all disheveled and horrified. Since she knows about him being Red Hood, she can confide in him. She had just killed someone for the first time, whether it was an accident, self defense or whatever, you decide.

I was just wondering how Jason would handle this situation since usually he’s the one doing the killing.

Thank you <3

oh, this is amazing food for thought. I actually think he’d be the very best person to come to in such a situation because he has experience with killing. who’s gonna understand you better than him? literally nobody. had something similar to this in my drafts but now my mind is whirling in a whole host of directions. excellent prompt, nonnie!

jason todd x f!reader. warnings include graphic depictions of violence and killing (in self defense), attempted and failed sexual assault, the aftermath of both events (reader’s in shock), hurt/comfort. this one’s got heavier subject matter so please do mind the warnings, folks. i did way too much research of the Gotham Knights map for this, but it’s my favorite depiction of the city so so be it. also reader and Jason live in the Belfry bc i said so (personal hc that i may or may not elaborate on some time). and one last thing! the romanized Arabic at the end is “حياتي ” which translates to “my life”. I love the idea that Jason picked up Arabic terms of endearment from Talia calling Bruce just about every one she could.

Jason wakes up to soft afternoon sunlight shining on his face. He grumbles out a gravelly hum and scrunches up his face in protest against being awakened when he was sleeping so nicely. He reaches out to find the comforting warmth of his beloved beside him, to pull you in and bury his face into your hair so he can hide from the morning for a bit longer.

All he finds are cold sheets and an empty pillow.

He bolts upright. Something’s wrong. You never, never wake up before him. He doesn’t even register the way that the sudden abundance of light stings his eyes. He takes stock of his surroundings, his training executing on autopilot. The open layout of the Belfry lets him get his bearings in seconds. He doesn’t see you anywhere from the bird’s eye view of your loft bedroom. There’s no smell of food in the kitchen nor any mess that would indicate you’d been working in there. The living room space, fully visible below, is empty too. The only enclosed space in your home, the bathroom that’s just around the corner from your bedroom, is dead quiet. No running water, no sweet singing, no familiar coughing from swallowed toothpaste. And without so much as leaving your bed, Jason’s already come to a conclusion that sends his heart pounding and dries his throat. You’re not here.

He’s up and grabbing the 9mm taped under your bedside table in the span of a few breaths. He moves through your home methodically, like he’s clearing one of Gotham’s criminal hideouts. There’s no sign of a struggle. Nothing’s been disturbed. He’s not surprised by this—barring Wayne Manor, the Belfry is the most secure building in Gotham. That’s precisely why Jason had moved you both here once you decided to live together. He checks the coffee table and sees that your phone and wallet are gone. A different type of fear takes over now. One that makes his heart ache. What if you’ve finally had enough, finally seen that he’s not good enough for you, not worth sticking around for? It makes him sick. He swallows hard and tries to clear the blistering thought from his head. No, that’s not you. You’re not cruel. You’re kind and gentle and loving. You wouldn’t hurt a fly. And you wouldn’t hurt him.

The sight of gears turning in his periphery catches his attention. He sees the cables pulling and the security panel go green, and he’s running to the elevator doors damn near ready to pry them open. He hastily tucks the 9mm into the waistband of his pajama pants, easily within reach if he needs it. Relief floods him when the huge metal doors grind open and he sees your pretty face on the other side. Then his heart drops when he realizes that that pretty face is scraped and splattered with blood.

Your hair is tangled and wet, dripping dirty water down your neck and staining the bright red of his your favorite hoodie. Your hands, which shake as they reach blindly towards him, are stained crimson and battered too. But it’s your eyes that haunt him. You look broken.

“Jay,” you croak out, unable to summon anything but a plea for the one person who can keep you safe.

The tears fall from your eyes at the same time that you collapse into Jason’s arms. He drags you inside and locks down the Belfry. Jason wants to panic but feels a strange sense of calm about himself. As loathe as he’d be to admit it, he finds himself falling into Bruce’s habit of assessment and action.

“Baby, what happened?” he asks, voice steady and assured.

You don’t even hear him. You’re digging your hands into his shirt, clinging on to him like he’s the only thing keeping you tethered to Earth. He may very well be. He feels you going rigid and cold and he knows he has to get you stable before you descend further into shock.

“Listen to me,” he says firmly, adding on and enunciating your name for emphasis.

That sparks some semblance of lucidity. Jason hasn’t called you by your name in months, much preferring you be his baby or his sweetheart or his doll, or simply his. If it jars you back to reality, so be it.

“I need you to tell me what happened,” he demands gently.

It all pours out of you like a flood.

You’d woken up early by chance this afternoon. Normally you’d just close your eyes and snuggle closer to Jason to catch a couple more hours of sleep, but you wanted to do something nice for him. So you’d gotten up and gone to Lemay’s Flower Emporium in Gotham Heights. You’d bought him the prettiest bouquet of red and pink roses, so big that you had to hold on to it with both arms. The taxi ride from the Heights back to Coventry Station went fine. You were almost home. So close that you could see the clock tower where your heart was sleeping peacefully.

Then you stopped at Commerce Avenue Station. You just wanted to get him some pastries from the little bakery tucked away on 3rd Street that you both love. It was a decent walk; you knew that. You also knew that Jason wouldn’t want you to go out of your way by yourself. But it was morning and you were a grown woman and you could handle yourself, right? Well, that’s what you thought until a pair of hands clamped down on your shoulders and yanked you violently into a side alley.

Jason had prepared you for something like this. You’d spent countless evenings with him teaching you self defense techniques in the training area of your home. None of it mattered because the man that had you by the shoulders slammed you so hard into the brick wall that all your thoughts went hazy. Before you could regain your footing, you were shoved to the ground. The bitter sting of your palms scraping open pierced through the fog, as did the crushing weight of the vile man on top of you. Fear shot through you as the man started tugging at his belt and you realized that this wasn’t intended to be a mugging. You tried to scream but a grimy hand clamped over your mouth, hitting your head against the ground and soaking your hair in dirty rain water and blood.

Your eyes darted around in search of someone—anyone. But no one was coming. You felt fingernails scratch against your stomach as clammy hands curled into the waistband of your sweatpants and suddenly you saw your savior. A brick from the damaged alleyway laid within reach. You didn’t even think when you grabbed it, when you swung it as hard as you could into the side of the man’s head. The corner hit his temple and he crumbled to the side. You rose to your knees and hit the man again. And again. All you could remember were Jason’s firm instructions: if someone makes it a choice of you or them, you make sure that it’s you no matter what it takes.

“I don’t r-remember anything else,” you sob into his chest. “There was so much blood, Jason. And his head—oh, God.”

Jason shushes you gently. He holds you tight in his arms like he’s terrified that if he loosens his grip even slightly, you’ll fade away on him.

“Don’t think about it, baby. You did what you needed to do. You protected yourself. I’m so proud of you.”

“I killed someone, Jason. I killed someone.”

You look at him wide eyed—afraid, horrified, guilty. No. Jason won’t have that. You will not feel guilty over some lowlife scumbag who wanted to hurt you, who probably would have killed you. Jason can’t even stomach the thought. He wants to put a bullet into whatever’s left of that predator’s head. No, the only shame in you killing that man is that you got to him before Jason could.

“I need you to listen to me,” he says, repeats your name again for emphasis. “You. Did. Nothing. Wrong.”

“Someone’s dead because of me, Jay,” you argue, gripping him tighter as your panic rises.

“Baby, do you know how many people are dead because of me?” he asks. “Far, far more than I’d ever want you to know. Do you think I’m a monster, honey? That I did something wrong?”

He knows it’s an apples to oranges comparison. But you’ve used this same tactic on him so many times that he also knows it’s effective. Every time he demeans himself for something, you ask if he’d treat you the way he treats himself for the same thing. The answer is always no.

“No!” you reply emphatically. “You protect people. You do it to keep people safe.”

“You did it to keep yourself safe.”

“But—”

“No buts. Or ifs. No ands, either, just in case you get any ideas,” he says lightly, brushing a speck of blood off your cheekbone.

You smile at his stupid little comment and he feels the tension in his body release just slightly. As long as there’s light back in your eyes for even a moment, he knows that you’ll be okay. He picks you up, lets you cling your arms around his neck and bury your face in his chest as he carries you to the bathroom upstairs. He runs you a bath and, after asking repeatedly if you were okay with it, undresses you and washes the blood and grime from your body. He wraps you in a big fluffy towel, dries and brushes your hair, and tends to your injuries before he bundles you up in his comfiest hoodie and pajama pants. He soothes you when your tears make their return and never leaves your line of sight because he knows he makes you feel safe.

The thought gnaws at him throughout the day. It outright scalds him as he lies in bed with you after deciding to skip patrol. He’s failed you. Failed to protect you, failed to ensure nothing harms a hair on your head. He’s failed at taking care of you, the one thing that matters more to him than anything else. He’s seconds away from spiraling into self hatred when your sweet voice comes calling, soft and pleading.

“Jay…please stay with me,” you say softly.

Your eyes are clear and focused again. You squeeze his waist tight where your arms are wrapped around him, like you’re physically trying to anchor him in place in your bed. The look on your face says that you know exactly where his mind was headed. You see right through him. It makes him feel more vulnerable than anything else, and it surprises him how much he loves the feeling. And Jason, as always and for eternity, can’t bring himself to deny you. So he pulls himself together and shoves all his self loathing down. He can deal with it later—you need him more right now.

“I’m right here, hayati. Not goin’ anywhere, I promise.”

He kisses you gently and feels some of that self hatred wash away when you chase after him for more goodnight kisses. He feels it dissipate even more when you fall asleep in his arms with a soft smile on your face. It’s all but forgotten as he drifts off too, safe in the knowledge that you’re here with him, that he can feel your heart beating pressed tight against his own.

[the-sockbeans]

request: jon comforting damian on his period damijon // 850 words // mature (brief sexual thoughts)

"jon," came the grit-teeth whisper first thing in the morning, and jon was off like a lightning bolt, the only trace of him left in his room the faint flutter of the curtains.

the room tasted like a mouthful of pennies. jon landed at damian's bedside quickly, finding the other curled up on his side in pain.

"where is it?" jon asked. "where are you hurt-?"

damian's hand squirmed out from where it was pinned beneath him and flashed out to grab the front of jon's t shirt, gripping the fabric tightly. damian's knuckles turned white with the hold, and jon's mouth went dry as the other unclenched his jaw.

"ibuprofen," damian ordered, "medicine cabinet. bottom right." and the moment he released jon's shirt, the other was off, rattling through the other's bathroom cabinet and coming back with the necessary pills. he dumped a bunch out onto his hand and shakily picked up two, holding them out to damian's mouth, who grimaced, then accepted the pills behind his teeth, swallowing them dry with practiced ease.

"are you dying?" jon whispered, and damian coughed, pills lurching uncomfortably in his esophagus before he got them down.

"no," he snapped. "and don't get my father. or your father. or anyone. i'm not injured, or sick."

"then what..?" jon licked his lips, wishing he could get rid of the taste of blood, then his gaze flicked to where the scent seemed the strongest, to damian's tightly clenched legs...

"i'll get up to shower in a bit," damian said quietly. "i just need these cramps to pass."

jon goes quiet, and his gaze slides back up to damian's pale, clammy face, brows knitted in an open expression of pain. damian never showed pain, not with a blade through his abdomen. damian never took pain killers unless he couldn't stand up for the agony. damian didn't want anyone to see him like this, in pain over this. except jon.

slowly, jon reached out and stroked a hand through damian's hair.

"it's going to be okay," jon whispered to the other, and this time the pain in damian's expression was not only physical, but emotional.

"why does it hurt so much?" damian whimpered, turning to press his face into jon's palm. "why does this have to happen to me?"

"i don't know, dami," jon whispered back truthfully, and glanced down damian's body, slowly lowering to his knees beside the bed. he saw through the layers of damian's clothes and skin to the tightly bunched muscular organ and felt lightheaded. even just observing it made jon's insides clench in sympathy and disgust; like a parasite writhing in damian's stomach, feasting on the bloodshed.

"i hate it," damian said with nearly a sob, and jon wrapped his arms around the other, tears pricking in his eyes. he hated seeing damian like this, strong, proud damian who never let an enemy get the best of him -

damian sank his teeth into jon's shoulder through his shirt and tensed through another round of cramps. jon felt the press of teeth without pain, though he was sure on anyone else it would have drawn blood and perhaps cut down to the muscle. jon instead simply shifted his arms more securely around damian, stroking his hair and rubbing his back, doing everything he could think of to bring some measure of comfort to the other.

"lower," damian commanded suddenly, a bit breathless as he released jon's shoulder.

"what?" jon asked, even as he obeyed, hand sliding down to rub the heel of his palm into the taut muscles at the small of damian's back. "like this?"

"yes," damian breathed, pressing his forehead firmly against jon's collarbone. "harder."

jon's eyes flicked to the ceiling as he tried not to store the soundbyte of damian begging that deep into his memory for use late at night and failing. he focused instead on the massage, carefully and methodically easing the pain of damian's clenched muscles, other hand sliding down damian's body to join the first, and bit by bit of rearranging later jon found himself lying in damian's bed with the other atop him, ignoring the crunchy-edged puddle of drying blood, fingers working deep into damian's muscle fibers as the other whimpered in small relief against him. jon's thumbs swiped between them to press in against damian's uterus through his stomach and the other yelped in shock, shuddering against jon before relaxing into the new point of massage. damian laid atop him, one arm curled beneath jon and clutching his shoulder, the other cradling jon's head with his fingers curled in his hair, cheek pressed to the side of jon's head, breath rolling warm over the shell of jon's ear. when damian's breath evened, and he no longer tensed against the waves of pain, jon slowly released the other, rubbing his hands soothingly up and down his sides.

"better?" jon asked gently, and damian nodded, swallowing.

"help me to the shower, please?" he asked, and jon pressed a kiss to damian's cheek, carefully gathering the other in his arms to carry him to the en suite.

[spilled-energon]

@dragvnsovl asked:

“I didn’t expect to see you again, Shockwave. Had you thought I didn’t actually manage to escape the compactor?”

Shockwave's singular optic widened ever so slightly at the sight of Blurr. He would have visibly reacted more, if it weren't for the stasis cuffs keeping him locked in place. Trypticon Prison's security was intense, to say the least. Not only did Shockwave have stasis cuffs locked around his arms, but he was also strapped down to a vertical slab of metal. It was over kill to have his legs, midsection, and neck bolted down, though smart on the Autobots' behalf. A quick burst of electricity with his claws on the same frequency as the cuffs would render them useless. Unfortunately, he had to wait until he had a method of freeing himself from the rest of his bonds before removing the cuffs.

"Blurr," he greeted, voice a deadpan monotone. "I'm surprised you survived." Part of him was relieved. He had never wanted to kill the feisty little Autobot. Unfortunately, Blurr had known too much. He had to do it. "Though, I suppose I shouldn't be shocked by this outcome. You always were quick on your pedes. Resilient too."

[cecilioque]

Other Important Notes about the Hats

These are industry standard uniform hats. They have a thick PU leather sweat band to prevent sweat stains and so it can slide on with more ease. This is especially important for the white hats. As nice as a fabric sweat band might seem, there is no way to clean that and will inevitably stain over time and use. That is why we opted for PU leather that can be wiped off.

You might notice the slight "wavy" look of the sweat band (not all have this). This is because it is a circular shape and has not been worn yet. It also spent a long time on a boat getting here. This should go away with use as the hat forms to your head. The ends of the sweat band are also not stitched together, but the band is attached to the hat with a back stitch to secure it. The slit is a limitation of the material as well as makes it easier to put on or take off the hat without putting stress on the material. Is this a problem? NO. Like a shoe, you have to break in this hat in by wearing it. In short they fit better the more you wear it.

Like all articles of clothing please refrain from pulling off pieces by force, crushing it out of shape, picking at the seams and threads, or exposing to large amounts of water. If you need to treat it for stains, use methods used for polyester materials. This means you cannot use high heat on them. With care these hats should last a long time with occasional cleaning as all cosplay does.

The metal badge was upgraded to a thicker hard enamel badge with a smooth flat finish and black nickel plating. This is fastened/bolted to the hat with a screw that is hidden and cushioned behind interior lining. If you play with the badge and spin it, the badge might become loose. Since the interior is lined to cover the hardware, if you unscrew the badge it will be hard to tighten up again. Minimal adjustments will not affect the badge.

The hats are packaged with all recyclable materials. Instead of using clear plastic tape, we decided to get water activated tape that is more sturdy and can be recycled. Domestic orders will be taped up with this. International orders will have plain water based tape with a strip of the custom tape inside. Why not decorate the international boxes exterior? Since they have to travel much farther, using plain tape brings less attention and makes the packages less of a target of theft. On top of that, not all countries support custom packaging.

If you have any further questions feel free to contact me via asks or emails.

[beamiesbuddies]

Part 2: A Dream of an Autumn Garden

A few more photos of Mr. Morpheus, continuing from my post here!

As I said on the other photoset, I'm very happy & proud of him! I'm happy I decided to take my time to get him just how I wanted & edit the photos I took nicely. I hope you all love him too. Sweet dreams~

I have included a bunch of Cool Facts about how I made him under the cut if you are so inclined!

Started: Late Jan 2022 / Finished: Dec 30 2022

Approx work hours- 273 hours (worked on average every 3rd day out of 274 days; averaged 3h/session)

Times I remade something because I messed it up/wasn't happy with it: Hands- 2; Feet- 2; Head- 2.5; Body- 1; Clothes: 3

Pattern: trial, error & determination

Height: 3ft tall

Materials:

stretch jersey knit (body)

polyfill (stuffing)

brushed out acrylic yarn (hair)

star sapphire x2 (eyes)

pipe cleaner (hand armature)

wooden dowels/18 gauge wire (elbow/arm skeleton that keeps snapping I may add)

acrylic paint/pastels (shading & details)

acrylic thread (body sculpting & upper eyelashes)

stretch velvet/velvet burnout, cotton (clothes)

Fun facts:

his look was inspired by his overall appearance in the comics; I particularily like the depictions done by Jill Thompson, Mike Dringenberg & Marc Hempel!

his arms and legs are jointed in the same way as many teddy bears are: you use a washer, nut & bolt to butt-up the limb against the body internally and it gives the limbs full rotation. First time I have tried the method and it's definitely something I'll try again!

I had no idea how I was going to do the inset eyes, but I was determined to have them as some sort of stone. I had to redo his first head completely because I cut too far in! Eventually I got it to work by creating a "backcushion" with clay for the stones, and then closed and sculpted the eyelids overtop to secure them in.

You can't see in most of my photos but his eyes are star sapphire: when light hits them correctly, it causes a ✨to appear just like his eyes in the comics~!

making his hand & feet were a challenge, especially thinking about where to put the needle through to sculpt tendons, nails, etc (and also deciding how detailed to get without looking strange). I think I learned a lot tho and I'm very proud of the hands

my favorite sculpted parts are the collar bone/chest, the right hand & the nose~

because the skin is white, he gets very dirty with his black clothes, so I had to line all of them in white. He also has to soak in bleach once in a while to maintain his complexion (LOL)

A signature somehwere on his person xD

Thank you all again for your nice tags & comments so far on my work. If you guys would like for me to share some behind the scenes photos of this photoshoot, or WIP photos of me making him, let me know and if there's enough interest maybe I'll make a post down the road!

[thegildedbee]

:: February 20 :: Selection for Week 8 of 2025 :: 🐝 "the adventure of black peter" (1904) from sherlock holmes: a year of quotes* 🖊️

Holmes was working somewhere under one of the numerous disguises and names with which he concealed his own formidable identity. He had at least five small refuges in different parts of London, in which he was able to change his personality.

O, the legendary disguises of the world's only consulting detective!!! As points of departure, they offer so much to tease out regarding cases of identity and personality! Especially because -- at least so I've heard -- no matter how hard you try, disguises are always self-portraits :-)

Although . . . I'm setting aside the disguises for now, because what I'm most curious about from the quote are the circumstances surrounding the "five small refuges": the existence of multiple pied-a-terre (feet on the ground) that Holmes has concocted throughout the city. It's not a common detective hack historically; the only one that pops into my head straight-away is the thrilling shared storage unit hideout of Benjamin Ferel's that we see in Series 2 of Lupin :-) I love the creative potential of the refuges for Holmes's sleuthing and for story-making about the crafty detective. [I think referring to these sites as "bolt-holes" is from BBC Sherlock, but I'm not well-versed enough in the original ACD lingo to know for sure.] (To digress slightly, the first quotation in the OED under "bolting-hole" is from 1851's Dialect & Folk-lore of Northamptonshire:

Bolt-hole, the hole from which the rabbit makes its escape; or, in the phraseology of the craft, ‘bolts’.

Which then makes the 19thc/21stc mash-up for the term in Sherlock a "bolting-into (?) :-)

221B may be home base for where Holmes' private life and consulting life intersect, but the criminals he pursues are spread throughout the city -- and, thus, with his refuges, so is Holmes, which I find an interesting dimension of all of this. With his contingency planning, the existence of the refuges also speaks to Holmes's being several steps ahead of his potential adversaries, an articulation of his investigative methods.

These private spots likely serve not only as dressing-rooms for disguised performances, but also as listening posts for intelligence gathering, giving a sense of Holmes as a rather dashing spy figure. They also are emblematic of Holmes's idiosyncratic Victorian presence, one that can easily cross boundaries, such as class. I think I like best picturing the refuges as places where Holmes places pieces on London's chess-board, or as extensions of the spaces in his mind palace :-) If I may be so bold, below, I've invented five secret Victorian/Edwardian hiding places for Holmes :-)

:: What better place to have a secret refuge than a grand hotel, especially one with a perpetually renewing international clientele, such as the Langham? After all, Holmes surely needed disguises that allowed him to mingle amongst the great and the good without recognition, so it could serve as an apt locale for stashing appropriate supplies. Perhaps he managed to clear up a sensitive criminal matter involving one of the guests, and subsequently the general manager (interestingly he was an American, and a former Union Army officer!), who then secured for him the use of an inconspicuous storage room in the basement for which only Holmes possessed the key. And if spending the night as a guest under an assumed name now and again was the occasional treat for closing a case, well why not? Of course, the Langham has some impressive Sherlockian bona fides. Arthur Conan Doyle often stayed there, and it's referenced in several stories (The Sign of the Four, A Scandal in Bohemia and The Disappearance of Lady Frances Carfax). Most importantly, it was where Doyle was invited for dinner in 1889 by J.M. Stoddart, the American publisher of Lippincott's Monthly Magazine (Oscar Wilde was also invited, and persuaded by Stoddart to write what would become The Picture of Dorian Gray). Stoddart made it worth ACD's while to write a second Holmes novel. A second outing for Holmes wasn't necessarily in the cards -- A Study in Scarlet hadn't made much of an impression, and, in any case, Doyle placed much more stock in the historical fiction he wanted to write: the second Holmes novel that appeared through the intervention of the American publisher in 1890 was The Sign of the Four; the medieval epic that Doyle rated much more highly, The White Company, in 1891. (Once ACD began publishing the Holmes adventures as stand-alone stories, rather than in the form they came in as novels for the first two times -- the sky was then the limit for Holmes and Watson, much to Doyle's ambivalence).

:: Holmes would also need a bolt-hole in a working-class area, and perhaps a public house similar to the one pictured above might have had a friendly proprietor who would have allowed him a space in the store-room amidst the barrels of ale to stash some supplies and to bunk in a corner; or perhaps he was able to secure a room in a near-by run-down location. An example given in an article on dancing in Victorian London reports: "The Morning Post describes a blind fiddler working the taproom at the Salmon and Compasses in Brooke’s Market, Holborn, a miserably poor district. Money is collected, tables dragged to one side. Then, to quote a customer, ‘when the fiddler is paid he strikes up and we jump up and dances’." Can't you just picture Holmes in disguise as a blind fiddler in this scenario, having a grand time amidst the dancing pub-goers?

:: Another possible site for a good hideaway would be the Covent Garden area, bursting as it was with activity of all kinds, and attracting people from across different walks of life -- with the market trade (manual workers, porters, and vendors) and the wealthy taking their leisure at places such as the Royal Opera House, as well as there being a variety of shops and businesses in the neighborhood.

Tucked away off of Covent Garden is Cecil Court, populated by all kinds of commercial ventures that also had flats above the shops. Bookshops were popular, which would be properly Doylean (William and Gilbert Foyles opened their first West End bookstore in Cecil Court in 1904; it joined there the oldest esoteric bookshop in London “devoted to theosophy, philosophy, spiritualism and kindred subjects” -- making Cecil Court especially Doylean! Odds on that ACD made a purchase or two there:-) Or perhaps Holmes was befriended by one of the quirky second-hand booksellers in residence, all the better for discreet hiding away.

I'd also nominate Cecil Court for its connection to science, as indicated by the picture above from 1895 of one of the inhabitants: "A Practical Demonstration of the Latest Improvements in Photography. An Evening at the Camera Club." I think Holmes would enjoy the occasional night out at a scientific society that was also a club, especially one where he could chat about chemistry and new technologies (fodder, perhaps, for one of his noteworthy monographs?) The individual seen presenting the lecture is the President, William Abney, a distinguished photographic scientist (for example, in 1880 he discovered that hydroquinone reduces exposed silver halide crystals on photographic film into visible black silver.)

[I also couldn't resist Cecil Court because it was the first London address for Wolfgang Mozart and his family, when they came in 1764 for he and his sister to play for King George III and Queen Charlotte!]

:: If I'm going to be imagining goings-on in Victorian London, then Benjamin Waterhouse Hawkins' dinosaur sculptures are always going to figure in there somehow! (These were the first full-scale reproductions anywhere of the fragmentary remains of species discovered to that date.) So, hear me out: one of Holmes's hiding places is inside the belly of the largest Iguanodon! (Perhaps there are openings on the inside of one of the legs that allow one to climb up to where there's a trap door that can be pulled open :-) This is an idea inspired by the famous event in the top image, when a celebratory dinner was hosted at the completion of the models, with the guests set up to dine inside the beast on New Year's Eve in 1853. The sculptures were placed across a lake at the Crystal Palace Park, which is the site where the 1851 Great Exhibition moved to, after it closed; the dinosaurs appeared when it opened in 1854. I can even rustle up an ACD connection to partly justify my self-indulgence: the park is in south London, in Sydenham -- and when ACD moved to London in the 1890s he lived in South Norwood, which would have been about 3/4 of an hour's walk between the two locations. I like to think he went to visit!

:: My fifth candidate for a secret refuge is one that I recalled from a recent event from 2020: the discovery of a closed-up passage in the House of Commons (there was an itty-bitty keyhole in one of the wooden panels in a hallway that had gone unnoticed until just recently. When a key was fashioned and turned in the lock, a door opened and the hidden corridor appeared!) Inside are hinges for a door that would have been 11-feet high, opening into Westminster Hall -- the set-up looks to have been designed as a passage to usher in the invitees for the coronation banquet of Charles II (and dating revealed that the ceiling timbers in the passage were harvested in 1659); the passage was also used for visitors going to and fro until it was blocked up in the 19th century (and then promptly forgotten!).

So, in my mind's eye, I have an image of Holmes discovering the existence of the hidden passage in a study of old architectural documents of Parliament, and finding a snug little spot for himself in an alcove, concealed, right under the nose of Mycroft and the government without their knowledge :-)

*Levi Stahl and Stacey Shintani, eds., U of Chicago Pr, 2019

& bespoke notifications as requested :-) [thanks for reading!]: @totallysilvergirl and @winterdaphne2 and @keirgreeneyes and @calaisreno

[sugarrrvenomm]

can u do a fic where the reader is obi-wans padawan…… perhaps where he has to punish her for something …….. :D

ummm this got away from me ,,, anyway enjoy ,, ⭐️🐰🫶🧸💌

♡ having anakin as a padawan made obi-wan sterner the second time around. but also … softer. 

♡ which is why his preferred method of keeping you in line is taking you over his knee

♡ hardly ever is it a “punishment” spanking, but that’s because his regularly scheduled “maintenance” spankings do the job just fine

♡ once a week, late at night, your master slinks to your quarters as the sun sets, telling anyone who asks that you’re meeting for meditation before bed. when he walks in, you are—sat on your knees atop a thin meditation mat like the good girl you are. he tells you as such, coming up behind you and petting a hand over your hair, “my good girl. are you centering yourself for me?”

♡ “yes, master.” you open your eyes and turn to look up at him, resting your head on his thigh and squirming in anticipation, even as his presence quiets your mind, turning your thoughts into a pleasing, low buzz of safety and arousal

♡ you weren’t sure when obi-wan’s hands on you became arousing. maybe they always had been. you just pray to the force he doesn’t notice. 

♡ “come now, padawan. let’s get you all sorted out.” he walks over to the singular place to sit in your meager padawan quarters—a soft, ottoman-like piece that’s just big enough for him. he pats his thigh and you stand up, going to him and standing between his spread legs. he reaches up, stroking your padawan braid between his fingers reverently before tugging gently so he can plant his lips on your forehead in a soothing gesture, before he’s cooing, “over my knee.”

♡you nod, and do as he says. you’re still clad in your robes, only missing your belt and boots. you’re so used to this that you no longer shake when you bend over, settling yourself over your masters lap with his help, your ass in the space between his legs and your fingers barely brushing the floor. he tugs up your tunics, just enough to expose your backside. never once has he gone as far to pull your leggings down, despite how you dream about it.

♡ before he begins, he rests a hand on the back of your thigh, squeezing once to signal he’s about to start. obi-wan tries not to be affected by the way your flesh pillows beneath his fingers through your pants. he doesn’t know when this started becoming arousing either, but he desperately wishes it would go back to when it wasn’t. you’re his padawan, for force’s sake.

♡ the sooner he gets it over with, the sooner he can return to his quarters and stand under the spray of his cold shower until he can’t feel a thing. so, he makes sure he’s got you secured, with one hand on your hip, then swings the other down in a swift crack against the meat of your ass. 

♡ “why am i doing this?”

♡ “to make me a better jedi, master,” you tell him, panting already.

♡ crack. another hit, on your other cheek. your pretty voice, combined with the way your ass ripples, has him gritting his teeth. “that’s right, padawan.” slap slap slap. you make a hurt little sound. “master does this because he cares about you. because he wants you to succeed.”

♡ you try to contain your noises, and curl your toes as the spanking continues. he’s not even hitting that hard, he never does, but it stings, and sends desperate lightning bolts of forbidden arousal to your pussy, which you can feel getting warm and wet between your legs. 

♡ your cute little ass won’t stop jiggling through your leggings, and he has to distract himself. he strikes you, over and over again, in quick enough succession that there’s no time for him to see the way your backside moves, and the sound of his slaps overpower your muffled whines. soon, the pain in his hand is threatening to take over the heat pooling in his gut. 

♡ what obi-wan doesn’t expect, is the way you react. you’re usually so well behaved during your spankings, so docile. now, you’re squirming in his hold, like you’re trying to get away from him. of course, he can’t possibly guess it’s because his flurry of strikes have gotten you feeling like you could come from nothing at all, like your cunt may start pulsing in orgasm any second now just from being spanked by your master. 

♡ “padawan,” he chastises, grabbing your hip even tighter and bringing his hand down. with the way you’re wriggling, it doesn’t land quite right, and hits dangerously close to your center. “what has gotten into you?” he grits out through his teeth as you kick your feet. you don’t seem to be reacting well to his strong-arming, so he settles his voice into a coo, even as he continues to spank you. “i need you to be good for me, little one. master can’t help you if you don’t let him.”

♡ his coddling only makes it worse. you thrash. “master,” you pout, and obi-wan cannot take it anymore. the irritation at your unusual outburst combines with his frustration at his own arousal and he growls, stopping his strikes only for a moment to grip the band of your leggings and tug, exposing your ass to him. your underwear are modest cotton, but pale pink—certainly not jedi issued. he’s truly lost it, because the only thing he can think to do in response to the obscenity of his own actions is to double down; slapping your exposed ass, and oh. this is is even worse. like this, he can see how his hand has already turned the skin pink like your panties.

♡ “master!” you cry out, sticking a hand behind you to block him, but he catches your wrist with his other hand. 

♡ “no,” obi-wan says, sternly as he can, slapping your ass again and feeling his cock throb in his pants. he might be harder than he’s ever been in his entire life. “you know i do this because i love you.”

♡ you make a sound he’s never heard before, and this time when you thrash your legs, he can’t help looking where your legs part, and your panties cup the part of you he’s been thinking about for far longer than is appropriate.

♡ “fuck,” he suddenly curses. there’s a damp spot. you’re wet. his padawans pussy is drooling in her panties, just for him. from him. from his spanking.

♡ he forgoes the spanking, for now, forgetting himself completely and gripping your thigh tight, spreading you wider so he can get a better look. “oh, darling. why didn’t you tell me?” finally, you settle, and now you just shake, unsure of his reaction. “are you all wet from your spanking?”

♡ crying out, tears pool in your eyes as you’re stuck between arousal and embarrassment. still, you only feel yourself get wetter.

♡ obi-wan’s breath comes out in a shudder, and he slides his big hand up your thigh, and touches the damp spot with his thumb, just barely. “does it ache?” you don’t answer, only mewling, and he pushes his thumb against you harder, feeling his cock drool sticky pre-come into his briefs. “tell me, padawan. what’s worse? the soreness of your ass, or the throbbing of your little cunt?”

♡ “obi-wan,” you moan, finally looking over your shoulder at him, eyes big and wet.

♡ your master pumps his hips up, and against your hip you feel him, rock hard and rubbing on you. “it’s okay, honey, you don’t have to be embarrassed. look how hard you’ve made me.

♡ you continue to squirm, sweating in your robes. “hurts.”

♡ “mm, i bet it does,” he hooks a finger under the side of your panties and tugs it, exposing more of your ass. “you’re so pink.” he lets it snap back into place, then smoothes his hand over your ass completely, going down until he’s fully cupping your center. “and i bet this pussy’s all messy too, huh? is your cute little clit all puffed up for me?” he moves his hand in a big, sweeping circle over the whole of you, and it shouldn’t be as stimulating as it is. he’s just teasing you, watching the way the damp spot blooms and spreads.

♡ “what should i do with you, padawan?”

♡you suck in a shuddering breath, and gather your nerves, “i—i—,” you sniffle, and he slides his hand under your tunics to rub your back. “i need you to make it better, master.”

♡ obi-wan groans, and uses all the control he has left to gently lift you off of him, and get you settled the way he wants, on your back. he tugs your leggings all the way down, but leaves your panties. for now. he hovers over you, taking off his tunics and exposing his muscled, hairy chest. you whine at the sight, and he chuckles. “patience,” obi-wan purrs, before tugging his own trousers down just enough to free his cock, tucking the waistband under his heavy balls.

♡ overwhelmed, you have no idea what do with all the desire running through you, or with the sight in front of you. your master coos, settling down over you, lowering until his big cock nestles in the space between your thighs, pressing against your panties and throbbing against your cunt. he barely moves his hips, but moans like he’s sinking inside of you.

♡ “are you a virgin?” he’s a bit disgusted with himself for asking, but he can’t stop.

♡ “uh-huh,” you nod, trying to hump back up along his big cock.

♡ “ugh,” he groans, “of course you are. my perfect little padawan. master’s the only one that gets to touch you, isn’t he?” you make the same little uh-huh sound, and obi-wan lowers his head into your neck, holding himself up with one hand now so he can reach between your bodies and pull your panties down enough for his fat cock to slide along your wet cunt. padawans cunt. my padawans little, wet, virgin pussy. 

♡“you’re perfect,” he mumbles into your neck, thrusting along you faster, breath hitching as he feels his leaking tip glide over your swollen clit. he brings his hand back up, and stuffs it under your tunics, until he’s cupping one of your breasts, squeezing it gently and rubbing his thumb over your nipple to hear the way you gasp.

♡ “master master master.” he covers you completely, and you’re drowning in the scent of him, so close that you can rub your nose along his neck and taste his sweat. “obi-wan,” you murmur as the tip of him nudges your entrance, “will you fuck me?”

♡ “oh, gods,” he pants, and fuck does he want to. he wants so terribly, so horribly, to sink his big cock in your pussy. no prep, no fingers, just the slick of how wet you are would be enough. he’d get so deep he’d knock your cervix, fucking right up against your womb until you were all swollen with his come like you should be.

♡ “i shouldn’t,” the reasonable part of him grits out, even as his hips pump faster and he imagines spreading you open, how cute you’d look as his come slides out of your used pussy, before he bends down to lap it up and suck on your clit until you squirt all over his face. “baby, honey, i can’t.”

♡ “please!” you beg, nudging your hips up and trying to catch the head of him at just the right angle to get his cock to sink in. “don’t you want to?”

♡ “padawan,” he hisses, letting go of your tits and bringing his hand back out to slap your thigh. “first, getting soaked from your master punishing you like a naughty little girl, and now begging him to fuck you? is that really what you want? for your master to take your virginity? you want master to own your cunt?”

♡ his words are too much, and you feel your pussy throb between your legs, pulsing as you’re sent over the edge by his voice and his weight and the thrust of his heavy cock against your soaked pussy and clit. it’s wordless, but you nearly scream, biting into his neck and bucking your hips to prolong the shaking of your legs.

♡ “fuck, fuck, oh, sweetheart, my pretty little padawan, let me feel that cunt throb, mess my cock just like that,” obi-wan stares down between your bodies, watching the wet pink of your pussy gliding along his cock, the sounds getting nastier and wetter and so fucking dirty it sends him right over the edge too, and your cute little pussy is getting painted white.

[gamerwoman3d]

Please Be Bi-Han 🙏

🔞 An MK1 x Reader 🔞

You aren't supposed to be in this timeline.

And to you, this timeline shouldn't exist. But it does. And this timeline is particularly exploitable, given the things you know which no one else in this timeline does. You slip into the timeline and abuse your knowledge to unethically gain just enough wealth to live very, very comfortably. And you laugh because this timeline is literally just a game to you. Admittedly, you came here to try to seduce the hotties. But when you figured out just how easy it would be to game the financial system here, you did that.

Imagine not being shocked at all to see Liu Kang at your doorstep with his Lin Kuei goons. You could laugh. You know him. You know all three, no, all four of them; your attraction to them is what initially drew you to this timeline. The fourth you knew by smell alone; the campfire scent in the air proved that Smoke was with them, somewhere ready for action yet invisible to your eyes.

Imagine closing the door to your beautiful private mansion in their face before any of them even speak. Imagine bolting it, locking it, chaining it, only to tell them through the speaker, "Whoever breaks this door down and finds me first gets laid."

🔞 Spicy/Explicit after the cut 🔞

Now you, you have installed several small panic rooms throughout your mansion with which to play hide and seek. So you go do that, smirking to yourself as you watch the group through the security cam app on your phone. But back up a moment to just before these guys arrived.

Liu Kang smirked as he collected his warriors at the edge of a portal that would lead conveniently into a hidden driveway outside the privacy walls near your garden.

"I have a fun little mission for us today. Geras discovered someone manipulating the financial trajectory of our timeline that isn't supposed to be here. We need to go get them, and convince them to stop, without violence."

"Respectfully, Lord Liu Kang - If you don't need violence, why did you call us? If we can't stab it, it's most likely someone else's problem," Smoke said out of turn.

"There are other methods of coercion, Smoke. And if Geras' revelations for this mission are proven true, then methods of seduction are on the table," Liu Kang responded flatly.

Liu Kang wanted to laugh. The synchronized single-eyebrow raise of the three masked ninjas before him was too cartoonish to seem real.

Fast forward.

You get a good run, scrambling to your hiding place.

"I thought this might be the case," you hear Liu Kang say in your earbud, from audio played through the phone collected from the front door security recorder.

"Seduction really is the game this evening," Scorpion said, "even with you saying as much, I am still surprised."

"Are we making a competition of it? Or am I the only one that will be chasing after that cutie?" said Smoke from seemingly nowhere.

"Don't blow your cover, brother. We're not sure if we're being recorded. It could give us an advantage if you'd keep quiet," Sub-Zero said.

"It's a competition," Scorpion interjected before slamming his boot into the door, rattling it in it's frame.

A few kicks, body slams did nothing. Sub-Zero guided the others out of the way, froze the door handle in it's place, then pulled the mechanism - deadbolts and all - through the crystallized steel. He tossed it to the side and booted open the door, which swung freely and hit the interior wall with such force that one might have expected the crash to come from a vehicle accident.

You bounce in your place, trying not to giggle as you watch the men through your tablet. You had hoped Bi-Han would breech the door first, but now the men crept inside and began to hunt for you. You saw all except Smoke, just before the power went down, taking your security feed with it.

You were in the dark, now, lit only by the glow of a tablet that showed the wifi disconnected. You swiftly realized that Smoke must have gone to cut the power - and had the foresight to cut the backup power first.

Smart of him, you thought. But now, in the dark, there was nothing left to do but wait for one of them to discover your hiding spot. Every little noise you heard made your heart jump in anticipation of being caught.

"Please be Bi-Han, please be Bi-Han," you chanted in a whisper under your breath.

FOR PART TWO - LINKS BELOW POLL

...

And now I'll be a bit evil.

ADVENTURE TIME. C'MON GRAB -

Part 2a(i): Sub-Zero discovers F! Reader

Part 3a(i): Sub-Zero toys with F! Reader (to be read after part 2a(i)

Part 2b(i): Smoke discovers F! Reader

Part 2b(ii): Smoke discovers M! Reader

Part 3b(i): Smoke fucks F! Reader (to be read after part 2b(i)

[athena-gundampla]

HGUC 1/144 E.F.S.F Mass-Production Locality Specialization Type Mobile Suit RGM-79D "GM Cold Districts Type"

More GMs!!! I had a lot of fun with the old 2001 GM, the new 2023 'The Origin' GM Missile Pod, and the GM Sniper II, so of course I had to continue the collection.

The GM Cold Districts Type is a suit that briefly appears in the opening scene of the OVA "0080: War in the Pocket". It's a pretty basic redesign of the classic GM, with the large star removed from the shield, and extra vents added to the face (resembling the GM Sniper II from the same series) and shoulders, and an antenna added to the back of the head.

This kit in particular is from 2003 and reuses a lot of the moulds from the 2001 GM kit. However, this kit seems to have a lot of drawbacks as well. While the shoulders have been competent redesigned in a manner that resembles more contemporary kits (and makes them much more secure), the actual shoulder joint is a peg directly moulded into the torso rather than being a ball joint or hinged peg like most other kits. This gives the shoulders very limited range of movement.

The kit also has the disappointing old solid plastic beam saber, with the hand itself moulded into the saber hilt as well! This is a really bizzare choice even for 2003, so I discarded the beam sabers that came with the kit and re-used a spare from my Origin RX-78-2 alongside a beam effect, which looks a lot better.

I spent a lot of time detailing this kit. I used the old waterslide decal sheet for the 2001 GM rather than the limited foil stickers that came with the kit. I also tried a weathering method @radiofreemagica told me about where i sponged on black onto the sharp angles and high points, then drybrushed over the top with gunmetal. I also sponged on Vallejo pale brown and light rust in key areas to accentuate the weathered effect.

This was my second time using the Tamiya weathering set D on gunpla as well. I used the orange and blue on the gun to give a heat blueing effect, and the "oil stain" pigment worked great over rust areas to even out the light grey plastic.

I think the overall effect worked especially nicely on the darker torso and shield. I also had to paint the face vents, rear camera, back of the shield, and shoulder vents, as well as the yellow waist V logo and the grey border on the bottom two chest vents, so be aware if you're not a fan of colour correcting kits. Also, as always for UC kits, I did the inside of the booster jets in red.

This kit comes with limited hand options, with a single left open hand, left open fist, and right pistol grip, which was a little disappointing as I'm used to at least one open fist for each hand.

It also comes with a really neat machine gun with a large side magazine, triangular stock, and open bolt detail like a Sten MK II, but with an additional underslung grenade launcher.

Unfortunately the stock placement and large square forearms make posing the gun rather difficult, and there's only really one pose that works.

Overall I had a lot of fun building and weathering this kit, and I think I've really improved in making it look less plasticky. I think it's a great kit to round out anyone's collection, although I can't recommend it to gunpla beginners.

Thanks again to @radiofreemagica for the weathering tips!

[genoskissors]

Principal Monokuma’s Room Check!

Trigger Happy Havoc Girls

THH Boys Rooms

Again, there are a few notes throughout to explain some things I thought most would not know or just to clarify things changed in localization. Also, if you are disappointed by the three nearly empty rooms, the girls’ cottages in 2 will hopefully make up for it.

Maizono-san's Room Edition

Popular idols say that they have such a harsh schedule that they can’t even get a good night’s sleep. The bleak room Maizono-san has makes me think about that a little.

Checkpoints: A: It’s a bed with pink sheets, which are common in girls’ rooms. The fact she makes her bed after waking up shows she has a methodical personality.

B: I thoughtfully placed a sewing set in the drawer! Wouldn’t you like to see the girls try at least one kind of needlework?

C: I am a gentlemanly bear, so I don’t look into girls’ trash cans, rummage through them, open them up, sniff them, or put them in my mouth, that's correct.

D: The girls’ shower rooms are locked! No matter how much fun the girls are having in the dorm life, as long as I’m alive I will not tolerate any insolence!

Kirigiri-san's Room Edition

Ah, this again. Following Maizono-san, Kirigiri-san is also plain and simple. Hey, hey, you’re a girl, aren’t you? Wouldn’t it be better if you had a bit more girly flair?

Checkpoints: A: Kirigiri-san’s bed looks like it would smell nice. Imagining a prickly girl like her sleeping defenseless makes me feel protective.

B: It’s a desk for studying, just like everyone else’s. Including Kirigiri-san, I can’t imagine most of the students sitting here.

C: A surveillance camera is common for all rooms. But, to the cool Kirigiri-san, my gaze seems to have no more value than a bug.

D: Oh! Sorry, I forgot to prepare a trash can for you! But beautiful girls don’t blow their noses, so it’s okay!

Asahina-san's Room Edition

This room gives the impression that someone loves exercising, whether awake or asleep. With all these training items, it’s like a small gym. I’d like to see Asahina-san use it too. Upupu.

Checkpoints: A: A stepper for training the lower body and a roller for abdominal muscles. The roller particularly is inexpensive but highly effective. It’s okay to kneel at first.

B: It's a balance ball that helps you train your core body on a daily basis. It's pretty fun, isn't it? Oh, and you can't miss the school swimsuits hanging out to dry!

C: Unfortunately, There’s nothing as simple and effective as a training tube! I can’t use it because my arms and legs aren’t long enough...

D: Bottles for hydration and a first aid kit. She’s so well prepared and considerate in case of emergencies, I bet she’ll be a great wife with lots of children. Note: Anytime someone makes a joke about the bad ending, an angel loses its wings.

Fukawa-san's Room Edition

As expected of someone called a literary girl, she has an incredible amount of books. With the books being piled up around the bed and desk, you can tell what kind of reading she does. Note: Toko’s Japanese talent is “Literary Girl”.

Checkpoints: A: As you can see, this desk is a built-in piece of furniture with a fairly thin top, so I wonder if it will be able to withstand the weight of all these things piled up...

B: The windows are bolted down securely! ...but that doesn’t seem to concern Fukawa-san. She has manuscript papers pasted all over the window. Boo hoo. Note: Monokuma uses the word “しょぼーん” which is commonly associated with the kaomoji  (´・ω・`).

C: Placing books in front of the shower room means you can read during toilet time! You’re addicted to always learning. Note: I think there's a pun here but I don't know if it's intended. The word for reading is “dokusho” and the word for addict is “chuudokusha”.

D: At first glance, it may look like a rose in a vase, but it is actually an air freshener stick. She’s confessed to hating baths, so she has to be careful about the smell.

Genocider Sho’s Room Check!

Fukawa-san's Room Edition

This is the room of the woman I share my body with! A pungent smell of no libido! Perfect for a sullen faced, nail-biting, gloomy introvert! Kyehahaha!!

Checkpoints: A: There are so many books at my feet... It will get in the way when Byakuya-sama is brought over! Clean it up a bit!

B: I must be nearsighted, writing all these small letters little by little in such a dark place. As I thought, this woman is weird! I need to bathe in the light of passionate love!

C: Wait! There’s no sign of it being used recently! I could end up in bed with Byakuya-sama at any moment, so I have to at least take a bath!

D: Ah! A green and white bouquet. It’s specifically for weddings! Wait for me, Byakuya-sama! I’ll grab this now and dive into your body!

(Back to Monokuma)

Oogami-san's Room Check

The strongest primate is the ogre... this is Oogami-san’s room. It makes it clear if you end up killing each other, she won’t let you get away with it. But please don’t destroy the room.

Checkpoints: A: For tile splitting demonstrations, usually they use tiles that are easier to break. But Oogami-san’s tiles are the real deal. Note: Tile splitting is the same thing as board breaking in martial arts.

B: Excuse me... Of course, it’s okay to do training in your room, but there’s no need to drill holes in the floor!? Someone will have to repair it.

C: This is Ogami-san’s uniform. I don’t really get a chance to see her wearing this. How about we go hand-to-hand again? Upupupu.

D: Seriously, this area is littered with broken tile debris too. This may cause the floor to collapse or leak, I don’t know!

Celesomething-san's Room Check (This is how Monokuma refers to Celeste)

The dark interior gives off a sense of immorality and makes me super thrilled! Since all students received a private room, it would be pointless to not enjoy it this much.

Checkpoints: A: The dresses on the mannequin torsos are changes of clothes. The short-sleeved frilled one and the bustier style look good together, don’t you think?

B: Umm... is Celesomething-san planning to sleep here forever? Of course, I have no intention of interfering with personal hobbies and preferences.

C: Oh my! A goth lolita costume’s cat! It is cute, but you can’t compete with me, who is both cute and a little mean.

D: The desk is full of makeup supplies. The brush size and type, how to use different sprays, these are things boys don’t understand.

Enoshima-san's (Mukuro’s) Room Check

Ah, what a shame! Enoshima-san is a charismatic high school girl! Even if you aren’t interested, just play a character! Seriously, what a shame!

Checkpoints: A: Oops, I forgot to bring pink sheets for this girls’ room. She doesn’t seem to mind though.

B: Everyone is treated equally, so the windows in Enoshima-san’s room are completely blocked off too. I hope you enjoy your killing game school life to the fullest.

C: Saying you can’t sleep if you change your pillow is what a coward who is completely immersed in a comfortable life would say. You have to live in the environment you’re given. Note: "I can't sleep when the pillow changes" just means that you can't do something if it's not to your liking. It's not usually a metaphor but here it is used like one, while also being literal.

D: You guys all agreed to meet in the dining hall, but it’s okay if you seclude yourself here and eat, you know? Eating alone isn’t that bad, right?

[goreandrabiez]

i saw ur post about ur copycat killer oc and i wanted to say i LOVE the idea its really fun to think about:) can you tell me more about them? no pressure ofc

OFC!!! I LOVE when people ask about my ocs :3

In fact this is officially his infodump post

TW: Mentions of murder, gore, glorifying of (FICTIONAL) killers.

Also sorry for bad grammar/writing, I deadass have not been in school since the 2nd-3rd grade ._.

Character art at the end!!

Click the read more line if you wanna..read more. Duh.

So, when Lukas was young, he was *heavily* neglected by his family. To the point to where he was barely acknowledged.

His parents weren't necessarily abusive, they just.. weren't really parents. They didn't care about him.

He was also allowed internet access wayy too young, which caused him to stumble upon a lot of things he shouldn't have. Mainly gore sites.

He lives in a world where killers are a huge problem. Like, they're almost like celebrities just bc of how well they're known. And there's 3 really famous ones.

So he was exposed to gore, and the glorifaction of killers at a very young age, and that's where his issue started.

He saw how killers get a lot of fame and attention, and it was sort of a dream of his to be famous but he never got any luck online.

It didn't really start with him killing, he just made fan accounts and started posting, becoming almost obsessive with this one he really liked (who is still a WIP atm)

He posted gore, "best kills", talked about how the killer was really ""underrated"", discussed possible methods and what his signature weapon might be.. all of that. And his obsession only really ever got worse, to the point of him just wanting to be noticed by this guy.

And note that NOTHING about his identity was on this account, he wasn't stupid. He also talked with his irl friend, Marcus, about everything. And Marcus kind of just went along with it because he was lonely, and kind of scared that he'd end up Lukas' first victim if he didn't.

And with everything Lukas was exposed to, plus being supported by his friend, he eventually started committing murder himself. He copied his favorite killers method, severing major blood vessels in the neck so his victims would bleed out quickly, and then painting on the wall in their blood. He had already come up with his little "Copycat" persona beforehand, and he made sure he had no defining features showing before committing the murder in front of a security camera, quickly painting a cat in the wall before bolting away.

And when he saw reports about his brutal, bloody murder on the news, he was ecstatic!! And after that, he kept doing it, switching between different killers methods, including their ways of escape.

And when he needs to hide out, he crashes at Marcus's place. And Marcus lets him, even helps him get away with some of his kills. (Marcus is kind of a captive audience in all this, if you can't tell)

And that's abt it for now :> feel free to ask specific questions or make up some hcs, I'd love to hear them!!

[thepaperpanda]

Warnings: oral (f receiving), fem!Reader, shibari

Synopsis: Douma initiates you into the world of shibari

Author: @dumadono

A/N: Welcome to another day of Kinktober '23 Collaboration Today's prompt: shibari

Masterlist

Douma's heart is captivated by artistry, and what greater embodiment of artistic expression is there than the ancient Japanese art of bondage, known as shibari or, in its traditional form, kinbaku? 

_________________

That day, he embarks on a journey from mere admiration to active engagement and beyond. This is why the two of you find yourselves strolling along this quiet, desolate dirt path, burdened with an array of tools and paraphernalia, ready to delve into the world of bound passion and creative intimacy.

"Have you ever ventured into the art of shibari?" you inquire, your voice hesitant like a gentle breeze.

"A few times, yet I never fully mastered it, lotus," he responds, his words flowing like a tranquil stream.

"How so, Douma-sama?" you question, curiosity dancing in your eyes.

"Shibari, my little lotus, is an art of intricate knots and delicate ties," he answers, his voice a seductive whisper. "It requires patience, precision, and a deep connection between the one tying and the one being bound. I believe we share such a connection."

You blush at his words.

You now find yourself at a single-room wooden dwelling. Douma has frequented this place, studying its secrets, delivering various items, and readying the weathered edifice you now encounter for its current purpose. For several months, no soul has ventured here, and this aligns perfectly with Douma's intentions. Silence reigns, a tranquility he diligently maintains.

Now that you are both inside, and you undress completely.

In complete silence, Douma's actions speak volumes. His kisses and tender caresses trace your body with affection, focusing on your breasts and ass. As you sit on a small stool, he carefully unravels coils of rope. One end is guided through the first of the eye bolts, draping down to your shoulders. The length is matched with the other end, and a secure knot is tied at the eye bolt. With your arms extended, Douma has you hold a sturdy bamboo rod behind your head, spanning from one hand to the other.

Methodically, deliberately, and with deep affection, Douma begins to weave the ropes around you, starting at your underarms and winding them around until they reach your hands. Ornamental knots adorn each hand, and then the ropes are guided back up, securing them to the same eye bolt. Your upper body is now firmly bound, your arms suspended about three feet above the floor. Despite only four points of suspension, the bamboo and the rope's intricate threading ensure your weight is evenly distributed.

Next, another rope passes through the far eye bolt, and it's employed to secure your ankles to another bamboo rod intended to maintain your legs apart. A third rope descends, slipping beneath the small of your back, alleviating most of the weight from your ankle restraints. Two additional ropes loop under your back, the first just below your breasts, and the second halfway between the first and the rope near your hips. All of this consumes a substantial amount of time due to the meticulous knot work being executed.

At this juncture, you are suspended from the eye bolts with only your head left unsupported. Douma brushes your hair, "You're such a good lotus, so obedient to me."

You're now completely bound. 

“How are you feeling, my precious lotus?” Douma asks, his tone lacing with sweetness.

“I’m good, master,” you reply, offering him a smile. “Keep going.”

Removing the stool, Douma stands back to assess his handiwork. To a casual observer, it might appear as if you are being tortured, but the reality is quite the opposite. In truth, you are utterly comfortable and at peace. You feel more liberated than you have ever felt before. You have surrendered yourself completely to Douma and have no decisions to worry about.

The height at which you are suspended is carefully selected to grant Douma ideal access to your pussy while he occupies the stool. His eyes remain closed as he skillfully employs his mouth and tongue, bringing you to orgasm after orgasm while you hover weightlessly in the air. He possesses an innate sense of timing, allowing just enough respite before resuming his attention. Overwhelmed by ecstasy and a profound sensation of boundless pleasure, your passionate cries fill the space. This experience is unlike any you've ever encountered, an unprecedented expression of love and desire.

Douma's skilled tongue dances slowly on your clitoris, occasionally gliding down the slit to your sweet entrance, which emits juices he adores so much. He places tender licks here and there, occasionally applying a gentle suction to your lips, all while humming with delight.

You inquire about him, expressing your desire to please him in return.

Douma responds, breaking his silence for the first time since your arrival, stating that this experience is for your satisfaction, and you need not worry about his release at this moment. It's also unlikely that you'd be in a condition to attend to his needs after this intense scene.

After a few hours, you are lowered from your suspended position. You're tired. Exhaustion has taken its toll, and Douma gently carries you along the deserted dirt road back to his shrine while weariness overcomes you, and you eventually fall asleep in his comforting embrace.

"I love you so much, little lotus," Douma whispers, placing a tiny kiss on your temple.

[iraot]

Summary: Separated after the death of his mother, she and Xavier live life holding onto a memory of a promise. Word Count: 4.7k Archive of Our Own

Chapter Six

Xavier Shen had always been a man of discipline. Every decision, every calculated step, all leading to the moment he would finally call her his wife. It was not in his nature to be unprepared. War, politics, business—each had its rules, its strategies, and he had mastered them all. But this? This was different. This was her. And for her, he refused to be anything less than perfect.

So, naturally, he sought knowledge the only way he knew how—thoroughly, methodically, and without an ounce of shame.

Which, of course, led him straight to Jerimiah Qiu.

He found him at his family’s shop, fingers trailing absently over a bolt of fine silk, the rich blue shifting beneath the golden lamplight. The air smelled of spice and fresh linen, the quiet rustle of fabric accompanied by the distant hum of merchants peddling their wares outside. Jerimiah lounged behind the counter, the ever-present amusement in his eyes sharpening the moment he caught sight of Xavier. The grin that tugged at his mouth told Xavier he had already lost before the battle had even begun.

“This is serious business, then?” Jerimiah mused, barely suppressing a smirk. “Xavier Shen, master strategist, preparing for battle?”

Xavier exhaled sharply. “Tell me what she will need from me.”

Jerimiah arched a brow, clearly savoring the moment. “How delightfully vague. Are we discussing emotional needs? Financial security? A grand estate with a view? Or,” his grin widened, “is this about what she’ll need from you on your wedding night?”

Xavier clenched his jaw. “You already know the answer.”

Jerimiah let out a long, exaggerated sigh, shaking his head in mock disbelief. “Xavier Shen, seeking my wisdom about how to properly bed his future wife. I never thought I’d live to see the day.” He leaned forward, propping his elbows on the counter. “This is delicious. Please, do go on.”

Xavier resisted the urge to throttle him. “Jerimiah.”

“Alright, alright,” Jerimiah said, still grinning but softening just a fraction. For all his teasing, he had always been a man who took love seriously. He’d been married for four years now, and despite his dramatized complaints about dodging objects his wife hurled at him when she was angry, his adoration for her was undeniable. Xavier had seen it in the way he’d reread her letters by firelight during their military campaigns, in the quiet reverence with which he spoke her name. And now, Jerimiah was watching him with something between mischief and genuine understanding.

“Well, my poor, nervous friend,” he began, rubbing his chin as if considering. “First and foremost? Be gentle. And take your time. You’re not leading a cavalry charge, you’re making love to your wife.”

Xavier nodded, committing the words to memory.

Jerimiah smirked. “And more than anything? She needs to know you want her. Not just as your wife, but as a woman. Make her feel desired—worshiped, even. If she feels irresistible, she’ll burn for you.”

Xavier’s throat tightened at the thought of her, her skin warming beneath his hands, her breath hitching as she—

Jerimiah’s laugh broke through his thoughts. “Gods help me, you’re actually nervous about this, aren’t you?”

Xavier’s scowl was immediate. “I am prepared.”

“You think you are,” Jerimiah countered, eyes gleaming. “But I remember the first time you had to negotiate rations with the quartermaster. You nearly broke out in hives.”

“That was different,” Xavier muttered.

Jerimiah snorted. “You say that, but you have no idea the kind of battlefield you’re walking into. You think war is complicated? Wait until you have to figure out why she’s upset without her actually telling you.”

Xavier exhaled through his nose, long-suffering. “Are you going to give me useful advice, or just entertain yourself at my expense?”

“Oh, I’m absolutely enjoying myself,” Jerimiah admitted cheerfully. “But fine, one last piece of wisdom—if you fumble it completely, just listen to her. If she tells you what she likes, pay attention.”

Xavier huffed. “I intend to get it right the first time.”

Jerimiah let out a bark of laughter. “Classic Xavier. Confident to the bitter end.” He leaned in, voice dropping conspiratorially. “Just remember—if she starts laughing at you, don’t take it too personally.”

Xavier rolled his eyes, turning toward the door. But before he could leave, Jerimiah called after him, voice softer now.

“She’s lucky, you know.”

Xavier hesitated, glancing back.

“To have a man who actually cares enough to want to get it right.” Jerimiah’s smile lost its teasing edge, turning genuine. “Not every woman gets that.”

Xavier held his gaze for a moment before nodding once. Silent, but grateful.

And as he stepped into the cool night air, Jerimiah’s words echoed in his mind. But still, it was not enough.

He needed more. More certainty. More understanding. He would not leave this to instinct alone—not when it came to her. And so, with the same discipline he applied to every aspect of his life, he sought out those who knew more than any gentleman ever could.

The brothel was warm, perfumed with exotic spices and oil lamps burning low, casting flickering gold across silk-draped furniture. Laughter rippled through the air—some amused, some sultry, all belonging to women who made an art of pleasure. The madam, a striking woman with sharp eyes and lips the color of wine, regarded him with lazy curiosity as he stepped inside.

“You don’t look like the usual sort,” she mused, tipping her glass toward him. “What is it you seek?”

Xavier met her gaze without hesitation. “Knowledge.”

One delicate brow lifted. “What kind of knowledge, darling?”

“How best to please a woman,” he said simply. “How to make her ache for me.” His voice did not waver. “I am to be married, and I will ensure my wife never spends a night unsatisfied.”

A few of the women chuckled—some with delight, others in amusement at his bluntness—but the madam studied him, her gaze assessing. Then, slowly, she smirked.

“A nobleman who cares for a woman’s pleasure?” She let out a rich, pleased laugh. “Now that is a rare thing indeed.”

Xavier reached into his coat, drawing out a heavy pouch of coin. “I’ll pay for your wisdom, not your bodies. Tell me what makes a woman beg.”

The madam’s grin sharpened, darkly pleased. She gestured to a few of her finest, experienced women, their knowing eyes already drinking him in. “Very well, my lord,” she purred. “Let’s educate you.”

And educate him, they did.

They told him everything—where to touch, where to linger, how to draw pleasure from a woman like pulling silk through his fingers. They taught him that the act itself was only part of it—that it was the build-up, the anticipation, the way he touched her that would unravel her completely.

He listened. He learned.

And when it was done, the madam leaned in close, voice low and approving.

“She’s a lucky woman, your bride,” she murmured. “Most men never bother to learn.”

Xavier smirked, adjusting his coat as he rose. “She deserves nothing less than my best.”

And when their wedding night came, he would ensure she knew—without a doubt—how much he had prepared for her.

—

The warmth of the evening still lingered in the air, thick with the scent of roses and melting candle wax, mingling with the faint traces of wine and laughter that drifted up from the great hall below. The celebration had ended, the guests dispersing, leaving only the echo of merriment beneath them, but Xavier barely noticed. The ceremony had gone as planned—better even. The red silk had bound their hands together, an ancient symbol of fate, of two souls entwined as one. And when he had kissed her—truly kissed her, not as a suitor or a man who had spent years waiting, but as a husband—something inside him had unraveled. It had felt like stepping into a new life, but at the same time, it had always been her, always this.

Now, they were alone. The chamber was quiet, save for the crackling fire in the hearth, its golden glow casting shifting shadows along the stone walls. She sat at the edge of the bed, the embroidery of her wedding gown shimmering in the candlelight, her hands resting lightly in her lap. There was no apprehension in her, no nervousness—only a soft certainty that made his chest tighten with something unbearably tender.

Xavier approached her slowly, careful, reverent, though she did not seem startled by his presence. If anything, there was amusement in her eyes, a quiet, knowing smile playing at her lips as she looked up at him. He exhaled as he reached for the delicate fastenings of her gown, his fingers steady as he loosened each tie, each clasp, unwrapping her with the patience of a man who had dreamed of this moment for far too long.

The fabric slid down her arms, pooling in soft ripples at her waist, and his knuckles brushed against the bare skin of her back as he eased it lower. The warmth of her sent a shiver through him, but he forced himself to take a step back, his breath uneven. Patience. He had spent years waiting—he could wait a little longer.

She smiled at him—gentle, teasing—and then turned, slipping behind the wooden divider, the candlelight casting long, delicate shadows against the screen. Xavier stood frozen, his breath catching as he watched the silhouette of her shift lifting over her head, baring the soft curves of her body in hazy golden light. He swallowed hard, his fingers flexing at his sides. He had thought he was prepared for this. He had planned for this. But nothing could have prepared him for her.

When she stepped back into the room, dressed in a simple linen night shift, he could barely think past the sheer ache of wanting her. She hesitated only a moment before closing the distance between them, and the instant she was within reach, he lifted a hand to cup her cheek, his thumb brushing reverently over the curve of her jaw.

He kissed her softly, slowly, letting himself feel her—feel the warmth of her breath, the way her lips parted beneath his. When he pulled back, his voice was quieter than he expected, filled with something deeper than desire. “Are you okay?”

She nodded, but instead of answering, she rose onto her toes, her fingers slipping into his hair as she kissed him this time. It was different—deliberate, assured, filled with something deeper than simple affection. His breath hitched as her lips parted against his, as her hands slipped down the front of his waistcoat, unfastening it with practiced ease.

Xavier groaned softly, breaking away just long enough to help her, to shed the last barriers between them until his shirt joined her gown on the floor. Her hands trembled slightly as she pressed them against his bare skin, her fingers tracing over his shoulders, the lines of his chest, as if she were learning him with touch alone.

He exhaled sharply, closing his eyes as he allowed himself to simply feel—the warmth of her, the quiet hum of her breath, the soft drag of her fingertips as they wandered. And then, as if some unseen tether had pulled them closer, he kissed her again, deeper this time, guiding her backward until the backs of her knees met the bed.

She let out a soft gasp as she fell onto the mattress. Xavier hovered over her, his weight braced on his forearms, watching the way her chest rose and fell in quiet anticipation. He dipped his head, pressing a lingering kiss to the column of her throat, letting his lips trail lower, tasting the heat of her skin.

Her breath hitched, her fingers clutching at his back, nails grazing lightly over his skin. “Xavier…” she whispered, his name breaking apart in her mouth like something sacred, something helpless.

He groaned, his lips brushing over the delicate hollow of her collarbone, his hands skimming up the soft curve of her waist before sliding beneath the thin fabric of her shift. She arched into him as his palm cupped her breast, his thumb circling over the peak in a slow, careful caress. He could feel her heart pounding beneath his touch, mirroring his own, and the sound of it—the realization of it—made something desperate unravel inside him.

He wanted her. More than he had ever wanted anything in his entire life.

And yet, even as his body screamed for more, for everything, he forced himself to slow, to savor. His kisses trailed lower, pressing against the exposed skin of her chest, his fingers continuing their gentle exploration, mapping her with every brush, every lingering caress. She was warmth and softness and breathless, aching sound, and God help him, he wanted to lose himself in her.

But then she shifted beneath him, her hands sliding up his arms, her eyes heavy with trust, with expectation, and something inside him clenched painfully tight.

He exhaled sharply, forcing himself to still. To breathe. To remember that this was not about his need alone.

Xavier clenched his jaw, resting his forehead against hers, his breath coming unsteadily. “Tell me to stop,” he rasped, his fingers trembling where they gripped the sheets beside her. “Or I won’t.”

She gazed up at him, her expression open, unguarded. And then, without hesitation, she reached for him, guiding his hand back to her, pressing it against her bare skin.

“I don’t want you to.”

Something inside him broke, this time, when he kissed her, there was no restraint left at all. "Your tongue, my dear lord," the madam had murmured, lounging bare-breasted on silk pillows, her nipples shining with wine he hadn't dared spill. "That is where you will truly learn a woman’s pleasure. Kiss her there as you would her mouth. Lick her like she is the finest thing you have ever tasted, and she will lose herself beneath you."  a soft chuckle under her breath like a secret being passed down. Xavier had memorized every word, every gesture, every curl of her smile, hungry not for her, but for what she knew.

Now he was kneeling between the legs of his wife, his knees aching against the carpet, his hands trembling despite how steady he tried to make them. The room was still—just candlelight and shallow breathing and the thick tension of anticipation, a silence that buzzed against his skin louder than any crowd ever had. Her thighs, parted for him, framed his world, her scent pulling him in like gravity, intoxicating and rich. He could see the shine of her already, could feel the heat of her radiating off bare skin, and he understood, with humbling clarity, that this was no longer theory.

He started slowly, lips dragging a lazy path down her belly, tasting sweat, nerves, the faint sweetness of her skin. He didn’t rush. The madam had warned him not to. He kissed the inside of her thigh like it was sacred ground, his voice low and cracked with want as he murmured, “Relax for me.” Not a command. A plea. A vow. His fingers parted her, careful but trembling, reverent and untrained, and when he saw the slick, flushed folds of her sex open to him, his breath caught hard in his throat.

He dove in with a groan that vibrated through her skin, muffled and greedy, and tasted her for the first time—wet, tangy, slick with heat and sweetness and musk, utterly unfamiliar and yet exactly what he’d been aching for. He flattened his tongue and licked a long, clumsy stripe through her, earning a sharp gasp that went straight to his cock. She jolted, hips twitching, and he adjusted, tried again, slower, more focused, dragging the tip of his tongue in teasing circles around where he thought she wanted it most. Her body didn’t lie. She writhed, breath catching, her hand finding the sheets and twisting hard.

“Do not rush,” the madam had said, swirling wine like blood in her glass. “Tease her. Let her grow desperate before you give her what she truly wants.” Xavier sucked in a shaky breath and pulled back just enough to look at her, to watch the way her chest heaved, her legs tense with wanting. He kissed lower again, slower now, sucking soft at the swollen lips of her pussy, tongue sliding experimentally into her folds, tracing every line and slick curve. It was messy, his chin already wet, the sounds obscene—squelch, slurp, gasps punched out from her lungs like he'd knocked the air from them.

She moaned, high and broken, her fingers darting to his hair at last, pulling, guiding, grounding. “There,” she whispered without meaning to, and he latched onto that spot, tongue flicking, circling, trembling with the pressure to get it right. He didn’t stop even when his jaw began to ache. Didn’t stop even when his own hips bucked against the air like a desperate thing. This wasn’t about him. It was her, only her, always her.

“Suck on it, just lightly,” the whore had grinned, voice low with mirth, watching him blush like a boy. “Not too hard—just enough to make her shiver.” He obeyed the memory of her words. Wrapped his lips around her clit and sucked gentle, coaxing, until her legs clenched around his head and a strangled noise escaped her lips—something between a sob and a curse. She arched, pressing herself closer, and he held on, hands firm on her thighs, not restraining but anchoring. He could feel her pulse there, frantic under his tongue, and it made him dizzy.

"Xavier—" her voice broke, cracked, raw and soaked in disbelief. Her hips rolled against his mouth now, seeking, chasing, her fingers tight in his hair like she didn’t know if she wanted to pull him away or drag him deeper. He gave her everything—his mouth, his breath, the shaking tremble of his control. He flicked his tongue faster, circling and lashing, sucking with a little more force now that she was on the edge, desperate, unraveling.

"When she is close, do not stop," the madam had said, softer this time, like she was preparing him for war. "Do not change the rhythm. Do not pull away. Hold her through it..." So he did. Kept the pressure steady, kept his mouth locked to her as she started to break apart. She cried out, high and helpless, and he felt the shudder start low in her belly and crash up through her body. Her thighs trembled around his ears, her cunt pulsing against his tongue as she came for him, hot and wild and endless.

He didn’t move. Didn’t stop. He rode it with her, lips dragging soft now, licking her gently through the aftershocks. His face was soaked, his hair tousled from her fingers, and he didn’t care—he was wrecked and worshipful and utterly undone. He kissed the inside of her thigh, slow and lingering, his breath ragged, and lifted himself up, crawling up her body like gravity had shifted and she was its center.

Her chest rose and fell in shuddering waves, her lips parted, her skin glowing with the sweat of release. Her eyes, when they finally fluttered open, were dazed, like she'd forgotten where she was, who she was, only knowing the feel of his mouth and the madness it had made. She tried to speak, but her voice failed her, the words lost in her throat. He only smiled, smug and reverent, brushing his knuckles down her cheek with the tenderness of a man who’d just worshipped at a temple and been accepted.

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” he murmured, voice rough and thick with pride.

She let out a breathless, broken laugh, and then—God—she smiled, wide and unguarded and fucking radiant. “Come here,” she whispered, reaching for him, voice soft like the curve of satin sheets.

He came willingly. Let her pull him up, his body pressing into hers, the weight of him folding over her like a sigh. Her limbs opened to him again, not with urgency but with ease, soft and inviting, her skin still humming from the pleasure he’d given her. He didn’t want to crush her, but she tugged him down anyway, arms hooking around his neck, and the kiss that followed made his blood roar in his veins.

It was messy and slow, her lips slippery with spit and heat, tongue tangling with his, tasting herself on him, sighing against his mouth like it meant everything. He moaned into her, low and helpless, grinding down without meaning to, cock stiff and aching against the wet press of her belly. Her legs curled around his hips without thinking, and she was still trembling, still raw from what he’d done, and God, that made it worse. Made it better.

He kissed her jaw, her throat, and traced the vein that pulsed wildly beneath her skin. “You’re shaking,” he breathed, nuzzling there, his teeth grazing the tender spot just beneath her ear.

“Was I too much?”

She gave a soft, huffed laugh, the sound barely real, fingers gripping his shoulders like she needed the anchor. “No,” she whispered, eyes closed, breath steadying. “Just… recovering.”

He smirked, lips grazing her throat again, then nipping just beneath her ear, the delicate skin there still warm, still humming from where he’d had his mouth before. “Then I’ll have to be patient before I do it again,” he murmured, his voice lower now, rougher, need curling in every syllable like smoke from a fire not yet spent. Her breath caught—he felt it—and she arched against him, the curve of her soft body pressing up, reckless and welcoming. God help him, he was already hard again, his cock thick and pulsing, straining against the linen of his trousers, but he held himself back, breathing ragged, jaw clenched.

She gasped when her hips brushed against him, instinctively rising, seeking, though she didn’t yet fully know what she was asking for. Every part of him ached to take her, to thrust deep and lose himself inside that impossible warmth again, but this moment—this was not about his pleasure. “Do not rush her, my lord,” the madam had said, voice honey-slow, eyes hooded with wine and years of knowing. “Let her body guide you. Let her learn the pleasure of anticipation. If you are good, she will beg.” And Christ, he remembered the way she’d looked at him when she’d said it—like she could already see this moment, see him holding back, trembling, worshipping.

So Xavier waited. He dragged his hands slowly down her sides, fingertips grazing the slope of her hips, teasing the edge of her thighs, never taking, only offering. His mouth found hers again, gentler now, slower—less desperate, more reverent. The kiss burned deep, not fire but something warmer, slower, like candlelight melting wax, her sighs flowing into his mouth like prayer.

But it was she who moved first. Her hands, once tangled in his hair, drifted lower, exploring the cut of his shoulders, the muscles that twitched beneath her palms, her touch deliberate now, braver than before. She slid her fingers down his stomach, tracing the path of muscle beneath the thin layer of sweat, and when her fingertips ghosted along the waistband of his trousers, he shuddered, his hips jerking forward despite himself.

“Tell me,” she breathed, her lips brushing against his as she spoke, voice soft as confession. “Tell me how to touch you.”

He thought, absurdly, that he might lose his mind right then and there. She was flushed and willing and trembling beneath him, and she wanted to learn him the way he’d studied her. “Let her give as much as she takes,” the madam had said with a smile edged in sin. “Teach her gently, my lord, but let her feel her power. A woman who knows she pleases you is a woman who will burn for you.”

His breath stuttered, the space between them thick with want and reverence, his body coiled like a bowstring pulled to its limit. “Just like that,” he said, voice gravel and smoke. “Anywhere you touch me—feels good.” Her hand slipped lower, more sure now, finding the length of him through the fabric. He groaned, loud and raw, pressing his forehead to hers, trying not to thrust against her hand like a rutting beast.

“Like this?” she asked, and her palm cupped him with cautious wonder, her fingers tentative but eager, curling softly around the thick, aching shape of him. His breath hitched. His spine arched. He nodded, lips parted. “Yes,” he rasped, barely able to find words. “God, yes.”

She learned fast. Her hand moved slowly at first, just testing, then again, with more pressure, more curiosity, until he was growling low in his throat, his control slipping with each stroke. His hips twitched into her palm, helpless, wanting, and her eyes widened slightly at the power she held, the way he responded to even the gentlest touch.

Too good. Too fast. His breath came out in a hiss, and with a groan, he caught her wrist, stilling her hand though every inch of him screamed at the loss. “I won’t last,” he said, voice ragged and ruined, and kissed her palm with shaking lips. “Later,” he promised, half-pleading. “We can do that more later.”

His hand cupped her cheek, reverent, the pad of his thumb stroking the warm curve of her jaw. He kissed her again, barely there. “I want to spend inside you,” he murmured, the words barely breathed, but they rang between them like thunder.

She gasped, the sound punched from her chest. Her body shivered beneath him, and instead of retreating, she pulled him closer. Her arms wrapped around his neck, her legs parting again without shame or hesitation. “Then do it,” she whispered, and the way she said it—quiet, sure, hungry—nearly undid him. “I want you, Xavier.”

Something inside him shattered. His mouth crushed hers, full of need and promise and years of held-back ache. He kissed her with everything he was, every sleepless night, every silent longing, every hope he'd ever held locked behind his ribs. His hands roamed her body, mapping her with lips and palms, whispering reverence with every touch.

He moved between her thighs, slow and steady, guiding himself with trembling fingers. His cock brushed against her entrance, the heat of her wet and welcoming, and he groaned, body tight, breath stolen from his lungs. He kissed her again, deeper now, distracting her from the first press of him, from the stretch and the ache. He rocked his hips forward, just the tip, and she stiffened.

He froze. “Tell me if it’s too much,” he whispered, the words catching on his tongue. He kissed her jaw, her temple, whispered her name against her cheek like prayer. He would stop. He would break himself in two before he hurt her.

But she held onto him tighter. Her nails bit into his shoulders, her eyes shining, steady despite the tremble in her lips. “I trust you,” she said, and those three words undid him more than anything she could have done with her hands.

So he moved.

He pushed forward, inch by inch, every part of him throbbing with the effort of restraint. Her body stretched around him, slick and hot and unbearably tight, and the sensation nearly brought him to his knees. He didn’t look away from her face, not even for a moment—he watched every flicker of emotion, every gasp, every flickering shiver. She was taking him in, learning him, and it was holy.

When he was fully seated inside her, buried to the hilt, he stilled, breath ragged, his forehead pressed to hers. Her eyes were glazed, her body taut, but she didn’t pull away. Her hands clung to him, and she nodded slightly, her voice small but firm. “Just… give me a moment.”

He did. He kissed her temple, her cheek, her mouth—softer now, reverent, aching with the weight of love. His hands moved over her slowly, grounding her, his thumbs tracing idle circles into her skin. “I love you,” he murmured, not caring how wrecked his voice sounded. “You are everything to me. Everything.”

She let out a slow, trembling breath—and then at last, she moved. It was not much, not yet, just the tentative roll of her hips, the subtle shift of muscle and intent. But for Xavier, it might as well have been the parting of heaven itself. His groan was low, ragged, his jaw tight with restraint as pleasure surged through him like lightning loosed from a storm cloud, raw and searing and all but holy in its immensity.

She turned her face to his, uncertain but bold, her voice barely above a breath. “Is this alright?” Her lips brushed his chin as she asked it, her fingers curling at his shoulders, her knees lifting slightly, framing him. Xavier could only nod, quick and tight, the sound caught somewhere in his throat, lost beneath the weight of sensation. His hands gripped her waist as if she were the only thing tethering him to this plane.

She smiled then, soft and radiant and wickedly lovely, and moved again—slow, deliberate, learning him with every tilt and grind. He shuddered, a guttural curse slipping past his lips as he bowed his head to her shoulder, helpless under her touch. “Christ,” he gasped, his breath catching as her warmth clenched around him. “You feel—God, you feel like sin made flesh.”

She laughed, breathless, a sound like wine spilled from velvet, one hand sliding into his hair to pull him into a kiss. “Then move,” she whispered against his mouth, lips brushing, teasing. “Take me, Xavier. I want it—I want all of you.”

And God help him, he did. He began to move with the reverence of a worshiper at the altar, each thrust slow, precise, measured not for his release but for her unraveling. She met him stroke for stroke, her moans soft and splintering, her legs wrapping around him, drawing him deeper with every pulse of her body. Her fingernails dug into the skin of his back, not to hurt, but to anchor—as if she feared he might disappear.

The room was filled with the cadence of their bodies, the hush of breath, the creak of wood beneath the bed, the whispered litany of his name from her lips like prayer. He moved faster, deeper, but never rough—his control was ironclad, devotion forged in every shift of his hips, every brush of his lips against her throat, her breast, her parted mouth. And when she broke beneath him—gasping, crying out, her body shuddering as she clenched tight around him—Xavier followed, helpless against the storm of it.

He buried his face in her neck, groaning her name as he spilled inside her, the force of his climax shaking him to the core. For a moment, there was nothing else—no world, no duty, no time, only the deep, silent holiness of what they’d just shared.

The chamber was still as their heartbeats slowed, the embers in the hearth casting faint amber shadows across the sheets, across her flushed skin and his sweat-dampened chest. She lay beneath him, breath coming in soft gasps, her body warm and trembling. His hands were reverent as they moved down her sides, slow strokes meant to soothe, to worship, to thank.

He lifted his head, barely, enough to press a kiss to her temple, then to her cheek, then finally her lips—soft, lingering, a question and a vow both. “Are you alright, my love?” His voice was rough with emotion, his eyes searching hers in the dim light.

She smiled—a slow, languid thing that spoke of utter ruin and complete satisfaction. “I’ve never been better,” she murmured, brushing the damp hair from his brow. Her voice was thick with the remnants of pleasure, her body relaxed beneath his weight.

And Xavier knew—he knew with bone-deep certainty—he would spend his life ensuring she felt that way again. And again. And again.

The morning crept in like a secret, pale gold threading through the seams of the curtains. The fire had burned low, casting little more than a warm hush over the room. The sheets were a twisted ruin beneath them, the smell of roses and beeswax candles still clinging to the air, mingled now with the heady scent of sweat and skin, of what they had done.

She stirred first, stretching languidly, her legs brushing against his, the ache in her limbs a deep, satisfying echo of the night before. The soreness made her smile, slow and private. She sank back into the mattress with a contented sigh, the weight of Xavier’s arm heavy across her waist, his fingers moving in idle circles over her stomach.

He slept still, breath even against the crook of her shoulder, his body warm and possessive where it pressed against hers. Her gaze traced the lines of him—the loose sprawl of muscle, the mess of his hair, the lashes resting against his cheek. He looked younger in sleep, softer. As though all the sharp edges he carried for the world had been dulled here, in the silence after her love.

Her fingers found a familiar scar on his arm, tracing it without thought, lingering over the ridge. He stirred, made a sound low in his throat, and tightened his hold on her, pulling her closer without waking fully.

“Mm,” he rasped eventually, his voice husky with sleep, “morning.”

She laughed quietly, low and warm. “Morning.”

His lips found her shoulder without opening his eyes, brushing over it with lazy adoration. “I don’t want to get up,” he muttered, the words muffled against her skin. “I don’t want you to get up either.”

A shiver ran through her at the drag of his mouth, the slow shift of his hand down her hip. “Xavier,” she said softly, not in protest, not truly.

“Hm?” The mischief in his tone was unmistakable.

She turned, and when his eyes met hers, they were still heavy-lidded, dark and intent, full of that quiet, impossible affection that never failed to steal her breath. He reached up and brushed his fingers against her cheek, letting his fingers linger at her jaw.

“Are you well?” he asked, the question sincere, his thumb brushing tenderly against her cheek.

She nodded, then pressed her hand to his, holding it there. “It was good,” she said, and meant it more than she could say.

“Just good?” His smirk reemerged, teasing.

She rolled her eyes and kissed the corner of his mouth. “Better than good.”

His smile deepened, but he didn’t press. He only leaned forward and kissed her again—soft, slow, indulgent.

Then came the knock.

Sharp, decisive.

Xavier groaned like a man condemned, dragging a pillow over his face.

She laughed and sat up, ignoring the way he tried to pull her back down. “We have to get up.”

“No, we don’t,” he insisted, voice muffled.

The knock came again, firmer.

“Come in,” she called with a resigned sigh.

The door opened, and in stepped her mother—elegant, composed, eyes sharp as flint.

Xavier groaned louder and threw an arm dramatically across his face, the sheet barely covering the line of his hip.

Her mother’s eyes swept over the room, taking in the tangled linens and flushed faces with a flick of her brow. “You’re well?” she asked, tone infuriatingly casual.

She sat up straighter, meeting her mother’s gaze evenly. “I am.”

Her mother nodded, adjusting a fold of her gown. “So last night was… successful.”

Xavier made a strangled sound behind his arm.

“Yes,” she said simply, ignoring the heat rising in her cheeks.

“Good.”

A beat of silence.

“Mother—”

“I will not ask for details,” the older woman interrupted, “as I’ve no desire to know what my son-in-law is capable of.”

Xavier choked again, nearly rolling off the bed.

“But,” her mother continued, eyes softening, “I did want to ensure you were alright. I would not be doing my duty otherwise.”

Warmth bloomed in her chest. “I appreciate it.”

Her mother nodded, decisive. Then paused. “You’ve spoken to Jeremiah?”

“We have.”

“Wise,” she said with faint approval. “There is time for children later.”

And with that, she swept from the room like a queen leaving court, jasmine scent trailing behind her.

Xavier peeked from beneath the pillow, eyes wide. “She is terrifying.”

She burst into laughter, sinking back into the pillows, curling toward him. “You adore her.”

“I tolerate her,” he muttered. “Barely.”

She kissed his jaw, lips brushing the stubble there. “Well, we have time now. Just us.”

His smirk faded into something tender, his hand brushing over her bare back. “Just us,” he whispered. “And that’s all I’ll ever need.”He drew her back against him, their legs tangling beneath the sheets, as the sun finally began to spill across the floor.

[ofgrenvde]

Interrogation - Self Para

mentioned: sterling phillips @poisonvdhonvy, @ofemeralds, @c0exiist, @rhysx (tagging you all bc this is onyx circuit related and all the founding members should know)

tw: torture, tw: blood

The metal door slammed shut behind Zelie as she entered the small, windowless room. The space smelled of copper and fear. The piece of shit who started all this sat strapped to a metal chair bolted to the floor, his face already showing signs of the preliminary questioning he'd received before she arrived. This nobody—this expendable grunt who'd been with them less than six months—had nearly destroyed everything she'd built.

"I'm told you have a fascinating story to tell me about the Grand Royale," Zelie said, as she removed her designer jacket and carefully folded it over the back of the opposite chair. Her temple throbbed, even after all this time from the injuries she'd sustained during the blast. Injuries that she should have never sustained because the operation should never have occurred. "About how you decided to use my organization's name to blow up Min-ho Kang."

Douglas's eyes darted around the room, looking anywhere but at her. "It wasn't like that. I was trying to help the Circuit. Make a statement. Show them we're not to be..."

The crack of her hand across his face resounded against the concrete walls. She hadn't come here for excuses.

"The Onyx Circuit doesn't need your help making statements," she said, pulling a small leather case from her purse. She unrolled it, revealing a collection of gleaming surgical tools. Her head tilted as she made a show of running her fingers over them, "We have protocols. Years of careful planning that you jeopardized because you wanted to impress us."

His eyes widened at the instruments. "I thought... I just wanted to prove my worth. You always talk about evolution, about forcing change."

"And you thought bombing a meeting of all six family heads on Valentine's Day was subtle?" She selected a thin, curved blade from her collection. "Do you understand the chaos you've created? I was in the building, Douglas. I got injured because of your stupidity. Does this pretty face look like it would welcome a marring?"

Sweat beaded on his forehead. "The timing was meant to follow up on the first incident. I thought-"

Zelie felt rage burning behind her eyes. This fool had been studying her, mimicking her methods without understanding the strategy behind them.

"My pattern." She traced the blade along his collarbone, not yet breaking skin. "Did my pattern include leaving evidence? Did it include using our actual calling cards? Did it include creating a direct link between the Onyx Circuit and a murder? Did it include injuring our own people?"

The first cut was shallow, yet his scream sounded like music to her ears.

"Please! I can fix this. I can tell the police it was just me, acting alone. The Circuit doesn't have to."

His words dissolved into a gurgling cry as she carved a deliberate line across his chest.

"The moment you planted those cards, you made this about all of us." Blood pooled against his shirt as she worked. "Now I need to know exactly what you did. What evidence you left. Who you talked to."

For forty minutes, she extracted every detail, every connection, every loose end that needed tying. His screams eventually gave way to whimpers, then to broken confessions. He'd stolen the cards from their supply room. He'd studied the security system at the Grand Royale during his shifts as a waiter there. He'd crafted the bomb using techniques from an online forum.

"I didn't tell anyone," he gasped, his face pale from blood loss. "I swear on my life."

Zelie wiped her blade clean on a handkerchief. "Your life isn't worth much at the moment, Douglas."

She stood back, surveying her work with critical eyes. The final question remained. "Why Kang? Out of all the family heads, why target him specifically?"

His answer came through bloodied lips. "Heard you talking... about the underground fighting... how the Kangs were the biggest obstacle to expansion. Thought you'd be pleased."

Zelie felt cold fury replacing her rage. This man had been listening, watching, planning—all while misunderstanding everything about her vision.

"The Kangs were an obstacle to be manipulated, not eliminated." She picked up a larger blade. "Their operations provided leverage against the others. The vacuum you've created will cause chaos for months."

His eyes widened in genuine terror. "I'm sorry. Please. I can still be useful. I'll do anything."

Zelie leaned in close. "You've done enough."

Twenty minutes later, she emerged from the room, carefully wiping blood spatter from her face with a pristine white cloth. She nodded to Sterling, who waited in the hallway.

"Clean that up," she said, wincing as the movement pulled at her injured arm. Stupid man made her pull something during her interrogation. "And find out if he had any close friends in our organization. Anyone who might have known what he was planning. Tell your wife it wasn't us. That maggot went above our heads."

She checked her reflection in a compact mirror, ensuring no trace of the interrogation remained on her features. The blood had gotten everywhere. She sighed, dropping the bloodied cloth into Sterling's waiting hands.

[motherstone]

Kazu Kibuishi nearly died while making ‘Amulet.’ Two decades later, he’s completed it. – Orange County Register (ocregister.com)

A passage from the article:

But in the decade since his recovery, Kibuishi says he still feels the effects.

“It changed my life, for sure. That’s part of the reason why I can’t write as fast as I used to. I can definitely draw just as quickly; that’s just motor skill. But writing is really what takes the most time,” he says, adding his memory has been affected – sometimes he’d finish a page only to realize he’d already drawn it before. “There are certain obstacles and hurdles I have to get over. I don’t want to use it as an excuse but … I have set a standard with my former self that is very hard for this brain to match.”

Kibuishi’s memory came up when I mention an earlier meeting we’d had. Years ago, not long after he’d recovered, I’d reached out to tell him how much my family enjoyed his books and Kibuishi had invited us to visit his Bolt City Productions studio in Alhambra. While a memorable event for us, Kibuishi says he can’t remember much from that period.

“That time in my life, I just have to accept that I was a bit of an amnesiac. There’s like a crater in my memory,” he says. “I don’t know if I’ll ever fully recover from it, but I manage well, I think, despite all of that.”

That explains why Amulet turned out the way it did. I deeply regret the harsher points of my criticisms, but my points about flaws of the series still stand.

On one thing, I presumed that his injury may have played a factor, something that severe especially in the brain is not something you would 100% recover from. On the other hand, I thought it is pretty wrong to speculate or assume further about Kazu’s medical history because that’s ultimately his business to divulge or not.

So I assumed it was arrogance. I assumed that since he’s secured a good number of loyal readers, he’s just putting whatever because a.) he’s done with Amulet, and b.) people would read his books either way, so why bother with quality? Which is not only extremely bad faith of me, but also deeply insulting to Kazu as an artist. To which I am regretful, and I do apologize. He really just can’t remember. The Amulet we started with isn’t the Amulet we ended with.

That also explains his process. He’s made around 1000 draft pages for book 9, then pick and discard what he wanted to keep and honestly, I’m pretty sure someone with a direction for their story wouldn’t have such ramblings that would take 1000 pages (I myself who also draws a lot wouldn’t make that high of a number), the process overall was just yonkers. But for someone with a spotty memory… That’s probably the best method he could come up with.

But in all honesty, reading this article gave me an overwhelming sense of peace. I could live with Kazu’s reasons if it was because he’s done with Amulet, or if it was because of executive meddling, or if it was for medical reasons. Mostly because these are all problems that can be fixed. A better project, a better employer, a better work schedule, better accommodations. I still think the writing is awful and declined badly, but I’m more relieved that it isn’t because Kazu no longer cares or values his work. Ultimately, he genuinely did the best he could.