#its just very foul to want to be wanted and needed and desired and for it to simply not happen

[makeela]

well I guess the thing is is that I don't think anyone has ever actually loved me and I don't think anyone ever will and I just don't think it's very easy to reconcile that information

[monstersdownthepath]

A collection of Fey entities

A little different from my usual "a collection of..." posts. Making statblocks isn't my forte, surprisingly; I can, but ADHD Hellbrain kicks in and typically prevents me from actually finishing them, my energy and motivation running out typically by the time I need to select feats. A few of the creatures on this list are victims of that very phenomenon, but rather than letting them languish in my drafts forever, I figure I can share what I DO have in the form of lore and some basic ideas.

So, here's a bunch of fairies!

One of them I was going to write down, the Harvest Lords, are a concept I've developed too much for me to put here; they're a group of Archfey with proper domains and Boons, and thus will get their own post. Eventually.

Warnings: There are unsanitary themes in the Brughyorb Gremlin spot, as well as Totagoda. The final entry (Rotten Crick) deals with themes of animal death and allusions to animal torture, dealing specifically with sea life.

Brughyorb Gremlins (CR 1/2 Chaotic Evil Small Fey) are small, round, filthy creatures that are almost all mouth and stomach, resembling fleshy cauldrons when they fully open their mouths and scamper about on their arms and legs, and are thus also known as Cauldron Gremlins, Burplings, and Bowlbellies. Their grinding teeth and powerful jaws are best suited for plant matter (wood is a delicacy to them), but they won't hesitate to feed on whatever carrion they manage to find, even though the majority of what they eat isn't actually digested.

Brughyorb Gremlins hold most of what they shovel into their maws in the first of their two stomachs, where their pungent gut juices fester and melt their food into noxious sludge so malodorous it's actually acidic. Slow and unbalanced even when they're empty, they lay in waiting for an innocent passerby to cross whatever hiding spot they've holed up in before leaping out with a wet shriek, and when their victim inhales in order to scream in surprise, the gremlins unleash a horrific belch directly into the victim's face. Overwhelming nausea is the most common result of such a sensory assault (though especially unlucky ones may catch the fatal Filth Fever), victims disoriented not only by the scare, but their entire world becoming overtaken by an indescribably vile stink, preventing them from fighting back as the gremlin takes whatever it wants from them and scampers off into the shadows, cackling with terrible glee.

Though they're larger than most gremlins, Brughyorb Gremlins are just as cowardly and prone to fleeing whenever someone even moderately well-armed comes along. If a foe proves especially dangerous and their burps aren't cutting it, they'll loose the contents of their stomachs to form slick, acidic pools that carry an eye-watering reek with them to trip up and potentially even kill their pursuers, either immediately through acid damage or eventually through disease. Being directly disgorged upon is an experience so profoundly unpleasant that most beings subjected to it immediately switch careers into something that will prevent this incident from ever happening again... though the fact a Brughyorb's stench is nearly impossible to scrub away and lingers for many weeks means the horrible little beasts can easily track the scent of their past victims in order to get them again.

Despite their foulness, their gut juice is an alchemical reagent highly prized by alchemists for its ability to break down and, with a bit of tinkering, ferment just about any organic matter, making them highly desirable for anyone hoping to create not just powerful acids, but potent fertilizers, fermented foods, or alcohol. Alchemists desiring the gremlin's gut juice, of course, rarely risk seeking it out themselves.

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Tintink Gremlins (CR 1 Chaotic Evil Tiny Fey) are also known as Nail Gremlins, Sharpener Pixies, Hammerlings, Nailbiters, Sharpies, and other such names. While most fey fear the touch of iron, Tintink Gremlins collect the substance in earnest despite being just as vulnerable to it as any other fey. Contact with cold iron burns and pains them, but rather than shrinking away from it, they revel in it, with many of them boldly wearing sharpened points of cold iron for the specific purpose of terrorizing and bullying other fairies, as well as protecting themselves from being bullied or terrorized by others.

Tintinks are obsessed with the collection and the sharpening of metal pins, tacks, screws, caltrops, and especially nails, pilfering such items from workshops, lumberyards, factories, and even homes. Loose items are of course the easiest for them to get, their tiny backpacks and leather aprons full to bursting with stacks of nails they sweep off workbenches, but they're also prone to using hammers, crowbars, and pliers sized for their tiny hands to wrench fasteners from whatever surface they're embedded in. Their hoarding slowly but surely destroys furniture, floors, rafters, and eventually entire structures one stolen screw at a time, fleeing only when the infested building collapses entirely.

Even when they're not destroying buildings, Tintinks are horrid menaces. Their wretched claws, coarse palms, and rough tongues can shave metal with the ease of a whetstone, and they use these to sharpen whatever points they get ahold of until they can pierce the thick leather of most common shoes or gloves... and they lay them out in preparation to do exactly that, cackling in wicked glee whenever someone impales their feet or hands on their sharps collections.

They are quite dangerous for a gremlin, capable of causing terrible wounds and even deaths if they're sufficiently motivated, but they are easily caught and removed by those who can take advantage of their fairy quirks. Their obsession with sharpening borders on an irresistible compulsion, and many Tintinks have been caught and exterminated by fey hunters leaving out piles of dull nails, bent forks, and chipped knives, which the gremlins cannot help but sit down among and work on, leaving them vulnerable to ambush.

----

Steraba (CR 2 Neutral Good Diminutive Fey) are also known as Honey Fairies, Porridge Pixies, Mice Fey, and other such names. They resemble miniature humanoids with mouse-like features such as dewy eyes, rounded ears, long tails, paws, or combinations thereof (sometimes to the point they're just anthropomorphic mice), scarcely larger than the pests they resemble. Despite their appearance, Steraba are not pests themselves and are in fact one of many helpful fey known as House Spirits, and can be a genuinely helpful force in one's home... if one forgives their tendency to pilfer easily-missed items left in their field of vision.

Steraba make their homes in mouseholes inside occupied buildings, living among families of mice (never rats, they despise rats) which they take great pains to keep safe, healthy, and out of sight of the mortals with whom they share a space. Their lives are spent going on frequent, exciting 'raids' with their mice families (whom they can both communicate with and easily train), scampering unseen through homes like a spy trying to avoid being spotted by guards as they run missions such as 'read the next chapter of a book,' 'steal the button,' 'get to the grain stores,' 'slay the attic spider,' 'push out the rats,' and other such objectives. Between missions, they engage in surprisingly elaborate crafting projects; anything inedible they steal is used to decorate their tiny homes, if not by itself, then as part of a greater project. Unknowing families may have entire miniature art galleries in their walls!

Like most House Spirits, Steraba dislike being seen or acknowledged, and spending too long looking at one or talking about its existence aloud with one's family or neighbors is a sure way to drive it off completely. Even more than this, harming a mouse is a grave insult to the Mouse Pixies, who may respond by pilfering valuable or treasured items with Mage Hand, performing acts of vandalism with Prestidigitation and mundane tools, and even causing painful or humiliating household accidents against repeat and grievous offenders. Treating the mice with the calmness and respect one would treat a neighbor, however, will see a household blessed by the tiny pixies who use their talents--magical and mundane--to slay more harmful pests, drive off more malevolent fey, and provide just as well for their "big families" as they do the "small families." A Steraba can magically turn a single grain into a whole loaf of hot bread or a bowl of nutritious porridge that's filling even for a Medium-sized creature, letting them stretch the most meager of food stores for days or weeks on end, and can conjure small amounts of honey, sugar, and jam each day to assure the meals are never boring. A Steraba who has lived in a home for many years and established a positive relationship with its big family may even begin gifting the mortals with pieces of art it has made, which act as good luck charms so long as the owner takes care to say it was a 'gift from my neighbor' if they are ever asked where the trinket came from.

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The Filoxenia (CR 11 Neutral Medium Fey) are humanoid fey with golden skin and hair like stalks of wheat, so rare that it was believed there was only one for quite some time. These are fey many cautionary tales are spoken of, fey for whom the Laws of Sacred Hospitality are absolutes and generosity is the holiest of virtues. These fey take on the shapes of beggars, wanderers, and vagrants of various ancestries as they travel the world in the search of kindness, visiting the lowest muckrakers in their hovels, to the meager homes of farmers, to the mansions of nobles and royals to test their treatment of visitors. How, exactly, they perform their tests always varies, but it almost always begins with a simple request: Shelter, just for one night, and a meal of whatever the host can provide, just enough to let them see the next dawn.

The Filoxenia cannot be identified while they're in disguise, their own magic thwarting magical attempts to pierce it; the most reliable way to tell that you've encountered one is the gentle smell of honey and wheat which accompanies them, a scent they take pains to hide with mud and dusty clothes or, in rare cases, perfumes, but which they can never completely cover. Even if you know, however, it is in your best interest to play along and not allow it to sway your decision! Treating your new guest as you would any other is part of the test.

These fey exist to test mortals in their proficiency with and knowledge of the Laws of Sacred Hospitality, and each one has different means of both testing and rendering judgment. More lawful Filoxenia typically treat their task with the utmost of seriousness, and have a mental checklist they gradually move down during their stay in a mortal's home where failing even one step fails the whole test. More chaotic Filoxenia are much more likely to act as unruly guests, assessing the patience of their host, making gradually more unreasonable requests to see just how far the host is willing to go and rendering their judgment based on the host's breaking point; too soon (strict) or too late (lenient) and they fail.

The reward for passing their test is often simple but always beneficial; they may arrange for a parcel of valuable gems to be delivered to the host, repair flaws in their home, or magically enchant a tool or piece of furniture the host owns in a way which will always be useful to them. Impressing the fey may cause them to perform feats such as keeping the host's food stores full for a year and a day, blessing the host with a boon of good luck and health, grant them a useful magical item, blessing their livestock with health and virility, or introducing a helpful House Spirit into the home... but for all their potential blessings, their curses are the stuff of legends and horror stories.

Providing the bare minimum of hospitality is one thing (which earns the stingy host naught but a bowl of gruel or perhaps a new pair of socks for their trouble), but treating the Filoxenia poorly or, most damnably, rejecting their plea for mercy and assistance at one's doorstep? Such a host would be lucky if the worst thing that happened to them was the death of their livestock. An especially offended Filoxenia, such as one physically harmed by the host, can go as far as to curse an entire household to experience grave misfortune which, eventually, will lead to the death of all within in no more than a year.

----

Totagoda, the Uninvited Guest (CR 13 Chaotic Evil Large Fey) is a unique fey entity, an object of both scorn and amusement in the First World and a downright blight in the Universe whenever he deigns to enter it. He is a wild combination of a bloated toad and a gluttonous goat, standing on his back two legs as a man does, with three bulbous eyes always surveying the area as he searches for his next meal, the remains of which are added to the breathtaking tapestry of reeking stains over his clothing and skin.

Totagoda is a gluttonous, wretched beast of a fey, his primary modus operandi involving taking the shape of beggars, wanderers, and vagrants, hoping to gain invitation into the home of unsuspecting mortals who do not realize just what's standing at the door. Unfortunately, as one may surmise from his title, he is quite liberal with determining what qualifies as an 'invitation' into someone's home, with even strained conversation or simply holding a door open for too long becoming cause for him to push past his unfortunate host and slip inside. Only slamming the door in his face and refusing to speak will cause him to move on. Once inside, he takes a seat at the kitchen table and bullies his hosts into providing for him, often relying on the victim's fear or good manners (or both) to prevent them from seeking aid even as he wolfs down whatever food (or anything close to food) they can provide.

Victims of the Uninvited Guest quickly find themselves eaten out of house and home as his loud demands for food grow ever more violent and unreasonable, his monstrous form gradually revealing itself as he gorges himself. By the point he's revealed as a true and literal monster, it's far too late for his host, with him threatening their belongings, their health, or their very lives if they don't comply, the foul fey holding their treasured belongings or even their family members hostage to force their hand. When all the food in the house is exhausted, victims are forced into the marketplaces where they're expected to spend all their remaining money on a further banquet for the fey. Victims who can give no more may find themselves ensorcelled and forced to provide against their will, butchering their livestock, pets, or their unfortunate neighbors to feed Totagoda, until eventually he grows bored with the current fare and snaps up his host whole and alive with his massive tongue, moving on and leaving any surviving family members nothing but a destroyed home and horrific memories.

Sending out invitations to a party or celebration when Totagoda is stalking an area is a dangerous affair, because no matter the intended celebration, one can be assured it will end in tragedy and horror; many malevolent fey have, in fact, wielded the Uninvited Guest as a weapon by gifting him invitations to the party of a rival or hated enemy. When feeling especially peckish and shameless, he will use the public nature of taverns, restaurants, markets, and other such spaces where food may be found to barge in and begin stuffing his face, using threats, charming magic, or outright mystic domination against the owners, forcing them to ignore his crimes until they become too great to rationalize even with his spellwork clouding their minds. He prefers the 'thrill' of forcing his way into the homes of helpless mortals who cannot seek aid to feed him, using public eateries as a last resort, as he despises the concept of experiencing consequences (which is why he flees the First World as much as possible; he has made many enemies among Archfey and Eldest). Despite his considerable power and unnatural resilience, Totagoda is a coward and a bully, and at the first sign of any trouble (even trouble he could easily deal with) he is more likely to flee than fight, flinging his disease-ridden, acidic dung and unleashing nauseating belches at any pursuers until he can finally escape.

----

That Old and Rotten Crick, (CR 15 Neutral Evil Medium Fey), also known as Rotten Old Crick (and variants thereof), the Devil Fisherman, the Demon Angler, the Barnacle, Captain Hook, and a thousand other names with varying levels of fear or vitriol, is among one of the strangest denizens of the First World. Appearance-wise, he is a humanoid being, though not a hint of true flesh can be seen through the coverall-clothing of an angler that he wears; what isn't covered by clothes is studded with barnacles or coral growth. His vest is adorned by countless hooks, flies, whatever equipment he wishes to keep on hand rather than in his beaten up but magical tacklebox (the Artifact known as the Tomb of Karaphas), and extra parts for his Artifact-level fishing rod and primary weapon, the Tidepool Reaper. His face (if he has one) perpetually hidden in the shadow of his fishing cap, and he speaks with the smooth cadence of a devil and maniacal purpose of a daemon.

Nearly an Archfey in terms of power, Rotten Crick does not seek influence and remains outside of whatever political nonsense the others have going on... though his actions have a great many Archfey and even one of the Eldest furious with his very existence. Rotten Crick, you see, despises all life in the sea, especially the lives of any creature which could be called a 'fish.' His absolute hatred for all sealife has earned him a many enemies among waterway guardians and sea-dwelling fey, but just as many allies, though not for the reasons one may think; many stories circulate across many worlds of a mysterious angler approaching a fisherman or sailor with promises of rods, reels, baits, hooks, and nets which will assuredly catch enough fish to feed not only them, but their families and the families of their neighbors as well. Indeed, Rotten Crick has no animosity towards most mortal life, and is actually quite amicable, willing to help any down-on-their-luck man on the coast fish enough to live, or even make a business! There are rare stories of him going out of his way to save fishermen whose lives are endangered by the sea... but it is all for the singular goal of eliminating as many fish as possible and inspiring others to do the same. He will sit with other mortal anglers for many hours, fishing alongside them and making occasional, casual conversation, but anyone who knows what they're dealing with is advised to keep it casual, because any extended conversation with him will gradually turn towards alarmingly enthusiastic diatribes on how terribly fish suffer when hooked and dragged from the water, or disturbingly thorough explanations of the many deaths caused by sea beasts all over the world, in order to justify their torture and extermination.

He doesn't even eat any of his catches, enraged by the very idea of putting a fish in his body. If there is no one nearby to gift them to, he either abandons them on the shore to rot or, if feeling especially spiteful, slices them apart with fillet knives and hooks and leaves the disassembled bodies for the birds. He holds no love for creatures he calls "betrayers," which includes dolphins, whales, and seals, such unfortunates earning swift and terrible ends by his hands. Intelligent sea beings, especially merfolk, are in danger of torturous disassembly while still alive, as he draws sadistic joy from hearing their cries.

Why, precisely, he harbors such irrational hatred for sealife is something he has never explained to anyone who's asked, and likely never will. At the very least, any grand and far-reaching plans he may actually have to depopulate the seas of Golarion are slow going, if they're happening at all, held back by the sadism and hatred which drives him; it has been explained to him many times (primarily by daemons) that he could efficiently depopulate the seas by way of pollution, poison, and industrial expansion, but his hate is so great that he seems to prefer the more visceral, personal approach.

[that-foul-legacy-lover]

I heard that you want some other variety of au

Hear me out, blind saintess/nun reader and FL.

Yes it's part of my oc:3.. (also just want to say if theres any problem to that please tell me, i will change it immediately)

ohhhh oh i can do something with this, thank you anon i'm giving you a big hug :]

ever since you were a child, you've been brought up to be a devoted follower of your nation's Archon, and by proxy Celestia. of course you'd be perfect member of the church- you were blind, and therefore not tempted by earthly desires- at least, that's what your parents said. you weren't allowed much of an opinion on it, as with almost everything, but you were glad that the god you worshipped was real, at the very least. plus, the church treated you well and gave you whatever support you needed, which is more than your parents have ever done. you're taught everything people know and some things they don't, privy to the few secrets mortals have managed to grasp from Celestia and the Abyss, how the Abyss corrupts everything it touches and how Celestia saved Teyvat, long ago

you're not sure about that last part. but you're not the one who decides what happened in history

you've long since learned to navigate the world without sight, since you never had the privilege of experiencing it in the first place, and it's barely surprising that you often sneak out at night for some alone time. your feet always take you to the same place, towards a small cave hidden on the side of a cliff away from the city. something lives in there, something huge and growling and soft and sweet, that smells like icy cold starlight. it can't speak any language you understand, yet it never raises a claw to harm you, letting you sit at its side and speak about your day. occasionally it nudges your shoulder to gently push you closer so it can curl around you, creating a cocoon of warmth and tough armor. you could never tell the church, after they taught you that all un-Celestial monsters were sinners. and you promised that you never would

Foul Legacy, however, simply nuzzles closer to this strange, unseeing person, so kind and gentle with him, soaking in the affection he so desperately misses

[wholesomefluffdaddy]

Wednesday's new court mandated therapist is having her keep a journal of her thoughts and feelings. Wednesday finds this to be a complete waste of time and decides instead to use it to record her observations of her unusual roommate Enid Sinclair. Wednesday POV.

——————————————

Entry 14

Current Moon Phase: Waning Gibbous 🌖

I must admit I have been most timid around my werewolf as of late. Now that my madness has been given a name it seems to have grown ever more powerful. I desire Enid severely but have not the faintest idea how to proceed. The madness craves her touch and I cannot help but bend to its will. Enid has been too generous in placating these whims. I'm starting to suspect she must suffer a similar madness as she seems to take great pleasure at our continuous physical contact.

I am also ashamed to admit that I have intentionally placed myself in rather compromising positions to elicit a more 'amorous' touch from her. It is very fortunate we are unable to reproduce; for I fear I would be unable to resist carrying her spawn if she requested it of me.

Dear Diary,

I don't know what's going on with Wednesday - but then again I never do 😣 After she said she loved me on the balcony she's been really flustered. It's kinda cute but I worry about her sometimes. She's been acting even more like a cat than usual. Like she's possessed by a cat. (Maybe she is? 🙀 I don't know how her powers work!) She really likes when we cuddle and stuff but she also pretends not to? It's like she wants to be affectionate but doesn't know how to ask for it.

Okay, so like just yesterday I was sitting in the quad with Yoko and Divina, and we found this cat - I think you know where this is going. So the cat is just sitting in my lap when Willa materializes out of nowhere. She sees the cat, looks deeply offended, and has this intense stare down with it 😅 Yoko starts joking 'looks like that cat just stole your girl, Addams!' And I think Willa took that a little too literally because she starts arguing with the cat and demands that the 'foul beast relinquish mi querida or face my wrath.' (My brave babycakes 😝 💕) I picked up the cat and held it out to her, because seriously Willa, it was a little cat and it was so cute! Anyway! She accepts the cat, immediately sets it down, (I swear I thought I heard her hiss at it!) and sits in my lap instead. 😭

Yoko can't handle it and leaves and Divina chases after the cat (it ran away after Willa put it on the ground) And Willa is just sitting there looking so stupidly pleased with herself. 😅 My silly little jealous raven.

Another time I was sitting on my bed writing a paper on my laptop while Willa was writing at her desk. Her alarm goes off to signal the end of her writing time and she just gets up and looks over at me. She asks how my paper is 'progressing.' I'm honest and say it's going to take a while. (It was like a 5 page homework assignment 😣) She glances at the clock then at me before laying down on her bed.

Every couple minutes I hear a very small impatient sigh or huff or groan. Apparently she needed attention and I was taking too long 😅 So after about maybe 10 or 15 minutes she just gets up and wanders over. She pretends, very badly, to be interested in stuff around my bed. I asked if she needed anything and she says 'no.' I try to focus on my paper and she sits down on the edge of my bed. I give her a look but she doesn't say anything or acknowledge me. When I go back to typing I start to notice her slowly scooting towards me.

I close my eyes for a moment and then suddenly feel my laptop leave my hands and her crawl into my lap!? I open my eyes and ask what she's doing and she just says 'I shall assist you with your assignment.' I didn't ask but like okay? I think she just wanted cuddles but didn't know how to ask. So she looks over what I've written so far and starts making corrections. I just accept that this is where she's decided to be and wrap my arms around her. She tenses up at once and I feel a shiver go down her spine.

I ask if she's alright and she takes a shaky breath before saying she's fine. I shrug and rest my chin on the top of her head. I can practically hear her heartbeat at this point. 'Do- do you wish to be amorous?' She asks all out of breath. I can tell she's trying really hard to sound casual but like, I know what my babycakes wants 😏 So I figure I'd tease her just a little bit and say 'I thought you were helping me with my paper?' 'I, yes, of course.' She says all flustered and types slower.

Her hair smells really nice and I can't help burying my face in it. Well, as much as I can while it's in those braids. I can feel Willa's body heating up as I start scenting her and trying to get her scent on me. She gulps. I really want to run my fingers through her hair so I gently (it was gently I swear!) tug on one of her braids, because I wanted to ask her if she'd undo them, and she lets out this super adorable sound! 😖💕

'Querida! I can bear this torment no longer!' She says all dramatically before setting my laptop on the ground and turning to face me. She has the cutest blush and I can see her freckles. 😳 I raise my eyebrows and ask 'what torment?' She lets out this little moody huff and I can't help myself - I pounce on her. I can't even begin to describe how cute she looks every time I pin her down. Like she looks all offended and flustered but also secretly really excited.

'If you wanted this, all you had to do was ask.' I tell her before kissing her. She lets out the tiniest whimper and I just can't! I start to get worked up and kinda whisper growl at her to roll over. She does immediately. I, um, you know… Wolfish instincts and everything. (She's such a pillow princess💕) She turns into a trembling mess as usual. I'm pretty sure we reached the, what was the phrase again? Petite mort? We reached the petite mort at the same time. 😏 I ask if she wants to clean up before cuddles - I should probably mention we were both clothed! We haven't mated mated yet. Willa just gets super w- Nevermind!

She nods and bolts off all embarrassed. (Its okay Willa!) When she comes back I just pat the bed and she shyly sneaks over. Once she's on the bed she curls up into a little ball so I can spoon her. She really likes her spooning time. We cuddle and I get to pet her hair while I tell her how much I love her. She's usually just super quiet during but occasionally I'll hear her whisper something back in like another language. I've been working on my French and Spanish so I can kinda understand a little of what she's saying (I catch her saying 'love' or 'beautiful' or 'wolf' a lot ).

After we cuddled for a couple of hours I got up cause I had to get back to my paper. (It was due before midnight) But I guess Willa wasn't ready for cuddles to be over just yet because as soon as I got my computer and sat back down she wrapped her arms around me from behind. She just snuggled into my back for the rest of the time I was writing. It was really cute 💕

[tavyliasin]

BG3 FicFeb NSFW - Day 8

This one was a little fun, more suggestive than full action smut but I spoiled you with a longer piece yesterday and still have my Baldur's Date piece to write~ As Tav has tried a great many things, and keeps none of them secret from Astarion as she shares her diary with him as they agreed, there's little he doesn't know about what she wants. But there is one thing she has been loathe to admit out loud... CWs and Tags here are pretty tame~ Voice kink, blindfold use, and a slight hint of power play, praise kink, and a lot of teasing.

Smut below the cut! ----- -----

Day 8 - Tav/Durge Explores A Secret Kink With Their LI

Tav was laying back against Astarion’s chest, his legs either side of her hips and his arms draped loosely around her shoulders, as comfortable as a familiar blanket, a deep feeling of warmth and safety in the embrace. In his hands he held a book they had borrowed from Gale, his head resting against hers. She was the faster reader of the two, so it was little need for him to ask when to turn the pages and continue. The moment of peace was well earned, claiming the room in the Elfsong Tavern for nothing more than a chance to rest while the others sought their own entertainment. Or at least, that was their plan.

“This is ridiculous,” Astarion complained, a hint of amusement in his voice, “a sword like hers would not be able to cut through the thick hide of a fully grown owlbear in one swing. My darling, I am getting the distinct impression the author has not been in a single real fight in his life.” 

Her heart skipped a beat at the sound of his voice, much as she tried to ignore it. “Well, you can’t expect everyone to have the kinds of adventures we’ve had, can you?” A little thought occurred to her in that moment, born of the blush creeping unbidden up her neck at the sound of his quiet laugh close beside her ear. “Maybe you should change the story a little. Read it to me, won’t you? My eyes grow so weary of staring at the pages~”

“Such theatrics, my love,” he kissed her quickly warming cheek as he relented, “very well, now where were we?” 

“The brave heroine took down the foul beast-”

“Of course… So, the body of the creature fell at her feet as her breasts heaved from the effort.” He hummed quietly in thought, the feeling vibrating from his chest to her back. “Do they really heave? Well. Moving on.”  

—

Astarion continued reading, his voice soft by Tav’s ear, noticing with a hidden smile how her body was growing warmer without a single touch, her head leaning back more onto his shoulder and her eyes fluttering closed. 

Perfect, he thought to himself with a devious idea, now she will have no idea when I change the story…

He was subtle at first, changing a few lines to a slightly more seductive context, taking note of how she reacted. Then he began to lower the book, freeing his hand to caress her soft skin, almost surprised to note just how hot and flush she felt. 

“Should I stop reading now, darling?” He kissed her ear softly, a pleased shudder through her back palpable against his chest.

“Please don’t,” she whispered, “I…like hearing your voice.” 

“Next time I will have to ask for one of his more lewd novels then, if you enjoy those stories more~” The last words came with a slight growl, earning a small gasp from her parted lips.

“It isn’t that,” even her breathing was quickened, “you could be reading the most boring treatise on the proper use of illusion magic and I would feel the same…”

“You have some very strange taste in erotic literature, love~” He continued to speak soft and low, putting more playfulness into the tone, relishing how her body would subtly move of its own accord.

“I…” She paused, as if embarrassed to go on.

“Tell me, my love,” he kissed along the edge of her ear again, a few teasing bites with sharp yet gentle teeth. “What is it you desire? I have read all of your exploits in the diary we share, and played my part in many. Nothing you could reveal would make me think less of you.” 

“Your voice…” She moaned as he continued to tease her with the slightest touch. “I…really love the sound of your voice.” 

“Why didn’t you say so sooner, darling? That is an easy wish to grant you…” He stroked her hair softly before bringing his hand over her eyes. “Shall I take your vision from you, so you can hear me more clearly?”

—

Tav couldn’t stop the moan from slipping out into the quiet room. “Please, Astarion-” 

“Then hold still, love, I will give you everything you want.” He reached over to grab a small dagger he kept in easy reach even now - old habits die hard after all - and cut away the silken cover of a nearby cushion. 

The fabric strip easily covered her eyes, blocking out the remaining light. The removal of one sense had the tendency to heighten the others temporarily, and she felt the truth in that with every word. 

“Now, not a word from you, but there is no need to stay silent…let me hear how I make you feel~” Astarion’s voice melted through her, soft as velvet, long practised seduction this time without any false promises. 

She nodded, just a small sound with it not finding a full syllable on her tongue.

“Good, darling, just like that.” He purred, wrapping his arms around her waist and caressing the line of her hip. “Your body is astonishing, how just a few words can have you squirming against me without so much as a kiss upon your soft lips.”

As he spoke, Tav’s body responded again, without any input from her will. His fingertips found her wrist, trailing up to her elbow.

“Such strength and skill, and yet all it takes is a little talk and you’re already melting into me.” His teasing was infuriating. “Should I continue telling you everything I love about your body, how you moan so sweetly for me, how I want nothing more than to rip off your clothes right now and taste every part of you…”

Tav nearly stopped breathing, already feeling the depth of her lust pooling deep in her stomach, every muscle in her body coiled tense like a spring…

“Or shall I make good on that promise, and keep talking while I do it?” His hands drifted away from their soft caressing, depriving her of any touch but his body against her back and his lips on her neck.

“Please…anything, just so long as I can hear you.” She begged, forgetting the one instruction that she had been given.

“Naughty little darling,” he purred with an edge of seductive threat, “but I will forgive you this once.”

Tav felt him press a line of kisses from her neck to her ear, directing the power of his voice to the very centre of her desire.

“Truth be told, love, your own voice can have a similar effect on me when I hear you beg so very beautifully for my affections~”

[merakiui]

As celebration for Scaramouche finally getting some spotlight and become playable, I have more brainrot! Nsfw warning? Just like the thought of him being a streamer or gamerboy with an unhealthy obsession with the neighbor nextdoor to him. Listening to you bring home multiple one night stands, your voice carrying through the vents. Its so irritating how it gets him riled up! Eventually his curiosity is peaked and he tries to send anonymous gifts and waiting for your reaction around the corner. It starts out sweet and innocent till he buys a polaroid camera to take explicit pictures of you for his own selfish desires, getting off to them for awhile till it no longer works. The thought of you bringing home different people gets to him and he starts planning on how he can make you his <3

Aaaa I love gamermouche. <3

(cw: yandere, implied nsfw, unhealthy behaviors/relationship, (cyber)stalking, obsession, modern au)

Scaramouche has never felt true love, so the fact that there are nearly a million people who watch his content, join his streams, and leave comments is jarring. This sort of recognition, while very much well-deserved and a wonderful ego boost, feeds a vacant part of him. The part that craves validation. The part that wants to be needed and noticed by others. The part of him that’s cold and lonely. And when a million eyes are on him, he’s able to ignore his fractured past and focus on a successful present.

He’s good at what he does. Streaming games of all genres, occasionally collaborating with other streamers. Hotshots like Tartaglia, who always engages in irritating banter with him (the fans eat it up every time), and the beauty vlogger Signora, who is surprisingly good at FPS games. Scaramouche could do without these troublesome collabs, but it boosts his viewership and those videos always do well. Why snuff a tree that continues to produce fruit? He can endure a few hours of collaboration as long as it brings in a good paycheck and lots of viewers.

With the way his current life has been going, success after success after success, he shouldn’t need to feel so…empty. He lives in a nice, spacious apartment on the sixth floor, he has an expensive set-up with three monitors and the best mic and headset, and his recording studio is organized and neat—a perfect space that’s soundproofed and allows him to hide away for a few hours, where he’s free to do as he pleases.

Lately, he’s been in a slump of sorts. He can continue to put out videos and he can stream as if nothing’s wrong, but there’s been this gnawing sense of incompletion that’s weighed heavy on his mind for a while now. No matter how well a video does, how great a stream went, or how many hours he’s put into his favorite games, everything feels so meaningless and hollow. Perhaps he’s burnt out. Perhaps he’s overworked himself. Perhaps it’s time to try other hobbies.

Or perhaps the problem lies with his neighbor.

You’ve lived next door for as long as he’s lived in the building. It’s been about three years now, Scaramouche thinks, and he remembers the day the two of you met. He’d come home late after a dinner spent with his mother and self-proclaimed aunt (he wishes she’d just piss off), and as usual the meeting went about as well as it possibly could when you can’t stand the sight of the one who cast you out when you needed her most. Understandably, Scaramouche was in a foul mood. He’d been wanting to get home as soon as possible, take a bath and scrub the dinner and every useless conversation from his skin, and he really wasn’t looking for any interruptions in his path to absolute comfort.

But when the lift doors slid open and he stalked down the hall, he found two people in front of his door. You were one of those people, pressed against the door while some stranger captured your mouth in a steamy kiss. Scaramouche heard his resolve snapping. He’d just come back from a shitty night out and this is what greets him? Two lovestruck fools exchanging saliva and breath as if they’re desperately in need of it?! He withdrew his key ring and obnoxiously shook it to disturb the oh-so-sweet scene. Thankfully, you took notice of him and you pushed the other person off of you with a breathless laugh.

He ought to stuff that laugh right down your throat.

“You’re in the way,” he snapped, and you stepped awkwardly aside. With a huff, he slipped his key into the lock and opened his door. Before melting into the darkness, he stared you in the eyes and said, “Make out against your own door.”

And then he slammed it shut, listening to your muffled laughter and the offended scoffs from your lover, date, friend… Honestly, he couldn’t care what they are to you. He does care when he hears the door beside him open and close and, with a low groan, he realized he just met his new neighbor—the one who’d previously caused quite the commotion moving in a few days prior.

Ever since then, he’s been privy to your nightly routines. How this madness could go on for three years is beyond him. How anyone could bring home a new soul every month or so and repeat this for three years is beyond him. By then, shouldn’t you have found ‘the one’? Though Scaramouche knows nothing of real, true love, he’s certain that three years is plenty of time to connect with at least one of your one-night stands. Unfortunately, you’re not the only one who has the pleasure of connecting.

The walls aren’t the thickest, and aside from his recording booth every other room, especially the ones that run parallel to your apartment, is thin. So thin that he can hear the bed creak if he presses his ear against the wall. And you’re always so loud. Wailing and moaning and gasping. He hears every sound, every little cry, and it grinds his patience into dust. If he wanted to listen to an explicit audio, he’d have done so online. The last thing he needs is to hear the lewd sounds of sex while he’s recording or streaming. He has faith in his soundproofing, but he can’t be certain that his mic won’t pick up the sounds. And if anyone hears something like that on his videos or streams, no matter how faint, it’ll just cause more unnecessary trouble for him. The last thing he needs is to toe the lie of cancellation for the nth time.

He’s learned your schedule by now. Weekends are for one-night stands. Any other day is normally quiet. So to get through those nights, he’ll either retreat to his recording studio, put his headset on, and play games for the fun of it, or he’ll sit out on his balcony with earphones turned all the way up, music spilling into his brain, and he’ll count the stars. It’s a habit he’s fallen into ever since he started stargazing. Tiny balls of light from a distance, yet so destructively sad up in the expanses of space. Lonesome, little stars that are destined for implosion once they reach the end of their lives. He counts the stars every night. He’s not sure why he does this. He’s not even that interested in astronomy.

Scaramouche counts a number of stars that’s immediately wiped from his head when he turns in the direction of your balcony and finds you staring right back. You’ve wrapped yourself in a thick blanket to combat the chilly midnight air and he blinks back at you under silver moonlight.

“Hey.” You smile.

His shock quickly morphs into a dark scowl. “Don’t ‘hey’ me! Do you ever hear how obnoxious you sound every single night?”

“Not really,” you answer with a shrug and he sighs loudly. “Most of them like obnoxious.”

“Well, I don’t. So either learn to shut up or don’t bring any more idiots home!”

You lean against the railing and hum in consideration. He glances at the space that separates your apartments, a sliver of gloom that drops down to the pavement below. He folds his arms across his chest, brows furrowed.

“Do you want to come over instead? I can make room in my schedule.” You’re grinning now, teasing him with a snarky expression. What he’d do to wipe that look off your face…

Scaramouche’s face darkens and, rather than retorting icily, he turns swiftly on his heel and vanishes inside. He can hear your victorious laughter as he shuts and locks the balcony door.

“Stupid,” he seethes, gritting his teeth. “Stupid neighbor. Of all the brainless things to say…”

The next time the two of you meet you’re not on the balcony and the sky isn’t cradling dozens of stars. Instead, he meets you in the hall just as he’s returning from grocery shopping and you’re on your way out, dressed pleasantly in formal attire.

“I didn’t realize you could dress nicely,” he says absently as he rifles through the keys and charms on his key ring. “I only ever pictured you in discarded, forgotten garments.”

“Aw. You think of me?” you counter with a wink. “I’m flattered.”

He rolls his eyes. That definitely sounded like a roundabout way of saying he daydreams about you. “You wish that were the case.”

It’s a poor retort, but it’s all he can manage before he walks through his door and you stalk past him, your laughter echoing in the hall. Scaramouche watches you go, leaning against his doorframe and smiling to himself. You have a very confident walk.

And it’s these small interactions that have him growing attached to you. He learns that you work at a club entertaining wealthy clients. He’d know because he followed you there one evening. And you also love sweets. He’d know because he’s left plenty at your door and you’ve always gasped in delight upon seeing them. You also seem to enjoy collecting cute plushies, for he’s bought a few that reminded him of you and left them at your door. You take those as well. He’s found your social media and has taken to scrolling it on a burner account. Can’t risk using his official account otherwise you’ll know it’s him and he’s not sure he wants you to know of his feelings yet.

Scaramouche is very fulfilled when he admires you from afar and bestows heartfelt gifts to you. His chat has commented that he seems…softer lately, and Scaramouche tells them they’re delusional. He’s not soft. He’s never been soft. But you seem to know just how to smooth the rough edges in his exterior.

Now he sits against the wall that connects your apartments, eyes shut tight and hand wrapped firmly around his cock, and listens to the sounds of you getting fucked in the next room, picturing himself above you. He’s gotten better at cumming at the same time as you, and he likes to think that everything you say while in the throes of lust are directed at him and not your one-night stand. He recalls your playful offer from many nights ago and wonders if you’d ever sleep with him. In his imagination, you’re practically at his feet, begging for a fraction of affection, and he can choose to please you in whatever way he wants. Unfortunately, it’s not like that in real life.

He plays games and streams to cope.

When Tartaglia gifts him a camera designed to look aesthetically old-fashioned for his birthday, Scaramouche considers donating it. He doesn’t need this camera, especially one that comes from Tartaglia. But when he considers its other uses, it quickly becomes something of value. He takes plenty of candid photos of you and he hangs them on the wall. He bought a strand of fairy lights, which have been draped over his bed frame and hang low, and he’s attached his favorite photos to the clips. He looks up at these pictures as he falls asleep and, like the stars in the vast, brilliant sky, counts them.

The next time he meets you you’re on the balcony, and this time you’re counting stars. It’s a Saturday evening and, miraculously, things are comfortably quiet.

“No R-rated movies tonight?”

You glance at him and smirk. “Only fluff.”

Scaramouche props one elbow on the railing and rests his cheek in his hand. “Looks more like sad, teenage angst to me.”

“I’m just thinking.”

“About?”

“Someone’s nosy tonight.”

“Then forget I asked.”

“Nah. I’ll tell you.” You turn to face him, fingers wrapping around the bannister, and he wishes those perfect hands could wrap around other things. “Has anyone ever pressured you to do something you didn’t want to do?”

He finds himself nodding despite not having any examples at the forefront of his mind.

“Then you probably get how annoying it is.”

“All the time,” he admits, but it feels more like a lie. He frowns at nothing in particular.

“Most of my friends are married and everyone in my circle thinks I should do the same.”

“Your circle sucks.”

That squeezes a laugh out of you. The corners of his lips quirk upwards upon hearing the delightful sound.

“What about you?”

“Marriage?” he echoes, perplexed. “Settling down is…a commitment.”

He realizes, in that very moment, that he’s never dwelled on marriage and long-term relationships. And now that you’ve put such a thought in his head, he thinks that married life with you wouldn’t be so bad.

“What if we were married instead?”

You recoil, genuinely shocked, and laugh awkwardly. “Uh, what?”

“You want all of those idiots to stop pestering you, right?”

“I mean, it would be nice. Yeah. But I don’t see how—”

“We could pretend. Make it a fake marriage.” He hopes his shrug looks nonchalant because he is far from nonchalant.

“Why? I thought you hated me.”

“Not enough to pretend to marry you.”

“Huh…” Your fingers drum along the railing. “Huh. This is a first.”

Scaramouche is certain an arrangement like this is good practice. Not only can he learn more about you, he can experience how it feels to know you on a deeper level. That, and it’ll help him avoid scandals. Online sleuths are quite skillful and if anyone knew he was dating it would stir up annoying nonsense. Though he hardly cares about his reputation as much as he cares for you, it’s still something he has to take into consideration when it comes to money.

Maybe he’s counted too many stars tonight. There’s no way he’d ever ask something so foolish under other circumstances. But maybe it’s because he’s been itching to get closer to you. Stalking you isn’t enough. Taking photographs isn’t enough. Daydreaming isn’t enough.

He needs to be inside your apartment, inside your life, inside you, forcing his way into your heart and making a permanent residence there. All he needs to do is charm you. You’ll see how good he is, and once you do there will be no need to watch your every move.

“I guess it couldn’t hurt,” you mutter. “You’d better be a good husband.”

“I’ll be the best,” he replies with a cocky smirk.

“All right, Scary.” You hold your hand out, leaning over the railing to reach him, and your smile sparks pure joy in his chest. “We’ll pretend to be a married couple for a little while. At least until everyone stops bothering me.”

His hand fits into yours and the two of you shake. Scaramouche can’t believe this is happening. His spontaneous plan is starting to look more solid with each passing second.

“I look forward to meeting your friends and family,” he jests and you laugh.

“Likewise.” Situated against a starry backdrop, you really are the best dream he could ever have.

That night, Scaramouche does a drinking stream to celebrate. And come tomorrow he’ll begin to put his slowly forming plan into action.

[mamichigo]

⚠️(reincarnation theory)

--

There was a void in his memory. From the moment Cyno had been listening to the Matra's report, until he stormed into Alhaitham's office, there was nothing but a loud ringing in his ears. 

All he could think of were the Matra's words: "The Divine Knowledge capsule is with the Acting Grand Sage."

If his sense of foreboding had been overpowering before, it grew into full blown panic when he saw said capsule in Alhaitham's hand. Cyno forced his lungs to work, though he couldn't bring himself to do much more.

"Do you need anything, Cyno?" Alhaitham asked, calm and unbothered, as if he hadn't been fiddling with that thing.

"What are you doing with that?" Cyno managed to hiss out after a second.

"Examining it." Alhaitham tilted his head to the side. "If you're suspecting foul play, I asked the Matra to allow me to personally study it, and they allowed me to take it. It wasn't stolen."

'It wasn't stolen'. Cyno laughed despite himself.

"You have full authority to handle those now. I'm not so stupid I'd come here to accuse you of stealing."

He breathed in, slow and deliberate, until his heart crawled to a more normal pace. It provided him with some clarity as well, as Cyno finally remembered their positions. He kneeled on one knee and lowered his head.

"Acting Grand Sage, may ask what you intend to do with the Divine Knowledge capsule?"

"Did Azar make you kneel for him every time you spoke?" Alhaitham asked tepidly. "I don't need that sort of formality—"

"—raise your head," they finished together, Cyno's words a faint, whispered echo.

The familiarity of it hurt. For a moment, he was a priest kneeling before the taciturn King, the sound of a sandstorm outside filling the world with white noise.

Cyno pressed his lips together as he rose to his feet. "Please, answer my question."

"I'm a scholar, aren't I? What else would I be doing with  it  other than studying it?" Alhaitham pressed a finger to the capsule, tipping it over. "I want to know what sort of secrets it holds."

"For what purpose?"

"None in particular, just my own satisfaction. Though, depending on what sort of knowledge it holds, it could be used for developing new technology."

This man truly never changed, did he?

Ever ambitious, even after a lifetime of mistakes, even after sacrificing himself... Only to return here and be seduced by the very same thing that led to his demise in his previous life.

"You know this is dangerous," Cyno reasoned quietly.

"Of course, which is why I'm investigating if it's possible to extract its contents without damaging the user."

Cyno sighed. In his mind's eyes, he could see the man with a severe gaze and a desire for far too much. The man that only made his soul tremble with eons heartache.

Cyno hated him.

"I'm warning you," he growled, stalking forward, spear firmly in hand. "Alhaitham, give up on seeking knowledge not meant for you."

He laid a hand on the capsule, but Alhaitham did the same.

Their fingers entangled in a way such that neither of them could claim the capsule for themselves. Cyno narrowed his eyes and pointed his spear at Alhaitham.

"Are we understood?"

Alhaitham, his chin raised under the spear, looked at the blade, then at Cyno.

"You know this is grounds to accuse you of high treason," he commented darkly.

"Call the guards, then."

He didn't. Instead, Alhaitham narrowed his eyes, scrutinizing every little twitch of Cyno's expression. Once satisfied, he stepped back.

"I'm not sure why you're so upset over something irrelevant, so," Alhaitham gestured at him, "speak."

"'Irrelevant'...? Are you as insane as people claim you are?" Cyno gripped his spear tightly enough his fingers went numb.

"You've seen what that can do to foolish, greedy scholars like you. You were there in the desert, you saw the records of what it did to an entire civilization. I've seen what it did to—"

To you.

Cyno had watched a different but similar man end his life in a thankless sacrifice.

He swallowed thickly. "I won't allow you to go down that path for something as trivial as curiosity."

Alhaitham studied him again, a frown between his brows.

"Cyno," he started, the hesitance strange on him. "There's something you're not telling me."

Cyno didn't have every single memory of his predecessor, but he knew enough. He knew desolation, and he knew a well of grief that haunted him through two lifetimes. He looked into Alhaitham's eyes, shivering at the familiarity, and shook his head.

"Just— Promise me. Promise you won't tamper with this sort of knowledge."

He was ready for rejection. Predicted his words to go unheard, much like the priest's supplications were. Instead, Alhaitham let go of the capsule, pushed it into Cyno's hand and nodded.

"I promise."

Cyno held onto the capsule tightly, choking on an emotion he couldn't name. He doubted this conversation was over—surely, Alhaitham would want answers, eventually. But for now…

"Thank you," he muttered as he left the room, heart beating wildly in his throat.

Alhaitham was not King Deshret. Cyno would not let him become that man.

For now, his beloved was safe.

[amaurotine-daydreaming]

The Feast (Prompt 7 - Morsel)

“My love, you must eat. Please? For me?”

The fretting woman clasps her hands together, doe-eyed. Any man with half a heart and a fondness for pretty lasses would be swayed, he thinks, but her beloved’s face softens about as much as a stone wall would.

“I have called for a magnificent feast for our wedding day,” she tries next. “What will the guests think if you aren’t feasting with the rest of them? Surely they’ll fear you are unwell.”

The appeal to shame produces the same result: silence. She folds her hands in front of her and looks at the ground.

“I do not mean to be such a nag,” she says, playing the part of a passive, doting wife-to-be so earnestly he could almost believe it was real. “I am only looking after your health, as I have promised before and will promise again in our vows. I know you would do the same for me.”

She turns and picks up a dish. “I’ve even brought some of your favorites.

“Look–Mother Miounne’s eel pie! You remember the first time we tried it? Oh, how wonderful it was. Rich and buttery, with a flaky crust, steam rising from it as we cut in.” She waves the dish in front of her own face, inhaling it and breathing out a tempted sigh.

“You were so embarrassed when I tried to feed you at the table,” she giggles. “But wasn’t it all the better, sharing a home-cooked meal between ourselves and surrounded by friends?”

She plucks the spoon balanced between her ring and index finger and scoops it down. What breaks from the crust is not dark, succulent steamed eel but something pale, slimy, and–his stomach turns–wriggling.

“Just a bite, darling. Go on.”

Her lover does not lean forward with his mouth obediently open, nor does he take the spoon from her hand. He simply eyes the proffered morsel with something worse than disgust and more chilling than disdain–utter blankness.

Hurt and disappointment flicker across her face like the shadows of the candlelight, but he blinks and it's as if that moment had never been. 

“I want to make sure the catering is done just right, so I have several dishes for you to try,” she chirps, cheerful again. “If one doesn’t strike your fancy, why, we can simply move onto the next one!” 

She sets aside the rejected meal. “Isn’t it wonderful to live in such abundance? Even just one bite of each and you’ll be full by the end. And you know what they say about a man’s heart…”

Her voice fades. She rubs just underneath her eye, leaving a streak of dirt. Even without her usual broad-brimmed hat to cast even deeper shadows under her eyes, her face is pinched with exhaustion.

Her robes are in a similarly sorry state, so soiled that the white has been reduced to the color of dirty snow. Worst of all is the hem, permanently stained with dark splotches; this set of garments hasn’t seen soap and water in some time. If her own odor is foul from it, however, he can’t distinguish it from the stench of viscera and rot soaked into every pore of this place.

“Speaking of which, darling, I’m happy to say the latest heart has begun to take. I know it took a long time, and we despaired of it ever working, but even now it beats in its chest as mine beats for you.

“Feeling, smell, taste…” the maiden says, running her dirty, gloved hand along her beloved’s cheek, “You will have all your senses back and more, very soon. Partaking now will help you build up the strength you need.”

She picks up another plate, piled high with what looks like vermicelli slathered in a dark butter. “I know a meal’s texture matters too, of course, so do let me know what you think of this: crispy noodles in chanterelle sauce.” 

She stabs a misshapen and dull fork into the meal and twirls. 

With a lurch of his stomach, he sees that what she’s speared is stiff and covered in fine, hairy bristles.

Her lover grunts something. The young woman pouts. “I know, Gridanian fare can leave a lot to be desired, so I’ve searched high and low for the best ingredients.”

Finally she sighs, and sets down the plate as well. “At least try the pudding, love.”

She cups her hands around a chipped bowl not unlike an alchemist’s old mortar. She fetches the spoon from the pie and jams it into the bowl, still gooey. He can hear a wretched sound as she carves out a piece of gelatin with the spoon.

She pays it no mind, smearing another cajoling smile across her face as she holds out a spoonful to her beloved, like a mother trying to convince a picky child to eat their mun-tuy beans. 

“You won’t know how good it is until you try,” she says.

She attempts again to feed the shriveled, sallow head in front of her. Its lips stay shut, and a bit dribbles down its chin. Its bulging, milky eyes stare back at her.

Her shoulders drop. She withdraws, the offering clutched to her chest. “I see…”

He squeaks as she nearly backs into him. She pivots sharply, registering his presence, and he cringes in his chair. Blast, if only she had forgotten about him….

“You must be feeling peckish, too,” she says. The upward turn of her lips is thin and curved, like a sickle, and yet oddly flat. “Since my Avere won’t eat his fill, why don’t you have a bite and tell me what you think.”

Paiyo Reiyo’s eyes dart over the maggot-filled pie, the plate of gnats’ legs, and the living pudding in a rising panic. A single bite and he’ll retch, but if he refuses–

He’s seen the sharp instruments, the ones she’s unearthed from gods’-know-where, many of them bent and jagged and rusty. Seen her clumsy, shaking hands as she carved up corses and ashkin and voidsent and mashed and molded their pieces together in an attempt to create something resembling a body. He’s seen the discarded pieces pile up at her feet.

Paiyo Reiyo prays to the Matron, to Nald’thal, that his pleas for help before he stepped into this wretched place will not have been forgotten.

“Open up,” Edda sings.

[omegaversetheory]

Im aware that this question will sound weird af, but I Wonder if incest in your omegaverse au would be biologically impossible, i mean, alphas and omegas's instincts and bonds between each others are very scent-centered, so it would make sense that the sexual/romantic mechanisms of their instinctive part of the brain was genetically, chemically and evolutionary made and wired to reject all of those scents that have a very similar composition to their owns's, being an evolutionary change on their orgsnisms thst spoeared to prevent having defective descendants due either incest or endogamy

Lets put on an example, lets imagine that an alpha is very horny when it comes to omegas who are near his age, however, he doesn't feel anything towards his twin (fraternal, no identical) omega sister, even when she is on heat and he is in rut, neither of them feel anything morre for each other than the typical "stfu u annoying" sibling behavior, that would happen because when it comes to random omegas, the alpha's brain notices that their scents are something completely New and get possitively overstimulated by it, causing the horniness to happen, however, when it comes to his sister, his brain notices the evident similarities and automátically neutralizes the sexual instincts, so its basically impossible for him to see his sister in a weird way unless he has a genetic disorder or is just a gross person in general LOL (I dont even know if this makes sense, i just needed to take it out of my head omg)

You know what I've never thought about it. It's extremely ethnically immoral yes, but thinking about it now, no I would say it is biologically possible with the caveat that the body does almost everything it can do to make it impossible.

So yes, if you are feeling aroused, the scents of the people in close relation to you won't smell "desirable". Their scents won't change, they won't smell foul - rather your brain just knows they're your family and will point you in other directions. This would be the scent rejection you're talking about.

Besides that I'd also theorize that something about "getting it on" with a relative is physically painful - you don't want to go touching their bits with your bits. It's going to sting/burn/leave a mark then you'll need to go to a doctor and how embarrassing is that conversation. Perhaps, to add another layer - laying with a relative would leave you with a distinct new scent note. And not a nice one either, so people would immediately be able to smell it.

When it comes to heats/ruts, what you've described is I believe the common understanding. An individual is not impacted by the heats/ruts of their relatives - including but not limited to first/second cousins, parents, grandparents, siblings, "half" versions of any of the aforementioned relatives.

But as for more of your deep science-theory about the scent rejections, I like it! I'd love to hear more about your au and headcanons!

[themanywomeninmyhead]

The Caged Bird: Chapter 1: From France With Love

Peaky Blinders OC: Nurse Flo matches witts via letters with Thomas Shelby over the years as their lives lead them on separate but similar journies.

Pairing: OC(Florence Bell)/Tommy Shelby

Muse Insert (Will Post a Y/N Version As Well)

OC Aka Flo Belongs To Me

Time Period: 1919 (Season 1)

Warning: 18+, Violence, Suggestive Language, Eventual Smut

X | Ch.2 | Ch.3 | Interlude |

“Is it okay if I write to you every now and again,” Thomas said never taking his eyes off of the stucco of the dingy brothel ceiling. Like most men stuck in this god-forsaken place full of gunfire and the sounds of never ceasing bombs he sought solace in between the legs of a beautiful woman. Thought in the last six months or so this particular woman did not open her legs to him. Instead, she stimulated his mind with conversations he had not had the like of in a very long time. She was a nurse, not a prostitute though it never stopped many a man from trying.

Florence or Flo if she liked you well enough could not be described as traditionally beautiful. With her long and curly brown hair in a tidy bun on the top of her head save for a few tendrils that framed her face. Skin normally the color of sienna grown slightly paler in the almost winter weather shown with a layer of sweat accumulated from a hard day's work. If you weren't too busy writhing in pain as she treated, you could see the brilliance of a great mind shining from behind her dark brown eyes. A plain yet fuller figure when standing in comparison to the tall waiver-thin beauties of the brothel. And as sweet as she looked in her uniform the woman was all piss and vinegar with a mouth full of venom.

“You don't take me for the type who writes. Reading now I've seen you, devour, a book or two but writing as if we were some long-lost lovers from another life. Are you getting sentimental on me Shelby?” Flo said as she finished treating the wound on his side. The familiar mischievous glint of her eyes told a different story. She would indeed miss her friend but it seemed he had forgotten they were from two very different worlds.

“Come now Florence no need to be crude. We both know that I'm going back to a life where there's a certain lack of deep, intellectual conversation. Who would have thought-”

“That you can find such conversation from a colored girl or better yet that you'd find it as you watched your kinsmen die?”

“‘As anybody ever told you that that mouth of yours will get you in trouble?”

“Are you trying to be that trouble, Tommy?” She replied as she begin to pack up her bag taking her time to clean all her instruments just in case. The war was over, so they said but she felt like she would never be able to wash away all the blood from her hands. No matter how hard she tried or how long she scrubbed.

“If the idea offends you so much when I send my letter don't write back. I think we both know I'm not the type of man to beg for attention.” Tommy sighed as he stubbed out his cigarette and stood up to grab a shirt. As he dressed he could feel the blood rushing in his ears. This was the first girl no, the first woman who had ever made him feel alive without ever having to be inside of her. And while he would continue to exist once he walked out the door and never saw her again. He could not help but feel like his life would be bereft without her in it.

Closing her bag she turned and looked at him memorizing his high cheekbones, pale skin, and the lightning blue of his eyes. This was a man who wanted the world to see his greatness. Who would burn it for its warmth if he so desired? And here he was humbling himself to a foul-mouthed girl from the deep south whose dreams had led her to the once glamorous shores of the south of France.

“We’ll See Mr. Shelby we’ll see,” Flo said giving a polite nod of her head before turning and leaving the room. It will be easier this way. To part in this formal way instead of what happened to become the norm. Where she would wrap him up and hug and tell him not to be a fool down in the deep dark earth where he and his fellows toiled away.

She passed the proprietress on the way down the stairs and handed the woman a few bills. The red-lipped woman smiled and raised a brow in question. Juliana would be paid twice for these casual meet-ups between the two. While the woman paid for him to be comforted by one of her girls, he would pay for the room and to be left alone. The blue-eyed devil preferred not to taint his interactions with the angel from the battlefield who dressed him down every chance she got. He would bury his frustrations in one of the girls the next morning with just enough time to return to the front.

- Dear Flo,

You’ll probably burn this when you get it but I thought I’d write it to pass the time nonetheless. I heard through the grapevine that you are still in that hell hole. But I remembered for you returning home to the states would be just as dangerous. I have enclosed the payment for those services that you requested for me. I always wondered what exactly went through your head when you would send these women up to sleep with me after patching me up. Did you have my best interests at heart or, did you figure it would be a good painkiller, or had it simply become routine? A way for grumpy men to let off steam while helping to support the local brothel workers.

Either way, I thank you for that and felt the need to pay you back. I hear that nurses don't make a lot and that nurses with your particular skillset make even less. Nothing's changed here in Birmingham. It's like time froze when we went away and unfroze when we returned. The only difference was that the women were working the jobs that we once had. Aunt Pol, bless her has done a very good job of keeping what was left of the Peakies together. I think it's hard for her to let go of her position of power and rest. It was never my desire for her who has lost so much to end up working too closely in this life after a certain time.

I am starting to drone on now so I will cut this short. There have been tales of unscrupulous men who stalk the streets of Paris. I know you’re rather proficient with the switchblade you keep hidden away in your skirts but a package will be sent to you shortly for your protection. I look forward to hearing from you soon. But am understanding if I am not the type of man you prefer to have correspondence with. Might I ask what type of man you would prefer I be? I can’t promise change but I can attempt a compromise. It sounds odd even as I write it. On second thought you should burn this so it can never see the light of day again.

Yours Truly, Thomas Shelby

Dear Tommy,

I started to burn this and then thought better of it. Now that there is an ocean between us I can breathe a sigh of relief. First things first I don’t need your money as I have said before. I’m sure to you it was from honest work but I know better. I may be from humble means but I also have a bit of pride. As for your Aunt, from what you told me before she is the type of woman who does not know how to be still for very long. A trait that we two women you seem to enjoy bothering have in common. Keeping busy makes her feel alive and you should let her be.

With my meager savings, I’ve managed to get a house in New York, it was on the market after a dear friend of mine died in the War leaving behind a widow and young child. In the next few weeks, I will be returning to the states and opening up a clinic in the basement. The widow and child will stay with me of course. As for my safety….I have had to correct more than my share of poor good old boys who have been left behind. I hold no ill will towards them but if I must I will carve them up like a Christmas ham. I will return your gift if it arrives before I board my ship.

I am not a woman you should allow yourself to change for. To the world, I am still only 2/3rds of a person as a woman and a person of color. A pretty bon bon to keep on the table to bring out and pass around in order to impress your friends. To be seen but not heard. Even though you’ve never expressed it I’m sure that would be something you would eventually request. It confuses me as to why my existence is something you are so intrigued by. Is it because you’ve never been told no or is it because you truly want to know me? For I am no more a force that can be understood as you are one that could love.

Begrudgingly Yours, Florence Bell

P.S. I enjoy the dark dance of your ever-scheming mind, so do not even think of changing into what you think I would prefer.

[st6rly]

Hello! Hope you have a lovely ebg !!

Kazuha keeps a chest of unsent letters by his bedside. Few know that it even exists, and no one knows what he's written, why he vehemently refuses to toss them, or even why he has never sent any of them out.

Each one of them all start with the same line: I'm sorry.

I'm sorry I made you cry when we were younger—

I'm sorry I stole your daifuku when you weren't looking—

I'm sorry I accidentally pushed you into the lake—

and, I'm sorry that I wasn't there when you needed me most.

Kazuha's hands still over the last one. The letter isn't even open, the words not in his line of sight. But the creases of that particular piece of parchment are deep and well-worn from many evenings being unfolded and re-read by the very hands that wrote it.

I'm sorry that I wasn't there when you needed me most. I'm sorry that I couldn't be the shoulder for you to cry on. You must resent me now, yes? The mere thought of me must send chills up your spine, and likely leaves a bitter aftertaste in your mouth. Even though I still think the world of you, you must want nothing more to forget that you ever knew me.

I don't think I can ever apologize enough for leaving you as I did. Not a note, not a knock on your window. Not even a flower on your doorstep, to assure you that you still occupy my thoughts. Instead, all i left in my wake was arrest warrants and stories of my rebellion. If I had more time, if I could have done things differently— There are no words, here. Just a jumble of ink and crossed out phrases, each one messier than the last.

But my biggest regret, by far, is never telling you how much I love you. That I love you in ways that make me feel like the ground sways whenever you come near, or that the light of the sun suddenly shines brighter when you smile. I will mourn that I could never tell you how much I wanted to be yours, or how, even now, how tightly you hold me heart in your grip.

I regret that I only worked up the courage to tell you in this flimsy letter, a thousand miles away from your warm embrace. And, like a coward, I regret that I will never have the heart to give this letter to its desired recipient. That it will remain locked up where only I can ever understand the depths of my feelings for you, away from the eyes that it yearns to be seen by.

I'm sorry that I could not be the happy ending you deserve, my love. I will beg my knees from this life onto the next, for however long it takes to earn your forgiveness.

I love you, forever and always. Kazuha.

With one last look of longing, he folds the letter and seals it tight, placing it back into the chest and pushing it under the bed— hidden away in the darkness once more.

— 🐈‍⬛ anon / 🦩 anon (whichever one is available ♡)

🫵😾

back you foul fiend 🤺🤺🤺 idk what this scenario is and i have no idea why there are blank spots that keep appearing in but i don’t like it

but let’s talk about zhongli yeah 😍😍

[alittlemxchievous]

Golden Survival

It was a cool summer morning. Miss Kae spent it like any other, doing her normal morning routine. Naturally, that would eventually lead to her relieving herself, but not yet. That could wait.

Moving through the house to the bathroom she smiled as she looked down.

There on the cold tile, was her loyal little whore. She couldn't help but grin and giggle as she stepped onto them. Her feet were a bit cold so naturally, they first landed on the slut's face. Surely their desperate breathing and licking would warm them up.

And warm up they did, the whore feverishly licking Miss Kae's divine toes and soles. Whatever their mouth could reach was worshipped like the most heavenly being.

While her floor mat was working tirelessly, Miss Kae flashed a sadistic grin. Gently placing one of her divine soles on the neck of her slut. Gently, then applying more pressure. More. More. More. The doormat notices a lack of air. More. And begins to lose their breath. More. The floor mat desperately wants to breath but no mercy from such a sadistic Goddess. More.

And then... life. Given back in the form of precious oxygen. The floor mat gasps, greedily consuming all the air they can.

Miss Kae never skips a beat. As her slave is recovering, she pulls down the pair of pretty white panties that currently hides her growing bulge. Putting them right over the slaves face and naturally ensuring that the ass of the panties is directly over the slaves nose. Don't want them getting too nice of a scent after all. Not for what comes next anyway.

That slut. How lucky they are, given mercy from Miss Kae. Still greedily inhaling air. Albeit, now much less fresh. The smell of Miss Kae's ass musk is intoxicating. Mesmerizing. So much so that they fail to notice a wet drop on their nose. Then another. Then a few more. Then a torrent!

First is the heat. As the warm liquid comes crashing down with so much force. Powerfully slamming into the whores... no urinals face. It's so hot. So very very hot. And the smell. It warps the brain of the urinal slut. It's so intoxicating that it melts the mind.

But the primal desire for life comes before all. Always kicking in at the most desperate of times. Like now, when their body realizes they can not breathe. Naturally, they try to inhale. To no avail, piss stained panties block the path of critically needed oxygen. They open their mouth, only to be met with the same. Blocked by piss soaked panties and now open to receive more of Miss Kae's golden nectar. Panic sets in as more and more urine fills the mouth of the urinal. Body spasming. Desparate for air but unwilling to go against the wishes of its true lord. The only one with power over the urinal's body is Miss Kae.

Just as all begins to fade to black. It stops. The torrent recedes, leaving the slave to swallow the warm beverage. It's bitter and leaves nothing but a foul taste behind. Her panties, once white, now stained in the golden hues of her nectar and left soaking into your skin.

Miss Kae is wildly amused. To her, it was just a normal morning piss; but to her slave, it was a long battle of life or death.

Very well done slut.

[pacifymebby]

Hey Layla! I’m curious.. who is a fictional character you find yourself identifying with? And why? I feel like it says a lot about a person 🥰

Hiii <3 i love this question but omg its difficult.

Here me out on this one but

Mole (Wind in the Willows)

🌿 He starts off so quiet/reserved and isolated, he lives his quiet underground life minding his own business and well, i guess staying in his comfort zone... But he does have the desire for adventure, later whenever ratty is shaking his head and not wanting to go along with toads plans, its moley who is like "oo but it could? Be fun" like he's uncertain but he has this kind of want for excitement. Which is very much me as i have been my whole life, im really shy, and I'm anxious about things, but i have a curiosity that means whilst i do prefer my comfort zone and my little house with all my little things, theres still something inside me that craves the excitement and draws me to the wild wood. Like i too would have heard ratty say "we don't go there" and immediately been curious as to why.

🌿He's so anxious but so fiercly loyal to his friends that he faces his fears and puts himself in harms way to save his friends and I'm like that too, anxious, terrified to talk to people, but the moment a friend needs me, i find my voice for them. Also there's like a level of stupid to his loyalty, like when he goes into the wild woods on his own, doesnt even know where he's going but he just goes because he feels he has to for toad, so he just stumbles on in, knowing its a bad idea but doing it anyway. I do that alot haha

🌿 He's younger that badger and ratty and he really looks up to them in every way, like theyre not father figures but theyre older, wiser friends who moley looks to for protection and to learn from too, they show him the riverbank and all these new things like Messing about on boats!! And he really admires them but also trusts them immediately, almost naively, just trusts them and I feel like thats very much what i am like when i make friends with any male my age or above. I look for friends with that "take you under my wing" nurturing side to them. (like how me and B became friends, it was because he really did just keep me tucked under his wing)

🌿He's so earthy (yes i know he's a mole) but hes so earthy and he loves his dark damp mole hole with all of his little things, its his home and he loves it even though it isnt much and then when he's with Ratty and he realises that he can't remember where it is, and he cries and gets so sad. Like hes so me for real, i love my room, i love making myself a little home, a sanctuary kind of place thats mine that feels totally safe and cosy and comfortabke. And i will quite happily stay in it forever and ever like its my little nest if I get things just right.

Unnamed Narrator/second mrs de'winter (Rebecca /daphne du maurier)

🌿 Shes so young and she falls head over for a sophisticated older man who is more well educated, higher class status etc than she is and she is so taken in by him and like, naively swept off her feet. She's desperate for his approval and giddy whenever she gets it and what can I say... Reading this book made my daddy issues ten times worse because it normalised them haha

🌿 She really is like, an over emotional, naive little waif and she spends the whole novel feeling too much about the smallest of things. There are times when Max is a little sharp with her and she gets overwhelmed with sadness and guilt and shame ans humiliation all at once and sits there trying not to cry but crying anyway and like, literally last night i was overtired and sulking and B made a passing comment about me being in a foul mood and I waited until he'd left the room and then burst into tears with the intention of getting it out my system whilst he was gone (but he came back into the room unexpected and saw me and was just like oh...) like idk i feel like im a super dramatic takes everything to heart, really easily upset kind of girl? And also like happy things, people showing her basic kindness also sets her off and i too cry at the smallest kind gesture towards me.

🌿Here are some bits i took photos of when reading because i identified so hard haha

🌿 Shes also just deeply anxious about pleasing other people, living up to expectations, she thinks so much about everything and she spends so much time deeply embarrassed by her own perception of herself, whilst like, biting her nails over whether or not she is doing things right. Shes so aware of her own naivety and yet also not at all.

🌿Max is constantly calling her a silly little girl, B is constantly saying similar to me, for similar reasons (like he acts a little distant once, or forgets to be soft with me once and i become convinced he hates me haha)

Thank u for this it was fun, i do think ive basically revealed myself to be even more whimiscal and pathetic than we already thought though haha <3

[gealach-in-a-misty-world]

1837. Poppy had always loved the night, which is why it wasn’t too much of a bother to wake one evening in an unfamiliar home far from London, weak and confused and plagued with a terrible thirst for blood, to learn that she could no longer step out into the day. And while vampirism presented several disadvantages, it more than made up for those in its benefits: immortality, a body that could run at speed for hours without tiring, the thrill of becoming a predator, the thing that pulls rabbits from bushes and tears through their fur and flesh with the sharp point of a white fang. And, of course, Roisin. The mysterious woman who has lived for centuries, who held Poppy through her painful transformation, and who, for some reason, is now teaching her how to adjust to her new, endless life. A tight, lonely, buttoned-up woman, with kindness and care, pressed up behind her teeth. The time they spend together is as transformative to Poppy as the changes in her body, and soon, she finds herself hopelessly, overwhelmingly attached. But Roisin has secrets of her own, and can’t make any promises; not when vengeance must be served. Soon, their little world explodes. Together and apart, they encounter scores of vampires, shifty pirates, conniving opera singers, ancient nobles, glamorous French women, and a found family that throws a very particular sort of party. But overhead, threat looms—one woman who is capable of destroying everything Poppy and Roisin hold dear.

"I want to watch you split the world like an orange and drink the juice". Samara Breger's A Long Time Dead is a phenomenal standalone sapphic vampire tale that reads like the best Anne Rice. Breger's vampires seem to borrow a few things from The Vampire Chronicles, but they're so full of life that it's a joy to read. We're thrown right into the thick of action as Poppy wakes up after being turned and she spends the first part of her new life being helped through the transition by a tragic figure that she immediately comes to love. What follows is a slow and tormented and rich journey towards a found family; a tale about belonging and about overcoming abuse in a relationship.

Poppy isn't a gloomy protagonist; she's a ray of sunshine, and she cares deeply. Even when she faces hardships, she keeps her sunny personality. She's crass at times, but she's so alive, in every way. She loves the joys of food, and in fact the loss of it is one of the first things she bemoans when she realizes that now she has to feed exclusively on blood. Before being turned she was a sex worker, and she's always very candid in her desires. The numerous sex scenes in the book are never gratuitous, and they're so well written.

In general, the prose is fantastic. There are turns of phrase that grip you and amaze you and leave you reeling. Breger plays with the tropes of the genre and crafts a unique tale brimming with exhilarating tidbits and cameos and also fully exploring Catholic guilt. The choice to give very few chapters to Roisin works well, because we're given front seats to the depth of Poppy's devotion. Roisin is driven and consumed by the need for revenge, self-sacrificing; but gradually she finds her will to live again.

The rest of the cast is delightful, from Poppy's oldest friend to the Coven she finds, five vampires that welcome her into their lives and love her unconditionally; from her new mortal maid, just as foul-mouthed as her, to the incredible villain, a despicable and amoral character. Every thread is accounted for, every hint acknowledged and resolved and brought to a satisfying conclusion.

A Long Time Dead is a joyous gothic tale.

✨ 4.5 stars

[You can find more of my reviews about queer speculative fiction on my blog MISTY WORLD]

[aurically]

CC Creator ARCHIVEFACTION/TERFEARRENCE

Gonna put a big ole TW all over this post for w*hite supremacy n*azi imagery and iconography.

Hey, Sims community. It's been a while, I know.

I felt the need to pop in from the Second Life community to let you know that a creator working on both the TS4 platform and the SL platform has been outed over here as a n*azi sympathizer/supporter. This creator is known as ARCHIVEFACTION and TERFEARRENCE.

I'm still compiling all the evidence of discussions and evidence surrounding the situation at hand, but below you will find screenshots of ARCHIVEFACTION/TERFEARRENCE using neo-n*azi imagery in his SL product ads for his product The Confluence Pearl Necklace, which he had released approximately 2 weeks ago at the Access Event in Second Life.

What started it: I'm unsure of which came first, the Twitter post or the Virtual Secrets post, however, they were both found around the same time when Facebook and Twitter started discussing this.

The original Twitter post and the original Virtual Secrets post.

It has been discussed at length within the Second Life community, and the creator was called out. They altered their event photo for the second time.

The blog site Seraphim goes around shopping events in Second Life, and takes photos of all the vendor booths. When Seraphim took their photo of his Access event booth, this was the ad display:

At some point, just prior to the Access Event opening, he changed his booth ad to the image that included the "w*hite power" text and neo-nazi symbols, which appeared on his Flickr until yesterday:

Yesterday, he cropped his ad photo at the physical Access event, and deleted the Flickr post (as well as other undetermined photos from his Flickr feed), issuing an "apology".

This is not his original apology/statement. I read the apology when it was first posted, and it was only a few sentences saying things about a language barrier. I do not currently have a screenshot of the original apology, but if I find one, I will update this post.

That said, the general consensus is the apology is BS, and it is not being accepted. Many people feel that if you are a content creator primarily selling to a western audience, you should be making damn sure you're not using any foul language or offensive material; that "language barrier" is no longer an acceptable excuse.

Another SL creator has been very vocal on social media about ARCHIVEFACTION, and has apparently been watching them for quite some time. Asserting that ARCHIVEFACTION has on multiple occasions produced products with w*hite supremacist and neo-n*azi words and iconography, and has been disseminating it throughout SL for some time. I've not seen any screenshots of these things, but I did take a look at his Flickr before the apology/statement, and saw some concerning dog whistles for w*hite supremacists and neo-n*azis.

Another user also pointed out that one of his pieces of jewelry had neo-n*azi symbolism to it:

Lastly, it appears his whole "brand" is a rip-off of Raf Simmons' book, The Fourth Sex, and a real-life brand "POST ARCHIVE FACTION":

His Tumblr homepage + Raf Simmons' book "The Fourth Sex", where ARCHIVEFACTION has clearly ripped off the artwork.

While no one owns a certain aesthetic, the brand name is clearly being ripped off for a virtual iteration that is not associated with the real-life brand.

All this said I'm putting this out to the TS4 community as it seems his skins and looks are widely popular for its hyper-realistic, high-quality, edgy take. I would hate for the Sims community to also support someone who clearly has been stealing and perpetuating hateful ideologies in our beloved spaces.

I am purposefully leaving out any links to his socials and websites, as I do not want this POS to gain any further traffic. I hope these screenshots suffice in my desire to share this issue. I will try to fill in any missing gaps of information when and if it becomes available, but I am definitely coming here in good faith.

I hope the Sims community is well. <3

[arkainea1911]

Random WIP from the Dark Files

Every day, he is surrounded by foul smells

The smell of fear

The smell of hatred

And the horrided smell of the empire…coming from him.

It wasn't so bad in the beginning. If he's honest, it was kinda pleasant in its own way. A smell of order, of rightness, of power being seized and used to make life as a whole better for all. To finally be able to make the changes needed without the oversight of beings who could care less about their fellow sentients.

As he commands his troops to shoot the Twi'lek bartender who ratted out her smuggler cell. As he crushes uprisings, subjugates planets expands the empire's reach and brings the galaxy to its knees…the miasma of the empire permeates all. It's infused in his clothes, his hair, his very skin. Nothing is left of his pre-empire scent. Even the memory of what it once was has almost faded.

It's not just him the empire has corrupted.

Everything it touches follows the same path. The redolence of flowers is now tainted under the heel of arrogant imperial elites. The gentle smell of incense is now cloyed with the sick fecundity of core world socialites.

Most days, he can tolerate them he has to as a grand admiral, but sometimes it gets to be too much. The disgusting, horrid, rainched smell of death, decay, and grey that makes him gag if he thinks about it too long.

But today is different…today for the first time in years, he catches the scent of freedom, of a quiet beauty and happiness.

The smell of home, of days longed passed, and memories burred under the mark of duty.

The smell of pre empire…

It catches him by suprise. Walking through the streets of a town that had just been made to heel for lack of a better term. The imperial presence was thick but mainly because he was there taking an unnecessary tour. After sighing, he took a deep breath and almost choked on that smell.

He turns toward it, almost missing the young one as they passed by his squard. Someone no older than there mid twenties. A gentle smile on their face as they walked by without word. A simple beauty that remains untarnished by the stench of stererilty and decay that seemed to follow him. Time slows as they pass. The background narrows and fades to just them. He can feel his heartbeat, taste the fragrance that threats to drown him. The moment is forever crystallized in his mind as time starts again.

He watches them fade out of sight into the crowd as the local regent drones on and on about their newfound loyalty. The stench returns in force but is now made more pungent by the companion to the sweet smell of the young one. For the rest of the day, he goes through the motion. The same thing as always, but the memory of that beauty smell refuses to leave him.

That night sleep doesn't come. All he can think about is the young adult who has captured his mind with just a glance. His mind swirls with the image of the young one. His young one. He realizes with dawning horror that he can not live without them. He must possess them, bathe in their scent whenever he desires, and lock them way to keep them from being tainted.

He sends out his personal team to track them down, but after almost a month they has been no sight of them. Still, he refuses to leave till he has his darling one in his arms.

It's by chance that he is walking through the market when his sees his beloved young one. Just walking out of sight. He doesn't even think. He orders his men to follow and starts walking where he just saw them. As luck would have it, they are the end of the street picking up some food from a vendor, turning to walk away when he points, and orders his guards to stop them.

They rush to corner his sweet one.

Their sweet scent is undercut with apprehension and fear at being surrounded by guards. It's not what he wants, but he can not risk losing them again. They pull out their credentials and chain code, asking what they did wrong with a soft, fearful tone. It's cute in a way. They think they are in trouble, but nothing could be further from the truth. Walking over, he makes some excuse about needing to speak to them, stating ventemtly that they aren't in trouble. Of course, his young one doesn't believe him, and they have no reason to.

They try to stay strong, but tears start to run down their face as they are guided away. It breaks his heart to see. He must fix this, and he will, but for now, he has them taken into custody. For now, as he walks behind them, he plans. First, he will have them brought aboard his ship, away from any of the filth of this world that may mare his darling one. Then, have the medic check them over thoroughly and plan for any treatments or special needs they may need.

Afterward, he will have them taken to his quarters and then…well Then, he will begin the slow process to gain their trust. Coxing them back to happiness and letting their scent permeate his rooms to finally get rid of the stench of the empire that taints it. He'll keep them close, keep them safe and loved while he builds a place where nothing save him will be able to touch them, to corrupt them.

They will want for nothing as long as he lives.

They will live in peace and beauty under the shadow of the empire's greatest admiral. Clothes, jewelry, art, anything, and everything their heart desires will be theirs with just a word. Speaking of, he needs to prepare clothes for them and possibly have a small contingent sent to their house and pick their things. They deserve finer things, but he will not begrudge them wanting familiar things.

Terror sets into his darling one's scent, as they are taken out of the atmosphere. He watches them silencely panic, and while he doesn't want to do much, he gently pushes a suggestion of calm to them. After a few moments, they take a deep breath and straighen their shoulders. There are scent thrumbs with determination. It's not what he wants, but it's better than fear.

It's hours later as he watches his young one sleep. The days events have worn them out. The gentle scent of deep peaceful slumber is just as intoxicating as their happiness is. Coaxing them into a deep sleep allows himself to bathe in their perfume. Allows it sink into his skin and pores. Allows their peace to become his own. He's only had them for barely a day, and he can not believe he ever lived without them. His darling, beauty, strong, precious young young is truly beautiful, and he will make sure they stay that way. Forever.