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msb-lair · 2 months

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Clutch #3490 - Beauty/Prince

Mated On: 2024-02-10 # of eggs: 5 Hatched On: 2024-02-15

Progeny:

Hatchling 9283 (Leonardo) - Skydancer Female, Tarnish Falcon/Honeydew Current/Buttercup Firefly, Common - 15,000 on 2024-03-09

Hatchling 9284 (BoxyTruck) - Skydancer Male, Stone Ripple/Fern Peregrine/Banana Spines, Uncommon - 15 gems on 2024-03-09

Hatchling 9285 (Grandfather) - Spiral Male, Driftwood Ripple/Moss Peregrine/Grapefruit Spines, Rare - 15,000 on 2024-03-07

Hatchling 9286 (Leif) - Skydancer Male, Driftwood Falcon/Peridot Peregrine/Banana Spines, Unusual - 15,000 on 2024-03-08

Hatchling 9287 (BoxyTruck) - Spiral Female, Clay Ripple/Camo Current/Flaxrn Spines, Common - 15 gems on 2024-03-19

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sugarcoated-lame · 2 months

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You’re telling me that this isn’t dbf!joel at the very end of a wedding reception, tipsy enough that he lost his suit jacket and his tie a whileeee ago and has started to forget that he’s not meant to be looking at you like that??

AAAAAAHHHHFJEIGJEJGHH!! KATIEEEEE !!!!

he may be tipsy, but that doesn’t mean he hasn’t noticed the way you’ve been staring at his chest in that unbuttoned shirt with a glazed over look in your eye for most the night, when you think he’s not looking. but he’ll definitely play up the tipsy card when he asks you to “help him” find his jacket in coat check, which may or may not end with your back pressed up against the wall in the dimly lit room, engulfed by a soft sea coats, a stark juxtaposition to Joel’s rough hands grasping your cheeks as his lips press to yours in a bruising kiss. and if he asks you to help him find his room afterwards, well who are you to say no? 🤭

god I’m never going to stop thinking about this

#i’m spiraling #katie you’re a menace and I love you #joel miller #dbf!joel #dads best friend joel #dbf joel #joel miller x reader #joel miller smut #joel miller x you #joel miller fic #joel miller x y/n #joel miller x female reader #pedro pascal #pedro pascal characters #asks <3 #kricket answers #katie <3

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borderlinebelle · 14 days

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damn so, therapy did, in fact, heal me 🤡

turns out, i just needed someone to talk to…

as well as returning to a lower dose of ADHD medication, exercising consistently some cold and old coping skills, and practicing some self care .. imagine that.

It’s always the same answer and my dumb ass is always shocked.

fucking hell… brain and behavioral brutal battery on my senses

🔪🫀 🧠🫁 got trapped within my own mind again 🙂🙃

haha. ok, ok… let’s just … reset!

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honeycollectswhump · 8 days

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Initials

[masterlist]

CW: whumper pov, pet whump, dehumanisation, cutting (NOT self-harm), gore

Mireille hadn’t put too much thought into it, not really. But she didn’t need to. The moment she lay eyes upon the initials carved into the jewelled perfume bottle in the home of one of her suitors, it was decided.

Henri was a good man, certainly as good as he could get, though not without some imperfections. He was of good stature, broad shoulders, though unaware of how to present them, always slouching slightly, as if the weight of his own frame was too much. And really, that wasn’t acceptable in the eyes of perfection. Maybe Mireille could make him great, could make him her own and teach him how to be proper, but maybe this was the best he could get and she’d just waste her time. Honestly, she’d rather be certain of her efforts, but he didn’t need to know, for his presents still made lovely decor.

He did have good taste, otherwise she wouldn’t have entertained him for so long.

All that matters now though, is the sunlight catching in the glass carvings of the bottle, the image replaying in her mind. She wants it too, and she wants it now, and Mireille knows just the possession perfectly suited for this:

Her little ashtray.

There is no thought in her mind of where to do this, who to ask. None of them would see the vision in her mind, the exact way it’s supposed to look. They’d all mess it up, ignorant of the gracefulness she lent to her ashtray. No, this is a personal project.

It is too easy to acquire a proper knife without suspicion. These men –the useful ones– – would bend over backwards just to get a chance at pleasing her. Sometimes she’d go as far as calling it boring, but what else was she supposed to do when all it took was the batting of her lashes, looking up at them with big, dumb doe eyes and slightly parted lips? Her body spoke a language none of them could resist, none of them were ever more than prey to fall in worship.

And worship they did, falling to their knees to satisfy her in all the ways she allowed them. She was their queen in satin sheets and velvet dresses.

So here she sits, legs crossed elegantly on her precious couch, the fine knife not yet unpacked, resting in a silver case, embedded with diamonds.

No one else understands that not only does the result need to be flawless, but every single step needs to be immaculate, from the tools to the cutting to the one performing. An image has to be created, a scene, and none of those lowly things could ever understand her vision. That was what has always made her inherently different, inherently superior, and deserving of rightful worship.

A servant rushes into the room, hitching breaths restricted by the working collar, eying the golden bell set carefully on the glass table in front of her.

“You called, Mistress?” they ask, staring cautiously at the floor, not yet daring to raise their eyes to meet hers. Good. She wants them revering.

“Yes. Fetch me my ashtray, won’t you?” Mireille drawls, her bubbling excitement hidden under layers of refined grace. “And bring me some strong dogs. They will be needed.”

The servant nods, not worrying their stupid little head about her meaning, teasing what's to come, and rushes out as quickly as they came. They look frail, purposeful like porcelain, probably why she bought them, though their name or number had left her mind long ago. An unimportant piece of information abandoned along the way, replaced with something of value.

Only minutes later, the same servant returns, gripping the ashtray’s golden leash too tightly. It’s barely noticeable but nonetheless doesn’t escape her all-seeing eyes; the way their knuckles drain of colour disturbs the otherwise pristine scene. They are followed by two guard dogs, muscular and well rested, their posture straight and imposing, their gaze hard and cold like unmoving stone.

The ashtray looks perfect as usual, the thought both pleasing and stinging in a way that does not fit her image. So Mireille pushes it aside, a worry for later or preferably for never. They can’t have taken long to get him ready. And yet…

“Undress the ashtray. I want his chest to be free” Mireille orders, snapping her fingers. The servant quickly complies, buttoning the fine blouse the ashtray was decorated with open, pulling up away from him and folding it with learned precision.

It only takes a hand movement for the ashtray to step forward, for him to sink to his knees in front of her. The poor lamb doesn’t yet know what is coming.

“Hold him.”

The ashtray gasps and for a single, disobedient moment looks up at her with big panicked eyes. The way his blue eyes shine in the golden light of the chandelier does nothing but strengthen her resolve. Maybe, in another world, the view in front of her would be a painting she saw at an auction, a beautiful angel wrapped in gold captured by beasts of stone, unknowing of his fate. And like a painting, it is only natural for her to leave her mark.

He doesn’t struggle, even when she can’t imagine this was part of his training, he just looks at her pleadingly, unsure what he is even begging for.

It’s a scene now and Mireille will be a perfect part of it.

Slowly, she stands up, taking the silver case from the table as she passes it, positioning herself right in front of the ashtray. It opens with a satisfying click, revealing polished metal, sharp edges, red velvet and her initials finely engraved on the handle. Mireille can just about stop a laugh from bubbling up.

She crouches down to the ashtray’s eye level, laying a hand on his cheek. He doesn’t even lean into it. “Don’t. Move.”

Mireille takes the knife, letting it gleam in the gentle light, and hands the case to the servant still watching.

She can’t mess up now. It has to come from her heart.

Carefully, she traces her initials into the skin on his collarbone, making only slight cuts, letting her letters swirl around.

M. A. B.

Holding the knife like a painter's brush, with meticulous, perfected movements. It comes to her like second nature and the first step is completed.

In a final decision, she lays the knife’s edge on the first line of the M, watching the ashtray’s breath hitch in horrible anticipation. Not even a wince has broken through his training and Mireille is more than curious to test how far she can take it.

Were he any cheaper, she’d love to test what would get him to break his training. If she could get him to speak after all. But that wouldn’t be graceful, now would it? It would be a waste.

Instead, she presses it into his flesh, cutting down slowly, precisely. Once, then twice. The ashtray’s breath gets laboured and it only fuels her. She knows what she wants; an ornate engraving, decor on his skin, a signature on her masterpiece.

Fresh, richly red blood pours from the cuts, running down his bare chest like tiny rivers, connecting and separating, getting caught in raised scar tissue.

Mireille moves carefully, taking her sweet time, her lips opened slightly, imitating an artist. Position, press, slide. His flesh parts beautifully, like he was made for this. For a moment, she looks over to the servant, who is pressing the case against their chest, their face showing sloppily concealed horror, and it makes her smile. They would probably call it brutal, ignoring the gentle way her knife slides through his skin, not meeting any resistance. They’d call it violent, not comprehending the second artwork the rivulets of blood form through the hand of fate itself. They lack the mind of an artist and the nature of a human.

By the time she reaches the A, the ashtray is barely holding back sobs, letting out silent, crooked whimpers –a sound so ugly she should punish him for it–, as she etches her mark deep enough to hit the bone. Still, he doesn’t move, doesn’t strain against the unforgiving grip holding his arms, against her carving following the twirls and flourishes.

She doesn’t admit to herself that it is more challenging than she thought, to follow the rounded lines with a tool that craves sharp edges and straight incisions. The curves of the B make the knife catch on the bone and the ashtray lets out a soundless gasping scream, blue eyes nearly rolling back in his head. The tears he could barely hold back before now run down his face in a disobedient river, mixing with the blood on his chest, destroying her artwork.

He lifts his head upwards, in a last attempt to stop the flow of the tears, but it only makes them drip from his chin into the gashes and he is destroying everything–

A slap echoes through the room, loud enough to make his pathetic sobbing stop in an instant.

“Get your act together.” Mireille hisses, grabbing his chin and letting her manicured nails dig into his pretty face. “Or I will rip you apart, you worthless piece of trash.”

Only the word Worthless seems to get through to his stupid fucking pet brain. There is a reason he was made into a thoughtless object instead of anything else. His beauty is his only strength, the only reason they didn’t mercy-kill him, punish him for stealing space and air and atoms from anything with more use.

He is an ashtray or he is Nothing. And if he keeps ruining her attempts to make Something out of him, he will wish she had let him keep his voice to beg for death.

At last, the ashtray doesn’t act up any more, stays motionless and silent as she finishes the B. When she pulls his skin taut, she can feel him tremble with the effort to keep still. Seems like his training had some use after all.

Finally satisfied, Mireille lays the bloody knife aside, giving herself some time to analyze her work. Briefly, she turns to the servant to order a towel, before devoting her attention back to the signature, quickly overflowing with blood. It’s beautiful, but her interest lies somewhere else.

She digs two fingers into a line of the A, pulling the incision apart. The ashtray only manages a whimper that she gives no regard to, as she digs deeper and deeper through the tissue, against the continuous blood flow. Then, against the intense red, her own personal gold shines through.

Bone.

A pleased giggle escapes her.

It is done.

Whatever will happen, whoever will lay their eyes upon them, it will be eternally clear who he belongs to. There are nicks in his bone that her knife and her hands caused and he will forever know.

And when her stupid little ashtray comes back to his senses and remembers his silent purpose, he will thank her for it tenfold.

Taglist: @whumpsday, @2in1whump, @sodacreampuff, @webbo0, @toyybox, @sowhumpshaped, @clickerflight, @itsawhumpsideblog, @piniatafullofblood let me know if you want to be added or removed :)

i hope you enjoyed this chapter!! if you did, i would be very thankful if you considered donating to @whumpcloud's gofundme for their top surgery (of course only if you are financially able to!!!). it would mean the world to us both <3

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cloudofbutterflies92 · 20 days

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Imagine Bunny Eden happily returning from the garden with her basket of strawberries, starting to wash them when this giant enters their house

"Did my lil bunny wife make my favorite jam?" He says to her with a voice sweeter than honey and embracing her from behind with his mighty arms.

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coreene · 3 months

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Their first day on the road to Baldur's Gate. This is a little conversation Astarion and Lorelei has about her parents:

“What are you doing my love?” Astarion asked as he sat down next to me, giving me a kiss.

“Trying to remember and take note of everything we need to do when we’re in the city.” I said as I scratched my forehead thinking if I had forgotten to add anything else. He picked up the map as he gave me a glass of wine. “Thank you.” I said with a smile and watched him read my notes.

“Should I warn Helena? Who’s Helena?” He read the words and looked up to me.

“She’s my mother.” I said in a neutral tone.

“This whole situation with Shadowheart’s parents – it must have made you think.” Astarion said as he placed the map down.

“It did.” I looked towards the darkening sky. It had a beautiful colour now, the rich blue that came after sunset. “I haven’t talked to them in years.”

“You said you had run away – have they looked for you?”

“They did. For about eight-nine months. I read my name in the paper one day –“ I paused at the memory “officially announcing my death.”

“Did you try to contact them after that?” He asked looking pensive.

“Of course not. It was manipulation.” I laughed. “My mother knew exactly what she was doing. She wanted me to come out of hiding.” I looked up to him with a smile. “To be honest, I preferred it to be that way. It made it easier for me to be reborn as Lorelei Carminbow.”

Astarion gave me a sympathetic smile. “You chose your own name?”

I hummed as I drank a sip from the wine - It tasted really nice.

“It is tradition for elves to do that as I remember.” He said in an amused and proud tone.

“It is but my mother was not a fan of that, not for me, at least. My brother and sisters all got to do theirs. I remember hearing about their naming ceremonies.”

He paused, swirling his own glass of wine, thinking. “She most likely wanted you to fit in with the other nobles. They’re not used to elven traditions in the Upper City.”

“Maybe - could also be because I'm only a half-elf.” I said leaning back on my arms looking at the sky. “It’s nice to finally see the stars again.”

Astarion followed my gaze, understanding the change of the subject. “Really is. It has been a while since we saw it last." He spoke as he downed the rest of his wine and laid down on his back next to me.

Read the whole chapter here:

#I was going to share this yesterday but i spiraled a little bit into self loathing #i still have doubts about the writing but it aint gonna get better as i sit on my ass so #here it is #it was already up in ao3 in friday #sorry to everyone who follow updates from here #Astarion x Tav #tavstarion #Astarion x Female Tav #Astarion #BG3 Astarion #Astarion Ancunin #Baldur's Gate 3 Astarion #Bg3 #Bg3 Spoilers #Astarion Fanfic #Astarion Fic #queue

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msb-lair · 3 months

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Clutch #3481 - Orisa/Orisi

Mated On: 2024-02-01 # of eggs: 3 Hatched On: 2024-02-06

Progeny:

Hatchling 9258 (Faye) - Snapper XXY Female, Cerulean Fade/Cerulean Blend/Robin Polkadot, Common - 15 gems on 2024-02-13

Hatchling 9259 (Varden) - Spiral XXY Female, Cerulean Fade/Cerulean Blend/Green Firebreather, Unusual - 15,000 on 2024-03-09

Hatchling 9260 (Phoenice) - Spiral XXY Female, Cerulean Fade/Cerulean Spinner/Mantis Firebreather, Common - 15,435 on 2024-02-22

Hatchling 9261 (Gwenora) - Snapper XXY Male, Cerulean Fade/Cerulean Blend/Jade Firebreather, Common - 15,000 on 2024-02-11

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aesolerin · 2 months

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for funsies i recreated the Darkest Dungeon characters in Flight Rising's Predict Morphology+Dressing Room features! i tried not to repeat genes and apparel, and i think i did a solid job.

god what i'd give to actually manifest these dragons in my clan

i'll probably whip up Duelist and Runaway later!

#darkest dungeon #dd ensemble #flight rising #as much as i would love to tag all the characters that is 18 tags #yes jester is a female spiral but 1: i like the f spiral pose more 2: Woe Trans Clown Upon Ye

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cloudofbutterflies92 · 1 month

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I want to introduce you to the Riley family in "Spiral" in their normal and transformed forms

Eden

Ghost (He is like this, except that he has many scars on his face, one in particular on his right eye, thanks for @themotherofhorses for the suggestion too💕)