#for SIX FLUID OUNCES

[aggressiveanon]

"oh youre a sonic fan? what merch do you have?"

[whoreforharlow]

Lost and Found

Author's Note: An angsty smutty Alpha!Jack fic inspired by some discourse I saw on both @19crimes and @killatravtramp blogs over the last few days about some ABO and alpha energy Jack, so S/O to them and their anons.

Warnings: cursing, unprotected p in v intercourse, a tiny bit of oral (both f and m receiving), size!kink, sub!reader, dom!jack, hair pulling, daddy!kink, dirty talk, choking, breeding!kink, forced orgasms, mentions of bodily fluids, 18+, minors dont interact. Think that's it 🤔

The heavy thud of the front door alerted Jack that you were home, still pissed it seemed. He was laid on the couch, Survivor reruns idly playing on the TV screen as he mostly attended to emails on his phone. He listened to you from where he was: the clatter of your keys on the entryway table, the clicking of your heels exchanged for light scraping of slides, the opening of the fridge door, the clink of what must have been a glass on the marble countertop, the glugging of what he was positive was your chilled wine, the momentary silence before a deep sigh, the second round of glugging before the scrape of slides disappearing down the hallway.

Jack released his own sigh, his feelings conflicting within him. He was still upset, assumed you probably were too, yet it took every ounce of energy to be angry with you. The two of you had been at odds for the last few days, small things that turned into big arguments. You two were frustrated with your own personal worlds and instead of seeking comfort in each other, you turned your shared apartment into a war zone. You both worked in high positions in your jobs, but that doesn't make either of you exempt from being denied by powers even greater than yourselves. That's how it ended up coming home with you both—wanting to assert control and dominance over anything, including each other.

You and Jack always had a very good dynamic going for you both. You both easily fell into masculine and feminine positions in your household, the two of you having a beautiful dance around each other that was completely in sync.

You weren't always like that, having lived on your own for so long, you had slipped into a masculine energy. You were the provider, the protector, the strength of your one person household. Being with Jack had shifted your priorities, falling into a softer, more feminine position, finding that you can trust Jack for those aforementioned traits. His presence let you breathe, knowing everything would be taken care of whenever he was around.

Over the last few days, your job had been demanding more and more from you. Your upset with Jack meant you sought comfort in yourself from the stress. The silent treatment took its toll on you, feeling like you needed to build up those walls again of being your own support. After two years of nothing less than princess treatment, you felt drained playing both roles again. You missed coming to him with your problems and him promising to take care of it, you missed discussing the future with him and planning out your legacy together, you missed coming home to flowers and a warm bath waiting for you.

Little did you know, Jack was also feeling the loss of your warmth. Missing your nurturing spirit, your tenderness, your sweetness after long days split between interviews, meetings, and studio time. Eating his meals alone at the kitchen island made him miss the nights you stayed up late just to spend an hour with him, he missed holding you close as you told him whatever was bothering him would pass, he missed your bubbly excitement as you showed him videos of silly puppies on tiktok, he missed you insisting that he should be the little spoon as you struggled to wrap yourself around his larger frame.

Today was going on day six of the silent treatment, and it was killing you both. Neither one of you could remember what you were upset about, but just knew you didn't want to crack first. For the most part, the two of you hadn't really seen each other, purposely so. You both took on more time at work, the cause of the disruption in your home, rather than the peace of each other's arms. The only time you two really interacted was when you were playing tug-a-war in your sleep over the blanket, if that even counts.

But there was something about tonight, the sigh of defeat that exhaled from your body that broke him. He lifted himself from the couch, following where he suspected you to be, his suspicions correct as he saw the steam escaping the bathroom door that was ajar. He slowly walked in to see your back to him in the glass shower, your forehead pressed against the tile on the wall as you let the spray wash over you. It broke his heart, knowing that on exhausting days like this you like to take a nice bath, a task that he added to his list of personal responsibilities. He felt like he failed you this week, his role of provider and care taker severely neglected, your slouched posture a testament to your physical and mental exhaustion.

Your ears perked up, hearing some rustling coming from beyond the sound of the rushing water inside of the glass cage you were currently in. You tried to ignore it, but the knot in your chest wouldn't let you, you tasked yourself with suppressing your sob. You took a deep breath of the steamy air, allowing it to soften the muscles of your lungs as you released a shaky breath. You decided against turning around, hoping he would leave soon so you could be at peace in the bathroom. Another sob attempted to escape your lips as you repeat that thought in your head. How you had come to the thought where you felt more peaceful without him than with him, even though it wasn't true, broke your heart and caused silent tears to stream down your cheeks.

Jack opened a drawer where you kept many unscented candles, always insisting that they were a blank canvas to not take away the shine of your choice essential oil, grabbing a few and the lighter. He began placing the lit candles around the room, making sure to not miss the corners because he knew the small fear you had when the corners seemed too dark. He grabbed a small rose and vanilla shower steamer: a small, circular, scent brick that can be used to turn a hot shower into a spa experience by releasing the fragrance. He turned off the lights, the new experience of the softer light catching you off guard as you blinked your teary eyes a few times, your hands coming to rest against the wall on either side of you as you resisted the urge to look up.

Undressing himself, he opened the glass door of the shower, turning on the second shower head and dropping the steamer under the hot water. You felt his body close to yours as he stood behind you in front of your shower head, the hot water no longer hitting your reddening skin. You stood there frozen, unsure of what to do, the tears still silently falling from your eyes. For a long moment, neither of you did anything, just standing close to each other in the steam. You wanted to play it cool, turn around and side step him, grab your towel and walk out of the bathroom, pretend you didn't even notice him, but you were frozen.

You felt a warm hand placed on each of yours that were still placed on the wall, his body finally coming to press against yours from behind as you felt his forehead drop to your shoulder.

"I'm so sorry, baby" you hear his voice crack, the vulnerability and sorrow in it. You released a loud sob, your body no longer holding back as you cried as hard as you've been wanting to. It was a cry from deep within: a cry of sadness, of loneliness, of frustration, of anger, of guilt, of hurt, of longing. Your body trembled as he wrapped his arms around you, turning you around so he could hold you properly under the shower spray. In your own trembling, you felt the heaving of his chest, the unevenness of his breathing, the slight wetness on your forehead, all alluding to the fact that he was crying too.

"I'm so sorry, too" you begin, but are quickly shushed.

"You have nothing to be sorry about. I'm the one that should have ended this fight sooner." Jack was always the one to claim responsibility in the relationship. He was never one to play the blame game, he believed that was childish,"little boy shit" as he would always say. If he was going to be the leader of the relationship, then his attitude is what carries the energy of the relationship. Even if you both came home with work frustrations, his attitude is what you matched. Had he left his own hostility at the door that day, had he cooled down your hot head, had he taken the initiative to keep the peace, this could have been avoided. There was a time, a place, a way, to present frustrations to each other, in a way that was productive and problem solving. But the day you both exploded, as the leader, Jack believes he should have been the one to de-escalate the situation.

"I shouldn't have taken my frustration out on you. I shouldn't have walked out during the fight. I shouldn't have turned my phone off. I shouldn't have let you worry all night about if I was alright or not. I shouldn't have let Urban's text be the only relief you got that I was safe. I should have stayed with you, I knew you needed me with you. I should have sat us down to talk instead of yell. I should have held you, because I know for a fact that you cried yourself to sleep that night, and probably every night since. I'm the one that should be sorry, baby girl." His voice was rough as he spoke, fighting to keep his thoughts in order as he was overwhelmed with emotions. He held you tightly, not only for your comfort but for his as well, one hand rubbing your back, the other on the back of your head.

You pulled away slightly to look at him, his face as red and puffy as yours no doubt, the sincerity in his eyes lit up by the numerous candles, the flames casting him in an angelic glow. Jack has always been your knight in shining armor, your safety, your peace, your rest. To hear him take full accountability, even though you were also to blame for this, bloomed a warmth in your chest that you had never felt before.

In the last two years, you and Jack had never fought like you two had done almost a week ago. It had never gotten as nasty or as ugly as that fight, the two of you completely out of bounds, making a mockery of any boundaries you two had set up; it was a no holds barred match of who could hurt the other more. It was sickening and you both were wracked with guilt afterwards, unable to even look yourselves in the mirror. It was emotionally bloody and brutal, not knowing that either of you could get that low. As much as you two loved each other and believed you'd be together forever, sitting in the aftermath of it, you both were scared that that fight could have been the end. The words thrown were blanks, you both knew that, but it still hurt like the real thing.

"I know you said I have nothing to be sorry for, but I am sorry. I love you, Jack, more than anything in this world. I can't describe how much I love you, I wish I could. You're all that I want, nothing is as important to me as you are. You're my everything Jackman Harlow, my whole world." You confess to him. "I shouldn't have said those things," you choke a bit at the thought, "I should never say things like that to someone I love this much. You only deserve kind words, loving words, uplifting words, supportive words. I'm so sorry, my love." You look up at him with pleading eyes. You knew that he had forgiven you, but he knew how much you required reassurance. He pulled you in again, holding you close as you cried again, whispering his love and forgiveness in your ear.

You leaned up to kiss him, your lips whispering an apology that words could never fully express. You both poured whatever you needed into the kiss, your hands grasping at each other for dear life, the two you a lifeline for each other in this moment. When you pulled away you felt his forehead lean against yours, his nose rubbing yours lovingly as you both smiled for the first in what felt like ages. The pain you both felt washing away as you two basked in each other's love. You looked up at him, the softest look of adoration on his face as he gazed down at you. The two of you glowing in the candle light, the warm floral scent enveloping you both, the water droplets marking the cleansing of your sins against one another. You finally felt like you could breathe, knowing that everything was right between you two.

After washing up, Jack wrapped you up in a fluffy towel, blowing out the candles and guiding you out of the bathroom. The two of you exchanged your towels for robes as Jack led you by the hand to the couch. He plopped down and pulled you into him, your body instinctively curling up into his side, taking comfort in his strong hold on you. He grabbed the remote, playing none other than both of yours comfort movie. He traded the remote for his phone, his thumb quickly swiping away as he ordered your go-to "sad-girl" meal, as you liked to put it, from the place that's open late down the street.

This is what you were used to. From the moment he held you in his arms in the shower, you were able to shut your brain down for the night. Jack always took care of you, your mind and body knew that, and for the first time all week you were able to rest. You were once again his princess: being hand dried and lotioned down after not lifting a finger to wash yourself, then being guided to watch your favorite movie while waiting for your favorite meal to magically appear before you, not a thought or care of how it came to be. This was what you were used to, this was how it was supposed to be. The man you loved babying you as you just basked in his gentle attention like a small child.

You of course fell asleep almost immediately, your body feeling safe and warm in his arms could shut down fully. When you awoke, about an hour had passed and Jack was squirming under you trying to get up to grab the food without waking you. You giggled at his attempted subtlety, and scooted for him to get up. You two shared your meal together, dopey loving looks on both of your faces as you fed each other, sweet kisses exchanged in-between bites. There was such a surge of feel-good hormones, so much oxytocin flooding both of your systems, pupils blown as you gazed at each other, the aphrodisiac of the chocolate cake you two split adding to the shift of the evening.

You pushed the now empty carton off of Jack's lap, the clatter of the forks hitting the floor not distracting you from what you wanted, no needed, in that moment. You straddled Jack's lap, both hands moving to cup his cheeks, your thumbs rubbing his shaggy beard, the hair longer than it was a week ago, making you giddy. You pushed your tongue into his mouth, a groan escaping him as he tasted you for the first time in what felt like forever. His hands ran up and down your thighs, landing on your ass as he gripped the flesh roughly, your hips pressing down to grind on him.

There was a hunger in you both, never had you two been able to go more than a few hours while in each other's presence without fucking. Spending six days, five nights, sleeping right next to each other without touching was a torture all in itself.

Jack was quick to move, his hands holding you to him as he lifted the two of you off the bed, walking you to the bedroom without breaking your kiss. Everything was rough and hurried, too much time had gone past and you refused to let more go by. The second your back hit the mattress, your hands were clawing at the belt of his robe, desperate to remove any barriers between the two of you.

You felt his lips moving down your neck, sucking, biting, licking whatever he could, moving down your body towards your stomach, but you pulled him up by his hair.

"No, Jack, I can't wait. I need you inside me, please, baby, I missed you." You weren't ashamed to beg him. Though the thought of his mouth on you made you shiver, you couldn't stand not being connected to him. Your confession made him smirk as he kissed his way back up to you.

"Turn me over," you softly commanded, your body twisting under him as you tried to get to your stomach. His hands went to your hips, guiding you to your knees as you pressed your front to the mattress. You presented yourself to him, wiggling your ass as you arched your back. He watched you from his kneeled position behind you, his hand stroking himself as he watched your hand come to touch yourself. You moaned as your fingers made contact with your neglected clit, sliding through your wet slit to collect some of your slick from your opening before returning to the aching bud. You turned your head, trying to get a glimpse of him behind you, catching his dazed expression as he watched you. You smiled with giddiness, loving that after all this time you can still turn him on this way. You dipped two fingers into yourself, wishing that it were his, and you let him know just that.

"Mmm, Jack. I've missed you so much, baby. Been so empty without you. Even now with my fingers inside me, I still feel empty. My pussy only wants to be filled with you." You moan to him, your hips rocking to meet your thrusting fingers as you try to reach the places inside you that only Jack can. You feel a warm hand on yours, pulling you away from yourself, his warm lips wrapping around your fingers to lick the wetness. You pull your hand back, both of them now gripping the sheets in anticipation as you bit your lip. You felt his tongue lick a bold stripe up your slit, making your eyes roll back and toes curl at the sensation, an appreciative moan escaping your lips.

You feel two of his fingers enter you, the large digits stretching you slightly as he moved them slowly, causing you to whine and rock back in an attempt to get more of the sensation. He chuckled at your eagerness, halting your hips with his unoccupied hand, his lips coming down to press kisses from your ass up your spine, all the while continuing to massage your walls.

"You're so wet for me, baby. All we did was kiss for a minute, and it's got you like this, huh? I shouldn't be surprised, this little pussy's always ready for me, ain't she?" He speaks slowly, his accent prominent as he watches in a trance as his fingers dip and curl into your pretty pussy. Your wetness dripped down your thighs, some dripping down onto the sheets, trails of it coating down his hand. He was always in awe of how wet you got, knowing it was just for him made him feel possessive of you. From somewhere far away, he could hear you whining for him, begging for more, begging for him to go faster, but he was entranced by the display before him.

He took pleasure in pleasuring you, your body belong to him and he took pride in the power he had over it, how he could command orgasm after orgasm from you, even when you thought you couldn't handle any more. He loved know your beautiful body was his to pleasure. He knew that every man on the planet wished they could have you, but he was honored that you chose to give yourself to him. He knew it was his responsibility to leave you satisfied and sated, that a goddess like yourself deserved nothing less than to have her appetite fed. And boy, did you have an appetite for Jack.

He was taken out of his trance when you had finally had enough of his teasing. You pushed yourself up from your position, his fingers slipping out of you as you turned around on the bed and crawled over to him. You eyed his erection, the heavy length barely able to stand up straight as it bobbed from its own weight between his thighs, the tip an angry pinkish red, shining with precum that had dripped a bit, the prominent vein pulsing which made your mouth water. You had plans to crawl into his lap, but seeing his perfect cock begging for attention had you changing your course of action.

You bent down low, taking his dick in your hand as you stuck your tongue out, licking from the base all the way up to the tip, your tongue curling as you licked the skin just under the head before taking him into your warm mouth. You hollowed your cheeks, sucking him a little harder than you should have, making him hiss and flinch slightly; you knew how Jack felt about aggressive head, but it was payback for his teasing. His hand found your hair as he pulled you back, as bashful smile on your lips as you batted your eyes at him innocently. He pulled your face right up to his by your hair, your hands coming to balance on his strong thighs.

"That wasn't very nice, angel." He scolds, making you giggle just a bit, his expression softening at the sound he missed so much. He smiled lovingly, pressing his lips to yours as he pushed you back on the bed, his body coming to lay between your bent legs. His hands rubbed against your torso, playing with your breasts and nipples, twisting and tugging the taut peaks, before rubbing your waist and stomach.

You wrapped your arms and legs around him, not wanting him to pull away from you at all, you ran your hands up and down his back and shoulders, around to his chest, up to his cheeks, and then around to the nape of his neck. Just kissing him like this made you dizzy, his masterful lips and tongue caressing yours in a way that made you feel like you could cum from just that.

You felt him lower his hips, his length rubbing up and down your slit, collecting the wetness. You pulled away from him, needing to breathe as you felt his tip bump into your swollen clit. You felt overstimulated just from the anticipation, your body feeling so close to release just from the proximity of him. It never took much for that first orgasm, honestly there have been times where just him filling you was enough to get you off that first time—you were certain this night wouldn't be any different than those times.

"Jack, baby, please," you whimpered, desperate for him, almost panicked with your craving for him, tears at the corners of your eyes, feeling yourself enter that subspace that you've been craving all week. That sweet surrender to him, the contentment of knowing he would take care of you, keep you safe, satisfy you completely, all while your mind slipped away into oblivion. You knew he would take care of your body as you let go over your grip on reality, nothing but pleasure washing over you as he worshipped your body over and over until he decided to give you the mercy of rest. You trusted him to gently guide you back to earth, pull you down from the clouds and wrap you in his arms, anchor you to him and ground you as your soul finds its way back to your body. You'd follow his loving whispers as he called you back to him every time without fail.

"I've got you, princess." He grunted as he pressed himself against your entrance, his swollen head a blunt force against your tightness. You felt him hike your legs up higher around his hips, pressing you open for him as he pressed his forehead to yours, his head angled down as he watched where you two connected. He pressed in, knowing that after all this time he still needed to be gentle with you. His size was always a bit of a challenge for him, intimidating, and sometimes discouraging, most of the women he's been with. He knew what your body needed, taking his time as he opened you up for himself. It was an almost spiritual experience for the both of you, the connecting of two bodies into one, it wasn't just sex to you two.

"Fuck, baby" he grunts, resisting the urge to force himself in too quickly, your velvety walls sucking him in at their own pace, slowly pulsing around him as he eased in. He swears he'll never get used to this. The wetness, the heat, the tightness that deliciously teeters on the line of almost too tight, the cushiony feel of your walls, and firm bump of your cervix once he's fully seated in you. All that accompanied by the pretty sounds that escape your lips; the way your almond shaped nails scrape at his broad shoulders, that dull pain being the only thing stopping him from busting his nut right then and there, grounding him in his euphoria; the way your back arches as he pushes in, your chest pressing into his as his hips continue to press into yours.

"It's so good, Jack," you slur, your hips lifting on their own accord to meet his, the slight burn from the additional force causing you to cum unexpectedly, a squeal leaving your lips as you pressed your chest into his, your head thrown back in bliss, his groan in your ear at your sudden clench around him. The feeling was light, not as intense as you know they will be, but nonetheless took your breath away as you came down with a smile on your face. You giggled a bit, turning your head to look at Jack whose breath was ragged, his sweaty forehead pressed to your shoulder.

"That was unexpected," you giggled, kissing his cheek and nudging him to look at you; Jack was seemingly more affected by the orgasm than you were. You finally got his blue eyes to open, his expression dazed as he formed a smile on his face.

"It took everything in me not to cum right then and there," he chuckled, picking himself up onto his hands like an extended push up. "You okay, baby?" He asked, looking down at you. He was now fully in you, but he was still ever concerned that he could have hurt you. His hand came to rub your cheek, a protectiveness coming over him at the thought of you hurt.

"I'm okay, daddy." You nodded to him, nuzzling his palm as you looked up at him with doe eyes. Your hands came to splay on his chest as he hovered over you, your legs bent around on either side of his slender hips. The position made you feel so small, his larger body caging you, his strong arms on display, his wide chest feeling powerful under your fingertips. Your small hands take a moment to roam his body, running through the soft hair on his chest, down his sculpted torso, his stomach flexing as you inch closer to where the two of you were connected, the skin there a bit ticklish. You continue your exploration, an awesome expression on your face as you appreciated his body. You knew he had his own body image issues, so did you, so whenever you could, you took the chance to just admire him.

"So beautiful," you muttered, mostly to yourself. "Just so beautiful," you repeated as you took your time to look at him, forgetting that the two of you were in the middle of having sex. "Missed you." This time you look up to his face, your heart breaking at the confession, a bubbling of heartache in your chest all over again. He felt your change of energy immediately, your subby space leaving your emotions fluid as all you could do was feel without thought. Your eyes began to water and your lip trembled, your breathing getting heavier as you reached for him to come down to you, needing to be held.

"I'm right here, angel. It's alright, I've got you." He reassured you, cooing in your ear as his arms came around your back to hold you to him, his lips coming to press to your teary cheeks. "I love you, baby. I'm not going anywhere", he kisses you passionately, calming your mild panic, your earlier feelings resurfacing before being forced away but his touch. You feel him move slightly, testing the waters, making you moan against his mouth. He was seated deep inside you, his girth stretching you out so well as he rocked inside of you, your wetness sounding out in the room as your hips moved to meet his shallow thrusts.

"So good," you mumble, his head repeatedly bumping your cervix making the pressure build in your stomach. "Like that, don't stop" you beg, your hands in his hair as you guide his lips to your neck. He slowly sucks on the sensitive skin there, no doubt leaving marks.

"This what you wanted, baby?" He asks, his lips moving against your cheek, his pace steady as he increases the pressure of his hips, you can barely speak, the added sensations taking your breath away. Your hips naturally continue their rhythm against his, the string in your stomach feeling like it could snap at any moment. Jack knows you're close, your core tightening around him, causing him to groan in your ear, setting you off. His arms are still cradling you to his chest, his body around you feeling suffocating as you writhe against him, this orgasm coming from deep within you as you clench around him like a vice, Jack unable to move as he grits his teeth together at the sensation. Your body continues to twitch as you come down, electricity still flickering throughout your body as your pussy slowly releasing its grip on Jack's dick, causing him to exhale through his flared nostrils.

Your body is limp, feeling like jello as you just lay there in his embrace, chest heaving, face flushed, pussy tender. You feel Jack pull out of you, but you barely have the energy to say anything as you just close your eyes and bask in the post orgasm sensations. You feel Jack slowly lower your legs from around his waist, turning you over, your body too exhausted and heavy to care. He's got you on your stomach, his hands coming to massage your back and hips, his lips on the back of your neck as he whispers how good you were for him, making you smile lightly. You feel him press behind you, his hand coming to your right thigh from your hip, hooking behind your knee as he brings it forward towards your chest. You wince slightly at the stretch, your hips having tightened from the previous position he had you in. The cool air blows against your sore pussy, a sensation that makes you squirm lightly as you try to bring your legs back together but his hand behind your knee stops you.

"Uh-uh, baby. I want you just like this." His face is pressed to yours, cheek to cheek, as he comes to lay on top of you, his dick rubbing your sensitive slit making you cry out in mild discomfort. He shushes you, his face coming over to kiss you messily, lips and tongue twisting and smacking against each other, his hand leaving your knee to palm your tender breast. He takes your distraction as a chance to press into you, your pussy welcoming him as you let out the most pornographic moan he had ever heard. His forehead pressing into the back of your shoulder, as he slowly works himself into you, your walls still pulsing from your orgasm. You groaned at the mild discomfort as the wider part of his dick worked its way into you, and he was quick to whisper comforting words into your ear.

"Daddy," you whined, your hips shifting in an attempt to escape the feeling, but his hand came down to hold you in place as he continued pushing into you.

"Be a good girl for me, princess. You can take it, just relax. Just like that, pretty girl." He groaned his words into your ear as he pressed all the way in, his hand leaving your hip to rub your clit. You squealed and grabbed his wrist, pulling him away.

"Too much," you babbled into the pillow, making him chuckle and place a sweet kiss to your cheek. He began moving his hips, pulling almost all the way out before pushing back into the hilt, each time making your breath catch in your chest. His pace was slow and rough, his own knee coming up behind yours for additional leverage. You both could feel your wetness dripping from your pussy, making him glide in effortlessly into your tight passage.

"You feel so good, baby. So tight f'me, every damn time." He mumbled in between his groans. He picked up his pace, the sensations too good to resist as he started fucking you faster. It felt so good, the head of his dick rubbing against your g-spot with every up stroke and dragging against it on every down, you almost couldn't take it as you just moaned and groaned, babbling incoherently as he continued to fuck your pussy relentlessly.

"I-I-I c-can't," you finally formulated something remotely understandable, your hand grabbing at his hand that was holding your hip steady. You clawed at him, but he refused to ease up, grabbing your hand and pinning it to the bed before speaking to you.

"You can take it, baby. Yes, you can. This pussy was made for my dick, she can take it." He clasps your hand in his, the intimate act lost on you as your eyes roll back, your body attempting to coil in on itself as your orgasm flooded your system, a choked sob leaving your throat as the euphoria clouded you. With your ears ringing, you could barely make out Jack's groan as his body went rigid on top of yours, his hips sloppily thrusting as he attempted to fight against the clench of your walls holding him like a vice, a deep warmth filling your pussy as he came inside you.

You couldn't register anything as you both came down, heavy breathing was the only thing heard in the room as you tried to get a grip on reality. Your head was spinning, your body humming, your heart beating in your ears. The only thing keeping you down to earth was the heavy weight of your boyfriend on top of you, his hand still holding yours as he tried to catch his breath. You could feel him still inside you, even after cumming as hard as he did, he was still hard so you knew this was far from the end.

"You did so good, pretty girl, did so good for me. You're always such a good girl, aren't you? My best girl." You preened at his attention, and he could tell by the way your pussy fluttered that you enjoyed his words. He pressed soft kisses to the side of your face as he continued. "Did daddy make you feel good? You looked so beautiful when you were cumming on my dick, baby, prettiest thing I've ever seen. I love you so much, all I ever want is to make you feel good, angel." You blushed at his words, angling your head back so you could get to his lips, Jack happily obliging your silent request.

You felt him pull out of you, your legs coming together immediately to try to apply pressure to the soreness there. He stayed resting on top of you, knowing you needed to feel his skin on yours when you got like this.

"You okay, y/n?" You were so out of it in your sub-space, but the one thing that caught your attention was the usage of your name. He was giving you a chance to use your safe word if you needed it. That was something you and Jack practiced often when going into intense sessions. He would never use your name during sex, and when he did, it was to check in with you if he ever felt like maybe you needed a break.

"Green," you croaked out, signaling you wanted to continue. You felt exhausted, but this was what you wanted, what you had been craving all week. Your body felt light and heavy at the same time, your brain was mush and all your senses were clouded by Jack and you couldn't possibly ask for anything more.

You felt his body shuffle a bit, moving from on top of you as he came to straddle your ass, his thick erection sitting atop the fleshy mounds, glistening with a mix of your cums as he rubbed it in between the seam. His hands came to rub your back, just wanting to touch and feel your body. He watched how his two hands dwarfed your waist, curving around your sides, as he pressed forward to your shoulder blades; you looked so small under him, so delicate. He felt so powerful over you, his hands gliding across your beautiful skin, the sweat making you shimmer, the sweet sounds escaping your mouth as his fingers pressed in a certain spot.

"C'mere, baby," he whispered softly, his arms coming to wrap around you as he pulled you up to your knees, your body slumping back against his chest as he guided you to settle on his thighs, his erection against your back. You laid your head against his shoulder, his arms the only thing keeping you from plopping back down on the bed. You moaned uncomfortably at the heavy weight of your body, just wanting to go to sleep. With one arm around your waist, he used his hand to turn your chin to him, your fucked out expression making him smile to himself, a shy one of your own coming to settle on your lips as you blushed.

"You're so perfect, angel. My perfect girl." He commented with sincerity, his lips coming down to meet yours. You tiredly tried to keep up with him but were too exhausted, pulling away to nuzzle his neck as you caught your breath, your body twisting in an attempt to turn around in his lap.

"Uh-uh, princess. I want you just like this. Look up, pretty." He instructed, his chin nudging your head from his neck, for you to look forward, a large full length mirror situated right in front of you two. You took in your disheveled self—your two French braids frizzy and falling apart, your neck and chest and breasts covered in blotchy reddish-purple marks, your hips with slight marks from when Jack had gripped you a bit too hard, your skin sweaty and shiny, your lips puffy and swollen just like your pussy. Your eyes flitted to Jack seated behind you, his large upper body barely obstructed by you sitting in front of him. His skin was flushed red, his sweaty hair sticking to his forehead, his plump lips swollen and well kissed. His hands had moved to rub your thighs, hips, stomach, breasts, anything he could grab onto. It made you moan, seeing how big they were against your body, how much of you he was able to grab in each handful, it drove you crazy.

Your hand moved to rest on top of his, seeing the size difference almost had you moaning. You loved that he was bigger than you, it turned you on and he knew it. You guided his hand up your body, allowing him to feel the dips of your curves as you brought him to cup your chest, your back arching to fill his hand with the delicate flesh. You closed your eyes as he massaged your breast, his fingers tweaking your nipple, twisting and pulling the way you like. You angled your head back, your lips latching on to the spot you knew he liked under his jaw, your ass grinding back against his lap as you spread your legs a bit wider over his thighs. You brought your hand atop his other one, guiding it to where you craved him most, the long digits finding your dripping cunt.

"Please, daddy."

That was all he needed, his hand coming to cup your sex, the external pressure having you grind down in his palm for some friction. He let his middle and ring finger slip between the folds, rubbing back and forth to the rhythm of your hips. You wanted more as you whined, attempting to angle your hips to have his fingers slip in. You felt frustrated, fucked out but not fucked enough; you wanted more, all the while not sure if you could take it. You felt your breathing pick up, defiance rising up in your chest at your frustration with his actions, or lack thereof, so you did the only thing your subbed-out mind could think of—you bit him.

A sharp slap to your pussy had you yelping, your body pressing back into Jack's to escape the feeling, pressing into his erection, making him groan.

"That wasn't nice, princess. Behave and I'll give you what you want." He admonished. "Raise up a little for me." He instructed with a tap to your thigh, your body leaning forward and away from his as he rubbed his dick through your folds again, collecting as much of the slick as he could, knowing that you would be sensitive. He tapped his dick against you a few times, the head hitting your clit and making you jump before pushing into you. He held your hips tight, making sure to control the pace as he watched your scrunched up face in the mirror, knowing that initial press-in would be uncomfortable.

He was slow, pushing in a little bit and holding you there, his hips bouncing a bit as he pulsed his dick inside of you. As he'd watch your face relax, he pressed in a little bit more of himself, thoughtfully watching your reactions in the mirror. It wasn't until you started meeting his pulses with rocking hips did he slide in the rest of the way, one of his hands leaving your hips to rest on your stomach, pulling you back against him as you sat perfectly on his lap, his dick fully inside you.

"Open your eyes, baby girl. Lemme see those pretty eyes." Your eyes flutter open, your eyes lingering on the sight in front of you for a moment before meeting his. He looked in awe of you and it made you blush, but you held eye contact with him. His lips landed on your shoulder, his eyes never leaving contact with yours. The two of you sat like that for a moment, just taking everything in.

Your arms felt limp, but you willed them to wrap around his neck, your head turning to kiss him, his soft lips caressing yours. Your hips shifted a bit, making you pull away to gasp, the new angle hitting your cervix in a way that was intense. He noticed your expression, your brows furrowing as your lips parted. You shifted your hips again and again trying to get used to the sensation, soft noises leaving your lips as Jack whispered encouraging words in your ear.

"You okay, baby? Talk to me."

"It's so deep, Jack. It's too much." You gazed up in his eyes, your soft, doe-like expression driving him crazy. You took his hand that was pressed against your waist, holding you to him, and lowered it further to your naval, pressing his hand against your distended tummy where you felt him. "I feel you right here, it's too deep." You whine, shifting your hips again, allowing his tip to rub against your cervix to emphasize his depth.

"It's not too deep, baby. It's right where it needs to be." He cooed, his hips rocking into you. His actions were slow but forceful, making your head spin as your arm that was still behind his head held on to him for dear life. You squirmed against him, whining and writhing, wanting both more and less of the sensation. You felt him hike your body up further against him, allowing him to raise up off his haunches as he pulled out and pushed back in making you squeal and try to push away from him. Both of his arms came to wrap around you, to keep you in place as he began fucking you, each thrust hitting your cervix and making your toes curl.

"There you go, pretty girl, there you go. Just like that, you can take it." He whispered in your ear, watching your face in the mirror. Watching the way his large body engulfed yours, the way your breasts bounced forward with every thrust, the way your hands clawed at his arms to try to escape the pleasure between your legs. He tightened his hold on you with one arm, his other skimming up your chest to rest on your throat as he picked up the pace of his hips, pulling your body down to meet his. He pressed his face into the side of yours, still watching you in the mirror, thinking about how he had never seen anything so beautiful before. You had one hand grasping his arm around your torso, the other pressed against his thigh in a failed attempt to push him away, your eyes were rolled to the back of your head, the whites of your eyes peeking out from under your lids, thin lines of tears running down your cheeks, your mouth was slightly agape as a small stream of drool dribbled down your chin, nothing but broken moans and the occasional obscenity falling from your swollen lips. He loved knowing he was the one to bring you to this fucked out state, no one else. He felt possessive over this side of you, making him fuck you harder with a primal need.

"You gonna let me cum inside you again? Huh, angel? But, you're no angel, are you? Letting me defile this pussy like this, fuck this perfect pussy like this, huh baby? Letting me fuck you so good, got my princess crying. Open your eyes, baby. Look at how good I'm fucking you." He instructs, his hand around your throat squeezing gently to get your attention. He gives you a few moments to heed his instruction and when you didn't, he fucked you harder, his hand around your throat tightening.

"I said open your eyes, darlin'," he grits out between his teeth with that derby accent, his own orgasm approaching quickly as he bit down on your shoulder. You opened your eyes, blinking away the tears, barely recognizing the woman in front of you being fucked senseless. You barely had control of your senses, your pupils completely blown as your eyes trying to figure out what to focus on. His face? Your face? His hands? Your breasts? His arms? His hips? Or the sight of his dick disappearing into your pussy?

"Look at how sexy you look. Such a goddess with this beautiful body, baby. I love you so much, look at you, what's not to love, huh? So sexy, so beautiful, so smart, so talented, so kind, so funny, so perfect. My perfect girl, my best girl." You can't help but let your eyes fall closed at his praise, but his hand tightening around your throat again caused you to reopen them. "Uh-uh baby. Keep'em open for me. I want you to watch me fuck you, fill you up so good with my cum. Is that what you want, princess? You want me to fill you with my cum?" He chuckles in your ear as you eagerly nod, your hips instinctively rocking back to meet his thrusts, desperate for his cum.

"Yes, yes please, oh god, yes. I need it, daddy, I need your cum, please," you babbled, words tripping over themselves as you looked at him in the mirror with a crazed look of desperation. You're begging for it, nothing will suffice except for his cum filling you up. You feel wild with need, your brain not comprehending anything but the absolute necessity of being filled with his thick load, as if your life depended on it. He loved it when you begged for him, especially when you begged for his cum, knowing how badly you wanted it in your sub-space.

"You're gonna let me cum in your pussy, huh? You're gonna let me fill you up so much it's dripping out of you? You've already made such a mess," referring to the puddle of wetness beneath you two. "I'm gonna fill this pussy up so good. Imma put a baby in you. Would you like that? You want me to put my baby in you? Want me to make you a mommy, princess?" You moaned at his words, your stomach coiling at the thought.

"Yes, yes please. Cum inside me, let me make you a daddy." You begged him, the thought of carrying his child making you hot with need.

"You want that, baby? You want everyone to know I'm the only one who gets to cum inside you? Mark you so everyone knows who you belong to? Have you waddling around with my baby inside you, your belly swelling as you grow our beautiful baby. You'd make such a good mommy, baby." His hands traveling to cup both of your breasts, his hips still keeping their same brutal pace. "I can't wait for these to swell up too, get all sensitive for me to play with." His twisting of your nipples making you groan, your hips moving faster against his as your orgasm starts closing in.

"Please, Jack. Cum inside me, let everyone know who I belong to. Please, I want to have your baby, make you a daddy, make us a family." Your words have him fucking you harder, faster, rougher. His own orgasm so close as his hand goes back down to your lower stomach, his hand pressing down on the area making you feel him even more. You yelp, trying to get away from the overwhelming sensation, but he just presses down harder.

"Don't run from it, darlin'. You said you wanted it, baby. You can take it. Let me fuck this baby into you." His free hand coming to rub your clit, making the coil on your belly snap with just a few swipes. You let out an almost pained groan, your body curling in on itself as your torso drops down to the bed, unable to to hold yourself up anymore, your position now resembling child's pose.

Jack's body is quick to come over yours, his hand still trapped between your thighs under your curled up body, his fingers still rubbing against your clit to prolong your orgasm. You're fully crying, sobbing, wailing, unable to escape the pleasure he was delivering, his hips still sloppily thrusting into you as he finally reaches his own orgasm. His hips press as deep as he can, your new position allowing him to press harshly to your cervix as he releases his thick load inside of you, coating your walls in the warm sticky substance, a sensation that has your toes curling. You both continue to lay there, both of your bodies twitching from the intensity of your orgasms, your pulsing walls continuing to milk his dick for more of his cum, short spurts still shooting out from the tip in his aftershocks. He pulls his hand from between your legs, a wet digit finding its way to between his lips before he offers you one as well. You sleepily take it into your mouth, not having the energy to tease him with your tongue.

"You did so good f'me, darlin'. So good. Such a good girl f'me, you know that. Gonna make such a good mommy to our babies one day. Love you so much." His words are gentle as he kisses your cheek, trying to gently begin bringing you back to the land of the living. You mumble something incoherent to him as a response, your brain too mushy to put together a proper sentence. You two stay like that for a while, his body draped on top of yours, his heat and weight a welcomed comfort after the fucking you had just endured. His hands massages up and down your arms, his heartbeat thumping against your back, the rise and fall of his chest a comforting lull.

"I love you, Jack. So much." You tell him, the clouds finally clearing from your mind. You pull your head up slightly, looking at the mirror in front of you to see the sight before you. His large body hiding yours beneath him made you feel warm and safe, a protective cage surrounding you. You reach your hand around, instinctively reaching for his curls to scratch at his scalp. You knew he needed some aftercare after such intense sessions, so you continued to speak to him.

"You're always so good to me, baby. You take such good care of me. You're all I ever need, Jack. Nothing else. No one else." Your voice is soft as you continue, feeling his arms wrap around you tighter. "I can't wait for us to have a family, you'll be such a wonderful father. You're already such a wonderful partner. You're my provider and protector, my rock and my support, my lover and best friend." You hear a sniffle muffled into your neck, knowing he just needed a moment to bask in your praise. You continue to scratch at his scalp, humming softly to yourself as you continue to ride that post sex bliss.

Once you feel him push up off of your body, you twist your upper body around underneath him, your lower bodies still connected by his softened member. You smile up at him, looking at him with adoring eyes that makes him want to fuck you all over. You take in his face, the space around his eyes definitely wet from what were probably some tears. Sex this intense always had you both emotional, all the hormones being released, the vulnerability of your nakedness. One of your favorite things about Jack was how he wasn't afraid to show you those emotions, knowing that he was just as safe with you as you were with him.

"Gimme a kiss, handsome" you softly command, his lips wasting no time in finding yours. The kiss is gentle and unhurried, full of so much love. When you both pulled away, he kept his face close to yours, his nose nuzzling yours, his cheeks rubbing yours, his beard making you giggle, a smile breaking onto his face at the sound.

You feel him start to pull out of you, your eyes wide as you wrap an arm around his back, your core clenched to lock him in, the pressure on his sensitive dick making him hiss and look at your wide eyed expression in question.

"No, baby. I need to keep it safe." You mumbled to him, remnants of your subspace peaking through. You didn't want to let him go, you didn't want it all to end just yet.

"You want to keep my cum safe, huh baby?" His voice is husky as his eyes darkened. You nod your head, your hips shifting against his as you hear the squelching of his cum inside you. "Okay baby, let's get you more comfortable then, huh. I need you to relax for me, okay?" You take a deep breath, unclenching your pussy, allowing him to maneuver your lower half around, laying you flat on your back without letting him slip from inside of you.

He was sat up, your legs spread apart, your feet propped up on his thighs, as your pussy stuffed with his now semi-hard on was on full display for him. Your thighs and his lap were fully drenched in the sticky wetness, your pussy was creamy with the coating of his first load that had dripped out of you. His fingers came to trace the swollen skin, playing in the mess you two had created. Your clit was swollen, peeking out from the folds like a sweet pearl, making him want to reach down and suck it between his lips.

"You think you can do one more, princess?" His eyes momentarily leave their gaze on your pussy to look up at you. You shook your head at him, but the flutter in your pussy let him know you were just playing coy. "C'mon baby girl, I know you can do it." His thumb finally resting on your clit, applying pressure but not moving. You moaned at the sensation, whining as your hips moved, his hardening dick starting to stretch you out once again. He collected some of the creamy essence from between your legs, his thumb brushing the shiny substance along your nipple before his mouth came down to claim it, moaning against the flesh at the taste. Your hand came to cradle his head to you, his lips mouthing at your sensitive breast while he palmed the other.

"Just one more," you whispered to him, the delicious fullness of his now hard dick inside you had you craving more of him once again. The sensitive sting of your stretched out opening dulled by the tension swirling in your gut. You felt him smirk against you, leaning back up to his kneeling position. He contemplated how he wanted to fuck you, but ultimately decided he wanted to be as close to you as possible as he made love to you.

Jack reached over to grab a pillow, folding it in half as he placed it under your hips before collecting your legs and bringing them together, gently pressing them forward to your chest. He was slow with the process, not wanting to hurt you as he leaned his body down against yours, your legs now over his shoulders, your knees against your chest. You felt a dull ache in your hips at the feeling of being folded in half. Jack's arms came around to cradle you from under your back, your head gently held in his hands as he brought his forehead down to yours. You both closed your eyes, taking deep breaths, enjoying the vulnerable and close position you two were in. You felt his lips on yours, his tongue leisurely gliding against yours, using this as a distraction as he rocked his hips, making you pull away to catch your breath.

"Oh god, Jack." You moaned, the position of your hips being propped up made for his pelvis to rub against your clit. You could hear all of the filthy sounds of your wetness as he began thrusting gently, fucking his cum inside of your pussy. You could feel some of it dripping down from your slit, tickling the seam of your ass cheeks, knowing it was pooling down on the pillow, but you didn't care. He continued to kiss you passionately, making love to you as he used his hands to caress your face, your own doing the same to his as you held him close to you. As much as you both loved fucking, there was nothing like good ol' love making.

"You feel so good around me, baby girl. Fucked you so hard all night and you're still so damn tight around me. This pussy was made for me, wasn't it, angel? Your heart was made for me. Your mind, body, and soul was made for me. No one else, darlin'." His confession, in combination with the pressure on your clit and in your pussy was enough to make you cum, your walls tightening around him as your wetness dripped and squirted, Jack's hips grinding and digging into your pussy to prolong the experience for you. You felt it from your head to your toes, the fire that licked through your veins and swelled in your chest. He kissed around your face and neck as you caught your breath, his lips collecting the salty sweat and tears that fell from the corners of your eyes.

"So perfect." He praised as your breathing leveled slightly. His hips went back to his soft thrusting, his orgasm not too far behind as he felt his balls tighten. He leaned his forehead against your cheek, his head angled down to watch your pussy swallow his dick again and again, both of your cum glistening on it whenever he pulled out, still in awe of how something so tight could accommodate his huge size.

"Please fill me up again, daddy. I need it again." You babbled, catching his attention. You wanted to feel him spilling into you again, the sensation truly addicting as he always filled you up with so much cum each time. "I want to stay so full of you, I want every last drop. Can you do that for me? Can I have it? I've been such a good girl for you, I deserve it." You felt that subspace creeping up on you again, feeling emotional at the thought that maybe he would deny you his cum. He rested his head against yours, both of you cradling the other's face in your palms as you held eye contact, soft grunts coming from both of your lips as Jack's hips sped up.

"I'll give it to you baby, I'll fill you up again and again, keep you filled up and stuffed with my cum. Keep it safe in your womb until you're pregnant with my child. Let everyone know how good I fuck you, how you let me cum deep inside you." His words were cut off by a guttural groan, his stomach clenching as his hips sputtered, his cum filling you up for the third time tonight, the hot substance right against your cervix as he teased his sensitive tip against it to prolong the stimulation. His body felt heavy, but he made sure to lower your legs before collapsing on top of you. His head laid against your chest, as he heaved in a shaky breath, his body twitching with aftershocks, his balls still clenching to try and empty themselves fully into your pulsing pussy.

"I love you, baby, so much," you heard him whisper, his body completely spent, as you used whatever energy you had left in you to scratch at his scalp.

"Love you too."

Read More

[putting-pomni-in-places]

Put her in Whispering Rock Psychic Summer Camp?

The human mind. Six hundred miles of synaptic fiber, five and a half ounces of cranial fluid, fifteen hundred grams of complex neural matter... a three-pound pile of dreams.

[vienna-fiore]

Please welcome Serafina “Sunny” Marie Zanetta, born November 3rd, 2024.

The first contractions came early in the morning, just as the sun was beginning to rise. I had been lying in bed, watching the faint light slip through the curtains, and then there it was—a soft, pulling sensation that started low and grew, tugging through my belly. At first, I thought it was just another ache, another part of the third-trimester discomfort I’d gotten used to. But when the second one came, and then the third, I knew.

I reached over to wake Lorenzo, and he looked at me, sleepy but alert in an instant, his hand reaching for mine. His presence steadied me, and together we prepared to head to the hospital, excitement and nerves buzzing between us.

When we arrived, the room was bright and quiet, and the nurses were calm, their voices soft as they settled me in. I felt strangely at peace, as if everything had fallen into place just as it was supposed to. The contractions grew stronger, each one a steady wave pulling me closer to my daughter. Lorenzo stayed by my side, his hand in mine, his voice gentle and encouraging. And while there was pain, it felt purposeful—each sensation a step closer to meeting her.

Hours passed, though time felt strangely fluid, stretching and compressing with each contraction. I remember closing my eyes, focusing on my breathing, imagining her face and the feeling of holding her close. My body moved almost instinctively, guiding me through every moment, and as we got closer, an overwhelming calmness settled over me. I felt connected to something bigger, a force within me that I hadn’t fully realized until that moment.

Finally, with one last push, she was here. I felt her leave my body and heard her cry—a small, insistent sound that filled the room and, in an instant, filled me. The nurses placed her on my chest, and I felt her warmth, so soft, her little body curling into mine as though she had been waiting for this moment too.

I looked down, taking her in. Serafina Marie Zanetta. Sunny. She was tiny, just six pounds and eight ounces, with dark, wispy hair and big, wide eyes that blinked up at me, so much like my own. Her gaze held me, as if she knew me already, and I felt a surge of love so powerful it almost made me dizzy. In that moment, everything felt complete—like all the pieces of my life had come together to bring me to her.

I ran a finger along her cheek, marveling at her delicate skin, her tiny lips, the soft, downy warmth of her head resting against me. I whispered her name, and she blinked, her eyes so deep and filled with a quiet wonder. Lorenzo leaned over us, his face a mix of awe and tenderness, and we shared a look that needed no words. She was here. Our Sunny. Our light.

In that moment, I understood what it meant to feel whole.

[kbkirtley]

Nightwing has always been a favorite character of mine, but I mainly steered away from the Batfamily generally because Batman/Bruce isn’t a character I gravitate towards. Over the last year, though, I’ve watched/read a lot of the rest of the fam through different shows, Nightwing comics, Batgirls comics, and Wayne Family Adventures. Here is my definitive ranking of the Batfamily*:

Tier Seven: A Literal Murderer

10. Red Hood - Jason Todd

Y’all know he kills people right? Every other post I see about him on here is talking about him being a cinnamon roll or a perfect gentleman and it seems to get lost that he walks around shooting people with regularity. Doesn’t even seem particularly remorseful about it. I get that you died, man, but like half the heroes in DC have died at some point and they’re not filling people with lead. You’d think with all his money, Bruce could send his kids to see a therapist but I guess that’s a lot to ask of a man who processed his own grief and trauma by dressing up like a bat to fight thieves and muggers.

Tier Six: You Couldn’t Pay Me All of Bruce Wayne’s Money to Stay in a Room with Them for Five Minutes

9. Batman - Bruce Wayne

8. Red Robin - Tim Drake

I find both Bruce and Tim to be pretty insufferable. They’re smart but not smart enough to realize how to be smart without being a dick about it. Too clever for their own good and while they’re ranked higher here than Jason, I’d still much rather be in a room with Jason than either of them. Death would be welcomed if my alternative was having to listen to Bruce or Tim talk for more than fifteen seconds.

Tier Five: Need More Data Points

7. Signal - Duke Thomas

I basically only know Duke from WFA which is a fun series but doesn’t give me a ton to go off of big picture. Jury’s still out but I like his odds of not slipping.

Tier Four: Children Get Benefit of Doubt

6. Robin - Damian Wayne

Damian annoys me but in his defense, he is a literal child that was raised by assassins. He gets this spot because of extenuating circumstances and his relationships with Dick and Jon Kent.

Tier Three: The Batgirls

5. Spoiler - Steph Brown

4. Orphan - Cass Caín

3. Oracle - Barbara Gordon

I would be willing to die for any of these characters but they would never let that happen. Probably the most fluid tier. Have more connection to Babs because of my intro to the Batfamily primarily coming from Dick. Cass is second here largely because of her and Dick being perfect together in WFA. Steph lost the straw poll but could easily be third the next time I do this with little effort.

Tier Two: The Billionaire Butler

2. Alfred Pennyworth

The actual father figure of the Batfamily. Every ounce of every one of the Batfamily members success as actual humans is because of Alfred. Batman may have made them all good crime fighters, but Alfred made them good people. Alfred made them heroes.

Tier One: Boy Wonder

1. Nightwing - Dick Grayson

This was always going to be number one. It was never a question. Dick is my favorite superhero and quite possibly my favorite fictional character in general. He was never not winning this ranking.

*Only doing characters I’m mostly familiar with so if someone is missing I just don’t have enough connection to them yet - feel free to send recs to know them better!

[cowgurrrl]

Heya. Love the work, could we please get some Joel with the twins?

Hi! Thanks for the sweet words!! I hope you like this!!

Beautiful Girls

Pairing: rockstar!joel miller x actress!reader

Author’s note: oh I love them

Summary: Your first night at home with your twins

Warnings: slight description of birth complications, NICU stay :(, new parent exhaustion, mention of Sarah’s husband!!, breastfeeding, idiots in love

When Sophia and Violet are born, they're small. Of course, you knew they would be. They're twins, and they were likely to be born earlier. Besides, Sammy was small too. You thought you had it handled. Sophia is born first at a whopping five pounds three ounces. Small but not too scary. She cried on your chest the second she entered the world, her little hands feeling your skin for the first time as she got acquainted with being outside your body. But Violet weighed four pounds eight ounces, and she didn't immediately cry. Your doctor put her on your chest, rubbing her back, as the nurses suctioned fluid out of her mouth, but she was silent. You looked at Joel, terrified, before looking down at her and watched those big brown eyes open and heard her wail. You sighed in relief and kissed her head, and you thought that was it.

To make a long story short, Violet spent a day and a half in the NICU because her lung function wasn't what it was supposed to be. Chump change compared to some of the babies that have been there for months, but seeing her hooked up to oxygen to stabilize her breathing ate you and Joel alive. Meanwhile, Sophia wouldn't breastfeed because she had a lip tie which made the entire process difficult for both of you and required intervention. You both cried for a long time, bouncing back and forth between the NICU and your recovery room as you scrambled to make the best decisions for your daughters. Needless to say, by the time you're discharged to go home a whole four days later, you're both exhausted.

Sammy falls in love with the girls and takes turns holding each of them even though he barely looks big enough to hold a baby. Daisy cautiously smells the girls' heads before giving them the gentlest kiss on the cheek and lying back down. She never was very interested in Sammy when he was this small. You give it six months before the three of them are partners in crime. Sarah, Ethan, Ellie, and Dina come home to meet the girls, which is no small feat considering how busy their own lives are. Hank and Lucia are scheduled to fly in later next week to help around the house and meet their newest granddaughters. Your house is a mess, and there's basically nothing in your fridge besides dinosaur chicken nuggets and apple sauce packets, and you would stress out about it if you didn't watch the love of your life interact with the lives you created.

After the older kids settle in their bedroom and Sammy begs to crawl into bed with Sarah and Ethan, you and Joel stay in the living room where you've sat since you came home from the hospital. He's holding Sophia on one knee and Violet on the other, and he just looks at them. You don't say anything because you're watching him watch them, but you wonder what he's thinking about. You wonder if he's memorizing their features to see if they're truly identical or not. You wonder if he's remembering when Sarah and Sam were babies. You wonder what he sees when he looks at them. Does he see the way their noses curve exactly like his? Or the way their cupid's bow bends like yours? Or the way that you can already see the wavy pattern in what little patch of dark hair they have?

He's gorgeous like this. His hair is a beast from all his worried tugging and playing, and the bags under his eyes are dark even though his frames cover them. He's wearing a loose flannel so he can unbutton and do skin-to-skin with the girls if he so chooses, and his soft smile is almost gentle enough to make you forget about the pain throbbing through your body.

The trance breaks when Violet fusses and wakes up Sophia. Like clockwork, you and Joel step into action. You take Violet in your arms, already unbuttoning your shirt to feed her, as he snuggles Sophia to his chest to get her back to sleep. There's a mess of tangled limbs and caught fabric, making Violet cry in that shaky newborn tone you were so used to when Sammy was born. You shush Vi and get her latched while Joel hums a song you can't make out. In seconds, both girls are content and quiet again, but Joel is still humming. You tune into the melody and try to place it, smiling when you can, even through the baby-shaped fog in your brain.

"Are you humming Van Halen to our daughter?" You ask, and he smiles, all bright and shy. You can't help but smile too.

"Gotta start 'em young, right?"

"Whatever you say, Miller."

Being a family of seven was never on your radar when you met Joel, but now that it's here and it's real, and you're each holding a perfect baby girl while your other three kids are sleeping upstairs, you can't imagine anything else. You're almost positive you would take this as sleep-deprived and pain-ridden as you are over anything someone could ever offer you. How could you not when Joel looks at you like you made the oceans and the stars while holding one of your newborns, his wedding band catching the lamplight as he hums Van Halen to her? And you're almost positive this is what love is meant to look like— not just perfect dates or surprise flowers but the long, hard nights spent rocking babies to sleep and still finding ways to hold each other even when you're on opposite sides of the couch.

[charlidrawz]

𝕀'𝕕 𝕝𝕚𝕜𝕖 𝕥𝕠 𝕚𝕟𝕥𝕣𝕠𝕕𝕦𝕔𝕖 𝕪𝕠𝕦

𝕋𝕠 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕔𝕠𝕣𝕟𝕖𝕣𝕤 𝕠𝕗 𝕞𝕪 𝕞𝕚𝕟𝕕

Tee... vee...

Beware the cows! Not all milk is enriched!

"What's wrong with my brain, Doctor?"

"How should I know? I'm a dentist!"

"The human mind.

Six hundred miles of synaptic fiber, five & a half ounces of cranial fluid, fifteen hundred grams of complex neural matter...

A three pound pile of dreams."

"If you ever want to make me appear, you can do it with this special device."

"Is that... a piece of bacon?"

"Oh yeah I just love bacon. I smell that stuff & I can't help it. I drop everything & come runnin'."

💗🌈 𝐖𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐦𝐲 𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐩𝐮𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐦𝐞 𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐮𝐩, 𝐈 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐝... 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠! 🌌👁

"We're not here to change people's minds, Raz.

Not here to 'fix' people.

We're here to help people fight off their own demons.

The ones they already have."

[whentherewerebicycles]

33 weeks and change although I feel like these bump photos no longer fully capture how Large this thing is lol. I’m up 38 lbs but I’ve fully let go of feeling bad about it… I’m definitely not overeating (if anything I’m having trouble eating enough bc I get full so fast) and my body seems determined to hang onto every ounce of fluid I put into it so what can you do! I am starting to feel PRETTY uncomfortable but am soooo glad I don’t have back or pelvis pain yet so it’s still relatively easy to move around. hands/wrists are still bothering me quite a bit but they’re so much better than they were I can’t complain too much… I can handle this level of discomfort for the next six weeks even if they don’t keep improving. um okay let’s see I just finished my leave plan and got all my small tasks done for the day. I am lying down for like five min and then I want to walk the 30 min loop in the glorious sunshine. then oh my god this evening I need to put on a tv show or something and reset the whole house… every single room is a total pit right now lol idk how this happened but the clutter is driving me insane.

[vriskabot]

dave and vriska find themselves hungover at a breakfast diner, what are they ordering and what are they taking home

okay. okay i had to think about this one and ive GOT it. ive cracked the code. dave: black coffee, MAYBE creamer, no sugar. the greasiest, crunchiest bacon known to man and a singular fried egg. will probably throw back some pickle juice after for the dehydration. vriska: black tea with WAY too much sugar and like six pieces of toast + an advil for her migraine. once the bread has soaked up all the extra stomach acid shes downing 16 fluid ounces of water in one go real noisy without breathing like a toddler, just GULPING that shit down.

[benjaminthewolf]

Why Seven Ate Nine: Integrating Tragedy

“Why was Six afraid of Seven?”

“Because Seven ATE Nine!”

Such an iconic joke, now isn’t it? I’m sure we’ve all heard it at least once. The opportunity was staring me straight in the face, and I just HAD to take it.

CW: CRUEL PRED, HEAVILY IMPLIED DIGESTION, OUTBURSTS OF ANGER, NINE IS ATTACKED, TIED UP, AND GAGGED, TRAUMA, MATH

****

Six’s breath strenuously heaved out from his lungs at a continuous, differentiable rate of approximately (e)^x cubic meters of air per second, as the scorching, sticky beads of sweat clinging tightly to, and sliding down his glossy skin flooded outwards from his pores at a rate of the same conditions, coming out to approximately 4(x)^2 fluid ounces of sweat per second. The accumulating, salty tears welling up within, and subsequently flooding over, the straining, pained, and sore corners of his eyes equated to a rate of about 8(x)^3 fluid ounces of tears per second, all before he resolved at last to curb the very first, and finally speak up as such.

“...It was Number Seven…” he shakily stammered out, in a quivering, yet firm, hardened voice. “Number Seven killed my brother.”

****

Being, quite literally, living representations of the conceptual, and highly exalted mathematical system utilized by humanity each day in order to further the advancement of their society, Number Seven, just like all the rest of the living one-digit numbers, carried a significant burden of expectation upon his numerical shoulders each and every single day of the otherwise utterly impossible life he lived; one which had only been granted to him in their mercy by the elusive mathmagician themself.

To Number Seven, however, “significant” was just simply not strong enough of an adjective to describe what precisely it was.

“Goddammit…” Number Seven huffed out to himself through grinding, gritted teeth. “I’m fucking wrong AGAIN!”

Swiftly glancing up and around the college classroom in order to make sure no one was staring at him, Number Seven proceeded to take a silent minute for personal analysis, steadily curving his spine so he may crookedly loom over his paper, before squinting, direct and downwards, onto the whole of the thing, absolutely nothing discernable in his eyes but a cool, rigid, sharpened, composed glare.

“Hmmmmmm….” he softly murmured whilst maneuvering his cartoonish, white-gloved hand connected to blackened stick arms over to the pencil on his desk. “...it really is just that simple, now isn’t it?” he silently spoke in his head whilst maneuvering his pencil over into the answer box for question one. A calm and collected deep breath was steadily and effortlessly released out of his mouth.

Number Seven’s eyes blazed open with instantaneously collected, vivid color and rigor. With hardly as much as an inhale, Number Seven’s pencil ferociously gouged itself into the surface of the paper, its previously nice and professionally sharpened tip snapping off as the thickened, dark and bolded lines dragged their way across the diameter of the answer box. A curved and downright cruel circular bend curled its way over the volume of the designated region, its force so harsh and demanding on the poor paper that it was seemingly individual molecules away from tearing a hole out into the other side. Finally, however, the barrier was breached, the pencil lodging itself mercilessly into the hole it just created as Number Seven glared intently down upon the result of his vigorous, passionate, hard work. Everything had previously been done correctly, with but the singular exception of the end.

“+ C” Number Seven breathlessly wavered out at long last. “THAT is why I lost the whole point.”

“It seems like you’re having a bit of trouble, Number Seven! Wanna come to my study session after school?”

Number Seven gave a sudden, surprised graggling noise before whipping around his head to address the source of the disturbance. Upon comprehending it was Number Nine, Number Seven merely reverted back to his previous state of icy, searing tranquility.

“...Oh. Hello, Number Nine. …You were asking about something?”

Number Nine gave his fellow number a friendly chuckle before continuing, to which Number Seven could only narrow his eyes.

“Well yeah, buddy! I was asking if you wanted to come to my study session after school! Should last…about two hours or so. I noticed you seemed pretty unhappy with your current score, so…y’know, just wanted to bring it up!”

“...Way to go and rub it in my face, there, ‘buddy’.” Number Seven thought to himself in rising irritation before opening his mouth to speak out loud. “...Thanks, but…I’m pretty sure I can handle myself.” he cooly answered Number Nine, doing his very best to maintain his outward composure and not betray his true thoughts behind his gaze.

“Really?” Number Nine swiftly replied with a hint of disbelief in his voice. “You’ve been studying by yourself all this past month, but you’re still not getting the scores you want! Maybe you could just…try a group session, see if that improves your scores?”

“...Thanks, but no thanks.” Number Seven reiterated in indiscernible frustration. “Now can you please leave me alone? I have work to do.”

“...you sure?” Number Nine responded with a tone that hinted concern.

“Yes.”

“Like, absolutely, positively sure?”

“Yes!”

“...but I-”

Number Seven now knew that the time was right to shout.

“YES!” he therefore boomed out in scalding affirmation, his clear and deep-set distaste for the idea present for all of the classroom to hear.

Number Nine instantly reeled back from the shock as the room fell silent. For a while, everything was still.

“...............Ummmmmm…….” Number Nine eventually broke the moment’s silent terror. “...Okay then. I…guess it's your choice. I’ll always be here if you change your mind though.” the number eventually conceded. “Good luck on your next test though, Number Seven!”

Number Seven refused to give Number Nine the satisfaction of respectfully closing the conversation. Number Nine was thus forced to turn away from him, in order to move on with his work.

“...Now, Number Four, you were saying you couldn't remember how to do implicit differentiation?”

As Number Nine went on to aid Number Four in his studies, Number Seven gave a borderline inaudible huff of vexation, as his jaws clenched together in secrecy within the living digit’s chamber that was his mouth. The constant, compounding tension present against the strained muscles around the area caused the slick region within to grow even hotter than it normally would be naturally.

****

Number Seven unenthusiastically allowed a soft sigh to gather its volume in his lungs before indifferently trickling it out through his mouth. With his backpack zipped shut, the living digit coolly heaved its weight up from the floor, before nonchalantly slipping his arms through its loops, and finally, taking a silent step forth.

At the present moment, Number Seven held near-literally every intention of simply going home. Solitarily clopping his way across the college’s now-voiceless, smooth, tile halls, the classroom door he’d just exited eventually echoed its closure behind him. Number Seven inaudibly, yet undeniably thoroughly, basked his mind and being deep within his current solitude. These were the moments he found himself enjoying the most. Just himself. No one else. No one around to disturb him. No one around to annoy him. And best of all, absolutely no one around to ask him if he wanted to-

“HEY, NUMBER SEVEN! YOU STILL SURE YOU DON’T WANNA STAY AND STUDY?”

Something somewhere shattered as Number Seven turned to face the sudden, but recognized voice. He was quite lucky that Number Nine cared little in terms of paying attention to social or interpersonal details, or else he might have been able to decipher the tone, inflection, and cadence with which Number Seven proceeded to speak.

“Didn’t I already tell you back in the classroom? Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go-”

“Oh come on, Number Seven!” a different voice suddenly piped up, forcing Number Seven to once again swivel his gaze over towards the source, eventually identifying the speaker as Number Six, standing to the left of Number Nine. “We all wanna get good grades, here, don’t we?”

Number Seven took his sweet time rolling his eyes. “Yes…and?”

“...and so we’re here to help ya!” Number Four suddenly popped into view within the door frame, taking to Number Nine’s right.

“Somehow…” Number Seven sarcastically thought. “I have a hard time believing you.”

“Don’t worry, Number Seven, it won’t be that bad!” Number Nine added on. “It’ll just be the four of us, working alongside each other!”

Number Seven’s jaw internally wavered as he attempted to take a step away. And yet, for some inexplicable reason, he discovered himself unable to do so.

“We all saw you were frustrated back in class, seems like you might need a little help!” Number Four spoke up again.

“Yeah, since that scream was…y’know…” Number Six added in.

Number Seven ceased his body from exhaling, and seemingly at the same moment that Number Nine opened his mouth.

“No pressure of course though, I just-”

“ALRIGHT! ALRIGHT! FINE!” Number Seven clamorously boomed out as he viciously stormed his way through the door, shoving all three fellow numbers aside in doing so, before overdramatically plopping himself down onto a nearby desk, one which was currently surrounded by the other threes’ notebooks and calculators upon their own respective desks, and forcefully thrusting his backpack to the floor. Rattled into paralysis by the outburst, the room fell utterly silent.

“WELL? WHAT ARE YOU GUYS WAITING FOR? ISN’T THIS WHAT YOU WANTED FROM ME?”

None of the three numbers, standing positively dumbfounded, across from Number Seven’s seemingly irrationally agitated form dared say a word for a minute.

“OH, QUIT LOOKING AT ME LIKE THAT AND JUST GET IT ALL OVER WITH!” he thus opted to shatter the silence.

Eventually, Number Nine stepped forth.

“Umm…just make sure your calculator is in radian mode, okay?”

****

“...No, Number Seven, it's ‘b’ on top, ‘a’ on bottom, you got them switched around again.” Number Nine calmly explained to his fellow number.

“...but you said that the placement doesn’t matter as long as I put an absolute value around the whole thing.” Number Seven swifty retorted.

“...most of the time, that’s true, but if you want the distance between specifically intervals 80 to 20, the problem is essentially asking you to go backwards, so the answer will always be negative. If it said from 20 to 80, you’d be correct, since the answer will always be positive and an absolute value ensures this happens even if you mix up the ‘b’ and ‘a’ placement, but again, that’s not applicable to this case since the problem is asking you to go backwards.”

“.....I see.”

It had now been approximately thirty minutes since the start of the after-school study session, and already, Number Seven felt as though he was going to implode; something which, though it had been exceedingly obvious upon the very start of the session, all but appeared to be lost on his three fellow numbers now that they were deep within the questions and their nuance.

“Hey, Number Nine, would the integral of 1/(x^2) be 2ln|x^2|?” Number Six asked soon after.

“...don’t forget +C.” Number Seven suddenly added.

“No, +C only applies on indefinite integrals, but in this problem, the integral is definite.” Number Nine rushed to correct Number Seven.

“Now, as for your question, Number Six, for 1/(x^2), you’d just use the power rule. The natural log trick only works when there’s no exponent in the denominator. You know, for problems like 1/(x+2), there, it works, and you get ln|x+2|.”

“Ok, so you do the thing where you rewrite it as (x^(-2)) then, right”

“Yes.”

“So then the integral would be…-(x^(-1)), or -(1/x).”

“Correct!”

“Yes! Awesome! Thanks, bro!”

“No problem!”

“So like…are you two actually brothers or do you just call each other that?” Number Four promptly inquired after the moment of elation for Number Six had passed.

“Heh, yeah it's pretty confusing, isn’t it?” Number Nine nonchalantly chuckled out. “‘Cause nobody actually really knows how the mathmagician created us, so how can we really say we’re genetically related if we don’t know if we’ve got genes in the first place? And it's not like we, as college students really have the money, or even time, really, to get it tested out, but we just call each other brothers…’cause that’s how we’ve always seen our relationship!”

“Oh. I thought…maybe you did get it checked out or something…”

“Nah, why bother? We don’t even need to know if we’re the closest two numbers genetically speaking to see each other as brothers, so there isn’t really even an incentive.”

“Nah, nah, I see you, I see you, it’s cool. Just wanted to know, y’know.”

“Yeah. …alright now let’s see…what question are you on, Number Seven? Question five. Okay, that’s the Riemann sum problem! Should be pretty easy…but yeah let’s see. Alright so it's a left sum…so which interval do you leave out then?”

“...the one farthest to the right.”

“Yes, that’s right! Err…correct. Okay so then how do you get the interval multipliers?”

Number Seven blinked in concentration. “...you…it's the number of whole number values between the x-values of each data point on the graph. So here we’ve got…1 to 3, so 2, 3 to 4, 1…then 4 to 7, 3. Then we ignore the fourth interval because it's the far right one.”

“...well no, you do still need to consider the fourth interval.” Number Nine hastily corrected.

“...what? But this is a left Reimen sum, you ignore the final interval!”

“You ignore the ordered pair, yes, but you still consider the interval between the…like here…in this table it's 7 to 9. The number you multiply seven by is 2 because that’s the distance between the two x-values.”

“...........”

“Here, see? You take the y-values, and multiply them by the distance between the intervals, and then you add them all up at the end! Like this! So the y-values in order are 5, 8, 7, -4, 11. Then you’d go (2(5) + 1(8) + 3(7) + 2(-4))! See its a left sum because the 11 wasn’t used! But you still use the 2 which is the distance between 7 and 9!”

“...........”

“Number Seven?”

“...I thought you said this was going to be easy.”

“Well it is! …once you get the hang of it I mean!”

“...easy for you to say, genius.”

“Well okay, maybe I should’ve said it's easy for me when I got the hang of it, but still, most people, in my experience, don’t really seem to have that much of a problem with table questions once they understand how they work! I mean…you’re not one of them, but…but hey, it's good that we’re working on areas you struggle in, that’s how you breed improvement, after all!”

“...uh-huh.” Number Seven monotonously replied.

“So then uh…why don’t we all move on to the-”

“Number Nine?”

“Yes, Number Seven?”

“Why don’t we walk back to the dorms together tonight, and…have a bit of a math discussion on the way?”

“Sure! Sounds good to me! Alright, then why don’t we move on to question six? What’s the topic for that one? Oh, yes, related rates. That’s right.” Number Nine casually affirmed before almost instantly moving on. “Okay everybody, might wanna put the equations for these ones into Y1 and Y3, since, ya know, Y2 is taken by the whole derivative of Y1 thing, and then get ourselves going?”

****

Simply due to the fact that the walk to the dorms had begun more than two hours after the vast majority of the student body had already clocked out for the day, as well as the fact that, at this time of year, the sun set quite early, it almost appeared that the two living numbers were trodding their way through the muted dead of night, as they concurrently strolled across the college campus.

“So…you wanted to talk to me about something?” Number Nine attempted to ask, in a bit of an awkward, fumbling tone.

“Yes, indeed I did.” Number Seven promptly replied. “I wanted to talk to you about something which I just couldn’t help but notice back during your little study session there.”

“Oh. I’m assuming then, it's something you felt would be best handled in private?”

“Precisely.”

“Alright, well, lay it on me then.”

Number Seven blinked so he could hold out the resulting silence for just about as long as he could.

“Let’s take a shortcut here.” he abruptly switched up the subject, pointing Number Nine towards a back alley squeezed in-between two of the campus’ buildings, located on the left of their path.

“.......oooooookaaaaaaaaaaaaayyyyyyyyy?” Number Nine naturally stretched his word in growing bewilderment. “But like, we are gonna get to your concern here, right?”

“Of course.” Number Seven coolly responded as he led his fellow numerical value deeper into the shadows of the alley. “Allow me to grab something first.”

Immediately allowing the force of gravity to claim the weight of his backpack, Number Seven proceeded to bend down over its form. There was a subsequent unzipping sound, a slight exhale of an utterly indecipherable sigh, and finally, a zipping sound once more.

“Number Nine…” Number Seven spoke firmly, whilst taking a few steps towards the living number.

For reasons which Number Seven cared not about in the slightest, Number Nine remained stiff and silent.

And then, the moment finally came.

****

“MMMMMMMMPH! UUUUUUUUNNNNNNGH! WRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!” Number Nine hysterically screeched out in mortal terror, his frenzied, unwavering cries and pleads for his life only stifled and softened by the gag. His hands had also become tied behind his rectangular back by Number Seven, and his legs, similarly bound.

“Ohhohohohohoh…..Number Nine…” Number Seven’s twisted, inane, grinning, toothy face slowly and sensually moved its lips in order to speak. “...you have absolutely no idea…just how long I have waited for this…”

With his final words successfully conveyed to hs victim, Number Seven, lying on top of, and weighing down his body’s force upon the spasming, writing, flailing being of Number Nine, gave a slimy lick across his chops, allowing some of the drool to drip down onto the gagged number’s face, before, at long last, gradually unveiling his maw.

Number Nine could feel his attacker’s warm breath being heaved directly onto his being, as Number Seven’s tongue gave a casual stroke across the digit’s cheek equivalent area, dragging the sopping muscle across his skin, before absolutely reveling in it with a shuddering sigh of delight. Number Nine could tell Number Seven was moving his arms down the length of his body as his salivating only increased, yet for what purpose, exactly, he was not able to see until the number atop him swiftly tightened his grip on his victim’s skin, taking the subsequent moment of frozen, dire agony to flip his position around, so that finally, the main show could commence.

The moment he had regained control of his senses again, Number Nine could feel Number Seven’s tongue trailing lightly across his stick-like legs, both at the same time, no less, due to their tied-up proximity to each other, before at last, the thin limbs were squeezed mercilessly, with a vengeance, and both of the captured extremities were viciously shoved into the gaping, heated, chamber of the living Number Seven’s slickened maw.

Number Nine vainly attempted to kick his feet in order to get Number Seven away, and yet, his reckless pounding seemed to do nothing but make his attacker scoff, his legs being shoved deeper into the tightened region, sliding down and across the length of the tongue, before striking against the plump, swaying uvula located at the back of Number Seven’s throat. Number Nine could both feel and see his feet lodging inside of Number Seven’s gullet, the psychotic, living number murmuring pleasured jabberings of nonsense all the while, until finally, he swallowed, with an audible, squishy-sounding gulp.

Number Nine, only able to watch and cry out in futility as the slight bulge that was his feet and legs traveled from the top of Number Seven’s throat to its middle, could now also feel his lower bodily region being inserted into the lunatic’s maw, touching down smoothly onto his tongue. Number Nine continued his violent convulsions and searing, fruitless shrieks as Number Seven licked and slathered the slick muscle all across the totality of surface area of the bodily rectangular prism which he currently held in his maw.

Finally, however, Number Seven swallowed once more, squelching Number Nine’s legs and lower body deeper into his constricting esophagus, and sending the next section of his body inside to be examined with his tongue.

Number Nine, at this point, was beginning to tap out of reality, his muscles jittering about by pure necessity, as his strained reserves of energy did their very best to hold out for no other reason but bodily instincts. As Number Seven swallowed once again, Number Nine now recognized implicitly that soon, his very own eyes were to be graced within the same exact walls as the rest of his body, before entering into at last his possible final destination all together.

Number Seven, now that Number Nine was restrained beyond the ability to resist, sensually rubbed and glomped across the great bulge that he was making in his throat. The lengthwise and widthwise expansions seemed utterly anatomically impossible, and yet, Number Seven seemed to have absolutely no problem at all as he gulped down the last section of Number Nine’s main body, finally allowing his circular head to be nicely slidden into his maw.

Now, at long last, the living number clamped his jaws shut, sealing the whole of Number Nine away in his being. Now, there stood absolutely nothing in his way, and now, in order to commemorate the moment properly, Number Seven thus allowed himself to take one last victory lap of slimy mawplay, caressing the thick, salivating muscle of his tongue across the trembling, petrified face of Number Nine, positively soaking up the complexities of flavor which existed upon the doomed number’s glossy skin. It was only natural that he would taste somewhat salty, as due to his current bodily terror, sweating was all but inevitable. But that was not the reason that Number Nine tasted so divine. Not by a long shot, at all. Number Seven wasn’t exactly able to pin a label to it, but the zest was still oddly familiar. It was certainly meaty or gamey, but Number Seven presumed that this was only because he was indeed, made of flesh. What was the adjective exactly? Processed? Comercial? No, that would paint the flavor in a bad light, indeed the exact opposite of what Number Seven was trying to accomplish.

Regardless of what it actually was, however, Number Seven still recognized that he needed to get it into his stomach as soon as possible, lest the passing seconds give way to discovery. Thus, with a slight tilting back of his head, Number Seven made his epiglottis cover up the entrance to his windpipe, as the powerful, squelching motion pushing forwards the diameter of Number Nine’s head at last shoved its circumference into the esophagus.

Number Seven exhaled with shuddering ecstasy as he shoved his two hands onto the ginormous bulge in his throat, one which was only made possible by Number Nine’s equally ginormous head. Collapsing his elated, delirious being onto the alleyway floor before shoving his back up against its walls, Number Seven now awaited for the fruits of his labor to commence as the constant esophageal squeezing quite literally enveloping Number Nine escorted his slimy, overheated body down into the awaiting chamber below. Number Seven on the outside was able to pick up a few of the low-pitched gurgles and rumbles emulating from within the currently empty chamber. It would only be a couple seconds before that statement would no longer be true, however. Soon enough, Number Seven would thus sense his lower esophageal sphincter opening up in order to allow for the entry of Number Nine. The sleek, cushiony walls gave the final needed motions of peristalsis, and then, in but an instant, it happened.

Number Seven made a considerable many vocalizations of joy as he felt his stomach bulging forth considerably, the tight, taught and squishy gut glomping about on his knees as it worked to settle in Number Nine. Number Seven lay his head and arms down upon the shifting bulge quite longingly. With the side of his head now squarely upon the middle of the enlarged stomach, the now relatively higher-pitched echoes of grumbles and groans constantly reverberated inside of his inner ear, all the while the churning, glorping motions of the organ encircled the trapped number within.

Number Nine was barely even conscious at this point. His body had shut down to a point where he was hardly even able to think. Still, the goopy, pillowy, walls shoved in and out and around in order to churn and mash up his very form into chime, and by now, the concentration of the acids within the stomach had pooled to a degree where the process of digestion was inevitable.

Searing up against and into the delicate lining of skin, the tingling sensation of the acids causing the layers of his cells to slowly transform into goop, Number Nine finally lost the color from his eyes.

Eventually, Number Nine stopped thinking.

Number Seven didn’t give a damn if he was caught at this point. All that mattered to him was that finally, he had done it. Number Nine was now trapped within an organ of slimy, squishy demise, utterly incapable of resistance, doomed to melt away into pudge. Despite all his grandstanding of superiority, it was Number Seven who held the victory in the end. That was all that mattered to him, and that was all, he was sure, that would matter to him from then on forth.

“WHY DON’T YOU INTEGRATE THE RATE AT WHICH YOU’VE BEEN SWALLOWED, HUH, NUMBER NINE?” he cackled out in his cruelty and into the deafened, silent, cold night.

****

Number Seven could not have been more right.

After Number Six had identified him from the lineup, Number Seven pleaded guilty to the crime and was put on trial for murder in the first degree soon after. Eventually deciding to take a plea deal, as that way he would still be able to secure many in-prison privileges, Number Seven was ultimately sentenced for life, and locked behind bars for the rest of his numerical existence.

His story became a worldwide sensation, with thousands of people showing up for Number Nine’s funeral, and many, many more attending the ceremony remotely via live news. Number Six was able to found a charity in his digit brother’s memory, a cause which gave him just enough will to get him through the inexpressible cruelty of the tragedy. With the help of friends, family, therapy, and time, Number Six was eventually able to recover to a state of mental stability and healthiness, continuing on his brother’s life through his own, and finding a sense of closure with the perpetrator firmly behind bars.

Number Seven, meanwhile, became a criminal celebrity, a legacy which, he knew without a doubt, would live on throughout the generations, bringing him a level of notoriety and fame which was otherwise inaccomplishable via the pursuit of mathematical knowledge alone. Had Number Nine been left alive, Number Seven would have never been as well known. That was precisely why, despite his imprisoned existence, he never ever felt as though his life had been wasted at all.

In the end, the story would indeed be passed down through generations. Young kids would be taught a kid-appropriate version of the story as a means of teaching the importance of kindness and communication, both by their parents, and teachers. And though the intended effect did indeed accomplish itself quite well, ultimately, what we remember this moment in history for is, indeed, the recess joke which was developed amongst the young children who learned it. I am quite certain you’re familiar with it.

“Why was Six afraid of Seven?” one of the children would say.

And finally, the other child, completely unable to comprehend the true scale of the horrors they were joking about, jovially responded with a chortle.

“Because Seven ATE Nine!”

[fatfables]

Farmhouse Five, or The Gainer Crusade: Vore Wars 9

A science fiction force feeding and vore-infused anti-gaining gaining story heavily inspired by Kurt VonneGUT's classic post-modern novel. (Why? Because it's the internet).

A sixth generation Swedish-American now living in easy circumstances in Minnesota [and still eating too much] who as a fat man's son, as a prisoner of the farmer, witnessed the fire-bombing of his own physique, a long time ago, and survived to grow and tell the tale.  This is a story somewhat in the obesogenic manner of the tales of the moon of the Surplus, where the galaxy’s biggest bellies come from. Eat.

All this happened, more or less. But mostly more. The gaining parts, anyway, are true. One guy I knew really was tube fed to death for refusing to breed with the Lord of the Pigs. So it grows. I returned to the farmhouse with an old gainer buddy of mine, to where we were kept for weeks. There we met a farm boy who was grown fat by the Surplus. We asked him how it was to live under Gainerism. He said that at first it was hard as it took time to get used to the strain of constant weight gain but now that he was used to it it wasn’t so bad. He was impressed with his belly and the way that it bounced over his belt when he walked. He liked how round it looked and how soft it felt. He was looking forward to seeing it be further accentuated by his dungarees. His brother was fattened till his heart exploded. So it grows.

I look neither forwards nor backwards, only waistwords. My Name is Billy Bondgaard. I’m writing this from my home in Minnesota, in this year. For thirty years I have worked, non-consecutively, as a gastric bypass salesman despite my own size. This has provided for me well and I have continued to gain all my life. I am now comfortable, fat and old, but I will not remain so. I have two chunky sons who follow in my footsteps. Soon they will be unborn again. My husband is dead from a car crash. So it grows. I look waistwords to seeing him again.

I am in the farmhouse with Jerry. My nerves are shot to hell. We are hog tied by our britches waiting for him to return. I am only 246 lbs. Jerry is hungry and delirious for action. He salivates whenever he hears footsteps. He appears to take joy from his captivity. He yearns to increase his capacity. My boxers are tight and stained, unsuitable for the task. I know that I will soon be forced to feed again and I am ill-prepared. I know that I will rely on Jerry to bear some of my burden and that he will resent me for it. He will get cross with me and will blame me for his situation. I will do my best but it won’t be good enough. I am out of my depth and I know it.

He enters, the farmer. He is six foot six and broad in the shoulders. Kind of Dutch looking. His wet black hair sticks to his head from the pouring rain outside. He speaks gruffly, “Hello, Piggies.” Jerry says hello. I remain silent, in trepidation. He weighs us. As is normal. Jerry weighs 387 lbs, he has the right mindset. I was never meant to be a pig, yet at the same time I always was. He starts with soup and bread, a gentleman farmer. Eighty fluid ounces of potato soup and half a loaf of farmhouse white. Jerry embraces the challenge but my stomach already aches and I begin to lack strength and struggle only half way through. “What the hell is wrong with you, Billy?” He shouts at me, “I hope you don’t expect me to pick up the slack again?” “No,” I say, one hundred percent aware that he will.

Roast beef and gravy follows. The gentleman farmer is treating his pigs well. This will not always be the case, there is plenty of swill to come.

My stomach bag is pounding harder and faster than my heart. I count the rhythmic convulsions that play a solid beat while I am forced to eat. Jerry has already finished his main course but I am no where near finished. A slab of half chewed beef falls from my mouth. “What a bad piggy!” The farmer states; “You know the rules, everything has to be eaten!” He picks it up from the ground and places it in between Jerry’s lips. Jerry looks like he wants to kill me, because he does. He swallows the beef and the rest of my main, and my dessert, along with his own. His belly is so swollen that it looks like it might burst open. It’s super distended and hanging low like the globular ball of fat that it is. I look down at my own overweight gut, it’s round and bloated and howling in pain. I really don’t know how Jerry does it? He is the one with the constitution for this. We will both grow fatter at the Farmers bequest but I will never be a real pig like him.

The farmer calmly states that it is time for my punishment. Jerry once more looks at me with daggers. I know that he wants to be punished but my pathetic performance never allows for it. The farmer approaches me from behind. I brace. And I am gone.

My sons, Edgar and Albert are returning from camp today. It has been their first summer away and my husband is excitedly cleaning the kitchen in anticipation of their return. He has prepared five large cakes for them. They will be very pleased but will fight over the odd number. They will feel bad about it when he is dead. My sons don’t believe me about the farmhouse. They think it is just a myth. That I am insane. They don’t believe that the Surplus would ever do that. They are true believers. I know better. I know not only where they have been but where they are going. I have been there. So it grows. I try to stop Edgar from punching Albert over the final cake. I am back there.

The Surplus moon is a strange place. Bland and hectic at the same time. The beings here don’t experience weight yet they are obsessed by it. They are in love with it but don’t feel it. Nothing is linear here. Only expanding. They say that it is the beginning and the end of everything. Everything is circular and after a while I say that I agree. “I agree.” They say that the universe is theirs to consume and that nothing that any of us does matters. I fear they are correct. I am circular. I am a zoo exhibit. They look at me with wonder. I am prehistoric, an artifact. They have never seen one so small. The first seven years I fell into a depression. Then he appeared. Kyle California. The boy from my dreams. The boy from my computer screen youth. At first he wouldn’t look at me. Or them. He was petrified. Snatched from his last moment. Another car crash. Chased by a representation of his own ego. So it grows. He always returns. Returns to me. After the first six months he accepts me and the crowd roar in appreciation when we perform the beast with two fat backs.

In the farmhouse he is here. The one. Like an apparition. I have only met him once but so many times. I know he is real. As real as the minced cow that engorges me. I am fifteen again. I will soon be 600. He comments on how well my belly is pushing against the floor. I knew he was going to say that. I also know what he is going to do next. He always does that. And Danni laughs. Through the pain I see the other. At least I think I do. I always think I do. Half man, half lizard. The warrior. I like him. One day he will save me.

Edgar has knocked one of Albert’s teeth out. The fifth cake is in pieces on the floor. As is Albert. At least he can reach it from down there. “At least you can reach it from down there,” I hear myself say. Albert starts to eat the cake despite the blood in his mouth. He is a good boy. I look at Edgar. He is pretending to be pleased with his victory. He goads his brother. He is my son. I see in his eyes that he knows he really lost. He will never admit it. No matter how many times it happens. Always the same. Always the fattest son who gets the cake. 

They tell me how much they enjoyed the camp. How they are both over 200 up. I am so proud of them. They look magnificent. They will return next year. I ask Edgar if he saw where the farmhouse used to be. “Edgar, did you see where the farmhouse used to be?” He gets angry with me. He says there never was any damn farmhouse and that I should give it up. “There never was any damn farmhouse. Give it up.” I give it up. Though I know that he is wrong. Jerry died there. So it grows.

Kyle is about to have his last ever conversation with me before his date with an intersection on the outskirts of Monterey. He seems unaware. He is always unaware. Why do I remember? “Are you satisfied with our life here on the Surplus moon?” He asks me. Next he will ask me how I possibly can be when we are trapped like overfed lions in a cage. “How can you possibly be when we are trapped like overfed lions in a cage?” I tell him because I know that I won’t always be there. “Because I know that I won’t always be here.” He asks me if I love him. “Do you love me?” I tell him a hundred times over. “I love you a hundred times over.” He seems satisfied. Then he is gone. So it grows.

I am totally alone. The giant lizard man is back. I ask him why I remember. “Why do I remember?” He smiles at me as his giant jaw begins to dislocate. His belly swells. Everything goes black. Danni screams. I am unstuck.

The oversized coffin is pushed down the church aisle on a trolley. It’s far too heavy for anyone to carry. I am back at my husband's funeral. So it grows. I look waistwards to seeing him again.

www.fatfables.com

[askwhatsforlunch]

Pimm's Cups

Ava and I are loving our new flat in Tāmaki Makaurau, so even if we're only here for a few days, we are taking the time to lounge in the sun on the balcony, with beautifully refreshing Pimm's Cups --a classic of Summer cocktails for almost two centuries!-- at arm's length! Cheers!

Ingredients (serves 2):

3 medium Garden Strawberries 

1/3 cucumber

1 orange

about 2 or 3 dozens small ice cubes

1/2 large lemon

120 millilitres/4 fluid ounces Pimm's No. 1

chilled Ginger Ale (like Bundaberg's), to top

2 sprigs fresh mint

Rinse the Strawberries, cucumber and orange under cold water. Then, pat them dry.

Halve two of the Strawberries, and cut six thin slices cucumber and two slices orange. Set aside.

Fill two Whisky or Collins glasses to three-quarters with ice cubes.

Thoroughly squeeze lemon juice, and divide between both glasses. Pour Pimm's No. 1 over the ice and lemon juice in each glass, and add an orange slice in each. Top with chilled ginger ale.

Garnish with reserved cucumber slices, Strawberries and mint sprigs.

Enjoy Pimm's Cups immediately, preferably in good company...

[halibellecter]

An Ounce of Prevention

--

It's flu season on base. Doc didn't really care about it, O'Malley even less so, but Oklahoma is a bit more invasive pushy overbearing stubborn infuriating thorough about preventive care, so on a rotating schedule at both bases, everyone's been shot.

She had put off her own dose until everyone else was out of the woods with their side effects; this new strain that's capable of infecting aliens and humans is so virulent and tenacious that the shot itself is nearly as bad as the sickness, albeit in a controlled environment and for days instead of weeks/months/the rest of the patient's very short and miserable life. It's... well... it's bad.

Out of the collected sim troops, mercenaries, and fellow Freelancers on both bases, she's had ten people faint, four of them with no history of syncope, five or maybe six-- she doesn't know how to count the AI version-- cases of severe nausea and vomiting, and upwards of a dozen severe fevers that set off biochip alarms and even got them a call from Command to ask if they needed to send someone from Recovery. The offer was appreciated, but ultimately declined, as the agent in question was being hosed down in a cold shower and given as many antipyretics as safely possible. You're not supposed to take them for a post-vaccine fever, but at this point, knocking down his immune response by reducing the fever was a smaller concern than the hundred and fourteen degree temporal artery reading and the possibility of severe brain damage. (Wyoming is fine, but his accent appears to have boiled off.)

Add in to that the migraines, regular headaches, bad-but-not-severe fevers (miserable anyway), and general malaise, and it's a really good thing the only threats to look out for in Blood Gulch are the guys on the other team. She's started more IVs and given more fluids and meds in the past week than in a month of typical missions. And yesterday, she finished out treatment for everyone else, did another round of checkups to make absolutely sure everyone was in great shape, then double checked again to be safe. Late that evening, in the medbay, she shot herself.

She can vaguely remember thinking, huh. That wasn't so bad. But then for most people it started after a few---

It was close to three AM when she woke up in the floor, dazed and dizzy, ears ringing. Groaning, she set her alarm and curled back up, face against the blessedly cool tile floor. Not sanitary, but she was a little too feverish to care.

Two hours later, at zero five hundred, the alarm went off, dragging OK out of a fever dream that may eventually require trauma therapy. She managed to get out of the floor, cleaned up, changed, and settled at her desk, but there's no energy left for anything else. Sounds are muffled as if they're underwater, overlaid with echoing ringing. It feels like her bones are melting. But as long as no one needs her, and no one gets sick, and there's no reason for her to have to move, talk, think, or breathe, she'll be fine.

[theghostpinesmusic]

Alright, so I am going to stop posting for the day here in just a minute, but I wanted to get this one off my plate (out of my Drafts folder) while I still have a million fluid ounces of coffee in my veins.

So, Goose played a four-show run at the Capitol Theatre this past week, and it was awesome (over the web; I wasn't there in person). Originally, after switching drummers at the end of last year, they weren't slated to play any shows until June of this year, and while six months off the road might be pretty typical for today's big-name rock and pop acts, it's fairly unusual for a jam band, especially one that's currently shooting up the ladder in terms of popularity.

But then there was the new drummer announcement and the attendant rehearsal jams, which I've written a bit about already. And then there was Ted Tapes 2024, a new album that dropped with essentially no warning in February. Then, a mere three weeks and change before the band planned to hit the stage, they announced a four-show run at the Capitol Theatre in April, as a way of introducing their new drummer and new-ish sound.

As I said above, this run was fantastic. The band sounds great, and is clearly having a ton of fun playing alongside Cotter Ellis, the new drummer. There were moments when I missed Ben's playing, for sure, but the story at the end of the day is New Drummer Good, and also Old Drummer Good. Maybe I'll further process my feelings on that point later, and if so, maybe I'll blog about it. Maybe I'll keep it to myself.

Anyway, the band has only shared two videos from the run so far, one of a huge improvisational sequence at the heart of their night two show, wherein they played their 2016 album Moon Cabin in its entirety to mark the eclipse that had happened earlier in the day (and then proceeded to drop the show recording with this insane cover art). I will write about this later. Maybe tomorrow.

The other video is the one linked at the top of this post, which comes from set two of the final night of the run and features a sit-in by three members of Vampire Weekend (yay!), as Goose covers the new VW song "Gen-X Cops" from their just-released album (woo!) and the classic VW tune "Cape Cod (Kwassa Kwassa)" (whoa!), the latter of which turns into a thirty-plus-minute jam (huh?).

And as it turns out, not everything needs to be a jam. Sometimes, the real thirty-minute jams are the friends we make along the way.

So. As you know, the thing I do on this here blog with regard to jams is to write lots about them in exacting, weird-and-maybe-pointless detail. I am not going to do this for this jam, however. Mostly because -- and I mean this as respectfully as possible -- the Vampire Weekend guys are just not jam band musicians, and while they are having fun up there on stage during the jam (except maybe Ezra, who just looks sort of lost throughout), none of them with the exception of the drummer (whose name I don't know and certainly have no way to look up or learn) really adds anything to this jam or contributes at all to its direction. It's basically most of Vampire Weekend just hanging out on stage as Goose drags them through a long, multipart jam.

There are certainly parts where Rick in particular very obviously intentionally makes room for the VW guys to take over, but they just...don't? And there are parts where the VW bassist tries to engage with Trevor in a dueling-basses sort of thing, and Trevor just...doesn't engage? And for some reason the VW drummer doesn't replace Cotter, the new guy, on his kit, but instead replaces Jeff, which means Jeff is stuck playing a third electric guitar, which can literally never be heard during the entire performance. And all of these things add to something that in a lot of ways is just really, really not interesting as a result. To be clear, there are also parts where the Goose guys just do a big ol' heap of Goose-y jamming, and it's good, but there's, like, these three other guys on stage while it's happening, and it's just sort of weird.

I'm not trying to throw shade at the VW guys here. I love Vampire Weekend (Father Of The Bride is one of my favorite albums by anyone in the last ten years), but as much as they are clearly influenced by jam bands as a genre and likely Goose in particular, they themselves are definitely not a jam band. And that kind of high-energy, long-form improvisation isn't something you can just jump on stage and do one day after never really doing it much previously. So, it's not their fault, per se, but it's also just sort of a mixed bag of music for a half-hour-plus as a result.

In the end, I wanted to share it because it's neat to see these two bands collaborating again, but it's a bit too much of a mess for me to be interested in going through the whole thing with my usual fine-toothed comb.

Next up, though, is the aforementioned Moon Cabin monster jam. For today, though, I'm going to step away from the keyboard and do something else for awhile...

[thethirdromana]

Given how relevant it is to the current epoch, I did a bit of reading into treatment of typhus in the 1840s. TL;DR: oh god, poor Marian.

Content warning: discussion of grim historical medical practices.

The Woman in White was written in 1860 and set in 1849-1850, which is right at the beginning of germ theory. It was only widely accepted by the 1880s. All the doctors in the Woman in White most likely believe in miasma theory; they aren't aware that typhus is a bacterial infection.

Mr Dawson prescribes a "saline" treatment. A Short Treatise on Typhus Fever, by George Leith Roupell in 1840, recommends "saline substances" and refers to "their agency in rendering the blood florid, and duly stimulating the heart and other organs." In practice:

Salts are the combination of acids with salifiable bases; those recommended by Huxham, are carbonate of potassa or sesquicarbonate of ammonia with lemon juice and nitrate of potassa

I don't really have enough medical knowledge to judge but this doesn't seem obviously harmful? Or even if it is... not compared with some of the alternatives below.

The History, Diagnosis, and Treatment of Typhoid and of Typhus Fever by Elisha Bartlett in 1842 runs through the treatments available.

Dr Jackson of Boston suggests complete bedrest, an emetic and enema, and if "vomiting and purging" aren't followed by great relief, bloodletting. Tartarised antimony (a strong emetic) should be given every two hours in increasing doses and the bowels kept open. If the patient has diarrhoea, they should be given opium. However, if the patient has advanced to the second week of the disease, none of this will be effective. Food should be very limited and bland.

Dr Nathan Smith thinks no treatment should be given if the disease seems to be running its course naturally. (Phew). There should be bloodletting of up to half a litre of blood only in severe cases of uncommon pain in the head. He would also recommend emetics only in cases of nausea and only the use of gentle laxatives. Mercury shouldn't be used. However, the most effective thing is to uncover the patient's body and sprinkle it with pure, cold water.

Chomel in Paris mostly favours refreshing drinks, emollients, sponging the body with vinegar or water, "mucilaginous injections" several times per day, and moderate bleeding at the onset of fever. In cases of severe pain, he suggests leeches. But if the disease is severe or inflammatory, the patient should not be allowed any food (even in liquid form) and there should be more bleeding and more leeches. He also suggests "cinchona, wine, camphor and ether", thinking that cinchona is better than quinine.

(I think this suggests that Fosco is right about experts recommending "brandy, wine, ammonia and quinine".)

Louis says much the same as some of the others. He doesn't think bloodletting is particularly effective but recommends up to half a litre "once or twice" anyway. He is in favour of quinine.

Bouillard is also in favour of bloodletting:

The number of his bleedings varies from one to five or six, of from twelve to sixteen ounces each; and nearly or quite an equal quantity of blood is taken from the patient by means of leeches or cups.

Unless "ounces" means something wildly different here (and the British fluid ounce, US fluid ounce, and ounce of blood by weight aren't that different), this means a maximum blood loss of 96 ounces or... 2.8 litres?? That's about what was taken from Byron when he died, and in all likelihood it contributed to killing him.

All this leaves me with no idea what message we're supposed to take from this chapter. Mr Dawson's approach does seem to be old-fashioned compared with what Fosco proposes. Some contemporary doctors would agree with the new physician, but others would think him dangerously hands-off. Maybe we're just not supposed to know what the correct approach is.

But from the perspective of medical knowledge that there's no way Wilkie Collins could have had, Marian is lucky to be alive.

[trippin-over-my-fandoms]

The Prince of Shadows - Chapter Two

( image of Karl belongs to this artist!! )

Let me know if you’d like to be added to a tag list!!

Chapter One - Here

Rating - T

Words - 2,186

Mother Miranda is a true visage, a golden sight, one that can typically only be seen in carefully mastered paintings that are centuries old. Despite being a century herself, she is as young and as beautiful as she was the day that tragedy befell her. Her features are flawless and still with enough wear to speak of her hardships, telling of how much she’s earned her place as their goddess.

She isn’t a very tall woman, yet standing on the wooden stage of the old church, surrounded by melting candles and candelabras that burn brightly despite the morning sun, she seems almost as tall as Lady Dimitrescu herself. Her six great black wings outstretched in their command of respect adding to her size, her golden halo glinting in the sun beams that beat down warm through the gaps in the vaulted ceiling, exaggerating her height even further. Her long black robes, the beautifully detailed stole around her neck draping to the floor, expertly embroidered with the crests of her four lords, the vertical angles all exaggerate and compliment her frame. Each tiny detail of her clothing and shiny jewelry speak to the true wonder that she is. Dark and merciful in ways understood by no man outside of the village. Sacred and worshiped by the people she looked over. Revered and respected by her lords. Blessed and graced by the power of the megamycete- the Black God.

To her right-

Lady Dimitrescu. Her first success in giving her gift, the cadou. Her staggering height of over nine feet tall reflecting her greatness rivaled only by that of Mother Miranda herself. She holds herself gracefully, with less of an iron fist than that of Mother Miranda. More fluid and graceful, yet poised and ready, as if she were a pet snake prepared for a threat, eager to show her fangs- or rather, claws.

The dress that drapes down her oversized frame, tight in places that would test the will of any man, pure white in color all except for the very end of the skirt and edges of her sleeves. Stained with dirt and dried blood, with flecks of fresh red dotting the sleeve, paint a brutal picture of the lady. Elegant in nature yet vicious and unforgiving, her pure white clothing tainted as she herself had once been betrayed before her arrival in the village. Oldest next to Mother Miranda and Lord Heisenberg she’s called the castle her home for decades. Mother to three daughters she guards with every ounce of herself. She’s similar to the goddess in many ways, honoring her own matriarch in her service to her.

Following-

Lady Beneviento. The young girl frozen in her age, as they all were with the cadou, shrouded in black dress and veil. Her presence is the most cold, rigid, always seeming as if she were attending a funeral each day. Her sorrow hangs over her like a rain cloud. Misery and pain that follows her like her own shadow. Loss is ever prevalent with her, the memories of the family she once adored lingering with her, stored in her aching heart.

Upon her lap sits the gift from her father, Angie, whom had once been a simple hand crafted marionette, given new life with a piece of Lady Beneviento’s cadou. Her animated personality is a contrast to her own, somber and passive where Angie is lively and instigative. Though Lady Beneviento only seldom speaks, her voice is soft and sweet like a melody, Angie speaks high and vocals rough. It’s as if Angie were a piece of her that died the day her family did, only magnified. She serves as the vessel to speak for the Lady in most cases. More bold than she would ever be since the great loss.

To Mother Miranda’s left-

Lord Heisenberg. If Lady Dimitrescu was Mother Miranda’s right hand then Lord Heisenberg would be her left. He is of the only who saw her emerge from the grieving mother she began as to the imperial goddess she became. Though he was not her first choice for the cadou he had been soon to follow, having not been immediately eager to risk a horrid transformation on such a trusted friend. Where Lady Dimitrescu had earned Mother Miranda’s respect, Lord Heisenberg had it from the start.

He is perhaps opposite from Mother Miranda. A true king reflecting those of old. Well liked by many and as proud as he is popular. He’s far warmer than the rest and typically the first the villagers might approach should the great lords of the village be seen outside their respective domains. His long gray hair and beard and age lines in his face give the appearance of great wisdom and power. His clothing always reflects royalty, while not as detailed as Mother Miranda’s it's not quite as simple as Lady Dimitrescu’s. His long duster is lined with golden buttons down one side, gold thread in the loops on the other. His boots ink black and always perfectly polished, his silky red vest perfectly tailored, the cuffs of his sleeves adorned with his house’s horse crest. All he is missing is the crown and he’d look like a king of old. Almost as if he were modeling himself after the ancient statues carved around the ceremony site.

Finally-

Lord Moreau. Perhaps the most humble in appearance next only to Lady Beneviento’s. In fact, while the other lords’ styles were shiny and clean, fit perfectly to them and spoke volumes of their character, Lord Moreau made do with tattered clothing that he could manage to fit his miserable frame. While honored to have received the cadou from Mother Miranda, it twisted his body and caused horrid formations that made looking like the others a chore. Still, he tried his best with a crown, fashioned out of bones of both men and fish alike.

Where Lady Dimitrescu and Lord Heisenberg reflected femininity and masculinity, and Lady Beneviento resembled the duality of personalities- Lord Moreau was the contrast of beauty to grotesqueness. Not only were his siblings beautiful in their own royal ways along with their mother, but his family crest resembled a beautiful mermaid. They couldn’t be further from his own image. Yet Lord Moreau found it hard to despise himself when it meant serving under the hand of Mother Miranda. He is the most eager and obedient next to the villagers to serve her. He lacks any sort of perfect physical appearance and makes up for it in his loyalty. He’d go to great lengths to please Mother Miranda and show that he’s capable of keeping up with the other lords in their experiments to further Mother’s research.

And in the light of the morning sun they stand, holding council in the old church that’s almost as old as the village itself. Once a place of worship for Christianity’s God now serves as the place of judgment of those who acted against the grace of Mother Miranda’s firm hand with the lords acting as jury. The sight of them alone is enough to send knees trembling and hearts weeping for mercy in their defiance. Yet there was very little for men who had no faith in their persevering leadership.

“Who are you to beg for forgiveness?” Says Mother Miranda, gazing down at the accused, a man from the village, suspected of hearsay and acts against the Black God. Her words echo off the large structure, adding grandeur to her voice as she speaks.

“Nicholas, Nicholas Albescu,” the man answers, such is the format for the court, an admittance of identity in the village, declaring one's name in hopes of forgiveness. No waiver to his voice, no bend of his knees. Not like the others who beg upon their feet for reconsideration.

“What do you say of these claims against yourself?” She asks, knowing already how she’ll judge him. Only the lords knew these trials were fallacies. Heretics are perfect vessels for experiments whether they were guilty or not. Mother Miranda has no fondness for anyone in the village, a truth that no one will ever know, not when they revere her and believe in her magnificence.

“Lies,” he spits, standing firm and proud and Lord Heisenberg lets slip a curt chuckle at the man’s defiance. His sense of self worth is hilarious and a quick glance at Lady Dimitrescu tells him that she feels the same, a small grin of amusement playing at her lips. They share the same view of the villagers- a means to an end.

Mother Miranda seems irritated in how she glowers at them, a cynical stare at the pair for their behavior. Yet their outward display of amusement plays into her final decision.

“I’ve made my judgment,” she begins, only for the man to cut her off-

“Does it matter?”

A silence befalls the court. Rarely does one so boldly go against the goddess let alone in her own holy domain.

When she speaks again it’s a quiet hiss just loud enough to be heard. “To you?” She scowls, “it should.”

The man is suddenly unnerved, his rigid posture suddenly turning in on itself as he waivers. It occurs to Lady Dimitrescu that he had perhaps expected to get off for his bravery. Now as he stands before them he realizes his foolishness, that he’s only sealed his doom. It only serves to delight her. If only his blood could be her’s, it would surely make fine wine…

But she knows just as well as the others that Mother Miranda has the say in who’s prey the guilty becomes.

“Lady Beneviento,” Mother Miranda’s booming voice returns as she addresses one of her beloved lords, “see to it that this man understands the weight of his unfaith.”

Lady Beneviento simply nods, her veil completely covering her face so no emotion at her prize is shown, only Angie’s gleeful giggles to give it away.

The poor man. He’ll suffer the weight of his own fears under her hand. Forced to endure horrid sights and cruel imagery that will feel all too real.

Serves him right.

After its dismissal, when everything is said and done, Lord Heisenberg follows Lady Dimitrescu the short distance back to her castle, coming to a stop within the grand entryway.

“Your insistence is getting quite annoying,” she says, looking down on him as she lights a cigarette, “come to see if I’ve changed my mind already?”

“Well? Have you?” Lord Heisenberg asks, uncertainty beginning to creep in. He doesn’t need her for his plan but he’d much rather have her at his side. He trusts her more than anyone else with this.

She’s silent a moment as she ponders, staring at the portrait of her female ancestors whom she named her daughters after. “Not yet,” she states finally.

Lord Heisenberg breathes a quiet sigh of relief, “Good,” he nods, “I was worried I’d have to remind you why we decided on this in the first place.”

“You don’t have to,” Lady Dimitrescu looks back to him after another drag off the cigarette, “Though I should point out how well she seemed today.”

“Yes but she was rushing it. Remember how much she used to milk it? Drag out the sentencing until the defiant were sobbing? She’s lost her passion,” Lord Heisenberg points out, fanning away the smoke that makes it to his face.

“Passion for suffering? You should consider she has better things to do brother,” despite how none of the lords were truly related, Lord Heisenberg was the only one she’d consider herself close to in that regard, and the only man she’d ever trust.

“Better things as in devoting all her time to children she no longer has? Wasting precious resources on lost causes? Her grief is consuming her. She doesn’t have the privilege of Lady Beneviento, to sit around and wallow. She has a village to care for. Now I could excuse it back then. But now? I can’t sit by and watch as she lets this place rot and become infested with unbelievers,” Lord Heisenberg rants, pacing in his speech. He’s always been good with words. Expressive even as he delivers them, selling himself and his ideas all in one.

Lady Dimitrescu isn't any more convinced now than she had been when he first trusted her with his concerns. Though she isn’t put off by them either, she understands how important leadership is. She least of all hasn’t been blind to how much of the rule over the village has been placed on her and her fellow lords. Mother Miranda has relied more and more on them to do the work for her, only showing her face for meetings and judgements, hiding herself away in her lab the rest of the time. It wasn’t something they could afford. Not with more and more heretics coming out of the woodwork. Soon they’d have a revolt if they weren’t careful, if they even suspected for a minute their goddess didn’t care for them.

“I haven’t changed my mind,” Lady Dimitrescu reiterates, “Now, will you be staying for dinner?”