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ceilidho · 1 year ago

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landscape with honey

summary: price/reader bear shifter fic. PART 4. (read the whole thing on ao3 here) tags: light daddy kink, breeding kink, very nsfw, she/her pronouns for reader

He starts showing up at your house at odd hours.

You’re fixing coffee in the morning, still fuzzy and warm from sleep, only to hear the sounds of hammering outside. Wrapping yourself in just a housecoat, you find John fixing the loose step on your stairs, barely sparing enough time to greet you before returning to the task at hand. When he finishes, he brushes off your attempts to pay him for the job, just loading his tools back in the car and driving off.

You sip your coffee and wonder. Odd.

The next day, you find him raking the leaves in your lawn. Two days later, he shows up at the grocers when you’re picking up produce, and helps you carry all your bags to the car. He also adds a peculiar amount of canned goods to your order and when you fret and try to tell him that you don’t need the pickles and sauerkraut and beans and all of that stuff, he just lays a hand flat on your head and drags it down your hair until you go quiet.

He pays for the whole order.

You’ve never had to wonder about a man’s actions. Men are largely inscrutable to you, ever-shifting. They say one thing and mean another. They look at you like one might look at an oil painting, entitled something like Virgin Meeting Her Lover’s Eyes From The Top Of The Staircase or Landscape With Virgin. They speak to you as though an answer were entirely antithetical to their purpose in conversing with you.

John listens to you with a focus that borders on intimidating, like he wants to hear each word enunciated exactly how you might enunciate it. It has the sharp clarity of respect, of a mutual acknowledgement of humanity. He also comes over to fix your sink without you having to ask. The world of men is still largely confusing to you.

John grows surlier as the days grow shorter though. He doesn’t snap or snarl at you the way he does sometimes with his recruits (you rarely see him interact with them, but sometimes you’ll drop him off his lunch on the days when you’re feeling particularly generous and that’s when you’ll have the rare pleasure of hearing him shout at a trembling twenty-three year old for littering on the trail like a military captain), but it’s a near thing.

The worst is when he catches you on a jog one morning on his drive to work. You see his truck with the faded red paint pass you by and you give a short wave that he returns. He passes you by about half a yard before coming to a full stop and reversing. You stare at him as the window rolls down, brows furrowed.

“Hi Jo—” you start.

“Get in the car,” John growls. You hear the doors unlock.

“…My uh…my shift’s in two hours, John, I can’t just—”

“Get in the car.”

“This is my only time to exercise!”

“If I have to get out of this car and drag you inside, honey, I will. Don’t play with me. Get in.”

You get in the car. Probably wisely. Still dripping sweat and shivering from the cold—you’re not used to jogging in the winter, or at all for that matter, but it seemed like as good a time as any to start—you glance over to stare at the side of John’s face. His jaw is set, almost as if in anger. His knuckles are white over the steering wheel as he makes a U-turn and drives back into town. The cab of his truck smells like flannel pulled out from the back of a closet, almost musty, but comforting in the way that old clothes can sometimes smell. There’s a cigarette ashed out in the dish in front of the centre console.

He takes you to the nearest bakery for coffee and a breakfast muffin and stares you down until you eat the whole thing. You feel like you have to scarf it down. Customers bustle into the bakery to order coffee to-go and fresh cookies and scones in waxy paper bags; everyone in town knows each other so you try to avoid the more curious stares when they’re turned on you.

“This is weird,” you say, staring down at the crumbs on your plate. “This is really weird.”

“This is what you get for exercising before winter,” John says, flagging down the barista for another muffin and a refill on your coffee. “Waste of calories.” The last part is said derisively, almost with a scoff.

You frown. “Lots of people exercise. Even when it snows.”

“Winter is a time for hibernating. Not…sweat,” he says with a grimace, like the very thought is anathema to him.

"Hibernating?" you repeat skeptically, scrunching up your nose. "I mean, I spend a lot of time indoors, but I wouldn't say I'm hibernating."

John stares at you until you look away, flushed. "Finish your breakfast."

The barista returns with another blueberry muffin and a fresh cup of coffee. At least John's the one paying. When he finally seems satisfied, he hustles you home and leaves you off at the door with a stern warning.

“You gonna be good for me this time?” he asks, a finger curled under your chin, tilting your head up. One of his hands curls around the doorframe and your heart jumps when you hear the wood creak under his grip. This close, you can see the faintest silver streaks at his temples and the flecks of it in his beard.

“It was just a light jog,” you mumble, looking away.

“Not a light anything,” he warns, ducking closer until you feel like shrinking back, like disappearing into your house. “Bake a cake if you have to burn off energy so bad. I’ll be over around seven, alright?”

You mumble something, the words getting lost in themselves. It’s impossible to think with John in your space like this. It’s only when he finally pulls away and ambles back to his truck that you rock back on your heels, let go of whatever spell he had you under.

The first week of December hits town like a truck.

You’re trudging home alone after your shift when you make the decision to cut through the forest because you missed the last bus and you don’t want to spend an hour walking home. The first snow of the season has caught you off guard, clad in boots too autumnal and a sweater too thin for the biting cold. The flakes fall in thick chunks that stick for a brief moment before melting into the skin.

It’s not the first time you’ve travelled through the forest alone. The town is surrounded by pockets of the forest, like it can’t help enveloping whatever space is left for it. Oftentimes it’s easier just to cut through the woods rather than travel the long way around. You wouldn’t even call this the forest proper, not like the acres of trees sprouting over the mountains just off in the distance.

A bush rustles. Your eyes flick over for a second, breath hovering in your chest before you decide that it’s just a squirrel. Nothing ever happens in a town like this. The man from the other day notwithstanding, nothing truly bad ever happens. You keep walking down the partially demarcated path, lit only by the full moon overhead. It’s so dark that the snow around you is almost blue.

The bush rustles again. You stop this time, feet staying planted in the snow long enough for your feet to grow cold. You stare at the dark shoots covered in a layer of snow; it stripes the branches like candy from a time ago, licorice twisted with white bark, and it doesn’t move when you look at it. The bushes and trees are dense, impossible to peer through. Even walking through the forest doesn’t make you feel immersed in it. You follow a barely marked path, hard to see through the recent snowfall, and stare out into the dark woods with a kind of animal sense. Not sure whether you’re alone, whether something’s there with you, and whether it’s sensed you or if you’ve sensed it first.

You start walking again when your feet go numb. Better to just get home.

It comes behind you again as a slightly louder rustle. It’s harder to shake off the fear this time, harder to say that it’s just the wind. The snow crunches under more than one set of feet, branches cracking under the weight of something larger than you.

You don’t want to turn around, but the sound of something chuffing makes your stomach drop. The first thing that emerges when you turn to face it is its massive head, a white frosted muzzle, and the visible hump on its back. The wispy smoke of its breath puffs out when it breathes. Its eyes are dark, hardly reflecting any light at all. Then the rest of it emerges, the saplings bending out of its way as it clambers out of the woods and onto the path, staring you down all the while.

You’ve never seen a bear before. Not this close. Not so close that you know it’s been stalking you, know that it didn’t come upon you by accident. You’re staring down at your own body from somewhere else, fear displacing you. Rending you from your own body. There’s no way to guess its weight at a glance, but it’s easily twice the size of you, easily more than that.

When it takes a step forward, everything goes dark.

You wake up snuggled under the warmth of a thick blanket. Sleep is creamy thick, engulfing you on all sides, only the faintest prickle of awareness letting you know that you’re awake.

It’s unpleasant to leave the cotton miasma of sleep, you think. Your nose scrunches up and you let out a tired huff, trying to will yourself back into it. The harder you try to force yourself back into it though, the farther away it floats.

Still it weighs you down. It takes an age to work up the energy to so much as twitch a finger. Even your eyelids insist on staying shut. Yet, the prickle of consciousness needles at you as if to say hello, wake up, you need to get up. You sigh and try to shimmy up onto your elbows.

A hand shoves you back down. The breath rushes out of you.

“Get…back down,” a rough voice grunts from over you and then the full weight of a man settles on top of you, pressing you deep into the mattress.

Consciousness snaps back into you, elastic sharp. The weight of him pins you to the bed, makes you sink into the plushness of—and this is gradually coalescing in your mind—an unfamiliar place. All four corners of your body are trapped under him. The voice is familiar though. Ragged, brutal. A saw taken to the trunk of an old, thick tree, too many interior rings to count. You whisper John’s name and he grunts, making you flinch from how the sound reverberates through the side of your head.

Exhaustion is thick though and it leaves you heavy, even when John slowly lifts himself to his elbows from behind you. You feel him drag his body down the length of the bed, beard scratching into your skin with every petal soft kiss dropped along your spine during his descent.

“John?” you whisper, only just able to turn your head, not even able to struggle up to your elbows. “J-John?”

He doesn’t answer you. The room is near pitch black, only a window on the other end of the room with the curtain pulled back the smallest amount enough to let the moonlight in. Even the moonlight isn’t enough. You know from the shape of the window that this isn’t your house, that it must be somewhere else. You can only surmise from John’s presence that it’s his, but that thought passes over you like a rock skipping over water.

“Wher’m’I?” you murmur, eyes fluttering shut when his lips press over the small of your back. Sensitive there.

Rough hands with callused fingertips smooth over your ass, pressing into the flesh. His fingers pry your cheeks apart, thumbs dipping into the space between and pressing over your hole, making you burn all over. You’re too far gone to worry about any hair on your legs or anything about your body other than John’s hands undulating over your ass and thighs. You flinch violently when his teeth sink into the meat on the underside of your ass, so tender that even exhausted to the bone your body lashes out.

Big hands pry your legs apart. You flinch at the sudden hot breath over your sex, a whine tickling your throat. His face hovers so close to your centre that the tip of his nose presses on the tender skin near your entrance.

“Wha’ d’you…think you’re doin’...” you ask breathlessly. Your brain tries to order your leg to kick, but it stays flat and limp on the bed.

The first touch of John’s tongue along your slit makes you melt, the flat of his tongue lapping upward and making your hips tilt up with it. It almost makes your mind go blank again, almost tips you back into the unconscious world because the synapses in your brain stop firing the second you remember that it’s John between your legs licking hungrily at your cunt. John from the grocery store, John from the ranger’s station in the mountains—the John you’ve been crushing on and coveting for months now, content to just be friends with the gruff, handsome man in the house next to yours. Now sucking one of your nether lips into his mouth and tracing his tongue up the inside, gliding it over the supple flesh.

“Yer in the den,” John mumbles into your pussy and it’s like he sears the words into your brain. “‘N I’m takin’ care of you, honey.”

“The…the den…?” It’s so hard to keep your thoughts in order. Each flick of his tongue makes you gasp, pussy growing wetter and hips grinding languidly down on his face.

He hums instead of answering.

“Why’m’I so tired?” you slur.

His tongue saws over your clit from behind. It tears a broken whimper from you. You feel every textured ridge, the way it flicks around in a circle and then up and down again.

“Winter season,” John says, sucking your clit into his mouth until you whine at the top of your lungs. “Bear’s sleep in winter.”

“Tha’s silly. M’not a bear,” you moan.

“No,” he agrees, humming into your sex. “Jus’ mated to one. Makes you sleepy too, honey.”

“Mated?” you repeat back, but it’s lost in the way you moan when he eats your pussy from the back, licking into you with renewed vigour. Hungry like a bear. Grunting like a satisfied man, slurping loud enough to make your face heat up.

Words and old memories about bears hardly matter when the handsome man from next door spreads your legs wide, almost to the point of pain, and sinks his tongue into your hole again. You never would’ve expected John to be vocal, but he’s noisy behind you, groaning into your cunt. He keeps mumbling things under his breath that you can’t catch.

“John—” you gasp, biting your lip when he sucks your clit into his mouth again. “John—John—”

He only has to give you a single finger to tip you over the edge, feeds it in nice and slow. Your cunt clenches down at the intrusion, teeth nearly breaking through the skin of your lip.

When he crawls back over you, anticipation makes you shudder. You hear something faint in the background that grows steadily louder as John rests his elbows on either side of your head, until you realize that it’s your own voice murmuring, “Put it in, put it in, put it in—”

He obliges. A thick, steady plunge that hardly manages more than a handful of inches before you’re crying, and it’s too much, too much, too much. Pleasure not a limpid pool anymore but something cavernous and deep-dwelling, pulling you in or trying to make a home inside of you for it. John’s biceps tense with the strain of holding himself back.

You balance on the knife’s edge between pleasure and pain. There’s a single thought in your head that it might burn you up from the inside; it runs a jagged hole through you.

His nose drags through your hair. “Never expected you. Thought I’d go another season alone ‘till I started smellin’ you around town.”

You hiccup. “Y’never—never paid me any attention ‘for— before, ah—”

“‘Course I paid attention to’ya, honey,” John says into your ear, grunting when he drives deeper into your pussy, still just a languid grind of his hips, so mind-numbingly slow that your thoughts sizzle out of your head. He keeps dragging his hips back and plunging in, barely pulling away from you, all skin on slick skin. “Made a home for m’self in your house. Made sure we had ‘nough to eat for the winter.”

“The winter?”

“Won’t be goin’ anywhere for a few months.” He brushes your hair out of the way to kiss down your neck, giving in to the urge to bite just a little. His body stays pressed tight to yours, hardly an inch of space between the two of you. “Wasn’ sure at first if it’d be here or in your house so… fuck, I had to get ready. Make sure you’d be safe when it hit.”

“Don’ even…know wha’ that means,” you mumble into the mattress, then squeal and fist the fists when John shoves a hand under you to grope your chest.

“Don’t worry about it,” he shushes you. “All y’have to do now is lie there ‘n take my cock, okay, honey? Can’ya do that for me? I’ll get some food in you after we’re done, then send ya back to bed.”

Only a whine comes out when you open your mouth. John’s arm by your head forces you to breathe in the scent of him, musky and rich. You stare at the hair on his knuckles and his thick fingers gripping the sheets as well, old nicks and scars decorating his hand. You can’t stop staring at his fingers and thinking that he had one of those in you before, that he’s felt you from the inside.

He never pulls away, never changes positions, just fucks you on your tummy in his bed. You’ve never been in John’s bedroom before, but this has to be his room—even the pillowcase smells like him, pine needles and cigar smoke. He keeps up a steady pounding into your cunt, rutting like a wild animal. Has to be close. Gets so close to you that you feel smothered, trapped in place. Like if you struggled, he wouldn’t let up. You want to test it, see if you could, but the heaviness is still in your limbs, keeping you docile. Convenient. A little convenient thing for him to use, like a doll to get himself off with.

“Never coulda imagined such a pretty girl f’r me,” John groans, getting a grip in your hair to twist your head, tugging you into a kiss. Your whole body sparks to life, so shocked that you can’t even kiss him back at first. You wait until he pulls back, staring into his half-lidded eyes through the mess of your hair all tangled up around you. “Gave up on thinkin’ there was anyone out there. Thank fuck I found you first, honey. Can start workin’ on all the good stuff now. Get you to give daddy a baby.”

“D-daddy?” you gasp back, almost scandalized.

He pants into your shoulder, worked up now. “Yeah, honey. Don’ I take care of you? Buy y’r food, fix y’r house? Give you someplace nice ‘n warm to sleep?”

You feel soaked with sweat, twitchy, on the verge of something dangerous. Vision all fogged up, heart beating so fast that your skin buzzes. Stretched out on a fat cock and pinned in a man’s bed, nowhere to run or hide.

“Y-yeah,” you stutter when John gets a bit rougher, his breathing getting more staggered, laboured.

“That’s right, girl,” he grunts, “I’m y’r fuckin’ daddy then, aren’t I?”

Magma bubbles up from deep inside of you. Rockslides off in the distance beat against the ground. When you cry out, it gets lost in the rubble.

You stumble into the living room maybe hours later after using the washroom across the hall. Maybe a day later. It’s hard to say how many times the sun has risen and fallen behind the mountains. The clock face stares back at you uncomprehendingly.

Come drips out of you onto the floor. Thick droplets run down your inner thighs. John is still sleeping in the bed where you left him, snoring like a chainsaw. It must’ve been what woke you up. There’s no way of knowing how long it’s been since he first brought you home, since he left a mess in your pussy, which is still puffy and sore from rough use. You walk with halting little steps to try to minimize the ache.

You stare bleary-eyed around the room. It feels somehow different than the previous times John’s had you over; there are more throws and blankets draped over the couch, candles scattered around the living room with a lighter on the mantle.

There’s a fire roaring in the fireplace, blanketing the house in a layer of warmth. It makes you sluggish, stumbling forward only a handful of steps before the shaggy rug in front of the fire drags you back down to the floor.

“What’re you doing out of bed, pretty girl?” someone rumbles from behind you.

“Had t’pee,” you say, blinking. You try to rub the sleep out of your eyes unsuccessfully. “Why’m’I still so tired? It’s been…I slept so long…”

“C’mon, honey,” John says, coming up behind you and curling his arms around you, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head. “Told you it was gonna be a long winter. Maybe just one more and then somethin’ to eat, okay?”

It’s easy to sink to the floor, so easy. Especially with the fluffy rug under your feet. Especially with the fireplace toasting you from the outside in, the tinder crackling in the hearth. Everything in the house is dark and warm, only the fire giving you any light at all. Outside the window, the moon is still heavy in the sky.

Something about the humidity of the den makes you suddenly so tired, boneless, pliable when he goes to move you, when John curves himself around you in the furs and reaches down to slide a hand between your thighs.

He grunts when he finds you wet and wanting, sinking a couple fingers in and palming your clit. He doesn’t talk much still, but he says good girl when he cants your hips and slowly stretches you out on his cock. Feeds it into you achingly slow, like molasses. Like nothing’s due for another few months, so why rush it? He’ll take his time so you’re nice and happy and sweet come spring for cubs.

You’re not sure what that means. The pace is slow and deep, like before but less intentional. Like he just wants to savour the warmth of your body.

When he finally comes deep inside you, your body goes limp, collapsing in a heap onto the rug. You expect John to pull out and turn over, maybe pull you onto his chest so you have somewhere to rest. Instead, he sighs all tired and content, and stays in you, still plugged up in your cunt, his spend only just starting to leak out into a pool beneath you.

“Are we gonna eat?” you mumble, already half-asleep.

Somewhere behind you, he laughs; it’s soft like a snowfall in winter. “Yeah, honey. After a nap, we can eat.”

#ceil writing #cod mw2 #cod x reader #captain price #captain john price #cod price #john price #price/reader #price x reader #price x you #john price x reader

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angelacademy · 7 months ago

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HOW TO ACHIEVE A SLIMMER FACE.

+ MY GO TO JAW EXERCISE

YOU CANNOT OUT-TRAIN A BAD DIET.

You cannot out-train a bad diet. If your diet is bad, don't expect to see major results when working out. Having a good diet is 90% of weight loss and physical training is 10%.

SUGAR.

When you consume excess sugar, it can lead to water retention and inflammation, which may contribute to bloating in the face and body. By cutting down on sugary foods and beverages, you may notice a decrease in bloating and puffiness over time. Replacing sugary foods with whole, nutrient-dense options like fruits, vegetables, lean proteins, and whole grains can help improve overall health and reduce puffiness.

HOW TO GET A SLIMMER FACE:

I use this to tighten my jawline because it can look a bit puffier than I would like it to be. I have tested this before for a week and It definitely did make some changes so I will be sticking with this video. You have to be consistent to keep the results, I recommend doing it every day until you look at the results, then slowly reducing the number of days to a number that is good enough for you to maintain that result.

youtube

FACE MASSAGES & GUASHA

Guasha involves scraping a flat jade or rose quartz tool along the skin in upward strokes. This technique can help:

Improve Circulation: This can bring more blood flow to the face, which may help with a healthy glow.

Reduce Puffiness: By stimulating lymphatic drainage, it can help reduce fluid retention and puffiness.

Jawline Definition: Regular use along the jawline can promote a more defined look over time.

Face massages will also have the same effect.

youtube

#self improvement #glo up #glow up #workout #that girl #Youtube #IANY

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bgbu · 4 months ago

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Catching the BG3 Companions Reading The Quarta Sune - Astarion Edition

Hello!! I haven't posted on tumblr in, deadass, almost a decade...so pls be kind :)

content warnings: 18+, piv, unprotected sex, choking

pairing: f!reader x Astarion

word count: 1600

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“What are you reading my love?”

Your usually alert elf shudders, his surprise evident for only a second before the bravado settles back into his charming smirk as he tries to subtly move the book from his lap off to the side. “Why hello Darling! I thought you’d be several hours out still? No orphans you felt compelled to save from burning buildings this afternoon?” He leans back, slyly trying to push the book farther off to the side as he sprawls his legs and pushes himself back into his elbows.

“I’m afraid not. Gale actually tripped over a fallen tree, so I walked him back to camp while Karlach and Lae’zel said they’d keep hunting for dinner.” You chuckle at your clumsy wizard friend as you sit down to unlace your boots and toss a glance over to Astarion who has his fangs bared wide in his massive smile, his eyes gleaming with water as laughter bursts from his chest and a tear breaks loose and rolls down his cheek. His laughter breaks your own composure, and you join in on his giggles. The little green book on the tent floor catches your eye again as you put your plan into motion. You lurch forward onto all fours and slink the short distance to where your rogue is propped up on the other side of the tent. With a feline sway you wiggle your way over to him until you hover over his legs, holding his crimson gaze. You lunge for the book and sit back into your hips, locking his feet in place, and he lets out a light gasp at your deception.

“My dear it is nothing really, I-”

“I believe you Star, but you know it wouldn’t be embarrassing if you were reading it, right?”

The Quarta Sune is full of sensual and sexual knowledge, the dogeared page it is open to in your hands includes a diagram of the “Underdark Choke” as well as a recipe for an aphrodisiac oyster stew.

“Well, I…in light of recent events I…ugh darling” he trails off, but you bring your hand up to cup his cheek and trail your finger around his jaw to lift up his chin as you scooch farther forward into his lap. You make your voice soft as you purr, “Star you’re reclaiming your life and your body for the first time in centuries. My love, there is no shame in using whatever tools and information you can find to help you find what you are and aren’t comfortable with.”

He sighs deeply, staring at you through ruby red eyes gleaming with emotion before you lean forward to give him a quick peck on the cheek. You begin to push off on your arms to give him some space, but his long fingers quickly reach out for your belt loops to pull you up into his chest with a small purr of approval reverberating through his chest.

“Well, my dear, since you have offered your sickeningly compassionate support for my journey perhaps you’ll indulge me in a brief exercise of…oh how should I put it?” His fingertip barely brushes your collarbone as he whispers into your ear, his cheeky grin audible, “Exploration?”

You shiver involuntarily as his breath tickles your ear and he chuckles in a sultry tone, “Is that a ‘yes’ my sweet?”

“Anything for you dear.”

“How delicious!!”

Astarion quickly flips you over his side as he rolls onto you, now straddling your lap with both cool hands holding your wrists against the bedroll. He lets go for a moment to toss his flowing shirt over his head in one fell swoop before he hungrily begins to unlace your bodice while he gently grinds his hips down into yours. You sit up to assist him in removing your bodice over your head and he firmly pushes your shoulders back into the bedroll, a low growl rising in his throat as watches your breasts bounce with the impact. You don’t even have time to run your fingers through his pearly locks before he peels the trousers off your legs with speed before stripping his own legs bare.

You let out a soft whimper as his length springs free. “Now, now little pup, so eager already? My research has told me that slow, deliberate movements can improve the quality of our escapades. Shall we verify?” His red eyes glimmer in anticipation as a confident smirk tugs his lips to the side just enough to reveal one sparkling white fang. You eagerly nod as he kneels at your feet, moving at a snail’s pace as you feel him exhale softly across the skin of your thighs while he slowly uses his free hand to part your thighs. He slinks up your legs and stops his head right below your now damp center. You feel his hot breath fan across your core, the stimulation drawing a small whine from your mouth as you clench the bedroll on either side of your body.

He chuckles softly and draws himself even farther up your body, as he pushes comfortably onto his side, using one arm to prop his head up and the other to wrap tightly around your waist, tilting you onto your side so you can feel his cool, smooth chest push into your back. He softly kisses up your shoulder as you turn to expose your neck, pulse beating fast and hard beneath the delicate skin of your throat. Astarion skates his hand up from your waist to palm the soft flesh of your breasts eliciting another moan from your lips as you push your butt back against him. He huskily grunts into your ear, “On all fours please my little lamb, I’d like to try something.”

You oblige, extending your back into a stretch and wiggling your ass in the air. You expect a small smack, as would typically come from your vamp in a situation like this. Instead, you feel both of his hands wrap firmly around your waist, sliding back to softly claw your hip bones.

“Do you trust me darling?”

“Yes my love.”

He purrs in approval as he pushed his cock against your clothed mound, creating just enough friction to make you moan. He gently backs up and slides your underwear down to your knees; you sharply breathe in through your teeth as the cool evening air makes you more aware of your warm, wet core begging for attention. Astarion slowly leans back into you, making you whine as you feel his wet tip caress your folds. His left hand slides up the curve of your ass to rest on your lower back, while his right hand journeys farther up your spine, curving around your shoulder, and softly wrapping around your throat. You gasp softly as he applies gentle, but firm pressure to your neck as you get a headrush from the pressure.

“Excellent darling, shall we reward you for being such a good little pet?”

You let out a ragged moan and buck your hips to rub his cock against your opening forcing a guttural moan from the vampire’s chest.

His hand leaves your back to slowly guide his shaft into your wetness and his grip on your neck tightens ever so slightly; you moan as you feel his length slowly filling you up; you cry out as he reaches his hilt as his balls lightly press against your folds. His hand returns to your lower back as he deliberately pulls back and you feel the pressure release from where he was just filling you completely. You try to push back onto him, but his hands are holding you firmly in place.

“Tut tut little lamb, we’re going to be slow and deliberate yes?”

He mercifully stops just short of pulling out entirely, before he pushes back into you; you try to moan, but his grip around your throat leaves you gasping in pleasure. He continues moving in and out of you at a leisurely pace that makes you both hyperaware of every inch of his cock while he continues to fuck you. His hand leaves your lower back as he wraps it around your waist and pulls you into his lap, so you sink down onto his cock. You let out a stifled scream of pleasure as he leans back and you move your legs and feel your knees drive into the soft fur of the bedroll. His hand loosens up on your neck as he focuses his strength into quickening, powerful thrusts as he holds your waist in place with his free hand. You can feel the hot energy twisting the pit of your stomach with excitement and pleasure as his thrust become harder and faster.

“Star-” you choke out his name, but he cuts you off, panting harshly as he thrusts into you hard as ever, and you can feel his length begin to twitch inside you.

“Come for me darling.”

His deep hoarse voice sends you flying over the edge as you feel yourself shudder and come undone as he lets out a loud groan and you feel the warm pulse of his orgasm mix with yours, both of you shivering with stimulation until you finally feel him slip out of you; leaving the wet pleasure to drip from your core down your thighs as you collapse backwards into your rogue’s awaiting arms. He lets out a soft chuckle as he kisses your temple and rubs up and down your side.

You sit silently for a few moments, just enjoying his cool body as you glisten with sweat from your passionate exchange.

“Star?”

“Yes love?”

“Have I told you I find your interest in literature rather charming?”

He scoffs, failing to hide his amusement behind his eye roll. “Perhaps we should start a book club?”

------------------

If you read the whole thing ily and we're friends now and thank you so much! Please send feedback, questions, requests, and/or memes to my ask box and I will keep on writing :) -Lib

#astarion ancunin #astarion x reader #baldurs gate 3 #astarion #bg3 fanfiction #bg3 smut #astarion smut

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tempural · 18 days ago

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Started with this B/W sketchbook drawing. Got inspired by the look of the sketchbook spiral on the side, cuz it looked like film notches. Made me think of x-ray scans. Ended up doing the whole medical route on the final drawing.

Coloring method was mostly pressing the "invert" tool to turn the canvas black. Then painting red/yellow with gradient maps. And then drawing the glowing blue lines, as well as typing the "medical" text, on an "add" layer.

Spoilers and long head canons and unlicensed medical talk under the cut.

The text reads:

REVIEWED BY PONY EXPRESS AUTODOC MODEL-SCUMSUCK

PATIENT: CURLY

Near total body disruption from explosive decompression

Complete dermal vascular system collapse

Severe radiation poisoning

Hyperosmolar hyperglycemic state

Muscle and bone cachexia

Single eye rupture

Chronic obstructive pulmonary

Testicular rupture

Severe leukopenia

Itchiness and dry eye

RECOMMENDED TREATMENT

Administer intravenous therapy and catheter

Support neck and spine

Change bandages as supplies last

Orally administer paracetamol for pain

Turn and reposition patient every 2 hours to prevent bed sores

Create relaxing enviroment

Listen attentively to understand emotional state

Allow time for exercise and meditation

Encourage positive thinking

Brush teeth

Administer mouthwash

SIGNED OFF BY DOCTOR ANYA

Of course none of the treatment is actually good. In the game itself, you give him paracetamol (TYLENOL) for pain haha. So I thought I'd go along with the bad medical advice. Including that universal medical advice you get to do "exercise and meditation" if you are in a bad mood :)

I think I spent about as much time looking up the medical stuff (specifically things in relation to explosion damage and radiation damage - thinking of the Byford Dolphin Incident as well as Hisashi Ouchi) as I did with the coloring! We don't know what exactly happened with Curly, but I'd just guess with my lack of medical knowledge that the ship crashed, something exploded, and he was exposed to intense radiation.

Realistically he wouldn't be surviving with the level of medical care they have available on the ship, so I drew a couple things I thought would help him... namely the IV and catheter haha. Also thought it'd be a fun time to introduce my favorite headcanon to gift cute characters: the gift of genital nullification. Yes, I drew this mostly to show off my not-buff and no-pp headcanons!!!!

I like Curly with no skin, no muscle, no hair. It's ok if he had those before. I probably wouldn't draw him "recovered" with perfectly functioning prosthetic limbs and magically regrown vocal cords and sexy 8 pack abs. That's just me. He could get a wheelchair, perhaps some sort of eye controlled assisted communication like Stephen Hawking (but Curly doesn't seem to be able to control his jaw or cheek?).

Thinking about ~da dystopian future~ and what support he would even get? His job ain't gettin him anything :P He doesn't seem to be in the sort of society with universal healthcare, they'd drain his savings and then put him in a dark room with a nurse that turns him over once every 24 hours... Well, that's if they find him. I think he's staying frozen for 20 years and then melting like Walt Disney once the power runs out.

#captain curly #mouthwashing #guro #blood #severe injury #headcanons #bad medical advice #draws #sketchbook

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taintandviolent · 6 months ago

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If it's alright, maybe Kai finding reader with another guy and taking her back to the cult house to teach her a lesson...in front of the rest of the cult? 👀

warnings: spanking, violence/aggression, Kai being Kai.

A/N: longish drabble done at work - I hope this is okay and what you had in mind anon! Sorry it’s not a full fic, the brain ain’t brainin’ as hard as I’d like today.

Kai couldn't believe his eyes. It was you. His loyal little lamb with her doe-eyes, perky tits and willingness to do anything he asked... in the arms of some dickhead. His hands explored your waist and ass cheeks in a disgusting display of public affection, and Kai clenched his jaw hard.

That evening, when you'd gotten back to his house, you walked downstairs to find everyone sitting patiently, almost as if they were waiting for your arrival.

"Ah, there she is. The disloyal one." Kai's voice was calm and level. He was exercising a lot of personal strength, you could tell. At his words, everyone's heads turned, the attention now fully on you.

Oh, you thought. They were waiting for you. Uncomfortably, you adjusted the strap of your purse on your shoulder and swallowed hard. Kai was watching your every move, hands behind his back. You hated when he did that... It felt so authoritative. You guessed that the rest of the cult didn't know the details of what you'd done, only that you were quote "disloyal" to his cause. With one fluid motion, he gestured for you to stand at his side.

You obeyed, taking careful steps until you got to him. What was worse? The fact that you had everyone's eyes on you, practically watching you breathe, or that Kai's very presence seemed to vibrate with a fiery anger that you could literally feel as he stood next to you? You couldn't decide.

"What is the punishment for disloyalty?"

You said nothing, only bit your lip, chewing a piece of dry skin off.

"I asked you a question. Answer me."

"I wasn't... disloyal."

"That wasn't the question, was it?"

Kai took a fistful of your hair, and got close to your face, speaking directly into your ear. The rest of the cult couldn't hear his words, only saw the angry display. You winced; he was gripping the hair at the roots.

"You were. A greedy, disloyal bitch. Now you're lying?"

"Kai," you whimpered.

"Address me properly."

"Divine Ruler," you corrected without hesitation. "I can't be disloyal if I'm not with anyone..."

He gripped your hair harder, pulling your face closer to his. He was staring at the side of your face like he was trying to melt it off, and while you only had the peripheral view, the disappointment that burned in his eyes was apparent. What did that mean? You were loyal to the cult, but there was an unsaid implication that Kai expected you to be loyal to him. Your core tightened with a melange of excitement, desire and fear.

Kai straightened up. Someone cleared their throat awkwardly, unsure how to process the tension in the room. Kai inhaled a deep breath, and sat down on the chair behind him.

"Over my lap."

You put your purse down at his feet, and reluctantly, laid your body out over his thighs. With your ass on display in your short skirt, you felt like an idiot. Taking a fistful of the fabric, Kai pulled it up over the curve of your cheeks, revealing the cheeky lacy underwear you'd chosen that day. You could've sworn you heard some of the guys chuckling. Great.

It turned out, the punishment for disloyalty was humiliation. Public humiliation.

THWACK! THWACK! THWACK!

Kai's hand made repeated contact with your ass cheeks, setting the skin aflame. You turned your head, looking out into the faces that were watching. Winter looked disgusted, and your eyes met hers for a moment before they squeezed shut again, wincing with the pain of another spank.

You were thankful that he hadn't decided to use a tool like his belt, and the smacks were just with his large hand. Still, they burned like nobody's business and you couldn't help but whimper each time that your cheeks vibrated with his determinate slaps.

Suddenly, they ceased, and Kai's hands left your body. You were almost disappointed -- something that came as a shock to you. You realized that despite the pain and embarrassment, you were enjoying the closeness of the situation.

"Now, go sit down. We have some important things to talk about today."

Bastard. It would hurt so bad to sit on a hard wooden seat and he knew it. He knew it. Further, you knew he intended for your continued discomfort.

Rolling your lips inward, you reached for your purse, and navigated around to the only empty seat in the back. Just as you anticipated; the wood was cruel and unforgiving as you sat down, wiggling around to find a comfortable position. Everything hurt; your ass cheeks ached and the hand-shaped welts still felt hot.

Kai's eyes lingered on you. They lingered long enough that you decided you'd stay after the meeting was over and drill him about why he'd punished you.

#Kai Anderson #Kai Anderson x reader #Kai Anderson x you #AHS Cult #mydrabbles #drabbles #requests

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pommedepersephone · 1 year ago

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You Say Potato, I Say Excellent! Or blocking, accents and legacy of morality tales in ‘The Resurrectionists’ minisode PART II

Alternate title: how Aziraphale’s naivety in this episode was supposed to make you a bit outraged

I have to shout out to @bowtiepastabitch for their AMAZING historical analysis of this minisode - it prompted me to finish this long ramble that has been drifting in my notes. Anyway, I have a major obsession with the ways blocking and dialogue interplay in Good Omens - you can check out my analysis of the blocking in the flashbacks in S1. But The Resurrectionists is really something special. This got so long I am splitting it into two parts.

What we see in this minisode is a morality tale - a genre of children’s literature that was extremely popular in the early 1800s where the minisode is taking place. Catch up on the historical background in Part I.

When looking at this minisode, it is really important to look at two complementary narrative tools - Crowley’s accent and the placement of Aziraphale in relation to Crowley. Through the minisode, Crowley switches between his standard English accent and a delightful Scottish accent. But the switching isn’t random!

Scottish lines = character Demon Crowley, who moves the plot of the story along

English lines = Crowley, the moral guide leading Aziraphale

Additionally, the two of them swap sides in their blocking frequently in this episode. Their standard placement is A/R + C/L but the swap to C/R + A/L is almost the norm in this minisode.

Analyzing Blocking and Dialogue

We open in the graveyard, with Aziraphale and Crowley in their standard placement, observing the statue of Gabriel. But then they notice Elspeth, digging up a corpse. When Aziraphale approaches Elspeth to inform her that her actions are Not Good, he actually ends up swapped with Crowley and finds himself on the left because what he is doing - making moral judgments on the actions of Elspeth with no understanding of what led her here - is doing Good, not good.

The next scene finds Crowley helping Elspeth cart the corpse away from the graveyard, while the trio debate all the other ways Elspeth could make money - Aziraphale suggests running a bookshop, farming, weaving, giving the standard Good party line about hard work blah blah blah. Aziraphale remains on the left - after all, those supposed options are completely unrealistic, unobtainable professions for someone in Elspeth's socioeconomic position. They aren't remotely helpful suggestions.

Aziraphale only finds himself back on the right when he and Crowley are introduced to Wee Morag, and have some time to listen and observe the reality of their situation.

Then, off we go to complete our journey to sell the body. Aziraphale and Crowley find themselves having a debate about morality, but Aziraphale is again ON THE LEFT as he waxes poetic about the virtues of poverty - doing Good, not good again. What I loved here was you saw the clear purpose between Crowley’s two accents as he switched mid-line -

Crowley: (SC) Oh, I'm down with wicked! (EN) Anyway, is it wicked? She needed the money.

Upon reaching the lodging of Mr. Dalrymple, FRCSE, Crowley and Aziraphale take their standard places but this scene has one really important moment that I want to highlight. When they open the barrel to find the rotted corpse, the look on Crowley’s face is so telling. He often finds Aziraphale’s machinations amusing even when they are annoying, but here he looks decidedly disappointed. Aziraphale might have done Good by rendering the body unsellable, but what good did it do? The body is still been un-interred. Elspeth has wasted her energy, and has made a terrible first impression of the surgeon whom she needs to pay her for her services. It looks like Crowley wants to say something, but he stops himself and clenches his jaw. The PATIENCE he is showing to Aziraphale - this is a quality that Crowley has in SPADES but we really see him exercise it here.

After the discussion with Mr. Dalrymple, in which Aziraphale realizes the importance of dissections for educating medical students and thus leading to better care for the living, he asks the right question - why should the poor have to risk death to obtain bodies? But he let's himself get sidetracked by a blatant appeal to his emotions...

At this point, Aziraphale goes all in on body snatching being Good. Which... it still isn't because it is based on a broken system that disadvantages the poor? FOCUS, angel. He even goes as far as to offer to help Elspeth and Wee Morag in obtaining another corpse but note that again, he is on the LEFT -

Remember, Wee Morag is deeply conflicted about the morality of body snatching, and instead of explaining anything to her (like, that having your body dissected won't keep you out of heaven would be start) Aziraphale just sort of joins Elspeth in pressuring her to join in - which is pretty awful and coercive, but gee if that isn't just heaven's playbook for doing Good, not good.

So we return to the graveyard, and this is where everything goes sideways. Aziraphale spends basically this entire sequence on the left. First, he notices the ingenuity of the grave guns but fails to acknowledge the travesty of so much energy being spent on protecting wealthy corpses while the poor suffer. Then, the tragedy strikes. After Wee Morag is shot, Aziraphale wastes time justifying saving her, resulting in her dying before he can act. And after all this, after the heart break of seeing her partner die, we see Elspeth come to the logical conclusion. If body snatching is Good, then might as well take Wee Morag off to Mr. Dalrymple, right?

What shouldn't be overlooked is what takes place when Elspeth gets Wee Morag's body to Mr. Dalrymple. Because while Aziraphale is very clearly illustrating the dangers of black and white morality through religion, Dalrymple is showing that black and white morality through science is just as bad. Dalrymple has unshakable belief in the power of science and knowledge to alleviate human suffering and sees his work at Good. He cares about preventing illness, but ignore his role in perpetuating poverty - an unfortunate side effect of rigid belief systems of all shapes and sizes. He is downright cruel to Elspeth.

This is already getting real long, so we won't go into the absurdist comedy of the scene in the tomb - suffice to say that the surreal nature of Crowley's bargaining with Elspeth smacks of a fantastic tales of pacts made with the devil. It's delightfully unhinged.

The one line I think worth pointing out?

"Do I sound like a goat?"

I think this line is key in the narrative connection between the three minisodes in S2. All three flashbacks show Crowley and Aziraphale engaging in acts of deception, but they all have important differences:

In A Companion to Owls, the two work together, and they manage to pull off the trick and evade punishment.

In Nazi Zombies from Hell, Aziraphale comes up with a plan and Crowley goes along with it, and they barely manage to evade punishment.

In The Resurrectionists, Crowley comes up with a plan and Aziraphale goes along with it, and Crowley is sucked down to hell.

I think it's worth noting just how silly Crowley is in the first two minisodes. Bildad and Scottish Crowley are FUN even when dealing real heavy shit. Just a complete joy to watch. And we never see that level of silly from him again. Whatever happened in hell was clearly really bad since the next time we see him in St. James Park he is asking for holy water. He may have moments, but he is never the same.

Questions, comments, additional thoughts? Lay them on me. I'd love to dig into new lines of inquiry on this minisode because I just love it so much <3

#good omens #good omens meta #the resurrectionists #just theatre kid things #history is my jam #look the blocking has me feeling things #shades of gray

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distinctlywhumpthing · 3 months ago

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idk about you but i would literally sell my firstborn for a future/more-recovered-aiden-chapter 👀

~ 🍯

Once upon a time, the scene of Aiden waking up in the back of Leo's van full of painting tools, thinking for a second he was seeing in monochrome would not leave me alone. Three years ago today, I posted the first part of Unintentional to start telling that story <3

As a postiversary present to everyone from the beginning (seriously, this ask is from 2022), here's a timeline jump. (Don't tell Leo, he's a real stickler for order.) Thanks for sticking with me and the boys <3

More Than This

Masterlist

Snap.

Aiden huffs, twisting and grinding the broken pencil tip through the last stroke even as it threatens to tear through the paper under his force.

He should be able to do this. It’s all he ever does now. Practice speaking, practice reading, practice writing. Follow the plans for eating, for exercising, for sleeping. He shouldn’t complain, he finally knows what to be. There was a time he’d have let a routine like this support him like it was his spine. He was given a role to play but all he does is just that: pretend. He hasn’t made progress in weeks. The only thing he knows is how precisely he is failing.

Across the room, Leo stops typing. “Why don’t you take a break? You’ve been at it for a while.”

He doesn’t need to look to know that Leo will have that concerned crease between his brows, mouth turned down at the corners as he tries to assess what the problem is this time. Aiden is nothing but problems.

“I’m fine,” he mutters but of course Leo is coming over. Would have no matter what he’d said.

Leo fills a glass at the sink and turns to lean against the counter across the island as he sips it. Aiden doesn’t want to see whatever look Leo is giving him that will just crumble his resolve. The triangles and circles on the page blur in and out of focus as he blinks back tears. Tears from the strain of making his damaged, useless brain process not-even-fucking-letters for the last few hours. Nothing else.

When Leo finishes his water, he fills a glass for Aiden, slides it in front of him. “I’ll do some work with you then.”

“No.” He definitely can’t look at Leo now.

Leo takes a measured pause.

The apology is on the tip of Aiden’s tongue but he keeps his jaw locked. Harder to stave off are the physical reactions. His body wants to shrink away, to flinch and hide and beg and be hurt and held. He tightens his fist around the pencil, pulling it into his lap to hide that he’s shaking.

“I know you want to make progress but it’s okay to take breaks.” Leo makes his voice gentle, tiptoeing through the minefield between them. "It’s not going to send you back, you’ve been working hard.”

“Nnnno. I…mmm—” He shakes his head as if he could shake off the rising frustration coming up to tighten around his temples, his throat, his chest. He’s been trying to avoid the stuttered conjunction between every word, always made worse by times like this. Harrison guaranteed he would never get out of a painful situation too quickly.

Leo steps up to the other side of the island, leaning onto his elbows to lower himself into Aiden’s line of sight. “C’mon…”

He shakes his head, can’t trust himself to speak coherently. He’s being stubborn and stupid. Harrison would have threatened him by now if he hadn’t already backhanded him. He never dreamed of pulling something like this back with Archer or the Songs.

“Alright, hon.” Leo gave him one last long-suffering smile and turned back to the sink.

Aiden swallowed a sob, furiously blinking away hot tears prickling his eyes. Leo was never going to push him more than a little. Lead him to whatever line he’d drawn or found, offer to help him step over it, but be the first to abandon the idea if it was too much.

“Why?”

Leo shut off the tap. “Pardon?” He dries his hands on the bright salmon-pink tea towel threaded through the pull for the dishwasher. Delia says I shouldn’t be so allergic to real colors, he explained when Aiden pulled it out from the perfectly folded stack of muted earth-toned cotton in the cabinet.

“Why?” Aiden repeats, voice strained by the tightening in his chest. “I…don’t…mmm—” He squeezes his eyes shut, pushes past the stupid mumbling. “Why?”

“Why what, hon?” Frustratingly calm and earnest, so eager to help in whatever he can.

Aiden wants to scream. It’s not fair, it isn’t Leo’s fault, but whatever has been sparked rages inside him beyond his control. “Why…do…mmm…mmm—” He mashes his lips together, forcing his lungs to fill with air. He will not start crying.

Leo tilts his head to the side. “Why do I…help?” Aiden shakes his head, huffing out a breath that is perilously close to a sob. “Why do I…care?”

It puts a rock right in the middle of his throat. He lifts his chin a fraction.

Defiant despite having literally no ground to stand on, Harrison used to taunt when Aiden was strung up on his table.

“Because I do. I do care about you…”

Aiden’s heart skitters in his chest. He looks away, all the wind gone from his sails because he’s as easily swayed as a feather. No. He won’t be weak, pathetic, and needy. He’s angry right now. Frustrated and bitter.

“There’s no one reason—”

“I…don’t—mmm—mmm—” He clenches his teeth together until they creak in the back of his jaw, blinking away more of the hot tears that refuse to fucking stop pooling in his eyes.

Leo stands there calmly, crease between his brows confirming that he doesn’t like what he’s seeing. He’s worried. Always so worried and concerned and caring.

Because he cares.

Aiden stands, pushing away from the island and Leo. “I-I-I-I—” God, he wants to break something when it's like this. A wall he is just banging his head against, all the while becoming less coherent.

“Breathe,” Leo says, slowly rounding the end of the island toward him. “It will come. Just—”

“No. I…mmm…don’t…w-w-mmm—Fuck!” He slams his fist down on the counter.

Leo doesn’t even flinch.

Why should he? Of course he wouldn’t flinch.

Aiden moves away from him, starts pacing back and forth. He wishes he could run, pound his feet into pavement until it dulls whatever is going on inside his head.

“Aiden—“

“Not…mmm’my name.”

Leo’s expression falters.

It’s a low blow. Aiden knows it, they both know it. All it does is deepen the disparity between them. Making him all the more desperate as Leo regains his composure.

“If you want a different name—if you want me to stop calling you that, all you have to do is tell me.”

How can Leo be even calmer than before?

A sob escapes Aiden’s throat before he can swallow it. He turns away, circling the island to put it between them again. He doesn’t want Leo trying to comfort him. He doesn’t want it and he doesn’t deserve it.

“I don’t want you to keep the name just because at the time you thought it was my place to give it. That’s not how I saw it then and that’s certainly not how I see things now.”

Shame is oil on the fire, it only burns hotter. “Doesn’t…mmm’matter…”

“It does to me. I’ve never seen you as a Companion or treated you like one. I don’t expect anything, you know that.”

“Fuck…you.” He surprises himself but pushes on anyway. Even steps forward so they’re closer, eye-to-eye, bold with the slab of stone between them. “That…doesn’t—doesn’t mmm’make a…difference. Doesn’t mmm’make..mmm’me…different—”

“Wait, that’s not what I’m saying—”

“You—”

“I didn’t mean—”

He raises his voice to speak over Leo. “I’m’mmm…that’s…what-what…I am…”

Leo waits to make sure he’s finished this time. The stretching silence makes his shouting seem ridiculous and Aiden burns under the unearned patience, the undeserved consideration.

“I know,” Leo finally says.

“If you…don’t…mmm’w-w-want…this…why?”

Leo’s face falls and Aiden almost goes with it. He backs away from the gaping hole in his resolve. One misstep and he’ll be at the bottom of it, down on his knees. Putting a chink in Leo’s composure is no kind of feat. It only makes him feel that much closer to coming apart entirely.

“Please,” Leo moves around the island, trying to get onto the same side as Aiden again. “It’s not that black and white—”

“Mmm…yes…it-is.”

“But—”

“You-you…mmm…hate…it—” He points at Leo. Anyone else would have broken his accusatory finger. “You…hate…this…mmm’what…I am’mmm—” He backs away shaking his head.

“Wait, no. Aiden, that’s not what I meant. You misunderstood—”

“No!” He wants to hit the ceiling. Better yet, put his whole body through a wall and get the fuck away from here. From these feelings. Leo wouldn’t follow if he went up to his room. Not even if he slammed the door and started breaking things. But he can’t. He’s only acting brave enough to set this fire, he could never leave the blaze unattended. Just like he’s only acting like he’s recovering into a real person.

It’s all just acting. None of it is real.

Why?

He’s trapped and boiling, glaring at the charcoal-grey cabinets. He once put his fist through another one. A honeyed pine varnish with dark grain, an arched frame around the flimsy middle panel of each one. Hardly took any force to slam through it but he put his whole weight behind his fist anyway.

Of course, Leo’s damn cabinets are solid wood.

He cries out, turning away from Leo to slide down the cabinet he hasn’t so much as dented, cradling his hand against his chest. No point holding anything back now. He’s sobbing by the time he hits the floor, curling up tightly.

When Leo comes over, Aiden’s reaction slips out before he can catch it. He shrinks back, sobs turning to whimpers. “Please…mmm’sorry, mmm’sorry…mmm’good—” He can almost see himself from above, staring up at Leo with those distrustful, unblinking eyes. Lips still moving through the shapes of pleas he’s crying too hard to vocalize.

He hates that less-than-person. How little it controls and how much power it still holds. His shameless meltdown only puts him back exactly where he belongs. He’ll never be anything different.

“I know, I know. You are good.” Leo kneels carefully, holding his hand out, palm up, between them. “You don’t have to be sorry, it’s all good.”

Aiden shakes his head, gulping in air between sobs, knuckles throbbing. “I didn’t—didn’t mmm’mean…” He didn’t know if the apology was for trying to ruin Leo’s kitchen or for exploding or for falling back on old habits.

“I know, it’s okay. We’re good. Come on, let me give you a hand?”

He swallows and tries to take a deep breath. Tries to compose himself, tries to get his mind to stop spinning through replaying and catastrophizing. He just wants—He needs—

“I—I used…t’be mmm’more than…this,” he blurts.

Leo stops waiting for Aiden to take his hand and slides in next to him against the cabinets instead. They sit in silence long enough that Aiden starts to wonder if Leo even heard him but Leo finally says, “I know.”

Aiden bites his lip, afraid to look at Leo but he can’t look too closely at his hand or he’ll draw unwarranted concern.

“You don’t have to defend yourself to me,” Leo says after another long pause. “I care about you. I’m here for all of it and I’m not going anywhere. I think maybe you know that or we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

“Sorry,” he mumbles.

“It's okay, hon. We're figuring things out as we go."

Leo always means what he says so Aiden looks up, it’s for a different kind of reassurance. Leo gives him his half-smile, reaching out to squeeze the back of his neck. Goosebumps run down Aidne’s spine and he drops his head onto his knees, hiding his face. Leo wraps an arm around his back.

Aiden has long since stopped preparing himself for Leo to pull away before he’s ready by the time Leo says, “So, how about that break?”

He lifts his head from Leo’s shoulder, trying to gauge what he means.

Leo pulls him to his feet. “Come on, let’s go for a drive.”

And his heart falls.

Masterlist

@octopus-reactivated @maracujatangerine @nicolepascaline @whumpy-writings @cracked-porcelain-princess

@meetmeinhellcroutons @briars7 @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight @jo-doe-seeking-inspo @neuro-whump

@painsandconfusion @wolfeyedwitch @skyhawkwolf @haro-whumps @onlybadendings

@peachy-panic @fillthedarkvoid @rabass @crystalquartzwhump @dont-touch-my-soup

@mylifeisonthebookshelf @hold-him-down @guachipongo @creetchure @leyswhumpdump

@aseasonwithclarasblog @catawhumpus @magziemakeswhatever @espresso-depresso-system @pigeonwhumps

@batfacedliar-yetagain @whumpinthepot @dustypinetree @whump-in-progress @pirefyrelight

@whumps-and-bumps @i-eat-worlds @hellodecisionparalysis @heartfullofhoney (og asker?)

#bbu #bbu adjacent #recovery whump #dubious caretaker #petulant whumpee #pet whump #box boy whump #internalized ableism tw

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jawlineexerciserformen · 1 month ago

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#Jaw Strengthener #Jaw Exercise Ball #Best Jaw Exerciser #Jawline Exerciser #Jaw Exerciser #Jaw Workout Tool #Jaw Shaper #Jawline Tool #Jawline Shaper Tool #Jaw Exerciser For Men #Jawline Exerciser For Men #Jawline Exerciser Tool #Jaw Trainer #Jawline Trainer

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mumblingsage · 3 months ago

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I think I've recommended it in passing a few times, but writers seeking more craft books: I would run, not walk, in the direction of Matthew Salesses's Craft in the Real World. It's one of the most exciting books on writing that I've read in years (up there with Ron Carlson Writes a Story, Samuel Delaney's The Jewel-Hinged Jaw, Kim Addonizio's The Poet's Companion and June Casagrande's It Was the Best of Sentences, It Was the Worst of Sentences). I think it might be most helpful if you've already read some other books on craft--it's a sort of 201-level response to 101-level advice, and if you aren't familiar with the 101 advice you might miss some of the significance. But parts like the revision exercises definitely stand on their own.

Salesses re-evaluates and explores a lot of common writing ""rules"" with the understanding of how culturally contingent they are, and how this is a disservice to writers and readers from backgrounds and cultures outside the presumed "norm." At the same time, he offers modifications of the tools and new techniques/new ways of thinking of old techniques. I'm in the middle of his re-definitions of terms. For instance, Salesses recommends looking at Characterization as "What makes one character different from everyone else." Character + Story Arcs are "What changes or fails to change." Craft itself is "a set of expectations."

Lightbulb moments everywhere.

(While I'm sending out book advice: for less 'exciting' but super solid grounding in techniques designed for nonfiction but applicable broadly, try anything by Roy Peter Clark. Ursula K. Le Guin's Steering the Craft is short but rich; it's one of my first recommendations to writers just getting started on reading craft advice. In the Palm of Your Hand is another poetry workbook that has advice on vocabulary, detail, and narrative that applies well to fiction too. For anyone looking into self-publishing, it's out of print and parts are dated but if you can secure a used copy through your library or secondhand sales, Catherine Ryan Howard's Self-Printed: The Sane Person's Guide to Self-Publishing is hugely informative and amusingly written.)

#my tip to all practicing writers is to read at least 3-4 books on craft a year #check them out and your library and buy the ones that resonate #read poetry workbooks even if you don't write poetry--they're great for learning how to use sentence structure and word choice #plus some poems actually have fantastic dramatic arcs any story writer could learn from #on writing #writing advice #book recs

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pseudowho · 5 months ago

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heyy!! been super addicted to your fics off late, any advice for me as a budding writer?

Heeeyyy! I'm sure I've made a few writing advice posts before, but let's see...

Read more. I'm serious. Read everything and anything. Access loads of media forms. It's the best brain growth tool around. I'm quite certain that my writing brain has come from the constant fucking reading. And not just fanfiction.

Show, don't tell. You should spend more time implying things to the reader, instead of telling. Don't say someone is angry; say their shoulders are set in a hard line, their jaw twitching, and carrying an air of venom. Showing, instead of telling, sets so much more atmosphere.

Trust your readers. They should be able to read between the lines to see things you're not abjectly telling them.

Write even if you think what you're writing is bad. Don't stop because you think it's not good enough, or you will never get better.

Constructive criticism is very good. If you find someone you trust and are GENUINELY open to feedback without getting upset or taking offence, there's a lot you could learn.

Imitate. Find someone you like and try to imitate a style. I'm not saying copy what they've written. Just note features in their work and try to emulate it. It's a good writing exercise.

I think that's all off the top of my head. Thank you so much for reading my work. For writing advice, I actually advise talking to @mrhaitch who is actually qualified to teach Creative Writing. He welcomes Inboxes, and is an actual clever clogs.

Mwah 😘

-- Haitch xxx

#pseudowho #pseudowho answers you

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hyperfixationsporfavor · 1 year ago

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The Pearl Necklace (Naoya Zenin x Reader)

Author’s Note: I feel like I haven’t written a fic in forever so I’m trying to force myself to write. I’ve had this idea of Naoya’s mother being a sacrificial maternal figure for a while. I’m not sure how well the idea has been executed but any feedback is appreciated.

Warnings: domestic abuse, verbal abuse, sexism, Naoya Zenin

Naoya Zenin was as temperamental as an early spring day, warm one moment but cool another.

Your marriage had been arranged by your families before either of you could walk. So the pearls from his maternal line, passed down for generations, would find themselves secured around your neck. They were like your husband, beautiful but cold.

He was gone most days, off on a mission or training the Hei. You were often left to yourself, something that only increased in pain as time went on. The other members of the family kept their distance, not wanting to be caught playing with the prince’s favorite toy. Ogi’s wife, you didn’t even know her name, would occasionally school you in etiquette, how to carry yourself as the wife of the future head of the clan.

Her eyes occasionally wandered towards your collarbone where the pearls rested and she sighed, remembering something from long ago.

The rare times when Naoya would show affection towards you was after sex. He’d allow you to lay your head on his chest while you’d dared to rest against him. Most of the time he’d talk and you’d listen, eager to hear about events going on outside of the walls of the Zenin estate. He told you about a mission he had just returned from, exercising a grade 1 curse for a family in Osaka.

“The younger brother was killed in a car accident so he came back to finish off the older brother.”

“That’s awful.”

“Well, it’s done.”

You thought of something, deciding to use it as an opportunity to get to know your husband more.

“What are your brothers like?”

Without warning Naoya flung you off of him in disgust. You fell back and froze up when he predatorily leaned over you.

“You’d be so much prettier if you learned to shut your mouth.”

Ogi’s wife noticed your deflated mood the next day during your etiquette lessons.

“(Name)?” she asked.

“Yes?”

“Did something happen between you and Naoya yesterday?”

“Why?”

“Jinichi told me he was in a foul mood this morning during training. He nearly broke Ranta’s arm.”

You sighed. “I don’t know what happened. All I did was ask about his brothers. “I’ve rarely seen them and I was curious how they got along.”

She glared at you in annoyance. “Silence is more becoming of a woman.”

“Is that what you tell your daughters?” you pointedly asked.

She clenched her jaw.

“I��ll be letting Naobito know about this display of selfishness from you.”

“My brothers, they’ve been a source of grief to me.”

Naoya had pushed you to the ground, and then he picked you up and held you close. “When I was a child they conspired against me. They almost killed me with a cursed tool and my mother protected me by taking the blow. She bled out on top of me.”

"Your father said it was a curse user."

"It was better for it to be an outside source than an inside one."

You thought of the little boy who had lost his mother. “Do you miss her?”

He doesn’t answer your question, because he’s done talking about it.

Suddenly the pearl necklace feels heavier, forcing you to sink further into him.

Naoya is angry again. This time it’s because he’s found a letter you had hidden under your mattress.

It read:

Dear (Name),

How are things? It’s been a while since we last spoke. I hope you’ve given more thought to the offer to join the faculty at Jujutsu Tech. I know the situation you’re dealing with at home but I think it would be a great way for you to get back in the field. Kusakabe would love to have the extra help dealing with the students. Please let me know.

Sincerely,

Utahime

“What do you think you're doing working without consulting me?” he angrily asked.

Your blood boiled.

You knew that he had someone search through your things and the idea of him monitoring your every move made you see red.

“Utahime approached me when we visited the school last month and told me there was an opening. I never said yes.”

“Well tell that conniving bitch no. I don’t want you to end up with some disgusting scar like her.”

One night you had had enough. Naoya had insulted you over some meaningless mistake. You hadn’t folded his shirt the way he wanted it.

“Useless idiot.”

So you slapped him, and when he reached out to grab you his hand caught the pearls and with a harsh tug the necklace snapped.

The two of you looked at the mess around you and laughed, then you fucked, and fought and laughed again.

The End.

#naoya x reader #naoya zenin #jjk x reader #jjk fanfic #hyperfixationsporfavor

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writtenjewels · 4 months ago

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Reflect

Shepard finally had the chance to look at himself in the mirror. The image staring back at him made him recoil in shock. Was this him? He tilted his head to one side, raised an eyebrow, scrunched up his nose. The image copied his every move. Still, he was having trouble reconciling the reflection to himself. What he stared at was a stranger.

There were lines in his skin. Not the kind that came from wrinkles, though that would have been strange. These lines were more like fissures splitting his skin apart. Each line had a faint glow. What the hell had Cerberus done to him?

His hair and beard proved he had been out for a long time. He had grown a beard, when usually anything more than stubble would bother him. His hair had grown out, too, all the dye long gone. Shepard brushed loose strands away from his eyes. At least those were the same gray color he remembered.

He stepped away from the mirror, turned on his heels, and headed to the captain's quarters. He knew the mission was important and he needed to get started, but he couldn't do that until he felt like himself. The first order of business was to shave off this beard.

Shepard felt much better once his jaw was smooth again. His hair needed to go next; the only person on the ship he trusted to do that was Doctor Chakwas. He found her working at her desk in sick bay.

“Commander,” she greeted. “Good, I was hoping I wouldn't have to track you down. With all the chaos, I haven't been able to run a physical on you.”

“Could you help me with this when you're done?” he asked, running his fingers meaningfully through his hair.

“I'm not a barber, but I'll do what I can.” She ran a scanner over him and typed a few things on her omni-tool. “You're in good health, Commander,” she assured him. “Your implants have taken and Cerberus has taken care to stimulate your muscles to prevent atrophy. I would still recommend some light exercises.”

Shepard nodded along as she spoke. He hesitated, before asking the question that plagued him since he saw his reflection. “How much did they change me, doc?”

“As I said, you now have some implants and synthetics. It was unavoidable with the damage you suffered.” Chakwas gave him a somber look. “But I have compared your past medical records with what I'm seeing now, and you are unchanged on the most important, fundamental level: your mind.”

“How can you be sure?” Shepard challenged.

“First of all, you're asking me that question.” Chakwas's look shifted into more of a smile. “If Cerberus manipulated your mind, you wouldn't worry about it. Second, the hair.” Shepard raised an eyebrow at her. Now there was an amused light in the doctor's eyes. “I remember how you liked to keep it short and dyed, even as we were chasing after Saren.”

The reminder embarrassed him. He knew how silly it was to care about something like this, but growing up like he did, Shepard didn't have a lot of control over his environment. He moved when his parents were stationed, and never got to have lasting friendships. Dyeing his hair was one of the few things he had a choice in back then.

And he still cared about it now. It was small, and trivial, and really didn't matter. But it was important to him. Shepard took some comfort in that.

#mass effect #mshepard

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lifeofpriya · 2 months ago

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jack does actually deserve the world so can can i request from hugging prompt 7 and 8 please which is Shh, it's alright. I'm here and because they need to be calmed down and hugs reduce their anxiety tysm lovely

you got it, lovely! 😊 please be aware though, this fic does contain depictions of anxiety and anxiety attacks, so reader discretion is STRONGLY advised

A Calm in the Storm

wc: 3.0k

"Babe, slow down," you murmur, gently placing a hand on Jack's trembling shoulder. His eyes are squeezed shut, his breaths coming in short, shallow gasps. You can see the vein in his forehead pulsing, a silent drumbeat to the chaos within him.

Jack is no stranger to the spotlight. His racket swings have captured hearts and headlines alike, his name synonymous with grace and power on the court. But here, in the quiet sanctuary of his hotel room, he is as fragile as the finest porcelain.

You've seen him like this before—less frequently now, but it still hits you hard, a reminder of the storms he battles behind those intoxicating hazel eyes. His body is a canvas of tension, each muscle a testament to the turmoil raging within. The room seems to shrink around you, the air thick with unspoken fears and racing thoughts.

You guide him to the bed, coaxing him to sit. His knees buckle slightly, and you catch him, feeling the tremor of his anxiety resonate through his lean frame. You sit beside him, the mattress sighing softly under your weight. His eyes stay closed, but you can feel him searching for calm in the darkness behind his lids.

"Remember the breathing exercise?" you ask, voice a gentle ripple in the stillness. You've learned them together, these little tools to tame the tempest in his chest. "In through your nose, count to five."

Jack nods, ever so slightly, a nod that says, "I know, I know," but also, "I can't, not yet." His hands are clenched, fists around invisible fears. You take one in yours, feeling the heat of his panic, the rapid pulse under the skin.

"It's okay," you whisper, stroking the back of his hand with your thumb. "We'll do it together." You inhale deeply, filling your lungs with the scent of him—sweat and cologne and something uniquely Jack—and let the air out slowly, watching the rise and fall of his chest like a silent metronome.

Jack's eyes flutter open, and for a moment, you're lost in their depths—the way the gold flecks seem to swirl in the hazel maelstrom. He looks at you, really looks at you, and you know he sees you—his rock, his safe space in a world that often feels like quicksand.

"In…two…three…four…five," you count softly, feeling his hand in yours begin to loosen, the tension in his chest ease ever so slightly. His breathing follows your lead, matching your rhythm like a dance only the two of you know.

The room is a canvas of shadows, the only light coming from the glow of the city outside the windows. It paints Jack's face in a soft, ethereal way, highlighting the sharp angles of his jaw and the furrow in his brow. You've seen this furrow a hundred times, a silent plea for the world to stop spinning so fast.

You lean closer, the scent of his fear a palpable presence between you. It's a smell that's become all too familiar—sharp and metallic, like the aftertaste of a storm. You whisper the numbers again, your voice a lullaby in the quiet. "Hold it…two…three…four…five." His breath shudders in your ear, the sound a stark contrast to the steady beat of your heart.

You feel the weight of his gaze, and when he opens his eyes again, the storm inside has calmed to a gentle rain. He looks at you with a mix of gratitude and something deeper, something that makes your chest tighten. You know he's fighting—fighting for air, fighting for control, fighting to be present.

Jack's hand relaxes further in yours, his fingers curling around yours. He takes a deep, shaky breath, and you can almost feel the tension in his chest start to unravel. The furrow in his brow eases, and the grip of his anxiety loosens, if only slightly.

"Shh, it's alright, I'm here," you murmur, the words a warm embrace around the tremble in his voice. The room is a cocoon, the muffled sounds of the bustling city outside a stark contrast to the intimate battle being waged within.

Jack's eyes search yours, a silent question, a silent plea. You nod, a silent promise that you'll be his anchor in this storm. You lean closer, your breath mingling with his, a shared rhythm that's become a lifeline in moments like these. "Exhale," you whisper, your breath a soft caress against his cheek.

You count the seconds as the air leaves his lungs, painting the silence with a delicate pattern of sound. "Good," you murmur when his breath finally evens out. You feel his shoulders drop a fraction, the weight of his anxiety lessening. The city's glow through the windows is a reminder of the world outside, but in here, it's just you and him, two souls intertwined in the quiet war against his mind.

The room is a sanctuary, a bastion against the noise and the lights, the expectations and the pressure. You've painted the walls with patience, filled the air with understanding, and laid the floor with empathy. It's a place where Jack can be himself without the armor of his public persona.

You lean closer, your breath a gentle whisper against his neck. "Jack, can you focus on my voice?" You ask, your words a lifeline thrown into the turbulent sea of his thoughts.

Jack nods, a subtle movement that sends a rush of relief through you. You start to speak, your voice a soothing melody that weaves through the tension in the air. You talk of the first time you watched him play, the awe that filled you as he danced across the court, the way his racket seemed to be an extension of his body. You recall the way the crowd's roar was a living, breathing entity that fed his spirit, how he seemed to come alive under the gleaming lights.

But you don't just speak of the glamour and the glory. You talk about the quiet moments you've shared—mornings spent with tea and the gentle hum of the world waking up, the way he laughs when you tell terrible jokes, the quiet confessions whispered in the dark of night. You remind him of the person you see when the lights dim, the person who isn't a professional tennis player, but a human being with hopes and fears and dreams that stretch beyond the confines of a court.

Jack's breathing slows, each inhale a deliberate act of defiance against the panic trying to claim him. The shadows on the wall seem to retreat, the room growing lighter with each exhale. His hand in yours is a silent declaration of trust, a bridge spanning the chasm of his anxiety.

You continue to talk, your voice the steady beat to which his heart begins to synchronize. You tell him about the time you watched the sunset together, the sky a canvas of orange and pink that mirrored the blush in his cheeks when he admitted his fears to you. You remind him of the way you laughed when he stumbled over his own feet, not because of the fall, but because of the way he picked himself up, unfazed by the world's scrutiny.

Jack's eyes are on yours, a silent thank you, a silent "I love you." You don't need the words; they're etched in the lines of his face, the curve of his lips, the softness in his gaze.

"Let's try standing," you suggest, your voice a gentle guide in the quiet symphony of their shared breaths. "Take it slow."

Jack nods, and you help him to his feet, his body leaning into yours for balance, your fingers entwined with his, a silent pact of support. His legs are unsteady, like a newborn fawn taking its first steps, but with each inhale, he gains strength.

You guide him to the balcony, the cool evening air kissing your faces. The city below is a tapestry of lights, a pulsing, living organism that seems so far away. Here, amidst the whispers of the night, you both stand, the concrete balcony a lifeline connecting you to the earth, to reality.

Jack's hand is a vise around yours, his knuckles white with the effort of staying present. You lean against the railing, the steel cool against your back, and pull him closer, your free hand resting gently on his chest, feeling the thunder of his heart slow to a trot.

"Look at the stars," you whisper, guiding his gaze upward. The night sky is a vast expanse of velvet, pierced by the distant twinkles of a thousand suns. "They're just like you—bright and powerful, even when it feels like the world's against them."

Jack's eyes follow your finger, tracing the constellations you've pointed out to him countless times before. His breathing is still erratic, but the panic's grip loosens a touch with each inhale. The stars seem to shiver in the sky, as if even they are holding their breath, watching over this intimate battle.

You start to count the stars, not in any particular order, just the ones you can see, the ones that catch your eye. "One, two, three…" Your voice is a soft serenade to the night, a gentle rhythm that coaxes Jack's focus away from the chaos within.

"Those stars," you say, your gaze following the arc of Orion's Belt, "they're always there, no matter what. Just like I am."

Jack's grip on your hand tightens, and you feel a shiver run through him, but it's not from fear this time. It's a shiver of recognition, of comfort, of the realization that no matter how dark the night, how fierce the storm, you're both under the same sky.

"One more deep breath," you say, your voice a soothing balm in the quiet. "In…two…three…four…five…out…two…three…four…five." The rhythm of your breathing becomes the metronome of his heartbeat, the steady pulse of your voice the lullaby of his sanity.

Jack's eyes never leave yours as he breathes, the stars above reflected in the pools of hazel, a silent testament to his struggle. With each exhale, you feel the tension in his hand ease, his breathing synchronizing with yours. The world around you fades away, leaving only the two of you, a silent dance of support and love in the face of his personal tempest.

"Tell me about the match tomorrow," you say, redirecting his thoughts gently. "What's your strategy?"

Jack's grip on your hand relaxes slightly, and he takes a moment to gather his thoughts. His eyes refocus on the horizon, where the last vestiges of daylight cling to the sky. "I've been working on my backhand," he says finally, his voice a little stronger. "I think it could be the difference."

You nod, encouraging him to continue. His words are like drops of water in a desert, a lifeline of normalcy in the tension-filled air. "And how about your serve?" you ask, knowing how much pride he takes in his powerful serve, the one that has become his signature move.

Jack's chest rises with a deep inhale, and he lets out a slow exhale. "It's been good in practice," he says, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. "I've been working on my accuracy. I want to keep my opponents guessing."

You squeeze his hand in silent affirmation, feeling his pulse steady against your palm. The conversation shifts to the match, the strategies, the rivalries—each word a stepping stone leading him away from the edge of panic. The breeze whispers across the balcony, carrying with it the distant sound of the city's heartbeat. It's a rhythm that seems to sync with the two of you, a reminder that life goes on, unyielding and relentless, yet filled with moments of peace if you know where to find them.

Jack's voice is a soft rumble, his English accent a comforting lilt as he speaks of his love for the game, his passion for the challenge. He talks of his opponents with a mix of respect and competitive fire, his eyes lighting up as he describes their strengths and his plans to outwit his opponent. The stars above seem to flicker in approval, the cool night air a balm against the heat of his anxiety.

As he speaks, you feel his muscles loosen, his breathing become more natural. You can almost see the cobwebs of fear retreating from the corners of his mind, the shadows of doubt fading away. He's no longer a man lost in a storm, but a warrior preparing for battle, his gaze on the horizon, his thoughts sharp and focused.

You lean your head against his shoulder, your breath warm against his neck. "You're going to be amazing," you murmur, your voice a gentle caress. "You always are."

Jack's eyes meet yours, the gold specks in his hazel irises glowing with a newfound determination. "Thanks," he says, the word a warm exhalation of relief. "I couldn't do it without you."

You smile, the corners of your eyes crinkling with the sincerity of your feelings. "You're the one playing the match, babe," you remind him, "but I'll be here, cheering you on from the player's box."

Jack's smile widens, a glimpse of the charisma that lights up the tennis courts. He takes a deep breath, the kind that fills your lungs and chases away the last of the shadows. "You always know what to say," he says, his voice a warm embrace around the quiet night.

The city below stretches out like a glittering sea, its waves of light pulsing in time with the rhythm of his heart. The air is cool, the scent of rain a whisper on the breeze. You feel the tension in his hand give way to something softer, something that feels suspiciously like hope.

Jack's gaze shifts from the horizon to you, a question in his eyes. "What would I do without you?" he murmurs.

You look back at him, your eyes filled with the quiet strength that's become a beacon in his tumultuous world. "You'd find a way," you reply, a hint of a smile playing on your lips. "You're stronger than you think."

Jack nods, his gaze drifting back to the stars. His thumb traces patterns on the back of your hand, a silent conversation that speaks volumes about his feelings. "Maybe," he says, the doubt lingering in his voice like a ghost.

You brought him in for a reassuring embrace, his body still leaning into yours, seeking the comfort of your solid presence. Your arms wrap around him, pulling him closer as if you could absorb his fears into your own being. You whisper sweet nothings into his ear, the gentle sound of your voice a balm to the tempest within him.

"You're not alone," you breathe, your words a warm current in the cool night air. "We're in this together."

Jack's head rests on your shoulder, his heartbeat a steady drum against your chest. His arms tighten around you, and you feel the weight of his anxiety slowly lifting, like a fog dissipating with the first light of dawn.

You both stand there, the balcony a testament to your silent strength, the stars above a reminder of the vastness of the universe and the smallness of your worries. You stroke his back in a soothing pattern, feeling the tension ease from his muscles, the tremble in his breath slow to a gentle hush.

"Let's go inside," you suggest, your voice the softest of whispers. "You need rest for tomorrow."

Jack nods, his eyes still on the stars, but the panic has subsided. You guide him back into the room, the shadows embracing him gently as he crosses the threshold. The air inside feels warmer, more inviting than before.

The city's pulse is a distant hum, a gentle reminder that life goes on, unceasing in its rhythm. You help him to the bed, his legs still a bit wobbly, his breathing still not relatively even. But he's coming back, piece by piece, like a puzzle finding its form.

You sit with him, your hands interlocked, and the quiet becomes a cocoon around you both. You don't need to speak; the warmth of your touch is conversation enough. You've learned the language of his anxiety, the subtle signs that scream without words. The way his thumb taps against yours, the slight hitch in his breath when he's trying to hold it together.

Jack lies back, his eyes still on the ceiling. You can see the exhaustion etched in the lines of his face, a stark contrast to the fiery determination that lights his gaze when he's on the court. You sit beside him, not too close to suffocate, not too far to abandon.

"Would you stay with me?" he whispers, his voice a thread of vulnerability in the quiet. "Just 'til I fall asleep?"

You nod, the wordless answer to his unspoken plea. You lay down beside him, your body curving around his like a second skin, his hand still entwined with yours. The bed is a sanctuary, the sheets a soft embrace that whispers of rest and reprieve.

You let the silence stretch out between you, the rhythm of your breathing becoming one. Jack's eyes are on the ceiling, tracing the patterns of light and shadow that play across it like a silent sonnet. You can feel the warmth of his body, the steady rise and fall of his chest, the slowing of his heartbeat.

You pull the blankets up to his chin, the fabric whispering a promise of comfort. His eyes finally close, the weight of the world slipping away like the last vestiges of the setting sun. You lay your head on the pillow beside his, your breaths matching his, a silent pact of presence and protection.

The city's glow filters through the curtains, casting a soft, dappled light on the bed. It's a gentle embrace, a soft reminder that the world outside is vast and full of possibilities, yet here, in this moment, all that matters is the sanctuary of their shared space.

#jack draper #jack draper imagine #jack draper imagines #jack draper fic #jack draper fics #jack draper x reader #tennis imagine #tennis imagines #tennis fic #tennis fics

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