#yes i repeated 'more than anything' on loop the whole day

[awallflowerdraws]

i'll shelter and adore you more than anything

[nadvs]

hi I’m current obsessed with swte universe 😭

would you write a blurb showing us how rafe and the reader dealt with the pregnancy? Specially after finding out it was twins. Like her mood changes and how Rafe dealt with all of that. Oh and if you could also show us about the day the babies were born 🥹🎉

omg thank you so much 🥹 yes of course!! i wrote a little pregnancy blurb and will do the birth story separately 🥰

based on this fic

» au masterlist

rafe is already protective as hell. but when he finds out she’s pregnant, it reaches a new level. he doesn’t even let her try to reach something off of the top shelf in the kitchen.

“i need to be active,” she says to him as he hands her the pan she was trying to grab. “it’s not good for me or the baby if i don’t move around.”

“then take walks,” rafe says, towering over her. “but if you need to reach something, get me.”

“what if you’re not home?”

“then wait for me to get home.”

she rolls her eyes, irritated but mostly endeared that he’s being so careful.

she gets morning sickness. and afternoon sickness. and night sickness. every time she retches in the bathroom and rafe is home to hear it, she comes out to see him standing by the door, a concerned wince on his face and a glass of water in his hand.

“you okay?” he asks.

she just shakes her head no and takes the glass.

when she reaches eight weeks, they go for her first ultrasound. she can tell something’s up when the technician who’s scanning her stomach seems to straighten up a few minutes in, then continues to take photos.

“is everything okay?” she asks nervously.

“yup,” the tech says. a few gruelling minutes pass by before she turns the screen towards her and rafe.

“i just wanted to confirm before telling you,” the tech explains, “i’m detecting two heartbeats. you’re having twins.”

they speechlessly watch the black and grey screen, following the tech’s finger as she points at a faint blinking.

“there’s one…” she says, then moves, “and two.”

“two,” rafe repeats. he’s still wrapping his head around the fact that he just saw his baby’s heartbeat, let alone two. he meets eyes with his girlfriend, both of them astonished.

a smile grows on his face, his warm hand wrapping around hers. but she’s still in shock.

“w-wow,” she stutters. “you’re sure?”

“positive,” the tech replies.

“i guess, um,” she says, “i guess my doctor will talk to me about it, but is there a higher risk of complications?”

all she’s been reading about is general, common, one-baby pregnancy. this is throwing her for a loop.

“it’s different for every woman,” she tells her, “but you’ll probably have more appointments than you expected just because doctors prefer to monitor multiple births closer.”

“okay,” she says. “thank you.”

“i’ll be sending the images to your doctor and she’ll follow up,” she says, handing her a wad of paper towels. “congratulations. i’ll give you some space to clean the gel and you can head out the same way you came in.”

the tech leaves the room. she meets her boyfriend’s eyes, still unable to crack a smile.

“you okay?” rafe asks.

“i’m…” she begins. “i can’t believe this. this whole time, i’ve been picturing… but there’s… there’s two?”

“there’s two,” he says. he can see how anxious she is. “i’ll be with you through it all.”

“i’m gonna get huge,” she says, shaking her head as she wipes the gel off her stomach.

“i hope so,” he replies. “future nba stars in there. they need to be tall.”

“god,” she says. “twins. why’d you do this to me?”

“i’m efficient.”

she meets his eyes, finally smiling.

“i’m glad you’re so happy,” she tells him.

he looks at her with soft eyes. he knows she’s still harboring a fear that rafe will treat their child like she was treated by her father. he’s learned not to take it personally. but even if he did, he’s determined not to stress her out at all through these nine months, so he wouldn’t say anything anyway.

“are you? happy?” he asks. he realizes he’s kind of fearful, too. maybe she’ll just be worried throughout the pregnancy. maybe they will face complications.

“yes,” she breathes. “i just need to shock to wear off first.”

sure enough, the doctor confirms it. she tells them that multiple pregnancies are riskier, but that they’ll monitor her closely.

as she gets heavier, she gets more irritable and demanding. rafe hates himself for it, but he gets frustrated at times, especially when he’s had a long day and comes home to their penthouse condo to see her on the couch, looking like she’s annoyed he’s home.

he never says anything when he’s irritated. but she can read him like a book.

“why are you mad at me?” she snaps, following him into the bedroom one night after he gets home from the gym.

“i didn’t say a word,” rafe mumbles.

“i can see it on your face,” he says. “what, is it because i don’t have dinner waiting? the smell of anything cooking makes me hurl, you know.”

“i know,” he says, throwing his gym clothes in the hamper. “i’m not mad.”

“can’t you look at me?”

rafe sighs and turns to look at her, her belly round and protruding under her shirt.

“you’re not even happy to be home,” she says, her hands on her hips.

“i am,” he says. “i’m just tired.”

“and i’m not? i have not one, but two things draining me of everything in me every second of every day. i don’t get any breaks. i can’t sleep.”

“i know,” he breathes. “i’m sorry. did you eat?”

“you think i’m stupid enough to be skipping meals? i’m nourishing them,” she says, touching her stomach. “don’t worry about that.”

“i meant…” rafe scratches the back of his neck. he refuses to lose his temper on her when she’s in this state; especially because she’s suffering for both of them. “for you. did you eat?”

“yes,” she says, her hard expression faltering a bit.

“can i get you anything? you have any cravings?”

“not right now,” she replies.

he nods and turns to finish emptying his gym bag.

“i’m making a protein shake soon. you want one, too?” he asks, his back to her.

she sighs, tears welling up in her eyes, and steps forward, putting her arms around him, her stomach pushing against his lower back.

“i’m sorry i’m such a bitch,” she mumbles, sniffling.

“don’t say that. you’re not a bitch,” he says. he’s used to her mood swings by now, but she usually just goes from indifferent to angry and back. she hasn’t cried in a while.

“i can see myself being crazy but i can’t stop,” she admits. “and i’m nervous about tomorrow. i hope they’re doing okay. i still haven’t felt them move.”

her twenty-week ultrasound is tomorrow. they’ll be finding out the twins’ genders.

rafe turns and plants a slow, gentle kiss on her forehead. he exhales slowly as she shudders with her cries.

“they’re doing great,” he says. “all the appointments and check-ups have been good. and whatever they end up being, we’ll love them.”

“you’re right.” she sighs and tilts her chin to kiss him. she hates that she can’t remember the last time they kissed. she feels like all she’s been doing lately is whining and puking.

“how are you?” she asks.

“good.”

“how are you really?”

“i can’t complain.” he puts a hand on her belly. “i’m not the one with two things draining me every second of every day.”

“you’re allowed to be tired, too,” she says. “i’m sorry.”

“it’s all good, baby,” he says. “let’s watch something and pass out on the couch.”

“deal.”

the next day, they learn that she’s carrying a boy and a girl. rafe can’t believe how lucky he is.

when he falls asleep next to his girlfriend that night, curled up behind her, his hand on her belly, he feels a light, almost imperceptible movement on his palm.

“oh, my god,” she whispers into the dark. “did you feel that?”

“was that…?”

“it was,” she says, choking up. “one of them saying hi.”

rafe shuffles closer and kisses her neck a hundred times, gently rubbing her tummy. he still can’t get the way they looked on the ultrasound screen out of his head. he can’t fully comprehend that this is really happening, that this is his life, playing professionally and expecting babies with the only girl he’s ever loved.

he can take her mood swings. he can take her any way. as long as she’s with him.

a few days later, she suggests rafe go on a trip with his friends since it’s the off season. he asks her why and she tells him “so you get a break from me.”

rafe chuckles and kisses her before he tells her, “i don’t need a break from my best friend. what’d i tell you? you won’t do any of this alone.”

by the third trimester, she’s heavy and uncomfortable, but she’s not throwing up anymore. her mood swings are more manageable. at this point, she’s scared for the delivery, fully aware that babies can always come early, especially twins, but she’s excited to finally meet them.

and every chance he gets, rafe kisses her forehead, then gives two kisses to her stomach, telling his son and his daughter that he loves them.

she’s amazed at this side of him. she already knew beneath his aggressive, temperamental exterior was a fiercely protective man with a big heart. but the way he’s been treating her, even when she’s been so difficult and unreasonable, is astonishing.

and she can’t wait to see him as a father. she realizes now that she has no doubt that he’ll always make their children feel loved.

[thewebcomicsreview]

Hate to tell you this, but the HSBC update just got updated.

I get that they wanted to keep the Hell Arc confined to page 666, and it'll make the archival experience pretty cool, but hard refreshing the site didn't let me see the update to the page due to cache bullshit, I had to use a different browser. So let's liveblog now before it breaks again:

Looks like we're back to Tavros. I guess it makes sense that the first path to update would the one where they could reuse the talksprites.

So, as directly stated by Davepeta, Vriska is trapped in a time loop, where Tavros doesn't remember anything that happened the previous day, just like in the movie Groundhog Day. That Davepeta called out the movie explicitly in-universe as the reference makes me wonder if events will follow the rough plot of that movie. It's clearly what Davepeta wants to happen, but...Vriska....

Anyway, Vriska offers to let Tavros decide what to do today, for the first time. It took two whole years for her to try that, but she is the Thief of Light and not letting anyone else decide what to do is literally her cosmic role and stuff, so I guess that tracks. And what Tavros wants to do is....play a game.

Last update I said that Vriska saying she's done some things wrong while shrugging and laughing is the ultimate distillation of Vriska, but her having won everything and being miserable about it is also the ultimate distillation of Vriska. She's a woman of contrasts, that Vriskers.

The use of the phrase "session" here outs this line as having Deeper Meanings. Having SBURB sessions over and over so we can play forever is literally Dirk's plan, and most of the fandom is assuming a Candy session is coming.

So, even though they're talking about playing FLARP (the troll DnD game, which is apparently PvP), this is also an argument over whether or not Homestuck should continue. You can't really "win" if the game keeps going, but that doesn't mean you're stuck doing the same thing over and over.

I know Vriska is Problematique, but I'm still taken aback by her 2000s kid usage of "gay" as a general-purpose insult, and not just because trolls don't have a concept of "straight" or "gay". Apparently she doesn't even know what it means and learned the word from Da-

Oh, it was just to set up this line for people to screenshot. Alright. Fine.

brb, gotta go post this in the hard to use reaction images channel on the discord and have someone complain it's easy to use.

Tavros accuses Vriska of projecting her own fears onto him, and then gets into a tangent about being a "soft" female fairy and Vriska takes him up on playing this new "game for girls" and he panics and changes the subject. There's a...lot....going on there.

Vriska starts to have an actual breakthrough, when suddenly Aradiabot appears. Wait, is this where Aradia and Ult!Dave went?

We fade to black and I thought that was it, but apparently not. This being a visual novel makes it feel like a much bigger update than it is, and also kind of makes you read each line a bit more carefully. It's a good way of having multiple meaty (or, um, candy-y) updates in a short stretch of time, and that's kind of an important part of the "feel" of Homestuck that no one can really replicate.

Oh, I do not care for this talksprite.

The downside of this format is that it's harder to liveblog, I think, but basically Aradia is complaining about the Vriska Cycle of "Do bad thing, self-flagellate to be redeemed, repeat".

Vriska justifies it because she has to take action and set people straight and stuff, and if this conversation/game isn't leading to the return of "(Vriska)", the OG timeline Vriska who died and got a ton of character growth before post-retcon Vriska stole her girlfriend, then what is it building towards?

A lot of these lines make good single-panel memes. Yes, Vriska, you are the problem in nearly every situation, even (especially) when you're also the solution.

Aradia sa- oh for fuck's sake this is unreadable, guys. Anyway she says that getting into a routine leads to stagnation and slow death, which, mood, but also is about Homestuck itself as much as it is about Vriska.

Jesus Christ, how long is this update? This page is a full on Pesterquest game when the other five routes are finished.

Oh, okay. That's it. Vriska levels and we get a bunch of fire-themed pun ranks for her, of which Skinner's Bane is the best

[quatregats]

you can probably guess that the one of your WIPs that I want to hear most about is hornblower time loop! I will never stop thinking about hornblower time loop

Hornblower time loop needs lots of reworking in terms of the plot (and I am now contemplating another fic which might address a lot of the same themes so now I need to think about what it's actually about), but here is a very long snippet which I did actually like (he's having a GREAT time out here):

He could not be aware of anything else. His stomach wrenched, and he got up and crossed the deck to stand over Sweet’s body. There was the bitter iron smell of blood, the beginning of the stench of death about him. Hornblower turned him over, struggling with the weight of the body; it flopped back on the deck like a puppet without strings, and Sweet’s unseeing eyes were staring into his own. Those eyes had been bright and feisty not more than a week ago, when Sweet had delivered the mutineers’ ultimatum. Now they seemed the eyes of some blind man out of a Greek drama--a man who had seen enough to make him go mad, and enough to warn others of their fate, even if they refused to listen. With a strangled cry, Hornblower stepped back, and suddenly came into himself again, realizing with embarrassment that the whole ship had seen him shy away in fear at the dead leader of the mutineers. He tried to collect himself and turn to the carpenter’s inquiries, but Sweet’s face swum in his memory, and he only gave poor half-answers before retiring to his cabin at eight bells.

He could not think straight. The barriers of the world felt as though they were dissolving around him. He had been on edge all day, and now he was certain that everything was falling to pieces. He had done his job, finished off the mutiny, gotten his ship under control again, and yet nothing was right. The men were inches away from mutiny themselves, and Sweet had looked back at him with those eyes--those eyes!--that seemed to read into the darkest parts of his soul. What crime was it for a man to rebel against injustice? they had asked, and he had not been able to answer.

The anger and frustration he had felt that morning melted away into dread, and he had the feeling that he had just done something awful. He always felt a terrible remorse after fighting battles, and had long considered it his worst weakness; other, greater men would not let such trivialities touch them so. But now, seeing the face of a man who he felt was truly not his enemy, stained in blood, after having tried to kill him for three days straight, the feeling welled up within him uncontrollably. Sweet had to die, he had repeated to himself over and over, but what good was his death? What would it matter, if the price to pay was the loss of Hornblower’s sanity and the loss of his crew?

Someone knocked on the door of the cabin; it was one of the ship’s boys, come with a message that Chadwick was being brought across and would he like to speak with him. The words cut through the haze in Hornblower’s mind like a knife, sharp and dangerous. 

“Yes, bring him here,” he replied quickly. 

“Aye aye, sir,” the boy said, looking at him wide-eyed and fearful before retreating and nearly tripping over the doorframe on his way out.

Within a few minutes, Chadwick was brought in; Hornblower had gotten up and begun to pace, but stopped when he heard the knock at the door. Chadwick took the chair graciously offered; Hornblower continued to pace at the back of the room.

Chadwick had not changed overmuch since they had been together on the old Indy--he had gone grey, as had Hornblower, and he looked worn, but the wear, rather than giving him an air of experience or dignity, had simply made him look even more dour and unpleasant, as though years of erosion were revealing his true core. There was a distinctly sour feeling in the air. He had not forgotten who Hornblower was, and he was not going to forgive him for seeing him like this, at the bottom of the barrel of his disgrace and a mere lieutenant, while Hornblower stood before him as a commodore with ribbon and star.

Hornblower’s mind, however, was far from any consideration of ribbons or stars; before him was the man who, he knew, had caused the mutiny. A soup of thoughts swirled around in his head, dense and impassable, but through them cut the bright, dangerous knowledge that this man and no other had been the true cause of the mutiny. Four days ago, he had convinced himself that naval discipline depended on Chadwick’s safe passage, that it depended on a bullet to the back of Sweet’s head. Now, though, the seed of that dangerous thought he had had when Jervis had first given him the mission began to push up, breaking free of the dirt in which he had sought to suffocate it.

“What do you have to say for yourself?” he burst out, before he could reign himself in.

Chadwick sat sulkily for a moment; sulkily enough to say in silence what discipline would not allow him to say in words. “I’m sorry I ever let them get out of control, sir.”

“Is that all?”

Chadwick looked at him with what might have been disdain, if a man so dishonoured could be allowed to exhibit such emotions. “I have learned my lesson, sir. And I hope that the Admiralty will understand.”

“Yes, of course. The Admiralty will understand perfectly when a man who has failed to do a job that hundreds of other men do every day nearly costs them the war of our age. Do you understand, Mr. Chadwick? Do you truly understand the gravity of your error?” He paused a moment his pacing. “Do you think yourself unique in your woes, or do you realize that you are only alone in your disgrace?”

“I am as displeased as you, sir, that matters were allowed to escalate so far. I can promise you it won’t happen again.”

“I am not talking about your displeasure, nor of the men’s escalation!” Hornblower exclamed with a vehemence that shocked even himself. “Some things have no remedy, Mr. Chadwick. And for some things, the problem lies far deeper than we believe it to.”

“Aye aye, sir,” Chadwick replied, face wooden.

“Goddammit, man, will you listen to me!”

“I understand, sir, and I will see to it that it does not happen again.”

“That is not what I mean. I mean I would have it be you who had fallen today, and sent Sweet home free.”

The words hung in the air for a moment, as the gravity of what he had admitted sunk in. Chadwick’s eyebrows raised, then fell again, and his hands met in his lap as he looked Hornblower over once more. Hornblower, for his part, had stopped pacing. There was a heavy silence, which was only broken as Brown knocked at the door.

[typicalopposite]

W.I.P. Ask Game!

tagged by: @meraki-yao <3

Ask me anything about my WIPs! :)

(just like... be prepared... there's a lot... and I'm not even going to post them ALL! These are the ones I want to get up by 2025!)

Works Started

Shassie Fic

Psych fic! It's going to read like a 5+1 fic but with an added +2 lol! Just a chapter for each season starting with them pining and eventually getting together! Think the Shules timeline but Shassie instead... with some scene changes missing scenes episode swaps and all that! I swear I'll have a better summary when I post it!!!

you still haven't noticed (oh but baby, I have)

RWRB Fic. I have been sharing the snippets from lately. Another 5+1 fic (I love them ok!) about Alex noticing things about Henry through the their relationship. Gonna have a lil bit of angst because... well just because.

Happy Birthday to Me!

RWRB Fic. This was supposed to be written on my birthday... it didn't happen! but since their birthdays are in March... hopefully I get it up this month!

no one's more mystified than Shaan

RWRB Fic. ANOTHER 5+1 fic! Shaan POV. It's going to be part of the Zahraverse series, and will be kind of a parallel to the Zahra Deserves A Raise fic!

first rule of fight club

RWRB Fic. BAMF Henry! The jist? A guy punches Henry and Henry learns how to fight so it doesn't happen again.

Baby Mine

RWRB Fic. Kid fic. Henry and Ellen bond over baby June! :D very very cutesy very very fluffy as kid fics should be!

Three Nights

RWRB Fic. Sequel to Three Days!

Rewrite the Stars

RWRB Fic. Amnesia Henry! Amnesia takes place during the polo match.

Desperado

Destiel Fic. Fix it where Dean doesn't die and they retire. Of course Cas gets saved... what do you think I am a monster??

Kiss The Angel

Destiel Fic. Jack goes to the empty to save Castiel. Makes a deal with the Empty that Dean will reciprocate Cas love confession (with the catch of him not remembering Cas' confession) by the time the sun sets on the third day... or the Empty can have him too. Yes its a Little Mermaid themed fic :)

Make it Better

WangXian Fic. 5+1 fic. Five times LWJ uses WuJi on WWX and one time WWX uses it on LWJ! :)

Drunk XiChen Fic

WangXian Fic. Because one drunk Twin Jade of Lan is not enough apparently.

(boy, I am killing it with these summaries... I KNOW!)

Practical Cultivation

WangXian Fic. A Practical Magic themed fic! :)

Sympathy For the Devil's Spawn

Lucifer Fic. Season 6 fix it! Rory is stuck in a hell loop (the whole she goes back to confront her dad, makes him "abandon" her, rinse and repeat BS that was the series ending) but in reality he was there and a part of her life and HAPPY, but she thought she ruined his life by being born so she goes to hell to learn about him and gets trapped in a hell room :)

just a little while

Gallavich Fic. Gallavich take Liam after the series finale and are amazing uncles to Franny and Frank! its just a cute fic with some angst! I will finish it soon i SWEAR

IDEAS!

Arthur POV

RWRB Fic. probably will be a 5+1 of Arthur finding out about his cancer and spending time with his family up to the end. or something sappy shit like that!

The Puppy Trap

RWRB Fic. Yes another David fic with The Parent Trap theme!!

Henry and Oscar Fic

RWRB Fic. SOOOOOO what if they like bond over losing their dads.... that sounds bittersweet and delicious... right?? :)

Nutcracker Fic

RWRB Fic. @meraki-yao this one is for you! <3 and like... is self explainatory.

NoteBook Fic

RWRB Fic. Again self explanatory. Angst and angst and so much ANGST! but in a good way!

Practical Cultivation FirstPrince

RWRB Fic. I don't even know how to make this work... but I need to make this work!

Clap Your Hands If You Believe

WangXian Fic. Think how the kids bring Tinkerbell back to life... but make it WWX and restoring his golden core! :)

AAAND I think thats all... omg Imma have carpel tunnel from typing this!!!!

No Pressure Tagging: @onthewaytosomewhere @hgejfmw-hgejhsf @scripted-downfall and @taste-thewaste <3

[greatlordfluffernutter]

Today I was bored at work with less to do than usual so I popped open the ChatGPT my company licenses for employees (I have no fucking clue why, nobody uses it for anything but entertainment and they give us 50 prompts per day) and tried a little informal experiment.

I gave this thing the classic fox chicken grain puzzle but with a simple twist to make it impossible: the fox will also eat the grain if left alone. The program responded exactly how I expected it to: it saw the rough outline of the problem and instantly spat out the answer as fast as you could if you'd googled it. No time to "think" needed, this is a standard, frequent question, so just give the known answer.

Except, of course, it was wrong. Step 1 fails with the fox eating the grain while I'm on the other side of the river with a chicken. I pointed this out and it apologized and spat out a new answer, this time telling me to take the fox across first. I pointed out that now the chicken eats the grain and this cycle began to repeat. For a time it picked one of the three items at random to take across and regurgitated the whole thing with minor changes, only to take in my reply and "fix" with a different item. As my answers got shorter, we eventually hit a point where it would respond to me saying that the fox would eat the grain with an apologetic, mildly rephrased re-issue of the failed sequence where the fox eats the grain.

Pointing out the obvious loop didn't break us out. Changing my responses and clarifying information didn't break us out. The only thing that stopped it from giving me wrong answers was telling it in no uncertain terms that there was no right answer. Only then did it realize/admit that there was no solution.

When I asked why it refused to give an "unsatisfactory" answer until practically told to do so, it spat out the token "as an AI language model still in development blah blah blah" and ignored my question.

This is a trend I've noticed in stories published about AI. Not only is it bad at reading the question and coming to conclusions (read: since it can't do that. It's an input/output function that predicts an acceptable answer and displays it), but for some reason it would rather give 100s of wrong answers than to say there is no right answer or even that it just doesn't know. I think back to that story of the lawyer who used ChatGPT like Google and asked it if there were previous cases that backed up his argument, and instead of saying that none exist (because none exist), it just started writing fake legal documents cause "yes" was predicted to be a more favorable outcome than "no".

These tools were created by humans with desires, incentives, priorities, biases, values, etc. For reasons they will never tell me, they made a robot that would rather lie to you than say "I don't know".

That's just one reason why I'm concerned about how this technology is being adopted.

[wifeysaremylifey]

Well, golly gee, here we go!

Comfort food(s): Very unfortunately, it is a dessert which I can never have with any degree of frequency: tiramisu. I don't think anything really comes close that is easy to make, and I just have that, like, once every several months? But if I do need a comfort item for consumption in general, it's always the next one.  

Comfort drink(s): Coca-cola, original flavor. Been very addicted to it for the majority of my life, 25 years at least. I'm able to control my intake properly now, but it was remarkably bad in my more depressive teenage years when I was downing multiple bottles a day. To this day, there's nothing else that just serves as an instant shot of happiness to me, and I find that to be really unfortunate.

Comfort movie(s): I don't think I have one, I very rarely watch movies willingly. And when I do, I don't watch them more than once. I imagine I had one as a child, since I know I watched stuff several times then, but it's been forgotten now.

Comfort show(s): ... Do those old Looney Tunes shorts count? If not, then- Yu-Gi-Oh GX is probably the closest one to it. It is pretty silly early but also fun- and kind of existential and sad towards the end. And I happen to like a mix of those.

Comfort clothing: Big coats. Yes, even in warmer days.

Comfort song(s): Now this one has too many to count, I have different playlists that fit certain moods. But I'll break it down. So far as regular music goes, I like electro swing in general, but specifically for comfort I listen to Swingrowers a lot. Also sea shanties have that effect on me too, it's easy for them to get me to sing and feel better afterwards. An album I tend to come back to is The Green Knight, by Heather Dale. And in it, The Maiden and the Selkie is my favorite song, since it's kind of a chant and a fairy tale in one and I kind of love that. Other than that, game music has always been with me, and the original soundtracks of both Ragnarok Online and Chrono Cross will probably follow me forever and be big sources of comfort. Out of those, even if CC is a bit old, the soundtrack is worth a listen to this day, if you're ever curious.

Comfort book(s): I think I mentioned in a previous meme that Alice in Wonderland and the Sherlock Holmes novels are favorites of mine. They're also definitely comfort books and I both read it and heard their audiobooks dozens of times each- not as much Through the Looking-Glass, but it's catching up nowadays, Other than that, the Andrew Lang compilations of fairy-tales are books I read back to several times.

Comfort game(s): Hmm, I have to think about it a bit, since the games I find most worthwhile to play tend to make me actively uncomfortable and I kind of appreciate that. The clearest example in my mind is Pokémon. I just do a lot in that series, from replaying with small restrictions to active marked shiny hunting. Other than that, I do enjoy games where you have a contained gameplay loop that you can repeat several times, especially if they're co-op. Stuff like Payday 2 and Deep Rock Galactic. Lastly, if I've invested enough time in a gacha game, it tends to become a comfort game- potentially because of the whole habit-setting that they all covertly do, but still. Honkai: Star Rail is the main one I play currently.

tagged by: Someone who's called me out for not finishing Dragalia Lost *cough* @celestialprayer*cough* tagging: @iceiclehorned, @divinityunleashed, @puzzledmemories, @dragonknightsworn, @mysticallities, and whoever sees it and happens to want to do this (and potentially didn't finish Dragalia Lost either, don't let me be the only one to carry the burden--)

[whumpitlikeyoumeanit]

Whumpcember 15

All of this Whumpcember is a single, long fic, with the prompts used in specific scenes, in order. See the Masterlist and AO3 link here.

((content warnings: unreality, hallucinations, pain, stalking, not being believed ))

promptspiration: @whumpcember Day 15: Hallucinations

Whumpee: Draco Malfoy Whumper: Voldemort Pairing: Harry/Draco whump type: unreality, torture fic type: post-Hogwarts AU

words: ~4200

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Draco's arm was hurting. Not badly, but just a sort of constant ache in the dragon that he didn't really notice amongst his other aches until some twinge brought it to his attention. 

Like the one that had him dropping a bowl between the table and sink, holding his arm with a gasp. The bowl bounced, luckily, and rolled into the table leg; he bent over to retrieve it, and his head swam as he stood up, and he caught sight of a flicker of movement in the corner of his eye. He jerked toward it with a sharp breath, but there was nothing there.

"Draco?" Harry had a concerned expression on his face. 

He looked again and shook his head. "Sorry. I'm all right, just a little light-headed." He looked at the bowl in his hands to figure out what he was meant to be doing with it, and settled on delivering it to the sink. 

"That isn't better." Harry slid from his seat and set his hand on his back. "You've been eating okay, I think, right? Taking your potion?"

Harry would know better than he would. "Yes. I'm fine."

"This is new, isn't it? The vertigo and nausea have been gone for a while. You got better."

"Mostly," he agreed. "I've got used to it." 

"I didn't realise that." Harry felt his forehead for a fever. "I thought it was completely gone."

"I'm all right," he repeated patiently. 

"Are you sure?" Harry wrapped his arm around him and looked over his shoulder.

"I'm sure."

"All right." He kissed his cheek. "Let me know if there's anything wrong, though, okay? Tell me when things hurt. Don't keep things from me."

"I will," he promised, knowing he would not. It wasn't really a lie, it was just saying the things that Harry wanted to hear and the things that made things easiest. It didn't make anyone happy or anything easy to make Harry worry about things that didn't matter. 

—-

When Draco woke, he was alone. He was cold, which could only mean he had been alone for a while. Something was wrong. 

He dressed and left the room quietly, rubbing his arm without really noticing. The house was painfully quiet. He could hear the ticking clock downstairs all the way from Harry's room, he was trying so hard to hear anything… The made him sickly certain the house was empty. He didn't make a conscious decision to sneak around, but the silent house and his uneasiness had him creeping down the hall to check the other rooms, like he wasn't supposed to be there.

He couldn't find Harry or any sign of him, but he also couldn't be completely sure he had looked everywhere. Even the upper floor, it was possible he had skipped a room. There was something pathetic in the way he doubled back and checked again, unsure if he had looked in this room or that, and he was aware of it, but he felt helpless to do anything about it; he was stuck in a loop of checking rooms and then being afraid he had missed something for some time, until he left his room and found the stairs and ripped himself out of the cycle to go down them instead. 

The loop was different and worse downstairs; the layout was more confusing, as upstairs he could see almost from one end to the other and downstairs felt like a rabbit warren he could never navigate. He tried. He followed halls and looked into rooms, looking for him, trying to fix in his mind the rooms he had checked but losing them almost immediately even so. He could spend hours doing this — the whole day. The feeling of his future stretching out before him in this endless purgatory was overwhelming, made it hard to breathe, and he had to figure out something else to do, but he didn't know what…

He stumbled upon the front door and looked around the area, looking for a sign that Harry had left, but if there was something new in the area he couldn't see it. He hesitantly reached out toward the door; he expected to feel stupid for his wariness, but he couldn't shake the feeling it would hurt. He barely tapped the wood with his fingertips and jerked away.

It was actually kind of surprising that he was right. The brief touch burned his fingertips and he held them against his stomach, looking blankly at the door.

So, what did that mean? That Harry hadn't left? He was here somewhere?

He pulled away from the door and went back to looking. Another round through the family tree room and the cold, empty kitchen. He was staring at the table and a pink bottle left there, presumably for him, when he sensed movement in the corner of his eye and jerked around in relief. "Har—" 

There was no one there. There weren't many options for where he could have gone, though. He checked the door in the room — the tiny room with the pipes — and went back to the hall.  "Harry?" No answer; he checked in the first room he came to, the starry dining room, and there was nothing, but he caught a glimpse of a dark figure just leaving the hallway as he closed the door, and he followed him at a quick limp. "Harry!" 

When he got to the corner, he stopped and looked blankly down the other hall. It was empty, with no sign of him anywhere. Where…?

A sudden spike of pain through his arm made him cry out, and he doubled over it, clutching it. The dragon was burning hot to the touch. 

He staggered back down the hall, away from the door; he meant to find a place to sit down, but the pain actually began fading away quickly, and it was all right again before he found anyplace to be. Still, that was so strange. He stared at the dragon as he caught his breath. It offered him nothing. 

He rubbed it absently and turned his attention away. Looking for Harry was hopeless — he clearly didn't want to be found. So…

In a little bit, he found the stars in the dining room, and he made himself stop compulsively searching. Just stay there. That would be all right. He sat on the floor beside the open door and looked up at the false sky, trying to make himself feel better, trying not to worry or indulge in the fear picking at his mind like a carrion bird, ripping away pieces…

He looked up at the stars and tried to lose himself in them, trying to chase those good feelings of when he'd seen them for the first time, when Harry did that for him, but right now he knew that Harry was avoiding him, and they underlined that feeling instead. He tried to focus his mind on the good ones and push the bad ones back. Harry would be back and it would be all right. Or, maybe he wasn't actually even gone, and he would find him before much longer. Then he could be humiliated for these feelings, but it would be okay, he wouldn't be alone… 

He had no way of knowing how long he sat there, tracing constellations in the ceiling, but it did calm him down. Not make him feel better, per se, but it occupied his mind and set him to thinking of something else. That didn't mean he wasn't instantly alert to the sound of the door opening down the hall. He instantly rolled onto his knees and then his feet; his branded arm gave out in a flare of pain and made him gasp, but he just used the other one to push himself to his feet and stepped out to look up the hall. 

Harry came into view, looking at a large black envelope that was reminiscent of a Howler — used by bill collectors — instead of where he was going. He didn't notice him.

"Harry…" Draco's voice was undisguised relief. He stepped out and discreetly reached out to touch his arm. 

Harry looked up, pulling the envelope away from him. "Oh, you're up. Eat something basic for lunch, I'll be out in a couple hours." 

That dismissive brush-off reminded him that he was being clingy and annoying. He took his hand back. Right. "Is something wrong?" 

"No, it's fine. Just busy." He turned off into the other sitting room, without the family tree. 

"Is there anything I can—"

"Merlin, sod off," Harry snapped. "Everything isn't always about you." 

He stopped short at the doorway. "I'm sorry," he murmured.

Harry didn't acknowledge that. "Shut the door," he said as he sat down with his post. 

Draco silently stepped back and pulled the door shut between them. His stomach was in a knot. He hadn't meant to be irritating. He leaned back against the wall, holding his elbows, with his head leaning back to set his eyes on the ceiling. 

The rooms had some muffling enchantments on them, relic of time as an Order base or maybe just older Pureblood paranoia; in his own home, rooms were Impervioused as a matter of course, refreshed as one of the yearly chores, along with the Muggle-repelling charms on the perimeter of the grounds… This could be the same. They might be wearing out, this many years later, because he could hear the sound of voices from inside. Not clearly, not enough to make out words, not like it would be without the muffling. But enough to know that wasn't just Harry's voice…

What did that mean?

He crept back down the hall and secreted himself in the starry room again, and this time he closed the door for extra security. He had an idea and it made him a bit scared to actually leave. It was a terrible, nonsense idea. There was no chance… but what if? What if he wasn't alone?

He kneaded the dragon in his arm and sneaked a look at the door, trying to control his breathing as it bordered on panic, trying not to go there, over that edge. He couldn't now shake off the feeling of being watched, the feeling that there was someone else in the house. The most terrible thing was that he knew it was possible. Maybe there was a room that Draco hadn't found because he couldn't figure out how the halls went together and he kept turning away before he reached it. Or they just stayed where he wasn't. Or he had just forgotten that he had seen signs of them. Harry could even have actually told him and he'd still forgotten. He didn't know, and he couldn't know. There could be this entire layer to his reality that he just hadn't noticed or had forgotten about. It felt like he was losing his grip on the shore and floating away in currents of uncertainty in water too murky to see his own feet, all because his mind just didn't work right.

Harry wouldn't do that, would he? Harry was trying to protect him. Harry didn't want anyone to know he was here.

But Harry could use allies. Friends. Or maybe there was someone else he needed to protect… So maybe…

A sudden memory struck him, of being in bed with someone else on top of him, someone that wasn't Harry, and he couldn't breathe. He held his head with his elbows on his knees, hands trembling. How could Harry do that…? He wouldn't have let someone else… Would he? He couldn't…

It wasn't even a conscious decision, but he couldn't handle that thought, and so his mind took control of himself and shut all of that down. Took hold of those emotions and put them away, out of reach, where he didn't have to feel them. He felt nothing. He was calm and focused. Maybe that had happened, and, if so, there was nothing he could do about it. He pushed himself to his feet and fixed the ribbon holding back his hair, then left the room because he should take care of necessities like eating. 

Harry found him some time later organising the books in the family tree room, with the shelves emptied and the books currently in neat stacks while he wiped down the shelves so they would go back to a clean space. The feather duster was tapping along the ceiling to clean up the moulding. 

"You took your potion. Good." Harry set his hand on Draco's back. "Bored?"

"They were out of order." He dug dust out of a shelf corner. 

"All right." He took his hand from him and went to sit down.

Draco eventually stopped what he was doing and stood before the shelves, looking at them distantly. "Harry."

"Hm?" 

"Is there someone else in this house? Or has there been?"

Harry got up without answering, and stepped around the books to get in front of him, squeezing between him and the shelves. Draco slowly looked at him, but didn't drop his eyes or take back the question. Harry was frowning and looked concerned.

When he didn't say anything, Harry touched his arm. "That's a very troubling question, Draco."

That wasn't a denial. He watched Harry evenly.

"Why are you asking that? I mean, why do you think there might be?"

"I've heard voices. I thought I saw someone, while you were out."

Harry shook his head and slowly rubbed his arm. "There's no one here. It's been just us." He kissed him lightly. "I wouldn't let anyone else in. That idea's insane." 

Draco studied his face. "I think I remember… waking up… with someone else. He put me back to sleep with magic…"

Harry frowned a bit, looking into his face, and then his eyes widened. "Oh, shit, no, that was me. Just me." He held his face with both hands. "I didn't think you remembered… You were so asleep, it must have mixed with a dream. You only woke up for a second, I thought it wouldn't matter. Merlin, that must have been fucking with you, I'm sorry. It was always just me. It's all right."

Draco searched his face. "There's no one else here?"

"No, hell no. It's me and you. No one else, ever." 

Draco studied him for any sign of a lie, but he seemed intent on that. He closed his eyes and let out his breath, and began to let himself feel again. Of course that didn't happen. Of course Harry didn't let that happen. He raised his hand and held onto Harry's silently. 

—-

Falling asleep. It was warm and quiet. The weight of Harry's arm around him. Floating distantly on pain relief and Dreamless Sleep. 

A sudden high, cold voice stabbed at him from the doorway. "Enjoying yourself, Draco…?"

He shot upright with a shriek muffled by the hand he clamped over his mouth, scrambling his way up the bed away from the door, arm throbbing, eyes darting over the room, searching for Him, trying to get out of Harry's hands that were trying to hold him down. 

"Draco!" Something grabbed his arms, tried to pin him down, and that made him struggle more wildly until he fell out of the bed.

Harry swore and lit the lamp by the bed, throwing the room into warm light and gentle shadows. It was empty. Draco's eyes darted from corner to shadow to doorway, searching for Him, but He wasn't there. 

"Draco?" Harry leaned over the edge of the bed and offered him his hand. 

He looked at the hand briefly, then back into the room, holding his aching arm. "He was here…"

"Who?"

"You Know Who." 

"I don't know… Voldemort?" Harry groaned and dropped his face into the bed. "You had a dream, Draco."

"I just had a Dreamless Sleep!"

"You think it's more likely a dead guy showed up in your bedroom than you had a weird half-a-nightmare while you were falling asleep? Come on." He leaned forward to grab his arm and pull him up.

Draco let himself be pulled, and sat on the bed, but he couldn't stop looking. Obviously, Harry's suggestion made a lot more sense, but it had seemed so real. He'd had nightmares about Him for ages, he knew what those felt like, and this wasn't that. He could swear that he could reach out and touch Him, how could something that real be in his head?

Darkness on his arm in the corner of his eye made him flinch, but it was just the dragon, not the Dark Mark. He covered it with his hand anyway, as much as his half hand could cover something that covered his whole forearm. 

"Come on, back to sleep." Harry put out the light again and pushed his shoulder so he'd lie down, pulling the blankets up over him. "No more bad dreams," he murmured into the back of his neck. 

He hoped he was right. He didn't think he'd be sleeping after that, though. 

Dreamless Sleep pulled him to sleep despite himself. 

—-

The deck kept throwing The Moon. About a third of his draws from the deck, it seemed, found him staring at a full white moon silhouetting pillars and a mooncalf. By those odds, the deck should have about twenty Moons.

He stared at the card pensively, bracing it between his fingers by two corners, flipping it slowly round and round. The mooncalf and kelpie flickered as he turned it. The more he looked at the card, the more he became convinced that the kelpie wasn't a danger lurking under the surface of the pool, waiting to snatch the mooncalf when it came close enough. The kelpie was the reflection of the mooncalf. The moonlight was exposing the dangerous predator disguised as something harmless.

He heard Harry moving in the hall, and he stood up, sliding the cards into his pocket and checking his bed was neat. His arm ached the whole time but he hardly noticed it, just enough to not aggravate it. Hair neatly tied, seams straight, sleeve rolled up so Harry could see the dragon, because he seemed to like it. 

The door came unlocked and Harry pushed it fully open. He didn't seem angry; his body language was loose and relaxed. "Your hair's come out," was the first thing he said.

"Sorry." He immediately pulled the ribbon out to try to redo it, though it was difficult with his hands. His cheeks were warm and embarrassed; it shouldn't be hard to do even that much right. 

"It's all right." Harry came in and took the ribbon from him. "I'll help you." He pulled his hair back.

"Thank you…" He looked out the doorway while Harry did that for him, but with no designs on it. He could not actually remember why he was in his room, but he did know he was meant to stay there.

"There." Harry kissed his nose lightly, and he wrinkled it in response. "Come keep me company while I fix supper."

"All right." He held Harry's hand, walking close to him, as Harry led him downstairs. 

In the kitchen, Harry set him to setting out dishes for them to eat while he warmed up the roast and veg. He had to look in several cupboards before he found them, like he always did, but he did find them, and then he made several trips, one flat-dish at a time; he didn't like to be so inefficient, but his arm hurt and he thought he would drop something. Being aware of that enough to formulate the plan to make several trips instead of trying anyway and causing things to get broken did actually feel like an embarrassing step in the right direction. Maybe the brewing exercises for his mind were paying off.

He was setting up glasses for them when he raised his eyes to find a horrible, flat white face, bright red eyes, and a cruel smirk, looking right into his eyes. 

He shrieked and staggered backwards, knocking dishes to the ground, running into Harry and clutching at him. The Dark Lord rose to his feet with the delicately controlled movements he always had, and he didn't disappear, and he didn't look away from Draco's face. He stepped around the table and toward him, unblinking and almost playful gaze fixed on him. "It's been some time, Draco…"

"Draco!" Harry grabbed his shoulders and shook him. It sounded like that wasn't the first time he tried to call him. 

He clung desperately to Harry's arms and shirt. "He's here!" he gibbered wildly, like he couldn't see that for himself, half sobbing. "He's—!" He flung his arm toward the stalking figure. 

The Dark Lord was gone. There was no sign of him.

"There's no one there!" Harry pulled his arm back down. "What are you talking about?"

"He's… He was…"

He cut himself off with a gasp as pain suddenly surged through his arm. He pulled free of Harry and held it, trying to breathe through it.

The pain didn't fade this time, it only redoubled. It spiked into something like a Cruciatus, localised entirely within his forearm, and he cried out, doubled over, clutching at it. 

"Draco!" Draco staggered to his knees, holding his arm, and Harry was there with him, trying to pull his hand free. He yanked his hand back with a hiss when he found that the dragon brand was searing hot. Draco was almost crying over the pain. The actual ink in his arm was bubbling and hissing, right over the top of the Dark Mark. 

Harry desperately yanked out his wand and tried a series of healing spells, to no avail. Nothing provided so much as a hint of relief. "It's him…" Draco sobbed, with his arm stretched out away from him. 

"No, it's all right, we'll fix it…" Harry set his face in a determined expression and cast another spell.

That made Draco scream again and shove away from him, sobbing and shaking his head. It felt like his arm was on fire again, but this time it wasn't stopping. He dug his fingernail into the skin like he could rip it off — that was the only thing that could help. 

Harry followed him and yanked his arm free of his hand to see. "Merlin…" He looked up with horror.

"Make it stop!"

"I don't think I can…" Harry hugged his head against his chest, holding his hand out to stop him clawing at it. He sobbed desperately into him. Something had to help it…

"Did you really think you could be rid of Lord Voldemort, Draco?" 

He flinched away from the voice. The pain sudden exploded and he could feel nothing else, thought he could distantly hear himself screaming.

The pain broke with terrifying suddenness, there for a small eternity and then suddenly almost gone; he was tense and sore, his throat hurt from screaming and there was pain in his arm from hitting and scratching it, but it was normal, not the all-consuming magical pain. He was wrapped up in Harry's arms, sprawled on the floor, and he didn't want to move.

Harry lifted his head with a gentle hand, and Draco reluctantly opened his eyes, looking at him helplessly, hoping he knew what to do to fix it.

"I thought you passed out," Harry admitted, and hugged him. "Has it stopped?"

He nodded and rested his forehead against Harry's chest.

Harry rubbed his back calmly for a bit, then picked up his arm and turned it up. Draco could feel him grow tense and the grip on his arm tighten.

He lifted his head to see. "Don't look," Harry warned, but he had to.

The Dark Mark was back, as bad as it ever had been. The ink in the dragon had been… what, pushed back? Or maybe absorbed? Consumed? There was a space of clear skin an inch in every direction around the edges of the Dark Mark, outlining it within the dragon, and now instead of the faded grey it had been, it was as black as the brand, as black as it ever had been when the Dark Lord was right there, as black as the day it had been put on him…

He reached out with his shaking hand to touch it, hoping it was some trick, it couldn't be real. Even the scar tissue of the brand was gone now, leaving the Mark sunken and flawlessly smooth in the middle of it.

He barely managed to scramble out of Harry's arms before he started retching.

Harry followed him and rubbed his back; he stood up and came back with a glass of water and Vanished the mess. Draco leaned against him weakly, tears leaking out of his eyes.

"When you've been imagining him, it must have been his magic working to reassert itself." Harry ran his hand over his hair. "I didn't realise; I feel like such a prick. I thought it was just you being…" 

He didn't finish it and Draco didn't care. "He'll never be gone…" He woodenly pushed his sleeve down to hide the Mark.

Harry didn't answer, because it was true. What could he possibly say? But he held him close and kissed his head.

[alyjojo]

Past Life 🪡 Karmic Spread January 2024 - Virgo

Character Card: The Merchant (both)

Gender I’m Picking Up On (in the past life): Male

Who You Were: Knight of Swords rev & The Lovers

What You Did: 5 Wands

How It Ended: 8 Swords, 9 Wands, King of Wands & The Devil

What Karma Was Brought With You: 7 Cups

Who You Brought With You: Page of Cups, 6 Swords & Ace of Cups

Additional energy: The Star

Past Life Oracle: Mother (past), Imprisonment & Slavery (both), The Arts (present)

Dreaming Way: Clouds & Coffin (past), Fish (present)

Charm:

Spider 🕷️ on King of Wands

Hamsa �� (down) on Mother

Black Squirrel 🐿️ on Imprisonment

Peace ☮️ on 7 Cups

Intelligent ♊️ on The Arts

Our first murderer of this string of readings! Sounds worse than it is. Apply that to your whole life. Did you kill someone, yes, and your entire past life identity was forged on that day, but you never knew it would become that or that this would be a weight you would carry for the rest of your life, right on into this one.

I get this being the US, and not that long ago, you were someone who came right back, same energy, same person essentially, except you’re not. Both lives are shown as The Merchant, you could have Libra prominently in your chart. I was getting the 1950s and the phrase “crimes of passion” kept repeating on a loop. Apparently that’s a movie, that I now have to see. I couldn’t find anything about a specific person, and now I’m not sure if I’m in the right time period at all or if it’s the movie itself they wanted me to find - to help describe your energy here. That’s what this was, you killed your wife’s lover, and it wasn’t planned, you weren’t a normally violent sort of person, there was zero thought put into this whatsoever. In fact, you were a pretty happy person, the sort with their head in the clouds, you didn’t pay close attention to things, you weren’t mistrustful, you thought everything was as it should be…and when you learned it wasn’t, there was a huge scene, a huge fight, and it’s being described as “tearing your family apart”. Or that was your children’s perception, you were the villain, and they became estranged from you after you went to prison.

Whoever this lover was, you knew them well, probably trusted them, they show up with 3 Pentacles. This could be a coworker, friend, neighbor, someone from church idk, you had a good relationship with them and probably wouldn’t think twice about this person being in your home. Could’ve been a handyman or someone that worked for you as well. You spent your life after this in prison, and died there, with thoughts of this person and what was done, justifying your actions to yourself, forever spinning in a loop in your mind. To you this was Justice, throw you in jail or not, come visit you or not, see you as the villain or not, you stood by your actions 💯 You were the victim here.

You have a very similar temperament in this life, it feels like you came right back. With Black Squirrel and imprisonment in both lives, once it was literally in prison, you had nothing to do BUT think of all of the intricate planning, deceptions, lies, everything you’d missed before you knew the truth, and those things festered in your mind obsessively. You still do that, all of the time, only over negative things. You collect them, store them in your brain, and obsess over every negative thing that’s ever said or done to you. There’s a level of paranoia and anxiety here, you keep yourself trapped in prison still, in your mind, even though you don’t live there anymore, and may not understand why “you’re like this”. Life feels…fake? Like something you’re forced to take part in, you’re not an active participant in anything that makes you feel good, it’s more of a forced engagement and constant negative judgements or perceptions about whatever you’re forced to do, who you’re forced to interact with. A doctor would probably diagnose you with something but it runs deeper than that. I am seeing one could help you if you want to feel more at ease, there are medicines that can help with that, if your pride can stand the diagnosis that comes with it. Is it karmic, yes, but they make pills for that too 🙃

The reason I bring that up at all is because your identity here is 7 Cups & Peace ☮️ meaning you’re unable to find peace, you don’t feel fulfilled by anything, and you don’t know what to do about it. It’s a feeling of being lost, you’re not, but you’re not happy, and you’re not sad, and you don’t know why you’re so negative all of the time. Or you don’t even realize that you’re this way, it’s always been this way. Medicine & mental health professionals can bring you peace, maybe not for your whole soul, but for the day to day which is what you need 🙏 I’m seeing looping thoughts over and over, fear and paranoia, jumping to conclusions, knee jerk reactions, heavy judgmental criticism, and you need to feel free of that, content, relaxed, working your way to actual fulfillment and happiness. Quit collecting all of the things you hate, in your mind, and start focusing on what you love, even if it’s a cup of tea and a tv show, your morning yoga routine, whatever. I’m hearing yoga could be good for you too.

In the past, your children left you behind, I’m not sure how old they were when this happened, some may not have known you well to begin with. Dad works, he’s gone until dinner, they’re like two, this life in prison was all they remembered or knew. I’m getting you had several children with Hamsa, five maybe, but the focus in this life seems to be the youngest of them - in the past, “the baby”. Or they could be a baby/young right now. They could have a significant Pisces placement, doesn’t have to be that, they’re just shown as the Fish & Page of Cups cards. The circumstances of this child are either a one night stand, leaving one person for another and a child gets wrapped up in that somehow, giving them up for adoption perhaps, because when this happens, you don’t want to get “stuck” or trapped to something. You just don’t want this, or aren’t prepared, maybe even a child yourself at the time. You may not know them at all, may not be involved, or it’s possible you don’t even know they exist. Whatever it is, in the past they “left you” and in this life you left them, but they’ve been your child twice.

The Arts are showing one of two things: Either there is an artist showing up as your lover, maybe a past lover, that’s never going to go anywhere, could be a Gemini. If not that, you could be very creative, possibly with writing, specifically when it comes to romance related things - but you don’t take any action to actually have that in your real life. Possibly a fanfic creator, extremely imaginative when those mental powers are used for positive & not trapped in the negative, you’re highly intelligent regardless. You’re meant to heal relationships with your family - The Star. There could be abandonment issues there, you avoid them, or feel they avoid you, if there’s a child in the mix they’re included. 10 Cups is what makes you feel overflowing with love, joy, happiness, and part of your negativity is a lack of this, which seems to stem from family. You feel as abandoned in this life as you did the last one, but in this one some of that may have been your own choice, avoidance, leaving before you’re left type of energy. Self-sabotage. Focus on love 🩷 But that also shows that it can be yours, peace, happiness, family, all of these things, you’re meant to let the heaviness go. The Merchant is balanced, fair, in the past life it was about Justice for you, and it still is, but a different kind. Your own Justice is seeing what’s not serving you, cutting it out/off and letting go, moving towards what you deserve and makes you happy - what you “should” do, the right thing - whatever that is for you.

[here2bbtstrash]

real magic - teaser (explicit)

❆ genre: smut, fluff, bangin’ your boss, m attempts kidfic

❆ pairing: namjoon x reader

❆ summary: the holiday season has never meant anything to you beyond suffering long hours for minimum wage and awaiting the collapse of capitalism— but this year, you’d be willing to add making out with your DILF coffee shop boss to the list.

❆ teaser word count: 1.4k

❆ teaser contains: the good ol' "moving back to your hometown" hallmark trope, the bittersweet nostalgia of the holidays when you're not a kid anymore, moni being a little shit, sweaty namjoon (YES that's a warning 😩), namjoon in a protect trans kids shirt (oop i told you it was coming!!!!), all wrapped up in a nice lil meet-cute bow 🎁

❆ part of a hyung holiday collab - dropping december 2022!

❆ A/N: ahhhhh i am SO EXCITED about this collab y'all 🫠 hope you're ready for some hot dad namjooooooon~ and i'm beyond stoked for the hyung goodness @nabiolive @gimmethatagustd and @haliiimede are gonna bless us with like we're not WORTHY 😭 be sure to go check out their teasers and show them some love!!! 🤍

With several hours to kill before your job interview and a growing desire to avoid the weird nostalgia of your childhood that seems to lurk in every corner of your parents’ house, you decide to take a walk.

The sky is bright blue and cloudless, and though the air is brisk, it isn’t terribly windy. You tuck in your earbuds as you shut the front door behind you and pick a direction, aimless, letting your mind wander to the soundtrack of your “seasonal depression” playlist.

A whole new crop of families must have moved into your parents’ neighborhood in the years since you moved out, because the streets are more alive with kids than you can ever remember them being, even when you were a kid yourself. Bikes and scooters lay abandoned on the sidewalks between homes, and you can hear the repeated echo of a basketball dribbling on a driveway, punctuated by distant, playful screaming.

Even in the daytime, you can tell these families have spared no expense when it comes to Christmas decor: some homes have every eave outlined in string lights, some have candy cane stakes dug into the perimeter of their perfectly manicured lawns, and some have been seemingly invaded by small armies of inflatable reindeer and snowmen. You can’t help but giggle a little at the inflatable decorations that have been set to turn off during the day, the way the airless material lays limp in the grass, giving the impression of a yard strewn with dead bodies.

But you remember what it looked like when you drove in last night, everything lit up and brought to life.

Your parents definitely didn’t have inflatable lawn decorations when you were a kid, but you’d get so excited every year when your dad would drag the ladder out and spend the day stringing up the simple rainbow lights you did have. You still remember the little spark of joy you’d feel in your chest when the colors would click on after dark, the way you would run outside every night just to see them twinkle, your breath puffing steam clouds in the air, your bare feet freezing on the ice-cold driveway.

It felt like magic then. But somewhere along the way you grew up. And now that feeling’s gone. Even at night, the lights just look like… lights.

Distracted as you are by the music in your ears and thoughts of your childhood that have brought you to a standstill on the sidewalk, you don’t notice what’s happening until it’s too late. 

A blur of red and white is suddenly circling around and between your legs, and you feel something twining over your ankles, then tugging with a force that threatens to knock you off balance. As you lean forward in an attempt to right yourself, the chaos in question slows enough for you to realize it’s a fluffy white dog in a red sweater, who has excitedly tangled you up in his leash.

You manage to find the looped end of the leash and slowly get yourself unwrapped while the dog continues to pant and jump and occasionally yap at you. With your legs freed, you squat down for a proper greeting, laughing to yourself as he lifts up on his hind legs, balancing his paws on your knee to lick an enthusiastic greeting across your cheek.

“Hi, puppy,” you murmur, trying to get him to hold still long enough to read the name on his tag. A voice beats you to it.

“Moni!”

When you glance up to find Moni’s owner jogging up the sidewalk, you have to make a conscious effort to keep your own tongue in your mouth, because good lord, he is fine.

He’s tall, towering over you even once you bring yourself back up to standing, and the black workout tank and athletic shorts he’s wearing do absolutely nothing to hide the thick, well-defined muscles of his arms, chest, and thighs.

Despite his lack of clothing in the cool winter air, you can see his face and neck are slick with sweat, his white-blonde hair damp with it too. There’s even a dark patch that’s soaked his shirt at his sternum, making the firm swell of his pecs that much more apparent. It takes you an extra second to break eye contact with them, but when you do finally manage to drag your gaze up to meet his, you realize his face is just as nice of a view: honey-tan skin, full lips, and cute dimples that pop as he gives a sheepish, appreciative laugh.

“Thank you,” he says, a little breathless; his voice is deep and slightly husky in a way that makes your face grow hot. You blink stupidly at him for a few moments, your mind reeling, and then it occurs to you that you still have his dog’s leash in your hand.

“No problem,” you manage, handing the looped end back over and double-checking to make sure your ankles are still free from their entanglement. Though now that this man is holding the leash, you kind of wish they weren’t.

“Moni’s usually good about not taking off when I stop to do a circuit,” he explains, like you’re the dog owner police. It makes you wonder what kind of Karens must have moved into this neighborhood since you left it. “I don’t know why he ran, maybe he saw a squirrel or something.”

“It’s okay,” you reassure him with a smile, admiring Moni as he stretches and settles into a polite seated pose. “I like his sweater.”

“Thanks,” he laughs again. “C’mon Mon.”

You can’t help focusing on how big this guy’s hands are as he slips his fingers through the end of Moni’s leash, tugging slightly as if to encourage the dog back in the direction he came from.

Moni blinks and stays right where he is.

“You little shit,” his owner huffs under his breath, and you have to bite down on your bottom lip to keep from laughing. You distantly realize you should probably leave them to it and continue on your walk, but this is too entertaining to turn away from now. Your hot neighbor tries one more futile attempt to get Moni to move, then seems to give up entirely.

He stoops down with a low grunt of effort that makes your core flutter as he grabs the fluffy dog and hoists him up in his arms. You try to force yourself to stop noticing the way his biceps flex, the fact that the muscles of his arms are nearly bigger than your head.

“Thanks again,” he says with a final grateful smile, and your only response is to swallow hard and stand there like an idiot as he turns and carries his spoiled dog back home.

When you arrive for your interview, you’re delighted to discover that Indigo Coffee is nothing like your last job. It’s warm and bright, with large picture windows that flood the space in sunlight, and there’s a cozy personal touch to it, the likes of which you’d certainly never see in your former corporate shell of a workplace. The sitting area is dotted with live edge wood tables and mismatched chairs. There are an array of framed paintings on the walls that look handmade in a good way, simple yet bold brush-stroke lines in a deep blue color scheme. And, you realize as your eyes linger, the shop is absolutely overflowing with plants: in simple clay pots lined up along the windows, free-standing between tables, and tucked into bookshelves placed artfully throughout the space. 

You step closer to inspect one as you wait on your interviewer and are pleased to see that it’s real, that they all are— no waxy fake leaves jammed into a thick block of cement, but real greenery sprouted in real dirt, deep brown soil gone soft from what must have been a recent watering. These are plants someone cares for, coaxed and kept alive by someone’s time and patience and love. The thought makes you smile a little despite yourself.

There’s still fucking Christmas music playing, but you figure that’s inescapable this time of year.

“Are you here for the interview?” someone asks over your shoulder. As you turn away from the plant, you wonder if you’re imagining that the voice in question sounds slightly familiar, and then you find yourself once again staring up at a fine-ass man with white-blonde hair and a sweet pair of dimples.

He’s clearly showered since your last encounter, and is now slightly more covered up in a pair of faded jeans and a gray-green flannel thrown over a black shirt emblazoned with bold white lettering: Protect Trans Kids.

“Oh.” Moni’s owner blinks back at you, and the shock on his face is so apparent that a giggle escapes your lips before you can stop it. “Uh, hi again.”

[delopsia]

Thinking about Rhett tying you up...

If there is one thing that Rhett has learned in his years on the ranch, it's that he knows his way around a rope.

He knows them better than he knows himself. Can rope a cow with his eyes closed and always ties such unique, pretty knots that have taken him years to perfect. The top shelf of his closet is stocked full of books about tying them, from decorative knots to ties that come in handy around the ranch.

It started when you first met, during that awkward phase of 'I like you, and you like me, but we're both afraid to make the first move'. You still remember how you'd shyly bounced up to him, saying that you had something to tell him, how his cheeks had reddened when you placed a kiss on his scruffy cheek instead.

When you scrambled away, too afraid to wait and see his reaction, you hadn't expected to see a blur pass over your vision and a rope tighten around your waist. Effortlessly caught, effortlessly pulled right back into his open arms.

"'y didn't do it right, doll," taking hold of the loop of the rope, he drew you in and kissed you so sweetly that you felt like you'd walked right into a fairytale.

You could have never expected it to become a habit of his. Nowhere is safe; he's gotten you out on the ranch, he's looped the rope over you in the middle of his momma's kitchen, hell, he caught you in the middle of a feedstore one day. Hadn't known he was there until you were seeing the loop pass over your head, an amused chuckle behind you. Sometimes he does it because he wants a kiss; sometimes, it's just because he thinks it's funny.

"Did you just ask me if I knew what a Subaru was?" He sputters, poking his head around the corner, in all his post-shower, wet-hair, shirtless glory.

"Shibari," you repeat, "it originated in Japan; it's a form of bondage using ropes."

As soon as the word ‘rope’ leaves your mouth, you know you’ve got him intrigued, eyes lighting up with a million and one questions as he crosses the room, towel still vigorously drying his hair.

So maybe he doesn’t know what it is at first, but that doesn’t stop him from figuring it out. It starts small, finding a comfortable rope that doesn’t chafe or cause your skin to itch. The first one you wind up with causes Rhett’s eyes to start itching, and the next few aggravate your skin and feel more like sandpaper than anything. Just as you’re beginning to lose hope on the whole experiment, Rhett shows up at your front door with a sleek one that’s so soft it feels like silk.

Tying little knots here and there, he spends half an afternoon just looping the material around your arm and shoulder, unintentionally creating an intricate arm piece that is nowhere near what he started out with. On nights alone in his bedroom, he calms his racing mind with distractions of intricate knots along his legs.

You don’t expect him to get as good at it as he does, thick fingers weaving in and out of tiny loops and creating such unique ties that somehow never become tangled.

“You’ll tell me if it's too tight, right?" Running his fingers along your naked spine as he waits on your reply.

You can't help the way that your eyes roll at the question, "for the fifth time, Rhett, yes, I'll tell you."

Chuckling at your irritation, he leans down, pressing a chest kiss into your temple, "'m just makin' sure."

The rope is smooth against your bare skin, gliding so easily that it almost tickles at times. There's something dizzying in the way Rhett's fingers brush against your skin whilst they work, unintentional touches that feel like tiny kisses.

It's only a simple thing, a pretty diamond-shaped harness around your chest, that sprawls down to your hips and thighs. Tight but not uncomfortably so; your arms are still free, much to your surprise. It'll be some time before he becomes great at it, but you already think these ropes look pretty on you.

"Not tying my arms?" You wonder aloud, tilting your head to the side.

"Ran outta rope," Rhett muses, but he's reaching into the bedside drawer, rummaging for something that you can't see.

It's not another rope that he pulls out from the drawer, no, it's a pair of handcuffs. He's quick to place them on your wrists, just enough space for your hands to escape if you so choose, despite the safety lever on the sides.

Gentle, he loops your cuffed hands around his neck, your fingers loosely curling into his hair, "but I think we can improvise, just for tonight."

[itsnothingofinterest]

Okay I’ve been out of the loop for a while so what’s been going on? So far I’ve heard good things such as the return of Shigaraki and some of that delicious character development in Toga. At the same time I’ve heard that Endeavor and Hawks haven’t really learned much and are continuing to double down on their choices and Skeptic’s been another victim of wasted character syndrome. Has the plot gone anywhere or has it remained fairly stagnant since I stepped away?

Well some of those are very recent developments that I can't say much more on than you're being right, but....yes that's all about right.

Tomura resurfaced fully from the mental chains of AFO within seconds of Kurogiri’s appearance at UA. We’ll have to see how well that sticks though. There’s probably something to be said about how Deku contributed nothing to this and Tomura was 100% saved by the villains closest to him (everyone thank Spinner), and what that means for Deku & what he should do next; but we’ll save that for another day.

Toga’s gone through what you might call development; giving up on her crushes when they started sounding like her mom & dad to instead focus on eradicating the heroes, especially Hawks. I can’t call this an entirely positive development, but at least she’s focusing on targets that deserve it now.

On Endeavor & Hawks...well in fairness, Endeavor has done nothing but say all of one line to Touya. It’s a remarkably unimpressive first line to his lost son, but otherwise he’s just received mercifully little page-time.

Hawks however is just repeating his greatest mistake and saying Twice needs to die; showing that he has gone through no development, learned nothing, and is everything the villains have claimed the heroes are. But we knew all that since 299.

And sadly yes, Skeptic did nothing this whole arc besides provide reconnaissance to Dabi and deliver some fire lines (”Anyone who likes the status quo can suck it!”); and then he got hacked by La Brava. This literally just happened; but much like a sniper’s location being found, this basically means he’s done.

So I guess to answer your question on if the plots gone anywhere or just spun its wheels; well I guess it depends on what you consider the plot moving forward. Tomura’s in control again but is still fighting the heroes. Hawks & Endeavor are now confronted by everything they’ve been avoiding, but this has had no effect on them yet. And Skeptic’s getting dealt with before he did anything of meaning.

A lot’s happened, and every time something has happened everyone’s acted like this means the heroes are losing; but overall the heroes are still winning, and also haven’t development much as characters or people.

You tell me what that counts as.

[cinnamonest]

Lupophobia

Yandere "Escape Attempt" prompt - Razor

-------------------- Words: 8,944 Warnings:-fem reader, attempted noncon beastiality (none actually happens), yandere/captivity, noncon, biting, breeding, brief gendered themes/tones involving animal mating. Heavily inspired by my degrees of lewdity "deviant"/beastiality playthrough. I applied things I learned in college linguistics for this. Truly putting my education to a good purpose. --------------------- The fortunate thing about animals, and their adjacents, was that they were very easy to deceive, and no matter what, they would fall for the same trick, time and time again. "You see it girl? You want it?" You grimaced at the slimy texture on your fingers, wiggling the fatty slab in your grip and swallowing the sickness that came from looking at it. Out of, you supposed, ingrained social habits, you gave an awkward smile as you wiggled the meat. In contrast, the wolf had the opposite reaction, her ears immediately perked up, and she leaped into a playful position, front half low to the ground as her tail stuck up, and a low whine escaped her throat, eyes fixated on the meat. Yes, unlike with people, who had a greater capacity for pattern recognition and learning, who followed the fool me once, fool me twice mantra, you could count on animals to be easily deceived over and over without having to change the way you deceived them. This was far from the first time you had pulled this exact move, nor was it difficult to do -- you merely waited for a spare moment to rip out a chunk of the meat and hid it away for a little while while the rest of the pack was not looking, too absorbed in their own gorging to even cast a glance in your direction. "You want it...?" You repeated, wiggling the slab again in front of the wolf's eyes. Drool spilled out of the side of her mouth between her sharp, glistening teeth, and she let out another whine.

This was not the first time this trick had worked. This was not the first time you'd managed to steal and hide a hunk of meat away while the animals gorged themselves on the remains of whatever poor creature fell victim to them. Hell, this wasn't even the first time that this specific trick had worked on this specific individual wolf. You'd come to recognize each of them with time, even assigned them little names in your head by identifiers. She was a mother, one of the wolves that remained behind at the little den while the others went out for hunting, leaving only the nursing females, the smallest pups, and, well, yourself. Albeit in a weakened state in nursing, they were still easily capable of overpowering you, and, through means you honestly did not understand, they somehow knew they were supposed to prevent you from leaving. Even when you stood up, one or more of them would immediately pick their heads up, ears falling flat and even letting out the softest of warning growls.

She whined in front of you, eyes fixated on the slab. You wiggled it again. It was an easy deceit to pull off. "You want it... then go... get it!"

You hurled the hunk of red flesh as far as your arms could manage, and, exactly per plan, the she-wolf immediately bolted in the direction of the throw. And likewise, you turned on your heel and began the now-routine dash in the opposite direction -- the direction of human civilization. That had been the easy part.

It was the rest of the way that would be difficult. This time of day was the only opportunity you had to pull this whole thing off, but the sun was quickly setting, and unlike the wolves, you were not exactly gifted with night vision. You likened the route to an obstacle course, a puzzle -- repeated actions that became muscle memory. The first few times, you'd merely stumbled around in the woods for a few minutes. With each successive attempt, you retained more knowledge of the path, could clear a longer distance in increasingly shorter times, memorized landmarks, remembered little helpful actions and hindrances, and with each successive attempt, you found yourself making it closer and closer to the end of the woods than the time before. There wasn't much else to go by, so you used trees that stood out to you. The huge tree with the hollowed out hole in the center was the first landmark -- go right. The tree that had an oddly-angled branch came next. So on and so on. You measured success by how many of said landmarks you could pass in time, striving to make each a longer and longer venture every time. Just when despair had been finally getting the better of you, the last attempt had had you finding a footpath used by the Springvale hunters, and that meant you were close. If you could just find that again -- there. To say flat ground was a welcome feeling to your bare feet was an understatement. The slimy dirt texture of the forest floor and prickly leaves and pine needles was not a pleasant sensation. Nonetheless, there was no time to savor it or anything, soon, soon, you'd walk on paved streets, and floors, and, and... You stopped for a mere moment, panting, desperately taking in deep breaths to soothe the exhaustion burning in your chest. You darted your head from side to side. There was no sign of anything coming your way. No footsteps or growls in the distance behind you. You felt your heart pounding in your chest, as much from physical exertion as it was from a blooming, disbelieving excitement. I might actually make it.  Your legs felt weak at the prospect, and you steadied your stumbling against a tree. You were certain you'd never made it this far before. It was difficult to process, almost surreal. After so, so, so many times, over the course of months and months, you were so used to being stopped by this point that your brain half-expected it at any moment. You'd really reached a point at which the escape attempts were almost done with a knowing futility, you no longer really had much hope when setting out, merely running on principle and the faint chance that was now so real. You could be stopped any moment. And yet, after a few more breaths, nothing happened. You shook your head to clear the dizziness, taking a deep breath and squinting forward in the twilight. You nearly felt your heart stop when you processed a shape in the distance -- a building. Springvale. It was distant and downhill, but visible. Right there within your reach, and all you had to do was go to it, so you steadied your breath and took off as fast as-- The world suddenly spun around you as something snatched at your ankle. Your shriek echoed off the trees, reverberating until it grew silent. A clanging of metallic sounds accompanied it, rattling hollowed objects triggered into motion. Everything began to settle, the sudden flooding of stimuli to your eyes and the feeling of sudden movement both slowing to a gentle sway. You were unbreathing, unblinking, heart pounding as your vision spun and, in a panicked haze, you desperately darted your eyes and head each way, struggling to process your senses. Your head felt suddenly tight and tense, your upper half heavy, and a burning pain wrapped around your ankle. Everything was... upside down. You looked down -- no, up -- at your feet. One was bent at the knee, falling in the direction of gravity towards your head, the other was extended perfectly straight, tense and unable to move. A cord was snagged around your ankle, a perfect tightened knot that wrapped around the flesh. You looked up -- no, again, down -- at the ground. Nausea lurched in your stomach as you did, seeing the forest floor a good drop below. You took a moment to process. You followed the trail of the rope from where it tugged painfully at your ankle, followed it to the branch it looped over, and down the trunk to the base of the tree, where it was securely tied around a knotted root. The metallic sound had come from what appeared to be collected garbage, metal scraps, a glass bottle or two, and some metal tools and cans all tied up in a net and secured to the spot where the rope met the branch, an alert that the trap had been set off. Your mouth hung open, you blinked over and over, before finally, bitter anger burst in your chest. "Ghhhhh!" You let out a frustrated, furious cry, thrashing wildly and pulling at your scalp. You kicked and struggled, but only succeeded in making yourself swing, making the nausea and dizziness worse. A trap. Of course. The furthest you've ever gotten, and you were stopped by a fucking hunting trap. Damn those Springvale hunters for coming this far out into the woods. It could be worse, you tried to console yourself. It could have been a bear trap, which would have more or less destroyed your leg, possibly taken it clean off. But nonetheless, misery and frustration bubbled up in your chest as you swung back and forth, slowing down to stillness. You'd never made it this close to town before. You could see the road as well, albeit just barely, a few hundred yards in the distance. You could make out where the dirt path became gravel in the distance, upside-down in the last light of the quickly-setting sun, and, as tears filled your eyes, you reached a hand out to it, miserably grasping your hand shut before letting your arm fall. It was so, so close! Now you were trapped, stuck here in this miserable, humiliating predicament, and you'd have to wait to be saved, and inevitably dragged back the way you'd come. You thrashed again, trying and failing to curl your body up and reach your foot. Your fingers just barely grazed the knot of the rope, but even if you could reach it, it was designed for your body weight to hold the knot in place to begin with. You let out a shaky sigh and a small sob, tears dripping directly out of your eyes and falling downward with gravity. You wiped your eyes, and a thought made a bit of nervous, daring hope light up in your chest. You were close to Springvale, right? Maybe you could be heard. This trap was set by the Springvale hunters themselves, right? You'd seen these types before, a snare that, when tripped, released on one side and whipped around the center of the force that tripped the rope, forming a perfect, tight knot around the ankle of the prey before hauling it upwards by use of weight. You took a deep breath and cupped your hands around your mouth. "Help!" You called out, straining out the vowel as long as you could, before inhaling a ragged breath and repeating the action. As the echoes quieted, you waited, but nothing happened. You wriggled and writhed, but only succeeded in making the net of metal rattle. You supposed it helped the hunters hear animals struggling, and led them to the source. But the hunters wouldn't be back out until tomorrow, you couldn't afford to wait for them to come rescue you on their own. You waited a moment, trying again and again to yell. The Springvale hunters, a traveler on the road, hell, you'd accept help from treasure hoarders if they hung out in this part of the wilderness. Anyone, anyone human. Well, except one, preferably, but still. Any other human being. You couldn't even remember the last human interaction you'd had. At least, a fully human interaction, without any licks or whines or growls or other canid behaviors you'd become far too accustomed to. But nobody came. You waited. Tried again. And again. And again. No response. Your head was beginning to pound and throb. You'd black out if you stayed like this much longer, and you were pretty certain it could even kill you. But nothing was responding to your cries for help. You wracked your brain in panic for a solution. An idea popped into your head. You'd seen Razor do it before, and the wolves responded to him even though he produced the sound with a human voice, so maybe you too could... It was embarrassing, but worth a try. You didn't exactly have many options. You jerked your bodyweight in the other direction, making yourself turn to face the woods in the direction you'd come from instead of Springvale. You reached your quickly-numbing arms up and cupped your hands around your mouth, forming your lips into an "o" shape, and, well, swallowed your pride. You didn't have any better ideas. "Awooooo--" You tried to mimic the howls you'd heard so many times as accurately as you could manage, but it came out a bit strained and comical. You waited a moment, and, receiving no response, whimpered in your desperation and tried a second time. Your voice echoed throughout the trees. You weren't certain exactly how it worked, you were pretty certain they had different tones they used, some for aggression, some as a cry of distress, but you weren't capable of telling them apart. You could only hope for the best. It wasn't really as if they could help you, but at the very least, they would probably go find Razor for you. They'd done so before, after another humiliating failure when you'd fallen into a hole in the earth during a past attempt. You'd learned they were far more intelligent than you once thought, and they understood things like that, at least. But gods, did this make you feel dumb. Your face heated with embarrassment with each attempt. You inhaled to try a third time, but as you did, a shrill howl pierced the air from a distance. A response. Your heartrate picked up as a little spark of relief and hope -- albeit dread that lurked in the back of your head -- made you shudder. You howled again, and received a second response. It carried on for a few minutes that way, sounding back and forth, and it sounded like the other was getting closer. Finally, you heard steps, and anticipation swelled in your chest. You were pretty sure that the response howls had been that of an actual wolf -- even you, in your time in these woods, had learned to tell the difference between Razor's vocalizations and that of the wolves. There were simply some aspects of the canid sounds that human vocal chords could only mimic, but not recreate to a perfect likeness, and thus his vocalizations were a bit distinct. Still, you could be wrong, or, even better, perhaps the footsteps coming close to you weren't an animal at all, but perhaps a different figure, maybe a hunter...? No, that was definitely a four-legged gait. That, too, was something you had learned to tell apart, a two-legged gait versus a four-legged one. It kind of came in handy when you were trying to to hide or run and needed to gauge exactly what was hunting you down. You craned your neck to the best of your ability in the direction of the sound. A creature emerged from the trees. You took a sharp breath. ...It was merely a very large, brownish-greyish wolf. It gazed up at you with big black eyes and ears perked up in alertness. You squinted. You'd never seen this wolf before. You were fairly certain of this much; during your time in the woods, you'd learned to distinguish between them pretty well. You learned the little differences -- this one was bigger, this one had a scratch on its ear, this one had a scar on its hip, this one was more brown and this one was more grey, and so on it went. This one was different from all the wolves you'd become familiar with. The wolf sat down, tilting its head at you, tongue lolling out as it panted. It was huge, muscular looking. "Help," you whimpered. As aware as you were that it obviously did not understand, you couldn't think of anything else to do. You flailed a bit in your desperation, and pointed towards the spot where the rope was tied to the tree. "Help me... Come on, please..." The wolf actually followed the line of your pointing, eyes settling on the base of the trap. And, miraculously, moved towards it. Your heart pounded. Did it actually understand? Would it help? It walked over and bit at the rope, shaking its head rapidly in the same way you'd witnessed the wolves kill small prey, or how dogs played with toys. It was helping! You shuddered again, hope burning in your chest, and a tear of relief dripping from your eyes upside-down to the ground below. And if this wolf wasn't from the pack, it wouldn't take you back, right? How, you weren't certain, but the other wolves seemed to understand the... arrangement going on. Many of your escape attempts had been thwarted not by your captor himself, but by the pack -- surrounding you in a circle, barking and growling and snapping at you until you were forced to turn back, even tackling you as you ran, biting your clothes and arms to drag you back. But this wolf would let you go, right? .... Wait a second. Cold dread suddenly made your stomach lurch. This wolf had no reason to help you, and no reason to drag you back. It had every reason to see you as easy prey. Any relief or hope you'd felt was immediately replaced with a chilling rush of panic. Yes, you would be easy prey, right there for the taking. You thrashed about, trying again to reach up and loosen the knot on your foot, but failing. Fuck. You were trapped between two unpleasant options. There was a chance the wolf was just helping, but in the end, it was an animal, not a person, with instincts of goodwill or benevolence. It would follow its instincts. Once you hit the ground, you'd have to run. That was the only solution. But... it also occurred to you only then that you were hanging a good fifteen feet or so in the air. Upside down. What if the fall knocked you out? Hell, what if it broke your legs? What if it broke your spine? If it were Razor himself, he'd lower you down slowly, but the wolf lacked the sense  or ability to do so. You'd just drop. Fuck, fuck, fuck. There was a thick coating of leaves on the ground, which would hopefully help, and this part of the forest had soft, clay-like ground rather than hard rock, but nonetheless, it was a long drop. Dammit! Your body wracked with a sob of frustration, anger, and panic. Why did all of this have to happen to you? You'd asked yourself that that plenty of times. You didn't do anything to deserve-- There was a snapping sound. You shrieked as gravity immediately sent you crashing down, world spinning around you, and you collided with the earth with crash that took the breath from your lungs; the sound flooded your ears, echoed as your head went numb. You landed directly on your back, eyes looking up at the trees and the sky beyond then as the world spun around you and your vision darkened. Pain ran through your body on impact, a rough, blunt sort of pain that ached through your flesh and meat and bones. You groaned in pain, teeth clenched as it flooded your senses, trembling as it slowly began to ebb away after the initial blow. The wolf's face popping into your vision sent you jolting back to awareness. It was startling, it's cold wet nose pressing against your own, and after a moment, it lapped its tongue against your face. Panic seized your entire body, and you were frozen, unable to move, not even breathing, eyes wide in terror. And then it licked you again, letting out a soft, tender whine. It was being friendly. You let out a shuddering sigh as relief washed over you again, and you thanked whatever god was looking out for you for granting you your life. "Th-thank you," you murmured, reaching a trembling hand up to pat the wolf's head, wincing at the soreness in your arm. It whined again, bumping its head against yours. Wolves were far, far larger than you were certain most people realized. Back home, you'd always thought that the howls you heard at night from within the safety of Mondstadt's walls were from creatures no bigger than the large hunting dogs you'd seen in Springvale. In reality, that was not the case. Even the smallest of the wolves were massive in comparison to those dogs, their heads easily twice the size of your own. You'd been utterly terrified of them in the beginning, bursting into frightened tears whenever one made its way over to sniff you in their curiosity, or dump an offering of a small creature's carcass at your feet in a show of friendliness (an unsettling experience, no matter how many time you were told it's good, 'cause they like (y/n)), or lick your face in an attempt to show affection. You'd grown used to it with time. But this wolf was even larger than the majority you'd seen, easily thrice your size in every capacity. Likely a loner separated from its pack. You were aware there were sometimes conflicts between the larger, stronger pack males that ultimately ended in the loser leaving the pack and heading off on its own, although it seemed nearly incomprehensible that a wolf of this size would lose to anything. Had it chosen the route of violence, you wouldn't have stood a chance. You laid there for a moment, head spinning as you took deep, shaky breaths, trying to calm yourself down and regain your sense of control over your body. You curled your fingers and toes, flexed the muscles in your arms and legs. You were a bit scraped up and your entire body still ached from the impact, but miraculously, nothing seemed broken. You closed your eyes, feeling the cool evening breeze and the wet tongue that was repeatedly lapping at your face. Finally, after a moment, with a groan at the ache in your body, you pushed yourself upward with your elbows, flipping over to your hands and knees, pulling your leg forward to stand-- The breath was knocked out of you yet again as a massive weight crashed down onto your body. You clawed at the ground, gasping to regain oxygen, body going tense. "Wh-what-" The creature let his bodyweight fall down on your frame, and you grunted as your upper half slammed into the ground. It rendered you entirely immobile, this wolf was both massive and heavy, you could barely breathe under the sheer mass of its body. You struggled to push yourself back up onto your elbows. "H-hey, what are you--" With a whine, it rutted its hips forward. Oh, fuck. "N-no!" You tried to rear up, pushing your upper half upward on your elbows as hard as you could, to no avail. Its weight was crushing. "B-bad! Bad dog! Stop!" You clawed at the dirt, gasping as it thrust again. "Get off!" It only let out the same high, throaty whine, thrusting its hips several times in quick succession, humping your ass with desperation. You could feel its blunt-ended cock digging into the flesh, making your blood run cold. When it rutted forward, the motion hiked your ragged little dress up, bunching up the fabric and exposing your cunt. You whimpered with fear, desperately trying to drag yourself forward. "Stop, stop, get off!" You thrashed again, achieving nothing by the action. The worst part, the dread that was quickly overtaking your thoughts, was that you knew it was futile. You'd learned a long time ago that your resistance would mean nothing, not by the brutal laws of the world outside of the fragile sense of safety human society provided. It was expected. It happened among the wolves themselves all the time -- the mates were not something that were chosen in the same way humans did. Too many times you'd witnessed the ritual -- the males would fight, snarling and growling and lunging at each other until one would give up and run scurrying away, tail tucked between its legs. Growing up with all the knowledge you'd learned from books and what humans generally observed of the animals, you'd always assumed that from that point, the she-wolves would then gladly and willingly copulate with the victor, but, you'd quickly learned, that was not the case. It had shocked you the first few times, your eyes widening and your mouth dropping open as you witnessed the poor females get tackled, mounted, their whimpers as teeth sank into their shoulders and kept them in place. It was brutal, and yet, you'd come to understand and accept it was simply the way things were. Perhaps the part that had shocked you the most was how accepted it was -- the other wolves would simply look on, adjusted to what was normal among them, and the brutalized female would, from that point on, act as a normal mate to what more or less was originally her assailant -- licking and grooming each other, sleeping next to one another, spending time with each other, all as if such a thing made sense. Given the acceptant, compliant state you sometimes found yourself slipping into, you supposed you weren't too different in that way. Because they're strong, you'd been told. Beating the other male and forcibly mating the female herself signified strength. They were supposed to try to run and fight, and the male was supposed to forcibly overpower them, a display of strength, of suitableness as a partner. That was why fighting back didn't matter -- it was supposed to be that way, in the minds of the animals, and thus they were content with that setup. The present moment was anything but content. Another rut of the wolf's hips brought you snapping out of your brief thought, back to the moment at hand. The forest was quiet aside from your own struggling, the last rays of light were fading from the sky, the moon hanging high in place of their light. You let out a shrill, squeaking cry, thrashing with renewed effort, but, predictably, not even budging. "Get off! Get off me! Stop it, bad dog!" No matter how you tried, you couldn't move your body in the slightest, perfectly pinned still. "Fuck..." It let out another whine, not even seeming to notice your struggles, grasping at your shoulder with its teeth, and you feared that if it bit down, it might shatter your shoulder. It rutted forward, and this time you froze, entire body going tense as the blunt head of its cock pressed firmly against your exposed slit. You finally managed to claw at the leaf-covered ground enough to pull yourself forward, if but just an inch -- and the wolf, snarling, thrust its own body forward to push you back into the same position. One of its front paws reached forward and clawed onto your shoulder, and you squealed as it pulled you back, forming a tiny cut in the flesh of your jugular. Your began to nearly hyperventilate, trembling, breaths shallow and quick. "S-stop..." Your plea was defeatedly quiet, realizing that further protest would only hurt you. Tears gathered in your eyes. Your back was bent at an angle under the sheer weight of the furry mass that kept you pinned, and it felt like your very lungs were crushed, breathing quickly becoming difficult. You began to feel your body tingling with numbness. It was so heavy and difficult to breathe you weren't certain you'd even survive if it fucked you. Panic seized your brain, overriding any coherent thought. There was a snarling, growling sort of noise that cut through the surrounding stillness. It wasn't coming from the creature mounted on your body. It didn't sound canid. It was human. Much like the howls, you had learned, with time, how to distinguish between the real and the imitation, those sounds that, no matter how long of a lifetime of practice one had, could simply not match the vocals of another species. The wolf stopped its motions, turning its head, and likewise immediately transitioned its entire demeanor, tensing up and returning the sound, a low snarl, baring its teeth as its snout wrinkled up. It dismounted your body and lowered itself to the ground, hips and shoulders raised as its core sank low, a preparatory stance ready to lunge. You fell forward, face crashing into the leaves, before scrambling upwards and falling back on your ass, propped up with your hands behind you and your knees bent as you froze, unable to move a muscle, eyes open wide and gasping for breath as air burned in your lungs. You could see red-orange eyes glaring in the moonlight from a short distance, and for once, the face of the wolf-boy made a wave of relief come crashing down, rather than panic at being found. He made another low sound in his throat, a snarling growl. His shoulders hunched up in a similar motion to the wolf, baring his teeth, glare locked on the transgressor. He didn't have a weapon on him, so his hands clenched into fists at his side. You'd witnessed this plenty of times in the past by now, but never before with him as one of the participants. The other male wolves within the pack hadn't exactly taken an interest in you, rather, simultaneously accepted you as one of their own, while seeming to recognize you as something of an "other," as they did him. Among them, though, these conflicts were regularly occurring, a constantly shifting hierarchal dynamic that was weighted in blood and pure brute strength. Your heartrate picked up anew. Strong as Razor may be, this thing was massive. And he didn't have his claymore, you remembered he'd left it near the den earlier, before going on his daily routine to check the various animal traps. This wolf could kill him. And given that it wasn't a pack member, it wouldn't hesitate to do so. The wolf took a few heavy steps forward, growling all the while, and the wolf-boy reciprocated the action, a deep low growl in his throat as he stomped forward, fingers curling into a claw-like shape, not exhibiting so much as the slightest hesitation to show aggression against the massive creature. You tried to stand on your shaking legs, but fell on your ass again. "W-wait, no, r-run," you stammered, words spewing out of your mouth before you could process them, "he'll hurt you--" Your vision went white, bright light exploded all around, a crashing, booming sort of sound cutting off your words. There was a heat to it that you could feel on your skin, but it blinded your vision, leaving you blinking as, in a mere moment, the electric energy faded to a purplish glow that sparked with a buzz in the palm of his hand. The wolf leaped back in terrified shock, immediately flattening its ears, turning and tucking its tail between its legs, scrambling with fear into the darkness of the trees. And just like that, the threat was gone. You were left slack-jawed, mouth hanging open, trembling and panting as you watched it disappear, footsteps growing quieter and quieter until they could no longer be heard. Instead, the leaves to your side crunched in a two-legged pattern as the figure drew closer, and then dropped down to his knees to get on a face-to-face level. You turned your head and your eyes met. His eyes were wide and pupils blown even wider, mouth slightly open, looking you over. His eyes had always had a softness to them, full of light. After a moment, he reached up, slowly, and wiped the tears from your eyes, a soft, unthinking gesture, and leaned forward. He nuzzled his face against yours, and, after a moment, licked a few quick, short laps up the side of your face. It was nothing you weren't very well used to, and you merely sat numbly as he did so. His eyes trailed downward, widening as they met the gash that had been created on your neck by the massive wolf's claws, and he leaned forward again, lapping at your skin. You inhaled a sharp breath at the sting of his tongue on the wound, but you knew it actually was helpful in terms of clotting, so you didn't resist. You sat like that for a moment, silent, still, letting him clean up the wound, saliva naturally helping the healing process. It was bizarrely intimate in its own way, but it certainly wasn't the first time he'd helped in that way with a wound. It stopped stinging after a moment, blood clotting under the wet warmth. He pulled his head back, looking over you again as if to ascertain your unharmed state, eyes wide and expression flat, looking directly at your face - your weary face, trembling lip, expression still uneasy from the remaining shock. "You... Okay?" There was a softness to his face, a wide-eyed look of innocent concern. You did your best to nod. Any hope you'd had left had been crushed at some point in the adrenaline of the encounter, and thus, all chances of escaping gone, defeat and weariness washed over your body, and you slumped forward in exhaustion. Of course, he was unaware of and most likely did not even consider why you suddenly fell against him, he tended to take any action you made at face value and accepted it as simply what it was, and likewise, every action he made was easily interpreted the same way. It was, you sometimes consoled yourself, a rather welcome simplicity in contrast to the hidden and subtle meanings that humans often portrayed through their actions, and you never had to worry about an innocent action being misinterpreted maliciously, nor did you worry that your emotions were too transparent in your actions. Instead, he merely seemed pleased by the gesture, eagerly wrapping his arms around your frame and pulling your closer, rubbing his head up and down so the sides of your faces nuzzled together, squeezing you tightly. "I heard you," he said, a cheerful sort of pride in his voice. "Came to help." You swallowed. "Th-thank you..." As much as his sudden appearance crushed any chance you had of reaching Springvale, you couldn't help but feel a genuine relief, even gratitude, for saving you from what would have undoubted been a highly painful and traumatizing experience, if you'd survived the lack of oxygen. Not that you weren't already getting your fair share of traumatizing experiences out here, but, well, none quite like what your experience would have been had he not shown up. After a still, silent moment of embrace, he released you, shifted and stood up, but then suddenly tensed, and his eyes widened with what seemed like surprise, or perhaps realization, mouth opening slightly. His eyes were cast downward, settled on the cord that was still tightly tied around your ankle, and reached down to loosen the knot, slipping it off and tossing the remaining cord to the side. You made a small sound as if to start speaking, but cut off and fell silent, shutting your mouth. And then, as he came back up, his eyebrows furrowed in confusion and processing, mouth slightly open as he looked a bit to one side, then the other, to you, and up to the tree from which you'd hung. The wheels were turning. Finally, after a moment, it seemed to click, his eyes went wide with realization for a split second before he turned his head back towards you and narrowed his eyes in a glare. His "angry" face had always been a bit difficult to take seriously, he had maintained a baby face despite his age, big eyes and soft features making it look like more of a pout than anything, but in time you'd learned the rightful amount of fear to have at seeing it. Your heart sank in your chest. "You ran away again." His voice was a bitter, grumpy mumble. You'd feared that when you noticed the surprising lack of anger up until a few moments ago. That it hadn't yet clicked with him, until now, exactly why you were out here, how you got out here, in the first place. He might have thought the larger wolf had dragged you out here, or, perhaps more likely, it had not crossed his mind at all in the intensity of the previous moments, too focused on conflict and comfort. "I..." You trailed off, trembling. There was a moment of silence. You couldn't exactly argue against it. It was true that he was rather gullible, and would often believe rather ridiculous excuses or explanations that anyone else would never buy, but there were limits to that, and at the present moment, you couldn't think of any excuse that even he would believe. Even if the wolf had come in to drag you away, the she-wolf set to guard you would have made a noise to alert the others, and he knew that. There was a moment of silence, and, not receiving any objection to his claim, he exhaled a frustrated huff through his nostrils. "I'm mad." As nice as it was that you didn't have to worry about being misinterpreted, another pro to your situation was that your captor was easily the most transparent person you'd ever met, bluntly honest, so much so it sometimes worked against him. You were pretty sure he couldn't be indirect or subtle with his words if he tried. Passive-aggressiveness or anything of the sort was foreign. "I'm sorry," you murmured, hoping to ease his anger, but you knew by now those words didn't really hold any meaning to him. He opened his mouth, that same pout on his face, and took a breath as if to speak, but no words came out. He closed his mouth, looking at the ground for a moment, opened again, repeated the process, and again, before roughly shaking his head, head hanging and expression falling to something like irritation and disappointment. With other people, you'd feel more intimidated by silence, silence meant someone was angry and trying to get under your skin. And while he made no attempt to hide being angry, you knew the silence wasn't an intentional passive-aggressive act, but rather, just lacking the proper words. It was a process you went through frequently, and to some degree, you felt bad for him. Having feelings, having complex thoughts, but lacking the knowledge or ability to articulate them, being unable to adequately express what you thought and felt, limited to such simple terms as sad and mad, words that could only convey incredibly simple feelings... you could only imagine how frustrating that would be. He knew that those words weren't enough, but didn't have any other ones to use. You understood why, then, he grunted in frustration, kicking at the ground, sending a few leaves scattering. But you also knew that if he could not express himself with words, actions would have to suffice. You knew better than to expect any different. This routine, despite its variances in the specifics of how the events went down, went like clockwork from this point onward, the moment of defeat. They say humans are, after all, creatures of habit. You nonetheless let out a little surprised sound at the suddenness with which you were lifted by the armpits, quickly moved a few steps to the side and unceremoniously pushed forward, facing one of the many boulders that dotted the forest floor. Instinctively, releasing an exhale of defeat and acceptance, braced yourself against it, hands pressed into the rock. You were technically standing, but leaning far forward, bodyweight resting mostly onto the rock you were bending over on. His front pressed against you, hand pushing your back down into an arch, latching arms around your waist. There was no hesitation, no preparation, merely pulling the fabric of your dress up with one swift motion, and the waist of his pants down in another, all in a matter of a single moment, and rutting against you, once, twice, cock slipping against your folds, and on the third thrust, it actually slid in, pushing about halfway in with harsh force with no warning. You gasped at the sting, clawing at the rock as your face twisted with the slight pain, but his hand gripped hard on your shoulder. "Stay... Still." It was honestly impressive, you sometimes thought, to manage to get a cock inside you so easily with hip angling alone. He'd never thought to use his hands to do so, you guessed due to merely mimicking what he observed, as all humans did. Nonetheless, you let out a mewl at the feeling of friction against your walls as it dragged, pulling out a bit before slamming back in. Then again, faster. And again, faster still. And finally, setting into a rhythm, quick and harsh, your body lurching forward at the force. Defeat and despond had fully set in, and you made no movement to fight back, instead attempting to ease the discomfort by pushing back with the thrusts. And then, after a moment, it stopped. It often did -- again, a set pattern, a routine. Increasingly often these days, he changed his mind at this point, initially going with the instinctive, natural option, but it would take a moment to remember that there was an alternative. You shuddered at the sliding feeling and emptiness as he pulled back out, but even though you braced yourself, the air was knocked out of you as you were flipped over, back hitting the rock -- and this time aching as the bruising flesh from the earlier fall was hit again -- now leaning your weight onto the rock on your back, facing forward. The roughness with which you were tossed about and maneuvered was, you knew, not intentional, nor out of malice, but it always left you disoriented as your vision spun a bit. And it was only a single second before you were filled again, gasping a deep breath and reaching your hands out to claw at his back as you felt yourself stretched apart all in one motion, and your legs fell into the routine position of hooking over his arms. He liked it this way. The human way, he called it, with you on your back in some form rather than on your hands and knees, facing him rather than turning away, which had been the only way you'd done it -- you supposed the only way he had been familiar with -- for a good while. You'd introduced the position once when your arms and legs were exhausted from strain, and, perhaps to your relief, it became the most common way that the routine went down. You supposed that, deep down, no matter the way in which a person was raised, there were certain innate needs and instincts that could not be overridden, woven into the very biology of a person. For humans, intimacy, the feeling of affection, and you supposed that that itch was met for him more adequately this way. And he liked to mimic normal behaviors in that regard. You recalled a time ago, back before you were brought out here for good, the wide-eyed fascination with which he'd watch passing couples of people on the road and streets, would make an attempt to imitate the same actions, albeit lacking in the same gentleness, technique, or appropriate timing. Reaching out to grab and hold your hand (with a crushing grip) as you walked, awkwardly pressing your mouths together (so firmly that your teeth clacked and your jaw hurt). That, at least, had gotten better. Now, it was somewhat gentle, he leaned down and pressed his mouth to yours. Gentle, but still very awkward, lacking in the rhythmic motions with which you'd expect, more like holding still but pressing firmly against you, but lapping a quick lick to your lips. You could taste blood on his lips and tongue, a permanent coppery taste that never went away. That didn't last long. It was hard to maintain the mouth contact when he started rutting into you, causing your body to rock in jerking motions up and down on the surface, and his face buried itself into your shoulder, panting shallow breaths that were warm against your flesh. And again, like clockwork, you knew how the issue of your body rocking back and forth, disrupting the rhythm, would be solved, and you inhaled as you braced yourself, first for the tightening grip of arms around your waist, and then-- You gasped a sharp breath despite your mental preparation as teeth sunk into your jugular, opposite the one with the injury, further locking your bodies together. He growled, a low throaty sound. Teeth gnawed at your shoulder before releasing and sinking down in a different spot, digging into the flesh just short of the force it would take to break it. You cursed whichever god thought it would be funny to give him abnormally sharp canines. Even with your weight leaning against the rock, a good portion of it was still being supported by his arms, which, with any normal human being, you would hope would cause enough strain to perhaps slow down the actual thrusting, but you knew better by now. Nor did you expect any kind of buildup or anything, no, you gritted your teeth at the immediate fast pace that dragged against your insides, raw and with little fluid to lessen the friction. The quickness and suddenness always left you sore, your internal parts not having enough time or stimulation to expand or prepare, so each thrust that slammed into the top of your insides sparked a shock of pain and pleasure sensation so strong your entire body jolted with the feeling. The bruising soreness of the recent abuse to the same spot -- how many times earlier today, three, four? -- heightened the sensitivity. And, as with the rest of the routine, you didn't expect words. You couldn't blame him -- talking was hard enough when he was focused, you imagined it was much harder when preoccupied with sensation, and with less blood in the brain. It also made sense that he didn't seem to process anything you said either -- any slow down or wait fell on deaf ears, or rather, non-comprehending ears. Eventually you, too, fell into the same state- "I-- hah, ah, w-wait, mnn-" -- unable to form words, unable to take in anything around you, pure sensation clouding your brain of any and all thoughts. You heard your own little cries ring out and echo through the empty forest, and soft, pleasured whines in your ear, hot breath from panting that grew faster and faster as the thrusts became more erratic and harder, slamming in and out, the wet, slapping sound ringing out with your own voice. It pushed against all the right spots, stretching you incomprehensibly full, overloading your brain with the feeling, and the harder your nails sank into his back, the harder his teeth bit down into your neck. The sparks of pain from the feeling felt small, distant, erased by the overwhelming good feeling created by adrenaline and pleasure, and the thought of how badly it would hurt later was the furthest thing from your mind in the moment. And because you knew words meant nothing in the heat of these moments, you had learned that announcing or warning for orgasm didn't matter. Neither of you needed words -- as with many things, you could communicate it without them just fine. He could still sense it, the way you clenched and your hands grasped at his hair and raked down his spine, and in response, the thrusting somehow grew harder and faster still. A perfect and clearly understood communication as clear as any verbal exchange. The squealing you made, the way your body spasmed and your back arched, was better than anything you could have said, really. You weren't... actually fully certain he understood the action as anything other than communication, like a message indicating "cum now." You assumed that was what it meant to him, since, as always, you felt the movement stop, panting as he pushed into your one more time, holding your hips as close as possible as you felt a twitching inside. It was always perfectly coordinated like that. The peak was always too short, always that same burst of feeling that you wished could last just a moment longer, leaving you panting. Heavy breaths in and out, shuddering, sweaty flesh clinging to each other. You could feel the arms that held your legs up shaking with aftershock, forehead falling to rest against the spot between the mounds of your chest. Then, after a moment, a nuzzle, slowly rubbing a cheek against your collarbones. As soon as that stopped, his head popped up again, looking up at your face with those same wide amber eyes, soft and somehow, despite everything, they always seemed so innocent and bright. A curious, but fairly neutral, content sort of wide-eyed gaze. Anger resolved. Sometimes you were grateful it was that easy. "Ok. You're... good, now." You understood without needing it explained. "Good" indicated something along the lines of fixed or resolved, the phrase "you're good" indicating, in this context, resolution. You assumed it had originated from listening to others in some context or another. You swallowed, and nodded. There was no point in fighting now. A sort of numbing aftershock had set in, and your head was spinning so much that even if you ran, you might fall over on your own without the inevitable tackling. It was a struggle for another day... the same conclusion this always, always resulted in, a conclusion you reached more and more quickly each time, but you tried to put the concern that thought sparked away, merely standing on trembling legs. "...Stupid hunting trap," you muttered, giving the remains of cord a kick into the leaves. He tilted his head and made a soft hm? of confusion. "Th-the trap," your voice was raspy. "They laid out traps for - for catching animals, the hunters, you know." He blinked for a moment as he processed your words, then shook his head, but smiled, beaming with pride. "Mm-nn, I made it. Put lots of them around here." You squinted, head jerking up to scan the treeline - sure enough, now that you looked closer, you could see several treetops dotted with similar nets full of scraps set to make a sound when triggered and struggled against. In fact, the more you gazed around, you realized there were easily dozens and dozens of similar traps, some of different styles and shapes, all perfectly lining the edge of the woods before the road. "...You won't catch things like that," you muttered. "It's too close to the end of the woods." Another slightly confused stare. He shook his head. "Traps are... for you." You could always count on him for two things. Undying loyalty, and obtuse honesty. You blinked at him, expression flat in blunt surprise, then, with a crooked smile, you let out a single huff of bitter, tired laughter. You were numbed to the point that you were, at the very least, able to recognize the humor of it all. Another way of coping, perhaps. It only occurred to you then, as your thoughts cleared, how relief had washed over you when the lone wolf had run out into the night, but your mind had not been focused on your own violation. You remembered your words. Run, he'll hurt you. Your only concern in that moment had been his safety. The thought set off some sort of alarm bell in your head, but the utter exhaustion made it difficult to place much concern in anything.

Your legs were trembling in aftershock, numb and heavy, but it wasn't as if that mattered. Even as you briefly put a hand to the stone beside you to lean your weight onto in an effort to stand, you knew you wouldn't be walking anyway, that wasn't part of the routine. And sure enough, as you got about halfway upward, arms wrapped around your waist instead, and you were roughly maneuvered, tossed like a ragdoll, knocking the breath out of you as you were tossed over his shoulder. "Okay, we're going home, now." He started taking a few heavy steps forward, not even struggling in the slightest to carry your full bodyweight, instead walking as if you were light as air. You didn't protest. You slumped over defeatedly, merely casting your gaze all around, trying desperately to memorize the locations of at least a few of the traps in the dark, but knowing full well in the back of your mind you'd never get past them all. No matter how you may outsmart them, you could never win. It occurred to you that, in a way, you were the one falling for the same trick over and over, continuously placing a ridiculous hope in escape and falling for your own foolishness time and time again. Perhaps that made you a bit more like the animals than you liked to admit.

[willsimpforanyone]

Hey there! Hope you are having a great day!🙂 could u please write a Percabeth fic with badgirl!Annabeth and kind of Nerdy!Percy? Perhaps in 🛏 Percy flips the tables where he is SUPER dominant and he uses Annabeth’s kinks against her? Sorry if that’s 2 specific!

ooo an au and a smut? i'll do my best!

sidenote- i'm such a sucker for pet names so 'doll', 'darlin'' and 'babygirl' are gonna make frequent appearances

i don't think there are any warning needed

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

"Annabeth, please, I need to concentrate." Percy frowned at the papers in front of him, puzzling over the maths. Annabeth sighed, flopping on the bed, her black leather jacket creaking as she threw her hands behind her head.

"I'm bored, Seaweed Brain," she lightly kicked the back of his chair with a boot. "And you've been staring at the same problem for twenty minutes so clearly you are too." Annabeth leaned up on her forearms, blonde twists tucked behind her ear. "What, I'm not as interesting as marine biology?"

Percy chuckled, but his eyes stayed fixed on the paper. "You're plenty interesting, but right now I really need to figure this out, okay?"

Annabeth sat up properly. "Can I help?"

"You're a genius at architecture and ancient Greek, babe, but marine biology has unfortunately never been a hyperfixation of yours." Percy noted something down on the paper and Annabeth's heart fluttered at the petname. It wasn't often that her boyfriend called her anything other than 'Annabeth', 'Annie', 'Beth' or 'Wise Girl'.

The leather jacket was shrugged off and Annabeth was left in black ripped jeans and a tank top, sleeves dipping to her hipbones. "Perce, you gotta relax," she stood behind his chair and rested her hands on his shoulders. Her lips touched his ear as she leant down. "I know, for a fact, I can help with that."

Percy reached up and lightly stroked her cheek, but returned his attention to his damn work. "I'm serious, Beth, I have to finish this by tomorrow."

Eyes rolling, Annabeth threw herself back on the bed. Clearly, being subtle wasn't working. Well, desperate times called for desperate measures.

"Honey, I'm bored, and I want attention. Specifically your attention." She fixed her eyes on the back of his head. "I want it now, Percy. Get over here."

There was a tense pause. Percy's pencil stopped scratching across the page.

He sighed.

"You're so demanding."

...that was a different tone than Annabeth was used to.

It didn't matter, she was ready to be in control. Percy silently got up from the desk and neatly tucked his chair in, picking up Annabeth's leather jacket from the bed and placing it on the back of the chair. Annabeth made to stand up from the bed, but Percy's hand pushed her back down.

"No, you wanted my attention, right?"

Annabeth paused. This was different. "...yes"

"Then strip."

Percy's voice was deep, commanding, and Annabeth shifted slightly on the bed. "What?"

He placed his hands either side of her thighs, eyes focused on hers. "I don't think I need to repeat myself, baby, do you?"

Oh fuck. Annabeth was so screwed.

Percy backed away, arms folded and giving her space. She stood, uncomfortably aware of her slightly shaky legs, and somewhat inelegantly kicked off her boots. No reaction. She shimmied out of her jeans and tossed them on the floor. No reaction. She pulled off her shirt and tossed that too. About to pull off her bralette, Percy held up his hand to stop her.

"Sit up on the bed."

Annabeth raised her eyebrows. "Since when did you start giving me orders?" She loved this new side, but oh boy was she gonna make him work for it.

The dark smile on Percy's face sent electricity through Annabeth's body. "Since when did you start obeying them, darlin'?"

He moved forward, so close they were almost chest to chest. "Now, be a doll, and sit on the bed. Leaning against the headboard, if you'd be so kind."

Annabeth moved onto the bed almost before realising it. Her breath caught in her throat as Percy grabbed his shirt and pulled it off, revealing toned, lean muscles.

Percy's eyes were dark, a shadowy green that pierced into Annabeth's smoky greys as he knelt on the bed, lowering his head to press kisses down Annabeth's thighs.

Shaky breaths left Annabeth as he kissed closer and closer to the line of her underwear. He winked as he nipped at her skin, pulling a gasp from her. "What, no retort? No witty comeback, Wise Girl?"

"Fuck o-" Annabeth choked on her words as Percy licked a stripe up her clothed pussy.

"That's what I thought," he whispered and leaned up, taking the material between his teeth and dragging it down, lifting her hips to pull the underwear down her legs and throw them across the floor.

Annabeth's head was whirling. Her sweet nerd had a whole other side to him and she felt out of her depth in the best way.

She slapped a hand across her mouth as Percy flicked and writhed his tongue, stifling the moans that threatened to spill out. A sharp slap to the outside of her thigh jolted her body, and she looked down to see Percy glaring at her.

"Don't you dare."

He dove back in and Annabeth's back arched, hands fisted in the sheets as her eyes squeezed shut and moans filled the room. Percy trailed his fingers so slowly across her skin she almost screamed when he plunged them into her, the new sensation lighting her on fire.

"Perce, fuck, more!"

Immediately, Percy pulled away, leaving his girlfriend panting and whining. "I don't think you're in the position to make demands, babygirl."

Annabeth pouted. "What? You just stopped, why?"

"You demanded attention like a brat," Percy shrugged, sitting back on his heels. "And now I'm giving it to you, you think you deserve more?"

A shiver ran down her spine as Annabeth registered the tone and the fact that her sweet, usually submissive boyfriend just called her a brat.

"Tell you what," Percy trailed a finger down her stomach. "If you ask nicely, and be a good girl for me, I'll give you what you want." He smirked. "Sound good?"

Annabeth tried her hardest to not instantly say yes, to retain some of her dignity. She was the tough one, the one everyone knew not to fuck with, and now she was on the verge of begging her boyfriend to fuck her.

She nodded.

"That's my girl." Percy beckoned her to sit up and grabbed the back of her neck, pulling her into a fierce kiss. His lips were a soft contrast to his behaviour, and she smiled into the kiss.

All too soon, Percy pulled away, but kept his hand on her neck. "Now, darlin', ask me for what you want."

She swallowed any uncertainty. "I want you... I want you to fuck me."

Percy shook his head. "That sounds like a demand, babygirl. Try again."

The fucker wanted her to beg.

"...please, Percy, please fuck me, I'll be good, I promise!"

The dark smile that spread over his face settled a pleasantly tight feeling in Annabeth's lower stomach. Percy pushed her back so she laid on the bed, and he kicked off his jeans and underwear. "That's much better, darlin'." He reached into the drawer by the bed and withdrew a condom, tearing open the packet and rolling the latex onto his cock. He slid back in between her legs, head dipping into the crook of her neck. Annabeth pushed against Percy's hips as his lips made contact with her skin, and both moaned at the friction.

"You're so gorgeous, baby." Percy nipped at her skin, leaving a trail of red marks in his wake.

"Perce, please, stop teasing me," Annabeth looped her arms around his neck and pulled him into a sloppy kiss, pressing her body up against his. "I asked nicely, please, plea-"

Annabeth cried out and threw her head back as Percy thrust into her. He kept an unrelenting pace, and it was all she could do to hold onto him.

"This what you wanted, huh?" Percy's heavy breath was on her neck, his voice directly in her ear. "You wanted my attention, you finally got it, right?" Annabeth didn't answer, eyes closed and mind clouded with lust and pleasure. Percy slapped her thigh, snapping his hips into her hard. "Answer me, babygirl."

Annabeth shrieked. "Yes! Yes, this is what I wanted, Percy, thank you baby, I got what I wanted!"

Percy chuckled lowly into her neck. "That's my girl."

He sped up the pace, hitting that spot inside her that had her toes curling, stomach clenching, nails digging into his shoulders. "I-I'm so close Perce, don't stop, please please please don't stop-"

"Wouldn't dream of it, Wise Girl." Percy kept his movements consistent, only dragging a hand down Annabeth's body to rub circles in her clit.

Annabeth came with a scream, eyes squeezed shut and legs wrapped around her boyfriend's hips. Percy groaned deeply, reverberating in his chest as he spilled inside the condom, stilling his motions inside of her.

His arms shook with the effort to not collapse on top of her, and he gently pulled out of her. Shifting to the side of the bed, he let himself fall on the bed next to her. Removing the condom and tying off the end, he threw it expertly in the bin.

"Baby, that was just a whole new side of you, huh?" Annabeth smiled.

Percy blushed red, a stark contrast to just a few minutes ago. "Did you like it?"

She brushed his hair behind his ear. "It was new, but I did like it." She poked his shoulder. "My cute nerd has a dominant side, who knew?"

Percy grinned, and pecked her cheek. "Can I go back to my paper now, brat?"

Annabeth rolled her eyes, but smiled and shoved him off the bed. "Get back to it, Seaweed Brain."

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

i very much hope you enjoyed! this took me forever to write bc executive dysfunction is a bitch but thank you so much for requesting!

[gentlemancrow]

The Grapes of Mild Annoyance

AT LAST!! I can post my piece I did for the @tapesdidntcatchzine!! I had an absolute blast writing this little fic, and this Zine is so full of amazing things by amazing people you should totally go download it if you haven't already! AND PLEASE ENJOY SOME SHAMELESS SILLY FLUFF! ; w ;

The Grapes of Mild Annoyance (Click here to read on Ao3!!)

He did not like this, Martin thought to himself, he did not like this one little bit. This was truly weird. Granted, every day spent employed by The Magnus Institute was another day groping into the dark, slimy depths of a plentiful cornucopia of weird and seeing just what new and exciting variety got dredged up this time around, but that day was turning out to be weird in an entirely new fashion he had yet to document. The jury was still out on whether it was the truly horrific sort, or the kind-of-funny-if-you-didn’t-think-about-it-too-hard sort of weird they could all have a good, awkward and less than sober laugh about later.

Martin stood in the bustling canteen, laden tray in hand, witnessing Jon stare down the fruit display with an autopsic intensity usually reserved for only the most sinister or stomach-turning of statements. He had seen the very look currently plastered on the head archivist’s face before. His granddad once owned what was quite possibly the ugliest, squashiest English bulldog ever spawned in the whole of the UK. He was called Rupert, and he used to squat by Martin’s side every Sunday roast, drooling on his nice trousers and staring up at him with that same blankly obsessed focus as he willed a bit of beef to magically tumble his way. Absent the drool, Jon had all the mien of that idiot dog who never could quite work out from where, or how treats were delivered from on high. Martin did not care for that in the slightest.

Unsure how long he should reasonably allow his boss, always still his boss within the hallowed halls of the institute, to remain on some sort of boot up error loop, Martin shuffled to his side and cleared his throat in an awkward chuckle.

“Need a bit of a pick me up after a long day plundering the Spanish Main, eh?” he joked, elbowing Jon lightly in the ribs.

Jon barely registered it, barely even moved, only enough to turn his head ever so slightly and cut his darkly smoldering eyes at him.

“…What?” his single word reply cut through the din like a scalpel.

Martin chuckled, a thin and nervous sound conversely drowned in the sea of idle lunchtime chitchat.

“Oh uh-! L-Like a pirate? Feeling a touch scurvy-ish? You limey sea dog? Hehe, you know…?” he elaborated.

The only response from Jon was for his expression to morph slowly from simple annoyed bewilderment to something more akin to being asked if he fancied having a lukewarm fish paste toastie with pickles and sauerkraut for lunch. Martin squirmed.

“I-I only mean- uh! M-Maybe you’re a touch vitamin C deficient, perhaps?” he continued helplessly.

The scruffy, unkept jaw dropped slowly in absolute mortification, but at least seemed to recall how to form biting sarcasm.

“…Did Tim take you out for bottomless mimosa brunch during work hours again?”

“WHAT?” Martin squawked in horror, “No! …Okay, fine that was ONE time and I said I was sorry! I didn’t mean to have as many as I did! They just kept coming round like some sort of stealth mimosa bomber and my glass was literally never empty so I lost count, but that’s beside the point!”

Jon spread his palms, inviting any kind of explanation, “…Which is?”

“Christ, Jon! The point is you’re standing here staring down the fruit like it’s just come to life and handed you a B at being Head Archivist! God forbid I try to make a joke!” Martin blustered, cheeks burning indignantly.

“Oh…” Jon said bluntly, brows knitted, “Right. I see. Yes. I was just um… thinking about grapes.”

“Grapes…” Martin repeated, exasperated.

“Yes. Whether the red sort or the green sort is better.”

“Ah… naturally,” Martin said sagely, as if anything about that response made any kind of sense, “Definitely one of the more pressing mysteries of the universe on our dockets to solve.”

“Shut up, Martin,” Jon snarled, “I just… I just fancied a little fruit with lunch? Grapes sounded… alright. But then I forgot there are two different kinds and well… I got a little… Uh, caught up? I suppose?”

“Caught up about grapes…?”

“Yes, I believe we have established that.”

Martin pinched the bridge of his nose under his glasses and screwed his eyes shut.

“Great… Uh, well…? Okay, how about this? You get red, I can get green, then we can split them half and half so you could have a little of both? I-If you like?”

“Absolutely not!” Jon decreed immediately.

“SERIOUSLY?”

“That’s absurd! I should just pick one! It’s not a big deal, I can always get the other kind next time. I…”

Jon looked up at him, a strange light of purpose illuminating his dark irises.

“What sort do you prefer?”

Martin fluttered in shock, “Me?”

“Yes you! I didn’t invite anyone else out to lunch today!” Jon snapped.

Bright pink crept over Martin’s cheeks under his freckles.

“Alright! Okay! Jeez! Keep your shirt on! I uhh, if I had to choose, I guess I like the red ones best?” came his flustered reply.

“Red, is it? Right then.”

Without another word about it, Jon snatched up a bunch of red grapes and tossed it on his tray with his BLT on wheat and packet of Walker’s salt and vinegar. Martin trailed close at his heels to the register where he insisted on paying for both of them, as usual, despite waving a card desperately at him. Jon dismissed it on the grounds that Martin could get lunch next time. They both knew next time would play out exactly the same way, but Martin was just relieved for shades of normal to be eclipsing bizarre grape fixations.

They sat at their favorite corner table by the window where they always sat, and Jon surgically removed the crusts off his sandwich like he always did while Martin fixed both their cups of tea their respective favorite ways. Earl gray with honey and lemon for himself, masala chai, well-sugared with a splash of milk for Jon. Jon always claimed he made it better, but truthfully, Jon was just in perpetual denial about how much sugar he actually liked and would always short himself. Also, perhaps Martin hoped, just a bit, that Jon simply liked the gesture of having tea prepared just for him just as much as he liked the shy, evanescent little smile that always accompanied his thanks. The weird returned with a vengeance in the stark absence of that smile.

By the time Martin slid the steaming polystyrene cup across the table, Jon was too fully engrossed in plucking the grapes one by one off the vine for thanks and smiles. Once harvested, he arranged them in clusters of five each, balked at the uneven piles, and then rearranged them into much more pleasing multiples of four instead. Cold dread pooling in his gut, Martin endeavored to distract him with some sort of lunchtime banter, but all he earned were one-word non-answers, grunts, and sighs as Jon idly chewed his sandwich and chased the grapes into geometric patterns. Martin tossed out a line of bait about cats really being vile and coercive creatures, just to see if he could glean a reaction, or anything at all, from him, but Jon was measuring each of the grapes between his fingers, which he lifted back up to eye level, made a strange little chomping gesture with them, then returned to sizing before he realized Martin was staring at him awaiting his response. He absently said he quite agreed, and commenced cutting each grape into neat halves.

He didn’t eat a single one.

At the end of lunch, the normal thing for Jon to do would be to pocket both his unopened bag of crisps for later and the crusts of his sandwich, a quirk Martin found oddly charming, but never actually questioned until he watched Jon squash them up in a napkin and deposit it atop the rest of the garbage. Instead, he scooped up his grape halves into the bag they had come in and tucked them into the pocket of his sport coat as excused himself, leaving Martin with a half-finished, lukewarm cup of tea as heavy and cold as the pall of anxiety hanging about the table. Jon usually dissected his food on some level, but not like that. Never like that. And he usually had a better excuse for leaving lunch early than the brusque, ‘Something I need to look into, very minor, shan’t be long’ he supplied.

Martin hooded his eyes conspiratorially as he watched Jon escape at a brisk clip out of the canteen, then dumped their rubbish in the bin and immediately followed him. Two could play at the paranoia game, and if Jon could dish it out, he could jolly well take it. Though Martin was reasonably certain he was still in the clear. Reasonably. At the very least, Jon was acting strange and he had very legitimate reasons for his concern. There was no telling what kind of hideous artifact might have been dropped on his desk, or what Ex Libris Jurgen Leitner could have reared its ugly head, or spine as it were. He had sworn long ago that he would do whatever he could to protect Jon, and if that included a little light stalking, then so be it.

Jon, thankfully, didn’t stray terribly far. Martin tailed him to a pleasantly shady bench area by the stone railings of the Thames Embankment near the institute where he stopped. Hiding conspicuously behind a lamp post, heart pounding in his chest, Martin watched as Jon reached into his pocket and withdrew his packet of grapes. A chorus of jubilant quacking arose from the water, and a hungry paddling of ducks streamed to him, fluffy tails shimmying merrily like rudders at their wakes. Jon greeted them like old friends and cheerfully began tossing them the grape bits, which they gobbled up while Jon giggled, actually giggled, in delight. It was so sweet, so tender, so wildly not at all the picture of ghastly horror Martin had conjured in his mind, a volatile mixture of relief and rage and mortification exploded inside his skull and flumed out his mouth.

“DUCKS?! You’re feeding bloody DUCKS?!”

The strangled yelp Jon emitted was well worth shouting at him. He whirled around and plastered himself against the barrier, eyes wild and bolting with unmitigated terror that swiftly transmuted into blazing fury.

“MARTIN?!” he bellowed, “What in the HELL are you doing here?! Did you FOLLOW me?!”

Martin’s feet pounded out a furious cadence of vengeance on the pavement as he stormed to his side.

“Hell YES I followed you! You scared me half to death with the way you were acting at lunch and for what? DUCKS? DUCKS?!” he shrilled, fingers curled into frantic claws around his wrath-flushed face.

Jon wilted, eyes shifting skittishly to the water where his ducks were circling, wondering why treat time had ended so soon.

“I-I… It’s not that simple!” he protested, “I have a good reason!”

“Oh, I am all ears…”

Pinned and wriggling like a moth under glass, Jon glanced guiltily back up into Martin’s withering gaze.

“Okay! OKAY! Uh w-well. It started… innocently enough…” Jon began bashfully, “I-I don’t eat the crusts on my sandwiches, never have… s-so I always cut them off, but I’d save them sometimes! I-I don’t know if you ever noticed but-“

“Oh, I noticed…” Martin cut in sharply.

“Ah. Of course you did…” Jon replied, lips quirking into a bitterly flattered sort of smirk that withered as soon as it blossomed, “A-Anyway I-I’d bring them out here to feed the ducks sometimes. When things are… well when they are.”

“Oh. Yeah…”

Martin nodded sagely. Jon needn’t elaborate to know exactly what he meant.

“It… helped. You know? On bad days… t-to see how excited they would get to see me, their tails waggling like they do, faffing about and diving for the bits I threw… I thought it was my secret escape, just a stupid, silly little thing just for me away from the Institute, away from statements and artifacts and death and horror, but…”

He trailed off and hung his head. Martin’s heart throbbed at the mental image of a Jon delighted by his loyal flock of ducks, only to sour to aching at how crushed he looked recounting the tale of how even that, too, had been spoiled. His eyes softened, and he moved protectively closer to Jon as he shrank into himself to find the words.

“O-One day, a week or so ago? I think? Had a nasty morning so I came out with my crusts and I… I-I don’t know I just got this… this feeling…”

“A feeling…?” Martin probed gently.

“Yes. Or more like a voice…? Just this intense sense that suddenly I just knew… something was wrong, off. Almost like someone had walked up next to me and whispered in my ear ‘bread’s actually terrible for them, you know…’ then vanished. I-I tried to feel it out further, to ask it why, or what it meant, but it wouldn’t tell me any more so I just finally googled it and… well I’m sure you can guess.”

“It was right?”

“It was very right,” Jon affirmed bitterly, “Bread’s not got anything of nutritional value to them, but they fill up on it anyway, just like humans at a restaurant, so they’re too full to actually nourish themselves. Also, it breeds bacteria in the water and… well that’s not important. The important thing is grapes were one of the good things recommended to feed to them. I knew I could get them at the canteen, so that’s why I was… so out of sorts over grapes, of all the stupid things to be out of sorts over. I-I just wanted to make sure I had the right kind, and that they were in small enough pieces for them to eat safely. I didn’t want to hurt them anymore. Even unknowingly.”

Martin’s chest swelled with glowing affection for this ridiculous, vexing, awful, wonderful man who would sooner send him into a near panic than admit he was concerned over the health of his feathered friends, or that he had feathered friends at all. He smiled in that budding feeling he dared not name.

“Hey. Worried about strange eldritch voices in the back of your head and also the wellbeing of ducks? Sounds like a typical Tuesday to me.”

Jon lifted his head and mirrored the smile as best he could.

“I… I’m sorry, Martin, if I worried you,” he murmured.

“It’s alright,” Martin replied, “Someone’s got to look after you, since you won’t.”

Jon’s only answer was an uncomfortable grunt, coupled with opening his hand to take stock of the slightly squashed grapes still clutched in it. Martin nudged his wrist playfully.

“…Are they evil ducks? They haven’t like… hypnotized you or possessed you to do their bidding or anything? Do they have little fangs?” he asked wryly.

“What?! No! I mean…” Jon snorted, snickering despite himself, “Okay, okay. I admit you have every right to be worried about that but no. No, they’re just regular ducks, I promise.”

“Well, good. Then I’m glad you have them. This.”

Jon fidgeted again with a wince.

“Really? Isn’t it, I don’t know… weird?”

“No, Jon. Not at all,” Martin assured him adoringly, “In fact, I think it’s the most human thing I’ve seen in a long while.”

The bright, shy little tea smile Martin had missed so much from earlier finally illuminated Jon’s face, and he shuffled ever so slightly closer, so their shoulders just brushed. He turned up his palm and offered out a handful of grapes, which Martin took with a joyfully brimming heart. Together, side by side by the glittering Thames, feeding patently normal ducks as humanity flowed around them, they filched from dark and shadowy jaws of looming fate just one moment of not-weird. Just for them.

“Breathe a single word of this to a soul and you’re a dead man.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it…”

Jon grinned smugly.

“No one would believe you anyway.”

[diaphragmjellyfish]

Told You So

A/N: Lots of people seemed to like my last Paul fic, and he’s my favorite Twilight character, so I thought I’d write another one! This could be considered a part 2 to I Have This Thing, but you don’t really have to read that one first. 

“How was physical therapy today, baby?” Paul asked for the 12th day in a row. Ever since you had finally told him about your vaginismus, he had been as involved as you would allow him to be in that part of your life. He was constantly checking up on you, supporting you, and being a shoulder to lean on when you had a bad session. Like today. 

“Not too great,” you responded. “I mean it wasn’t awful but I couldn’t keep it in for more than 5 minutes before I started cramping super bad.” 

“Aww, baby,” he cooed as he wrapped you up in a giant bear hug. “You know I’m so proud of how far you’ve come.”

You laughed lightly. Paul always cheered you up just by being here. “Thank you, Paul. It’s kind of frustrating, but more than that I’m just sore.” You had gotten comfortable with the idea that dilating would take time. There were good days and bad days, and you’d come to terms with that a long time ago. But sometimes, if your muscles were super tight or if you tried the next size too soon, you’d be left physically uncomfortable. That’s what was happening now. You guys were at a secluded beach for date night. You preferred more casual dates, where you could have privacy and be yourselves. With the whole wolf thing, you and Paul couldn’t really have super open conversations about your days in the middle of a fancy restaurant. 

“Sore? Is there anything I can do to help?” he asked, with a smirk and a hint of suggestion. Since you’d allowed Paul to start doing small things with you, like fingering, he’d become the cheeky hothead you’d always heard about. Constantly flirting with you, making little comments that made your cheeks grow hot. 

You gave him a light shove as he sat next to you on the blanket you’d laid out in the sand. “No. I don’t really feel like having anything else in me today,” you answered. 

“I don’t… have to go in,” he suggested as he looked at you nervously. Yes, he was a flirt. But he was still always careful to not cross the line or pressure you in any way. You looked at him questioningly. All you’d ever let him do was finger you. He’d tried just rubbing your clit before, but you found that that alone wasn’t enough to get you off. You needed both, and today, you’d settle for neither. 

“What if you let me eat you out?” 

You stopped at this, eyes wide. There was a reason you never asked him to do that before. Several guys had tried, but you never enjoyed it. It just felt like… nothing. There wasn’t enough pressure, enough feeling to get you anywhere close. You thought you just weren’t into that. You felt like all your friends went on and on about oral sex, but to you, it was just meh. You’d never let Paul do it before because you didn’t want him to feel bad when you wouldn’t like it. 

“Well, umm… “ at your hesitance, Paul was quick to back off. 

“We don’t have to. It was just a suggestion,” he seemed slightly disappointed, but did well to hide it. You knew him, though. 

“Paul, it’s not you. I just don’t really… like that.”

He looked at you like you had two heads. “You don’t like being eaten out,” he said bluntly, almost shocked. 

You shrugged your shoulders, preparing for the usual speech. ‘Oh, you’ve just never had a guy who knows what he’s doing try,’ they’d always say, only to try themselves with the same bland result. And sometimes, they’d get mad at you like it was your fault. Say you were broken. “Nope. Just not my thing,” you said shortly, getting ready to switch topics. Paul looked super confused. 

“Wait, wait. I’ve never met a girl who doesn’t like being eaten out before,” he scoffed. “You’ve probably just never had a guy who knows what he’s doing.” Whoop, there it is. 

“Paul, I love you, but every guy has said that exact line. And none of them have made me like it. It’s just not for me.” 

“Okay, okay. No pressure. I guess I’m just curious. What about it don’t you like?” he questioned. 

“I don’t know, it’s just never felt like anything. Like it just feels like a tongue, there’s no sensation, you know what I mean?” 

He nodded, staring out into the ocean in deep thought. “You don’t think if you coached me through it I could make it good?” 

“I mean… I don’t really know what I would even like. I don’t know how to coach you if I don’t know what’s gonna feel good,” you felt guilty, but Paul had helped you become more comfortable with boundaries, and you knew he wouldn’t be mad at you for saying no. 

“Damn,” he muttered with a laugh. You nodded your head in response. “Okay, well what if we went by feeling? If it feels like nothing, you can tell me and I’ll use some more pressure. If it’s not enough friction, let me know and I can go faster.” 

“You really want to try, huh?” you laughed. You trusted Paul completely. If he really wanted to eat you out, you would let him. “Just promise me your feelings won’t be hurt if I still don’t like it.” 

He brought a hand up to his chest, “Cross my heart, babe.” 

You exhaled a sigh. “Okay. Guess we should head back to the car then.” 

“Why? No one’s here,” he smirked. You looked around, and he was right. There was a huge cliff to one side of you, and several miles of sand to the other. No one was here. And the thought of doing something so dirty out where anyone could walk by and see, well it excited you. Your blush was evident, and it was all Paul needed. He reached around, wrapping an arm around your shoulder and pulling you in for a kiss. His other hand came up to cup your face, and as the kiss got more heated, you leaned back to lie on the blanket, pulling Paul on top of you. The arm that was around your shoulders came to rest next to your head, supporting his weight. Your own hands moved from around his neck down his chest, and under the thin t-shirt he was wearing, despite the chilly temperature. 

He sat up and all but ripped the shirt from his body, desperate to have his hands on you again. As he leaned back down to hover over you once more, he slid on hand under your shirt. Sure, it was summer, but you guys were in Washington. On the beach. At night. It was still pretty freaking cold out. 

“I’m keeping mine on, Cujo,” you laughed at his pout. 

“Oh, c’mon Princess, you know I’ll keep you warm.” At this, he dragged his lips down your jaw and to your neck, suckling at the skin. You breathed out a sigh and tilted your head to the opposite side, subtly arching your back. The hand that was under your shirt crept down between your legs. He stayed on top of your jeans and rubbed your inner thighs, grabbing lightly and putting pressure in the divot of your hip, between your leg and already damp pussy. Your hands carded through his hair, tugging lightly. He nipped at your neck as he popped the button on your pants, sliding the zipper down torturously slow. 

You let out a whimper, because at this point, he would normally be sliding his hand down your pants and a finger inside you. But that’s not what was happening tonight. His lips travelled from his neck, down to the top of your chest that was exposed from your shirt, and then down to your stomach. And lower, and lower. Once he reached the waistband of your pants, he sat up, kneeling between your legs. He grabbed your belt loops, pulling off your jeans, and then your underwear, and putting them in a neat pile on the side of the blanket, careful not to get sand all over them. The ocean breeze hit your hot core, and it was a strange sensation that made you shiver. 

“Cold?” he questioned, full of care and concern. 

“Yeah, so you better get down here and warm me up,” you smirked. His own smirk followed, and he leaned down. Instead of hovering over you, though, he brought his face down to your lower stomach once more, hooking your legs over his shoulders and bringing his hands up your sides to rest on your stomach, covering your skin with as much of his own as possible in an honest effort to make sure you weren’t cold. Even in sexy, sensual moments like this, Paul was still a sweetheart at his core. 

“Remember what I said about telling me how you feel. I want a full status report, Agent Y/L/N.” 

“Copy that, Detective Lahote,” you giggled back, bringing your hand up in a mock salute. 

He started kissing right under your belly button, nipping and sucking at the skin before soothing with his tongue. And then he trailed kisses a couple inches lower, repeating the same process. He did this over and over, taking his sweet time worshipping your skin, before he finally reached the soft skin just above your folds. He paused, and looked up at you with a savage grin. You could definitely say that you had never been this turned on before being eaten out before. 

Your hands were placed atop of his own on your stomach, gripping in anticipation. His chin dipped slightly, and he placed a soft kiss right on your clit. You felt the slight pressure of his lips, but not much else. 

He looked up at you, quirking his eyebrow in question. You shook your head lightly, a sad smile on your face. Instead of looking defeated, he looked determined. “How’d it feel?” 

“Not enough friction,” you answered.

Leaning back down, he licked a long stripe from your entrance to your clit, circling around a few times before ending in a kiss. Again, nothing. Well, it felt like a tongue, but it didn’t really feel  particularly good. Again, he looked up at you, and you began to feel nervous. You never want to make Paul feel like he isn’t good enough, and you worried that this situation might be doing just that. 

“Talk to me, Princess,” he ordered softly. 

“I… I don’t know. It just, doesn’t really feel like anything,” you responded softly. 

“That’s okay. I have a couple more ideas,” he responded, his confidence never failing. This time, when he leaned down, he flicked his tongue over your clit rapidly. And when he still got no reaction, he began to feel slightly worried. He talked a big game. What if he was just like all those other assholes that never got you off? In desperation, he brought your clit and the surrounding folds between his lips and sucked.  

You gasped, and sat up slightly. Oh. You weren’t expecting that. Paul smirked. 

“Good?” he asked, teasingly. 

“Yeah, good. Can you do that again, but a little… more?” you responded, huffing a light laugh. 

His face lowered once more, and he repeated the same action as before. You bit your lip, your hips involuntarily lifting up into his face. He kept up this sucking motion several more times until he finally got a moan out of you. Soft, but he heard it. And it excited him. 

He began to repeat the motion, sucking slightly harder, and playing with your clit with his tongue while he sucked it into his mouth. This had you crying out. He grabbed your hips roughly and pulled you closer to him. 

“Fuck, Paul!” you gasped, hands now gripping his hair. Your hips writhed under his face, and he had to clamp his hands down tighter over your stomach to keep you still. You’d never felt anything like this before. It was strange, different from fingers or dilators, but still good. 

And Paul knew, as every good lover knows, that when women are feeling good, Don’t. Change. A. Thing. So he kept up the same rhythm. Same pace. Same technique. Suck, lick, kiss. Suck, lick, kiss. For the next twenty-five minutes. You knew his jaw must be hurting by now, but every time you were about to protest, he would give an extra hard suck to your clit, shutting you up with your own moans. And you were closer than you’d ever been from oral before. You were right there on the edge. 

“Oh my God, don’t stop!” you moaned in a higher pitch than before, and Paul knew you were close. 30 seconds later, your whole body was shaking, euphoria washing through your veins and your mouth opened in a silent moan. When you came down, Paul’s lips were still on your clit, only more gently now. You had to pull him away by the hair when the sensations became too much. With labored breath, you whispered a “woah.” 

Paul’s only response was “Told you so.” 

“Yeah, you did,” you laughed, too high on the orgasm to worry about how out-of-control his ego would be after this. He continued placing soft kisses over your stomach, hands rubbing up and down your sides while you calmed down and caught your breath. “Sorry I took so long,” you finally added. 

“Hey,” he said sharply, though you knew he was messing around. “If you think for even a second that I didn’t enjoy every single minute of that, you’re crazy.” 

“Ok well it’s time for me to return the favor. Roll over, Wolfie,” you chided, sitting up on your elbows. 

“You already did,” at this, you looked at him confused. He looked down, cheeks turning slightly red. “I… need to change into a new pair of shorts.” You bust out laughing. It was a good night.