#how to get better yields

[foolishlyzephyrus]

how the characterization of clara changes between series 7 and series 8 is crazy

[roseband]

i mean this in all seriousness.....

every bonus and raise i get at work is cuz i taught myself adobe automation tools and javascript for adobe (even though i took cs in hs like, i could not find a class in what i wanted so i just had to self teach it)

but the only reason i self taught that was cuz i was overly obsessed with kpop

so as long as all my savings accounts are where they should be (percentage of income-wise)... so like 401k, emergency fund, down-payment fund.......(which.....are all invested and/or in high yield 4.5% monthly compounding interest accts and are making their own money)

i can just dump all my disposable income into kpop because if i wasn't unhinged about kpop, i would not have this much disposable income lol

i feel like this is 100% an original meaning of girlmath moment tbh

[evilblot]

Anyway, the moment I re-learn how to use Zbrush is gonna be over for y'all.

[crossbackpoke-check]

Fixed point (mathematics) // The History of Perspective // "Point of Disappearance", Dennis Held // How the Hughes hockey family stays grounded // Fixed Point Photography-- // "Portrait of A.", Tung-Hui Hu // Mic'd Up | Hughes NHL 25 cover shoot // "Burnt Norton", T.S. Eliot // "Circuitry", Janine Joseph // Bruce Bennett // Nick Wass // from obedience [maybe one day, during a point in time], kari edwards // Bill Rapai // "Errand Upon Which We Came", Stephanie Strickland // Benchmark (surveying)

art kid luke hughes

[weaselle]

i had to make a solution for this for myself, mostly because of depression, but it makes a nice How To for folks who are low on spoons or could use some help in the kitchen.

Fortunately i was a professional cook for over a decade. UNfortunately the first post i made explaining it was suuuuper long. Let's see if i can do better

So you select any protein that you can cook in a frying pan -- chicken breasts, ground beef, pork chops, sausages, steak, chicken thighs, whatever. You also select one or two types of veggie (mushrooms or tubers also work, i just did this with potatoes and carrots for dinner tonight).

[i like cooking for vegetarians, but this is how i cook for myself when i'm low on spoons - perhaps i'll do another post for meatless meals]

You'll also need some kind of oil, and a sauce or two of your choice in a bottle. All cooking gear is a large frying pan with lid (i prefer non-stick) a spatula, a cutting board, and a knife.

You cut the veggies into bite size pieces, cut up enough for two meals. One kind of veggie is fine, or you can do mix two or three

Put frying pan on medium heat with a little oil. Tubers or mushrooms or go in the pan a few minutes before the protein. 2 portions of the protein goes in the pan, about 5 minutes with lid (don't worry you can still get a good sear on both sides)

Now flip your protein if it's flip-able and add normal veggies, put the lid back on another five-ish minutes.

Take your protein out and put it with one portion of the veggies in a microwave safe container. That's going to be your lunch tomorrow. Put the other portion of protein on a plate to rest (you have to let a cooked protein sit a couple minutes before you serve it or when you cut into it all the juices run out and it goes dry - the liquids thicken as it cools, preventing this drying out if you let it rest, the goal is to serve it very warm but not hot hot)

While it's resting, pour some sauce from your bottle in the pan with the rest of the veggies and turn up the heat. A single sauce/bottle is fine, i like to get fancy and mix a couple. Two examples of personal favorite mixes are 1: bbq sauce and a hot sauce like sriracha 2: roughly equal parts low sodium soy sauce and worcestershire (makes something similar to a teriyaki sauce) A swallow of wine is almost always a great option if you want to add that to your sauce too, just add it to the pan before the other sauces so the alcohol has time to burn off.

...

Here is the important bit. While your veggies are finishing, wash your cutting board and chef knife. Then when you dump your veggies and sauce over your protein on the plate, while it is still too hot to eat, you wash your frying pan and spatula before you eat. Now the only dishes you have left to do are your plate and fork. Maybe a steak knife.

...

The whole thing takes about 35 minutes even with washing the dishes, and that includes your lunch for the next day- just pour a different sauce on and stick it in the microwave for a couple minutes (or five minutes back in the frying pan) and you have a full healthy lunch with a different flavor

You can use this technique every single meal and it yields hundreds of combinations, from pork and potatoes bbq, to salmon and broccoli teriyaki, to chicken and zucchini in a soy glaze.

It will keep you down to less than an hour of kitchen time per day total for both lunch and dinner including all dish clean up, uses the least dishes, the least effort, requires the least technique, and is, depending on what you pick out, very affordable

here are a couple more examples from this month; i didn’t take pictures of the salmon i did recently, but you get the idea

it's not super fancy, but it is easy, affordable, quick, and any flavors you want. Hope this helps some folks

Happy Cooking!

[ms-demeanor]

Kids, we know how interest works, right? A while back I made a post about how credit card interest can screw you, but we know how interest can be good for you too, right?

I suspect we don't know about this because on one of the posts I made about it someone said something about how it is evil that money can make money, but you know that's not just for the ultrawealthy, right? That is legitimately something that you can and should take advantage of in some kind of retirement/savings/investment account.

Let us say that you are twenty years old, have no money to put into a savings account, but have a job that pays you well enough that you've got twenty dollars to spare from each paycheck.

Let us say that you put that into a normal savings account; normal savings accounts have an average interest rate of .56 APY. Let us say you are going to be working until you are sixty, and that you will add forty dollars to that account every month (twenty bucks from each paycheck) for a total of $480 per year.

At the end of 40 years you would have about $21.5k.

That's a pretty good chunk of change! twenty thousand dollars is a lifechanging amount of money. But look at the total interest. In forty years you would have accrued only $2300 in interest.

Now, instead, let us imagine that you are a member of a credit union that offers you a free, high-yield savings account with a decent APY. Everything else being the same, but putting that money in an account with a 4% return does this:

Your total contributions that you put in stay the same, but the amount of money you have at the end of forty years more than doubles.

Let's say you have a thousand dollars to put in the account at the beginning and run it again.

Low interest account: you add $1000 at the start and have an extra $1200 at the end.

High interest account: you add $1000 at the start and have an extra $4000 at the end.

There are many, many very stable opportunities for savings that will grow your money. Fifty thousand dollars isn't a retirement plan, but it's a hell of a lot better than what you would have if you just stuck cash in a savings account or if you didn't save any money at all.

I know how hard it can be to save. I know it feels impossible to put money aside, but even if you start with no money and can tuck away five dollars a week you can get a LOT out of that five dollars a week.

This certainly isn't "you can't buy a house because you get coffee at the cafe," but it something that can HELP.

Now, let's suppose you're not twenty. Let's suppose you're in my boat, and you're (almost) forty and you're going to be saving for twenty years. You still don't have a lot of cash, but you know it has less time to grow interest, so you double your contribution and you put in forty dollars for each paycheck for a total of $960 a year.

That is extremely very much not the same thing as putting in forty bucks a month for twenty years. Instead of your interest being nearly one and a half times the amount of your contributions, it is around half.

If you are a young person (honestly even if you are not a young person) and it is in any way possible for you to start putting money into any kind of an investment account, you should do so as soon as humanly possible. The earlier you do it, the more interest you will have and the more money you will end up with when you are nearing retirement age.

This is how individual retirement plans work. This is what a 401K does, but sometimes it does that with matching contributions from your employer (so your employer matches whatever you put into the account up to a certain percentage of your pay). 401K accounts also often have higher APYs than high yield savings accounts, though they have more limitations on how and when the money can be pulled out.

If you are broke as fuck and never learned anything about investing or interest from your family because your family was broke as fuck too, now is the time to learn. r/PersonalFinance is a reasonable resource (and if you ever happen to have a windfall that's the first place I would point you for figuring out how to make the most of it) for learning about this stuff.

Thinking about money sucks! Being afraid you'll never be able to retire sucks! Having to figure out how to save sucks! But there are tools out there that even very fucking broke people can use to make that suck less.

[kurooh]

HOT THINGS THEY DO ★ MY HERO ACADEMIA

⊹₊˚. featuring various characters being attractive in and out of the bedroom.

warnings. 18+ content — mdni, fem! reader but a few can be interpreted as gn. mainly suggestive / nsfw hcs

izuku’s eyes are always on yours when he’s listening to you speak—sometimes, in the middle of conversation, he tilts his head to the side. it’s completely unconscious, he’s just really focused on you. +bonus: he twirls his pen around between his fingers when he takes notes and he has such nice hands . . ykwim

in the bedroom, izuku’s open to anything. he welcomes change in the form of new kinks, positions, toys, etc but also doesn’t mind if something doesn’t work out. his willingness to experiment has almost always yielded a positive result and better sex.

katsuki is an amazing driver. safety and making yellow lights are very important to him. he usually drives with one hand, and he throws an arm behind the passenger seat to take a look behind him when he’s backing up. yes, he’s able to use the camera without turning to look back, but he prefers not to for safety. (he likes getting you a little flustered)

katsuki’s easily able to throw you around and manhandle you as much as you like. in addition, he’s got a filthy mouth, so by extension, his dirty talk is excellent. he’s able to fluidly switch between tones and leave you thinking about everything he said even days later.

shōto doesn’t understand why you’re fawning over him when he’s in the middle of working out. after a few sets, he tugs on the hem of his sleeveless shirt and uses it to wipe away the sweat gathered on his forehead. by the time he’s pausing to do so, he’s panting heavily and his abs clench sporadically as he tries to catch his breath. +bonus: sho’s tired and doesn’t gaf about a little mess when he’s sucking down some water, so it always ends up trickling down his chin

when you’re naked and ready for his touch while pinned beneath him, shōto’s easily able to read your body. he’s mapped out the spots that make you tick and committed them to memory; he’s able to figure out what you want and how you want it without you having to say a word.

eijirou often sits back lazily in chairs or on the couch, with his legs comfortably spread. in that position, his thighs always look extra thick and strong. when he catches you staring, he pulls you into his lap with a laugh.

when it comes to fucking eijirou, it’s clear that his pleasure is really yours—he gets off on pleasing you and makes it his top priority always. he’s cum untouched a few times with you sitting on his face or riding it.

denki is always smiling. it’s easy to tell how he’s feeling because he’s so open about it, and he’s also genuinely happy often. even when he’s nervous he tries to hide his little smile !

as often as possible and if the position allows, denki’s right up against your ear and softly making noise while babbling dirty or sweet nothings. he’s not at all shy to make noise and encourages you to do the same.

keigo is naturally protective. in crowded areas, he takes your hand in his and pulls you close while you walk together. if you’re walking around the city at night together after getting tipsy and someone threatening approaches, he steps between you and them while shielding you with his wings.

keigo builds tension perfectly through lengthy kisses and eager touches all over your body. it’s a little torturous for him to fight back the urge to cum when he hears you softly begging him to touch you. he’s shaking when he finally slides in, and his wings fan out uncontrollably; they’re always talking for him when he’s too busy making noise to communicate.

[drgnflyteabox]

can't get much better

pairing: ghost / simon riley x fem reader summary: simon is forced to take some time off - he makes the most of it. tags/warnings: very soft, pregnant sex, size difference, softdom!simon- he's a masculine man who doesn't let his lady lift a finger :'), oral (f), one (1) butthole kiss, dacryphilia, daddy kink (sigh), minor minor foot stuff, allusions to injuries and chronic pain, title from an adrianne lenker song w.c: 2.5k

You try very hard not to think about it, but it's hard not to notice how massive he is.

Even shirtless, he somehow looks bigger, muscles flush with heat and exertion under the sun. He toils and breathes hard like an ox, working while you sit on the porch wrapped in his big flannel. Wearing his clothes is like being swaddled in a blanket straight out of the dryer, warm and nostalgic and syrupy with love. It leaves you feeling some type of tender. You're afraid of that feeling sometimes, of how soft it is and how soft it makes you. He could ask anything of you, and you'd yield like he was pressing his thumb into a bruised peach.

You have.

"How are you two?" Simon is so quiet when he wants to be. One would think he'd clomp like a horse with how big he is, but he can float like dust. It used to startle you, but you've been sinking deeper into the memory foam mattress of this life with him and it doesn't anymore.

"Tired, even though I'm not doing anything," you squint at him through the late afternoon sun. It haloes him like an angel.

"You're growing my baby in there, love. That's not nothing," his voice is rough, it always will be. But it's rough now like earth and soil rather than rough with pain and smoke the way he'd sounded when you met him.

You're feeling especially nostalgic, it seems, not like it's hard here. His hand is warm on your belly.

"I guess so," you let him pet you for a moment. Your stomach is swollen but not as big as it'll get, just enough to veto pants. A few months to go still. "How's your back?"

"Argh," Simon says, taking a heavy seat next to you. Dismissive and yet he groans a little when his muscles unclench. Classic.

You slowly reach up and nudge him until he's facing the field opposite to you, face toward the golden afternoon sun and his back to you. He's never asked you to do this, to take care of him, but it's your favourite thing in the world.

His back is always rock-hard no matter how many times you take your knuckles and fingers to it. Just a condition of a hard life lived for him, countless falls and impacts and pushing through injuries. There's a slight slant to his spine now that isn't there in the pictures he's shown you of his youth, but the stiffness is the same. You might've said he was born to be a soldier, had you not known him as a father. He could do both, but - you'd never say this out loud - you were privately grateful for this injury. It wouldn't take him out forever, but the recovery would be long. Long enough to get the homestead started, to get you pregnant.

Simon would never be completely still. This was compromise. Sweet compromise, a life started and time with him you could think back on the next time he shipped out. Making the most of things, he would always say. Making the time count.

"That feels good, love" he groans. Bending forward slowly, relaxing, he's like an aloof stallion finally accepting an apple from your hand. Acquiescing. Showing you his back. It's trust, and you savour it.

"I bet it does," you tease back, just a little. Your fingers are nimble and attuned to his specific aches and pains. "Are you hungry for dinner?"

"I'm hungry for something," he turns, slowly, hands reaching for your thickened waist. Huge, work-roughened hands. War-roughened hands, holding you like a delicate egg. Sometimes it feels like he's the only thing that holds you together; all your pieces, everywhere, until he's holding you.

Kissing him is a contact sport. It's his hands moving, cupping your breast and then your pussy through your panties, your own hands wrapping around his broad shoulders like he's the only thing keeping you from drowning. It's open-mouthed, breathing into each other. Impossibly, you get softer, melting like ice on a hot day. 

Before you can lean back on the bench, he stands and lifts you with him. He's still hot from the day, damp with sweat, pushing you into the house while kissing you still.

"Simon-" you start, with no goal in mind. "Please."

"I've got you, love," he murmurs. He always does. Before you know it, you're laid back onto the plush armchair in your living room. Simon knows this is the most comfortable place for your newly-aching body. Affection swells in your chest uncontrollably and comes out through your eyes leaking down your face. Sure, pregnancy makes people emotional - but you're still embarrassed, touched by how considerate he is.

"It's alright, shh," he thumbs the tears at the corner of your eyes. His cock tents his work pants, aroused by them. "Let me take care of you."

The next words he murmurs are into your cunt, right over your panties, tongue laving over the already-wet fabric. "Just need your daddy, don't you?" You clench in tandem with his words, hot all over, skin prickling. He pushes your dress up, bunching it right under your tits.

It's reminiscent of how you spent the first night with him, on the very first day you'd met. Hurried, his big head between your thighs and clothes hanging off you still while he made you fall apart.

He's fucking good at it, too. Pulls your panties to the side and builds up the pressure with which he sucks on your clit, softly and then harsher until you shake. You've been extra horny lately, always wet around him and always so swollen. The scrape of his five-o-clock shadow against the sensitive skin of your inner thigh is what tips you over, clamping his head tightly and shouting your orgasm into the heady summer air.

"That all it takes?" Simon grins, chin wet, fingers moving from your hips to your pussy to gently rub along your slit.

"Give me a second, please," it's humbling how quickly you come nowadays. Quick and intense. Fireworks.

You set your foot on his shoulder and he turns towards it, kissing your ankle. Patience is rare with him, something come about only since you confirmed your pregnancy. You miss being overwhelmed by him, miss the nights where he'd guide you over the edge one, two, three times in succession.

He pushes now, just a little, not waiting for your go-ahead but watching you intently. His fingers spread your cunt in a V and he puffs a breath on your sensitive clit. You jump. He grins again, leaning down to lick you, using one hand to hold both your legs under your knees and push them until they meet the soft bump of your belly.

"Hold them there," he says. It's spoken not to you, but to your hole, which he spears his tongue into. You obey as you're helpless to do, holding your legs up and giving him an unimpeded view. It's more than vulnerable, it's not only baring yourself to him completely but giving him the authority to do what he wants. What you need.

Simon eats you out like it's a kiss, slurping you down and letting you leak until the evidence of your weakness to him is all over you. Your legs are wet, and it drips down onto your other hole. He pushes a thumb into your cunt, dipping it in and out.

"Needed me, did'ya? Watched me all day," he's so smug, sometimes. His lips find your bare foot, kissing your sole. "Been wet like this all day?" His other hand finds the meat of your asscheek, spreading you open further, letting the split of you open to him. He leans down, kissing your inner thigh, then your other hole. You whine and clench your pussy around his thumb. 

"So needy," he murmurs, finally finally moving back to your clit. Flicks his tongue over it, something that might've been teasing before but is intense now. Your hands tighten against your legs, head thrown back.

"Oh please- Simon!" You shout again, abs drawing up, stars in your eyes. "Ahh- I'm-"

"I know, honey," his lips suction again around the hard little pebble of your clit, eating like a man starved. 

This is how he likes you. Losing control, coming apart, helplessly vocal against the onslaught of his tongue. No matter how many times you've done this, it never gets old. The release almost always makes you cry, especially intense like this. You're wet all over, face and cunt and legs. He is, too.

"You still with me, love?" He pets your flank like you're a horse.

"Yes," but that's not what he wants.

"Yes what?"

"Yes, daddy."

"Good girl," and fuck if that doesn't always fill you with warm fuzzy energy. Wipes your brain, keeps you soft and floaty.

He guides you up and out of the armchair, lifts you into his arms when your legs shake too much. That electric feeling is still coursing through you, tingles in your extremities as they come back to life.

The hand he strokes over you is half affectionate, half proprietary. You've been his since the first time he laid eyes on you.

He reminds you of it as he sets you down gently on the bed, your hair a halo around your head and hands reaching to his face where you pull him down for a kiss. Hands find his shirt, pulling it off you, and then the dress. Fingertips touch the headboard, your arms stretching up, making room for him. Slips your panties down your legs.

It's a lingering, indulgent kiss. Breathing each others air, gasping into his mouth, he puts his elbows by your head and lays as much weight down as he can without cramping your full belly. He's as vocal as you, groaning and rutting like a dog.

"Ready for me, sweet girl?" He leans out of the kiss, sitting back on his heels. You nod, desperate and pulsing between the legs again like you didn't just come twice.

"Daddy's gonna take care of you, don't you worry," he rearranges you like a doll, turning you to your side and getting between your legs. A pillow is tucked under your belly, and he tests your flexibility by holding your leg tight to the length of his body. Your hamstring burns a little with it.

A hand holds your knee, another to your waist. His jeans scrape against your sensitive skin.

You focus on little details. His scar, touching his eyebrow and splitting through his nose, ending down by his jaw. The knuckles on his fingers holding your knee, and how rough the pads of his fingers feel on your waist. This man has never had soft hands in his life. Those same hands capable of so much force, so much violence, the very same that hold you and guide you. A shepherd, you his lamb.

The weeping head of his cock kisses your hole, catching there and traveling up. He taps it against your clit until you're tensing, whining, needy again. Tears down your cheeks.

He steadies you, pets your waist, guides his cock inside and it feels like you can breathe again. His mouth laves hot kisses over your ankle, the sole of your foot again, reverent and controlling all at once. The stretch burns - it always does, and maybe always will. Simon is just so big, thick all around and the mushroom head of him could always bump your cervix if he's not careful.

He's careful now, but only just. You can sense his control fraying, his hips driving forward steadily but his thighs tensing and his grip getting meaner. This is your favourite part. Watching him sweat, breathe hard, taking his pleasure in you.

"Yeah-" he cuts himself off with a long, drawn out groan. Deep, from the bottom of his belly and out. "Already so full of me, aren't ya? Can't get full enough."

You plead with your sounds, words out of your grasp. Your hands clutch at the sheets but it isn't enough. He's solid, he's your anchor, but he's losing himself in your cunt and you're free falling.

"Play with your tits for me," he commands, pumping faster. You're reflexively tightening around him, clit jumping for attention, squeaking each time he lets himself in as deep as possible and touches the mouth of your cervix.

Sunlight slowly fades on the bed, the last golden rays escaping out the window as you're bathed in dusk. 

There's nothing to do but obey, hands finding your swollen breasts and squeezing. They've been sore and huge, like that week before you get your period only it's been a couple months. None of your bras fit anymore.

Simon appreciates it, he loves it. Has you cooking for him with your tits out, nipples peaked and pussy leaking. They bounce, now, stopped only by your hands pinching and twisting. It's insane - no one in the world could replicate the feeling. No artist, no musician. Electricity zips from your breasts down to your clit and shit - you might come just like this, untouched, just full of your man and fondling yourself.

"Fuck, I can feel you squeezing me. Fucking," he pants, leaning over you, bending your leg. "Pinching my dick, sweetheart. Your pussy's so fucking good."

The orgasm begins in your toes, tingling. Your muscles tighten, drawing up, up, towards your cunt, which is making obscene sounds around him.

Simon sees the signs, sees your eyes rolling and your body going taut. He abandons your leg in favour of rubbing your clit with two big fingers quickly, up and down.

"That's it, sweetheart, come all over my cock. Go on," his voice is a snarl, barely distinguishable as human, beastly. "Be good for daddy.”

It's like the crescendo of an orchestra, like a summer afternoon in august, like waking up without a clogged nose after being sick, it's - really fucking good. You're near sobbing, crying out his name, abandoning your tits to reach for him desperately. He meets you halfway, shuddering his own orgasm into you. The press of his hips against yours is better than buttered toast, the delicate press of his chest against yours as he lets your leg go is bliss.

"Si-imon," you slur, hands on his cheeks. He laughs and kisses your forehead.

"What's that, sweet girl?"

"I love you," you cry a little more then, feeling him pull out and lay next to you. You're boneless.

"I love you too," his arm reaches across you, pulling you into him. "Both of you." Hand on your belly again.

"That was insane," you pant. He barks a laugh against your hair. "I'm serious."

"I know you are, love," he kisses your forehead, petting your stomach. You can tell it's meaning, can feel the gratefulness behind the kiss. He's saying thank you, for staying with him, for making him a father. Your hand finds his, squeezing back a wordless reply. Of course, it says.

<3

[astrow1zar6]

Astro Observations~ 49

👑Mars conjunct Venus people can either be really irresistible or repulsive to be around no in between. I feel like people either can’t get enough of them & are so attracted to them or they are very disturbed by their energy of come off as very obnoxious.

👑Venus in Aries LOVE when people are obsessed with them. They care more about making you obsessed with them than actually keeping you. They love the chase they live for it tbh.

👑Mars in the 8th house can prefer very rough sex. They have a thing for pain. They can be big masochists.

👑Pluto in aspect with the moon will love you deeper than anyone else. Especially when it’s positively aspected (sextile & trine). When they leave you will never find that depth again. You will find yourself thinking about them years later.

👑Mars in Aries people are physically so strong. Usually grew up always winning arm wrestling or running the fastest out of all your friends, was able to beat everyone in sports ect. They re blessed with incredible strength & endurance.

👑Scorpio Venus’s are the most jealous out of all the Venus signs. They do NOT like sharing their partners with anyone (even family) they are like this with friends as well. Once they fall in love with you they almost never let you go. You will always be in the back of their minds forever.

👑Saturn sextile or trine Venus in synastry is really the glue to a relationship. I’ve seen so many married couples with this aspect. No matter how much they piss you off you are always gonna want to fix it to make it work. The relationship can start off pretty slow at first but usually once it gets there it lasts a lifetime.

👑Jupiter in the 10th house people are usually very popular. Whether they are popular for good or bad (depending on your aspects) reasons they will be paid a lot of attention from the public eye (especially in Leo or Sagittarius). You have a very powerful divine presence & it’s hard for people to keep their eyes off you. The types to be nominated for prom queen/king in highschool.

👑Pisces & Capricorn in the big three can make someone be very pessimistic.

👑The hardest workers I ever seen had Aries and Capricorn in their big three.

👑You rarely see a man with a Venus in Virgo, Scorpio or Capricorn being confused about someone. Those people almost always know what they want.

👑On the other hand Pisces, Libra & Aries Venus men usually never know what they want and recklessly get into relationships they aren’t always so sure about.

👑Aquarius placements are usually into things that can be seen as “childish” or “nerdy”. For example; Video games, collecting figurines, cartoons, anime ect.

👑Libra suns can have a problem with mirroring others personality subconsciously. They can suppress their natural self’s to be liked by others more. It actually really hard for them to be themselves in social situations. They only show their true selves to those they trust deeply.

👑People are usually obsessed with getting approval from those with a Capricorn rising. You have a lot of people that look up to you & value your opinions deeply. Others naturally respect you due to your mature put together presence. You have a very powerful aura & others are more likely to yield to you.

👑Uranus in the 5th house people get turned on by weirdness. The weirder the better. They highly appreciate people who are free with expressing their quirks. They hate being around people who get embarrassed too easily.

👑A lot of 12th house placements can make you a very “lowkey” type of person. People usually forget that you are in the room sometimes. 12th house placements can make people with extroverted signs quiet. Especially if you have it in the sun or mercury.

👑Sun & Venus in Taurus women usually look really good without makeup. The more natural the better they look.

👑Saturn in the 4th house can have difficulty in expressing affection (especially with their family. Could’ve came from a household where their family often neglected their emotional well being or they weren’t able to vent properly to anyone. Mother could’ve been very cold and strict when dealing with the native. They usually had to grow up super fast & was emotionally mature at a very young age. Could be used to dealing with problems on their own making it uncomfortable to ask for help. These people usually have the hardest time going to therapy.

👑Sag moons can come off as more like an air moon. They are the most detached emotionally out of all the fire moons.

👑Most narcissists have a mutable moon sign. Or just a lot of mutable placements in general.

👑Cap Venus men can be big crash outs when they get rejected or find out their partner isn’t loyal. They take that shit so seriously they absolutely hate being embarrassed or looking stupid for someone.

👑Pisces/12th house mercury’s can struggle with having a voice when younger. Could’ve repressed what bothered them a lot because they were used to the things they said being dismissed by others. Could’ve felt like they spoke a completely different language than everyone else.

👑Venus in retrograde people usually have a lot of trauma from other women. Other women could’ve not liked them too much or it’s difficult for them to make genuine girl friends. Other girls viewed them as being “mean girls”. Felt more comfortable in the presence of men.

👑Venus square mars I’m synastry can feel uncomfortable for the Venus person. Mars person usually makes the Venus feel uncomfortable because of how strong they can come off with them at times. The mars person can act very lusty around the Venus which can scare them a little. This aspect can be common with one sided attraction.

👑Gemini suns/risings are the epitome of golden retriever energy.

👑Mars/ Venus in Taurus men prefer women who are more curvy/voluptuous.

👑Aries moons can lose interest when you aren’t giving them enough attention.

👑Libra suns almost always have nice 🍑. Almost every girl I’ve seen with a big 🍑 had their sun in libra

👑Aqua Venus’s are usually amazing friends & they tend to have a lot of them. Their friends can also fall in love with them very easily.

👑Cancer suns can either be super hilarious or so corny

[shotmrmiller]

size difference where the one afraid to fuck you is simon. he thinks you soft. which is what you are. soft. fragile. small.

you're not like him. nothing like the guys. battle-scarred. muscles carved by relentless missions, scars that speak of duty.

your skin divots under his fingers, yielding to his weathered touch and if he squeezes hard enough, you'll have marks by morning. (he needs to be careful, he can't hurt you, won't—)

and so simon watches you touch yourself in the beginning, clever fingers swirling over your slippery clit with practiced movements even though his cock is straining against his trousers painfully. he can hear you mewl his name through bitten lips and it takes all of his self control to not tug his jeans off, slot himself between your spread, inviting thighs and push— stretch open your fluttering walls, so hot and slick, until he meets resistance, until he can push no more but—

he can't. you'd hurt. and he'd hurt because he hurt you. he won't.

after, when your eyes are heavy lidded, mouth slightly parted in exertion, you remind him that you aren't made of glass. that you won't break. you'll shatter— in the way you do when his tongue replaces your fingers— but not break.

"not a virgin either, for christ's sake," you groan.

maybe he's thinking too hard about it. he knows your teeth have edges, knows your bite is swift when deserved. but all he's truly good at is making things give. biology made it so with his bulky frame and raw mass.

his eyes trace the contour of your collarbone. delicate. then it darts to the pulse on your wrist. vital. his hands, the size of dinner plates don't coax. they demand. he'd snap you like a twig, leaving nothing but splintered remains in his wake.

you don't seem to mind, however. it slightly alarms him. where's your self-preservation? do you enjoy pain? is this some masochistic thing?

he looks at you, all glassy eyed and dewy skinned (ethereal; you're practically glowing under the soft light of the full moon that paints the room silver) and he thinks of how it's going to take work to make it work. his cock is large (he's seen the guys' eyes pop out of their heads in the showers once they caught a glimpse of what's between his legs) but you're persistent in the end. one too many nights of having him without having him.

he understands. simon knows better than most what it's like to yearn. to want and not have. he'd cause you pain by not giving in, and cause pain by giving in. damned if he does, damned if he doesn't.

so he caves. promises to go slow. careful.

"i can take it," you bravely say but he's barely pressing himself to your entrance and you're already making noises that tug at his pathetic little heart. the way your teeth sink into your bottom lip-- you look so pretty, how'd a twisted creature like him get someone like you to come home to-- as his cock fills you has him feeling lightheaded. it takes every ounce of self control to not sink into your heat, to hook your legs around his thick waist and let gravity do the rest.

an unsteady hand weaves its way down to your stuffed cunt, fingers splitting into a vee, feeling how he splits your puffy lips, and the view makes him buck his hips involuntarily.

his hands tighten around your calves when you keen, a high pitched noise that swells the lust he feels burning white hot at the base of his spine, tips of his fingers, deep within his loins. he feels ready to burst.

and he's only halfway in.

your voice cuts through the ringing in his ears. "m-more, simon, c'mon," the n is low and drawn out.

his fingers bite into your flesh as he pushes slow, oh so slowly, until your vise-like cunt envelops him completely. the sibilant hiss you let out makes his hair stand on end. (shame pricks at his nerves like a thousand tiny needles when his cock twitches at the sound of your slightly pained moans)

simon doesn't move, feeling your swollen walls around his cock ripple, tighten and slacken, like it's got a pulse of its own. he could be here, in you, cock deep in paradise for the rest of time.

"fuck me," you warble out, hand rubbing your swollen clit to well up the pleasure that's being smothered by the searing pang of discomfort.

when simon cants his hips back, he watches his cock come out of you, glistening with slick. his jaw aches from how hard he's clenching it. control. got to keep it slow, gentle. slow, simon, slow, slow--

"harder."

he feels the sudden sharp sting of your nails and jerks forward in surprise, filling you completely in one fast movement.

your moan this time is needy, thick with want, arousal dripping from your voice as it does your pussy, coating him in creamy white, a frothy ring at the root.

simon can see the barest of bumps below your navel, or maybe he's seeing things, your hot cunt putting him in a state of delirium but the way you take all of his cock and continue to beg for more, beg him to fuck you like he means it even though he's twice if not thrice your size well...

you'll just have to forgive him on the finger-shaped bruises they're going to be on your body after.

(you'd looked so cheeky before he flipped you onto your knees, grabbing onto your delicate neck like a lifeline as he pulled your hips to meet his. you'd taken him easier here, cunt sodden with slick but the angle had him reaching a devastating depth no one else could ever dream of reaching and even though it'd sprung tears to the corners of your eyes at the pinch, "mama ain't raise no bitch.")

[ohimsummer]

✎ . . .❝WERE YOU TRYING TO SHOOT A PORNO?❞

— minors dni, suggestive, crack, roommate! satoru x reader, fem! language towards reader, ‘stuck in a piece of furniture’ porn trope

You’ve gotten yourself in quite the predicament, haven’t you?

“…Oh, baby, how’d you end up like this?”,Satoru laughs behind you. “Were you trying to shoot a porno? ‘Girl stuck in washing machine gets fucked stupid by handsome roommate’ .”

“Can you just fucking get me out already?”, you snap, struggling again for leverage but your movements yield no results. You’re stuck in the most inconvenient, most uncomfortable, most awkward position.

“Ya know—,” Satoru’s voice is closer now as he leans over to get a better look at your pitiful position,” —I never realized just how short you were. I mean, your feet aren’t even reaching the floor right now.”

“Satoru—“

“Pfft. You’re a little gremlin. You could probably fit into the washing machine, too, actually.” Strong hands grasp at your waist, hovering you over the depths of your confinement. “How’d you get stuck in there, anyway? Trying to hide from me?”

You hesitate on answering, knowing it’ll only fuel the impending short jokes. “…..I was trying to reach the rest of my clothes at the bottom.”

“And?”

Heat rushes to your cheeks. “I fell a little too far into the machine and I couldn’t push myself out.”

Gojo tsks, giggling. “Oh, you poor baby, being so short must be such a painful existence.”

“Shut the fuck u—“

“Don’t you worry, Daddy Satoru is gonna get you out of here in no time.”

“And don’t call yourself that!”

tagz: @anthoosies @staryukis @hellkaiserinphoenix @lxnarphase @cinnamoneve @sabrinexx @rosso-seta @sapphireandange @rxddxvotion @venusiansilk @biscuitsngravie @babytoshiii @kissesfrombelle @v0ctin @purplegemadventures @luvvforliaa @apatauaia @sataraxia @leilalilox @kayleegomez @satoruxx

[beloveds-embrace]

Hello! Thank you for feeding us the angstier timeline of the dukedom au!! I live for angst

You don’t have to entertain this thought ofc, the angst and how good you write for my brain worms worming. I just can’t stop thinking about what would’ve happened if König wasn’t there and instead the duchess had to suffer all on her own

(Or better yet, if he was there but ended up also leaving the duchess for someone else or was killed protecting the duchess)

Reader having to endure everything on her own which eventually leads her to falling terribly ill and in the olden times we all know how a simple cold could turn into more and yield deadly results

The stress combined with the overall lack of appetite (and the food not cooked well at times to add to that… more angst (: ) as well as other factors rendered the reader terribly ill

Maybe she fell into a body of water and had to save herself, or maybe she was caught up in a rainy storm on a walk with no one offering her warm clothing or a cover up until she eventually managed to get back that leads to pneumonia

Maybe she gets injured but hides it until the blood loss gets to her and infection sets in

Just so many options and flavours of angst

Anyway, thank you for sharing your writing with us! Agin, you don’t have to engage with this, so please don’t feel pressured!! I’m just having many thoughts and am currently going feral /pos

WAITTT WAIT I LOVE THIS

Because imagine clinging to König, to your one singular source of comfort in a manor that has no room for you, and in the end, he leaves as well.

You had been telling yourself that you had been simply more imaginative lately; König was simply busy, he wasn’t growing more and more distant! The way he looks at you now compard to before hasn’t changed. At all. His responses were in hums and nods, noncommittal but that’s okay, sometimes you did not feel like speaking- like existing- either.

Until he stands in your office, the light from the windows reflecting off his armour. You had been happy to see him, a smile on your lips to be in the company of the only one who didn’t seem to despise you.

When he tells you that he will not be doing this anymore, it feels, for a very split second, like your heart shatters into a thousand tiny pieces. You can feel the shattering of each, single piece.

Better place. He says, pity in his eyes but no regret. He pauses for a second. I wish… the best for you.

König leaves you like that; staring after his back in abject horror. Every step he takes echoes in your ears, until you are left alone in your office, hands trembling, and your ears ringing.

After that day, everything practically crumbled. You crumbled.

Without him, the weight of your isolation became unbearable. The disdain of the household grew sharper once it became known your only solace was no longer there, the whispers more cutting. Meals came cold, uneaten. Sleep eluded you, and the constant stress gnawed away at your strength.

One fateful day, you went outside in a desperate bid to escape the suffocation. The air was crisp, the sky gray with the promise of rain, and yet you still did not turn back. You wandered farther than you intended, your steps aimless even as the first drops began to fall.

The storm came quickly afterwards, drenching you to the bone. Your thin cloak offered little protection, and the chill seeped deep into your skin. By the time you returned, trembling and soaked, no one was waiting to help you. No fire had been lit in your chambers; no warm blanket was offered, and no company was given.

The fever began that very night, burning through you with a strength that left you bedridden. Days passed in a haze of pain and delirium. The wound you had hidden- an injury from your fall in the storm- festered, the infection spreading rapidly through your weakened body. You hadn’t the strength to call for help, nor the faith that anyone would come even if you did hoarse out your voice in your attempts.

Only when your condition worsened and you really, truly disappeared out of view, the household finally took notice. Whispers swirled, faint echoes beyond the fog of your fading consciousness, and everyone became alert of your absence, meals returned untouched and maids reporting it’s weeks since they’d helped you with anything.

John sat in his study, nursing a glass of whiskey as the fire crackled in the hearth. He told himself your absence didn’t matter- that you were retreating because you’d finally realized the truth. But when he closed his eyes, he saw your face as it had been on your wedding day- hopeful, trusting, and unaware of the coldness that would greet you.

Simon found himself pacing the halls around your room more often than usual. He would glance toward your chambers but never step inside, convincing himself it wasn’t his concern. And yet, something about the silence unsettled him.

Johnny had begun to notice the meals sent to your chambers were left untouched, the plates returned barely touched or sometimes not taken at all. He hadn’t cared at first, dismissing it as you sulking because no one was giving you attention. But now the thought lingered- had you even been eating at all?

Even Kyle, with his sharp tongue and sharper gaze, felt the unease creeping in. He found himself hesitating when passing your door, his usual indifference cracking as guilt gnawed at him.

In the end, it’s Kyle who couldn’t stand the silence anymore. He stepped into your room, telling himself it was simply to prove to himself that you were fine and just- sulking.

The sight stopped him cold.

The room was dim, the curtains drawn, and the air heavy with the faint, sour scent of illness. You lay motionless on the bed, your body shockingly frail, your skin damp with fever. Your hair clung to your forehead, and your breathing was shallow, each breath rattling in your chest.

You didn’t even notice him. Not even when he turned around and barked sharply for John, for a doctor now. You didn’t notice him at all. Not him, not John or Simon or Johnny when they appear while the maids run to get the doctor.

(Kyle will never tell anyone how utterly sick he felt upon seeing the dried tear-tracks on your face. The unfinished, rotten meals near the bed. The tear spots on your pillows. He will never, ever forget today. He doubts any of the others will be able to do so, either.)

[nightingale-prompts]

Field Trip-DCxDP prompt

(Another Danny the Cosmic Babysitter pompt)

Danny had little patience for the adult heroes with a handful of exceptions. That is most of the heroes are fine but Danny likes to complain because he isn't called to be on missions often.

Instead, he often gets calls on Friday nights to watch Superboy and that means Robin comes too.

Danny is their favorite babysitter and the only people Danny doesn't complain about. He treats the boys with as much care as he does his little sister but he is also pretty negligent. If the boys were unharmed and not traumatized then he lets them do whatever they want. Much to their father's concern.

The boys were dropped off at Danny's portal after school with their bags and Clark gave Danny one of his mother's cheese apple pies and a batch of Alfred's cookies.

Clark wished them luck and reminded them to do their homework and to be respectful to Danny.

Bruce called and reminded Danny to....blah blah blah. Danny wasn't listening he was a busy god.

Danny instead took the boys on a field trip when Jon asked for help on his science homework.

Danny took them to his observatory and showed them just a fraction of the infinite cosmos. The observatory was a place he made to monitor the realms, tracking the path of stars and galaxies, and the life on planets.

"So how does life form on different planets?" Jon asked staring into the rainbow-colored galaxy twisting around them.

"Let's go see!" Danny opened a portal to a far-off desolate world under a purple sun making sure to put a protective barrier on the boys so they would survive the environment.

"Are suns supposed to be that color?" Damian asked.

"They can be any color," Danny said reassuring "Large amounts of potassium salts cause the star to look this way."

The boys looked around on this planet hoping to see new aliens. But there were none. Danny laughed at their puzzled expressions.

"This planet has no life on it. In 5 billion years the right conditions will be met to form organic life when this star burns enough of the potassium around it. Frozen ice in asteroids will hit this planet and water will form and the heat will create an atmosphere. Organisms will form and die and for a brief moment, this world will have life." Danny explained laying out the beginning of life.

"What? So they won't live? Why not?" Jon asked in distress of the idea.

"Haha, don't worry. That's how it's supposed to be. Life is a miraculous thing and the beings that will one day grow here are one of the billions of planets that share the same fate. They will never gain sentience of course but they will live and living in a universe so fickle and absurd is a testament. Think of just how amazingly it is to live on earth." Danny said taking the boys into another portal to a world populated by beasts.

Alien beasts that walked on four legs and birds flew.

Damian marveled at the giant birds that dwarfed any on Earth.

"This is a super planet with enough oxygen to support 50 Earths. Full of life and animals who have evolved from the small bacteria that would have died like on the planet before had the environment been different. Life is a roulette wheel though and even the same environment could yield different results." Danny said as they stood on the grassy clift.

"There really are no people?" Damian asked.

"No, and there never will be. You two are the only people who will ever reach this planet. This world will never know society. No government. No civilization." Danny hummed in thought.

"That's a good thing." Damian said.

"Is it? Maybe. Even a lowly beast still looks up at the sky and dreams of a better existence. But here this world will never know a truly peaceful life. It will always be predator and prey. Survival is all they know. No, they will mostly live short lives knowing only fear and violence. They will not know art or music, things gained from learning and sharing. They have not reached that part of development and they never will know. An ice age will soon come when their planet loses its orbit and they will all die." Danny said as he ushered the boys to another world.

Jon and Damian when silent in despair. Learning the benign cruelty of the universe was harder when you had to see it.

The next was a world that was a smoking wreckage.

"This world was once populated with billions. The people had evolved from the smallest life forms, surpassed their beastly heritage, and grew into tribes. They built cities and hubs. But they also built weapons. The truth is boys that the progress of a species hinges on the ability to evolve and the greatest driving force is competition. The greatest opponent is yourself. These people chose to give in to that call and they suffered for it. Some turned towards the stars and had long fled to start a new life on another planet." Danny said soberly.

Damian and Jon looked at the space god and noticed he suddenly didn't look like his usual self. He was slightly weathered and creased at the edges.

Danny opened another portal to another world. A city full of lights where below them.

"This boys is a planet of strange aliens. They dream constantly of a better life but don't know how to achieve it. They work together and they break apart, always arguing. But time and time again they come together to prove they care for one another. True there will be those who work against this collective and care only for themselves. Take pity on them, they have succumbed to their instincts from when they were just simple beasts trying to survive. If they can one day look up and see that all they have in this lonely universe where life can be blinked out of existence if the tide shifts differently then they'd truly become a better species. Boys you must understand that your existence is nothing short of a miracle upon miracle. We are all made from stardust and it is next to impossible that you exist at this moment but despite all odds you are here." Danny said as he flew over the city carrying the boys.

As Damian and Jon looked down they recognized landmarks this was earth.

"Will the same thing happen to us as that other planet?" Jon asked.

"I don't know. You mortals tend to surprise us. I can probably predict a billion futures and still be wrong. I'll have to ask the time god. Still, there is no telling what I do know is that the future will have you two and that tells me that it's going to be okay.

[moonstruckme]

hiii bb

first off all GURL YOUR WRITING IS LITERALLY TOP TIER I CANNOT WITH IT—

and second, i saw you had your requests open and while i’ve never done this before i really, really would love it if you could write a poly!wolfstar with reader coming from a pretty similar family background as sirius and gets triggered by loud noises and remus is in a bad headspace because it’s just a few days before full moon and he accidently yells at her and reader just shuts down and tries to brush it off because she thinks she’s being dramatic and tries to act unruffled but sirius sees through it and overall just hurt/comfort, pretty please? ILY

Awe thank you lovely! For both the sweetness and the request <3

cw: migraine, reader panics because of shouting/aggression

poly!wolfstar x fem!reader ♡ 1.4k words

Remus has told you to leave him alone more than once. You know that you should, that you really ought to make yourself scarce because these moods before the full moon almost never yield good things. The issue is that you care about Remus more than consequences, and as a result you’re not very good at doing what you should. 

“Hey,” you say gently, when he passes you by on his way back to his desk with another cup of tea. “That’s too much caffeine, lovely. You’ll make your headache worse.” 

“It’ll be fine,” Remus grunts. He continues on his way, and, despite Sirius’ look, despite knowing better yourself, you give chase. 

“You’ll regret it if you have another,” you reason, following him to his work-cluttered desk, which has been shoved temporarily into the darkest corner of your bedroom. “I know some caffeine helps, but too much—”

“I know how it works.” Remus’ voice is low. Low, but not thin. He doesn’t look at you as he sits down. “I need it, alright?” 

You take a breath. Yes, you can see how you explaining Remus’ own migraines to him might not be well received. But it’s not easy to watch your boyfriend act against his own self-interest. 

Remus has described the feelings leading up to a full moon to you before. He said it feels like something sizzling under his skin, or crackling. It’s not entirely pleasant, but it gives him more energy than he ever has otherwise. Makes him restless, productive, lively. Eventually, though, that energy builds into something he can barely tolerate—that’s when the migraines usually start. Remus gets irritable, his joints ache, it’s like his body is trying to hold something no human can, waiting for the full moon and the chance for Remus’ not-human body to expel it all. 

When you think about how much energy he’s storing, that electric sizzle under his skin, caffeine hardly seems necessary. Until you take into account that Remus has hardly slept for the past three nights. Then you wonder if perhaps his brain can no longer keep up with the tireless dynamism of the rest of him. 

“Maybe you should rest for a while instead,” you try. 

“I have work to do.” 

“It’ll still be there after a nap.”

“And I suppose I may as well just wait until after the full, then, yeah?” 

“I mean, maybe.” You pick up on Remus’ sarcasm, but you don’t disagree. “You can’t be expected to just power through when you’re having such a hard time.” 

“Really?” There’s bite in your boyfriend’s voice now. Enough that you retract the hand you were about to set on his shoulder. “I can’t be expected to? That’s exactly what’s expected of me. I don’t just get a week off every month.” 

You push out a frustrated breath. “I know, and that’s not fair—” 

“None of this is fair.” Remus turns in his seat, glowering with such virulence it shocks you despite the argument you’d thought you were prepared for. “There aren’t allowances made for lycanthropy. If I told my boss that I need a lighter workload and he made the connection, he could report me to the ministry. I can’t afford to complain about how my head hurts or indulge in naps and breaks when everyone else keeps working.” 

His voice rises, and he’s suddenly taller than you, looking down on you. He stood up. Your ears are ringing. 

“If everyone else is able to handle their workload during the full, I have to, too. Do you understand that?” 

You find you can’t speak. There’s a horrible ache sitting in the base of your throat which won’t let anything out. You nod. 

“Do you?” Remus seems exasperated. Baffled by your naïveté. “I don’t want to be told that I shouldn’t be working. I don’t want to be told that I can’t have caffeine to get through it, because I know what I have to do, and that’s not something you can understand. Alright?”

“Alright,” you choke out. 

“Do you get that?” 

“Yes.” 

“Remus,” says another voice. You don’t turn, but you don’t need to; Sirius always follows the sound of shouting. It’s habit for him. “That’s enough, love.” 

“I was done,” Remus snaps. 

Sirius’ hand wraps around your elbow. His fingers feel cool, or maybe you’re only hot. You feel very, very hot. 

“Hey,” he prompts softly. Now you look at him. Sirius’ expression is all tenderness, and it feels like whiplash. “You okay?” 

You dismiss the question with a shake of your head. Your ears are still ringing. “Yeah.” 

You look back to Remus. You can’t help it. You want to fix, and to leave, and to dissolve. But Remus is the epicenter of everything, and you feel as though taking your eyes off him even temporarily is a danger. 

“Let’s be done squabbling for now,” Sirius says, his voice unnaturally light. “We’ve all said our piece, yeah?” He gives your arm a gentle tug, and you take a step back. You’d been nearly right up against Remus, you realize. Frozen to the spot where you’d gone to rest your hand on his shoulder. Sirius runs his thumb over your skin before asking again, “Are you okay?” 

Tears invade your eyes without warning. Your face burns, and you feel it screw up in an attempt to keep them from falling. “Yeah,” you say unsteadily. “I’m just—so—sorry.” 

Two things happen seemingly at once: your voice fractures, and Sirius crushes you to him. 

Remus exhales. You hear the creak of his chair taking his weight again. “Shit.” 

“Shh, I know,” Sirius murmurs, petting your head while your tears spill over to wet his jumper—Remus’ jumper, which smells like both of them and probably also you. “I know, baby, it’s okay. You’re safe here.” 

“I’m sorry,” Remus says. His voice sounds muffled, as though he’s speaking into his hands. 

“No, it’s—I’m sorry.” You sniff, trying to wipe under your eyes. Sirius keeps you held to his front. “It’s not your fault.” 

“It is my fault.” 

“I believe I said we were done with the squabbling.” Sirius kisses your head firmly. “What do you need, sweetness? Some quiet? Time to breathe?” 

“I’m okay. Really, I’m fine.” You give Sirius a grateful squeeze before letting him go. He lets you, but watches you concernedly as you swipe a knuckle underneath your eyes. The ringing in your ears has faded to near nothing, aftershocks trembling through your fingers in its wake.  “I’m fine. I just—needed a second. Sorry.” 

Sirius makes a quiet sound. “Stop that. You don’t have to be sorry.” 

Remus nods his agreement. His head is in his hands, you can see now, but he lifts it up to look you in the eyes. “I shouldn’t have raised my voice at you.” 

You shake your head. “You were right. I was insensitive. And I don’t know why I reacted like that, I’m just being dramatic.” 

“Oi,” Sirius cuts in sternly, though half as stern as he’d usually be even to tease you. “I’m dramatic. Get your own personality.” 

That gets your lips to twitch a little. You watch as Remus sends him one of his fond, exasperated looks. 

“You weren’t being dramatic,” Remus says to you. “I shouted at you. However angry I was, that’s not alright. I’m sorry I scared you.” 

“You didn’t scare me.” Your eyes are beginning to burn again. You try to blink through it. “It was just—it was—” 

“I understand,” he says, softly. His expression is still taut with pain, but some of the harsher lines have melted away. “I’m sorry anyway. Do you want to come here?” 

Sirius hums satisfiedly when you go sit across Remus’ lap and wrap your arms around his shoulders. He draws his hand up and down your back slowly, with enough pressure to ease away any lingering tension coiled around your spine. You breathe out. Sirius doesn’t hold out long before he’s there too, curled around the two of you and squeezing heartily. 

“You two aren’t allowed to fight,” he mutters, kissing your head and Remus’ in turn. “In order for me to be petty and vain, I need you to be the sensible ones, understand? This is a delicate ecosystem.” 

“I don’t know,” you hum. “I think Remus should get breaks some way or another around the full moon. Can’t you take a sensible shift once a month?” 

Sirius lets out a sigh like the weight of the world is on his shoulders, but you hear the gentle sound of him pressing another kiss to Remus’ head. “Suppose so. Only once a month, though.” 

[seresinhangmanjake]

Inside You

Remmick x reader

Sinners Masterlist / Main Masterlist / Tag List

Summary: Remmick is obsessed with you and has been watching from the shadows, plotting, planning, waiting until it’s the right time to claim you as his own. To you, however, he’s just a gentle man who arrives on your property seeking help. It’s once he’s inside your house that your feelings and senses no longer make sense. You can’t explain it, but it might just be that your mind and body already know this man.

Warnings/Notes: Smutty-ish (so 18+) in a less explicit way (it's also like, one paragraph). Mention of blood and injury.  Remmick’s got an extra power, I guess, where he can sort of manipulate humans’ minds. None of the vampires from Mississippi died. Not necessarily historically accurate as far as a few details are concerned. Typos, probably. 

I don't support the actions of this character in the movie at all. I just think the guy's hot, alright? I'm sorry. I can't even explain why.

Words: 4400

He watches you from afar, as a man obsessed often does. For weeks, from his hidden spot along the treeline, his eyes have followed your body as you've moved about the interior and exterior of your house, reading books, preparing meals in a flowered apron, changing out of your dresses into the nightgowns that barely conceal the silhouette of your curves. 

He likes to imagine you putting those on for him. He pictures you coming out of the house into the glow of the moonlight, extending your hand toward him, practically begging to be engulfed by his need. 

It’s a dream he intends to have fulfilled, and he will do whatever it takes to ensure nothing stands in the way. Certainly not that fiancé of yours. 

A pathetic waste of space, if you asked him. Not worthy of your time and attention. He could give you better, and maybe if your head wasn’t so stuffed full of useless thoughts of a man other than him, you might have noticed him by now. You might have felt him, felt his eyes on you. You might have sensed the cord of tension between your bodies that penetrates through the walls of your house. You might have recognized his whispers in the night, seeping into your mind, luring you to come to him, which, if it weren’t for that man, would have successfully brought you into his arms. More than once, he’s watched you wake in a trance-like state, guided through the house by his voice, only for that man to notice the creaks of your aged floorboards from his own room and take it upon himself to lead you back to bed. Sleepwalking—that's the man's diagnosis. A fool. 

But tonight, the man is gone and you’re tucked into a porch chair reading a book, completely unaware, completely exposed to the night. Your hair is down, your face is washed of rosy paint, no jewels adorn your neck. Bare, just how he likes you. A breeze blows up the skirt of your nightgown, the dancing fabric almost demanding he explore the space between your legs. 

From behind him, sticks crack under pressure and leaves rustle from disturbance, piercing the veil of Remmick’s fantasies.

“You might be gettin’ too attached,” Bo says as he comes up beside him.

Without tearing his gaze away from your long limbs, Remmick says, “I sure don't recall askin’ for your opinion.”

Bo yields, his hands raised in surrender. “I ain't tryin’ to offend,” he says. “It’s just, the others are sayin’ we’ve been here too long. Stack thinks the townsfolk are startin’ to get real suspicious. So unless you intend for us to kill ‘em all, it seems we ought to be movin’ on to the next.”

Remmick swells with irritation at the suggestion. Move on? Without you? No, not a chance. 

“We’ll be leavin’ soon enough,” he says, slipping his hands into his pants pockets. “Got one last thing to do.”

—

Your eyes widen, your book closing and falling aside when you notice him. “Oh my–” you mutter under your breath and quickly rise from your chair. 

He’s limping toward you, and you swallow hard, unsure if you should run, retreat into the house, threaten him with a weapon you don’t have, or stand there frozen in the foolish hope he hasn’t noticed you. For a brief second, you consider that perhaps you have nothing to fear, but you don’t want to take the chance. Limping or not, he's a man. And no telling what a man might do. 

But then he pauses under the exposure of the moon’s light, and the rigidity of your spine instantly eases.

His clothes are disheveled: a white button-down tucked into tan slacks, suspenders strapped over his shoulders, boots scuffed from long-term use. But he’s got a nice face. Light scruff highlights the line of his jaw. Under pinched brows, his eyes are gentle. His lips—not quite full, not quite thin—are slightly curved in a weak smile as if suggesting the last thing he wanted to do tonight was bother you.

“I don’t mean to be intrudin’, miss,” he says. There’s a smoothness to his accented voice, like a lullaby without the tune. “But would you be willin’ to offer a little kindness and assistance?”

He takes one more step, a short one with the leg that can’t seem to hold up the weight of his body. Your eyes trail down, and a gasp escapes your lungs once you reach the slash in his slacks and the dark red stain seeping into the material. 

Something inexplicable takes over you, like an invisible force latching on to each of your senses and rearranging them, reteaching them, conditioning them as it pleases. The feeling is fleeting, however, and you slough it off like a layer of dead skin, emerging anew in a way you can’t quite put your finger on.

Ignoring all convention, you rush down the stairs in your nearly see-through gown and run across dewy grass that pushes up between your toes. When you reach him, he’s swaying on the verge of instability, so you press a hand to his chest to steady him.

“You poor man. Where on earth did you come from?”

A ragged breath. “Just beyond those trees there,” he says, nudging his head in the direction of the forest. “Was huntin’ and things took a turn.”

“Goodness.” You bite your lip. His gaze hones in on the action. “Well, you better come on inside and I’ll see what I can do for you. I’m no nurse, but–”

The worry of his brow dissolves, and a new smile displays a mixture of exhaustion and relief. “I’m sure you’ll patch me up just fine,” he says. He moves another step closer to you, but stumbles with a grunt. 

“Let me help you,” you say as you shift to his side, tucking yourself under his arm to bear some of his weight. 

“You’re mighty kind.”

—

Your mama never taught you much, but if you could thank her for at least teaching you to sew, you would. 

Remmick—that’s his name—sits atop your dining room table, his legs stretched in front of him and arms back to keep him upright as you weave a needle and thread in and out of his skin. 

Impressively, he’s rather unaffected. For a man who winced from the slightest step, you expected a grumbling, a curse, upper teeth digging into his bottom lip—anything to match the pain your handiwork is surely inflicting. But no. He’s perched on polished mahogany, simply staring at the side of your face as you tug on the needle and close up another inch of his wound. 

“You ain’t too bad at this,” he says, making you chuckle and shake your head.

“It’s the first time I’ve tried it.”

He hums. “Well, I sure wouldn’t mind gettin’ cut up again if it means I got you around to fix me.”

Your hand freezes in mid-air just as you're about to delve into another stitch. Your throat goes dry and you try to swallow away the sand. If you’ve learned anything about this Remmick in the last hour, it’s that he’s wildly charming and wholly effective. He knows how to talk, what to say, what words are playful enough to make a woman blush without being sinfully offensive. 

That blush has found your cheeks a handful of times tonight. 

Whether or not it's a reaction he’s drawn from you with intention, you can’t tell, but you refuse to ask and just pray he doesn’t detect it in the low lighting of your dining room. 

“So…what attacked you?” you ask. “I would think an animal’s claws would leave more than one laceration.” 

When you glance up from your task, he’s still staring at you, so you quickly look away and return your focus to your work. 

“Didn't see,” he says. His voice is a touch lower, a bit more husky, and it makes you dizzy. 

Sew; just keep sewing. 

“That must have been terrifying.”

He snickers. “Miss, I promise ya, I’m the most terrifying thing in those woods.”

You dismiss the jolt that went through your entire nervous system at the sound of that laugh, and after pulling the needle through the last bit of skin, you tie off the thread in a knot and cut the excess free with a pair of manicuring scissors. 

You assess your work. Not bad. Not great, but passable. The slacks are done for, though, unless he intends to remove them so they may receive the same treatment you gave his shin. But unlikely is it that he would want to stand there unclothed as you repair the rip in the fabric. So with a blink and a subtle shake of your head, you shove aside the image of him doing just that. 

“All done,” you announce, putting down the needle and leaning back in your chair. 

“A darn shame,” he replies. “Was just gettin’ used to havin’ your hands on me.”

You feel it again—that inexplicable something. Your eyes meet, and the stare between you lingers in a silence that only serves to amplify the chirping of the crickets outside your window. Even as he eases his legs off the table, the connection doesn't break. It’s only when he plants his feet on the floorboards and steps out of sight that you are able to blink and breathe.

The legs of your chair skid across the floor as you stand. You turn to face him. Your mouth parts, but you snap your lips shut before the words you wish to say can string together and reach his ear. You don’t have to go yet—that’s what it would’ve been. And how asinine a suggestion. 

Remmick’s smile teeters on the edge of a smirk, as if he can hear those thoughts tumbling around in your head. “I should be goin,” he says. There’s a long pause, and you know you should say something, but you still don’t trust your mouth. “If you're wantin’ me to, that is.”

You yearn to protest, but again, you don't let it out. Instead, in the absence of words, your head falls forward and your hands begin to fiddle with your skirt. 

Remmick sighs, and in your peripheral vision, you can see him nod in disappointment. Regret takes root as he heads toward the door. There's a sudden itch to keep him with you, to wrap your hands around his wrist and then your arms around his neck and then your legs around his—What in the good Lord’s name is wrong with you?

He's reaching for the knob of the door when he abruptly halts. Three heavy beats of your heart pass, then that stalled arm falls back to his side. 

“Before you send me on my way,” he says, twisting back around. “You think I could get a goodbye kiss?”

Your eyes widen, and your head jerks back, and that’s…that’s too much. Too far, isn't it? You can’t possibly. It wouldn’t be right. The skittering of goosebumps along your arms can tell you that much. 

“What for?” you ask. 

His hands go into his pockets and he shrugs. “Been wonderin’ what your lips taste like for some time now.”

He gives you that statement with the ease and casualness of expressing a simple, inarguable fact. Two plus two is four. The sun always rises. He’s been wondering what you taste like. And it should sound wrong—too invasive, too bold—but it doesn't. It sounds natural, lacking the impropriety that you’re quite sure should be there. 

You take a second to regain your composure, clasping your hands in front of you, exhaling a slightly unsteady breath, and raising your chin a bit higher. 

“Sir, I am happy to have been a help,” you say, “but I’m afraid I have a fiancé.”

Remmick’s brows shoot up his forehead. His weight shifts to his bad leg. “A fiancé? Well, that there is a problem.”

“Yes,” you confirm, both pleased and put off when he doesn’t instantly tell you he doesn’t care you’re engaged, that respecting boundaries isn’t his concern, that if he wants a kiss, he’ll take one. “We will be married in the fall.”

He seems to be thinking for a moment, then his lips quirk in displeasure. “You like the fall?” he asks. “All that incomin’ cold startin’ to drive everybody indoors well before dark?”

For some reason, that question feels intimate. More intimate than asking for a kiss, and you stumble to provide an answer. 

“Don't gotta think too hard, lass,” he says. 

Lass. 

You ignore the endearment in favor of searching for an answer that doesn’t show how little your fiancé takes into consideration your preferences. Because, no, you do not like fall. You like heat and sweat and heavy air that’s sometimes hard to breathe through. You like sticky nights and the music of the critters that frolic through the dense forest. You like the insatiable desire to strip yourself of dresses and stockings and soak your body in the nearby lake. Fall begins the chasing away of everything you worship about summer. It’s the start of a grueling, miserable craving for next June. So, no, you don't like it. Not one bit.

Clearing your throat, you say, “Seasons change. It's unavoidable.”

A full, unabashed grin. “That sure sounds like a no to me,” he deduces, and warmth returns to your cheeks. 

Then he starts to abandon his spot, his slow, even steps closing the distance between your body and his. 

“I'd bet anythin’ you're one of them summer-lovin’ girls.” Closer. Your pulse races, thumping hard just under the edge of your jaw. “One of them that prefers everythin’ to be all hot and humid…and sweaty all the time.” Closer. You gulp. Barely a foot separates you when he stops. “A bit like tonight, wouldn't ya say?”

You peer up at him, suppressing a shudder that pleads to shoot down your spine.

“Y’know, me and my family, we thrive in the summer nights,” he tells you. “You'd fit in real well with us.”

You don’t know what to say, so you don’t fill the space with empty words. But you do wonder what this family of his is like. If he comes from a hoard of relatives, or if he’s flanked by a select, special few. Either way, you imagine him as the leader, the one who takes control, the one with a power over the others that they don’t fight against because they know they couldn’t do better. 

His eyes roam about your face, not settling on one individual feature for too long. They last on your lips for a handful of seconds, his own parting as if to finally capture that kiss, but then he swallows and locks his gaze with yours. 

And you can’t do it. You’re not strong enough to hold up your side of the bond. 

You drop your eyes and maneuver around him, setting about putting the sewing supplies away. Gathering each piece in your hands, you walk to a nearby cabinet, open the drawer, and organize them as they belong. It’s a good distraction. A brief distraction. A useless distraction, you realize, when you turn back around and find him close again, much closer than before. Where before there had been feet, now there are inches. Where before your breath was your own, it now blends with his. 

Remmick’s fingers graze yours.

“You should come along with me, lass,” he says. Soft and silky, a lullaby once more. “That fiancé of yours don't treat you right, anyway. Leavin’ you here all alone for hours and hours. No protection. Won't even let you have your wedding when you want.”

“He's—” His brow lifts, daring you to object. “He’s a perfectly good man.”

Remmick tilts his head, clicks his tongue, tsks at your naivety. “Good men ain't ever what they seem,” he says. “You can't always be blindly trustin’ what's in front of you.”

Then his hand reaches up and you don’t know what he’s going to do. If he is going to graze his knuckle down your cheek or cup your chin in his palm or run his thumb over your bottom lip. Your body stiffens with anticipation, but he does none of those things, instead plucking a lock of your hair and curling it around his index finger.

“Won't be long ‘for he comes home,” he says, eyes flicking back to yours. “You gonna let me have that kiss now, or should we wait ‘til he's ‘bout ready to walk through the front door?”  

A crease forms between your brows, not of irritation or frustration, but of worry. Though Remmick is broad and firmly structured in his own right, your fiancé is bigger, both in weight and height, and you’re not convinced a brawl wouldn’t end in devastation. 

You think of him gone, this man you just met, taken from you and the world because you let him stay too long, and, awash with a wave of protectiveness, you refuse to allow that to happen. So you have to get rid of him, despite the screaming in your head that argues against it.

“Just one kiss?” you ask. “That's really all you're wanting?”

With his finger, he draws a cross over his heart. “On my honor. Then I won't ever bother you again. Unless you want me to, of course,” he says, finishing with a wink.

Now that you have an understanding between you, a set rule—one kiss, only—you feel a bit more secure. But the longer his eyes claw into yours, the quicker that feeling starts to wither, and without its barrier, the full magnitude of what this kiss could do to you sinks in. You become jittery, spinning from the intensity of your pulsing nerves, and suddenly, it's more than just a want to kiss him, it's a need to kiss him. Need in a primal sense, like it would satisfy your basic instinct to survive. 

With Remmick’s smirk, your autonomy surrenders. There’s no control of your body, your fingers, which dig into the collar of his shirt and pull him closer. Then you press your lips to his, and something flashes behind your eyelids, and it feels like the most right thing in the world. It’s as if he, his mouth, this kiss, fills a slot inside of you that you weren’t aware was empty. 

When you part your lips and meet his tongue, he tastes like recollection, like memories, like dreams lost; the kind of dreams that are so good while you sleep but are ripped away from you the second you wake. Something about him is not new to you. You know him. You can’t explain how, but you do. Like he was woven into the cords of your brain long before this moment. 

You moan. 

Remmick grins into the kiss. 

“I knew you'd feel this good, lass,” he mutters with a light chuckle that briefly separates your lips.

You plant your mouth back on his, because, frankly, you don’t care about what he knew, only that he stopped kissing you and you can’t stop kissing him if you want to continue chasing after those dreams in the hope of uncovering the secrets within them. You need to understand how much of this man isn't foreign to you. You need to see if you will find familiarity in his messy groans and desperate touches, and whatever else there is. 

You go for the buttons. You’ve never undressed a man but you undo them with the skill of an experienced woman. With half of his shirt open, his hands slide from your waist to the outside of your thighs and back up, the motion pulling up your gown. Kisses travel to your cheek, your jawline, lips finding home against the curve of your neck. He inhales you deep into his lungs. Nails—surprisingly sharp—dig into your skin through thin white cotton, but the sting of pain does not stop you from attacking the zipper of his pants. 

But then there’s something new, odd, strange, unwelcome. Something that turns your eyes into saucers and steals your breath away and makes the weak yelp that leaves your throat sound as if it’s coming from vocal cords that have been through hell.

Teeth are tearing into your flesh. Ravenous. There’s sucking and lapping. A groan that is exactly what your mind told you it would be.

One of Remmick’s hands is still firm on your waist, but the other has moved to the side of your head, his strength keeping you still, holding you against him as he feasts. Your own hands have reattached to his shirt, latched on to the fabric as tightly as when your desire for him demanded it of you.

You don’t know how long it lasts, but the instant he pulls back, you feel the river flowing down your neck to your collarbone; a mirror to the crimson cascading from his exaggerated canines, over his chin and adam’s apple, reaching for the muscles of his chest.

Both your clothes are ruined. There’s no getting blood out of white, and much like the permanence of that, you know what he has just done cannot be undone. You’re losing energy too quickly. Your knees are loosening, and when they can no longer hold you up, Remmick catches you in his arms and gently eases you to the floor. 

“There we go, lass,” he soothes as he makes sure to support your head until carefully placing it down with the rest of your body. “S’alright. You don’t gotta cry,” he says. 

Crying? Are you crying? You can’t tell. 

You wonder if he knows blood can stain hardwood. Does he care that it will ruin the rug if the puddle underneath you spreads far enough?

His thumb wipes at what you can only assume is a stray tear. Glowing red eyes pry into your soul. “I'm right here, lass,” he says, nodding as if to reassure you. “You just rest yourself for a minute.”

And then there’s only darkness. 

—

Images are flickering by, some faster than others, some almost too quick to catch. You don’t bother chasing after those ones; you’d be running for ages. Instead, you reach for the images that seem to want to come to you, and it’s those ones that are the first to be sewn together to create a moving picture in your head. 

Some of the images you know are real. Those images are all of you:

You from a distance, the view partially obscured by a layer of trees. You in your kitchen, cooking stew with your mother’s apron around your waist. You lying in the grass amongst the fireflies. You letting your dress fall to your feet, your bare form dipping into the lake under the moonlight. The body of your fiancé, unmoving, plastered to the gravel walkway under the library window where you can be seen selecting a book. A single claw on a pale hand slicing into the flesh of an equally pale leg right before approaching the porch where you sit. Your eyes staring upward as your rapid heartbeat echoes throughout your dining room like the rhythmic beat of a drum. 

Then there are the images you know are not real. Not real, and yet so familiar to you:

You, opening your window, inviting him into your room. His fingers guiding the straps of your nightgown over your shoulders, pulling on the neckline until your breasts are free and the dress is discarded. Palms cupping, thumbs brushing over hardened buds. One of them in his mouth. The swirl of his tongue. His head between your legs. Those groans and moans and kisses, and the touches that claim your body as his weight is settled on top of you in your bed, your core stretched and filled. You can hear the whisper of your name in your ear. You can feel the moment he finishes.

They are the lost dreams. And they’re all of him. Planted by him, so that when he finally came for you, you wouldn’t be unsure, you wouldn't be afraid, because he was already buried inside of you. 

More images: instruments playing, people dancing, their eyes similar to Remmick’s but glowing white with the reflection of the moon. Teeth, so many teeth. Blood, so much blood. Family—one that you yearn to be a part of. 

But then, before you’re ready, everything dissipates, images blurring and distorting as they wisp away like smoke in the wind. Darkness returns, and you’re left in solitude, confused, until an onslaught of emotions floods your system. 

Obsession, desperation, lust, want, need, determination—you absorb the sensations right before they vanish and are replaced by something sweeter, like the juice of a berry, or fresh iron on your tongue. Suddenly, there is softness: caring, tenderness, devotion…love? Abnormal, twisted love, but undeniably love. You absorb those just the same into the overwhelming melting pot.

Then your fingers begin to twitch. Your lungs expand. Your heart tests itself with a few timid beats. Your eyelashes flutter and light blinds you, and when you blink it away, you’re met with the whiteness of your ceiling. A ceiling in a room in a house that is not your home anymore. 

“Welcome back, lass,” you hear. 

Your neck is a bit stiff as you turn your head. 

Gentle eyes. A fanged smile. 

“Feelin’ all better now?”

---

A/N: OK, hope you enjoyed. Stack fic is next.

[star-anise]

Warnings: Doomerism, climate grief, child death

The thing about having studied history and the psychology of trauma so much is that I can't pretend to myself that the world used to be better at sometime in the past.

Don't get me wrong; things are absolutely terrible right now and need to change, quickly.

But also, they're better than they've ever been for us as a species. It is literally mindblowing how much worse life was for us historically.

Have you seen one of those charts of the human population over time? Have you thought about what it actually means?

Because here's what I see: Humans have always loved things like living to old age, like having sex, like raising babies. Those are things we have always wanted to do. It's not like pre-industrial humans were giant pandas like, "Nah, rather not reproduce as a species. No thanks," and suddenly the Victorians discovered horniness.

Instead, for most of human history, we have died. At terrifically young ages. The few who made it to adulthood could make babies as much as they liked, and then overwhelmingly watched pregnancies miscarry, births end in tragedy, or babies die. Their own lives were constantly at the mercy of a world that could kill them without a second thought. To be human meant to live in a world full of a million little tragedies, all the goddamn time.

And then what happened was: The babies stopped dying. The effects of a lot of things from higher agricultural yields to public health efforts to mass communications made us the master over the diseases and maladies that once had us by the throat.

When we look ahead at catastrophe and terrors, yes, they're bad. But they'd have to be extremely bad indeed to measure up to the number of people who wouldn't even be alive in any other century.

And even the obvious bogeyman then, overpopulation—did you notice what's already happened? On that chart, there's the green measure of total population, but the thin purple line is the rate of population growth. Please notice that it peaked in 1968. It is, in fact, projected as entirely possible that within a century it could go lower than it was twelve thousand years ago, at the end of the last big ice age.

The moment babies started to live longer, people went, "That is too many babies. An absolutely unsustainable number of babies. People are crying out for help because taking care of that many children is completely overwhelming. We need to be able to fix this problem," and they invented birth control and fought to get it legalized. It hit the market in the late 1950s and in less than a decade, it had caught on like wildfire.

To me, this is the absolute opposite of an argument for passivity and political inaction. It's not that everything's going to be okay so why even try. It's that as it turns out, the human capacity to grow and thrive and make the world better is absolutely reality-defying. I don't have faith that all of our problems will be solved, but I do have faith that those problems are all the subject of passionate obsession of millions of people.

And apparently we have a really strong track record at that kind of thing already.