#adherence to commandments

[compassionmattersmost]

Embracing Forgiveness and Compassion: A Reflection on John 8:11

In John 8:11, Jesus offers a profound lesson in forgiveness and compassion. The verse reads: “Neither do I condemn thee: go, and sin no more.” This statement, made in a moment of deep moral and spiritual crisis, encapsulates the essence of Jesus’ teachings about grace and transformation. The Context of Compassion Jesus encounters a woman accused of adultery, brought before Him by those eager to…

[moompl]

The fact we never see Fox’s face throughout any media always kind of haunts me. Fox is the “ideal” clone, the one who follows orders regardless of what they are. He, and the rest of the guard seemingly, keeps their helmets which alienates the audience from them.

I always enjoy thinking about why the rest of the GAR don’t like the CG, and obviously it’s because they’re basically a police force who don’t often see off world battle, but what if it’s also because they are the most “droid-like” in their conduct. They blend in instead of stand out, they follow orders exactly and seemingly don’t question them. They work for Palpatine, instead stead of with a jedi.

Another thing, I know a lot of people like to head cannon that the CG hated their posts and were mind controlled by Palpatine through their chips and such, but I find it much more interesting if they truly believe in their cause. I do think the chips might have been used on them as like a test sibject, but I also think they also really did embody and believe in the idea of the clone army, and to pivot back to my original point—we don’t get the privilege to see a lot of their faces.

[ratwithhands]

I'm drafting a sketch comic rn since my friends wanted a better visual on Emmet's lobotomizer 💀 This hopefully shouldn't take too long, here's my favourite page so far.

Not that it affects the story in any way but I think it'd be cool if the respirator and visor just form over top of his face when he needs it, like a force field. The electricity is coming from them activating and spreading over his face.

Also fun fact about Emmet and his weapon: Emmet refrains from talking about it to new recruits or people he hasn't spoken to before because it inevitably ends in disgusted faces and mental notes to not hang around him. It's one of the things he especially doesn't like about getting transferred to the JAKDF because he has to explain it to several new captains and commanders, as well as officers and recruits. In the meantime, he at least gets to utilize some more normal weaponry as he adjusts to the new people and routine.

[bite-the-bloody-hand]

He's coming aloooong TwT

[rhythmmortis]

thinking of you and sending one billion hugs

thinking of you back and returning one billion hugs....... i have just been on a train for 5 hours and slowly but surely entering psychic combat with chomsky's government and binding theory. we got invisible pronouns up in this bitch

[221b-bitch-st]

fuck i dont wanna be the deity of ethics. people already dont listen to me, i dont wanna deal with that as a god too

here's a random word generator--whatever word it gives you is now the thing you are the deity of

[leafofkudzu]

I started doing yet another new format of character bio/info/whatever pages where I don’t have to be super organized and let me just say. Being able to fire unrelated trivia off without it having to be a coherent or aesthetic Tale has made me realize I have way more information about all my lil guys than I realized.

[melodyofmbaku]

Her House, Her Rules (Smoke Moore x Annie x Stack Moore)

Warning ⚠️: They're a trio.

Preview: Annie was the center of their world, their matriarch, sun, moon, stars and the fucking sky where they were concerned.

Word Count: 1.94k

A/N: Ya'll gonna have me writing a fic a day and I kinda love it. Keep the requests coming 🤠💁🏾‍♀️

____

“Now you know she ain’t like you doin’ all that in the house Stack.” Smoke warned his brother as he saw him light up his cigar.

The boys were laid up on different couches opposite each other in just their boxers. It was a sticky southern summer day and they were taking no chances in the hot ass sun. They were both men of the night now. 

Stack had convinced his brother to join him in his world of eternity shortly after he turned. And his brother didn’t decline. Living in a world without his brother was unfathomable. 

When they told Annie, she struggled for a while - she didn’t want that life for herself but still wanted them in her life. Annie chose to love them anyway. She married them anyway. And that’s why she was the love of their life.

Annie was the center of their world, their matriarch, sun, moon, stars and the fucking sky where they were concerned. So when she expressed her dislike of them smoking in the house, it wasn’t a question of if the boys would smoke in the house. The boys, wouldn’t smoke in the house. 

Smoke's warning caused his younger brother to roll his eyes as he took a drag. 

“Well, this my house too.” Stack replied back with an impish grin. 

“Ion want no trouble. You not bouta fuck up my chance of getting some tonight cuz you wanna be smart Stack. Put it out.” The older commanded the younger. 

He shook his head.

“It’s just this one time and she ain’t here so she ain’t gon’ know. Unless you tell her.” Stack stared pointedly at his twin.

“You gon tell her?” He asked with a raised brow before sucking on his cigar once more. The flavour filled his dead lungs and swirled about for a bit before he exhaled. That was one thing he liked about being undead. The mechanics of his body worked differently. There’d be no choking over here. 

“We took vows man why, you always wanna rock the boat?” Smoke asked highly annoyed at his brothers antics. 

“Yeah yeah, I ain’t cheatin’. Just smokin’.” he took a hit of his cigar obnoxiously once more.

“I’m here bored as hell man. Can I live? You want some?” he asked his older brother cheekily.

He received a glare in response. Smoke still — smoked — obviously but just out on the porch, adhering to the rules his lady had for the house. The boys may have been undead, but her potted plants were not.

“I married her too Smoke. So if we gotta problem I’ll take it up with her myself.” 

And that was the thing with Stack, he was all bark and no bite because when his lady pulled up to the house earlier than expected he started singing a very different off key tune.

Annie's melodic laugh carried from the front porch into the house as her footsteps sounded on the wood, getting closer and closer to the door. 

“I’ll see ya’ll later! Next time bring a towel!” She yelled back at the girls whose car squealed off down the dirt road. 

“Shit.” Stack exclaimed frantically trying to stow away the evidence of his crime. 

She wasn’t supposed to be back yet. She said she’d be hanging out with the girls at the lake and coming home in the evening to make dinner. Stack's eyes found the clock, it was not time for dinner. 

The speed in which he ashed the cigar would’ve been comical if it hadn’t left a burn mark on the couch. 

“Fuck!” he spat. He flapped his arms about looking for a solution. 

The front screen door creaked open. She was here. 

Smoke glowered at him before rising to greet their wife. “Hey baby, you had fun playin’ in the water?” He’d angled himself strategically to block her view of Stacks soiled couch. He rubbed his hands on her arms, still a little damp from her dip. 

The move gave his twin enough time to throw a blanket over the mark and kick the cigar box full of evidence under the couch. 

“Yeah. Mary forgot her towel, so we had to cut it short.” 

She stretched up and kissed her husband long and deep before orienting herself around him to find her other one. Once her eyes landed on Stack she grinned. 

She tapped her lips expectantly and Stack closed the distance between them and ducked down before giving her a quick kiss.

She frowned at the small display of affection before she began unpacking her bag and recounting the events of her day. She covered everything from the moment she left the house until the second she landed back on the porch.

The boys typically liked hearing about her days, especially because they didn’t really experience them anymore. They barely saw the people they grew up with now, unless it was in the dark of night. A juke, a party, a hang… then they’d show, because that’s the only time they could.

“I missed y’all.” Annie said before collapsing back into Smoke’s lap on the couch. 

“We missed you too princess.” Smoke responded stroking her arm once more. He was always touching.  

“What’d you guys get into while I was gone?” She asked, beaming across the room at Stack. It was their turn to share with her the events of their day. 

Stack spoke up quickly. 

“We was thinking we change up the sitting room. These couches bout old as hell, I bet Mr. Chow got the connect on somethin’ nice and new for us. What you think?”

She looked around her and she scrunched up her nose.  “What’s wrong with what we got right now?”

“Nothin’!” Smoke replied alarmed and eyes wide.  

Annie furrowed her brow. Maybe they could use a bit of a refresh across the house stylistically. She shared her thoughts contemplatively. 

“Ion know bout somethin’ new. But maybe we could ask the girls at the shop for some new fabric, maybe change that. She’ll be good as new. No need to spend all that extra money.” She gestured to their fully functioning, not that old couch. 

“We got more than enough money.” Smoke reassured her as he always did, rubbing her back. He was the bookkeeper of their little family. He handled the money stuff, he made sure they were always good. Budgets, projections, the whole 9. 

Smoke didn’t wanna get involved in this play at all, but he saw the potential and it could work.  They’d replace the couch, Annie would be none the wiser and he'd still get to draw moans out of her that evening. It was a win-win. He chimed in. 

“Nah mama, we wanna make sure it’s nice and new. Chow got some styles from up North. Lemme talk to him.” Smoke bent down and placed a kiss on her temple once more.

“Let us handle it baby.” Stack said from across the room. 

She hesitated before nodding. 

“Ok.. I’ll leave y’all to it.” She said as she closed her eyes and drifted off to sleep in her lovers arms.

Smoke had stepped out that evening. Had to go check in on some business things and he didn’t want to be in the house right now, he was a bad liar and the more he could avoid Annie the better. 

Stack stayed home and kept Annie company but unfortunately the couch incident was steady on his mind. He didn’t like lying to Annie; it didn't sit right in his stomach. That evening she kept smiling at him, feeding him and loving him and it was all too much for him. Why’d she have to be so good? 

She had resigned herself to her room to wind down before bed. Stack couldn’t do it anymore. He had to confess. 

He marched himself over to her room and knocked on her door. The boys made sure the second bedroom was just for Annie. There she could make herself up, or just have a space away from them whenever she needed it. There was only 1 Annie and two of them, they never wanted her to be overwhelmed.

“Come in.” her voice travelled across the room and through the door. 

“Hi baby.” She beckoned him inside. She was laying on her bed, reading a book. He stepped inside the room and shut the door quietly. He stayed at the door though.

One thing Stack couldn’t deal with was anxiety. Annie helped him with that, and alot of his other emotional regulatory issues. He bit his lip. “I can come over there?” 

Annie looked at him funny. “Of course.”

He walked over and kneeled beside the bed. 

“I have something to tell you. Promise me you ain’t gon be mad.”

Her lip quipped up. “That depends on what you bouta tell me Elias.”

He squeezed his eyes shut. Her hand shot out to stroke his face lovingly. She had the sweetest spot for him. Elijah was daddy, but Elias? Elias was baby. 

“I promise sweet boy.”

Elias hung his head low before blurting out:

“Ismokedinthehouseandfuckedupyourcouchandimsorry.”

Annies face was deadpan. 

“You wanna say that again, in a language I can understand?”

He took a deep breath and tried again. Eyes still squeezed shut. 

“I was smoking in the house and fucked up the couch and I’m sorry.”

The room was silent for a moment before Annie broke it with her response.

“I know.”

“Now I know you mad —“ he stopped. His face scrunched up and his shoulders dropped the stress leaving his body like a waterfall.

“You know?”

She nodded her head. A small smile tugging on her lips. 

“Smoke told you?”

She shook her head. “No.”

“Then how you know?” He asked bewildered.

“I checked it out when I woke up from my nap on the couch. I lifted up the blanket you threw over the burn when y'all thought you were being slick conspiring in the kitchen. You never use a blanket.”

And it was true. Stack ran hot. Sweaty all the damn time. The fluffy fabric being draped all over his couch was uncharacteristic of him.  

“You not mad?”

“I ain’t happy that you lied to me, but it was creative and I wanted to see how long you could keep it up.” she wore an amused smile on her face. 

He huffed before admitting.  “I been feeling bad all night.”

“Who's fault is that?” She asked raising a brow. 

“You right.”

He paused before her spoke up again. “So you not mad?” He asked to clarify once more. 

“No. I’m not mad Elias. Plus, y'all wanted to replace my couch with no fuss. I ain’t complaining… just know I’ll want new carpets too.” She responded, looking pleased with herself. 

“Good luck explaining that one to your brother with his budgets. Time for you to go Elias. Shut the door on your way out.” she said before turning her back to her husband.

He rose from her bedside and smiled before heading towards the door. 

“Night Annie.”

“Elias?” she called out.

He stopped, hand hovering over the doorknob. He was so close. 

“No more smoking in the house. Next time I won’t be as forgiving.” 

“Yes ma’am.” He responded before closing the door quietly and assessing himself. 

He was relieved for a second because he was no longer lying to his wife and she wasn't mad. His chest puffed up. See? Wasn’t nothing to worry about. 

That was before he realized the predicament he was in and he deflated quite shortly after.

He done traded one problem for another. 

New fucking carpets too?

Smoke was gonna whoop his ass. 

---

Taglist

@sarcastic-sunshines @chaneajoyyy

[thatwishfulthinking]

a wretched flower

my last one shot skipped viktor giving head… rest assured that is not something i plan to let happen often… and here, neither do you

wc: 3.5k

summary: after years of avoiding his feelings for you, viktor has finally turned a corner— though you’re still unsure if he’ll stumble back into the bear trap of all-consuming work. not too keen on neglect, you decide to make sure he’s sticking to the right track. newly established relationship. f!reader

warnings: smut, desperation, dirty talk, choking

btw— i kind of have no idea what’s going on here. dom!vik, sub!vik, then angst, then metaphors, then clichés, then more sub!vik, and straight smut, and a little fluff? idk this has been making me insane for like a month

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Clothes are left in a trail, leading from the living room into the bedroom. You're both on the bed, limbs tangled as you cling to each other. He's whispering sweet nothings into your ear. Things, of course, you’d have appreciated to hear scattered across the day instead of sewn together and adhered to one single moment.

It was a reality that you hoped for at the beginning of your relationship, only to soon declaw each finger from, one at a time, until you let it go. After yet another dinner at your kitchen island alone, accompanied by the somber tap of an expectant fork, heating up the remenants for a stony soul when he finally decided to cross through the front door. Things had been better; you basked in his attention for some time. It was only recently that he had backslid into the same depths that pooled at the most tormented part of your mind. 

Improvement wasn’t linear, of course, but god, could the ebbs and flows of it all be nothing less than excruciating. A garden, tended to and watered, would not continue to flourish if suddenly neglected. And oh, were you in trouble if came winter’s first frost. 

He moans softly, his hips thrusting upwards to meet yours, nipping at your earlobe. "I could do this with you for the rest of my life, and it would never be enough." His kiss is stinging with the sweet affection you’ve sought for fruitlessly for days now.

You grab his hips and needily move them faster for him. You knew he wouldn’t last this way, and the dichotomy of not wanting it to be over and desperately needing to take what you could, in the fleeting moments you had it, festered low in your abdomen. 

Another moan is blooming on his lips, and you register it in blissful slow motion. "You're so impatient, my sweet girl.” It’s a breathless, low sound, reverberating light into that dark place in your brain. He relents, his hips snapping with intensity. "Like this?" he groans, the bulb in his throat tremoring deliciously as it his voice travels up his esophagus in offering.

“My sweet boy” you whine back insistently at the use of the name: The very phrase he had decided to comandeer, your favorite endearment for him. Shame on you for sharing it with him, because the cheeky thing loved it so much that he was compelled to make it yours instead. You wrench his hand off of your waist, placing it on your neck. 

The sly smirk that plays on his face is one of prideful understanding at your nonverbal prompt. He grips your throat gently, his hand wrapping around the eloquent column as he applies a slight pressure. His gaze is one of communication, searching, silently asking, Is this what you wanted?

“Harder, love,” you declare, because after ample days of not enough, too much was more than welcome.

A tightening feeling at your trachea. The intentional shift of his position. The subsequent heightening the speed of his movements, it all hits you like three successive strikes. “This okay?" he asks, his breathing ragged but his voice weighted by feathers as he monitors your reaction. 

He leans in, hand brushing over your cheek as he were thumbing layers of dust off a forgotten bookshelf. "Look me in the eyes," he commands gently, and you realize that as your face twisted and contorted under his, he had been absorbing the tiny details that spoke to something else battering at you. A somber note between syllables of your words, the very corner of your mouth, where your lips discolored at the transition to skin, curling downwards ever so slightly. Subtle, but there all the same.

When you meet his eyes, he settles at a conclusion to the very research he had been conducting from aereal view. He presents a hopeful, apologetic solution— it pains him to think of all the time you’ve spent utterly hollowed by his absense. 

"No matter how busy I might be, you're always on my mind.”

The reassurance swaths across your collarbones, fizzling out delightfully somewhere at the peaks of your shoulders. A sharp grin appears across your face. “I know it’s worse now.” A calculatedly vague statement, of course, baiting him. 

He furrows his brow, slightly concerned by the change in your demeanor, and oh, the poor thing falls into your trap. "What are you talking about, love? What do you mean it’s worse now?" he asks softly, releasing your neck and letting tentative fingers pass across your brow, pinky pressed to your temple.

You laugh mischievously— he was completely correct in his sentiment, and for this you were well aware. 

“You couldn’t stop thinking of me… compromised, before,” you grab his neck instead, causing his jaw to jerk forwards. “But now that you’ve had me, you need me. You need this, love, and now it’s even harder to wander from because you know exactly what it’s like.”

His eyes widen, mystefying golden caches that you’d love to curl up inside of. His bleached clavicle warms with something that resembles sun kisses, washed with a soft flush. 

He swallows hard, his gaze locked with yours. “That is something I cannot deny,” he admits, almost solemnly, eyes pacing back and forth pensively to find the subtext. "You're right. It's harder now. The lab, the separation, it is… challenging.”

You purse your lips, still holding a bit of teasing bregrudgement. “Tell me you love it then, Viktor. Speak to me, for god’s sake, forget all the pleasant—“

"Your pussy is divine," he cuts you off, the words rolling off his tongue, and it’s almost without second thought. Someone so pretty uttering such filthy words like a confession is a sight to behold, and your breath catches abruptly.

You bring a hand to his face, and he closes his eyes, his exhales growing stronger at the thought, offering more. “I dream of it, fantasize about it, obsess over it. I stare at the chalkboard and try to conjure up the taste of it in my mouth." 

“You must be parched,” and you sigh passively, as if isn’t the most seductive statement his eardrums could manage with currently.

His eyes fly open and he groans loudly, heat coursing through his body. You can feel the boiling froth in his stomach seeping through his skin into yours where you lie against one another. How enjoyable it is to peer at him now, avoiding eye contact, staring up at the cieling and squeezing his eyes closed in heavy blinks.

“You’ve been rude, baby.” You tut.

His chest swells with a large inhale before slowly looking down at you once again, raising an eyebrow. You can’t miss the immistakeble hint of a grin playing on his lips. "Have I? And what did I do exactly?”

He leans in closer, his hand trailing up the side of your leg, pressing a thumb into the dip below the jut of your hipbone. "I'd hate to think I've offended you, love."

”I’ve just noticed,” you lift your chin and angle it upwards towards him. “You skipped what you claim to crave.”

“Sounds like a terrible oversight on my part." He tilts his head, his eyes gleaming with playful corruption. 

He leans in, lips ghosting against yours, amber irises bleeding into one another centimeters from your eyes. A painting set to still, knocked sideways by the soft underbelly of your spite, just before it could dry. 

"Allow me to rectify that," he whispers, before gently placing a kiss on your collarbone, starting his descent.

You’re shaking your head as you watch him move towards your legs. ”I don’t know, I can’t help but think you don’t appreciate it.” Appreciate me. “Is that it?” You tease, feigning mock sadness, the real version holding real space in the real lonely moments you’ve endured without him lately.

He looks up at you in an emotion so passionate it may be offense. “Love,” he murmers, his voice low, now swinging his head back and forth as well. "You know that simply isn’t true. Don't make the mistake of doubting that." He’s nudging your legs apart, and the sick, scorned thing in your mind jumps at the opportunity to interject.

“Maybe I shouldn’t let you.” You grab his chin, pulling it away from where his face has become situated between your thighs so he looks up at you. “Maybe I shouldn’t let you discover what it tastes like after the fact. You think you deserve that, hmm?”

He stills, and his brows furrow in dismay. You swear you see his lips beginning to tremble. "No, please," he gasps, his voice barely above a whisper. He sucks his cheeks in and bites, creating a pronouced hollow on either side of his slim face.

You scan his expression, completely enthralled in the fact that you’ve never seen him do that before, but he’s still trying his best at persuasion. “Please, I want to taste us, together. I do.”

You nod, acknowledging his plea, your grip on him firming slightly, fingertips pinching and propping him up by the jaw, snared like a spider’s catch. “You forgot all about it, my sweet boy. I can’t help but think you’ve been negligent, and just started fucking me. That doesn’t seem fair,” you tut once again.

He whimpers, his body trembling without inhibition now. "I'm sorry," he chokes, his voice ragged, spitting out fragments, as if otherwise he would be forced to swallow splinters chipped from feeble teeth. “Never that. I couldn’t forget. I simply lost track of my thoughts. I got carried away, I got distracted, I’m sorry." 

It may be a bit deranged, but you see yourself frolicking around, victorious, in your mind’s eye. There, you are clutching his reassurance— though product of an entirely different conversation— in a tight, delighted fist. Despite it all, your expression remains stoic.

"Please, just one taste. Just let me have one." There’s a low urgency in his voice that you haven’t heard before.

You spread your legs wider, immediately yanking his chin back up away from you as he tries to drive for a lick. His neck is now rendered taught again, poised back up towards you from your own manipulation. “I think that’s disingenuous, love. I think you know that one taste isn’t enough for either of us.”

He moans in frustration that somehow he’s saying all the wrong things, scrambling for any words that will earn clemecy. You can see the gears turning, conjuring up a response— another of which, you know, and perhaps he does too, that you will easily meet with the tortourous fortress of your acidity. “You're right," he gasps hopelessly, giving in, and he makes sure to echo himself over and over. 

“Repetition doesn’t denote sincerity.” You patronize, to which you can nearly see beads of sweat born above his brow. He buries his face into your inner thigh, shameful, disheartened. 

“I want you to look,” you say, your grip loosening, allowing his neck to relax, throwing a leg over his shoulder, a coaxing heel following the path of his spine up and down.

Arousal spattered across your thighs, parted and reddened from him fucking you. Swelling like a flower at daybreak. He desperately wants to put his tongue where his cock had just been and—

You cut his thoughts off. “Why did you sabotage yourself, my love?”

He looks up at you, his eyes wide and bewildered. "Sabotage myself, darling?" he murmurs, his voice dragging with grief. "I don’t understand. What do you mean I sabotaged myself?"

You give him a stern look, heel settling against vertebrae for a moment while you readjust your expression. “Is it not my responsibility to make sure you take care of yourself? That you don’t starve yourself of your wants, of your needs? I forbid that. Though your actions suggest that this isn’t something you need.” You draw a jagged inhale.

“Or rather, that I am not.” 

And the bitter words finally find soil to take root here, stretching upwards and outwards, a wretched flower themselves.

He shakes his head vehemently, his eyes clouding with the pain of finally understanding. “No, please, don’t say that.”

You break, reverting back to the discouraged version of yourself that you’ve had to be for weeks, and you’re gazing at one another, palms stretched outwards, showing your hand, each card a compliment to the other’s misfortune.

“Do you doubt what I feel for you?” And he says it as if he fears the letters that comprise the words themselves. 

“No,” you say meekly, and his nose wrinkles slightly, not entirely convinced.

“It—“ he sucks in a sharp breath. “Consumes me while I’m away. You. I’m never without you in thought, you need to know that. Please, I can’t have you thinking otherwise. You don’t understand, I used to sleep in the lab, because that was what would consume me, but now, every night, I come back. I come back to you. I know it isn’t much, but come back.” His eyes search yours with a wildness to be heard. 

You swallow at the guilty knot of bile in your throat, tear ducts miraculously stirring awake for duty.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers. “You’re right,” There it is again. “It has been worse lately— thinking of you, in all regards. Just as my absence has worse. It’s ignorant for me to think that simply picturing you is enough. I know it isn’t. I need to be present, I need to just be with you.”

Here he is, Viktor, taking a sledgehammer to those walls, the ones you didn’t use mortar to build because you hoped that he would knock through them in the first place. Here he is, Viktor, crushing that wretched flower under the sole of a worn dress shoe, hurrying it into a paper bag which he takes to the lab and promptly incinerates so that its pollen is to never spread again. 

His gaze softens, thankful, when he observes that the downwards draw of your lips, where they discolor at the transition to skin, have pulled back to equilibrium. Subtle, but still there all the same. He takes another breath, now slow, much more assured. 

“And I will be, just, please.” 

You give him a weak nod, you find no skepticism for what he’s saying, and so, you take him up on his offer, you do not speak, you just be.

You sigh softly as he presses his chin to your mound, looking back up at you with adoration in his eyes, rubbing your thighs and sides and pulling your legs apart, before pressing a soft kiss to your clit. His eyes shine with desperation, one that lusters with the earnest need to convince. “Now, may I?”

A bashful smile is what he gets, a hand cupping his face, which is the most you can give while all of the solitude-driven uncertainty dissipates from your soul.

He pushes your legs apart, settling between them, his mouth hovering over your folds, bathing it in warm, billowing breaths. He plants soft kisses against your clit.

You grab desperately for a fistful of his hair. 

He gasps, his mouth already parted, tongue lolling, desperation turning into something much deeper. His tongue is hot, the suction of his mouth nearly unbearable, he’s being sloppy, abandoning his practiced nature simply for this.

He pauses and looks at you, his eyes locking with yours, his breaths coming in sharp pants against you. "I need you," he shudders, his voice ragged, bearing the weight of deeper meaning. 

There’s something so endearing about stopping what he’s doing to ask for more when he could just continue and take it for himself, but god, he’s worked himself up now, your foot twitching against his back. 

“Look at me,” you murmur, and he stops abruptly mid stroke, tongue out and glued to you, massive needy eyes, hazy with both sickening lust and pleading awe. You stroke his temple with your knuckle, murmuring his name breathlessly, and letting out a strangled cry as he cages his arms around your legs and pulls you up to his face, the back of your thighs locked against his collarbones, simultaneously held up and pinned down under his lips. The sensation of fabric tugging under your spine catches your attention, your gaze moving to angular shoulders, down his back, decorated with quaint little moles. You jump from one point to the next, where you rediscover the dimples at the base of his spine, just above where he’s moving his hips in slow, uncoordinated circles against the sheets. Hands, satisfied with how your thighs have found balance on his shoulders, shift, thumbs coming to massage where your skin meets your core, pulling it apart softly so he can lick his own whimpers into you, nose nudging at the underside of your clit.

Utterly helpless, the two of you, as you tug and chocolate tendrils and every muscle, every tendon, every capillary goes stiff. 

He moans, his hands grabbing at your thighs and pulling you even closer, giving you no escape. He's panting and sweaty, hair stuck to his brow, ears slightly flushed. It’s just about the most beautiful thing you've ever seen. "Please love," he whines, his voice ragged and urgent, “Please, love, please come. I need it. I need to.”

His face nods rapidly as he speaks into our flesh, and you cry out, his tongue lapping now with a preciseness to cultivate your orgasm and care for it like it’s precious. And your body feels like it’s accelerating, through all the seasons, the biting of winter in the jolts of adrenaline coursing in between your thighs, the mugginess of summer in his hot tastebuds. His dark eyelashes flutter like birds migrating, and his noises are like the groan of an old tree’s branches resisting torrential rain. His eyes are as captivating as golden hour, the sun begging you to follow it down the edge of the earth so that it can illuminate you all over again at the next hemisphere, pleading that you come with him. So you do. Hard, and he follows suit, straight into the duvet.

You’re stretching for him, reaching out and staring until your hands wrap around his shoulders and you inadvertently dig your fingers into his armpits, pulling him up on top of you and holding his waist with your thighs. He nuzzles into your neck, bracing a few moments too late for the shockwave. Your stroke his hair and tell him it’s okay, and you nearly want to sob, trembling against one another, willing your nervous system to still. And he nods into your throat, soothing you back, clutching at you tightly, whispering it’s okay back to you softly.

He grounds you without thinking or trying, just being, adorning your neck with tender kisses. You kiss his temple back, tilting your chin down against your throat to look at him as he draws his head to the side to peer back up at you. And you’re faintly aware that the angle of your face is abysmal, probably, but you don’t care.

“Are you okay?” You both ask, simultaneously, and your arms tighten around him affectionately.

You both chuckle when you speak at the same time, and it’s such a silly, wonderful thing, a small, soft smile budding on his lips. He’s so still, simply watching you, like you’ve just watered his soul. 

“Love…?”

“Yes, my sweet?” You whisper quietly, pecking his nose.

He shushes you softly, presses a finger against your lips. “Let me. Let me tell you…” 

You laugh at whatever strange force has corralled you two into pleasant delirium.

“Tell me.. what?” You murmur.

He whispers, slowly bringing himself up onto his elbows, his breath warm against your cheek, “Everything.. just...” he trails off and presses a soft kiss to the corner of your mouth.

You rub his temples gently with your thumbs, fingers stretching over his ears and playing with the hair at the nape of his neck. “I know, love. You know that I know,” you coo. You let out a bashful, affectionate giggle as he rolls to the side, bringing you, your legs, still twined around him, with you. You kiss his mouth softly, then the spot between his eyebrows. “Do you know? That I also feel.. everything?”

“Yes… I do,” he sighs, and his eyes close, grazing the tip of his nose up and down the bridge of yours. It’s all so nonsensical, but the mutual understanding prevails.

“Then maybe we shouldn’t even attempt to find the words” You whisper, feeling some gravitational force pull your face right into his neck.

He nods, his hand coming up to swipe your hair out of the way, exposing the flesh of your shoulder, and he kisses you there, trailing kisses across your collarbone.

“You’re right,” he murmurs, just one last time.

You copy him, kissing his collarbone back, then his shoulder. He kisses your pulse point, so you do the same. When his lips land on your nose, it only takes a few seconds after they retract for yours to find his. And you continue this little exchange, the only language you need, back and forth, until drowsiness retires the two of you for the night. In your dreams, you weed out vines and thorny stems with gloveless fingers, vowing to only let the good things to grow.

[stuckyparty]

I really do think people are starting to realize the important fight is between us and the billionaires.

My mom, a longtime adherent of Everything Said on Fox News, actually used to be a thoughtful person who taught me how to vet my sources online and make my own decisions after thorough research and evaluation. The post-9/11 political scene changed her. And I see a bit of her old self come back every time I've spoken to her since the UHC CEO got shot.

Over Christmas I convinced her that nationalized healthcare and universal housing are worthy causes by framing it as, "That's the only way you get the working class out from under the thumb of our corporate overlords."

She initially started in with some means-testing response about drug addicts but I remember how to speak Evangelical Christian. So I said, "Well sure, a lot of unhoused people struggle with substance use. But who becomes unhoused in this country?" I gave several examples I knew she would have to agree with (veterans, foster kids who age out of the system, etc), and added, "Those people are sleeping rough because our system failed them in favor of lining corporate pockets. Jesus commanded us to care for the poor, not for the CEO of Amazon." And all of a sudden my Fox News poisoned mother was like, "Blackrock should be forced to give every vacant house back to the American PEOPLE so we can house the homeless!"

There's the mom I remember from the Before Times. And that's how Luigi Mangione saved Christmas!

[pennzance]

His Grace, the Duke of Ankh, Commander of the City Watch, Blackboard Monitor, Sir Samuel Vimes is literature's greatest Policeman.

Not Detective. He himself would readily admit he sometimes misses the obvious clue (not to mention his general view on 'clues'), and plots have turned on how stupid some people believe him to be.

No, Policeman. It is a very different role than the Detective. Sam Vimes fills a hole in the universe labelled Policeman. There are any number of contenders scrabbling to fill the hole labelled Detective and, on the Disc at least, no one is quite the right shape. All of the time, anyway.

But Vimes is different. He is the quintessential 'on the job all the time' sort of Copper. Consistent. He works at a problem and he just never stops. He doesn't solve crimes with a flash of brilliance that needs to be explained away as some sort of superpower, he does it by writing things down and asking questions and taking note of who is trying to kill him this week.

Most would describe him as a fundamentally decent bloke, but Vimes sees himself differently. He is a suspicious bastard who happens to be employed in his capacity AS a suspicious bastard for the good of the City. That he is perfect for his job never enters his mind.

He's not necessarily a good MAN. Suspicious as he is, and maybe just a bit too knowledgeable about how best to disable an opponent in really quite painful but technically non-lethal ways, he knows deep down he's an irredeemable street tough made good.

He's certainly not the best HUSBAND, although Sybil would likely disagree with any who said so out loud. He's constantly late, he's dour at parties, he keeps the worst hours known to man or ape, he reflexively dislikes anyone who refers to their 'breeding' as an asset, and in general he does not fit into the world of high society she hails from.

And, as much as it pains him, he could be a better father. But he is doing his best in that regard, and woe betide anyone who would be stupid enough to make any such comment to the contrary in front of him.

But Sam is certainly the best Policeman he can be. Understanding, but rigid in his adherence to the letter of the law, he knows how to bend it in a way that doesn't threaten to break it. If he's unsure of himself, he'll barrel on ahead to do what is RIGHT and put up with the consequences.

He is Pratchett's ur-example of the man who does the job in front of him because no one else is going to. And that job is Policeman.

And he does it SO well, he sets such an incredible example, that late in his career, he commands the respect of policemen far and wide. They follow in his many boot-wearing footsteps. They fit the hole in the universe labelled Policeman as well, and make it their own.

But they are all called Sammies. After the first. The best. The only.

Sam Vimes, despite his titles and accolades and honors, is literature's greatest Policeman. And he will forever be so, because a Policeman is all he feels comfortable being.

[a-d-nox]

astro hypothesis: how your appearance changes

using your asc persona chart you can find out how your appearance will change (or has changed). there are four things i personally would look at when it comes to change: pluto (this change is like a finalized change - when it happens thats it, that's how it is rather permanently), saturn (change that would happen as time passes (aging)), uranus (sudden change or how something evolves with time (kind of like trends you adhere to)), and the 8h (how you transform - what you transform into).

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saturn

10h saturn: often these people age more gracefully than most. or they could look more attractive as they age (aging like "fine wine"). they tend to look more mature than their peers no matter what age, but as they grow older, they have a strong energy which causes others to look to them for answers. as they get older, they tend to prefer classic and conservative clothes - that makes them look very professional. as the baby fat goes away the cheekbones and jawline come out to play! they get more chiseled (bone-wise) with age. they also appear to have a great health routine that keeps them sharp (diet, exercise, skin care routine, etc). lines and wrinkles are real with this placement - "keep making those faces and they'll stick" is true for this person because they do tend to furrow their brow or something of the sort that cases lines.

saturn positively aspecting sun: creative yet refined. they may develop a more sophisticated and polished appearance. they might be drawn to timeless, elegant fashion choices that convey a sense of maturity and grace, blending classic styles with a creative touch. they have a confident maturity in how they present themselves. they have a more authoritative or composed demeanor, which gives them a look that commands respect without being overly stern. they might be more meticulous about their appearance with this placement (lint rollers, no loose strings, etc). otherwise meaning they could pay extra attention to grooming, how clothing fits, and overall presentation, ensuring that everything is well put together and thoughtfully considered. there’s often an acceptance of the aging process with this placement. they tend to embrace a natural/graceful aging process; they aren't fighting against the signs of age.

saturn negatively aspecting uranus: lead to a push-pull dynamic in their appearance, where they alternate between more conventional looks and bold, unconventional styles. they might experiment with their appearance in ways that break from their usual habits, only to later revert to something more conservative. they might feel prompted to make abrupt changes to their appearance - like a drastic haircut, a new fashion style, or even experimenting with tattoos/piercings. these changes might come on impulsively. there might be tension between wanting to fit in and wanting to stand out. which might lead to an appearance that blends both traditional and avant-garde elements. they might adopt a classic wardrobe but accessorize with bold, statement pieces. this aspect could lead to stress, which might impact their appearance. they could experience issues like changes in their skin, weight fluctuations, or have a generally more tense/restless demeanor. either they will have a modern twist on classic styles or a more refined approach to edgy fashion.

saturn negatively aspecting asc: these people might adopt a more serious or reserved look. this could involve dressing more conservatively, choosing muted colors, or adopting a more professional style to reflect a sense of responsibility or authority. saturn’s influence can oftentimes lead to a more toned or slimmed-down appearance due to its association with restriction. they might find themselves more focused on physical fitness or, conversely, they might experience challenges related to their physical body, such as feeling more self-conscious or critical of their appearance. again this placement could mean developing fine lines, gray hairs, or other signs of aging, or it could simply mean adopting a style that feels more appropriate for their current stage of life (you won't find someone with this placement in their 30s wear jeans that are distressed for example). they might notice a sharpening or more defined look to their facial features, such as prominent cheekbones or a more angular jawline. their sense of burden or stress can often be reflected in their appearance. this might manifest as looking more tired or worn, or simply carrying themselves with a heavier demeanor.

uranus

6h uranus: they might frequently change they style or fashion choices on a whim (they are very susceptible to trends - especially with exercise and diet). they might frequently experiment with new looks, hairstyles, or clothing. they are drawn to unique or non-traditional styles that set them apart from the norm. unexpected changes related to health / wellness routines might impact their appearance. that being said adopting a new fitness regimes or dietary habits could result in sudden physical transformations (for example, they could go sugar free and suddenly see a lot of differences in their skin). their approach to grooming / personal care might be erratic or unconventional (for example, they might grow underarm hair and suddenly turn to waxing). they could go through phases of extreme minimalism or elaborate grooming routines.

uranus positively aspecting mars: they might develop an edgy, bold, and uniquely theirs type of appearance. they could be drawn to fashion choices that are innovative, slightly ahead of the curve, or even "futuristic". they sense a trend before others do. they come to have a vibrant, dynamic presence that others notice. their appearance might exude a sense of vitality and excitement - they often use bright colors, bold patterns, or statement accessories that convey their energetic nature. they are more willing to experiment with their physical appearance as well. they could be drawn to trying out new hairstyles, bold makeup looks, etc. their approach to their appearance may be highly individualistic and creatively inspired - its truly theirs. there are subtle but impactful changes in their appearance. they might make small tweaks to their appearance that have a big effect, such as altering their grooming routine, trying out new workout regimens, or gradually refining their style in ways that enhance their overall look. they are more comfortable expressing their individuality through their appearance they really any other placement. they embrace their "quirks" and standing out in a way that feels both authentic and empowered. they might be drawn to a more athletic or streamlined looks given mars. this could manifest as clothing that is both functional and stylish.

uranus negatively aspecting asc: they might feel a strong urge to drastically change their appearance, often in unexpected ways. this could mean experimenting with bold new fashion choices, trying out unconventional hairstyles (that doesn't usually work for them - no hate), or adopting a completely new look that breaks from their past style. they may choose to reject traditional or societal norms in favor of a more unique, individualistic appearance OR they could be conformist and dislike standing out. their appearance is often dynamic and ever-changing. it is likely difficult for them to stick to one style or look for too long (they have to continually rotate their closet). their appearance might either naturally draw attention, whether intentional or not, or they might blend in to the point of disappearing. this could be due to the boldness of their choices or the sheer unpredictability of their style. they are someone who is constantly evolving and never quite the same. they have a strong sense of personal freedom in how they express themselves usually it is apparent in through how they appear.

pluto

4h pluto: often the realization of who they are and who they are connected to triggered their change in appearance. it's often in the eyes, one day they can be happy with a twinkle in their eye then the next its like the light has gone out. they have seen some sh!t and it shows. their resilience and strength radiates right off of them. while they typically look unchanged since youth their aura changes and others sense the change and often feel drawn to them. they could also go from a colorful wardrobe to a dark and edgy one - it's very obvious when they start buying their own clothes and their parents stop doing so. they could also have scars (physical or mental) that date back to childhood that have changed their appearance.

pluto negatively aspecting sun: they might go through a period of intense personal change, which could lead them to alter their appearance to reflect their new sense of self. this could manifest as a dramatic change in style, grooming habits, and/or physical fitness. they might adopt a more powerful or assertive appearance—perhaps choosing darker colors, more dramatic makeup, and/or a bolder fashion style. they might seek to control their appearance in a more meticulous manner, perhaps becoming more concerned with how they are perceived and making deliberate changes to project strength and/or confidence than they feel. stress or emotional upheaval associated with these aspects could potentially affect their physical appearance (they might experience changes in weight, skin, and/or hair due to the emotional intensity of this placement).

pluto positively aspecting mercury: people might see them as more mysterious or profound. these aspects can enhance their ability to uncover hidden truths and understand complex subjects through their powerful abilities to perceive, which might give them a more intense or focused demeanor. they might undergo a transformation in how they think or speak, which could lead to a shift in their overall presence. this might not change their physical appearance but can alter how others perceive them.

pluto positively aspecting venus: they may exude a more powerful, magnetic charm. people could be drawn to them more intensely, perceiving them as mysterious and alluring. they may feel a stronger desire to refine their style, perhaps opting for more sophistication, elegance, or even slightly provocative clothing that reflects a deeper part of their personality. this aspect can inspire them to make changes to their physical appearance, such as trying a new hairstyle, makeup look, and/or even undergoing a more significant transformation like a new fitness regimen. the changes they make are likely to enhance their attractiveness in a way that feels natural and empowering. as their inner confidence grows due to the harmonious energy of a positive aspect, it may naturally reflect in how they carry themselves, making them appear more self-assured and poised.

8h

8h pisces: their eyes/vision maybe change dramatically over time. they appear deep, reflective, or distant. their face gets softer, more rounded - which can give the face a gentle, compassionate appearance. this softness can also manifest in terms of their skin (it can be smooth or delicate in texture). they seem to glide rather than walking, even in old age they tend to move smoothly (not to be morbid but like a ghost). they also give off a subtle magnetism that draws people in over time. this attraction is not necessarily overt rather it is more of a quiet, mysterious allure that makes people want to know more about them.

8h ruler in the 6h: they may experience changes in their appearance through their daily routines. this could include adopting new health and/or fitness regimes that significantly alter their physical body over time, such as weight loss, muscle gain, and/or improved skin condition due to better nutrition or skincare practices. it can obviously go the other way if they aren't making the effort to improve their routines. there’s a strong focus on health. they might become more conscious of how their lifestyle affects their appearance; leading to changes in diet, exercise, and/or sleep habits. this placement can make them more disciplined about maintaining their health, which in turn enhances their physical appearance. this could make a person dedicated or even obsessive with their focus on self-care routines. they might engage in regular detoxes, intensive skincare routines, and/or other practices aimed at regenerating or improving their physical appearance. on the other hand, their appearance might be influenced by their professional environment. this could mean adopting a more polished or practical look that fits their job’s requirements. alternatively, stress or demands from work could impact their appearance, perhaps leading to noticeable changes like dark circles, weight fluctuation (from low activity at a desk job OR cortisol level), and/or tension lines. they might adopt an appearance that is understated yet intriguing, or perhaps there’s something about their look that others find compelling or enigmatic, even if they maintain a relatively simple style. they are equally likely to go through phases of transformation where their appearance changes significantly - perhaps after overcoming a health issue and/or making a major lifestyle change.

8h ruler in the 10h: their appearance could become more refined, serious, or polished to convey a sense of strength and professionalism, especially in a career context. they may experience significant changes in their public persona and appearance over time. this could involve a complete makeover or a shift in style to reflect changes in their career/public role. they might reinvent their look to align with a new phase in their professional life. they might be drawn to darker, more sophisticated clothing, or they could develop a look that is intriguing and slightly enigmatic, which draws people’s attention in professional and public settings. their career might demand a certain level of formality and/or authority in their appearance. they may consciously cultivate a look that commands respect and reflects their ambitions. this could include dressing in a way that aligns with their professional goals, such as adopting a more corporate, polished, and/or tailored style. the way they look could become a key part of how they are known publicly. they might carefully curate their appearance to ensure it aligns with the image they wish to project professionally. this could involve regular updates to their style to stay relevant or to reflect changes in their career trajectory.

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[notsorryiml8]

Thoughts that pop into my mind before bed. And a possible hot take. 🤷🏽‍♀️

So, a lot of people say that Kakashi was this brainwashed little lap dog of Konoha because of his unrelenting loyalty. And that’s why they don’t like him. Fair enough - you don’t have to like him.

But was he a lap dog, tho? I’m sure someone has mentioned it before, and I’m not the first, but his passive aggressive white-haired behind protested the establishment from the day Obito died.

I know it’s like, huh?!

From a cultural perspective, Kishimoto is from Japan. A country which is known for its structure and adherence to norms, especially punctuality. He created Kakashi, who from the day Obito met The Rock, said I’m going to be late for EVERYTHING! Not just minutes late, but HOURS late. He intentionally created him to be outside the norm.

Meh, I know, ok, ok, so Konoha isn’t necessarily Japan and they may do things differently. Let’s let that slide. People are born with pink, white, and blue hair there and they’re currently fighting aliens and cyborgs. So really can’t compare. Cool. But even in this fictional world his lateness was an outlier and considered rude.

Okay, but hello, Kakashi is also in the military. Ain’t no military in the world, fictional or real, gonna put up with blatant disrespect for time. I’m from a military family and there’s an old military saying that goes, “early is on time, on time is late, and late is unacceptable.” You just don’t.

Kakashi really doesn’t care. Hello? He was late to the Third, who happened to be his commanding officer, elder, and village leader’s, funeral. The ultimate disrespect. Why was he late? Because he was paying homage to his friends and father who were all dead in the name of the village who couldn’t care less about them. Kakashi blatantly disrespects and disregards everything the village stands for ALL THE TIME and that scene was the epitome. And he does it not so subtly. From being late to everything to reading erotica in public (*faints and clutches pearls*) to failing all previous kids in the academy that were sent to him, which is him saying he plays by his own rules not Konoha’s.

I think people forget how high ranking Kakashi is (literally only the jonin commander, the elders, and Hokage outrank him). In the war, he’d be the equivalent of a general. Put his actions into the perspective of his rank and you really will see how he spat in their faces.

They could have demoted him, stripped him of his rank. Kicked him out of the forces. Reprimanded him in other ways. Etc…but the reality was they couldn’t. He was their cash cow. With the Sannin gone, he was bringing in the most money for the village, so they had no choice but to let him do as he pleased and he knew that. So for as many people who say he was Konoha’s lap dog, Konoha was his.

But, wait, he could have left. Right?? Nope. Why’d the little punk stay and be loyal to a village that destroyed his life? Why? Because. He was anchored to that forsaken village by guilt. If he can’t leave those graves to show up on time for a funeral or to train his squad or go on a mission, then lawd knows he’s not leaving those graves permanently to go rogue. Even if they’re dead, his family and friends are there. As are his living ones. Even at his lowest, he wouldn’t/couldn’t leave them behind. Something…something… blah blah blah about being scum. So, he internally, as in within the confines of the village, and subtly went rogue on a daily with passive aggression, resistance, and defiance.

[inky-duchess]

Fantasy Guide to Royal Guards

Royals have multiple layers of servants but there is no set of servants most important that their protection. Royalty are never without some kind of protection and palaces are usually guarded to the teeth. So how do we write royal security. This is for @jamie-ties-writing

Recruitment

Royal guards aren't just any person plucked from the street and put into a uniform. They are usually recruited from within the royal army, from within particular regiments across the army (a mixture of calvary, naval, artillery, infantry). The Royal Guard is usually made of of multiple regiments, not just a single one. These regiments would share and rotate duties. The British Royal family are currently guarded by the Coldstream Regiment, Welsh Guards, Grenadier Guards among others. Royal guards will be selected for their skill, sometimes their birth (they may be chosen if they rank higher socially) and of course, loyalty to the Crown. Royal guards were intended to be a show of force, strength, Majesty so they were usually impressive specimens meant to instill some power to their monarch.

Duties

A royal guard's first order of business is the protection of the family. They may have sentry duty around the palace, guarding doors or patrolling palace grounds or corridors. A Royal Guard may be assigned to one member only but most likely they will rotate through the family as needed. Of course, a royal can request a guard to always be assigned to them if they want. They may escort their charge of the day to their engagements. If assigned a certain royal to protect, they would tail them throughout the day. A royal guard may even perform ceremonial duties such as the changing of the guard or riding in coronations or state funerals. A royal guard is expected to remain vigilant but never speak of what they see, they are meant to keep an ear out for threats but never repeat whatever is said, they are expected at all times to uphold a professional countenance and respect protocol. They will be expected to give their lives if needed, and be loyal to the last.

Rank

Royal guards are a military division and rank is a part of their lives. Their supreme commander would he the monarch first but there would be an appointed commander. Depending on how you want to write Royal Guards, each regiment would have it's own captain and leaders. Of course, not all regiments may adhere to the same ranks but this would be a basic outline for you to follow.

Colonel: Colonels actually have no duties, they are more an honourary figurehead. Many members of the royal family would have a regiment to be colonel of. This usually requires nothing more than a ceremonial role, the wearing of the uniform while inspecting the troops for example.

Captain: The Commander of the regiment. They would undertake managerial duties, issuing commands from the monarch, assigning duties, approving the induction of new guards into the Household Division. The Captain would decide who would guard which member of the royal family.

Lieutenant: The Second in command. They will assume command if the Captain is not available. They would take on a large portion of duties and aid the Captain.

Sergeant: The sergeant would be next in command.

Guardsman: The lowest rank. They will have the least experience but usually the most duties. They would be the ones patrolling and standing sentry.

Uniform

Of course, no royal guard is complete without their uniform. Royal guards would have to stand out, especially in ceremonial duties. This uniform would be distinctive, not only because it is a great honour for anybody to be named to the guard but also as mentioned above, to add a layer of might to those they protect.

Notable Royal Guard Units

Dahomey Mino (the inspiration of Black Panther's Dora Milaje)

The Praetorian Guard

The Imperial Guard of Napoleon

The Imperial German Bodyguard

Varangian Guard

Swiss Guards

The Kheshig

The Janissary

The Imperial Guards of Tsarist Russia

The Cossack Guard

Guardia Real

Coldstream Guards

Irish Guards

Welsh Guards

Grenadier Guards

Medjay of Ancient Egypt

Al-Ḥars al-Malakī as-Suʿūdī

Compagnie des Carabiniers du Prince

Thahan Raksa Phra Ong

[tinaascended]

⎯⎯ ETHICS OR DESIRES (PROFESSOR WINCHESTER)

ahh i'm very proud of this one. before we begin, I do not support home wrecking in any way, this is just a fic, have fun and don't take it too seriously :) spicy slow burn

edit: part 2 ; part 3

late afternoon. lecture hall. ethics - 302.

sun had dipped low. golden slashes of light through the tall windows lining the classroom walls.

you sat in the second row, legs crossed in your dress pants, the fabric hugging your hips just enough to feel intentional. black blouse tucked in at your waist, elegant, modest. but the kind of modest that knew what it was doing. you leaned forward slightly in your seat, one elbow perched on the desk, fingers ghosting your lower lip.

it was hard to focus on Kant when temptation was wearing a button-up and rolling his sleeves up to the elbows like it was some sort of academic striptease.

your eyes were locked on him.

professor winchester moved like thought lived in his body. measured, precise, commanding. you sat there pretending to listen, notebook open, pen between your fingers, but not a single line had been written in the last twenty minutes.

every time his voice dipped, your thighs clenched beneath your desk. every time he dragged his fingers through his hair, your chest tightened with want and something hot and secret that curled deep in your belly.

you weren’t just distracted. you were drowning.

you watched the way his shirt strained against his back as he leaned to write on the board. the way his fingers flexed around the chalk. the strong curve of his forearm when he shoved his hand in his pocket and tilted his head, that head tilt, he could crack you open with a single thought.

you imagined what it’d be like if he looked at you the way he looked at old philosophy. like you were meant to be dissected. studied. argued with. held under his full attention until you gave in, piece by piece.

your thighs pressed tighter together.

you shouldn’t be staring. not like this. not when something solid, golden wraps around his ring finger.

his wedding ring.

you should look away. that ring should remind you of boundaries. commitments. things that should make him off-limits.

but instead, it stirs something darker in you. because the way his fingers clench ever so slightly around the chalk, the way he doesn’t look at you when he knows you’re watching makes it worse.

“…so, when Kant talks about moral duty detached from personal desire,” sam said, turning, chalk still in hand, “he’s insisting that true ethics aren’t about what we want. they’re about what we ought to do.”

he glanced over the room casually. then his eyes landed on you.

you didn’t look away. you tilted your head, gave him the faintest smile.

his gaze held for half a second too long, then flicked away. and still, that half second fed every fire in you.

he looked down. kept talking. his throat bobbed with a tight swallow. “that’s- uh. that’s the… foundation of deontology.”

you caught it. the little fumble.

you smirked.

sam cleared his throat. he could feel your eyes on him. you were always watching. listening. too damn closely.

and he hated that it thrilled him.

you wanted him. you wanted to test every ethical theory he’d ever taught by making him choose you when he shouldn’t. you wanted to unravel him. leave him shaking.

and you hated yourself a little for it.

but not enough to stop.

"...If your action stems from duty and adheres to universal law, it’s moral. even if it feels… unnatural to do the ‘right’ thing.”

your hand lifts slowly, like your fingers are holding something fragile. your question, your game, your knife wrapped in velvet. sam’s eyes flick to you, just for a second too long before he clears his throat.

“yes?”

you tilt your head, the corner of your mouth softening into something innocent enough to pass. but there’s heat in your eyes, and your voice cuts through the quiet.

“so… what if the person knows the act is wrong, but they still choose it, because resisting would hurt more?”

the classroom is still.

sam blinks. there’s a pause. tight, sharp, almost unnoticeable.

then you keep going. softer, but deadlier.

“does choosing pleasure over principle make them immoral… or just honest?”

there’s the smallest twitch in his jaw. he sets the chalk down a little too carefully. his eyes meet yours, and in that moment, you feel it.

the shift, the burn under his skin.

he knows exactly what you’re doing. and worse, he doesn’t stop it.

“well- Kant would say that emotion has no place in moral reasoning. if you’re driven by desire, even if you’re aware of the consequences, it’s still… not moral.” he clears his throat, glances away briefly. “but honesty isn’t always synonymous with morality. in fact, it can reveal how far someone’s willing to go to justify what they want.”

“but isn’t that still a form of integrity?" you spoke, quiet but deliberate. "knowing the line… and deciding to cross it anyway?”

the air in the room thickens. his fingers tremble.

the split-second crack in his composure was everything. and not nearly enough.

“it’s a dangerous slope." his voice was firmer now. "just because you understand your motives doesn’t make them virtuous.” his eyes briefly meet yours before looking back at the book. “we’re not judged only by what we feel. we’re judged by what we do with it.”

he looks down at the book in front of him, jaw tight, brow furrowed in forced neutrality. you can practically see him swallowing the heat that rises to his throat.

but it’s too late.

because you saw it.

the twitch of his fingers. the hard blink. the quick glance. almost shameful. at your mouth.

and then, lower.

you shift in your seat, slow and composed, like you don’t notice the way his eyes track the subtle sway of your legs. your blouse is buttoned modestly, but the fabric clings in the right places when you lean forward with feigned curiosity, resting your elbow on the desk like a girl just trying to understand ethics.

but you do understand it.

and that’s what rattles him.

you speak softly now, your voice honey-laced and controlled. “right. actions, not thoughts. even if the thoughts are impossible to ignore.”

his head lifts. barely. his eyes meet yours for the briefest second. you see it. plain as day.

the guilt. the curiosity. the want.

“exactly,” he murmurs. low. flat. barely audible.

but it lands.

the class returns to silence for a moment too long. sam clears his throat again and turns toward the board, reaching for his chalk as though it’s something to anchor him.

“alright,” he says. his tone is clipped now, tighter. “let’s move on.”

you lean back in your chair, fingers toying with your pen as you glance down and allow yourself the smallest, most satisfied smile.

but not before catching one last flicker in your periphery.

his right hand trembling around the chalk, the gold of his wedding band catching the late afternoon light.

he doesn’t look at you again.

he doesn’t have to.

because you’ve already gotten to him.

the lecture hall slowly emptied, the clatter of backpacks and the low hum of student chatter fading into the corridor. chairs scraped, a few pages flipped, and then silence.

sam kept his eyes fixed on the open book in front of him, as if he hadn’t just spent the last hour dissecting its dense text. his posture was composed, but the white of his knuckles around the edge of the podium gave him away. he didn’t look up, not even when you lingered near the front row while others trickled out.

you took your time gathering your things. adjusted the strap of your bag. waited until the last body left the room.

then- “professor?”

his shoulders tensed. he cleared his throat quietly, flipping a page he hadn’t actually read.

“yes?” he asked without looking up.

you stepped forward, your shoes quiet against the floor, stopping just short of his podium. “I had a question about the assignment... the essay on moral conflict.”

he finally looked at you. briefly. eyes sharp but cautious. “yes, of course,” he said, voice even.

you offered a polite smile. “you mentioned we could reference literature, if it supports the theory?”

he nodded, keeping his gaze on the book again. “as long as it’s directly connected to the ethical argument.”

you tilted your head slightly. “I was thinking of using Lolita. or maybe The Picture of Dorian Gray. they both deal with morality… but not in a clean, textbook way. they’re messy. personal.”

that made him glance up.

just a flicker.

his expression didn’t change, but his fingers stilled against the book’s edge.

you kept your tone curious, unbothered. “they explore the space between knowing something is wrong… and wanting it anyway. it feels relevant to the prompt.”

there was a pause. barely a breath.

“that’s a… bold angle,” he said finally, carefully. “it could work, if you handle it thoughtfully.”

you nodded, stepping just a little closer to the edge of the desk. “I plan to.” a small smile. “it’s always more interesting when the line between right and wrong is blurred. don’t you think?”

his jaw flexed. his eyes flicked to yours, but you were already shifting your weight, readjusting your bag on your shoulder, ready to leave, like it was just a normal conversation.

you gave a polite nod. “thanks, professor. have a good night.”

and with that, you turned and walked out. measured, calm, unbothered. but not before he caught the faintest glint in your eyes.

something unreadable.

or worse—almost readable.

he didn't say anything back. but he didn't need to.

not when his silence spoke more volumes than his words.

he stood there long after the door clicked shut, staring at the page he hadn’t absorbed, pulse tight in his throat.

and for the first time since the semester started, sam winchester didn’t feel like the one in control.

he got home late that evening. the sun had long dipped behind the horizon, leaving the sky a murky shade of blue. fitting for the way his head felt. heavy, clouded, suffocating.

sam tossed his bag onto the hallway bench and ran a hand down his face, fingers pressing hard against his eyes like he could wipe the guilt out of them.

he hadn’t said more than a few words during his drive. not even to himself. every time his mind tried to drift, it was you it landed on. your voice echoing back in that near-empty classroom, the way your gaze lingered, calm and knowing. every look you gave felt like a challenge. a confession disguised as a question.

he told himself it was wrong. he knew it was wrong. and yet…

he walked into the bedroom with that slow, tight tension in his chest. she was already in bed, reading, one of her legs lazily draped over the covers. she smiled when she saw him. “rough day?”

“something like that,” he muttered, loosening the top buttons on his shirt.

she reached out to touch his arm as he leaned down to kiss her, but his lips barely brushed hers before he pulled away. “turn around,” he said softly, but his voice held an edge. a command.

she obeyed. he didn’t undress all the way. just unbuckled his belt, shoved his slacks down. she gasped when he entered her, no foreplay, no preamble. just need.

but it wasn’t about her.

he pressed her face into the pillow with one hand on the back of her neck, his wedding ring cold against her skin. his other hand gripped her hip tight, guiding every thrust deeper, rougher.

it wasn’t even about pleasure. it was about control. about shutting something out.

your voice still lingered.

“but isn’t that still a form of integrity? knowing the line… and deciding to cross it anyway?”

he squeezed his eyes shut, but your image bled through anyway. your mouth, the tilt of your head, the way you looked at him like you already knew.

he went harder.

the mattress creaked beneath them. she whimpered his name. but he wasn’t listening.

he was picturing that slow smirk you gave him when you left his classroom. the swing of your hips. the way your words dripped with implication he couldn’t escape.

by the time he came, he wasn’t even sure whose name he was thinking.

he pulled out without a word. she turned slightly to face him, breathless, still expecting a kiss or a touch, maybe something soft.

sam just stood, grabbed his pants, and walked to the bathroom without looking back.

the sound of the shower starting was the only thing that filled the silence.

turns out he wasn't the only one drowning in thoughts.

the second you made it to bed, you're already slipping your hand in the waistband of your pants. slow and smug.

not because you’re desperate. but because he is. you can still see the way his jaw clenched when you asked that question, how his eyes darted from the page to your mouth and back again, trying to act unaffected.

you imagine it’s his hand in the dark, not yours. his mouth pressed to your neck, voice wrecked and whispering how wrong this is while his body betrays every word. you’re not ashamed. if anything, the thought of him fighting himself while you give in makes it hotter.

he’ll break. you know he will.

MASTERLIST

WOOOOO. I love this.

dw y'all. I'm making 2 more parts.

maybe more ;)))

[chaotic-birds]

silly kitty

Jason's forced to use the only bandaids you have at home.

🩹 G/AUs: fluff, est. relt. 🩹 TW: blood, gn!reader but is called cute/adorable/pretty 🩹 WC: 1.6k 🩹 A/N: I've combined my (strange) love for bandaids and Jason Todd in one fic... also inspired by all the fanart of Jason with bandaids on his face 🥺 he's so cute i wanna eat him nomnomnom

this blog is 18+. minors do not interact. plz & ty!

masterlist

Jason wakes startled.

He senses eyes on him which makes him jackknife up and reach for his gun. Though before he pulls it out, your face registers in his brain.

You’re staring down at him with a frown.

“What is that?” you ask, beating him to his own question.

“What is what?” he asks, still tired. He rubs a hand over his face to try to wake up.

“That.” You point to his face.

“My… face?”

You huff and connect your finger to his cheek.

“You’re bleeding on our couch,” you say.

Jason frowns. He hadn’t meant to get blood on the furniture. He didn’t even realize he was still bleeding.

“So, to answer your question: A scratch.”

You grab his shoulders and pull him into a seating position. When he’s situated, you leave for the bathroom. You come back holding something in one hand and a damp rag in another.

“What are you doing?” Jason asks, gaze moving up as you stand in front of him.

“Playing doctor,” you simply reply.

“I’m fine—”

“Hush,” you command.

He does.

His eyes stare into yours as you gently wipe away the small amount of blood. His hands rise to your hips, giving them a massage while you work.

He shouldn’t be surprised. This isn’t the first, nor the last, time you’ve fretted over a simple cut. Sure, the cut on his face was more than a paper cut, but it wasn’t deep enough to get stitches or anything.

“This was the only one they had at the store the other day,” you explain as you gently adhere a bandaid to his cheek.

Jason’s brows scrunch in confusion. He’s not sure exactly what you’re talking about.

Once done, you take a small step back to assess his face.

“That was the only one, babe,” he says, knowing you’re looking for more injuries.

Then an odd smile creeps on your lips and before he can question it, you’re pulling your phone from your back pocket with one hand and cupping his chin with the other.

You tilt his face up and give the lower part of his cheeks a squeeze—avoiding his bandaid.

Jason sits still in utter puzzlement, staring up at you. He can feel his cheeks squish and his lips pout at your action. Then he hears the click of the camera.

“What was that about?” he asks. His voice is slightly muffled since you’re still holding onto him.

You giggle staring at your phone.

Without answering, you lean down and peck his puckered lips.

“Your job to clean the couch,” you reply instead and saunter off to the bedroom.

Jason watches you and tries to understand what just happened.

The sleepiness from before soon washes over him. He’s about to lay back down when your words ring in his ears. He needs to clean the couch.

Grumbling, he pushes off the cushion and moves to the bathroom to grab a wet cloth.

As he’s about to exit, he catches his reflection in the mirror.

He scoffs lightly.

On his cheek is a Hello Kitty bandaid.

The cat’s face is repeated over a pink polka dot pattern.

He takes a detour and pushes open the bedroom door. You’re sat on the bed, laptop on your lap.

Hearing the door open, you glance up. You bite back a laugh.

“Seriously?” he huffs, although not mad.

You shrug. “I told you that’s all they had.”

“The cut’s not that bad. I don’t need this on,” he points to the pink and white bandaid.

You set your laptop to the side and slide out of bed. You grab his wrist that’s lifted and give him a glare.

“You take off that bandaid and I’ll redecorate this entire apartment with Hello Kitty merch, plaster Hello Kitty stickers on your helmet, and make it known to the world that Red Hood adores the silly cat.”

Jason stares at you. He tries really hard not to smile because he knows you’re threatening him. But holy fuck do you look cute mad.

“I’m serious, Jay!” you exclaim and give his wrist a little shake.

“I won’t take it off,” he concedes.

You tilt your chin up in victory. A smile grows.

Jason’s heart flips.

He thinks you’re so adorable. Way more than the damn cat he has on his face.

You quickly lean in and kiss his lips then the bandaid.

“Good boy,” you tease with a wink and climb into bed again.

Your focus stays off him but he can tell you’re doing that on purpose. Jason almost joins you in bed when he feels something wet hit his thigh.

Right… the couch.

Jason lingers in the doorway. You’re still ignoring him, but there’s a small smile on your face that he wants to wipe away with his mouth. Shaking his head to rid the temptation, he leaves to clean up the mess on the couch.

When Jason takes his helmet off in the batcave after patrol, snickers erupt around him.

“What?” he grumbles.

He stares at his family who eyes him with mirth. No one says anything for a few seconds.

“You, uh,” Dick begins to say as he tries to suppress his laughter. “You got a thing for cute little cats now?”

“What?” Jason huffs and runs a hand through his helmet hair.

“I knew he was a softie on the inside,” Stephanie says, her gaze flickering down slightly.

“I bet he loves red because it’s close to pink,” Damian pipes up.

Jason narrows his eyes.

“You wearing pink undies too?” Dick asks.

It’s then it finally clicks.

He reaches up to tear the stupid bandaid from his face, but then your victory smile flashes in his mind.

He curses under his breath and flips them all the bird instead.

Laughter fills the cave.

Jason shakes his head and goes to his motorcycle.

“Wait,” Stephanie says between laughs. “What about our meeting?”

“Let him go, he probably misses his Hello Kitty stuffie,” Tim says.

Jason scowls in Tim’s direction as he climbs on his motorcycle. He leaves without a word, but their laughter echoes in his mind. He’s chucking that Hello Kitty bandage box in the nearby dumpster tomorrow.

When he gets home, he finds you asleep. He tries to be quiet while getting ready for bed, but you stir awake anyway as soon as he slides under the covers.

Your eyes barely peel open and Jason smiles at the sight.

“Go back to sleep, baby,” he murmurs and wraps his arms around you.

You snuggle against his chest.

“You’re still wearing it.” Jason hears you mumble.

“You told me not to take it off,” he chuckles.

“Hm, yeah,” you reply with a smile, falling back to sleep.

Jason holds you tight. He recalls the teasing he got from his siblings, but knowing the silly bandaid made you smile was worth it.

The next morning, he sees your phone light up with a notification on the counter while he cooks. He takes one peek, not really caring to see the alert, but the light catches his attention. Just as the screen fades to black, he sees the picture you took yesterday.

Jason taps on the screen and stares down at himself. He looks ridiculous wearing a confused expression with puffy cheeks and pouting lips.

“What is it?” you ask while coming up behind him. You snuggle into his side, tapping your phone to see what got his focus.

“You couldn’t have chosen a better picture of me?” he asks.

You laugh, clearing the YouTube notification to see the picture in all its glory.

“I love it,” you smile then look at him. “I love you.”

You lean in and steal what was meant to be a short kiss, but Jason’s hand holds you in place.

“Hm, Jay—” You try to pull away.

“What?” he mutters against your lips, holding you tighter.

You push his chest until you finally free yourself.

“The eggs.”

Jason glances at his pan and sees his once fluffy eggs are now dark and shriveled.

“Fuck,” he sighs and turns off the stove.

“Was that the last of them?” you ask while he tosses the burnt eggs in the trash.

He nods with a frown.

“No worries,” you say. Jason hears you move about the kitchen.

He leaves the pan in the sink, making a mental note to clean it later, before turning and leaning against the counter to look at you. You’re smiling and holding up two cereal boxes. There are bowls, spoons, and milk on the counter behind you.

“Which one?” you ask.

A wave of affection suddenly washes over Jason. Whether it be from the domestic morning, or your cute stance with your pretty smile, he’s not sure. He just knows he can’t hold it in.

“The one in the middle,” he says and takes one step to close the distance.

“What? I’m not ce—” you begin to argue, but Jason kisses you passionately as he lifts you onto the counter.

You try to set down the boxes, however, one manages to slip off the edge and fall to the floor.

Jason doesn’t care one bit and keeps you in place. His mouth moves against yours quickly, hands slipping beneath your shirt to rub your bare skin.

Your hands raise to cup his face, thumbs brushing his cheeks. When one of them grazes the Hello Kitty bandaid, you smile and giggle against his mouth.

Jason can’t help but chuckle and pull you even closer, chests flushed with each other with your legs wrapped around him.

Maybe he’ll have to keep the Hello Kitty bandages after all.

A/N: If anyone wants to draw the pic reader took... PLEASE FEEL FREE TO AND TAG ME OMFG. the image in my head of it is TO DIE FOR CUTE. anyway, i'll shut up now. i just luv him ur honor *weeps*

©️chaotic-birds // DO NOT REPOST OR MODIFY Please consider reblogging if you liked this work to show your support. Feedback/commentary is always welcomed.