#but i had hand written it at work

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Round and round, In circles we go.

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[human-encounters-diary]

Day 16

As the human and I did not share any duties during this particular cycle, I decided now might be a fitting time to inform the Vitrichl about the aforementioned book, which could possibly grant a further insight into Terrans.

Despite the quite serious circumstances we are currently in, I was able to secure a time frame to initiate a conversation regarding this topic.

I repeated the information V-7 had been able to conjure on this as well as other stories and reports on humans.

"There seems to be one…obstacle, though: The book‘s last documented location is in system Skė-51-33, which does not seem to be even remotely near our current route.", I eludicated.

The Vitrichl seemed to consider the information given, keeping in mind the reason the SIIR Noxos usually avoids this particular system: its unfriendly and occasionally aggressive nature.

Concluding, I was able to convince the Vitrichl through the benefits this book could provide in the task of studying humans, causing the Vitrichl to eludicate that changing the route was currently not possible, but as soon as the chance was offered to us, we would make a short detour through this system to retrieve said book, given that the book was still located there.

In the meantime, I was tasked with retrieving as much possible information on this particular and other sources about humans.

Our arrival on Fendaar is imminent, as we are nearing the planet‘s atmosphere. Further reports will follow.

[murdleandmarot]

A quick bluebelle painting :))

[theflyingfeeling]

...😭

[extralively]

While I'm editing the next chapter of the fic, here's a song rec that I think can be kind of a lil sneak peak of what's going to happen (◡‿◡✿) There will be more songs coming once the chapter is posted to go with it, but... yup.

Also, a thing I realized recently while writing this new mini-arc in the fic is that I haven't actually delved too deep into Yura's backstory! When I was starting out with the fic, I figured that since this is fanfiction, people won't really care about a random OC's backstory right from the get go, so I ended up choosing to keep it as a bit of a mystery to be revealed with time. And while I did reveal the general idea of it, I haven't really shown you guys what Yura's childhood was really like in a way that would contextualize all her past trauma and present insecurities... until now!

...I mean, until a future chapter (not this next one), that is. To be honest, it was only meant to be a quick flashback into her childhood that, as usual, had me getting carried away and it turned into a whole ass chapter of Yura's life up until her reaching Jujutsu Tech, but it ended up fitting pretty nicely in what's going on in the present time. And I figured that if you're some 70+ chapters deep into this series then you're probably invested in the whole thing already so now it's the time lmao

anyway just letting you guys know because idk. I hope her backstory will be entertaining (once we get there)? haha

anyway anyway, let me go back to editing the next chapter (not the Yura's backstory one) cause Things are about to Happen (ʘ‿ʘ✿)

[doctorbrown]

MCFLY JULY ‘24 ⸺ 「 16 / 31 * SYNCHRONICITY 」

September 12, 1885

Maggie always cautioned him his bleeding heart would get him into trouble.

He couldn’t help that, though. There was already enough suffering in the world—what harm did it do to be kind? To look after others as if they were your own?

Mr. Eastwood was a good soul. Oh, like his brother, poor Martin, may God rest his soul, he had his troubles, that all-consuming need to try and prove himself—he’d wager the farm he was somebody’s little brother too, so certain was he of that—to win the fleeting gossip of a group of people whose affections only lingered on whatever was most exciting in this dust bowl of a town.

The only people a man had to prove himself to was himself and to God.

But, like Martin, Mr. Eastwood had a heart as big as the country, caring just as much about others as he did for himself. That much was obvious that very first night he blew into their lives like a whirlwind, taking the fence with it, only to slot into their little home—their lives—almost like he belonged there.

It's funny how just a few short days can really make a man feel like he knows somebody...

And little Will had taken to him almost immediately, reinforcing his opinion that, whether this be an act of Providence or sheer luck, Clint Eastwood had entered their lives for a reason and had a place amongst them, if he so wanted.

He’d never felt quite a connection to anyone like that before, not since the day his younger brother was ripped away from him, taken somewhere he couldn’t follow. Not yet.

Just like Martin, Clint Eastwood, too, was gone, and Seamus wasn’t planning on that news to tear a hole clean through him.

Supposing it was a man’s time, there was just nothing that could be done, but like he did what feels like an eternity ago now, Seamus lifts his head heavenward and stares long and hard at the perfect blue. Squinting against the afternoon sun’s harsh light, Seamus searches for something, though he isn’t quite sure what. A glimmer in the sky, perhaps. A flash of something, a revelation, a gust of wind rolling through the countryside carrying a message for his ears only, anything.

The heat lashes across his pale cheeks as he waits. Nothing changes, not so much as an errant cloud in the sky for his troubles or to signify that someone was listening, but Seamus keeps his eyes trained on the sky.

Why, God? I did everything I could. I thought You were trying to tell me this was my second chance—isn’t that why You put Clint Eastwood in front of me, gave him Martin’s face, and gave him the same troubles?

He did it—he didn’t fight that brute, he made it out okay—and this is what he’s given for overcoming that? A freak accident sending him to the bottom of the ravine?

“Seamus!” Maggie’s voice cuts across the silence like the crack of a whip. “When you’re done, hurry up inside—we’ve got guests. Mister Brown has come to pay us a visit. He says he has something he wants to share with us. And don't you forget to wash up first!”

[knightelf]

maybe i do need to go to therapy bc its probably not good that ive been living on autopilot and the last 7 years went by so fast but also bc i was deliberatly Wanting the time to go by to put as much space between me and the events of 2017-2020 as possible all while somewhat knowing my young adulthood was slipping me by and now both my teenage years and my early 20s are gone and i still feel like my 19th birthday was yesterday yeesh!!

[mysteriouslybluepirate]

Can't send asks from my sideblog, but this is @chewing-the-drywall

I feel like much of s2 fell into Frenchie's "we put it in the box and then lock it and don't open it again" in the sense that it set up A LOT that I was intrigued about how they would address it, but it either never was mentioned again or was handled poorly.

Examples range from light, like how I wish we saw more of the crew interacting with each other in ways that built on their characters from S1, where in S2 they didn't feel any more developed, or even regressed. (Example, Fang used the word Fingies 2-3 times through S2, and it felt like they were using it almost as a shorthand for his character, rather than making him feel more real and multidimensional as a character.)

100% @chewing-the-drywall. When I first heard that line I had I was so excited for the story to prove Frenchie wrong. Or show how important it can be to put aside problems to stay alive in the moment. But in the end, this one line summarized how the season handled everyone, besides Stede and Ed. Below, is an in depth discussion on where this season decided to spend it's limited amount of time. Instead of focusing on the characters and plotlines they'd already established.

This season had so MANY ideas it wanted to touch on.

Izzy trying to deal with his unrequited love and opening up to a new way of living. The traumatized 'Revenge' crew trying to adapt to a softer way of life again. The abandoned crew learning how to help their traumatized friends. Introducing new characters like Zheng, Auntie, and Archie into our main group. Setting up a conflict to resolve in season three. Along the way, referencing Pirates of history like Ned Low, Mary Reed, and Anne Bonny.

Notice, I've said all this and we're not even at our romantic leads.

Which is fine. Stories are fluid things. As long as the story knows how to flow from our leads to our side characters. Which leads us to how I feel this show took a lot of time away from establishing our central crew-

[Warning- this will be a controversial opinion- I want to know what y'all think about this] Zheng/Oluwande. This seasons habit of retreading old plotlines and referencing scenes from S1.

What S1 did so well was paralleling the side stories with what was going on with Ed/Stede. Usually, highlighting how well Stede/Ed worked by showing how much Ed/Izzy DIDN'T work. Or general hijinks that tied into the plot (Oluwande and Frenchie on the French ship).

Season 2 chose to parallel our main story with what was going on between Zheng/Oluwande as a budding romance and Izzy's slow recovery. The reason Zheng/Oluwande scenes felt like a waste for me in that the story was JUST a retelling the story we watched from S1.

A frustrated first mate(Auntie), and a legendary captain(Zheng) fighting over the captain falling in love with an idiot(Olu). In season 2, much like every callback for me, it felt like it slowed down the plot by pulling us out of the story. Like...yeah, you did the thing again, do you want me to applaud you for it?

I LIKE Zheng and Oluwande as a couple! I like that Oluwande was debating leaving Stede and taking Jim and Archie with him. But at the same time, I didn't care about Zheng until episode 7 when she beat up Stede, showing that yes. She's not just some all powerful woman taken down by a mix of love(the crew in ep3) and thinking that she was above it all (ep 7). She's fast on her feet, smart, and willing to stab someone who gets in her way. She's her own person. But.

Every other scene that established her was about her romance, felt like we could have put Rhys and Taika in there. It didn't feel...unique. It's as if the show only knows 1 way to write a romance between a badass and a bumbling idiot. Again. Oluwande in season 1 wasn't dumb in the same way everyone else was. He was protective of Jim, a bit nervous overall, but he was the person the crew chose to lead them. The season just dumbed everyone down a bit and called it a day.

This comes to the larger issue. When we only have eight episodes I don't want to rewatch the exact same plot beats with different characters. Time spent here ends up taking away from other stories we could have told about trauma and growing as a family and other forms of growing as a family. We didn't need another romance plot line. Imagine taking this time instead to show Lucius reaching out to Pete AND the crew for help. Or Frenchie finally feeling safe enough to play his lute. Or Roach helping Fang get over his thing with cakes-you get my point.

The fact we took all the found family stuff from season one, and pushed it onto only Izzy in S2 means when he dies, all the found family shit falls away. His death makes us realize we've been ignoring the central family we were supposed to care about. Because in so many words, their trauma was ignored.

[I even theorize if Izzy was alive and sailed away with them. Showing how he was taken in and loved by his crew, the ending wouldn't feel so hollow. This crew doesn't feel like a caring family. The person who protected them for months died, wasn't mourned, and then they threw a wedding the same day. Not even a full day to mourn. The 'New Revenge' feels like a heartless crew of characters we barely recognize because they aren't a family like they were at the end of S1. More like coworkers who sometimes fall in love with eachother.]

Trauma, Timelines, and Tonal issues when jumping from Episodes 1-3 to Episodes 4-5.

When the crews meet up, the story chooses to focus on the fun plot. Ed and Stede recovering their relationship, only dipping back into that serious tone when Izzy or Lucius come on screen to 'make things sad' again. I don't think the transition from 'serious' to 'comedy' was handled well.

I don't have an official timeline of the events of season two. But from what I remember, everything happens within 2 weeks.

In episode 4, Stede ignored the vote of his crew- to let the man who was torturing half his 'FAMILY' for at least 80 days- back aboard. This rubbed me the wrong way, as it showed Stede being a selfish prick in a way that could seriously harm his crew. That's when I started to see how not adding a *single* time-skip mid-season would hurt S2.

Imagine if we had a one-week off-screen time skip between episodes 4 and 5.

Maybe it's implied that they stay in that town for a bit. Izzy would a bit more time to learn to move on his new leg and start to open up to those he already trusts. Include a scene of Izzy WITH the crew, maybe laughing about something with the old traumatized crew, even if it's just a 30-second opener. Imply that the traumatized crew would have more time to settle in with the family they miss. Show that yeah, the traumatized crew needs more time to heal. Imply at the start of the 'Ed apology' that Ed and Stede have had more time to talk their issues out.

THEN have Ed apologize. You can even keep the bullshit corporate to show that Ed still has to work for this.

Healing takes time. Setting a series over the span of two weeks after half your cast was tortured by your lead love interest? After five of your main crew thought they would sail off into a storm and die after months of stress and life threatening battles? Why did that shit get shoved to the side so quickly?

Framing episode 5 as the START of Ed making amends with the crew, only to drop the plot by episode 7? Not a smart move. Because let's be honest, 'poison into positivity' in episode 6, referring to the fact that they sold all of Ed's loot to pay for the party, ignores the sacrifices the crew made to live that long. (The death of Ivan, and intense trauma they all need to work through). In a way, Ed throwing this party was him asking the crew to start putting everything away in that imaginary box.

It's Ed retroactively letting himself say 'hey, that time I spent torturing my captives was worth it because we got something good out of it' while still ignoring his own guilt. Ed needed to take accountability for his actions. No more 'I took 'a' mans leg' bullshit. The reason his arc feels so unsatisfying is that the plot easily forgives him. Fuck. I hate what they did for Ed's arc, but that's not the point.

Overall.

My issue with this season is not that it chose to do these topics, it's that it didn't think about the implications of what they were bringing up. It didn't dare to think 'maybe it's fucked if we quickly brush off a trauma like this'. Again. I know we have to blame MAX for cutting off two episodes. But I don't think 2 additional episodes would fix a tone problem seen going from episodes 3-4.

Fucking hell. Each member of the revenge had the potential for their own arc, so it's baffling to see them all reduced to 'well meaning idiot' when they all felt so fleshed out in S1.

When izzy gives his speech about belonging, there's a reason the only image in the show of the crew all together was from S1.

At the end of the day, Season 2 didn't let our surviving side characters grow. This is a mean spirited bit on how I feel the writers see the their own characters.

Stede and Ed are our leads. They won't die, not in this genera. Their shitty actions will be forgiven because it's a comedy, and as long as it's joked about, it holds no weight. They won't die. They won't get fatally hurt. Their trauma will be taken seriously, but it's a 50/50 on if they'll talk about it before breaking up again. They will eventually get a happy ending, their trauma looked at head on, because duh.

Jim, Olu, Lucius, Pete? Characters who used to have defined personalities in S1, but haven't been defined much beyond their relationships with their partners? Whose trauma might be mentioned, but will quickly be 'resolved' in one scene? Shame. Seems like they're only useful as set dressing, But we might make you useful as interchangeable side characters to riff against. Oh, and you're in love! Isn't that cool!

Izzy? I'll just quote Jenkins here. "To have him become a father figure to Blackbeard, and on some level to the rest of the crew, and to see him become the heart of why we’re giving pirates the chance to stand for being able to live how you choose. In reality, they’re thieves and criminals, but what our pirates stand for is a life of belonging to something larger than they are in the face of a crushing, slightly fascist normalcy." So...Is Izzy a pirate and accepted into the Revenge family? Or is he still an outsider? Jenkins gave us a romcom but still defines Izzy's character as that of one stuck in a drama/tragedy. Point and laugh, because tonally these two things clash HARD and will make an audience lose trust in it's writers unless well established. Leading us to the entire issue we've pointed out of not letting your characters actions hold in dramatic weight in your story.

Frenchie, Wee John, Roach, and Fang- Ah. No love interests again...shit. Well. Background actors it is... for now. We'll see. But we need 2 more scenes of the couple breaking up, so MAYBE you'll get some backstory hinted at in dialogue. You all have 1 thing your good at, so that's easy enough to put you where you belong.

Buttons and Swede? Well. They're still alive!! Don't be sad, fans :) The actors just couldn't show up anymore. We don't want our silly happy queer pirate rom com to not end on a happy ending! (Closes the lid of the trash can where they're keep Con O'Neill a bit tighter, thanking God Con was silenced by a strike this entire season from social media)

Do you agree, or disagree? Leave any lingering thoughts down below!

I'd love to chat down below.

[askbensolo]

There are definitely worse people you could be interested in, that’s for sure haha. Though Ben, there’s something you should seriously think about before you do anything else that might help clear things up. Unfortunately, it requires you to think about *shudders* The Future

Picture yourself down the line. How do you feel if you imagine yourself married/otherwise committed (romo or QPR), in general or to Fannie? What does that look like? Do you want kids or not? How would you feel if Fannie said she did or didn’t want kids? If you do, they’ll likely be Force Sensitive like you two — would you want them to train to be Jedi or not? Her being a Jedi and someone who does social work — it isn’t necessarily always safe. How do you feel about the thought of her getting hurt? How about her traveling for work, potentially leaving you at home, or you traveling with her? What about her connection with the Force? Not to sound like your mother, but Snoke used the Force to groom you essentially — what if he tries to get to you through her? What about family — if both of you keep contact with your families, she’ll be involved in Organa-Solo-Skywalker drama and politics and tabloids, and you’ll have slaves as sisters-in-law and a slaver as a father-in-law. Both of you have trauma and hard pasts — how do you feel about letting her really see yours? How do you feel about really seeing hers?

And what about the boring stuff? How do you feel about doing taxes together, drying dishes, washing the farts out of the bedsheets five, ten, twenty years down the line?

Think about it, man. If you don’t hate the answers to whatever questions you ask yourself, if you think you’ll be happier with the mess than without? Well why not give it a try?

(And again, trust me dude, literally flying solo is great, but if you’re gonna date, dating her would probably work out a LOT better for you than if you date someone else)

Listen. I’m not advocating for pre-alcoholic coping behaviors. All I’m saying is…staring down THIS particular krayt dragon of an ask? Got a WHOLE LOT easier after two shots of the finest Corellian brandy. And when I say “the finest,” I am of course speaking facetiously, because I’m referring to whatever swill that was that Treeso left in the pantry when he moved out. My dad would be so disappointed—but whatever, he ain’t here. Help me, cheap liquor. You’re my only hope.

Mmkay. Come here, Future. Look me in the eyes. I’m not frickin’ scared. TAKE ME.

How do I feel when I imagine myself married? Previously, I felt terrified beyond all belief, but now that I’ve had some time to let the concept marinate—weird, but not bad. Married in general? Neutral. Married to Fannie specifically? Mildly positive. What’s it look like? Similar to our June on Naboo, I guess. Being a team and doing stuff together around the house and hanging out. Probably fighting too apparently, but I mean…have you witnessed the parents who have borne and raised me?

Do I want kids? Currently: no. But, hey. When I was a kid I was terrified of moving out of my parents’ house and I did that and I was scared to get a job and I did that and I never thought I’d start working out but I do that and I NEVER thought I’d date but now I just might, so who the heck knows? Maybe I’ll be a dad someday and my kids will be only slightly less messed up than I am. As for Fannie I already know she wants kids because she’s my friend and I know that about her so I guess if she wanted kids we’d have kids and if the kids were Force-sensitive I’d let the kids decide whether or not they wanted to be Jedi because I grew up under an expectation that I would become one and that wasn’t a good experience and if Fannie was like, “No, they have to be Jedi” I’d…well, we’d have to have a Discussion about that.

How do I feel about Fannie getting hurt? Bad. What if she had to relocate? Guess I'd go with her. What if Snoke tries to get to me through her? I said it before and I'll say it again, I don't think I have any use to him anymore so I'm confident he'll be leaving me the heck alone.

Fannie getting involved in our family drama—I think she can handle that. She doesn't really seem to follow galactic gossip or stuff that happens on the holonet. Could I handle her family—I think so? I've never met them I guess we'd just have to see. Yeah I think we could handle each other's trauma. We've been friends for a long time and I think we already know most things about each other at this point anyway. She was the one who told my parents about Snoke, even though I didn't want her to at the time, and she's told me a lot about her family back on Ryloth even if I've never met them.

Doing chores together sounds...nice.

You really think she's that special, huh? I mean...yeah, she kinda is. She's really sweet. And kind. The first friend I made at Luke's school. She's been through fire but it turned her into one of the bravest, wisest people I know. She cares so much about people. She's gentle and quiet but the first one to look you in the eyes with a smile and a hello if you don't know anyone around, and she will always fight for what's right, and she has this habit of apologizing for things you were never even bothered by but she'll say she felt the need to apologize because she recognized her heart wasn't in the right place. She loves her family so much in a way that puts me to shame, and she can always find hope and joy and goodness in the worst of times...

And she's beautiful, the way she smiles, the way her nose crinkles when I make a bad joke, the way her big brown eyes hold a mirror to the stars, the way her lekku hang when she stands at the stove with her back to me, how incredibly stupid she looked when she was dancing and didn't know I was there...

And the way she looks at me. Like I'm someone. Not because of who my parents are or because I run a galaxy-famous blog (just kidding) or because I'm a hot gym boi now. Nah, she just likes me. For some reason. And the way I feel when she looks at me like that, I wish I could put it in a bottle and hold onto it for those nights when everything is way too quiet and I'm losing my mind...

...Maybe the third shot of brandy was a mistake. I didn't think I liked her this much.

…Like her? Nah, I love her.

Yeah…I love her.

And I’m starting to think…that you don’t figure out whether you’re in love with someone. You…decide whether you’re in love with someone.

Well…I’ve decided that I am.

[sabraeal]

The Strong Pack Thrives, Part 3

[Read on AO3]

Written for @kpslp, who was the second raffled winner for my 1000 Follower celebration!

The mattress yields beneath the weight of her knee, as welcoming as the groan that tears from Obi’s throat, coaxing her further forward—

Until Shirayuki bumps against his outstretch hand. His palm burns through both skirt and petticoats, fingers fitted around the wide curve of her hip, holding her still. Or more likely: keeping her at bay.

His eyelashes flutter over the sharp jut of his cheekbone, only a sliver of molten gold peering through a cage of black lace. “You can’t help like that, Miss.”

Shirayuki’s tongue sits sluggish in her mouth, clumsy as she murmurs, “What do you mean?”

Alphas may be famed for their acute senses, for their ability to detect the most minute change in mood and attitude, but there is something distinctly different about that knowledge when Obi’s head inclines toward her. When his nostrils flare and it is no longer some dry paragraph she read in a treatise a handful of years ago, but her scent being sampled, rolling around in his sinuses like lords taste wine. “I can’t smell you.”

Impossible. Not when the tops of her thighs are so slick they nearly squeak. “Weren’t you just complaining that you could?”

There’s a flash of teeth when his mouth tilts, matching the coquettish flutter of his eyelashes. “Well, Miss, that was before.”

“B-before?”

His hand flexes, fitting closer, thumb stretching across the crease of her thigh. There’s a vein there, a large one, and she wonders if he can feel the way her pulse thrums, careening from one beat to the next, a runaway stallion driving her heart. “Before you said you’d come to bed.”

There’s barely enough air in her lungs to stutter out an, “O-oh.”

“You’re wearing too much.” His thumb drags over the fabric of her skirt, squeezing thoughtfully at the end of its arc. “It’d be better if we were skin-to-skin.”

Her tongue tries to wet her lips, but his eyes fix on it, darkening as they follow every useless slide, and— and her mouth is too incredibly dry to manage it. “I-I…could take off my j-jacket.”

Obi doesn’t reply; he only settles back, letting his hand fall from her hip to the mattress. It should be less distracting without his clever fingers dancing just at the corner of her vision, being helpful, as he puts it— and underfoot, according to everyone else. But instead her attention catches on the way the lamplight pools on his chest, turning bare flesh to living, breathing bronze, and the buttons fumble right out from beneath her fingers.

There’s not a drop of innocence in him as his eyes lift, searing a languid trail from hip to throat before meeting her own. “Need help, Miss?”

He twists, rolling up to his elbow, and the sheets shift around him, falling from rib to hip on one side and cutting down across his abdomen on the other, baring the tip of a dark trail leading down—

“I-I can handle it,” she gasps, cheeks burning as she twists away. Shirayuki’s never had complaints about her natural inclination; being a beta has always suited her best— but when Obi allows that dark chuckle to rumble out from his chest, she wishes that she might have an alpha’s nose, if only to scent his desire as keenly as he does hers.

She looses the clasp at her throat, stripping the coat from her shoulders and setting it neatly aside. Fussing with its folds buys her a moment to think, to consider the silky gown she’d worn beneath it— it’s plain, a close-cut cream color meant to merely offset the deep red of the wool atop it, and without the amount of petticoats necessary to survive the North’s colder months, would do little to conceal scent or skin. And yet, yet—

Her hands fall to its closures as well— smaller ones than the coat, little hooks and eyes devised to lie flat beneath it— the first at the neck, and next the dip of her collarbone. The third— just above the dip between her breasts— gives her trouble, the metal slipping from her quivering fingers, and the loss of momentum nearly makes her lose her nerve as well. That is, until Obi’s breath catches, the scent of musk and spice so thick she sways on her feet.

The clasps trail to just below her belly, but Shirayuki only manages the next two before she wriggles out, dragging the whole thing right over her head. She’s less fastidious about its folds, managing to get the arms tucked over the skirts before she abandons it to fuss with her first layer of petticoats.

“Stays too,” Obi suggests, onces she’s removed two of the three, eyes fixed to where they’re laced. “You’d be more comfortable.”

Her lips press together. He’s hardly wrong— flexible as they are, they did little more in supine than poke in odd places— but still, she’s aware it’s one more layer of armor being bargained away, a barrier between her skin and his, pried loose by flimsy reason.

And yet, it doesn’t stop her from tugging at the laces. The linen cord resists as she tries to coax it from its knot, working it loose enough so that she might win free. The weight of his eyes on her makes her itchy, impatient— she’d never thought of her undergarments in terms of allure, but there’s none with her short stays. Just a simple starched tube with baleen run through it, meant to go over head head, and ah, if only she’d thought to wear her combinations, then at least there might be some enticing lace and froth, as silly as she’d always found it—

“Slower,” Obi tells her, half a growl.

It takes a moment for her knees to hold her, for the heat pooling between her legs to become bearable. But then she begins again, the slim strap of her stays slipping down her shoulder as she works the laces loose, enough that she can finally lift it over her head—

“The stockings too.”

She hesitates, peering at him through the webwork of her arms and stays. “Stockings?” Even with the carpet, the floor would be freezing, and her arms are already pimpling from the chill. “Why?”

There’s an attempt at innocence now; eyes batting wide and sweet— belied by the hunger in them, pupil nibbling away at iris until all that’s left is the barest corona of gold. “They’ll itch.”

If she’d worn her usual wool, Shirayuki might agree, but she hadn’t dare wear anything but her best to breakfast. There's no reason to tempt Rugilia's lord to dote on her, not when Eisetsu had been so eager to dress her in gold and crepe only days ago. “They’re silk.”

His eyebrows twitch, intrigued. “Then I guess you could leave them on.”

She nearly does— there’s been enough of her armor peeled from her already— but she catches the lazy lilt of his mouth and decides that in some cases, bare skin might be better protection than covered. Obi, for his part, simply hums— not disappointed, but interested.

When she stands, only a linen chemise to cover her, smoothing the fabric down her hips, mischief sparks in those hungry eyes. “You know, Miss, maybe—”

“This is enough,” she informs him, firmer than she feels— steady, unlike the step she takes toward the bed. “Don’t let your eyes be bigger than your stomach.”

“Haah, Miss.” The words rumble through the mattress, shivering up the knee she sets on it. “You don’t know the half of it.”

With no more warning than that, the blankets rise up to swallow her whole.

*

It’s disorienting at first. Like how it is to fall through the ice— shocking, enough to make a mind forget which way is up and which is down, every direction collapsing into either here or not here. Only instead of teeth-chattering cold to overwhelm her, it is scent, spice and musk and sex all tumbled together until she is left panting, pressed against the hard planes of his body, heat scorching her even through her chemise.

“Finally,” he groans, burying his nose at the crook of her neck and just— just huffing, as if he’s a man lost in the desert and her scent’s the oasis that will slake his thirst. It’s hard to think with him so close, with his hands holding her so tight she’s half convinced she’ll find whole prints when she climbs back out again. It’d hardly be the first time; despite the careful distance Obi usually keeps, she’d found a thumb and a few fingers that time she jumped off Brecker’s tower, and a whole hand when she’d knocked him into the snow their first time in Lilias. But this—

This is different. Thinking of those marks on her— ones to match the nip he’d given her in the carriage, his fingers so deep within her she could barely do more than breathe through the fire in her veins—

Well, a beta doesn’t rut, doesn’t go into heat, but whatever his scent does to her must be close to it.  Since when his canines prick the soft stretch of her skin, she only moans, tilting her head to give him more to—

“W-wait,” she gasps, sense shivering through her his teeth bear down. “E-excuse me! That’s n-not— that’s not why—”

She has to swallow the sound that tries to escape her as his jaw unlocks from her throat.

“Haah, sorry, Miss,” he purrs, not the least bit contrite as his tongue soothes the bite. “Just got…excited.”

With her palms trapped against his chest, she can feel it— the wild beat of his heart, galloping against her palms. But as he settles against her, nose buried up under her ear the way he had at the manor, she also feels it lull— not to calmness, but to something less like a race against time. Something less like danger.

Relief rushes through her; holding her this way, scenting her, may not be the cure, but it at least takes the edge off his desire, turning urgent to optional, need simply to want. Hardly comfortable, but she’ll take it over the sweating, feverish pain he’d been in only moments ago.

Her body does not so much relax as release, every muscle easing into his welcome heat. His grip is too tight for her arms to move from his chest, but her legs shift, one of her calves lifting over his, tugging it gently between her own. There’s no danger to being close now, not when his breath flutters so soothingly at her neck, when his hands have ceased their bruising strength, and when he shifts, loosening his panicked grip on her—

Oh.

There’s something hard trapped between their bellies. Something that twitches with her sharp breath, even though Obi hardly seems to notice. Something that she would be happy to ignore, if only—

If only it weren’t so close to where his fingers had pressed into her. Where they had left her, stretched and sated, and now— now she can’t control the heat that flashes through her, can’t clamp down on how it floods between her legs, and— and Obi groans.

His musky scent had already been strong beneath the blankets, but it’s overpowering now, her fingers curling into his chest if only to keep herself steady. A mistake; she could have ignored it before, could have laid there, pretending to be none the wiser, but the moment her nails scrape at his skin— he twitches. Right against her hip. Not once but twice, a shiver shuddering through him, and— and it’s hardly his fault, really, it’s just serendipity, the reality of how their bodies align, but—

But he shifts between the first and the second, no longer flat against her hip but angled, the shaft skirting the edge of where she throbs. It rubs against her, not where she needs, but so close, hardly more than a full breath keeping her from that delicious shiver she’d felt with his fingers.

It's nothing to move against it. An accident really. Just the barest tilt of her hips. Nothing suggestive, but enough to let it shift, resting fully along her belly. A widening of her legs that leaves the base nestled right above where she throbs, needing—

Ah, she hardly knows, but— something. Something she can almost taste the shadows of when her hips jostle into his, a thin finger of lightning scouring up her spine. Her breath saws into his shoulder, thoughts skittering out with it, leaving only one behind: more.

He’s right there, isn’t he? So close that she nearly aches with anticipation for the next accident, the next fumbling brush that would send those wisps of pleasure storming beneath her skin, bringing her closer to the release she no longer lingers over, but craves. It would be easy to stumble into another mistake, for hips to shift or legs to slip, to chase that lightning with no one at fault but sheer coincidence—

So there’s no way for him to tell that it’s not, that this tiny bump of their hips isn’t a clumsiness but calculation, and that the others that follow— not frequent enough to make a rhythm, to seem purposeful— keep the tingle itching beneath her skin, not quite scratching, and yet—

“Ow!” Her nails bite into bronze, trapped so tight she can’t wriggle lose enough to rub at her neck, but there’s no need, not when Obi’s mouth is already soothing when he nipped.

“Sorry, sorry,” he murmurs, little more than brushes against bruised flesh, hands clutching her hips so tight she can barely breathe, let alone move. “It’s— your scent. I can— I can smell you…”

“O-oh.” It seems impossible when her nose is so full of musk and pine and spice she’s practically choking on him. And yet his hand drops, gripping just above the joint of her knee to hitch it over his hip, and she smells it— that faint sweetness of apple and a whiff of fresh herbs. Her. “But—”

That grip drags her further, not just spreading her over the hip but wrapping around it, angling her so close that his shaft no longer rests above where she needs him but against it, the thin linen of her chemise trapped between them. That alone is enough to flush the air from her lungs, to leave her so breathless she can only manage an, “Oh!” before—

Before he lowers his grip past her hips and grinds, pleasuring flooding her so suddenly, so deeply she tastes it. Her tongue flicks over her lips to savor the flavor. There’s nothing trapping her hands now, but she can do little but clutch at him, gasping and squirming as his relentless rutting sets every thought toppling out of her head. All her treatise and theories elide to moans, thready and desperate as they escape with her, struggling to tread the water of her desire.

Her chemise is damp where it presses against her, soaked, and it rucks up with each of his thrusts. Inch by inch it bares her to him, makes her aware that though his trousers cling tight to his legs, his cock has long escaped them. It’s different than in the carriage, when she’d held him against her and let that long slide push her up and over the crest of her pleasure; now he’s the one holding her, thrusting into her at his own pace, no barrier between them, and— and—

It’s not enough. It’s too much. It’s— something, but there’s not enough of her mind left to make it up, only the static shivering under her skin and the heady scent of spice seeping through her. A good thing she doesn’t have to, since Obi makes it for her— with one arm slung over her back and the other under her bottom, he rolls, bringing him to his back and both her knees falling to frame his hips.

Shirayuki blinks, head lifting, hands falling, reaching out to brace against his chest. The tight cocoon of sheets is a tangle around them, a hopeless knot of silk and velvet and down— but one that parts as she sits back, tumbling like water down a fall until it pool at her hips, leaving him bare beneath her hands. Her breath catches; oh, she’s seen Obi on his back before, with chest both covered and not, but never like this— with hunger so naked in his eyes she longs to know what it would be like to be consumed.

“Obi.” Her nails curl, digging the same furrows her brows do. “Why…?”

Did you stop? She had hardly known what she meant to ask, but that’s what spring to her lips, desperate, needy. But she can’t possibly ask— not when she offered her scent solely to soothe him, to calm the instincts that civil society no longer requires from its alphas. She can’t simply change her mind now because—

“Ha-aah!” Her hands scrabble down his belly, trying to find purchase as his hands hook behind her knees, dragging her up, forward, until the hard ridge of his cock nestles between her folds. They catch in the sparse hair tracing down his belly, and oh, it’s all she can do to hang on as his hips cant against hers, dragging the length of him right along her slit, reminding her of how much emptiness can ache. “Obi, I…”

No actual words come to her, not when his tip catches on the ridge of her pubic bone and he moans, so long and loud she can hear herself grown wetter. The sound of him sliding through her slick tangles between her gasps and his groans, a mortifying symphony that only makes her hotter, slicker, and when their eyes meet—

His drop, right to where his cock ruts against her cunt. Or where it would, if her chemise didn’t lay damp and heavy on his stomach, obscuring his view. His mouth twists, impatient, and ah, she nearly apologizes until one hand reaches out, fisting the linen in his grip. With a sharp tug, it lifts, and oh, haah, there he is, the flushed head of his cock peeking out from between her lips. His hips tilt, pulling back, and it disappears, dragging along that throbbing bud before peeping out again. It should be ridiculous, a child’s game of hide and seek, but instead—

Instead, it’s enough to make a new rush of slick to flood between her legs. Her scent blooms strong even to her deadened nose, and Obi arches back against his pillow, growling, fingers clenched tight around her thighs. “Not enough.”

Frustrated, that’s how he sounds. Unsatisfied. Disappointed. Shirayuki’s heart flutters to her throat. “What—?”

Obi’s always been fond of words— too fond, Kiki always told her, too polite to roll her eyes, how like an omega— even if his quick thinking often talked him into more trouble than out of it. But despite his reputation— for a silver tongue, Obi would insist, even as Zen snorted, for being mouthy— it’s action where he’s always excelled. And now is no different; with no more answer than a groan, the hands wrapped around her thighs urge her forward, knees no longer framing his hips, but goading her up to his waist, and—

And it’s too fast. Shirayuki manages to creep only a couple inches across the mattress before her ankles tangle in sheets and her knees catch on her chemise, spilling her flat across his chest. A mortifying position to start, made worse by the way her bottom sticks straight up like a bitch eager for a mount. If he wasn’t beneath her, she might think this was how he wanted her, bared and begging, but—

But it’s not. Not when his palms fit right over the backs of her thighs and tug, dragging her up over his chest, so quick she barely has time to reach out her hands and brace against the headboard. He doesn’t stop, not until she’s got her knees hooked over his shoulders, so close to him that his breath ruffles the deeper auburn curling over her mound. It’s an odd position, one that leaves her off-kilter and exposed even as her chemise drapes over his chin, covering everything from his nose down.

It’s the damp part, of course, soaked in her slick and thick with her scent, and she grimaces. There’s no polite way to pluck it up, no stock apologies for having literally rubbed his nose in her scent, but—

But his eyes meet hers, iris barely more than a thin hold thread wrapped around the abyss of his pupils, and he licks a long, languid stripe down her folds.

“Haa-aaah!” She clutches at the headboard as he goes back for seconds. It’s terrible how she can feel his smirk against her skin, how he splits her lips with the gentlest prod of his tongue, lapping deeper. The tip teases the shape of her slit, tracing up one side before sliding over the other, reminding her that she’s empty, reminding her that she could be filled, and, haah, she want to watch him, to see why his eyes flutter so coyly shut, and—

And then Obi sucks, and oh, this chemise has got to go.

At least, that’s what she’d like to do. But the pleasure sparking beneath her skin makes her fingers clumsy, tangling in the hem only to let it slip from her fingers, the soaked part slapping right over his nose.

“Sorry,” she gasps, taking the fabric he hands her, his snickers sending an unbearably enticing hum through her bones. “I just— oh—”

It gets up over her shoulders this time, but there’s buttons and sleeves and lace; a veritable maze of an undergarment, made no better by every thought in her head abandoning her as Obi sinks two fingers into her, right down to the last knuckle.

“Just a moment!” she pants, heaving herself off him. “I just have to—”

She clambers off the bed, enduring the terrible rumble of his laugh, purring out from so deep in his chest she’s half tempted to go back and catch them with her mouth. The floor is freezing beneath her bare feet, but it’s bracing too, giving her surer footing than his mouth had, and she lifts it over her head. It’s so much easier now to tip over, letting the weight of the skirt puddle the mass of linen beside her heels, finally leaving her bare.

It’s with a silly sort of pride that she turns back to him, like a child having figured out how to take off their own stockings. There’s certainly amusement in Obi’s eyes when she meets him, but there’s heat too, a promise, and when she looks down he— he’s—

He’s touching himself.

[skrunksthatwunk]

why the fuck did i write about birds this fucking sucks. i just found out birds only sleep for a few minutes at a time, hundreds of times a day. do you know what this is going to do to my structure? the logistics of their road trip? this is already like three days late and i've been fighting for my life to get A Plot Like Any Plot That Makes Sense out and now the birds fucking sleep for 5 minutes at a time.

[sysig]

Incomplete exchange (Patreon)

[archorcist]

most of my verses don't factor in adam's death (with the exception of his sinner verse where he returns as a demon) but if and when they do, his death was at the hands of lucifer!

[arospecsyourblockdudes]

I LOVE SECOND PERSON POV I THINK IT'S A FANTASTIC WAY TO FORCE A READER TO EXPERIENCE A CLOSER RELATION TO A STORY I UNDERSTAND WHY SOME PEOPLE THINK IT'S OFF-PUTTING BUT THERE ARE MANY WAYS IT CAN BE EFFECTIVELY USED AND YOU SHOULDN'T JUDGE A WORK JUST BECAUSE IT USES SECOND PERSON

[skibasyndrome]

I'm about to throw all my academic values overboard to get this fucking article done

[windor-truffle]

it's probably moot anyway since the fic isn't finished but I wanted to hear others's thoughts on the etiquette of writer-reader interactions