#forms to apex

[conneqtion]

Common Challenges in Oracle Forms to APEX Migrations—and How to Solve Them

Migrating from Oracle Forms to Oracle APEX is not just a technology shift—it's a transformation of how your business applications work, look, and scale. While Oracle Forms has served enterprises reliably for decades, it's built on a client-server architecture that doesn't align with modern, web-first expectations.

Oracle APEX, on the other hand, offers a low-code, browser-based environment with rich UI capabilities, tight PL/SQL integration, and excellent support for modern development practices.

But let’s be honest—Forms to APEX migration isn't a plug-and-play process. It comes with real-world challenges that, if not addressed properly, can lead to delays, frustration, or missed opportunities.

In this post, we'll explore the most common challenges in migrating Oracle Forms to APEX—and, more importantly, how to solve them.

Challenge 1: Understanding the Legacy Code and Business Logic

📌 The Problem:

Many Forms applications have evolved over decades, often with minimal documentation. The logic is tightly bound to the UI, buried in triggers, program units, and PL/SQL blocks.

✅ The Solution:

Perform a full inventory of all Forms modules.

Use tools like Oracle Forms2XML or third-party scanners to extract and analyze code.

Identify reusable business logic and move it to database packages, separating logic from UI.

Document core workflows before rewriting in APEX.

Pro tip: Establish a “Forms-to-APEX Reference Map” to track where each legacy feature is being re-implemented or redesigned.

⚠️ Challenge 2: UI/UX Differences Between Forms and APEX

📌 The Problem:

Forms applications often use canvases, blocks, and modal windows—none of which translate 1:1 into APEX. Users familiar with old-school layouts may resist change.

✅ The Solution:

Focus on functionality parity, not screen-by-screen cloning.

Reimagine the UI with APEX Interactive Reports, Dialogs, and Faceted Search.

Use the Redwood Light theme in APEX to deliver a clean, modern experience.

Conduct end-user workshops to involve them early in the redesign process.

Remember: This is a chance to improve UX, not just replicate the past.

⚠️ Challenge 3: Handling Triggers and Built-in Events

📌 The Problem:

Forms relies heavily on triggers like WHEN-VALIDATE-ITEM, PRE-INSERT, or KEY-NEXT-ITEM. These don't exist in APEX in the same way.

✅ The Solution:

Move data validation logic into database triggers or packages.

Use Dynamic Actions, Process Handlers, and Validations in APEX to simulate similar behaviors.

Create custom JavaScript where necessary for field-level interactions.

Keep business logic in PL/SQL, and use APEX to handle client-side workflows.

⚠️ Challenge 4: List of Values (LOVs) and Pop-Ups

📌 The Problem:

Oracle Forms uses LOVs and pop-up windows extensively. These may not behave the same in APEX without thoughtful redesign.

✅ The Solution:

Replace Forms LOVs with APEX’s popup LOV or select list components.

Use shared LOVs to centralize list management.

For cascading LOVs, use Dynamic Actions to update values based on selections.

APEX provides more flexibility—but you may need to rethink the user flow.

⚠️ Challenge 5: State Management and Navigation

📌 The Problem:

Forms is stateful; APEX is stateless. In Forms, navigation and state retention happen automatically. In APEX, every action reloads a page or region.

✅ The Solution:

Use session state variables and hidden items to manage state across pages.

Apply branching logic and URL parameters for navigation control.

Embrace modal dialogs for maintaining context.

Design with the web in mind—shorter tasks, fewer clicks, intuitive flow.

⚠️ Challenge 6: Training & Developer Mindset Shift

📌 The Problem:

Developers accustomed to Forms development need to shift from procedural to declarative, low-code development in APEX.

✅ The Solution:

Provide hands-on training and access to APEX learning resources.

Create internal sandboxes for experimenting with APEX features.

Promote code reusability, templates, and UI best practices.

APEX is powerful—but it takes time to shift the mindset from "Form triggers" to "Dynamic Actions and page processes."

✅ Conclusion

Oracle Forms to APEX migration is a rewarding journey—but like any transformation, it comes with technical and cultural challenges. The key is to approach it methodically:

Analyze and document before you migrate.

Modernize, don’t just replicate.

Train your team, and embrace the new development model.

Done right, the migration leads to modern, maintainable, and scalable applications that align with today’s business and user expectations.

[skunkes]

i did a pretty good job i think

[kaiserouo]

Outsider's view v.s. Insider's view

[transgenderdoctorwhomst-old]

Wonderfully terrible idea. :)

Fobwatch!eleven + apex predator Time Lords.

Oliver Smith would not understand, it would hit him like brick. It would be so bad, but also so so yes.

oliver fucking chasing someone down the street late at night and then going ???? why did i do that. what the fuck. why did i do that.

he keeps going "wow that person looks tasty" and then getting upset at himself like "hello?? not a cannibal??? what's wrong with me??"

oliver trying to overcorrect and just becomes vegetarian. Can't Think About Eating People If You're Not Eating Meat!

[nyotasaimiri]

Gosh this project has been collecting dust forever; I started her in the Before Times. But I finally finished my Nyota plushie!

[thatonefunnyfella]

Only real ones still have Apex Mobile installed despite it going offline

[inutaffy]

this is how chris argent looks to me

[taranza69]

Hey kirby I heard about what happened. Sorry your friends keep doing weird anime shit in front of you :(

[agent4justice]

Scammers sophistication technique have reached a new apex, making Banking Fraud just like a walk in the park to this crime syndicates with richer background helter-skelters depositors and has been keeping most retirees that reinvested most of their retirement plan sleepless after words of the threat that swept the streets does not seem to have not weakened at all.

Masses are appealing for a more stringent countermeasure to be in place as soon as possible, such are adding more authentication request. Although retina scanner can slow down the process with the amount or rather the size of the data, but it also gives us an opportunity of having time to lockout perpetrators. The size of the data makes it at least 70% better than an iris scan and many more folds multiplied compared to a fingerprint.

Several years ago, I foresaw that the mCommerce (mobile commerce) would be ruled out as the mainstay of electronic processing for the sole reason that it is the most affordable business appliance that can serve the majority, representing the poor to medium class and the trending plot of global economic structure just like a triangle.

Having mCommerce | Mobile Technology as our economic transport offers the possibility of catering and adding the biggest chunk of our global population to pitch in the global trade for us to achieve having reserves and surplus will be more conceivable.

To make it a little impenetrable and globally under tighter scrutiny, I proposed that we adopt the universal identification system. We will integrate every other form of identity attached to it using our mobile number as the key index that will permanently our lifetime phone number. In the event of loss, the telco will make a SIM based on a secret code given to the subscriber upon the receipt of your subscription and issuance, which will be honored and will be service by other Telcos if subscriber opt to change carrier. The number coding of telcos should also compliment tracking effort, narrowed down within the radius and range of a few kilometers apart where the last signal was received or transmitted. The succeeding successful connection recorded by cell sites would enable us to speculate the linear direction as it trends.

We will enable the mobile technology to be a conduit of payment gateways or as a payment gateway itself. Our objective is to open the global trade and cover a larger scope and as far-reaching it could service most specially the marginalized poor a chance to lift their social status getting connected and finally be able to join our bandwagon to the brighter future. The fact can't be denied that they have been left without an adequate means to tap the convenience and business opportunity through eCommerce. Through the mobile payment gateway, even in the absence of a banking system in their region, they can now fulfill the checkout process by loading or charging it from your telco which is even less intricate than having a debit card or as to many known financial credibility.

#mobilepaymentgateway

#mobiletechnology

#mCommerce

#onlinefraud

#RetinaScan

Scammers sophistication technique have reached a new apex, making Banking Fraud just like a walk in the park to this crime syndicates with richer background helter-skelters depositors and has been keeping most retirees that reinvested most of their retirement plan sleepless after words of the threat that swept the streets does not seem to have not weakened at all.

Masses are appealing for a more stringent countermeasure to be in place as soon as possible, such are adding more authentication request. Although retina scanner can slow down the process with the amount or rather the size of the data, but it also gives us an opportunity of having time to lockout perpetrators. The size of the data makes it at least 70% better than an iris scan and many more folds multiplied compared to a fingerprint.

Several years ago, I foresaw that the mCommerce (mobile commerce) would be ruled out as the mainstay of electronic processing for the sole reason that it is the most affordable business appliance that can serve the majority, representing the poor to medium class and the trending plot of global economic structure just like a triangle.

Having mCommerce | Mobile Technology as our economic transport offers the possibility of catering and adding the biggest chunk of our global population to pitch in the global trade for us to achieve having reserves and surplus will be more conceivable.

To make it a little impenetrable and globally under tighter scrutiny, I proposed that we adopt the universal identification system. We will integrate every other form of identity attached to it using our mobile number as the key index that will permanently our lifetime phone number. In the event of loss, the telco will make a SIM based on a secret code given to the subscriber upon the receipt of your subscription and issuance, which will be honored and will be service by other Telcos if subscriber opt to change carrier. The number coding of telcos should also compliment tracking effort, narrowed down within the radius and range of a few kilometers apart where the last signal was received or transmitted. The succeeding successful connection recorded by cell sites would enable us to speculate the linear direction as it trends.

We will enable the mobile technology to be a conduit of payment gateways or as a payment gateway itself. Our objective is to open the global trade and cover a larger scope and as far-reaching it could service most specially the marginalized poor a chance to lift their social status getting connected and finally be able to join our bandwagon to the brighter future. The fact can't be denied that they have been left without an adequate means to tap the convenience and business opportunity through eCommerce. Through the mobile payment gateway, even in the absence of a banking system in their region, they can now fulfill the checkout process by loading or charging it from your telco which is even less intricate than having a debit card or as to many known financial credibility.

#mobilepaymentgateway

#mobiletechnology

#mCommerce

#onlinefraud

#RetinaScan

#FraudAlert

#FraudAlert

[oedonchapeldweller]

sweetpea definitely is someone who shows love thru wrestling i know she wrestles rev whenever the feeling strikes her but i think she tries to do it w everyone else with varying degrees of acceptance

[unintentionalseductress]

How they position their fingers

Just some thoughts I have. Might expand on these later. Warnings: MDNI, pussy eating

Zayne:

Makes an upwards facing 'V' with his fingers, so that the apex is at your core and his fingertips part your folds near your clit. It forms an arrow for him to follow, his tongue dipping into your core and brushing all that slick upwards onto your swollen bud. Does precise, delicate strokes, and it's so arousing when you feel the mix of his saliva and your arousal fluids pooling at the back of your core, dribbling onto the sheets.

Rafayel:

Spreads apart both sides of your sex using his thumbs, revealing nothing to the imagination. They're held apart as he dives in, no questions asked, the push of his fingertips leaving you vulnerable and exposed to his eager mouth. He's noisy, slurping it all, suctioning your bud and dipping down to get into your hole. There's strings of spit between his lips and your cunt by the time he's finished.

Xavier:

Uses his thumb and index, resting his hand on your mound at the top of your clit to spread you open. He teases, giving you smooth licks on your clit before suctioning his lips around your core to slurp down your liquidy arousal, the contrast keeping you on your toes. And oh, how he watches you from between your legs, those beautiful blue eyes never leaving your face.

Sylus:

Doesn't use his fingers. His hands are too busy looping around the tops of your thighs to hold you in place. Besides, he loves smelling you, so he gets into your folds using his nose, inhaling that sweet scent of need from your pussy before dragging it upwards, followed by his tongue. Your clit is always hit twice when he's eating you out, first by his nose, then his tongue trailing closely behind. His face is a mess when he's done but he can't help himself.

© unintentionalseductress original work | no copying, plagiarizing or translating

[osachiyo]

“ B-BODY SEARCH? ”

# pairing: mean!colonel caleb x fem!reader

# tws: n/sfw content, 0.7k+ wc, dub-con, pussy inspection (?), rough s.ex, fingering, edging, orgasm denial, mean!caleb, body search, his mechanical arm vibrates bc why tf not, degradation, might be ooc 😭 + not proofread so i apologize for any errors/mistakes.

# note: can you guys tell I love mean!caleb… wrote this almost being half asleep at 3 am so this might suck ass idk ✌🏽

Caleb's eyes are hard and unyielding as he pins you with a stern glare, his jaw clenched tight. He's done playing nice. Done with your constant defiance and reckless disregard for your own safety. If you won't take this seriously, then he'll just have to get serious for you.

"Strip," he commands, his voice brooking no argument. "Now."

He stands over you, arms crossed over his broad chest as he waits for you to comply. When you hesitate, his patience snaps like a frayed rope. In a flash, he's on you, gripping your wrists and pinning them above your head.

"Don't test me, pipsqueak," he growls, eyes flashing with warning. "I'm not in the mood for games."

His hands make short work of your clothes, practically tearing them from your body in his haste. Button by button, zipper by zipper, he strips you bare until you're left with nothing but the chill of the air and the heat of his gaze.

His eyes rake over your naked form, searching for any sign of contraband. They linger on your tits, your stomach, your hips... pausing for a long moment as they reach the apex of your thighs. A cruel smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth.

"Spread these pretty legs f’me, baby" he orders, voice dripping with condescension. "Let's see if you're hiding anything... down there."

He punctuates his command with a harsh squeeze to your inner thigh, fingers digging into your soft flesh. When you don't move fast enough to suit him, he grips your knee and wrenches your leg to the side, exposing you completely.

"Fuckin' hell," he mutters, eyes glinting with a wicked light as he takes in the sight of your exposed pussy. "You're dripping already, aren't you? Dirty girl, getting turned on by a search. I should've known you'd be a little slut."

He reaches out, fingers brushing against your folds with a feather-light touch. A shudder wracks your body at the contact, a gasp escaping your lips. Caleb just grins, a wicked curve to his mouth as he parts your lower lips with his gloved fingers.

"Let's see what we have here," he taunts, voice low and mocking. "Just a messy little cunt, so wet and ready for my attention. Is this really turning you on right now?"

Caleb's smirk grows wider, crueler, as he takes in the debauched sight of your dripping pussy. He can't resist reaching out, running a single finger along your slit, feeling the slick heat that coats his skin. A dark chuckle rumbles in his chest at the sensation.

"Just look at you—so fuckin’ desperate," he taunts, circling your clit with a maddeningly slow rhythm. "Desperate for attention, for release. Buuuut—you've been a bad girl, haven’t you, sweetheart? So you don't get to cum until I say so."

His eyes glint with a wicked promise as he raises his mechanical hand, the metal fingers glinting under the harsh light. Your eyes widened in half shock—half horror as his fingers started vibrating. A sadistic grin spreads across his face as he positions the buzzing fingertips at your entrance.

"Let's see how long you last, slut," he growls, pressing the vibrations against your aching core.

He starts slow, teasing, the buzzing sensation sending sparks of pleasure shooting up your spine. Your hips buck against his hand, seeking more of that delicious friction, but he holds you down, pinning you in place.

"Thaaaat’s it—fuckin’ grind on it," he snarls, watching your face contort with pleasure. "Fuckin’ take it like the desperate little whore you are."

He increases the intensity, the vibrations growing stronger, more insistent. Your walls clench around the buzzing tip, your body coiled tight as a bowstring, ready to snap at any moment.

"C-caleb, ohh—fuck!" you cry out, back arching off the bed as you teeter on the brink of ecstasy.

"That's right, scream for me," he egged, voice dripping with cruel amusement. "Let everyone know what a dirty slut you are."

He can feel you tightening, gooey walls fluttering around his fingers as your orgasm builds to a crescendo. He knows you're right on the edge, ready to fall over into sweet oblivion.

But at the last possible second, he rips his hand away—leaving you empty and aching, teetering on the razor's edge of climax. A frustrated sob tears from your throat at the sudden loss of stimulation, “nonono please—I was s’close—wanna cum s’bad!”

"Well that’s too damn bad, isn’t it, sweet girl?" Caleb taunts, a wicked grin on his face as he watches you squirm and beg, wiping the slick-soaked metal on your thigh. "Brats don't get to cum—you only cum when I allow it. We’re just getting started and let’s just say… you’re not cumming anytime soon.”

++ LADS M.LIST

[homunculus-argument]

Hey what if the ghosts of some haunted places with no record of anything horrible happening there are just scarecrows?

What if there are entities utterly beyond human comprehension, who have decided to take this specific area for their own use, and want to keep humans out. By now they've figured out that the most efficient way to keep out vertebrates is set out sufficiently convincing effigies representing their natural predators, with a focus on senses that this specific beast uses most to perceive threats. Apex predators are best kept out by a copy of its own kind - a bear will not wander through an area where another bear appears to hold territory.

This method didn't seem like something that would deter humans, who are, despite of everything, also social animals that do not necessarily avoid other humans unfamiliar to them. But somehow, it does seem to work reliably. Humans, who mainly rely on sight and sound, are far more likely to avoid an effigy that appears, moves and sounds like another human being, than they would avoid other real humans.

While creating sensory illusions of any sort is easy to these entities, they have no reason to fixate on particularly small details. A thing that looks, sounds and smells enough like a bear will frighten anything that naturally avoids bears. They do not bother to stop and investigate whether this potential threat is really a bear or not. But humans are very, very keen on details, particularly in the appearances of their own, and they can tell, on the spot, that something that looks almost human, walks almost like a human being, and makes sounds that almost sound like a human voice forming garbled mimicry of words in no recognisable human language, is decidedly not human.

So they get the fuck out of there. Fast.

The entities don't know what uncanny valley is. It doesn't matter to them why their fake human approximations deter humans more efficiently than actual humans would. They just know that it works as it should.

[tojisun]

simon riley x john price x f!reader prev

tags: d/s (dom john, switch simon, sub reader); smut; binding and gag; hinted daddy kink; objectification kink; authority kink (& issues)

The yawning used to escape him, trickling into streams unchecked. That is then; it is an estuary now. It is something delicate. Vulnerable. Simon wonders when did his desires become visible and rippling. When did they form tendrils swimming past the noose he’s got on them?

Terrifying. Simon's desires are terrifying. He cannot map the exact moment that they began, just that they did, and now he finds himself crumbling at the slightest look. At the barest of touch.

Simon wants his captain. 

He dreams of John. He dreams of how he will take the older man with hot lips and scalding prayers. He dreams of a pleasure so great, it leaves his captain shaking. Stuttering with quiet tears and swollen lips tugged up in a satisfied grin.

“C’mere, boy,” his captain—this version of him that plagues Simon’s dreams—says, all soft and sweet and coy in that way that will leave Simon’s throat aching like it is clogged with caramel and taffy, and he falls to his captain with a whimper.

He strips his cock with his rough hands when he wakes up, teeth biting into the flesh of his lips to muffle his moans. He thinks of the slope of his captain’s neck, the bend of it when he drops his head when he is exhausted. He thinks of his captain’s beard, how it felt on his skin in the burst of moments when the older man would turn to brush close to Simon in whispered conversations. He thinks of the soot on his captain’s boots; he thinks how he will not care—he will lick it clean if John asks.

Cum sprays in his hands, shooting across his stomach to land on his chest. Simon groans, his eyes shut close as he savours the moment. He waits for the shame to lick past the desire, for clarity to wash away the hunger, but his need grows.

It settles.

Ah, Simon thinks, peeling his eyes open. That’s how it’d be.

There is something different in Johnny’s gait, and Simon stalks close like an apex predator stalking the wounded prey. He expected shame or even denial from his friend, but what he sees instead blinds him with envy.

Johnny’s been claimed; he’s been moulded into Kyle and his darling girl’s doll. In a moment of weakness, he unleashes his jealousy and bares his teeth to the mutt. 

When his captain finds him, he takes one look at Simon and laughs. It is loud and booming, the kind that rumples the corners of his chest, and he is struck; frozen in time like he is young once more, wilting under his—

Under his father’s gaze.

“Ye’ jealous boy,” John says, his grin too sharp to be a friendly tease, then he leaves.

Simon watches him go with his lips pursed.

Something changes within his captain, after that. He is always stalking close, always a breath away. His eyes are sharp and knowing, heavy as they trace over Simon’s body. For his part, Simon doesn’t try to shake him off, rather, he basks in the attention. 

It is not warm or fluffy. It is burning, almost accusing, but Simon takes what he can get and this is his for however long his captain wants him. 

It is Kyle, greedy man that he is, who breaks the facade. 

“He’s testin’ you, LT,” the younger man says, bringing the flickering fire of his lighter to Simon’s stick. Simon doesn’t reply but he turns, head jutted to hear Kyle better. He meets Simon’s eyes head-on.

“He’s got a bird,” Kyle begins, the admission coming out so smoothly from him like it is some sort of retribution. Simon supposes it is—he did taunt his puppy, after all. “Cap’n’s about to leave ‘er for a mission, an’ I think that he wants to leave ‘er to you.” 

Smoke leaves Simon’s lips in stuttered wisps. Kyle shoots him a crinkled smile. “He’s not doin’ that—” the weighted attention, the obsessive hovering, “f’r you, sir.”

Simon doesn’t give him a reply. He knows that it is nothing but an attempt at hiding. 

When Kyle leaves, Simon begins his hunt.

Names, relationships, places last visited—Simon finds them with ease, bypassing encrypted and locked accounts as he sinks his teeth further into the tender acres of his captain’s secret. A bird, one that Kyle knows of before Simon could. 

He doesn’t know what to name the taste lingering in the back of his tongue but it makes him angrier. Greedier. 

He realizes he’s found her when he sees you. 

And, oh. The ease, the way each code that he tried had worked—his captain wanted him to find you. Shivers rack his body, making him twitch and his mind grows heady because he takes this for what it is.

A reward. 

Or, better yet, his invitation. 

John introduces the two of you, waxing poetry about Simon, promising you that he will be kind. That he will be here to protect you. And you laugh through it all, bright and bubbly, thanking your boyfriend’s colleague for volunteering to help. Neither John nor Simon corrected your assumptions.

Boyfriend. 

It is such a juvenile term but John had looked so proud, his chest puffing up and his lips wobbling as you bulldozed through your words, fluttering about how you didn’t need protection, bee-tee-dubs. Simon watches as John pulls you into his arms, whispering in such a soft voice that Simon feels—

Stilted. 

This isn’t the John that he knew. 

This isn’t the John that he wanted. 

The jealousy that threatened to burst in his veins petered into a soft ripple, calming down at the sight before him. Because you can have this John, the one that is too soft and too gentle and too human, but Simon has the one he wants. 

The one hardened by the war; the one who smells of cigars and soot and ozone; the one who barks out orders; the one whose gaze is hard, sharp, edged like every narrowed gaze is a slashing. Simon has the John that matters. 

Simon wilts into himself then, distancing himself from the two of you. The domesticity, the cozy flat, the lined books and art-nouveau-style mirrors and bookshelves—yes, you can have this. Simon isn’t envious of this. 

Before he leaves, John turns to Simon, his warm hand cupping Simon’s jaw. Warm eyes stare at him. “Well, then. Take care of y’rself too, ‘kay?”

He asks like he did not just strip the layers of reassurances that Simon cloaked himself in, leaving him bare and vulnerable before John’s callused touch. He is too startled to reply, and John finally makes himself scarce, leaving two yearning souls waiting for his return.

Simon didn’t intend to overstep beyond the morning check-ins and the nightly tuck-ins, but routine takes root and he finds himself unwinding in the little corner of your flat. 

It isn’t too difficult—you are a warm host. You know not to ask much or to speak too loud, and Simon wonders how much of this is learned behaviour. Is this John in your form; is it his captain teaching you how to live with someone so torn and so broken that Simon is seeing so much of it in the way you look at him, the way you talk to him?

But it’s too much. Like muscle memory or something natural like breathing. It is like a reflex; your kindness just is. It gives him comfort, how your sweetness is innate. 

It’s two in the morning when he understands why his captain keeps you. 

He hears it by accident; murmured conversations slip through the crack of your door. Simon was just about to close it when John’s voice pierced through the static. 

“Simon treatin’ you well, baby?”

A moan drips from your side, and Simon startles at the following squelch. 

“He—hnn—he is, daddy,” you pant out, sniffling. The bed creaks, the sheets rustling. “I want the two o’you.”

“Shh,” John consoles, all faux worry. “Soon, baby. Be good f’r him, okay?”

Simon doesn’t bother hearing whatever you said next, choosing instead to march back in his room. He drops to the mattress, head falling to his hands. He breathes in, trying to will off the fever, but John’s voice rings in his head, then your quiet mewls, and Simon knows that it is futile now. 

Hunger thrums, it builds. 

His cock is in his hands in the next breath. 

Simon looks into your eyes, trying to see how you could have hidden your desire for him; trying to map out how you managed to lock it up so that he wouldn’t notice. But your furrowed gaze and your confused smile shows him something that is fascinating—you are a fraud. 

You’re not sweet. Well, you are, but not in that wide-eyed way that you and John showed Simon the first day thathe introduced you to him; not in that curling innocence that you shrouded yourself in. You are not John’s shielded bird nor his pampered dove. 

No. 

You have been playing John’s game; your cards are just as hidden, if not sharpened, and your dice are edged. You were cheating, creating all this miasma to reel Simon in. The river to his estuary. 

Cunning girl. 

“Si?”

But Kyle already sent him a curt message: Captain’s back. And Simon knows enough of the game to play it. 

“C’mere,” he grunts and pulls you close. Your squeak is devoured by his lips, and something hums in his chest like he’s finally at the precipice of being full. 

That is how John finds the two of you—you, bound and gagged and spread open in Simon’s room; your cunt is all bruised and leaking and stuffed with a toy; and Simon, smoking close to the window, his ass perched on the windowsill, watching. Waiting. 

John laughs and it is so mean. The howling in Simon’s head screeches to a halt because finally. Finally, he has his captain back. 

“Oh, sweet girl,” John croons as he steps close to you. Your teary eyes gaze up at him, begging, but Simon watches as all that John does is trace his knuckles along your splotchy cheek. “Y’haven’t been good, have y’?”

Your reply is nothing but a muffled complaint. John clicks his tongue. Simon straightens up, back going taut, his cock hardening in his briefs. 

“Stop complaining,” John tuts, flicking at your nipples, making you howl. Gone is his softness, replaced, instead, with someone overpowering. 

Oh. Simon thinks that he is falling in love again. 

John makes Simon fuck you, and it is all parts delicious, and good, and painful. 

Simon’s not allowed to cum—not in you, not on your thighs, or even in his own hands. John forbids it. And Simon knows better than to fool his captain; not only is he stalking close, with a lit cigar propped in his lips and his wandering hands pawing at your heaving chest or cupping Simon’s jaw, but he dictates everything. 

He tells Simon when to pull out, gruff voice barking out orders once again, before reaching over to clamp his hand shut around the length of Simon’s cock like his captain cannot trust him to not cum. Simon feels the stirrings in his gut, pushing and cornering him, and he feels small when his captain uses him this way. 

John’s thumb brushes over his slit and he hisses in his oversensitivity, making his hips twitch. John clamps his hand tighter in warning, a warning growl ripping from his captain’s chest, and Simon stutters out his sorry’s. He doesn’t mean a single one; he doesn’t even want John to loosen his hold because Simon loves it like this. Painful. Humiliating. Him, being reduced to a twitching mess. 

“Look at him, baby,” John murmurs, his voice lilting to a spark of softness, the first of the night. Simon’s eyes fall on you at his captain’s words, and his chest seizes at the teary mess that you make. 

You have been beautiful in your measured sweetness, but like this, sobbing and begging and at their—because John still allows Simon to ruin you—mercy, Simon knows that you have never looked more beautiful. Is this why John is addicted? 

John’s other hand pushes your hair away from your sweaty face. “Isn’t he pretty?”

All you can do is gurgle something behind the gag in your mouth. You’re not even looking at Simon, drawn to the only person in the room who’s still in his clothes, another layer of John’s total control. You are studying John, arching towards his caresses like it didn’t matter how Simon truly looked, you were just giving out a reply for John’s pleasure. 

Simon gets it, he does, because you are just like him, after all. 

He finally cums in John’s hands. He cums to the scene you make, rutting your pussy so desperately on his captain’s face, smothering him with your slick and your folds. John takes it like a fucking champ, his tongue working overtime before sucking at your slit like he will die of thirst if he doesn’t swallow your juices. 

It’s so debauched that all John had to do was pump his hands on Simon’s cock twice before he’s spraying his spunk all over his captain. 

He’ll burn this image in his mind. Fuck. Where’s his phone when he needs it?

“Good?” John asks, gliding his fingertips along the expanse of Simon’s arm. 

Simon grunts, trying his best to stay quiet with you sleeping between them. John huffs a pleased laugh and ducks down to press his lips on the top of your head. 

You grumble, twisting, before cuddling up to Simon. 

“She’s clingy,” he grumbles like he isn’t pulling you closer to him too. 

John fondly rolls his eyes at him before turning to shut the lamp off.

J Mactavish: hypocrite

note: god this didn’t come out the way i wanted but if you stuck until the end, thank you so so much <33

[targaryenrealnessdarling]

Unabashed

Summary: Aemond wonders whether his pretty new wife is as shy in her sleep as she is awake, and intends to find out | Word Count: 1.6~k | Warnings: somnophilia, dubcon, oral (f receiving), feelings of shame

Thank you to @targaryen-dynasty for organising the event! <3 Make sure to check out the others!

The early dawn light filtered through the gossamer curtains, casting a soft glow across the spacious chamber. Aemond stood at the edge of their grand bed. His gaze softened as it fell upon his wife, a gentle and shy creature, who seemed out of place amidst the grandeur of a Targaryen prince's bedchamber.

They had been married but a few weeks, and her timidity was still evident in her every movement. She lay there, her breaths even and soft, her face relaxed in sleep. Aemond's heart swelled with a mixture of affection and protectiveness. He knew she struggled with the expectations placed upon her as his wife, especially when it came to intimacy.

He thought back to their wedding night. She had blushed deeply, her cheeks a rosy hue as she avoided meeting his gaze. Her hands had trembled slightly as she undressed, her shyness palpable. Aemond had taken her hands in his, his touch gentle, hoping to reassure her, but with a deep desire to claim her as his. Her skin had been warm, and he could feel the rapid beat of her pulse under his fingers. He had moved slowly, each touch deliberate, wanting to make her feel safe and cherished. Despite his efforts, she had remained tentative, her actions hesitant and reserved.

Many at court whispered that she was ill-suited for the intensity that came with being bound to a man like Aemond. They said she lacked the fire needed to stand beside him. Aemond had often wondered if there was another side to her, one hidden beneath layers of gentleness and timidity. A side that perhaps only he could reach, given time and patience.

This morning, he found himself wondering again. As she lay there, serene in sleep, he considered the possibility that in her dreams, she might be free from the constraints of her waking shyness. Perhaps, he thought, he could gently coax that hidden side of her into the light.

The sheets framed her form in his plush bed, her hair in somewhat disarray, a few pieces having escaped her careful and perfect braiding the night before. It had been hot in King’s Landing since their wedding night, and so as his eye drifted over her, he could see the gentle rise of her chest, and her perk nipples forming peaks against the near-translucent cotton bedding. A shy thing she was, but most certainly not without allure.

Aemond's breath caught at the sight, a primal part of him stirred by her unintentional seduction. The stark contrast between her modesty and the sensual image she presented tugged at some place usually kept hidden. She was a puzzle he was determined to solve, a delicate flower he was eager to nurture.

Before he knew it, his fingers bunched the sheets in his grasp, watching with deep satisfaction at the way her body was slowly revealed to him, inch by perfect inch. A map of unmarked territory he was determined to explore. The fabric slid against her skin with such ease, as if she were made of water and they were simply a ripple in her perfection, until eventually, once she was bared to him and she gave a quick breath-like shudder, he was able to take his time in forming his plan.

Aemond leaned closer, his breath hot against her skin. His lips pressed gentle, reverent kisses along the smooth expanse of her stomach, moving lower with each caress. Her body trembled slightly beneath his touch, her breath hitching in her sleep, as if her dreams were becoming more vivid and enticing.

When he finally reached the apex of her thighs, he paused, glancing up at her face. Her eyes were still closed, her lips parted slightly, a soft sigh escaping her. Taking a deep breath, Aemond pressed a tender kiss against her inner thigh, feeling the warmth of her skin beneath his lips.

His tongue flicked out, tasting her, a heady mix of sweetness and desire. She stirred, a soft moan escaping her lips as her body responded to his touch. Encouraged, Aemond continued his ministrations, his tongue moving with careful thought, exploring every inch of her glistening slit with the precision he afforded everything else in his life. 

Her hips shifted slightly, a subconscious response to the pleasure building within her. Aemond's hands gently gripped her thighs, holding her in place as he deepened his efforts, his tongue moving in slow, deliberate strokes. Each moan, each soft gasp she made was a testament to the pleasure he was giving her.

There was a deep, primal part that glimmered in his eye at the way she responded, her subconscious sounds and movements a stark contrast to her demeanour when she was awake. Her slumber seemed to lower her carefully built walls, imprisoning her sexuality inside. Her hands gripped the sheets the same way he gripped her thighs, the warm muscle of his tongue dragging over her sex up towards her bud, enclosing his lips around it, the smirk he wore hidden in his actions. 

The sounds were so sweet to his ears he could stay between her plush thighs all day. A part of him was surprised she hadn’t woken yet with the way her hips were chasing his lips and tongue, and her fingers carding through his loose hair and pulling lightly at the roots to ground herself. Her movements were by no means erratic, enough for him to know without looking that she was still in whatever sleep-addled bliss she imagined, but it appeared his little wife was more and more an exciting enigma with every passing day.

Her breathing grew a fraction more erratic, her stomach clenching and unclenching with the warm, numbing climax that was steadily rising. She would blush and apologise profusely if she could see the way she was acting right at this moment, moaning and writhing with her cunt on his mouth. Aemond worked in rhythmic, intoxicating strokes, taking everything she was giving to him, the tartness of her arousal was addictive in a way he had never imagined. 

His little wife’s body arched only slightly off the bed, her grip tightening and thighs trembling, her release washing over her in powerful waves. The only sound she gave was a breathy, elongated moan, too sweet for the carnal, forbidden act he was performing on her sleeping form. Aemond watched with satisfaction as she slowly relaxed, her breathing returning to a more even pace. He placed a final, tender kiss against her sensitive skin before drawing back, his eyes lingering on her peaceful, contented expression.

He found it almost comical that his wife hadn’t woken to her husband devouring her sweet cunt, but that she had woken to the feeling of the mattress dipping as Aemond righted himself, looking down at her bare form, her chest shimmering with a dew of sweat. 

Her eyelids fluttered open, and she blinked up at him, her gaze initially hazy with sleep. As her awareness sharpened, she noticed her state of undress and the lingering warmth between her thighs. Her cheeks flushed a deep crimson, a mix of surprise and realisation dawning on her features.

"Aemond," she whispered, her voice trembling with both shyness and residual pleasure.

He wiped his face, a victorious, cat-like smirk on his features, as if to emphasise her embarrassment. “Good morning, my love.”

She averted her gaze, her hands moving to cover herself instinctively, but Aemond's firm yet gentle touch stopped her.

"There is no need for that," he said softly, his smirk fading into a more tender expression.

She looked up at him, her eyes wide with a mixture of emotions, embarrassment, curiosity, and a budding sense of trust. "Did I... did I embarrass myself?" she asked hesitantly.

Aemond chuckled, a deep, satisfied sound that made her cheeks flush even more. "Not at all," he replied, his voice filled with genuine amusement and pleasure. "You were perfect, and it was a delight to see you respond so…unabashedly"

Her blush deepened, but she managed to meet his gaze, her curiosity overcoming her shyness. "I did not wake up," she murmured, almost to herself. “I thought it was a dream.”

"A dream, perhaps," he said, brushing his fingers gently along her jawline. "But one that I was more than happy to make real."

Feeling her cheeks burn at his brazen behaviour, she tugged the sheets to her chest to cover herself, her expression pleasured but shy. “Such actions will not result in a child.”

"No, it will not," he agreed. "But there are many ways to show my desire. Not all of them are about creating heirs."

“Well I know that.”

His expression took on a predatory gleam, moving swiftly to hold her wrists down to the bed with ease. “You might know,” he murmured, “but you will feel it, every day and every night.”

Her breath hitched, a mixture of fear and excitement. The hardness in his gaze tempered by the affection she saw there. Something shifted in her eyes, a spark of defiance and curiosity he hadn't seen before. She reached up, slipping from his hold, her fingers trailing lightly over his chest, her touch both hesitant and bold. Her lips curved into a small, sweet smile that almost dared him to do more.

His innocent little wife had a hidden fire, one that both intrigued and excited him. He felt his desire flare even stronger, spurred on by the need to explore this new side of her, to see just how far she would go.

“And I intend to make certain you never forget.”

General Taglist: @1lluminaticonfirmed @aemondsfavouritebastard @bellstwd @blackswxnn @blairfox04

@buckybarnesb-tch @castellomargot @eddieslut69 @emmaisafictionwhore @eponaartemisa

@hb8301 @jamespotterismydaddy @justbelljust @minholy223 @mochi-rose

@natty2017 @nenelysian @nixiefics @primonizzutto @qyburnsghost

[ilium-ilia]

Daughters with Soft Underbellies

john price x fem!reader | cowboy/outlaw x preachers daughter | masterlist

Chapter One: everything that concerns you is pure prodigality.

tw: western!au, religious abuse, domestic abuse, antiquated punishments, reader is christian, wound cleaning, blood

He has you kneeling on rice again. 

Unforgiving grains burrow deep into your skin as their wickedly sharp ends pierce straight through your knees. Eyes trained on the scuffed wooden floor below you, you do not look at your father. Leather boots skirt your vision as he paces beside you, slow and with consideration. You swallow and the aftertaste of that morning’s communion dances on your tongue. Sweet wine pairs oddly with your father’s brutality, but it is the only flavor you’ve ever known. 

Bloodied fingers coil around the back of the pew in front of you as he raps your knuckles with a wooden stick no larger than the circumference of his thumb. Searing pain cuts through you with the consideration of an untrained blade, but you are good at willing your tears away. He reminds you that this is your fault, and that this is a terrible waste. A waste of time, a waste of food—everything that concerns you is pure prodigality. Gluttony in its most concentrated form. You can consume nothing—not resource nor time—without it being a sin. 

Crack!

“Again,” he demands. 

Biting back the acrimony boiling in the depths of your throat, you shift. Rice scatters, bouncing along the floor as it spreads, and you grimace. There is only the slightest amount of comfort to be found in your movement, but it is met by swift punishment. You are not supposed to find solace while in the midst of one of your father’s demanding lessons. 

Crack!

“Then, they spit on Him. They took the stick from His hands-” 

Crack!

“Wrong. Again,” he demands. 

Your mind reels as it attempts to recall the sermon your father gave that morning. His words spoken with utmost faith, the ones you are always made to recall as a lesson at the end of each morning, and yet you can’t. It’s patchy. Like the frayed ends of poorly woven textiles. No matter how often you blink, it won’t fix itself. You can only stumble and pray you pull on the right string to unravel it all. 

“Then, they spit on Him. They took the stick from Him, and beat Him with it,” you attempt. 

Once more, you are punished. It’s difficult to hold back the tears now as the skin on your knuckles parts like dried clay in a forgotten riverbed. They’re wide, deep crevices. Broken skin is good. It serves a purpose. It allows you to soak up your father’s lessons directly from the source. 

“Do you not listen at all? Does your mind wander during my sermons? What better things do you have to think about than His word? Again,” he demands. 

“Then, they spit on Him. They took the stick from Him, and beat Him on the head with it.” 

There is a gentle lull that succeeds your recitation. Anxious pacing ceases as your father stares down at your kneeling form, gaze burning into the back of your head. When he hums, content with your answer, you feel every muscle in your body melt. Proud, you look up at him, ready to revel in accolades, but his lips are pressed firmly together. It is the only way he is able to restrain the acidulous words he would otherwise spew at you. 

“Good,” he mutters, though it is flat. There is no pride to be found anywhere within him.

He strikes the stick against your knuckles five more times on each hand. With each impact, he reminds you this is for your own good. This is what a loving father does—a man of God—he teaches his daughter right from wrong. 

As usual, you are made to clean up the mess that remains after your lesson. Rice is swept up by broom and stowed away into the pockets of your apron like treasured pebbles found on a walk, and what little blood that remains on the pew is wiped clean. Your hands ache. They pulse and throb, and the apex of your knuckles sting as if you’ve rubbed salt in the broken skin. You might as well have done as much with the brine that seeps into the wounds each time you rub at your eyes. 

When all is clean, and your transgressions are swept aside, momentarily forgotten, you pray. Your father always says forgiveness is God’s duty. God is the quintessence of love and mercy while your father has proved many times he is not. A devout worshiper and priest, his love and respect is saved for his savior—never his daughter. So you kneel in the pews and bow your head before the cross strung up on the wall above you, and you beg. You apologize for the simple sin of your existence. You pray that God might bless you with the tools to be a better daughter. 

Amen.

You rise. The church is stilly, and you are alone. You are left to ruminate about your failures in this divine building until it is spotless. There is always more cleaning to be done. Breadcrumbs left from communion, wine that stains the wooden floors nearly as bad as your own blood does, muck from work boots; you are on your hands and knees more often than your own two feet. Perpetually in prayer. Reciting scriptures. Cleaning this house of God until not a speck of sin remains. 

When you are finished with your duties at the church, your father sends you into town to fetch wine. It’s foolish of you to believe he would allow you to sit at the dining table with him and partake in lunch. To enjoy a mouthwatering meal of boiled potatoes and ham. He always sends you out when you look like this—disheveled from cleaning and still trying to stunt the bleeding of your hands. It’s the acme of his lesson: ignominy. Shame digs in deeper, settles in nicer, when there’s an audience to witness it. 

Mr. Beckett’s chickens are roaming the town again. You notice a few stragglers as you come to the end of the path that slowly morphs into the main road. Colorful hens cluck and bob their heads as you weave between them. They feast on small beetles with iridescent exoskeletons that flutter and click between sparse strands of grass, but when they take note of you, they stare expectantly. You try not to wince as your knuckles scrape against the fabric of your apron, hands diving into your pockets to retrieve uncooked rice. They flock as you toss the grains on the ground for them to peck and gorge themselves, putting your punishment to good use. 

Sheep bleat at you just as you turn the corner into town. The flock has grown steady this spring with several new additions of playful lambs that trot after their mothers. They curiously line the fence as you pass by, and cry pitifully as your figure grows smaller in the distance. Townsfolk flutter in and out of steady wood buildings with their pockets full of money, both earned and spent. Your own fingers brush against the cash your father gave you for your task—you keep in mind his words of warning: 

I’ll be counting that change when you return, girl. 

The saloon isn’t busy this early in the afternoon, yet Mr. Beckett is perched at his bar wiping down glistening glasses. Empty tables adorn scratched wooden floors, and the tops are sparkling clean. The summer sun seeps through cracked windows, though the building still seems darker than it should be. A group of four men lurk in the far corner of the bar, each talking lowly and looking at you with shifting eyes, yet you avert your gaze as you approach the bar. 

“Afternoon, Mr. Beckett,” you greet. You muster your best smile as you wipe a hand beneath your eyes, worried tear stains are still visible on your cheeks. “Your chickens are out again.” 

Chuckling, Mr. Beckett pushes the empty glasses to the side to give you his full attention. Wrinkles settle in his face as crows feet wink by his eyes, and they only deepen as he smiles at you. There’s a cheeky twinkle that lurks in his grey eyes, and a rosy color that fills his cheeks.

“I’m sure that broke your heart having to see those critters running amuck along the trail,” he teases. “What can I do for you, kid?” 

“My father sent me to get some wine for next week’s service,” you say. 

“Ah, I should’ve known. Three?” he asks. 

“Yes, please.” 

Mr. Beckett holds up a finger as if to tell you to stay put before he wanders off to fetch your order. Sighing, you look down at your knuckles while you wait. They’ve stopped bleeding, but the blood crusts on your skin like boulders on a mountain. Your father didn’t even give you time to clean the scabs from your hands before sending you off to do his bidding. It’s almost as much of an eyesore as it is a literal sore. 

But—as it is with all wounds—your blood seems to have attracted the dogs. 

Their gazes burn your flesh, and you are suddenly well aware of the men at your back. You had done your best to ignore them upon your arrival, but curiosity gnaws at you with dull, aching teeth. Casting a cautious glance over your shoulder, you soak up swift looks at each of the men. You catch sight of a masked man too large for his own good, a handsome fellow with deep brown skin and kind eyes, a stranger with an even stranger haircut, and a man with a low sitting hat. The brim nearly covers his eyes, but you’re still able to catch the blaze of his cobalt gaze as he stares at you. 

You shiver. 

“Alright, here we are,” Mr. Beckett hums as he returns behind the bar. Glad to have someone else to focus on, you find a smile on your face as he begins to unload the bottles in his arms onto the counter. “Three bottles of red wine. Should be plenty for everyone, I hope.” 

“I appreciate it, Mr. Beckett,” you chuckle. When digging into your apron pocket, you can’t help but wince as your knuckles once again scrape against the unyielding fabric. You play it off with a cough as you present the cash to him. “This ought to be enough.” 

At the same time as he grabs the cash with one hand, Mr. Beckett grabs your wrist with the other. Gently, he turns your palm over until your knuckles are on display beneath the oil lamp that sits just above your head. Pressing your lips together, you keep your eyes on the bartop, too ashamed to witness the results of your own stupidity. 

“Why don’t you grab a seat, kid,” he insists. 

There’s no use in arguing; you’re well aware that he won’t give you your change until you let him clean you up. Sighing, you hop onto the stool and lay your palms flat on the counter while Mr. Beckett retrieves his strongest moonshine. He pours a bit of it onto a rag before pressing it into your cracked skin where it soaks deep like thirsty soil. Your squeak echoes in the near empty room, and you feel your face heat as you attempt to keep your head down. 

“Why’d he do it this time?” he asks. 

“It was my fault,” you insist. 

“You and I both know it wasn’t,” Mr. Beckett retorts. 

You swallow as he wipes the rag along your skin before moving to the next knuckle. “I couldn’t quote his sermon today. I should’ve paid better attention.” 

“Perhaps your father should have more grace. He ought to marry you off already. I reckon you’d find more peace with a husband than you would with him.” 

Things grow quiet between you and Mr. Becket just as the muttering grows louder behind you. Those men—those strangers—make the hair on the back of your neck stand on end. Still, you are grateful for their presence, as they give you something else to talk about than your unfortunate life as an eternal servant to your father. 

“Mr. Beckett, can I ask about the gentlemen behind me?” you whisper.

He politely drops one hand in order to move to the next, but his eyes stray to strangers at your back. “Travelers. Blew into town a day or two ago. They’ve been doing odd jobs to scrounge up some money, but they’re nothing but trouble, if you ask me.” 

“What makes you say that?” you ask, voice cracking as he starts cleaning your other hand. 

Sighing, Mr. Beckett keeps his tongue between his teeth for a moment as he weighs his options. Eyes turning back to your hands, he pauses as he inspects the blood crusting on the rag. 

“That fellow in the mask… I’ve heard of him. Ghost stories ‘bout him anyway. They all have strange accents. From across the pond, or so they say. They’ve all got this uncanny look in their eyes and… well, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say they’re the 141 Gang. At least, that fellow in the back looks like the man wanted from Blackpeak.” 

This name—141—drops from Mr. Beckett’s lips like it’s supposed to mean something to you, and yet it doesn’t ring a bell. Eyes narrowing, you tilt your head at him. 

“I’m not familiar,” you admit. 

“Dangerous people. Robbers. Murderers. They might greet you with a smile, but just look at how sharp their teeth are, kid. Nothing but wild animals ready to rip out throats for a bounty or good pay. Surprised they’re not wanted by half of The West by this point. They make people disappear, then vanish just as quickly. I’m just hopin’ if I keep my head down long enough, they’ll skip town before they cause any trouble.” 

Neither of you speak as the rest of your knuckles are cleared of debris and coagulated scabs. You are often plagued with the human affliction of having your heart stuck in your throat, but now you know your feelings aren’t unfounded. That tingle in your skin, the heat boiling at the nape of your neck—you wonder if these men even bother to wash the blood from their clothes before pretending to be human. Do they shed their wolf-teeth before attempting to blend into the flock? 

Once Mr. Beckett is content with the dismal state of your hands, he finally gives you your change. You quickly stow it away in your apron pocket before you turn to the several bottles of wine waiting for you on the bartop. You gather them in your arms before you slide off of the stool, eager to get home and well away from this 141 Gang. Yet just as your feet hit the ground, the fabric of your skirt catches on the wood stool, and suddenly your seat comes toppling to the floor with a deafening thud. 

Shame boils deep in your chest where it superheats your blood until your entire body is sweltering. You look up from the mess you’ve made with parted lips, yet no words come out. Your chest heaves as you stare up at Mr. Beckett with wide eyes, yet he only looks at you with benignancy. 

“I-I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t mean- It just caught-” you stutter. 

“It’s alright, kid,” he interjects. 

Silence envelops you so suddenly that you’re painfully aware of how many sets of eyes are on you. Dark gazes glint in the numbra that lurks in the corner of the saloon. The men look over their shoulders and from beneath the brims of their hats to soak up the view of you—a trembling, pathetic thing that’s about to drop the wine from her hands. 

“I’ll clean it up, don’t you worry about it,” Mr. Beckett assures as he rounds the corner of the bartop, waving you off. “Now, you best be on your way. Shouldn’t keep your daddy waiting.” 

Turning around feels like opening a healing wound—it burns and leaves you trembling as you mutter a farewell and stumble out the door. You keep the wine in your arms clutched to your chest with wounded hands as you rush back home. Sheep bleat and chickens cluck, yet their whining cannot drown out the sound of your heart. That booming thunder as blood gushes through your veins; it still boils. Vermillion waves of unrelenting shame and fear. 

Even on the edge of town you can still feel it—the gaze of those wolves. You pray to God that they leave your sleepy livestock town alone. 

Then again, God has never been merciful in answering your prayers.