#trying to apply my own rules...

[d8tl55c]

im having trouble assigning one metric like age, weight, vitals, emotional state, etc. to memory usage because it's such a computer-y concept- maybe a combination of several of those things?

when you're talking about memory... uh... it's not really...

it's weird- UM- heRE's HOw RAM WORKS:

.

in general* there's two ways to handle data:

slow to access, but i can store a lot of data basically forever, or super fast, but i can only store a little, temporarily.

RAM (Random Access Memory) is the second option. it's a physically different chip from the long-term-big-storage one, and it is designed to multitask many, many file accesses/calculations/other processes at once. video games, modeling/editing/animation software, and web browsers commonly eat up a lot of RAM (a LOT: check out Flash up there at the top easily munching 300 thousand K* for the simplest possible animation) *we are going to pretend it's that simple because trying to research this further made the later sections of RUSH-E start blasting in my head :) (further reading that looks correct probably about things that are and aren't the "active private working set" (column displayed by default in Task Manager -> Details and the animation))

(here's 3 windows of 18 tabs of OperaGX as an example)

so it's not really the runtime of the program ("im not sure if their memory usage is reliant on how long they've been existing..."), but what its function is, that foreshadows its required RAM.

"...or how. complex they were drawn." <- this one should work. since they're all separate programs, they each have to handle their own graphics, and would use a type of RAM to keep up their silky smooth framerates and procedural animations.

and there's the. THOUGHTS. SENTIENCE. that they all have, of course. i can only assume they use computer working memory (a bit more RAM) like humans use our working memory, and permanent save files stored elsewhere for long-term stuff, because there is no other reference for how a functioning person-program works.

that doesn't explain why orange's number is so different from RYGB... and even when a program doesn't display anything or have feelings the RAM usage shown in Task Manager changes a lot... but in IV it stays exactly the same throughout for every single program..... (i was about to be excited if trying to end TheSecondComing.exe spiked his metrics or something but nothing happens *sad nerd face*) .....so im pretty sure not much was intended on Alan's part by assigning any of these RAM usage values, except for cinematic reasons: giving TheSecondComing.exe much less than the StickFigure[Color].exes forces c!Alan to search for it, realize it has a weird name, and zoom in all dramatic on it for the Description reveal, all because it's further down the list. :P

.

but if i were forced to speculate anyway-

id guess that the StickFigure[Color].exes use more RAM because they come from a game. maybe they're carrying around the game scripts that are responsible for waiting for user inputs. TheSecondComing.exe was never designed to be controlled, so would lack user input listeners by default. why does RYGB have different individual RAM usages? heck if i know- the discrepancies are small enough i think it's just. normal fluctuations. since they're doing different stuff and are variations on the same program, they'd likely stay near each other in RAM requirements, but trade places with who's using the most constantly.

is that all? uhhhh well all i know about getting user input is it can get complicated. suppose it might be 13,516 K complicated.

the only other thing i thought of is TSC.exe could hide suspiciously high RAM usage by stealing from Flash's allocated space. but i dont know if that's a real thing, even for worms. -> if it is, the story goes that, like Minecraft performance can increase by allocating more RAM for it, Flash probably has a big chunk set aside for processing animation-related stuff. TSC.exe, related/attached to Flash, may have access to this chunk, using some of Flash's resources instead of clocking more usage for itself on the Task Manager. the remaining 3,012 K may therefore be impossible to hide or outsource, and would account for... idk, the minimum RAM required to maintain a sapient stick figure? <- again, fully riffing and playing pretend with my touys there though. NOT sure if any of that section is anything. but it would be neat \o/

.

(side note: i tried to look back and see if avast! describes TCO's memory usage, but that metric doesn't show up :T and i dont think there was time to check TDL's or anyone else's in III or V)

.

SO WHAT IS IT HUH?

aaaaaaaaauuuu

it's not clear what the differences mean. it likely does not mean anything at all canonically (cinematic reasons). but i can confidently say that the Memory value probably corresponds to an individual stick figure's current: physical state (stored position, limb arrangements, collisions), display data (color, frame generation, frame display), emotional state (neutral vs intense), mental state (how hard they are thinking), extra features (game data, other attachments to parent programs), independence (is or isn't using memory through another program), and probably other things simultaneously.

i went and collected those numbers

however... it seems this metric we were discussing wasn't related to file size after all, it was memory usage.

i do not know enough about memory to immediately recognize the implications of this information but still cool to know and weird and interesting that they're so different 👉👉 handing to you for safekeeping

OHHHHHHHH !!!!!! i didnt even see the memory tab i really thought it was their file weight lol. man i really wonder what i can do with it. seems like red is consuming too much memory LOL

im not sure if their memory usage is reliant on how long they've been existing or how. complex they were drawn. its interesting to think about. we keeping it fr

[see-arcane]

I'm going to lose my mind.

Eggers. Bobby Egg. Buddy.

No. Very much no.

[formosusiniquis]

noah fence but every time I sit down to write a fic where the party plays dnd and I look at the 1e ad&d book I wonder how anyone even played this game, how much homebrew was involved genuinely? only a human or a half-elf can be a bard? can't even be a bard until you've traversed a gauntlet of requirements? can't even be certain classes unless your stats are right? (this isn't even touching that gendered stat differences exist which is so stupid it borders on farce) i know it has to be annoying for the real die hard dnd fans to always see characters playing with 5e rules in the 80s but some of this stuff is actually bananas

[whetstonefires]

Also tho beware lol: I systematically desensitized myself to pregnancy shit and the way gender and biological determinism is handled around mpreg in particular, because it was making existing in fanfic spaces stressful and I was like, this is a reasonable issue to have but a dumb thing to suffer about.

It worked, my experience of being in fandoms that are into that (a lot of them) is better.

But now I have all these opinions about bad speculative biology put forth to prop up omegaverse content which is not a thing I want to give a damn about.

I mean I think people should curate their own fandom experience and whatnot and it's perfectly fair to just avoid things one is uncomfortable with...

That being said. From personal experience? Immunizing myself to all my discomforts by browsing through pixiv and kink memes with raised eyebrows while searching for things I am interested in back when tagging was non-existent has really made my fandom experience much more pleasant nowadays.

I have preferences, for sure. But I have no fear. I have no cringe. The filthiest, grossest fanwork holds no powers over me. I am a god.

Like honestly dl;dr and block on sight is respectable and all but I genuinely think everyone could just benefit from purposefully exposing yourself to your nOTP and non-triggering squicks sometimes? (And obviously don't go bother the creators for it.) If only so that it makes it easier/safer to search for content you like without living in fear of accidentally glimpsing something you hate and having that ruin your day.

[musical-chick-13]

I know the point of "Don't have your characters use therapy-speak" is "Don't put dialogue in your story that makes things seem stilted/breaks immersion for the purpose of proving that This Isn't Actually An Unhealthy Situation, I Promise Guys," but nonetheless it is starting to give me a complex over writing these characters like. Communicating. Just at all.

[quantum1mmortality]

omg uhhhh…

curly giving/receiving head headcanons??…

it’s so generic but I’m on the floor sobbing I’m desperate for more of this man, you’re an incredible writer and I love what you’ve written abt curly so far!!

I want to give this man the most world shattering head he's ever had in his whole life, like soiled sheets and fucking mind boggling orgasms. RIGHT NOW

Tw/cw; Afab!reader, cunnilingus AND filatio!!!! that's all I think

Not proofread

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

Receiving

He whimpers.

No but like seriously, he does whimper. He'd be so caught up in the feeling that just slips out, along with him saying your name ofc 🤭

He'd be more of a sheet gripper than a hair gripper. Like I said in my marriage hcs, Curly tries his best to not be rough with you; and in his eyes, gripping onto your hair is being rough.

He mainly thinks that way because he's under the assumption that it hurts you, which he wants no part of. So, he sticks to what he thinks is best for you.

But sometimes he just can't help himself, the pleasure he's feeling overrules his own morals, and he breaks.

So every once in a while, he'll grab a hold of your hair and just.. push you down a little further and hold you there. It isn't his fault, he doesn't mean to! But he feels awful about it in the moment

Once he's finished, he's an incoherent mess. He's so fucked out he can't even form words properly, but after a few minutes he can say "thank you". Why does he thank you? He thinks it's nice; a gentlemanly thing to do.

He'll eventually apologize, just give him a few more minutes to compose himself.

Giving

Curly would be the type of man to constantly want you sitting on his face. And I mean CONSTANTLY.

He'd definitely use it as foreplay all the time. Even if you don't need it, he'll still insist. He probably gets more pleasure from it than you do.

Even though he doesn't want to hurt you, that rule for him doesn't apply when he's eating you out. His hands leave actual MARKS from how hard he's pulling your thighs down while trying to keep you still.

Do you guys remember what doja cat said about big noses? Curly would DEFINITELY position your waist in a way that your clit is resting on his nose. And then he'd use his grip on your thighs to rock you back and forth, as if you're riding it

As you can imagine it doesn't take long to cum after he starts doing that, and he's not letting a single drop go to waste. It's his favorite snack actually, he likes working for what he deserves 🤭

More often than not he'd ask to do it again, but it takes so much energy out of you that you physically can't sit up. It's like he's sucking the life out of you, both literally and metaphorically.

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

A/n: Got me holding my breath I've been dreaming of this all night, thinking all the time about you hope that's alright

[iamgonnagetyouback]

I NEED MY PAMPERING.⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ㅤㅤ●ㅤㅤㅤ ㅤ ㅤ M. RIDDLE

SUMMARY ৎ୭ mattheo is completely obsessed with you and your high-maintenance ways. he loves spoiling you, but the moment you stop pampering him, he turns into the neediest boyfriend alive. today, you're just trying to do your makeup, but mattheo has other plans—mainly, being the center of your attention

WARNINGS ಇ. excessive clinginess, fluff, and mattheo being the neediest boyfriend ever

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ᡣ𐭩 words.ᐟ 564

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ౨ৎㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ

Mattheo Riddle is completely infatuated with you, his high-maintenance girlfriend who has him wrapped around her perfectly manicured finger. You live for pink, makeup, long nails, and every glamorous touch, and Mattheo? He adores it. The upkeep, the attention, the endless pampering—he loves treating you like the princess you are. He proudly carries your bags, ensures your makeup is perfectly stocked, and always knows exactly when it's time for a nail appointment.

But there's one rule. Mattheo's just as high maintenance in his own way, only in the form of your undivided attention and affection. The moment you stop pampering him—whether that’s running your fingers through his hair, spoiling him with sweet words, or letting him cling to you like a koala—he turns into the neediest boyfriend alive.

One morning, you’re sitting in front of your vanity, carefully applying lip gloss when Mattheo saunters in, his eyes immediately locking on you. His face falls slightly when you don’t greet him with your usual kiss.

“Why aren’t you paying attention to me?” he whines, crossing the room in two strides and resting his chin on your shoulder. “I’ve been waiting for my turn for ages.”

You laugh softly, twisting in your chair to face him. “Mattheo, I’m just doing my makeup. I’ll give you attention in a sec.”

But that doesn’t fly with him. Before you can finish, he’s scooping you up from the chair, plopping down on the bed with you tucked in his arms. He nuzzles his face into your neck, a dramatic sigh escaping his lips. “I don’t care about your makeup. I care about you.”

You grin, brushing a hand through his messy curls. “You’re being dramatic. And you act like I don’t give you enough attention, Matt."

"Because you don’t," he pouted dramatically. "You can’t just look this good and not let me have you all to myself. It's unfair."

You giggled and kissed his cheek, leaving a faint pink lipstick stain. "I’m almost done. What, you miss me already?"

"I always miss you," he mumbled.

“I need my pampering too,” he murmurs, holding you tighter. “I can’t function without it.”

You know his antics, but it’s still the cutest thing in the world. You lean down and place a soft kiss on his cheek. “Poor baby, did I neglect you?”

He nods, lips pouting in full force. “So much. I don’t know how I’m even surviving.”

You giggle, but comply immediately, peppering kisses across his face until he’s smiling lazily. “Better?”

“Almost,” he mumbles, pulling you even closer. “Don’t leave me.”

"I’m just going to meet up with some friends, Matt," you giggled, running your nails lightly through his hair. "I won’t be gone long."

He lifted his head, giving you a pout that was far too cute for someone who looked as dangerous as he did. "I don’t care. I’m coming with you."

You rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t deny how much you loved his clinginess. He always wanted to be near you, touching you, even when you were doing something as simple as getting ready. It was endearing, the way he never wanted to be without you.

"Fine," you said, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. "But only if you promise to behave."

"No promises," he grinned, holding you tighter. "But you’re stuck with me, princess."

And honestly, you wouldn’t have it any other way.

©iamgonnagetyouback౨ৎ please refrain from copying, translating, or reposting any of my work

[hvnishere]

if you do not identify with failure then nothing can go wrong

need i say more? no, not really but of course i will say more.

identifying with failure is the cause of failure. when you wake up from a shifting attempt and are still in your current, undesired reality, the automatic reaction for some is to admit defeat and accept that you failed. yet, the most successful people are the ones who do not accept failure. it is simply not an option that exists in their stratosphere so remove it from yours.

"will she ever lose?" man, i guess we'll never know - nosebleeds, doechii

this is the mindset we all must adopt. if you know that you cannot fail, that means that nothing can go wrong. it means you do not have to do anything, it will happen on it's own because above all else you will persevere and succeed.

this applies to manifestation as well, not just shifting because this is how life works.

you do not need to live by the auto-assigned rules of this reality. do not take what you are processing with your five senses as an unrefusable fact, you decide what's fact or not. dare to assume success when you would normally assume failure.

every moment is being spent in the reality that you want, no matter what. only accept that and nothing else. no matter what you do, say, or think YOU ARE THERE.

try this out for a week or two. whenever you start to think you are failing or might have already failed, stop yourself and remember that failure is no longer an option so what's there to worry about? stop using effort, trying a billion different methods, and worrying about time while doing this and solely focus on knowing you are always successful in your endeavors but make sure to be gentle with yourself though, this isn't a witch hunt. even if nothing seems like it's changed, it has. you have changed and that's all that needs to change in order to succeed because everything comes from you. this is an amazing foundation to have, you are gaining confidence and acting with brazen impudence.

"maybe next time it'll work? ugh, this is so hard. when will it happen? how long does it take to shift? can this be manifested?" girl, drop it. you've won, chill. how can you fail when you've already gotten first place? let's stop pitying ourselves.

remember that motivation is fickle but discipline is forever, keep your head up baby. you got this i love you! my asks are open if you need help and i'm doing this with you, you're not alone <3

[kxsagi]

Hi!!!

I’ve literally been binge reading all your works for a few days and I just have to say your writing is really good. I love the way you write Sae and Isagi (my favs) i’m not one to request things but I wanted to try it for once

Would you be able to write the bllk boys (Sae and Isagi + whoever else you want) having an s/o who smokes/vapes. Whether it’s a habit that the reader had before the relationship or picked it up at some point. I saw something similar a long time ago and I’ve been thinking about it ever since.

That’s all and I’ll say it again. I LOVE your works so much

"𝐠𝐨𝐝 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐛𝐢𝐝 𝐚 𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥 𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐤"

a/n: hi hi! thank you so much for your kind words and your request, i can’t express my gratitude enough! 

i wasn't exactly comfortable with the idea of writing about reader who vapes/smokes because i really don’t condone that for personal/health reasons, and it’s totally not your fault because i didn’t say anything about that in my request rules. 

if it’s okay, i did change the plot a little to headcanons about how you take out flavored chapstick and the boys think it’s a vape instead. thank you for your understanding 🥹🫶

ft. isagi yoichi, itoshi rin, nagi seishiro, mikage reo, shidou ryusei, itoshi sae, kaiser michael, ness alexis

isagi yoichi

you pull something out of your pocket and bring it to your lips. 

he does a double take. 

“wait, are you vaping?” 

you blink at him, confused, then turn the chapstick around to show the label: cotton candy swirl. 

“it’s lip balm, yoichi.” 

he turns bright red. 

“… oh.” 

two minutes later he’s looking it up online like “is secondhand chapstick a thing?” 

itoshi rin

you apply your peach-flavored lip balm while walking next to him. 

he stares. hard. 

“are you seriously vaping right now?” 

you pause mid-swipe. 

“rin. it’s chapstick.” 

“… oh. it smells fake.” 

he walks faster, annoyed for no reason, like your lips having moisture is a personal attack. 

later, when you kiss him, he mumbles, “still tastes like chemicals.” 

but doesn't pull away. 

nagi seishiro

he sees you reapplying your cherry lip balm and just stares. 

“… yo. can i try it?” 

“my chapstick?” 

“oh, i thought it was a vape... can i still try it?” 

you kiss his cheek. 

“… that works,” he shrugs, leaning on your shoulder half-asleep. 

the next day you catch him putting it on himself. when you ask why, he just says, “too lazy to buy my own. plus yours tastes like candy.”

mikage reo

reo catches you applying your lip balm during a water break. 

“hey, wait a sec. you vape now?” 

you stare at him. 

“reo. babe. it’s lip balm.” 

he squints, takes it, reads the label: birthday cake blast. 

“… why is this so dramatic?” 

he puts it on to prove a point and instantly grimaces. 

“why do your lips taste like a party store???” 

shidou ryusei

he sees you apply it and immediately goes: “damn. you hitting that cotton candy cloud-9000 or what?” 

you: “it’s chapstick?” 

shidou: “hell yeah it is. that’s your vape now. you’re one of us.” 

he starts calling you “vape queen” ironically. tries to put stickers on your lip balm. 

you catch him mimicking you in the mirror later, dramatically applying your watermelon twist like it’s a ritual. 

itoshi sae

you pull out your lip balm, swipe it across your lips, and keep walking. 

he catches a glimpse and immediately frowns. 

“are you really vaping now?” 

you blink, confused. 

“what? no, it’s chapstick.” 

he raises an eyebrow, skeptical. 

“mmm, sure.” 

later, he catches you applying it again, this time on the couch. 

you watch his eyes narrow, and before you know it, he’s grabbed the chapstick, inspecting the label like it’s evidence in a crime scene. 

“watermelon sugar rush?” he smirks, “yeah, that’s definitely a vape.” 

you sigh, shaking your head. 

“you’re ridiculous.” 

“i’m just trying to keep you out of trouble, love,” he grins. "but hey, if it makes you happy..." 

he gives it back and casually walks off. 

you swear he’s the most suspicious about it out of anyone. 

kaiser michael

you pull out your vanilla shimmer gloss stick and swipe it across your lips. 

he raises an eyebrow. “seriously? in public?” 

“liebe, it’s lip balm.” 

“sure it is,” he smirks. “next thing you’ll tell me is you don’t run an underground vape ring.” 

you smack his arm. he just laughs. 

later steals it and puts it on just to annoy you. 

“what? if you're gonna taste like cupcakes, i might as well match.” 

ness alexis

gasps like you just committed a crime. 

“you’re vaping? now?? in front of me???” 

you: “alexis baby, it’s literally called ‘jellybean kiss balm.’” 

ness: “... oh.” 

immediately goes, “can i try it?” like he didn’t just accuse you of corrupting the youth. 

starts using it so often you have to buy a second one. 

calls it “our shared little secret” every time and winks. you consider throwing it out. 

© 𝐤𝐱𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢

[000000-000000-000000]

eyeless jack medical kink smut ?! please please please 🙏🙏🙏

YESSIR 🗣️🗣️ rubbing my hands, plotting, scheming... i might be bullshitting a bit because i have close to 0 medical knowledge lmao. also writer's block actually made me rip my hair out w this one for some reason. i read and reread this shit like...... an embarrassing amount of times and i literally got writing dysmorphia or whatever you call it 💀 BUT ANYWAY HOPE YOU ENJOY ANON!!! 🫶🏻🫶🏻

Loose Hinges (Eyeless Jack x Reader)

eyeless jack x f!reader nsfw — CW med examination, a little sadism kinda maybe if you squint, biting and blood, oral (f giving), orgasm denial, squirt, creampie, overall clinical feel... most of it anyhow :P

word count 5.2k

It’s not like he ever applied for the job.

There was no moment where Jack stepped forward, cracked his knuckles, and offered his services as the mansion’s unofficial medic. No CV given to Slender. No stethoscope slung around his neck, no degrees on the wall.

It started when Jeff dislocated his shoulder during some feral knife tantrum—most definitely over nothing. No one else even looked twice at his slinging arm—it's not like a house full of maimed psychopaths possessed the medical knowledge or the fucks to give. Jack hadn’t even blinked. Just walked over, expression unreadable as always, and popped the joint back in with the ease of someone tying a shoelace. No warning. No hesitation.

Since then, it just happened. One by one, the mansion’s walking disasters started coming to him. Concussions. Lacerations. Broken ribs. Nothing experimental. Nothing fancy. Just quiet, competent fixes. He didn’t like doing it. He didn’t complain either. It was just… efficient. Someone had to do it, and he had the hands.

He wouldn't do it for free, however. Hence the rules. Don't come in empty handed—whether it's organs that would save him the headache of procuring himself, or stolen medical supplies, bring something or don't even bother dragging yourself there. Most importantly, hands to yourself. God forbid you touch his sterile equipment—he won't give you reasons to get stitches, but you will bleed out on your own moving forward.

So now, the old storage room down the hall is a makeshift infirmary. Bright overhead lighting. Stainless steel trays. Gauze stacked to the ceiling. It smells like antiseptic and cold metal. It’s quiet. No music, no décor. Just Jack, his gloves, and a collection of very sharp, very clean tools.

You’ve been avoiding it like the plague for two days.

Your jaw hasn’t stopped throbbing since your last mission—one bad punch across the face, and you’d felt something shift, something click. Now you can’t eat, can’t yawn, can’t speak more than a few words without biting down on pain. You’ve been living on ibuprofen and denial, but it’s not cutting it anymore.

So you’re here. Standing in front of the door with your hand curled around your jaw like it’ll stop your skull from splitting in half, the other tight around a plastic bag that hung with the weight of viscera from your hand. You stare at the peeling label on the door—just a fading piece of masking tape with “MEDICAL” scrawled in some unfamiliar hand—and knock once.

No answer.

You try again. Still nothing. You knew he smelled the organs in the bag from two hallways away, so he was just ignoring you, you realized.

You grit your teeth—mistake—and finally push the door open. You stepped inside with your hand still curled around the plastic grocery bag like it was radioactive. The contents shifted and sloshed wetly with each step, and despite your best efforts not to flinch, your lips curled slightly in subconscious disgust.

The infirmary is colder than the rest of the mansion. Jack probably keeps it that way to discourage loitering. The white light overhead buzzes faintly, casting sterile shadows over the clean stainless steel counter and shelves. No chairs. Just one padded table in the center, a stool, and a tray of gleaming metal tools so clean they almost sparkle.

He doesn’t look up at first. Just finishes changing the nitrile gloves on his hands—already prepped, like he expected you to just let yourself in. The scent hit you a second later—alcohol, something minty, clean, but sharp enough to keep you from getting too comfortable.

“Someone knocked you off alignment,” he said without turning. His voice was low, smooth, the usual emotionless timbre that somehow still managed to sound like an accusation. “Jaw?”

You nodded even though you knew he couldn’t see it. “Yeah,” you said quietly, jaw tight and throbbing behind your ears, setting the bag down on the metal table beside the door. “Some dude clocked me good. It fucking hurts and pops.”

That got him to glance your way, head tilting slightly, two gaping pits of darkness that house no sight meeting your gaze. Bottomless. Still. You stood a little straighter under the weight of his stare, even if it was only symbolic.

A moment passes in which you assumed he assessed the payment you brought, and his voice, calm as ever, slices through the tension in your shoulders like a scalpel.

“Sit,” he says flatly. “Close the door.”

You do both.

The door shuts with a quiet click, and you cross the room stiffly, dropping onto the edge of the padded table. Jack approaches without another word. There’s no greeting. No question. Just him stepping into your space, gloved fingers reaching for your chin like you’re an object in need of assessment.

You stiffen.

His touch is firm, not cruel. Cold from the gloves. He tilts your head to the left, then the right, thumbing along your jawline, pressing beneath the bone with a practiced kind of pressure that sends a deep ache skittering through your temples.

You wince.

“Open,” he says.

You part your lips. Slowly. It hurts.

He doesn’t acknowledge your reaction. Just tilts your head back further, inspecting the hinge of your jaw. His fingers move with mechanical efficiency, tracing muscle, bone, and tendon. His head tilts slightly to one side, like he’s calculating something.

“Left TMJ. Inflamed,” he murmurs. “Partial dislocation.”

His voice is low, expressionless, as if reading from a file you can’t see.

“Clench.”

You hesitate.

He repeats the word, this time slightly slower. Not louder. Not forceful. Just... lower.

“Clench.”

You obey, pressing your teeth together. The dull spike of pain nearly makes you gag. He feels your muscles shift beneath the skin, then finally releases your chin and steps back just enough to grab a tool you don't recognize right away from a nearby shelf.

“Inflammation’s aggravating the joint. I’ll reset it.”

Your stomach turns.

“You—what?”

His head tilts again, the black voids of his eyes unreadable.

“You’ll need to relax. The longer you wait, the worse it will get.” A pause. “I don’t offer sedation.”

Of course he doesn’t.

“Lie back.”

You hesitate for a second too long.

Jack waits, motionless, gloved hands poised in front of him like he’s prepping for surgery instead of resetting a jaw. His head tilts half a degree—just enough for you to feel the weight of his wordless stare pressing on your sternum.

"...Fine." You lie back.

The vinyl of the exam table is cold against your spine. You shift slightly, arms flat at your sides. Your eyes trail the overhead light until Jack steps into view again, eclipsing it. Towering, shadowed, cut like stone. The only sound is the soft creak of latex gloves as he flexes his fingers.

He moves with no wasted motion, tongue depressor in one hand and a small penlight in the other. Click.

“Open again. Wider.”

You try. It hurts again, surprise.

He doesn’t comment on the way your jaw trembles. Just braces your chin with one hand and shines the light into your mouth, scanning along your gums, the hinge, the roof. You expect it to end there—but then he trades the depressor for something worse.

His fingers. Gloved, cool, long.

He presses two between your lips, careful but firm, thumb anchoring your jaw from underneath while the others sweep along the inside of your cheek. Checking for torn tissue, maybe. Infection. Misalignment. Who knows. His knuckles brush your tongue. You swallow without meaning to.

The sound that leaves your throat is humiliating.

Jack doesn’t react. Doesn’t flinch, doesn’t shift, doesn’t even breathe different. His fingers curl slightly, pressing into the soft flesh near your molars. The texture of the glove drags. Slow. Thorough. Your jaw aches and your body lights up in response.

Not from pain.

He’s not doing anything wrong. That’s the problem.

He’s not being seductive. Not being coy. Not even looking at you, not really. Just working. Focused. Professional. Detached.

And it’s that—exactly that—that makes heat pool between your legs. You squeeze your thighs, trying to quiet your own body’s treachery. His fingers glide across the base of your tongue again, tipping your chin just slightly with the pad of his thumb. Your breath hitches. What the fuck is wrong with you.

He withdraws a little slower this time, still silent, still careful. You would've almost relaxed if it weren't for the impending intervention that would surely make you keel over in pain.

“I need to assess the displacement,” he mutters, already applying pressure to the hinge of your jaw. “Don’t talk.”

You weren’t planning to. Not anymore.

The pads of his thumbs press just under your ears, right where the mandible meets muscle. He rotates your jaw gently but firmly, thumbs pressing into the tension like he’s mapping your pain. He doesn’t wince at the faint click, or the flinch you fail to suppress. He just notes it.

“There’s swelling,” he murmurs. “One of the ligaments is likely strained.”

You nod a little, before realizing you weren’t supposed to move. But Jack doesn’t comment. He’s just quiet for a moment. Still.

...Too still.

Your heart is hammering, and it’s not subtle anymore. Not to him.

You realize, too late, what he’s actually doing—what’s got him so motionless, so tuned in.

He's fucking listening.

His head angles ever so slightly toward your chest, and you can feel the moment he registers your heartbeat spiking. Not just hears it, but tracks it. Listens to it as data.

Then he inhales, slow and silent.

Oh no.

He can smell it. You know he can. Arousal blooming like a warm, humid pulse between your legs, sweet and tentative and absolutely real. You can't help but panic, bracing to be humiliated right here on his table. This is precisely why you even put off coming in to begin with.

But instead of recoiling, or making some awful comment, or pretending it didn’t happen—

He keeps going. Calm. Professional.

He moves one hand to the back of your head, cradling it with unnerving gentleness. The other comes to your jaw again, fingers curled around it, his thumb bracing beneath your chin.

“I’m going to adjust it,” he says. “You may feel pressure. And pain.”

You exhale slow. “Okay.”

You’re practically vibrating now, your breath catching as he shifts even closer. He doesn’t need to touch more than necessary—never does—but his size alone is overwhelming, broad shoulders blocking out the harsh overhead light, his stance boxing you in like a shadow falling over prey.

He doesn't even give you a countdown. Doesn't brace you, doesn't warn you.

He just does it.

The crack is sharp—sickening to anyone else, but not to him. Your eyes blur for a second, and for a moment all you can register is the heat between your legs and the full-body jolt of pain-pleasure confusion ripping through your nerves.

His hands stay where they are. Steady. Silent.

Then his voice again, low and completely unbothered:

“Better?”

You nod, breath shallow. You can’t speak. Not yet. You can't yet rip yourself from the sharp flash of skull splitting pain, even as he leans in. Just barely.

He doesn't speak right away. His head remains tilted in that eerie, artificial way—listening. Not to your words, but to your body. The air feels too heavy, too thick.

"You’re flushed. Pulse elevated. Pupils dilated." His voice is calm, unbothered. “You're aroused.”

You look down, heart pounding even harder, like it’s trying to prove his point. You're in a closed room with a predator. Of course no pulse stammer, no change in scent escape him. And you stupidly, naively told yourself he'd at least not bring it up.

You almost defend yourself—almost—but your jaw still aches and your pride’s already halfway out the door.

He doesn’t accuse you. Doesn’t leer. Just continues peering down at you, seemingly toward your jaw, like calling you out on being horny on his table was just an afterthought.

Then, finally:

"You're at risk of muscular dysfunction," he says. “TMJ compression may recur if the surrounding joints aren’t conditioned.”

You blink.

“What?”

"Therapy for mandibular strength. Repetitive movement. Isometric pressure.”

"...That sounds fake," you say, eyes narrowing.

"It’s not. I can administer a routine exercise,” he says. “If you comply.”

Your heart skips. No fucking way.

You force yourself to scoff, weakly. “What, like... chewing gum?”

“No,” he says, utterly expressionless, voice dry as bleached bone. “Like sucking my cock.”

The room goes still. You stare at him, face slack, brain flatlining. He doesn’t shift.

You’d almost feel like you were being punked—if it weren’t for the clinical detachment in his voice. No grin. No teasing. Just prescription.

He gestures downward with a hand, slow and clear.

“On your knees.”

You're about to argue—but then you watch that same hand start undoing his belt. And you forget what you were going to say. Your legs move before your brain catches up.

The tile is cold beneath you as you lower. He doesn’t touch you—doesn’t help guide you down or force your head. Just lets you get into position, calm as ever, the way a doctor waits for a patient to position themselves on an exam table.

You stare—up at him, at the soft shadows where his eyes should be, into that void of unsettling silence. Your mouth is already falling open, your jaw aching but looser now, slightly. You're not sure if it's from his touch or the anticipation.

He watches you. Not hungrily. Not cruelly. Just assessing, patient.

“Begin."

The thing is, Jack doesn't get involved. That’s what the others say. And it’s true.

He doesn’t flirt. Doesn’t fuck. Doesn’t linger in the common rooms or hover near bedrooms or watch anyone with more than clinical interest.

Because frankly, there’s no one worth the effort. Not even during his mating season, when the heat is so overbearing and insufferable that he has to claw at his own raging cock to calm it down.

The women here are loud, violent, erratic. Jack learned early that entanglement breeds chaos. Even if his body hungers, his mind doesn’t. Not for them. So he keeps to himself. Detached. Controlled.

And then you showed up.

Not particularly warm. Not particularly broken. Just... quiet. Smart. Pretty in a way that didn't demand attention. Kept your distance, like him. And yet, here you are—kneeling on the tile floor of his makeshift infirmary, lips parted around the head of his cock with your jaw aching and your scent ripe with want.

He watches your mouth stretch open, just slightly at first, gauging the tension at the hinge.

“You’ll feel pressure,” he says, voice low but even, steady as his heartbeat. “Don’t force it. Let the joint relax.”

He’s big. Too big to take all at once without locking up, especially with your already-bruised jaw. So you ease into it—inch by slow, careful inch. His cock is heavy on your tongue, smooth and hot and stiffening by the second. You fight your gag reflex. Breathe through your nose. Let your lips seal slowly around the shaft.

Your jaw protests—dull pain radiating down into your neck. He hears your breathing shift.

“Discomfort?”

You nod faintly, but doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t stop you.

Instead, one hand lifts—settling under your chin, thumb pressing just beneath your ear as he begins to gently palpate the muscle, fingers feeling the give of the joint.

“Keep going,” he murmurs. “I need to feel the range.”

You suck in a slow breath. Take more of him in. It almost starts to feel like standard procedure by the way he acts. Almost.

The ache doesn’t disappear, but it starts to change. Dulls. Warms. The longer your mouth stays stretched, the looser the hinge feels, the less resistance there is in your jaw. Your tongue shifts around him, trying to ease the burn—and in doing so, draws a low hum from Jack’s chest.

“Good,” he says.

Definitely not standard procedure. You nearly moan.

Your spit starts to coat him, pooling around the base. It’s getting messy now—your tongue laps greedily, spit slicking his shaft in glistening ropes. Every soft choke earns you another steady hum of approval.

He doesn’t move his hips. Doesn’t thrust. Big palm still engulfing the underside of your jaw, claws twitching just barely into your skin every time you hollow your cheeks and suck back up to the tip.

You look up at him, half-dazed, spit slicking your chin, your jaw hanging looser than before. He looks down, impassive—but there's no hiding the pinch in his brows or the flare of his nostrils when the head of his cock kisses the back of your throat.

“That’s it,” he says, low, strained. “Take it. Just like that.”

Your thighs press together involuntarily, and your hand moves before you even register it—sliding under your waistband, fingers slipping past soaked underwear to your cunt.

You’re drenched. The cotton is soaked through, sticking to your knuckles. You rub slow circles around your clit, moaning softly around him, trying to time it with the slurp of your mouth to hide the sound. Your hips twitch.

But you forget who you’re with.

He stiffens above you—not in surprise, but stillness. His head tilts just barely to the side.

“...You’re touching yourself.”

You freeze for half a breath, almost even pull your hand out of your pants. But he doesn’t stop you. Instead, his chest rises subtly.

He smells it.

The scent of slick arousal is thicker in the air, heady and unmistakable. It mixes with the saline bite of sweat, the copper tang of blood from your payment, the chemical sharpness of antiseptic—but it’s yours that cuts through. Potent. Raw. Dripping down your thighs as you keep sucking.

He wasn’t planning on fucking you.

He didn’t need to. Your mouth would’ve sufficed—tight, warm, obedient. That would’ve been more than enough. A rare indulgence, a contained one.

But the sound.

That squelch of your pussy under your fingers—the slick wetness of it as your hips jerk and your moan stutters around his cock—

That changes everything.

He looks down at you then, fingers tightening ever so slightly in your hair.

“You’re soaked,” he says, tone low but not judgmental—observational, but something darker coils beneath it now. “From sucking my dick?”

You don’t respond—can’t—too full of him.

He leans forward, shadow cast across your flushed, fucked-out face.

“Get up,” he says. Calm. Firm. Final.

You blink up at him, dazed, lips red and wet.

“Up,” he repeats, slipping free of your mouth with a wet pop. “You’re not doing this on the floor.”

He pulls you to your feet with one smooth motion—strong, sure, impersonal as ever.

But his cock is still hard, glistening with spit, and when he steps in close, you feel the head nudge against your abdomen like an omen.

You look up at him as he pushes you back against the edge of the padded table, fully expecting another string of well measured medical excuses for wanting to sink into your pussy... But you were met with silence—thick, heavy, hungry even if he didn't outwardly show it. You didn't know whether to feel relieved or threatened.

He doesn’t undress with hunger or haste. His movements are smooth, methodical, devoid of showmanship. Just his fingers unfastening buttons, peeling away layers like they’re in the way—not like they’re what covers you, but what obstructs you. What obstructs him.

And then he’s looming between your spread legs, cock hanging heavy and thick between his thighs, glistening from your spit. The room is so quiet, you swear you can hear the shift of his weight when he steps closer.

His hands wrap around your thigh, latex squeaking as it slips over sweat. Your breath chokes short. He folds you in half, entirely—calmly forcing your thighs back until you’re bent near double. The stretch burns deliciously through your hamstrings, your hips, your spine.

And then he’s holding you there—palming the backs of your thighs as if anchoring you in place, cock nudging your entrance with zero urgency.

You squirm.

It earns you a hard slap to the inside of your thigh—sharp enough to make you jolt, wet enough that it echoes.

“Don’t move,” he says.

Then, slowly—almost cruelly—he presses in.

You gasp. It’s as much of a fill as it is a stretch. Thick, deep, unrelenting. Your cunt clenches around him instantly, fluttering as your walls fight to adjust. His cock drags inside you with obscene smoothness, and stops. He doesn’t thrust yet. Just holds. Buries himself to the hilt and lets your body adjust. Not a hint of frenzy—he splits you open like he’s measuring you.

He exhales—sharp, almost a sigh.

Your mouth drops open—but not in moan. It hangs. Your jaw slackens.

His hand is suddenly at your face, fingers curling under your chin, thumb pressing lightly into your jaw’s hinge, closing your mouth back up.

“You'll get lockjaw if you keep doing that,” he says coolly. “Hold it steady.”

The pressure increases. Not painful, not tenderly, but correcting.

His hips roll forward.

Slow, strong, deep—like he’s testing your depth, like he’s counting the inches it takes to pull another stifled moan from your throat.

You squeeze around him, clenching uncontrollably—already wound tight from your fingers, every nerve raw, oversensitive, like you'd been edged for hours. It was almost humiliating how close you were already.

“Shit,” he hisses, jaw tight, his impassivity fracturing just for a moment. “You’re—”

He cuts himself off.

His hand slides downward and finds your clit.

You barely have time to react before he pinches so hard that it makes your entire body arch and tense up. Sharp pressure blooms, pleasure laced with heat and pain and a stifled cry you can’t quite make with your mouth full of shallow panting.

Your hips jerk—he slams them back down.

“Don’t cum yet,” he growls—his voice now tinged, barely, with something darker, something less restrained. “You’re tighter when you’re close.”

He pinches again.

Your vision blurs.

“Control yourself,” he repeats as he slides in again, deeper. “You wanted this—then let it last.”

He starts fucking you—really fucking you—like your desperation and your body bursting at the seams in need was barely even an inconvenience to him.

But he's starting to crumble. Slowly, surely, a thrust every few rolls of his hips stuttering and pushing in too quickly. Slipping again and again, not immune to the warmth and wetness and tightness swallowing his cock whole like it was carved for this.

The table rocks under each thrust, his rhythm measured but no longer calculated, driving you into the vinyl with every pump of his hips. Your pussy makes obscene noises—slick, messy, greedy, sucking him back in every time he draws out.

He’s breathing harder now. No longer silent.

Low groans, thick and guttural, start slipping out—like they’re being torn from a throat that never lets itself make sound.

You swear you hear it: a cracked "fuck," deep in his chest, not quite meant to be spoken.

He grabs your jaw again—not with medical intent now, but need—fingers firm, his palm cupping your face to anchor you as he fucks in deeper, like he’s chasing the tightest part of you.

You’re shaking. You’re soaked. You’re held open, filled full, and denied again and again.

You don’t know when his hands started shaking.

Maybe the third or fourth time he smacked and pinched your clit to edge you, cunt suctioning wet around his cock and throbbing painfully. Maybe it was when you clenched on him during a particularly hard thrust and moaned like you were crying.

You hear it before you feel it—a snap, the high-pitched pop of nitrile tearing beneath too-sharp pressure. His claws rip clean through the gloves. You catch the gleam of black keratin as they flex in the light.

And then he’s grabbing at you—groping you.

No longer practical. No longer careful.

Claws rake up your ribs, scratch over your tits, dig into the soft skin of your hips and thighs, not deep enough to slice but enough to sting, to leave microscopic beads of crimson in their wake. It’s primal. Like he’s trying to ground himself in the tactile, in the way your body grips him back, in the way your skin gives under his nature.

His pace becomes erratic.

Thrusts slam in harder, faster, more ragged—driven not by logic but need. The sound of your slick, the wet, high-pitched slap of it echoing against the walls, drives him deeper into something bigger than him.

You barely catch your breath before he lunges forward—body folding over you, arms braced against the table, his face in the crook of your neck.

You can feel a rumble in his chest—barely a warning at all— before be clamps down on your skin.

He sinks sharp, inhuman teeth into your shoulder with a guttural growl, like he's tasting something sacred—savoring it. Your flesh parts around his fangs with a wet, horrible rip, and blood surges from the wound.

He doesn’t apologize as you shriek and claw at his biceps, his hair, anything to try and pry him off. Not even budging.

He laps. Licks deep, filthy stripes into your bleeding shoulder, groaning low, like he’s drinking down ambrosia.

You’re shaking beneath him, jaw slack with disbelief, pain, arousal.

He fucks into you harder, punishing, like he’s trying to weld his hips to yours. One hand slides down between your legs again—making you sob a pathetic little sound, bracing yourself for the worst again—but this time, he doesn’t pinch.

He finally rubs. Firm and fast, two fingers circling your clit with relentless pressure, dragging wet, slippery circles that sync with the piston of his cock.

“Cum,” he growls—against your neck, against your blood, breath hot and voice wrecked. "Cum on this cock. Fucking milk it."

You wail in relief, and your whole body shudders with built-up pressure finally released. It hits like a crash—blinding, consuming, full-body spasms wracking your frame, legs trembling, pussy squeezing in pulses so strong it drags a strangled groan from deep in his chest.

You squirt. Just little sharp, rhythmic gushes, splattering down his length and the table beneath, every spasm squeezing more out of you.

“Fuck,” Jack snarls—then bites you again, this time at the base of your neck.

The pain is searing. White-hot. It makes your cunt tighten like a fist, sight blurring at the edges. And somehow—somehow—it just makes your orgasm stronger.

You feel yourself convulsing, helpless against the wave, and all you can do is hang on while he fucks you through it—deep, brutal, unrelenting. One clawed hand grips your jaw to keep it steady, the other still working your clit until tears start rolling down your cheeks from the overstimulation.

You're too gone to feel much more than a blurred wave of too much. Too fucked out to feel him tense and stutter above you. You only feel it once he slams in to the hilt and stalls.

It’s guttural. Deep. A sound torn out of something that doesn’t make sounds like that. He pulses inside you—thick, hot, and neglected for too long—filling you to the brim as he drinks from your neck like you're bleeding syrup.

His claws curl into your hips. His cock twitches inside you, pumping every last drop. And then—for the first time—he moans.

Not quiet. Not deadpan. A raw, feral, wrecked sound that's almost too spent to have come from the throat of a demon.

It vibrates through your bones.

And when it’s over—when he finally slows, pulls back just enough to breathe—you’re shaking under him, your jaw sore, your pussy flooded, your blood still wet on his lips. He pulls out like a scalpel being sheathed, his cock dragging slick and heavy from your used cunt, no wince, no remark, no reaction to the cum leaking out of you like evidence of something intimate.

And Jack is just silent again. Panting slowly subsiding into inaudible, steady breaths.

There’s no tenderness to the way he moves—no shushing, no soft hands. Just the same methodical detachment as always. He steps away from your body like it’s just another case. Another mess to clean.

Your skin is slick with sweat, your neck sticky with blood, thighs trembling and dripping with both of you—but he doesn’t even pause to look.

He just peels off the shredded gloves, tosses them into the trash with a snap of latex, and reaches for a fresh pair.

You’re still folded over the table, chest heaving, mouth hanging slightly open, when you feel him back at your side—hands sterile, gloved, impersonal all over again.

“Don’t move.”

The command is soft, but it’s not kind. Just practical.

He starts with the neck.

The bite wound is deep—ugly, violent—but he doesn’t flinch at the sight. Doesn’t murmur an apology or ask if it hurts. He just cleans. Disinfects. Presses a thick pad of gauze to the bite, tapes it down with no lingering touches.

Your shoulder is next—swabbed, sealed, wrapped. Then your thighs, your ribs. You feel the sting of antiseptic where his claws broke skin. He doesn’t slow.

He doesn’t speak.

When he’s finished with the worst of it, he steps between your knees again, tilts your chin up with two fingers.

“You clenched through your orgasm,” he says, tone flat. “Let me check your jaw.”

Your lips part instinctively—even as your eyes roll, unimpressed—and he presses a thumb along the hinge—palpating, observing. There’s pressure. A little discomfort. No pain.

“Still aligned.” A pause. “Mobility improved.”

He wipes his hands on a cloth and turns away.

“You’re cleared.”

You blink.

That’s it?

No goodbye. No acknowledgment. Not even a fucking nod.

You half-expect him to say something—anything—about what just happened. About him fucking you raw, drinking from your neck, and cumming so deep inside you it’s still dripping out onto the floor. But no. Nothing. His back stays turned. Shoulders relaxed. Voice cool.

“Try to avoid impact to the jaw for the next 48 hours. If the pain persists or worsens, come back.”

...Predictable.

[derinwrites]

Plotting a story -- inductive and deductive plotting

When it comes to plotting habits in writing fiction, there’s a scale. Most people label the ends of this scale ‘gardener’ and ‘architect’, although the terms ‘plotter’ and ‘pantser’ are also in use. If you’re a writer, you probably know this scale, but I’ll briefly explain for those who haven’t and then get into my model.

An architect, or plotter, is a writer who thrives with a lot of planning. Like an architect planning a house, they assess what story they’re telling in advance and what needs to happen to tell it. They assess the materials, plan and measure the acts (if they’re using an act structure), decide on the climax and how the characters will develop and map those onto the plan. Then, with a plan, they write.

A gardener, or pantser, by contrast, writes ‘by the seat of their pants’. Pantsers may or may not know where their story is going in broad terms, but they certainly don’t know in any detail beyond ‘this’ll be a cool scene if I can get it there’. To these people, writing is less like architecture and more like gardening – you can build your beds and plant your seeds, but a whole lot of what’s going to happen next depends on how the plants grow, and all you can do is keep an eye on them and prune or train them as necessary. You can dream about what your garden will look like in the spring, but you won’t know until you get there.

Plotters and pantsers are not two distinct categories of writers, but ends on a scale. The writer who ad libs sentence by sentence with no goal at all is extremely rare, as is the writer who starts from an overall view of the plot and cuts it down and down until they’re planning on the sentence level. Most writers tend towards one end of the scale to a greater or lesser degree, but very few write completely using one method and none of the other.

The plotter/pantser scale is one that many writers find incredibly useful to help them understand their own process. By knowing where you are on this scale, you can better understand how you write and better understand how the habits and advice of other writers may or may not be useful to you. (A pantser trying to meticulously plot their story in advance following some formula they found in a writing advice book is wasting their time.) However, this model has little utility beyond that, which is why I find it more useful to address the phenomenon not as a scale, but as the manifestation of two separate skills, that I like to call deductive and inductive plotting.

In logic, deductive reasoning is when you take broad rules or generalities and apply them to specific circumstances to predict things – you start big and go little. “Things fall when you drop them, therefore if I drop this rock it will fall” is deduction. Inductive reasoning is the opposite – you start with small observations and build them into a pattern to predict something bigger. “I dropped seventeen objects and they all fell; therefore, perhaps when you drop things, they fall” is induction. (There’s also abductive reasoning, but that doesn’t fit into our plotting skill metaphor.)

In my experience, these skills match to the habits of plotters and pantsers. Plotters, or architects, assemble a big picture of the story they want and then deduce their individual scenes and fill in the lines to map to their overall general picture. They are deductive plotters. If you ask a deductive plotter to start writing without an outline, they become lost and their output seems directionless and erratic – how can they know what to write if they don’t have an outline to break things down from? Deductive plotters tend to think of stories in terms of overall structures and themes that can be broken down into characters and events and put on the page.

Pantsers, or gardeners, are the opposite. They’re if-then writers, and build the plot upwards from the individual actions of their characters and create the story from the sum total of those interactions. They are inductive plotters. Brandon Sanderson often describes a pantser’s first draft as just a really thorough outline, and he’s not wrong; a pantser needs the scene-by-scene minutae to know what happens next. How are they supposed to build an outline if they don’t know what happens next? If you ask an inductive plotter to build and follow a thorough outline, their writing often comes out as wooden and arbitrary as they have to force the actions of the characters between the restrictive rails of predetermined plot. Inductive potters tend to think of stories in terms of characters and discrete events that build up into something bigger with a consistent mood or theme. Inductive plotters sometimes complain of their characters having a life of their own and defying the plot – this is the effect of their moment-by-moment if-then reasoning of the character’s next action not matching their initial predictions, and surprising them.

Again, the vast majority of writers have some rudimentary skill in both inductive and deductive plotting. A strong deductive plotter (architect) can usually sit down and infer line-by-line a scene that their outline lists as “the three characters meet in the coffee shop and share evidence, Rosemary sees Harold’s notes and realises where the gun went.” Similarly, a strong inductive plotter (gardener) usually has some idea of where their story is headed next even if they don’t know how long it’ll take to get there or what complications will pop up in the meantime. But I’ve never met a writer who is equally strong in both inductive and deductive plotting; most writers specialise heavily in one, and tend towards one end of the scale. I think this is because there’s such a huge overlap in utility; when we start learning to write, we start plotting in whatever way is easiest for us, and train that specific method over decades. There’s little reason to invest even more decades into getting just as good with the other method when your favoured method already achieves everything you want.

I find that viewing this scale as the result of two skills, inductive and deductive plotting, can be very helpful in understanding specifically how we write. Thinking of myself as a heavily inductive plotter with rudimentary deductive plotting skills has really helped me understand why some methods of writing work for me and others don’t, as well as help nail down specific weaknesses in my writing. I also find it useful to think of writing styles and strategies not as some unchangeable characteristic we were born with (as the plotter/pantser scale is frequently envisioned), but as skills that can be built. You don’t write the way you write because you happen to be a plotter or pantser – you write the way you write because that’s what you learned to do! And it was hard! And you did it! Be proud of your skill!

[teambyler]

The most hypocritical anti Byler argument:

"Why can't two boys just be friends? Why do you have to make everything gay!?"

Whenever I hear this argument or some variation of it, I think back to my two cousins, one a girl and the other a boy. (He was from my dad's side of the family; she was from my mom's.) They were maybe six years old at the time, and they were innocently talking and playing and giving each other math and spelling-bee quizzes. ALL my family were giggling, saying they were going to be boyfriend and girlfriend.

I also think back to all the times I see young girls being judged on their physical beauty and told they're going to have a handsome boy when they grow up because they're so pretty.

From childhood, boys and girls have their sexuality assumed for them. Their SEXUALITY and romantic possibility are talked about openly in front of their face. They're made to look at themselves sexually before they even want to.

So when people yell at Byler fans saying "Why do you have to make everything gay?" I want to scream at them:

"Why do you have to make everything straight!?"

Why do you insist on sexualizing children to be heterosexual even before they're ready to start thinking of themselves in those terms?

Why do you have no problem with Mike kissing El in season 1 right after she asks him if he's like her "brother"?

Why do you idealize their relationship when they were children, while simultaneously trying to shame Byler fans for trying to "sexualize children" even though these are fictional characters and the actors who play Mike and Will are already adults?

Why do you shame any thought or possibility of homosexual romance, while imposing heterosexual norms on everyone?

It reminds me of people who say "You can be gay of course... just don't shove it in our faces (by holding forth that you're gay, kissing in public, etc.)." When no one bats an eye when straight people do the same thing. They might claim they're not homophobic, but actual equal treatment of LGBT+ people they don't accept.

It's Straight Privilege in action: the norms and standards that straight people enjoy quietly do not to apply to us.

This hypocrisy even distorts how Milkvans view Mike and El. We're told that if Mike and Will get together, that would mean Mike "used El" and El would never be able to forgive him.

Not only does this disregard that people can have amicable break-ups and still be close friends: it also shows that the idea of a platonic loving relationship between a Mike and El is beyond their comprehension. To them, the only loving relationships boys and girls can have with each other are romantic ones.

(Now, before anyone objects: sure many people accept Robin and Steve, but that's because Robin is canonically gay. We all know that before she came out many of us (me included!) were shipping those two as a couple!)

If someone ships Mike and El WITHOUT her confronting him about his poor treatment of her in early s4, without there being an honest conversation about that, this definitely raises an eyebrow from me. The "love confession" didn't address this: his fear of losing her did NOT explain his failing to comfort her or failing to say he loved her. Theoretically it's possible for these two to repair things. (And if Milkvan is endgame I hope that they do by addressing this!) But for some Milkvan shippers the need to address Mike's behavior doesn't even enter their minds because they're idealizing their relationship. In other words, THEY are imposing their idea of a relationship on these two, much in the same way my family was imposing their own ideas on my two cousins without regard to the people involved.

So if anyone asks "Why can't two boys just be friends? Why do you have to make everything gay?" it's purely hypocritical and dishonest. No, we just want THIS relationship between Mike and Will (which is clearly being built up as romantic) to be gay out of a sea of heterosexual relationships on TV.

No. THEY are the ones who rule out a boy and girl just being friends. THEY are the ones who insist on imposing romance on a boy and girl when they're not ready. THEY are the ones who insist on "everything" being one way.

-teambyler

[weneeya]

physical affection m.list | rules

pairing. jason todd x reader

note. hello there! this one is to heal my own heart tbh because I read too much angst with my boy and I need him to be happy :( pleased don't hesitate to request <3

Jason Todd had never been known for being the most gentle and sweet person on Earth. Actually, most of the people who knew him would say that he was a freaky killing machine. When, in fact, he simply had some problems expressing himself correctly. He would die to be close to someone freely, but he was too scared for that. Scared of everything if he let anyone enter his life. Until you arrived. 

You were some fresh air in his life, a soft wind helping him to finally breathe again. He was still scared, obviously, but you were making things easier. He felt like he could let his guard down when he was with you, and he never thought he would learn how to do that in his life. 

You were watching TV in silence, Jason sitting right next to you in your apartment. He was obviously more looking at you than at what was playing on the screen, observing your figure like he was trying to learn it by heart. In a gentle move, he grabbed your hand in his. You looked at him, and you heard his voice going out softly while looking at your hand. 

“Your hands are so small. Look,” he said, putting your palm against his to compare the size of your hands. It made you smile ever so softly, and when you were about to say something, you saw his fingers getting interlocked with yours. With that, he simply held your hand before resting his head against your shoulder. You restrained that sweet laugh that almost escaped you before looking back at the TV, your grip on his hand slightly tightening. 

One of the things Jason used to do a lot was pretexting that he wanted you to be safe so he could get some physical affection from you. You were about to cross the road after looking at each side of it when you felt a hand grabbing yours. You glanced at your boyfriend who slowly shrugged your shoulders and said “Just to be safe”. And for sure you would be safe with Red Hood himself around you. 

Grabbing your hand wasn’t the only thing he would do though. Jason loved your hair, even if he didn’t exactly know why. It was just so soft and playing with it was probably the best thing he ever did to calm himself. You were peacefully doing your skincare that night, hair down while applying your face mask, when Jason arrived from behind you. His fingers slowly passed through the end of your hair and you looked at him through the mirror. 

“Want to help me? I need to brush them.” You told him and the boy looked up at you the second after. He slowly nodded and you grabbed your hair brush to give it to him. You both left the bathroom so you could sit on the bed, him being right behind you. His movements were so slow, so gentle. You were the only one who had the chance to see him like that, and you would never be glad enough for that. 

But he wasn’t the only one to seek this affection, of course. First, you would never say no to him if he wanted you to cuddle him in a way or another. But you were also never missing a chance to cling onto him when you were in public spaces. Not only because you wanted people to know that the man was with you, but also because you didn’t like to be surrounded by a crowd too dense. 

Jason was your safe place, and you slowly realized that you were also his. It was working well, especially because you could tell that he was doing more effort than he ever did. He really wanted to trust you, even if it was complicated for him at some point. Trusting issues were an obvious thing, but he was working on it. 

He loved you more than anything else, and he would do everything to make it work.

thank you!

[dark-fics-4-you]

Thinking about an younger reader calling Dark!Dilf Rafe old and that’s he needs some viagra 😭LOL

Imagining his reaction 🤬

Softcore

Dark!Dad’sBestFriend/DILF!Rafe x f!Reader

Warnings: noncon (rape), ignoring safe words, smut, large age gap (20-30 years), spanking, choking, unprotected sex, unwanted creampie, breeding kink, degradation, secret relationship, manipulation, daddy kink, Rafe uses ‘kid’ to refer to reader a couple times, Rafe wants to get reader pregnant against her will

A/N: In my mind Rafe is in his late 40s/early 50s in this and Reader is 19/early-mid 20s

⚠️CHECK ALL CONTENT WARNINGS BEFORE READING‼️⚠️

“Y’know, maybe I didn’t hear you correctly kid, would you mind repeating yourself?”

You could tell by the edge in his voice that you had succeeded in getting a reaction out of him, but the way his blue eyes darkened as he glared at you led you to swallow down your cockiness.

Your boyfriend’s tall frame crowded your vision as he approached the bed you were lounging on as he removed his boxers.

Glancing away didn’t help, as the older man’s large hand came to your chin, redirecting your attention back up to him as he towered above you. Still you found your eyes fixed on the spots where his dark blond hair had begun turning silver.

“What did you just say to me, Y/N?” He spoke slowly, as if you were child who was acting up.

Despite knowing that this was his way of giving you a chance to retract what you had just said, you huffed in annoyance, rolling your eyes at the man who was older than your own father, before repeating yourself with a small laugh, “I said, I’m getting you viagra for your birthday since you’re getting so old.”

Rafe’s jaw tightened in frustration, eyebrows furrowing together before suddenly moving the hand on your cheek to your throat, applying a light pressure that had your eyes widening in surprise.

“You think this is fucking funny?” Rafe growled before pinning you to the bed you were sitting on by your throat.

The back of your head hit the soft mattress, the force at which Rafe had grabbed you made your pink lingerie slip ride up, exposing your matching panties underneath and some of the soft skin of your tummy. He licked his lips as he watched your nipples harden beneath the thin material.

“Rafe-” you eeked in surprise, your hand reaching up to grab the one at your throat.

“Still think this is a joke?”

It took almost no effort for him to grab you again, climbing onto the bed as he manhandled you into laying across his lap face down.

“Rafe! Stop it! I’m sorry, okay?!” Your desperate pleas for him to release you went unfulfilled, and as you thrashed on his lap, trying to break free, you already knew what was coming next in return for your careless joke, and you couldn’t tell if the pit in your stomach came from excitement or fear.

“Nah, I don’t think I am gonna stop,” goosebumps erupted across your skin when you felt him pull the material of your slip up your back, exposing your round ass to him.

You shivered when he placed his hand flat on your ass, rubbing your skin and lightly groping the fat of your butt.

The blond drew his hand back and your tensed in anticipation before he spanked you hard. The extra sting from his rings made you whine and you bit your lip to keep from crying out.

“What do you say?” His expectant voice reminded you of your rules.

“… thank you, daddy,” you reluctantly forced through gritted teeth.

This second strike was harder this time, on the same place he had hit you last and you cried out louder this time.

“Mm- thank you, daddy. I’m sorry,” you added at the end, stupidly hoping that niceties could get your through this punishment faster.

He spanked you again, this time smacking the untouched cheek, and you moaned at the sharp pain.

“Y’really think sucking up to me now is gonna help you out, sweetheart?” He said mockingly, as if he was reading your mind.

You were slower to answer him, his words taking longer to register as your body tried to numb the pain.

“N-no. And thank you, daddy.” You didn’t want to forget to thank him again, he only ever gave you one warning.

Rafe was clearly enjoying toying with you, you could feel his stiff cock poking against your thigh, further proof no viagra was needed.

After 4 more spanks, your eyes were leaking tears, lip wobbling as you mumbled out appreciations each time he struck your now bright red ass.

“Rafe! Please, I said I’m sorry, okay?! It was-” you hiccuped through tears, “it was just a stupid joke.”

You swore you felt his dick throb against you at the sound of your pleading voice.

He ignored you, however, instead striking your ass three times quickly and rough enough that you almost screamed from the pain and shock.

“Red light! Rafe please,” you sobbed out the safe word that you and Rafe always used, but the sound of him chuckling darkly in response made your blood run cold.

Pain bloomed across your already sore ass again and you whimpered. You were crying heavily now, and you brought your own hand to your mouth to muffle your weeping when he spanked you again.

“Have you learned your fucking lesson?” His stern voice came from above and you nodded immediately.

“Yes daddy, please! I’m so sorry.” You cried desperately.

You winced when you sensed his hand nearing you again, but this time, his thumb slipped between your legs and traced over your barely clothed slit.

You squirmed in his lap as his lazily thumbed your clit over your panties, whining when he applied pressure.

“You’re so fucking pathetic, you know that, kid? Pretty sick of you to be so goddamn drenched for an ‘old man’ like me.” Rafe mocked you, and to your embarrassment, you could feel yourself growing wetter when he slid your panties to the side and slowly pushed his thick middle finger into your slick cunt.

A whimper escaped your lips when he curled his finger inside you, and your hips twitched as you tried to make more friction between the two of you.

“Shut up,” you moaned before he finally started thrusting the digit into you.

“Please, we both know you get off on the fact that your father has no clue his little princess is sleeping with his best friend.” You didn’t have to see him to know the triumphant, jeering smirk he had playing across his lips.

You also didn’t deny what he said, because you couldn’t. No matter how completely fucked up it was, you did find sneaking behind your parents’ back to see an older man to be thrilling in the sickest way possible.

Not to mention how hard you had came on the several occasions the two of you had gotten close to being discovered (every time, his hand had slapped over your mouth to stifle your moans, but he didn’t stop fucking you until he emptied himself into the condom, no matter how high the risk of being caught).

Part of you suspected he was so careless at times because he wanted the two of you to get caught, a thought that was so unbelievable at first that you completely dismissed it, but when two times became three, and then three times became an almost weekly occurrence, you found it hard to deny that he seemed to enjoy putting you in situations where you could be discovered.

You felt him pull his finger out of you before grabbing your waist and flipping you onto your back onto the bed, and you protested as he climbed over you, caging you beneath him with his big, veiny arms.

“How mad do ya think he’d be if I put a baby in you, huh, Y/N?” Your eyes widened as he looked down at you hungrily.

“Rafe-” you said warily, trying to sit up and get out from under him, but the older man easily grabbed your shoulder and pushed you back on the bed.

“I bet he’d kick you out of the house if you got knocked up.” Despite your kicking, his strong hands grabbed the straps of your panties, ripping them past your legs and tossing them behind him.

“But imagine how disappointed with you he’d be if he knew you let me do it,” Rafe chuckled, and more tears formed at your waterline as his words sunk in.

“Stop it, Rafe. I’m serious, this isn’t funny, it’s sick,” you couldn’t stop your voice from wavering as you looked up at him.

When one of his hands locked tight around your wrist, you whimpered, struggling against him to free yourself.

You froze when you felt the head of his thick cock rubbing against your slit, and Rafe’s grip on your wrist tightened as he started to push his tip inside of you.

“Stop fucking moving around, Y/N,” his gruff voice commanded.

Resisting did nothing to help you, and you were almost disgusted by how wet you felt as he forced himself deeper.

Taking all of Rafe’s cock was never a painless process for you, he was so thick it always felt like he was splitting you in half, even more-so now.

Tears spilled down your cheeks as he stretched you out slowly. Rafe groaned when his dick nudged your cervix, dropping his head to your neck and trailing sloppy kisses along the tender skin.

You moaned loudly, tensing at first when his lips found your throat, making the older man curse under his breath when you tightened around him.

“Shit, kid. You feel fucking amazing.” His breath tickled at your neck and you squirmed beneath him as you tried to adjust to the pressure between your legs.

Rafe’s free hand came to your throat, squeezing tight as he tilted his hips back and then slammed into you.

You whined, closing your eyes in surprise, pain outweighing the pleasure at first. His fingers twitched around your throat as he felt your walls grow slicker and he was able to fuck you faster.

Delirious waves of ecstasy clouded your mind, his thick cock stretched you out in a way that made your head spin.

Rafe’s grip on your throat tightened and you reached for his wrist, hoping that his hold on you would relent, but the older man just took it as a sign to rut into you harder.

You wrapped your legs around his waist, losing yourself in the rhythm of his pace, greedily grinding your hips to bring yourself closer to the edge.

When his free hand crept between your legs and his thumb began rubbing circles over your clit, you whined, opening your legs for him more so he could fuck you deeper and massage your clit easier.

“Daddy- I’m- fuck-” you mindlessly babbled between moans, already feeling your mind go blank with each snap of his hips.

“Yeah?” He groaned when he felt you pulse around him. “Gonna cum on this dick like daddy’s good girl?”

Alarm bells should have been sounding in your head, but in the moment, you cared too much about chasing pleasure rather than facing consequences to resist.

So you obeyed him.

You whimpered as you came undone, the wave of pleasure washing over you again and again as the blond pushed his cock into you relentlessly. Your body sagged against the bed, head lolling back as you rode out your orgasm.

Rafe could feel your walls pulsing and constricting around him, squeezing his cock so tight it almost hurt him.

He bit back a curse before reaching one of his strong arms behind your back, staying inside you the entire time as he pulled you up off the bed and onto his lap. Your legs fell to the side of his as he rutted into you from below.

The new position had your quaking thighs squeezing against him, and you wrapped an arm over his shoulder and around his back in an attempt to steady yourself. The change of angle made your head spin and you whimpered in pain as he split you open with his dick.

Rafe’s lips hungrily captured yours and your stomach flipped when he forced his tongue into your mouth, holding your head in place to kiss you deeper as he fucked you up and down on his cock.

When he broke the kiss, you both gasped for air, and you felt his grip on your waist tighten, “Fuck, kid. How’d I get so lucky?”

You couldn’t answer him, so lost in matching the movement of his hips that you couldn’t think about anything else.

His lips found your neck, nipping and kissing the tender skin to pull more moans from you.

“So perfect, sweetheart. M’ gonna fill you up,” he whispered into your throat between kisses.

At his words, you remembered why you had resisted in the first place, eyes widening as you squirmed in his lap. Rafe’s pace only increased as he locked his arm around your waist, pressing you against his bare chest and stopping you from pulling away as he pounded into you.

“Rafe- red light-!” you were cut off when his big hand covered your mouth, and you helplessly squealed against him.

“Shut the fuck up and take it, kid,” he snapped and you felt yourself unconsciously clench around him.

The older man drilled into you, stretching you out with each punishing thrust.

“Fuck- fuck!” He groaned, squeezing you against his chest as his hips stuttered and he came undone inside you.

You whined as you felt his hot seed flood your walls. Trying to get off of him proved fruitless when he held you in place and forced you to milk his cock of every drop.

The sticky feeling of his cum dripping down his cock deep inside of you was inescapable and you shuddered when he lightly bucked his hips to thrust himself up inside you again.

“Still think I need viagra, you fucking brat?”

[burningembers91]

Rare - The Salesman x Fem!Reader (NSFW)

Follow up piece to:

Freak of Nature

On Display

A Game of Cat and Mouse

Crime of Passion

Synopsis: The Salesman wants to play a game with you. But when he changes the rules, so do you

A/N: I am immensely proud of this series. It’s unlike anything I’ve written before and I love exploring the darker sides of characters. This particular fic is probably my favourite so far. I wanted to thank everyone for the frankly mind boggling love I have received on all my fics so far. Thank you ❤️

It had been two weeks since your mysterious man in the grey suit had saved you. Two weeks since you’d given in to your desires. The day after he fucked you so hard that your bed slats broke, an entirely new bed arrived. One with a plush, cream, fabric headboard and a mattress that felt like you were sleeping on a cloud sent straight from heaven.

His heroics in the alleyway, the transition from something psychological to physical had changed the dynamics of your relationship. He didn’t want to admit it, but he could feel himself falling under your spell. It was a constant struggle to maintain the upper hand, to continue the illusion that you were entirely at his mercy. But you both knew it was a mutual torture, that each of you had the other twisted so deliciously around your respective fingers. The other night he had come so close to telling you his name. It had been so long since he’d spoken it, he wasn’t entirely sure he knew what is was anymore. But there was something about you, something deliciously dark bubbling after your soft, shea scented skin. You could be the death of him, this beautiful femme fatale. He wasn’t quite ready to relinquish control to you though; he still wanted to try and break you.

You received a phone call one day, requesting your attendance at an incredibly high end dress store in Myeong-Dong. As you made your way through the doors, the eye watering price tags made your jaw drop. You could never in a thousand lifetimes afford a dress like this; but you knew someone who could.

You were whisked into a private area, where several women with tape measures took measurements of your body. They didn’t speak to you, didn’t answer any of your questions. You were there less than five minutes, after being instructed to return to the store the next day to pick up your purchase.

“But I didn’t order anything,” you exclaimed, “can you just tell me what’s going on.”

“Our client is very discreet,” the store manager responded. “Please arrive promptly tomorrow to collect your purchase.”

You couldn’t text Mr Grey Suit to ask him what he was up to. You still weren’t privy to any personal information about him, including his phone number. He didn’t come to see you that night, leaving you to stew in your own thoughts about what he could have possibly ordered you.

The next day, you arrived at the time requested, and were once again greeted by the store manager who handed you a dress bag, with a note attached. I will see you tonight, 7pm. DO NOT LOOK IN THIS BAG UNTIL THEN. I will know if you do. You headed home, desperate to look inside the bag. You didn’t dare though, you had absolutely no doubt he would know if you took a peek.

Your grey suited man arrived at your apartment at 7pm sharp. He nodded appreciatively at your immaculate hair and makeup, cupping your chin in his hand as his eyes explored yours.

“Tonight,” he explained, “you will do exactly what I say, when I say it. If you disobey me, you will be punished. If you perform satisfactorily, you will be rewarded.”

“If I perform satisfactorily?” You scoffed. “I didn’t realise I was a circus monkey.”

He wiped his thumb along your lower lip, smearing the lipstick you’d applied not 10 minutes ago.

“You will do exactly what I say,” he growled. “Now, get dressed into the gift I gave you. And clean your face up. You have 5 minutes. Do not keep me waiting.”

You did as you were asked, presenting yourself like a piece of meat on a platter for him. He nodded approvingly, his hand trailing down the burgundy silk of the evening dress that fit you like a glove, the one he’d had made especially for you. You were a vision, an angel sent straight from heaven. He wasn’t going to tell you that though; he didn’t want to give you the satisfaction.

He took you to the most expensive restaurant in Seoul, where a private room had been set up especially. The staff were very discreet, and he’d need exactly that for what he hand in store for you tonight. You sat down opposite him at the small table, classical music quietly playing through the speakers. The room had no windows, lit only by the dimness of the candles dotted around the room.

“I took the liberty of ordering for you,” Mr Grey Suit said. “I’d expect you to eat every single bite.”

Champagne arrived, followed by oysters. You hated oysters with a fiery passion, but you forced yourself to finish every single one. You refused to show your distaste for them, refused to grimace as the slimy substance slid down your throat. Next up was steak, rare, the meat still oozing blood into to your plate, seeping into the accompanying potatoes. Your stomach turned; you hated red meat. You hadn’t eaten it since you were 10, the smell of it sending your stomach churning.

“I can’t,” you whispered, the metallic smell of the dead animals blood seeping into your nose.

“Are you disobeying me?” He asked, tutting as he tucked a linen napkin into his shirt. “I’m supposing you want to be punished then?”

“Please,” you choked, “anything but steak. I can’t, it’s the smell.”

“Stand up.” He told you. You stood to attention, ignoring the rising bile in your throat. “Come here.”

You did as you were told, your breath hitching as he pulled up your dress to your waist.

“Bend over,” he instructed. You obeyed, hearing the sound of his steak knife slide through the fabric of your lace underwear. You cried out as a sharp, swift slap was delivered to your right cheek, quickly followed by another, and then another. Each hit was harder than the last, tears streaking your face. The mixture of pleasure and pain was exquisite and yet so unbearable.

“Will you do as you’re told now?” He asked, his breath slightly ragged. You were soaking wet as you nodded, and he to resist sliding his fingers inside you. He was supposed to be punishing you after all, not giving you what you wanted.

You sat back down, the skin of your ass stinging as it made contact with the leather chair. Mascara smudged your cheeks, your face flushed. You looked down at the rare steak, then back up your mystery man. He was smiling so smugly at you; he clearly thought he’d won this little game. You smiled sweetly back, picked up your knife and fork, and sliced into the meat. You did your best to ignore the blood that seeped from it. You hardly breathed as you ate, swallowing the bile that continued to rise. A flash of anger contorted his usually handsome features; you were besting him yet again.

You proudly showed off your empty plate, sweat peppering your forehead from the immense effort. You refused to show you him how unwell you felt, choosing to down your glass of champagne to remove the metallic taste from your tongue. He begrudgingly poured you more, both of you smiling as you tried to figure out the others next move.

“What do I get then?” You finally asked, when the silence became too much.

“I’m sorry?” He said, dabbing the corner of his napkin as he surveyed you.

“You said if I did everything you asked, you’d reward me,” you reminded him.

“Ah,” he chuckled, “but you didn’t do everything I asked.”

“Yes, I did,” you snapped back. “I wore the dress, I ate the oysters and the fucking steak!” Eating that piece of meat had almost made you sick, but you’d done it. And he was reneging on his end of the bargain.

“But I had to punish you before you would eat he,” he smiled.

“And I did,” you hissed back at him, fists clenched under the table. “You can’t do this.”

“I can do whatever I want,” he whispered.

You looked him up again, his smug face looking entirely slappable in that moment.

“And so can I,” you decided. “Goodnight.” Throwing your napkin down on the table, you headed for the door.

“Wait!” His voice was desperate, panicked. He didn’t want you to leave. You stopped in your tracks, turning slowly to face him. He looked uneasy, wondering why his game wasn’t going the way he wanted.

“Fine, you sighed, “I’ll stay, but you’re going to play one of my games now.”

You fucked him on the floor of that private dining room, straddling him as you pressed the steak knife to his throat, the one he’d used to slice off your underwear. He quivered underneath you, entirely at your mercy as your slick, tight walls swallowed him again and again. He came with a strangled cry, thrusting his hips up into you as you drained every last drop of his seed.

Leaning down, you planted a single tender kiss on his lips.

“Goodnight, Mr Grey Suit,” you whispered. Standing up, you left him lying there on the cold marble floor, his cock still hard and his breathing ragged.

He had seriously underestimated you. What had started as a game of control, was now something entirely new to him. For the first time in his life, he was entirely at someone else’s mercy.

[harmoonix]

Evening Astrology💜

✨️If everyone feels fucked up these days, an eclipse is coming very soon and at this point eclipses are more annoying than Mercury Retrogade. So things will go crazy ✨️ xd

Mercury in the 12th house natives can understand things that others don't, and that makes them more authentic

Mercury in Libra or Cancer can really understand how it feels to be the neddy of a person and, at the same time, trying to understand how relationships work

Because Venus is the most lustful planet, Venus in the 5th/7th/12th houses tend to really expose their desires pretty early in a relationship

Lacking earth placements in a chart can be an indicator for lacking stability, in all topics. I know how it is so bad, my only earth placement in my chart is my Capricorn Sun..Because planets are rarely in earth signs during January, so yeah, it makes sense 😭😭

Let's also talk about how Aquarius Risings can't do a proper 7th house persona chart since their 7th house is ruled by the Sun, which does not have its own persona chart. But it's fine because persona charts are something only pop astrologers use, we are safe from that shit

Have you guys seen that every time you have planets in transit with your 6th house, you tend to get sick or feel unwell? Especially if Mars transits your 6th house

Venus in the 10th house also Scorpio/Taurus/Libra in the 10th house tend to be sexualized a lot..at work, in the public...by strangers

Gemini Moons/Venus,are so good to hang out with like they have that type of good humor but also that chill in them. Appreciation to them

Mars is so harsh - talking in Gemini, since Mars is a violent planet and Gemini rules over the talking and communication can really create natives with more anger in their talk and may have a tendency to scream a lot same to Mars in the 3rd house

Sun/Moon/Rising in Taurus can be prone to be good financially , but if they are harsh - aspecting, they can get greedy about money

Sometimes, Sagittarius Placements will know the truth about a situation and will hide it from you until you see it with your own eyes. Well, unless Sagittarius Mars shows up

Lilith in your 10th house or Capricorn can have lots of family trauma especially with the father, I know some of them that have even been bullied or judged by their fathers

Cancer/Moon in the 7th house placements are so good if you are into those more sensible/soft/romantic/quiet partners applying to both genders

Gemini and Sagittarius will make their presence known in a group by talking the loudest 😭 especially screaming in your face!! I did hear youuuu

Mercury in Air signs, in my opinion, type messages so fast. Like you send them a message, they reply the next second.. I love faster replies too

Aquarius Venus,in a way like to maintain their relationship healthy/good because they don't really have time for all the drama

Venus in the 6th house can give a busy partner/overworking, you can feel like you spend less time together because of the work you do

Mercury trine/sextile/conjuct Sun opens the creative side of the native more easily when in square or opposite gives a stressful time for the native to find their creative side

You may not get along with people who have their LIlith sign in the same house as your SUN (Tested this for me is 100% true) Makes you total enemies, fighting to death

In a trio of friendship won't work if someone between you 3 has bad aspects to their 11th house ruler can be an indictor that may feel out of that friendship

Jupiter in the 1st house makes you to improve your knowledge over things, makes you wiser with the age, spiritual, empath (really depends on the Jupiter sign)

Sabrina Carpenter has a Libra mars, a good indicator that she can be really impatient with her lovers and relationships, she may also try to be the dominant one but may fail to do that

Neptune/Chiron/Saturn in the 1st house natives can often have skin issues, allergies, maybe even different skin conditions, sensitive skin placements

Mercury in the Aries/Sagittarius/Virgo/Scorpio/Capricorn tend to talk dirty a lot, especially if Mercury sits in their 3rd/7th or 11th houses of communication

North Node in your 1st house is such a self - discovery placement. You really need to discover who you really are. Without falling for what others say or think about you

Pluto in the 1st house natives these natives may often struggle with the control, even with taking control in their lives sometimes

Pluto in the 11th house, talks about really intense relationships with people within your friends group or whenever you meet someone. You just feel intense

I don't like how people talk about Sagittarius Venus, I heard people saying that is a bad Venus sign?? Well, it is ruled by Jupiter, so i do not consider this Venus specifically being bad, just like Pisces Venus.

Something very funny about Virgo Venus is that they won't show that they're in love unless the other person shows that. Is like they wait for the other person to say 'I love you' first

Mercury in the 6th/11th houses can be good activists/using their voice to help others, this like a collective helping placement

If you have your ascendant ruler in the sign of Pisces, you really tend to be an empath. This lover energy surrounding you

Harsh aspects between Lilith and Moon or Venus can indicate that the native may struggle to feel compassion/feelings/emotions sometimes

Sun in the 8th house can talk about knowing other's people secrets/privately knowing something good or bad about a specific person

Having North Node in the 3rd house can talk about having the power to adapt and change, and mental growth is important for them

Sagittarius Risings can sometimes be lucky without even realizing that. As a sign of them not paying attention to their luck

Ascendant square Venus can have a hard time to love themselves, which is totally fine because self-love should be learned step by step, not overnight

Having Neptune close to your Sun or Ascendant can make you to ignore your beauty/to make illsuions about it, soemtimes to create a dislike feeling. Everyone is beautiful in their own ways x Neptune is messing up with the mind sometimes

Having little to no aspects to your Midheaven can indicate struggling to find a career or a good job for you. Being indecisive about it.

🤎🍂 Hope you all have a beautiful evening x🤎

~Harmoonix 🤎🤎🤎