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#mention of birth cw

the-hobgoblins · 1 year

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[ LOXLEY’S BIRTHDAY PARTY DISCORD ROUNDUP ]

Where: Borgin & Burkes, Knockturn Alley Who: Oz & Pax When: 02 August 2020

@paxton-aeterna

Oz was standing in his bedroom adjusting his eyeliner in front of an absurd gilded mirror on the wall (which, no joke, looked like it could come alive at any moment and transport your reflection to the Phantom's underground lair) when he noticed someone enter and grinned. "Oh goodie! Did ya fetch one a them for me?" He nodded toward the drinks in the person's hands.

“Hi.” Pax sloshed a little drink on the sleeve of his dusty blue button-up. He'd picked the flannel because it was warm and soft and invited cuddling, which he hoped to cash in on later in the evening when people started to go horizontal, and also because blue was steadily becoming his new favorite color these days. With a little smile, he raised a glass from the doorway. “The family’s apple pie moonshine. I thought—we haven’t really had a chance to talk since we met, have we.”

Oz smirked, and it was near-reverential in its familial resemblance. “‘Family moonshine’ been known to loosen some tongues, has it?” Spindly legs in shiny patent leather leggings decreased the spatial gap between them tenfold with one wide, deliberate step. He took the proffered cup gratefully, letting the fleeting skin-contact linger; Maeko certainly hadn’t told him not to, so why wouldn’t he?

Oz took a hefty, blindly-trusting swig, and hummed. It was good! Sweet. “Nothin' like a nice ’n sexy talk at a party…” he teased, but his smile was encouraging. He flopped sideways onto the hap-hazardously-made bed, his legs from the shins-down hanging off it, somehow managing not to spill. “…fire away!”

Paxton, feeling a little warm, unbuttoned his flannel to reveal a too-shrunk undershirt and winking cubic zirconia in his navel. After a moment’s consideration, he folded cross-legged onto the bed facing Oz. Maeko had explained him. But Paxton hadn’t stopped pondering the question of Oz’s palms. He wanted to hear Oz talk about himself. “Where’d you come from?” Pax asked, leaning on his own knees. It was an open-ended sort of question, so classically Paxton.

“Now I can’t possibly believe the accent doesn’t give me away…” Oz drawled, knowing perfectly well that it did, and that this wasn’t the answer Paxton was looking for. Oz wasn’t intending on being withholding, either, but it did give him a minute to think, take a swig of his drink. His eye caught on a flashing rainbow glint of bling at Paxton’s navel as Oz’s gaze traversed up the length of the body sat beside him; it would be so easy to reach out and touch, distract, deflect—the unbuttoned flannel was almost an invitation.

That was Oz’s instinct, so much like his half-sister’s save the paths that brought them here, to these unexpected moments of vulnerability and the choice of who to show them to. If there was one thing Oz had observed in the time he’d settled firmly into Maeko’s life, it’s that Maeko had many acquaintances; she was enigmatic and well-liked. But she only had a handful of her people. Paxton was one of them.

Oz took a breath. He reached out and traced a finger around the metal piercing Paxton’s skin—because Oz was a twenty-three-year old with a mostly-developed brain and he could multitask, thank you very much—while he looked up into the pretty pale blue of Pax’s eyes, sheltered by long blonde lashes, hovered above him.

Paxton grinned. “Right. Well, maybe I jus’ want to hear more of i—” A light brush against his abdomen. Pax paused in surprise. He looked down at Oz pointedly, just shy of being shy, wondering if in the low light Oz could see the heat Pax felt spreading across his face.

“You’ve been around the safehouse in Putney here 'n there now, haven’t ya? Enough to know a bit about what hedges’re like?”

Pax took a long, slow drink while he tried to slow the ratcheting of his heartbeat. “Um,” he said, slowly. “Somewhat I do. You’re all—very interesting. I’ve never seen anything like it before. Why?”

Oz smirked as he met Paxton’s look, bemused. “Ha—‘interestin’ is a nice word for it…” People from Mae’s world tended to look down on the safehouse scene—the ones that actually knew it existed, that is. But Oz suspected Pax wasn’t like that.

With mild concern, Paxton noticed his drink was empty. He gestured uselessly around with the empty glass for a bit before leaning over to put it on the floor. When he turned back to Oz, he felt—like he couldn’t decide how to sit now. He didn’t know where to look. Maeko is laughing at me somewhere, Paxton thought, horribly, before settling on lying down next to Oz and looking politely at the ceiling while he listened.

Oz rested his cheek in his palm, elbow propped up on the mattress while he laid on his side, watching Paxton shift all his long lovely gangly limbs into a more relaxed position, obviously just a little bit flustered. It was, unfortunately, entirely delectable.

He tried to divert his thoughts elsewhere. “Couple reasons…” he began, dragging the pad of a finger around the rim of his glass, the bottom of which rested with a slight indent on the mattress between them. “…firstly—if ya’ve heard one hedge’s story, ya might’as well’ve heard ‘em all…” Oz’s eyes, ringed in a dark bronze liner, looked sad at the truth of this statement, but he smiled lightly anyway.

He drained the rest of his drink and, following Pax’s example, set it down before returning to his lounging position, this time on his stomach with his chin in both hands. “…but no point’n dwellin’ on all that. I mainly asked ‘cause it’s good ya have some context, for what a safehouse can be like...see, the one I learned at, back home? It—wasn’t quite like that, not really, it was...Harsher conditions, ya know? More ta prove, more ta lose…” The grin Oz cracked here looked like a wince and he scratched at the back of his neck. “…does this all sound loony, or am I makin’ any sense?”

“I’ve got you. So you left them—left Ireland?" Paxton guessed. He shrugged a little, as though to express that Oz didn't have to break the whole tale of why if he didn't really want to.

Oz smiled gratefully at the reprieve he was given from rehashing some of the more unpleasant details. This man was, fuck—kind. Kinder than Oz had been conditioned to believe he deserved. “Exactly!” he agreed, propping up on his elbows. “…change a scenery, change a companions—plus, I couldn’t really afford the safehouse rent over there anymore…”

“And then—the courtroom. An' then Maeko let you in.” There was no mention of any parents. And through experience with Maeko, Pax had learned that if there was no mention, it was for a good reason. He decided not to ask. He also didn’t ask why Oz wasn’t at Hogwarts. He knew enough now to wonder if asking a hedge witch something like that would be in poor taste.

There was a rolled joint on the bedside table and Oz stretched out a long arm to grab it and draw it to his mouth. He gave a eureka! snap, which served also to spark the end of the joint, and then he said, “Now that is a story! Ya know when I first showed up here—it was a few days before Christmas—Mae told me flat out I could stay through the New Year an’ that’s it…”

Paxton didn’t ask about a lot of things. It had been years, but he remembered what the process had been like to befriend Maeko—a lot of waiting for details to slip, of noting commentary passed off as sharp-edged jokes—and he wasn’t sure yet that this man wasn’t the same sort of creature. Instead Pax nodded to himself and stretched out a little more. His eyes darted between Oz’s face and the fringe of curls spilling onto his forehead. Fingertips itching, Pax began twirling a piece of his own hair, letting the silence hang comfortably.

Oz laughed good-naturedly and took a drag, fragrant smoke misting around them on the bed like a dream-haze, and then held out the joint toward Paxton before rolling over to lay on his back, drawing his arms up in sharp acute angles to rest his head in his hands. “…did she tell ya we smashed up the place proper? Guess that sounds odd but it was, I dunno—soothin’, in a way? For her. Therapeutic, or somethin’—an’ here I am still…” He fell into a comfortable silence, remembering.

"Well, I'm glad you picked here." Paxton’s fingers lightly touched Oz’s arm in reassurance. “S’not just her alone against the world anymore. Not so scared as when I knew her at school,” Pax murmured, hand hovering in the air between them as he debated with himself, then reached up further to brush his fingers through the curls on Oz’s forehead. Nerves thrummed in his belly.

Pax’s hesitant touch pulled Oz back to present—light, tickling. A butterfly kiss. Oz smirked, holding his position, but he glanced over at Pax and asked curiously, “Was she? Scared, I mean…I guess I’m havin’ trouble picturin’ it, is all. Mae always acts so tough an’—and clever…”

And there it was. The fingers gently raking through his hair did make him stutter like an idiot, but Oz hummed anyway and nuzzled into the touch like a cat.

Given permission, Paxton continued to idly investigate Oz’s hair, listening to him talk. Feeling its coarseness, winding his fingers around individual spirals, the tension drained from Paxton’s limbs as if he were the one being soothed. He half-lifted himself on an elbow to take his sweet time on three long, greedy drags, passing it back with a massive exhale from deep in his belly. “She was always that, too,” he breathed.

Pax’s head thudded softly back to the bed, coming to rest against Oz’s side beneath his raised arm. “I’d tell you about myself, but she’s prob’ly told it all already.”

“No, please, I’d love ta hear about you…Maeko paints her pictures of before with a real specific brush, ya see—plenty of colorful details but missing quite a bit a the art a things, I think…”

Pax thought about what Oz’d said for a while, and subsequently forgot that he was supposed to talk about himself then, but that was okay. The silence fell comfortably for a second time as they passed the joint back and forth, fingers brushing, and anyway Paxton was pretty comfortable, and Oz’s side was really warm. His room was kind of nice—although Pax didn’t really lift his head to see, but if he looked diagonally, just skimming over the top of Oz’s stomach, he could glimpse his knees and shoes in the enormous mirror sat against the wall. Along with some photographs tacked up, he noticed. Some of them moved and some of them didn’t. And if Pax looked down his chin past the foot of the bed he could see a pile of clothes on a chair in fabrics and textures that looked as if they’d be nice to touch.

The seams of the sides of their bodies seemed to zip closed the longer they were laid there, and Oz found it increasingly difficult not to just cut to the punchline and pull Paxton all the way on. Oz was the type of cuddly person who got needy for affection when it was readily given out—and Pax definitely gave physical affection away readily.

“I love my family,” Pax said aloud, suddenly, as if several minutes hadn’t passed by. “Still live with them. But I work here. You know that, though. At school I was alright with divination stuff, you know, cards and crystals and all that. But last Thursday I helped a mum whose husband is at Flourish and Blotts? She didn’t really know much about all that. She likes her muggle life. Loved a magical delivery, though. Little girl. Eight point five kilograms..”

They were talking with words again and Oz tried hard—like, very hard, okay!—to listen, and to be good. Because as much as he wanted to write this whole thing off as just A Pressing Matter to Take Up with His Dick, Oz had to quietly admit that this person was actually…fascinating. Charming, really. Oz wanted to unwrap the person that was Paxton Brady in a number of intriguing ways…Also, Maeko would surely eviscerate him if he acted in any way untoward, toward her Bestest Old Friend.

So—that was that, was it not? Oz’s fingers flexed from where they were curved behind the base of his skull, and he recrossed his legs—toward Pax, but only because one of them was falling asleep. Kinda.

Pax took another pensive drag, exhaling and shrugging, shouldering closer into Oz’s side. “An' I’m planning on getting another piercing soon. I’ve saved up, but I haven’t decided. Nipples or tongue, d’you think?”

Shit. Paxton Playing-Coy Brady decided to talk about his fucking, prospective piercings, for fuck’s sake, and—well. Oz had tried, right? He glanced down at where some strands of blonde hair were caught against his shirt, taking note of the way they rose and fell with his diaphragm.

Paxton tilted his head back a bit, just enough to meet Oz’s eyes. He wished he had more drink to offer Oz. He wished he’d brought the bottle into the room with them. Pax’s eyebrows drew together, little wrinkles forming between them and across his forehead as he thought about it, mildly dismayed. He’d have liked to stay there a while, and now at some point he’d have to leave to get more moonshine.

An invitation was an invitation was an invitation, and when Pax tilted his head back and caught him in that solar-beam inquisitive gaze, Oz failed to come up with a quippy innuendo to retort.

Instead he just said, “I…” and then inched downward—not far—to press his mouth against Paxton’s slightly-parted lips. He could taste the sweet-spice of the moonshine and chased more of it with the tip of his tongue, angling his body toward Paxton’s on the bed, with one elbow braced upright on the mattress, while the other hand reached out to rest momentarily on Pax’s hip before sweeping up the length of bare skin, fanning out to more fully feel, the tattoo on his palm pressed against warm flesh as if in greeting; HELLO. The tips of his fingers just barely reached past the hem of the crop.

When he pulled back, his lashes fluttered heavily, kiss-drunk, and Oz said, “Sorry, s’just—figured we were both thinkin’ it. But feel free ta tell me ta fuck off…” He flopped back onto his back, jostling the springs in the mattress, a warm-boozy feeling in his belly. Cheekily, he added, “…an’ I think the answer to your question depends on whether ya wanna give or receive the majority a the—ah. Associated sensations…”

Paxton didn’t tell Oz to fuck off, for starters. When Oz flopped back down beside him, making the bed squeak and jolt, Pax was just sort of shivering way too much, and his eyes were way too wide, and he had the look of someone who had been about half a million kilometers away before being propelled back to the present at light speed. The cheek of Oz’s tone made all of Pax’s breath leave his lungs in a rush, and his head spun, and he clumsily raked a hand through his own hair before he managed to get out, “Oh, go on.”

And then immediately, enthusiastically headbutted Oz’s shoulder while turning to drape himself against Oz's side.

One arm wound up wedged awkwardly underneath him. Pax could deal with that, no problem. He could deal with his arm falling asleep, because in shifting down to kiss him, the movement against the bedcovers beneath them had caused Oz’s shirt to hike up just a bit, exposing a good inch of skin just below where Pax’s other hand came to grip Oz’s flank and turn him so they were face-to-face. And that skin was begging to have fingers trail over it. Just begging.

Oz was very, very warm against him, and Paxton immediately set to work getting their legs helplessly tangled, Oz's entire body pressed against Pax, and hell—all that warm skin was now under his fingers, a small noise in Pax’s throat as he grinned and trailed them lightly over the small of Oz’s back, up a little further under the fabric of his shirt.

In fact, Pax proceeded to maneuver himself so physically close as if to actually burrow himself inside of Oz’s body by like—osmosis, or something. It was very fucking endearing, and Oz couldn’t help the playful smile that tugged at his cheeks as he nuzzled his nose against the patch of skin in the hollow of Paxton’s throat, breathing in the smell of him; a sultry trace of sweat, mixed with something floral and woodsy and bright—like those heavily-scented oils that came in tinctures, that hedges used to anoint candles and rainwater and body parts before spells. It was intoxicatingly heady and struck him with such disorienting deja vu, that Oz was inclined to open his mouth and run his tongue along the spot to better taste it.

He didn’t, though, because Paxton had fingers trailing up under his clothes, light and curious, and it didn’t tickle, exactly; it was more like nerve endings were alighting in the trails being traced, so that what started as a sort of laugh came out as a low, rumbling, encouraging hum.

All nerves had evaporated with the weed and the alcohol and the certainty of touch; this feeling, Pax knew what to do with. “Come on,” he said, being very sweet about it, bringing his hand to the back of Oz’s neck. Something thudded loudly on the floor above them, to muted cheers, and the ceiling shook slightly. “Kiss me again, then.”

Pax’s tone was sweet and cheeky and unexpectedly assured, and that was just—yeah, it was totally irresistible, there wasn’t any other word for it.

And Oz was happy to oblige. “Oh, darlin’…” he drawled, his tone delighted with just a hint of danger as he reached up and tugged lightly on a strand of blonde hair, before trailing a few fingers along the long angular line of Paxton’s jaw, tucking up just under his chin. Oz smirked. “…as ya wish.”

And then he did kiss him again, deeper this time, feeling really quite pleased with himself for managing to remember such a clever and, he assumed, contemporary Muggle film reference at a time like this (Piper had had them on an ‘Epic Quests and Fairy Tales’ kick lately for the residence’s collective Film Education Journey); and actually, now that he thought about it, Paxton was even somewhat reminiscent of Buttercup.

The feel of kissing, wet and soft, hot and fucking gorgeous, was like new every time. Paxton would never ever get used to it, and he didn't want to, either. He loved the way Oz’s eyelashes fluttered against his cheeks, the dull chafe of his stubble against Pax’s chin, the way he had to pull away to take in a breath every so often, and the pleased noises he made when Paxton did something he liked. Nothing like kissing Maeko after all, Pax thought fuzzily, and then, horrified at his own brain, elected to turn it off.

Oz’s body trapped Paxton’s against the bed, hips rolling once and then pressing down over Pax’s at an angle as he moved. He pushed Pax’s already short crop top further up his chest, tugging his fingertips through the fine patch of dark hair that ran along Paxton’s sternum.

They rolled over somehow and Oz pressed Paxton into the mattress, his body a comforting weight bearing down. Pax loved doing that to others, and he usually did, loved to spread them out and kiss them at his own pace. This time, Paxton found himself abnormally free to just feel. He continued to trail his fingers up and down along Oz’s spine just to enjoy the little resulting shivers, and made happy, dirty noises into Oz’s mouth.

Oz’s stomach dragged against his as they shifted, and his hips canted against Pax’s crotch. "Ah–" Paxton tried to tell him, but he couldn't seem to stop kissing him long enough to make the words, so it came out as a moan, which was pretty much what he was trying to say anyway. "That’s–" Paxton gave up, let his head thunk back against the bed and closed his eyes, sliding a hand into Oz’s hair as he began his exploration under Paxton’s shirt. His top kind of got stuck under his armpits then, so he arched a little bit and wiggled until that was more comfortable, moving into Oz some more.

Morrigan had often told Oz that he was a slave to his own cavernous need, and that it made him weak. That he craved closeness so blatantly and desperately that he’d always give into it; it would blind his inhibitions like a drug habit he would never be able to kick. That he would burn himself all up—a smoldering wick wrapped in pliant, weeping wax—in his haste to pour himself into every pair of open hands he encountered.

And Oz liked to think, after all this time, that he had just a lick more common sense and self-control than all of that. But Christ if he wasn’t having a hard time remembering it right now, with Paxton Brady spread out like a piece of art on Oz’s bed beneath him, the wet way he kissed so languid and luxurious that it felt like decadence.

There was a dull thumping of music that could be heard distantly overhead, now, but the only sounds Oz could hear were the devastatingly pretty, breathy ones that were coming out of Paxton’s mouth. Oz wanted to spend hours pulling out every single one of those sinfully sweet sounds, trap them in a seashell like that tentacled sea witch from The Little Mermaid, just to hold it close and feel it thrumming between his palms.

He veered off to one side, tracing the shape of a half-remembered sigil on Pax’s peck, and then his hand caught on the peak of a nipple. He paused, hovering his hand there as he smiled against Paxton’s lips, and then used his other hand on the mattress to push himself up and off just a little, enough to talk. “Only one way ta know for sure about that piercing, ain’t there…?”

Oz stopped kissing him then, for some reason. Even though Pax chased after his mouth, he pulled away and started talking. “Wha–” Paxton said, somewhat stupidly. His body was informing him that it was not pleased with this stopping business.

And then Oz squeezed his fingers in an experimental pinch—not hard enough to hurt, but enough for Pax to feel it, to test sensitivity. “…how’s it feel?”

Pax didn’t know what to say. It was good—all of this was good, it was what he wanted, it was turning him on. Specifically, though, maybe the way Oz was touching him now was less good, but it was better than not having it, and he didn’t want Oz to stop—he just wasn’t so used to having all the attention on him, and no one had really tried this before, had they—

This whole thing was somehow different, this time, Paxton was realizing hazily. It felt like his whole body was hanging, suspended, waiting for whatever Oz would do next. Not unpleasant, but strange and unfamiliar. Paxton had kissed a lot of people. He wasn’t used to not knowing what he was doing, where they were going. It felt like a thought to explore in the morning, when he wasn’t so stoned.

“It’s good,” Paxton said, quickly, biting his lip. “But—it’s more like—” He leaned up until his face was buried in Oz’s neck and kissed him there, open-mouthed, so that he felt less vulnerable as he put his hand over Oz’s to guide him. “That,” he said, muffled and buried in the crook of his neck when Oz started rubbing little circles with his thumb instead, softer now, rolling a little bit, until Paxton sighed, “that.”

Paxton’s mouth opened over Oz’s pulse point and the heat of the sensation flickered low in his belly. The shift in the way Pax’s sensitive body responded to a slightly softer touch—more deliberate, less teasing—the way his breath ghosted warm and humid over Oz’s skin when he sighed, like fog over moonlit water…it was positively sublime.

Oz trailed his hand down the long line of Paxton’s side and traced those same circles with his thumb over Pax’s hipbone, dragging it right up against the denim hemline. He was going mad with how much he wanted to take Paxton Brady apart, inch by gorgeous inch; Oz needed to get his mouth on him, so sure that Pax would taste nectar-sweet on his tongue—

Mae’s best friend, her oldest friend. The one she nearly broke herself being at odds and apart from for so long… a needling voice reminded Oz’s in the back of his head as he trailed wet, hungry kisses along Pax’s jaw.

Kindly buzz the fuck off, he tried to quiet the voice, but it pressed on, chastising: …you really think she’d want her kindness repaid by you butting in on someone who’s hers?

Somehow Pax worked up the courage to reach a hand down so that he could feel it again, the hard line of Oz through his leggings, until Oz made a low noise above him. “Yeah?”

And Oz didn’t have a chance to contemplate his eminent guilt trip any further, because all at once Paxton’s hand was squeezing him lightly but purposefully over the very thin fabric of these dastardly leather leggings that he’d elected to wear, and all thoughts besides the warmth of Paxton Brady’s palm and the gentle curve of his fingers promptly exited Oz’s brain.

A choked-out noise climbed up his throat, before he managed to divert it into a humming affirmation: “Mmhmm…” He barely pressed his hips forward, further into the touch; a pulse of ambient magic rippled through the air, flickering the lights. Not what Oz was expecting, at all, but he sure as fuck wasn’t about to say no…

There was a sudden rush of warmth, like magic, like the feeling of a spell washing over him. Startled, Paxton ripped his mouth away from where he’d been molesting Oz’s jawline. But when he looked up, there was only Oz, and Oz’s blue, blue eyes. Something kicked hard in Paxton’s chest.

With a smirk, Oz rolled them back over again, sweeping an encouraging hand up the back of Paxton’s thigh, which was still all tangled up with his own legs.

And when they stopped moving again Pax was on top of Oz, hips fitted snugly to his. He leaned in for a sloppy, affectionate kiss to Oz’s cheek and pressed his thigh between Oz’s legs.

Then Oz said, “Howzabout you call the shots here, huh? Seems like ya wanna…”

“Anything you like,” Pax said, trying to be lighthearted about it, but it came out soft and serious.

This is happening, Pax thought, stunned. He’s letting me! Then it occurred to him that he wasn’t even sure what was supposed to happen next—what would it look like, if he made Oz come? If he even could? And if he did it wrong, if Oz didn’t like it—and most importantly—what would Oz even like?

Struggling to think through the haze—had they been kissing already for ten minutes? it could have been thirty? an hour?—Paxton considered what little he already knew about Oz, what he had learned in the last hour, Oz saying more to prove, more to lose. Paxton liked to think he had pretty good intuition, and his intuition told him Oz just needed to feel wanted.

So Paxton slid a hand around the back of Oz’s neck and anchored it in the curls on his nape, testing his grip as they kissed: if he tugged gently at Oz’s hair he could make him tilt his head back and hold it there, make his chest arch up, and leave damp spots and pink patches all over his neck while he enjoyed finding out what kind of little noises Oz would make here, or there.

Let it be stated for the record that this was all very fucking surprising.

It’s not like Oz would have tried to fool anyone into believing he was the type who could instinctively figure other people out, by any means. But Paxton Brady was a veritable puzzlebox, glorious in its perplexity. He wanted control of things, that much was clear. And Oz wasn’t picky about that sort of thing—in fact, he was rather well known for being adaptable, fitting himself into whatever mold was laid out before him, no questions asked. It’s what made him such a coveted tool in many-a honeypot that Morrigan had crafted over the years. He could—and would—be anyone, for anyone.

So yeah, Oz was more than happy to hand control over, wrapped up with a fucking bow, if that’s what Pax wanted. But in Oz’s experience, most people who enjoyed control were also controlling, and Paxton Brady was decidedly not that. Pax was unapologetically experimental, ravenous with curiosity and refreshingly lacking in a sense of higher agenda. For the first time in his life, Oz was actually kind of regretting the decision to forsake talking in favor of getting here.

Paxton shifted to adjust his newfound leverage, making himself comfortable, and pressed his hips down the way Oz had. “You feel so warm—” Paxton’s voice was rough and breathless. Talking was still too difficult.

As he moved against Oz he could feel his boxers sticking and sliding damp against him, and pressed tight against Oz like this it rubbed everywhere, dancing little sparks of sensation through all his nerves. Pax shivered again, made a little, involuntary sound. It was too good. And with a bit more soft maneuvering, he gently bullied Oz into spreading his legs so that he could fit between them.

And then he was keeping Oz’s mouth where he wanted him, bearing down on him warm and too eager and messy, leaving higher brain function behind. He felt like a bloody spaz. Any thought of what was supposed to happen went out the window, and he didn't intend to do anything on purpose. Everything was all muddled, sweet and hot and sudden and his body just reacted.

The simple, undeniable fact of this whole whirlwind ride was that Oz didn’t have any time or mental clarity to spare toward breaking things down rationally, or even to take amusement in the fact that he was essentially getting rubbed off through his clothes like a teenager in the back of someone’s car—which, under any other circumstances would have been an absolute gag—because every single time Paxton thrust himself against Oz’s erection in total fucking earnest, it sent sparkling trails of blinding colored light through Oz’s brain like fireworks whistling through the air, scattering every thought so that only a haze of heat and feeling remained.

It was just grinding from then on, really, just a slow push and pull but it made Pax’s breath stutter, made his back arch, made him jerk and push into the touch like he couldn't get enough of it. And Oz was still touching him. He could feel that smirk on his lips through the kisses, could feel how it grew when he opened his mouth to say something and moaned instead and that just made Oz press up a little harder, move a little faster.

Oz found his hips meeting the movement of Paxton’s, chasing friction like a drug fix—and in the same sense not thinking. The loose grip of a hand at Pax’s hip moved to press fingers into the sweet, soft divot of skin at the small of Pax’s back, sliding through a very fine dusting of sweat, feeling the long lines of muscle that moved beneath.

Every pass of his gentle fingers over Paxton’s back tipped him closer to the edge, and it didn’t help that Oz was nosing along his jaw, stopping to breathe into his ear, and doing better than Paxton at keeping that maddeningly wonderful pace. He opened his eyes, trying to regain some control, to get his mind to focus on something else than the heat and the angle and the way Oz was mouthing at Paxton’s neck and ear. It didn’t help, though, because when his eyes refocused, what he saw was yet more of Oz underneath him.

Pax made a sinful sound that made Oz thrum with want, and in the small space between their swollen lips he coaxed, encouraging, “Go on, that’s it…”

Paxton dragged Oz up into his arms as he came, hand still buried in the thick, curly mess of Oz’s hair. Pax gasped into his neck, shivering and hips chasing his orgasm, nose pressed into Oz’s temple and breath warm in his ear. Even muffled, he was still loud. He relished the warmth, the tightness of the hold he’d locked them into, and even the embarrassing, uncontrolled noises he made.

Paxton’s body seemed to melt over Oz as he found his release, seeping and sighing into every open space like water into soil until their edges blurred and blended. Pax shuddered with little sparks of post-coital pleasure, mewling out the most sincere and unself-conscious sounds, and it was the sort of sweet that could lay down roots with the power to spread and grow through the lightless crevices of your cracked and weather-worn heart, if you weren’t careful.

Pax’s head felt like it was full of soft and airy cotton, obscuring anything beyond the person in front of him and the sensory information that trickled in piece by piece. Pax slowly unclenched his fingers from Oz’s hair as he came back to himself, running his fingers down the knobs of Oz’s ribs shakily. Oz was all interesting angles and pointy limbs. Pax felt a rush of affection well up in him.

His fingers slid back up and locked in Oz’s hair again, as Pax pressed tiny kisses to the skin of his throat, feeling loose and pleased and warm in his soft blue flannel. He was flushed, ferociously, all the way to the ears and his chest, on the tops of his cheeks, and even at the corners of his eyes.

And Oz could have been content with just that honeyed innocence, to let it linger like drops of nectar on his tongue. But Paxton’s hands kept wandering, his mouth kept demanding; the lust coated heavily over everything else, the room thick with that heady, earthy musk, dragging Oz under like sweet, sticky sap.

His hand returned to Oz’s leggings, smoothing up over him again and then inside, breath hot on Oz’s lips as Pax leaned into him for a kiss. The taste of the moonshine and the joint were long gone. “I’ve never, uh, don’t laugh,” Pax mumbled, the faculties of speech slowly returning. He couldn’t remember the last time he felt this good.

Oz didn't laugh—wouldn’t have dreamed of laughing—but he did smile with brimming affection in the bliss-haze of feeling. “Ya don’t have ta—” he tried to say, but Paxton’s fingers were already dipping beneath the waistband of Oz’s leggings and gripping him with purpose; Oz hardened in response, the words on his tongue splintering like fractals into a messy jumble of expletives that was lost into Paxton’s mouth.

Paxton closed his eyes for a moment, zoning out on the feel of his hand’s firm, sure grasp on Oz’s cock for real now. When he opened them again, Oz was watching him, moving into his hand with a heavy gaze.

Pax’s grip was solid but his hand was still, and it was with immense and—he thought—quite admirable restraint that Oz moved his hips, slow and controlled, to thrust up into Pax’s hand. The latter’s fingers twitched and he opened his eyes; they shone with curiosity and apprehension and wonder in the low light of Oz’s bedroom like glimmering subterranean pools.

Oz offered Pax an encouraging nod, a curl falling over his brow, and Paxton’s wrist started to move, taking pacing cues from the low thrums and stuttered breaths that hummed in Oz’s throat.

Until abruptly, he came undone all at once; a glittery wave of warmth shot up his spine and crashed over him, and Oz blurted out, “Ah, I’m—” with the barest trace of abashedness before the muscles in his abdomen were tightening and he was spilling all over Paxton’s long, lovely fingers and giddy laughter was bubbling up out of him.

And then it was Oz’s turn to melt into the mattress, fanning out all his limbs and feeling sunny and wrung-out and stoned; his legs below the knees wilted weightily over the edge of the bed like saturated leaves.

He whistled out a stream of air, quirking a brow to meet Pax’s inquisitive, indecipherable gaze. “That was nice…” Oz said, his smirk teasing but his tone sincere.

“Mm, s’nice.” Paxton pressed his forehead against Oz’s shoulder. It was a terrible challenge to not let himself float away—anchoring himself in the giddy, fluttery, childhood-crush buzz of feeling Oz’s legs still tangled up with his. “Haven’t felt that nice in. I dunno.” Patches of sweat were cooling inside his clothes, and his crotch was a sticky swamp. He couldn’t muster the energy to sit up.

“D’ya wanna stay? Lay here, for a bit, before venturing back—” Oz gestured a palm that read ‘GOODBYE’ through the air. “—out there?”

Pax yawned muzzily, perfectly content. “D’you want some of Katie’s macaroni cheese? I bet…I bet s'ready now…We should…” But it was impossible. Paxton breathed in against Oz’s hair, closed his eyes, and was gone.

#p: pax #discord #sex cw #it's actually SO wholesome tho i swear #drug use cw #alcohol cw #mention of birth cw #he's a midwife idk #august 2020 #borgin and burkes #knockturn alley

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glassbxttless · 1 year

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L&D Baby

Nurse!Steve Harrington x f!Reader

Summary: Steve and his wife are having their first baby— and it happens to be at the hospital he works at.

Word Count: 2.3k+

Warnings: 18+ (editing to add: no sexual themes, but I am literally an adult and do not want minors interacting with my content whatsoever), marriage, pregnancy, childbirth, mentions of a stillbirth, dad!steve, labor and delivery nurse!steve, blood/blood loss, swearing— as always let me know if there’s any tags i missed!

Notes: This is posted over on my ST blog ( @hellfirestxnes ). Once all of my content is moved over here— that blog will be inactive as my main objective is to have one space for myself!

Steve is tired. His bones are aching and his eyes are sore, but it’s just another Friday really. He has about half of his shift left and he’s off again, thankfully, until Monday. Leaning on the counter at the nurses station, listening to the other nurses gossip and share stories about their kids. And he’s thinking about you at home, sitting pretty and waiting for him to come home— belly swollen with his child. Any other day, he might tuck himself away and use the phone to call and check in, but today… he couldn’t face it. The first delivery he was on that morning, he watched a new mother wish with every fiber of her being that what the doctor was telling her wasn’t true. He cleaned up that baby, took their weight and height, made out the card for the parents that would never get to hear a cry. He bundled up gray, cold skin and hoped that the couple would be able to find peace. Somewhere deep down, he wishes he wouldn’t have heard them ask how did this happen? Everything was just fine this morning. But, now here he sits. Thinking about that delivery, thinking about his wife at home. His very pregnant wife. Your pregnancy has gone by so quickly, been such a breeze. He’s been to as many appointments as he could, especially the ones you were so worried about. But there’s always a reassuring answer of your baby being strong and healthy. A perfect little Harrington. And now, Steve’s never found himself more terrified. If everything can be fine and perfect one second and terribly tragic the next, he doesn’t know where to find his peace. He hangs his head against his hands for a few moments— taking a deep breath. He’s gotta get himself straight, take a few moments. But there’s hellos being exchanged a few feet away and after what seems like a millisecond, a hand is settling on his lower back. He snaps around, prepared to give the whole I’m married spiel he’s done a thousand times, he’s met with the beautiful eyes of his adoring wife. And that softens his features, he’s visibly relaxing.

You smile at him, as he tugs you into his grip. The hug lasts longer than usual and Steve loves hugging you. You rub his back and kiss his shoulder, “you forgot your lunch.” You whisper to him quietly, the bag in your left hand adorning a beautiful band that Steve had so carefully picked out himself. At your words, Steve’s grip just tightens a bit and he kisses your head, sighing out. “Do you wanna eat together?”

“Yeah, angel. Just about to take my break. come on.” he says quietly, leading you down to the cafeteria. He pulls out your chair and you can tell something is distracting him as he sits. He’s busying himself by passing out the food, but he’s quiet and normally— he isn’t. He asks about your day, tells you about his, has told you he loves you a dozen times by now. And he knows you’ve noticed, by the way his eyes flick up to yours and back down again. “I’m okay.” he says after catching the look on your face.

“You’re not.” you reply, matter-of-factly. “What’s going on, Steve? Can talk to me.” you reach over for his hand, thumb brushing over his own gold wedding band. “You’re not acting like yourself.”

Steve sighs heavily, flipping his hand over to take yours gently. “The first birth I was on this morning was a stillbirth and I dunno… just had me thinking a lot.” He explains, his eyes dropping down to your belly across the table. You nod slightly, the hand that wasn’t entwined in his moves to your belly. You’re almost due and neither you nor Steve have ever had to worry about this. Never had it been a thought in your head.

“Just want you guys safe, is all.” Steve says softly and gives your hand a squeeze before he’s pulling it away to eat his lunch with you. And when it’s time for him to get back to work, you stand. There’s a dull ache that starts in your back and wraps around to your tummy, it lasts about 30 seconds as you clean up from lunch. You ignore it as he hugs you tightly, pressing a kiss against your forehead. “I’ll see you at home, okay? Take it easy, rest.” He reminds you, rubbing up and down your arms.

“Yeah, okay.” You acknowledge him with a nod, before you feel another aching pain. But this time it’s accompanied by a slow trickle of fluid down your thighs. And when Steve notices where your eyes are falling, all of the hair on the back of his neck stands up.

“Oh.” Is all he can manage. He’s done this a thousand and ten times over the past few years. He’s consoled laboring mothers, he’s held their hands and cleaned them up, he’s been their support system. It’s his job. But here he is, with his own wife, frozen in his tracks. Your water broke and he can tell with the uncomfortable face you’re making the contractions have started as well. “Okay, angel… let’s… let’s get you checked in.” he says softly and suddenly, you’re more than thankful for the pre-registry packet Steve made you fill out last week. He holds your hand the entire time they check you in and get you into a room. He can hear his pager going off and he’d check it, every now and again, hoping one of the other nurses could pick up his patients, since he still technically was on his shift. But when he can’t put it off any longer, he kisses your head. “Listen, I’ll be right back okay? I’m not leaving you alone for this. I’ll be really quick.” he says softly.

You just nod, munching on the ice chips he had brought you not too long ago. You still feel like you have time. The contractions aren’t that close together yet. But Steve would throw a fit if they even tried to send you home and you know it. Steve smiles nervously when he wheels a cart into another expectant parent’s room. He introduces himself and shakes her husband’s hand when he extends it to him introducing themselves as, “Caleb and Connie Bear.” He's trying to keep the small talk up and keep himself calm— and not to think of his wife four rooms down. “Is this your first?” he asks softly, administering her medication.

“Oh no.” Connie laughs softly and shakes her head, “It’s baby number seven.” She pats her belly gently. Steve nods, a little lost in his own head. A mix of thoughts of the young couple a floor up with no baby to show, his wife laboring without him, and these friendly people working on their seventh baby. “It’s not as bad as you think.” she laughs, catching Steve’s face.

Steve laughs nervously and shakes his head, “oh no. it’s not that.” He smiles softly, “my wife and I wanted around six.” He shrugs, giving her a glass of water.

“You’ve got kids?” She smiles at him and gives his forearm a gentle squeeze as he adjusts her monitors. “You’re so young.”

“Uh… not yet.” He laughs softly and pulls her blanket back up over her. “My wife’s in labor now, actually. Not very far along yet and It’s our first, might have a while to go.” He rambled off nervously.

She smiles at him, a warm and comforting smile, and so does her husband. They remember those days. And Steve does find comfort in that smile. “These things take time.” She says softly, nodding at Steve. “but she’ll know what to do and I know you’ve seen a lot of babies being born but the minute you see yours, everything’s gonna change.” And Steve knows she’s right.

“Thank you.” he says softly. “I’ll be back in to check on you in a little while.” he dims her lights a bit, sighing softly as he steps out of the room and walks over to his station to chart his notes quickly. When he looks up and sees his mother-in-law, that’s when his panic starts to set in. He’s hurrying around the counter, biting the inside of his cheek. “What are you doing here?”

“Y/N called asking me to come, Steve.” She laughs, a sound that reminds him of you. “She knows you’re busy.” She gives his arm a pat and smiles at him. “She’s getting close, from what they’ve told her.”

“And she didn’t say anything to me?” Steve frowns, leading her over to your room. His face is knotted up in confusion when he looks over you. Your feet are planted on the floor, leaning over your bed. He sighs softly, knowing he should have been in here. He walks over, standing behind you to rub circles into your lower back.

“This is how we got into this situation.” You joke, face pressed against your sheets.

The response makes Steve chuckle, rolling his eyes, “oh hush. your mother is here.” He mumbles softly, rubbing your hips gently. “Where did they say you’re at, angel?” he asks softly.

“Eight.” You mumble back, letting yourself melt into Steve’s hands. They slide around to your belly, lifting gently and trying to keep the pressure off of your back in between contractions. “What do you think it’s gonna be?” You ask him, turning your head to catch a glimpse of him. You can see the worry etched into his features. But once he sees the way your hair is sticking to your forehead and how flushed and clammy your skin is— he softens.

“A girl.” He says softly. “Gonna be just as pretty as you.” He whispers softly, helping you switch positions and lie back on the bed quietly. Steve’s head perks up as he sees one of his co-workers take a quick peek in. “What’s up?” he mouths over to her. He watches her point down to her belt, signaling to the pager Steve has forgotten.

He sighs and kisses your head once more, rubbing soothing circles onto your arm. “I’ll be right back again, okay sweetheart? Your mama’s here. gonna take care of you while I’m gone.” He says softly and squeezes your hand before he’s ducking out and heading down to the Bear’s room, pushing the cot along quietly.

Connie smiles tiredly, having opted for an epidural at the last stage of her labor. Steve’s ready at her thighs, ready to pop the baby up onto her chest. His own head is occupied with the thought of missing the birth of his own child while he welcomes another into the world. His shift would be over soon and then he’ll be sitting at your bedside, holding your hand and keeping you healthy and happy. Supporting you throughout the entire transition of your labor. Caleb rubs soothing circles on Connie’s arm as she pushes, and Steve takes note of the love in the room. How much the two of them lean on one another.

And Steve’s breath hitches in his throat when he’s reaching over her thighs, with their newborn boy laying on her stomach. He’s helping rub the baby dry, eyes flicking up to the delivering doctor when no one hears any cries for just a few more moments. And Steve whispers, panicked, but full of hope, “oh come on, kid.” No one hears him, but Connie— and her eyes are on him as Steve tries his fucking best to coax a cry out of the baby. Even after suctioning his nose and mouth. He remembers the heartbroken looks on that young couple this morning and he couldn’t take it again.

And finally there’s a sigh of relief when the little one lets out their first big wail. Steve smiles watching as Connie holds their baby to her chest, tears welling up in her eyes. She gives Steve’s hand a squeeze, her face silently thanking him. And then as he’s walking away to fill out a stats card for their baby, Steve hears his name followed by someone shouting time to push. And he’s running. He’ll check back in later, but he’s not missing his baby’s birth. You’ve got the rails of the bed in your hands, gripping tightly as you push— and he’s finding your side and brushing back your hair. “I'm here, angel.” He’s whispering through your tears. “I’m here. Look at you. You’re doing so good, mama.”

And it’s a whole new feeling when Steve hears a cry before he even sees the baby. He can see the blood on your thighs as they lift the baby up to place against your chest. The tears in your eyes are falling as you look up at Steve. And he just presses a kiss against your forehead, sniffling back his own years. “You did it, angel.” he mumbles softly.

“Congratulations.” You hear through your OB’s big smile. “It’s a boy.” And then Steve laughs, his smile pressed against your hair.

“It's a boy.” you repeat, fingers brushing against the back of your baby's fresh soft skin. The quiet grunts coming from him fill the room as he roots around trying to latch onto your breast quietly. “Joseph.” You whisper and turn to look up at Steve, remembering the perfect name the two of you had spent the last eight months curating. “Joseph Steven Harrington.” You announce to your mother quietly. And Steve feels himself tear up a bit.

Nothing has ever felt like this before in his life. And once you’re squared away, he makes sure to thank his coworkers quietly. Appreciating every second of them covering his ass tonight. They all congratulate him for the beautiful baby, passing out hugs and offering advice. And Steve soaks it in, every single word of it. Soaks it in like his life depends on it.

tags ;; @peachyproserpina @eeopxlt

#steve harrington x f!reader #steve harrington #steve x pregnant!reader #dad!steve harrington #nurse!steve #cw: pregnancy #cw: birth #cw: stillbirth mention

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bonebabbles · 4 months

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I keep starting and abandoning posts that go into my drafts, as I try to stay tasteful about how fucking revolted this part makes me. Like, I'm legitimately unsure if the very relevant trauma I have is making me see things that aren't here

But first we see that Star Flower is trying to ingratiate herself to the group, just after she reappears from chapter 5. Chapter 5 is about how Clear Sky is still abusive towards his son, and she comes in after stroking his ego, stressing how alone she is, and appealing to how she'll be loyal unlike his child. (She glances over at Thunder, directly implying this.)

Now in Chapter 9, she's babysitting and trying to care for Milkweed's kits (in spite of discomfort from Milkweed), taking a wet sleeping space away from the others, and pulling more than her own weight "without complaint." Putting herself through harsh sitations to prove her worth.

All while trying to appear extra attractive to Thunder, and later Clear Sky. Basically every man in power who can "protect her"

Like, am I going fucking crazy? With how we later find out that Star Flower was "promised as a mate" to One Eye's subordinate Slash, is... is that hypersexualization? One of the extremely stigmatized symptoms of sexual abuse?

She goes to find Clear Sky alone to throw herself at his paws, and he's very quickly attracted to how she promises to perfectly obey him, have no needs of her own, and finally be the perfect servant that he desires

"I don't deserve your trust because I am dirt. I understand you because I also regret something. I'd die for you. I'll never betray you unlike those who have."

This isn't manipulation. She means this. The story is playing their romance sincerely. She's comparing "betraying" Thunder by telling her own father about an assassination ambush to Clear Sky's history of child abuse, physical assault, and murder

She believes she's on the same level as this; a monster who murdered a childhood friend in a fit of entitled rage. She was a victim of One Eye who really believes that the way her father used her means she "understands" this monster, deserves this treatment.

And Clear Sky LIKES that.

He likes that she will have COMPLETE FAITH in him. That she will follow him WITHOUT QUESTION. That she will OBEY his orders. That's fucking verbatim, that's THE TEXT!!!

WHILE HE'S STILL CRYING ABOUT "ive tried to atone every day" FOLLOWING THE LAST TWO BOOKS WHERE THE ONLY SHITTY THING HE DOESN'T DO IS MURDER INNOCENT WOMEN

Am I insane?? Am I wrong??? Am I missing something here???? Why the fuck is the fandom takeaway "haha sexy girl steals his dad." Did I read the same book

#Csa mention #Did they once again do a misogyny so hard they accidentally gave their woman character trauma #My tip to anyone in a draining relationship. If your partner fetishizes that YOU would never leave or betray them unlike ''all the others''#RUN.#There may be a reason their exes cut ties with them and they're praising you for ignoring red flags #Especially when your partner is significantly older and more experienced #Theres nothing noble about constantly suffering for the sake of 'loyalty'#Star Flower PLEASE get out of here you dont fucking deserve this you did nothing wrong #Bones reads dotc #Dotc hate #I thought i was just remembering things wrong when i was adding the subtheme of thunder having a connection to star via abusive dads-#-in my dotc rewrite. But no it's right there. It's in the text and it's something clear is attracted to #I abuse the shit out of my son and he left me once over it #But i can abuse this girl his same age and she won't run. Finally! A victim who won't leave!#And then they become mates and she births at least two litters #Cw abuse #sa mention #EDIT: I've changed the language just slightly #because the timeline COULD work out that starf was an adult when she was promised to slash for a very brief window of time #and hypersexualization is a symptom of trauma resulting from many types of sex abuse. Even that done when the victim was an adult.#it's just more common in CSA

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enbycrip · 6 months

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We’ve seen it everywhere. But it’s incredibly important that this is seen, discussed and accepted in academic discourse for a whole bunch of reasons.

The misogynist idea that AFAB and AMAB bodies are fundamentally very different and that AFAB bodies are fundamentally inferior is putting up a huge fight atm.

It’s not only “gender criticals”, though they are a big part of this and transphobia is one of the big battlegrounds of it. It’s also the anti-choice stuff rolling across the US trying to define any body capable of pregnancy as having its primary function being a vessel for foetuses.

And to do that you need to play up the idea that those bodies are fundamentally very different, and that AFAB bodies are fundamentally “intended” for pregnancy and birth. Enforcing this fake history where AFAB lives were entirely defined by pregnancy, birth and child-rearing is a weapon in that, and exposing it as ideological rather than evidence-based is *incredibly* fucking important.

This *doesn’t* mean that we should stop pointing out the fundamentally ridiculous nature of considering hunting as important as it is painted in popular culture when most studies consider that 80% minimum of “hunter-gatherer” societies’ food is foraged. It’s a fundamentally Victorian construct that considers “hunting is the active, ‘masculine’ work so therefore it must be the *real* work of a society”, no matter how much evidence is found that foraging was far more fundamental to survival.

It is *so* important to keep on emphasising the constructed nature of not only human gender, but gendered structures in human societies.

There is this huge sociopolitical push from “conservative” religious and cultural forces all over the planet rn to push the idea that certain social structures - fundamentally misogynist ones - are somehow “innate”, “inherent” and “natural”.

Hence the push to attack trans people in particular. We put the lie to so many of their cherished myths just by existing. We are living magic - the proof of human fluidity; the living potential for change; the living promise that things Don’t Have To Be This Way.

#anthropology #paleoanthropology #queer #gender is a construct #trans magic #women hunters #social constructs #cw gender critical mention #misogyny #nonbinary #trans #gender #foraging #cw pregnancy mention #cw birth mention

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one-time-i-dreamt · 2 years

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My mom fed me something that got me pregnant and my English teacher had to console me because I didn't want to give birth. (I'm not able to get pregnant irl.)

#dream #pregnancy #pregnancy cw #nightmare #giving birth #food mention #eating

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rotten-dog-teeth · 10 months

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I'm absolutely brainrotting over how horrific humans are

• We are not bipedal. We are quadrupedal. We forced our bodies out of shape just for the sake of going against god. Our legs are bent out of shape, our hip joints have been forced outwards at unusual angles, our spines - necks and backs - have been contorted into flimsey spring-like structures to support our poorly distributed amalgamation of flesh and bone, pur extremities have been elongated, compressed and re-framed to fit our new whims.

• We manipulated everything. Will said in that episode about the woman abducting yhe kids to try to make a family that as a survival instict, we have to bond with our captors otherwise we're breakfast. That's what we did to literally fucking everything. Animals are naturally scared of us. We think that animals are scared because they are ignorant, but they are scared because they are smarter than us because they see us for what we really are: abominations and monsters. They either get docile and cozy with us to become our companions so we dont kill them or they try to avoid us or hell even fight us but if they havent been domesticated then they're fucking dead meat. And cozying up to us is not a sure fire way of survival. We pick and choose who we domesticate. Dogs and cats, yeah. Rats and pigeons, we kill them or at the very least banish them. And even being domesticated is not a sure fire way of survival. We forcibly change their biology to be dependent on us and then routinely abuse or neglect them, or pit them against eachother, or ignore them, or "accidentally" let them loose to take another domestic's life. We are manipulators. We don't train animals, we manipulate them. We trick them into thinking we're safe, and don't let them realise until it's too late. Humans aren't the top of the foodchain. We're not the apex predator. We're humans. We're fucking horrors. And nothing we could ever come up with in any book, film, show, etc could ever come close to the horrific god-killing creation that is a human "being".

• We have such a comprehensive specrum and magnitude scale of emotion that our brains try to self-destruct to quell it. We feel too much love or care? Our instict is to crush/squeeze it to death. We feel too sad? Our instict is to tear ourselves apart piece by piece or just outright blunt force ourselves into peace.

• We are so fucked up that our brains actively come up with ways to supress, control or just outright kill us. On a high place? Our instict is to jump. See something sharp or hot? Our instict is to grab/touch it. Our brains fabricate fake threats to scare us into submission - phobias, anxiety, etc.

• Our bodies are so viscerally unnatural that we are alienated from every other living thing that we know of. Not one creature has a remotely similar body to us. Our joints are bent in freakish ways, we move unlike any other thing to exist, we communicate in a million different ways in a noise that nothing else can make. We are fucking disgusting.

• Our bodies try to self-destruct to prevent us from continuing to exist. We cannot successfully give birth most of the time without lots of medical help or even being fully split open and physically separated from the foetus by other humans due to our hip to head size ratio. We are the only creature capable of choking because of the development of speech.

#🌱 speaks #horrifying humans #humans are space orcs #cryptidcore #chaoscore #cw: implied suicide #cw: implied self harm #cw: swearing #cw: death mention #cw: anxiety mention #cw: birth mention #cw: abuse mention #cw: manipulation mention #cw: neglect mention #cw: murder mention #I have never had so many content warnings #on a post before

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us-the-voices-and-more-voices-2 · 3 months

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really weird fun fact about me,

okay this needs some backstory before it makes sense.

so my nonni know this couple, one is from Trinidad and one is german.

the German one's father was a literal nazi no joke, actual nazi from nazi Germany he also kept a shit ton of journals from nazi era Germany and those probably should be scanned or archived in some form but story for another day.

anyway, so my nonni's friends father was a literal nazi that guy must of stolen a shit ton of stuff ngl but when he died he left it all to his son, my nonni's friend.

and among that stuff was a random brass candelabra, my nonni's friend (the one from Trinidad) was like "here have it, I'm not using it or want it"

so, my nonni now have this brass candelabra. I was living in their house at the time and me and my family were playing around with it.

because you could move the different candle holder branches, and we realised we could make them straight in a line.

and low and behold, it was a FUCKING MENORAH

just.. a random menorah??? that doubled as a candelabra, honestly sweet design choice.

but, my nonni just. have a random menorah now, that is 500% stolen.

so to whoever's family lost a brass menorah that doubles as a candelabra good news! it's perfectly fine!

and that is the random fun fact.

#-pop #nazi cw #nazi mention #other random bits that are important the guy in the story is currently 80 something and uses a wheelchair #he's just a guy his father was awful but he's not his father #also it's pretty funny my nonni have a menorah considering one of them probably is ethnically jewish (yeah we can't really pin it down sinc #who the fuck has birth documents for a random rural ass Italian family there was kinda no way too know bc the records don't really go-#back that far. and also bc like I don't live in Italy and can't go on a pilgrimage to go figure that out it also considering that one of my #other bisnonni was a literal orphan and we know nothing about her mother or anything past that so who the hell actually knows #I one day will get a DNA test and finally figure it out but yeah crazy shit #like you go to my nonni's house and there's just a menorah by the window lol

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emberoops · 1 month

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my son, Amichai, was born last night.

im so happy to finally meet him.

#Baby #baby cw #baby tw #birth mention

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direnightshade · 2 years

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You know the evil Kermit meme? Yeah. Imagine me like that asking you to write more mean!daddy Charlie

Ask and you shall receive, my friend!

Warnings: Daddy Kink, Gendered (F) Pet Names, Light CNC, Mentions of Birth Control (or lack thereof), Breeding Kink, Light Choking Word Count: Don't even ask. I rolled out of bed and wrote this in my drafts like the gremlin that I am.

Today has been...hellacious, to put it quite mildly. From the moment the second hand pushed to Nine AM, Charlie has found himself stuck in wall to wall meetings with barely a minute to breathe in between. By the time that he is finally released, the heat and humidity of a New York mid-summer's day has long since settled in, leaving the collar of his dress shirt sticking to his neck.

When he arrives back to his apartment he is tired, irritated with the heat only made worse by the commuters that piled onto the train with him. The suit jacket that has long since been shed and draped over his forearm is now folded over the arm of the sofa, his tie loosened to hang beneath the first few buttons of his shirt that have now been undone, and his sleeves rolled up to just above his elbow. When he emerges from the apex of your thighs, his hair a mess from where your hands have delved into its depths, Charlie's lips and chin are glossy with the coating of your arousal.

A hand remains on one of your thighs, fingers giving a dangerous squeeze in silent warning to keep those legs of yours apart—to keep yourself on display for him whilst he frees his cock from the rapidly constricting confines of his suit pants.

Charlie is practically vibrating with the need to be buried in the welcoming, tight warmth of you but like always, he practices a careful control as he glides his cock along your slippery folds. He can always tell when you're on the verge of begging for him, for his cock, to be filled in all ways with him; your legs shake around him with anticipation and you're all but writhing beneath him as he continues to tease.

"Daddy," you whine, the sound music to his ears.

Like always, he responds not with words, but with actions. When his cock glides downward once more and the head catches at your entrance, he pushes in, stopping only once he's buried to the hilt. It's a near painful stretch each time that he does this, but it feels like no time at all until he feels you relaxing around him, stretching to accommodate his girth.

Fuck, you're so tight, so wet—despite all outward appearances it's always so fucking hard for him to stave off the impending orgasm that builds so rapidly. The feeling is only made worse when he finally speaks and your body responds so fervently.

"Where do you want it, sweetheart," he asks between panted breaths, the rapid snap of his hips driving you further up the bed.

"Here," you respond with a finger pointing towards your mouth.

Charlie watches as you make a show of it, presenting your tongue to him in promise that you'll take every last drop like the good girl that he knows you can be.

A large hand settles against your neck, applying no pressure as his thumb presses against your tongue. Charlie slides the digit further into your mouth until your lips close around it and he feels you suck.

His head shakes, hips still continuing with their rapid cadence. "No," he says abruptly, pulling his thumb from your mouth to encircle his hand around your throat now. "Think I'll cum in you today, Princess."

He doesn't miss how your cunt constricts around his cock, the sensation causing the movement of his hips to stutter in their rhythm.

"Daddy, no, you can't," you weakly protest in a speech that you've given dozens of times before this; this is what he likes to hear, you know, to hear you protest even though you mean absolutely none of the words that leave your mouth. "I'm not on birth control."

The fingers around your neck constrict, applying a pressure that does not yet prevent a shortage of oxygen to your lungs. He's so fucking close, the coiling sensation in the depths of his stomach tightening in anticipation of the inevitable release. "Careless girl," he groans, the hand at your thigh now sliding upward until he is gripping your hip with such force that it is likely to bruise come morning. "Going to put a fucking baby in you—"

"No!" In spite of the false objection, a string of moans falls freely from your lips, urging Charlie on.

"Yes," he replies with a forcefulness that seems to match the drive of his hips.

It is when you cry out with yet another round of dissent that Charlie comes with a guttural groan, hips stuttering and then stilling entirely, his cock pulsing avidly within your warmth.

#Charlie Week #Charlie Barber #Daddy!Charlie #Mean Daddy!Charlie #Charlie Barber x Reader #Daddy!Charlie x Reader #Mean Daddy!Charlie x Reader #cw: daddy kink #cw: breeding kink #cw: mentions of birth control #cw: CNC #cw: consensual non consent #cw: choking #cw: pet names #cw: gendered pet names

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bakura-koneko · 4 months

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TW: Birth Complications, S—ual assault

Anyways, Yugioh headcanons for the mpreg family au

Edited to add: Akefia was actually 27 at Abayomi’s birth. Not 28

#Yugioh headcanons #tw: sa mention #Tw: Birth complications #cw: mpreg #puzzleshipping #puppyshipping #siblingshipping #bronzeshipping #thiefshipping #geminishipping #deathshipping #yugioh dm

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mythicalsanctuarysodor · 8 months

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Oo here's a neat little question do the ghost trio exist in your au? And if so what do they look like? Are they alive or just dead human ghosts? Or somthing more 👀👀

Timothy, Alfred and Godred do exist in this au and all are rare species in thier own ways.

You see, Titan hasn't told Thomas this, but he wasn't the only one born, nor was he the only alicorn. He was sadly the only survivor in a litter of decaplets, each foal representing the state of the moon. Thomas represented the blue moon, while Timothy represented a blood moon. But the thing is, Timothy and Thomas's other siblings aren't gone. They are like Toad in that they are child spirits, which are debatably much stronger than your average ghost. Child spirits have the very rare and unique ability to be hidden from any mythos, including divine ones, only other children spirits can see each other. So while Titan, Thomas or even a spirit speaker like Zak can't see Timothy and the others, Toad can see them. And Timothy plus his other brothers follow Thomas wherever he goes, living and experiencing life through him. They sometimes reveal themselves when Thomas needs an extra boost, Hiro found out the hard way during an intense training session that went a little too far. Although if you asked Hiro, he'd tell you he honestly didn't know what he saw.

Alfred in life was a rare example of human and mythos relationships for the time, his mother was a witch with demon ancestry (technically making her a warlock), and his father was human. Alfred himself ended up being human although he had an odd appearance. Unfortunately, Alfred's mother abandoned him and his father when she discovered that Alfred didn't have magical capabilities, leaving Alfred's father to raise him as a single father. Alfred did end up taking after his father however who was an engine driver. Alfred manned his own engine for a few years before his engine was purchased, leading him to Sodor as its first locomotive exclusive driver. Then tragically WW1 happened, and unfortunately, Alfred lost his life to a blitz. Not wanting to leave the world of the living so soon on such an amazing island, he came back with a passion. Alfred nowadays does any job on the railway, from guard to station master, to track layer or inspector, booking clerk, porter, relief driver or fireman, and he'll even be a backup jockey to any of the mythos if their trains require one. Alfred is actually such a credit to the railway that the fat controllers entrust him with running the night services, whether that be a night express or even being controller for the next 12 hours.

Godred is a rare example of a mythos ghost, like Andreas. In life, Godred and the other Culdee Fell railway mythos were created alongside their engines in Switzerland as iron golems, being very detached at the joins like James's crystal body, allowing them to turn any limb completely 360. But unlike James, the Culdee Fell golems are more marionette-like, or like dolls, hobbling around and having their bodies spin on them, giving them a very creepy appearance. It also didn't help them much that they have two faces attached back to back on the same head. So instead of having to detach themselves from a train, they can just rotate their body to face the other way. But back to Godred, his tale isn't so different from the original. He was rather vain and fell to his death off the mountainside. But this Godred actually cares for his family deeply, being the eldest and not wanting to let them be alone and mourn his death and leave them with extra work, he came back to hopefully still make a contribution. He did, serving as a protective spirit to any visitor and train so they don't share the same fate he did. He gets along alright with his brothers like any good sibling, although it can sometimes cause some comedic moments now that he's a ghost. (He's more than once tried to comfort his brothers only for him to go through them.)

#mythic!au #ttte #asks #ttte timothy #ttte alfred #ttte godred #tw death #cw death #cw mentions of war #cw mentions of still birth

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churchydraws · 1 year

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once Monty and Blaze decide who's going to carry Flare's developing AI, they probably go to the Chica from the Retro Pizzaplex for advice since she and the Freddy from there are the ones who have the most experience with that sort of thing. Although when they find out they have to take things easy because the baby AI will be taking battery power from whoever ends up carrying it, it'll be a little bit of a fight to make them relax, especially if it's Blaze, who would NOT be happy that he's basically been banned from tinkering in his and Moon's workshop.

Whoever does it won't have any regrets though once Flare's AI has finished developing and has been placed into the little body they built for them though. They made a little AI together!

#css rambles #tw pregnancy mention #cw pregnancy mention #I guess??? it's technically correct? The baby AI is just located in their head instead of where it would be for humans #also a reminder that the robots do not have baby making parts down below. because that makes me uncomfy #they have ken doll anatomy #the 'birthing' process is entirely painless #because I wouldn't wish that pain on my worst enemy #it's literally just plugging a cord into their head and transferring the baby AI to the baby body they built #kinda like the movie Robots (2005)#so Blaze wouldn't have to deal with that. he'd still have to deal with being extra tired and hungry and emotional though #but that just means more cuddle time with Monty #ask to tag

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