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wishcamper · 2 months

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Cassian Appreciation Week Day Two: Hair

Happy @cassianappreciationweek! Here is my first offering for Day Two: Hair. You can read it here or on ao3.

Enjoy!

My Sweetest Downfall

A Nessian re-telling of the biblical story of Samson and Delilah, set during the first war for human liberation.

CW: consensual sexual content, reference to sex trafficking

Art by Terry Strickland

Oh, we couldn't bring the columns down Yeah, we couldn't destroy a single one And the history books forgot about us And the Bible didn't mention us, not even once "Samson”, Regina Spektor

She was the most beautiful female Cassian had ever seen.

Woman, rather - the rounded edge of her ear had been what caught his eye, entranced by the freshness of her face, the self-possession of this human woman weaving through the sea of fae in the lower markets of Adriata. All visions of using his shore leave to drown himself in wine, blow all his wages at the tables, and bed as many females as possible vacated his mind the moment her blue-gray eyes met his over the heads of the crowd, the exact color of an Illyrian sunrise.

She belonged to one of the pleasure houses, as evidenced by the copper bands at her wrists and throat, likely one of the more expensive ones gives the fine silk of her gown, the glint of her golden brown hair braided about her head like a crown. He searched for days until he found the right one, coming across her at last at the Golden Thread. He wasn’t even really sure what he wanted, just to be near her, to feel the heat of her body, the thrum of mortality under her skin.

More than anything, he wanted to understand that tug in his chest, the pull that urged him to crash himself to the ground for her, even if it reduced him to rubble.

—

He was a force of nature, wild as a winter wind yet gentle as the crush of petals under bare feet, a mountain of a male whose waters ran deep and smooth.

And in spite of it all, she still had to break him.

She pushed down her guilt, her disgust at the task before her. They’d been all over each other for a week, stealing moments in hidden coves, remote beaches, even once behind a corner stall in the market when the vendor was away. Despite having paid for her, and handsomely, he seemed to want only what she gave freely of her time, her body. What he wanted lay beneath, he said, a chance to listen to the symphony of her human heart for however long she’d allow.

That same human heart condemned her, left her helpless to the forces of power and control that bound her tighter than any ropes ever could.

The stories of him in battle had spread across Prythian long before his arrival in the great Summer city, of the Illyrian foot soldier who razed armies with his deadly dance, blessed by the Mother herself. Enalius reborn, they called him, and the Lord of Spring wanted him eliminated in neutral territory if they were to have a chance at winning the war. Ten thousand gold marks they'd promised to her if she could find the source of his power.

She knew she condemned herself with this cursed bargain, much less her people, but there was no way around it. She’d never make enough with her body to free her family, to protect them from the ravages of the fae without the riches they dangled in front of her.

And so when he slipped through the lavender curtains of the Golden Thread, she hoped to hate him. Prayed he’d be despicable, possessive and brutish like the other males, head swollen large enough so just a single pinprick could deflate it. Instead, that first night he came to her plush, dark chambers she found a tenderness that stunned her and knew this would be so much more damning than she’d ever imagined.

He was willing to sacrifice everything for human freedom, he told her in the wake of their joining, dark curls clinging to his brow. The shame consumed her knowing he’d fulfill that promise, even if his martyrdom would come not on the daybright battlefield as he imagined, but rather with the breathless gasp of a knife in the night.

For the next week he worshiped her body in their beachside bungalow, ran his fingers over and under the copper cuffs as if he’d rip them off with his bare hands.

“And how would one shackle you, Lord of Bloodshed?”

“No bonds can hold me, sweetheart, save for those given by the Mother.”

He promised to smuggle her out between presses of his lips against her skin, or else to buy her freedom, to win the whole damn war by himself if that’s what it took. She only smiled and called them beautiful words, nothing less, nothing more. At night when he slept, she lay awake tracing the fresh scar cleaving his eyebrow, the lines of tattoos swirling over his chest and arms.

Make a bargain with me, he said, hazel eyes sparkling with something too painful to look at for more than a moment, like staring into the sun. Tell me what makes you so strong, she said, tell me what gives you the power of ten males, a hundred. She watched her warrior spar with his own heart, and though he denied her in the end she felt a relief in it, that they could have one more day, one more night with none to witness what bloomed save for the stars, the moonlit sea.

She’d ask him twice more, she told him, and he grinned in a way that broke something in her, something she could never repair.

In the cradle of seclusion, long-buried hurts began to emerge, the throes of pleasure giving way to tears that flowed like wine. He held her pain like a bird in his hand, stroking her jagged edges gently. Unafraid of what lay within her, the blink of her mortal life.

Why do you touch me so?, she asked, and he ran a hand up her thigh to the crook of her waist, following the path his mouth had blazed before they’d collapsed in satiety.

She asked him the second time in the cove off the beach, the one he’d flown her to on those resplendent wings. The white sand floor glowed under turquoise water, casting his body in an unearthly light, their echoing moans giving way to laughter that ricocheted off the rock, through her chest. He told her of his days training, the foolish arrogance of his youth before it was shattered by the war. She shared a memory of stealing sweets from a shop when she was a child, the rush of her first taste of sugar, of the successful con.

“And is victory always sweet for you, siren?”

Mostly not, she told him, and a challenge sparkled in his eyes, one that made her blood go hot. She forgot for a moment why she was there, the trap at the center of the maze, and let him fly the long way home, skimming the waves with her fingertips as they chased a pod of dolphins playing in the surf.

When they returned, he disappeared for a short time while she bathed, stepping back through the leaning door frame as she was toweling off, arms laden with gifts from the market. That night she claimed her victory in all the ways she wanted to, the Lord of Bloodshed under command of his interim queen.

“Please,” she begged the Spring lord through the mirror he’d given her, the forget-me-nots in his golden hair either a cruel jest or devastating providence. “Please spare him. Take his power but do not take his life.”

The High Lord laughed in answer, and the guilt stretched her to the point of breaking, her skin a dull hide drying in the sun. “It seems the hearts of human sluts are as open as their legs.”

She knew he felt her sadness, her fear when he returned from a swim in the ocean, salt glittering on his wings like diamonds in the sunset glow. He lifted her into his arms and retreated to the bathing chamber, showed her where to touch them to bring him to his knees, to make him fall apart with her name on his lips.

Ask me, he said, ask me once more.

“No.”

“Why not? Have you given up on me, sweetheart?”

He couldn’t want everything that came with her, she told him, wouldn’t desire her if he knew the wickedness of her heart, the crumbling ruins of her soul.

“How can I prove it to you?”

Her fingers clutched at his shirtfront, begging him to stay, to run, to see the deception at her core.

“Tell me the source of your strength. Tell me what gives you the power of ten males, of a hundred. Show me your weakness and I shall show you mine.”

Her faithful lover brought his forehead down to hers, resting it lightly, drew her hand up to bury it in the soft curls at the nape of his neck.

“If my hair is cut, I lose my strength. I am as weak as any other until it grows long again.”

She grabbed a handful of it in her fist, pulling his head back sharply. But he only looked at her with that sun-bright devotion, the passages of his heart open to her to walk through as she pleased. She decided to leave a footprint there, the barest trace. Hoped it was enough for him to remember.

“I have a daughter to the south. She does not know what I am. All I do is for her.”

Something like understanding passed through him then, but she didn’t get the chance to question it for he captured her mouth with his own, sinking her down into the deep waters where only they lived, borne along by the current.

Moonlight glinted off the shears where she hovered over him hours later, praying for him to wake. To grab her wrists and throw her against the wall, or else to kiss her desperately and fly her as far as those wings could take them, past the edge of the world.

But he did not wake, and instead she cut each lock from his head, the thread in her chest ripping violently with each traitorous snip.

—

They paraded him through the temple in chains, the jeers and taunts hitting his back like a volley of arrows. The warrior god shackled like the slaves he so foolishly defended, reduced to the bastard-born nobody he feared lived at his core.

He found her at once among the crowd assembled, her beautiful face broken with agony, and even though he knew he should hate her the space where his anger lived felt hollow. The absence of her was more devastating than any of the whips that lashed at his back, the blunt blows to his chest, his legs.

His power gone, the feeble call of it sluggish in his veins, he could only watch as they brought the ropes forth. They lashed him to the great column at the center that held up the ceiling, painted with scenes of resplendent High Fae, their faces cold and cruel. He tried to tell her to go, to run, but he was too weak to speak, knew from the way she clutched the collar at her throat she’d never leave while he was still alive. He only hoped she’d be far enough away to miss the worst of it.

I’m sorry, he said as best he could, feeling the imprint of her body on his skin, in his bones. I’m sorry I couldn’t save us from this. I’m sorry I didn’t know until it was too late.

Hazel eyes lifted skyward, a prayer to the Mother on his dry, cracked lips. With a great heave he twisted, rammed his bound fists into the pillar he leaned against, ripping apart the world.

Stone rained down and there was screaming everywhere, thick dust pouring into his lungs and he waited for the crush, the flash of pain before it all went quiet and still. In the long tunnel of time he hoped to return as a tree somewhere in a quiet wood, to feel her sit in his shade, or else to be a clear pool she drank from, the splash of him over her face washing her clean.

And all at once he was shoved aside, a great boom echoing somewhere overhead, soft hair tickling his face, soothing his heated cheeks.

He opened his eyes to find her body splayed over him, taking the blow of the stone that would’ve been his death. A shimmer of gold disappeared into the dust engulfing the ruined temple, and he felt the pull in his chest begin to break, ever-reaching and grasping at the building darkness.

“Don’t go, sweetheart. I didn’t get enough. I want more. We should’ve had more.”

This brave human woman, his mate, her body broken and bleeding, reached a hand up and touched his face lightly, pain and love in her dawn-colored eyes.

“I’ll find you in the next world, the next life. I promise. And we will have time.”

A fierce, burning pain seared along his scalp. He heard someone shouting, felt a wave of night-dark power sweep over him before oblivion dragged him under, stealing the only thing he wanted, one last memory of her face.

But all he was left with were the spikes of an eight-pointed star on the crown of his head, the only remnant of her final words, his failures. Their future snatched away by the greed of death, the indifference of fate.

Five hundred years passed, and Cassian searched every face for hers, heart leaping at every flash of golden brown hair, every knowing grin in a crowded market. He’d almost given up the day he stepped into the Archeron manor when he saw her glaring across the room at him, when that thread in his chest yanked so violently he thought he’d been shot by an arrow, straight through. She didn’t remember him, of course, but he could’ve sworn a flicker of recognition passed through her, the past lingering in the core of their bones, woven into their skin.

And he knew in that moment, more than he’d ever known anything, that he’d rip every hair from his head for her. That no matter what war he had to win or building he had to shatter, he’d free her from the shackles of the world, from those in her heart, her mind.

That they would have time.

---

Thank you if you got this far! I'm pretty proud of this one so I hope you enjoyed aka it didn't hurt too much. Shoutout to all the other awesome creators putting out amazing work this week. There is so much more to come!

#cassianweek2024 #cassian #nessian #fanfic #day two: hair

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zhongliologist · 4 months

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If All is Lost, What Then?

Pairing: Aventurine x fem!reader Genre: SMUT (18+) Words: 5.9k Sypnosis: If all hope you had was lost, what then? You sought a certain gambler for a specific need and purpose. You don't know how it will end up, yet it's not like it matters. It was all transactional anyway, and you'd get what you want. But what you haven't considered was how fate works in inexplicable ways. Warnings: implied suicidal tendencies, loss of virginity, creampie, self-destruction A/N: Hi! this is the promised Aventurine fic! It may be a little heavy, any I didn't go into the specifics so everything is a little vague. But I do plan for this to be part of a larger story! Everything will probably be explain there! Please pray tho that I finish that one...

THIS IS AN 18+ FIC. BY CLICKING THE READ MORE BUTTON, YOU HAVE UNDERSTOOD AND ACCEPTED THAT YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED AND LIABLE FOR THE DECISION YOU MADE.

The night was young in the golden district.

The lights, the laughter and the silent laments of its numerous guests and residents encompass the gilded capital of the Corporation. As if they had all gathered there at a single point where all the greed, the glamor and the glib were all contained in a single drop. And the planet’s skies seem to glow in response, its dark purple-red hues become a tantalizing backdrop against the shimmering visage of the city underneath.

If Penacony was too far of a dream for the mundane and the ordinary, Pier Point would come close to second in the list of places to create superficial dreams, waste money and shatter futures. Unlike the planet of festivities however, Pier Point does not dwell with pretentious marketing--the fact that it is the headquarters of the most lucrative business in the cosmos is enough to gather personalities attracted to power and wealth like moths to a flame.

And that sort of reputation was the reason why you were there. It didn’t care who you were as long as you had a pretty penny on your name, and you had a lot of it. Your clothes seem to reflect this casual display of wealth--not too ostentatious to be deemed a wannabe nor too ordinary to be looked down on. A black silk dress draped over your body like some forlorn goddess of some faraway planet and adorned by miniscule gold chains which accentuate your neck and framed your face in sultry perfection. It was simple yet elegant.

Despite its beauty, your clothes felt like armor against your skin--an efficiently calculated strategy, a means to an end. You were no different than the people who pollute the alleyways of Pier Point, searching for something, anything the city could give in exchange for credits.

Paying for a cab to take you to the more lavish parts of the city, the scenery gradually transitioned from grimy streets to immaculately trimmed lawns and dimly lit hotel lobbies. You almost scoffed at the gradation. Leave it to the IPC to visually demonstrate a massive wealth gap.

Yet you shook your head at the thought. Tonight you didn’t care and you didn't think. Thoughts become spiraling steps towards the dark depths of your being, and you didn’t want to go there again. Right now, you have to do everything you can just to keep your head above the waves.

Your ride casually dropped you in front of a formidable-looking façade. Its massive brutalist columns and large windows seem to reflect the concept of the Preservation--the patron saint of the IPC. But there were various iterations of what the Aeon Qlipoth represents, and you were sure Pier Point, and therefore, the IPC represented the gluttonous and selfish need for safety and stability. Yet this building seemed out of place, even reminding you of Jarilo-VI architecture, a different variation of the same path. It would have sparked your curiosity on any normal day, yet your spirit was exhausted, down and beaten. You couldn’t even bring yourself to ask why.

Amber Gardens: Hotel and Casino. You smiled as you climbed the concrete steps. How fitting.

The ongoing party was your target. Just like many parties in Pier Point, it attracted the right people you needed, and they will not consider refusing your request. For the next few moments, you sat at the bar in the hotel lobby, sipping a sallow-hued cocktail which seemed to taste faintly of vanilla and lemon drops. It was a much-needed remedy to numb your frayed nerves and to silence dark imaginings. As you drank the bubbling liquid, it burned the stubborn demons still lingering in your thoughts, washed away by the alcohol as easily as the tide. What was left was an impulsive drive strong enough to leave everything you built burning and wasted.

It was no question if what you had in mind will succeed or not. The fish will take a bite no matter what, you mused. Much to your surprise however, it didn’t take that long for something to come back reeling. Who would’ve thought the fish was that eager to take the bet?

“Look who’s wandered around here.” A drawl echoed beside your ear, too close in fact that it almost made you jerk away.

“I expected a warmer welcome, Senior Manager,” you replied with an arched brow and a jaded look which was only responded with a light chuckle.

You gave him an immediate once over. He was the same as ever--still extravagant, still cocky and still as handsome as ever. He may have donned a simpler white suit over a teal dress shirt now, yet everything from his shades to his accessories screamed he had money to waste. You could only grimace at his wardrobe choice.

As a senior manager of the IPC, Aventurine was talented in doing business, yet to him, that business seemed to look more like a game of poker than anything. You had initially met him at a random work-related function, similar to the party you had tonight, and you were right to assume that he was every bit crazy. In any normal day, you wouldn’t dare approach him for your wellbeing, yet tonight, you needed that devil-may-care attitude to lay everything to waste.

“So? What brings you here, little miss--“

“Y/N. Right now, I’m just Y/N.” You interrupted, eyes daring him to challenge you.

Aventurine hummed at your sudden interjection. Interesting.

There was something different about you tonight--a little derailed and out of bounds. Aventurine always had a keen eye on these things, it helps with the gambling, and he could immediately tell that you are in need of something. You who always seemed so put-together, so full of promise, so unlike him…yet right now, you look like you were only held together by one piece of string, and if snaps, who could tell what will become of you.

“You didn’t come here just to taste some drinks, did you?” he asked with a sly smile, nothing betraying the tone of his voice. “Can I help you with something?”

You leaned your head to the side, allowing him a view of your bare neck adorned with glimmering gold chains underneath the dim lights of the bar.

“You could say I’m in need of something only you could give.”

“Oh?” he grinned, his bright eyes shining even through the cover of his shades, as his fingers began to trace yours on the champagne flute you were holding. Without you going into details, he could already tell what it is you wanted. It’s not a bad trade-off, in fact, he might actually gain something here.

“Are you sure though? Once it’s done, you can’t do anything about it.”

You didn’t try to move your hand away. Instead you allowed him to play with you, teasing your fingers with light touches.

“It’s a risk I’m willing to take,” you replied. “I have nothing else to lose.”

Aventurine smiled at your now intertwined pinkies. “I admit, hearing you say those words gave me a little shiver.”

You smirked. “Do they suit me?”

Aventurine chuckled, removing his shades and placing them on the table. “Never in my wildest dream did I imagine you’d approach me like this, but…”

Leaning towards you, he easily seized your hand and entangled his fingers on yours. “I would be a fool to leave you like this.”

Without even waiting for you to respond, he then brought your hand to his lips, gently kissing the back of your hand as a romantic gesture. At that moment, you realized how effortlessly he could enchant anyone he wishes. It scared you for a moment, but Aventurine was exactly the man you were looking for. Even with fatigue and apathy seeping through your bones, he made your frigid heart skip a beat with no trouble at all.

“You sure have a talent for this…” you muttered mindlessly, earning a smile from the blond gambler.

“Isn’t that why you approached me in the first place?” He replied as he stood up and offered a hand to you. “C’mon. Why don’t we continue this in a more private space?”

Never in your wildest dreams had you imagined it to happen like this.

It was so easy for Aventurine to set every vein in your body ablaze with simple nips and bites, so easy to set shivers down your spine at every slight and wanton touch. You could only cling to him for dear life as he ravished you against a wall of a dimly-lit hotel room.

“Is this…what you had in mind, YN?” he asked, smirking as he assaulted your neck with kisses.

“I--nggh!”

It was already impossible to reply at that point. You, who was never held like this before felt incredibly overstimulated; each touch foreign and arousing. It was like having a taste of drugs for the first time, and you were easily becoming addicted to the novel pleasures he was introducing you to.

“Come on, princess,” he teased, as he enjoyed tracing his lips on your bare neck and shoulders. “Is this all you can handle? We haven’t even started yet.”

“Aven…turine…”

“Don’t worry, I’ll be gentle.”

He could barely manage to control himself, yet here he was saying things. Your half-lidded eyes, your wonderful curves draped over by messy clothes, and your sweet, sweet sighs whispering his name as if in prayer--it was as if everything about you was made to arouse him. Aventurine already had his fair share of sexual partners yet something about you made him feel like it was the first time.

He brushed his cold fingers against your ear, making you squirm so adorably. It was so easy to tease you—he could plant kisses on your cheeks, your forehead, the tip of your nose—and you reacted just enough to make him want to bully you.

Oh, Aventurine…you got lucky once again.

“Y-You…stop playing with me…!” you scolded him, brows furrowed and frown deepening.

“How can’t I?” Aventurine chuckled. “You’re so cute.”

“Ughh…flattery will get you nowhere…”

He laughed again, but this time, his swift fingers effortlessly divested you of your dress, allowing it to pool at your feet. Immediately, you squealed and tried to cover your now almost-naked body with minimal success.

“Is this funny to you?!”

Seething, you glared at him despite how flushed your cheeks were. What made you more annoyed was when he thought of lifting your chin with a finger, and leaned close; just stopping short of kissing you.

“You’re not used to this, are you?” he asked with a grin.

“…ugh,” you scowled further, but refused to say anything more. It seemed to have amused Aventurine further.

“Sorry, I won’t tease you anymore,” he conceded with a defeated smile, brushing a thumb on your lips.

In that moment, the both of you stared in silence; waiting for a beat to pass by. You finally had the chance to explore those deeply vibrant eyes he usually kept covered, and in those depths you have found no light—like an ocean with neither sun nor moon. How ironic, you thought. A person who seemed to flash and gleam like a jewel actually had no light of his own. In those brief moments, the playful mood had died down, only to unravel a somber truth that the both of you may perhaps be in need of the same thing.

“...kiss me, Aventurine,” you dared, coming out as a low growl.

Again, the blond only smiled at you solemnly. He held your cheeks with both hands; so gentle that you almost thought he was holding his lover.

“I’m not that cruel,” he replied, leaving kisses all over your face except your lips. “Let someone kiss you out of love, not out of desperation.”

Ah. You smiled bitterly.

“Alright, I understand,” you replied, your fingers clinging to his arm. “Just…help me forget all of it.”

“Don’t worry, princess. I never disappoint.”

With those words, Aventurine pushed you back to the wall, pinning you so you can't escape while returning his lips to your neck and collarbone. Everything after that felt like a flurry of bodies moving against each other, of lips exploring every nook and cranny, of hands caressing each curve and dip. In the process, he had divested of his shirt together with your underwear.

He refused to take your first kiss, but Aeons…did he take everything he could. At this point, you were leaning against the wall while he was kneeling in front of you, arms circled around your thighs to keep you from moving. You were so dazed, your brain unable to keep up with his relentless ministrations.

“W-What are you…”

“Just stay still, princess. I’ll show you a good time.”

Suddenly, Aventurine buried his face at the apex of your thighs, taking a swipe at your already drenched cunt. He kept at it mercilessly, stimulating your sensitive nub until your knees felt weak and you had to hold on to his shoulders to keep you from falling. It was a totally novel sensation—you never thought it would feel this way, not in your wildest imagination. Even though you had played with yourself numerous times, someone eating you out was definitely something else.

“A-ahh…w-wait! Aven..turine…!”

The stimulation was too strong, and you were scared where you’ll end up if he doesn’t stop now. However, it seems Aventurine had no intention of stopping even though your hands were pulling on his hair. The pain, the sweet taste of your juices, plus the sound of you screaming seemed to only make his pants tighter.

“F-fuck…! I can’t…!”

He always thought there was something innocent about you, even during such dirty acts; and he can’t help himself from bullying you further. So even though you were screaming for him to stop, he only slipped his tongue further into your hole, as his nose brushed against your clit. Your subsequent sobs made all of it worth it.

“Hnghh…!! I c-can’t hold it…Aventurine…p-please!”

You could hardly keep your eyes open anymore. The stimulation was too much that you were already seeing stars. Every time he would press a thumb on your clit, an electric shock would shoot right up your spine, winding you up right until you were at the brink of climax.

“Don’t hold back, princess.”

The rumble of his voice plus a flick of his tongue on your clit were all you needed to come tumbling down; moaning his name over and over again as your body shook and quaked. You have never experienced an orgasm like that in your whole life—so if this was what it felt like when he was only eating you out, what more would it feel like if he was buried inside you to the hilt, filling you to the brim with his cum?

In Aventurine’s eyes, there was no better view than watching you come, all flushed and shaking, while he was squeezed between your plush and soft thighs. If the Aeons permit, he’d love to spend hours just down there pleasuring you over and over again until you pass out.

But that was a thought for another day. For the meantime, Aventurine released you from his confines and caught you in his arms before you fell to the carpeted floor. Even through the mists of post-orgasm, you were entranced by his bright eyes as if they were beckoning you closer. And you nonetheless allowed yourself to be enthralled—kissing his stained cheeks; kissing him anywhere and everywhere you could reach.

And even your kisses seemed so innocent, he thought. An awful guy like him who had taken advantage of you during your moment of weakness does not deserve such kisses. Yet, even though racked by guilt, he couldn’t stop you nor himself. Perhaps he should think like you, pretending this was something fated, something deserved. For tonight, you were lovers.

“Hey…um…” you suddenly pulled him out of his reverie. “I want to…return the favor. Can you…um…teach me how?”

Aventurine was almost too stunned to speak, but he thanked his wit for being able to recover as quickly. Seems like he has chewed more than he could swallow.

“You don’t need to, princess,” he smiled, once again cupping your cheek and brushing a finger on your lips, imagining what dangerous things these lips could do to him. “The pleasure was all mine.”

“No…you don’t understand. I want to…uh…learn how to do it, so to speak…”

He signed internally. Who would have thought little miss Y/N could do this much damage to him? Who knew that cold and frigid little you could affect him so much?

“Then who am I to say no?” he replied with an easy smile. “Let’s start by going on your knees.”

Immediately, you did as you were told. Like an obedient student, Aventurine thought. You were never going to make this easier for his self-control, will you?

The sight of you kneeling, looking at him so innocently did wonders to his brain. It was as if he had stumbled into a power trip—if he wasn’t careful, he’d scare you for life. At the same time, he wasn’t keen on stopping. It was already too late to stop.

“What a good girl,” he remarked absentmindedly, placing a thumb on your lips. He closely watched his thumb press and prod your soft and plush lips, thinking how it would feel around his cock. He thought of you looking at him in anticipation, these lips pressed on the tip of his shaft. He shivered.

Finally, pushing beyond, his thumb was only greeted by your warm tongue.

“That’s right. Imagine it’s my dick. Use your tongue. Suck it, play with it…lick as much as you want.”

You followed his instructions down to the dot. Everything he asks of you, you did perfectly and diligently. Considering who you are, it would be embarrassing to be accused of not following instructions, wouldn’t it?

“Seems like you have an aptitude for this,” he snickered. “Not that I’m surprised.”

In no time, he had three fingers in your mouth—nudging and playing with your tongue, mesmerized by how you wrapped around him. Aventurine couldn’t help but think of his cock in your mouth as you bobbed your head up and down just like how you did with his fingers. He’d bet your mouth would be so warm and tight; he’d come right away.

“Am I doing good?” you asked as you looked up at him, voice muffled by his fingers.

Fuck…

You might’ve not noticed but Aventurine was close to imploding. The naive look on your eyes, your flushed cheeks and how erotic your tongue was wrapped around his fingers—everything about you seemed to be designed to break his self control. He doesn’t fuck like an animal, but Aeons forbid he might as well if you were going to be like this.

“Alright. That’s enough. I think you’re ready,” he pulled out his fingers from your lips and licked them, tasting you as he gazed right into your eyes.

The effect was instantaneous. You shivered in anticipation as you took a nervous gulp. You never imagined anyone would look so sexy while licking their own fingers, but here you were, flushed and bothered. Your core was already drenched since earlier—your sticky juices dripping down your thighs to your legs.

Your thoughts were interrupted by the sound of his belt unbuckling. Once again, anticipation exploded in your gut and made your heart race. You never imagined you’d do something like this, but here you were. Watching as he unzipped his pants, he finally took out his hard cock from its confines. Eyes widening in surprise as you realized how big and hard he was, you suddenly weren’t sure he’d fit in your mouth. Practicing with his fingers seemed like a huge understatement.

“Don’t worry, princess,” he reassured you with a grin on his lips, cupping your cheeks once again. “I’ll be sure to help you out.”

Aventurine then held his hand out to you, which you took immediately.

“Now, I want you to hold me,” he told you, as he placed your hand on the base of his cock. You could feel your heartbeat on your throat, waiting patiently for further instructions.

“You can lick me just like you did with my fingers,” he said, fingers lifting your chin up. “You can take me in nice and slow. I’ll be patient.”

Ignoring the thunderous sound of your heart racing, you tentatively licked the tip of his cock, watching his every reaction with such attention. With every moment passing, you gradually became bolder and more excited, until you earned a growl from Aventurine after swiping your tongue from the base to the tip.

“Hey, easy there, princess,” he chuckled with bated breath. “You’ll make me come in no time.”

For some reason, his breathy groans encouraged you further. There was something so addictive and so enthralling to the sound of his sultry voice, which made you want to please him more. Every time you would trace a vein with your tongue or whenever you suck on his tip, he would hold your hair tightly and try to resist the urge to climax so early.

If Aventurine was honest, he could tell it was really your first time. You were sloppy and slow, and there were times he thought you were teasing him by not going any further. But inexplicably, he was so hot and bothered at that moment. His cheeks were flushed and heated and that certain look on your face whenever you glance up to him for validation could easily snap his sanity into two.

Perhaps it was because he had never expected this side of you. The contrast between your regular self and the you right now was massive, and that certainly had a different appeal in and of itself. The image of you sucking him off, mouth full of his dick will definitely be etched into his mind forever. Whether or not this will happen again, who knows? But he definitely landed on a jackpot once again.

You admit this wild and bothered look on him was something you loved, partly because of how carelessly handsome he is, partly because this was your own doing. You made him become like this, and perhaps you could get him to give you more. Finally gathering the courage, you took him to the hilt, filling your mouth and throat; surprising him with the sensation.

“S-shit…! Y/N!”

Choking out a cry, Aventurine pushed you away and scooped you up over his shoulder. Something definitely snapped in him, you recalled thinking as he tossed you ungracefully to the nearby bed and pinning you on the spot between his legs.

“Who would’ve thought you’d be such a menace?” He chuckled darkly, brushing his messy blond hair with his fingers. “You see, I don’t want to come in your mouth first thing tonight. Rather, I’d like to make a mess here…”

Spreading your legs wide, Aventurine pressed a finger on your wet and sensitive clit, making you cling to the sheets instantly. He easily turned you into a screaming, sobbing mess with his fingers rubbing your drenched folds.

“A-aven…mmnh!! W-wait…ah—!”

The blond didn’t allow for any rest as he smoothly inserted two fingers inside, rubbing your gummy walls until you had trouble spreading your legs. You had no time to think, no time to ruminate on what was happening to you. Aventurine was relentless in his assault, sending waves upon waves of pleasure from your lower part towards the rest of your body. You could hardly keep your eyes open at how intense his fingers were, both attacking your pleasure point and your clit.

It feels good…! It feels so fucking good…

Aventurine chuckled; his eyes almost glowing. “So pretty…my pretty little slut. Are you going to come? Here, let me help you.”

Without stopping his fingers, he leaned forward and started circling his hot tongue around your nipple. He nipped and bit at your soft and supple flesh yet he refused to give you any respite.

“N-no…no…it’s too much! I’m going to…!”

Knowing you were close, he suddenly bit your nipple and pushed his against your g-spot at the same time. Of course, you shuddered and screamed his name as you fell down the peak of your climax. He could only grin at your messy and enthused form, with your thighs drenched with your own juices, your lips stained with drool and tears and your skin littered by marks of his own creation. However, that wasn’t enough. Not enough at all.

“Who would’ve thought this was your first time?” he remarked, fishing out a condom from his pants.

“W-wait…!” you manage in between breaths. “You…don’t have to…I-I came prepared…”

Arching a brow at you, the blond was greatly amused at how far you’d take all of this. “So you really came for the whole experience, huh? My princess is rather diligent.”

Placing himself between your legs, Aventurine began to rub his hard cock on your folds, lathering his shaft with your own juices. On the occasion of his tip brushing against your clit, you would beg and sob for him—unsure if you want to continue, but missing his presence when he decides to pull away.

“A-Aventurine….wait! I just came…nghh!! P-please…!”

“Isn’t this what you asked for, princess?” he taunted, threatening to enter you but suddenly slipping away. “I’m going to fuck you now, are you ready?”

It was the million dollar question; the whole point of tonight. Everything about this encounter was out of desperation and there was definitely no turning back, yet in the end, does it even matter?

Without hesitation, you nodded your head, and repeated your words. “Just help me forget…”

Aventurine scoffed. “Don’t worry. You won’t be able to think of anything but me.”

Not waiting for a reply, Aventurine slowly inserted his cock in you, careful not to be too harsh. You anticipated the pressure, yet you seemed to have grossly underestimated how full you’ll feel as he gently pushed in and out. It was totally different and definitely overwhelming. If he hadn’t made you come twice, you’d probably be crying out in pain now. Leaning over, the blond attempted to distract you from the uncomfortable feeling by assaulting your neck and chest, leaving more love bites in his wake. Finally, with much effort, Aventurine was now fully inside you, yet he still waited for you to get accustomed to his size before doing anything.

“How does it feel?” he asked in a low voice as he bit and licked the underside of your ear.

“Hnnghh….I feel so full,” you managed to reply even though you were breathless. “You’re so big, Aventurine…”

“Here, hold me,” he offered as he directed your arms to circle around his neck. “Just relax.”

You never imagined Aventurine to have this side of him. Even though you could tell he was trying to resist the urge to move, he was being gentle and patient with you. It was as if he was concerned you’d be in pain rather than chasing his own high. It might’ve moved your frigid heart for a moment.

“I…I think I’m fine now…” you finally told him as the discomfort toned down. “Please make me feel good…”

“Anything for you, princess,” he chuckled, nuzzling on your neck as he steadily picked up his pace.

Thank the Aeons you finally allowed him to move. He was almost at his wits’ end, as he struggled to keep himself calm while wrapped around by your warm and tight walls. Even as he gently rocked back and forth inside you, the only thing keeping himself from coming was how he distracted himself with pleasuring you. Amusingly, he also wondered why he was acting like this was his first time.

“Oh god…there! A-ahh! Harder please!” you screamed beside his ear, your hands brushing through his hair at the nape.

“You dirty girl…” he grumbled, thrusting sharply into you. Noticing how you both had finally settled on a rhythm, Aventurine decided to switch positions—now leaning back and holding your hips as he rammed ruthlessly into you.

You immediately saw stars every time his cock pushed against the sensitive spot inside of you, arching your back at the intensity of the pleasure. This was different, so different from the other kinds of pleasures he had shown you tonight. This was primal, this was true and actual mating. You could feel him thrust against the entrance of your womb, intent to fill you up with his cum.

“F-fuck…” he whispered, sensing the closeness of his climax. He could only endure so much, but of course, if he’s going down, you’re going down with him too.

With his thumb, Aventurine began to stimulate your sensitive nub again, rubbing and flicking it, and enjoying your wild screams. The room was filled with your filthy noises—your sobs and cries, his cursing and growls and the sound of skin slapping against skin. It was dirty and obscene, and something you’d remember forever.

“N-No! I’m…coming…a-ahh! Aven…I’m…!”

“Y-yes, come with me, princess. I’ll fill you up with my cum…”

You could feel his movements become erratic, an indication that he was close. You, on the other hand, was no different. Your head was filled with electrifying shocks of pleasure as he drove into you over and over again. You could feel yourself teetering close to your climax, as you begged him to fill you up over and over again.

Finally, in one sharp thrust, both you and Aventurine came. You shook, shivered and screamed as you felt his warmth fill you inside; tightening around him as you continued to ride out your orgasm. Meanwhile, he toppled above you, kissing your face over and over as if in a delirium. He then continued down your jaw, worshipping everywhere his lips could land on except on yours.

“Fuck…” he growled, pushing his still hard cock in you. “Can we do it again?”

It wasn’t everyday that he was this insatiable. He couldn’t understand why but something about you drove him feral, as if he had to breed you several times to feel satisfied. He couldn’t understand where this possiveness came from, but he wanted you so much that it ails him not to hold you.

“W-wait…!” you rasped, arching your back as he once again descended on one of your breasts. “I just c-came…please…”

Aventurine sat back up, watching you as you tried to regain your breath. He could feel his cum inside you, almost dripping out of you, and the thought seemed to entice him to keep you pressed against him.

Lifting you up without pulling out, he turned you around. You landed on all fours as he unrelentingly continued to leave marks from your neck down to your back. You could feel his tongue tracing your spine as he descended down, while his cock continued to go in and out of you.

“A-Aven…turine…! A-ah fuck…!” you cried out, unable to do anything but enjoy what he has to give you.

You honestly felt like you couldn’t come anymore yet the mixture of pain and pleasure was so enthralling that you had to continue. You wanted to be driven up to deliriousness and insanity further, you wanted to know up to what limits he could take you.

Unlike the first time, this round was the purest form of fucking. The both of you were trapped in a haze of lust, unable to stop yourselves from yearning for each other. He was rough and feral, as if he had only one last chance to do whatever he wanted with you, and you allowed it. After all, this was the kind of sex you were asking for—a sex so mind-numbing you stopped thinking altogether. All that mattered was the chase for pleasure and the final thunderous climax.

“Oh Aeons…you feel so good, princess. I don’t want to stop…” he growled as he seized both your wrists and thrusted from the back, roughly going in and out of your hole until his cum began dripping out.

“Please…harder!” you begged, “Fuck me harder…Aventurine…!”

He chuckled in between low grunts. “What a dirty little princess…I’ll make sure you’ll never forget tonight…”

Right when you were so close, Aventurine pulled you to his lap facing him, his cock sinking into you and reaching even deeper places than before. His grip on your hips were bruising as he jerked into you sharply. His mouth was once again on your pulse point, and snaking towards the crook of your neck and then your jaw—if he can’t have your lips, might as well have everything else.

“A-Aventurine…!”

As you moaned out his name, he glanced at you and watched as your face contorted in pleasure, memorizing how you looked in case he will never have the chance again. At that moment, both your lust-laden eyes met and locked both you in place, capturing you in an inescapable spell. Even as he continued to bounce you on top of him, your gazes never wavered.

“Oh Aeons…I want to kiss you so badly…” he growled, eyes half-lidded and lips just a hair’s away from yours.

“Then kiss me…I want you to kiss me…p-please…” you pleaded in desperation.

Yet he only smiled at you somberly.

He wanted this to be real. He wanted to see you, to spend time with you again, not only just for tonight. Yet at the same time, Aventurine knew that if he gave you everything, you’d really have nothing else left to hold you back. He knew why you came to him tonight, why you wanted him to take your first time. He could see it in your eyes—the despair and the hopelessness, and how you didn’t care anymore. But he does, against his better judgement. He does, because he sees that same hopelessness reflected in his own eyes. So even if he wanted to taste those sweet lips now, he'd hold off.

“Focus, princess,” he ordered, thrusting into your g-spot to numb your head.

To distract you, he pinched your clit and relentlessly pounded into you. He knew that was any easy ticket to your orgasm, though he was not spared. Your walls would tighten like a vice around him whenever you were close, and he himself couldn’t hold off that long.

With all his ministrations going on at the same time, you could no longer think about anything except your pleasure and how you were so close. But in one stroke against your sensitive spot, Aventurine had you coming down from your high in a disastrous tumble, with you shaking on his laps as you squirted on him. He followed soon after, unable to deny himself any longer. Ropes of cum filled you once again, savoring a feeling of warmth in your womb as you teetered at the edge of consciousness. The last thing you remembered was the sensation of his lips on your forehead, bidding you good night and promising to clean up after you.

By the time you woke up, you could see slits of light peeking from the heavy curtains. You were definitely clean as promised, but now you were alone. Of course you were. It was a transaction after all.

Cursing at how sore you felt, you spotted a note on the nightstand as you moved to stand up. You could only chuckle after reading.

Ask me to kiss you if we meet again. -A

P.S. I’ll treat you to dinner if you do.

#honkai star rail #hsr aventurine #honkai star rail x reader #aventurine x reader #aventurine honkai star rail

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sometimescozy · 1 year

Text

Filling Her Role, Pound by Pound

(extreme weight gain, immobility, humiliation, force feeding, burping)

“And here we are. Home sweet home.” said the royal secretariat to the diminutive figure beside her as they looked towards the imposing mahogany doors they had just stopped in front of. She was as stone-faced as ever, not even bothering to look the ex-princess beside her in the eye.

“Oh… so this… is meant to be my new living quarters…?”

“Correct. I had it arranged at once, once you’d shown yourself to be willing to cooperate.” The royal advisor impatiently fiddled with the pages of the clipboard she had tucked into her chest. She looked as if she wanted to be just about anywhere other than here.

“I… I see! How… accommodating of you!” Madeleine deliberated over every word, feeling out the secretariat’s reactions with worried glances during each gap in the conversation. She realized better than anyone just how precarious her situation was, and she wasn’t looking to do anything to jeopardize it when she was the closest to anything she could describe as stability in eons.

Madeleine, once the princess and heir to the throne of the most powerful line of canine nobles the Hallowed Isles had ever seen, was now the sole member of the once all-powerful Aldwulf main family not currently locked up several hundred feet under the castle ground floor by the newly empowered Lupus family. As a family member not associated with its political branch, she had been told that she would receive preferential treatment, and would be allowed to serve a brand new position in the royal cabinet, made just for her. It was preferential treatment predicated on her assumed harmlessness, and she intended to show just how harmless she could really be.

“Well, no reason to delay any further. Let’s get you situated.”

As the secretariat stepped forward, a pair of maids silently moved ahead of her to push open the double doors without even needing to be told. The princess lifted her frilly white dress and scurried along behind her.

The room that they stepped into was a somewhat sterile wash of white and grays, the occasional pink trim and scarlet red drapes breaking up the monotony. Tremendous pale columns framed the light pink carpet that stretched down the expanse of the elongated chamber, giving it a throne-room-esque appearance befitting of an aristocrat. Curiously though, Madeleine noted, was that there wasn’t much furniture to be seen, the side walls largely sparse for what was supposed to be her primary living space. Even more curious though, was what lied at the far end of the chamber. An exceedingly large mattress filled the vast majority of the far wall, placed under a structure that looked like something between a canopy bed and a farmer’s market stall. Was this… supposed to be a throne?

“Oh…! How… unique! I’ve never seen a dwelling quite like this before!” Madeleine could only do so much to hide her confusion as she searched for a way to compliment the bizarre arrangement. Casually strolling over to the mystery mattress, she plopped herself down by its edge to better assess what it actually was she was looking at. “Is this… meant to be my throne?” She gently stroked her hand over the silky mattress cover.

“Hmph. Well, you could put it like that.” She let out an exhale that sounded almost amused. “Well then, if we’re all ready, let’s get this wrapped up.” In one swift motion, she handed off her clipboard to a maid in her peripheral, and clapped twice, the crack of her gloved hands reverberating off of the barren walls of the cryptic throne room. Not skipping a beat, two maids collapsed upon Madeleine’s perched position in the center of the mattress. Two metallic clicks were heard, and each maid backed away with a segment of rope in hand, both of which were firmly secured to the steel cuffs that now binded the wrists of the thoroughly bewildered princess.

“Wh-wha… what is…” The princess couldn’t complete a full sentence, her mind racing a mile a minute

“Oh. So you weren’t informed, then?”

“In…formed? Of… of what?!” The feigned gracious tone of Madeleine's voice fell as her panic grew, turning to her side to see the maids fastening her restraints to the supports of the canopy.

The secretariat’s eyes widened. “Of… the position you’ve been assigned? You hadn’t even bothered to ask what exactly you’d be doing?” Her mouth twitched at its corners. The level of ineptitude being displayed by this goldilock’d little fool was beyond what she could’ve ever imagined.

“I was told that I would be receiving preferential treatment! What kind of preferential treatment is this meant to be?!” Madeleine’s face had twisted into a furious scowl, staring venom-soaked daggers into the traitorous desk jockey before her.

“Oh, preferential treatment, undoubtedly. You’ll be given everything you could possibly want, princess. And so, so much more” The secretariat folded her arms behind her back as she began to pace. “You see, to put it frankly, you’re… useless. Just entirely, utterly incompetent. There is no existing formal position that we could give you that a dozen of your own former servants couldn’t do with infinitely more proficiency than you could ever muster.”

“You… you ingracious little… “ Madeleine's hair stood on end as she growled through gnashed teeth.

“Naturally, we didn’t create a special position in the royal cabinet for you because of any talent you possess. You, princess, have something much more useful to us.” Swiveling on her heels, the secretariat spun towards the princess and leaned towards her until their noses were mere inches apart.

“Your pride.”

“H-huh?!”

“You see, what you are is a symbol. Everyone in the Aldwulf kingdom cherished their beloved princess, and her radiant golden hair that glimmered like the sun. And undoubtedly, there’s plenty out there that still hold that image in their mind. The last brilliant ember of the kingdom that once was. Some might even yearn to see that ember grow into a great blaze, a blaze that consumes all, leaving only an emptiness. A vacuum, free to be occupied by those foolhardy enough to stoke the fire in the first place.” She said this as she backed away from the princess, turned towards a maid, and gestured towards the doors.

“Now, obviously, my superiors don’t want that. And that’s where you come in.” As she said this, the large mahogany double doors at the entrance of the room parted, and in came what looked like the preparations of an excessively lavish banquet. Carts piled high with roasted turkeys, parfaits, bowls full of boiled legumes, every holiday-time dish you could think of.

“It seems you’re so hopelessly lost that you haven’t even managed to catch wind of the name of your new title, so allow me to inform you: as of today, you are officially the royal cabinet’s one and only “Paragon of Excess.”

The princess was too bewildered to offer a response beyond slack jawed staring. She had an inkling of where this was going, but the notion was so absurd that she couldn’t bring herself to believe it.

“There’s a saying that goes, ‘a populace is a reflection of the values of its rulers.’ And you are to become a ruler that perfectly reflects the values we wish to see out of your former subjects: well-fed, docile, and utterly, entirely dependent.”

“You… accursed wretch! Why would I play along with anything that you cretins- hrrrrmph?!” Madeleine’s outrage was swiftly interrupted by the bread roll that was now crammed several inches past her lips, her jaw forced open by the black-gloved hand that now tightly gripped her mandible. The secretariat wiped the crumbs off of her free hand with her pants suit top.

“We don’t need you to play along, princess. You will eat. You will eat more than you ever imagined yourself capable of. And you will grow, and grow, and grow ever fatter until you’re so incredibly overburdened by your excess blubber that you wouldn’t be able to feed yourself without our help even if you wanted to. You will grow to fill every inch of this mattress bed. I will make sure of that, Madeleine.”

The princess’s eyes widened to the size of the saucers piled meters high on the carts in front of her. Her breathing began to grow ragged and heavy, the gravity of her predicament finally starting to settle in.

“Oh, did you really think you were going to be allowed to walk away scot free? As if you had no involvement in the many moons of tyranny the Aldwulfs inflicted on this land? No, my dear, silly little princess. You have a debt to pay. And you’ll be paying it off calorie by calorie, watching your waistline ever increase as you fatten up into the perfect, picturesque “Paragon of Excess” that you were always meant to be.” The secretariat traced the fingers of her free hand from the bony sternum to the tense midriff of the princess's lithe abdomen.

Tears of indignation welled up in the eyes of the disempowered royal. She had nowhere to run, nobody she could turn to in this castle she once called her own.

“I do hope you’re hungry, by the way. Your breakfast is long overdue.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Please, princess… this would be much easier for the both of us if you’d just sit still...” The unfortunate curly-haired maid that had been given feeding duty today wiped her brow as she tried and failed to have the uncooperative brat before her open her mouth to eat the last of the danishes that had been loaded up onto the princess’s lunch cart.

“Mmmmrrrph!! N-no!!!” Hundreds of pounds of pale fleshy rolls were sent wobbling to and fro as the princess struggled, cherry paste smeared on her rounded cheeks from the maid’s many failed attempts to guide each pastry into her mouth.

Several months worth of being unwillingly pampered and fed had piled up onto the princess’s modest frame, and had ballooned her out into the fattest girl in the castle, bar none. Cascading rolls of adipose stacked like breakfast pancakes wrapped around her once slender form. Her tremendous ass spilled out over her bedsheets like a sack of gelatin, indenting the mattress where she sat. Her couch filling thighs tapered off to cankles that rode up over her dainty black shoes. Her pillowy upper arm fat rested comfortably against her flabby chest rolls. She was on her third set of cuffs, the last two having to be refitted after her swelling arm fat threatened to cut off circulation to her hands.

But what trounced all of that in magnitude was her tremendous slab of belly fat, which flooded out from underneath her previously ankle length dress, and entirely filled her generous plot of lap space. It surged far enough in front of her that it threatened to swallow up her knees in due time. She was nursing a full pantry’s worth of meals in her gut, the turgid mass of half-digested foodstuffs visibly bulging from the otherwise soft blanket of tummy fat. It audibly gurgled and groaned, seemingly only growing further upset by its owner’s constant squirming.

The amount of energy this girl had despite her current conditions was astounding. The exasperated maid girl was running out of patience. “Please, mistress, just this one last-”

As she spoke, the princess jerked her mass around all at once. Her rounded face collided with the incoming danish, sending it, and its cherry-flavored jam filling, careening into the marble tiling below.

“...Ah…” The commotion brought on the stares of a few other maids that had stayed behind to sweep the floor, before quickly resuming their work. Wasted food was a no-go when feeding the princess, she would undoubtedly be admonished for this. She stood up to grab a replacement danish, but quickly found that the breadbox was sorrowfully danish-less. She would have to march all the way back across the castle to the royal pantry just to get another. She clenched her teeth in frustration. “Why should I have to deal with… with this?”

“Ha! Serves you… hff… right, you lowbred… uuuoorp… cur!” The princess still managed to get a few petty jabs in through all her belching and wheezing.

“Just one more.” the maid thought to herself. “Just one more danish, and I’ll be able to return to my quarters. Just bear with it.” The maid grabbed the handlebars of the foodcart that she’d wheeled in a little under an hour ago, and prepared to start her trek down the long, winding castle corridors to retrieve another treat for this infuriating little aristocrat.

“Figures, that a… hah… low class mongrel like you wouldn’t even be fit to.. hrrp… feed me by hand! Maybe try looking into a… hff… position with the castle waste disposal services, that might be more your speed!”

The cart, and the maid attached to it, came to an abrupt halt as the princess finished. There was an uncomfortable silence in the air as the maid stood with her back turned, unmoving.

The princess was the first to speak. “W-what, did I… hff… strike a nerve with that one?”

“You know… they give us servants a lot more freedom with your diet than you would think, princess..” The maid calmly opened one of the cart’s side doors, and began rifling through its contents.

“What, hoping you’ll find another danish somewhere in… huuorp… those dusty little drawers?” A wry grin made its way across the face of the princess as she mocked her current feeder.

“No, mistress, we both know that’d be a waste of my time. This, however… is just what I was looking for.” As she said this, she pulled out a white ceramic pitcher, large enough to hold at least a gallon or so of liquid. “I’ve heard that you can be a bit sensitive to dairy, mistress. I just can’t remember though… does this “heavy whipping cream” stuff have a lot of that?” The maid repeatedly tapped her chin and furrowed her brow in as overtheatrically a manner as she could manage. “I just have suuuch trouble remembering these things sometimes…” She began to emotionlessly march towards her mistress’s position on the mattress, jug of extremely dairy dense cream in hand. “Anyways, you’ve got a bit more room for a palate cleanser, right, princess?”

The wry smile of the overconfident brat was quickly replaced with a look of abject horror. “S.. s-stop!! Of course it has milk in it, you fool!! What do you think you’re doing?!”

“Ah… sorry princess! Things like this don’t come naturally to someone as low class as me!” Despite her apologetic tone, she continued towards the princess unabated.

Madeleine realized now that she wasn’t joking. She was about to be made to drink the entire pitcher of thick, sweetened cream if she didn’t do something drastic.

“P-please… I… I take it back… I’m… I’m s-sorry, ma’am…” the princess groveled through her teeth, forced to swallow her pride to avoid digestive ruination. She found not a drop of sympathy in the glacial gaze of the maid girl rapidly closing the distance between them.

“I-I’ll be good, I’ll eat the danishes, I- glrk!” Her pleading was cut short by the ceramic lip of a milk pitcher placed into her mouth. The maid's other hand was clasped firmly around her nose, keeping her entirely unable to draw another breath until she’d made enough progress in that pitcher to clear an airway for her mouth.

“glrk… glnk… glrnk… glnk…” she frantically chugged away at the dense cream, the pressure in her already overpacked stomach mounting with every gulp. Her eyes fluttered, the shock of taking on so much pressure at once making the sides of her vision go fuzzy. The effect on her digestive tract was immediate, the volume and frequency of her belly’s burbling increasing by the second. The tightening, reddened swell of her upper belly steadily hiked her dress further up, revealing more and more soft belly flesh with every gulp. Rivulets of cream dribbled past her lips and down her soft chin, the princess unable to fully keep up with the overwhelming f“I’m… I’m going to burst…” The princess could only shut her eyes and pray that the elasticity of her stomach would hold.

“glrnk… guh!” With an exasperated gasp, the pitcher is pulled away from Madeleine’s mouth, the flecks of foam splashing from its rim the only contents that remained.

“haaah… haaauuUUUUOOOORP- urrgh...” The princess’s horrendously bloated belly rose and fell in short, jerky gasps, her overstretched diaphragm compressing her chest, preventing her from comfortably filling her lungs completely. The sullen maid looking down on her ruined form couldn’t help but feel a twinge of sympathy for her, even through her vitriol for the haughty (fomerly) little brat. “Maybe… I went a bit overboard.” Glancing over her shoulders, the maid nestled herself into the warm flank of the plushy princess. Pressing her face between her hanging arm fat and the roll that connected her backfat and breast, she inhaled as deeply as she could. The overpampered princess almost had a cloyingly sweet scent to her. She’d been frequently scrubbed and spritzed with the most luxurious lotions and fragrances available to the entire kingdom, but no amount of artificial aroma could cover up the acridity of her sweaty, overtaxed body. Ironic, that her smell would match her personality so fittingly.

The princess was hardly in a lucid enough state to protest, a feeble groan the only response she had to such an invasive act. “Uuuurrggllllgghh…”

“Mistress, I… may have been… a bit harsh today.” As she said this, the maid began gently kneading circles into the maid’s soft underbelly. “But it’s our job to feed you, and it’s your responsibility to dutifully eat what you’re fed… okay?

“UUUUOOORP- mmmMnNnnn…” The princess was too busy struggling to remain conscious to formulate any kind of coherent response. The dairy in her belly was working overtime on her digestive system, the churning and bloating it was causing slowly ramping up the pressure inside of her every second. Rumbly, humid belches escaped her mouth every few seconds, her body doing everything in its power to alleviate tension.

“The maidstaff works very, very hard to keep you bathed and fed… So be a bit more cooperative the next time we do this… okay? Not just me, but the other maids as well… okay?”

“MmmmMMmrrrMmph…” Madeleine’s incoherent moaning was the closest thing to an affirmation the maid would get out of her in this state.

“Good. Now just relax, princess. You did very well.” The maid leaned in to plant a light kiss on the painfully reddened apex of Madeleine’s drum tight upper belly.

Madeleine didn’t even care. She was just… so sleepy. All she could think about was how heavy her eyelids felt, and how… comfortable her mattress felt. And then, without warning, everything went black, and she fell into a deep, long sleep.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The clinking of plates shuffling reverberated through the halls. Dozens of bread boxes, filled with the highest quality baked goods money could buy were packed like sardines into the heavy wooden cart making its way down the castle hall. Today was a big day. This afternoon would mark the annual anniversary of the princess’s coronation as the “Paragon of Excess,” and on her family name, Lucille C. Vanderbilt, standing head maid of the Lupus monarchy, would make sure that it would be a grand occasion.

Reaching the doors to the princess’s grand throne room, a low, bassy murmuring could be heard even through the thick mahogany door panels. “Goodness! It seems the princess is feeling eager today…!” Lucille murmured under her breath excitedly. The day was off to as good of a start as she could’ve possibly hoped.

Pushing her cart through the wide double doors, the maid couldn’t help but grin at the grotesquely spoiled lump of excess that sat before her.

“Good morning, my wondrously plump lady!”

“HUUUOORRP… hmph.”

The maid could only beam with pride at the tremendous, pouty pile of plush that was the former princess. The once petit Madeleine was sitting just as she usually was, and considering the size she was currently at, where she would almost certainly be for the foreseeable future. The princess had ballooned into a staggeringly colossal mound of blubber, her growing form having swelled to fill the better half of the once staggeringly oversized mattress. Bare flesh spilled everywhere, her dress having been outsized to the point of redundancy. Each of her tremendous asscheeks pushed far enough out from it that they could be seen from the front. They had grown to rise above her head when sitting, and lifted her useless feet almost a full foot from her seat. Her fully exposed belly fat sagged all the way past the lip of the mattress, gently kissing the floor beneath. Two flabby breasts adorned by widened pink teats sat heavily on top of it, having grown too large to be contained by her woefully undersized dress months ago. Madeleine had grown into an impotent pile of lard. Willingly or not, she had grown into her title better than she ever could’ve imagined.

“...You’re late.” As she grew closer, the roaring of Madeleine’s ravenous guts became ever-increasingly audible. She’d already cleared away enough turkey to feed a small village that same morning, and yet her stomach bellowed out like she hadn’t eaten in a week.

“Apologies, mistress, I had to make certain all of the preparations made for today were in order.” Lucille pushed the cart to an open space next to the princess’s throne, and then circled back to approach the princess from the front. “After all, it’s a very big day for a very big puppy, isn’t it!” She began to rub large, sweeping circles into the princess’s paunch, sending ripples through her tub of wobbly belly fat.

“Nrrrrrngggh… UORP… hnnn… UUURP” The princess could only squirm and whine as her face flushed a bright shade of pink from the maid’s condescension. Short belches forced their way out of her lips, jostled out from the depths of her digestive tract by the maid’s vigorous kneading.

“I’m sure you must be positively starving after going a whole 2 hours without eating, huh? A girl like you needs all the food she can get, after all!”

“...Not particularly.” Madeleine’s eyes fell to her chest as her stomach let out a particularly loud burble.

“Ohoho! Of course, my lady.” Briefly pausing her massage of the princess’s tremendous midsection, Lucille began to walk back towards the cart she’d left by the princess’s flank.

“Then surely, you wouldn’t have the appetite for such an indulgent dessert then, would you…?”

“What do you…” As she began to speak, Lucille opened the side cabinets of the cart, and a wave of tart, saccharine aromas flooded the senses of the princess. “Is… is that…?!” She’d recognize it anywhere. Her favorite dessert from long since before she had become the subject of a months-long ritualistic fattening project, custard pie. It had been well over a year since she’d been able to even taste her beloved treat, but no amount of time could remove that distinctive scent from her memory.

“Indeed it is, princess! I had it specially made for today, to celebrate your anniversary as our perfect little paragon of gluttony!” Picking up one of the pie tins, she lifted it to the princess’s face, hovering it just below her nose. Madeleine’s senses were being overwhelmed, every breath bringing in a fresh wave of sweet, flaky pleasure.

“G-Give it! Gimme! P-HUUUORP-please…!” The princess began to wildly thrash about in her restraints, several tons of soft puppy fat undulating like the tides of the ocean as she impotently struggled to seize the delectable treat that sat mere inches from her face.

“Ah ah ah, my greedy little butterball, not so fast!” The pie was sharply pulled back, as Lucille pressed her index finger into the tip of the princess’s nose.

“H-huh…? Wh… why?” Saliva dribbled from the princess’s greedy lips, the former monarch unable to hide her desperation.

“Now, now… patience is a virtue, dear Madeleine. You’ll have your pie yet. But first…” Lucille stepped off of the side of the mattress she had climbed upon, and began to pace. “...We must make a deal!”

“A… deal…?” Madeleine sat helplessly, twitchy and restless, afraid of what Lucille would say next. She’d have turned her nose up at such a suggestion a short while ago, but she was gradually learning not to get overly defiant with the maid staff.

“Yes, my lady! A deal! As today is a special day, and this is a very special treat, I figured it’d only be right if you were to display particularly special behavior, no?” Lucille turns towards the princess sporting a grin that was downright devilish. “So, princess.” As she said this, she circled back around to the princess’s side, and with all the grace she could manage in a frilly white apron, vaulted herself atop the princess’s heaping boulder of belly fat, and clasped her piggish cheeks between her supple fingers. “I want you to do something for me first.”

“Nnnnnnrrrrgh… Wh… whauUUOOOORRRP- what… do you mean by-HUUUOORP- that…?” Lucille’s weight was forcing ever more belches from Madeleine’s turbulent gut.

“Oh, it’s simple, princess! I just need you to say one simple phrase:”

“Please, Madam Lucille, fatten me into the helpless plump princess I was always meant to be!”

A deafening silence filled the room as Madeleine took in what she’d just heard. “C… come again…?” squeaked out the princess, unsure if this was meant to be a practical joke of some sort.

“Of course my lady! I want you to say: Please, Madam Lucille, fatten me into the helpless over-plumped princess I was always meant to be!" She put special emphasis on the most humiliating parts of the phrase, reveling in her power over the rotund royal.

"...Surely you can't be serious." The princess's tone became cold. A hint of the princess's dignified noble spirit of old flickered in her eyes.

"Oh, I'm being very serious, my lady! For such a special treat, surely such a simple task shouldn't be a big deal, right? And, well, you are a very helpless, and very plump princess, after all, right?" She wobbled Madeleine's tremendous jowls around like underfilled water balloons.

"Mmmmrrrph..."

"And mistress, you know as well as I do that the only way a helpless over-plumped princess like you is getting that pie is by doing exactly as i say... right?

"...Mnnnnrmmmph..." Madeleine shut her eyes. She already knew how this would end.

"So... let's make this easy for the both of us, okay?" She lifted the tin of warm custardy goodness back under the princess's nose. "Now... what does a good princess say?"

"I... I'm... um... I..." Madeleine stammered as she tried to find a way out of this that didn't involve giving up her beloved dessert.

"Come on...! You can do it...!"

"P... Plea..." Madeleine's eyes darted back and forth between the pie and a portrait of her former figure that sat on the wall beside her.

"It's okay... be a good girl, and you can have as muuuch as you'd like..." Lucille cooed at her, rhythmically stroking the princess's fattened cheek as she dangled the pie tin in front of her like a hypnotist sedating their victim. Saliva dribbled from the princess’s greedy lips. Her composure was melting away by the second.

"P... Please, Madam Lucille, fatten me into the helpless over-plumped princess I was always meant to be! Please, I-BUUUOOORP- I'll be good, just give me the pie, please!! I'll do anything, I- mmmmppphh!" A warm spoonful of thick, creamy pie filling flooded her cheeks midway through her groveling. Ecstasy washed over her body, any kind of shame that she felt entirely overridden by raw sugary bliss.

"Good princess...! Good girl...!" Lucille excitedly stroked the princess's head as she cooed. This truly couldn't have gone any better.

"Mmmmmm... Nnnnnnnnnnnn..." Madeleine could only moan desperately through her mouthful of custard. The only thing she could think was just how badly she wanted more.

"Now... for the rest of your reward!"

Spoonful by spoonful, Madeleine gradually packed away nearly a full bakery's worth of pies, hardly even stopping to catch her breath. The pressure in her belly mounted bit by bit, her gut swelling into a turgid boulder of densely packed pie filling coated in a thick layer of puppy fat.

"Nnnnrrrrgh..." About two-thirds of the way through her meal, the princess let out a groan of discomfort, a telltale sign that she was nearing max capacity.

"Oh deary me, someone's getting a bit full, isn't she?" Popping the spoon out of the princess's pursed lips, she began to rub the princess's chest in short circles. "Maybe it'd be worth taking a short break..."

"N-No!!" yelped Madeleine. Almost instinctively, she tugged at her bindings, her head jerking towards the spoon that had been so rudely removed from her mouth. "I- UURP- I'll be fine... just... more pie, please..."

Lucille let a sharp exhale out of her nose. "My, my, a cart full of custard pie was all it really took to pacify our normally so unruly mistress? Ohohoho!"

"Mmmmrrrpph..." Petulant grumbling was just about the greatest show of defiance Madeleine was able to manage at this point.

After several more minutes of feeding, the cart had been emptied out. Madeleine sat in a blissful daze, the buttery delicacy sitting heavily in her reddened, tightly filled gut. Lucille sat by her side, massaging her overpacked midsection, and listening to the steady stream of burps that she elicited from the food-drunk doughball.

A warmth filled the air. Even with the painfully overstretched stomach that she nursed, even with her tremendously fat, half-naked body pinning her to the mattress below, even with this sickeningly affectionate maid stroking her like one would stroke a needy housepet, Madeleine felt... good. Better than she ever could've expected to feel after being delegated to the unwilling role of the castle butterball. Somehow... she felt like she could get used to this.

"Lucille..."

"Yes, my lady?"

"If-HHUUUOOORRP- if I'm good... will I... BUUOOORP- ...get more pie...?"

A devilish grin stretched across Lucille's kind face. Finally. Any trace of the proud, aristocratic spirit inside of this wobbly pile of fattened princess was gone. She had finally truly become the “Paragon of Excess” that she was meant to be.

"As much as you'd like, my dear...!"

#weight gain #feederist #stuffed belly #puppyposting #immobile #my art #text post

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yuri-for-businesswomen · 8 months

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why does liberal feminism have such a chokehold on germany? its fucking weird because germany overall is conservative and also shaped by christian beliefs, and unlike the usa for example we have a less liberal government, more regulations, a social market economy. yet radical (real) feminism is a fringe phenomenon at best. most people already react allergic if you bring up quotas and the gender pay gap, the most lukewarm „work within the system“ takes (which is not unique to germany but worth mentioning).

germany is in the european union and yet to my knowledge the only country besides the netherlands in the union that has completely liberalised prostitution, when france has adapted the nordic model and even the dutch are going back and getting more restrictive. if i remember correctly germany is also leading in porn production within the eu and the „world champion“ in watching porn (side fact: i am… beyond disturbed that 25 % of worldwide online search requests are for porn).

meanwhile abortion is still technically illegal (albeit decriminalised and accessible with some obstacles), mothers still take on the lion share of childcare (which often leads to poverty at old age) and single mothers are among the groups most at risk of poverty. tell me you hate women without saying it: advertising for brothels, fetish clubs etc is allowed, but it was illegal until only a year ago for gynaecologists to „advertise“ abortions (which just means informing about abortion on your website, not actual ads) while prostitution has been liberalised over 20 years ago and „luxus escort“ salomé balthus who shamelessly uses the attention to promote her book and own escort agency gets to write columns from welt (conservative newspaper) to süddeutsche (liberal newspaper). and so on.

sex sells but womens liberation does not.

#mine #germany

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popjunkie42 · 4 months

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The Thief and the Rake

Chapter Four - Say You’ll Remember Me

Read on AO3

Summary: A simple promenade at Kensington Gardens turns quite eventful as the sisters Archeron make several new acquaintances.

Thank you to @witch-and-her-witcher for the beta read!!

Chapter under the cut:

• —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —– •

Five days, and no constables had shown up at the door.

Plenty of gentlemen, though. Every morning a flurry of tea and sugary pastries and fine cravats tucked into collars attached to suitors - some blushing, some blustering, some arrogant or boorish. Feyre had sat with them, along with her sisters, smiling and silent until her eye twitched and she longed for her stained boots and a trek through the forest.

After they left, Elain cooed over the gifts until Nesta descended on them with an unsentimental eye. Any present from someone deemed unworthy was passed to Feyre, destined for the pawn shop or street corner. A cycle to put new coins in the fingers of the modiste.

Yesterday, the sisters had turned an extravagant bouquet into the two fine parasols Elain and Nesta now sported as the sisters ambled through Kensington Garden.

Taking part in a promenade in the gardens — a place to see and be seen, which seemed antithetical to Feyre’s own goals for the next few months. Still, she couldn’t help but feel a bit of fresh air and green would do her good.

The breeze was gentle and the air was warm with the first rays of the spring sun. Though the grass was still dull, the trees were full of singing birds, the first buds of flowers and new leaves making an appearance.

And everyone who was anyone in London was out in force.

The park was littered with color — parasols and skirts spread out on the ground on woven blankets, the parties partaking in fine picnics.

Today, spring threatened to truly break free on the city like a wild storm as everyone flocked to the fresh air of the pristine gardens.

Like all things in the city, it took some getting used to. Feyre trailed behind her sisters with their new parasols, observing.

Nesta had been using their time wisely, and after the finely polished shoes of gentlemen callers stepped from their door, she was deep in research. Which seemed to be a mix of scouring newspapers and gossip columns, even so far as her making an appointment at the register’s office to check on the title and holdings of several gentlemen.

The missions she dragged Elain and Feyre on were much more pleasant. The market, tea at a cafe, and desserts at a chocolaterie. At each site, Feyre watched with a mild sense of awe as Nesta set her trap.

It was Elain, sweet and smiling, who drew in the members of the ton like bees to a flower. Young women came: some bashful and polite, others calculating and clawed, sizing up their competition. Gentlemen of all ages approached, drawn by the light of Elain’s radiant smile.

Elain welcomed and soothed them. Nesta waited for the right moment to sink in her claws, using a mix of flattery and what seemed to Feyre to be veiled threats to tease out information and garner invitations.

Feyre tried to drink her tea in a genteel way that would avoid a death glare from her eldest sister. At least the sweets were delicious enough to make the trip worthwhile.

When was the last time she had tasted such delightful confections? She could hardly recall, and by the dreamy look in even Nesta’s eye, she imagined her sisters couldn’t either.

With every bite, that cold cottage moved farther and farther away, into the realm of forgotten nightmares.

It was odd, seeing the stiff dresses and layered suits and shining dress shoes here in this flourishing garden. But although the hedges were trimmed and the grounds managed with a firm gardener’s eye, Feyre could smell the dirt and the green down to her bones.

The desire to slip off her shoes and socks and let her feet sink into the grass threatened to overwhelm her.

She could tie up her skirts and wade into the pond, searching for something to roast over a fire, the way Lucien had taught her. Afterwards she could curl up under the trailing leaves of that willow tree, sleeping behind its curtains and on a soft bed of leaves and petals. Alone and free, away from wandering eyes, finally taking a deep breath for the first time all week.

Instead, her tight, pinching shoes scraped against the gravel path. The sisters walked slowly, on display, eyes turning to watch them as they passed.

A cool breeze kicked up, and the scent of grass and new blossoms filled her nose. Feyre closed her eyes and pretended they weren’t surrounded by sneers and curious looks. Imagined fecund spring in the forest, bringing a full belly and the witnessed magic of growing things, waking after winter. She imagined resting in the crook of her favorite tree…

And ran straight into someone.

Someone as unyielding as a tree trunk. Feyre hadn’t a moment to think as she tumbled backwards towards the ground, panic at another silly faux pas flaring in her gut, until broad, warm hands were on her, holding her suspended in the air. Her eyes flew open and a cry was in her mouth – an apology, an accusation — she didn’t know, until the words died on her lips.

Standing over her was the most handsome man she had ever laid eyes on.

And he was grinning, grinning like a cheshire cat.

”Hello, darling. Looks like I’ve finally caught you.”

Every hair on her body stood up at attention, and she froze like a doe staring down an arrow.

That voice…

The man’s blue eyes, so vibrant they were nearly purple, seemed to twinkle as they watched the panic flash across her face. Eyes like sparkling violet sapphires that were locked in her dresser drawer. His grin only grew, the whites of his teeth looking vicious. That slightly feral look of pleasure so incongruous with his aristocratic looks: his hair blue-black and brushed back from his face, skin kissed by the sun, high, sharp cheekbones and a distinguished Roman nose.

Hello, darling.

Against her will, she felt a tightening in her gut, her body recalling that graveled purr against her ear under the moonlight.

Her feet threatened to slip from under her, her body itching to bolt, but his hands still held her firm, one banded around her waist and another wrapped tightly around her bicep in a strange pantomime of a dance.

Panic rose within her and set her blood boiling.

She was trapped in his arms. He was going to call the constable. He was going to haul her in to the Magistrate on Bow Street. Everyone would see. Including her sisters, who she had failed at the very first instance. And the penalty for stealing from the aristocracy…a noose, not a necklace, around her neck.

She opened her mouth, to plead, to bargain when —

“Rhys? Who is this?”

Maybe when she had closed her eyes she had stumbled into a fairytale. Standing behind her captor was a glowing goddess of a woman, her blond hair in loose curls cascading down her back, contrasting with a blood-red dress and an embroidered gold jacket Feyre knew she could never steal enough to afford.

But the woman’s face was kind, if a bit perplexed, as she fixed Feyre with her soft brown eyes and a smile.

Feyre’s mouth could only open, then hinge shut. A fish caught on a line.

The man, confident enough that she was in too much of a state of shock to run, pulled her back to standing, releasing his grip from her waist, something wild and dangerous sparking in his eyes.

After too long of a silence, he finally chimed in with that deep, sonorous voice that sent shivers down her skin. “This lady attended our ball. We met, briefly, but I unfortunately didn’t merit a proper introduction.”

“Ah. Well, I’m Lady Morrigan.” Another gentleman, obviously of nobility, stepped up beside her, a brow raised in amused confusion at the odd scene. “And this is Grand Duke Nolan, our guest for the week as he takes in the sights.”

Feyre looked ahead to see her sisters far beyond her, having not even noticed she wasn’t behind them anymore. She was on her own and unable to squeak out a single word.

“And –”

“Please, call me Rhys.”

Feyre stiffened, sure he was mocking her. Her annoyance lead her to her voice.

“That doesn’t seem entirely proper, sir.”

Lady Morrigan was smiling, her face bright and open like the summer sun. “My cousin is the Viscount Sterling, although he hates to stand on ceremony most days.”

Sterling…Sterling…the ball…

Oh, God. He was the host. Of course he was, Feyre thought, cursing her sluggish mind. A Viscount, the owner of that grand manor, that could house her village and feed them all with the forgotten jewelry pillowed in dust.

His smile was a fiendish slash across his handsome features.

“Has my name stolen your voice away, lady, or can we be properly introduced?”

Feyre cursed the aristocracy, the King, the insufferable rules of society that were going to force her to politely give her name up to the man she had robbed. All moisture had left her mouth and amidst the cold fear in her stomach, a momentary thought that she would love nothing more than to claw that insufferable smile off of his face with her fingernails.

“Feyre Archeron,” she managed to rasp.

“Miss Feyre Archeron,” the Viscount repeated after her, each syllable rolled gently in his mouth. Like he was mocking her. Like he was dictating out the conviction himself. Feyre shivered. “I look forward to furthering our acquaintance, Miss Archeron.”

She was utterly fucked.

“And are you here with your family?” The Grand Duke asked, seeming bored, the opposite of the Viscount’s hawk-eyed lock on her, as he scanned the park while his cane sunk further into the wet grass.

Her gaze traveled again to her sisters, now chatting with a gentleman in the shade, their great concern for her evident.

“I’m here with my sisters. We’re…new. To London.”

The Duke and the Viscount shared a glance between them that set off warning bells in Feyre’s chest. “What a lovely family of sisters,” Graysen said, eyes drifting to them as Elain’s musical laugh traveled across the breeze. “We would be remiss in not showing new arrivals about the place.”

“An excellent notion.” Horrifyingly, the Viscount extended an arm to Feyre, who regarded it like a dead fish.

“You seem to be unsteady on your feet, darling. Please, allow me.”

In a daze, Feyre took his arm, feeling the hand he clasped over her own like irons.

• —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —– •

Nesta’s eyes went wide only for a moment when Feyre introduced the Lady, Viscount and Grand Duke she had reeled in somehow, entirely against her will. Any excitement on her sister’s part would soon be dashed when the Viscount revealed her crimes.

”I hope my little sister has not caused you too much trouble.”

Feyre’s face heated against the accusation. She had, but Nesta needn’t point it out.

Elain, as always, swept in with polite grace. “We so enjoyed the ball on Sunday, my Lord. It was our first and I’m afraid it will be difficult for the rest of the season to be any grander.”

The Viscount bowed his head, a single errant lock of hair springing free to brush over his forehead. He still held Feyre’s hand against his arm, a firm and unyielding grip even as she tried every few minutes to tug it free. Maybe he would promenade her straight to the gallows, smiles and politeness the whole way.

”You’re too kind, Miss Elain. I’m delighted to hear it swept you off your feet.” His eyes, his smile was on Feyre again, and she wondered if he could feel the rapid beat of her heart in her fingertips.

”Come, ladies, the Viscount and I were just saying we would be poor hosts if we didn’t show newcomers the sights of the city.” The Grand Duke extended a gloved hand. “Miss Elain, might I do the honor of showing you the gardens?”

Elain, blushing pink, gently took his outstretched arm, the picture of a perfectly demure lady.

Feyre gave a final, useless tug of her fingers against the Viscount’s grip. This time, she scowled openly as his eyes slid to her.

”Miss Nesta?” Lady Morrigan seemed to pick up on whatever social undercurrents were sliding through this strange new gathering. “I positively love your dress. You must give me the name of your modiste.”

Nesta blinked once, twice, eyeing the Lady’s obviously fine wardrobe of silks and brocade, worth all three of their outfits combined. “I doubt you’ll find them to your liking, lady, but if you insist,” and she turned away to stalk after Elain. Feyre couldn’t find it in her to cringe at her sister’s dismissal, her heart still racing at an unnatural pace.

Lady Morrigan turned back to the Viscount with eyebrows raised. Some look was shared between them, the soft unspoken language of family passing back and forth. Her brown eyes flickered between her cousin and Feyre, and with a light sigh, she smiled and took off after Nesta.

They were alone.

The first few steps down the path in silence were unbearable. But Feyre didn’t know how to begin a polite conversation, much less one with a powerful lord who might ruin her life in the next five minutes.

Fortunately, the Viscount did.

”I am so glad we ran into each other, Miss Archeron. I was quite put out we weren’t introduced at the ball. After I changed my outfit and choked up a lung full of dust, I spent the rest of the night searching for your lovely face amongst the crowd.”

The stream of obscenities passing through Feyre’s mind would make any lady faint.

”I’m sorry, my Lord. I believe there’s been a misunderstanding.”

”Oh?” His voice was all amusement.

”I…was lost.” Fuck, fuck, fuck.

”How unfortunate. The summer manor is rather large. However, I’m afraid a rather valuable item was also lost after your quick departure.”

Oh.

“Perhaps you’d like to try another story? This path does go on for several miles. Although I will say, when push comes to shove, I can be quite susceptible to lies when they come from a pretty mouth such as yours.”

Feyre scoffed, remembering Elain’s words from Lucien. Rake, philanderer, untrustworthy aristocrat. Right. And apparently, a shameless flirt.

“My lord, your language is awfully familiar for having just made my acquaintance. Is this how you usually speak to ladies?”

“Only those who have swept me off my feet. Quite literally, I mean.”

She stopped abruptly, unable to bite back the panic transforming into anger inside her throat. “What do you want, my lord?”

That same insufferable smirk. “I think you know exactly what I want, Miss Archeron.”

“It’s long gone.”

They had stopped, Mor and Nesta’s prying ears moving far past them.

Something hard gleamed in his eyes then, a marked change from the cat toying with a mouse. “If that’s true, I’m afraid it’s quite unfortunate. There will have to be an inquiry, and I will spare no expense to make sure every corner is searched, every guest investigated, until that necklace is returned to me.”

Feyre willed her expression to ice.

“I suppose,” he said, turning to pick a flower petal off of his inky dark jacket, “that if it were to be returned to me before, say, the Churchill ball this Saturday, it would appear to not be a theft, but rather a short term loan, and one satisfyingly concluded.” He smiled. “In fact, I would be rather thrilled that it could be appreciated by such a fine lady such as yourself.”

Feyre ground her teeth. To return the necklace, to botch her very first job – Smith could turn her in himself, or smear her name with any rumors he chose. Without recommendations, or a reputation among future clientele, she’d be lost before they even began.

“I –”

As Feyre opened her mouth, a familiar cry echoed across the pathway and between the trees.

“Elain!” Feyre whipped her head around to find her sister.

Dress in the mud, face half in her hands, Elain was lying on the grass, still clutching the Grand Duke’s arm. But when she tried to pull herself up onto her leg, she cried out again, crumpling down into the grass.

Feyre ran, finally ripping her arm free of the Viscount’s grip, passing Nesta as she hiked up her skirts, falling into the mud and grass beside her sister.

“Are you hurt?”

The Grand Duke kneeled beside the sisters but Feyre didn’t notice him at all, her eyes locked to the ashen pale face of Elain, pinched in pain.

“I think — my ankle,” she said with a quiet grimace.

“Please, my lady. Do not try to get up. We must let you take weight off of it, and ascertain if it is broken.”

Feyre glared at the Grand Duke, somehow all poise and calm even kneeing in the mud from last night’s rain.

Nesta’s hand was a leaden weight on Feyre’s shoulder, and the youngest finally observed the small crowd of ladies and gentlemen gathered around them, gawking.

Elain noticed too, and Nesta’s fingers dug further into Feyre’s skin as their middle sister’s face went from pale to blush to pale again as she scrambled against Graysen’s arm.

“Please, it’s no trouble, if I could only get to my feet we can move on —”

“Miss, I served in His Majesty’s navy, I’ve seen many injuries. We must get you to a doctor and you must promise me not to put an ounce of weight on it until you’re given permission to do so.”

“I…”

The duke caught Elain’s chin with a single finger, tilting her face upwards to him, a frustrated tear escaping from her eye.

“Promise me, Miss Elain. I will not be gainsaid when it comes to the wellbeing of a young lady under my care.”

Feyre did not think the new blush spreading on Elain’s cheek was from embarrassment.

She watched as her sister sniffled once and then nodded her eyes locked on the Duke’s.

“My phaeton, then. I will take you to Doctor Fitzwilliam.”

Elain gasped as Duke Graysen swept her into his arms in a smooth motion, lifting her out of the mud as if she weighed no more than an errant leaf.

“Graysen, is that wise? We should call upon the girl’s parents at least. Does your phaeton have room for more of you? I’m sure she does not wish to be alone.”

In the fray, the Viscount and his cousin had caught up, joining the murmuring crowd surrounding them and watching the spectacle. Elain was a dark shade of red as she turned her head towards the Grande Duke’s shoulder, ladies tittering around them.

“I can take one more in the carriage.”

Feyre’s heart dropped slightly as Elain reached out and clung to Nesta’s hand.

“I didn’t do it on purpose,” she whispered, her face torn between mortification and excitement, the words low enough for only her sisters to hear. “I really did slip.”

“Come, Miss Elain, Miss Nesta. We’ll be at the doctor’s in only a few moments.”

His long legs carried them away quickly, Nesta pulled along by the tether of Elain’s hand.

It took a moment for Feyre to feel their absence. The crowd of onlookers was still around them, now staring at her. She looked down at her dress — cleaned and pristine and white this morning — now slathered with mud up her entire left side, green grass stains across her knees.

Alone. She was alone. Aunt Ripleigh was sending a carriage for them but that wasn’t until after lunch…

A firm hand caught her wrist as she went to push the hair out of her face, disheveled and pulled out of her braid. Her eyes snapped to the Viscount.

He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped at her fingers, which she only now realized were dripping in mud.

Her face heated as the crowd fell away slowly. She couldn’t seem to go a day, not even an hour without some humiliating moment in front of the whole ton.

“Might I escort you home, Miss Archeron?”

Feyre let all of her ire, embarrassment and panic enter her glare at him. He was everything working against her now — him and his thoughtless wealth and title, the knowledge of her failures hung over her, now quite literal as she stood before him, filthy and abandoned.

Instead of answering, she stalked off towards the grand gates of the park.

Chest heaving and her face flush, Feyre walked quickly to outrun her own panic. It felt like even the trees and hedges had eyes, watching her stalk away.

But better to cause a small scandal than let him drag her to the Magistrate the moment she was in his carriage. She would rather walk the gauntlet of the whole ton in her soiled dress than make it easy for him to ruin her, to be led into his trap like a demure and bridled beast.

“—eyre.”

Blood was rushing in her ears. Feyre huffed, skirts in hand, working her muscles hard as black creeped at the edges of her vision. Muscles she was afraid of losing, losing herself, becoming trapped in this place, or worse, a prison cell.

“Miss Feyre!”

She whirled as a hand was placed on her shoulder, but instead of violet eyes and a smirk, only the concerned face of Lady Morrigan met her.

“Miss Feyre, please. I know we’ve only just met, but you’ve had quite a shock. Please, let me fetch the carriage and see you home safely.”

Feyre turned to see the figure of the Viscount, dark and foreboding, shoulders hunched as he watched them at a distance, in between the blossoming flowers.

“What about the Viscount?”

The Lady followed her gaze, turning back with a smirk that must be a shared family trait. “He’s a grown man. I’m sure he’ll figure something out without us. Or, he can walk home. Might be humbling for him to break in those shiny shoes.”

Something about her insouciant tone and the playful mischief in her eyes let Feyre take a deep breath. Maybe she was a fool, to trust the cousin of the man she stole from, maybe she was just as likely to trap her. But truly — she could not stomp her way back to Mayfair covered in mud, alone, without Nesta having her head once Elain was taken care of.

“I — I would be very grateful, Lady.”

“Please,” she said with a blinding smile, “call me Mor.”

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Tag list

@danedechance @rosanna-writer @fantasticanonsense18 @dreamlandreader @captain-of-the-gwynriel-ship @annaskareninas @foundress0fnothing @areyoudreaminof @cauldronblssd @starfall-spirit

#acotar #feysand #rhysand #acotar fanfiction #feyre #acotar fanfic #elucien #regency Feysand #feysand fanfic

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littlemisspascal · 2 years

Text

Anytime, Anyplace, Anywhere

pairing: modern-ish Pero x Female Reader

summary: In which Reader is a newspaper columnist with few self-preservation instincts, Statesman is an insurance company with a catchy jingle, and Pero is the insurance agent assigned to look after you. Except only two outta three of these statements are true.

word count: 3k+

rating: T

warnings: Reader is nameless with no description except for being shorter than Pero, language, blood, violence, guns, non-major character death, Author’s poor attempt at humor, Author knows nothing about insurance and/or a career in journalism, mistaken identity, supernatural elements, worldbuilding

author note: this is what happens when I watch Puss in Boots The Last Wish and then a Statefarm commercial and then random inspiration sparks. It’s borderline a crack fic, but hey, sometimes that’s what the muse wants. I even have more scenes outlined beyond this so...Hopefully someone out there enjoys this 😊

The story of how you wound up in Wader’s Rest is a rather boring chain of events that can be summed up as follows: you graduate with a journalism degree, spend the next five years trying and failing to convince a major news outlet to hire you all the while typing up fluff pieces for your hometown’s website so you can afford food and other necessities, receive a job offer out of the fucking blue offering you a columnist job in a town hundreds of miles away, decide screw it let’s go and…yeah, that’s about it. For these last six months, Wader's Rest has been your new home.

Wader's Rest is a medium-sized-ish community settled along the southern coastline, perpetually smelling of freshly caught fish and sea salt. It’d be a decent tourist destination, in your opinion, if it wasn’t also a hive of criminal activity, crawling with smugglers and drug dealers and fugitives. The city can be split into two types of people: crime-doers and crime-avoiders.

Oh, yeah, and then there’s you in a solo category of your own making: crime-seeker. Insert trumpet fanfare here.

There’s a grand total of one newspaper responsible for updating residents on all things Wader's Rest-related. Wader’s Reader has a staff of twelve working all hours of the day in an ugly brick building on the corner of Main Street, right across from a coffee shop you’re 65% sure is a front for black market antiques but it’s also the only place that doesn’t judge the ungodly amount of sugar you pour in your drink so. Until that percentage rises up to 100%, you reckon it’s alright giving them a pass in the meantime.

In a time where a quick search on your phone or computer can answer any conceivable question you have in seconds, the residents of Wader's Rest are strangely protective of their newspaper. Like, Gollum my precious! kind of protective. The most likely reason is probably because the internet access out here is so painfully slow it’s practically nonexistent, but you like to think they actually look forward to reading your column. No more writing about baking contests and music festivals, not when you’ve discovered the addictive adrenaline rush of investigating the many, many, many crimes of Wader's Rest. Nothing else gets your blood pumping as much as witnessing an illegal exchange of weapons in the back parking lot of a Wendy’s.

So it isn’t uncommon then, to spend your nights crouched behind dumpsters (or sometimes even inside them) or picking locks or doing other shady-as-hell-if-you-had-any-other-job activities in order to gather all the facts and details you need to write the perfect piece for your loyal readers. Insert inspiring quote here like fortune favors the bold or whatever.

It also isn’t uncommon for your nights to end either in the hospital or covered in so many bandages it looks like you spent the night in the hospital. You’re on a first name basis with most of the staff, including Dr. William Garin who’s got such vibrant crystal blue eyes he could’ve been a glasses modeler in another life. Shame he’s got such overwhelming heart-eyes for your boss or you’d be severely tempted to shoot your shot.

Anyways.

See, the problem is, you’re not exactly a master of subtlety yet, and also some of your column subjects don’t always appreciate being watched like they’re zoo animals—they appreciate it even less when you point out that conducting their illegal business in creepy alleyways and abandoned warehouses doesn’t magically make them invisible. Really, any Average Joe could stroll right in and watch the proceedings.

You grunt, head banging against a cement wall so hard you see stars. A meaty fist tightens its grip on your shirt, holding you high enough the toes of your sneakers barely scuff the ground, while the owner of that fist—so massively muscular he’s more of a grizzly bear than a man—glares down at you through narrowed eyes.

Yeah, all those Average Joes really don’t know the fun they're missing out on. Concussions plus bruised, possibly cracked ribs equal exciting times

“Hey Big Mac,” you wheeze, blinking until your vision’s more or less clear and his unimpressed face swims into focus. “Did you get more muscles? You look like you got more muscles.”

If possible, his unimpressed look increases.

Big Mac’s been a recurring foe since your first week in Wader's Rest when you went out for a midnight McDonald’s run—you have a weak spot for their McFlurries, alright?—and discovered him throwing bricks at the neighboring weed shop’s front window. Where he got the sack of bricks remains a mystery, but upon shattering the glass he was in and out in a matter of thirty seconds with an armful of edibles before disappearing into the darkness of night. You’d been so stunned by the whole ordeal not only had you forgotten to call the police, but your McFlurry had melted before you’d even tasted it.

You’ve lost count at this point how many times he’s been featured in one of your columns. Big Mac’s like a really nasty stain on a white shirt, impossible to ignore, but he’s also smooth as fucking butter, sliding out of cuffs before any charges can stick. You don’t even know the giant’s real name (don’t care to learn it either, the nicknames you hand out like free candy add some extra pizazz to the writing)—just that he likes edibles and that when he’s not breaking store windows he can usually be found working as a henchman for any one of the twenty something crime lords in the city. Apparently they don’t mind sharing lackeys so long as there’s no loose lips. Snitches wind up in ditches after all.

Tonight you’ve interrupted a clandestine meeting in the factory district between Big Mac and a new fellow you’d decided to call Stringbean due to his lithe frame—you never claimed to be creative with your nicknaming ability. All it took was accidentally knocking over a trash can with a deafening bang and here you are, helpless as an overturned turtle, hoping you can talk your way out of this predicament with as little bloodshed as possible.

The telltale cocking of a gun immediately dampens those hopes.

Both you and Big Mac look to the sound, finding Stringbean aiming a pistol your direction. He’s a nervous-looking thing, sweat shining on his brow, and there’s few things in life as scarily unpredictable as a twitchy man with a loaded gun.

“What are you doing,” Big Mac rumbles without any inflection in his tone.

“We agreed no witnesses,” is the breathy, slightly nasally response. Nothing about Stringbean–aside from the weapon in his hands–screams bad guy. He’s thin, bespectacled, suit too neatly pressed like it’s his Sunday best clothes. You estimate him lasting about a week before the bigger sharks gobble him up and spit out his—you squint, oh good lord—his bumblebee patterned bow tie as the only evidence of his existence.

“Witness?” you pipe up. “Witness to what exactly? Care to shed some light–ugh!”

The rest of your sentence ends in another choked wheeze as Big Mac shoves you against the wall again. Yep, something’s definitely broken in your body now. He’s not even looking at you, the bastard, like you’re not even a worthy enough threat to keep an eye on for any devious tricks.

Instead, Big Mac says something to Stringbean, probably some kind of grumbling threat about tearing Stringbean’s head from his shoulders if he doesn’t put the gun away, but the thunderous whooshing of blood in your ears prevents you from hearing if that’s right or not. It’s a good line though, the kind of line that tempts you to sneak it into your draft and hope your boss doesn’t cross it out with that damn red pen of hers, possessing a special sixth sense for sniffing out bullshit.

Stringbean retorts something that’s also lost on you–God, you really need to invest in a tape recorder, or some sort of phone app–but whatever he says has Big Mac dropping you without warning, lunging at the smaller man like a lion after a mouse. You fall on your hands and knees with a faint yelp, gritting your teeth at the instant blooms of pain shooting along your nerve endings. It takes you a second to collect yourself, but it’s a second too long to have wasted, remembering too late how dangerous your situation is—

Bang.

A scream escapes you, cowering against the wall in a scrunched up ball. Big Mac’s lying on the ground, unmoving, a chunk of his shoulder missing and gallons of blood gushing out like a damn river. Oh shit. Oh holy fucking shit. Stringbean’s on the cusp of hyperventilating, seeming unable to process his own actions, and then those anxious, too-wide eyes lock onto you. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

“I’m sorry,” Stringbean says, and he actually sounds sincere. But the effect is immediately dulled when he lines up the gun directly with your face.

One would think, being mere seconds from a bullet entering your brain, that you’d have some kind of epiphany about the meaning of life. See flashes from your childhood, hear an angelic chorus, that kinda thing. The odds aren’t in your favor. There’s no healing from a headshot at this close range. You are going to die and the only stupid fucking thing you can think about is that damn catchy jingle.

Squeezing your eyes shut, words tumble out of your mouth at a frantic speed, “Anytime, anyplace, anywhere Statesman is there!”

Stringbean pulls the trigger.

—

Statesman designing a new kind of workers compensation insurance specifically catered for your risky lifestyle had been your boss’ idea. She knew the head guy of the company, some old bearded fellow straight out of a Wild West Eastwood movie called Champagne (no last name, just like Cher), pulled a couple of strings (which is probably code for glared him into submission), handed you a pen, got your signature, and boom—as of three days ago, Lin proudly informed you “You’re completely covered. Cuts, broken bones, rabid squirrel attacks, the whole shebang. Now get out of my office.”

You’d liked your old insurance and had been quite happy with their care, thank you very much. But there’s no arguing with Lin when she gets that glint in her eye like some kind of bird of prey. And besides, forcing insurance on you is a sign she cares, right? That’s what you’ll keep telling yourself anyways.

The commercials are enjoyable, you can admit that at least. Especially the ones where there’s some kind of dangerous situation involving rampaging bison or avalanches or whatnot and the agent, whose uniform includes a leather jacket and cowboy hat, swoops in to the rescue after the poor would-be victims shout out the jingle Anytime, anyplace, anywhere Statesman is there!, then teleports everyone to safety.

Entertaining? Yes.

Realistic? Hell no.

—

There’s a high-pitched ringing in your ears, rattling around inside your skull.

“—ime for this. Get up.”

Huh? Who’s that?

“I don’t like repeating myself. Get. Up.”

Oh no. Eyes still shut, your hands search for a wound, for blood, patting all over your head, then your chest and torso. Nothing. Fuck, you’ve died and crossed over into the afterlife. That’s why there’s no injury or pain. Your life is over. The end. Do not pass go, do not collect $200. You can’t—

Something hard hits your leg. “You’re still alive.”

Your eyes snap open, surroundings blurring into focus. You’re in the warehouse still. Stringbean’s on the floor near Big Mac, sightless blue eyes staring back at you, a bullet hole in the middle of his forehead revealing blood and bone and brain matter. Immediately you avert your gaze, tasting bile in the back of your throat, and it’s only then you see the pair of boots by your legs.

A man stands over you, dressed in a leather jacket and jeans with soft-looking, unstyled brown hair and a stubbled jawline sharp enough to give papercuts. The words ruggedly handsome come to mind and stay there, banishing all other thoughts. Brown eyes so dark they’re verging on black stare down at you beneath furrowed brows, the perfect image of silent judgment. What the hell. He might just be the most attractive person you’ve ever seen, beating Dr. Pretty Eyes Garin by fucking leagues.

“Did you just kick me?” you ask before you can stop yourself, rising to your feet. Your head barely reaches his chest—a very broad chest, you can’t help noticing, leather straining at the shoulders to contain him—and you have to crane your head up to continue meeting his dull, half-lidded gaze.

“You weren’t listening,” says the stranger with a voice like the scrape of a butter knife on toast. Your heartbeat stutters, discovering a new favorite sound, and it takes you an embarrassingly long moment to realize you’re staring at his mouth with way more intensity than a person should look at another person’s mouth.

“Uh, yeah, well I-I thought I was dead. He was going to shoot me.” Your eyes drift towards Stringbean again, frowning at the gun in his hand. It doesn’t look like a pistol anymore, metal mangled and warped. “What the hell?”

“Backfired on him. Rare, but it happens.” He shrugs a shoulder, unconcerned, like he’s seen a thousand bloody incidents and he’s numb to the gore. And that’s…a scary thought to consider.

“Right...” You eye him a bit more critically now, taking in the scar dissecting his eyebrow. “I didn’t catch your name.”

“I didn’t throw it.”

Irritation flares, momentarily overtaking the budding apprehension. It brushes against your journalist instincts, insisting you’re missing something here. “Alright, Mr. Nameless, do you want to at least explain what exactly you’re doing here in the middle of the night?”

“Same as you. Work,” he answers curtly, glancing at his wrist where an expensive-looking watch is wrapped around the tan skin. Your fingers twitch with the urge to touch. “When I’m called, I show up. No matter the time or place.” His eyes flicker around the room with thinly veiled disgust. “Even if it means coming to shitholes like this.”

He goes where he’s called? That’s an interesting and ominous choice of phrasing. What is he, some kind of hitman or secret agent or—

Wait a minute.

Dangerous situation. Popping up out of nowhere. Wearing a leather jacket. Your life is saved despite all the odds stacked against you.

Understanding hits like one of Big Mac’s bricks, finally connecting the dots together and good lord it’s so fucking obvious you fully deserve the forehead slap you give yourself. “Holy shit the jingle actually worked.”

His scarred eyebrow lifts. “What?”

“How did I not know this was a real thing?” you half-ask, half-demand, hands settling on your hips. “You’re proof teleportation is fucking real! I feel like this is something more people should be talking about. Unless…Unless not everyone has this kind of coverage. Oh my God, is this some kind of extra health protection bundle attached to my new contract written in the fine print?”

That stupidly attractive eyebrow lifts even higher.

“Don’t give me that look. Nobody under seventy-five reads all those tiny words, especially when the whole stack is five hundred pages front and back. All those poor trees…Also,” you point an accusing finger, “you’re missing a cowboy hat so I really can’t be blamed for not recognizing you.”

“A cowboy hat?” His face screws up at that, and somehow he makes the expression of someone who stepped in dog shit look attractive. Seriously, how is this guy even real? “I’d rather die than wear one of those.”

You stare at him, slack-jawed at his bluntness. “First of all, too soon, man, too soon. There are dead bodies literally right there. And secondly, wow,” a smidge of awe slips into your tone, “you must have some balls, rebelling against the big boss man like that.”

Oh to have been a fly on the wall seeing Champagne’s reaction to the refusal to comply with the uniform policy. You’d only met the old man for a hot second, but considering his love of westerns it wouldn’t surprise you if he challenged his opponents to quick-fire duels at high noon. Water guns or foam pellets instead of actual bullets, of course. He might gargle with bourbon and use a spittoon, but that doesn’t mean he’s a total heathen.

You snort a quiet laugh, then wince at the ache in your rib cage. Oh, yeah. There’s that fun pain again. The nameless agent turns away with what you think is an eye roll, but it’s too fast to tell, and looks down at Big Mac and Stringbean.

“I-I guess I need to call the police,” you say quietly, stomach churning when a sideways glance reveals a growing pool of blood beneath the bodies. Scary to think how close you’d been to being one of them.

“If it makes you stop talking to me, go right ahead,” your companion quips, uncaring of the scoff he gets for it.

You find your bag by the trash can you’d hidden behind before Big Mac seized you. Bag is a generous term for the accessory that’s more duct tape than fabric after being dropped, kicked, and run over amongst other unfortunate fates. Still, it does a good job of carrying your stuff so you’ll keep on stubbornly holding onto it until the bitter end.

Pulling out your phone, you open the keypad only for the whistling notes of a song to have you freezing in place. Literally, your body feels like it’s become a block of ice, goosebumps rising along your exposed skin. As surreptitiously as you can manage, you sneak a glance at the agent, and it shouldn’t be fair how someone can look so seductive with puckered lips while whistling such an eerily haunting tune. The sheer contrast is enough to make your brain hurt.

Or maybe that’s a side effect of your skull smacking against the wall.

“Did you forget it’s three numbers?” he says abruptly, startling you, and the way he’s now looking at you gives the distinct impression he thinks you’re an idiot. “Two, technically, since one repeats itself–”

“I know what to do,” you snap defensively, turning back to your phone with a huff. Deliberately you slam your thumb against the three buttons, but find yourself hesitating to press call.

Looking up, you find the nameless agent already staring back at you. His head tilts, displaying the same confusion of a dog not understanding their owner’s behavior. It’s…almost ridiculously cute.

“Thanks for, um, being here and stuff,” you tell him, barely restraining yourself from doing something awkward like giving a thumbs up.

He blinks, a flash of something you think resembles surprise crossing his face, and then he’s back to blankness. “I had to come,” he replies.

“Well, yeah, ‘cause of the magic jingle,” you wave a flippant hand, words tumbling out faster than you can keep up with them, “but still, it’s nice, you know, having someone to watch your back, even if I don’t know who you are–”

The sound of your name has your jaw shutting with an audible click. For a second time you think about the unfairness of the situation. He has access to your file, knows your name and personal details, and what do you get to know about him? Bupkis.

“...Yes?”

“Make the phone call,” he says, an edge of amusement in his voice that produces a funny warm feeling in your stomach. Nausea, you decide, that must be it.

Grumbling under your breath, you look back to your phone and finally hit the button, listening to it ring.

“See,” you say, purposefully smug, turning around, “I’m not an idiot–”

The man is gone.

Didn’t even say goodbye, the ill-mannered jerk.

And as the operator picks up, asking what’s your emergency, you can’t help but think your insurance agent is a bit of an enigmatic asshole. All intimidating and sour-faced to ward off unwanted attention. Probably thrives off confusing his clients like he’s some kind of damn Rubik’s cube personified.

Which is good for you since you thrive off of solving mysteries and inserting your nose where it doesn’t belong. You’ll know his name, his birthdate, hell, his entire history by the end of the week.

You eat Rubik’s cubes for breakfast.

#pero tovar #pero tovar fanfiction #pero tovar x reader #pero tovar x you #the great wall fanfiction #pedro pascal character fanfiction #pedrostories #my fic #my writing

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liaromancewriter · 1 year

Text

Love Bites

Premise: Ethan and Cassie get a little carried away in their sex capades.

Book: Open Heart (post series) Pairing: Ethan Ramsey x F!MC (Cassie Valentine) Rating/Category: Mature – NSFW. Tropes: Public Places. Gala. Words: 2,325

A/N: This fic is for 2 anon prompt requests. Submission for @choicesprompts Smutember, prompt 10 (caught in the act); for @choicesseptemberchallenge2023 day 21 (kiss). I'm also using @choicesflashfics week 49, prompt 1 and 3 (in bold).

The glittering lights of the ballroom sparkled like stars in the painted ceiling above. Soft music from a string quartet tucked away in a little alcove mingled with the din of a crowd.

The conversations around the room jumped from stock market tips to the vagrancy of the global economy to an auction at Sotheby’s for a priceless piece of art.

Ethan Ramsey eavesdropped on the people behind him and wondered how priceless the artwork was given it was on auction, which, by its very definition, required one to put a price on an object.

He leaned against a column, sipping a passable Scotch, and watched his girlfriend work the room. Dr. Valentine could triage a level one emergency in the middle of the night, but Cassie Valentine was made for settings like this.

A designer gown that teased as much as it revealed, hair expertly styled and make-up that highlighted her green eyes and red lips. She blended in with Manhattan’s glitterati as if she belonged. But then again, this was her world as much as Edenbrook was.

Cassie could, and did, straddle two worlds with aplomb. Ethan envied that about her.

He could schmooze if absolutely pushed under the pain of death, but he always felt awkward doing it. Like he was wearing shoes two sizes too big.

Cassie wore a shimmering black dress with a sweetheart neckline that hugged her curves. Her arms were bare and cuffed with more diamonds. And when she moved, he spied glimpses of silky white thighs. Earlier this afternoon, those same legs had been locked around his ass.

A teardrop diamond pendant was framed between her cleavage, just below the dip at the base of her throat. It caught the glint of the chandeliers. He briefly lost himself in an erotic fantasy where his lips sucked deep at the sensitive spot on the side of her neck as her throaty cries echoed around him.

He smirked into his drink at the thought of crossing the carpeted floor, taking her in his arms and marking her in front of everyone. That would show them who she was going home with tonight.

Especially one of her exes who’d almost ruined the evening before it began with the lascivious way he stared at her breasts and hips. Ethan wanted to applaud when Cassie stared the other man down until he escaped with a flimsy excuse.

Ethan reflected that Asshole the Third, Max’s nickname for the other man, was well deserved.

“Thought I’d find you lurking in the corner,” Cassie said charmingly as she floated toward him on high heels, a champagne flute in one hand.

“Don’t blame me,” Ethan quipped with a wry grin. “Your brother deserted me for a sultry redhead. Or maybe it was the luscious brunette.”

Cassie’s brows knit in annoyance, and she turned around to look for Max in the crowded ballroom. She huffed when her search proved unsuccessful and turned back, moving closer. Her floral scent tantalized his senses, and he inhaled deeply, feeling lightheaded.

“You take my breath away every time I see you,” he murmured into her ear, lightly biting the edge of her earlobe. “My patience is wearing thin. Let’s get out of here.”

Cassie sipped her champagne and threw him an amused look above the rim of her glass.

“All in good time, babe,” she winked. “My mom would never forgive me if we left before the main event.”

Handing her empty glass to a passing server, Cassie nestled against him and hooked one arm around his back. She planted light kisses along his jawline, little nips and bites that she soothed with her tongue.

“I already thanked you earlier for accompanying me this weekend,” she said between kisses. “But I feel this sacrifice deserves an extra spicy reward.” She bit the corner of his lips. “If you’re up for a sexy dare, that is?”

Ethan’s ears perked up at the salacious proposition, and he met the challenge in her eyes with one of his own.

“I’m not the one protesting whenever I fuck you against my apartment’s windows,” he lowered his voice, the words deliberately crude to gauge how serious she was.

She scoffed but didn’t deny the accusation. With a quick glance around to make sure no one was paying attention to them, she placed a hand on his arm and leaned in to whisper in his ear.

“Meet me in the corner cloakroom. Five minutes.”

Ethan blushed when he realized she was deadly serious. He watched her hips swing enticingly as she navigated the crowds toward the exit. Suddenly, his collar felt tight, and he tugged it away from his neck.

Anticipation had him practically panting. He started to follow Cassie when Max stepped into his path.

“Have you seen my sister?” he asked, glancing on either side before looking at Ethan, puzzled. “Your face is flushed. You okay?”

Ethan nodded, resisting the urge to tug at his collar again, and prayed the younger man wouldn’t press the issue.

“There’s someone I want you to meet,” Max said with a shrug, taking Ethan at his word. “Come on. He’s by the bar.”

Stuck, Ethan followed Max to the other side of the room. He glanced at the exit Cassie had taken and sincerely hoped she was still in the mood when he joined her.

Fifteen minutes later, he shifted anxiously on his feet, trapped between Max, the CEO of a new health center focused on diagnostics, and the curse of social niceties. The conversation with the other man was fascinating, and he would have been entirely present in any other circumstances. But not when his girlfriend was waiting to be fucked.

When his phone buzzed against his chest, he reached into the pocket and looked down at the screen. He didn’t need a Cypher to decode the three questions mark in Cassie’s text.

“I’m sorry,” he said apologetically at the two men before him. “This is important.” He indicated the phone in his hand, shading the screen from Max’s shrewd gaze. “I need to make a phone call.”

Ethan hastily escaped, his long strides covering the length of the ballroom, a man on a critical mission. He marched down the long hallway, ignoring the guests mingling in the relative quiet of the foyer.

The corner cloakroom wasn’t being used for the event, and the window was shuttered. It looked dark and deserted.

Figuring Cassie had given up on him and returned to the gala, Ethan started to turn away when a hand grabbed him from behind and pulled him into the darkened room.

“Finally!” Cassie muttered. He could hear the pout in her voice. “I thought I was going to have to handle things myself.”

It took his eyes a few seconds to adjust to the dim lighting from the hall coming through the wooden slats of the roll-up window.

“Blame your brother,” Ethan grunted, his hands rough as he gripped her elbows and lifted her against the wall.

“You seem to be blaming Max for many things today,” Cassie said, exasperated.

“Scold me later,” he said, covering her body with his.

His mouth descended upon hers, swallowing whatever Cassie was about to say. His lips coaxed hers open to the thrust of his tongue, desperate in his need for her. With a moan, she pressed against him, her fingers digging into his hips.

Their breathing became labored as their kisses became greedy, hungry and ravenous. Cassie sucked his bottom lip into her mouth, lightly catching it between her teeth. It stung, and he tasted blood.

Ethan cupped her jaw in one hand, gripping it tight to hold her in place, and lowered his mouth to kiss the dip at the base of her throat. He cuffed her wrists in one hand and raised her arms, keeping them flush against the wall. The movement thrust her cleavage out.

Recalling his earlier fantasy, Ethan pushed the top of her dress down and buried his face between her naked breasts. He savored the sexy sounds she uttered as he licked and sucked her nipples, biting the edge just enough for her desire-filled eyes to snap open.

He could feel the tremors coursing through her body and released her hands. He reached under the skirt of her dress to grip her ass, lifting her hips until she locked her legs around his thighs. The fabric of her dress draped over his arms as he shoved the skirt away and stared heatedly at the lacy triangle covering her crotch.

Cassie’s fingers fumbled with his belt, unbuckling it and unzipping him. She thrust her hands inside his underwear to cup him. Her fingers gently wrapped around his thick length and released him from his pants, pumping once, twice, and stroking the tip with her thumb. He rocked himself, sliding into her grasp, grunting his need as words failed him.

He nibbled kisses along Cassie’s jaw and down her throat. Below, his fingers stroked her core, teasing the tender folds. His thumb pressed against the top of her sex, and she squirmed, her hands falling to the side.

“Please, please, please,” she begged, rubbing against him.

Ethan sucked hard on the tendon in her neck, his teeth scraping the sensitive skin, and she jumped.

“Stop!” Cassie pushed him back as she slapped a hand where his lips had been.

Ethan shook his head to clear the haze of lust clouding his mind. He saw tears prick the corner of her eyes, but they didn’t fall.

“Let me look,” he said gently and removed her hand. “Crap.”

“Double crap,” Cassie said with a dismayed glance.

They stared at the redness on her neck from the hickey and the light impressions of his teeth around its edges. He remembered thinking earlier how he’d like to mark her. But it had been an idle thought. He’d never want to embarrass her in front of her family.

“Ethan, I can’t go back to the gala looking like this,” she cried out, almost in tears.

“I’m sorry, love,” he said, placing his palm along the side of her face, his thumb stroking her cheekbones. “I got carried away.”

“We both did,” Cassie said, sighing deeply. “What are we going to do?”

Ethan started to respond, but Cassie shushed him.

They heard voices outside and stared in alarm at the unlocked door. They tried to scramble apart while tugging at the bodice of Cassie’s dress, but the door suddenly swung inward before they could do anything.

For a second, light from the hallway shone directly on their tangled bodies and then two people appeared in the doorway. They wore the hotel uniform and had a rolling coat rack behind them. He didn’t recognize the man, but the woman had been manning the other cloakroom when they arrived.

Ethan pressed himself against Cassie’s front to protect her modesty, but it was obvious from the shocked looks on their faces that they’d gotten quite an eyeful. He realized then that Cassie wasn’t the only one exposed. His dick hung out from the opening in his dress pants.

“Shut the door,” Ethan barked when the pair remained frozen in the doorway.

His shout seemed to do the trick as the two workers hurriedly slammed the door shut.

“Wow. You put the fear of Doctor Ramsey in them,” Cassie said, giggling.

She adjusted the bodice of her dress, shaking the folds of her skirt to remove any creases. Ethan smiled ruefully and tucked himself away, gently zipping up and buckling his belt.

His eyes darkened as they fell on the love bite.

“Do you want to head back to the hotel?” he asked, peering intently at her.

“We can’t,” she reminded him, pushing herself off the wall. “Let me think.”

She started pacing the small space, seemingly in a conversation with herself. Ethan wanted to interrupt, but he knew her well enough by now to not do that.

“Okay, I have a solution,” Cassie said, folding her arms in front of her. “I checked my shawl into the cloakroom when we arrived. I can wrap that around my neck and shoulders. If anyone asks, I’ll tell them I’m cold. Max will suspect something’s up but won’t say anything.”

“Let’s go get your shawl,” Ethan said with a nod to indicate his agreement with the plan. “Facing that cloakroom attendant again can’t be any more embarrassing than what already transpired.”

“Oh, no, Dr. Ramsey,” Cassie said with a tsk, moving away from Ethan. “You gave me the hickey. Ergo, you’re going to get my shawl while I wait here. I’m not stepping foot outside this room until I’m presentable.”

Marching down the hallway to do as she demanded, Ethan grumbled internally that it was her idea to make out in the empty cloakroom. But, he reasoned, they wouldn’t need to cover up if he hadn’t lost control. So, he owed her.

He and the attendant avoided eye contact during the entire interaction, and Ethan wondered what had happened to his once-sedate life.

The old him would have never been in this situation, pretending the woman across from him hadn’t just caught him ravishing his girlfriend in public with a few hundred esteemed guests mingling close enough to hear but for the music.

Later, he escorted Cassie back to the ballroom, the shawl firmly ensconced around her neck. It looked strange, given the circumstances, but they had no choice.

“Hey, where have you guys been?” Max called out from a short distance away, clearly on the lookout for them.

Cassie kept a straight face as her brother started toward them. She glanced sideways at Ethan, and they shared a conspiratorial wink.

Ethan grinned wickedly as Cassie walked over to meet Max in the middle. A sedate life was overrated, he thought. With Cassie around, he’d never be bored. She wouldn’t let him. And that was better than any medical mystery he’d ever solved.

-------------

All Fics & Edits: @bluebelle08 @coffeeheartaddict2 @crazy-loca-blog @genevievemd @headoverheelsforramsey @lucy-268 @jamespotterthefirst @jerzwriter @lady-calypso @mainstreetreader @peonierose @potionsprefect @queencarb @quixoticdreamer16 @rookiemartin @socalwriterbee @takemyopenheart @tessa-liam @trappedinfanfiction

Submissions: @choicesficwriterscreations @openheartfanfics @midnightmelodiz

Ethan & Cassie only: @cariantha @custaroonie @hopelessromantic1352 @mrs-ramsey @youlookappropriate

#open heart #open heart choices #ethan ramsey #ethan ramsey x mc #choices fanfics #open heart fanfics #choices fanfiction #open heart fanfiction #choices fic writers creations #cfwc fics of the week #ethan ramsey x cassie valentine #writers on tumblr

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kintsug1kitsune · 1 year

Text

battle in the low market

The lower-city market was dark even given the world's eternal night.

Concrete pavement meshed with cobblestone and brick, messy walkways twisting through the depths of the city, which towered all overhead, bridges and highways and towers and skyscrapers, all netted together in a neon-lit, hologram-strewn tangle.

Down here, only simple streetlights lit-up the darkness, but still many crowded about, all walks of life come to this gray place to find uncommon and illicit wares. Neverborn beside dolls beside hollows, reapers and Daughters and wildborn, those with wolf heads and animal parts.

I came to this bazaar for a particular type of ether, distilled shatter, a liquid emanation useful in my Mistress's more destructive spells. I hardly dressed-up, a lacy combat thread crop-top and shorts, dangling with knives and sewn with intricate lunar designs. My six arms were free to fiddle with each other as I perused various stalls, searching for my quarry--

And finding a different objective altogether.

My tail whipped the air twice, long and porcelain-plated and sharp-edged, and my five eyes locked with another combat doll's set of two. My rubies to its sapphires. But that was negligible--what actually stood-out was the musical notes printed across its cheek, the symbol of the Witch of Winds. The two of us recognized each other, me from its mark and it from the etchings and paint of cherry blossoms and flowers across my right side and arm.

We chattered in combat-dollspeak, a sharp and cutting dialect that nonetheless rhymed and twisted and chittered beautifully in our language.

"Target found," I said, stalking towards the other.

"Received. Target found," it said, lumbering towards me. It was taller than me, 215 centimeters to my 190, and built thick, strong, tree-like arms and legs made of fine ceramith, ablative porcelain like me. Mine alabaster-white, its own a bluish color, covered by a long white combat dress.

I looked up to it, about a half-meter away, and we eyed each other, taking one another's measure. "Identify," I asked.

"This one is the Wallbreaker," it responded; a title, something storied combat dolls kept among themselves, earned from high deeds. "Identify."

"This one is the Ashveil," I answered. "Confirm threat."

"Confirmed."

We began circling one another, my tail caressing the air, its built-in organ pipes whistling as it flexed its heavy fingers. The market crowd began clearing out a circle for us, everyone looking in on the combat dolls squaring-up, muttering amongst each other, taking bets; it was a gritty enough part of town that no shops closed-up, but instead their keepers watched on.

"That one's Witch is enemy to this one's," I hissed to my opponent, raising my hands into a lax combat stance, top two arms on defense, lower sets open with their voidkrystal claws extended, glowing magenta softly. "This one will prove Her superiority."

"Received," Wallbreaker answered, and smirked, jaw splitting along its cheeks to show a gaping maw of ritesteel fangs. "That one will fail."

In a split second it dashed at me, throwing its arm at my face, a column of battle-ready ceramith--I batted it aside and followed-up, punching at its chest with all three of my right-side hands.

In a core-tick it rose its leg and clenched its other arm down, forming a wall that my fists bounced off of, porcelain clattering against porcelain--then Wallbreaker swung around its ramming arm to try to catch me from behind, reaching around my back.

My eyes caught it, and I felt all my gears click perfectly into place, pistons sliding within me as I ducked the blow--then my enemy's knee came to strike my face; I crossed all of my arms and blocked the hit, sliding back across the pavement but keeping firm.

But Wallbreaker pressed, charging at me again to ram me with its whole body--I leaped to the side, dancing around it, and we ended up a few meters apart, staring each other down again.

"Form 01," I commented, "Classic style." And without warning, I jumped--my legs hissed through the air and battered Wallbreaker with a flurry of flying kicks, all blocked; I fell to the ground, pivoted, and jumped straight up with my leg extended, slipping under its guard and smashing it in the chin, sending the other combat doll reeling back.

In the same motion, I spread my wings and took to the sky, sharp and silvery feathers around spell circles--without stopping, I drove an assault into the enemy with my legs, whirling through the air and kicking, slashing at it with my sharp high-heels.

As I rebounded off it, Wallbreaker stared up at me and hissed. "Killing Rapture? That one has trained with angels."

"Received. False," I hissed back, "It has killed enough angels to learn the style."

No more talk--the other doll crouched and flung itself up, boosters in its feet propelling it into the air to try and piledrive me out of it; I easily flitted back and dodged, but as Wallbreaker fell, it wheeled around and out of its wrist shot a bundle of taut metal cables--they wrapped my legs and yanked, hard.

The wind whistled in my horns as I crashed to the ground, leaving a web of cracks in the pavement and none in me. Across, Wallbreaker landed, hitting the stone with a thud--I was still tangled. Thinking fast, I channeled witchfire from my core and melted out of the cables, instantly springing to my feet.

Just in time--my opponent was howling, jaw split and gaping wide to devour me as it charged; it tried to hammer down on my head, I weaved aside, and it grabbed my top-right arm.

I grabbed its own right arm with my top-left and let loose the claws on my two lower-right sets--and drove them into Wallbreaker's side, tearing apart blued ceramith with voidkrystal sharper than diamond.

It shrieked briefly and rose its leg--stomped it down, trying to break my foot. I slid out of the way, still holding its right wrist, and went to dig my lower-left sets of claws into its other side.

But Wallbreaker had none of it and suddenly slammed its head into mine, getting a wild scream from the crowd watching--I was undeterred. My jaw split, three-way, and I bit at my enemy--it bit back, a gnashing of metal fangs as our heads wove around each other, bodies tangled together, grappling close.

Abruptly, I whipped my head and slammed my horns into Wallbreaker's head, sending it reeling--this was my chance! I threw myself forwards, gears shrieking, and shoved all six of my fists into its frame--chained the move into a roundhouse-kick, and spun, slashing across it with my tail, throwing it to the ground and leaving a massive gash across its porcelain.

I looked down at my defeated foe. "Breaking Demon Hand," I explained. "This one learned it from neverborn pirates."

Wallbreaker lay on stony ground, organ pipes hissing weakly. "…This one learned it from its siblings. This one yields to retreat. Disengaging."

"Disengaging," I answered, giving a chitter. "Good fight."

The crowd rattled amongst itself, bets cashed-in, as I walked off into it, folding my wings back into my body. Now, where could I find some shatter…?

#empty spaces #ES #combat doll #dollposting #doll #fight #short story #microfiction

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mostlysignssomeportents · 11 months

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Podcasting "Microincentives and Enshittification"

Tomorrow (Oct 25) at 10hPT/18hUK, I'm livestreaming an event called "Seizing the Means of Computation" for the Edinburgh Futures Institute.

This week on my podcast, I read my recent Medium column, "Microincentives and Enshittification," about the way that monopoly drives mediocrity, with Google's declining quality as Exhibit A:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/07/28/microincentives-and-enshittification/

It's not your imagination: Google used to be better – in every way. Search used to be better, sure, but Google used to be better as a company. It treated its workers better (for example, not laying off 12,000 workers months after a stock buyback that would have paid their salaries for the next 27 years). It had its users' backs in policy fights – standing up for Net Neutrality and the right to use encryption to keep your private data private. Even when the company made ghastly mistakes, it repented of them and reversed them, like the time it pulled out of China after it learned that Chinese state hackers had broken into Gmail in order to discover which dissidents to round up and imprison.

None of this is to say that Google used to be perfect, or even, most of the time, good. Just that things got worse. To understand why, we have to think about how decisions get made in large organizations, or, more to the point, how arguments get resolved in these organizations.

We give Google a lot of shit for its "Don't Be Evil" motto, but it's worth thinking through what that meant for the organization's outcomes over the years. Through most of Google's history, the tech labor market was incredibly tight, and skilled engineers and other technical people had a lot of choice as to where they worked. "Don't Be Evil" motivated some – many – of those workers to take a job at Google, rather than one of its rivals.

Within Google, that meant that decisions that could colorably be accused of being "evil" would face some internal pushback. Imagine a product design meeting where one faction proposes something that is bad for users, but good for the company's bottom line. Think of another faction that says, "But if we do that, we'll be 'evil.'"

I think it's safe to assume that in any high-stakes version of this argument, the profit side will prevail over the don't be evil side. Money talks and bullshit walks. But what if there were also monetary costs to being evil? Like, what if Google has to worry about users or business customers defecting to a rival? Or what if there's a credible reason to worry that a regulator will fine Google, or Congress will slap around some executives at a televised hearing?

That lets the no-evil side field a more robust counterargument: "Doing that would be evil, and we'll lose money, or face a whopping fine, or suffer reputational harms." Even if these downsides are potentially smaller than the upsides, they still help the no-evil side win the argument. That's doubly true if the downsides could depress the company's share-price, because Googlers themselves are disproportionately likely to hold Google stock, since tech companies are able to get a discount on their wage-bills by paying employees in abundant stock they print for free, rather than the scarce dollars that only come through hard graft.

When the share-price is on the line, the counterargument goes, "That would be evil, we will lose money, and you will personally be much poorer as a result." Again, this isn't dispositive – it won't win every argument – but it is influential. A counterargument that braids together ideology, institutional imperatives, and personal material consequences is pretty robust.

Which is where monopoly comes in. When companies grow to dominate their industries, they are less subject to all forms of discipline. Monopolists don't have to worry about losing disgusted employees, because they exert so much gravity on the labor market that they find it easy to replace them.

They don't have to worry about losing customers, because they have eliminated credible alternatives. They don't have to worry about losing users, because rivals steer clear of their core business out of fear of being bigfooted through exclusive distribution deals, predatory pricing, etc. Investors have a name for the parts of the industry dominated by Big Tech: they call it "the kill zone" and they won't back companies seeking to enter it.

When companies dominate their industries, they find it easier to capture their regulators and outspend public prosecutors who hope to hold them to account. When they lose regulatory fights, they can fund endless appeals. If they lose those appeals, they can still afford the fines, especially if they can use an army of lawyers to make sure that the fine is less than the profit realized through the bad conduct. A fine is a price.

In other words, the more dominant a company is, the harder it is for the good people within the company to win arguments about unethical and harmful proposals, and the worse the company gets. The internal culture of the company changes, and its products and services decline, but meaningful alternatives remain scarce or nonexistent.

Back to Google. Google owns more than 90% of the search market. Google can't grow by adding more Search users. The 10% of non-Google searchers are extremely familiar with Google's actions. To switch to a rival search engine, they have had to take many affirmative, technically complex steps to override the defaults in their devices and tools. It's not like an ad extolling the virtues of Google Search will bring in new customers.

Having saturated the search market, Google can only increase its Search revenues by shifting value from searchers or web publishers to itself – that is, the only path to Search growth is enshittification. They have to make things worse for end users or business customers in order to make things better for themselves:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/01/21/potemkin-ai/#hey-guys

This means that each executive in the Search division is forever seeking out ways to shift value to Google and away from searchers and/or publishers. When they propose a enshittificatory tactic, Google's market dominance makes it easy for them to win arguments with their teammates: "this may make you feel ashamed for making our product worse, but it will not make me poorer, it will not make the company poorer, and it won't chase off business customers or end users, therefore, we're gonna do it. Fuck your feelings."

After all, each microenshittification represents only a single Jenga block removed from the gigantic tower that is Google Search. No big deal. Some Google exec made the call to make it easier for merchants to buy space overtop searches for their rivals. That's not necessarily a bad thing: "Thinking of taking a vacation in Florida? Why not try Puerto Rico – it's a US-based Caribbean vacation without the transphobia and racism!"

But this kind of advertising also opens up lots of avenues for fraud. Scammers clone local restaurants' websites, jack up their prices by 15%, take your order, and transmit it to the real restaurant, pocketing the 15%. They get clicks by using some of that rake to buy an ad based on searches for the restaurant's name, so they show up overtop of it and rip off inattentive users:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/02/24/passive-income/#swiss-cheese-security

This is something Google could head off; they already verify local merchants by mailing them postcards with unique passwords that they key into a web-form. They could ban ads for websites that clone existing known merchants, but that would incur costs (engineer time) and reduce profits, both from scammers and from legit websites that trip a false positive.

The decision to sell this kind of ad, configured this way, is a direct shift of value from business customers (restaurants) and end-users (searchers) to Google. Not only that, but it's negative sum. The money Google gets from this tradeoff is less than the cost to both the restaurant (loss of goodwill from regulars who are affronted because of a sudden price rise) and searchers (who lose 15% on their dinner orders). This trade-off makes everyone except Google worse off, and it's only possible when Google is the only game in town.

It's also small potatoes. Last summer, scammers figured out how to switch out the toll-free numbers that Google displayed for every airline, redirecting people to boiler-rooms where con-artists collected their credit-card numbers and sensitive personal information (passports, etc):

https://www.nbcnews.com/tech/tech-news/phone-numbers-airlines-listed-google-directed-scammers-rcna94766

Here again, we see a series of small compromises that lead to a massive harm. Google decided to show users 800 numbers rather than links to the airlines' websites, but failed to fortify the process for assigning phone numbers to prevent this absolutely foreseeable type of fraud. It's not that Google wanted to enable fraud – it's that they created the conditions for the fraud to occur and failed to devote the resources necessary to defend against it.

Each of these compromises indicates a belief among Google decision-makers that the consequences for making their product worse will be outweighed by the value the company will generate by exposing us to harm. One reason for this belief is on display in the DOJ's antitrust case against Google:

https://www.justice.gov/opa/press-release/file/1328941/download

The case accuses Google of spending tens of billions of dollars to buy out the default search position on every platform where an internet user might conceivably perform a search. The company is lighting multiple Twitters worth of dollars on fire to keep you from ever trying another search engine.

Spraying all those dollars around doesn't just keep you from discovering a better search engine – it also prevents investors from funding that search engine in the first place. Why fund a startup in the kill-zone if no one will ever discover that it exists?

https://www.theverge.com/23802382/search-engine-google-neeva-android

Of course, Google doesn't have to grow Search to grow its revenue. Hypothetically, Google could pursue new lines of business and grow that way. This is a tried-and-true strategy for tech giants: Apple figured out how to outsource its manufacturing to the Pacific Rim; Amazon created a cloud service, Microsoft figured out how to transform itself into a cloud business.

Look hard at these success stories and you discover another reason that Google – and other large companies – struggle to grow by moving into adjacent lines of business. In each case – Apple, Microsoft, Amazon – the exec who led the charge into the new line of business became the company's next CEO.

In other words: if you are an exec at a large firm and one of your rivals successfully expands the business into a new line, they become the CEO – and you don't. That ripples out within the whole org-chart: every VP who becomes an SVP, every SVP who becomes an EVP, and every EVP who becomes a president occupies a scarce spot that it worth millions of dollars to the people who lost it.

The one thing that execs reliably collaborate on is knifing their ambitious rivals in the back. They may not agree on much, but they all agree that that guy shouldn't be in charge of this lucrative new line of business.

This "curse of bigness" is why major shifts in big companies are often attended by the return of the founder – think of Gates going back to Microsoft or Brin returning to Google to oversee their AI projects. They are the only execs that other execs can't knife in the back.

This is the real "innovator's dilemma." The internal politics of large companies make Machiavelli look like an optimist.

When your company attains a certain scale, any exec's most important rival isn't the company's competitor – it's other execs at the same company. Their success is your failure, and vice-versa.

This makes the business of removing Jenga blocks from products like Search even more fraught. These quality-degrading, profit-goosing tactics aren't coordinated among the business's princelings. When you're eating your seed-corn, you do so in private. This secrecy means that it's hard for different product-degradation strategists to realize that they are removing safeguards that someone else is relying on, or that they're adding stress to a safety measure that someone else just doubled the load on.

It's not just Google, either. All of tech is undergoing a Great Enshittening, and that's due to how intertwined all these tech companies. Think of how Google shifts value from app makers to itself, with a 30% rake on every dollar spent in an app. Google is half of the mobile duopoly, with the other half owned by Apple. But they're not competitors – they're co-managers of a cartel. The single largest deal that Google or Apple does every year is the bribe Google pays Apple to be the default search for iOS and Safari – $15-20b, every year.

If Apple and Google were mobile competitors, you'd expect them to differentiate their products, but instead, they've converged – both Apple and Google charge sky-high 30% payment processing fees to app makers.

Same goes for Google/Facebook, the adtech duopoly: not only do both companies charge advertisers and publishers sky-high commissions, clawing 51 cents out of every ad dollar, but they also illegally colluded to rig the market and pay themselves more, at advertisers' and publishers' expense:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jedi_Blue

It's not just tech, either – every sector from athletic shoes to international sea-freight is concentrated into anti-competitive, value-annihilating cartels and monopolies:

https://www.openmarketsinstitute.org/learn/monopoly-by-the-numbers

As our friends on the right are forever reminding us: "incentives matter." When a company runs out of lands to conquer, the incentives all run one direction: downhill, into a pit of enshittification. Google got worse, not because the people in it are worse (or better) than they were before – but because the constraints that discipline the company and contain its worst impulses got weaker as the company got bigger.

Here's the podcast episode:

https://craphound.com/news/2023/10/23/microincentives-and-enshittification/

And here's a direct link to the MP3 (hosting courtesy of the Internet Archive; they'll host your stuff for free, forever):

https://archive.org/download/Cory_Doctorow_Podcast_452/Cory_Doctorow_Podcast_452_-_Microincentives_and_Enshittification.mp3

And here's my podcast's RSS feed:

http://feeds.feedburner.com/doctorow_podcast

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/07/28/microincentives-and-enshittification/

#pluralistic #podcasts #enshittification #google #microincentives #monopoly #incentives matter #trustbusting #the curse of bigness

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mercurygray · 2 years

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i’d love to see what you would do with ‘rosy’ + dick and joan + the ballet au!!! (i continue to be obsessed with the ballet au)

After several hours, the whole situation was really starting to get on his nerves.

"So, is anyone going to tell them?"

Joan looked over at him from the relative darkness beside a rack of costumes, the two of them looking at the photo set in front of them. "Tell them what?"

Dick gestured to the set. "That Rites of Spring isn't anything like this?"

The scene in the studio here was an 18th century confection of columns and flowers and actors in floral prints - the idea of an emerging 'spring' of talent, just starting to come into their own. (It really was something of a Hollywood who's who - two of the people in the room had already been nominated for Oscars, one had a play opening on Broadway in the coming months, and everyone seemed to be swapping stories from Cannes.)

Dick and Joan were really here to set-dress, wearing costumes that might have come from a very classically staged…something, Dick in more of the style of a prince and Joan the humble milk-maid. Stravinsky's ballet, in contrast, was a riot of sound and sharp angles, meant to evoke a primal past - something any student of the art would have known, if they'd bothered to do the reading.

"Dick, I'm not going to stand between the art director for a major magazine and a technicality," Joan said, practical to her bones. "We are being paid quite a lot of money to stand here and look pretty. It's good press for the company and the new season - and new audience exposure."

The word 'exposure' made Dick almost want to shiver - one of those new buzzwords that Tab (in his new tech-saavy Instagram fame) was always throwing around, like CTR and organic engagement and market share. Joan paid more attention to those things, a side effect of having an uncle who sat on the board and cared about these things like 'a new generation of viewers.' Isn't it enough any more to just make good art?

But he already knew it wasn't. This is the new generation of viewers - the people searching relentlessly for their next hit of pretty, streaming something from their couch.

"It's just all so…fake and…" he looked around, flicking his fingers at a nearby bouquet, "Rosy."

Joan's eyeroll was immense. "Dick, ballet is fake and rosy. I think anyone could argue any creative performance can be fake and rosy. So what is it really that's bothering you, hmm?"

Well, when she put it like that, how could he refuse? "Mr. Hollywood over there can't stop staring at you."

Mr. Hollywood - not his real name, of course, but it summed him up well - was an up and coming actor, one of several prized show horses being promoted in this photospread. (While Dick was in what amounted to full ballet court dress, the actor was lounging in an undone blue frock coat to show off washboard abs, his cropped hair more 21st century than 18th, Men's Health rather than Madame de Montespan. His attitude in the chair had every suggestion that in any century he could, as the kids were saying these days, 'get it.')

A smile emerged. "Oh, so Mr. Winters is jealous."

"…maybe."

Joan laughed. "Well, you needn't be. He asked for my number already. I told him I was very taken by the hot redhead in tights. I think now he's staring at you and wondering how to get an ass that looks like yours."

"Three hours of daily pointe practice. It's probably not macho enough for him."

"Let's do a lift later and show him how macho it is, then." She leaned over, something of the stage coquette in her smile and the tilt of her hand towards his shoulder, clearly pantomining the telling of a secret. "I don't think he could get it up that high."

It was Dick's turn now to stare. "Joanie Warren, are you making dirty jokes?"

In that shepherdess outfit she was the picture of rosy naiveté, but the smile she gave him was anything but fake. "Anything to make you smile."

#i have written a thing #mercurygraypresents #ballet au #joan warren

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juniorbakecraft · 1 year

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Marketing is all about reaching your target audience at the right place and at the right time.

With more than 4.8 billion people using the internet today, internet marketing is one of the easiest and most affordable ways to reach your prospects.

Sounds like a no-brainer, right? There’s just one question.

What exactly is internet marketing?

In this column, you’ll learn how internet marketing is defined, how content marketing differs from traditional advertising, and why marketers are so excited about it.

You’ll also find examples of different types of content you can use to reach your internet marketing goals.

Ready? Let’s get to it!

Internet Marketing Explained

Internet marketing is the promotion of a company and its products or services through online tools that generate leads, drive traffic, and boost sales.

Also called online marketing or digital marketing, internet marketing relies on digital channels to distribute promotional messages.

Internet marketing is an umbrella term that covers a wide range of marketing strategies and avenues.

From emails, search engines, social media posts, and blog articles, there’s one common theme among all of these tactics: They all focus on delivering content.

With content marketing, gone are the days of hopeful sales pitches and traditional marketing.

Now, businesses can target their audience with pinpoint accuracy and provide useful information that resonates.

This is perfect because that’s exactly what today’s consumers want.

People don’t want to hear about products and services that don’t interest them.

From installing adblockers to clicking on “Skip Ads” buttons, today’s shoppers are more discerning about the information they’re willing to consume.

Content marketing delivers meaningful information that solves users’ problems and is accessible on consumer demand.

Virtual SEO Summit Explore the future of search with top SEO leaders on Oct. 25.

Content Marketing vs. Traditional Advertising

Can you believe there was a time when salesmen knocked on strangers’ doors to sell encyclopedias?

Today, we don’t even like it much when our friends knock on our doors unannounced.

The fact is, traditional marketing (or selling) doesn’t work anymore.

Its approach is to essentially push products and information onto people to pressure them into buying.

And frankly, people are over it.

You know it’s true because you yourself have been bombarded with radio ads, television, commercials, billboards, and even phone calls touting products that don’t interest you in the least.

While traditional ads may still work in some situations, the internet has changed the way consumers shop.

#Digital marketing

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merlinsbudgiesmugglers · 2 years

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Late Nights in the Office

Something a bit different from me this time. The headcanon channel on the @harrypocter server has opened my eyes to the amazing-ness that is Auror!Padma.

Thanks to @lanaturnergetup for beta-ing!

'The Witch Weekly Mail-In Matchmaking Service promises to match you with compatible singles from our extensive database! Just owl through your questionnaire and a recent photo and we'll do the rest!'

It was a joke, something Padma and Anthony did after a few too many drinks. But when a familiar face shows up in the pile of profiles, Padma can't help but be intrigued.

If only she hadn't packed it away with the files she'd borrowed from the office.

Read on AO3

It was late, so late that Padma had lost count of how many cups of coffee she’d had, but here she was, in the break room, leaning against the counter so she could read the file in her hands while she waited for the water to boil for the two more cups of the horrible instant coffee the Ministry provided. She’d give anything for a decent latte, but everything was closed at this time of night, so crappy instant coffee was their only source of caffeine.

With the coffees made, both with a generous helping of milk and sugar to make it palatable, Padma tucked the file under her arm so she could carry them back to Harry’s office.

It was only a month since Harry had been promoted to Deputy Head Auror, which came with the added benefit of a fancy office, complete with a surprisingly comfy couch. She nudged open the door with her hip and found Harry exactly where she’d left him, sitting cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by files pertaining to their case.

She hadn’t worked much with Harry in the early years of their time in the Auror department. While he had joined straight after the war, she’d chosen to complete her final year at Hogwarts. She’d wanted to complete her NEWTs, but more importantly, she wanted a year where she could just be a teenager whose biggest worry was whether she could get an O on her DADA exam and who she’d go to Hogsmeade with, instead of what disaster would befall the school that year.

By the time she’d completed her training, Harry naturally partnered with Ron on most cases, and then with Neville following Ron’s departure. It was only the year before, after Neville had left, that Padma approached Harry for help on her case, a string of robberies of Muggle jewellery stores that had evidence of magical involvement.

They worked well together; Padma’s logic and ability to find patterns balanced well with Harry’s gut instinct and his talent for reading suspects. It wasn’t anything official, but more often than not, Padma found herself asking Harry for his advice, or would find a note from him seeking her opinion on a lead.

It was nice having someone like Harry that she could rely on at work, even if it did result in her name ending up in the gossip columns more than she would like. No doubt she would see an article there sometime this week. All it would take was the wrong person to see them leaving the office together, late one night, and she would be the ‘exotic beauty’ who was ‘tempting him away from his faithful wife’ (even though last week they’d claimed that Ginny was off having a torrid affair with Oliver Wood).

Rita Skeeter really needed to come up with some new material.

‘Is it just me or is there a discrepancy in the transactions between the husband and wife’s vaults?’ Harry’s distracted question pulled Padma back to the room, where they were meant to be searching for any kind of link between the sudden appearance of a new party potion on the black market and their suspect's movements and financial records in preparation for their interviews in the morning. He handed her the parchment he had been reading and leaned back against the couch, roughly rubbing his face in an attempt to wake up.

Padma took a look at the list of transactions he’d handed her, noting the ones he’d marked, ‘No, these are going to the wife’s second vault.’

‘She has a second vault?’

‘It’s a common practice for daughters of wealthy pureblood families. It will be one that she’s inherited as part of the terms of her marriage. She might have only been able to access the funds after she produced an heir, or the money might need to go back to her father’s family after her death.’ Padma twisted around so she could reach behind her and grabbed the file she’d been reading at home the night before that had the details for the additional vault. ‘Here, these are the transaction records for it.’

She handed him both the folders and checked her watch to find it was past two in the morning. With a sigh, she drank deeply from her coffee, grimacing at the taste as she picked up another file. Rich people really had too much money.

‘Padma?’

‘Hm?’

‘Why am I looking at a profile of Dean Thomas that’s telling me he particularly likes ‘taking time at the end of each day to unwind while sketching the beauty around him?’

Padma looked up sharply and easily recognised the parchment Harry held up. The blue Witch Weekly logo was stamped in the corner, Dean’s face grinned at her from his photo and a list of his attributes were listed below.

It had arrived the night before, along with about ten others from the Witch Weekly Mail-In Matchmaking Service . It had been a laugh, something she’d signed up for after too many wines with Anthony Goldstein during their monthly catch-up to moan about their jobs and their endless singledom.

Initially, they’d been tossed aside, but curiosity and boredom after reading endless lines of financial records had gotten the better of her. She’d flipped through the profiles, faces of unknown, unfamiliar wizards staring back at her; some showed a group of wizards where she had no idea who she was meant to be looking at and others seemingly decided that showing off their broomstick was more important than their actual face. The bios weren’t much better, with claims of ‘looking for a partner in adventure’ or that they ‘weren’t interested in endless letters’, rather that they wanted to go straight out for a date.

Looking to hook up and never write again was more likely.

Too bad Witch Weekly still refused to offer a ‘witch seeking witches’ option for their matchmaking service.

But then, suddenly, she wasn’t looking at the face of another stranger, but at someone very familiar to her.

She’d laughed at first, exhaustion from the case and the surprise at seeing Dean’s face staring out at her from the stack of Quidditch bros and unemployed ‘entrepreneurs’ giving her the giggles.

The bio was a bit ridiculous, not something she could imagine him writing for himself. Maybe it was all a trick. A prank played on him by one of his mates.

She’d put it aside, planning to show Parvati so they could a good giggle over it the next time she saw her, but Padma’s attention kept wandering, and she found herself picking up the unassuming piece of parchment once more. She’d gotten up to make a chai, and found herself reading over his bio again while she drank. His photo smiled and winked on a loop, and she started to feel her heart flutter. So she’d done the sensible thing and flipped the page over to focus on her work.

And clearly had packed it up with the financial records she’d been checking.

In Harry’s office, she lunged over the files on the floor, her cheeks burning as she tried to snatch the page from him, but he held it out of her reach. ‘‘ Dean is looking for a woman who puts family first and enjoys nights in on the couch.’ Is that you, Padma?’ asked Harry with a teasing grin.

She glared at him and managed to snatch the parchment from his hand. ‘I think I liked you better when you were a string bean who could barely look at a girl.’

Infuriatingly, Harry just grinned, unfazed by her insult. He nodded at the paper in her hand, ‘What is that anyway?’

‘You’ve never seen a matchmaking profile before? Oh right, you married your Hogwarts sweetheart.’

He laughed. ‘Technically we only started dating again after I’d left Hogwarts.’

‘ Technically , you’re annoying, Potter.’

Harry just grinned again, and silence fell across the room as they returned to their work.

She managed to get through another couple of pages of transactions before her mind wandered back to Dean’s profile.

‘Anthony and I thought it would be a laugh,’ Harry looked up at her, face questioning, ‘signing up for the matchmaking service. It was a joke, really. I’d forgotten about it until last night when all these profiles showed up. I must have accidentally packed Dean’s away in the file.’

‘Right, okay.’ Harry said, turning back to the page again.

But Padma couldn’t concentrate. She kept thinking of Dean’s face, winking out at her from the page instead of focusing on the lines of numbers that weren’t making sense.

‘I’m not going to owl him,’ she said. Harry looked up again and just nodded before once again turning back to the parchment in his hands.

But she still couldn’t focus. She tapped her quill against the page while watching a beetle crawl along the wall behind Harry and slip under the door. ‘Should I owl him?’ she asked.

This time when Harry dragged his gaze from the page he was reading he had a faintly amused look on his face, ‘Do we do this?’

‘Do what?’

‘Talk about our love lives.’

They did! Sometimes. Well, not really. Mostly only if something exciting had happened at one of Ginny’s matches, or if the latest date Padma had gone on had been hilariously awful.

‘It’s not my love life,’ grumbled Padma, ‘it’s me considering going on a date with an old friend.'

‘You and Dean were friends?’

‘Friendly enough.’

They fell silent, but nothing could get her focus back on the parchment in front of her. It was when Harry yawned that she threw them down. ‘Right, this is hopeless.’

Harry checked his watch with a grimace, then sighed. ‘We’ve got enough for the interview tomorrow. If that comes up with nothing we’ll come back to the files.’

‘You couldn’t have said that two hours ago?’

‘Two hours ago I thought there was more to be found!’

Padma flicked the crumpled-up paper from their long-eaten dinner of stale sandwiches at his face and started packing away the folders.

As they were heading to the Atrium to floo home, Padma’s thoughts kept straying to the parchment tucked safely in her bag. What she didn’t know was that at that moment, a letter was sitting on her kitchen table, from the same Wizard who hadn’t stopped thinking about her since he’d received her profile via Owl Post.

#padma patil #harry potter #padma and harry are work besties #background dean/padma #auror!padma #canon compliant #post war

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