#That spear however

[ckducky]

This one goes out to @a-dauntless-daffodil. They infected me with the hilarious idea that Charlie is jealous of an inanimate object.

[serpentface]

Janeys about to win his first ever duel to the death, mostly by virtue of being a less shitty swordsman than his opponent.

DUELING IN IMPERIAL WARDIN

Dueling is partially legal in Imperial Wardin, with official duels overseen and regulated by authority figures, and unoffical duels regulated largely by social contract. This form of combat allows disputes, accusations, acts of vengeance, and slights of honor to be settled outside of court or pure interpersonal violence. Ritualized aspects of the practice act as a sort of self-regulation, allowing scores to be settled while dissuading the developments of outright feuds.

No one is materially compelled to accept a challenge to a duel, but refusing can be a tricky maneuver. In many cases, this will be taken as cowardice and a stain on the challenged party's honor and masculinity, and may add significant fuel to the challenger's accusations. The circumstances where it is socially 'safe' to refuse are when the challenger is VASTLY physically outmatched, or is of markedly lower status or otherwise seen as a social inferior (being lower class, a eunuch/woman/akoshos, an infamously dishonored party, a sex worker, etc), though even this can be risky depending on the circumstances.

Women and akoshos cannot be challenged in duels, nor can they Legally be challengers (with a very specific exception for Odonii priestesses, who have men's legal rights), though they can indirectly do so via a male relation acting as their proxy in combat. The alternative is not Entirely unheard of, but very rare, and rarer still that a male opponent will accept. The concept is, however, a motif in heroic folktales wherein a young woman disguises herself as a man and enters into a duel to avenge the murder of her brother or another family member. In most variants, this is cast as a heroic as an act of extreme familial piety, with her masculinization being an entirely temporary means of doing so (which is immediately abandoned post-duel).

Once the challenge is accepted, both parties will negotiate terms through a proxy (by convention, this is a blood relative or other legal kin). This decides the time and location of the match, as well as its stakes. The majority of duels are Not to the death, rather to a lesser end- first blood, incapacitation, submission, etc. In fully legal duels, this agreement is submitted to a local authority and its terms become legally enforceable. Even in 'off the books' duels, the terms will generally be enforced by overwhelming social contract. There is effectively no backing out once the formal agreements have been made. One party not showing up at the agreed time and place effectively concedes a victorious social high ground to their opponent, but without the matter being 'settled' (encouraging further escalation).

Legally, duels must either be fought on private property or outside of city limits (as wearing a weapon in any of the capital cities is illegal for most civilians). You can find semi-legal underground dueling sites in most of the cities, though this tends to be associated with the petty, dirty squabblings of commoners and most nobility will opt to fight in the countryside.

Duels are typically overseen by a neutral third party, with legal duels being specifically officiated by a socially protected individual (usually a priest) who directs the ritual elements of the proceedings and observes and records its outcome. The arena is measured out in a circle approximately twelve paces wide, and marked with stakes and a binding of sanctified amenchil rope wound left to right. This form of binding is broadly used in cultural practice to delineate and spiritually protect sacred spaces (wound right to left in these contexts). Its reversed use in duels provides a regulatory psychological function- the arena becomes a segregated liminal space, and the rest of the world is symbolically bound with a protective barrier, keeping the violence of the dispute confined to this space and time.

Additionally, both combatants (and their familial proxies) swear a binding oath (before a holy relic in priest-officiated duels) - swearing to obey pre-negotiated terms and rules, and declaring that the victor shall be recognized as the righteous party and that the outcome of the duel wholly resolves the dispute. Being bound to such an oath might not settle things on an emotional level, but HEAVILY disincentivizes a duel starting or worsening family feuds- even in fatal duels, the defeated party's family has no justification to demand a blood price or avenge their slain kin, or otherwise commit direct reprisals over the dispute (and would be breaking a solemn oath before God, which will have consequences).

Both parties prepare themselves to fight. Exact traditions vary across the region, but duels are near-ubiquitously fought unarmored with a single blade (sometimes, but not always, replaced by staffs or blunted swords for non-fatal fights). In the south of the region (as depicted here), it's traditional to fight topless with one's cloak clasped around their hips and hair bound into a topknot (the gull feather here is not a dueling norm, but it's lucky).

Both combatants enter the ring and stand at opposing sides, and the dual begins at the overseer's signal. The challenging party is not permitted to make the first attack, and instead must dodge or block their opponent's first swing before they can begin to retaliate. The duel will then proceed to its pre-negotiated ending.

There are additional compacts that direct the fighting. Fleeing from the arena is an automatic loss (and an EXTREME stain on one's honor and masculinity). If the combat spills out past the boundaries, it must be halted and the arena entirely moved and re-bound before restarting. Surrender is possible even in fatal fights, and it is generally taboo to kill an opponent who has verbally declared defeat (as they have lost the duel in doing so, and the matter is thus settled- proceeding further is murder). These rules will be enforced by the authority in legally overseen fights, and are largely (though not universally) enforced by social convention in illegal duels.

Upon resolution, the winner extracts a verbal affirmation of their victory from the loser (if they survived), or from the loser's familial proxy (if they didn't). In some traditions, they are specifically permitted to cut the loser's hair (which is a humiliating and somewhat emasculating act, only adolescent boys (and mourners) wear their hair short in most of the Wardi cultural sphere). A winner who feels the loser fought/died valiantly or is otherwise highly respectable may abstain, as a means of protecting their opponent's dignity. The resolution of the fight ostensibly concludes the dispute, with the winning party justified as righteous in their cause, and gaining social capital and Masc Points in their victory.

[bonesandpoemsandflowers]

my beloved is like, behold this Chinese martial art based on the spear, isn't it beautiful? look at this guy's empty hands working so well together: you can see the spear.

and you fucking know what. I can. I can see the spear. how much time have I spent hanging out with this person that I'm like ah yeah. invisible spear. very sensible.

[scribe-of-hael]

A perfect world is Knockout listening to Sabrina Carpenter

[whoarethegirls]

commentary trying to convince me that jay speared hangman, here’s how main belt jay can still win

[nightsandreala]

almost 4 am.. once again thinking about balan and jackle: balan thinks jackle always keeping his cape on is something similar to how he uses his hat, like it’s some sort of emotional barrier but eventually he finds out that all that happens when jackle takes it off is he loses access to his Trinkets he keeps in there. he’s slightly disappointed it doesn’t turn jackle visible or something

[buttercupart]

rambling about poncho human time

this is gonna be long as hell. like im so serious its like a scroll of ancient texts im deeply sorry for this. lets go gang

The eventual head of humankind's soul council and the (at the time) most determined human, the few remaining records note their name to be "Réada".

Further inquiry into the subject would point heavily to their full first name being Mairéada (MY-red-ah or mah-REYDA), though most accounts contested the way said name was to be pronounced, as well as their surname - with human-monster war historians going back and forth on whether it was "Lahmar" or "al-Ahmar". Based on the records of their full name, they are assumed to have had Irish and Moroccan ancestry.

To friends, though? They were just Réada.

Born the middle child of their family, Réada's magical prowess turned some eyes towards their family early on, as did their propensity towards mercy and just treatment... notably towards monsterkind, at a time when tensions between the two were high.

If Réada was consciously aware of any of these things, though, they didn't show it. They spent their days tending to their family's livestock... and goofing off with monster children, including the boss monster prince, Asgore.

No one, monster nor human, expected some human peasant child to worm their way into the monster prince's heart and home... but they did anyways, and it proved a beneficial friendship for both of them.

If there's one thing about Asgore, it's that he is and always was a fuzzy pushover. Réada's strong sense of justice and inability to let seemingly minor infractions towards monsterkind go taught him that even if he struggled to stand up for himself, that it was always worth it to stand up and seek justice on behalf of others who weren't treated kindly... who, more often than not at the time, were other monsters.

Asgore's kind nature and lax personality brought out the latent kindness in Réada that was buried behind a no-nonsense facade, and whenever they weren't getting up to tomfoolery, they shared their visions for a brighter, kinder future for humans and monsters both, that they were sure they could accomplish together, with Asgore as King and Réada as his right-hand man.

Of course, this tentative period of "peace" couldn't last, not with tensions rising higher and higher each day. As the years ticked by, it became more and more apparent that something had to give. But through it all, the monster prince and his human friend stood tall, and continued to give those close to them some semblance of hope.

...until humankind's ruler insisted on taking a young Réada to train with a selection of other powerful soul-bearing humans, to function as a council of magic serving humanity's best interests. Réada wanted no part in this, but as an immensely (perhaps the most) powerful Determination soul, their opinion on the subject hardly mattered.

Taken from their family and friends and pushed into a leadership role they wanted nothing to do with as a young teenager proved detrimental to their wellbeing. On the rare occasions they could sneak from the castle, they'd meet up with Asgore to tell him the current going-ons, and this was one of the only ways they stayed stable. It troubled them to know how their family struggled without them, or how looming the threat of war was on the horizon. Through it all, the monster king and the human pawn tried to hold on to the hope of a brighter future together with everything they had.

The human's ruler wasn't stupid, and knew Réada was meeting with Asgore behind the council's backs - but considering how vital they were to the plan, they couldn't be taken out of the equation and disposed of - and the reins on them tightened to the point they were never left alone - and thus, Asgore didn't see them again for quite a long time.

The breaking point, and largely agreed upon catalyst for the war was the deaths of the monster prince's parents at the hand of humans. Asgore had staunchly refuted the idea of utilizing violence against who he viewed as his friend's kind until this point, where, in grief, he lashed out and declared war against humankind for what they'd done. Young and grief-stricken, the monster prince ascended to the role of monster king.

Réada's strong sense of justice towards their monster friends proved to be a massive detriment to the humans' cause. When called upon to use their magical aptitude to FIGHT, it was impossible to get them to actually do any lasting damage - they would FIGHT monsters under the threat of their own death, sure, but only do just enough damage to get to the point they'd be able to SPARE their opponents. Their mantra was to never kill or be killed in turn.

...the same could not be said for other humans involved in the war, who turned countless monsters to dust under the demands of their ruler. Despair grew in Réada as the war progressed, and they knew they had to come up with a plan, fast, before every last monster was massacred. They partnered with a few other mages in the council to devise a plan that would put the killing to an end - without that end being complete eradication of monsterkind.

Not long before the end of the war, Asgore led a platoon against a group of humans, which Réada was forced to lead - head to head, they stood before one another for the first time in many years, almost unable to recognize one another as the years of stress made itself evident on their faces. As their fists shook, with their weapons drawn... neither could make a move. Neither could understand why they hesitated, why the other didn't just get it over with already and get rid of them the way they should have wanted to. A few spears were thrown, a few magic bullets flew, but nothing more, before both sides shakily retreated.

The next few days were filled with insurmountable confusion and grief for them both.

Shortly after, the monsters surrendered.

The Mages were gathered by their ruler, to utilize their immense magical abilities to finally turn every last monster to dust once and for all.

But Réada still had that trick up their sleeve.

Together with the 1 or 2 other mages who agreed to their plan, they cast a draining spell upon all of them, including themself, and drained every bit of magic out of all their souls, not to turn towards the monsters in a devastating final blow, no, rather... to create an immensely powerful, impenetrable magical barrier to keep the monsters contained and protected - far, far away from the reach of humans who wished to hunt them down, for the end of time, or perhaps until a better time. No human was to lay a hand against their best friend or his kind ever again.

Because he was their king, and they would always be his lionheart.

[horizonandstar]

Sun: Aww, little one! Did you invite your friends to see me? Burrower!Star: No, these are my 4 children. Sun:... I'm sorry, what?

borrower kids are 1 sauce tall. can you imagine

[bugsinthebayou]

i dont have the energy or time for a full d-tails page but i call this issue "zaz gets a girlfriend while taz fights for his life" /silly

[asleepinawell]

inadvisable thunderstorm enjoying idiot solidarity w/ @sntoot

[sweetsweetbumblebee]

whenever my fav bands release new music i listen 2 1 song on repeat until i cant listen 2 it anymore n i think thats how music is supposed 2 b enjoyed

[littlebigmouse]

If Arcane had come out 20-30 years ago it undoubtedly would have featured Bring Me To Live and Gangster's Paradise on the OST so jott that down.

[therevengeoffrankenstein]

sighs.

[thegreatcrowdragon]

I overhauled Golden Egg cookie’s personality ‘n stuff since being the virtue of Perseverance felt too similar to Change. Now she’s the virtue of Justice, and her distilled form is Perseverance. Her corrupted form is also Vengeance now and she’s much more violent (used to be just kinda sad and mopey)

[yeyinde]

You want a baby. Simon can't get over his hangups to give you one. The solution to both problems? Johnny.

18+ SMUT. breeding. mildly dubious consent. Johnny feasts on your pussy and then does his best to knock you up while Simon watches. slight body worship. bastardization of religious imagery. Mean!Dom Simon. rough, messy sex.

He's not the type to saw off his own hand to feed you, but would rather find a third man to satiate you both. The only one who can care for you, he said. Can't do that when he's dead, can he?

Maybe that's why he calls for Johnny.

down boy. eager mutt. lil' pyedogs got himself all twisted up in a rutt. help him, won't you, pet?

Johnny's softer than Simon but only just. This margin of distance, however, could be the gaping maw of a canyon for how wide it really is when scaled down to fit. Boxed inside a narrow bed—on your belly, cheek on Simon's knee; ass up, legs spread. Johnny behind you—colluvium to Simon's mountainside, but still so broad, so thick, your hips twinge with the effort of keeping your knees so wide apart.

You feel it whistling through the chasm when he licks his lips behind you—a loud, lascivious smack, a wet suckle—and feel the burn of his stare riveted on the split of your flesh. This bare seam Simon swears he found nirvana tucked deep inside of. A buried ravine. Aquifer he quenches himself on.

A pilgrimage Johnny has been aching to take.

And that's what this is, isn't it? Yatra to the hidden piscina. A procession to pollute the tarn—something Simon can't bring himself to do.

Bad genes. Trauma—sticky, noxious tar that oozes from the rotting filaments; festering deep inside. Cancerous: a mass you long to cleave from bone but know it's not cosmetic. Not just the ball joints, or the studs, but the foundation itself. If you start tearing up pieces now you'll have nothing but an empty plot and a pile of damaged debris.

So:

Enter the third man.

A tool. Vassel. Pays fealty by fucking a baby into your womb.

It's what you wanted, isn't it?

(yes, but—)

It happens faster than you can keep up with. Hands on your hips. Coarse hair tickling the back of your thigh. Warm breath against sticky, wet flesh. A broad nose parting your folds. Inhale. Exhale on a deep, reedy groan.

"fuck, ye smell heavenly, doe."

Simon hums before you can peel your tongue from the roof of your mouth, answering for you with a brassy invitation: tastes even better, Johnny.

It's all the permission he needs before he pushes his head closer to your bare cunt, groaning as his tongue cleaves a silky, thick line between your folds. Gorging himself without much preamble. Hands curled around your hips like expensive silverware, pulling you back into the wanting, eager suck of his mouth.

All at once, it's too much. Your hips shift, squirming away from his tongue, the too-sharp press of his teeth against soft, sensitive flesh. Mewling, whimpering into the rain-wet fabric of Simon's jeans.

His hand falls on your head. A gentle tap. Behave, it says, but you can't.

Johnny tramples over that thin line between pleasure and ecstasy, blurring them both until it becomes pain. Overwhelming. Shoving you towards the edge before you've readied yourself for the fall.

"Can't, Simon, can't—"

The words elide, slurring into a high-pitched whine as Johnny feasts on your cunt. Devours you from the inside out—all teeth and tongue, sucking your clit until your thighs cramp from how tight your muscles tense, bleeding lactic acid over sore flesh. The scrape of his stubble over your folds, chafing them until they are raw. Swollen. Drenched hole fucked with the spear of his tongue, digging so deep you begin to fear that he's trying to crawl inside of you. Salt your womb with his own two hands—

"Can take it, birdie," is all Simon says before his hand slides down your arched, trembling spine. Fingers digging into the meat of your cheek, spreading you wider for Johnny to eat. "Look how eager he is. Can't get enough of that sweet cunt."

"It's—it's too much—"

You don't feel him move. Can't see much from the blurry tears in your eyes. But his other hand whips out, cracking over your untouched cheek in a firm, burning smack. One that makes Johnny moan when it lands. Cruel. Open palm. Hard enough to leave a welt in the shape of his hand—something that makes him groan when he sees it.

"fuckin' hell—" his fingers dig into the aching flesh, grip bruising.

Johnny peels his wet, open mouth away long enough to pant into the slick spread of your cunt, resting his cheek on the swell of your ass. "Bit rough wit' 'er, Lt."

Simon considers it. Body shaking the bed when he shrugs, leaning back to trail his hand back up your spine, curling over the arch of your nape. Keeping you still as you sob into his knee. "She likes it."

"know she does. Fuck, Lt. Can feel 'er little pussy twitching. Tryin' tae suck me in."

Another hum. The grip on your asscheek eases as his hand peels away, sliding over swell before notching a finger between your cleft. Dry. Rough. It drags down your seam until it brushes over your fluttering hole, calloused tip digging in.

"soft, too, ain't it?" He asks, words mockingly cruel in their conversational tone. Nonchalant. But Johnny's hands tighten on your waist, palms slick with sweat. Glueing to your flesh. You can tell he likes that. Likes the way Simon talks about you. Demeaning and brutish. Butcher selling a piece of meat. "Bit of a tight fit at first—" he curls his finger inside of you, stretching your sore walls with the width of his knuckle. Sinking in deep. Another follows before you can remember how to breathe around the sting. "But swallows you up like a goddamn dream, Johnny."

His breaths grow ragged. "Fuck, Lt. Look at th'."

It makes you clench up around Simon's fingers, embarrassment scorching through your chest. "Please—"

Neither of them acknowledge you. Simon's fingers split, spreading wide apart as Johnny shuffles forward for a closer look, and nearly choking on his next inhale when he does.

"such a pretty fuckin' pussy—" he says it like a curse. Spitting the words out on a snarl. Angry, now, for reasons you can't discern slobbering over Simon's leg. "God, Lt. ah cannae—"

Johnny shifts back. You hear the clink of a belt. The rip of a zipper. Choked groans barely swallowed down as Simon buries his fingers inside of your weeping cunt over and over again, blunt tips cruelly skating over a spot inside, just behind your navel, that makes you feel liquid and loose between your hips. Debris floating down a whiteriver.

Pleasure peaks with each brutal thrust until you're howling into his leg, unable to move with their hands on your body, holding you down. Making you take it. Making you come undone as Johnny watches.

"fuck, fuck, Lt—she's gonna cum, ain't she?"

"Wanna feel it, Johnny?"

Simon's name falls out of his mouth on a whispered prayer. Drenched in thick reverence. Arched in need.

"aye, sir—" there's something about the hush of his voice, the way it slurs into putty. Enshrining his need in a halo of gold. It sends shivers down your spine. Heats you up fast like a fever. Sends you screaming over the edge—

"gonna miss it, Johnny. She's squeezin' me so fuckin' tight—"

Whatever else they say is swallowed by the keen clawing at the hollow of your throat when you feel the blunt, fat press of his cock knocking against your swollen, stuffed rim.

It's a burning thing—a sharp, heavy ache. Knock, knock. Simon spreads his fingers again, forcing you open. Pulling your hole wide apart for Johnny's engorged head to push up against.

It feels like being split down the middle. Ripped apart. Simon's fingers flex around your nape, thumb brushing soothingly against the knob of your spine.

Can take it, he mutters, brassy and low. A rumble just for you. Gotta take it, birdie.

You forget why. Why you need Johnny's too big, too fat cock inside of your cunt until the head bullies through, scissoring Simon's fingers apart until they're pressed tight on either side of the flared glands. Squeezed between your taut rim and Johnny's cock.

Johnny makes a noise like you've gutted him. A gutwrenching sob. "Oh, shite, Lt. M'—m'nae gonnae last—"

"gonna cum inside 'er, Johnny? Knock my pretty birdie up?"

Right. Right. A baby.

There's a heavy push. Your flesh wrenched apart to fit the fat, throbbing length of his cock—

(the cock that's gonna knock you up—)

Simon's fingers slip out of you as Johnny bucks forward, burying himself deep inside with a long, throaty groan. It's a horrible sensation—a bellyache. Without the splint of Simon's fingers forcing you open wide to near numbness, you're forced to feel the thick girth of his cock. Rim fluttering, spasming over the flared base. Too much, and somehow, not enough.

You sob through it. Each one ripples through your chest until it feels like it will collapse. Every inch of your body burns, throbbing. You don't think you'll survive this ache—

Johnny sets a brutal pace. Likes pistoning into you in quick succession until you're nearly howling into Simon's thigh before slowing to a crawl. Force-feeding you every inch. Making you feel every single one. Long strokes that batter the plug of your womb, bullying against the aching seal of your cervix until the flashes of pain, the savagery of this pleasure, makes you feel sick.

Getting fucked by Johnny like this is both a punishment and a reward. Baptism in hellfire.

Be careful what you wish for—

"gonnae fuck ye 'til it takes, doe. Knock ye up. Want th', don't ye? Aye. Can feel it. Feel this little cunt beggin' fer ma cum. Dinnae worry. Ahm gonnae give it tae ye. A' o' it, doe. Every—fuckin'—drop—"

Each awful word lands like acid on your spine. Chewing through flesh, tissue, until it melts bone below. Liquified. Helpless.

And with Johnny's hands on your hips, anchoring you in place as he hammers into your sore, abused pussy, possessed with the need to carve a space inside of your flesh where only he fits, rots, and Simon's hand on the scruff of your neck, holding you down, there's nowhere to run. Nowhere to escape the ragged breaths that spill from Johnny's slick mouth, the desperate way he pumps into you—thrusts growing sloppy as he stretches towards the precipice they dangle you off of, kicking and screaming as the scent of iron fills your nose, as his flared cockhead scrapes over that place you thought only Simon would ever know. Bluntly battering into the altar that sits, nestled behind your navel, like he's allowed.

Holy offering in a handful of seeds he'll sow over fecund land until something grows.

"Look at you take it," Simon coos, sticky, damp fingers petting over your tear-stained cheeks. It smells of loam. Salt. Iron and ozone. "So pretty when you're gettin' bred, ain't you, birdie?"

It rips a mournful keen from your chest, a feverish moan following on its heels when the lewd squelch, the echoing slapslapslap of Johnny driving into your cunt fills your ears. So wet, so messy, you can feel the slick drying, tacky and thick, on the inner crease of your bent knee.

"He's gonna put our baby in you, ain't he, birdie? Like a good mutt—"

The hands holding you over the precipice let go. Johnny's answering moan spears into your head, fluttering around the pulsing heartbeat of liquid bliss frothing in the pit of your belly. Overflowing over the rim.

Too much, you think, but that's not quite right because you can't feel anything at all except the length of his thick cock lodged deep inside you. Throbbing in tandem with your second pulse.

"gonnae cum, Lt. Gonnae—oh, fuck, Lt—"

His voice is a warm river washing over your spine. Pooling ecstacy. Something heavenly. Divine—

Molten gold blooms in the pit of your belly. Cockhead spitting against the seal of your womb as he cums, filling you to the brim. Fucking it into you even as his cock softens, unable to pull out he says.

Feels like fuckin' heaven, Lt.

"ain't she just?" Simon volleys back, sounding oddly dissonant. Off-key. "Pretty little birdie got what she wanted, huh?"

The drawl of his tone—acid-scorched, electric—forces you to blink through the tears, lifting your aching, wet eyes upwards at him. Searching.

He has the eyes of a predator. Leonine. The gaze of a beast after it's devoured something whole. His touch is as gentle as he can be—a rough, cracked scratch over your blistered cheeks—and when he meets your divining stare, he coos.

"Maybe I'll 'ave a go next time."

In the pounding, soporific slurry of your mind, you can't wrap your head around the words. Can't make sense of them. Struggling to keep your burning eyes open, even.

Not that it matters.

Johnny huffs a scorching breath of laughter over your sweat-slicked spine before wedging his forearm under your belly. Keeping your hips tipped up as he falls into you, resting his broad chest against your back and smothering you into the damp mattress.

"Yer cruel, Lt," he rasps, chin nuzzling over the arch of your shoulder, cock giving a feeble twitch inside of you at something you can't seem to piece together.

"m'jus' givin' my pretty bird exactly what she asked for." Huh? He prods, fingers tapping over your cheek when your swollen eyes slide shut. "Forgettin' y'manners, ain't you? Say thank you, pet."

With Johnny's half-formed chuckle echoing in your head, you mumble the words out on an exhausted sigh.

"an' say thank you to this mutt f'knockin' you up."

It comes out slower this time. Sluggish. His cock gives another twitch as he buries his face between your shoulder blades, smothering a groan.

"Sweetest thing, Lt. Christ—"

"more where that came from, Johnny. Jus' you wait an' see." Another tap. You mewl in response, feeling war-torn and achy. Unable to open your eyes for a second time, all you can do is whimper, burying yourself into his thigh. Pleading, silently, for clemency. Later, you think. Later—

But Simon has other plans.

"Fallin' asleep on me, birdie? Ain't even gonna give me a chance to put my baby in you? Greedy little thing, ain't she?"

Buried under the weight of Johnny as he peppers sucking, open mouth kisses over the width of your shoulder, cum leaking out around the softening plug of his cock, all you can do is snuff out the sob on the arch of his knee, resisting the urge to bite instead.

"Maybe next time then, eh, birdie?" Since you've been so good for this mutt, huh? Maybe I'll give you a reward.

Just be careful what you wish for, huh, birdie.

[spar-bunny]

Ya know what! Y'all get a pic of my cool sword that I have in my room because I think it's super cool!

Also, everyone who sees this post must get a cool sword, even if it's cheaply made. Go and get one! You will have a blast swinging it around and doing cool shit with it.