#its not even like its a lie!!!! but its enough of a lie to not REALLY be the truth and i couldnt stand it ssbbhfdsdgjjjjj

[kurooh]

★ MAKE HER TAPOUT ! — JUJUTSU KAISEN

⊹₊˚. featuring gojo satoru, geto suguru, nanami kento, ino takuma, fushiguro toji, & kamo choso fucking you till one of you gives out, or not!

warnings: 18+ content — mdni, fem! reader, creampies, gentle choking, cunnilingus, facesitting, backshots, overstimulation, jet sex, dirty talk, talking him thru it (ino), brief edging, filming.

xoxo, juno: SHES BACKKK 😝

GOJO SATORU # neither, it’s a competition

“aw, sweetheart,” satoru reaches up to thumb away an involuntary tear from your cheek, “you cryin’?”

“no,” you sniffle, and the shake of your voice betrays you. “o-of course not, satoru.”

mirth sparkles in his diamond blue eyes and he hums contentedly, as if he’s pretending to believe you. but of course he is—right now, he has to.

god, you were dumb enough to challenge him once he’d riled you up, and now you’re paying the price. a persistent burn courses through the muscles of your thighs, the exhaustion more than palpable now that you’ve been bouncing on his dick for so long. a messy puddle of cum has pooled around the base of his cock and sticks to your skin each time you sink down, serving as a constant reminder of how long it’s been.

normally, satoru would laugh in your face, then help you fuck him, but he’s choosing to be quiet because seeing you struggle is even more entertaining.

“you don’t have to lie, baby,” he squeezes your hips, allowing his eyes to trace the curves and slopes of your body, to commit them to his long term memory. “y’know, i love watching you ride me. it’s just . . oh, never mind.”

aggressively, you wipe the sweat from your forehead and glare down at him with dewy eyes. even when you’re crumbling into pieces, you manage to remain angry at him. “say it, satoru.”

an irritating smile splits across his face and he bounces his hips up just as you move down, just to punch a gasp out of your lungs. “‘s just that you were so fast earlier, now it seems like you’re struggling after all that talk.”

his cheeks are scarlet and growing darker as something triumphant basks him in its glow. you push at his chest and grind on him more insistently, even though the stimulation feels like bolts of electricity on your sensitive clit. “f-fine, is that what you want? for me to prove myself?”

“maybe.”

satoru watches smugly as you up the pace of your hips, repeatedly slamming down on his cock until you’re ready to give up. he grabs at your soft tits, and pinches at your perked nipples meanly, enjoying the way your cunt spasms around him.

a few tears race down your cheeks, and you glare weakly at him, not yet ready to admit defeat.

“my girl’s so pretty,” satoru whispers, harsh as he rolls your tender nipples between his fingers, “doesn’t she know when it’s time to give up?”

“shut up,” you groan, lower lip wobbling pathetically. this struggling is a hundred times better than being pressed into the mattress and fucked senselessly. “just be quiet, toru, stop running your mouth.”

“me? running my mouth?” he sounds taken aback, mouth agape as he regards you with a offended expression that settles across his flushed features. “sweetheart, please. look at you—”

not too firmly, you wrap your hands around his throat. just the sight has a new kind of arousal flaring inside your body, one that makes your clit feel incredibly sensitive after a single grind of it into his pelvis.

“you’re talking too much,” you hum, voice a little singsongy now that the tables have been turned, “can’t you just let me have this?”

satoru quirks an eyebrow, still challenging you despite blushing darker. “y-you’ve got some serious nerve,” he pants, voice coming out weaker than he’d like it to, “just fuckin’ wait—”

now it’s your turn to rile him up. “whatever,” you roll your eyes, the tips of your nails lightly digging into his soft skin. “maybe if you shut your mouth, i could let you go.”

“oh, you know that’ll never happen,” satoru scoffs quickly, almost as if he doesn’t want you to let go just yet. “you just focus on showin’ me what you’re made of. if you can.”

GETO SUGURU # you ‘tap’ out

when you’d invited geto to make a guest cameo on your onlyfans, you didn’t expect him to pull out all the stops to show you off . .

you wail pathetically, each and every one of your limbs feeling like jelly now. the consistent smacks of his hips into your ass bounces off the walls and only adds to the cacophony in the room—suguru has practically destroyed your pussy, his thick cock reducing it into a wet mess that squeezes him involuntarily whenever he makes noise.

“shit,” his chest heaves behind you, and he flicks his bangs away from his eyes to squint at your phone, “don’t cha look so pretty with me inside, sweetheart? come on, don’t make me lift you up.”

weakly, with as much strength as you can muster, you raise your head to blearily look at your phone screen. it’s constantly lighting up with new, colorful messages in the stream and rather generous donations—suguru has helped you pull in hundreds more than a solo live would’ve.

-> kchomo: she’s beautiful!

-> tfushoji: pussy made of steel

“s-sugu, ah—‘m still a little sensitive,” you struggle to gasp out, each deliberate plunge of his cock punching the words out of you. before you look into your reflection to confirm your suspicions, you already know he’s got a smug smirk tugging at the corners of his lips.

“that’s even better,” he coos, smacking your ass and slipping his hands beneath your hips. “i’m sure everyone’s, ngh, enjoying the show . . but god, who wouldn’t, especially with a face ‘n body like that?”

suguru groans as he drags you up, positioning you to take his cock at an impossibly deeper angle. you choke on your own drool, hands slipping off of the floor as he moves you however he pleases.

“p-put me down!” you squeak awkwardly, feeling previous loads of cum race down your inner thighs in creamy rivulets, “what’re you—”

“jus’ giving them one last show before it’s time for me to take a bow,” his pierced tongue darts out to lick the sweat glistening at his cupid’s bow. “think you can take it? again?”

it’s more of a challenge rather than a request.

even though you’re spent and dizzy from the scent of sex as well as the feel of it, you’re ready to push through. after all, how long has it been since you’ve ever been fucked this good?

“bring it on, suguru,” and you don’t regret it for a second, until his nails claw at your skin when he steadies himself inside you, gearing up to go out with a bang.

“that’s my girl,” your eyes roll back into your head when he develops a pace right out of the gates, all too eager for someone who’s covered your back in cum more than a few times. “fuck, she’s so good. takes a fuckin’ dick like it’s nobody’s business.”

“‘m supposed to—oh my god, right there—be a pro..professional.”

a professional pornstar? more like a fancier way of saying you’re a hungry slut—but suguru doesn’t give a damn, not when you’re sucking him deeper and throbbing around him, almost synced up with the frantic pounding of his heart.

“riiight there, huh?” he can’t help but tease, voice taking on a mocking tone that seems to make the room burn a few degrees hotter, “is this where you want me, sweetheart? all up in this pretty lil tummy?”

oh, he even splays his fingers across your stomach and digs his heel into the soft spot above your pelvis, a move he’d familiarized himself with after combing through your account. for lack of a well formed verbal response, you nod your head, lips parting around breathless moans and pleas. “fuck yes, sugu. i need it, i need more.”

wispy black hairs cling to his forehead, held in place by sweat instead of their usual tight bun. since he’d stepped into your room and greeted your audience, suguru had become quite disheveled, and the thought of complaining never crossed his mind. no, he’d been too lost in you, his longtime porn crush whose page he checked almost daily—he feels his eyes squeeze shut when you cry out his name so loudly your throat will be sore tomorrow.

“oh god, suguru,” you’re entirely limp in his grasp and powerless to the wet squelches of your cunt as he rearranges your insides, “i think i’m gonna fuckin’ cum soon, ‘m so close.”

-> satojo: HELL YES

-> brattybunnny: the way he holds her >>

-> juiceboxbussy: im crying they’re so hot

ecstasy shoots through your veins like electricity, and suguru’s ability to hold back crumbles into nothing when you start to throw your ass back onto him. it’s something that derails the pace he’s set and the plans he had, but you deserve to be spoiled. honestly, after this live, you’ll definitely be inviting him on more often.

like a boat’s propellers, your feet kick out into the air and your toes curl as the tsunami wave of it all starts to crash over you. “i’m—sugu, ‘m gonna fucking cum!”

“all over my cock, baby,” suguru groans, too lost in your pussy to feel the beads of sweat racing down his temples or the burn of exhaustion settling into his muscles, “let—let me feel it.”

so you do, abruptly creaming all over his cock with an obscene whine that tears out of your throat and blesses the ears of every member of the audience. he’s finally able to let go as you’re coming down, pulsing cunt milking him of every drop he can possibly offer.

suguru nearly collapses on top of you once his empty balls clench, but you’re already struggling to hold yourself up without his help. the donations are much more luxurious now that the audience can get better views of your blissed out face and his matching reddened expression.

“let’s start saying goodbye,” he suggests, wincing as he pulls out of you. the air is hot, but it feels like the arctic outside of you—well, at least he can watch the deluge of cum spill out from between your thighs. you’ll be leaking for hours, and some kind of nasty pride swells in his chest at the thought of it. “honey, c’mon. gotta get cleaned up.”

-> satojo donated $150

-> thukuna donated $200 and said: js busted a nut

-> brattybunnny: i know that dick was good asf

-> juiceboxbussy: girl she’s knocked out 😭

NANAMI KENTO # you tap out

“ken,” you gasp just as the thud of a loaded suitcase resonates through the entire jet. the flight crew’s busy loading up what’s supposed to be an empty corporate jet, while kento’s associates busy themselves with odd tasks he’s doled out to them. “but the seats—”

“can be replaced,” he huffs irritably, not liking the fact that you’re busying yourself with pointless worrying over the seats. “sit down, honey.”

“i know that,” nervously, you glance toward the front of the jet, scanning your surroundings to make sure nobody’s coming in. “i, um, don’t want to make a mess before everyone comes in. i mean, what if you get fired because of it?”

as you ramble, you’re unconsciously pulling away from your seat on his face. kento’s gold wedding band catches the light of the sun as he immediately grabs your thighs, yanking you back where he wants you. his patience is wearing thin and if you don’t sit on his face right now, god help him—he’ll start thinking about devouring you in front of his co-workers.

“ah! kento, i don’t think this is a—” you’re powerless now; with his strong arms locked around your legs, there’s no way you can escape. it’s so risky, so dangerous—but the fear quickly boils into arousal that pools like magma in your belly.

happily suffocating beneath you, kento can’t help but smile when he starts to slurp at your messy cunt. it’s obscene, the noises he makes—smacking his lips like he just can’t get enough, grunting as that familiar sweetness settles on his tongue.

your breath hitches in your throat. “k-kennn, baby, you feel so good—but, oh, we don’t have a lot of time.”

for one painful moment, he lifts you up and stares at you with nothing but hunger in his eyes. “remind me about that one more time,” low and menacing, the sound of his voice makes your pussy squeeze in anticipation. “let me enjoy my meal in peace, honey.”

with that, kento firmly sits you on his face once more, and resumes his impatient lapping. his tongue is both soft and rough, forcing a stream of uncontrollable moans out of you. his nose presses into your clit and makes every sensation hit you harder, leaving you a hot mess atop his face.

“move those hips for me,” he lets out a muffled groan, and his eyes roll back once he feels you comply. desperate as ever, you start to rock your hips into him at an unsteady pace—the shaking and trembling of your body throws you off course.

“ngh, like this?” kento’s ears seem to perk once he detects that current of hesitancy in your voice. it’s so cute, the way you’re seeking his praise; his cock twitches in his pants, buried under layers of fabric.

“just like that, angel,” he gasps for breath before going back in—this time, kento starts to sloppily make out with your pussy. his tongue pushes inside and flicks around, experimentally going deeper while he kisses at your folds.

“oh my god,” the words are a euphoric exclamation, the kind that comes before an earth shattering orgasm—but then it suddenly switches into panic. “oh my god, kento! y-you’ve gotta stop now, your co-workers, they’re—fuck, they just got here!”

kento’s never been one to allow himself to be rushed. your orgasm, you falling apart on his face—it is much more important than his damn co-workers. he’s made you cum fast before and he can do it again. despite your thrashing, he holds you down against him and amps everything up until you start to sob out his name, choking on each syllable.

“they’re gonna get on the plane,” you sniffle, finally accepting your fate. the leather seats will be soaking wet by the time everyone boards, but there’s nothing else you can do but cum. “ken, ‘m really getting close, ngh.”

you nearly lock eyes with one of his coworkers when all your muscles pull taut and bliss bursts out like fireworks in your body. oh, and out of it too—before you can register what’s going on, cum gushes from your pussy and squirts like rain all over his face. of course, kento drinks in every drop, careful not to waste even one.

your jaw’s hanging open as he licks you straight through your high, greedy as ever so he can purposefully make you squeal. kento’s grip on you loosens and he smirks when you scramble off of him, squeezing your thighs together as your body heaves for breath.

“oh, look at that,” he cheerfully glances down at the leather seats, “you didn’t get anything wet, sweetheart.” except for him, of course.

then, out the window. “those aren’t my coworkers, angel. they’re marshals to guide the jet,” slowly, he turns toward you, eyeing your sticky thighs—rather, what’s between them. “no need to quit so soon, hm? tell me what you want.”

INO TAKUMA # he ultimately taps out

takuma’s more than lost in your pussy—he’s too far in to pull out even if he tried. it always happens so fast, too; from the moment you put it in he nearly goes cross-eyed and tries to think of anything that could help him not to cum. it’s so difficult, though, especially when you’re purposefully squeezing down on him and using your oh so soft hands to urge him closer.

he’s done for.

“takuma, are you—ah—are you okay?” before he could realize what was happening, takuma had instinctively begun to jackhammer his hips into yours. “oh my—mmm, you’re fucking me so well.”

“yeah?” he pants out, fingers scrabbling at your ankle to pull you closer, “g-give yourself some credit too, baby, you’re the one taking it like you were made to.”

it’s just how he is, always stuttering back a compliment whenever you talk to him. a breathy chuckle passes through your lips and is immediately followed by a saccharine moan of his name, a sound that echoes in his head and shoots straight to his twitching dick.

“it’s so hard,” he gasps, feeling an inevitable tingle in his nose and behind his eyes, “so hard to keep it together when you’re lookin’ at me like that. shit, babe, you’re gonna kill me.”

each word grows more frantic with every pleased moan that leaves your lips, and takuma’s gotta force himself to focus on something else. he’d been taught to cum with or after you, a rule ingrained into him that even applies when he’s jerking off.

the tinkling of your anklet near his ear serves as the perfect distraction, until it suddenly reminds him of the sexy position he’s fucking you in. with one leg over his shoulder and the other kicking on the bed, takuma’s cock is able to push deep, into spots you can’t even reach with your fingers.

your chest rises and falls rapidly, plump tits jiggling from all the movement, and his face crumples when you shakily press them down. “‘m gonna cum,” you wheeze, arousal burning like fire through your entire body, “you’re suuuch a good boy, takuma, feels so g-good.”

“don’t say that,” takuma’s pleading with you, shaking his head frantically as his cock starts to throb, “don’t, you’re—hah—gonna make me cum too fast.”

“why not at the same time, honey?” your free leg starts to circle around his waist, drawing him in without leaving an opening for him to escape. “c’mon, takuma, ‘m all yours. just f-fill me up.”

this is an offer he can’t refuse, a ball he absolutely cannot drop—the shakes of his head turn into frantic nods as he accepts, scooping you up to pull you just a few inches closer before he falls off the edge. he’s the cutest, trembling above you and babbling out breathless sweet nothings.

you cum hard on his cock, digging your heel into his lower back as you reach your high. it tears through you and leaves you dizzy, shaking like a leaf beneath his strong body. takuma, on the other hand, is so lost in you that he’s tucked his face into your neck and gasps into your skin. everything is inaudible until he lets out a hushed whine, “ngh, mommy.”

“mmm, takuma,” your nails rake down his shoulders, leaving long red stripes he’ll be proud of when he looks into the mirror. “what was that?”

takuma closes his eyes against you and swallows against the shockwaves of bliss as he empties his balls against your cervix. “h-huh, baby?”

FUSHIGURO TOJI # you will tap out

toji’s unstoppable—once you’re on all fours and throwing your ass back on him, don’t expect to be able to walk without being carried for the next two hours.

“oh my god,” you sob out desperately, voice cracking when you try to speak, “t-toji, it’s—ngh, ‘s too much, i can’t—” 

“doll, be for real,” toji snickers, almost out of breath. it’s been so long you can’t even feel your legs anymore, and he presses his large hands onto your squirming hips as if he’s trying to indent his touch into you forever. “you can take it. ya wanna cum, don’t cha?”

weakly, you look over your shoulder just in time to catch the wolfish grin on his face and the gleam of his pearly whites. his dark gaze scours your body hungrily, as if he’s on the hunt for something plump to sink his teeth into. sweat glistens on his chest, salt settled in the hard lines of muscle that define his body and showcase his strength. “if ya hadn’t been so fuckin’ impatient, i’d have made you cum earlier. but noooo, jus’ wanted to be all dumb, huh?”

“‘m sorry,” a scream nearly tears from your throat after another agonizing thrust of his powerful hips—his tip hits the soft, cushy spot deep inside of your cunt that always has you seeing stars. “toji! i didn’t mean to be a—fuck—a brat, i only wanted—”

“blah blah blah,” he groans, targeting your sweet spot with sharp, deliberate thrusts that make your eyes roll back into your skull. “jus’ shut up, baby. keep talkin’ and i’ll leave ya high ‘n dry.”

it sounds horrible—horrible enough for you to snap your mouth shut and just focus on taking his cock even though your hips occasionally jerk to the side. toji’s dick is huge, long and thick and unbelievably easy to go dumb on. your fingers twitch in the sheets, aching to scratch the lustful itch that torments your swollen clit; but toji won’t let you, not until he wants you to cum.

a long cry of frustration is released into the bed, and the corners of his lips quirk up in amusement. “aw, is it gettin’ to be too much for ya?” he croons, landing a few stinging smacks on your sore ass, “hope you’re not tapping out before i let ya cum, doll.”

“i said i was sorry,” bitterly, the words rush out. “w-why can’t i fucking cum, toji?”

a low wolf whistle trills out into the air. “because you like edging, nasty girl. did i fuck ya dumb enough for you to forget that ya asked me to do this shit to you, huh?”

that’s right. you had asked him to starve you of the euphoria briefly, but now it’s well past the limit. yes, fushiguro toji was no stranger to pushing limits—transcending physical thresholds to build his body into your favorite temple to worship—so naturally, he’s started to train you to do the same.

“that’s not fair,” you whine, feeling the tears building in your eyes, “haa, i’m so close.”

“don’t you dare,” toji hisses, wrapping your hair around his fist and pulling you back easily. “you can wait one more minute.”

he’s cruel, going so far as to rub your clit with his rough fingers to make you waver as you wait for the tortuous minute to pass. heat burns across every inch of your skin, leaving goosebumps in its wake—it’s impossible not to start trembling, teeth chattering as you try to fight off the unescapable high that only seems to move faster toward you. 

“please,” you’re arching all over, nearly collapsing onto your stomach, but he’s got you right where he wants you. “h-hurry up, toji, i can’t hold it anymore—shit!”

“three fuckin’ seconds,” he grunts, the clapping of skin against skin growing louder as the seconds fly by. “‘kay, princess. go ahead and cum alllll over this dick f’me.”

you fall apart on his cock before he can even finish his sentence, cunt clenching hard enough to push him out as you fall forward onto the mattress. the smallest amount of cum squirts from your pussy, and that’s when he realizes he’s not quite done with you yet. toji licks his lips as he watches you writhe, settling onto his stomach to torture you all the more. 

“toji!” you can’t help but squeal when he grabs hold of your hips and licks at your overly sensitive clit, his dark eyes rolling back when he feels your pussy twitching against his tongue. “ugh, wait, ‘m not ready for—”

“ya wanted to cum so bad, didn’t ya? so lay back for me, doll.”

KAMO CHOSO # can’t stop, won’t stop

“hah, ‘m sorry,” choso borderline sobs when he delivers another sloppy, trembling thrust deep into your cunt. you’re folded up and blurry beneath him, all because he can’t seem to control the onslaught of crystalline tears that pool in his eyes. “baby, it’s—you just feel so g-gooddd.”

rampant apologies run out from his mouth, but they never quite land, always fading into nothing by the time he finishes the sentence. it’s not like he means a single one, especially when he can’t stop rutting his hips into yours, chasing both of your highs.

“don’t—mmm, fuck,” you curse when the tip of choso’s cock kisses your cervix, sending a brief sting of both pain and pleasure through your nerves, “don’t worry about it, cho, ‘s okay.”

tears race down his pink cheeks as more build in his eyes, despite his frantic attempts to blink them away. “i jus’ can’t stop, you—you feel too fucking good.”

a wave of heat crashes through him when he sees your eyes roll back, legs squeezing around his slim waist in order to keep him inside you. you’re as eager for his cum as he is to give it to you, along with a final orgasm of your own. his cock may be purple with overstimulation by now, but how could that possibly matter when you’re on the brink of bursting at the seams all over him?

choso chokes on a moan and fucks you harder, ignoring the annoying beads of sweat that roll down his temples and paste his hair down to his skin. even in the middle of winter, just the two of you are able to heat the house up as easily as a furnace could.

“oh my—fuck,” your voice breaks when you try to speak, looking deliciously dazed when your bleary eyes finally focus on his own, “y-you’re gonna make me cum again, cho, if you keep that pace—”

“fuckin’ give it to me,” choso begs, raspy voice edged with the intensity of ecstasy roaring through him, “jus’ one more time, just one more, we can—we can cum together, baby.”

he’s hiccuping over his words and losing control faster now that your hand’s tangled in his hair and pulling the way he likes. it stings, but he’d be out of his right mind if he asked you to stop—so instead, “harder, please.. ugh, just like that.”

“you’re such a freak,” you pant out, although you sound more than pleased to yank on his hair, “don’t tell me you’ll cum just from this?”

he swallows a lump in his throat and presses a hand to your lower belly, feeling around for himself, and soon enough, he’s able to feel the distinct swell of his cock inside of you.

“only if you cum all over me,” choso’s already delirious, mind full of thoughts of another orgasm even after this one. with you, he’s learned to control his refractory period, shortening it down to a mere two minutes that he tends to spend between your thighs. “please, you have to let me feel you, baby, it’s the only way—!”

“yeah? oh, are you gonna f-fill me up again?” heat floods your cheeks as your voice becomes more breathy, growing weak now that you’re hurtling toward your own high. “oh my god, ‘s like you’re trying to knock me up.”

something wild flashes across his face and takes place as a flickering movie behind his eyes. he has to pause, momentarily caught up in the idea of getting you pregnant. there’s something about the idea of your swollen belly and babies that really ignites a flame in the half curse—perhaps it’s all the more attractive because there’s a good chance he’s infertile.

“oh, fuck,” he sobs desperately, vision blurring with tears and his thoughts, “‘m cumming—ugh, ‘s all yours, angel, ‘m only yours.”

even as choso’s spilling white inside of you, his stuttering hips don’t stop once. now, he’s got a goal and he intends to achieve it, regardless of your cries of sensitivity. “slow down,” you whine, out of breath. “ch-choso, wait a second—it’s too much!”

“it’s not enough,” he grunts, shaking as he bulldozes through his own oversensitivity, “i’m not done, i have to—i need to put a baby in you.”

“i’m sure there’s five, choso, i need to take a second to bre—”

“just one more, i need to make sure. it has to happen, ‘m almost there. hold on for me, angel, please, i just have to make sure.”

[pricetagged]

fool's gold (pyrite)

Got inspired by gougie's executioner asks and cloth's egging hehe 💖 have some pirate au simon breeding kink~

Content: 18+; breeding kink; dubious consent*; mean Simon; pirates; captured-by-the-crown reader; barest implication of potential soap/reader and future ghoap/reader; POV shift

*in a 'get out of jail' way, so take that how you will.

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

It fluttered in your stomach. A nebulous, squirming little thing.

Not the baby, no. The lie.

You felt it, restless and hot. Kicking your ribs from the inside. It made you flushed, it made you sick-

It bought you at least another few weeks to slip the noose, to slide away in borrowed shoes meant to dance a gallows' jig. Maybe it would buy you more, if the stress held back your monthly the way it often did on the ship. Great, long stretches of time with too much work and not enough food.

You wore the lie like you wore your borrowed clothes, a too-tight bodice and heavy skirts. Impractical, sweet. Modest. A poor little dear caught up and brought low. Fallen woman, sunken to the depths before the law fished her out. 

Your thighs stuck together, warm and bare under the skirts. It was sweltering, damp. Clammy in the cell with its stagnant air and earthy, unfinished floors. The wood of your bench –and bedcot–was warped with age, woodlouse burrowed deep into the pulpy grooves. It was enough to make you shudder, sweat dripping down your spine until it soaked into the cotton of your shift.

It did little to cool you.

Nine months aboard The Watcher had spoiled you, coarse rope and sharp, sea air warping you into something new. Something wilder. It was hardtack and hard work, yes. But it was freedom. To toil under a flag of your choosing, to trust the waves and the Captain to take you to new ports and newer treasures–

You'd left your papa's place with little more than ill-fitting breeches and a pocketed purse. You'd passed the scars on your hands and the patches on your shirt as evidence of experience – hardy little stowaway, aren't ye–. The morals didn't bother you the way stolen scraps didn't bother a dog. Street rat or ship rat; at least this way you could put miles between you and your father. Nautical miles, bobbing away with the wood of the ship's log. You watched it often, knots of rope and grains of sand. Hourglass and paper in hand while you stood on the stern.

It was you who first spotted the English Man O'War, sluicing through waves with colours hoisted high. Three gun-decks, at least, and coming into port.

"–plead the belly–it'll spare ye the choppin' block. Might even get lucky and be sent t' the reformatory– ah heard they do that f'r expectant mothers–" you couldn't quite hear him over the ringing of the cannons and the ringing in your ears.  "–plead the belly, and I'll try tae come back for y–"

They echoed now in your sweltering cell, suspended in the humidity. The boatswain's last words before he was violently wrestled away.

You remembered him as you counted the bars of your cage. Iron-wrought and cruel. As cruel as the chain tethering you to the wall, cold metal biting into your bare ankle.

'–I've got the keys, girlie, if you want freein' from it. Don' have to sit against that wall, all shy. C'mere an' I'll make you a deal–'

You stayed silent, stone-faced. Weathered the taunts and jeers of your gaolers like a battered old rock. The guards took it as arrogance, the other prisoners took it as invite.

The priest took it as shame.

You let them all believe it, lips pressed tight lest you let loose sobs–giggles–something– as days passed and your sentencing drew closer.

You'd heard about him before you saw him. The Ghost. The last face you'd see before facing the faceless. The pitch-black eyes that would watch as you jigged to the jeers of the crowd.

It was the last face you'd see and it was only a mask. More macabre than the usual executioner's hood– a skull motif, bleach-white bones and empty sockets. A nasty minikin mockery of the reaper. It was gristly; it was sick.

But so was he.

A butcher, some said. Fingers caked in blood no matter to which job he attended. A pirate, according to others. One pressed into service, earning his freedom by sending others to the pits. 

And now you heard him for real.

The low, resonant whistle. The heavy tread of his boots.

It had you curling your fingers into your palms, nautical superstitions and fishwives' tales nipping at you like fleas.

–quit yer whistlin', you'll anger the winds and summon a storm–

                                                 –it's good luck, don't worry. It'll make the winds blow strong and steady, you'll see–

–I wouldn't do that if I were you. Cap'n'll think it's code between mutineers–

                                                                                                                                    –taboo–

The whistling stopped, a cheery solitary note wavering in the air before silence. Even the gaoler's dog had scarpered off, keys jingling around its neck until you couldn't even hear the echo.

A gravel-rough voice cut through the swirling tempest of your mind.

"Was told 'got a pregnant little birdie caught in the cage."

That pulled you from your reverie, neck-stiff as you turned towards the voice. It was more of a twitch than a conscious motion, a sudden flaring of deadened synapses as his voice rasped over them. Still, you didn't speak. Didn't even look at him fully, the hulking thing in your peripheral.

It was silent, now. Eerily so, like all the air had been sucked from the prison. Sitting in the eye of the storm, too calm and too quiet. You could hear the drag of his boots as he shifted closer. The rolling clank of iron scraping against itself, your cage creaking open.

The shadow in your peripheral became mass, then man as he stepped closer.

You risked a glance up.

He'd still be large, sturdy, even without you curled up on your dank, spongy bedcot. Tall enough to duck as he sauntered into the cell. Broad enough to block out the flickering oil lamps by the warden's desk. In the lambent glow of dusk it was already dim, hazy with sea-spray and the oppressive heat of wet season. But with him in front of you it was pitch-dark. A pall cast by his sheer size, all light swallowed up until you could just about make out his blurry edges.

The ghostly white of the bones bleached onto his mask moved and his voice rumbled out.

"Well, g'nna show me?"

You stretched out weakened muscles, unfurling as slow as a wind-battered sail. Joints creaked alongside the iron of your shackle, tight from where you'd clenched hard. Dug your blunt little fingernails into the pulpy, malleable fibers of the aged ironwood below you.

Standing was like finding yourself unmoored, sliding off the buoyant driftwood keeping you afloat. Your legs got tangled up in your borrowed clothes, damp petticoats and overskirts clinging as your feet finally touched the straw-strewn earth of the cell floor. It was cumbersome, made more difficult by the sliding of the heavy chain against the bench. You felt the weight around your ankle, anchoring you down.

Though you could barely see it, you felt as he studied you from top-to-toe. Flat, dead eyes followed every curve and dip of your body as you stood before him, your traitorous chest rising and falling in a way that made you grit your teeth. You used that force to steel your jaw, to look straight ahead and keep your arms lax and loose by your side.

Let him look his fill. Let him– your judge, jury and executioner.

He hummed. Circled you like a shark in a balmy waters. It was funny– you'd never felt more exposed than now in all your layers. Not even under the punishing sun in your loose, men's clothes. No, his eyes stripped you bare. More than cotton and linens, he peeled the flesh from bone. Flayed you open, eyes slicing through your skittish guise. Through your rabbity gaze hopping around the walls, the way you tried to arch your back and poke out more of your soft belly.

"You a liar, then?" You could hear the low, mocking note in his voice. "Or got a case of wishful thinkin'?"

That had you looking up, meeting him dead in the eye. Your hands hovered above the slight swell of your stomach, fingers twitching in an abortive gesture–

–you wanted to cradle it, the fluttering in your empty belly. Push down the sick, swirling terror and face the ghost you'd summoned, because you had summoned it–

He grabbed by your wrist, meaty paw pulling you close enough to brush against his expansive chest.

–Hadn't you? Bad luck. Malefic omen, having you on the ship. No prophets, no redheads–

There, in the cradle of his arms, you were frozen. Your wrist felt fragile, bird-like under the firm grip of his thick-knuckled fingers. You weren't weak, you'd rigged topsails in tempest winds with those wrists. But that was then. That was weeks ago, when you were part of a crew on the open seas. Here, it was just you and the beast that had sent stronger than you to their graves. The warnings from persnickety old seadogs tolled death knolls in your mind–

–no women. And now the sea had swallowed you up. Sent you down to the belly of the beast. A Jonah, locked behind something stronger than whalebone. Trapped. Unless–

Wishful thinking.

He chucked at your chin, calloused fingertips arching your head further back until your neck strained. Your heartbeat rushed past your ears, sending your head spinning. Dizzy, docile. An artificial calm; buoyant lifeline in the raging currents. He turned you slightly, left then right. Like he was measuring you up, the line of your throat. The fluttering of your pulse. That treacherous throbbing, sending oxygen to your brain that you were too erethic to feel.

He spoke again, rough and coruscating. You noticed that he didn't blink, just stared down at you. Dead-eyed as a fish, blond lashes spiked around dark irises. He kept you arched, unable to escape as every syllable struck you like a storm. You balanced on bare tip-toes, butterfly-soft fingers spread across his hairy forearm.

"The Beak's happy to let ya swing if it means 'e can catch the rest of y'r crewmates. And, 'round here, the only good pirate is a dead pirate," he must have felt how your fingers tightened, a futile brace against his butal strength and harsh words. "So, I tell him y'r a liar, get paid to do my job, and keep the governor happy."

He shrugged, bulky shoulders popping as he rolled them back. He shrugged like it meant nothing to him, just a matter of fact. The fisherman, fingers deep in guts and gristle. The butcher, hands stained copper and hardened on cannon bone. The executioner, calloused from rope neckties and the deadweight of the condemned–

But you catch the way his eyes follow your flinch. The way his lips move under his mask too as your mouth opens and closes. Hesitant. Dry.

You could only look up at him with wide, naïve eyes, dilating in the dark. The jejune jailbird. Doe-eyed. Caught.

The jig was up.

"Please," the words stuck in your throat, cracking and broken. "Please don't–"

He lets you go. Not a gentle action, no. No careful caress; he lowers you abruptly, chuckles as you scramble to face him. Stunned, you rub at your throat. Still there, still unadorned with the necklace of rope you swear he wants to place there. Coarse twine and hessian brown, constricting tighter until– no. You can't think on it, anathema to the lie you've worked hard to maintain. If he doesn't believe the plea of the belly, you'll– you'll–

You'll make it so.

As he settles his massive frame on the thin, wooden slat against the wall you wonder. Why did he come here in cover of night. Why did he need to see for himself what the priest confirmed as a priori truth? The seal of confession melts away, your moribund admittance flakes and crumbles under his heavy hand. He knows.

Solid legs spread wide, he makes himself comfortable. You follow the bulge of his thighs, easily as thick as your skull–more–, as the bench groans and creaks worse than the brig in a storm.

You worry that it can't handle the weight.

Even sitting, he dwarfs you. Stepping up between his thighs is like willingly stepping off the stern into still waters. It's terrifying, thrilling– your belly swoops and head feels light. You know there must be something lurking in the depths, some undulating hydra ready to slide its malignant limbs around your ankle and wrench you down–

He clamps a filthy boot down over the length of chain across the floor. Keeps you tethered to him, unable to pull back even if you wanted to.

"Clever enough t'come up with the scheme, clever enough t'get out of it." It's an offering, albeit a twisted one. Alms tainted by the greedy slap of his palms against his thighs. Rough, scarred hands frame the growing bulge between his legs.

Even in the dark, you see it. Heavy, perverse, Fattening enough to strain against the seam of his trousers. You can't look away, can't escape the muggy heat in the air and the scorching burn of his eyes on you. Incendiary, it sends heat pooling to your own belly. The damp, stickiness between your thighs seems cool now, sweat superseded by the slick gathering in your core. It's filthy, it's wrong–

It's blazing hot, shame seared away by a want that is not entirely born of desperation.

At first you think it's a tit-for-tat, your mouth stuffed full in exchange for his staying closed. Kneeling before him, you're suddenly grateful for your skirts. Matchsticks of dried straw and dusty smithereens dig into your knees, legs bent awkwardly as he keeps his boot on your chain. He's content to let you paw at him, to tug at the drawstrings and fumble with his waistband as he offers no help.

Eventually, he must grow bored.

"Don' need me to tell ya that's not how it works."

"What–?" He has you frozen, tableau vivant of a wanton grisette. Pupils-blown and lips-parted, you tremble up at him. Try to read the desire that he hides beneath harsh words and heavy breaths.

"Tryin' t'make me a liar, too?" He grunts, brushing aside your confused, hurried protestations. "Gonna make me a liar when I go out'nd tell them there really is a pregnant little birdie caught in the cage?"

He pats at his lap, palming at himself and hissing through his teeth. Sound is muffled by that grotesque mask, but you catch it all the same. Every flash of the man beneath– of the desire wrought by your artless, ingenue fumblings– sends you reeling. You are not a creature of flesh and blood, not when both are fever-hot and itching. You can't breathe in your body under sweltering layers and sultry air. And he can sense it, too. The beast you let into your cage, bars bending as easily as your will to his.

And, through messily-tugged drawstrings, you see it. Tugged through the opening you'd hastily torn open. The thick, ruddy head of his cock is already leaking.

And as you slide into his lap, it all slides into place.

You think of– no, not now. You can't think of him now. When he comes back for you, if it takes, you could pass the baby off as his. He was sweet on you, you know it. A breezy, comfortable kind of affection. Small, just barely burgeoning but still there. He's a good man– You'll claim that you were telling the truth at your capture– that you and he already– He's a decent man– maybe you wouldn't even have to lie. He'd take you in, little stray and the seed that kept her off the scaffold–

Thoughts slip away, sea spray in the wind, as you work yourself open in his lap. You're drenched beneath your skirts, slick running down your thighs and into his. You're spread so wide across him that it burns, pinned open by his bulk. You can feel the power of his frame, coiled muscle holding you up from the worn wooden bench. The soft pudge of his belly presses into yours as you lean forward, shakily lining up with the swollen head of his cock.

It's already weeping, thick globs of his slick mingle with yours as he slides between your folds. Like he can't wait to be inside you, leaking his spend at the barest touch of your cunt. Like he can't wait to put it inside you, to make good on his word and yours and put a baby there.

You shiver, biting back a gasp as he nudges the aching pearl at the apex of your thighs. His chuckle rumbles through his hulking chest into yours. It jostles you, hitching you just right over his length until it notches against you. You press down, hole clenching against the initial pain, until you feel the throb of his slit inside. It's deep, sending your back arching as you grip his shoulders with white knuckles. And there's still more–

"Tha's it, tha's it, birdie," his voice is impossibly thicker, desire dragging it down until he growls at you. "Gonna have t'take more, gotta make it all fit if you want this baby–"

"Yes, yes, please," you babble at him. Voice high, whines catching on every breath you work yourself lower. You can feel him in your stomach, every inch sending sparks dancing along your spine until they're all you can see when you close your eyes. The sparks, and the spectral imprint of his ghostly mask.

He grunts below you, swallowing back groans behind a jaw that you know is clenched tight. Avaricious brute, he needs you closer. Hands that were meant to measure you for the drop dig into your hips, working you lower and lower. He forces you down to the root, bare thighs on hessian cloth, until you cry out. Shaking at the spread– the stretch– you pant in his ear. Hot little breaths, heady against the crook of his neck.

You can hear it, the obscene squelch of your greedy cunt. The creaking of the bench beneath you as you ride him with shaking legs, chasing pleasure that's already beginning to pool in your belly. You feel heavy with it, moaning behind your clenched fist. Through bleary eyes you catch his, cimmerian and heavy-lidded. His head is thrown back against the wall, guttural filth spilling as he waits for you to come undone.

"Want it, don't ya? Want my baby so fuckin' bad, just look at ya," he growls it, frothing with a hunger so biting it reads as rage. "I'll put one in ya, keep you stuffed full. Keep this chain around y'r ankle, too, keep you shackled to me–"

Eyes-watering as you lose yourself in it. In the sounds that that send blood rushing to your head, the deep ache in your core, the desperation– make him come, make him come, want to come, need to come–

---------

At first, he was happy to watch you. To sit back and watch you work yourself up, to perform for him until he sees you drop the mask. You wear the mantle of captive soubrette so well, sweat-damp petticoats clinging to curves that he wants to trace with his tongue. With his teeth. He saw the craft in your sweet, open face. You're a flighty thing, aren't you? Trying to slip the noose and slip past him. Luckily his grasp is strong.

He saw the scheme slip away as he got you speared open on his length. He can see it in your eyes, feels the way you suck him in–. You're dripping down into his breeches, sloppy and squeezing him so tight. Desperate, wanton little naiad. Riding hard like your life depends on it. He huffs out a laugh as he squeezes you tight, rough fingers digging into peach-soft flesh.

He doesn't tell you that you're already free, that the Royal Navy is already in hot pursuit of The Watcher and the pregnant, little skivvy is of as much importance to them as the ship's rats. No, you're a nuisance they're willing to hand off to him. Too big, too blunt, too bloody to find a respectable wife.

(There was a time, once, when he had no need of such comforts. Lieutenant aboard The Larimar's Revenge, he'd docked in many-a-port. But he'd always come back to those blue eyes. The haircut that had even the natives of Port Royal looking twice– Cheeky, cocksure pirate.

He'd thought about him, sometimes. On that godforsaken island with just a pistol and one shot for company. 'Mutineer', he was branded. Traitor to King and Crown. Lower than scum, not worth even a keelhaul. But not even grapeshot can kill a ghost–) 

He feels you reaching your end, thighs trembling from more than just exertion. His mask is damp, sultry air mixing with your musk into something that scatters his desultory thoughts. His belly tightens as he feels you clamping down, whining behind the knuckles you’ve got stuffed between your teeth.

When you're home, together in his bed, he'll bite down on those knuckles. Show you what real toothprints look like. Or maybe he'll let you slip his hand into your mouth instead. Let you whet your blunt little teeth on something with more gristle. His appetite for you cannot be satiated on mere flesh. He's got to pierce you, taste you, feel you from the inside and leave a part of himself there–

For now, he holds you down. Forces you to ride out the wave of pleasure-pain as he sets his own pace. Your thighs tremble, whole body seizing around him. He can feel the fluttering in your cunt, the way you shudder and drip until his cock is soaked and his coarse hair turns sticky with your release.

He ignores your whisper of another man's name– John, or Johnny, it's hard to catch with the way you swallow your whimper–it doesn’t matter. Not when he's the one pumping you full of his spend. His belly clenches hard, balls tight and heavy with the come he's going to give you. Going to force it in, plant his baby in you and still leave thick, white, globs leaking out of your poor, abused hole.

He's filled you up, is going to fill you up again. He'll take you back to his house and do it as many times as he wants. Make you grateful for it, for saving your life and giving you the baby you’ve been begging for. Keep you stuffed so full of him that the only name he'll hear from you is 'Simon'.

(And if you help lure Johnny back, well. It's been a long time, but good dogs come home when called.)

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

Well, there is it. Shoutout to my beloved stelle and woolie for listening to me whine about pirate ship names 💖💖💖

[bug-swarm]

It can be both. This article is predicated on a bit of a lie. There is a very long part of it that goes on about how we were taught that this couldn't happen in America. That these kinds of problems only happened in Europe and that we were immune. And then it goes on to talk about all of the ways those in power failed us.

But the thing is, is that we weren't taught that we were immune to these kinds of problems. Maybe I just had vastly different schooling than the author of this article, but I was very specifically taught over and over about how these kinds of problems can happen to any country. That every person has the capacity for evil. That unless we actively fight against the evils of the world, the evils of the world will win. I was taught to question people with power to make sure they weren't corrupt, because of the times where people in power have been corrupt.

So, when you aren't operating under the assumption that everyone was taught a lie that America is immune to this kind of thing, you realize that the answer of who is to blame is both. Because yes. Its the people in power who did this. They allowed this to happen, and even orchestrated it. And because of the sheer amount of corruption and/or incompetence, it was not the people's fault for this presidency. Everything was too far gone for us to have fixed it.

But that also doesn't mean the people are entirely blameless. Because institutions aren't corrupted overnight. They get worse and worse slowly over time, until they get so bad that things like this happen with nothing we can do to stop it. So it was the people's duty, before things got that bad, to stop it. We needed to start weeding out the corruption decades ago, and we didn't. Evil will always try to get a foothold and it's the job of everyone to be vigilant about it happening. Because once it takes root in one area, it spreads like a cancer until it's infected every part of our institutions and we can't fix things anymore. We've been on this path for years. Its not our fault this happened, but it our fault that we let the institutions that let this happen get bad enough to let this happen.

Gotta admit the headline is a banger.

[acynicalsweetheart]

What if reader was Curlys teenage daughter and they're bathing together and he's taking his time washing her body and thinking about how much she's grown n stuff.. I think that'd be a neat fic if you have time🌚

okay after embarrassing myself majorly im just posting this. not a fic just a very long fucking drabble… sorry to disappoint anon LOL i have no idea what this is umm it sucks ass i can't lie i didn't even follow the ask LMFAO. cut it down a little bc i hated it so much . original version posted on my ao3… read cws as always!

content warning: 18+, dead dove do not eat, daddy-daughter incest, etc etc

“Wow…” dad grabs at your hips, fondling them while his eyes rake down your body, his expression looking more like awe than perversion. “It’s been a while, huh?”

“Can we just get this over with?” 

“Alright, we can get it over with,” Curly lifts you up princess-style, carrying you in his arms like you’re his bride to the bathtub. 

“Dad!”

You’re placed in the bubble bath, dad’s taken the time to pick out your favourite sickly sweet scent even if he’s been clear about how it gives him a migraine. He enters after you, maneuvering you to sit in his lap. 

Dad leans back, makes these embarrassing sex-like noises that have your cheeks setting ablaze. The fact that you’re both butt fucking naked, stuck in a bathtub meant for one, doesn’t help the situation either. 

“This is nice,” he breathes out, pornographic in sound in the way only dad manages to be, pets you on the head and pulls you closer to his chest, “you, me, just like the old times.” 

“Yeah…” is all you can offer in reply, mainly because of the way his dick seems to be agreeing with his words—pressing uncomfortably against your hip in its heavy and floppy glory. 

He’s mostly soft, which you suppose is a good thing. 

Curly washes you like you’re still his baby, struggling to scrub your body squeaky, watery clean ‘cause of the bubbles stubbornly sticking to your skin. 

Everything is fine so you let your guard down for approximately one minute and his hands have already wandered off to where they aren’t supposed to be. 

“Look at these, baby,” he says like you haven’t been looking at them for years, cupping your breasts in his large palms and feeling up the tits he helped to make. “One day they might be as big as mine.” 

Right. Because dad has tittage enough to make Anna Nicole Smith reek out of jealousy. 

“Funny.” You click your tongue at him. Dad means well, you think. You just don’t have the heart to tell him that he’s being wildly inappropriate. 

“Lighten up, baby.” 

“I’m all grown up now, dad, it’s… kind of weird.” He’s like a puppy, if you get stern with him he’ll start pouting and near keeling. 

“All grown up? Honey, you’re my little girl. Always.”

You’ll be my little girl even when you’re fourty, you’ll be my little girl even when I’ve kicked the bucket—

“Even if you walk around with these babies” dad squeezes your tits, chuckles like it’s the most normal thing in the world when you yelp, “nowadays.”

(You’ve had them for as long as you can remember. Maybe he’s just been too busy fucking around up in the galaxy to notice.)

“I’ve been walking around with these,” you pluck his hands off your chest and he wraps them back around your waist—and much to your surprise, dad takes it, stays like that. 

“Whatever you say.”

It comes to a point where you’ve both been in the tub for so long that your fingers are starting to get pruny, wrinkling up like raisins. 

Dad’s hands drift slowly, very indiscreetly, down your tummy until his fingertips brush against your mound. You’re almost praying it’s an accident, frozen like a stone statue in his lap. 

“Are you…?” He trails off, seemingly a bit taken aback of his own question. 

“…Am I what?” 

Sick? Wet? Legal? A virgin? 

“Nothing,” he says but starts feeling around like he’s searching for something. A nagging voice in the back of your head tells you that ‘something’ might be your hymen. 

“I can—I can wash… down there myself, dad,” grabbing his hands to stop them from going any further, your heart’s beating so hard in your chest you can feel it in your throat. You swallow it.

“Right. Yeah.” Curly finally retreats, spurting out a half-assed excuse, “sorry, sweetheart.” It’s like he’s on another planet. 

Yet your stomach flares up with a heat you definitely should not be feeling at your dad’s touch—or lack thereof. 

It comes out before you can stop yourself, “why are you acting so weird?” Like you’re not the one with clenching thighs and a blanket of buzzing arousal over you as you speak. 

“Weird? Honey, I’m not—“ dad cuts himself off, sighs and starts over. “I just… missed my girl. Feel bad for spending so much time away from you,” he admits quietly, saddened as he looks down and strokes your tummy under the water. “Didn’t get to see you grow up.”

“Oh,” that does not explain things. “It’s okay, dad.” 

“No, I shouldn’t have touched you like that, baby.” He buries his face in the crook of your neck, and you wonder if he’ll start sobbing. 

Maybe you’ll let him stay like this for just a little while longer. 

“I can show you,” you take a moment before deciding to guide one of his hands back to your breast, the other to cup your mound. “How much I’ve grown up.”

A lone rubber duck floating amongst the bubbles judges you. 

[skyrim-forever]

WIP WEDNESDAY

Hello everyone! It's another Wednesday <3 Looking forward to seeing what everyone is working on.

Tagging: @theoneandonlysemla @dirty-bosmer @pocket-vvardvark @bougainvillea-and-saltwater @changelingsandothernonsense

@thequeenofthewinter @firefly-factory @umbracirrus @hircines-hunter @captain-of-silvenar @lucien-lachance @sanza-17

@scholarlyhermit @lillxart @ladytanithia @sulphuricgrin @saltymaplesyrup (you've tagged me in a few so get tagged!)

So today is actually a special wip wednesday imo because it's my birthday and I've decided to be silly and goofy <3 This is a snippet from a modern Theomar spy AU I'm working on (some of you may have seen pieces of this before). It's basically a modern Tamriel because I have no interest in putting them in the real world :P This particular scene is from a few chapters ahead chapter one isn't even done but it's fine in which Ondolemar goes to great lengths to gain Theodora's trust at a nightclub. In the clurb we all fam, see the urban dictionary def for a body shot if you are unaware ;)

Under the cut for ridiculousness and although nothing explicit, fuck this horny XD

“Well, I’m happy I can introduce you to some new experiences.” He wants to quip back, provide some sort of remark on how he had plenty of novel experiences and the very concept of a ‘nightclub’ was culturally beneath him. Talk of how there is no shortage of drunken behaviour in the Isles but there's still a dignity to it. Self-respect that is lacking as he watches the sea of bodies surrounding them, how people of all races of Tamriel dance with each other; a term he uses loosely as it is more gyrating against each other than it is dancing. Whatever the phrase was, died on his tongue as she pulls him into that very sea. The grip on his tie releases as she begins doing those very motions on him. Concerns on whether or not this qualifies as dancing leave as he enjoys watching how she sways, mesmerized by movement of her hips; first in front of him then against him as she turns around and leans into him. Thinking she must feel him growing harder before realizing of course she does, that’s why she’s doing it and he wonders what it is that he is doing. Allowing some foreign woman this close to him, in such a manner, publicly. Sleeping with her in private was a hurdle he had already covered, necessary for his means this time. Perhaps it is arousal that clouds his senses as he rationalizes this too as necessary to earn her trust, make her comfortable around him. It is with firm conviction that leads to his hand grasping her hip. Another act that will go unnoticed. 

“So this is how you spend your free time?” He whispers in her ear. The urge to bite her neck is there, nearly does as to increase the flirtation before remembering he did not have any alcohol to blame it on. Luckily the low silking tone she offers him shows his words alone were enough. 

“I do many things in my free time, Ondolemar.” Hushed is his name, glad she is cautious. 

“Such as?” 

“Wouldn’t you like to know.” Her own hand on top of his as she attempts to guide him, a wasted one as he can only justify so much. Let them move in time with each other away from prying eyes, even if everyone around them is deeply engrossed with another as he watches varying levels of debauchery. So much debauchery he fails to respond to her yet again, despite his curiosity at what else she does with her life, he cannot help but address the strange scene of vulgarity on the bar. 

Lying on the counter is a Bosmer woman, already odd enough to lie on the bar top, but the true scandal comes from the Dunmer man who licks the woman’s chest before drinking a shot of liquor and taking the lime wedge from her mouth; all of this without using his hands. So blatant in its degeneracy, the mer must address it. Hoping it to be a bonding moment between the two of them, he calls her attention towards it, whispering once again in her ear. 

“The lack of proper decorum is amusing, I cannot imagine that it is anything more than a spectacle.” He does not get the desired reaction.

“I’m not surprised you think that.” She pulls on his tie again, bringing his lips hovering just above her shoulder. “But it really is quite fun.” 

“You think that’s fun, Theodora?”

“I’ve never had a bad time, though I prefer to have someone do one off me though.” 

“You do, do you?” It’s beyond him why he extends the effort to entertain this. Of course she enjoyed such a thing; she was from the Empire, she frequented establishments such as this one. Sound logic in that she would enjoy that as well. 

“I very much do. The Dunmer is handsome, you think he’d say yes if I asked?” He is quick to steer her away from the idea, all the work he was putting in and she was going to go off with someone else? 

“So you get me here just to abandon me, is that how it is?” 

“Ondolemar, I’m not going to ask you.” 

“Why not?” Playing dumb did not suit him and unfortunately she can already tell that about him, laughing causing vibrations on his chest. 

“I wouldn’t want you to neglect your good mannerisms.” She stands on her own feet now, no longer leaning against him. Almost instantly does his hand go to his chest and touch where the contact had occurred. Turning to look up at him again she repeats his own words back to him, adding in some judgement on his character. “After all it’s nothing more than a spectacle and it’s clear you’re not that type at all.” 

“Is that so?” 

His head spins as he develops a rationale once more. The pieces slide together as he concludes this is a sacrifice he must make. Prove himself to be of the type she seemed to like and she’ll open more to him, unfazed for when his questions start. Still a long while off, this could be the very foundation for the answers he seeks. So that is why he says what he says next, irrelevant is the little voice inside him suggesting such an act could be rather agreeable. 

“You should avoid speaking for me.” Eyes-widen at that statement. Her expression is concerning to the point where he wonders if he miscalculated everything. 

“Don’t tell me what to do.” 

“My apologies.” Recovery. “I simply meant that I may be open to the idea.” Thankfully she smirks. 

“Oh you would be, would you? Changing your tune now that you know I’m into it?”

“I was merely seeking to judge your feelings on the concept, did not want to assume anything lest I make you uncomfortable.” It’s a wonderful coverup, turning the situation around. Near genius. 

“Well then, let’s have some fun.”

It’s a blur as she leads him to the bar, the couple that was there prior now gone, lost among the bodies on the dancefloor. She says something to the bartender, whatever it is that enables you to order this… experience. Throwing oneself in the line of duty often entailed doing things one did not want to, debasing oneself for the greater good of the cause. As she lays on the bar, sprinkling salt between the exposed cleavage of her printed dress; Ah that is what he was licking, Ondolemar tells himself that is precisely what he is doing. A shot glass full of a clear liquid, unaware of what that could be, lies on the top of her sternum and a lime wedge in her hand. He has a brief moment of reprieve as he looks around and contends with the truth that yes he was about to do this. 

“What am I doing?”

“Proving me wrong, unless of course I am right about you. Uptight mer who wouldn’t know real fun if it was right in front of him.” Yet it is right in front of him, staring at him with those emerald eyes as he is determined to challenge her expectations. 

“Ah yes, that’s what I was about to do.” She smiles at him, teasing and playful, his efforts already working. Before placing the fruit between her teeth, the flesh exposed, she tells him one rule. 

“Remember, no hands.”

Indeed no hands are used to aid him, aside from one gripping the wood of the counter and the other finding her hip once again. Stabilize him for good reason as he leans over and becomes momentarily distracted at the sight of her breasts confined to the tight clothing. How he would love to trail his fingers up and over the mounds, landing in the center and pulling it down. He loves the idea so much that the one on her hip does move. It stops as quickly as it started though. Remembering a key factor that attempted to elude him. They were only in this position so he could get information in the future, receive it willingly as arresting an Imperial agent would be impossible at this point. There was nothing to suspect anything and he knew they would fight tooth and nail for her freedom and the Dominion would lose any ground covered in the sabotage. He also recalls that it is the salt between them that he is here for. This ritual, as it were, is making him painfully hard that when he does lick the salt he nearly comes as she lets out a content moan. If the point of this was not to do it quickly he would ask her what that was about. Question her as to why it is they barely know each other and it is already apparent she enjoys torturing him. But he doesn’t, instead encircling the perimeter of the glass and throwing his head back to down the liquid before biting into the citrus. The lime after the burn of the alcohol is good, oddly soothing as many sensations run through him. The ache of his erection combined with their lips this close has him faltering, memories of his plan disappearing as he lets their lips meet.

[alchemyfire]

Thermidor - a short story inspired by the picture

Inspired by this beautiful art by @octavodecimo I wrote this short story about the sad night of Thermidor.

"We're going to die."

"I know."

Hope vanished, leaving only the burning truth. Death is inevitable.

None of us wanted to talk about why it had come to this. Regrets would change nothing, only rob us of the last few moments we could have spent together. Besides, my soul was without regret. We had both done what we thought was right. I would never have abandoned him, even if our opinions had differed.

It didn't matter now. I took his hand in mine and held my breath as he rested his head on my shoulder. I stood firm, unwavering. Just as he had so many times before in the Convention, he could lean on me now, when his strength was running out. Together we could change the world, if only we had more time.

"Everything will end with us, right?" he asked, looking thoughtfully out the window. Beyond that window was Paris and its people, for whom he had sacrificed everything.

“The future will not forget us,” I replied. “Our legacy will live on, and one day the revolution will flare up again with full force.” I closed my eyes and imagined that this was indeed the truth, not just the merciful lie we both tried to believe.

“Have we done enough?” he whispered quietly. I looked past him to the door to the next room, where the others were still trying to organize help. Still hoping. How foolish!

“There is one last thing left,” I said firmly, looking at him. “To accept reality and die with honor.” He nodded in agreement.

“Like the Romans,” he smiled sadly. His fingers touched the pistol that lay on the table for the case of defense. The sudden thought of Maxime taking his own life frightened me. Not that it made any difference. Our deaths were inevitable, and each of us must choose how to face it. Maybe this isn’t such a bad idea, but… do I have the courage to pull the trigger?

“I won’t leave you, my friend,” I promised finally, determined to keep my word. Whatever he chose, I would go with him. I kissed him gently as a sign of my oath and also because there probably wouldn’t be another chance.

When it actually happened, I watched with horror in my heart but with a calm mind as he raised the pistol and fired. I could see right away that it hadn’t turned out the way he had hoped. I wanted to follow him to his death, but he was alive! I stood there paralyzed, staring at the blood that was spilling across the tabletop, staining his tie and shirt crimson. I couldn’t leave him now.

Someone took the weapon from my hand and roughly shoved me. I couldn’t stop looking at Maximilien. He was wheezing, bleeding, but he was alive. He had fallen unconscious, which was probably a good thing. He would not be spared suffering and pain at the end of his life. My poor Maxime... I will stay with you until the end.

[talonabraxas]

Hekate )🌑( Talon Abraxas

Open your heart to the first new moon of the 2025 Lunar Year!

2025’s first New Moon is all set to bring abrupt changes in our lives. Rising in Aquarius on the 29th of January, this moon will be quiet and intense, making an immense impact. It will spread some volatile energy and create a sense of unease for all of us.

On January 27, Mercury, our messenger of the gods, is gaining speed and entering Aquarius, further fueling the intensity of the New Moon. On the same day we will mark the start of the Year of the Snake in Chinese astrology. On the 30th of January, Uranus, the ruler of Aquarius, will finally end its retrograde journey in Taurus. This will trigger the New Moon to amplify our emotions, stirring feelings more intensely than usual.

Uranus is also associated with change, and under its influence, the Moon may prompt us to reassess and modify our feelings toward certain live events.

Often our emotions lie dormant deep within, and we are not aware of them. We tend to push emotions to the side, but they don’t vanish. They are still there, waiting to surface when we finally allow ourselves to acknowledge them.

This Aquarius Moon will help us confront such emotions, not just in January but throughout 2025. The change Uranus is set to bring will be in terms of these emotions and how we deal with them.

The New Aquarius Moon will be guiding us and telling us not to bury our emotions. Emotional vulnerability is not what we want to deal with, but with it comes a lot of freedom. While you may feel scared to be so open, it will also put your empathy in overdrive.

What does that imply? The many planetary changes and cosmic alignments set to take place in 2025 are all about teaching us to be more open, more loving, and more empathic.

When you feel like closing down your emotions and retreating to your safe space, try to consciously keep your heart open. When you come across the negative energy of others, instead of judging or avoiding them, try sending your positive vibes toward them.

They need it. This is the type of transparency required to meet this year’s demands. The power of love that each of us commands is greater than all the negativity. Even when you use crystals and other objects, their power would not be as potent as your true emotions and vibes.

When you are harsh in your expressions, that is what you will receive in return. But when you soften yourself and open your heart to the many miracles of the Universe, you will find good in everything.

The Moon goddess knows that it is not always easy for us to be open; it can be a struggle for some. This is why we see her moving in phases. When she is the Full Moon, she is open and full of love, and when she needs to retreat, the love is still there, but as the New Moon.

She is still open-hearted, but she just moves differently, working according to her cycles. This is a lesson we too must learn. We must know when to show vulnerability and when to withdraw.

So this Lunar New Year, our focus should be on being more open and allowing emotional freedom to guide us.

Being the first New Moon under the influence of Uranus and Aquarius, it will send out erratic vibes, requiring us to ground ourselves. If you wish to brave this phase, you have to let your heart shine.

When you feel overwhelmed, instead of retreating, try to open your heart up a bit more. This will make you better aligned with your powers, and you will feel safer.

The humanitarian Aquarius will advise you to use your positive powers to benefit the community once you have better alignment with your abilities. The world is suffering enough.

When you send out your bit of positivity, no matter how small or big that is, it will create an impact. The night of the Aquarius Moon would be a wonderful time to extend your energies to the world, to Mother Earth, and to yourself.

The volatile energy now will make you want to double down and protect yourself and your energies. But it is the opposite that you need to do. Have the courage to love a little more in the face of all odds. Let yourself honestly experience all the emotions you have been trying to bury.

You don’t have to sit and find the meaning behind your emotions. No. You just have to let yourself feel it all. Open up your heart chakra; let it guide you in the big negative world. Go beyond your barriers. When you feel insecure and wish to return to your safe quarters, you must challenge yourself to do the opposite.

Don’t be scared; the New Moon is there to help you.

Enjoy the first New Moon of 2025! -Conscious Reminder

[mirdanil]

Satoru didn’t consider himself careless— not in the ways that mattered, anyway. Sure, he was cocky, irreverent and loved pushing buttons; but when it came to his abilities, there was no room for error.

Well… even the strongest sorcerer wasn’t immune to human errors.

****************************************************

The mission had been routine. Satoru hardly broke a sweat dealing with the cursed spirits swarming the area. It was only afterward— when he felt the faint prickle of something weird and foreign creeping through his mind— that he realized he’d let his Infinity down just a second too early.

The thing was strangely… civilized. It asked questions about his techniques and marveled at the way he wielded his cursed energy. It didn’t really seem hostile. And since Satoru didn’t feel like announcing to everyone at Jujutsu High that he’d accidentally picked up a freeloading spirit, he decided to keep it to himself. He’d figure out how to exorcise it eventually. How hard could that be, anyway?

It was fine. Totally fine. Until you came back from your mission in Osaka.

Satoru had felt the familiar signature of your cursed energy lighting up the edges of his Six Eyes like a welcome beacon. And it seemed the cursed spirit felt it, too.

“Who is that?” it hissed, its tone laced with an intensity and greed that made Satoru pause and his eyebrow rise up. “Oh… oh, they’re exquisite. Look at them— no, really look at them. Magnificent.“

Satoru blinked, shifting his weight as he watched you approach from afar. The spirit hummed. When you flashed Satoru a polite smile in greeting, the spirit almost lost it.

“Perfection,” it hissed, practically salivating. „Flawless. A masterpiece.“

And that’s when Satoru realized this was going to be a problem.

****************************************************

The spirit’s fixation was immediate and intense. From that moment on, it practically demanded to be around you 24/7. When Satoru didn’t react, the spirit’s whispers turned into snarls— and it made him rub his temples in frustration.

It was like it had cracked open a part of his mind he’d locked away. The way your smile made him feel funny. The way your laugh lingered in his ears. Even the explicit comments the spirit made— crude, insistent, and way too detailed— were disturbingly close to things Satoru had thought himself.

“You’re being unreasonable,” Satoru hissed under his breath one afternoon, feigning nonchalance as made his way down one of the hallways of the school.

“Unreasonable?” the spirit snapped back. “I’m the only one here brave enough to say what you’re too cowardly to admit. You want them.”

Satoru sighed before running a hand through his hair. “I don’t want them. I’m just… appreciating from a distance. Ever heard of boundaries? No? Yeah, thought so.“

“Oh, so you calling them „sweets“ is purely platonic?“ The spirit’s laughter echoed, mocking and bitter. “You can’t lie to me, Satoru. I’m in your head. I know everything.”

****************************************************

He sat in his room, head pounding as the spirit screeched in his mind. “You saw them in the hall and didn’t even say hello! Are you trying to drive me insane?!”

“You’re already insane,” Satoru replied casually, flipping through a manga.

“You don’t get it! They’re right there, and you’re ignoring them. How dare you—”

“You’re loud, you know that?” Satoru interrupted, snapping the manga shut. “They’re a person, not a toy, so maybe chill out for five seconds?”

“Person? They’re a masterpiece! A divine work of art! And you’re the fool standing in the gallery with your eyes closed.”

When Satoru brushed past you in the hallway, offering a casual wave, the spirit fell into a frenzy.

“You idiot!” it shrieked. “You absolute waste of space! You didn’t even stop to talk! How can you be so heartless?!”

“You’re hopeless! They deserve better than you! You should be on your knees, begging for their attention—”

“Alright, that’s enough,” Satoru snapped, his voice low but icy.

He opened his mouth to continue— but then, he heard you calling for him. Oh shit. Oh fuck.

[queenofthequillandink]

Apparently adding onto these DPxDC posts is what's getting my creative writing brain going lately.

Danny tells Damian a lightly sanitized version of events as Danny Fenton The Civilian would remember them. He'd prefer to keep the lying to an absolute minimum and Damian deserves to know. He's usually calm when stuff like this comes up; being a Gotham citizen is a lot like being an Amity Park citizen. You just get used to handling shit. Danny's so used to Damian taking things in stride that sometimes, he forgets his boyfriend is just a civilian.

So Danny expects a calm admonishment about being more careful walking home, maybe an insistence on letting Damian call him a cab or an Uber the next time they're out and about late.

He's not expecting his boyfriend to go full Ghostbusters on the situation.

"Damian, I'll really be fine. Got kidnapped by some bogus cultists, the Batclan showed up and kicked ass, all cultists are now in prison awaiting trial. How many cults can one city have?"

"There are 63 individual cult or cult-like sects identified as operating within Gotham City limits," Damian replies, serious as he is with most things. Damn, Amity only had 18 last time he checked. Though it's a much smaller city, so that's probably why. "Even if you think it's foolish, I would prefer you wear this charm. I took the time to have it affixed to an accessory I thought you would like."

Danny does like the braided leather cuff bracelet Damian's presenting. Unfortunately, the small metal amulet inscribed with runes is the real deal, instead of being new age bullshit that Danny wouldn't have a care in the world about keeping on. Trust Damian to find the one spiritual shop in the city that knows its stuff. The bracelet hums with power he can already feel itching all over him from here, and he hasn't even touched the stupid thing yet. Damn, it makes Danny feel like a complete asshole to turn down the gift Damian clearly put so much thought into.

"Babe," he says gently, putting his hands on Damian's wrists. He can't grip any closer to the bracelet. "I appreciate it, I really do. But I'll be fine. You don't need to worry."

Damian frowns harder. "It won't hurt you to wear it." Unfortunately, false. "You can't just keep it on for my sake?"

Would that I could, Dames. Danny looks away, a little ashamed of the card he's about to pull. But desperate times. "It, uh. It reminds me of my parents, actually," he admits softly. "They had stuff like this all over the house. I'd prefer not to be reminded, if I can help it." The worst part is, it's not even a lie. They were more into the high-tech side of ghost hunting, not the occult, but the buzzing, unwelcome feeling sets his teeth on edge and reminds him of the home defense system that shot him 7 times out of 10 when he tried to enter his parents' house.

Damian sucks in a breath through his teeth. Danny hasn't divulged much about the home life he and Jazz are running from, but Damian knows enough to know how touchy a subject it is. Reluctantly, he draws the offered bracelet back. "My apologies. I did not mean to remind you of darker times."

"Hey." Danny smiles slightly, reaching out to touch Damian's face. "It's okay, you didn't know. But I'm serious, you know. One-and-done kidnapping. You don't have to worry."

Damian scowls, looking away. "You cannot promise that.

Danny kind of can. He can escape pretty much any Rogue in this city whenever he wants to. Penguin's guys have unknowingly had him three separate times, with the longest capture lasting exactly 37 seconds.

But he can't say that, so he just turns Damian's face back to his, gently. "Hey. I'll take other precautions, okay? I'll always call you when I get home. I'll let you pay for a ride when it's a late night. Is that okay?"

"I suppose it will have to do," Damian huffs, folding his arms.

"Okay, good. I know you're worried, and that's fair. And I really appreciate the thought. Maybe I can take the bracelet without the charm? I do like it, you were right."

As Damian unhooks the amulet and stuffs it in his pocket, Danny breathes an internal sigh of relief. Damian's just got to let his mother hen instincts out, be overprotective for a little bit, and then things will go back to normal. He can handle a week or two of hovering! And he gets this cool new bracelet too.

~*~

Damian's first attempt at getting an anti-possession charm on Danny may have failed, but he doesn't come away from the conversation empty handed.

At first, he worried that the strange reluctance to wear so harmless (to Danny's knowledge, at least; Constantine does good work, no matter how obnoxious he is) a trinket was a sign of the King of the Dead's influence even now.

But his pattern of speech hadn't faltered or changed and the awkward shame and embarrassment of his reveal was real, as far as Damian can tell.

No, far more interesting is the revelation that Danny and Jasmine's parents are somehow involved in ghosts and the occult. Could they be the reason that the King of the Dead is interested in Danny as more than a one-time vessel?

Damian has been trying to respect Danny's privacy and not pry into his past. Richard says it's an important part of a relationship, to trust a partner to reveal their personal secrets when they're ready. Unfortunately, it appears that Danny's past has just become case relevant, and that makes it fair game as far as Damian is concerned. He'll just have to make the intrusion up later, once Danny is out of the King of the Dead's clutches for good.

DP x DC Prompt.

Deadserious

.

>Danny had a problem. He thought he handled it well. He couldn't tell his civillian boyfriend of his half-dead status.

He definitely couldn't let him find out by being summoned by some culty wannabes who wanted to rule the world.

Easy solution: Volunteer to be the sacrifice, turn his eyes green, and act like a Royal prick and powerful being. Get rescued by one of Gothams 50 vigilantes. And claim no memory.

Boom, secret identity underwraps.

He didn't expect everyone to treat him so fragile after.

>

Damian also had a problem. That problem, being his civilian boyfriend, was obviously possessed by a spirit of the ghastly ghost king and was utterly clueless about it.

And it was all his fault.

Danny Fenton was the next June Moore/ Enchantress. Except he was hosting one of the most powerful beings in the universe.

And that lovable idiot had no damn idea about it.

[bosbas]

Chapter 6: oh, my, love is a lie

series masterlist previous part || next part

pairing: anthony bridgerton x fem!daphne's best friend!reader WC: 1.2k words

Warnings: period-typical gender roles, idiots in love, mentions of pregnancy, dual pov so it might be confusing sorryyyyy

Summary: At her wit's end after Anthony's multiple attempts to scare away her suitors, Daphne employs her best friend's help to keep her brother distracted while she tries to find a husband. It's a foolproof plan, except it ends up working a little too well. (or, a Bridgerton version of The Taming of the Shrew/10 things I hate about you)

A/N: sorry this is a shorter one but it made more sense to divide it up this way! already working on the next chapter so dw <3

July 8, 1812 - “I beg your pardon?”

Daphne paled. “Oh, no, I didn’t mean-“ she started, choking up immediately. “It’s not-”

“I. Beg. Your. Pardon?” asked Anthony again, his voice steely.

“It’s not like that anymore though, I swear!” cried Daphne, desperate to fix this. “She’s definitely in love with you!”

“She told you this?”

“Well… not exactly,” Daphne finished lamely, not quite sure what to do in this situation. Lying would have probably made it worse at this point, and Daphne wasn’t entirely sure that you’d come to understand your feelings yet.

Shaking his head, Anthony turned to leave the room. “I must go,” he said forcefully, the ire evident in his voice.

---

You stood up as a smile uncontrollably made its way to your lips as you heard the door to your sunroom open, but it dropped just as quickly when you saw that Anthony was furious.

He didn't even bother to greet you as was dictated by social norms. He just stood in the room, breathing heavily and glaring at you as you stood across from him.

“Is it true?” he asked finally, poison dripping from his voice.

You offered him only a perplexed look, not entirely sure what he was referring to but having an excellent idea.

“What Daphne just told me. That you were never interested in me,” he continued, his eyes two angry slits as he stared you down menacingly.

“No, that’s not exactly-”

“So she was lying, then. You didn’t start courting me just to help her find a match,” he said, his voice softening just the tiniest bit.

Your face felt hot, and in fact, the whole room felt far too hot. You looked at Anthony uncomfortably as he waited for your answer.

“No, she wasn’t lying,” you said finally, sounding defeated. “I- I’m so sorry, Anthony. But you have to know I never meant for it to go this far, I just so caught up and I- I just didn’t…” you cut yourself off, too emotional to continue speaking.

Tears rolled freely down your cheeks as you asked yourself, how had everything gotten so messed up? A mere twelve hours ago you were in his arms, having just had the most magical night of your life.

Anthony could only blink at you as he felt his heart drop. He should’ve known this was too good to be true. Of course you weren’t truly interested in him. He didn’t know why he was so surprised.

He supposed he had to hate you now. No one had ever hurt him in this manner, mostly because he hadn’t ever let anyone in as much as he had with you.

But he was still a Bridgerton. And Bridgertons acted with honor. There was a chance you were pregnant, and he was not about to leave you stranded when you were in such a precarious societal position.

Anthony swallowed roughly, trying to gather the courage to speak as though he was unbothered. “Very well, then. I suppose not much can be done about that now. I will speak to your father at once and we can get married next week.”

Your eyebrows shot up. What on earth was he on about? “You can’t marry me,” you said firmly.

He couldn’t. You couldn’t do that to him. You had already hurt him enough.

Anthony sighed in annoyance. “Yes, I can. I will marry you because I am an honorable man. Not for any singular other reason. My reputation is-”

You scoffed, “Oh, what reputation, Anthony? Everyone already thinks you’re the biggest rake in the ton. No one would be surprised by one more conquest, so why are you so insistent that we marry?”

So this is what you truly thought of him, thought Anthony. It was no wonder you didn't feel the same for him as he did for you.

“Because I have respect for you!" he shot back. “Though I can see you have none for me. But that is just fine. I never asked for it, and I don’t need it. All I need is for my family to remain in good standing and for your hand in marriage.”

“I will do no such thing,” you said, scandalized.

“But what if you are with child?” Anthony replied, growing more and more exasperated.

“I am not with child.”

“You cannot possibly know that!”

“I can hope.”

Anthony’s jaw dropped. “How can you say that? After everything we went through?”

Sure, he had never felt pain this intensely in his life. And sure, it was your fault. But he was still shocked that you could wish for such a thing. This only further confirmed his fears that what he felt for you was wildly disproportionate to what you felt for him.

You sniffed, “Look where we are now, Anthony. You hate—me and rightfully so, might I add. So no, I do not wish to have a child with a man who despises me. It’s quite simple really.”

More than that, you didn't think you deserved to marry someone so kind. Someone so loving and perfect. And because you loved Anthony so much you would have rather seen him with someone who hadn't started a courtship with him as a ploy than have him end up with you.

“But you will be ruined!” he pressed.

“Then so be it,” you said decidedly, your voice wavering slightly.

But Anthony was having none of it. It was bad enough that you had completely shattered his heart, you were extremely stubborn when he was trying to do the right thing.

“For heaven’s sake, Y/N. If you will not do it for me or yourself at least do it for my family. For yours.”

“You know my father does not care what I do,” you started, but you knew it was a lost battle. Anthony was right. The Bridgerton family would surely suffer if you had his child out of wedlock, and that was the last thing you wanted. You had harmed them enough already.

But you weren’t ready to completely give up just yet.

“Very well,” you relented. “I see your point, but my courses are due next week. We can put off the proposal by a week, surely?”

Anthony pinched his nose, feeling a headache of annoyance coming on. Why did he have to fall for the most infuriating woman in the ton? The only person who was sure to challenge him whenever possible?

“Yes, we can wait a week,” he asserted.

A week couldn’t come soon enough. Though Anthony’s heart was broken, he couldn’t help the small part of him that was holding out hope for you to miss your courses.

Surely you could learn to love him if you were with child. It would give him the opportunity to try his best to make you love him back, which would likely be easier if you were already married to him. It wasn’t ideal, of course, but it gave him hope.

This wasn’t over yet. It couldn’t be. He was still in love with you, and perhaps with time, you could come to love him too. 

—

previous part || next part || buy me a ko-fi!

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[thethespacecoyote]

contemplating what exactly it was about ford that made bill feel important now

[mandalhoerian]

[read on ao3]

caleb hates the way you look at him now. like you were sifting through sand, running your hands through his bones, his voice, his skin, as if you could excavate the boy you used to know from the body he wears now. And he lets you. he lets you watch him with those wide, aching eyes, lets you press your unspoken questions into the space between you like a knife you’re too afraid to drive in.

but he is still here. he has always been here.

even when you left. even when you let the world pull you out of his arms, away from the home you built together in the shadows of another woman's house. even when you looked at him like he was someone else, something else.

like the metal in his arm has replaced something soft, that the scars are signs of a man who has lost himself. that the violence in his wake is a symptom of something wrong with him, rather than something that has always been there, something rooted in him, as natural as breath, as old as hunger.

but caleb was never one thing. he was never just soft, never just sharp — he was always both.

he is the hound at your heels, the one who circles, watchful, ready to tear out throats in your name. loyal. devoted. a beast trained to heel at your feet, to follow wherever you go, to obey without question. and if you asked him, caleb, stay, he would. if you asked him, caleb, stop, he would. If you asked him, caleb, go away — it would kill him, but he would.

but there is another thing inside him, and it does not listen.

there is a wolf in the woods, and it knows you. it has followed your scent for as long as it has drawn breath, pacing the edges of your world, waiting, waiting. it does not wait for you to call its name, does not wait for your permission to exist. it is not tame, not obedient, not safe. It does not serve. It only wants.

and caleb — caleb is both.

the livestock guardian that is submissive to you and the wolf that hunts you. the thing that kneels at your feet and the thing that would tear out the throat of anyone who dares stand between you. he wants to shelter you, protect you, keep you warm and safe and untouched. and yet — yet. there is a part of him, the part with teeth, the part with claws, the part that sees the softness of you and wants to sink its fangs into your throat, not to kill, never to kill, only to mark, only to hold, only to have.

you were always his gravity.

not in the way that the moon tugs the tide, not in some vast celestial dance — no, it was smaller than that. closer. more inevitable. like breath in his lungs, like blood in his veins. something unseen but undeniable, something he could never be without.

he belongs to you. he always has.

you don’t see it, not really. maybe you never did before, and he would prefer that you didn't, too. you called it love, called it family, called it childhood closeness like there was ever a world where he could be anything but yours. like there was ever a version of himself that didn’t orbit you, didn’t shape himself to fit at your side, didn’t soften his edges just so you would never cut yourself on them.

but he was never soft. he just hid the worst parts so you wouldn’t have to see them.

it wasn’t a lie — he never lied to you — but it was something gentler than the truth. he thought it would be enough. he thought if he could keep you smiling, if he could be the one you trusted, the one you leaned on, the one you needed, then maybe he wouldn’t have to think about how much he needed you.

then the world reared its ugly head, and he realized something terrible:

there were things out there that could take you from him.

and just like that, all that softness he built for you — the patient, gentle kindness, the indulgence, the restraint — it all crumbled into dust.

you were hesitant when you saw him again. you don’t think he noticed, but he did. he always does. and oh, it killed him, the way you shrank back, the way your breath caught in your throat like he was someone you didn’t know. like he was someone you couldn't trust.

it didn’t matter that he had only done this for you. it didn’t matter that every fight, every cut, every broken piece of himself was just another offering to the people who would have destroyed you if he hadn’t proven he was useful. that every time he did their bidding, he did it with his mind turned toward you, his hands working only so yours would never be bloodied.

you don’t know. you’ll never know.

because the one thing he can’t survive is you looking at him with hate.

he could bear it if you ran. if you cut him out, if you refused to look at him, if you left him behind like a ghost of something you no longer wanted. it would tear him apart, but he would let you. because you have always been the only thing that matters.

but you don’t.

instead, you talk about the past. you reminisce. you say his name like it still belongs to the boy you used to know, and he — he clings to it.

he lets you drag him back into those memories because he wants to believe it’s still real. that you still trust him. that you still need him. that you still want him close, even if you don’t understand what he’s become.

(he wants to believe that if he just stays by your side, if he just waits, you’ll stop flinching when you catch glimpses of what’s underneath.)

so he smiles when you talk about childhood. he humors you, lets you search for him in the person he is now, even though he knows you won’t find what you’re looking for. you think he’s changed. you think you lost something.

but you didn’t.

he is still the boy who would do anything for you.

the difference is that now, he no longer has to pretend there is a line he wouldn’t cross, and that he didn't want to cage you if the day he fears the most were to come.

if you ran, he’d let you. he’d watch you go like he's always done, even as it tore him apart, even as it hollowed him out like something starved, something desperate. because you were always meant to be free, and he knows — he knows —that his hands weren’t made to hold birds, only to shelter them.

but that doesn’t mean he won’t clip the wings of anyone who tries to take you away from him.

he has never been possessive. never that. if you told him you wanted someone else, he wouldn’t stop you. he wouldn’t rage, wouldn’t break, wouldn’t hold onto you with trembling fingers. but he would carve apart the world if they ever became a threat. if they ever so much as made you cry.

because what you don’t understand, what you never understood, is that keeping you safe is the only thing he has ever been good for.

and maybe — maybe, if things were different, if he were someone else, if this aching thing inside him didn’t beat only for you, he wouldn’t feel the way he does now. wouldn’t watch the way your shoulders tense, wouldn’t track every tired breath you take, wouldn’t see the way exhaustion settles into your skin and think, You wouldn’t have to be like this if you just let me take care of you.

but you won’t. you don’t.

and he has spent his whole life indulging you, so what’s one more thing? What’s one more sacrifice?

he could take you away. he could lock the doors, cut the world off from you, tuck you somewhere safe where no one could ever hurt you, not even him.

but he doesn’t.

he knows that would be the one thing you would never forgive.

and it isn’t about him. It never has been. it’s about you. your safety, your happiness, your freedom that you would never go through that again. so if you don’t want to be locked away, if you want to keep running toward danger, then fine. he’ll let you.

he’ll just be right there, in the shadows, following you. watching. waiting. making sure that when the world bares its teeth at you, it won’t get the chance to bite.

childhood friends who became family, who blurred the lines of sibling-tight bonds and something softer, sharper, and more yearning — it's a trope that feels like sitting in the quiet hum of a summer evening when the sun lingers too long on the horizon. because the truth of it is: nothing lingers forever. and you both know that, but you’ll still talk about the old days like maybe you can bring them back. like maybe if you name the memories, you can summon them. like if you say, “remember when we built that fort in the back garden and swore to live there forever because i had a fight with gran,” it’ll mean something now that the garden has been bulldozed and forever has been whittled down to awkward meetings where you can't talk about the elephant in the room.

it’s the uneven ground of being the one who died and the one who was left behind, or the one who grew and the one who wanted to keep the other captured the way they used to be in a snowglobe — or maybe just the realization that you’re both standing on shifting sand now. you talk about the past like it’s a shared secret, but neither of you knows how to talk about the present. maybe you’ve started running out of things to say because the summer nights you used to fill with fun and games are quieter now, and you don’t know how to breach the distance between you that yawns exponentially bigger every single day.

because that’s the ache of it, isn’t it? thinking you’ve grown together, but ending up having grown apart in the blink of an eye. the ache of seeing his face and realizing you don’t know him the way you used to — not like when you could read the curl of his lips or the way he bit the inside of his cheek and know exactly what he was thinking. you still know the shape of caleb, the blueprint of who he was, but he's a house rebuilt in the same place, and you’re standing on the porch like a stranger.

and you miss the summers, the cicadas, sleeping on the floor together with the attic window wide open, sharing ice cream together and being carried because of a scraped knee. even being scolded you refused mosquito spray because you hated the smell. you miss the easy, endless days of being inseparable and being spoiled rotten because time didn’t mean anything then. now, every second feels like a countdown. you sit across from him at a diner, laughter ringing too alien because it doesn’t reach his eyes the way it used to, and you’re counting the minutes until he leaves for skyhaven. or maybe it’s until you leave, because isn’t that the worst realization? there's always a deadline. you tell yourself it’s enough that you were everything to each other once, and there's still something between you like the transition between summer to autumn. but there’s a kind of grief in knowing you’ll never be those kids again, barefoot in the grass, shouting at the stars.

grief. you thought you knew it well.

because you know how to grieve a death — you’ve rehearsed it in your head, folded it into something manageable. it’s a well-worn myth, a story you tell yourself when the silence gets too loud: he’s gone. he’s not coming back. you cried once, twice, a hundred times in the soft, gold-light glow of dusk, in the places you once knew together, and you thought that was the worst part.

but then caleb came back. and now you don’t know what to do with yourself.

because it’s him, isn’t it? same voice, same face, same hands that once shoved you playfully into the lake on a summer afternoon. he looks at you with eyes that are so painfully familiar you want to throw up, but something in them is off — like a song played just a fraction of a second too slow. like the ghost of a childhood home, walls the same but empty, the warmth gone.

you want to say, you’re different. you want to say, what happened to you? but all he says, over and over, with that too-smooth, too-homey certainty is, i’ve always been like this.

and that’s the part that burns. because no, he hasn’t. you would know, wouldn’t you? you spent summers mapping out the topography of his voice, the way it cracked when he laughed too hard, the way he whispered conspiratorial plans under the sheets when you were supposed to be sleeping. you knew his every restless fidget, every dream he had about taking you away to somewhete but never actually going through with it. you would know if this was always him. wouldn’t you?

but what if you’re the one who’s wrong?

the memories are there, but they feel like borrowed pages from someone else’s story now. he tells you, remember when we built a treehouse in the oak by the creek? and you nod, it's like he's trying to coax the sparks out. remember how you used to hum under your breath when you were nervous? and he smiles, but it’s an aching, tight thing.

so you sit there, across from him, trying to measure the distance between the boy you knew and the man wearing his face. he talks about the past like maybe he can drag you back to it. like maybe he can make you remember. but you're here, waiting for him to join you in the present.

but the worst part isn’t the change.

the worst part is the knowing that he’s still here. still breathing, still existing, still talking to you. and yet he’s light-years away with the you of the past.

[nyaskitten]

ARE YOU FUCKING SHITTING ME??? THEYRE BRINGING BACK THE FUCKING OVERLORD???? AGAIN??? OH FUCK OFF DUDE.

[bigmfrat]

how funny would it be if The Emperor made up the whole Stelmane thing just to scare you because you called him a freak and her stroke had nothing to do with him, it was just a regular mundane stroke. This is my truth.

[uncanny-tranny]

It's just... odd to me, I suppose, going from "what is in my pants is completely irrelevant to most anybody else's life" to the expectation that you must be completely open, essentially, about what is in your pants.

I think a lot of people understand the general idea of why it's bad decorum to demand people offer explanations for private information like this, but they don't analyze exactly why it's bad besides, "asking directly is just rude" and not "asking in any way still enforces the often violent nature of gender and sex, and putting people in the 'right box' is a part of that violence."

It's especially odd when seeing other trans people enforcing the idea that "what's in your pants?" is a genuine, good-faith basis for interacting with others.

[manglam-marfach]

dyke!Chilaios has me understanding breeding kink all of a sudden