#naturalist queen

[theambermycophile]

We did an Apivar treatment today, and checked to see where we stand, heading into the heat of the summer. We located Queen Victoria in Hive 1! 👑🐝

The second hive was MAD that we were looking at their honey stores though, and they were literally pelting us, and I pulled a few stingers out of my gloves. I have only duct tape covering some holes in my veil, so it was a bit stressful. 😆

[mistresskayla-blog1]

Queen of the Forest

Characters: Richard Armitage x Cara Ambrose

Chapter 2

Warnings: Smut, intrigue, pining, angst, love, p in v, voyeurism, masturbation,

Word Count: 2.5k

Chapter 2: His Likeness (April 30th)

Cara stood over the balcony, like Juliet in the laze of the midday. Ajay looked up to the master suite towering over the workspace right at that moment, and his jaw dropped. He had heard about the mistress but had yet to see her. Joshua and Theo had kept him very busy, gathering wood for the feast and tending to other matters for them as he trained. He’d been in the encampment about 2 weeks before he spied his eyes on her and was instantly besotted. The way her smile curved on her mouth, and the way her eyes darted in joy, watching everyone below her. He wanted to be closer to that creature that lived on high like that. Taste the sweetness of divinity. The sun caught her golden locks and it shone like a hallow on her round face. She turned away from him, and a large figure approached her, his dark features matched Ajay’s and an idea crept into his head suddenly. Watching Richard take her in his arms and kiss her warmly. Cara wrapped her arms about Richard’s neck and he kissed her hand, letting it rest on his cheek. Ajay couldn’t hear what they said, but it seemed warm and genuine. He wanted to be that man, he wanted to be with her. He would be with her. His face set strongly as Theo came up to him, his eyes tracking in the direction of Ajay’s.

Theo, “Yeah they are cute aren’t they.  A long journey for both of them, but they make it work. Its something to have love like that” Theo grunts as he sets down a bag of sand. Ajay looks down at him, “I must have her”. Theo, “Yeah right man, are you serious, bed the Queen? Get real man. Go find someone else. She is very much off limits”. Theo mused, shaking his head.

---

Cara looked down at a young man below her, as he conversed with Theo and stared up at her. She smiled and then notably blinked, not knowing how she was looking at what she was looking at. Richard approached her from behind, and she turned and smiled, wrapping her arms around his neck and kissing him as he leaned in. Richard took Cara’s arm and brought her hand to his lips, brushing his chin. Cara kissed him again, and turned to face the courtyard, “Look my love, your likeness”, Cara mused. Richard looked down towards where she was pointing, and chuckled, amused, then he felt unease in his belly. Richard kissed Cara’s shoulder and his husky voice said, “Watch out for him, my dear. I have to go away for a few days. I know how wild you get at festival”. Cara looked up at him, “Me? Wild? (chuckles) Hardly. I just want to dance.”  Richard kisses her again on her shoulder, and she shivers warmly. “Just be cautious, I am not here to protect you”, Richard said, keeping his gaze relaxed on the boy. Cara stepped away and moved into the suite. From past him he could hear her say, “But I have Josh and William don’t I?” Richard nodded in response. And moved towards her into the suite.

---

Ajay looked at Theo seriousness on his brow, “I will have her, she will be mine”. As he looked back up at Cara, she smiled down at him, a realization set on her face, as she pointed out to him, and then stepped back from the railing. Ajay beamed, being noticed. Theo, pushed into him with a ruck sack. “Were trudging for morels today, so let’s get to it”. Ajay shifted his gaze, “what?” Theo, “Morels, it’s the season for them, moon waxing and the season warmer, we must gather for the feast in two days”.

Ajay, darted after him, lugging his rucksack and placing it on his back, “Will they, be there?” indicating Richard and Cara. Theo grunted up an embankment on the edge of the camp, “Yes of course, “ pauses, “He might be gone, but she leads the festival, its Beltaine after all, and she is the May Queen”.

Ajay looked back a second, “So I would have a chance then, to get closer to her?”  Theo huffed and chuckled. “You’d have a better time catching a rabbit in the wild my dear boy. That women, is off limits. I promise you that, has guards when he is away. And that big lad too. Theo eyes Jed who is pulling vegetables from the garden, a giant of a man, doing delicate work. Kendra’s arm resting on his huge bicep as they both wave in smiles at Theo and Ajay. “I see,” he says calculating things in his mind. They continue into the woods, looking for fallen ash and oak. The further they trudge into the woods, the more Ajay’s head was grinding at how to get to Cara.

---

Ajay gathered morels as he found them, and stooped as Theo was busy to pull some nightshade from the ground as well, snapping off the ripe berries. A wild grin on his face, he had a plan now, and it would only take a few days to get it ready. Ajay took the red berries in his palm and laid them in a cloth he kept in his pocket, watching not to crush them.

---

As the night gathered around the village, a large fire was kept in the courtyard, but business was retired for the day. Only a few straggling folks left, tending to the fire, some were visiting over blankets and grog. Ajay moved cautiously threw the encampment, staying to the shadows as he crept up the ladders to the master Suite. The Moon has already risen in the sky, and flecks of light splashed across the wooded planks of the walkway, as his feet softened on them, slowly moving to the glass doors of the master suite. Ajay peaked inside.. and saw what he could only have imagined.

---

Richard and Cara laid together, in bed, Cara’s arm laid lazily over Richard’s sinewy pecs, and taut belly. She sighed as he kissed her languidly and gently. He began to lower his mouth to her breast, and she moaned softly, her breath catching as his teeth met nipple, he pulled at it gently, beading in his mouth. A low groan escaped his nostrils as his mouth was full of her sweet skin. He pulled his mouth off, pinching the nipple then between his thumb and forefinger, Cara’s back arched to meet his touch, and her hands grabbed him into a kiss. There lips met, wet, wanting and warm. Richard’s hands explored her everywhere.

The sheets dropping lower and lower as Ajay stared through the window at them both.

Richard kissed lower and lower down Cara’s body, grazing her soft belly, and hollows, before reaching her furry mound, and naked slit. His lips made little dewy trails down her skin, and it made her shiver warmly. Cara’s hands moved into his hair, as his tongue began to part her folds gently. Cara cried out in anticipation, and Richard chuckled huskily at her clit, “Do you want something?”

Cara, panted, “I want you to taste me, my King”. Richard licked at her clit and Cara bucked a bit on the bed.. his tongue delved deeper and into her pussy.. easing in and out slowly. Cara squirted into his mouth, and he groaned in appreciation. Her moans growing even louder in the quiet room.

Ajay kept watching, becoming noticeably aroused, at hearing her moans through the open windows beside him.

Richard gulped down her nectar as it flowed from her. The deeper and more exploring his tongue delved into her pussy, the more she flowed. Her pussy tasted like honey, and her nectar quenched his thirst like nothing else on earth. She was his favorite meal, and he happily lapped her up, as she moaned and cried out his name in pleasure. Richard quickened his tongue and Cara dug her hands in his hair, “Please Richard.. don’t make this cum this way,” she begged, “I want you inside me”. Richard was not done quenching his thirst and hunger, so he continued to lap at her cunt, until she shuddered and clenched, gripping his tongue in release. Her body tensing, and a low groan of a moan escaping her lips.. panting as she sat up and pulled his face up by his ears to kiss the taste of her out of his mouth. Richard smiled as they kissed hard, tongues twisting in arching pleasure, they played in each other’s mouths. Richard sat up, his shorts falling to the floor, as he moved over Cara, her legs spread wide to receive him. He propped himself above her on his forearms, and slid his long and thick cock into her slickness… smoothly and deep in one slow motion. Cara pulled at his ass, pulling him into her. Richard smirked and pulled out. Cara looked frustrated, pushed him in, with her strong calves. Richard relented and caught his breath as he sunk in deep and pushed against her soft cervix. Cara, looked at him again, and he dropped his hands to his elbows, cradling her face, as they kissed again. Their mouths just as joined as their sex, in a beautiful flow of energy. Richard made lazy thrusts as Cara moaned into his mouth. Pulling out slow and then pushing in hard, making her cervix throb and ache.

Cara’s moans shifted and got stronger, and Ajay took out his cock and started stroking, paying no attention to getting caught, enthralled with what he was watching. His cock, thick, and veiny and short, untucked from his britches, the tip was bubbling precum, and he used it to slick his shaft, and stroke it as he liked it.

Richard, panted, “God, I love you” as he quickened his pace a bit, going a bit harder and deeper. Cara, cried out as her orgasm built into a crescendo, “More.. deeper, please my King” she gasped, turning her face away from him, her eyes shut in pleasure and intensity. The bundle of nerves inside her cunt were fluttering and clenching and she felt the veins of his cock against her walls, and the way the cap hit her sensitive spot. She let it build and build, taking her fingers and rubbing at her clit in eagerness. Richard saw her grab for her clit and pulled it away, “No my Queen, you will take this without help..” he mused. And pinned her hand above her head, gently but firmly. Richard began to thrust harder, and Cara could feel her clit swell more, and her walls start to clench as she shattered around him, screaming out his name “Oh Richard” She screamed, and he grinned in acceptance of this praise. She shuddered and writhed beneath him. Her cunt squeezing him full inside her, he resisted his urge to release. Richard  started rocking into her faster, moving her legs, to rest at his shoulders, he sucked her toe and looked down at her with such sweetness, a tear rolled down her cheek as she tried to calm her pulsating cunt. But each stroke of his cock inside her, just raised her again, building yet another orgasm from within her, her body tingling all over.

As Cara came, Ajay started stroking faster as well, watching intently as Richard fucked her, Ajay was getting close to his finish, but Richard did not seem close at all.

Richard was relentless, he fucked her again and again, building his own release, Cara came again. Richard moved her, rolling her onto her stomach and pressing her down into the bed. His long cock, having no trouble sliding between her juicy ass and into her aching cunt. Richard laid against her, burying himself deep inside her, and moving slow. His hand gripping her neck, wrapping his fingers around the front of throat. Cara gasped as he squeezed slightly and her cunt fluttered on his cock. Richard chuckled, “That’s my queen” he drowled, as he started to go faster and faster. Richard sat up, barely changing his depth, and smacked her ass and Cara giggled. Cara moaned as he squeezed her throat a little more, pulling her towards him, her pussy squeezing against his cock. Richard felt it swell more, and he huffed out, “Oh, god my Queen.. I feel it coming”. Cara panted and moaned and whimpered as he moved even faster and harder against her. Finding his finish and spilling his hot seed into her cunt, feeling it wash up against himself, as it coated her walls and teased her cervix. He roared into the night, “Cara!”.

Ajay felt that same sensation building inside himself, he had paused, not stroking himself, as he watched all the ways that Richard moved Cara around and was marveled by it. As he heard the roar of Richard’s release and Caras’ cries, he rocked into his palm again faster and faster until his own release spilled from his fist and onto the pane of the window, Ajay leaned his head against it. Neither of them noticed.

Cara burst into tears of joy as Richard finished inside her. He laid against her back, and kissed her shoulder… He wanted to move, but he also wanted to stay inside her, just bask in that sensation of utter comfort and warmth surrounding his member. It settled down, and softens, slowly. Richard pulled out, and laid beside Cara, they kiss, facing each other, limbs entangled in an eternal embrace. He looked at Cara and deep love resonated from his heart. Cara reflected the same pulse of love and acceptance. He scooped her legs up over his hip, “Best to keep your legs up, they say”.

Cara giggles, “Oh, have you been talking to Kia again about breeding”.

Richard, “Its important isn’t it. And it was Jed actually. We agreed, once this place was put together, we could start a family, right?” 

Cara nods, “We did, and it’s the spring festival, and I’m, ovulating. (smiles)”

Richard places, his hand on her abdomen, and rubs it warmly, “Good luck guys”.

Cara let out a boisterous laugh. “Did you just ‘good luck guys’?” she giggled.

Richard looked at her, “Yeah to my swimmers,”

She kissed him again, “Your adorable” she mused. He chuckled and looked at her warmly.

They kissed again, gently and sweetly. “It’s a perfect time for us to start something new”, Cara said. She settled against him, and closed her eyes, Richard rubbed her legs and pulled a coverlet over her to keep her warm. Cara smiled, “I’m not asleep you know, just tired”.

Richard kissed her forehead, “I know my love, just taking care of you”. Holding her to him.

Ajay retreated, rubbing his hand on the glass to clean up his spunk that would give him away. He slipped away unnoticed and back to his tent. Once back at his tent he pressed the berries in the cloth, letting it drip into a glass jar he stole from the kitchens that afternoon. The dark liquid dripped slowly through the cheese cloth. Ajay smiled and closed his eyes on his pillow.

Taglist:

@sweetestgbye @middleearthpixie @legolasbadass @riepu10 @richardarmitageshands @richardarmitagefanpage @evenstaredits @littlesweetdressmaker @lathalea @scariusaquarius @enchantzz

want to be tagged PM me. Thanks.

[chase-prairie]

In England Have My Bones [T.H.] White wrote one of the saddest sentences I have ever read: ‘Falling in love is a desolating experience, but not when it is with a countryside.’ He could not imagine a human love returned. He had to displace his desires onto the landscape, that great, blank green field that cannot love you back, but cannot hurt you either. [...] But the countryside wasn’t just something that was safe for White to love: it was a love that was safe to write about.

"It took me a long time to realise how many of our classic books on animals were by gay writers who wrote of their relationships with animals in lieu of human loves of which they could not speak."

Gavin Maxwell’s Ring of Bright Water, for example: the tale of a lonely man on the Scottish coast with an Iraqi otter on his sofa. Or the books of the BBC radio naturalist Maxwell Knight, former MI5 spymaster and closet queen. Doubly disallowed to speak openly of his allegiances, Knight wrote a book about hand-rearing a cuckoo called Goo. His obsession with this small, greedy, feathery, parasitic bird is terribly moving; it was a species made of all the hidden elements of Knight’s life: subterfuge, deceit, passing oneself off as something one is not. [...]

[T.H. White] kept [grass snakes] because ‘it was impossible to impose upon them, or steal their affections’. He loved them because they were misunderstood, maligned, and ‘inevitably themselves.’

----------- Chapter 4, H is for Hawk by Helen Macdonald (2014)

Does anyone know other sources that talk about the intersections between queer writers and nature writing? As a queer lady who does exactly that, this passage has always stuck with me.

[rebeccathenaturalist]

ETA: I wrote up a guide on clues that a foraging book was written by AI here!

[Original Tweet source here.]

[RANT AHEAD]

Okay, yeah. This is a very, very, very bad idea. I understand that there is a certain flavor of techbro who has ABSOLUTELY zero problem with this because "AI is the future, bro", and we're supposed to be reading their articles on how to use AI for side hustles and all that.

I get that ID apps have played into people's tendency to want quick and easy answers to everything (I'm not totally opposed to apps, but please read about how an app does not a Master Naturalist make.) But nature identification is serious stuff, ESPECIALLY when you are trying to identify whether something is safe to eat, handle, etc. You have to be absolutely, completely, 100000% sure of your ID, and then you ALSO have to absolutely verify that it is safely handled and consumed by humans.

As a foraging instructor, I cannot emphasize this enough. My classes, which are intended for a general audience, are very heavy on identification skills for this very reason. I have had (a small subsection of) students complain that I wasn't just spending 2-3 hours listing off bunches of edible plants and fungi, and honestly? They can complain all they want. I am doing MY due diligence to make very sure that the people who take my classes are prepared to go out and start identifying species and then figure out their edibility or lack thereof.

Because it isn't enough to be able to say "Oh, that's a dandelion, and I think this might be an oyster mushroom." It's also not enough to say "Well, such-and-such app says this is Queen Anne's lace and not poison hemlock." You HAVE to have incredibly keen observational skills. You HAVE to be patient enough to take thorough observations and run them through multiple forms of verification (field guides, websites, apps, other foragers/naturalists) to make sure you have a rock-solid identification. And then you ALSO have to be willing to read through multiple sources (NOT just Wikipedia) to determine whether that species is safely consumed by humans, and if so if it needs to be prepared in a particular way or if there are inedible/toxic parts that need to be removed.

AND--this phenomenon of AI-generated crapola emphasizes the fact that in addition to all of the above, you HAVE to have critical thinking skills when it comes to assessing your sources. Just because something is printed on a page doesn't mean it's true. You need to look at the quality of the information being presented. You need to look at the author's sources. You need to compare what this person is saying to other books and resources out there, and make sure there's a consensus.

You also need to look at the author themselves and make absolutely sure they are a real person. Find their website. Find their bio. Find their social media. Find any other manners in which they interact with the world, ESPECIALLY outside of the internet. Contact them. Ask questions. Don't be a jerk about it, because we're just people, but do at least make sure that a book you're interested in buying is by a real person. I guarantee you those of us who are serious about teaching this stuff and who are internet-savvy are going to make it very easy to find who we are (within reason), what we're doing, and why.

Because the OP in that Tweet is absolutely right--people are going to get seriously ill or dead if they try using AI-generated field guides. We have such a wealth of information, both on paper/pixels and in the brains of active, experienced foragers, that we can easily learn from the mistakes of people in the past who got poisoned, and avoid their fate. But it does mean that you MUST have the will and ability to be impeccably thorough in your research--and when in doubt, throw it out.

My inbox is always open. I'm easier caught via email than here, but I will answer. You can always ask me stuff about foraging, about nature identification, etc. And if there's a foraging instructor/author/etc. with a website, chances are they're also going to be more than willing to answer questions. I am happy to direct you to online groups on Facebook and elsewhere where you have a whole slew of people to compare notes with. I want people's foraging to be SAFE and FUN. And AI-generated books aren't the way to make that happen.

[thesiltverses]

Are there any poems that inspired TSV? I know I asked a similar question about plays, and I really loved the ones listen!

Well, there's a huge amount of Seamus Heaney in the landscape and vibes of TSV (particularly the bog-sacrifice poems for obvious reasons, the early Death of a Naturalist work trying to make sense of his childhood and parents, and his Buile Suibhne translations), and generally speaking we're sort of riffing off symbolist knight-errant narratives which includes poems like Faerie Queene.

They're almost too obvious and famous to be called influences, but I don't think you can write anything about religious and apocalyptic dread without feeling the looming shadow of The Waste Land, The Hollow Men and The Second Coming, and I think there's a lot of buried Rime of the Ancient Mariner homages in Carpenter's story (like one who on a lonesome road, etc) and Kubla Khan in Faulkner's.

[thecreaturecodex]

Great Old One, Mormo

Image © @chimeride, accessed at his tumblr here

[Monster Number 1900! And, in honor of that milestone, I am finally, finally, posting the statistics for Mormo, Goddess of Predators. She's been haunting this blog for about a year now, being one of the prime movers and shakers in the Age of Monsters campaign seed I sewed back last May, and have been teasing with NPCs and articles. She was intended to have been posted as a capstone to the "Monster Girl Summer" theme last year, but life got in the way.

She is also written in tribute to @abominationimperatrix. Of all of the people who I have met through my writing, she is the one who is most dear to me, and the Age of Monsters was inspired by us going from friends and confidants to lovers and soulmates last April. The Age of Monsters is intended to be a campaign that ties into our shared love of thinking with monsters, about deep ecology, weird creatures and world mythology, and of the importance of love and trust in a time of global chaos and destruction. I love you, Goddess, my Dearest Friend.]

Mormo CR 28 N Outsider This titan is a reptilian humanoid the size of a giant. She has a nest of writhing serpents for hair and six arms, each ending in long sickle claws. She is a serpent from the waist down, although a mass of scar tissue reveals she once had two tails that grew like legs from a pair of hips. Her remaining tail ends in a bushel of thorny spines. A pair of wings like those of a primeval reptile grow from her back.

Mormo The First Medusa, Goddess of Predators N Great Old One of ecology, reptiles and terror Domains Knowledge, Scalykind, Strength, Trickery Subdomains Competition, Fear*, Thought, Venom Worshipers druids, goblins, gnolls, naturalists Minions monsters of all kinds (especially hybrids) Holy Symbol a medusa’s head in profile Favored Weapon claw (or sickle) *clerics of Mormo can use the Fear subdomain to modify the Trickery domain

Mormo is the Goddess of Predators. She was born from the fear felt by the first animal with enough imagination to see a shadow and think it a predator. For millions of years, she was bestial, primordial, little more than a serpentine shadow, but as sapience developed and the gods began to take interest in souls, her mind sharpened, and she became as dangerous for her strategies as her teeth and claws. Mormo views the natural world as one to be studied in order to best determine what to hunt and how to hunt it, with the unblinking patience of a snake. Her hunts, and those of her followers, are focused to maintain the active equilibrium of ecological balance—reducing overpopulated species, controlling trophic cascades, and taking out species that consume more than their fair share of resources.

Mormo was once called the Mother of Monsters, and many species of monster found throughout the planes are her descendants. Mormo’s descendants tend to be creatures that combine mammalian and reptilian or avian features; griffons, medusae, chimeras and dragonnes are among her creations. In the past, she had many lovers and created new species with their lineages. The most notorious of these collaborators was Typhon, a Lord of Hell and former asura rana, created from the divine mistake of allowing dragons to proliferate. Despite his evil nature, Typhon truly loved Mormo, and spread cults of her under the alias “Echidna”. Mormo cared little for her humanoid followers, preferring the worship of the powerful individual monsters who hunted by her side. But Mormo also had enemies. And she was gazed upon with hungry eyes by Lamashtu, then a demon of infanticide who sought to become the Lord of Beasts and Queen of Demons. And Mother of Monsters.

Lamashtu ambushed Mormo, and was victorious after a battle that lasted for a full day. Lamashtu ripped the baby from Mormo’s womb and raised him as her own; this is Typhon’s last son, Abraxas. Lamashtu tore off one of Mormo’s twin tails, which regenerated into a cancerous creature on its own right. This was the origin of Geryon, who spread treacherous lies suggesting that Typhon and Lamashtu were lovers. This got Typhon demoted and murdered by Asmodeus; Geryon took Typhon’s place as a Lord of Hell and spent millennia erasing his predecessor from history. The blood that spilled from both combatant’s wounds grew into creatures with serpentine and humanoid traits; Mormo’s blood became the first nagas, and Lamashtu’s the first mariliths. And Mormo was slain, reborn as a mundane snake to regenerate in the First World for centuries, and maintaining her cosmic sulk for millennia more

But now Mormo stirs in her slumber. And she is ready to take her revenge.

As befits a Goddess of Predators, Mormo is a terror in combat. Millennia of dormancy and a closer tie to the natural world than other Great Old Ones has stripped her of an unnatural presence, but her fourfould gaze can petrify, paralyze, terrorize or merely strike enemies dead. She is extremely venomous, and those that have survived her venom report, chillingly, that it induces euphoria even as it breaks down tissue into a bloody mess. She uses her fangs (both in her own mouth and those in her serpentine hair) and claws in melee, and can fire the spines from her tail like arrows. One of Mormo’s most recently developed talents is witchcraft. She has made an arcane bond with the phouka Gigi, and Gigi treats Mormo as a patron even as Mormo treats Gigi as a familiar for storing spells. Gigi spends most of her days separate from Mormo on the Material Plane, and so Mormo usually maintains a small spell selection through Spell Mastery. If she is encountered with Gigi, Mormo has access to a much wider variety of spells (all witch spells from the Core Rulebook at least).

The cult of Mormo is small and scattered, but the First Medusa pays it much more heed than she did in her youth. Religious rituals include studying nature and monsters (either through texts or in the field), hunting for food, and mock chases and hunts among the congregation. Supplicants often use makeup, costumes, and illusion and transmutation magic to appear as different types of predators and prey for these hunts. Once someone is “caught”, the result is play fighting, sex or both instead of actual killing or consumption. Mormo’s worshippers value diversity of all kinds, and are often allies of other divinities with portfolios involving nature, scholarship and hedonism. As goblin and gnoll societies break free of Lamashtu’s influence, they often find Mormo, and her cult is growing fastest among these two species.

Mormo CR 28 XP 4,915,200 N Huge outsider (Great Old One) Init +22; Senses all-around vision, darkvision 60 ft., low-light vision, Perception +42, scent

Defense AC 45, touch 26, flat-footed 37 (-2 size, +8 Dex, +10 insight, +19 natural) hp 688 (32d10+512); fast healing 20 Fort +26, Ref +26, Will +27 DR 20/epic; Immune ability damage, ability drain, aging, cold, death effects, disease, energy drain, flanking, mind-influencing effects, paralysis, petrification; Resist acid 30, electricity 30, fire 30; SR 39 Defensive Abilities freedom of movement, immortality, insanity (DC 38), otherworldly insight

Offense Speed 30 ft., climb 30 ft., swim 30 ft. fly 60 ft. (average) Melee 2 bites +44 (2d6+14 plus poison), 6 claws +44 (1d12+14/19-20), tail slap +39 (3d8+21 plus grab) Ranged 6 spines +38 (1d8+14) Space 15 ft.; Reach 15 ft. Special Attacks constrict (2d8+21),devolutionary nightmare, favored enemy (+6, +4, +4, +2, +2), fourfold gaze, poison, powerful blows (tail slap), rend (2 claws, 1d12+21) Spell-like Abilities CL 28th, concentration +40 Constant—freedom of movement, true seeing At will—cloudkill (DC 27), dream, fear (DC 26), greater animal aspect, greater scrying (DC 26), greater teleport (self plus 50 lbs objects only), nightmare (DC 27), pernicious poison 3/day—quickened baleful polymorph (DC 27), quickened bloody claws, finger of death (DC 29), polymorph any object (DC 30), reincarnate, stone to flesh 1/day—discern location, maze, moment of prescience, plane shift (DC 29), shapechange

Spells CL 20th, concentration +32 9th—quickened cure critical wounds (x2, DC 27), dominate monster (DC 31), shapechange (x2) 8th—quickened divine power (x2), quickened enervation, horrid wilting (x2, DC 30), mind blank 7th—extended greater heroism, heal (DC 29, x2), quickened vampiric touch (x2), waves of ecstasy (DC 29) 6th—quickened bull’s strength, greater dispel magic (x3), greater heroism (x2) 5th—cure critical wounds (DC 27, x2), extended divine power, feeblemind (DC 27, x2), quickened mage armor 4th—extended arcane sight, divine power (x2), enervation (x3), neutralize poison (DC 26) 3rd—arcane sight, ray of exhaustion (x3, DC 25), vampiric touch (x2) 2nd—bull’s strength (x2), cure moderate wounds (DC 24, x3), perceive cues (x2) 1st—comprehend languages (x3), divine favor (x3), mage armor 0th—detect magic, read magic

Statistics Str 39, Dex 27, Con 42, Int 34, Wis 24, Cha 35 Base Atk +32; CMB +48 (+52 grapple); CMD 66 (cannot be tripped) Feats Combat Reflexes, Deadly Aim,Extend Spell, Greater Sunder, Improved Critical (claw), Improved Initiative, Improved Sunder, Iron Will, Point Blank Shot, Power Attack, Precise Shot, Quicken SLA (baleful polymorph, bloody claws), Quicken Spell, Spell Mastery (x2) Skills Acrobatics +44, Bluff +47, Diplomacy +44, Fly +38, Intimidate +47, Knowledge (arcana, dungeoneering, geography, local, religion) +44, Knowledge (nature, planes) +47, Perception +46, Sense Motive +42, Spellcraft +44, Stealth +35, Survival +45, Use Magic Device +44; Racial Modifiers +4 Perception Languages Aklo, Draconic, Infernal, Sylvan, telepathy 100 ft. SQ no breath, planar acclimation, swift tracking, thagomizer

Ecology Environment any land or underground (First World) Organization unique Treasure double standard

Special Abilities Devolutionary Nightmare (Sp) Any creature affected by Mormo’s nightmare spell like ability must succeed a DC 38 Will save or be affected by a primal regression spell for the next 24 hours. Favored Enemy (Ex) Mormo gains the favored enemy ability of a 20th level ranger, except that she can change what creature types and subtypes count as her favored enemies after resting for 8 hours. Fourfold Gaze (Su) Mormo has a gaze attack with a range of 60 feet. She may change the effects of her gaze, or suppress it, as a free action once per turn. The possible effects are: 1. panicked 1 minute (Will DC 38) 2. paralyzed 1 round (Will DC 38) 3. petrification (Fort DC 38) 4. 200 points of damage (Fort DC 38 negates) This is a mind-influencing effect, and the saving throw is Charisma based. Immortality (Ex) If Mormo is slain, she is reborn as a viper on the First World. Every 100 years, Mormo gains a size category until she reaches Huge size, whereupon she molts her skin and is reborn in her true form. Planar Acclimation (Ex) Mormo is always considered to be on her home plane, regardless of what plane she finds herself upon. She never gains the extraplanar subtype. Poison (Ex) Bite—injury; save Fort DC 42; duration 1/round for 6 rounds; effect 2d4 Con damage and stunned 1d4 rounds; cure 2 consecutive saves. The save DC is Constitution based. Spells Mormo can cast spells as a 20th level witch with the Strength patron. The spells listed above are the ones Mormo has taken Spell Mastery feats to prepare. Spines (Ex) As a standard action, Mormo can fire six spines from her tail. Treat each spine as a ranged attack roll with a thrown weapon with a range increment of 100 feet. Each spine deals 1d8 damage plus Mormo’s Strength modifier on a successful hit. Swift Tracking (Ex) Mormo does not suffer a penalty to Survival checks made to follow tracks at her normal speed, and only takes a -10 penalty for following tracks at double speed. Thagomizer (Ex) Mormo’s tail slap attack deals bludgeoning and piercing damage.

[theincognitomoth]

Wild Side

Pairing: Mr. Wolf x Fem!Reader (Stablished relationship)

Rating: 18+

Word Count: 5731

Warnings: Rough sex, mild language, bitting, scratch,ing knotting, praise kink, male!dom, fem!sub, first person POV.

Sinopsys: During a mission gone wrong, Mr. Wolf goes on a wild frenzy and ends up hurting his girlfriend. Out of guilt, he isolates himself in a dirty apartment, all the while his sweetheart is determined to prove he has nothing to feel Sorry for.

Since the Night Howlers' incident, Wolf refused to come out of his room. He also refused to let anyone else in, except for Snake, and he refused, above all else, to see me- And that stung far more than the bite mark shaped like his teeth in my forearm as I applied the flower scented infection cream.

Three months ago Diane came with a mission for us. It was simple at first: find a couple of missing citizens. But soon the conspiracy web spiraled so further down that mind controlled guinea pigs and a butt shaped meteorite sounded sane in the same sentence. 

Those people were targets of a cult- The Naturalists, they called themselves. They believed that the root of suffering came from the modern world. A normal group with this belief might have organized a hike or camping trip but, crazy bastards that they were, thought themselves justified to take people off the streets and inject them with a brain altering drug: The Night Howlers.

That cursed little purple capsule was the reason my boyfriend refused to see me, even after two weeks of the case closed.

During a chase he was shot with the substance. Even now my stomach ran cold when I remembered the look in his eyes- Desperate at first, and then feral mindlessness. He chased me prey, my heart pounded in my ears, all my blood going to my legs telling me to run, run, run. It was still a blurry memory, the way his fangs buried on my skin. It was sheer luck that saved me that day, and I dreaded imagining the other outcome. But whatever horrors my mind came up with, I knew Wolf's was much worse, leaving him to rot in his little den of misery. 

With a heavy sigh, I put on my clothes and marched out of the apartment, standing in front of Wolf's door yet again.

“Moe?” I knocked and waited for a response that never came.

This everlasting silence would drive me mad.

“I know you can't- won't see me right now, but could you at least say something so I know you're not dead and rotting on the other side of that damn door?” 

My words were harsh, I knew, and the corridor echoes made sure to slap me in the face with them. For his sake I kept those words in. I knew he was suffering, I tried to be patient, but the sting with each day of deathly silence left a bitter taste in my mouth and I had to let it out before it made me sick.

“I'm getting tired of this- I know you feel bad for what happened, but I swear, I'd rather get bitten again than for you to play dead. Please…”

I was certain my plea would fall on deaf ears until the door locks creaked. My heart was beating in my ears like drums, my eyes burnt from not blinking. The door opened to reveal a dark room, cold and smelling like an old pantry. Snake stood on the other side, looking at me with a frown deeper than normal. He was much better at hiding  his worry than me. 

“Go easy on him,” He said, slipping out of the door and holding it open.

“Is it too bad?” I whispered.

“Would be easier if he wasn't such a drama queen.” 

I forced out a chuckle.

“Thanks.”

“Don't mention it, just… Get him out of that damn apartment.”

A difficult mission, one I didn't know if I was up to, yet had to grab this precious small chance.

I walked into Wolf's apartment and closed the door behind me.

Some people prefer winter nights over nice summer days, but the state of his apartment was absurd. I adjusted my sleeves to cover my hands as the AC turned a city apart into a tundra, its blue glowing numbers being the only light source letting me see broad shapes. Wolf sat in the corner of the couch, wrapped around an old blanket with his face hidden in it. How much time did he spent day after day like this?

One of many food packages scrunching under my foot as I made my way towards him. His ears perked up for a second before laying flat against his head again.

“Moe…” He flinched.

I sat on the couch, arms length from him.

“Can you look at me?” The knots in my chest tightened further as the seconds stretched without a response. “... I miss you.”

Finally, thank Heavens, finally he looked up at me, those big sad eyes resembling an abandoned puppy. He stared for a short while, before sifting his focus to my forearm, covered by the long sleeve.

“Does it still hurt?” He asked, voice quiet.

“No.”

“Did you get an infection?”

“I didn't.”

“Scar?” 

“None.”

“Good.” He let out a shaky breath. “I've missed you too.”

There was a glimmer of the ‘him’ from before the incident when he smiled at me- My old Moe. But I blinked and it was gone. I reached for his hands into the blanket cocoon, but he winched away, covering it up with a chuckle.

“I haven't trimmed my claws in a while.”

“Since when do you trim them?”

“I- uh, started recently.”

“Moe…”

He shook his head, leaning further away from me with a frown.

“Stop. Stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

He struggled to find words. I knew that angry look, but it wasn't aimed at anyone.

“Like you're the one who hurt me and not the other way around.”

When he stood up, so did I, keeping a distance as I followed him to the kitchen, littered with full trash bags that didn’t smell, for they were full of plastic packages and cans instead of real food.

“Come on, it wasn't your fault.”

“Yeah, there are blood stains on my shirt that say otherwise.”

He grabbed a kettle and put it on the stove to boil and took one cup of instant noodles from the almost empty cabinet. Shrimp flavored, Moe's least favorite.

“You weren't in control, they shot you with a Night Howler.”

“And I went after you instead of the cultist, how do you explain that?”

Over the weeks, that question plagued me too and I came up with a few theories. Maybe he chose to chase something that smelled familiar, or his animal brain saw me as easier prey, since the cultist was bigger. Whichever reason, not a part of me believed he acted from malice.

“Look, you don't need to try and justify or rationalize what happened there. I don't blame you one bit.”

“You should.” He spoke through gritted teeth.

I tried to remain level headed, but I didn't know what else to say to make him see reason.

“Why? Why the hell are you so angry with yourself when it was the crazy cultist that drugged you?”

“Because I liked it!”

The kettle whistle was the only sound in the room as I was left speechless, mouth agape and dry. I only realized how tense my shoulders were when they dropped heavy on my sides.

“...What?”

Wolf let out a deep sigh, turning off the stove and leaning against the counter. He wasn't looking at me.

“I liked it- not hurting you, not ever. But when that guy shot me with the Night Howler…” He rubbed the spot on his neck where the drug hit him. “It was like- like I had been wearing a tie squeezing my neck the whole time and the Night Howler cut it loose.”

His eyes sparkled with something familiar, that same shine from when he went through a heist plan or talked about a new driving maneuver he pulled. But as soon as that spark came, he met my eyes and it was gone.

“You can't be serious,” I shook my head. “Did you actually buy into that naturalist looney's idea?”

“It's not- look, I'm not saying I want to run around like a rabies crazed dog.”

“I sure hope so.”

It wasn’t the answer he hoped for, I knew, but it wasn’t what I expected him to say either. Something about those eyes begged for me to understand. For all that it’s worth it, I tried.

Wolf took a moment, pouring the hot water on his noodles.

“Wish I could explain it better. I haven't been able to sleep right after what I did to you, but at the same time, when I close my eyes and remember the way it felt to run around without a thought in my head, it was… free, and real and…”

“Wild?” 

He opened the lid of his instant noodles with a small chuckle, poking at the shrimp pieces with a plastic fork.

“Yeah, wild.” He took a sniff of the thing, face twisting in disgust, then put it down on the sink. 

Silence weighed on the apartment while I tried to make sense of his words. The way he spoke wasn't much different from those cultists and I couldn't use the excuse of indoctrination on him. The great leaders didn't talk Moe into buying their idea, he felt it on his skin, so much so that even the bite incident didn't stop him from missing that brief moment of brain off wildness.

Maybe the naturalists weren't so off. 

“Would you do it again?”

“The night howler? Nah, too risky.”

“But you miss the feeling.”

It wasn't a question, and the way he lowered his ears showed he knew it. I tried to relate in a way, imagining what it would be like if I could never again eat my favorite food, run in the rain or go downhill on a bike. What would be like if I had a snippet of the highest high of my life only to know I could never experience it again? What would it be like if I had a tie squeezing around my neck, only loose enough to suck in shallow breaths?

Miserable, that's what it would be like.

“Moe…” My heels clicked on the silent apartment as I approached and touched his shoulder. “I can't in my right mind say you should do drugs,” I said with a straight face and he chuckled. “But I don't want you to feel like you're suffocated either. Maybe we can find a middle ground, loosening the tie without ripping it off.”

His ears perked up a little and he looked at me with those puppy eyes that got my heart in a claw-like grip.

“Really? After what I did, would you still want to help?”

“Of course I do. What happened wasn't your fault, and I don't want you to feel suffocated.” I reached for the fluff on his cheek and Moe leaned against my hand. “I love you.”

I barely finished my sentence and his arms wrapped around me, squeezing my waist, firm and gentle, even if I wouldn’t mind having the air squeezed out of me. His head rested against my shoulder and his tail wagged fast.

“I love you too, sweetheart.”

The familiar weight of his head on my shoulder melted the tension I walked with for the past weeks. I missed the way his fur tickled my cheek and the way his tail brushed against my legs. If helping him tap into a semi-wild state was what it took to keep this, then becoming a goddamn adrenaline chaser suddenly climbed its way up my list of priorities.

Minutes passed in our much needed embrace before I gathered the willpower to pull away, earning a small whine from him.

“Okay, Moe. If I'm going to help you, we are doing this right.” I walked up to his fridge where a little white board with a couple of markers was glued to the door and picked the red one, writing ‘Mr. Wolf's wild list’ on the top. “Let's start with the ideas.”

Wolf crossed his arms and leaned against the counter with a smirk.

“Not wasting any time, I see.”

“The sooner we figure out what can help you, the sooner we can implement it. So come on, ideas.”

He closed his eyes with a hum, scratching his chin.

“Pulling out a stunt with the car always gets me going.”

“Dangerous driving, then?”

“It's only dangerous if you don't know what you're doing, sweetheart.”

I stared at him, unamused for a good three seconds before sighing.

“Fine.” Against better judgment, I wrote ‘crazy driving’ on the board. “But only on empty roads.”

“Fair enough.”

“What about hiking? It's in nature.”

“Eh, I don't know. Not really a nature guy myself.”

“Really, Moe? No nature in the wild list?”

Wolf chuckled, shaking his head.

“Well, when you put it like that… Maybe I can give running around the mud and get eaten by mosquitos a go.”

“What a lovely way to put it, babe.” I wrote 'touching grass’ on the list with a green marker, drawing a little mosquito beside it.

“Okay, what else?”

Doodling a couple of stars, I waited for new ideas. When he told me nothing for a good thirty seconds, I turned my full attention to him; his tail wagged a little bit, but hung low, the clawed finger tapped against the counter in steady clicks.

 “What is it?”

“Nothing.”

“Come on, I know the room is pretty dark but I'm not blind.” I placed my hands over his bouncing leg and tapping finger, the movement stopping. “You can tell me.”

He took his sweet time with it, eyes running through the corners of the room and looking away after the split moments he met mine.

“Promise you won't get mad.”

“Okay… I won't get mad.”

“And promise you'll say no if you're not absolute, one hundred percent sure of it.”

“You’re making it sound like you want to commit a crime.”

“Not far off my alley. But no, it's not a crime, it's… Not gonna lie, it's pretty damn embarrassing.”

Embarrassing. This was the man who played the suave thief like second nature, so when he looked at me like a punny teenager about to ask the cheerleader to the dance, scared of my rejection, what else could I do other than swoon?

“I never knew you had shame buried under that white suit of yours.”

I waited for his smart little remark so I could answer with a comeback heating up on the tip of my tongue. It felt nice, familiar, our back and forth.

“Yeah, that's what you do to me.”

My witty come answer turned to ash in my mouth, leaving my tongue heavy; And while my head scrambled for coherence and my knees for composure, Wolf chuckled and put his hands on my hips,thumbs running up and down sending a wave up my back and making my hairs prickle.

“I want you,” He whispered. “When you walked in, your smell almost made me forget why I hid away to begin with.”

The Moe I knew was a flirt, yes, but in a way which felt like he practiced his lines in front of a mirror. A great actor, no doubt, but still an actor. This was different, it was raw. He spoke without a filter and it made my back arch. I squeezed his shoulder, crumpling the fabric of his messy shirt.

“I want you too,” I leaned closer, breath fanning over the little furs on his muzzle. “I missed you, Moe. I missed you way too much.”

Harsher than what I was used to, his hands squeezed the flesh of my hips, and I could feel the tip of his sharp claws through my jeans.

“Sweetheart, I need you to be real with me now and only say yes if you really mean it.” A gentle hand tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. “I want you to be part of my little list.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that I want to try something different, a little more… loose.”

The only thing stopping the heat that ran up my spine from getting to my head was the ever present suspicion.

“Loose?”

“Yeah, you said I should loosen the tie,” His grip on my waist tightened and he pulled me close enough to feel his hot breath brushing my nose. “And I want to loosen it with you.”

Little impressions I had from the time we spent entangled in the sheets suddenly became much clearer. The way he held me by the waist, kissed me, touched me- Aside from being fantastic and melting the tension from every muscle, left me with this itch in the back of my mind. Be it a scowl on his brow or hands that squeezed me too tight just to let go two seconds after, what he did to me never felt complete. Now I had the confirmation to my suspicions: He held back every time.

Morbid curiosity allied with the growing fire in my stomach, making me wonder how much I could take if he didn't.

“I want to try that out too.”

“Really?” His smile widened and he gave my hips a small squeeze. “It's not just because of me, right? Because if it is-”

I cut his rambling by the root with a peck to the lips.

“I'm a big girl, Moe. I know what I want and I mean what I'm saying. And what I want is for you to take off that leash and burn it-”

In a blink, he had me on top of the balcony, body pressed flushed together as he invaded my mouth in a kiss that left me light headed.

He took his lips away from mine and before I fully made sense of what was happening, began kissing my neck.

“Just tell me to stop and I will,” he said between little kisses and small nibbles. “And if I hurt you, punch me in the throat.”

“Hm, yeah, I can… I can manage that.” 

Pushing words out became quite the task when he was making me gasp and sending  shivers through my nerves. I held onto his head, looking down as he worked his magic on my skin, tucking my shirt's collar down to give the same treatment as my neck. While Wolf busied himself with that, I wrapped my legs around his waist, feeling a hardening volume against my inner thigh.

“Already?” I smiled, scratching behind his ear.

“Hm, just missed you so much.”

His hands moved from my hips to my thighs, squeezing them like stress toys while leaving an open mouth kiss on my cleavage. I tugged at his head, and when a breathy moan left my lips, he growled against my skin.

“How much do you like this shirt?”

The sudden question snapped my attention back to him. He looked at my long sleeve shirt as if it was his worst enemy.

“What?”

He squeezed my thighs a little harder, claws poking my flesh.

“The shirt. Is it a favorite of yours?” 

“Why- no, not really.”

“Good.”

The fire that ran through my blood when he tore up the shirt with his teeth and claws was enough to make my face melt off. My mouth hung open with no words uttered as he kissed between my breasts, before pulling away to stare at my lace bra.

“Hm… Not this one.” Much gentler, nimble fingers unclasped the hooks behind me, letting the bra slide through my shoulders while he looked me in the eye with a cheeky grin. “This one I like.”

“...I'll keep that in mind.”

“But I like these even more.”

His attention focused on my breasts. He took one in his hand and kneaded it gently, before making me groan with a harsh squeeze. His grip loosened the same moment and he kissed the finger prints on my skin.

“Too much?”

“No, no, just a little sensitive. It’s been a while.”

“It sure has,” Another gentle kiss traced the reddish marks, trailing up to my pulse. “We can do it the nicer way, you know.”

There he went, offering me an out again when my desires were set in forgetting all restraint. In response my eager hands worked around his shirt, soft fabric hiding even softer fur beneath it. Maybe I was the wild animal between us.

The rumbling of his laugh vibrated against my neck.

“Or not.”

His hands returned to my tender breasts, previous gentleness gone as he squeezed one while feeling the other’s weight in his palm. The pain didn’t phase me. Sure, there was a sharp moment of agony, but in less than a second it became laced with strange pleasure, before fully dissolving into it, like a cold shower after a full day walking in the sun. 

My own hands stayed occupied, tracing my fingers over his spine, glazing my nails against his skin, and fully sunk into him when Moe took one of my nipples into his mouth, threatening to bite it down. He didn’t, I knew he wouldn’t go that far, but the possibility was enough to get me shivering.

He nibbled, sucked and played with my hardened buds until I was pulling at the hairs on his neck with enough strength to rip them, and by the end even the breeze from the air conditioner made me whine. He moved back a little, a gleam of smugness in his eyes as he looked over his work of turning my flesh into a personal canvas with purple and red marks. Those eyes that never looked more dangerous met mine and I almost came undone right then and here.

“Awn sweetheart, you’re crying?”

Overwhelmed tears stung my eyes, my entire body, especially my face, feverish.

“N-No. I’m tearing up, it’s different.”

“Well, un-lucky for you, you’re way too pretty like this.” He held my chin a little too forceful, making me stare at the predatory gaze of his. “Now I wonder what’s like if I do make you cry.”

My gasp got cut short when Wolf threw me over his shoulder like a fat shack of dollar bills and walked towards his bedroom, making me yelp when he squeezed my butt followed by a less than gentle bite.

I tried to look at his face while balancing myself.

“When did you get this strong?” 

“Always have been, just needed the right motivation.”

The bedroom was as dark as the rest of the apartment, his familiar scent all around when he threw me in the bed, right in the center of a nest-like pile of blankets and kissing down my lips.

“Comfortable?”

“Yeah, I could fall asleep right now.”

He let out a breathy chuckle, one finger pulling my pants.

“You can try, don’t think you’ll be able to. But if you get close to falling asleep…” With a swift movement, he lowered my pants to my thighs. “I’ll just have to get you on the edge again.” He slid my pants down all the way and kissed under my belly button. “...And again…” His lips stopped at the hem of my panties, fingers coming up to touch the soaked spot between my legs. “... And again.”

Threat or promise, he already left unable to catch my breath. My watery eyes admired the sight as much as the blurriness allowed it, my hips buckling against his fingers while the bastard grinned.

“Hell, Moe. You want me to beg?”

“I wasn’t thinking about it, but now that you offered…”

Leaning back on the pillows with one arm over my face, I groaned.

“You’re such a jerk.”

“Hey, don’t be mad. I’m just messing with ya, beautiful.” 

“Oh, aren’t you a jokester? This is torture-”

A jolt went up my spine when he dragged his fingers along my slick, teasing me through the panties’ fabric. Wolf’s breath hovered over my over sensitive clit before he gave it the much needed attention with an open mouth kiss that if on the lips would leave anyone drenched. I held myself back from locking his head with my legs when he moved away to slice my panties off, my fully nude form barely affected by the cold room because of how he made me burn.

Moe kissed me, the softer and passionate approach meeting the pace of his fingers teasing my entrance and smearing my clit with my own wetness. For a moment he got me thinking he had given up on our little experiment, but horny little me simply walked into a trap, only noticing when he grabbed my hips and flipped me into my stomach. I tried to use my elbows for support, but Moe pushed me back down and lifted my hips, leaning over my body, pressing himself flushed against me and whispering.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to have you like this, bent over letting me see everything. And you look so pretty. Always so, so pretty for me, sweetheart.” 

His husky whisper tickled the back of my ear and I couldn’t blame myself from the moan he dragged out of me. I needed him now, before this drove me to wild madness. And maybe that’s what Wolf was trying to do- To turn me into a crazed and unleashed beast. By the way I pressed myself against him, without a single rational thought, he more than succeeded.

“Just fuck me,” I demanded.

Growling, he dug his hands into my hips, grinding the rock hard cock against me, staining his pants with my slick.

“Last chance to back down.” The sound of his voice was followed by the unzipping of his pants.

“I think I’ll combust if I do.”

Wolf chuckled, one of his hands spreading my lips for him while the other guided his thick length to my entrance and made me gasp and grab at the sheets. It took a total of three slower thrusts before he picked up a crushing, brain melting pace and made me forget the time of the day, the place and my name. He held me by the back of the neck, and by the stings of pain coming from my back and shoulder, I could guess how many marks I would have by the end of this- and God, I didn’t care. If anything, it ripped more unrestrained whimpers and cries from my throat.

“You sound almost as amazing as you feel,” he said, voice breathless against the back of my ear, his arms wrapping around my waist and holding me like a vice. “Damn, sweetheart, so pretty, so good for me, my good girl.”

“N-Not fair, that’s my- Oh, God!- that’s my line.”

The unforgiving pace grew even more savage, cutting out my moans with each thrust.

“But you like it too, don’t you? Screaming so much my ears are ringing.”

“Sorry-”

“Don’t be.”

Although he reached so, so fucking deep into me, that wasn’t the end of it. No, not with Moe like this, not with the swollen base as a delicious reminder, slapping against me everytime he moved.

His groans grew more fanatic, he barely pulled out, rutting against me right before his knot slipped inside in a stretch that might be painful if I wasn’t soaking wet.

Hissing, Moe held me flushed against his chest and my hands held onto his forearms for any semblance of structure. He could only rut against my heat and I could only moan at the over stimulation, so close from being a mess in his arms.

“Mine,” He groaned, nibbling my ear. “My perfect girl, taking me so well.”

“M-Moe…” My body twitched, tears rolled down my eyes into the sweat stained sheets. 

Wolf licked a red mark on the crook of my neck.

“Hm, I knew you would look even more beautiful crying for me.” His voice came out in huff and puffs of hot air on my already burning skin. His rutting became relentless, the tip of his cock bullying my cervix, trying to invade everything, tear me apart, merge into me, and by God, I would let him.

It didn’t take long for me to feel the familiar euphoria rush through my veins and tie knots- how ironic- around my stomach. Barely mustering the strength to moan and cry, pitiful wails echoed back to me, and my unleashed lover didn’t trail much better, his own voice hoarse and desperate.

My climax didn’t knock at the door- no, no, no, it came bursting through it, making a mess and all around as I clawed at Wolf’s forearms like a beast and was left shaking and gasping for air amidst low whines. He kept his pace, mindlessly chasing his own high, making my overstimulation all the more wrecking.

Two more minutes of harsh slapping sounds went by before the sights of his orgasm finally appeared to relieve my shaking body. Claws dug in my hips with a possessive grip, his jaw was so tense I could hear the sharp teeth grind against each other and for a moment it seemed he wanted to merge into me before his grip loosed and I felt the familiar warmth floating my walls and leaving no empty creeks.

Fast movements died down, his head resting on my shoulder followed by a heavy and content sigh .I could finally catch my breath.

“Are you okay?” Wolf asked, kissing the marking on the back of my neck.

In my head I answered ‘yes, fantastic’, but babbles left my mouth instead of words- At least he found it funny. 

Gently, he flipped me on my back and laid me down, kissing my temple and pulling my putty self closer.

“Fantastic as always, sweetheart. I didn’t think you could get any better and you still impressed me.”

I met his eyes, a smile playing on my lips. His fur never looked more messy, inviting me to pet and try to even it out. I did so, and Moe leaned against my hand, but that sweet, blissed out smile died the moment he laid eyes on the bite mark on my forearm. My heart squeezed for him as he took my arm like it was made of glass and stared at the red teeth scars.

“Moe, it’s not-” 

“I know.” He kissed the bite mark, lips lighter than butterfly wings. “But I’m still so sorry. Even after this, you’re still doing so much for me, I don’t know how to make it up to you.”

My hand scratched behind his flat ear.

“Well, if you’re so keen about it, I would love it if you finally got out of the apartment.”

He scoffed, but I kept going.

“I’m serious. I know you feel guilty, but locking yourself up as if you committed a crime is not doing any good to anyone. Hell, if I was the one who went crazy and bit you, it wouldn’t be an issue. You might even be laughing about it.”

Proving my point, he let out a breathy chuckle.

“See?” Despite the wobbly limbs, I shifted on the bed, bringing his head to my chest and placing one leg over his waist. “You’re not bad, Wolf.”

Hesitant hands moved up my back, holding me closer, and my worries were eased once I heard his tail wagging against the bed.

“Thank you, I guess you’re right.”

“Of course I’m right.”

“Yeah, yeah, sorry. Of course you’re right.” He nuzzled my neck and I could feel his smile. “And you’re right about leaving the apartment too. My nose is starting to itch and I would rather eat cardboard than those shrimp flavored noodles again.” 

“How about we go for a walk and get a salad after?”

He looked at me like a little kid who got told no at the toy store.

“Fine, a walk and ice cream. But after that we're deep cleaning this place.”

“Hmm, yes. You’re definitely too good for me.”

Wagging his tail, he leaned in and kissed the purple bruise on my neck. I knew his self blame wasn’t gone, hope as I might, it might never fully be, but we would take it one step at a time. And besides, exploring this new, unrestrained side of him- of us- wasn’t bad at all.

TAGLIST: @freeholeformuzan @xxladysquishyxx

[maskofenigma]

Fallen London's recurring topic of Love is really interesting to me as a sort of throughline between various stories and i want to ramble about discuss that briefly. i dont call it a theme because thematic statements are usually more complex than a single word, at least in my mind, but a lot of Fallen London's storylines incorporate love into their themes.

there's the obvious things ofc; the Manager and the King, the Duchess and the Canigaster, Queen Victoria and Prince Albert, the Bazaar's whole situation. Love is a common motivator that many people can relate to, so it's no surprise that it appears in this capacity. Even so, these instances also underpin a lot of the setting's character, particularly the latter two examples, explaining why the neath is the way it is. but if we broaden our horizons just a bit, you can start to see it appearing all over the place (though maybe thats just confirmation bias lol).

the youthful naturalist loves discovery and life, and evolution in that context is a story about what one is willing to endure and sacrifice for that love. Love is a constant theme in the Light Fingers storyline, between moon milk and poor Edward, but also shows in Mr Fires's love for London (strange and deleterious though it may be) and the protagonist's love for either the Hybrid they protected or the diamond they'd been after. I don't know as much about the other ambitions (yet), but Nemesis is all about avenging a loved one by any means necessary, and you could see Bag a Legend as a love for the hunt or a love of fame, though even i’ll admit thats a bit of a stretch. Idk about Heart's Desire i’m still working on it but there's probably something. Its literally about what your heart desires but there’s absolutely a deeper connection with the Marvellous and stuff. No spoilers i'm still working on it :3

i dont know a ton about SMEN's story either, but i know from a ludonarrative perspective that it tests the players love for their character, forcing you to ruin this silly victorian who you are presumably quite attached to in the search for knowledge (perhaps another kind of love?) With what little i know of it, i’d honestly be shocked if there wasn’t anything there. if ao3 has taught me anything, there was definitely some kind of love going on between those two space bats, but im not sure if ao3 is a reputable source in this specific instance

The Flukes are literally sick with love for lost Axile, and a lot of the Masters are shown yearning to return to the High Wilderness. Many of the Irem Destinies regard love in this way, love for the sun, for the liberation, for ones partner, for london, for the people of the neath, and on and on. im not very far along with the railway but im 100% certain itll crop up again there, whether with Furnace Ancona or the Efficient Commissioner or the masters or whatever else. same goes for the Exceptional Stories and the myriad tales ive yet to unlock. Weve started to see a glimmer of it in firmament, with the imminent lucifer fire guy, but i wasnt really sure what his deal was. the idea extends to the other Sunless games from what i know, though ive yet to play those. Mask of the Rose is a romance, so thats pretty clear cut; sunless skies seems to have a lot of content relating to Queen Victoria and Prince Albert; and sunless seas seems to have it present in a few storylines, though i couldnt point to anything specific at this time. even small things, such as the way that the railway steel seems drawn to Hell and the sorrowful properties of sphinxstone, makes for a setting that is inundated with longing and heartbreak in a fascinating way.

viewed through this lens, fallen london's perspective on love is tragically earnest: love is painful and unfair and yet so very necessary. as someone who's aromantic and a hater, i call that an L. but from a thematic perspective its very interesting how often this occurs and how it connects a lot of fallen london. In so many other narratives, love is a conclusion, a reward or climax. In fact, mass media seems allergic to depicting an active and healthy relationship, and instead relegates such matters to a single ceremonious kiss. But for fallen london, a game where kisses are currency and romance is taxed, the concept of love is afforded such an interesting amount of care and reverence. Fitting for a setting wherein the insisting incidents all relate to love in some way or another

it may be comedic and at times quite absurd, but fallen london to me is a game deeply concerned with love and its influence on people. and idk i think thats interesting. if you're looking for the theme or message of a given fallen london story, look to love, always.

does that count as a thesis? i certainly dont know

[ganondoodle]

you know, not like i had enough zelda ideas and rewrites already

but i thought of another (just roughly .. for now) for totk ... and its one where theres no time travel and no direct views into the past either, and no sonau shown, been wanting to think up one like this before but i recently got the basic idea for it (it ignores all of totk aside from some ideas like .. underground stuff)

the basic idea being that the sonau, whoever they were, had an understanding of the cycle hyrule keeps falling into, based on their use of the three animals representing the three virtues, perhaps them being so aware in fact that they were working on dismantling it, finding out why and get at it at its roots, perhaps being one of the only tribes left that knew some things of the past- with the twilight princess referecnes in that boar statue and the seven stones around it with one toppled over (like the sage that was killed)- or even just being aware of it, but not doing anythign against it bc they thought it should be and remain like it (though i like the first idea more)

them not being a high tech people either, perhaps more naturalistic or magic adjacent thing- to contrast the shiekah, who, as their place under the hyrulean monarchy, firmly believedd in hyrules divine right to conquer it all, and the sonau with their knowledge of the past and the cycle of reincarnation beign a threat to the royal families absoulute power position- thus leading to the sonaus destruction and why all their (botw) ruins are highjacked by shiekah shrines!

since the sonau kept most of their knowledge to themselves (hey hey, heres and idea, they didnt communicate vie normal languegs but vie sign language or some magic- making them even more different and mysterious to the others living in the world) no one really got to know what they knew nor their culture or plans; the shiekah findign out what they know or just that they might be a threat to hyrule being sent to get rid of them, in the process finding out more about the past (like the king of the gerudo being the one who has resisted hyrule before and his potential to go monster mode) beginning the plan to imprison the current king of the gerudo (picking up some of the ideas i have had before, the whole betrayel plot) before he can become a danger to hyrule

ganondorf finds out about it (perhaps being in a shaky alliance out of necessity- like the shiekah intentionally minign below the desert without the gerudo knowing that it robs the land of life- thus makign them dependend on trade with hyrule) and plans to counteract it (a big somehow for now, like assassinate the king of hyrule? or try and force him to abandon their plan or sth), and the plan works out for the most part, but theres one gerudo thats been on the side of the hyrulean family the whole time leading to ganondorf ending up sealed and trapped by the queen of hyrule (sealing powers and all, perhaps, again picking up former ideas, after starting a war for ganondorf killing the king) and after realizing ganondorfs undying spirit will never rest try and purify the malice hed sent out to break free, leading to them discovering a much more efficient way to power their newly developing tech, rather than luminous stones which are hard to mine and process, using ganondorfs spirit/malice instead (yes i WILL include battery theory again) which allows them to make all the ancient shiekah tech in the scale we see in botw (and hear of in the past calamity)

its sort of more like the first ideas i had for a totk rewrite, zelda being your companion from the start and link loosing his arm and gettign a shiekah tech replacement- with the added bonus of including the sonau without robbing them of their mystery while still developing them further

most of their recording having been destroyed, either intentionally or by the tides of time, but due to the cataclysm changing the landscape there being new caves uncovered with cave painting like remains of the sonau, entrances to the underground revealing that they came in fact from there and the population on the surface was a small fraction of the last ones of them, with the underground being filled with even more (botw) sonau ruins, but also shiekah labs in other parts

yes it paints the shiekah in a bad light .. which honeslty why not, they are hyrules pawns more or less, and given what the monks do just to give a future hero their last bit of spirit they must have very strong believe in it all- but then the next king turning on them and persecuting them just like they did to the sonau .. being yet another cycle

you slowly discovering everything real time, no memories and no direct views into the past, just real discoveris

ganondorf would once again be the villain, but it would give alot more background to him, in this case making him much more a victim of said cycle, it repeating by wanting to avoid it etc etc, and you wouldnt be able to reason with him after a little over ten thousand years of solitary imprisonment AND your spirit/energy being continueosly exploited to power tech built to fight off any of his attempts to break free (calamity ganon) leading to the desperation of literally tryign to rebuild himself out of malice, which is how you get weird spider ganon and the malice build lumps, eyes, mouths and even rib like structures- the monsters and bosses being a creation of him yes, it being an attempt, or antoehr really, to take revenge on all those that plotted against him, that helped in putting him in this agonzing condition between life and death AND then even exploiting his spirit too-- making the end fight more of a mercy kill with a tragic note, but still hopeful to a better future and not to let the cycle begin anew once a new gerudo king is born- so its not utterly throwing it all in dissarray but giving you the sense of ... theres a future, hope for soemthign better even if it wasnt fixable now

it falls more in line with the 'traditional' zelda formular, but makes it a bit more .. involved? nuanced?

(havent yet thought of ideas for the sky except .. it being there still like i had previously thought, idk if i will develop this further but i like this ones alot bc .... i dont like the totk sonau at all and find it extremely boring to just say yep they are here and actually everywhere and here they are literally in your face as people with voices- i liked them alot more as unkowns)

[book--brackets]

Valdemar: Heralds of Valdemar by Mercedes Lackey (1987-1988)

Chosen by the Companion Rolan, a mystical horse-like being with powers beyond imagining, Talia, once a runaway, has now become a trainee Herald, destined to become one of the Queen's own elite guard. For Talia has certain awakening talents of the mind that only a Companion like Rolan can truly sense.But as Talia struggles to master her unique abilities, time is running out. For conspiracy is brewing in Valdemar, a deadly treason that could destroy Queen and kingdom. Opposed by unknown enemies capable of both diabolical magic and treacherous assassination, the Queen must turn to Talia and the Heralds for aid in protecting the realm and insuring the future of the Queen's heir, a child already in danger of becoming bespelled by the Queen's own foes.

The Memoirs of Lady Trent by Marie Brennan (2013-2019)

You, dear reader, continue at your own risk. It is not for the faint of heart--no more so than the study of dragons itself. But such study offers rewards beyond compare: to stand in a dragon's presence, even for the briefest of moments--even at the risk of one's life--is a delight that, once experienced, can never be forgotten. . . .

All the world, from Scirland to the farthest reaches of Eriga, know Isabella, Lady Trent, to be the world's preeminent dragon naturalist. She is the remarkable woman who brought the study of dragons out of the misty shadows of myth and misunderstanding into the clear light of modern science. But before she became the illustrious figure we know today, there was a bookish young woman whose passion for learning, natural history, and, yes, dragons defied the stifling conventions of her day.

Here at last, in her own words, is the true story of a pioneering spirit who risked her reputation, her prospects, and her fragile flesh and bone to satisfy her scientific curiosity; of how she sought true love and happiness despite her lamentable eccentricities; and of her thrilling expedition to the perilous mountains of Vystrana, where she made the first of many historic discoveries that would change the world forever.

Entwined by Heather Dixon Wallwork (2011)

Just when Azalea should feel that everything is before her—beautiful gowns, dashing suitors, balls filled with dancing—it's taken away. All of it. And Azalea is trapped. The Keeper understands. He's trapped, too, held for centuries within the walls of the palace. So he extends an invitation.

Every night, Azalea and her eleven sisters may step through the enchanted passage in their room to dance in his silver forest, but there is a cost. The Keeper likes to keep things. Azalea may not realize how tangled she is in his web until it is too late.

Akata Witch by Nnedi Okorafor (2011-2022)

Twelve-year-old Sunny lives in Nigeria, but she was born American. Her features are African, but she's albino. She's a terrific athlete, but can't go out into the sun to play soccer. There seems to be no place where she fits in. And then she discovers something amazing--she is a free agent with latent magical power. Soon she's part of a quartet of magic students, studying the visible and invisible, learning to change reality. But will it be enough to help them when they are asked to catch a career criminal who knows magic too?

Serafina by Robert Beatty (2015-2019)

Serafina has never had a reason to disobey her pa and venture beyond the grounds of the Biltmore estate. There's plenty to explore in her grand home, although she must take care to never be seen. None of the rich folk upstairs know that Serafina exists; she and her pa, the estate's maintenance man, have secretly lived in the basement for as long as Serafina can remember.

But when children at the estate start disappearing, only Serafina knows who the culprit is: a terrifying man in a black cloak who stalks Biltmore's corridors at night. Following her own harrowing escape, Serafina risks everything by joining forces with Braeden Vanderbilt, the young nephew of the Biltmore's owners. Braeden and Serafina must uncover the Man in the Black Cloak's true identity before all of the children vanish one by one.

Serafina's hunt leads her into the very forest that she has been taught to fear. There she discovers a forgotten legacy of magic, one that is bound to her own identity. In order to save the children of Biltmore, Serafina must seek the answers that will unlock the puzzle of her past.

The Children of the Red King by Jenny Nimmo (2002-2009)

The fabulous powers of the Red King were passed down through his descendants, after turning up quite unexpectedly, in someone who had no idea where they came from. This is what happened to Charlie Bone, and to some of the children he met behind the grim, gray walls of Bloor's Academy.

His scheming aunts decide to send him to Bloor Academy, a school for geniuses where he uses his gifts to discover the truth despite all the dangers that lie ahead.

Fairyland by Catherynne M. Valente (2011-2016)

Twelve-year-old September lives in Omaha, and used to have an ordinary life, until her father went to war and her mother went to work. One day, September is met at her kitchen window by a Green Wind (taking the form of a gentleman in a green jacket), who invites her on an adventure, implying that her help is needed in Fairyland. The new Marquess is unpredictable and fickle, and also not much older than September. Only September can retrieve a talisman the Marquess wants from the enchanted woods, and if she doesn't . . . then the Marquess will make life impossible for the inhabitants of Fairyland. September is already making new friends, including a book-loving Wyvern and a mysterious boy named Saturday.

World of the Five Gods by Lois McMaster Bujold (2001-2005)

Lord Cazaril has been in turn courier, courtier, castle-warder, and captain; now he is but a crippled ex-galley slave seeking nothing more than a menial job in the kitchens of the Dowager Provincara, the noble patroness of his youth. But Fortunes wheel continues to turn for Cazaril, and he finds himself promoted immediately to the exalted and dangerous position of secretary-tutor to the Iselle, the beautiful, fiery sister of the heir to Chalion’s throne.

Amidst the decaying splendour and poisonous intrigue of Chalion’s ancient capital, Cardegoss, Cazaril is forced to encounter both old enemies and surprising allies, as he seeks to lift the curse of misfortune that clings to the royal family of Chalion, and to all who come too close to them...

Keys to the Kingdom by Garth Nix (2003-2010)

Arthur Penhaligon's first days at his new school don't go too well, particularly when a fiendish Mister Monday appears, gives Arthur a magical clock hand, and then orders his gang of dog-faced goons to chase Arthur around and get it back. But when the confused and curious boy discovers that a mysterious virus is spreading through town, he decides to enter an otherworldly house to stop it. After meeting Suzy Blue and the first part of "the Will" (a frog-looking entity that knows everything about the House), Arthur learns that he's been selected as Rightful Heir to the House and must get the other part of the clock hand in order to defeat Monday. That means getting past Monday's henchmen and journeying to the Dayroom itself. Thankfully, Arthur is up to the challenge, but as he finds out, his fight seems to be only one-seventh over.

The Riyria Chronicles by Michael J. Sullivan (2013-present)

Hadrian Blackwater, a warrior with nothing to fight for, is paired with Royce Melborn, a thieving assassin with nothing to lose. Hired by an old wizard, they must steal a treasure that no one can reach. The Crown Tower is the impregnable remains of the grandest fortress ever built and home to the realm's most prized possessions. But it isn't gold or jewels that the wizard is after, and if he can just keep them from killing each other, they just might succeed.

[callslips]

u should get a pass to be mean i think the way ur asks are clogged with freaks n weirdos who can’t take a hint. can we talk about lottienat please that will probably weed them out

YES WE CAN TALK ABOUT LOTTIENAT.

s3 predictions are so hard because idk if we even fuckin' saw nat in the trailer so we're gonna talk about lottienat and symbolism the symbolism being: mother deer father stag, doomcoming crowns, hunter/prophet, the passing on of the queen title... let's begin

mother deer father stag: lottie being mother deer, nat being father stag - comfort and security consecutively, lottie being the main source of mental stability for the girls as they are stuck in the wilderness (mother) and nat serving as the provider for all of them (father) (of course these are patriarchal roles but bear with me) ... deer represent a deep connection to spirituality and the supernatural as well as harmony and peace (all lottie wants), whereas the stag is regarded as earthly, of the land and rooted in power whilst maintaining sensitivity, intuition, and most importantly gentleness (nat's moments of aggression have always come from a place of sincerity and care/the protection of others)

NOW... DOOMCOMING CROWNS...

LOOK AT THE SIZE DIFFERENCE!

the symbolism of lottie's crown being larger and the way it still resembles antlers ... so naturalistic yet a statement of her (at the time, current) power ... vs nat's crown being a smaller (her antlers have not yet grown in), more ornamental (still clinging to the conventions of society at this point) version of the same thing - made with wire or twine - the OPPOSITE of naturalistic... they're so tethered.

HUNTER VS. PROPHET.

much like father stag/mother deer we see this juxtaposition of roles... it speaks for itself but i'll say it anyway, lottie seeing the stag begin to shed its horns - inevitable (the path bloody and ugly) coupled with the regrowth over time - is greatly indicative of nat eventually becoming the wilderness queen (prophetical) vs our beloved hunter later seeing a moose which, yet again, is a signal of strength and power but more importantly THE ANTLERS, even THE JACKET, symbolizing that she is *becoming* ready to take the role of leadership... i digress i just really love the oracle x provider dynamic ok???

lastly and most profoundly: the passing on of leadership. even though lottie assumes guilt here (she's a baby she did nothing wrong) it is still MONUMENTAL for lottienat imo, not only in the sense that lottie believes nat survived the hunt and deserves it, but that she has been PREPARING nat for this moment - blood and ash for protection, watching over her, seeing visions directly correlated to her... maybe i'm insane?

what i want to see: this new dynamic explored. nat has taken on the role of leadership in the realm of hunting but not caretaking - she is now the embodiment of the queen of hearts, loves deeply, but is now taking on a VERY big role. Who will she lean on? she's done nothing but butt heads with lottie this entire time yet now she might NEED her... lottie's guidance... omfgggg nat as saul the prosecutor turned paul the apostle. once an enemy, now reliant - dually, as they need each other (circling back to the mother/father dynamic).

there. i'll shut up. most of this is me rambling anyway.

i leave you all with the very heartwarming:

[fayes-fics]

The Gift

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x pregnantfem!reader, modern AU

Summary: Modern AU. Your best friend Benedict gives you a gift in more ways than one.

Warnings: 18+ smut, minors DNI, pregnant sex, pregnancy kink, dirty talk, vaginal sex, woman on top, friends with benefits, blindfold (not used during sex).

Word count: 5.1k

Build-a-blurb prompt: Benedict + smut + friends with benefits + pregnancy + blindfolds. From @queen-of-the-misfit-toys

Author's note: This is one of the prompts I got months ago in my 1k follower celebration. I’m certain this is not at all what you envisioned with this prompt; sorry, it's what my mind settled on. If you want sweeping romance, look elsewhere. This is intentionally naturalistic; I was striving for realism around the surprising development of intimacy between long-term close friends. I hope it works. Also, please excuse any inaccuracies around the pregnancy experience; I have no personal frame of reference, just what friends have shared.

It’s a rainy, dreary Wednesday when your life is turned around most unexpectedly. One of those nothing days that becomes something out of seemingly nowhere.

The week started like any other, really; the only unusual thing was on Monday when your friend Benedict asked for your spare set of keys to your flat; you acquiesced even though it seemed uncharacteristic. You trust him completely. He said something about wanting to babyproof some things for your impending arrival. The very real, very looming deadline of single parenthood is quite daunting. 

This is not how it was supposed to go.

The man who got you pregnant, your ex, turned out to be, well, spineless in the face of the reality he had willingly signed onto. He ran away to another woman around the fourth month of your pregnancy. Good riddance to bad rubbish in hindsight, traumatising as it was. 

Ever since, your friends have been the most incredible network of individuals to lean on for support, including the lovely Benedict Bridgerton. His room was opposite yours on the first day of uni, and you’ve been close friends ever since. He was rich, beautiful, bisexual and the most fun person you had ever met. You became firm friends on that first day, and you are still close fifteen years later. An initial flare of romantic feelings on your part metamorphosed into a deep, abiding mutual bond that is decidedly steadfast and deeply rooted in your life. 

So when you waddle, yes, sadly, you have reached the waddling stage of pregnancy now, into your flat after work that fateful Wednesday, you don’t expect to be greeted by an excited Benedict rocking on his heels and grinning like a madman.

“Ben…” you greet suspiciously.

“Hello!!” He fizzes with energy and enthusiastically helps you out of your coat. “How is bubs today?” He asks, nodding at your bump.

“Lovely but pain in the bum, as usual,” you answer, rubbing it. “Speaking of, it’s more like a pain in the bladder. I have to go wee. Sorry.”

“Please do,” he gestures to the bathroom door, and you step in.

“Don’t stay in the hallway,” you call through the door.

“Why not?”

“I don’t want you to hear me weeing!”

“Why not? Everyone does it,” he laughs, “but okay, okay, I’ll go to the kitchen. Need a drink?”

“Yeah, double espresso martini, please,” you jest as you fight with your clothing, deciding to just leave your maternity tights right there on the floor—a problem for future you.

“Haha,” he deadpans,  “water it is.”

“Fine,” you sigh.

When you emerge a minute later, he is holding out a glass of water just as you like, with a touch of ice and a wedge of lemon squeezed and then dropped in. 

“You’re a lifesaver,” you reach up and pat his cheek affectionately, taking the water and guzzling it slightly.

“I have a surprise for you,” his tone is jubilant.

“Oh yeah, what is it?”

“Well, I’m not going to tell you, am I?” he rolls his eyes with a chuckle and takes the glass from your hand, placing it aside.

He holds out his other hand, and there is… well, there’s a blindfold. You are very nonplussed.

“What is this about?” you ask, confused.

“I want you to wear this, please,” he smiles that trademark Benedict smile that still makes your insides melt all these years later. He knows it’s a weapon, and yet he still deploys it. You’d do anything he asks when he looks like that. And he bloody well knows it.

“Can I ask some questions first?”

“Of course.”

“Are we leaving the flat again? Cos if we are, you’ll have to fight my shoes back onto my bloody feet. I don’t have the energy.”

“No, we are staying right here.”

“Ok, next question, do you promise not to blindfold me and then just leave? I’ll be pissed off,” you warn.

“That’s a shitty thing to do to anyone,” he frowns, “I would never do that,” he vows.

“As if you couldn’t guess, that question comes from bitter experience,” you huff wryly. 

“Who? I will track them down and kick them in the nuts.” Funny how he instantly knows it’s about a man. His jaw is ticked, and his usual chivalry has your heart bloom just a fraction.

“You’re a great friend,” you obfuscate, patting his hand. Not wanting to add fuel to the hindsight red flag fire that is your ex, you change tack. “Come on then, let's do this.”

You allow him to put the blindfold on you; he is so gentle as he does so, ensuring your hair does not catch on the elastic. Just that simple, thoughtful thing has you slightly maudlin; pregnancy is undoubtedly an emotional rollercoaster. Last week you cried at a bus stop poster. Not an elegantly shed tear, full-on tears rolling. Everyone else waiting at the stop seemed to move away a few feet, their eyes saying, ‘Beware of strange pregnant lady’. His warm hand slots into yours, bringing you back to the present. 

“Hey, no peeking!” he murmurs as you tilt your head back and attempt to look under the blindfold.

“What is going on, Benedict?” you whisper, the darkness suddenly making you quiet and a strange butterflies sensation in your belly as he leads you gently by the hand across your flat.

“I told you I have a present for you, and I wanted it to be a surprise,” he answers enigmatically.

“You really had to blindfold me?” you shoot back.

“Yes, it's all part of the surprise,” he chuckles.

He opens the door to what you think is your guest room. You are temporarily confused when the number of steps he takes usually would mean you’d have walked right into your guest bed by now. The very one he often crashes in. It reminds you, you need to get some quotes for turning this room into a nursery before it’s too late. Then he interrupts your once again wayward train of thought.

“I’ve been wondering for a long time what gift I can give you for this brave new adventure you are embarking on,” he says with a sincerity that intrigues you. “I wanted it to be something lasting and meaningful, and this is what I came up with. I hope you like it.”

His tone almost seems nervous as he tugs at the blindfold and removes it from your face.

“Surprise!”  he calls quietly and steps back with a flourish.

Your eyes squint as you adjust then...

Speechless.

Utterly speechless.

He has not babyproofed your flat—the wonderful arsehole has built you a nursery.

Gone are all the usual contents of the room; in their place is what looks like every piece on your wishlist—the crib, the changing table, the wardrobe, the rocking chair, and even the rug, curtains and lamps you wanted. 

But what catches your eye most is the walls. On that plain light beige canvas, he has handpainted the most gorgeous animal safari in muted, soft tones, rounded, adorable cartoon versions of elephants, giraffes, big cats, antelope and hippos interspersed amongst trees, grasslands and watering holes. It is simply breathtaking—overwhelming and so magnificent.

“Now I can’t take full credit,” he explains meekly. “We all pitched in to buy the items, and I had some people deliver and assemble it today as I painted.”

You can’t help it. You start to sob. Not sweet, ladylike tears, body-wracking ugly sobs. You have to grab his arm to stay on your feet.

“Oh god, are you ok?” his tone filled with concern, “shit, was this wrong?”

“No, no, no, no, no!! Ben,” you cry, “this is… I have no words; I just…” you start to sob again, incapable of words, tears rolling down your cheek. “This is so wonderful,” you hiccup, “look at your stunning artwork Ben; this is so, so exquisite. I… I don't deserve this.”

“Like hell you don’t,” he counters, “you are the bravest person I know; this is nothing.”

You throw your arms around him, not caring, just wanting to convey your gratitude.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you!” squeezing him hard as you chant into the soft skin of his neck, leaving a damp patch from your tears.

His arms wrap as tight as they can with your bump in the way, and he murmurs you are welcome in your ear so sweetly it’s impossible to resist what you do next.

You grab his jaw, push up onto your tiptoes and land a kiss squarely on his lips. You can’t blame alcohol for this irrational behaviour (your usual reason for such things); instead, you can blame pregnancy hormones, which is precisely what you will do once you pull away. But the greedy part of you just wants to take from him for a moment, to linger, to enjoy a kiss; god knows it's been months since you had one, and he doesn’t seem to be fighting you off. In fact, he is kissing you back with surprising fervour. Your lips move together, and it feels phenomenal, like the opening few bars of a delightful symphony.

“Sorry,” you whisper onto his lips, and then you fall back to your flat feet. “I’m so… god, that wasn’t at all appropriate. But no one has ever done anything this incredible for me my whole life, and I… I didn’t know how to react. Please accept my apologies.”

You finally look up at him again, and there is something in his eyes that compels you not to look away.

“No,” he mutters, staring you down.

“No, what?”

“No, I won't accept your apology.”

You look horrified for a split second. “Ben, please, I reacted wrong, I know, but I’m pregnant and very emotional. I...”

“I won’t accept your apology,” he cuts in, “because you did nothing wrong.”

“But I kissed you! That was so inappropriate of me!” you bemoan.

“If that’s true, Then I’m really going to have to apologise for this…” and that’s all the warning you get before his lips are on yours again.

And your world stops. Then it spins like a Waltzer. You realise you are frozen in shock, so you respond before he can pull away. Throw yourself into kissing him back, making a noise you are sure you've never made, wanton and desirous. Your whole body feels alight and electric as his hands pull you into him, sweeping down your back.

“Ben, I…” you stutter onto his lips as he breaks away for air.

“Talk later,” he urges, and you silently nod to agree before he dives back in. 

You are not going to look this gift horse in the mouth. You have been so, well, horny during your pregnancy. If someone flesh and blood, especially one this handsome, is going to kiss you and whatever else, there is no way you want to do anything to impede it. You know him so well that you can tell he is as surprised by his actions as you are. But to his credit, he is going with it. Indeed going for it in a way that makes you irrationally jealous of every person he has kissed before. He knows exactly how to make you a breathless mess in his arms. 

“Ben…” you begin as he starts kissing down your neck, the slide of his lips making your eyes close.

He gently shushes you. “I need you to know something important,” his breath is hot on your skin.

“Tell me,” you whisper, almost drunk on sensation.

He pulls away slightly as you reopen your eyes, which are undoubtedly glassy and unfocused.

“I didn’t do this,” he gestures around the room, “for this,” he gestures between you. “This is not a quid pro quo. But by god, am I happy this is happening,” he admits with an adorable grin.

“Noted” you grin back and pull his face back to yours, kissing him hotly.

“But I feel obliged to let you know; it’s been a while since I was with a woman,” he admits, almost sheepish. The humble way he says it tells you he is offering you sex. And by god, you want it.

“Ben, I haven't even so much as kissed anyone in months. This, anything frankly, is just perfect,” you confess between almost breathless kisses.

He gently, oh so gently, unties the bow at the back of your wrap dress, kissing you as he does so. When he whips the dress off your shoulders and flings it across the room, you can’t help the giggle that bubbles up inside; his charming, responding smile makes you want to swoon. 

“Are you sure? I look so…,” you fret as you stand before him, feeling vulnerable now in just your bra and knickers, “you can still say no…” you offer him an out.

“You look like what you are,” he says gently, his hands cupping your face as a thumb swipes your cheek, “a beautiful pregnant woman.” 

You want to dispute it; remind him you are waddling like a duck these days, but you don’t want him to stop. You want to push him to the ground and ride whatever he has going on under those jeans until you are both screaming.

“Stop,” you demure.

“I mean it.” 

As if to make you more comfortable, he quickly discards his t-shirt and slides off his jeans almost perfunctorily. You don’t even get to ogle him as he spins you around to face the full-length mirror on the back of the door. You see your body swollen and him standing behind you in underpants, slightly to one side. He looks stunning, all ropey thighs and toned arms. You feel like a hot air balloon standing before a racehorse.

“Look at yourself,” he orders quietly, hands on your shoulders, then slipping down to map your body. “My god, you look amazing. Powerful and womanly, you are bringing life into the world, and you look amazing doing it. Your skin is glowing.” A large hand runs low around the swell of your belly, cupping it. “I… didn't know it before, but I might have a thing for pregnant bodies. Or rather your pregnant body,” he admits, sounding almost ashamed. 

“I bet you say that to all the pregnant girls,” you murmur in jest, selfishly grabbing his hands and bringing them up to your breasts, his grip through the lacy bra just the most glorious feeling.

He chuckles at your words. “I'm just being honest,” he assures.

“Take off my bra Ben,” you appeal. The slide of his fingers under the clasp resting on your breastbone makes your skin hot and prickly. 

As he gently pulls the cups aside, his groan has you pushing back against him instinctually. In the mirror, you watch his awed gaze in the reflection as he cups your naked flesh this time. He only has to utter the word divine, and you are so desperate for him that you must have him immediately, a sweeping, powerful need that almost knocks the wind from you. You spin around in his arms and push up onto your tiptoes, kissing him hard.

“Lay down,” your request muffled into his mouth.

His sweet, almost shy grin, as he does as bidden, laying down on the soft rug, gives a warm glow under your ribs. He’s still your friend, even with whatever this is. 

“Do you mind if I turn off the lights?” Your request is a quiet thing.

“Whatever makes you comfortable,’ his reply soft and tinged with understanding. 

There is still the orange glow of the London sky filtering in after you flick the switch—it’s never truly dark in the city. You can see enough to easily stare down at his prone outline, toned and lithe, with a delicious-looking bulge straining in his underpants. You really can’t believe your luck.

“Oh god. Please take off your underwear,” it sounds like a whine from your lips, and you inhale sharply as he does exactly what you command. What springs free has your mouth watering, and you drop to your knees beside him. “Holy fuck Ben,” you breathe, your hand grabbing him, almost a reflex.

He gasps as you fist his cock, it’s warm and steely, and it’s been so many months since you handled one, and many years since one this size and pleasant, that before you know it, you are swinging a leg over and straddling him.

His little breathy moans and twitches as you pump and squeeze him are everything. 

“You are very good at this,” he whispers as you settle over his downy thighs.

“I’m sure you’ve had much better,” you demure.

“Don’t sell yourself short,” he moans as you swipe a thumb over his leaking slit. You continue to work him, speeding up a little and squeezing. His feral noise instantly has you throbbing. “Why are your knickers still on?” He demands hotly, eyes meeting yours with a burning intensity.

“I…. am happy to just do this,” you stutter, still giving him an out.

“Y/n, if you want sex, even half as much as I do right now, you better decide before you take me too far,” he warns through slightly clenched teeth.

Somehow his honesty is refreshing. Of course, you want it; you are positively fizzing and so wet you could slide right off his thigh.

“Rip them, Ben,” you implore, guiding one of his hands to the seam at your hip.

“Honestly?!?”

“Yes fucking please,” you confirm, staring him down.

He pulls your hand off his cock, as if it’s too distracting, and the room echoes with the sound of lace being torn asunder.

“Fuck that is hot,” you mutter without realising it’s out loud.

He smirks and then hisses as he slides two fingers between your legs and feels just what he has wrought.

“Bloody hell, you are so wet.” he sounds almost taken aback, fingertips teasing your entrance as the heel of his palm presses against your clit.

“All you,” you state honestly, pulling his hand away and sucking on his soaked fingers as he lightly growls at you. 

“Condom?” his question is a touch frantic, but you shake your head, letting his fingers slip from your mouth. Your knowledge of his sexually responsible history regarding all his partners makes you trust he is clean. And it's not like accidental pregnancy is much of an issue. You want to feel him, skin on skin.

You shuffle, so you are lining up with his cock. Then it’s an eye-rolling, lip-biting, toe-curling stretch as he slips inside you. You take him in slowly, savouring each hot inch as you sink down. By the time your clit rests on his root, you are moaning, split open in the most fantastic, persistent way.

“Oh fuck,” you groan clit throbbing. “Fucking hell, you feel so fucking good,” you can’t stop the litany of swear words. 

His hands are a tight vice on your hipbones beneath your bump. "Please don’t move, y/n,” he gasps desperately, and he ripples inside you. “I…. I need a moment.”

You sit happily on him, getting used to the invasion, tracing patterns over his toned abdomen with your fingernails. “Someone has been to the gym,” you tease lightly, and he beams modestly, but you can see the traces of male pride there, pleased that you find him so physically attractive.

Then he gives you a nod, and you move gently, grabbing his hands as leverage as you raise up and sink down. The long exhale you let out tells how wondrous you find the stretch, the drag of his head over your walls, the heat and solid presence. You can’t glance down and watch as you like to, your bump obscuring everything, but you don't miss the way his eyes ping back and forth from your face to between your legs, watching himself disappear into your body, watching you fuck him.

There are no words for a while, just sighs, deep breaths, and gentle moans of satisfaction as you find a rhythm. Even with the baby on board, you have tried to keep up some level of cardio exercise that you are particularly grateful for now. Although you already know you would ride his cock until your thighs cramp, and your abs scream. He seems designed to hit the spot right at the top of your channel that you haven't had the pleasure of being struck in a while. It’s an addictive feeling. And when you get it, you can't help but want to bump it repeatedly, the same chemical rush you get when food tastes so good you have the urge to gobble up the entire plate without pausing.

You wish you could bend over and kiss him, but you are too ballooned to do so without pulling off, and that is the very last thing you want right now. Instead, you bring your fingers to your lips, kiss them, and then place them down on his lips. At first sweet, his smile around your fingers turns smouldering as he sucks them into his warm, wet mouth and runs his tongue fiercely over them. Dear Christ, you want that tongue between your legs to the point you clench on him spontaneously.

“Fucking hell,” he gusts, closing his eyes and pushing his head back, his strong neck standing in relief, a vein there hammering seductively. You want to bite it, scrape your teeth over his adam’s apple.

It appears you may have spoken that last thought as his eyes pop open and look at you in startlement. 

“Sorry,” you mumble.

“Don't be,” he rasps, “you can do whatever you want to my body.” 

Permitting free rein to a person seething with hormones such as you are seems like an unwittingly dangerous gamble on his part. The things you would do to him if he let you are probably so much kinkier than even you want to admit.

He groans loud. “I want you to tell me everything you just thought about because I have never seen your expression so wild or sexy.”

“Don’t make such tempting offers,” you volley back, changing angle so that his cock rubs deliciously over your g-spot as you sink. You curse again, and he watches your whole body shudder; his hands are suddenly on your arse, encouraging every move.

“Tell me,” he orders gruffly, something elemental and primaeval seemingly taking over his entire being too.

“I want to fuck you until my body and mouth are screaming,” the admission tumbling breathless as you speed up and ride him harder. “I want to use my nails and teeth and leave marks on your beautiful flesh,” you snarl.

“Fucking do it,” he responds vehemently, bringing his fingers to your mouth. “Bite me,” he urges duskily.

You take his thumb and suck it hard, the pad so fleshy and deliciously tart tasting from when he ran his hand between your legs. So you do; entrap that part between your front teeth watching his pupils dilate, and his breath get even more rapid as your teeth sink in. You stop yourself before it can become something else, where you break skin and taste blood, but you can't deny the metallic urge to do so is there. The fact his cock pulses so hard inside as you do just adds to the craving. 

You don't want to contemplate what it means for your friendship that this potentially seismic thing is happening, you are biting and riding him like an animal in heat, and he is letting you, condoning, encouraging, hell, even goading you, into it. 

Drunk on a sea of hormones, you sink and rise on him like an endless tide, your whole body dewy from the effort, and yet still, you don't stop. The flow becomes less urgent at some point, and your movements become languid, almost sensual. His touch morphs to gently strokes, your hands resting gently on his abs.

“If you were pregnant with my child, I would never leave you,” his voice husky, cupping your breasts with the perfect intensity, swiping your nipples assuredly with his thumbs.  “I would build you a fucking palace.”

“You did,” you gesture around the room.

He laughs, and you feel it inside. “No. You deserve more than this. You deserve to be cherished. You deserve to be worshipped.” he brings your hand to his mouth and kisses your palm sweetly, such an exquisite contrast to the carnality of your fucking. 

You know that sex makes people say things that are a heightened version of the truth; so many endorphins in the bloodstream is a dangerously dramatic elixir, so you dismiss how wistfully beautiful his words sound. And instead, you concentrate on chasing the completion your body craves—that utter mind-numbing bliss of orgasm. 

Leaning forward, your bump rests on his flat, taunt stomach as you grab his arms, his expression turning wild as you lean on them, pinning him down, taking what you want from his body, almost selfish. He murmurs encouraging words, telling you to go for it, gritted teeth and tendons straining. He looks so gorgeous you almost want to edge him and yourself; just keep denying yourselves repeatedly, stringing it out, savouring, torturing, and burning each other to a knife-edge and volatile place. But the greedy part of you wants it now, and your body is teetering close to exhaustion.

“Come for me, please, y/n, please,” he begs. His broken, rough, velvety tone urging you on is the catalyst you need. 

“Touch me, Benedict,” you prompt, your rare use of his full name causing something to snap in him. His fingers verge on rough as they dive between your folds and snag your clit with such ferocity you almost jump sky-high as if burned.

“Give it to me,” he growls. You've never seen him like this, and it's breathtaking. Sweaty, strung-out, teeming with desperation, debauched and wanton. His eyes blaze into yours; even in this low light, all you can see is a convex version of your face reflected in his glassy black, dilated pupils. That and his questing fingers are what send you over the edge you have been hovering so close to. 

You slam down on him, your mind short-circuiting, and your whole body shudders as your channel contracts hard around his cock, which seems even larger now, stilled and speared inside you. Every fibre and cell cresting a wave of euphoria stronger than you've experienced in many years, possibly ever. Under you, he is groaning and writhing, your rippling cunt squeezing his cock vice-like as he comes hard, mouth hanging slack, loud groans as his hands grip your thighs and he pushes up against you, emptying himself. A warmth and force you feel inside, coating your walls as he shudders.

Totally spent, you twist off his softening cock and flop onto your back next to him, exhausted but so sated even your extremities tingle, little aftershocks causing muscle twitches.

For a few moments, there is nothing but ragged breathing in the soft glow from the street lamps outside; the background hum of the city and the whoosh of water in your radiators are the only other sounds you can hear. The room smells the opposite of how a nursery should, like sex and sweat and sin. You will definitely have to clean this rug is the first random fleeting thought your brain supplies as it comes back online.

“I don’t know what this means,” he admits quietly as you lay, shoulders touching, still panting breaths.

“I don’t either.” you agree.

“But I do know you are one of my best friends in the world… and that I want to do this again,” he confesses, his hand lacing with yours.

As much as you love this man wholeheartedly, you are not ready to contemplate a romantic entanglement. Not yet, anyway.

“Listen, Ben, I’m still healing from my relationship ending the way it did, and I’m about to become a mum; I have no space to think about the future beyond that. Can we just do this? And see where it goes?”

“Yes… yes, please,” he exhales, relieved you are perhaps unexpectedly on precisely the same page.

“So you have a kink for pregnant ladies, eh?” You bump him with a teasing tone.

“I had no bloody idea,” he admits, his cheeks reddening, “but seriously? I was already super protective of you in this state. But seeing you like this naked? I mean fucking hell. It does something primal and very male to me. And it’s not even my damn kid,” he points out bemused.

“Next time,” you twist and pat his cheek in jest.

“Would you have a kid with me?” his tone is obscure, you can't tell if he's serious, so you plumb for honesty.

“Of course, I would,” you state plainly, “you are a wonderful man. Who wouldn’t want a kid with your gorgeous face?” you smile and trace a finger over his jaw.

“Haha,” he deadpans, rolling his eyes. “But… I may just hold you to that promise, you know,” he smirks.

“You actually want a kid with me?”

“I can’t think of anyone else I’d want a child with more,” he shrugs.

“Meh, you just haven’t met the love of your life yet,” you wave a hand dismissively. 

“I don’t believe in that shit,” he frowns.

“I always picture you ending up with a man, to be honest,” and it’s your turn to shrug.

“Really?” he tilts to look at you. “Why?”

“I dunno. Still do, really.”

“Well, that's part of the delight of being bi… even I don't know,” his laugh contemplative. He rolls you onto your side and encloses you into an embrace, cradling you as the little spoon. “For now though, I want this….” his voice gravelly again, fingers spidering the curve of your hip, lips on your neck, stirring you again even as his cum still seeps out of you. 

It only takes a few caresses for you to be so aroused and throbbing for him, the physical chemistry you have together taking you by surprise. 

“God, what the hell is going on? I’m getting hard again,” he groans, almost disbelieving, surging his cock against your bottom. “May I?”

“Please do,” you squeak as he nudges your folds.

The keening cry of his name you make as he pushes into your body has him whispering for you never to stop, right in your ear. Then he takes you without mercy from behind, just like that, laying on your side. He doesn't treat you like glass, and you are so grateful for it, knowing you want to repay him on your knees, taking him down your throat if he’ll let you. And he does later that night. The way he breathlessly stutters your name as you suck him hard and deep is the most wonderous sound.

Whatever this may become, it is the last thing either of you expected and the very thing you both needed most. What a gift.

Benedict taglist: @makaylan @foreverlonginguniverse @iboopedyournose @colettebronte @aintnuthinbutahounddog @severewobblerlightdragon @margofiore @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @nikaprincessofkattegat @baebee35 @crowleysqueenofhell @bridgertontess @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @angels17324 @broooookiecrisp @queen-of-the-misfit-toys @eleanor-bradstreet

[the-jewel-catalogue]

Monthly Jewels: May || Emerald

The Godman Necklace

In 1965, a pair of elderly sisters, the Godmans, approached Buckingham Palace and told them that they had a piece of jewelry that the Queen might be interested in. According to Leslie Field in The Queen’s Jewels, they believed that a diamond and emerald necklace that they’d inherited from their father, British Museum trustee Frederick McCann Godman, had connections to Empress Joséphine of France.

The palace did a bit of digging about the Godmans’ necklace, and unfortunately, it was determined that the piece didn’t come from Empress Joséphine or the Leuchtenbergs at all. Regardless, it’s an extremely beautiful nineteenth-century necklace, and the sisters asked if the Queen would still like to have the piece. It’s rare that the royals accept such extravagant gifts from the public, but as in the case of the Queen Mother and the Greville inheritance, this time the Queen accepted.

~ The Court Jeweller

The necklace which is a delicate ornamental work in platinum, is encrusted with diamonds and emeralds. The design used on the necklace is based on symmetrical flower motifs, a style that was common for jewelry crafting throughout the 19th century, a naturalistic style that used the “language of flowers.”

The thick circular band of the necklace is encrusted with diamond baguettes interspersed with round brilliant-cut diamonds. Seven floral motifs arise from the lower side of this band, which take the form of seven pendants. The largest of this floral pendant is situated along the median line of the necklace, and is encrusted with two large emeralds, a rectangular-shaped smaller emerald at the base, and an elongated oval or drop-shaped emerald in the center of the pendant, which is the largest emerald in the necklace.

[bookshelf-in-progress]

Queen of the Fairies

All children love fairies. Who among us does not have memories of springtime afternoons with Nurse in the gardens, watching those tiny, human-like forms flitting through the world on their delicate wings, who seem to be clad in the very blossoms among which they live?

Yet most of us, as we age, forget about the fairies. We rush past gardens and flower boxes with barely a glance for the blooms themselves, much less for the delicate creatures that hide so carefully among them. If we think about them at all, they are part of the hazy, distant memories of long-ago childhood, not a vital part of the landscape that supports every facet of our daily lives.

But there is one woman who did not forget. Who never did forget, in her eight-and-four-score years of life, despite a scientific world that laughed her to scorn. As I, with all of England, mourn the passing of this inestimable woman--beloved author, illustrator, and (at last) honored naturalist, I can think of no better way to honor Constance Sommers than to recall my childhood meeting with her in the summer of my seventh year.

I had always loved watching the fairies in the window boxes outside my family’s London home. In 1892, I visited my grandparents in the countryside, and a new world opened up to me, filled with more flowers—and more types of fairies—than I could have imagined. I spent every waking moment in my grandmother’s gardens. I watched fairies hatch from the hearts of blooming tulips, scatter thousands of dandelion seeds, and endlessly paint the delicate shades of apple blossoms.

My favorite place, however, was my grandmother’s rose garden. There I found fairies whose forms matched every species of rose to a shade—save one. The crowning jewel of my grandmother’s garden was a rose she had bred herself; its white blossoms, as large as my hand, were streaked with red, and its scent was like a thousand fresh-plucked fruits. I knew that such a flower could only be tended by the grandest and most beautiful of fairies, and I watched, breathless, week after week for this hypothetical fairy to show her face.

At last, on a morning when my quest left me restless with anxiety, I tiptoed out of my room and slipped out to the rose garden in the gray light of dawn. As soon as I reached the prized rose bush, I saw fairy even more beautiful than I had imagined. Every bit of her form, from her face to her tiny fingers and toes, was pure white, with only the faintest green specks in her gray eyes. One of grandmother's red-and-white blossoms seemed to splay from her waist like a dancer's skirt, and her wings were so transparent that in that dim light, she appeared to have none, and instead seemed to float upon the delicate breath of the dawn.

At first, I stood awestruck—this was truly a queen among fairies. Then I recalled—I couldn’t let her slip out of my grasp. In a twinkling, I caught her in a glass jar, with one of my grandmother's roses tucked safely inside to serve as shelter and food.

How I rejoiced in that treasure! I brought the fairy to my room and marveled at her graceful fluttering until breakfast time, when I slipped away to the kitchen to eat with Nurse. By the time I returned, the beautiful little fairy was splayed, lifeless, across the base of the jar.

I wept myself breathless, completely inconsolable. Nurse offered comfort and threatened punishment, but she could not quiet me. At last, my sobs drew Grandmother, who took one look at that lovely little fairy and said, "I suppose there's nothing to do but give it to Constance Sommers."

I knew that name—every child in England did. Constance Sommers had written and illustrated the marvelous tales of the flower fairies that had a place on every nursery shelf—and all this time, she had been one of my grandparents’ neighbors! Surely she, if anyone, could save this little fairy! After much begging and pleading, I was allowed, reluctantly, to accompany Grandmother as she brought the fairy to Miss Sommers.

The carriage brought us to a tidy brown brick cottage atop a hill, surrounded by the most glorious gardens I had ever seen. Flowers bloomed on shrubs and trees, climbed trellises and the walls of the cottage, and blanketed the ground with every color of the rainbow. Even from the carriage I could see dozens of fairies flitting among the blossoms. I was utterly enchanted. Were it not for the dead fairy I carried in the jar, I might have lost myself in ecstasy.

The moment we alighted from the carriage, a gate leading to a back garden opened, and a woman strode toward us. She was like the branch of a tree—impossibly tall, thin and knobby. Her hair—dark, with only whispers of silver—was cut close to her head. She wore a simple white shirtwaist and black skirt, and dozens of tools—pens, keys, scissors, lens—hung from a silver-chained chatelaine at her waist. Her eyes, caged behind gold-rimmed spectacles, darted a million directions, fairy-quick, as if cataloging the landscape.

At last, her eyes lit on me—or rather, upon the jar in my hands. She rushed toward me without so much as a glance at Grandmother. “Fairy?” she asked.

I nodded and lifted the jar toward her. She took it and examined it with those sharp eyes—which quickly widened. “I’ve never seen this kind before.” Those eyes pierced me. “Where did you find it?”

She was speaking to me, not Grandmother! Never before had an adult addressed me so directly. “In Grandmother’s rose garden,” I said. “Can you save it?”

The head moved—one sharp shake. “It’s dead. Perfectly preserved. Do you have more?”

“N...no.”

“If you get some, I’ll pay triple the going rate. Could be a new species.”

She bombarded me with questions—what kind of flower the fairy resembled, the location of the garden, the soil conditions, the time of capture, the surrounding flowers. Grandmother answered the more technical ones, but since she hadn’t seen the fairy until I’d shown it to her dead in a jar, most of the questions about it fell to me. I was terribly shy, but under the circumstances, too bewildered to be afraid. As Miss Sommers jotted down my answers in a small diary, I had my first brush with a scientific approach to fairies—and I was fascinated.

As she questioned, Constance Sommers wandered through her gardens, making note of various fairies—lilies, honeysuckle, hollyhocks—but clearly intending me to follow and continue with the interview. I had never felt so important. I answered the questions to the best of my ability—and she seemed impressed.

“You’ve got a good eye,” she said. “Good memory.”

As if I could have forgotten anything about the queen of the fairies!

I trailed Miss Sommers through her back garden, losing Grandmother somewhere along the way. At last, Miss Sommers approached one of the cottage’s side doors. With a twist of one of the keys at her waist, the door opened, and I followed her inside.

At first, I thought we’d entered another garden. Every surface—every wall, ceiling, shelf and dozens of tables—seemed to be covered in framed flowers. Enchanted, I stepped closer to the nearest one, and found that it was the lilaced purple skirt of a flower fairy.

My enchantment turned to horror. Every single one of those surfaces—every frame—was filled with flower fairies, each one as lifeless as the beautiful specimen in my jar.

I ran away screaming.

I took only two steps out the door before Miss Sommer’s hand came down upon my shoulder like an iron shackle. She stood over me, as immovable as stone. “Where are you going?”

She did not sneer. She did not sympathize. She didn’t try to soothe or placate me. She simply asked. Before such unshakable practicality, I was helpless. My screams stopped.

She pulled me back into that room and plopped me onto a low wooden stool. Frozen as I was, I didn’t resist. Then she opened the door, tipped the fairy onto a table, and went to work.

Her hands were like two fairies, constantly in motion, yet always sure where they were going. I forgot about the walls and simply watched her work. With minuscule brushes, she cleaned the fairy’s lifeless form, then arranged it inside another wooden frame. She posed it with its hands outstretched, its nearly invisible wings positions halfway down so as to catch some of the light in rainbows. I recognized in this work the same hand that had painted such delicate pictures of living fairies. Though the fairy’s end was tragic, she was turning it into something beautiful.

As she worked, she lectured—I believe she forgot I was only a visiting seven-year-old, and not a potential apprentice. She explained how the preservation of specimens allowed for further study. She spoke about competing theories as to the origins of the fairies—whether they were one species that took on camouflage based upon the nearby blossoms, or multiple species that were born with each flower—whether they were somehow tied to the flower’s life cycle or whether they were an independent species laying eggs within the blossoms.

I have heard it said many times over the years that Constance Sommers did not like children. Certainly, she did not handle children with delicate patronizing care, as the adults of that generation and that class tended to do. Certainly, she had attention only for her work. But I believe it was simply that she was no respecter of age. Whether her listener was seven or seventy years of age, so long as they respected her work, she allowed them to stay.

That day, I stayed for hours as she utterly captivated my mind and imagination. My little fairy, who met such a tragic end, became a crowning jewel of her collection, vital to her later discoveries about the camouflage abilities of rose fairies. Those discoveries were not published by the scientific community for decades—her gender and field of study made it almost impossible for her to be taken seriously, until later developments in ecology made her work impossible to ignore.

But what adults could not accept, children welcomed with open minds. The fairy of the white-and-red-striped rose featured in her next picture book—as Queen of the Fairies.

Now, I am grateful that, in recognizing both the artistic and scientific achievements of this remarkable woman, the rest of England knows what I learned that day—that title truly belongs, and always will belong, to Constance Sommers.

[justforbooks]

Anwar Hussein

Photographer whose work helped to transform the public image of the royal family

The photographer Anwar Hussein, who has died aged 85, was integral to transforming the public image of the British royal family: from the aloof and unknowable to something more human. His photographs will also forever be synonymous with the brief life of Diana, Princess of Wales, but his work was much more than that.

Hussein hailed from what is now Tanzania, but his career began in earnest in the UK in the late 1960s, and his talent led to commissions for portraits of the pop and rock gods of the 70s: Marc Bolan, Elton John, David Bowie, Mick Jagger and Freddie Mercury. Soon Hussein realised he needed a fresh challenge. He wanted to record something more historic, more lasting, and he set his sights on the most exclusive family in the world: the House of Windsor.

As an African-born Muslim, Hussein faced many institutional and cultural obstacles. Back then, the go-to look of a royal photographer was clean-shaven, short back-and-sides and a blazer. Hussein was bearded, wore his hair long and favoured a leather jacket and cowboy boots. The fact that the royal entourage were sceptical, and often told him he stood no chance, made him all the more determined. He needed to break into the clique and bring the counterculture to the establishment.

He studied official photographs and found them too posed and contrived, knowing that if he combined the photojournalism techniques he had honed in Africa and on the streets of swinging 60s London with his experience engaging with the divas of film and music, he could show the Windsors in a new light.

When covering royal events for news outlets, he used a longer lens so as not to be obtrusive, which allowed his subjects to relax. The resulting candid, naturalistic images captured moments in between poses, such as Queen Elizabeth II corralling her corgis at Aberdeen airport in 1974. They also brought him to the attention of a Buckingham Palace that was keen to show the royal family in a more modern, relatable way.

By the end of 1976 Hussein had earned the trust of the Queen and Prince Charles, and he was invited to travel the world documenting royal tours of Africa, Canada, and New Zealand.

The greater Hussein’s access, the more intimate the pictures, and the greater the public’s interest became. Then Lady Diana Spencer burst on to the scene and royal mania took hold. Hussein had photographed her before at social events, but following her engagement to Prince Charles in 1981 the symbiotic relationship between the princess and the photographer began.

Hussein’s sensitive work helped propel Diana to become the most photographed woman in the world, and he captured some of the most memorable and important photographs of the “people’s princess”. He was there when she shook hands with an Aids patient in London in 1987, a landmark moment in the fight against the disease. He photographed her cradling a terminally ill child at a cancer hospital in Lahore in 1996, an image of palpable compassion, and Diana’s favourite photograph, though she was upset to learn the child died shortly afterwards.

As her marriage disintegrated, Diana used the power of photography to signify her unhappiness and isolation. This was epitomised by Hussein’s memorable 1992 shot of Diana sitting alone in front of the Taj Mahal, a building that symbolises enduring love.

“She showed her moods in the way she dressed,” Hussein said – and never more so than when she wore her “revenge” dress to a Vanity Fair party at the Serpentine Gallery in 1994. It was the same day that an ITV documentary disclosed that her estranged husband had admitted to committing adultery. She had bought the Christina Stambolian dress three years earlier, but had initially deemed it too risque for a woman in her position. That evening Hussein was there to capture her “looking like a million dollars”.

Hussein was devastated by the death of Diana. They had become friends, and she often confided in him. On a private plane, at a time when she was dating the surgeon Hasnat Khan, Diana asked the photographer about his interfaith marriage (in 1978 Hussein had married Caroline Morgan, who worked in publishing), and about Islam.

Hussein wrote and contributed to many books on the Windsors, and in 2021 his hugely successful exhibition of photographs, Princess Diana: Accredited Access (which included work by his two sons, Samir and Zakir, who both followed in his footsteps), was launched in Los Angeles and toured the world, closing in London in 2024.

Hussein was born in Chunya in what was then the British colony of Tanganyika, the fourth of the five children of Mohamed Hussein and Sardar (nee Begum). The family moved to Mwanza on the shore of Lake Victoria, where his father worked as a civil servant for the British government. There Hussein attended the local Indian public school, but education was not for him, and he left at 16. Instead his passion was for the camera he had borrowed from his elder brother, Akhtar, who owned a small photo shop in the town. Hussein taught himself on trips to the Serengeti plains, where he photographed the wildlife.

Aiming to earn a living as a photographer, he began to tout for work, and in his early 20s the United Nations commissioned him to document the humanitarian crisis in the Republic of the Congo, where conflict raged following its independence from Belgium. The work there cemented his love for photojournalism, and he decided to move to the UK to pursue his dream.

Arriving in 1963, Hussein initially struggled to find work and accommodation. From a tiny flat in Notting Hill, he lived hand-to-mouth until his breakthrough in 1968. He was documenting an anti-Vietnam war protest outside the American embassy in London when he photographed a police officer being dragged from his horse. He knew he had a great shot and hurried to the Daily Mail, where he persuaded them to develop the film. The result appeared on page one the following day.

He was then hired to cover news events and music festivals, and he began to take celebrity portraits. Hussein wanted his work to be published in magazines, where the display and pay were better than newspapers, so he switched to colour film.

He worked as a stills photographer for movie companies and photographed Sean Connery and Roger Moore on the sets of Diamonds Are Forever and Live and Let Die. Hussein knew how to hustle too. In 1970 he went uninvited to the set of Steve McQueen’s film Le Mans. He quickly built a rapport with McQueen and was given a small role as himself in the film. The star then invited Hussein to work on his next film, Papillon.

In recent years Hussein had begun to wind down, and the coronation of King Charles III in 2023 was his last job. He documented the lives of the royal family for more than five decades and, despite the initial naysayers, he was the longest serving royal photographer. As a child in Tanganyika he had only ever seen the British monarchs on postage stamps and, many years later, it was his photographs that would adorn the Royal Mail’s stamps.

He is survived by his wife, his two sons, four grandchildren and his sister Tasnim.

🔔 Anwar Hussein, photographer, born 3 November 1938; died 23 September 2024

Daily inspiration. Discover more photos at Just for Books…?

[beloved-calypso]

・ ゜ ʚɞ ゜ ゜𝖂𝖍𝖆𝖙 𝖉𝖔 𝖕𝖊𝖔𝖕𝖑𝖊 𝖙𝖍𝖎𝖓𝖐 𝖔𝖋 𝖞𝖔𝖚𝖗 𝖋𝖆𝖘𝖍𝖎𝖔𝖓 𝖘𝖊𝖓𝖘𝖊? ♡ ・ ゜ ʚɞ ゜ ゜‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

♡𝒯𝒽𝑒 𝓂𝑜𝓈𝓉 𝒷𝑒𝒶𝓊𝓉𝒾𝒻𝓊𝓁 𝓂𝒶𝓀𝑒𝓊𝓅 𝑜𝒻 𝒶 𝓌𝑜𝓂𝒶𝓃 𝒾𝓈 𝓅𝒶𝓈𝓈𝒾𝑜𝓃. 𝐵𝓊𝓉 𝒸𝑜𝓈𝓂𝑒𝓉𝒾𝒸𝓈 𝒶𝓇𝑒 𝑒𝒶𝓈𝒾𝑒𝓇 𝓉𝑜 𝒷𝓊𝓎. ~ 𝒴𝓋𝑒𝓈 𝒮𝒶𝒾𝓃𝓉 𝐿𝒶𝓊𝓇𝑒𝓃𝓉♡

All pictures and gifs are not mine but belong to their original artists. ♡

I. -> II. -> III. -> IIII.

ɪꜰ ᴀɴʏᴏɴᴇ ʜᴀꜱ ꜱᴜɢɢᴇꜱᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ꜰᴏʀ a ᴘɪᴄᴋ-ᴀ-ᴄᴀʀᴅ ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴛᴏ ꜱᴇᴇ, ᴘʟᴇᴀꜱᴇ ᴘᴜᴛ ꜱᴏᴍᴇ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄᴏᴍᴍᴇɴᴛꜱ ʙᴇʟᴏᴡ! ᴀʟꜱᴏ, ɪ ᴀᴘᴏʟᴏɢɪᴢᴇ ɪɴ ᴀᴅᴠᴀɴᴄᴇ ɪꜰ ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ ᴀʀᴇ ɢʀᴀᴍᴍᴀʀ ᴏʀ ᴘᴜɴᴄᴛᴜᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ᴍɪꜱᴛᴀᴋᴇꜱ. ᴇɴɢʟɪꜱʜ ɪꜱ ᴍʏ ꜰɪʀꜱᴛ ʟᴀɴɢᴜᴀɢᴇ. ɪ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ꜱᴜᴄᴋ ᴀᴛ ɪᴛ.

~ XOXO 💋🎀

౿૮꒰ྀི pile 1 ๑◞꒱ა

3 OF WANDS (RX), THE WORLD, THE CHARIOT

Hi Pile 1! So people perceive your fashion sense as widely varied. They don't know what to expect from you. I don't think you plan your outfits, but just go with what the day feels to you. You may wear a lot of autumnal colors like muted reds, browns, and yellows. I also sense patterns like plaid, checker, and stripes. This makes me think of button-up shirts, sweaters, boots, and jeans (it is winter season where I'm at). You have a style of comfort, warmth, and durability. People may see you traveling a lot and being out in nature. They see you as free spirited and outdoor-sy, and I think you are seen doing a lot of outdoor activities. You may also do sports and wear sporty clothing, or you just go to the gym and are mindful of what you wear there. People think you look strong and mature. You seem content with your life, and you give off a naturalistic, down to earth vibe.

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౿૮꒰ྀི pile 2 ๑◞꒱ა

THE LOVERS, KNIGHT OF PENTACLES (RX), 4 OF PENTACLES (RX)

OK, Pile 2! Let's get into it. So people think you come from money by the way you dress. You have a very chic type of fashion sense. It's very prim and preppy. I'm seeing high neckline blouses, skirts, stockings, heels, and pearls. I see bright and light colors like pink, yellow, and white. People think by the way you dress that you're spoiled and you flaunt your wealth (not saying you are). You may have expensive tastes. You may also be a perfectionist and somewhat conservative in what you wear. I'm seeing Blair Waldorf (what a queen) or Drew Barrymore's character from Clueless. The lovers make me think you take time to plan your outfits and make sure everything you wear is balancing out. Your outfits are coordinated, and the color and fabric combinations pair well with each other. You may wear a lot of jewelry and accessories. People perceive you to be quite aesthetic and fashionable.

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౿૮꒰ྀི pile 3 ๑◞꒱ა

THE MOON, QUEEN OF SWORDS, 3 OF PENTACLES (RX)

People see you as a lone wolf pile 3. I think you're very career oriented, and people are used to seeing you in an office setting, either going in or out of work. You probably wear a lot of business clothing, like blouses, pencil skirts, blazers, and heels. I see mostly dark, cool colors like black, navy blue, and gray. Your style may be minimal, not much jewelry on you, and if you wear jewelry, it's small and simplistic. Outside of work, I think you keep it minimal, too, like no patterns and silky, unwrinkled fabrics. Your fashion gives off the vibe of elegance and wealth. I think maybe you have RBF or just come off as cold because people may sense there's a boundary around you and think you are either unfriendly or it's just hard to get close to you. You come off as all business, no pleasure, like people have to come to you correct and with a purpose, no small talk. You're very mysterious pile 3.

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౿૮꒰ྀི pile 4 ๑◞꒱ა

THE TOWER (RX), 6 OF SWORDS (RX), THE LOVERS-extra-THE QUEEN OF CUPS

I think you've been going through a personal transformation pile 4. This transition has been happening for a while, and it's just starting to project outwards. Maybe in the past you didn't put much attention towards your clothes and wore a lot of the same thing all the time. You could have worn mostly black and grey, and the clothes were loose and baggy so as not to draw attention to yourself. I think moving forward, you'll put forth more effort and thought into your appearance. You're going to be more creative with your clothing choices. I see you playing with colors and patterns. I also see soft colors and fabrics like pastels and lace. Some of you are showing off more skin. People could perceive you as artsy and bold. Others will be seen as soft and delicate. You're going to be more adventurous with your clothing, and people will think of you as being lively and fun and others gentle and calming. Sorry this pile was pretty mixed, but the most important thing is that you will be successful in building a new self. You'll be happy and loving how you look, and people will sense this joy and peace emanating from you.

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ᴀɴʏ ᴄʀɪᴛɪᴄɪꜱᴍꜱ ᴏʀ ꜰᴇᴇᴅʙᴀᴄᴋ ᴀʀᴇ ᴡᴇʟᴄᴏᴍᴇᴅ. ɪ'ᴍ ᴛᴀᴋɪɴɢ ᴀ ɴᴇᴡ ᴅɪʀᴇᴄᴛɪᴏɴ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴛʜɪꜱ ʙʟᴏɢ ᴀɴᴅ ᴀᴍ ᴏᴘᴇɴ ᴛᴏ ᴀɴʏ ᴏᴘɪɴɪᴏɴꜱ ᴀꜱ ᴛᴏ ᴡʜᴇʀᴇ ɪ ᴄᴀɴ ɪᴍᴘʀᴏᴠᴇ ɪᴛ. ♡

ᴅɪꜱᴄʟᴀɪᴍᴇʀ

© lolita-bonita — Please do not plagiarize, translate, or repost any of my work on other social media platforms without my permission. This is the only platform that I post this type of content. If you see my work being posted anywhere else, please kindly report them to me. ♡

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✨️ᴘʟᴇᴀꜱᴇ ɴᴏᴛᴇ: Tarot is not an exact science, nor can it produce information that is factually true. All things posted are alleged and for entertainment purposes only. The future is fluid, and what may happen is based on your choices and actions, not what I and a deck of cards say. You are still the creator of your future. ✨️