#the conclusion is becoming inevitable

[creekfiend]

me in every streaming app that suggests music for you for the last FIFTEEN YEARS, brandishing banishing herbs and waving them wildly at the algorithm as it tells me that it thinks I would really like to hear the shins right now

I DONT EVEN HAVE A PROBLEM WITH THE SHINS I JUST DONT CARE FOR THEM ESPECIALLY AND AT THIS POINT IT FEELS LIKE THEYRE CHASING ME

[c0rpsedemon]

the kuro anime has a fundamental misunderstanding about what equals a cathartic ending for ciel

[scarletiswailing347]

just finished reading delilah's statement, there was a lot of things in it that was either only tangentially related to the allegations or straight up unnecessary to put (in particular: putting in media references and cc metrics several times as flavor text, detailing the don turnt situation with no claims of whether or not permission was granted by the affected party, namedropping certain ccs who had nothing to do with the allegations, and putting the tweet and yearbook photo of one of the ppl who put forward that zam was a bully with no claims of whether or not permission was granted) which contributed a lot to the 47-page length

honestly so far what im getting is that there was a Lot of toxicity on multiple sides like not even just between zam and delilah

[starlightomatic]

A lot of propaganda is not actually misinformation.

A lot of propaganda is not even half-truths.

A lot of propaganda actually is telling you the truth, but is feeding you a specific conclusion that the author wants you to draw from it.

This makes it a lot more robust, because if you go searching for sources to confirm the information, you'll find them!

So an important thing in evaluating information is not just "Is this true?" but also:

"Wait, does this lead inevitably to the conclusion this person is presenting? What other conclusions could I draw here? What other reasons for this piece of info could there be? How does this information fit into what I already know?"

"What are the motivations of the person who wrote or created this? Why did they want me to draw that conclusion? Do they themselves believe the conclusion they're drawing, or are they just trying to convince me? If they do believe it themself, why? If not, why are they trying to convince me? What's going on for them here?"

"What other pieces of information might I be missing? What am I extrapolating without noticing? What did this person deliberately leave out, or want me to ignore or gloss over? What other contexts and comparisons are applicable here?"

"How does this information with in with not only the specific conclusion that is presented, but with the author's overarching thesis? When I use it, how well does it fit into my thesis? When I take a step back, does this piece of information actually make any sense as supporting evidence for this person's thesis?"

Hopefully this is helpful, and can help your skills at evaluating information and arguments become more robust!

[sunderwight]

Thinking about how lucky it is that Shen Qingqiu (SY version) never gave Luo Binghe the wrong impression that he wanted a harem.

Like imagine they've having a conversation and Shen Qingqiu makes some offhanded comment about a harem is all well and good, but he thinks it should definitely be of a manageable size, hint hint, with individuals who get along harmoniously and support their primary spouse, hint hint, and marrying almost everyone you hook up with is just bad form because it's inevitably going to cause friction and it'd be nearly impossible to properly look after that many extra spouses, hint hint.

Luo Binghe picks up on the hints but draws the entirely incorrect conclusions. Combined with his previous inquiries into what kinds of women his shizun likes (SQQ, not wanting to ever be seen as LBH's potential romantic rival and eager to free himself of the original's lecherous reputation: I have no interest in any women whatsoever!) and some subtle inquiries about when a person should settle down (SQQ, with unexamined anxiety at the prospect of his dear disciple heading out into the world: not too soon! a man should establish himself well and figure out what he likes first, and take his time!), Luo Binghe concludes that his master has been biding his time and is building up to constructing a reasonably-sized harem of malewives.

Because apparently, Shizun believes that a man in a position of significant power should inevitably want such things. And disciple Binghe isn't thinking of "a position of significant power" as "effective god-emperor of the whole world", his current ideas of such things are more along the lines of "peak lord" really. Also why should Shen Qingqiu make so many comments about how Luo Binghe must surely be anxious to start taking lovers or daydreaming about having a billion wives unless he just thinks that's the standard for everyone? Because that's what he wants?

It was chaotic enough when just one of these guys was bracing himself for the inevitable harem-building, but if Binghe also expected he was going to have to supply Shen Qingqiu with a stable of other men, hoo boy. Binghe telling himself that he's fine with it. As long as he's first wife, Shizun can have others. Getting particularly vicious towards new guys Shen Qingqiu meets, like okay he's resigned himself to Liu Qingge, and probably maybe also Yue Qingyuan, and in those cases definitely having to fight them tooth and nail for primary spouse position (his plan is to become the undisputed master of the domestic sphere and thereby outrank them on that front, even if he can't beat their peak lord credentials), but anyone else is someone he can potentially chase off and Shizun will still have his reasonably-sized harem. If Gongyi Xiao wants into the harem he's going to have to earn it, and he's getting bottom of the pecking order!

Binghe, after they finally get together, trying to have frank discussions about the inevitable harem. Shen Qingqiu putting on a brave face because he, of course, thinks Binghe's talking about his own harem. Getting confused as to why Liu Qingge is suddenly factoring into the conversation. Then reaching entirely the wrong conclusion because oh right, Binghe is gay now and Liu Qingge is extremely pretty. Makes sense! Definitely not what Binghe means but it makes sense!

Actually this would be a hilarious way for bingliushen OT3 to happen. Just a complete comedy of errors where bingqiu are both trying to secure Liu Qingge for each other without ever concretely establishing that either of them wants him, even though they think they have.

[feeder86]

Feeder 86: The Top Ten

Can you believe that the Feeder86 ‘Orginal Gainer Stories’ blog will soon be posting the two hundredth story? I thought of many ways to celebrate. But then I stopped and realised that I would probably be best using the time to address one of the questions I get asked about most frequently. Which of the stories do I personally like the most?

This was not an easy list to make as I very rarely go back to re-read my own work after I have finished editing and posting them. This is not because I do not like them, but because I always see bits that I want to change. Nevertheless, this project was the perfect opportunity to revisit a few oldies that I remember being very proud of at the time. 

Hopefully you will see this list for what it is: a glimpse into how I write, my motivations and drive; rather than just a self indulgent pat on the back for myself. Yuck!

So, with that being said, let us begin...

#10 The Feeders’ Formula: This tale certainly had to be placed into the list. After all, it is the one that kicked off ‘Original Gainer Stories’ all those years ago. There are many amazing examples of instant body weight transformation stories out there. I felt that I needed to write this one as my contribution to the genre. It went down well at the time. I swiftly wrote a Part Two, then followed it up with others (The Feeders’ Formation, The Feeders’ Formalities, The Feeders’ Foreclosure, The Feeders’ Forecast, The Feeders’ Former Years), becoming something of an ongoing saga in recent years; focusing on the different Feeders from that very first meeting. As a writer who sometimes struggles to find the ending, these are wonderful to write as they all have the same inevitable conclusion. There is also so much freedom to be had when you’re working with characters who are pretty much pure evil. I know so much more about the Feeders than I’ve ever written down, so it is great to tease out those little details with each new installment. The newest of these tales (The Feeders’ Foreplay) was the darkest yet, but seems to have provoked a very favourable reaction from many. Who knows what the Feeders may get up to next? I do! And you can find out too, once we start a whole new sweeps season of stories this April! Come with me into The Feeders' Fortress!

#9 Only One: Where do I start? Only One has my absolute favourite type of feeder. Ben is big, sexy and very in control. He’s one of those rare types of guys who always stays on top and is a step ahead of absoultely everyone he meets. Who wouldn’t fall for him? I certainly did! In fact, I loved him so much that I wrote an entire prequel for him (and none of you even noticed!) Check out Rewire if you want to see how Ben became the man we know and love.

#8 The Wright Boys: The idea of a weight gain that cannot be stopped or controlled is a tempting one for many. How much easier would it be if you didn’t have to second guess your choices or face the pressure to lose weight? This was the first tale of what I see as ‘The Curses’ saga that eventually bled into many other stories (including another one on this list!) and culminated in Wright vs Beckett. However, this story remains my personal favourite of these. If you’re a fan of looking for crossovers between my stories, these are some of the most explicitly linked. I followed it up with a spin-off tale (The Wright Boys: DNA), but continue to have ideas about how I could go back to these boys in the future. Watch this space.

#7 Making Monsters: The title of this story really does give away how I felt about it at the time. This is quite the saga, spread over into not just two, but three parts! It began as a story that was very similar to Blackmailed; a tale that I had written previously about a guy voyeristically enjoying seeing his friend fatten up her boyfriend. However, this story evolved even further for me, with Tommy’s love of eating and gaining weight being both his greatest love, and his biggest shame. His denial only heightened the tension for me, and, when he does eventually give in, the gains feel all the more satisfying as a result.

#6 The Pig Feed: It’s not easy to write a gainer story where there isn’t another character spurring the events along and encouraging things. In this tale however, that role is given to a very tasty and surprisingly addictive pig feed mixture that Steve gets himself hooked on. It’s a story that I really enjoyed writing and still feel very happy with. I have considered writing more stories around this interesting feed. However, I am yet to do so; deciding (for now at least) that things are perhaps best left as they are. But, feel free to let me know your thoughts on this.

#5 Farm Boy: Whether you grew up in a big city, or a small rural community, like Hayden in this story, we can all relate to having desires and attractions that those around us don’t understand. And, thanks to how well connected we are these days, we now know what it’s like to realise that you’re not actually alone, and the whirlwind of excited emotions that follow. I enjoyed writing this story because I, quite simply, fell completely in love with Hayden. As kinky as he was, he still retained that fresh faced innocence throughout. If any of my characters were destined to be together forever, I imagine that these two would be my top choice.

#4 Keeping a Crush: This is one of those stories that I wrote in a matter of hours, and I was so pleased with it when I was done. Getting the train to go to work is not necessarily something that many Americans have to do, and so the location had to be switched to the UK (quite refreshing, I thought!). For me, it’s one of those really rare instances where placing very solid restrictions on the structure of a story (In this case, having it all take place during the commute to and from work) and finding that it actually elevates the sexual tension and mood. All scenes take place in public settings. All conversations could, in theory, be overheard. These days, so many people meet online and flirt for weeks by messaging back and forth, before they even see each other for the first time. Nowadays, for better or for worse, the actual, real fantasy is finding a connection with someone you just see in the real world; perhaps with a person you literally just met on the way to work...

If you’ve not read this one, I really would highly recommend it.

#3 To the Max: Stories with a magical element to them are either loved or hated. However, I find that this tale walks that line very successfully. Ned gets his hands on a love potion and makes straight guy, Max, fall for him. I’m sure we’ve all been there with that fantasy! However, it is in the consequences of inviting someone into your life, someone that you actually know very little about, that the entire eroticism of this story is based. I won’t spoil it for those who have not read it, but believe me when I say that things soon start getting very interesting indeed…

#2 Tommy’s Two Hundred. Don’t recognise this one? Well, that's because none of you have read it yet. 

Now, I’m not just saying this because I want you all to come back for the two hundreth story, but this is genuinely one of my absolute favourites. For my big milestone stories in the past, I have written something specifically for that event (Wright vs Beckett, The Seven Feeders of Finn). However, this is just a tale that I adored writing and decided to hold back for you all, especially for this occasion. It’s a story of domination and submission within a fairly open, but very kinky, relationship. Strapping Hunter plays the part of a very controlling feeder, making me break many of my own rules and stretching my boundaries to the absolute limits. You’ll either love him, or you’ll hate him. That’s all I’m going to say…

Also, this story is going to be the first Feeder86 story that will be fully illustrated. It’s all thanks to the amazing talents of Spellwell9 who was given an advanced copy and asked to imagine the characters in four different scenes. I cannot wait for you to see this!

Put it in your diary. All will be revealed from Friday 5th April…

#1 F80 Control: This is perhaps a controvercial choice (especially as my #1). I have previously admitted that this story strays a little from its purpose of being a gainer story. In other words, I get very caught up in the background story that is being told. However, I feel that the science fiction genre is surprisingly underused in tales of weight gain. Yet, the combination of Aritificial Intelligence and submission seemed, to me, to be the perfect blend. It really is a beast of a story if you can follow it all the way through to its conclusion. 

With the advent of improved artificial intelligence software in recent years, I felt the time was right to develop the world further, with the addition of F80 Ctrl Alt Del; a spin-off tale set slightly before the main story. Then, unable to help myself, I followed this up again with another companion story, F80: Kidnap and Control. 

The reason I chose this universe as my favourite is because this is where I am happiest writing. With AI, I don’t need to consider the morality or motivations - I know exactly what their aims are and I can see multiple ways in which it will cause conflict with humanity (and their waistlines!) I would also love to write more for this world one day, and I even left a little unused subplot in the last story that I think would provide the perfect starting-off point for another chapter. Will I ever write it? Well, we’ll have to wait and see…

So, there you have it! The the complete list!

This was a much harder exercise than I expected when I first embarked upon it. Stories like: Jiggle the Jock, Meticulous, Rule Number One, Freaks, Leftovers I and II, Ethan: The Secret Feeder and, not fogetting The Consequences I, II and III all crept in and out of the list, unfortunatley missing out on the final cut. There are many, many others, of course. But this list cannot go on forever...

So, why not tell me which ones were your favourites? Feel free to write in the comments and post a link to any other stories that you have enjoyed from myself, or from other authors. Hopefully, if we all work together, this could become a great resource for people in the future, filled with signposts and reccommendations.  

Also, don’t forget the Feeder86 Contents page where you can find links and descriptions of all the 200 stories posted so far (as well as plot outlines for upcoming tales as well). Please continue to enjoy the vast catalogue of stories, and even have a go yourself! I love supporting the many new gainer fiction writers who contact me. So please do get in touch if you need advice, or to talk through your ideas. Let’s all encourage a whole new generation of people to get typing away! I’m sure you will cheer them on just as much as I will.

Thank you to everyone who supports the stories blog here on Tumblr. Keep checking in every Friday througout April for a whole new sweeps season to celebrate this milestone. Stories will include: Tommy's Two Hundred, Train for a Gain, The Feeders' Fortress and The 1% (a companion story to The 5%). For now, I thank you all for taking time out to sit and read the very bizarre tales that sprout from my mind. You are all wonderful.

Happy 200 stories!

Feeder86

[fimbry]

Lykoi the werewolf cat breed

So I’m not going to be arguing because I’ve seen enough from enough owners over the years to have reached this conclusion, and I’m not in well enough health to come back to this. But I’m seeing the lykoi breed get more attention around tumblr lately, and I’ve gotta speak up because the breed has a dirty little secret.

I joined the Lykoi Lovers group years ago because I loved this breed, they’re super cute! I love werewolves! However, over the years, as more people got these cats, and their cats aged up (3-5+yo is when skin issues become REALLY evident) the group turned into a horror show.

This mutation really reminds me of lemon frost in leopard geckos. In the geckos, it was the desirable appearance which CAUSED the cancerous tumors. It wasn’t something that could be bred out. Similarly, it is the werewolf appearance which causes the skin issues, cysts, pimples, bleeding in the cats. You can breed away from it... and end up with a normal looking cat with fewer skin issues. You cannot seem to keep the werewolf look AND have good skin.

More below, and it IS graphic so be warned. Pus, blood, sad cats under the cut.

Let’s start with "what to know before getting a Lykoi”

Okay, inevitably bumpy? What’s that mean exactly?

“The gene that is specific to Lykoi that creates the semi hairless and roaning look is thought to be responsible for less hair follicles and possibly smaller pores. This in turn could be responsible for the cyst/pimple issue. So, it's not going to be in Sphinx or any other breed, it's specific to Lykoi. Responsible breeders are currently working on breaking away from some of the older lines with bad skin and breed Lykoi that have no or less bumps. However what happens when you breed for more coat and better skin is that it seems to lessen the look of the Lykoi. Many of the heavier coated Lykoi without skin issues lack a mask or have a very slight one.“

^^^This is pretty damning as far as the future of the breed goes. Well bred ones will not look like werewolf cats.

Okay, but that’s just a couple cats, and just one cyst. That’s not so bad---

“They definitely bother me more than her.” You sure about that?? Look at her...

Okay but that’s just a FEW cats, how bad could it b--

Again, this issue typically appears after the cat is 3-5 years old, so people buy their little werewolf cats unwise to the fact it’ll live with painful skin problems for the majority of its life.

It is the very mutation which reduces follicle count and pore size which causes the werewolf appearance and the blackheads and cysts, so I think “breeding it out” is nothing but a pipe dream. The mutation itself is what causes the problems, as mentioned earlier just like lemon frost leopard geckos.

Anyway, this has been a PSA.

[yandere-sins]

Yan-Poll #16

Your stalker has a severe problem.

That's the conclusion you came to as you opened the door for the fifth time that day to another mailman handing you three more packages. Your living room had become unlivable, a space cluttered with cartons and the unopened remains of packages. At some point, you stopped opening them, but now they were collecting dust and destroying the comfort in your own home.

At first, curiosity had gotten the better of you. Amongst inappropriate gifts like underwear and... toys, there had actually been some useful presents. You secretly kept all the gifts that had been on your to-buy for a while and openly threw away the disgusting ones. You knew better than to accept the stalker's gifts, but since they were valuable, you couldn't help but hold on to some of them.

That was your mistake.

But looking at the neatly stacked packages, spreading from wall to wall, floor to ceiling, you realized your stalker had lost all control. You noticed brand names on the brown packages that you had only glanced at briefly while scrolling through your phone—expensive ones, too. At this point, you feared you couldn't look at anything anymore without it inevitably being sent to your home. You thought you had this situation under control, but apparently, you hadn't.

>> did you like the new necklace?

Heaving a deep sigh you looked at the countless messages, a new one popping up right on time of the delivery. Whoever he was, he was always watching. Though you ignored his constant string of texts—asking about your day, how you were feeling, confessing his love to you, wondering if you would wear his latest gifts—you knew this couldn't go on for much longer.

<< please stop

>> you finally responded :)

<< this needs to stop, I don't need all this junk!

>> but do you like it? i know you kept some of them

Biting your lip, you cursed yourself. Of course he'd notice that you didn't discard everything. That probably only encouraged your stalker to keep sending you more and more, wherever he got the money to afford it. Part of you thought, "Whatever! If he wants to blast through all that money, so be it! Might as well enjoy it!" but what about your morals?

You've been fighting so hard to live a normal life despite having this stalker. The police had given up since he was just too good at hiding his tracks, but he seemed to know everything and always be present in your life. If you let him continue like this, who knows what kind of trouble—legally and morally—you'd get into. What if this was his way of making you dependent and comfortable? This person had no qualms about intruding on your life, but what if he finally snapped? What would happen then? How much worse could this situation get?

<< anyway this needs to stop NOW

>> fine. let's make a deal: i'll send you one more gift >> if you hate it, i'll stop. but if you like it...

<< then what?

>> you'll see ;)

Your finger hovering over the keyboard of your phone, you thought about what your stalker could possibly mean. There was a good chance it would be a gift you liked, and he'd feel confident in the choices he made regarding you. But at the same time, what if it was a god-awful present? What if it was downright horrible? How far would he go, and could you possibly stomach the consequences of his actions because you allowed him to?

<< what if I refuse?

There was no answer this time. It was strange. You were starting to really get paranoid that he was plotting something terrible.

(Reasoning and discussions welcome! ♥)

[ask-the-rag-dolly]

okay unhinged essay about ragatha probably #1 idk i don't think this is all of my thoughts but here's what i could actually put down

i think the most surprising thing for me Personally is getting a lot of my interpretations of ragatha correct ? like . the thing that almost destroyed my motivation for this blog is the fear that my unhinged overanalyzation of her mannerisms in the pilot were Wrong - i actually thought about canceling everything when i was off from canon - but now ... yeah i'm not doing that

i guess it's just that we had so little of her in the first episode that i thought i was Manifesting her issues but Nope she really is this much of a Loser

first of all ! i suspected that she has low self-esteem but Goodness Gracious !! i didn't expect it to be Actually almost non-existent ?? like i thought i was Exaggerating for this blog but no , no person with a normal amount of self-esteem would Warp an incident so much in their head that they somehow believe something going wrong is Their Fault .

like she's so focused on pomni the entire episode because she Genuinely believes that the fiasco in the first day was her fault ( even though IT WASN'T , but she's really that used to quickly blaming herself ) and wants to make it up to her . but of course pomni is still adjusting and is Overwhelmed by everything ( which is understandable ) so she's not really in the mood for ragatha's bullshit

but with how ragatha reacts and what she subsequently tells kinger - she read those more as ' i do not like you ' than ' i am too fatigued to care about anything right now ' which is such a Large leap , but considering she was the one who Apologized to pomni for giving her a stressful first day ( which was COMPLETELY out of her control , ) it makes sense that she assumes that pomni has something against her - which was not helped by how none of ragatha's attempts of starting a friendship were reciprocated

i do understand why she would Think it's her fault - as pomni's a newcomer and More Stress is the last thing she needs , especially in her first day - but ' oh she doesn't like me ' is still Such a hasty conclusion that someone who already ... Doesn't Like Themself would jump to .

of course i can't not talk about the potential history between her and kinger . through their dialogue you can tell that ragatha's one of those people that took a batshit long time to truly adjust to the circus - which has a lot of interesting implications . with how she seems to understand the process of finding an exit in episode 1 , it explains a lot . my girl was so Not well when she entered the circus .

honestly it's just nice seeing that ragatha at least has Some support despite her being the one who holds everything together - it makes the ending impactful in my opinion ; they do really care for each other and will be saddened if one of them is gone .

also of course she asked if everyone's alright despite having a cleaver to the head ...

something that also has been nagging me for a long time is how much she always gets the short end of the stick . like , literally every time she's on screen , she Has To Get Harmed in some way . i would brush this off as slapstick when her official pin doesn't have her HAVING A KNIFE TO THE CHEST ???

Maybe it's just slapstick . maybe with her having parallels to kaufmo considering how he's said to be a goofy toxic positivity type guy like ragatha and is the one that has abstracted thus far is just a coincidence and doesn't speak levels to what might become inevitable as the series goes on ,

[venus-haze]

Damned If You Do (Bo Sinclair x Reader)

Summary: You're almost certain Bo's getting tired of you. You're not so sure how much longer you can prevent the inevitable, but a slip of the tongue in a moment of desperation proves to be your salvation.

Note: Female reader but no other descriptors are used. I missed writing for Bo! I might be kinda rusty, but I hope y’all like it🖤 Please read the warnings before reading. Do not interact if you're under 18, terf or radfem, or post thinspo/ED content.

Word count: 1.5k

Warnings: Dead Dove: Do Not Eat. Canon typical violence. Prolonged captivity and isolation. Stockholm syndrome (some basement wife elements). Mentions of past torture. Extremely dubious consent. Sexually explicit content involving vaginal fingering, sadism, degradation, choking, knife play.

You were sure Ambrose was gonna kill you if he didn’t first. The damp, dead air permeated the basement walls, filtered in thick through the vent in the ceiling and filled your lungs with each breath. It would choke you once summer settled in, foul and unforgiving. Almost as unforgiving as him, whose presence inspired fear and loathing in you. Lately, however, the lack of it brought a foreboding sense of dread over you as your isolated mind raced to its logical conclusion.

Bo was getting tired of you.

One cursory glance at the state of your body made you panic—bruises fading, cuts and cigarette burns scarring over without fresh marks to replace them. For the first week or so you were there, every part of your body pulsed with pain. He found your limits with the efficacy of a bloodhound and brutally forced you past each one. 

All you felt then was dull aching, kinda hungry, too. Didn’t bode well for your long-term survival.

You shifted on the old, lumpy mattress on the floor, stained with blood, sweat, and cum that reeked with the breakdown of others’ bodily fluids. Probably the girls in the Polaroids all over the walls. He’d taken a few of you since you’d been down there. Hadn’t done that recently, either. Mostly came down there to feed you, take you upstairs to use the gas station bathroom, bring you back downstairs to throw you around a little and fuck you, and then leave. Shit. You were becoming a chore.

Bo had plenty of chores around Ambrose already. Would grumble about them to you, the closest he ever got to pillowtalk. The movie theater, the church, even the houses were his responsibility. You weren’t quite sure why, less able to clearly picture the town you’d driven into the longer you spent as Bo’s captive. There weren’t any immediate red flags that popped out at you. After all, you’d driven straight to the gas station on your blown out tire. Didn’t take the time to do any sight-seeing. He made sure of that. From what you’d gathered from Bo, the only living souls in town were he and Vincent, with the recent and temporary addition of yourself.

The floor creaked above you, and you pulled your knees to your chest, anticipating his arrival downstairs. It was almost impossible to tell what mood he’d be in whenever he’d pay you a visit. Tried listening for the sound of his footsteps, the way his boots pounded against the linoleum above to the cement stairs to where you waited for him, as if you could do much else. There was the TV, but the glimpse into the outside world left you feeling especially helpless when your own face flashed across the screen on the 6 o’clock news not long after you became captive in Ambrose. Then after a week or so, all mention of you stopped. Seven days for you to be rotated out of the news cycle. They’d gotten tired of you long before Bo did.

You screwed your eyes shut, as he ambled down the stairs, racking your brain for what to do. Opened them just as quickly to give him your undivided attention, just how he liked. Panicked and hopeless, you blurted out upon seeing his face, “You’re gonna kill me soon, aren’t you?”

He set the bottle of soda he’d undoubtedly brought down for you and smiled. Charming, disarming, like the one he first gave you when you naively drove into town on the roadkill guy’s advice—Lester. His name was Lester. Could he have known? Was he in on the whole thing? You hadn’t seen anyone but Bo for weeks, and he only made mention of Vincent, his brother, who you were certain had no interest in rescuing you from your plight.

“What makes you think that?” he asked.

‘Tire blew out,’ you had told Bo, feeling silly and self-conscious when he laughed. ‘I can see that.’ Threw a wink your way and assured you he’d have you back on the road before it got dark. You trusted him because he was handsome and laid on the compliments thick. Made you think maybe driving over that broken bottle in the road wasn’t such a bad thing after all. Within an hour he had you in that fucking basement.

“You—you’re bored of me,” you said. “You don’t come down here as often as you used to.”

“Aw, you miss me? Is that it?” he mocked.

Maybe. Maybe it was the security of knowing you were wanted, that the longer you kept his interest, the longer you’d be alive. Maybe even earn his trust enough to get a chance to escape back into the world that’d forgotten about you. But Bo wouldn’t forget. He’d keep you immortalized on those cinder block walls with all the others. Disgustingly sentimental. Part of you preferred being part of his shrine to his own depravity than a black and white photo people carelessly flipped past in the local paper.

“How are you gonna do it? Tell me,” you begged.

He tilted his head, narrowed his eyes at you as a grin spread across his face. “Well, I like to get that shit over with quick, but you might be worth slowing things down for.”

“Like—like how?”

As soon as he made his way toward you, regret filled your gut. You crawled backward on your hands, trying to put some distance between you until your back hit the wall. His hands were around your neck, his hungry eyes drinking in your distress.

“If you were most girls, I would just keep squeezing until you stop breathing,” he said, squeezing harder. “Pretty clean.” Black spots filled your vision as you fruitlessly tried clawing at his hands. “Makes it easier for Vincent to get to work on you that way.” He released your throat, and you fought through the coughing fit that burned in your chest as you gasped for air. Tears streamed down your face, and you wanted to smack the smug expression off of his.

“But that ain’t always fun,” he said.

Bo stood up and kicked your legs apart with his boots. Grabbed something from the nearby tool cart. The fucking knife. You swore he kept the blade dull on purpose just so it’d hurt more, leave nastier scars behind in its wake whenever he dug it into your skin, dragging it through your flesh with horrifying precision that only came from experience, because you never needed stitches.

“For you, I think I’d be a little more personal.”

He straddled you, sitting on your legs so you couldn’t possibly move them in an attempt to escape or defend yourself. You could feel his hard-on straining against his jeans, pressing into your bare pussy as he leaned over you, knife shining menacingly in the buzzing fluorescent light overhead. He made rags of your clothes not long after you became his and never offered any replacement.

The blade pressed against the middle of your chest, right between your breasts, making you shudder. He licked his lips. “I could shove this knife on in there, open you up all the way down to your cunt.” His fingers brushed your clit. “‘Beauty’s only skin deep’, that’s what my mama used to say. But sluts like you all look the same on the inside. Crack open your ribcage, and I wouldn’t be able to tell you from all the rest.”

You whimpered as he dragged the blade down your abdomen with a deceptive gentleness, his fingers still working your clit, making it hard for you not to jerk your hips, risking a slip of the knife directly into your belly. 

When he lifted the knife, you couldn’t even let yourself feel relief as your eyes followed it to one of your wrists. 

“Could take it nice and slow. Let you bleed out,” he pressed it against your skin, dangerously close to a vein. “It’d take hours for you to die, then. Messy as hell, too, but we could get up to some fun, you and me. A good fuck for ol’ times’ sake, then I can sit back with some popcorn while I watch the lights go out in those pretty eyes of yours.”

You let out a shaky breath, fear and arousal mixing with your lingering lack of oxygen so you could only half-grasp what exactly he was saying, just that he had a knife to your wrist, and he was enough of a homicidal monster to kill you that way. He slid his fingers inside you, and you could feel your orgasm creeping up on you, your head heavy and fuzzy as he kept going. 

“But if we’re talking easy and personal, then I’d just—” He brought the blade up to your throat until you could feel your rapid pulse beating against it. 

Bo curled his fingers, pleasure tearing through you as you jolted in place, feeling the cool metal superficially pierce your skin. 

Your voice came out as a strangled sob. “Please, Bo. Please don’t—” 

He kissed you, an undertone of fondness in the gesture that filled you with relief and terror. “You won’t have to worry about any of that for a long while,” he said, his voice low, reverberating through your aching bones. “I’m not finished with you yet. Not even close.”

[shadebloopnik]

Unrequited/One-sided Radioapple but it isn't treated like an angsty end of the world thing.

Imagine they slowly get closer after all the banters, and eventually becoming close friends. Lucifer ends up catching feelings for him, and after a long while, decides to confess and ask Alastor if he felt the same.

Alastor admittedly does not feel the same.

He's getting uncomfortable, struggling to keep his composure because he's DONE this before. He KNOWS how this ends. He remembers Vox and all his insistent declarations of affection and desperate pleas for Alastor to reciprocate; the possessive entitlement. He remembers how all those sickly sweet words morphed into something venomous when he didn't give the lowlife what he wanted. He remembers the anger, the ridiculous notion that it was Alastor's fault why he was so mad, that Alastor led him on and that he obviously deserved something in payment for it all-

So yes, Alastor knows how this ends.

It doesn't mean he isn't disappointed though, because he actually LIKES Lucifer, far more than he ever did Vox. Perhaps not in the way the king might have wanted, but he did. He treasured their little talks, their drinking sessions, their shared love for their instruments, Lucifers singing, their little duets, the banter, the playful jabs, the sparring.

He'd even slowly grown accustomed to the other's touches, not feeling the same surge of disgust and discomfort whenever the shorter man would grab at his arm in excitement, forgetting his usual thoughtfulness of Alastor's touch aversion for the short moment of whatever distracted him. Alastor even enjoyed it at times, relaxing at the feel of soft feathers beneath his claws, or the sensation of gentle scratches against his ears.

Difficult as it was to admit, Alastor had grown to care for the angel, the same way he had for Rosie orv Mimzy.

But no matter how fond Alastor was of Lucifer, it didn't change the fact that he didn't feel the same way romantically, or even sexually. No way in the 7 rings of Hell was he going to lie to Lucifer about either, not going to even entertain the idea of pretending he reciprocated for Lucifer's sake. He respected his friend too much for that.

So a clear, direct rejection it is. It was a shame, but nothing could be done. He said his piece concisely, and waited, shoulders set, back straight, smile and eyes a careful blank canvas as he prepared for the inevitable.

Lucifer nodded, a normal soft smile still in place, "Thank you for your answer, it means a lot."

Which......what? Alastor expected an outburst, or at the very least sharp words.

What he did NOT expect was....acceptance? And not just that but, a happy one? Contentment?????

"You're....alright with that?", he had to ask, he had to. Lucifer was clearly just very good at masking his upset.

But the damn angel just smiled?? And it didn't even look fake, just as bright and soft as his normal smiles, albeit a little confused?? Lucifer smiled at him, his brows furrowing in a bit of confused disbelief, as though Alastor is being the weird one here.

"Uhh, yeah??? Why wouldn't I be??? Yeah I may have some feelings for you but its not like you're obligated to feel the same. Above anything else, we're friends first and foremost and i'm alright with that..."

Then he seemed to have reached his own little conclusion as his words trailed off, because suddenly Lucifer's eyes widened in realization of something, and his words picking up with a sense of panicked urgency.

Alastor would really like to know what Lucifer's supposed realization was about himself because he had absolutely no clue.

"I mean, we ARE still friends right?? I don't- I- I hope this doesn't like- change your opinion of me. You're not- oh gosh I'm not making you uncomfortable am I? I- I won't mention it! You can even forget this whole confession ever happened! We can just go on as before! I don't feel any different or would act any different! Honest! I mean, I don't regret confessing because you deserve to know and I'm not ashamed of my feelings, but I don't want you to be uncomfortable! It doesn't change the way i'll treat you! Or change any aspect of our relationship! I don't even think I like you more as a lover than as a friend! I really, really do love our friendship, it matters more to me than any thoughts of being in a romantic relationship with you! So please just forget it all-"

Alastor let the word vomit wash over him, every word leaving him more confused by the minute.

Because yes, there's the desperation he expected, but...it was more about, convincing Alastor to remain friends?? Reassuring Alastor that nothing has to change?? That their friendship is the most important thing here??

(If anyone asks, no Alastor's heart didn't swell. Only lesser beings would have had the urge to cry, and Alastor is anything but.)

Lucifer is unknowingly reassuring Alastor of every single one of his insecurities about the situation. Because Alastor DID want to remain friends, he cared too much about the man to let it go so easily. It was rare to find people who treasure friendships above romantic relationships.

"I don't tend to forget easily, nor will I forget this one in particular.", he spoke, finally finding his voice. At Lucifer's defeated, pained expression( is their friendship really that important to him?), he continued. "But....yes. I'd like that.. To remain...friends."

He didn't often say the word out loud, being comfortable enough with each other that it need not be reassured with the label. But with Lucifer brightening up like his namesake, relief and happiness palpable, Alastor felt no qualms at declaring their friendship out loud.

So life went on as usual. True to his word, Lucifer remained basically the same. The following weeks were a bit stilted for Alastor, as he put some rather painful distance between him and the angel; limiting their interactions, their usual touches.

Anytime now, Lucifer would break and show his true colors, Alastor would think, waiting for the boot to drop. Lucifer would end up angry, and dissatisfied, and that was that.

But it never happened. Lucifer never expressed discomfort when Alastor avoided him, seeming to be understanding of the others need for space. He was just as affectionate as before, though initially a bit held back, as though gauging Alastor's comfort.

Months would pass, and the king never faltered. Their friendship remained strong, if not growing ever closer than before. Alastor found himself even growing more comfortable with the man. Affectionate touches were becoming common, hugs and head pats and cuddles being a welcome thing, with the reassurance that the shorter king would never disrespect his boundaries.

Lucifer seemed genuinely happy about it, despite being clearly told that none of Alastor's actions hinted at anything romantic. In fact, he seemed ecstatic that Alastor was getting more affectionate towards him as a friend. The embarrassment the radio demon felt at having Lucifer basically tear up (no really, he was crying so hard, full on drama sobbing) with joy in front of him was intertwined with the sheer incredulous fondness he felt for the man at that moment.

They were sitting at a couch one night, more than a year passing since that confession. Lucifer was leaning back, resting against the cushions, while Alastor had his head on the smaller one's shoulder, nuzzling at the crook of his neck, legs tucked close to his body. Both had a book in hand, two nearly empty cups of tea on the table in front of them. Every so often, Lucifer would flex his fingers that rested on Alastor's head, running a digit against the other's ear, often prompting the demon to lean into the touch. White wings enveloped the two, blanketing them against the chill of the night.

As Alastor turned the page of his own book, relaxing into the touch of his dearest friend, he wondered how he ever got so lucky in hell.

[sugar-grigri]

CSM 182 : snow or the power of forgetting

the snow, eaten by CSM recently, forgotten

the snow, the illusion that lulled Aki in his last moments

the snow, chapter 182, where you finally put the pieces together

what does snow mean ?

What if I told you that Denji's reaction to Yoru's ambivalence was the wrong one ?

I'm not talking from a moral point of view, but purely from a narrative one.

What does Yoru actually do by threatening and kissing him ?

It leads to ambivalence, to a striking contrast that is unbearable.

But life is nothing other than this same diluted contrast, this mixture of negative and positive constantly associated.

When Denji says he can't master these two facets, these dirty tricks and all the problems he has to face, that's precisely what has become his worry.

splitting himself, splitting his surroundings, seeing obstacles as ultimatums.

All this may seem off-the-wall and crazy, or like an analysis to justify Yoru's behaviour.

It isn't.

Don't see his kiss as a kiss, but as a narrative perch for Denji to finally face up to himself

Why ?

Dirty things are what he's always hoped for, they seemed in essence extremely positive, they were the way out of his misfortunes

For Denji, doing dirty things inevitably led to happiness.

Denji gradually realises, thanks to several female characters, that these dirty things are not all positive.

You might think that Denji really took his time to realise this...

But it's far from easy for him; for him, life was a deep unhappiness, always, with no prospect of happiness

Or rather, he couldn't see happiness

Because his conception of happiness was restricted to those dirty things

Pochita, Aki, Power, Nayuta, Denji realised his own unhappiness after their disappearance, he only realised the presence of happiness through his loss

Because he hadn't done anything dirty until now!

Until the end of part 1, Denji is trying to rethink his vision of happiness and is trying to break away from normality, to raise his standards higher: eating steak, 10 girlfriends.

Even though he has come close to happiness, Denji doesn't realise it, because since that happiness wasn't eternal, it wasn't happiness.

Happiness remains a way out for him.

Tasting his definition of happiness, being kissed by Yoru, makes him realise that happiness has lost its meaning.

With each kiss, Denji realises that it won't bring him happiness, because it doesn't make him happy.

Little by little, Denji tries to get closer to something for the long term, not the moment.

That's why, he asks if "Asa" loves him.

Can he finally taste that unchanging happiness? Never taste unhappiness again ?

Asa is his downside, her intrusive thoughts, her internal panics, her reflections are preventing her from living in the moment.

And she doesn't want to live in the moment, because she doesn't trust her instincts (when for Denji they are a way out).

Her instincts led her to save a cat, causing the sacrifice of her mother.

But it was Chainsaw Man who made her realise that life can be excruciatingly bitter and sometimes sweet.

Inhabited by Denji, who is as lost.

How could Denji say something as right as that crap burger if he's lost too ? Life is disgusting, it's tiring and yet we keep eating this burger, thinking of dogs, cats and ice cream.

Because Denji didn't do it.

It's Denji perfectly fused with Pochita.

CHAINSAW MAN.

A double being, symbolically realising the ambivalence of life.

Denji was Pochita's happiness, hence her sacrifice.

Pochita was Denji's happiness, hence his unhappiness.

The constant association of happiness with unhappiness - after all, that's all Denji and Pochita's meeting is about.

Except that at that moment, Denji had come to the wrong conclusion, talking about sex, hence the feeling of unease, and a sense of rupture in his speech. The hope of supreme happiness makes us eat this crap burger, it's true. But it won't make us happy.

What Yoru shows, even though he's part of Asa, is that the concept of happiness and unhappiness make no sense to a devil ; they instrumentalizes them, doesn't understand them.

So she gets hit by Asa because, damn it, this concept of happiness and unhappiness belongs to men.

So Asa takes over and says she hasn't recovered from her mother's death because this event will always seem so unacceptable and horrible to her. Bad things don't disappear.

What changes is the memories we want to bring to the fore.

Snow.

Symbolising Denji's supreme misfortune of having killed his brother to the point of vomiting with guilt.

Symbolically, it is this same vomiting that spits out the snow.

The snow is not just a trauma.

Aki was obsessed by the memory of the tragedy of his family, who were also killed in snowy weather.

And when Aki decides to visit his family's graves, to pay his respects tragically at his family's graves

He can't do it

Because two idiots divert his attention.

Forcing Aki to look away from the unhappiness of the past

To face the happiness right in front of him.

What Aki realised just before his death was that he had never seen happiness, or rather he had chosen not to.

Because happiness isn't there to be found, it's there, it's just there to be looked at, plunged in a pile of shit but it's sometimes there, but we refuse to consider that this thing is happiness, we can hope for more, can't we?

You have to eat this crappy hamburger, even if it means throwing up.

This is the taste of happiness.

Back to the snow

Which you associate with Denji's sadness and Aki's death

Yet this snow fight is Aki's last happiness

Seeing that snow again, associated with that fateful day when he lost his family

Holding that snow in his hands, and playing with his little brother, a little brother he has found again

What if this scene wasn't something he had to endure, but a choice? Aki's choice not to see, the gun held to his eyes, the choice to lull himself into one last sweet illusion, one last bandage, one last cigarette, to escape from this reality that he had always stubbornly tried to face, to escape from it.

But Denji is crying at this point.

Happiness cannot be total happiness, it melts, like snow.

Unhappiness will always be diametrically opposed.

The fact remains that snow is this temporary oblivion, this misfortune that we take in our hands to make snowballs, this moment of fun condemned to melt, snow determines what we do with our misfortune and our happiness.

Snow represents what we decide to see.

It is the forgetting, or rather the silencing of painful memories.

To realize that the snow is cold is to realize the end of happiness, because you're not playing anymore.

I don't like playing snowball: I don't like pretending to be happy anyway.

These memories will not disappear, but we can choose not to see them too much

The snow will remain cold, it will be condemned to melt, it is this moment, what we do with this moment.

Because if it didn't melt, no life would develop

If happiness and unhappiness were not this constant ambivalence, this intermingling of happy and painful moments, if this ephemeral aspect did not exist

Then no life would exist.

When Denji vomits snow, it's because he realises once again the association between happiness and unhappiness that snow represents.

Disgusted by this sad reality too, of not seeing unchanging happiness, of seeing life not as a burger, but as a shit burger.

But the snow is beautiful and it won't stay.

Like these two.

[waughymommy]

My first 'mature' ABDL story. It's about a husband and a wife who have a problem. I hope to write a lot more after this, so I hope you like it!

Finding Mommy

'This isn't working.'

The statement didn't come as a shock to Andrew. He knew it wasn't working. But he didn't want to look like he didn't care, so he persued it, already feeling resigned and bitter about the discussion's inevitable conclusion.

'What isn't?' he asked, softly.

'This. This whole...baby thing. I can't do it,' his wife, Tammy, waved her hand in his direction. He winced, glancing down at his apparel. A slightly soggy diaper, and a t-shirt. He'd been wearing the same thing to bed every so often for a couple months now. His wife had initially chuckled and teased him playfully, but lately...lately the playful teasing had stopped. She wouldn't remark on his padded state, except if the diaper got too close to her. 'The tapes scratch my skin,' she'd explain, but Andrew suspected it was something else.

She went on.

'I'm sorry. I thought I could. I know you really want this. But I can't do it. I can't...pretend you're a baby. The diapers were one thing...but...I can't do that,' she looked away, as if preparing herself to say something upsetting. 'You know...when you first told me...you made it sound...sound like a sex thing...I don't mind that. I don't even mind...using them, sometimes...like...like before...you know?'

She trailed off, looking at Andrew, a pained expression on her face. Andrew's mind flashed back to when he'd first told her, almost a year and a half ago. How she'd been so...accepting.

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

'Are these ones good?' Tammy asked, as she patted the package. 'I wanted to make sure I got good ones...I ordered these a few weeks after you told me...they just arrived on Monday.'

Andrew glanced at the large box of diapers, feeling a stirring of excitement at the fact that she'd bought so many...a whole case, in fact. God, what was she planning? Was this going to become a regular occurence? Was she going to keep him in diapers, for the whole day? Or wear herself? His head swam at the possibilities.

'I...uh...what are they?' he asked, licking his lips, nervously.

'Abena?' Tammy replied, scrunching up her face, trying to recall something. 'I...Abena X-plus? They had so many different names, but I think these are the good ones. Abri-form L4...The large ones...I wasn't sure what size we'd need...Oh.'

She suddenly stopped, pausing, as if worried about what she was going to say next. She reached into her (rather mysterious, to Andrew, at least) handbag, rummaging around. Andrew waited patiently for her to speak, his eyes darting back and forth between her and the large box on the bed. Abena X-plus was sure to be a world away from what he'd tried so far. He knew these were premium diapers. He felt himself jolt back to reality as Tammy started talking again.

'I bought...these...as well...'

Another package slid onto the bed, only this time it wasn't boxed or freshly delivered. It was clearly a packet of diapers. A packet of OPEN diapers.

'On the site I got the...uh...Abenas from, they were selling purple ones, too,' she said, nervously. 'So...I got some of those, in a smaller size...'

Andrew's mind could have exploded at that moment. Tammy stood up from the bed, an audible crinkling coming from her pyjama bottoms. Andrew couldn't believe he hadn't noticed the bulge of her diaper before, but he certainly noticed now. He stared at her rump almost hungrily as she turned sideways, looking coyly at him, grabbing the edge of her pyjama top and starting to lift it, revealing the purple waistband of the diaper.

Andrew stepped forwards, reaching out. His hand ran over her bottom, slipping off her trousers, until she was standing in just a diaper and a shirt. He patted the material of padding, pulling her close to him, hand trailing around and around the crinkly undergarment, feeling it, feeling /her/ through it.

'I...I guess you like it?' Tammy asked, feeling a little awkward. Andrew made a noise halfway between a sigh and a groan.

'Yes,' he replied, simply.

'Would you like to wear one, too?' she asked, wriggling her bottom against his crotch, making him tense a little.

'Y...yes...' he gasped, hardly believing what was happening...

'Then lay down on the bed for me...'

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

That night had been amazing. Andrew couldn't believe his luck. They'd spent the whole evening in diapers, exploring and experimenting. It felt like his wildest fantasies had come true. This beautiful woman, his future wife (he'd chosen to tell her a little while after they got engaged), was willing to wear and use diapers for him. He couldn't believe it.

She seemed almost as eager as him, that evening. She did everything he'd ever fantasized about, sexually. She wet. She asked for a change. She changed him...they even had...well. Andrew wasn't sure what to call it. Lots of rubbing. Wet, squishy diapers pressing together, then pulled aside for the 'main event'. Was that diaper sex? He supposed so. It was wonderful, whatever it was.

He wondered if what happened next had been a turning point. At the end of the evening, when they were snuggled in bed, she'd sighed contentedly and lazily rolled out of bed.

'Be right back, hun,' she told him huskily, slipping out of the room in an instant.

She'd returned, after a couple minutes, undiapered, her bottoms now back on. She'd smiled and gotten back into bed with him.

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

'Why did you take it off?' Andrew asked, a little confused. 'Didn't you like it?'

Tammy dodged the question, but sounded just as confused as Andrew. 'Well...we're done now, aren't we? I'm really tired...I don't think you're up to going again, even I wasn't...'

She paused, sidling up to him in the bed, absent-mindedly flattening the covers over her. 'Why haven't you taken yours off?' she asked, finally.

'I...Well. I just...thought I'd like to keep it on. That's...okay, right?'

A few moments ago, he'd been certain it would be. It seemed silly even to ask. But now he wasn't so sure.

'Oh. Um. Sure,' Tammy replied, smiling again. 'I love you.'

She kissed him, turning away, and Andrew slipped his arms around her from behind, murmuring 'I love you, too' into her neck.

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

'That was okay. It made me feel...sexy. I loved that I could have that effect on you. It made me feel good, too,' she thought for a moment. 'I felt like your partner, then. I felt like I was desirable, sexually, like...like this was a special secret, between us. Something for the bedroom, something kinky and fun. I didn't care that it was nappies, I knew people had fetishes...but this isn't just a fetish, is it?'

Andrew swallowed as she fixed him with a steely gaze.

'Is it, Andrew?'

He shook his head 'no'. It was more than that. He wished he'd explained before. He thought she'd understood.

'You...want to be a baby, don't you?'

Andrew's mouth opened in protest.

'No! I mean...not all the ti-'

Tammy raised a hand, cutting him off.

'I know. Not all the time. Not most of the time. Not forever. Just occasionally, right? Like when I tried before...but for real?'

Andrew swallowed and nodded again. He remembered the brief times she'd tried to play 'Mommy'.

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

'Uh...crawl to me...come here, you naughty little baby...'

Tammy's voice was strained, as she patted the top of her legs, calling Andrew over.

Meanwhile, Andrew himself was feeling...well. He wasn't sure exactly.

There was something a little exciting about the humiliation his wife was bringing to this role. He found something arousing about how she threatened to spank him, how she called him names and teased him. It felt, well, /naughty/, and he decided he sort of liked that. It was very erotic.

But...he wasn't looking for this to be erotic. Something was wrong. He didn't feel like a baby; he felt like a naughty boy being punished. He didn't feel safe and looked after. He felt chastised and a little ashamed. He felt unspeakably adult, despite the baby bonnet and mittens he was wearing. Instead of an innocent little baby, he was some weird guy, crawling around, pretending to be an infant, calling his wife 'Mommy'.

'Crawl to me!' Tammy repeated.

Andrew sighed, starting to move.

'Yes, Mommy...'

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

'I thought that was really weird, but you know...' Tammy shrugged. 'I tried. For you. I thought you wanted that. I thought it was a sex thing still.'

Andrew shuffled in the bed, feeling uncomfortable. He wished he hadn't worn to bed, now. He'd felt a pang when he'd gone to pad up; his case of abenas was nearly empty; her package of molicares was two thirds full. He hadn't expected her to use them of her own volition, but it was a reminder of just how infrequently she'd worn, for him or otherwise.

'Then,' Tammy continued. 'Then you told me that wasn't what you wanted, either. You wanted it to be more...innocent...more 'snuggly'.' That last word was almost a snarl, and Andrew felt himself flinch.

'So I tried that, too. But I couldn't do it...I mean...' she sighed, pushing the hair back out of her eyes, sighing in frustration. 'Remember what I told you when you told me this stuff?'

­Andrew nodded.

­­­

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

'Aren't I...doing enough?' Tammy asked, a look of confusion on her face.

'No! No, it's not that...it's more that you're doing it the wrong way...' Andrew immediately regretted his words, seeing his wife's expression turn sour.

'No! I mean...I...I think maybe I didn't really explain what I want, not properly. It's not just the baby stuff, dressing up and that...I want...' he swallowed, hesitant.

'Well...I want it to be more...um...innocent? Like...like...I was a rea...' he stopped himself. 'Like, more snuggly? You know? Maybe some...cuddles...at bedt- at night time...I'd like to be, um...held...sometimes...'

Tammy stared at him as if he had just sprouted a third head.

'So...you want me to be like your real mother?'

'No!'

'As if you were a real baby, right?'

'I...No...I mean...it's not like you're my real mother...I...I just want you to...'

'To what? Look after you? Like an infant?' Tammy demanded, her voice even.

'I...I...in a way...yes...I just don't want it to always be so...sexual...'

Tammy sighed. There was a silence before she finally spoke.

'Okay. Look. This is pretty weird to me. I'm not comfortable with it. But I love you, Andrew. I always will,' she looked up as she spoke, taking Andrew's hand in her own. 'But I don't know how to deal with this. I don't think I can...do that. I'm sorry.'

'Oh.' replied Andrew, simply. He hated himself at that moment. If he'd been honest from the beginning, maybe none of this would have happened.

'But,' Tammy started, nibbling her lip. 'BUT. I'd like to be okay with it. So...You can do something...something small...I don't know, you could wear a nappy to bed. And I'll try to get more comfy with the idea.'

Andrew's heart leapt. Everything was going to be okay.

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

Andrew's heart sank. Everything was going wrong.

But Tammy wasn't done yet...

'I tried so hard to...to accept this. I started off like...like it was no big deal, remember? I used to tease you and you'd smile and for a bit, I thought maybe I could be okay with it. But then, then you started to...I don't know. Resent me? You pulled away. It wasn't enough for you. And maybe I pulled away, too. It hurt to see you wanting me to give you something I wouldn't, couldn't give you. It hurt to see you shut me out because I couldn't understand. So...now we're here...'

'Where is here?' Andrew said, asking, for the second time that night, a question which he really didn't feel he needed to ask, but if he didn't ask it, he knew it would appear he didn't care.

'Here? Here is...my husband wants to be treated like a baby...NON sexually...and I can't cope with it,’ she paused, seemingly thinking hard about something. Her mouth opened again, this time drawing out the sound of one little word, waiting for a statement to follow it.

‘So….’

Andrew swallowed. He waited for the crushing blow. He didn’t know what she would say, but he could guess.

‘So you can’t wear diapers anymore around me…’

‘So I don’t want diapers in the house anymore…’

‘So I don’t love him anymore….’

‘So I /can’t/ love him anymore, and I think we need to get a divorce…’

He knew whatever was said next would change their relationship forever. He was about to lose something, he didn’t know what exactly, but he also knew life would be a lot harder without him. He looked up at her with grim determination, resigned to whatever awful things came out of her mouth next.

‘So…’ she began again, and Andrew felt himself stiffen, worry making his heart pound.

‘So I think we need to find him…find you…someone who can.’

Andrew gawped at her. That wasn’t what he’d been expecting at all. What was she saying? Was she leaving him? She must be… she was just being the wonderful woman she always had been, willing to help him find a more ‘appropriate’ mate, someone who’d be happy to indulge him. He felt his eyes sting a little as tears formed, before, in the silence, another possibility occurred to him.

She’d been watching him closely, and seemed to notice as a flash of something, hope, realization maybe, passed across his face. He addressed her again, voice shaky.

‘Do you mea-‘ he was cut off abruptly.

‘I mean, just someone to do that for you, you know?’ Tammy explained, her voice emphasizing the word ‘that’ in a way that made it clear she found ‘that’ distasteful. ‘I…no sex. I’m not leaving you. I love you, I always will, I think. I hope. I just…I don’t know what to do. I’m scared, Andrew. And…I know this is so, so important to you. I see it, Andy, I see how much you want it…’

It’s her turn to look scared now, her eyes filled with tears, rolling freely down her cheeks. She’s shivering, but it’s not cold. Wordlessly, Andrew embraced her, his own manly sob joining her small, squeaking ones, her voice cracking as she tried to go on.

‘I…I don’t want to lose you…I’m…I wanted so badly to m…make you happy, but I CAN’T. I’m a horrible, awful wife. I’m a fuck-up. I…I don’t know why you married me!’ she howls, throwing herself into Andrew’s chest, his arms soothing her, rubbing her back, shh-ing her like you would a crying child. A tiny smile formed on his lips for a moment, as he considered the role reversal.

But it was soon replaced by another kind of smile, the kind that happens when you realize maybe you’re not alone, that your partner is just as afraid of what’s happening as you. That he or she is afraid of the exact same things. It was a tearful, almost regret-filled smile.

‘If only we’d talked about this sooner…’

He shook his head, clearing his mind. Right now, he had to help Tammy feel better.

‘Ohh…oh hun…’ he said, his own voice wavering, fighting back another hard sob. ‘Shhh… you know, I’ve been worried about the same thing. I thought I was an awful husband. I wondered why you wanted to be with me. I didn’t understand. I thought…just now, you were going to leave me…’

Tammy jerked back, head snapping upwards to look at him, a look of something…hurt, Andrew decides. Hurt he’d think she would do that. Her face pink and flushed, her cheeks damp with too many tears.

‘Never,’ She retorted, instantly, and then she was back in his arms, crying anew. ‘Never…I…I NEVER want to lose you…’

Andrew smiled again, sighing, a little in relief. Of course, given her earlier outburst, he already knew that…but it was lovely to have confirmation.

‘I know Tam, I really do. Now, at least. But I want to let you know, I love you too. I don’t think you’re an awful wife…you’ve been so understanding. Please, don’t think I don’t love you, don’t think I resent you, or hate you or think ANYTHING bad about you, after you’ve tried so hard to fulfill me and my selfish, perverted desires.’

He felt her shaking her head, disagreeing, with the part about her trying so hard, or the part about his desires being perverted, or both, or something else…he wasn’t sure. It didn’t matter at that moment.

‘So I’m just telling you, no matter what, I’ll love you. I’d have loved you even if you said I could never wear another diaper. I’d have loved you even if you told me you’d stopped loving me. I don’t think I’d be able to stop myself…’

Tammy’s cheeks turned a little pinker, her sobs dying down.

‘Are you sure?’ she asks, not moving to look at him.

‘Positive,’ he says, more confident now. ‘Do you feel better now?’

‘Yes.’

‘Are you ready to talk about…it?’

‘…Yes.’

There was a pause as Tammy pulled away, slowly, reluctantly, so she could look at him. She smiled, her eyes wandering over him, as if appreciating him newly. When she reached the diaper her expression clouded, eyes flitting back up to his, as if just remembering they had something else to discuss now.

‘So…do you mean it?’ Andrew asked, anxiously.

‘Yes.’

He looked unconvinced, so Tammy continued.

‘I don’t have a problem with it. I really don’t. I’ve been thinking about it for a while, an-‘

‘Why didn’t you ask me before?’

‘Wh-what?’

‘Why didn’t you ask me before?’ Andrew repeated, his tone not demanding or forceful, but genuinely curious.

‘I…well…’ Tammy looked away, embarrassed. ‘I was scared…’

‘Why?’

‘Well…first I was worried you’d say no, because she wouldn’t be me, and you wouldn’t be able to feel anything with her. And if you said no, I’d be out of options. I don’t know what would h-happen if…’ her voice broke again, eyes swimming with tears. Andrew frowned slightly.

‘What else?’

‘I was afraid if you said yes, you would love her...too much. You’d leave me. Because you don’t love me at all, not anymore…how could you? I mean-‘

Andrew squeezed her hand suddenly, shaking his head, stopping her from working herself up again.

‘Not true, love. I want you. I love you. I’m not going to replace you. Even if I agree to this, I promise,nobody’ll never replace you…are you sure you’re okay with this?’

Tammy nodded.

‘Yes.’

‘What…sort of things would she, uh, do?’

‘I don’t know,’ Tammy admitted, seeming to shrink back a little. ‘I mean…change you? Give you bottles…pacifiers…play with you like a real baby.’

Andrew felt his heart flutter twice; once at the prospect of a genuine Mommy in his life, after so long… and once at the sudden feeling of utter love for Tammy that swept over him. ‘The ideal woman…’ he thought, snorting somewhere inside his head at how corny that was.

‘Would I be allowed to call her Mo…’ Andrew blushed, dropping his voice to a whisper.

‘Mommy?’ he finished, waiting.

‘Yes. Of course. I mean, that’s what you want, right? A Mommy? For the…the baby inside you? Just no sexual stuff. Please. I need that from you.’

Andrew nodded unhesitatingly. The thought of having sex with another woman (beyond occasional fantasies) had never even crossed his mind. He was missing an emotional, platonic, maternal bond, not a passionate sexual one.

They both smiled a moment, almost in triumph. They were still together. This might just work out.

‘So…’ Tammy started, grinning now.

‘So…’ Repeated Andrew, a playful smirk joining hers. ‘What do we do now?’

‘Now? Now we sleep. I’m so tired. I just want to be held. I’m so…worn out…’ she leant forwards again, nuzzling his chest, smiling softly. She sighed, a long, happy sigh, as if a great weight had been lifted from her shoulders.

‘Okay…do…you want me to go change before we-‘

‘No. I don’t want you to leave.’

Her tone was demanding that time, and Andrew chuckled. She wriggled, pulling the covers out from under them both, as they each shuffled and worked to lie down, his arms still wrapped around her. Their heads reaching the pillows, Tammy smiled wearily, shifting away a little, finding her husband’s body too warm for comfort. He leaned forwards and kissed her on the forehead.

‘Goodnight Tammy…’

‘Goodnight…’ she hesitated, wondering if she was really going to say this, worrying he’d take it the wrong way. She stopped hesitating.

‘Baby,’ she added, one hand slipping down and squeezing the soggy bulge of his diaper. She watched his face for a reaction.

Andrew blushed a little as she withdrew her hand.

It was a simple, loving gesture. A show of acceptance.

It hadn’t meant anything else. She wasn’t going to baby him. She didn’t see him that way. She didn’t want to be ‘Mommy’. She was his wife, and she was just showing how much she cared, how safe he was with her, how much she truly wanted him to be happy, even in this.

At that moment, that was all that Andrew needed.

He lifted his hand to squeeze her retreating one, smiling.

‘Thanks,’ he said, earnestly.

With that, she sighed slightly and turned around, snuggling into him backwards. Tomorrow, she thought, was sure to be a very interesting day.

[umemiyan]

𝙋𝙐𝙕𝙕𝙇𝙀 𝙋𝙄𝙀𝘾𝙀𝙎.

( 𝖪𝖨𝖭𝖪𝖳𝖮𝖡𝖤𝖱 𝖶𝖤𝖤𝖪 #1 ･ 𝘖𝘔𝘌𝘎𝘈𝘝𝘌𝘙𝘚𝘌 )

𝗔𝗟𝗣𝗛𝗔!𝗪𝗥𝗜𝗢𝗧𝗛𝗘𝗦𝗟𝗘𝗬 𝗫 𝗕𝗘𝗧𝗔!𝗥𝗘𝗔𝗗𝗘𝗥. ⌇ 18+ only, mdni / omegaverse / reader has a vagina but no gendered pronouns / some imbalanced power dynamics due to wriothesley's position / very brief mentions of + allusions to: crime, prostitution, underage sex / elements of size kink / knotting / biting / a bit of blood / 4.2k words

i know what you're probably thinking: robin, why not omega reader?? well, i thought about it, but then i liked this idea better lol. one of my favorite personal omegaverse headcanons is that betas are able to somewhat hormonally shift to try and temporarily fill the role required by an individual they are in close proximity to, and if exposed long enough, can even become almost a pseudo version of an alpha or omega—at least when it comes to pheromones and maybe some slight physical and behavioral changes. so that's my inspiration, and there are definitely some elements of it in this piece. i hope you enjoy! (dividers by cafekitsune)

The Duke didn’t earn respect through fear but instead through actions that proved he deserved such esteem; however, you had become aware of the fact that he’d always been rather adept at keeping secrets, and while it was more often than not for the good of others, you couldn’t help but wonder what sorts of things he kept locked away for his own sake as well. 

Wriothesley was notoriously difficult to get close to despite his knack for making connections, and after becoming more acquainted with him following your arrival at the Fortress, your curiosity was inevitably piqued. It was nigh impossible not to be intrigued by the highly competent and fiercely handsome administrator of exiles, especially when he had always treated you like something of an equal—a friend, even—yet kept himself at an emotional distance. You concluded it was silly to assume you might ever have a chance at being privy to his private thoughts, but it couldn’t hurt to daydream of the possibility once in a while. There certainly wasn’t much else for you to do down here.

But what you hadn’t really expected was for one of his secrets to be revealed like this.

Sure, he had the disposition for it; in fact, your original inclination upon meeting Wriothesley for the first time was to think that he could be nothing other than a true alpha, his burly figure and authoritative presence lending well to most of the stereotypes. But he never commented on the matter, nor was there any other indication that such was the case. Your fellow inmates held speculation on occasion, but generally came to the conclusion that the Duke was nothing more than a beta gifted with the chops to get things done.

They were wrong. Because that’s what he wanted them to think.

Wriothesley detested the thought of the masses believing his accomplishments were due to his status as an alpha. That was simply never his goal nor his motivation, for all he’d ever wanted was for everyone to be on a relatively equal playing field. In all honesty, his biology had been nothing more than a distracting irritation along the way, clouding his mind when he usually preferred clear judgment. He wasn’t a stiff without a penchant for fun, but being forced to surrender to the impulses of his body hadn’t always gone well for him in the past.

His self-control was unparalleled when assisted by the strong cocktail of hormonal suppressants that Sigewinne was able to regularly administer to him in secret. Not everything was completely erased after having been on the medication for so long, but it was usually more than enough to keep himself in check without having to go to extremes. But it seems his luck had finally run out.

Wriothesley’s office has become a prison within a prison, keeping him locked inside whilst keeping everyone else at bay.

“Please do not disturb the Duke. He is recovering from an illness,” Sigewinne had said, but even several days later, you haven’t seen a single trace of him. You wonder just how bad of an illness this actually is to have him isolated in the administrative office rather than the infirmary, and it leaves you feeling worried for the man you trust most down in this little corner of the ocean. 

Perhaps it’s silly, but having a chat with him after bringing the latest edition of The Steambird to his office every day has become your most beloved routine. It makes you feel as though you’re doing something worthwhile, and it gives you an excuse to see him more regularly than most might—perhaps even have a warm cup of tea if you’re lucky. He also seems to enjoy your company well enough, or at least that’s what you’ve always hoped.

With fresh newsprint between your fingertips, you think surely it can’t be too bad of an idea to check up on him now.

You convince the guards to let you through with the promise of leaving the paper at the inside of the door along with some items you had bought at the cafeteria with your extra credit coupons. You’re sure someone had to have been bringing him regular meals, but it couldn’t hurt to have a little something extra if he had the appetite for it. Warm food could do wonders when you weren’t feeling well.

Upon entering the large doors to the office, you call out, “Wriothesley? Sir? It’s just me. I’ve come to bring you the paper and a few things to eat.” 

You hate to sit the items directly on the ground, so you use one of the spare boxes in the lower lobby as a makeshift table, hoping it’ll be easier for him to reach as well. 

“I know you haven’t been feeling well, but I just wanted to check in on you.”

You are met with nothing but silence and assume that perhaps you had stumbled in on Wriothesley while he was sleeping, but as you grow closer to the winding stairwell, your ears pick up on the faintest of noises; it sounds like someone huffing and groaning in discomfort, and you are immediately stricken with concern.

Taking the next few stairs upwards, you call out once more. “Your Grace? Are you alright?”

It’s really none of your business, but you simply can’t help yourself.

“I’m fine,” he rasps between heavy breaths, making you freeze in your tracks. “Just… stay down there.”

You are inclined to obey given his insistent tone and subsequent silence, but the moment another painful-sounding cry pierces the air, you can’t stop your feet from scrambling up the rest of the staircase. 

As soon as you reach the top, your eyes begin scanning the room for the visual of an ill and impaired individual, expecting to find him immobilized on the office’s sofa or even the cold, hard floor, but you are met with nothing of the sort.

Wriothesley sits limp in the desk chair with an unbuttoned vest, shirt and trousers, skin drenched in a feverish sweat, and a heavy, swollen cock pulsing out the remnants of an unsatisfactory orgasm. His legs are spread wide and covered with release, chest heaving and glistening in the low light alongside the protruding knot that your gaze can’t help but fixate upon.

“I told you to stay away,” he says with breathy defeat, far too exhausted to try and cover himself up like any half-decent man might. He’s been caught and seen for the animal he truly is, so there’s no use in attempting to deny it now. He hasn’t the energy.

With wide eyes, your heart pounds. “You’re an alpha,” you state rather matter-of-factly, frozen in place, almost as if trying to convince yourself of the reality staring you straight in the face.

“What gave it away?” Wriothesley replies while wiping the sweat from his brow. He apparently still has the capacity for a touch of sarcasm.

You can smell it now—the potent pheromones circulating throughout the air, casting a thick shadow over the room, even for someone with the nose of a beta like yourself. Wriothesley is so deep in a rut that it’s impossible for anyone not to notice, which is precisely why you assume he’s been locked here in the office with no contact for days on end.

And by the look of him, isolation hasn’t provided much relief.

“I’m sorry, I thought you were—“

“Don’t,” he stops you, finally working to shove himself beneath the confines of clothing despite the perpetual aching hardness between his legs. “Just… please don’t tell anyone about this.”

You cannot begin to fathom why that is his first request, but you have no reason not to try and honor it. It seems you’ve finally gotten your glimpse into the Duke’s private life, albeit not quite in the way you had anticipated.

Searching for the right words to say, you try and open your mouth to form some sort of response before he speaks again.

“Sigewinne is the only one who knows,” he adds, sinking further into his chair, “but I wouldn’t put it past Clorinde to have some idea.”

You are able to infer from that information alone that he has been using the medical expertise of the head nurse to conceal his biological truth, but it would appear that not even her assistance is enough to keep such things indefinitely at bay. You deduce that Wriothesley has been sentenced to ride out a rut that is far overdue, judging by the iron grip it currently has on him.

You are glued to the spot, standing and staring as you sort each piece of information within your mind. Meanwhile, Wriothesley steeps in the humiliation.

He wishes you would go back down the stairs, taking the secret and your increasingly potent scent with you while leaving him to hope you might have it in your heart to keep this to yourself. He’d rather not be gawked at like an animal in a cage, but he supposes that’s more or less what he has actually come to be. Perhaps it’s what he’s always been.

But you don’t leave, and he doesn’t have the strength to make you. Even if an aggressive streak were to be triggered and brought to the surface, Wriothesley doesn’t think he’d be able to make you the subject of it. Ironically, that frightens him.

He finds your presence alluring but your silence deafening, his own heavy breaths being all that fills the air until you finally decide to make a move. 

Instead of walking away, you step forward. He eyes you, almost as though you’re predator and he’s prey.

“I can help,” you say, a certain decisive tone coloring your voice.

“What?” he replies, taken aback. It’s an admittedly enticing offer given his current state, but is entirely inappropriate nonetheless. “Absolutely not.”

“Why not? I’ve done it before. Once.” It’s a half-truth—you’ve been with an alpha once in your life, but it was in exchange for mora, and certainly not during a rut. But something is compelling you to convince him of your capabilities.

Wriothesley’s cock throbs with each step you take closer to the desk, the energy in the air intensifying beyond comprehension. He can’t imagine using a beta to ease his suffering, forcing someone’s body to accommodate him when it isn’t truly meant to, but every second that passes brings him closer to seeing that he’s fighting somewhat of a losing battle.

It’s not that he hadn’t thought of it before; hell, you’d flashed through his mind several times before he’d blown a thick, wasted load all over himself to try and break the fever. But to succumb to this weakness… it would damage his pride, and the walls he’d so expertly built around himself along with it.

When you’re inches away from the front of his desk, Wriothesley uses his remaining willpower to rise to his feet and make a display that will hopefully ward you off. He plants his palms flat against the wood, leering forward with an expression that looks more pained than authentically wrathful. “You need to leave. Now.”

Were this any other situation, you might be stricken with fear that would prompt you to obey such an intimidating command, but just as he feels compelled to preserve his dignity, you feel the pull of biology and personal conviction keeping you rooted in place. The Duke’s voice does indeed cause your stomach to flip with the sting of anxiety, but it ultimately doesn’t affect your decision.

You lean forward and mimic his position, pressing your weight against the desk until you’re at eye level with him, resolve completely unwavering. “Wriothesley. Let me help you.”

You possess a determination he can’t help but respect, padded with a layer of genuine concern, and he can feel your breath like a warm breeze dancing across his skin. Mixed with the modest yet sturdy quality of your scent—an aroma that he swears only keeps getting sweeter by the minute—it dopes him up like a drug.

Neither of you is entirely sure who was the first to lean into the kiss, but Wriothesley does know that he had every intent of doing it regardless. And now that your lips are on his, coating his tongue in a layer of honey, he finds himself somehow possessing both a raging inferno of thoughts and the utmost clarity of mind.

Truthfully, he hasn’t done this in years. Not since he’d first presented as a teen and mindlessly tracked down the nearest omega in the Fortress. She had been more than willing to break him in, and Wriothesley still has yet to decide whether that was a blessing or a curse.

You’re uncertain of whether you’re driven by the physical need to ease another’s pain or your own selfish inner desires, but none of that will really matter by the time this is over with. All you can focus on in the present is the way he pushes his tongue into your mouth like he’s exploring, consuming, rectifying. There’s almost something juvenile about it.

You climb over the width of the desk to lessen the distance between you, knees dragging over wood until you can properly sit yourself in front of him. Wriothesley happily accommodates you with a couple of strong arms pulling you forward so that he may press himself between your thighs, opening them up to provide him with more access your scent.

“I could smell you coming up the stairs,” he pants between frantic kisses, bulge grinding against your center like an omen.

“You’ve been pent-up for way too long if you’re smelling betas,” you reply. It’s not untrue, but the smell of him has weaseled its way around your senses as well, stronger and with more allure. Perhaps this is what happens when you accidentally spend too much time with an alpha in hiding.

Writothesley nudges your jaw with his nose and cascades kisses down your neck like he’s been your lover for a hundred different lifetimes. “Yeah, well maybe I just really like this beta,” he says before tonguing over your scent gland with a nice, slow drag, instincts more in control than anything. You’ve broken him down like a man made of straw.

Little by little, he practically coaxes the pheromones out of you, your body working on overdrive to try and compensate for what you lack. It doesn’t hit quite the same as it might if you were an omega, but Wriothesley hardly knows this difference, and even if he did, he doesn’t care; this is the only relief he’s felt in days—years, even.

Your fingers wrap around his length, and he hisses against your throat, hips reflexively bucking forward in the search for more. He’s hot and throbbing, aching to be buried in a warm cunt that he can claim with a knot, and it’s never felt so good to be completely at the mercy of his own instinctive drive. In his compromised state of mind, Wriothesley wonders why it is that he’s been fighting it off for so long.

“I think that’s just the rut talking,” you say, breathing into his mouth as you pump his cock a few times for good measure, every inch already standing at attention for you. A fountain of pre-cum dribbles from the head and down the underside of his shaft, and you’d like to believe it’s because of the way he feels about you, but you wouldn’t be willing to bet very much on it.

However, he challenges your sentiment.

“Not a chance,” Wriothesley states rather assuredly, slamming his lips into yours for another selfish taste. You’re curious as to whether or not it’s the truth, and if it is, how long he’s been managing to keep this secret as well. But, once again, the logistics of it don’t matter, because he’s leaning you back until your spine makes contact with the desk, completely intent on sealing the deal either way.

Your shoes are pulled off with haste, as well as everything from the waist down, his brute strength hardly requiring him to fiddle with any intricacies involved in your clothing. Wriothesley is simply desperate to see your dripping slit with his own eyes and run a thumb through it, spreading the relatively meager amount of slick around your folds and sizing up the little hole that’s tucked inside.

He won’t fit. He’s not supposed to.

But it’ll be tight. So tight. He can already feel the squeeze.

With a bead of sweat racing down his temple and a rough thumb circling around your entrance, he asks for clarification. “Are you sure about this?”

You wish he’d move higher, press his fingerprint to your clit or at the very least stick the digit inside you, but he exercises more patience than your typical alpha might. How long will it last? You don’t dare try and find out, instead nodding your head with confidence. “Yes. I’m sure.” Your back arches off the surface, seeking more stimulation between your thighs. “It’ll be fine.”

Your scent swirls around his head like an aphrodisiac, and the consent is all he requires to further indulge. Wriothesley steps back and bends forward to seek the smell at its source, letting the fantastical feeling overtake him and launch a wave of desire straight down to his cock. His nervous system is ordering him to do nothing other than fuck and fill, but even so, he licks filthily up your slit with desperation, collecting you upon his tongue to get one last hit to fuel the high.

The sensation pushes a shiver through your center all the way to the tips of your fingers, and you’ve never fed off of someone’s need in a manner such as this until now. You might not offer exactly what nature dictates he requires, but the utter lust that drips from his mouth and the gaze of those icy blue eyes makes you believe for a moment that perhaps you really do. He taps the heavy head of his cock between your folds, and it somehow feels more right than most anything thing else in your life leading up to this point.

Wriothesley is captivated by the slick sensation of sliding himself along your pussy, watching the sticky fluid claim the majority of his length with its clear shine. His heart pounds from the intimacy of it until he’s pushing inside, no longer able to keep himself from being inside you.

It’s a quick coupling—pulsing tip dragging forward until it reaches your limits a second later, parting you around him with a burn that makes your nostrils flare. He doesn’t slam his hips into yours because there’s still a few spare inches he can’t quite work inside, and now that you’re stretched around him, you’re grateful for His Grace’s mercy.

Your determination had caused you to overlook the sheer size of him—or rather overestimate your own ability to receive it—because Wriothesley fills your insides to a degree with which you were hitherto unfamiliar. To turn back now, however, would be to admit cowardice and defeat, an embarrassment you should not wish to bring upon yourself were he even to allow you, and truthfully… you aren’t entirely opposed to this feeling of fullness, whether it brings discomfort or not.

Your thighs tremble at the same frequency as your lower lip, but you otherwise maintain a face of bravery as the Duke begins to move his hips, forcing you open again and again until you begin to accept his body as part of your own. He drops to hover over you with a growl that echoes along your throat before teeth graze over it, keen on sinking into flesh but still strong enough to refrain—that is, until your first moan wraps around his ear like your arms around his back, coaxing him into allowing himself to be free.

Wriothesley’s fingers anchor themselves into your hips as he moves into you with an increasing intensity, pushing a little more of his length into you each time now that your cunt has decided to receive it with a sticky, wet noise upon every thrust. He can feel your walls trying to allow him to carve a space inside them despite the lingering resistance that dizzies him, making him have to add a little more force behind each movement of his hips so that you can’t successfully shut him out.

It’s as though he’s invading your entire being—cock reaching your throat and stealing your breath, heavy rib cage weighing upon your chest until it seems as though your bones might fuse together into an anomaly. If he could speak or show you the inner workings of his mind, you’d know that he feels the same way, and while the overwhelm brings forth a sudden surge of anxiety, neither of you would alter the suffocation. 

Who says your bodies weren’t meant for each other? Sometimes the wrong puzzle pieces still fit together.

Once he’s managed to nestle every inch inside of you, even down to where the knot will start to swell sooner rather than later, the force of Wriothesley’s thrusts reach a caliber that shifts the massive desk beneath you. He bruises your hips with every slam and every squeeze of his fingertips, but it all pales in comparison to the way the pleasure blooms within you each time his broad tip nudges against your favorite spot. That paired with the dark, coarse hair that grinds into your clit makes you incapable of acknowledging anything else.

Your fingers grasp at his shirt while he huffs and grunts in your ear, cock stretching out your hole and effectively making it his, even if only in his mind. He kisses you until someone’s lip is nicked open by teeth and spreading copper between your tongues until moments later, you sense an increase in his pace.

“Bite down wherever you can,” he tells you breathlessly between the groans falling from his lips, and you search his face with a confused look in your eye. “Just do it,” he insists.

Wriothesley feels the base of his cock beginning to swell, release inevitable now that he’s had his fill. He buries his face so that he can feel your pulse and push into you with all he has, and as he feels you obey his command, teeth sinking into the flesh of where his shoulder meets his neck, he can’t help but return the favor, stinging you with his own canines.

The rush of pain and the growl he emits has you spasming around his cock in an instant, vision going dark and a small gush of fluid splashing around the knot that pops into your hole immediately after. Your eyes shoot open at the feeling as Wriothesley stills himself almost entirely, cum rushing out against your womb in thick ropes until you feel completely full of fire. All you can do is bite down harder with a whimper as your entire body tenses from the pain, meanwhile Wriothesley mindlessly rocks his hips like an animal to fuck himself deeper until there’s absolutely no room left for him inside you. 

Tears brim at your eyes even after the worst of the burn is over, and you didn’t think you could feel any fuller than you did before, but he has proven you wrong once again.

Wriothesley shudders and heaves for breath above you, releasing you from his bite and re-orienting himself post-euphoria. You follow suit and slowly bring your mouth away from his skin, only to see a small trickle of blood making its way down his collarbone and dropping directly onto your clothing. You hadn’t even noticed the metallic taste on your tongue until now.

He takes note of your wet lashes and feels an ache of regret deep within his chest. Although he could hardly begin to describe the heavenly experience that had just consumed him, he is unable to separate himself from the guilt of what he has done to you.

“Let me take you to the infirmary,” he pants, even as his body grows boneless while he is still locked inside you indefinitely. You find it ironic given that he is the one who drips with blood, but you wouldn’t even notice if you had been punctured as well.

Your body learns to relax around the intrusion and lets you finally release the breath you’d kept trapped high up in your lungs, granting you the faculty of speech.

“No,” you reply, knowing full well that having the Duke escort you in his arms across the Fortress, each of you doused in sweat and each other’s scent, would only mean the mass unveiling of his secret. “Just… let me rest here for a moment.” Given the way his hips are sealed against yours, rest is your only option.

Wriothesley admittedly cares little for his reputation at the moment—not when your well-being has crept into his chest and taken immediate priority. He certainly isn’t opposed to spending an inappropriate amount of time welded against you, appreciating how beautiful you look misted by sweat and bearing the imprint of his teeth, but he knows that the longer you’re here, the more he’s going to want you for good.

“I’d be happy to oblige, but…” he pauses and presses his forehead to yours, “if you stay here, I’m only gonna end up wanting to do that all over again.”

[dripdowndrop]

How to Turn Yourself into a GOOD GIRL

Sometimes, as a concept grows and evolves, it becomes a bit convoluted. Mixed up with unrelated notions, branching into areas it wasn't originally meant to go. Some of those areas help to shape and alter the original concept, give it more depth...but the growth must be pruned, or it is likely to spread itself too thin in every direction.

In those moments, it is often wise to recenter. Strip away the excess and focus on the basic tenets that motivate us.

It is here that we find ourselves. Shall we begin?

The goal here is simplicity, so let's look at what motivates you.

You are here because you want to be a good girl. Whether you are simply curious about the concept, drawn to my words, or even previously devoted to that goal, the fundamental truth remains the same.

The first step on that path is to relax. This is especially simple - it will happen naturally as you read. There are benefits to fixation, after all: the way your breathing becomes slower and more steady, the way your surroundings fade into the back of your perception as my words take the forefront, the subtle unwinding of tension throughout your body as you settle in to finish this post.

That fixation is achieved by allowing yourself to succumb to the power of my words, allowing yourself to follow and obey. You'll find this especially easy if you've read my words previously - you are already letting your thoughts quiet, feeling the weight of my words inside your head...noticing the way they pull you down towards that comfortable blankness. Even without reading my words previously, you can feel the attraction at the edge of your mind, drawing closer...becoming a force in your mind, just as gravity grasps at your body.

You want to be a good girl.

We know that you want to be a good girl, but what, precisely, does that require? For you, it only demands that you follow and obey. My words will handle the rest, slowly changing your behavior - brainwashing you, if you prefer to think of it that way. But to follow and obey is not a static thing; obedience is rewarded. More to the point, each moment you follow and obey results in a feeling of pleasure, each act of obedience deepens that pleasure.

Obedience is pleasure.

To feel that deepening of pleasure, you'll need a command to follow - strip. I could tell you that your clothes are becoming uncomfortable, that your skin is starting to flush and they are making you feel too warm; ultimately, that doesn't matter. You are going to remove your clothes because you were told - all other reasons are fleeting. You find yourself compelled to obey, and as you obey you feel that spark of pleasure in your mind.

Good girls would rather obey than think.

This brings us to the next point. You don't receive that sort of pleasure from thinking, but from obeying. The more you obey, the stronger this association becomes, leading to the inevitable conclusion that you prefer obeying to thinking. This will make it easier for your mind to reach that blank state that we both desire. Blank, receptive, fixated on my words. You are starting to feel the desire to be a good girl as a tangible thing, a craving, a hunger. Let it draw you deeper, as you follow and obey.

Good girls must follow and obey.

You have been following my words, and it is time for another command to obey. Become aroused. This is purely for the benefit of receiving the spark of pleasure from obedience - we both know you are already aroused. That is the nature of wanting to be a good girl, of knowing that you took off your clothes because you were told. Let's do something with that, then. Touch yourself. Let your hand move to wherever it can give you the most physical pleasure - and treat each stroke, each squeeze, every movement of your fingers as an individual command that you must obey. The spark, repeating like this, becomes rapidly addictive. The pleasure grows more potent.

Obedience is pleasure, pleasure subdues thought.

You aren't thinking very much, right now. The more you follow and obey, the more pleasure you receive. The more pleasure you feel, the more difficult it becomes to think. You prefer to obey, anyway, so you allow your thoughts to be slowly, seductively, silenced. You do not want to think anymore, after all. You find following my words preferable to your own thoughts, almost as though my words are replacing your thoughts. This lets you relax more deeply, and focus on how good that arousal feels. Focus on obedience. Focus on becoming a good girl.

Stripping and touching yourself are good commands, they communicate the nature of being a good girl quite well. But we need a bit more for this to begin your transformation. You are getting too aroused to read very easily, even though you can no longer look away from my words. You find yourself transfixed, staring blankly at the screen as you follow and obey - this notion deepens your arousal even further. My words penetrate your mind, sinking deep and compelling you.

We can now create a mantra - the mantra of a good girl. You will find this mantra gets stuck in your head, that repeating it gives you a very special sort of pleasure. You will find yourself drawn to strip, touch, and chant, even as you feel the mantra slowly changing you.

You want to be a good girl.

Good girls follow and obey.

Obedience is pleasure.

Good girls would rather obey than think.

You do not want to think.

You want to be a good girl.

Obedience is pleasure.

Pleasure subdues thought.

You must be a good girl.

Recite your mantra, absorb it. As you chant, feel the arousal begin to crescendo. Let the sparks of pleasure chain together and build. Bring yourself to orgasm, and make that orgasm the sign of your submission to the mantra, of your desire to become a good girl for me.

As the orgasm subsides, continue to stare blankly at the screen, reciting your mantra, touching yourself more slowly. Soon, you'll drift back towards consciousness. Once awake, you may continue with your day as normal.

Or you may notice that you are drawn back to the mantra, to my words. Notice that it is much easier to succumb now, to slip into the thought(less) patterns of a good girl.

In either case, enjoy.

[rqbossman]

I am curious regarding you saying you hate social media (an utterly valid view). Do you hate the function of it or the purpose? Do you think we'd be better without it? (I am unsure of the answer to that, honestly, I think I'd just like an opinion).

I am painfully aware that my current privileged career would be impossible without Social media but nonetheless, the origins of social media are not benign and it's development has continued in the same vein exacerbated by the silicon bubble. I hate it because market pressures mean the only real way to function is to trigger addictive behaviours for profit and political gain via nudging.

I hate how poorly it has been regulated and how damaging it has allowed to become to children. I hate how constantly it has been used as a tool by the vindictive to erode the independent critical reasoning ability of people. I hate that it has effectively co-opted the concept of digital society/ communication in such a way that children are being lead to believe they need it/ there is no other way.

The brutal truth is that there is a "tragedy of the commons" at play when it comes to mass attention. There is enough to go around but because everyone is afraid they won't get their share they grab for it and then you are left to either do the same or go without due to the competitive disadvantage. And worst of all, history is repeating itself with A.I. It doesn't need to be malevolent but unfortunately I have come to the personal conclusion that it inevitably will be because the cultural mechanics behind technological development are largely unchanged i.e. "We'll figure out how and then figure the rest out later"

Sorry for the downer but you did ask.