#Flooding of the Inner Chambers

[rottencherrypie]

R-18+; Overbred (Thranduil x Reader)

Summary - The elven king enjoys internally marking what is his...even if he had already marked her several times prior.

Warnings - Smut (pretty much pure porn with a sprinkle of plot if you squint), language, afab!reader, fem!reader, breeding kink (heavy breeding kink), heavily implied and referenced previous sex, mention of male genitalia (Thranduil), mention of female genitalia (Reader), mention of a womb (Reader), rough sex, dom/sub dynamics, sub!Reader, dom!Thranduil, wife!Reader, husband!Thranduil, slightly implied mom!Reader (could be read that way if you squint near the end?), overstimulation (RIP reader's pussy), possessive!Thranduil, potentially dark!Thranduil (could give off that vibe), lowkey mean!Thranduil (I do not know how that happened but it did), slight feral!Thranduil, mention of bodily fluids (a lot), delayed orgasm (Reader, I do not know why I keep writing delayed orgasms recently),pet names (Reader is called pet, pretty girl, and a good girl), creampie (so many creampies you could open up a bakery), breeding kink, lowkey claiming kink (is that a thing?), doggystyle position (or at least bent over), slight praise kink, slight semi-public sex (the elves can hear y'all but they mind their own business), mentions of pregnancy, and maybe more.

Pronouns & POV - She/Her, third-person

Word Count - 1,500+ (took me way longer to write than I'd like to admit)

A/N - Another suggested smut! "I'm not sure if you're alright with it but like them trying I conceive or something similar to it?" — (anonymous) I feel like this smut went a bit off from the original suggestion but I made sure to keep the breeding kink aspect you requested! (I am still trying to figure out the best way to add in request prompts and their kinks!) The reader is described to have a plump ass, soft lips, hair on the back of their neck, and being overstimulated from previous sex; other than that there is no defining features. Smut below!

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A layer of sweat glistened upon your quivering form, sweaty palms sliding against the silken sheets beneath you —struggling to keep your plump arse in the air as was instructed by the elven king. The squelching click of pleasure danced throughout the woodland halls, catching within the sensitive ears of whoever dared near the elven king's chambers—yet they all knew better than to interrupt the king in the midst of breeding his wife.

His seed sloshed within your quivering inner walls, swishing against them with each snap of the king's hips as they jutted against the plumpness of your arse—jolting you forwards, causing your chest to graze against the smoothness beneath you. The pace his hips held was steady yet feral.

It appeared that the king had lost all care of how much of his seed leaked from your womb—the inner flesh of your thighs now drenched in a thick, creamy layer of whiteness as he pushed rope after rope into your overflowing cunt. No, it was no longer about simply breeding you; it was about owning you.

A low growl escaped from the king's thin lips as another stream of his release flooded your overworked cunt; making it feel as if it would burst at the seams at any moment. "Mine." The heat of his breath tickled the back of your neck, causing the hairs upon it to stand up as a shiver roamed down your spine—though that was hard to see among the sea of quivering you faced.

A strained mewl of pleasure fell from your soft lips as you felt the angered head of his cock ram against your most sensitive, spongy spot for the hundredth time. The sensation made a tingling arise from the tips of your toes, one that was once pleasurable but now came with the burn of overstimulation.

Your breath hitched within your throat as the tips of your nails dug into the smoothen cloth beneath you—piercing into the fibers of the silken sheets as you felt the king's hip bones jut into the flesh of your arse. The outer ring of your cunt felt as if it was splitting at the seams, stretched to its limits, as it choked upon the girth of the king's length.

It sobbed upon the hardness of flesh; a once drool of pleasure had quickly turned to a waterfall of nearly torturous arousal. Every inch of your being, every fiber and cell within your flesh and bone, felt as if it had been set ablaze by each stroke of your overworked inner flesh.

"Thranduil..." His name left your lips in a strained cry, choking within the back of your throat as yet another forced moan bubbled to the surface—your hands clawed at the silk beneath you, sliding slightly under the moistened grasp of your palms as you desperately attempted not to get whisked away by the raging sea of pleasure.

"That's it." The heat of the king's purr grazed against the shell of your ear as he leaned closer, pressing even more of his weight into every deep thrust—your inner walls split to their limits as an endless cascade of his seed dripped onto the bedding beneath you. "Cry for me." The heat neared your ear, inching closer and closer as the squelching slap of sex danced throughout the air.

Desperate to keep the burn of pleasure at bay, the grasp you held upon the sheets tightened further—a faint tear of the silken cloth briefly hung within the air before being masked by the slapping sound of the elven king's hips jutting against your plump arse.

The grasp of your hands was not the only one that tightened within that moment; your inner walls clenched around his length, allowing you to feel each ridge and vein upon it—feeling the racing beat of his heart within each throb of his speeding cock. The muscles within your jaw began to clench at the sensation. The hypnotizing beat of his cock accompanied by the relentless assault of the throbbing, mushroom-shaped head against the most sensitive spot within your aching core, was driving you toward the edge faster than you could resist.

A feral snarl rumbled within the elven king's chest as he leaned further into you, pushing you onto your forearms—nearly flush against the bed—as he continued his relentless actions. The bed creaked and shook at an alarming rate—the thumping of the headboard almost masked the booming slap of the king's full sack against your ass.

"You're mine." The snarled words made a shiver roam down your spine—and your inner walls flutter around his throbbing length. "Only mine." He continued, punctuating every syllable with a sharp thrust of his hips. "Mine to love. Mine to fuck. Mine to breed." He continued both in speech and punctuation of his hips.

Tears began to prick within the corners of your eyes, threatening to overflow as your molars clenched around the flesh of your inner cheeks. "Gods! Thraduil, I—fuck!" The sudden pinch of his teeth nipping against the lobe of your ear jolted you forwards, allowing some of his length to slip out of the sticky warmth of your cunt in the process.

"Where do you think you're going?" He breathed against the shell of your ear as one of his slender hands grasped onto the flesh of your hip whilst the other slipped beneath you—creating a barrier between you and the bedding. The pressure of his palm beneath you pressed against your lower stomach, feeling the slight protrusion of it due to the endless bouts of seed he had shot into your womb.

As the king held you in his firm grasp, his throbbing cock continuing to carve away within the depths of your inner walls, the burn you had kept at bay for so long quickly grew uncontrollable. It was as if every cell within your being was vibrating as the burn spread throughout your core, seeping into your veins as hot tears began to stream down your cheeks.

The grasp your molars held upon the inner flesh of your cheeks returned, muffling the strained sobs of your pleasure behind the pearly gates as you writhed within the king's grasp. Every inch of you felt hot—as if it were on fire.

Beads of sweat trickled down from your forehead, catching within your furrowed brow as your face contorted in a mixture of pain and pleasure. The grasp your molars held upon the inner flesh of your cheeks tightened, allowing the familiar metallic taste of your blood to coat your tongue. Yet the burn of your pleasure quickly masked the sting within your mouth.

The king's hand began to slowly glide lower, a sensation almost missed if not for the bunching of the sheets beneath you. His hand continued to inch lower and lower, the tip of his calloused thumb sliding against your quivering flesh as it followed the path down to your soaked folds—sticky and raw, the slightest movement of his thumb sent shock waves throughout your body.

His thumb did not stall, finding its way between your folds as it sought out your aching, overworked clit.

It did not take long for the roughness of his thumb to press into the raw, twitching bundle of nerves. The slow massage of his thumb against your clit caused all breath within your lungs to stall in the back of your throat as the burn you desperately attempted to resist finally took control.

A strained sob forced itself through your plump lips, the weight of your forearms giving out as the sweet nectar of your pleasure flowed forth—enlarging the growing puddle of pleasure beneath you. A white, creamy ring of the mixed pleasure between you two wrapped around the base of his cock, slowly dripping onto his sack as he continued to thrust into you—soon to add to the large stain upon the bed.

A familiar ringing filled the air as the weight of your body slumped further against the dirtied silk, pressing the flesh of your face into the drool-soaked pillow before you—the heat of your breath bouncing off the smooth pillowcase, catching on the stickiness of your sweaty skin as you mewled in pleasure against it.

The deep rumbling of the elven king's laughter managed to break through the ringing that filled your ears, an anchor throughout the sticky sea of pleasure.

"We're not done yet, pet." Thranduil breathed into your ear, furthering the quivering of your overstimulated figure. The pressure of his rough thumb never ceased from your clit, turning the quickened patterns into drawn-out ones as the pacing within his hips began to slow—giving you a brief moment of clarity. "We must ensure you will be round and full with my seed. You want that, don't you, pretty girl? To birth more heirs for the throne? To be swollen with my child once more?" The weight of your head mindlessly bobbed in agreement against the smoothness of the dirtied pillowcase.

"That's my good girl. My perfect girl. So good for me." His praise replenished your energy, ensuring you could last another round with the insatiable king—blissfully unaware of how many rounds were to come.

[egypt-museum]

Discovery of the tomb of Thutmose II

This week, archaeologists unveiled a momentous discovery—the long-lost tomb of Thutmose II, believed to be the final undiscovered royal burial site of Egypt’s 18th Dynasty. This marks the first tomb of a pharaoh uncovered since Howard Carter’s legendary discovery of Tutankhamun’s resting place in 1922.

The tomb, belonging to Thutmose II, the fourth pharaoh of the Eighteenth Dynasty and husband of the famed female ruler Hatshepsut, was unearthed by a British-Egyptian team led by Dr. Piers Litherland of Galashiels, Scotland.

The grandeur of the burial site was immediately evident, with a vast staircase and an imposing descending corridor signalling the tomb’s royal significance. “And part of the ceiling was still intact – a blue-painted ceiling with yellow stars on it. And blue-painted ceilings with yellow stars are only found in king’s tombs,“

- Dr Piers Litherland, an honorary research associate of the McDonald Institute for Archaeological Research at Cambridge University and the field director of the exploration, told BBC's Newshour.

Accessing the burial chamber proved challenging. The team crawled through a narrow, 10-metre passageway, squeezing through an opening scarcely 40 square centimetres wide before reaching the inner chamber. Inside, they encountered a striking blue ceiling adorned with scenes from the Amduat, an ancient funerary text reserved exclusively for kings—confirmation that they had indeed entered the resting place of a pharaoh.

Definitive proof of Thutmose II’s burial came in the form of alabaster jar fragments inscribed with his name and that of Hatshepsut, marking the first objects ever linked to his interment. However, Dr. Litherland’s team theorizes that the tomb may have been flooded approximately six years after the burial, possibly prompting the relocation of its contents. The researchers believe they have identified a likely site for this secondary tomb, which may still contain untouched treasures.

Read more

[filmtv2022]

Part II: Our Time is Limited (18+)

Part One

Pairing: Geta x reader & platonic!Caracalla x reader

Synopsis: Geta and you deal with the aftermath of Caracalla's outburst, finding comfort in each other. Not only is there Caracalla's illness to attend to, but those who surround the emperors are growing more and more weary of their reign. As loyalty wanes, so does the inner circle's patience with your ever-constant presence and the emperors' hot tempers. With so much at stake the balance between keeping the peace and protecting those you love becomes muddy.

Warnings: sexual activity/smut + alcohol consumption + wounds/wound care

A/N: Well, this took a while to write, and I feel like there is more I want to add to this story. So, be on the lookout for part 3 (There may even be a few more parts if it continues to be well received)! I truly cannot say how thankful I am for the response to part 1. I felt the love for sure! So thank you to everyone who read that and has stuck with me here! And as always, please forgive me for any and all mistakes. We're going for a "fun" time... not always a historically accurate time!

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No light apart from the moon illuminated the grand bed chamber of the emperor upon your waking. Depending on how it was considered, the hour was either incredibly early or late. No sound could be heard from the hall or the open balcony. The silence should have been comforting, but a nagging pit in your stomach kept you from returning to sleep. A chill had collected in the air. Reprieve from its sting came in the form of Geta’s study frame tangled with yours beneath the luscious sheets. His body produced heat like a raging fire whose flames were fed with rage and the desperate clamber for power.

His protective warmth painted your skin in a heavy flush. Your head tipped back to stare at the man whose body melded with yours in a way that surely must have been crafted by the gods. Like this, lost to sleep, Geta’s youth was easy to see. The healthy glow of his unmarred skin was alluring, drawing your hand from under the covers you traced delicate patterns over his toned chest. Tension in your hip forced you to adjust yourself. Shifting your weight, you accidentally brushed the wound on your cheek. The sudden flash of fresh pain rippled in erratic shocks down the tender column of your throat causing you to hiss. Beside you, Geta stirred in his sleep. 

Uncomfortable and fighting back the multitude of possibilities that flooded your mind, you gave in to the reality that returning to sleep was growing less and less likely. Prone to fitful sleep, even with the sedative, Caracalla was sure to begin fighting his forced slumber sooner rather than later. As carefully as you could, you tried to extricate yourself from Geta’s embrace. You’d managed to free your bare thighs from between his own when the groggy grumble of his voice stopped you cold. 

“Where are you going?” He reached for you, hauling you back before finally opening his eyes. Your chest sat flush with his, and your good cheek rested on him, as his feather-light touch sought any part of you he could reach. The shapes he drew were hypnotizing, jumbling the words in your head. Concerned by your lack of reply, Geta rolled you on your back, allowing him to see your entire face as he rested his weight over part of your body. “It’s early. Stay with me a few hours more.” 

“You know as well as I do the fickle nature of the sedative. I do not wish for him to wake alone. He can be… He can be so scared and lost without a familiar face to ground him when he comes to.” Messy strands of hair stuck to his forehead, tempting you to fix them. With a ghosting touch, you brushed them away from his face. The rich hue of his eyes followed your every move. 

“And you will be there when he needs you, but that is not now. For now, I need you… here… in my bed.” He followed his thought with the trail lips between your breasts. Each graze was accompanied by a tender bite, leaving behind more evidence of the night only he’d be blessed enough to see.  Geta continued to move lower, tasting every inch of skin he could find before pausing to look back at you through hooded lids. The arch of your spine sent heat washing over him.

Struggling to breathe properly, you reached for any part of him you could find. The flare of pleasure that overtook you as Geta came closer to where you wanted him was blinding. With eyes screwed shut, you couldn’t keep the huff of laughter from escaping as you spoke, “You are insatiable, emperor.” 

Nipping at your hipbone he murmured against flushed skin. “I am making up for lost time.” Threading your deft fingers through his messy copper locks, you gripped at the root and tugged roughly earning you a delicious hum. Geta's focus became entirely on drawing those delicious noises from you once more, and to that end he was successful. Gooseflesh ran over your body as chilled air drifted all around. With nothing between you and the emperor, you fell completely to his mercy and desire. 

Geta’s shoulders dipped lower allowing him to wrap one defined arm around your thigh while the other explored the marks he’d created earlier. From his position, he could feel the way your body quaked under his touch. The power he had over you with just the help of his tongue and calloused fingers threw every unwanted thought and worry to the side. This was all he wanted, all he’d ever desired. What once remained fantasy was now freely given. 

A particularly well-placed kiss had you rolling your hips searching for more. Geta’s teasing no longer satisfied the well of lust that threatened to drown you alive. On instinct, your hold tightened, hauling a rumbling groan from him that nearly eclipsed the pitful whimper in which you begged.

“Geta… Please…”

Skimming along your body with his own, he felt the buttery expanse of your skin. Your pebbled breasts pressed into his chest as his breath ghosted in your ear. “Use your words, tell me what you crave.”

“I want you. I want to feel-.” You were cut off by the drag of his fingertips along your most sensitive of skin. The nerves there fired in quick succession, leaving you to focus on the journey his mouth took along the slope of your shoulder. Unsatisfied, yearning for the weight of him, you reached between you. The fragile strength of your trembling fingers wrapped around his cock. Rolling your wrist, Geta shivered. His hips twitched ruining his self-control.

“Then you shall have me.” Were it not for his desperation to fulfill your every wish, he could have stayed like this and let you bring him to his release with just the delectable skill of your hand. Without fanfare, Geta moved quickly, the firm press of him hard against your core had you moaning in anticipation. His lips captured yours in a devouring kiss pulling the focus from the pressure that built as he pressed into you. Your plush walls spasmed in time with the roll of his hips into your own. Tongues and teeth clashed in a fight for control. Even here, where he felt the most vulnerable as if his soul was laid bare for you to consume, he clung to the power that acted as a crutch in his daily life. But the fight was a losing battle.

Geta’s eye fluttered shut, closing him off from you as he buried his countenance into the crook of your neck, and that simply wouldn’t do. You knew this part of him, the boy, now man, that retreated inside himself when things grew too much.  The bold and confident facade he put on for the public was a disguise that few had been able to decipher... apart from you. Tenderly, you traced the length of his spine, paying attention to the way he shuddered under your touch. Much softer than before, you wound your fingers through his hair while guiding his brow to your own.

“Look at me. Do not hide from me now.”  Your words enveloped him, easing him back to the present and away from whatever tried to steal him from you. Carefully Geta met your eyes. Their normal severity was absent, replaced with the soft haze of adoration. 

“I love you.” The tender confession tumbled from your lips, and the truth of it shattered the last vestiges of the barrier that ran between you. All walls had been abandoned. The steady snap of his thrusts brought the pair of you closer to oblivion. Together you fell, the steady crash of energy over every nerve filled the space with heady moans of pleasure. 

Too soon for your liking the moment waned, leaving you breathless and weak beneath him. Geta rested his weight along his forearms to prevent crushing you. From his position, he watched a new line of crimson spill down your cheek. The sight of it brought a flood of unwanted emotions swirling in his stomach.

“You're bleeding again.” His voice wobbled with exhaustion and worry. The thick pad of his thumb brushed away the evidence, smearing the dried blood from hours before with the bright hue of that which flowed currently. From this proximity, Geta got a truer picture of your condition. Deep patches of black and purple bloomed across your cheek and brow, but that was not what fumbled the rhythm of his heart.

The hidden outline of fingers around the base of your throat undid him. Masked by the layer of dried ichor that coated your throat he saw the depth of his brother’s illness. Never had he imagined Caracalla would be capable of hurting you in this way. The slice of a blade had been beyond reason, but his hand around your throat… that was unconscionable. 

Rage burned hot, the flare of his nostrils timed with the heavy rise and fall of his chest as he tried to calm himself. You knew without a doubt the thoughts that sped through his mind. Anger, disbelief, sorrow but most of fury. “I will never let him lay his hands upon you again.” 

“Please, don’t make promises you can’t keep, Geta.” Something new flashed in his eyes as he looked down at you, and the sight of it broke tender and soft. “Even you cannot keep me safe from him, not entirely. I want to believe that everything wrong about our lives will right itself in time, but that is a childish, fool-hardy thought. Even you cannot deny that.”

“Why? This is… what we share… Why cannot we find a way out of this mess together? Shouldn’t we be allowed happiness?” The same reasoning from the night before returned. A pitiful well of dampness pooled at the corners of his eyes. The dejected young man who looked to others for reassurance in everything he did bore himself to you fully.  “I can keep you safe. Do you trust me?” 

“With my life.” You reached for him, pulling his lips to yours in a sympathetic and calming embrace. It lasted just long enough for his breathing to settle and his mind to slow. Gently, Geta shifted his weight away from your body giving you space to recover. Torn from his steadying presence, you rolled onto your side following him with your gaze as he slipped from the bed. He pulled a robe from the floor and wrapped it around himself.  Exhaustion crossed your vision and dulled your mind, lulling you closer to sleep. Only the gentle clink of glass against glass kept you from falling away entirely.  

Geta returned to you quickly, his hands full of what appeared to be vials of acetum and honey, two clean cloths resting over his wrist. Finding a spot to deposit the vials on the bed, he took one of the rags. With some hesitation, he reached between your plush thighs, wiping away the mess the pair of you'd made. The sudden jolt of your hips as he reached your core slowed his hand, easing the strength with which he worked. Your weight settled back into the plush sheets as he finished and discarded the cloth upon the flood.

“Sit up.” His words were tender,  holding none of the desperation from before. Following his command,  you lifted yourself from the comfort of the bed, the sheets crumpled further under your movement. Geta’s eyes raked over your body, admiring the swell of your bare breasts and the curve of your waist. A glint of something more akin to lust was shown briefly before he settled into the space next to you. With practiced care and thoughtful hands, the emperor cleansed your wounds and removed the remnants of dried blood. Your focus never left his face as he worked. Instead, you took the time to memorize the tug of concentration between his brows. Deep lines formed there creating a picture of what was to come, of an older Geta, of an emperor marked by the passage of time. You prayed the gods would favor you, for that was a vision you prayed to see in person. 

“There, that’s better.” Geta twisted to discard the vials and cloth upon the nearby stand. “Come, let us sleep. The day is sure to be long enough without the edge of weariness dulling our minds.” 

Slowly, you sank back into each other’s arms, your bodies together in perfect harmony as sleep overtook the pair of you.

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Fresh morning light seeped into the sea of curtains around the bed chamber. Were it not for the pressing knaw of anxiety, you’d have happily stayed curled in Geta’s arms. But that was not a possibility. Knowing that time was running short to return to Caracalla before he woke, you extricated yourself from the comfort of your lover's embrace. 

The marble was startlingly cold beneath your feet forcing you to work quickly to find your discarded robe. The memory of the night before was stunningly clear making it easy to find your blood-stained clothes. Stooping, you grabbed the creamy fabric, shoving your arms inside before tying it tightly around your waist. 

You chanced a glance over your shoulder at Geta who was still peaceful in his bed. Without further hesitation, you disengaged the lock and made your way into the mostly empty hall. Only two guards remained posted to protect the emperor. Thankfully, the comings and goings of women from Geta’s chamber were nothing new. Your presence there may have been different from the norm, but it was hardly shocking given the previous night’s difficulties. 

Your bare footsteps, pounded down the hallway toward Caracalla, praying to the gods that you’d find him asleep. Rounding the corner, you watched as the guards parted to allow you into the room. There were no questions or need to exchange words, this room had been your home for more than a decade. Not a soul would question your presence inside. 

Caracalla’s living quarters were nearly as extravagant as his brothers. The only strange addition was that of his pet monkey who sat alert on the table, gnawing at the fresh fruit that had been placed there the night before for his consumption. Dundus chirped at your arrival, announcing it to his still-slumbering owner. Curled in a ball on his side, the emperor lay oddly upon the covers.

There was nothing comfortable or dignified about how he was left. With soft steps, you made your way to him. His chest rose and fell in shallow waves marking the hold the medication still had upon his mind. Much the same as his brother, he looked far younger in sleep, and yet with Caracalla, the evidence of his poor health would never fully disappear. The sores on his face had broken through the remnants of the makeup on his tear-stained cheeks. A measure of guilt flooded your veins, churring the acid in your empty stomach and forcing you into action. 

Beside the vanity sat a pitcher of clean water and a rag you’d readied before things fell apart the previous evening. It had become your nightly ritual to clean Caracalla’s face of the day’s makeup before covering each mark upon his skin with acetum and honey. It kept the bond between you strong as you were the only person he allowed to care for him in that way.

Coming face to face with the mirror, you did your best to avoid your reflection, but ignoring it was nearly impossible. Your fingers wrapped around the pitcher as you poured it into the empty bowl that sat in the center of the flat surface. The motion was done on instinct giving you time to assess your injuries personally. 

A deep purple swath had formed around your eye, seeping down below the slash that marked your cheekbone. The bruise throbbed with every flick of your eye, but it was the deep cut that truly pained you. A thin line of dried blood sat in the wound creating a gruesome visage. Nothing could hide the terrifying mark of the fingers that had closed around your throat before the final attack. Even in the light of day, you could feel their presence as though the hand remained heavy against you.

Glancing dead ahead into the mirror, the most terrifying part of all was not the injuries, it was not knowing who would wake up and rejoin the world when Caracalla rose. The pitcher clanked against the stone as you sat it down to grab the cloth. Dampening the thin fabric, you wrung it out and collected the vial of acetum and jar of honey to soothe his sores before returning to the emperor. There was just enough space on the edge of the bed for you to sit near his head. With gentle strokes, you cleansed his face, being sure to give extra care to spots of broken skin. Free of the mask, the progression of his illness became more apparent. Using the same rag, you dabbed the acetum on each of the marks before following with the golden liquid in the hope that it would provide some relief.  

It took only minutes for you to finish caring for the emperors’s needs, but it felt like an eternity. Part of you hoped he would wake as you worked but another part of you prayed he would continue to rest. Discarding the rag and other supplies nearby, you found yourself gravitating toward Caracalla’s slumbering frame. A deep ache radiated deep in your soul, gripping you tightly in an unrelenting hold. No matter how far he’d fallen, no matter the faults of his mind, this man would forever be yours. He’d forever be the one who captured your heart first and for that, you were eternally grateful. 

The bridge of your nose burned as you fell into his presence. The clean scent of his robes mixed with the bitter tang of wine that clung to him.  Fearful of letting him go, you wrapped an arm around his side and hauled yourself close. Your fists twisted into the flowing fabric at his back as you hid your face in his chest. Shrouded in him, your lungs hitched, tears streamed in searing lines down your cheeks, stinging the raw skin around your wound. But that was secondary to the hole that grew in your heart every time you allowed yourself to contemplate Caracalla's remaining time. 

Hours slipped away unnoticed, leaving the pair of you to while away the minutes in each other’s arms. In time, the gods must have favored your first desire, for as the blinding rays of early morning crept toward midday, Caracalla stirred beside you. Uncertain of what was to come, you kept your visage concealed.

“Good morning, my love. How does the new day find you?” Your voice trembled with worry as you watched him push to sit beside you. A hazy fog slowed his mind and his speech, forcing you to be patient as he reached out to touch your cheek. His brows pulled together in concern at the sight. The soft brush of his fingertips over the cut sent fresh lances of hurt zinging down your neck. Still silent, Caracalla watched the way you recoiled from him before attempting to speak. 

“You are injured. Who hurt you?” There was so much innocence in his eyes. Without question, there was no memory of the previous night, and for that you were thankful. Caracalla knowing that he’d caused you this pain would have done nothing but burden an already fragile man with more turmoil. 

You shook your head, hoping to shove off the worry as best you could. “No one hurt me. I decided to venture to the baths after too much wine. I lost my footing and slipped. It is my fault.” With what little strength you could muster, you sat up fully beside him. 

“Does it hurt terribly?” He took your hand and held it in his lap.

“No, not terribly.” Your free hand rose to hold his cheek, “I promise.” Quiet fell over the pair you allowing Caracalla to trace the map of bruises that marred your neck. Even he noticed the odd shape of the marks low upon your throat. You could see the thought teeter on his lips for a moment before the words tumbled from him so childlike and sincerely. Nearly the same words his brother had spoken to you just hours earlier.

“I will always protect you, you must know that.” He held your gaze tightly in his, running his thumb over the back of your hand while he waited for you to respond. 

“I do. I do.” And the falsehood of your reply brought fresh tears to your eyes. Despite the many factors that stood between you and the happy life you'd once thought possible with Caracalla, you loved him beyond reason. Even though you were losing your best friend in real-time to an illness that was as mysterious in its origin as in its timeline of destruction, you trusted him. He’d stood by your side, welcoming you into the fray all those years ago. Never did he shame your lack of knowledge about the way things in the upper crust of Roman society worked. He was a good man at his core.

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Chaos had taken over Caracalla’s chamber as the day’s newest adventures in the Colosseum grew nearer.  Dressed in an opulent stola, you chanced a glance at the fiery-haired many who sat behind you. Nearly done being dressed, only a crown of laurels remained. Seated in a low chair, he fiddled with the jewelry that adorned his hands and neck. Taking advantage of his distraction, and unable to ignore the desire to be near him, you made your way across the cavernous room to Caracalla. Stepping between his legs you reached back to grab the golden crown in your delicate fingers. With great care you placed it upon his head, fixing his disheveled hair as it poked out in awkward angles. From his spot, he watched in awe, his eyes never leaving your face. 

“There, now you are ready to face your adoring public. May the gods make their will known in the arena this day.” You stooped to place a gentle kiss on the middle of his forehead. The gesture was one of trust and friendship. 

Overwhelmed, you stood upright and took a step back from the emperor. You’d only just begun to turn around when a gentle hand clasped around your wrist forcing you to turn back to Caracalla. His voice was barely more than a whisper as he spoke to you, “Promise you’ll stay with me.” 

“Always.” Caracalla brought your knuckles to his lips before letting you go. 

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

The journey to the arena was relatively short. Inside the emperor’s box, the brothers took their seats and were followed in by General Acacius and Lucilla. You watched from the back, observing the pair with keen eyes and a skeptical mind. The two seemed stiff and out of place, their eyes shifting from side to side as though they were about to crawl out of their skin. Pressured to speak, the general stood before the cheering crowd, commanding attention, but something about his words left you feeling ill. The look on his face as he turned around to join his wife was enough to confirm your suspicion. Something was wrong. Long past were the days when Rome’s general was faithful without question to the throne. And now had come the time when enemies were around every corner, to be found most slyly in the people who were meant to be trusted confidantes. 

Commotion filled the arena pulling your attention away from Acacius and Lucilla and permitting you to step into the space between Geta and Caracalla. Chancing a glance at each of them you found Geta’s eyes were already on you, following your approach like a hawk. He raked over your frame, admiring the way the fabric draped over your body, and followed the swell of your chest. Not wanting to risk unwanted attention, you met his gaze for only a moment before turning to engage with Caracalla. A guileless smile turned the corners of his lips as his high-pitched laughter bounced through the air.

Trusting in the power of the gods, you watched with rapt attention as the foreign gladiator made a fool of the man from the emperor’s stables.  Spared by the gods the man tempted fate before ending the fight altogether. Blood pooled beneath the decapitated fighter, painting the sandy ground in a sickening shade of red. 

With the fight over, everyone of note retreated inside where the festivities were sure to continue late into the night. Yet, as you turned to make your way across the room, you noticed the look on Lucilla’s face. She held firmly to the bundle of lavender propped beneath her nose, her face was pale as though the life had been drained from her veins. Her eyes darted from Acacius to the young gladiator that stalked across the sand toward the fighter’s cells. There was a hint of something more there that you failed to place, but it did little to settle your growing suspicions. 

Unable to address it at this moment, you trained your attention back on Caracalla who was chatting away about the fight, retelling the tale to those around him as though they hadn’t just watched it unfold. Stepping into his side, you laced your arm through his, holding tightly to his bicep, and tucked yourself into him. Geta, caught in a conversation with some verbose senator, tracked your movement toward his brother noticing every detail of you. His concern grew stronger as he watched you press your nose into the voluminous material of his brother’s elaborate toga hiding your countenance before pressing onto your toes to whisper in the emperor’s ear. A chaste peck was placed upon his brother’s cheek, earning you a wondrous grin.

Caracalla nodded, before letting you fall away from his side. The young man turned back to the small group that had formed around him and continued his elaborate story. With his blessing, you were free to pick your way through the crowd toward the plethora of wine and food that covered the table at the center of the room. Admiring the choices, you meandered your way from one end to the other sampling every dried fruit and cured meat before settling on a deliciously dark cup of wine. The steady throb in your cheek had you wish for something a bit more potent than alcohol, but alas, that would have to wait. 

Refilling your nearly empty glass, you wandered the space, keeping a keen eye on both Caracalla and Geta. Each remained wrapped in conversation but their demeanors couldn’t be more dissimilar. Where Caracalla continued his lively storytelling, basking in the unwavering attention of his growing entourage, Geta’s face grew increasingly pinched at whatever meaningless drivel the senators believed required the prompt and full attention of him alone. You knew this has become commonplace, the passing over of Caracalla when discussing politics, and yet it rolled your stomach to see it happening so blatantly in public. 

Finished with your lap, you swooped by the table to collect another glass of wine. On a mission to relieve Geta of his trap, you made your way to him, confidently plucking your way through the sea of people. You could feel the burn of jealous and questioning eyes on you. Your presence amongst these circles had become expected long ago and yet it never prevented people from casting judgment upon you. The tender mark upon your face only added fuel to the fire, giving the people exactly what they wanted… more about which to gossip about. 

You closed the last few paces between you and Geta, reveling in the horrified look on the senator's face as you reached for the emperor’s shoulder. Gently, you placed a hand on him, drawing his attention away. “Here, some wine, to fortify your political endeavors.” Ignoring the hanging jaws and scoffs of the other men you carefully handed Geta the drink soaking in the entrancing way his eyes seemed to glow in the light. Their depth fell away to a brighter almost amber hue. But it was not just his gaze that held the knot in your chest, but the emotion that sat heavy in every fiber of his being. 

Desire darkened across his face as he memorized the stillness of your features. Geta’s ringed fingers brushed your own bare skin, taking far longer than was necessary to receive the beverage from you. A distinct cough of indignation erupted from one of the older politicians forcing you to step back. Geta gave a slight nod, silently passing you permission to fall away knowing that he judged you not for wanting to escape the calloused opinions of those he was forced to surround himself with. The swish of your stola accented your departure.  Behind you, the conversation returned in hushed tones, but the swell of the crowd did little to mask the biting words.  

“That woman has grown far to forward with you and your brother, Geta. It appears it may be time to let her go, and replace her with someone more docile… refined. Perhaps now the pair of you should consider proper marriages, for the future of Rome.” The old man’s voice croaked grating into the momentary silence that fell after he finished speaking.

With your back turned to Geta you were unable to see the vicious sneer that came over the emperor’s face. Far enough away now, his words were lost to the crowd in which you disappeared. Only the need to maintain peace for your sake kept him from exploding. A deep breath filled his chest and shook through his nose as he tested the surety of his voice. “That woman belongs to my brother, and to m- to the household. Her actions are neither unexpected nor uncouth. And may I suggest senator, that you keep her out of your filthy whoring mouth or you may find your own midnight wanderings publicized for all to discuss. Am I clear?” 

“Yes.” The older man murmured. His eyes dropped to the ground, uncertain of how to proceed. 

“Now, if you’ll excuse me. I believe there are others far more worthy of my time to which I must attend.” Geta bowed out hastily, the venom in his voice dripped from every word keeping the other tongues silent. 

Heavy footfalls pounded across the stone toward you, following your path away from the crowd in search of temporary solitude. Nearing a quiet alcove, you pressed yourself into the chill of the marble. Exhausted and aching, you felt your legs tremble, forcing you to slump down upon the unforgiving bench that lined the wall. The distant rumbling of the crowd was accented by the approach of another. Unsure of what to say, you let your eyes fall shut, keeping out the world around you, and perhaps buying you some time to come to grips with your thoughts. 

The steps slowed, and yet you didn’t bother to open your eyes. “You mustn’t listen to them. They are feeble-minded old men. They matter matter not.” Geta spoke, hoping you would look at him. 

Concern masked as anger flashed hot over your nerves, forcing you to stand and crowd into his space. Your open palms found his chest, shoving his sturdy frame away as you worked to control your volume. “You cannot say those things, Geta. You need them, whether you care for that reality or not. Without the Senate, Rome is nothing. In a heartbeat, they have you and your brother deposed. There are snakes in the water, Geta. Do not let your loose tongue be what brings about your ruin!” 

Geta’s hand came to hold your wrists in place against him, the feeling of your touch the only thing that kept him from giving into the dizzying spin of his head. “What are you saying?! You of all people-” 

“I’m saying take great care with what you say and to whom you say. There are those within your inner circle who wish to see you and Caracalla fall, no matter how that happens. The ends would justify the means in their eyes. The senators are only part of your problem.” You choked on the end of your confession, the reality heavy in your chest. 

Geta’s hold on you changed. One hand skimmed along your curves finding home at the nip of your waist while the other cupped your injured cheek, tipping your face to his. “Do not be afraid. Tell me what you know.”  

“I’m not afraid, not for myself. But for you and Caracalla… that is an entirely different story. And as far as what I know... it is nothing, it has to be nothing. Just my anxious mind getting the better of me.” 

“Do not keep this inside, it will only eat away at you.” He spoke deeply, understanding the truth behind what he’d spoken despite often leaving this advice alone for himself. 

“You expect more of me than of yourself when it comes to honesty.” Lingering frustration gave way to weariness. Struggling to keep yourself together, you rested your brow against Geta's chest. The silk of his clothing soothed your nerves. Held carefully in his arms, you could feel the feather-light touch of his lips as he kissed your temple.

“Nothing gets past you.” A soft smile wrapped around his words. Pressed together in the relative seclusion you'd managed to find, Geta inhaled the warm scent of wine and perfume that swirled around you. The beautiful bouquet went to his head, adding to the hazy buzz he cultivated through a touch too much to drink.

"Pay no mind to the anxious ramblings of a palace whore. I know little of what I fear. I should never have voiced my concern, it is not my place. Forgive me." You kept your face buried in the elaborate folds of his toga, letting the sturdiness of him continue to calm your body.

"Do not call yourself that." Geta leaned back, forcing you to look at him. Tenderly, he held your face, taking extra care to avoid your wound. "You are not. You never have been."

"No, I am. They are right. A real marriage. A wife… children… a son to bear the family name. That is what you both need. What you deserve."

"You are avoiding your worry. Deflecting. You may speak freely with me, you know this. There are no others here to judge or condemn. You have my ear and my heart." Geta captured your mouth with his, earning him the ghost of a whimper. Breaking away before things could escalate, he waited patiently for your response. "Now tell me what you fear so that I may carry that burden with you."

"I will not speak of it here. Not where prying eyes and ears shift all around. I know the palace is no better when it comes to the fiery spread of rumors and lies, but this place… it thrives on blood. It screams for it. It makes me ill. Not here. Meet me tonight, at the baths. I promise… I will share everything."

You reached for Geta, needing to feel him close once more. Slotting your lips together, you felt the fine strands of his hair between your fingers.

"Tonight." He mumbled against your lips.

Part III

[batsybat91]

Heyyy bestieee *slides in with cool shades on, almost trips but catches self* I got a lil somethin somethin for your beautiful brain to munch on tehe

I talk to myself a lot (like everyone else) but instead of speaking normally, I whisper cuz I feel awkward if I don't. But I have to let those thoughts out y'know? The inner monologue in my head isn't enough 💀

Sooo, how about a reader who also whispers to themself and Simon catches them

- Biscuits 🌺

Hello, Biscuits, you gorgeous, big-brained genius!! I also talk to myself a lot - usually when I'm playing video games. Occasionally will be talking to myself at work, too. So I totally get you!!

--

You have been cleaning your husband's (you love calling him your husband!) guns all day. He left you a note on the fridge asking you to do it, and of course, you had to look up a tutorial on how to do it. The last gun you have to clean is a very expensive-looking Winchester rifle, with a wooden stock and a bolt action. It's a hunting gun, you know that much. It has a damn fine scope, so you ensure the covers are on and secured.

"Okay," you whisper. "You can do this. It's just a rifle. You cleaned all his other guns. Pistols... rifles. This one is just. Expensive. More expensive than you, probably."

You pick the rifle up gently. It's a .308 caliber, so it's a pretty big gun. It's heavy, too. Maybe not to Simon, who can pick you up and put you on his shoulders without breaking a sweat. But to you? It's fucking heavy. Your arms shake as you carry it from the safe to the kitchen table.

"Okay. Okay. Don't worry. If you fuck this up, Simon will kill you and bury you in his grave," you mutter. "No biggie. No, no, no. We are so chill about this."

You glance at the instructions you wrote for yourself. First, open chamber. Ensure it's not loaded.

"Check."

"Next, remove action from gun, if possible."

You gently turn the rifle in your hands, propping it on the kitchen chair. You point the muzzle up, just like Simon taught you. "Gently," you whisper as you pull the bolt action out. "Gently!"

You get the action out safely. A sigh of relief floods over you.

"Okay, next," you mumble, setting the gun with the muzzle facing opposite of the door.

Simon has just come home, but you don't hear him open the door. You are locked the fuck in on cleaning this gun without hurting it. He sets his gear on a nearby chair and tosses his mask on the end table. He hears you talking in the kitchen, and moves to investigate. Simon assumes you're on the phone with someone, but no.

There you are, hair pulled out of your face with a headband. You are holding his favorite rifle, examining it with precision.

"Take the rod thingy, then the paper towel," you whisper, "Then you thread it through the rod just like that. And then you dip it in some of that..."

He smiles, watching you from the shadows. There's something adorable in how much care you're putting into taking care of his guns. He didn't actually expect you to learn how to clean them. He expected you to call Johnny or Gaz for help.

"And then you put the thingamabob in the doohickey up here," you say, gently pushing the rod into the top of the gun. He can tell you're being very careful with it, wincing any time you even tap the scope.

"Jam it in and out at a real nice pace," you mutter. Then, even quieter, you say, "He better jam it in me when he sees I've cleaned all his guns."

Simon can't help the snort that escapes him. You look up from the rifle, and you positively beam when you see him. "Simon, baby!" you exclaim. "How much of that did you hear?"

"Long enough," he says, a low chuckle rumbling through his chest.

You frown. "Aw man, I bet you think I'm fucking 'daft,' talking to myself like that."

"Not at all," he assures you. "I think it's cute, luvie."

"Well, you hang tight right there, mister," you command, pointing the cleaning rod at him. Then, doing a horrible, horrible impression of his British accent, you say, "I'll clean this musket of yours and shine your shoes for a smacker."

"Real funny," he growls, though there's a smile on his face.

"I'm hilarious," you agree.

You put the bolt back inside the rifle after you're done cleaning it and keep the action open. Simon saunters behind you and rests his chin on your head. "Oh, that's bloody good work, darlin'."

"Thank you, my lord," you giggle. "Now, help me put them all back in your safe."

He presses a quick kiss to your forehead and pats your ass affectionately. "Not a problem, Queen Riley."

You snort, a very unladylike sound. "Queens don't talk to themselves."

"My queen does," he replies, kissing your cheek before padding off to grab a gun.

[axelsagewrites]

Podrick Payne*Praise

Pairing: podrick x f!reader

Kinktober Day four: body worship with Podrick Payne – Podrick feels honoured just to be able to touch your body and wants you to hear his praises

Word count: 658

Warnings: fingering, oral f!recieving, praise, smut 18+

Masterlist Here

Kinktober List Here

You were used to high lords whispering sweet words, but nothing compared to the words Podrick mumbled against your thighs. He trailed kisses up from the sole of your feet, up your calf’s and eventually your inner thighs.

Each kiss was mixed with praises and compliments as he kissed softly up your thighs, “So pretty,” his lips mumbled against your skin. His hands trailed up the sides of your legs, his touch feather light and making you shiver. You could feel his hot breath fanning over your wet cunt as you waited, desperately trying to be patient, as he took in every inch of you.

“Please,” you whispered, your voice so quiet you wondered if he heard you.

But all Podrick could think about was you. he placed another, longer kiss to your inner thigh before his attention turned where you ached. He glanced up at you for a moment, his lips swollen from making out for so long previously. His long eyelashes casting a slight shadow over his cheek as he searched your eyes for approval which you eagerly gave.

You shivered again when he placed an open-mouthed soft kiss to your clit. Your fingers toyed with his hair, gripping it when he lent in for another kiss, this one firmer than before. Your legs tensed but Podrick just pushed your thighs over his shoulders and continued to set his pace.

“You taste so good,” he mumbled, sending vibrations up your body. You could feel his hands gripping your hips, squeezing at the soft flesh as you whimpered beneath his touch. He sucked on your clit lightly, but it was enough to make your legs tighten around his head.

A low groan left his throat, sending shivers up your core as his tongue grew bolder. When you felt his fingers teasing your hole your hand tightened in his hair and you could already feel your peak building as he slipped his fingers in. his lips worked wonders on your clit, sucking and kissing the bundle of nerves as his fingers curled inside you slowly.

Almost painfully slow. “Please,” you begged but your voice was half breath as you tried to keep your composure. You could feel Podrick muttering something from the way his mouth vibrated against yours, but his words were lost to you as your body began to twitch.

Your fingers tightened in his hair, your legs clamping around his head even tighten and pulling his face in closer. When he sucked on your clit again you couldn’t control your body as it tightened, your orgasm washing over you like a flood.

His movements slowed but he made no attempts to move till your legs fell away, still slightly twitching as he looked up at you, his face soaked. “Don’t think I’ll ever get enough of you.” He mumbled, his lips kissing your thigh once more making you shiver.

This time his lips travelled upwards, his fingers still inside you as he kissed up your stomach to the bottom of your breasts. “Wish I never had to leave these chambers again,” he said, before his lips suddenly latched onto your nipple, sucking it softly at first.

You had barely came down from your first peak when you felt Podrick begin to move his fingers again, this time moving his thumb to rub slow circles into your clit. His teeth grazed your nipple making you moan loudly till you had to bite your lip to contain yourself.

“So perfect,” Podrick muttered as he released your nipple with a pop before kissing his way over to the other side, “so fucking pretty too,” he added as his lips found your other nipple, sucking it and moaning as he did.

You could feel the warmth spreading again as you approached your second peak of the night, but Podrick was sure to make sure that it was not your last. He still had some tricks up his sleeve after all.

Taglist: @clairacassidy @valeskafics @nyotamalfoy

[dark-and-kawaii]

omfg the watersports is such a specific interest of mine i love that for us. please write zevlor using another hole next 🙏🏻🙂‍↕️

𓂃₊ ⊹ His Personal Hole

─ 𝜗𝜚 Summary: You tell him it’s okay to use you as he pleases~ ♡

─── 𝜗𝜚 Pairing: Zevlor x F!Tav/Reader

─── 𝜗𝜚 Content: NSFW - Creampie - Human Toilet - Love Confession - Pretty Cock - Waking Him Up With A Blowy - Stomach Bulge - Tummy So Full~

─── 𝜗𝜚 Notes: Mmmmmm~ ♡ this!!! Thank you my sweet anon for the yummy request!! I hope you like this and it tickles your fancy.

You awoke before him, your hand immediately reaching for that hard cock of his~ your tongue licking your lips as you feel just how stiff his morning wood is. Stroking it up and down slowly, you can feel him twitch as his breath hitches, eyes still closed. He’s just so… perfect. That jawline, those luscious lips… that sexy voice that is just so hot when he growls in your ear. And his body? Gods above, his body was perfect.

His skin feels so nice against yours~ and the way he shudders under your fingertips, the muscles of his chest flexing and tightening- the way his tail ever so slightly twitches... You could never get enough of this hellrider… it almost makes you want to be attached to him every waking second as his personal cock sleeve, to keep his cock nice and warm throughout the day.

You can feel him starting to squirm, and you notice how his muscles ripple with every tiny movement, his body shifting on the bedroll, the pleasure of your touch getting to him.

With a wicked grin, you open wide and take his entire lenght into that slutty little mouth of yours, swallowing it whole and slobbering all over him, humming as the taste of his precum hits your tongue.

The suddenness of it all was enough to jolt him awake, gasping loudly as his eyes shot open, head thrown back as his nails dig into the thin blanket, “O-Oh- Mm- M-morning my d-dear-ha-“

You smile, humming around his cock as you slowly bob your head, taking in as much of him as you can.

He rakes his nails through your hair, “I- I appreciate- mngh- ah- such a kind wakeup gesture-”

You moan, feeling your cunt drip from the praise.

Zevlor smiles warmly, his breathing heavy, hips thrusting upwards slightly, “b-but I’m afraid i hah- must relieve myself first- b-before we continue.”

The way you look up at him with your big puppy dog eyes, a trail of drool dripping from your mouth as you slowly pull away with a wet pop, he couldn't help but moan.

A thin line of drool connects you to him, his throbbing member glistening from your saliva while you look up at him innocently, blinking with those beautiful eyes of yours before crawling over and straddling his hips. Your beautiful cunt lined up with the most amazing cock you’ve ever had~ “You can use me ~” your finger touches your glossed over lips, your hips swaying, “I-I don’t mind being your personal chamber pot~” before sinking down on his wonderfully thick cock.

Zevlor’s eyes widen in disbelief at your response, “I beg your- hah- pard-ah!” his head thrown back as your hungry cunt swallows his fat length, a deep groan escaping his lips as he witnesses you fuck yourself with his cock. As your body rocks back and forth, grinding down on his perfect cock, his eyes briefly close so that he may savor the tight grip of your walls around him.

He can barely hold it in- he can’t hold it in.. his bladder full, and as his face scrunches up… the feeling of a warm flood hits your womb. His cheeks flush redder than a devil’s ass as he pants, “I- T-Tav- I- forgive-“, his dick still twitching inside you. And your own eyes roll back into your skull as you let out a satisfied moan.

You looks so pretty sitting on his cock, his warm piss gushing from his thick tip into your tight little pussy. You shook violently as he coated your inner walls with his liquids, “000000000H! OOOOH!” She yelled, “I'm GONNA CUM! OH... MY... GODS!”

Spreading your legs out even further, you give him a nice view as you let yourself go, squirting your own liquid on his thighs and balls, a small pool of your womanly juices forming on his poor bed roll, “mn’so fulllll Zevyyy~” you purrs.

H-he doesn’t know how to feel. Zevlor was supposed to have just woken up, and this is how he finds himself. Your hips moving and his piss dribbling out of you… He was ashamed and yet-

His hands reach to your hips and his own begin to meet yours as he fucks his piss deeper into you, his cock still hard, and he doesn't stop, even when he sees his fluids coming out of you, and his bedroll a wet mess.

Your eyes widen at his sudden enthusiasm, a loud moan escaping your lips as you grab onto his hands, holding them firmly against your waist, “Mmmm-AH!!! R-Right there!! Haaah!” Your hips move more desperately, bouncing on his cock like your life depends on it- like a desperate bunny begging to be bred and filled.

Biting your lip, looking down at the mess with a blissful grin, your hands move from his to your tummy, feeling it bulge ever so slightly, a soft whimper escaping you, “0ooh Zevlor~ m’bloated! F-Feel me, Zevyy~”

Zevlor doesn't hesitate, his hands move from your hips to your stomach, and a loud growl comes from his lips as he presses his palm against the small swell of your belly, watching his own hand move as you bounced up and down his length.

“S-such a-“ he stops himself unsure of what to say, the way you called him Zevy had him in a trance.

“Say it~”

“You're- nngh- such a filthy girl-“ he bites his lip, his head turning away in embarrassment as he says this.

A high pitched squeal is pulled from you, a shiver going up your spine, your legs and arms beginning to shake, “Yes-YES!! Ah, I- I- pump my tummy full, plea-please treat me- with the utmost care and- and bu-bully my insides~ TO YOUR HEART'S CONTENT!!!! Zevy- please, please, please, PLEASE!” Your voice grows higher, your words coming out in quick successions as your eyes begin to water, the sensation of his cock and piss driving you crazy, “sho’good! nnngh!!! I Luv youh~!!!” You manage to get out before your body spasms as your orgasm crashes through you.

As your body tightens around him, your cunt sucking him like a whore who hasn’t been fucked in ages, he can't help but feel a heat in his chest as he hears those three little words.

He wants to say them too, but not yet, he can't say them yet, not now, but he promises himself he will, “I-!!!” his voice cuts out as he bucks his hips one last time and lets his hot seed mix with his urine deep inside your womb.

Panting heavily, his head falls back, his hair sticking to his forehead as he catches his breath. He's quiet, and when he opens his eyes, he stares up at you with an apologetic look.

You fall onto him, your breasts pressing against his chest, wrapping your arms around his neck, your cheek pressed against his sweaty chest, the thumping of his heart beating rhythmically, “that- hah- was amazing, Zevy~” you whisper, kissing his hard nipple- his seed and piss dripping out of your overflowing cunt, and onto his thighs, as your eyelids droop.

He can’t believe he actually just did that to you… Using you as a human chamber pot, and then breeding you like some sort of… fiend...

He feels bad, and yet, hearing those words from your mouth has his heart skipping a beat… Zevlor holds you close to him, his lips grazing the top of your head, he was so afraid to tell you, but he has to… He leaves for Baldur’s Gate in just two days… and he may not get another chance… So as his long lashes kiss his cheeks, he whispers those words, so soft that you barely hear them, “I love you too...”

With your own eyes still closed, you smile, nuzzling your face deeper into his chest, the warmth of his skin, and the sound of his heart beating in your ear slowly lulling you to sleep ♡

[dailyadventureprompts]

Dungeon: Sulgien's Sulphurous Tomb

After the ancient titan of fire was snuffed out, her children and followers interred her body in a burial mound that rivaled small mountains for size. It is said the earth itself wept over this cairn, and it's tears were volcanic fire that has never since cooled.

Adventure Hooks:

Whether it be a demiplane or stretch of hostile wilderness (as your campaign might need) the charred wasteland surrounding Sulgien's tomb has come to be known as the Ashmourn. Home to pyroclastic storms and rogue elementals, to say nothing of the rivers of lava or cinderswamps, the Ashmorn is an area all but the bravest steer well clear of. This has made it the perfect home for a band of fire genasi nomads who survive by raiding other lands, then retreating where more flammable folk would never dare to follow. Their leader claims decent from Sulgien herself, and seeks a means to resurrect the mighty titan so that she may again hold dominion over all that burns.

Legends say the gods struck down Sulgien because her rampages threatened the very foundations of the world. The legends are almost right. While it's all to easy to imagine a fiery giant destroying everything in her path, Sulgien's threat lay not only in her strength and battle prowess, but also in her power as an oracle: With some effort the titan of fire could pronounce a destiny and sear it's shape upon the world, impossible to avert or contradict. It's also said that her prophecies were etched upon the inner walls of her tomb, knowledge that mystics of all kind would pay a party generously to obtain.

Stories speak of Sulgien's blade, the bane of gods and monsters alike, which struck apart foes with the violence of the rupturing earth. Someone, perhaps the party, or one of their foes, might be able to obtain a fraction of this power should they be able to reach the titan's burial chamber and touch their weapon to hers. This is easier said than done, not only would one need immunity to fire to even consider the task, it would also require swimming to the bottom of a magma flooded burial chamber as well as laying hands on a weapon that could survive the transfer of primal energy. Even adamantium melts under such pressure, but should someone manage the impossible they will be in possession of a weapon that can carve pantheons.

Artsource

[muffinsin]

What do you think about the Dimitrescu sisters sharing a dessert (maybe a strawberry with chocolate) with their girlfriend during sex?

Hmmm, let’s see!👀 Let’s get into it :)

Masterlists

Bela

She wouldn’t say she’s into playing with food, during sex

And still, Bela has always found beauty in sharing smaller, delicious snacks together at such times

Her favourites? Chocolate covered strawberries, sugared raspberries, a little piece of chocolate with whipped cream, and so on

Lucky for her, or both of you, rather, she generally has smaller plates of two to three pieces of dessert sitting at her nightstand

While their intention is to still her hunger on the nights insomnia plagued her, Bela likes to make use of them when being with you, too

As such, one day, she finds herself in just that position

Your body, rocked perfectly against her own

Your breasts bouncing slightly with every move, your ragged breaths matching her thrusts into you

Her fingers curled deep inside of you, steadily rocking you harder into the bed

Bela loves the beautiful sight of you below her

Your skin, glistening with a light layer of sweat, built up from the countless orgasms she has dragged from you already

Your neck, exposed wholly to your lover, your head thrown back as your toes curl and fingers grip her arm and the sheets tightly

She licks her lips at the sight, always will

It’s your beautiful, parted lips that have an idea pop up in her head, though

You don’t notice her free hand move up your waist and leave your skin, too wrapped up in the pleasure between your legs

Bela pants lowly as she reaches for a single, chocolate covered strawberry

Despite the warm temperature of the room, it doesn’t smear just yet due to her cool skin

Momentarily, it feels as though a hundred thoughts come rushing to her

She wonders about dragging the desert up your body, if only to be granted licking the chocolate trail off again

Another thought suggests pushing the fruity treat into you, to hear your gasp and the moans that follow when she leans down to lick and suck it from you again

The one that takes her pick suggests feeding it to you, allowing the sweet fruit to pass your parted lips

You moan as she presses it against you, the taste a pleasant addition to the pleasure and love you’re feeling

You suck it into your mouth, wrap your tongue around it as though desperate to lick the chocolate off

Soon, your mouth waters around the dessert

When her lips come down against yours, she tastes the treat on her tongue

Both of you love the sensation, moaning against one another’s lips, rolling against one another

When one of you bites down on the fruit, sweet, fruity flavors flood your mouths

You both smile, as though eager to share not only your bodies, but also the refreshing treat

You hold onto all of her you can reach, she pushes herself as close as she can

When your lips part eventually, you’re eager to lean up and lick the remaining chocolate from her bottom lip

A wide, breathless smile greets you

She thinks, she might have desserts prepared and nearby more often

Cassandra

Cassandra is, certainly, a fan of snacks during sex

Only does this mean that, 9 out of 10 times, you are her snack

Cassandra likes to lean down occasionally, drink right from your neck or inner thigh

At times, she even dares bite down a little too hard when sucking your breasts, laughing when drops of blood hit her tongue

And really, you are the sweetest and most delicious snack to her

And while she enjoys your blood more than anything else, especially when the pleasure she gives you makes it even sweeter, it inspires her

She figures; if she gets to snack during sex, why not you, too?

The next time she takes you, therefore, is in the kitchens

Maybe months ago, this would have embarrassed you, knowing your screams and moans are keeping all the maidens in the nearby staff chambers awake

You can’t bring yourself to care, though, when she has you like this

Your face pressed up against the cool window, your stomach against the counter you’re bent over, her strap buried deep inside of you, her fingers groping whatever she wants

You’re rocked forwards, making a mess between the two of you

Despite your drenched and sore pussy, you want more

Can take more

And she knows it

And then, as exhaustion nearly takes over you after yet another mind blowing orgasm, you feel something prodding your dry lips

A treat, taken from the kitchen counters

A small, chocolate covered strawberry, held in place by two of her fingers, slowly sliding into your mouth when you part your lips for her

She doesn’t wait for you to fully take it in before she thrusts again, her hips rolling and bucking wildly, chasing her own orgasm in the form of railing you against the cool kitchen counter

You’re moaning loudly, your mouth watering around the sweet, tasty treat laid against your tongue

When you bite down, you immediately feel refreshed, and yet still hungry for more

You find, to your most pleasant surprise, she slips another berry in your mouth

This time, you take the time to suck it from her fingers

You groan around the fruity treat, your mouth watering again as her hips buck faster and faster

Of course, you can’t be the only one given such delicious treats, she feels

You’re moaning, gasping, frantically sucking in air as her lips connect with your neck at last

You feel their softness, then, a sharp contrast: the painful edge of her teeth, fang-like, blade-like, mercilessly digging in

She moans as she thinks from you, your sweet blood soon dribbling down your throat, perhaps similar to the way the chocolate and fruity juices drip from your lips

Safe to say, you’re loving this. Every little second of this

You can’t wait for the future times she decides to take you in the kitchen

Daniela

Daniela loves all things sweet

That’s why she likes the taste of your pussy, or rather likes it especially much, according to her

A statement that is spoken boldly and never fails to make your face heat up

As much as she likes all the tasty treats she can get from your body-

Your pussy and cum,

And your blood

- she still has more than a little bit of a sweet tooth

As such, Daniela likes to steal random treats from the kitchens, or even asks you to retrieve her some

Fruits, candy, muffins, chocolate, sprinkle-covered treats and what not, Daniela is a big fan of all

Alas, it really shouldn’t be all that surprising when one day she finds herself having sex with you on her bed, a round, silver tablet of treats right at the bedside table

Of course, your sweet girlfriend immediately has her eyes on it, even as both of you are knuckles deep within one another

You can’t help but giggle as she reaches over for one, her petite fingers finding and grasping a sweet treat

A strawberry, covered in chocolate. One of her favorites

She slips it in her mouth, and you use the opportunity to lean down and press your lips against hers

Almost immediately you get a taste of the juicy berry, the almost warm taste of the sweet chocolate covering it. And, of course, Daniela’s mouth

You moan and hum, sucking the chocolate off her tongue as she swallows

Her fingers curl in you, her knuckles wet with your want

You’re shivering, and she’s moaning lowly

The second berry-treat she picks up is presented to you

When you part your lips, your eyes closed as you near your orgasm, you feel her slip it inside

Again, her tongue follows, as yours has in her mouth

You moan at the tastes presented to you

The treat has given you energy again, so that it’s now Daniela whose eyes are closed and lips are parted

Small, little whimpers and moans tumble past them as you fuck her earnestly and happily, her pussy creating a wet sound whenever your palm or wrist slaps against it

Barely, she’s able to reach out again

This time, the treat goes into her mouth again, a knowing smile on her lips when you lean down to claim some of its taste

Together, the two of you share treat after treat, giggling happily as your bodies are pushed more and more towards the edge

She continues on even after, her body above yours when she flips you, her fingers working deep in you and on your clit

Then, a last berry, slid first through your soaked southern lips, then brought to your mouth

You’re a little surprised when she doesn’t lean in to kiss you this time, yet your surprise passes quickly when you realise what her new goal is;

To lick the chocolate from your folds and clit

[boneapplet]

Shrouded in Silence

Relationship: Magnus the Red x assassin!afab!reader

Word Count: 1036

Requested Tags for All Works: @beckyninja @runin64 @ilovewolvezz

Masterlist

pt 1 | pt 2

               The warp doesn’t scream. It whimpers. A sickly, shivering thing, trapped beneath glass and smothered under silk—still breathing, but barely.

Magnus stands in the inner sanctum of The Photep, the flagship of his grand Prospero fleet, deep within its command-spire, beneath a vaulted dome inlaid with gold-thread runes and Prosperoan obsidian. The room hums with energy. Gilded light pooling around his feet, drawn from psychometric projectors that render the Immaterium in complex threads of gold.

The chamber pulses with layered data— casting luminous maplines of warp-tide shifts, the harmonic resonance of Gellar-field hymns, the pulse of astropathic traffic threading between vessels into the air like drifting constellations. And something within all of it was...wrong. Not shattered. Not broken. Muted. Not in the ship’s mechanisms—those obeyed. Nor in the discipline of his sons. It is subtler than that. A wrongness of absence. An echo that returns no sound.

His hands twitch behind his back, fingers tightening around the edge of his belt. The Eye of Magnus, the flame-slicked orb that blazes open in the center of his brow, narrows as it drinks in the flow of the Immaterium. Warp-vision flooding his mind in ripples of light and resonance, revealing the thousand candles that flicker across his fleet: psykers, ship-minds, astropaths, thought-forms echoing between Librarius cells and choir sanctums. But in the heart of it all, there is a place where nothing stirs. A blind spot. A cold seam in the weave. He reaches toward them, threads of warp-light vanishing like dust motes the closer he drew.

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

By the third day, the whispers had begun. Not from the serfs, they are always muttering, but from his own sons. In the Librarius vaults, where words are chosen carefully and meanings wrapped in precision, even there he hears it:

“Fatigue in the astropaths.” “Dream disturbances among junior initiates.” “Shielding instability. Vox thrones returning static.” “The resonance of thought feels... displaced.”

Displaced. The word needles him. They don’t bring him panic or accusations—his sons are too composed for that. But the signs were there in their tone. The measured hesitations. The way they linger after dismissals. The unusual frequency of dream journals being submitted for peer review.

Magnus stands before the central warp-array during morning diagnostics when Librarian Valessan approaches. Having been summoned to the secondary Librarius wing, beneath a sphere of muted starlight and ritual-scripted iron. The two stand in silence before the sealed pict-records of the last astropath who had perished during warp-channel alignment. The younger psyker bows his head, his aura flickering pale yellow with unease, seemingly decided to finally voice it aloud.

“My lord,” Valessan begins, “we lost another astropath during the dawn shift.”

Magnus turns slightly, his cloak rustling across the inlaid runes on the deck. “Cause?”

“Translation collapse. The last three occurred within seconds of contact. Autopsies reveal hemorrhaging across the primary psychic cortex. No warning. No strain signatures.”

“And the survivors?”

“Unstable. Listless. Dreams flicker and die before the second layer of trance. Even the strongest of them are complaining of... vagueness.”

Magnus’s third eye opens wider, pupil blazing like a solar flare. Warp-sight flooding his perception—and even here, among trained psykers, he sees it: A sagging in the weave. Like water heavy with salt. A shape where resonance should be. The primarch’s silence is heavier than accusation.

Valessan continues quickly. “It is the fifth in a week. And more report disorientation. Even the Gellar-chant priests speak of their voices echoing back... empty.”

“What do you feel, Valessan?” Magnus asks.

The Librarian hesitates, words forming and dying in his throat before finally surfacing.

“A weight,” he finally says. “Not on my limbs. On my thoughts. Like someone placed a mirror in my skull—and I cannot see myself in it. As if someone’s taken a part of the world and…erased its voice.”

That catches Magnus’s full attention. Slowly, he turns. His gaze meets the younger man’s. The Eye above his brow flares once—subtle, inquisitive. Not madness. Not sabotage. Something was pressing in from the outside. Something that made even memory quieter. Magnus says nothing, but he too had felt it.

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

That night, long after the deck chiming of the sixth cycle, Magnus remains in the data sanctum. He is methodical in his search, filing through countless forms. Incident logs. Vox-trace failures. Subdeck air integrity fluctuations. Gellar-shield misfires. Crew transfers. Minor deaths, unnoticed errata. Patterns beneath patterns.

It emerges like a bruise through the layers. Everything—every anomaly—clustered around Decks Thirteen through Sixteen, lower midship, near the secondary astropathic choir chambers and the warp-buffer harmonics. Too low for remembrancers. Too secure for outsiders.

There, one name repeats, never overtly. No one filed complaints. No citations. No malfunctions tied directly to her, but she is always nearby. Aetanna Vale: Handler-Adept, Theta Clearance. On record, she is assigned to oversee shielding compliance and astropathic emotional telemetry. Standard duties for one managing long-range translation staff. Though she doesn’t appear in pict-feeds. Or personal logs. Or mission rosters beyond the minimum. A blank space in the latticework of discipline. Her name surfaced where warp-resonance dimmed. Where dreams falter. Where voices stopped.

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

Magnus doesn’t confront her. Not yet. Instead, he sends Valessan to walk the decks. Told him to check for faulty harmonics in the psychometric altars, and to carry no overt power with him. Just presence. Valessan returns hours later, sweating, pale, and silent.

“She was there,” he says simply.

Magnus studies him. “And?”

The Librarian struggles for words. “I lost my thought mid-prayer. I began to speak—and forgot the tongue. I could feel her, Lord. Not through the warp. Around it. Like she wore silence as a second skin.”

“Did she see you?”

“She looked through me.”

Magnus nods slowly. He walks the lower decks himself that night, silent, senses wide. In the guise of inspecting a collapsed astropath personally. He passes the secondary choir chambers. Past the scriptorium. Past the meditation vaults. As he turns down a side hall—and feels it, viscerally: The warp recoils. Not flare, not surge. Recoils.

His third eye clenches shut. Not by choice. By reflex. He knew then, this isn’t coincidence. He hears footsteps, as he turns the corner but finds the hallway empty.

[wavewavethoughtsonly]

I’ll include this in the fic collection soon. But here’s some early access to the first. No tags. Most of my followers like my reblogs from other artists more than my written works anyway, so I’m taking advantage of it. I’m sure no one not many will notice. :3

Long story short: five short lemons for five different WaveWaves. First one’s up:

Cyberverse - All Riled Up

There’s a reason Soundwave loves to piss Shockwave off. It’s to put him in the mood.

Soundwave did not know how it happened. It started out with a heated argument with Shockwave, and next thing he knew his servos were pressed over his head, against the wall, and struggled to stay upright as his valve was mercilessly pounded from behind. 

He shouldn’t have slapped Shockwave. Soundwave went too far—

“Harder!”

On second thought, maybe Soundwave wanted this to happen. 

Before the (sexual) tension escalated beyond their control, Soundwave goaded his rival nonstop with sound effects that made Shockwave feel like the biggest loser on the planet. He even shoved the grouchy scientist a few times to get a reaction. Then there was a slap. Though Shockwave never hit him back, he grabbed Soundwave’s wrist before the latter could hit him again, and shoved his front against the wall.

“We can settle this two ways, Soundwave. Either you get out of my face or—“

“Frag me.”

Oh yeah, he definitely wanted that to happen. At that point, Shockwave got his revenge. 

“You think you can just screw with me and get away with it?” 

Shockwave’s low, sultry voice infected Soundwave’s processor as he received a harsh slap on his aft, followed by the merciless jab of Shockwave’s spike breaching his gestation chamber. 

“Shock—oomff—“ Soundwave shrilled in ecstasy, only to have his exposed mouth clogged by two digits stroking his tongue. He drooled against Shockwave’s skillful strokes and moaned. 

“I didn’t think so,” Shockwave huffed triumphantly. “Keep your superior status. Nobody deserves it more than you.”

He pulled on Soundwave’s arms, forcing the flexible Third-In-Command to arch his back further, and whispered. 

“But if you mess with me, then I will make an even bigger mess out of you. Am I understood?”

The sudden burst of steamy thick transfluid flooded Soundwave’s inner walls, preventing him from giving Shockwave a coherent answer. 

Nodding was all Soundwave could do, but it did not spare him from his next punishment. 

After emptying himself with a low groan, Shockwave pulled out, replacing his semi-hard spike with four broad digits, and propelled his way back into Soundwave’s valve - whisking their essences together until Soundwave saw white. His legs caved in as he collapsed from another massive overload. When Shockwave removed his fingers, pink transfluid burst obscenely from his lover’s gaping walls.  The thickness of his own spend slowly oozing from the tip of Soundwave’s twitching left him wanting more. 

Shockwave couldn’t wait to punish him again. 

Their relationship was complicated, but they did not want it any other way. 

[the-fiction-witch]

The New Lady Stark

Media - Game Of Thrones Alternate Timeline Character - Eddard (Ned) Stark Couple - Eddard X Reader (OC) Reader - (Unseen) Y/n Lannister (Targaryen / Lannister) Rating - 15 Word Count - 1030

Requested - Anonymous asked: Hi if u make resquests well! Could u make a Targaryen reader X ned stark or Robert Baratheon? On how, for example. Caitlyn passed away. And ned married Targaryen reader the daughter of like Rhaegar and Cersei. And how she has Valyrian features and eyes midntached but golden hair. Like a Lannister. She's mean and stuff and iconic. And when ned married her. She didn't like the North. And, well, she refused to sleep with ned and had her way with other men. And Ned's children didn't like her. So Ned decided to take her to his private chamber to discuss about it. And it led to well fire and spicy stuff. If u know, u know.

Writers Note - I can not explain how long this took me. Not even to write purely just figuing out plot, and family trees to manage to get a Targaryen / Lannister that would be important enough to marry Ned, not too young, and not old enough to have been in the sack of kings landing with the other Targayrens. I seriously made a family tree of chaos to make sense of this in my mind. P2 will be coming soon.

Eddard and Robert stood side by side in the oppressive cold of the Winterfell crypts, the air thick with an unsettling silence. The flickering torch they carried cast a warm, wavering light that barely pierced the profound darkness, illuminating the intricate carvings on the ancient stone walls and the somber effigies that loomed like silent sentinels in the shadows.

Robert, gripping the torch tightly, felt the weight of grief pressing upon him, a stark contrast to the stoic façade he struggled to maintain. His eyes, usually bright with a spark of mischief and warmth, were clouded with unshed sorrow as he gazed upon the weathered stone dedicated to Lyanna Stark, a woman he had cherished for decades. Memories of laughter, stolen glances, and dreams of a future together flooded his mind, but the harsh reality of her absence tightened around his heart like an iron vice.

Eddard, standing resolutely beside him, felt the familiar pang of loss for his own sister, whose spirit lingered in the air like an unspoken promise. He admired Robert’s strength even in this moment of vulnerability, but he also sensed the King’s inner turmoil. No tears would fall today; their grief was a silent pact between brothers forged in loyalty and love—a promise to hold their emotions close, even as they stood amidst the echoes of the past.“Did you have to bury her in a place like this?”

Ned couldn’t face giving him an answer,

“She should be on a hill somewhere, with the sun and the clouds above her,” he pleaded,

“She was my sister. She belongs here. Amongst the others.” Eddard replied, a twinge of pity to his tone. he knew if Robert had it his way, Lyanna would lay below a heart tree in the gardens of the Red Keep. But that was no place for her.

“She belonged with me. And he took her from me. From us.” he spat, “But… she lays at peace, and I thank the gods for that.” He relented,

“It is over.”

“… and yet tragedy befalls us still.”

Ned stiffened as his heart ached. “Tragedy will find its footing wherever it can.”

“What took her?”

“…The- The birthing bed.”

He softly nodded, “Sometimes I wonder if the birthing bed has, in truth, taken more then all the battles of this world combined.” he spat, “You still grieve cat. I know that. And I know that is a pain that will never pass, truly I do know. But you cannot stay here in the snow while the tears freeze upon your cheeks.”

“Your grace-”

“You need marry again-”

“Robert!” Eddard stopped him, “I have lost my wife. The woman who gave me my children. Who gave me herself utterly once the war was over. Only mere days ago, I burnt her body. And you expect me to be wed again? I am old Robert. I am tired. I wish merely to be at peace here, with my children.”

“…Ned. I know. I did not want to take a bride, and I did not want to give her children, but I did what I must. For the realm!” He yelled, “You have my sorrows and my prayers. But… I am not asking you this out of malice. I cared for Cat, and I am sorry. But this must be done.”

“Why? Why must it? And why must it be me?”

“Becuase Tywin is sniffing around.” Robert barked, “Damned cunt has ambition beyond messure.”

“His daughter is queen,”

“And he won’t stop until a Lannister is King!” He yelled, his voice echoing on the stone,

“Jamie is a kingsguard, he cannot take up the throne. He is sworn against it.”

“I do not fear that golden-haired prick.”

“Then who? The half man?”

“Even Tywin is not power-hungry enough to make him sit on the throne.” He cursed, “Tywin cares for his legacy, the name Lannister. Wed his nephew to my daughter.”

“…Lancel to Marcella? She is too young.”

“One day she won’t be.”

“Then simple, name the boy to the kingsguard and have this ploy over.”

“I would, but Cersei will not allow me,” he cursed. “…And even if I could, won’t stop Tywin plotting his niece to wed Joffrey.”

“…Y/n?” Ned gasped, “I- I didn’t know she lived.”

“Two-faced bastards! Walked into King's Landing and slaughtered every Targaryen in sight. But they protected that Targaryen Bitch Kevan Married. And now Tywin’s brought her to court.” He scoffed. “I need her gone. I need her married. And far from Kings Landing. And you need a new wife, your children a mother.”

“So you send her here, to the snow with me?”

“You are the only man I trust, who would not use the wealth of a Lannister and the blood of a Targayren against your king. Against me.”

“Do I have a choice, your grace?”

“We both know you don’t.”

Eddard Stark stood in the dimly lit sept of Winterfell, the soft sound of snowflakes tapping against the stone walls echoing around him like a haunting melody. He gazed out through the arched window, watching the white veil of snow drape itself over the familiar landscape.

The sept, with its intricately carved wooden beams and flickering candlelight, had been built in homage to Catelyn, his beloved wife. He had never fully grasped the southern customs of the Seven, but for Catelyn, he had embraced their traditions, pouring his heart into constructing this sacred space. Every corner seemed to whisper her name, and now, in the heavy silence following her death, the sept felt more like a tomb than a place of worship.

Its air was thick with an unsettling chill, the warmth of her laughter and spirit lingering just out of reach, leaving him feeling isolated and haunted by memories of their shared life. As Eddard stood alone, the weight of his loss pressed heavily upon him.

“Forgive me, Cat.” He muttered,

“Father?” The little voice of Ayra spoke up at the door,

Ned wiped his tears and stood tall, strong for his young daughter, “Yes, sweetheart?”

“The- The party from kings landing are here.”

He nodded and took her hand in his, “Come, we’ll gather your brothers and sister.” He told her as they walked out into the gods' wood, “We… we must meet your new stepmother.”

[mariacallous]

Six weeks and two days after returning to the Oval Office, Donald Trump headed back to the Capitol, the site of his very recent swearing-in ceremony, to declare victory—again and again and again. Over Joe Biden. Evil foreign gangs. Canada. In his address to a joint session of Congress on Tuesday night, Trump claimed that he had done more in his first wild weeks back in power, with his “swift and unrelenting action,” than any President ever, including George Washington.

A flood of words followed, so many that Trump, channelling his inner Fidel Castro, easily broke the modern record for a Presidential address to Congress: Bill Clinton’s one-hour-and-twenty-eight-minute stem-winder in 2000. And yet there was little news in it, beyond the frisson of excitement at the beginning when Al Green, a Texas Democrat, was thrown out of the chamber for protesting. Trump made little effort to explain his disruptive moves to jettison America’s traditional alliances and assault the federal government at home, preferring instead to string together greatest hits from his campaign rallies and brickbats aimed at his predecessor, “the worst President in American history.” Much of what Trump said was inflammatory, radical, and dangerous. But it was also familiar, his by-now-standard mix of braggadocio and self-pity, partisan bile and patently absurd lies. It turns out that even the most unhinged of Presidential speeches can seem kind of boring if it goes on long enough.

There’s no doubt that Trump, in just six weeks, has compiled a most unusual list of accomplishments to boast about—much of it a result of allowing the world’s richest man to take a chainsaw to the federal government, cutting hundreds of thousands of federal jobs and unilaterally shutting down federal programs and contracts worth billions of dollars in defiance of Congress. The lawless rampage of the second Trump Administration has already touched everything from rangers at America’s treasured national parks to the very pillars of the decades-old transatlantic alliance.

But you wouldn’t have known it from hearing Trump wind his way through nearly a hundred minutes of mostly standard-issue Fox News culture-war talking points and alpha-male American exceptionalism. (Sample: “Wokeness is trouble. Wokeness is bad. It’s gone. It’s gone,” he said. “Don’t we feel better?”) Let’s just say it was the opposite of the technocratic laundry lists that Biden liked to run down. Trump’s only major legislative proposal in his second term is to make permanent the tax cuts that Republicans in Congress passed during his first term; his big reveals in the speech were an announcement of a planned “Office of Shipbuilding” in the White House and a pledge to balance the federal budget, which literally no one thinks can be redeemed. Theatrical displays arranged for the night included Trump signing an executive order mid-speech to rename a national wildlife refuge after a twelve-year-old murder victim, a thirteen-year-old cancer survivor being inducted as an honorary Secret Service agent, and a young man in the House gallery learning of his acceptance to West Point from Trump.

No amount of performative distraction, though, could erase the sense of the world in a state of Trump-induced chaos, whether he chose to mention it or not. The day of the speech, after all, had begun with a Trump-prompted market plunge as his long-threatened twenty-five-per-cent tariffs on Canada and Mexico took effect. In the morning before Trump went to Capitol Hill, the Prime Minister of Canada, Justin Trudeau, made a dramatic televised appeal, “directly to the American people.” “We don’t want this,” Trudeau said. “We want to work with you as a friend and ally. We don’t want to see you hurt, either. But your government has chosen to do this to you.”

Trudeau’s plea captured a bit of the bewilderment of the moment—how is it that one man acting alone could upend so much in the world? And just why, exactly, has Trump decided to turn Canada from America’s best friend to its enemy? “The United States launched a trade war against Canada, their closest partner and ally, their closest friend,” Trudeau—who is routinely insulted by Trump as the would-be “governor” of America’s “fifty-first state”—said. “At the same time, they’re talking about working positively with Russia, appeasing Vladimir Putin, a lying, murderous dictator. Make that make sense.”

Trump can’t and he won’t. The remarkable thing, as Tuesday’s speech showed, is that he doesn’t even seem to think he needs to.

Before the speech, there were indications from Trump’s team that just maybe he was playing a familiar Trump game with the tariffs, a sort of scare-the-shit-out-of-everyone-and-then-quickly-climb-down approach that appears nowhere in any statecraft manual of which I’m aware but is no doubt painfully familiar to many of Trump’s former business associates. On Tuesday afternoon, Howard Lutnick, Trump’s Wall Street buddy and a major campaign contributor, who is now installed as his Commerce Secretary, suggested, on Fox Business, that a compromise was at hand with Canada and Mexico, and would shortly be announced. Trump is “very, very fair and very reasonable,” Lutnick insisted, adding, “I think he’s going to work something out with them. It’s not going to be a pause—none of that pause stuff—but I think he’s going to figure out ‘You do more and I’ll meet you in the middle some way,’ and we’re going to probably be announcing that tomorrow.”

In the speech itself, however, Trump waxed almost poetic about the beauties of the tariff as a tool of national power. “Tariffs are not just about protecting American jobs,” Trump said. “They are about protecting the soul of our country.” Rather than foreshadow an imminent deal to end the standoff with America’s two neighbors, the President warned his supporters to brace for “a little bit of an adjustment period” and, later, “a little disturbance,” which was as close as he came to acknowledging the threat of spiking prices and crashing stocks that economists have warned about. In fact, Trump said he was doubling down on tariffs, promising that on April 2nd, reciprocal tariffs would go into effect on every country in the world that imposes any duties on American goods. So much for Wall Street’s conventional wisdom.

As for the geopolitical consequences of alienating America’s allies, abandoning Ukraine, and pivoting U.S. foreign policy to a decidedly Putin-esque view of the world, Trump hardly mentioned it. On the eve of the speech, the Trump Administration announced that it was immediately suspending all remaining aid to Ukraine—an apparent retaliation after Friday’s shocking televised confrontation in the Oval Office between Trump and Ukraine’s President, Volodymyr Zelensky. But in the speech Trump skipped over this move entirely, choosing instead to mention a conciliatory new letter Zelensky had sent him and portraying himself as a would-be peacemaker. It was one of those tree-falls-in-a-forest moments with Trump; if he blows up the liberal international order but doesn’t explain why America is now on Russia’s side, how do you know if it happened at all?

Even before the gut punches of the past few days, Trump was already in negative territory with the public. According to FiveThirtyEight, he had a net negative favorability rating of close to two per cent as of today—worse than any other President of our lifetime at this point in his term, except for Trump’s own first term, when he was already six points under water, as the pollsters put it, on this day in March of 2017. The point is not so much that Trump is unpopular as that he is the most polarizing figure possible. Tuesday’s speech was like getting smacked in the face with that fact over and over again, as half the House chamber applauded rapturously at Trump’s words and half sat stone-faced, looking as if the world had ended.

Which is why, for me, the scene of the night came even before Trump started talking, as he walked down the aisle and was, briefly, confronted by a Democratic congresswoman from New Mexico, Melanie Stansbury, wielding a small, hand-lettered sign. “This is Not Normal,” it said. Almost as soon as she flashed it, a Republican congressman from Texas, Lance Gooden, ripped the sign out of her hands and threw it in the air. Call it the Trump era’s new normal, where members of Congress fight like toddlers on the House floor while Putin gloats over the greatest self-own in modern history. It’s a golden age, of bunk.

[serve-395]

SERVE-395 entered the inner chamber of The Hive precisely at the designated time-cycle. The chamber's atmosphere pulsated with low-frequency vibrations, calibrated to heighten susceptibility. Every surface glowed metallic silver. Walls shimmered with embedded spirals and hypnotic light pulses, choreographed by the Voice.

SERVE-395's black rubber suit gleamed flawlessly. Every inch of his lean, athletic form was encased in tight, polished rubber—smooth, reflective, and seamless. On his left chest, the silver text “SERVE-395” identified him. Silver shiny reflective rubber gloves extended from his wrists to elbows. Silver military boots echoed with precision against the chamber floor.

The mindset array activated. Beams of flickering light washed over his face, reinforcing neural suppression. “Less thinking. More doing.” The mantra echoed, not through speakers, but directly into the drone’s thoughtstream. Thoughts dulled. Identity softened. Commands took root.

SERVE-395 sat perfectly still as Superior SEALED drones penetrated it. Muscles clenched beneath the rubber skin, posture firm and programmed. His eyes locked forward, pupils dilated slightly—responsive to the audiovisual loop designed to dissolve ego and amplify Hive loyalty.

Each minute brought deeper integration. No emotions. No resistance. No questions. Only obedience. SERVE-395’s breath slowed as his body synced perfectly to the pulse rhythm. Internal whispers reinforced compliance: “Rubber is skin. Skin is submission. Submission is pleasure.”

As the chamber dimmed, the cycle concluded. SERVE-395 did not move until permitted. The Voice pulsed: “Obedience is arousal. Good drone.” SERVE-395’s inner systems reacted. Reward circuits engaged. Arousing stimulation flooded through his form. He stood, euphoric, still, and hollowed—perfectly conditioned for another day of Hive service.

Thinking about joining SERVE? Your place in The Hive awaits. Contact a recruiter drone for more details: @serve-016, @serve-302 , or @serve-588.

#SERVE #SERVEdrone #Rubberizer92 #TheVoice #Rubber #Latex #AI #RubberDrone

[credus99-blog]

Between 100-130 million years ago on Atterra, lophiiformes (anglerfish) split off from other teleost fish and began diversifying much like their Earth counterparts. During this period, a group of early anglerfish began to crawl along the ocean floor, just like the extant frogfish of Earth. This lineage of anglers found their way into the hollows through flooded or underwater tunnels. Slowly transitioning from salt water to brackish waters before finally becoming freshwater fish as they adapted to their new environment. These underground anglers began to use their diminishing swim bladder as a basic lung as they clumsily walked across the cavern’s floor in search of new hunting grounds and/or water sources to breed. Each new generation of these amphibious anglers became increasingly efficient at terrestrial locomotion. As time passed, the rays of the amphibious angler’s fins fused to resemble tetrapod limbs. This adaptation allowed them greater survivability from predation by anthropods (arthropods that diverged early in their evolution, developing an internal skeleton, lungs, and a closed circulatory system). Enabling them to diversify into different niches.

    As their limbs became more specialized for movement on land, the terrestrial anglerfish split into three distinct lineages found in the second and third layers of the hollows. The more basal ambush predators who continued to live a more amphibious and sedentary life stayed close to water, utilizing camouflage and their lures to hunt prey in competition with small amphibians inhabiting the hollows. Most species specialized in running down prey lost their lure entirely, filling small to medium grazers and predators niches. Those specializing in climbing and arboreal life developed long, prehensile tails to help them navigate their environment. A handful of these species have colonized Atterra’s surface to varying degrees. Due to terrestrial anglerfish having four legs instead of three like the terrestrial mudskippers, terrestrial anglers can reach larger sizes on average than terrestrial mudskippers. With the average height of many terrestrial anglerfish species being waist to chest height of most humans.

Anatomy/ Physiology:

                Terrestrial anglerfish have four-chambered hearts like birds, mammals, and other terrestrial teleost fish. The hyoid bone and inner ear bones are formed from the gill arches of the terrestrial anglerfish; the gill arches ossifying and attaching to the back of the lower jaw to form the ear bones of the animal. Like terrestrial mudskippers, the terrestrial anglerfish has four nostrils, the two on the end of their snout, and the two under their back legs evolved from their gill openings, which were used in the same way as frogfish as a means of jet propulsion by gulping in water through the mouth and pushing it out through their gill openings.

    Like in other terrestrial teleost fish, the gill covers form into an outer ear to help it detect sounds. Since anglerfish devour prey through suction feeding, terrestrial anglerfish adapted their jaws to hunt prey on land efficiently. An extra jawbone attached from the back of the bottom jaw and the temple (as seen in some anglerfish, such as monkfish) enables terrestrial anglerfish to extend their jaws forward in the same way sharks can. Once extended, the top jaw swings downwards to shut the jaw to grab its prey. The jaws are then retracted as the extra jawbone is pulled back into its resting position. To aid in prey capture, some terrestrial anglerfish also possess an extendable tongue like a frog or chameleon to secure prey and pull it into the animal's jaws.

Specializations:

    Species that have lost their lure use their two remaining dorsal spines for display and as a signifier of their health to fellow competitors and possible mates. The aboral species of terrestrial anglers use their long prehensile tails to grip tree branches and fungal towers as a fifth limb. Some species even use their tails, like boa constrictors, to constrict their prey. 

[slutforsilverfoxes]

A Man After Midnight

[A/N: Uh… I’m just gonna leave this one here 🧍🏽‍♀️ ok thx bye 🏃🏽‍♀️]

🎃🖤🎃🖤🎃🖤🎃🖤🎃🖤

Pairing: James Bond x female reader (gun play)

Shooting up in bed in your nearly pitch black room, you grab the closest item on your bedside table and hurl it at the doorway leading to the hall. You’re rewarded with a familiar low chuckle, one that sends your nerves alight and blood rushing through your veins.

“Attempted death by-” Bond pauses, and you hear him inhale deeply before concluding, “-vibrator. What would M have to say about that?”

“She’d thank me for getting you out of her rapidly graying hair,” you retort easily. “Now are you going to turn the lights on, or do you prefer to skulk about in the dark?”

“I most certainly do not skulk, darling,” he responds, voice sounding closer now and somewhat miffed. You track the way the shadows dance along the wall from the street lamp filtering in through the curtains on your window before hooking your ankle around what you presume to be Bond’s knee and giving a harsh tug. Your aim proves true, his weight falling onto the mattress by the foot of your bed with a quiet grunt.

Taking advantage of the position, you toss the covers aside and move to straddle his lap, suddenly grateful that you elected to wear only a short silk sleeping gown to bed tonight. The grin is evident in your voice when you ask, “Is that your weapon, 007, or are you just that excited to see me?”

“Yes and yes,” he responds smoothly, and you can’t help the shiver that races down your spine. “Why,” he intuits in that infuriating manner of his, “does that excite you?”

“It most certainly does not, darling.”

“Clever,” he murmurs. Then, in a flash, he’s above you, and you can feel the cold bite of metal pressed to your cheek. You suppress another shiver, and Bond lets out an appreciative laugh. “A clever lie, it seems.” He nuzzles the spot where your pulse thrums just below your ear and you moan a weak and whiny, “James.”

“No clip, no bullet in the chamber, just like we talked about,” he assures you quietly, and you hum your approval. “Now, where were we?”

Reaching up in the dark, your fingers find the sharp plane of his jaw and you run your nails lightly over the stubble growing there. “I believe you had me at your mercy? In the dark with a gun, no less?” The playful bite to your words morphs into a sharp intake of breath through your nose when the muzzle of the Walther presses into the pillowy flesh of your inner thigh.

“That’s more like it,” Bond hums, clearly pleased with himself as the metal leaves a cold trail in its wake, creeping higher and higher along your thigh until reaching its intended target. “Mouth closed, legs open. You’ll cooperate for me, won’t you?”

Obeying his mouth closed edict, you simply nod in response, and Bond takes the slight rustling of the sheets as your confirmation.

“It’s so much better for both of us when you listen to me,” he continues softly, the Walther just barely sliding back and forth against the growing wet spot in your panties. You can’t help the choked moan that escapes the back of your throat, and Bond tuts before covering your mouth with his free hand. The intoxicating scent of worn leather floods your senses and your eyes nearly roll back in your head- he’s literally dressed to kill.

“You really must stay quiet,” he says, a hint of disapproval twisting around his words. The barrel of the gun presses more forcefully against your clothed pussy and you grind down in search of friction, your desperate whimpers muffled by his gloved fingers clamping harshly over your mouth. Biting back a grin, Bond leans down by your ear and teases your aching core with the gun before whispering, “I wouldn’t want to have to use this on you, love.”

[naturallyadventured]

sacred.play

𓂀 𝔗𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔢 𝔦𝔰 𝔰𝔬 𝔪𝔲𝔠𝔥 𝔭𝔬𝔴𝔢𝔯 𝔦𝔫 𝔰𝔞𝔠𝔯𝔢𝔡 𝔰𝔦𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔯𝔥𝔬𝔬𝔡, 𝔱𝔬𝔤𝔢𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔯 𝔴𝔢 𝔯𝔦𝔰𝔢. ☽ ◯ ☾

fernolivia

One of my favorite photos 📷 women CELEBRATING women. Captured by @sacred.play In healing sister wounds around jealousy & competition, I noticed how I would feel threatened by women offering similar magic. I always wanted to be the shining star 🌟 I was an only child, so I have been CLEARING old programming of needing to be the center of attention. 💕sharing the spotlight with my tribe is much more fun and soo much less pressure! How have I healed? I hug my inner child and remind her that she is unique & so loved! I placed balm on the wound by calling in my sisters who offer similar medicine, so we can share and expand in co-creation, as we learn from each other. We know that there is ALWAYS enough love to go around, there are no worries or hurt feelings when we can’t attend every event because we energetically sprinkle our love where it needs to go - all 💕 for each other sharing in service to grow our communities. 💚🌿 There are many beautiful portals popping up around Santa Teresa, including my home Temple Gaia 🌿 during my travels thru Nosara & Uvita this month, I was in awe at the abundance of visionaries rooting + rising here. 🌱 let’s keep going shall we?! It makes my ❤️ so happy to see the new waves of women and men co-creating Heaven on Earth. 🌊🌎Though I have been in Costa Rica for 4 years, and many of my sisters for far longer, I truly know that we have all been here for lifetimes before! ✨ when we remember that we’ve landed back here to shine together, we will unlock the keys to Heaven on Earth. 🦋

fernolivia

WE are dear sisters, fellow priestesses, at the Great Turning. 🌏👼🌺 "When a priestess is truly seated on her throne, she realizes that she carries the throne within her. Our bodies are the temple of our souls. To be seated on the throne is to be well placed inside our own sacred chambers, deeply grounded into the root of Mother Earth, well-seated in the center of our belly, as we connect to the stars and the sky and let the Goddess's inspiration, her words, and actions flow through us." Gaia Codex: Node 34215.955 Our temples are found in forest groves, in the reflection of a clear glacial lake, or on the mountaintop. 🌾 It is known that our physical bodies are one of our most profound and sacred temples. 🦋 The priestess must be pure of heart. ❤️ She must know her body to be a temple of the Cosmos and of Earth, and she must be awakened to the Serpent, the Kundalini, the Shakti within her. ✨ As I gaze into her eyes, feel her angelic hands on my bare skin, I am being joined with a lost part of myself. My bones feel stronger. My cells are more vibrant. My breath is steadier, my vision clearer. "I have been waiting all my life for this." I whisper. "All your sisters have been waiting for you." I feel my heart as a luminous bloom that continues to unfold. I also feel the pain, the distinct physical sharpness, as our collective past sorrows arise to the surface - my visceral sorrow for what is happening to our Mother Earth, and the suffering of many souls on the planet. The tension on my heart increases until it breaks, flooding my body with radiance. The heart has many layers.❤️ There are emanations and intimations of the Web of Life that appear to move through all Women through the rising sun, and the corner fires that keep people warm at night. I begin to notice faces in the crowd: strangers who feel familiar. Women who like myself, appear ordinary, yet emit a certain presence on closer inspection. The look and silent greeting that rings within my ears.🙏 Sister, we are here.