#I say this since she's incapable of even understanding a hierarchy that's not based on rule of the strong

[empyreal-lore]

The more I think about the political opinions of the Wrath companions the more I realise Arueshalae would end up having the best ones out of anyone and probably one of the closest things to a anarcho-communist you can get in that kind setting.

[mimithings97]

Champagne, Chandeliers, and Thigh High Slits (M) - KTH

Based on my Drabbles Game!!!

Summary: Taehyung loves expensive things. Taehyung loves expensive things on you even more. But his undeniable favourite thing is corrupting you, filthily and wholly. Based on the anonymous drabble requests:

     #9 “here, lemme clean you up”

     #13 “there? you want it there?”

Genre: Smut, Fluff, Marriage and Babies

Warnings: Unprotected sex, Mentions of conception, Fingering, Anal Play (m. receiving), Alcohol consumption, Licking, Dry Humping, Taehyung worshipping his wife, Taehyung worshipping babies

Taehyung had voiced his concern about the slit in your dress. A concern over how many eyes other than his would ogle the sensitive part of your leg he wish he had left a mark on last night. A little more concern about the fact that among the tuxedos and floor length gowns, the chandeliers and the champagne, among his prestigious colleagues - all of whom thought highly of him, for that matter - that his own black slacks didn’t have the sufficient protection for how his dick was god-forbiddingly hard. And he had an impressive length to say the least. 

But maybe, in hindsight, he enjoyed it. Fuck, no, he knew he enjoyed it or he wouldn’t have gone commando tonight. He wouldn’t be standing on the covered side of you, because maybe, just maybe, he wanted these fuckers to ogle. You’re a temptress, but there’s only one person who’s taking the dress off you tonight and that constant reminder leaves him shuffling in his seat and rearranging. 

“Who’s that?” You had that alluring kind of silk in your voice. But it was natural, a natural soft spoken way to you that was like a siren call and no matter the situation, the place, the time, the appropriateness, he’d drop all there is in that moment to hear you out. A temptress indeed. 

“Who’s who, babe?” He follows the direction you nod, expensive table arrangements marring his view, but not enough that the red hair of the woman opposite the both of you isn’t visible. 

“The woman next to Kang, red hair, black dress.” He watches the way you eye her. But it’s easy to be distracted by you. The other woman’s red hair does nothing to rival how red looks on your lips. Your sinful lips. His eyes could trace all day the way they smile, his lips could feel all day the way they move, his dick could stay hard all day the way they work over him in the privacy of each other’s company. 

“She’s stunning.” And he’s lost. Stunningly lost in you as all the ricochets of golden light fall onto you and your form and your hair and your chest. 

“Mmm, yeah, stunning.” But he doesn’t mean it in the way of his bosses girlfriend with the red hair. He means it in the way of his own wife, the subject of all his compliments and all his adoration. You know that enough that when you look at him there is no zeal to your expression, no jealousy contorting your brow, just an equally unspoken trust. That and love. 

“I probably should’ve worn black. I feel spoilt by the way I’m being looked at.” 

His eyes flit to the gleam of your breasts.

“Gold suits you and they know it.”

“And you?” A hand unconsciously finds yours under the table, fingers dangling through one anothers, “Do you know it?”

He almost laughs under his breath at the notion you had no effect on him, but his eyes cast down fast to that slit once again, honey skin trailing just underneath the gold that hides your modesty. The higher his eyes go, the more they drink you in, the harder his grip becomes in your hand. His fingers don’t play anymore, because they have a destination, dragging your palm in and over the black of his trousers and onto his boner. He’d moan if you weren’t looking so damn pleased with yourself. 

“Of course I know it.”

“How much?” 

“Y/N-”

“This much?” You’re hands are no longer delicate. They’re firm, they’re bold and they wrap around his shape with ease because of the way he skipped his underwear tonight. He doesn’t know whether it was the best idea he’s ever had or whether he’s going to cum in three seconds and lose business with the regulars he rented tuxes from.

Taehyung finds himself devoid from the reality of where he is. There’s little hope of his catching up on pleasantries with those around the table anyways, not when they all knew he was here for you and you only. To show you off, to dress you up, to have you defile him in front of his coworkers. It’s what he wanted and it’s where is now, groaning and fluttering his eyelids. 

“Refill ma’am?” Your hand quickly slots away and finds purchase in his palm again. Innocent. Less explicit kind of territory. 

The waiter stands guarded behind you, bottle, half full and brandished in one hand whilst the other nestles behind his back. Taehyung never understood shit like this. Just slouch, pour her champagne and fuck off. He understands it even less when you’re nod ensues the man to place a bold hand on the back of your chair, to lean over you with little discrepancy and allow his eyes to drift further into your cleavage than even Taehyung himself has seen tonight. 

And then he fucks it.

“Shit- I me- ma’am I’m so sorry,” he’s frantic, retracting his hands and his eyes and dares to grab your napkin as if he’s going to pat down your thigh as an apology. 

“It’s ok-”

He knows you won’t fend the waiter off himself, so he speaks up.

“Mate, it’s good, we got this.”

Taehyung wasn’t a dick, in fact he prided himself on his patience and his ability to keep anger at bay. So, he won’t have a fit for the waiter with both eyes for his wife and hands incapable of pouring champagne correctly. Maybe he’ll even thank him, when he gets to lick it off you later.

“Sir, I’m sorry.”

“Honestly, we’re good.” It’s Taehyung’s way of saying fuck off, and he knows you’re thankful for not making any more of a scene, because you hate confrontation. You’re too kind to the world and he loves that. 

He might just love even more, though, the fact that from thigh to ankle, you’re wet with spilt liquid. Tanned skin gleaming from where the champagne fell. 

“I guess someone didn’t like the gold.” You pat yourself, napkin soaking up what isn’t in you glass, but smiling all the same. 

“Baby,” Taehyung deadpans, “I think he liked the gold a little too much.”

He watches you’re attempted salvage job, but the dress is silk, expesive and made of silk and the marks beginning to spread through the material don’t seem to be recovering. 

“Well shit, I’m gonna run to the bathroom, see if I can do something about this.”

But Taehyung is up before you, pulling the napkin out of your hands and taking one hand for himself. You’d expect him to excuse you from the table but the conversations are clearly more exciting than your spectacle with the way no one passes you a look of curiosity. It’s enough to garner you following him, a little urgent, but it makes you smile unabashed. 

Rich had never been your thing, but Taehyung said rich suited you. The attention it sought for, the way it brought hierarchy, you hated it. Except, your husband loves how it looks on you. Specifically, the way your curves adorn gold Dior, under the expensive lights of a bathroom and with the even more expensive glimmer of a diamond on your finger. 

He presses a kiss to it, the cold of the band next to the heat of your finger. 

“Tae.” 

His tongue purchases on it’s underside now, striping up it with his tongue, and fuck, you taste of champagne and his cologne. 

“Tae.”

“Here,” he sits you on the marble counter, trusting in the expensiveness of the venue to make this place clean. You’re dress is the next thing lifted, the slit allowing an opportunity for his coarse fingers to run trails between your thighs. “Lemme clean you up.”

You’re in a bathroom, with a perfectly good and working sink to your left, towels on a rail in the corner, but your husband never had a way of making things easy. His methods were a little more… adventurous.

So he’s careful, but strong with his tongue, and you’re soft but fucking delicious in his mouth. 

“Taee,” it makes him harder when you say it like that. So he continues his job, tasting your skin in all it’s wet glory and letting his hands draft into yours on the counter. He wants to take it slow and drain you of your ability to hold back your pleading, but he’s wanted you since the taxi journey here, and he fears he’s gonna be the one begging if he doesn’t get your pussy soon. 

“Where d’you want me baby?”

“There,” you’re quick to move you’re entwined hands to between you legs, moulding his fingers in a way he knows you want them deep and you want them there quick. So he pulls the thin fabric aside, silk also, gold also, and he really wants to moan to you about your golden pussy. But you moan for him instead. 

“There? You want it there?” He’s still on his haunches, under you as though he’s worshipping, and fuck, he might just be, with the way you’ve let you hair down from its up-do and the shoulder of your dress slip south. He plays with your entrance, whilst mapping your body with his eyes, gauging your reaction even though he knows exactly where and how you like it. 

“Mmm,” but he stands to kiss you when you bite your lip. 

Your knees meets his crotch and it’s enough to have him pull away his index from it’s circling and plunge two fingers inside you. And you’re warm and ready. But not ready enough to stop the moan. 

“Tell me you like it.” Faster and harder, but you bite your lip again. 

“Fuck.”

“You like it when I fuck you with my fingers?” 

He’s answered by a clunk when you’re head hits the mirror behind you, your hand now the only thing stopping you from your screams of guilt. Taehyung won’t have it, though. He won’t have you bite into your soft palm and he won’t have your moans muffled. Not when he feels like he could cum himself as he angles his hips to your outstretched leg. 

He now congratulates himself on the lack of boxers, because fuck he’s hard, and fuck is friction good. 

Taehyung, since meeting you has taught himself to be harsh with words, mumbling in his sexed state all the pure dirt he could, because he could never be harsh on your body. Sometimes you’d use it to your advantage and have you way with him, rough, unadultered, so he was yours entirely. But sometimes you just liked the way he was slow with you. Finding every place in your body that had your head thrown back like it was now, your body moving on it’s own because you want more, more and so much fucking more. And in these moments when he strings your body like a harp, all he wants is for you to tell him you love him. Call you both soft, but Taehyung has a way of turning filthy moan into a serenading song. 

So he pleads.

“Tell me, baby. I need it” 

Without much thought, your palm is released from it’s vice in your mouth and it finds the back of his neck, so confessions can be whispered or whimpered closer.

“Fuck, I love it Tae. So good, so fucking good.”

“Yeah?”

His thumb finds your clit and it’s not shy in the pressure it exerts. Neither are his fingers. Neither is his stare. Because he no longer seeks out the approval for his actions in your eyes, but watches, hungry, ravenous, at the way your pussy eats his fingers, attached and wet. So fucking wet.  

The sight is enough to make a man expire. And whilst the trousers he adorns are cheap, they still have to be handed back to the rental. So, no, he’s not cumming in his pants tonight. 

“Taee,” your whine is breathy but high and pleading enough he’s fast in undoing his zipper and faster at finding his length, especially without the barrier of another layer of clothing. He’ll pat himself on the back later for sure, but right now, his wife is still writhing, on the brink and pussy in full view along with the taste of champagne. 

“I’ve got you, Y/N, fuck,” hard and desperate, and it’s clear from him tone of voice. But he also can’t feign his love for your lips on his when you pull him in. It’s not rough, but it’s not gentle. It’s soft yet loaded. It’s memory muscle and tongue intertwined with tongue, because he loves your lips and knows how to savour them. 

“I’m so hard, baby, please.” 

You shuffle forwards as an invitation, heels wrapped to his thighs and he feels you wet against his tip now. But he doesn’t enter because your hand meets his abdomen, a soft demand that causes him to wait, despite the pulsing. 

“Tae.”

“Mmm,” your lips are touching, breathing together, so close from him being inside you that his tongue swipes your lip subconsciously.

“I did something yesterday.” 

It’s enough of a loaded statement to garner the tensing of his abs. 

“Okayy?”

“You’ve been speaking about something recently and it had me thinking.” You sound breathy and nervous, and he mirrors the sentiment of that, because he hates when you’re scared. “You just have to know before we do this... in case.”

“You’re being cryptic.”

Yet you smile, and maybe Taehyung should be at ease but he’s not.

“Tae?”

“Mmm,” he repeats.

“I had the doctor take out my IUD. I didn’t want it anymore when we spoke to your mum about it the other day.” He stays tense, shell shocked, and wants to speak up but the mouth runs dry at the most inappropriate times. “Baby, is this what you want?”

And he scoffs, maybe laughs, maybe he’s crying, he’s not sure but he’s so far in your embrace and in your words that he nods. 

“I’m not ovulating, and it might take some time, but I wanted to give it a go and-”

“Oh my god, I want this so bad.” He kisses you once, then again, and then keeps doing it until he pushes inside of you. It’s relieving to his biology but it’s 2 years of marriage, love, companionship, friendship, and waiting, mostly waiting, that has him moaning once he’s inside you. It’s a courtship, a proposal, a wedding, it’s the living together, talking about getting a dog, getting a dog, talking about babies, and now… fuck... trying for babies. 

It’s the only thing he’s ever wanted on parallel to you. 

So he kisses you again. 

“Holy shit do I love you.”

You laugh and moan and laugh and moan again. He’s lodged far in you, struggling to find a rhythm from the way you tighten at each gleeful exhale. 

“Baby, please relax, so I don’t cum straight away. Please.” 

It’s hard to, though. Relax, that is. The prospect of the future paints over the lustful feeling of sex, and brings a nervous excitement, something that makes you smile and then moan and then smile and then moan. 

“Y/N, fuck, hold up a little for me.” 

But you don’t let him pull out to slow his movements down, the angle allowing your hands to reach his buttocks, push him into you, your hips an angle that you can cant up into him and you lips around his so you can moan and he can moan together. 

“Tae.”

“Mmm. Fuck.”

You gasp. “There.”

“There?” 

He hits it again, so you repeat yourself over and over. And then one of your thumbs finds his rim, it’s raw and dry and painful, but nothing is going to detach him from your movements. He finds pleasure it instead, becoming the one calling out to you.

“Fuck Y/N, keep going. I have to cum. I need to cum.”

“There?” His own words spoken back to him, but he confirms with a moan, a cry, even, and a piston to his hips like he has never had before. 

“Tae, I’ll cum.”

You’re pulsing around him, and you’re also deep inside him behind, his own thrusts helping in the way of your finger sinking beneath the rimmed skin. And it’s all at once that it builds, hard enough for him to choke and have his neck fall limp on your shoulder. 

“Urghh- baby please- I- fuck.” 

“Cum hard for me.”

It’s the words, the implications of the words, and the feeling of you cumming around him that sets every fibre of his body on the hottest fire he’s ever experienced. 

“Don’t stop.” But it’s him telling you. Telling you not to stop cumming because he wants you in an equal and better euphoria to him. 

“Ahh,” he still fights through thrusts.

“I’m still cumming, fuckkk.” 

He’s quaking, knees tired and teeth close to drawing blood on your shoulder. It scares him he almost hurt you so once his balls are empty his teeth release and make way for his lips, soothing on the burn of your skin. 

The reality of earth falls quick and hard around both of you, and there’s no such thing as post orgasm when all Tae can think about is his cum. In you. Deep. And without a barrier. 

“Y/N, what the fuck.”

“I know, I’ve never cum so hard.”

“You’re serious that you could be pregnant. Right now. Like right now, right now.”

Your eyes gleam, a little embarrassed but mostly trying to find the sentiment behind his reaction. You know this is what he wants, wholeheartedly, and fully, but it’s still a scary thought that children in a marriage can spell rejection. 

“Yeh. The doctor said a low chance, but it’s still a chance.”

He’s still inside you, and still a little hard at that. But he squeals, unadulteredly squeals and embraces you. 

“Don’t care. I’ll fuck you now, later, tomorrow morning, tomorrow afternoon,” his eyes glint with salty water and you’re smiling too much that yours do too, “imma get you pregnant and we’ll come back next Christmas, with a better dress, that’s even shinier, so every can see you, and our baby, and oh my fuck! Do you know how happy you make me?”

You let him monologue, find his inner happiness in his scenario, because maybe it won’t be a scenario at all. Maybe he’s yours. But just, now, in the shared sense of the word.

[gingerftmnerd]

Gods and Mentality: A Comedy From Trechury by Hermes

There are days where I feel fortunate to witness the tides of time wash over mortals whilst it only covers my feet. I am Hermes, god of greek myth, messenger, master of speed, truth, and yes, my legs sprout wings. 

Piercings of aged gold run along the humerus and ulna of each wing,  swirls of smoke from the soot of tartarus are bestrewn across the inner vane, bandaged by ripped tunic pieces of the fallen. ******** Zeus. The blueprint to the silver daddy. Hair like the wisp of a cloud in a thunderstorm, beard down to his collar, curled and shapen, muscled like marble at 6’2, went mad with power from an unknown source of pure magic; unable to differentiate friend from foe. As I was near to piercing his heart with my spear end of Caduceus inthralld in despair, Zeus fell to his knees with grief and shame. The purple black glow from his eyes started to fade, vowing to use the last of his new found powers to create gems linked to portals between worlds. As well as the given ability to pass on our gifts and mantle to anyone we deemed capable of such a grand responsibility. This would ensure the capability of creating portals to different realms in which to trap the remaining Titans, and seal them off, but to also control the comings and goings between realms of god and man. The only ones to have kept their place in Olympus, would be myself, Zeus, Poseidon, Hades, Persephone, Artemis, Apollo and Diyonisis. It is unknown what happened to Hera, she disappeared after the titans attack on Elysium, 1 year to the day post Titanomachy. The rest either got killed in the battle or by Zeus’ rage. The rest of the survivors retired and passed their powers unto an unsuspecting mortal. Athena managed to find someone of her own decent to pass it on to. Apollo only shows himself when he is needed most, otherwise he stays in the sky (like a bitch); location unknown. 

Aphrodite never divulged what had really happened, but the one and only seductress passed her prowess and assets to a young woman of curvacious colour. To whome I share ownership with to a queer burlesque variety club made out of an old opera house, in Paris, France. I couldn’t imagine the thoughts rushing through the minds of those that chose not to pass on their mantle. To choose the end of one’s legacy is a strange thing, but thinking about it now, I understand. There are days where I would love to give it all up and retire, age gracefully with a fat husky, and a dog. I saw the universe at It’s earliest stages. I’ve met or bedded the brightest minds in the arts, sciences, and ever growing society that is the human race. I have my muses stationed all over the world, Ariana, Celine, Lizzo, Pink, you name it. My own Charlies Angels network if you will. Elizabeth would never admit it, but she got the revamp idea from me. (Zeus doesn’t have to know.) Why else do you think women are dominating the music industry these days? All me with a pinch of Aphrodite. She does like a woman with curves. ******** {Athena} “I can’t help but notice the spark in your eyes is fleeting Hermes” {Hermes} “ I believe that spark you used to see was merely an accident. I wouldn’t dream of showing my hand in that of happiness or hope in this dreary world. Politicians played by children, musicians that have no business calling themselves such things, and Instagram is the new body cache” {Athena} “My apologies my lord, I hath not gleaned at the power of your omnipotence to be masked by such millennial trifles” {Hermes} “Firstly, how dare you? Secondly, f*** you” {Athena} “That position has already been filled by those of the female persuasion, my dear” {Hermes} “Well excuse me, greek goddess of myth, war, strategy, compassion and newly added love for strictly vaginas”

{Athena} “Damn right I am!” *Taking a drag out of a well cut and packed cigar* {Hermes} “It is prudent to remember that no one knows who you really are, it may be best to find a front of an occupation. For example, I run a popular european night club, as one does. Even angels have been known to create their own version of heaven on earth from time to time.” {Athena} “I suppose” {Hermes} “Gods like Zeus, Hera, and even Hades refused to deal with such mortal based existences. However, to keep a semblance of order on this plain, it’s best we don’t arouse any suspicion of the court” {Athena} “The court?” {Hermes} “ Ah, yes, she never told you did she? The Court, is a group of over ambitious myth busters of the supernatural occult, magic, gods and monsters, etc etc” “From the first to current leader, they’ve been trying to expose me and the others, as a ‘malevolent god, hungry for power and human enslavement like in the days of old!” {Athena} “That sounds stupid” {Hermes} “Yes. But they exist none-the-less” The Court has been on my trail since the dark ages. They recruit those of man made religious belief; catholics, christians mostly. Johnathan Jobe Jackson ( I’m not sure how anyone can get any more bible thumper than that) is the descendant of Archibald Fredrics. Obsessed with debunking anyone who claimed to be other than the one true God. I’ll say this, I respect all religions and whomever one decides to choose as their patron god. But if you start to light a fire under my ass with holy water at the ready, we’re going to have problems. I might like the being tied up part too much. The best part is their use of selective magicks to help them gain the upper hand. Thankfully they’re incapable of actually killing us; Not for lack of trying, the hierarchy behind The Court is equally nauseating. The lesser are called Acolytes, then Courtiers, then the faction leaders, 7 of which are called Altiorems (Latin for Higher. Pretentious dicks). The worst of the bunch are the Seniorem Unum (Elder One). Three “fine specimens” of magical ingenuity that led to fickle immortality. By that I refer to what happens if any of them use too much magick after their rebirths. Someone failed to mention to them the price of black magic. Jackson is the ‘head boy’ of the Altiorems. He aspires to be one of the immortals, but falls short on IQ requirements. A waste of a man that makes Percy Weasley seem lacking in abundant annoyance. Hazel eyes, at 5’6 ft, and insistent upon wearing a hideous embellishment of a relic crucifix from the early days of Fredrics little book club. The silver and gold engravings look like you could almost peel it off and reveal chocolate. But not the good kind, like 90% dark chocolate with mint filling. Inlaid are what they claim to be shards chipped from old god made gems that give them their power.  My theory? Some dumb ass put their trust in a fae or demon and thinks they’re in control. How is it that humans are still alive? No, let me rephrase that, how is it that pedantic, racist, balding monk-wannabe white people are still alive?