#lofty england

[mia-seth-adventures]

Jaguar Pit-Stop, Le Mans 1953 by 'Lofty' England

[madamechrissy]

Silent Serenades

♔ An arranged Marriage with Duke Gojo ♔

♔ Pairings: Satoru Gojo x Duchess Reader

♔ Content/Warnings: Light angst, cunnilingus, fingering, blow jobs, cum swallowing, spitting/spit kink, rough sex, dirty talk, name calling, low key breed kink, toxic attraction, lots of emotions, lots of sex. OOC.

♔ Word count: this chap: 12k

♔ Summary: you are the diamond of the season, he is the charming Duke, it’s the marriage of the decade. Prominent families joining, and it so happens that Duke Gojo is gorgeous. But, he doesn't want you, and now you're trapped in a loveless arranged marriage. Royal AU, dark bridgerton vibes, Cruel Gojo x reader. OOC Set in 1800s England. Slow burn, enemies to lovers. Gojo is awful at first, HEAVY angst Basically- Gojo is a royal dick and doesn't wanna marry you - Don't read this if you want a nice Gojo lol.

Comments and Reblogs appreciated <3

Part Nine - Masterlist - Playlist

Part Ten

“Riding bareback, you are slutty.” Satoru teases as you ride the white horse next to him, you both chose to ride horses today rather than the carriage. You stick your tongue out, earning his laugh.

“Oh, you’re just mad I’m better at riding than you.”

“You certainly look sexy riding it. Wonder how you’d ride me?” You gasp now, and he chuckles, clicking his boots gently and nudging his black horse on, you nudge yours as well, by rubbing her neck, whispering to her.

“Let’s kick his ass, darling Snow.” She neighs softly, as you squeeze your thighs around her, and giggle as she sets off, passing Satoru in moments.

“Hey now! Brats.” Your hair is flying in a wave behind you, the wind blowing through your face, and in these moments it’s difficult to remember Satoru was terrible before, that you’re not likely going to be together for long.

How easy it is to forget.

That morning he’d had coffee ready for you, and surprised you with a brand new saddle for your pretty horse. You had melted at that gesture, sure he was terrible before, sure you remembered it, but you appreciated what he was doing now. Satoru had helped you set it all up, and before that you all had brought baskets together for the village, medicines and herbs to help.

He was heavily involved in it all, he was not skimping on his duties, and now as you both trot along, and he looks at you so intensely, his blue eyes shining in the sunlight, you’re enamored against your own judgment. You’ve never felt this, could it be from last night? Could it be physical? Or was it… 

More.

He had not touched you today aside from helping you up your horse, yet even that moment had you a flustered mess, as if you were courting as a young girl, those little moments with Suguru long ago, and even with Satoru originally. You remember he was a little distant but you felt giddy as he would promenade with you, getting so thrilled from his flowers he’d bring.

You frequently wonder even more now how things could have been if he had not chosen this path, this heartbreaking path that has irrevocably changed you, you are not and never will be the same. Satoru had changed everything you once knew, those lofty dreams you had were crushed when you had your wedding night, only for you to feel so much last night it shattered anything.

You think upon sweet Nanami, how you’ve left him heartbroken and had not truly meant to, you would have been content with Nanami, you just felt it was wrong to lead him to believe your feelings were at that level. His face now in your head breaks your heart, you wish you had not hurt him so.

Physically just kissing Satoru eclipsed anything you’d done with Nanami at all, even when those kisses were brutal and toxic, when he’d smacked and choked you, it did things to you none of Nanami’s careful, skilled touch could. That made you feel even worse, Nanami had not trusted you for good reason, but how could you tell your… husband… no when your entire being craved it?

Nanami was better off without you.

He’d have been better off without you ever talking to him, ever sharing your pain with him, and he wanted to save you so badly from yourself, and you bitterly know you’re just a disappointment to him. It was as if you disappointed everyone at times, except…

“Deep in thought, Princess?” Satoru asks, making you sigh, looking over at him, your hands gently holding the reins under your silk gloves.

“Indeed.”

“Thinking of your baker?”

“I destroyed him, Satoru.” You whisper, and he frowns then, nudging his horse a little closer, to fall into step with you, a hand reaching to touch your thigh, burning you with his touch.

“Destroyed him?” He asks, softly, instead of getting angry you’re thinking of Nanami. It surprises you,  so different from how Nanami reacted, it was as if Satoru knew that it hurt you and did not mind listening, like he just accepts that it did happen.

It oddly brings you more comfort knowing you can speak of such things, though you do not want to hurt Satoru either. Did not want to hurt anyone anymore.

“He begged me to stay, and I fully turned him down. He must hate me now, I would not blame him.”

He clears his throat, hands gripping just a little tighter now, heating you up from the touch. “Why did you turn him down?”

You look at him, your hand touching his, biting your lower lip as your horses trot slowly next to each other. “My feelings were no match for his, how could I let him believe they were? It would be wrong. But I know he loved me.”

“Did he really know you, though…”

“What, are you saying if he did, he wouldn’t?”

“No, bratty girl. I just wonder, does he know how mean you are? How ridiculously snarky?”

“Fuck off, Satoru.” You laugh though, and he smirks.

“He dodged a bullet with you- ow!” You smack the fuck out of him, and he feigns pain now, laughing softly. “No, let me be serious, of course he fell in love quickly, especially… making love to you, you’re so beautiful, you’re smart, those sounds you make? How you feel… yes, I believe anyone would.”

His words bring vivid memories of last night to your mind, of him inside of you, so deep, you couldn’t figure out where he ended and you began. Fuck.

“We should not speak of these things.” You say, looking away nervously, at the rolling green hill, the village coming into view.

“Why not?”

“Because we were unfaithful-”

“In a marriage we were forced into. And I regret it, surely, all of it, but I do not think you should judge yourself so harshly.”

You look at him carefully. “You’re being kind.”

“Is it so odd?”

“It’ll take getting used to. I suppose I just feel terrible for coming into his life, and for him loving me when I could not return it.”

“Do you know what love is, little Princess?” You look at him seriously then, shaking your head. “Then how do you know you did not?”

You brush your fingers down the back of his hand now. “He explained this feeling, where he could not bear to be without me, and I’m afraid I did not share that. That he had fallen so deeply, but for me it was a comfort, a joy, something pleasurable. Perhaps like your…”

“They’re not even that. They were just physical, their personalities honestly annoyed me. They’re simple I guess.”

“You chose that. Intimidated by smart girls?”

“Terrified of you.” You meet his smile, finally easing your hand off his, sighing. “Why do that? I love holding your hand.”

“We are too comfortable. Too happy. We should not be so.”

His expression hardens, he sits up more on top of his horse, back straightening. “So continue in the misery?”

“No! But… it hurts more, knowing this is how it could have always been. A beautiful relationship.” Your eyes meet, and he sways his head, but you carry on, leaving him to watch you. “Bet I’ll beat you!”

“Nah, I’ll win.” He rushes to you now, and fuck if you don’t enjoy him, laughing as he starts beating you in the race, and you feel an odd lightness you have never felt, even before him.

What is this feeling?

“They’re bootiful, Duchess!” Your sweet girl from yesterday cooes to you, her mother had returned your tiara even though you tried to let her keep it, so you have decided to make all the girls that have gathered crowns of twigs and flowers. Little crowns of white and purple flowers are sitting atop their heads, all but the last little girl you’re finishing up.

Satoru is dealing with business matters, while you have delivered the medicines and the herbs, agreeing to meet back up. He’s riding his horse and yours is right next to him in step, he’s holding the reins, and fuck if Satoru Gojo does not look sexy riding a horse. Especially in his dark blue riding gear and this top hat covering his snowy hair, that still peeks through.

You may or may not be eyeing his entire tall, lithe body when he hops down with ease, his toned legs starkly apparent in the light tan riding breeches he’s wearing, it’s clear he’s quite an equestrian. He smiles over at you, what a mess you must look like, knees in the field, your hair is loose around your shoulders, skirt covered in dirt, you certainly are not very ladylike right now.

“And what have we here, so many princesses!” He says then, as the little girls run up to him.

“Duchess made them!” They all shout nearly at once, and you laugh softly, feeling your bare hands so sore now, the sticks are snapping and smacking at you in places, but they turned out so good! And the kids smiling makes you so happy you cannot take it.

“She’s so skilled, look at this craftsmanship!” He says enthusiastically, with a wink shot your way. “Say, would you all like to pet her horse?”

“Yes please!” They all start petting Snow, Satoru’s horse wants nothing to do with them, arrogantly having his head in the air. You can’t stop the smile decorating your face, nor the warmth in your heart at the scene.

“Arrogant like his owner.” You tease as he comes closer, you’re down to the last tiara to be made finally.

“Are you talking shit, bratty girl?” You duck your head as he walks toward you, sighing now. “Aren’t you a vision?”

“I’m a mess!”

“No, you’re… a corny poet could put it correctly. I’m afraid beautiful is all I can come up with.” He leans down, studying you carefully. “In your element.”

You tilt your head, as he brushes your messy hair back gently. “Well thank you, but are you saying my element is dirt?”

“It certainly is.”

“Hey now… ugh, ow!” You look to your hands now, kneeling on the soft bed of grass, realizing you have another splinter from the twigs. Satoru looks at you, brows together, coming to kneel down in his fancy suit, surprising you when he takes your hand carefully.

“No more twigs, you’ll ruin these pretty hands.” You snort then, blowing a tuft of hair that’s fallen in front of your face.

“Can hands even be pretty?”

“Yours are. Despite the stubby fingers.”

“Hey!” He chuckles then, handing the little girl her tiara now, placing it on her head carefully with a bow. Your breath catches then, as you see this silly, goofy side of Duke Gojo, was this who he was before?

“Thank ye, yer Grace!” The girl says, running off now, and Satoru helps you up to stand, looking at your hand carefully.

“It’ll be fine until we get home, Duke. Ah!” He gently runs a fingertip along your palm.

“You have three splinters, tch. You’re not ‘fine’.”

“Oh don’t baby me, I’m a big girl.” You stick out your tongue, earning a glare from his pretty blue eyes.

“Yer Grace, please come inside, I have tweezers and antiseptic.” One of the ladies says now, looking at the Duke nervously. “It would be right cramped for a Duke and Duchess, I’m afraid…”

“Nonsense, we appreciate it.” Satoru says, his pouty pink lips turned up at the corners. You hate how your heart falters, at how sweet his smile is, his eyes crinkling at the corners just so, enrapturing you.

“Come on then, ye two, ah to have royalty in my humble home!” You follow Satoru inside the home then, a little cabin with a thatched roof, she sits you on the bed then, a little straw bed, you sit down and peek around, you notice how quaint and cute the home is.

“Oh it’s so lovely.” You say, and she blushes, shaking her head.

“Indeed not, yer Grace. Would you like me to assist?” She asks Satoru, and he shakes his head.

“No, I had enough scrapes as a boy with my friends to know how to remove splinters.” You’re surprised, you had pegged Duke Gojo for someone who really did not know how to do things like that, perhaps you have a lot you’re curious to know, before this month is up.

Why does the month ending hurt to think of?

“I’ll give ye both some privacy.” She walks out, leaving you both alone in the cozy little home.

Satoru carefully puts your hand in his lap now, gently wiping it with a washcloth that’s nice and warm. You study his face as he studies your hand carefully, his thin white brows drawn together, lips pursed just a bit, snowy lashes lowered so that you could not see the pretty blue of his eyes. He peeks at you for a moment, making you blush at getting caught staring.

“Am I so pretty to look at?” He asks with a raised brow, plucking a splinter out now, you hiss a bit.

“You are pretty and cruel, so merciless with your tweezing!” You say with a glare, earning another chuckle from him.

“Two more. Keep distracted, think of something nice. Like… hmm, cumming all over my mouth last night?”

You gasp. “Ah!” He yanks another, smirking now, and you scoff, but your body overheats, at how he’s gently gripping your wrist, sliding a thumb up along the thin veins of your inner wrist now. “Why would I think of that?”

“You tell me, you have goosebumps on your breasts, your hips are shifting, a blush decorating your cheeks. Are you thinking of it?” He whispers, leaning close, and your eyes dart to his lips, then back to his eyes.

“You would be the most slutty doctor.” He laughs then, genuinely, and it’s so bright you laugh as well.

“I probably would be, wouldn’t I?”

“You’d travel the world and sleep with every woman- oof!” He yanks the last splinter out, still laughing a bit, his broad shoulders shaking with it.

“You are so funny, I…” He blinks a bit then, clearing his throat. “I guess I did not know someone could make me laugh so much, aside from Suguru.”

“He is also quite funny, isn’t he?”

“You really kissed him, huh?” You flush again, sighing. “You do not have to explain it if you don’t want to.”

“Truly?” He nods, now leading you to the little sink, where he washes your hand carefully, just bits of blood from pulling them out.

“I deserve anything you’ve done and worse.” You hear it, his hatred of himself, and it breaks your heart into pieces.

“I will explain. It was that night when you had brought Catherine to dinner. I had a panic attack, after the um… tightening the corset comments.” You whisper, looking down now where he holds your hand, feeling emotions catch in your throat.

“Fuck, I’m so sorry. You looked perfect that night.” His voice is hoarse as he dries your hand carefully inside the little cabin, and when you look up you see he is sincere, see the hurt on his face.

“Yes I… it hurt me, it triggered things that I’ve tried to fight from my own mother, and my grandmother before her. To barely eat, to the point of feeling faint, to keep my corset so tight I can’t breathe, all to be a ‘delicate lady’.” Your memories are bitter in your throat.

“That is cruel. You’re already a petite girl. Even so, to push yourself that far… it’s not okay, especially if you wish for children.”

“I know. Well you did shove those scones in my face, so we are all good now.” He smiles sadly, shaking his head.

“So Suguru kissed you after that night?”

“He followed me out, I was a disaster, I do not think he meant it other than some sort of… comfort. It’s hard to explain. To make me feel desired, attractive, when I felt so very…” You blink then, sucking in a breath to prevent your tears. Satoru is gently rubbing ointment on your hands now, staring at your palm carefully.

“I made you feel…”

“Ugly. Hideous.”

He shuts his eyes, two lines between his brows forming. “It was never so. It was I who was being hideous.” He brings your hand to his lips now, kissing each spot gently, wrecking your resolve, enhancing every feeling as you both open up more to each other. “You should not forgive that.”

“I know. But you feel remorse-”

“I remember you dropping that spoon, the clatter it made along with your pretty face, fallen. I felt so horrible, I tried to apologize, but I was still a piece of shit, and it was so half assed.”

“It was. But it’s behind us.”

He laughs without humor. “You are being too forgiving. I honestly understand why he would kiss you, he liked you long before me, and he also wished to make you feel… wanted, that is what you wished for as well.”

You nod a bit. “Yes. He did not go further, he also brought the puppy to cheer me up.”

“Suguru would be good for you. Perhaps you’d have been happy if you were arranged to marry him.” Your lips part then, stepping just a little closer, you hear the children playing outside, here the animals in the distance, chickens clucking, the whirl of the stove, but you also hear your heart race in your ears as you look at him.

“Sure, we would have been, but…”

“What if you could marry him, what if I could try to make it happen?” You exhale, shutting your eyes now, before stepping even closer, so close you inhale his scent into your nostrils, intoxicating you. His hand still holds yours carefully.

“You would do that?” He nods carefully, gulping now, pressing another kiss to your palm.

“I know he would be a good match, he’s of good standing, he would adore you, give you babies. Be a good father, be kind. If anyone had to have you, I would prefer him. I’m sorry your baker… I just cannot see that being good enough financially. You are still of high standing you know, and the scandal will nearly ruin you as is, Suguru could mitigate it, make it some ‘love match’.”

“You’ve thought this through?” He nods then, and you sigh. “You are becoming pretty caring, Satoru.”

“Me caring? Psh.” You smile softly now.

“That is caring, and selfless.”

He rolls his eyes. “I’m still selfish, all I can think of is ways to make you want to stay, or ways to make up for the rest of my days if you’d let me. So do not think I’m going out without a fight.”

“I see that. Well, you have some points today, look at you, a whole medical professional.” He snorts, rolling his pretty eyes, and you take a breath, yanking him down by his tie, making him exhale against your lips. “Let me reward you, kind sir, for your care of me.”

“Fuck.” Is all he manages, his free hand yanking you by the waist, slamming his lips on yours, and you kiss him back eagerly, those violent moths in your tummy flitting into delicate butterflies. It’s a different kiss, it’s softer, sweeter, not a prelude to something sexual, it’s sweet and genuine. “How do you always taste so good?”

“I do not know, with my bitter coffee habit.” He laughs softly, cupping your face in his big hands. “It touches me that you look out for me, even if we will not be together. It means you… are trying. I see it.”

“Is it all too late?” He asks softly, and you take a breath to tell him no, it’s not too late, you may be a whole fucking fool but you feel so much with him, not just physical, but how do you open up fully, after everything?

“Satoru-” The door opens back up, and you two step back just one step each, his hand holding yours again as the lady walks back in, smiling at you both.

“So deeply in love, aren’t you both? What a dream!” She says, her hand on her chest, and you shyly look down, as Satoru stares at you.

“Falling deeper every day.” He murmurs, your eyes catch him, and you can’t take it, how easily it flows with him, how much you want to fall right in his arms. You try to compose yourself, curious if it could be true, or if he’s being sweet for the lady. But is it… true?

“Indeed, we are.” You answer softly, earning his little smile, a smile that comes to mean more by the moment.

“Are you sure you’re ready to tell me?” You ask carefully, in his study later that night, Satoru nods, clearly uncomfortable now, when he pulls out a locket, a thick rose gold one that hangs on a looped chain.

“I owe it to you, to explain this. Her name… was Adelia.” He manages to say, and you tilt your head curiously as you watch the pain on his handsome face.

“Was? Is she…”

“Not dead, though I would prefer that. I’m horrible, I know.”

“Satoru…”

“She’s banished, when I became Duke I sent her far, far away. But she’s alive and kicking, I’m sure, out in France somewhere. I gave her plenty of money for the rest of her life.” He says with a harsh laugh, then he looks at you carefully, taking your hand and looking at it. “Does it hurt?”

“Not at all, I had a good doctor.” He smiles sadly, then places the locket in your hand, and you open it, gasping.

You look at Satoru then, vulnerable and exhausted, then look back at his locket, at this woman who truly looks exactly like you, to the point it is eerie. It’s almost as if it is you, she surely is some relation or perhaps a long lost sister, the only difference is she’s older than you, and her eyes are different, just a bit. They’re the same color, but there's something cold in them.

“She looks like a twin sister.” You murmur softly, sitting down in the big leather chair Satoru frequently falls asleep in as he pours over his work. He sighs, nodding, leaning against the chair, sitting just at the arm.

“It’s uncanny, is it not?” He murmurs, and you think of him then, with her, and for some reason it makes you sick.

“It’s eerie, certainly. Adelia was her name?”

“Yes. I long ago said I’d never utter her name, but you deserve to know, as for what she did…” He stands then, walking away, pacing the study now, running a hand through his silky hair. You stand as well, walking to the center of the room and stopping him with gentle hands.

“Tell me, please, so that I may understand.” You are pleading softly, and he exhales then, nodding, but you see his jaw tense, feel his emotions rising.

“Long story cut very short, I was madly in love with her, or so I thought. She was the most beautiful thing I’d seen, she was so funny, witty, smart. Unlike anything. I was pathetic for her, spent anything I had, made myself go into debts with my father over the extravagant gifts.” You try to picture Satoru that way, and he notices. “I know it’s a far cry from who I am now.”

“No, I believe I can see you being generous.” You say softly, because the man had literally bought you a horse, and you’ve seen him be very generous with his friends and the staff. It wasn’t out of the realm.

“Generous was an understatement. I let her walk all over me, and thanked her for it. I even knew she had other men, and I’d still beg for her.” You suck in a breath, feeling the hurt, the anger emanating from him.

“Oh.” Is all you manage. “It was disloyal, so you decided to-”

“No, no, I was not disloyal once to her. I only treated you that way.” Satoru chokes on the words, taking several breaths now, as you stand in front of him, the fire crackling in the study, casting shadows of your figures across the walls, flickering flames higher and higher.

“I see.” Is all you can manage. “I suppose I did it as well, and that’s what triggered your reaction?”

“I never should have reacted that way.” He caresses your cheek softly, sighing, leaning lower. “Do not give me excuses for my actions.”

“Not excuses, they are reasons I suppose.”

“Still, even so.” His hand drops then, to your shoulder, resting on one of your puffed sleeves, his long fingers gently touching the fabric. “It’s not that, why I hated you for looking like her, she did something far worse.”

Your brows knit together. “Worse than cheating on you constantly?”

“Yes she… well her and my father…”

You blink then, as it all starts to fall together, Satoru’s fury at his dead father, his fear of having children because he would be just like them, and the unreasonable way he hated you on sight. She couldn’t have…

“She slept with him?” You manage softly, and he nods just a bit, taking several breaths, you gently hold his arms. “Holy fuck.”

“You have such a sailor's tongue.” He says with a little smile, as his eyes glimmer with unshed emotion. “For such a pretty mouth.”

“Satoru, I’m truly sorry. I don’t…”

“It’s no excuse for what I did. But… I hope now, it makes any sense at all. But you never, ever deserved one goddamn thing I did.” He’s looking away now, covering his face, shaking his head. “Nothing I have done to you is okay, I swear I will take it to my fucking grave, the hurt on your face-”

“Satoru.” You gently say, easing his hand down, seeing the glistening of tears on his pale cheek, you swipe it gently, and his hand is delicately holding yours, keeping it there.

“I do not deserve pity or comfort from you, I was terrible. I can’t make up for it, I can’t fix it. I can’t fix this.” His chest heaves now, and you feel your own emotions jolt to life, at his desperation. “And what’s worse, is now I find myself falling for you, and I know I’m not good enough.”

“Falling for me?” You look at him in shock, shaking your head. “Certainly a physical connection-”

“No.” He cuts you off now, bending low, pressing your back against the cherry wood desk of his. Your heart thuds in your chest, as you look up at swirling blue eyes by the fire light of the study, as it casts shadows and planes on his perfect features, features that become dear more and more as you look at them.

“No?” Your voice is a breath.

“No, not just physically. I thought so at first, your beauty outshines hers, you clearly are my type, what a lie that was.”

“Um… clearly.” You manage with a little laugh, and he glares.

“Do not excuse it, do not make light of it, any of it.”

“I am not.”

“But it’s not just physical, today when you were hand twisting fucking crowns for those kids, cutting your pretty hands on those twigs.” He takes one now, running his fingers where little scratches were left, and your breaths come faster and faster. “Yesterday, when you held that little girl. When you lit up and thanked me for that horse. When I saw your true beauty, so deep within.”

“Please… don’t. Don’t say that!” You feel your eyes burn, your throat closing up, as he steals more and more of your heart, wicked fucking Duke Gojo, but he’s serious, while he’s brushing your loose hair back, making your knees weak.

“I can’t help but say it, before you leave me forever.” His voice breaks now, and you’re clinging to his dress shirt, that’s falling loosely over his lithe body. “I love your kind heart, I love your caring nature, fuck everyone in that villiage adores you, everyone adores you. Even my goddamn former mistress, my best friends, they love you.”

You shake your head. “No, I just…”

“And every time I paraded them around, those women, you held your composure, but I know it killed you. I know it did. It hurt you. And I can’t forgive myself for it. For hurting someone so pure and sweet, and pushing you so far, so far you ran into a man’s arms, and I don’t blame you. I don’t.”

“Please don’t. Don’t say all this!”

“Say what, that my heart yearns to see that smile, the one that lights up the entire world?” You choke on your sobs, and he’s swiping at your tears, his own lip trembling as he takes a shaky breath. “That my body burns for your touch, that you haunt my every dream, and every waking moment.” His husky tone nearly breaks you then and there, as your breasts heave up and down with every breath.

“You can’t mean it. You can’t.” You choke out the words, as you feel yourself drawn to him, like he is that all consuming black hole, and you’d be fine getting destroyed if it meant being in his arms.

“I for once am honest, after a month of lies. Feel my heart.” He puts your little hand on his chest, and you feel it, pounding, making you weak, as your eyes lock upon each other.

“It cannot be true, not a word. If you felt that you would have never!”

“I grew to feel it more and more. Now it’s consuming me, whole, I’d let you walk all over me just to feel your goddamn step. I’d let you destroy me just to watch your pretty face as you do. I would do anything to see you smile, to see your face as you feel pleasure, to taste you, to-”

“Fuck, shut up, shut up!” You shove at him now, and he lets you, gulping and staring at you so pleadingly, this six foot plus man who looms so tall, seems so small and fragile. “I hate you more for saying it all! For making me believe it!” You cry out hoarsely, and he lets you smack at him, nodding, just standing there.

“You should hate me, you should never forgive me.” He whispers sullenly, and you hate that you want to forgive him, that you want him to…

“Hold me, please.” You beg softly, and he breaks with you, holding you tightly against his hard body, enwrapping his strong arms around you, as you bury your face against his chest, crying in earnest.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I will spend every moment making it up, as much as I can, before you leave.” His voice is a hoarse whisper, and you realize then, you don’t want to fucking leave. “I know I have lost you, I know I never had you.”

“Satoru.” You lean up, looking at him now, and he brushes your endless tears with his long fingers, gulping and nodding for you to continue. “I’m not saying I will stay, but I will say… I have not yet made up my mind to leave, either.”

He blinks then, with those teary lashes, sucking in a breath, his blue eyes swirling as they study you. “You haven’t!?”

“No. Not yet. It does not mean I forgive you, or even like you. But it does mean that… I wish to understand you more, to understand this more.” You take his hand, feeling the thrumming energy between you both. “I will give you that chance, the month, to show me who you are, before I decide fully.”

“I thought I had no chance. I thought you couldn’t wait to leave.” He whispers, and you take a shaky breath now.

“Well, you are trying, and I see it.”

“It’s not too late?”

“I do not know yet. Do you mean it, what you said, about seeing me, seeing me truly?”

He laughs softly, brushing your hair back tenderly, kissing your forehead, something you never thought Duke Gojo would do. “Oh, Princess, I mean every fucking word. I see your heart and soul, the kindness, but you know what I also see? Your bad mouth, your ability to destroy me with a look, your snappy little remarks.” He says with a little smirk now.

You smile a bit then, and he smiles down at you, pressing you further into the desk, and you feel your body react quickly. “Oh do you enjoy that, the way I wreck you with my words?”

“I’d let you wreck me in every fucking way.” His hand slides up your skirts now, and your breath quickens. “You’re strong, you’re not some simpering little damsel, you could probably crush me, kick my ass.”

You giggle now, then his hands pause on your bare thigh, fingering your garter belt, and your pussy reacts by clenching around nothing, your head falling back, a little sigh escaping your lips. “Kick your ass, you’re too big and tall.”

“You’re a scary little thing, I think you’d kick me in the dick.” You laugh again, and he marvels at it, his thumb making little circles closer to your heat. Your own hands slide up his chest, as he makes you feel more seen than anyone ever has, and how does he see you so well?

“I was sorely tempted after that whore on the table.”

“You and that tablecloth move? Fuck that made me hard.”

“You’re always hard, you slutty man.” Your fingers drift down to his belt, toying with him, giving him a little smile, and he smirks, his free hand cupping your face.

“I would do anything to feel you again, even knowing I do not deserve you. Give anything for you to sit on my face.”

Your tummy clenches, face flushed at the lewd, insane images he brings. “Sit on your face!? I… what!?”

He sighs, kissing you gently, finding you with his fingers finally, moaning softly as he does, you drink up his moans into your mouth. “I’ve had this fantasy of your thighs on either side of my face, pussy dripping on me.”

“Satoru that… sounds insane!”

“You could shut my mouth up, use me how you want. Ride me.” His words destroy you, his touch on your clit makes you moan, and he’s watching you hungrily, lips parted. “Fuck you’re beautiful. So wet, I want it dripping down my face.”

“We shouldn’t do this.” You whisper, but your hips are leaning forward, to more of his touch, Satoru’s lips hover just above yours, and you embarrassingly hear how wet you are when he’s rubbing between your lips.

“You shouldn’t give me anything, but you do, and I’m too selfish and greedy not to drink up every bit of it. Of you.”

“Shit.”

“You cuss so-” You yank him down now, slamming his lips upon yours, he’s grabbing at you desperately, tongue swirling in your mouth, as his fingers find you so hot and eager, soaking him. “I could never kiss another set of lips.”

“Liar.”

“Well, your other set of lips.” He says with a smirk, and you hate it, how charming he is, how handsome, how much you just fucking love him touching you, how much you enjoy him truly. You don’t want to enjoy him, you don’t want to need him, but it is a need, very much, a deep need from every part of you.

“Manwhore.” You say with a scowl, and he’s kissing you once more, biting your lower lip with sharp teeth, making you tremble as your hands now cling to his shoulders, feeling the strong muscles move as he fingers your wetness.

“You’re no pure, innocent little thing, are you now?” He raises a brow, and you’re flushed. “How many times?”

You tense a bit, looking up at him. “Twice.”

He blinks now, pausing, his mouth open. “Only twice!?”

“How much did you think? Keep fingering me and shut up, mmm.” He listens to you thank god, this man talks so fucking much, fingering you once more, pressing on that little spongy spot inside you over and over, you’re gasping and crying out as he plays you so fucking perfect.

“I thought much more. No wonder you seemed so surprised when I flipped you over, took you from behind.” He whispers in your ear now, and you heat up at the memory, as he’s breathing in your ear, making shivers slip down your spine. “Did you get this wet for him?”

“No, you stupid man. Fuck you for that too.” He slips two inside of you now, pressing up over and over, your thighs trembling as you overheat now, desire pooling and bringing you closer and closer. “Mmm!”

“Those sounds you make, fuck.” He pulls back to look at you, cupping your face, the intensity of his stare with his pumping fingers in your slick cunt make you rise higher and higher. “You’re so sexy, so beautiful.”

“You don’t-”

“I do think so, I know so. Every bit of you.” He’s pressing in so deep you can’t take it, kissing down your throat now, your breasts, and your hands enwrap in his hair, as you crave more and more of him, as you lose yourself to it. You feel as if somehow you are yourself more with him than you could be with anyone, you didn’t have to be ‘perfect’ anymore.

“I shouldn’t want this so badly.” You whisper, pulling back, but he’s fucking into you with those fingers, drawing you closer and closer.

“Cum on my fingers, please. Let me watch you.” He murmurs, eyes lidded, and you do then, you fall apart, head falling back, nearly collapsing on his desk as you’re pulsing around his fingers. Your entire body lit up. “Fuck.”

“Mnh.” Satoru hungrily slides up your skirts then, bringing you to him, your thighs gripping his lithe hips, taking his two fingers now and putting them in your mouth.

“Suck yourself off, like a good little slut, would you?” You glare, biting him, and he chuckles even as he shakes his hand, exhaling and studying you so intensely. “You’re a vicious little thing.”

“Fuck you.” You yank him closer again however, and he’s slamming things off his desk, papers flying.

“Fuck you right here, huh? I want you in my bed.”

“We’ll get there. And my bed, I would like to burn yours.”

“Burn it hmm?”

“Indeed.” You slip off his dress shirt now, exhaling as you run fingers down his every muscle. “Your body is so…”

“So?”

“Don’t get cocky. It’s so beautiful.” He unlaces your bodice now, as you’re sitting on his desk, looking up at him, and he then begins to unlace your stays, letting your breasts bounce out for his eager eyes.

“Your body is so beautiful. I almost fainted like a schoolboy when you first showed me them.” You laugh a bit, and he tilts his head, caressing the sides of them with his fingers, your nipples grow taut, he watches as they tighten for him. “I’ve heard you laugh a lot tonight.”

“I used to laugh, you know. At times.”

“It lights up your face.” You can hardly stand how he speaks, so softly, you melt in front of him. “It lights up my heart.”

You gulp now, throat dry. “You have a heart, Duke Gojo?”

“Satoru. And yes.” He cups your breasts now, bending low, your hands entwine in his silky locks as he leans over you, pressed between your thighs, you feel him, so hard and hot. “It’s perhaps shattered in pieces, but seeing you laugh, smile? It feels as if perhaps I can piece some together. Not enough for you, but you’d have it all.”

“Oh shut up.” You can’t take it, his raw emotion, how easy it would be to dive into him, but fuck you need him, need him like your air, how does one make it so hard to breathe yet he’s all you want to breathe!?

“Tell me what you want, Princess.” Satoru murmurs now, gripping your thighs and pulling you against him, you feel his length pressing on you over his breeches, and you are wanton when you grind on him, soaking him.

“No.”

“Then never mind.” He pulls away and you glare.

“Get back here.”

“And do what?”

“Fuck me.” Duke Gojo moans then, rushing back, as you eagerly unbutton his pants, as you stroke his pretty cock that springs free, watching his pretty face contorted in pleasure.

“Promise me you’ll sit on my face later, and I will.”

“Oh fine, I will, just fuck- ah!” Satoru’s pressing on your entrance now, only the edge of your ass on his desk, as he’s sucking in a breath, feeling your wetness pulse around him. You almost come from his tip again, you barely hold it together, eyes rolling back when he sinks in more and more. “Mmm!”

“Fuck you’re so tight, oh my god.” Satoru’s words break in the middle as he gasps, sinking in so deep, leaning over you now, breathing heavy in little pants as he studies your face. “Pussy so good it makes men stupid.”

“You’re already- ah- stupid!” Satoru’s shoving hard in you now, glaring, and you can’t stop the cry as you feel him stroking in and out of your soppy little cunt now, his big hands gripping your thighs, your ass, anywhere he can reach, stretching you out so good. “Satoru.”

He’s pumping into you now, and you’re feeling so good you can’t remember a goddamn thing, just whimpering. “I’ll fuck you so good, Princess, you will forget anything I did.”

“Then do it, then do it. Please.” He slams his lips on yours, before flipping you over, unzipping your skirts and leaving you bare, stripping your chemise off you in one fell swoop, before he smacks your ass. You gasp. “Excuse you?”

“Someone should punish you for your mouth.” He whispers, lifting your tummy onto the desk so you’re at level, legs dangling as he presses them wide. “Fuck, this view…”

“What are you-” You’re cut off then, as Satoru is shoving his cock back inside, you grip the desk, but he takes your hands, pressing them behind your back and holding them, using them as leverage to fuck you harder. Your moans are so loud you’re sure the entire staff can hear, feeling so much pleasure it’s blinding.

“I always wanted to fuck you so hard your tiara clatters to the fucking floor.” He huffs then, slamming into your pussy and staying there, you’re shuddering as his tip drags along your walls.

“It’s… not… I… mmm!” You’re getting fucked so good, Satoru hits so deep you can’t take it, your walls are fluttering, tightening.

“Feel you clenching around me like that, holy… fuck…” He’s smacking your ass again, stinging your cheeks, but it just makes you wetter, as does his hand pulling your hair back now, body arched into an S curve just for him. “Did he fuck you this good, your silly baker?”

“Did they feel this good, your mistresses?” You counter with a whisper, and he laughs, before groaning.

“Fuck no. No one ever has.” You hate that you enjoy hearing it so much, but you do, you love that he’s owning you, fucking into you, so big compared to you, you feel so tiny and helpless, and it’s just urging you on. “No one could feel this good.”

“Mnh…”

“So good I’d cum in you, have you round with my child.”

“Satoru!”

“I would if you wanted, fuck you’d be so sexy, cum pouring our of your little hole, mmm. I’d lick it up out of you, spit it in your mouth.”

The fuck the man is some demon, all he does is urge you on with his words, his hands, his cock until - “Satoru- cumming!”

“Good girl, good girl. Cum all over me.” He urges then, his hands letting your arms go, one wrapping around your waist, finding your clit, just pushing you further, until you’re a writhing mess, wetness gushing everywhere. “There you go, so good for me, dripping all over, aren’t you?”

“Ngh.” You cannot manage anymore words, not when he fills you with the most lewd images, not when he fills you with his cock, stuffed so deep you feel the weeping tip kissing your cervix. Satoru’s fingers rub in tantalizing circles over your clit, which twitches in response, you get so weak you lay forward on the desk, legs shaking.

“Can’t hold yourself up, are you so weak, Princess?” He whispers, menacingly, fuck him, fuck Duke Gojo- “F-fuck… oh my… you like that, don’t you?”

“Shut up, Satoru.” He laughs softly, before gasping, now hovering over you, one hand braced against the desk, the other tilting your face to the side.

“So good you’re crying?”

“C-crying because… you’re… pissing… me… off! Just shut up and- ah!” Satoru slams hard into you now, a hand around your neck, and you are arching your ass for more and more of him.

“I want to cum in you so bad, fill you up. Fuck you make me stupid.”

“You already are, remem- mmm!”

“Bratty girl.” He huffs, smacking your ass again, harder now, before gripping it, pressing your face down on his desk. “Arch that ass up, Princess.”

You weakly obey, as he’s pressing your head against the cool wood of the desk, and you’re arched up for him, for his smacks, for his thrusts. You feel drool pooling out the side of your mouth he fucks you so good, slamming into you with each thrust, hand clutching in your hair tightly. You’re getting fucked so good you can’t form a thought, except-

“More.” You plead, Satoru groans at that, obeying you, fucking you harder, faster, deeper, until you’re climaxing so hard you can scarcely breathe, shattering and twitching, pussy gripping him so tightly, you feel him everywhere. You feel him splitting you in two, filling you so good you can’t stand it.

“Cum again.” He orders, through gritted teeth, bending low over you, his chest slick with sweat against your back, slowing his thrusts now, swiping the drool from your lips, kissing the tears falling on your cheek. “Beautiful.”

“Mmm. Why do I believe- ah- you.” You whisper, when he’s pulling you up, turning you now, lifting you back on the desk, to look at you intensely, his swirling blue eyes like a storm in the evening, so hard to even look at, yet you’re drowning in them.

“You are the most beautiful thing that exists.” He is gentle suddenly, which throws you more off kilter, your cunt sucks him back in, as he’s holding onto you, kissing you, tongues so messy and slow, leisurely, like he’s exploring every inch of your mouth. You cling to his shoulders, shaking everywhere, closer and closer. “Perfect for me, made for me.”

“Shh.” You can’t handle him, falling deeper for him every moment he breathes, wishing you could hate him more, wishing you could remember at the moment how horrible he’d been, but you feel his heat, his energy, his length… his touch, and it breaks down every defense you’ve ever had.

“Love being inside of you.” He says then, pulling your hips up to grind on your cervix now, eyes drinking you in, you’re stretched so good, you feel him thicken inside, feel his every movement, as you’re soaking him, soaking so much you drip to the floor. “Love watching you.”

“I love you inside me.” You can’t hold it in, and he gasps, pausing just to look a you, your cunt is spasming around him, your head falling back weakly.

“You love it?”

“I love it, Satoru…” He kisses you again, grinding until you cum so hard you can’t breathe, gasping and clinging to him so tightly, nails digging into the taut skin of his back, burying your face in his chest as he moans, slowing his strokes.

“There it is. Good girl.”

“Don’t say that. Mnh, I’m dumb enough.” You kiss up his chest, his neck, as his hands take over your little waist, his eyes drinking you in, kissing your cheeks, your face, it’s far too intimate, it’s too much, overwhelming you, while you’re a mess around him.

“Where do you… want me to… m’close, fuck.” He whispers, and you struggle to form a coherent thought, as your inner thighs tighten around his hips, whining out at how good he feels inside your walls.

“Let me swallow you.” You whisper, and his mouth drops.

“Oh you’re such a freak, I love it.” He pumps in you harder before pulling back, and pulling you down. “On your knees, pretty.”

You eagerly get on them, looking up at him, he is stroking his slick length, you smack his hand, doing it yourself, the pearls of your ring glowing. Satoru’s free hand strokes your hair, his head falling back when you stroke him, opening your mouth. He lets out this sexy little whine when his tip hits your tongue, and you taste yourself on him as you suck him deeper.

“Oh my… slutty princess.” He whispers, but you love it, love throbbing and aching from him, love being on your knees, as he caresses your face, shoving his cock into your mouth. “F-fuck, you sure you can swallow it all?”

“Shut up and cum, Satoru.” You whisper, pulling back with a pop, and he follows your order, gasping as he cums in your mouth now, and cums so much, you swallow every bit of him up, fuck he’s so sweet, like those candies he sucks on.

You gulp down every bit, hot and sticky and pulsing down your throat, as he keeps fucking your mouth through it, more and more little spurts of cum, you greedily suck him clean, cheeks hollowing. He’s whispering a mantra of how beautiful you are, how good you are, a mess over you.

“Open up, lemme see.” You open your mouth now, tongue out, and he groans, helping you stand, gripping your chin. “Want to swallow more of me, Princess?”

You nod nervously, and he leans over you now, spitting in your mouth, gripping your chin so possessively as the stream of saliva streams. You swallow it as well, opening your mouth for his inspection, and he’s kissing you again, tongue devouring you, picking your naked body up in his arms.

“God you’re so good. Do you even know, what you look like with that mouth open wide, with those pretty eyes fucked out?” He’s kissing you over and over, and soon he’s changed how he’s holding you, bridal style. You’re shaking then, your emotions overwhelming you.

“Don’t hold me like this.” You say softly, and he shakes his head, kissing you as he carries you effortlessly.

“I should have, that night. Weigh nothing, little slip of a girl. I was wrong. So bloody wrong, about it all. Now let me do everything I have dreamed of, while I have  you here.” You’re crying then, as he carries you into your room.

“You listened.” You whisper, and he’s nodding, gently laying you down on your back, leaning on top of you, hovering just so, drinking you in.

“We’ll burn that bed if you wish. I’ll do anything to keep you happy, to keep you smiling, keep you cumming.” His hands trail down your tummy, it trembles under his touch.

“I’ve already cum too much. I cannot do more, insane man.” He smiles softly then, touching you everywhere, you’re so sensitive you can’t stand it. “Perhaps after some rest, I’m sore.”

He laughs softly, nodding then. “So, may I rest here with you?”

You gulp then, biting your lower lip. “You want to lay in bed?”

“Of course I do. I yearn to hold you every night.” You shut your eyes while he strokes your arms gently, then your waist. “You will send me away, had your way with my cock and send me off like a mistress.”

“Oh stop that, silly man.” You look up at him, grinning so big against your will, and his breath catches. “What is it?”

“Every time you smile like that, it’s like you grip me here.” He puts your hand on his bare chest now, and you sigh, tracing your fingers along one of his well formed pectoral muscles.

“I want to trust this, believe this, but I’m fucking terrified. What if I let you in, and you fully destroy me?” You whisper, unable to stop your tears, Satoru’s eyes shut, he rests his head on yours.

“I know you’re scared. I can give you time. I’m doing too much-”

“No, I want it all. All of this.” You lean up now, kissing him through your tears, over and over, you’re a tangle of limbs on the bed now, he’s pulling you even closer against him, a thigh between yours, pressing up.

“I want all of you. Every bit of you.” He says huskily. “I’d let you do anything, if you just come back to me.”

“Satoru I only want you, so much so I… I thought of you when…”

“I thought of you too. About how it’d feel tighter, wetter.” You whine out when he’s shoving two fingers in your sore little entrance now, your head falling back, exposing your throat for his kisses, his bites. “Pictured that beautiful face of yours, saw you in my every dream.”

“You took over my dreams.” He moans now, slamming his lips back to yours, and you feel yourself falling further and further into the abyss that is him, into his every touch, every look, every sound he makes. You feel him wrapping you up, and you never want to escape.

“You dreamt of me?” He asks, you see him so vulnerable again, and now that you know his past, you realize how hard it must be. You cup his face gently.

“Over and over, against my will. If I dreamt of someone, your face would take over, annoying me to no end.” He grins then, pecking a kiss on your breasts now, looking up through his long white lashes.

“My dreams were not annoying.”

“Well you annoy me, so. Vex me to no end.”

“Do I? Or are you vexed that you enjoy me?” He teases, earning you rolling your eyes at him, then he’s back to fingering you, and you forget everything, as he’s pumping in and out of you, and you’re dripping everywhere, embarrassingly. “You get wetter than anyone, I swear.”

“It’s annoying too.”

“Is it now? Hear yourself.” You do then, hear the squishing, you’re blushing so furiously, and you’re feeling him hard again, right on your thigh. “Did you get your rest now?”

“I haven’t- ah - rested!” He’s running his thumb on your clit, you’re arching up for more and more of him, lost in him, in his blue eyes that kill you.

“You rode that horse so well.” He pulls you then, on his chest, grinning up at you deviously, and you’re trembling.

“I can’t sit on your face!”

“You sure can, Princess, look, there you are.” He’s gripping the plush of your inner thighs, and you’re straddling his pretty face, he moans when he looks at your pussy, licking his lips. “Is this my dessert?”

“Oh you’re insane! What if I crush you!?” You’re holding yourself up by the headboard, shaking as he laughs against you, breath tickling your pussy, making more wetness trickle down.

“You cannot crush me, foolish girl. Please, ride my face, as much as you want, you can shut me up fully.” You can’t take his sexy eyes, his beautiful lips, as you’re hesitantly easing down on him, your pussy hovering right above his face.

“If you can’t breathe will you tap me or something!?”

He laughs softly. “You will not hurt me, little Princess. Now, c’mere.” He yanks you down now, burying his face against you, you gasp, back arching, you’re clinging to his silky hair, trying to balance yourself. Your stomach tightens as he’s lapping you up, fucking you with his tongue, nose hitting your swollen nub.

“Toru!” You scream out, and he backs away then, eyes hitting yours, flicking his tongue along your slit, his hands holding your hips tightly.

“What now?” He asks, husky, and you bite your lip nervously.

“Um, it came out that way?” You whisper, he smiles then, lashes lowering, pressing a kiss on your pussy lips gently.

“I like it. Now, ride me, pull my hair all you want. Use me.”

“Fuck.” Why is this duke so stupidly attractive!?

You begin to do just that, and he’s moaning as you do, as you’re rolling your hips on his perfect features, soaking him completely, you are gasping in pleasure as his hot, wet muscle devours you. He’s licking between your lips, hitting every bit of you, and you’re even wetter, so wet you watch it drip down his face, until it’s shimmering with you, and then he’s pushing you even further down onto him.

His face is buried against you, his cock thick and hard, twitching, pre cum oozing out of the tip as he tastes you, bucking his own hips up. You feel the tension coiling in your tummy as he keeps licking and sucking, finally pulling your little clit in his hot mouth, sucking and looking up at you with those gorgeous, dilated fucking eyes, and you fall apart then.

You’re cumming all over him, gushing wetness all over him, feeling your body engulf in his flames, taking over you from head to toe, toes that are curling, your mouth open in a scream, hoarse as you roll your hips one more time. Your eyes lock on his, and he’s looking so adoringly at you, as he finally takes a breath, flicking his tongue over you once more, watching you shatter for him.

“Oh my god, Satoru… can’t take anymore.” You whimper weakly, only for him to pull you off his face, sliding you on his lap, slamming his lips on yours, as he grinds you against his length. “Satoru…”

“I liked Toru.” He teases with a smile, then moans as his tip bumps your clit, and you’re covering his cock with even more arousal, sticky and hot. “Fuck that was the sexiest thing, would you believe I haven’t done it?”

“No you’re a whore.” He chuckles, wrapping an arm around your waist, sitting up as you grind yourself on his cock now, whining softly at how good it feels, clinging to his shoulders.

“I have not done that, no. God I want to always have you on my lips.” He says, husky, kissing you over and over, your tongues swapping your taste, and then he’s lifting you, easing you back down his cock, you’re weak as he does, eyes going wide now. “Ride me, love.”

“Don’t call me love, ugh. Liar.” You whisper weakly, he shakes his head, kissing down your breasts, as you take more of him, inch by inch, sore legs from riding struggling to roll more on his cock, eliciting his moans.

“I did not lie today. I fall deeper for you.” He cups your face now, as he snaps his hips up into your tight cunt, and you shake your head, tears of how good he feels pricking your eyes, making you choke up. “I do.”

“Fuck you.”

“You are.” You giggle again, softly, pressing him down on his back then, your hair falling against his chest like a curtain.

“You want me to fuck you?” He nods eagerly, grabbing your ass, as you brace yourself on him, and he’s moaning, looking at your body, how your breasts sway when you start riding his cock in earnest. “So deep!”

“You’re gorgeous like this, fuck.” He’s enamored, his hands everywhere he can touch, as he lets you control everything, just urging you on here and there, watching you eagerly. “You are doing such a good job.”

“Stop saying the right thing.” He bucks his hips up with a glare, fucking up into you then, and you’re clinging to him desperately, breasts in his face now, he’s eagerly sucking them into his mouth.

“I should shut this bratty mouth up. I’m trying to be sweet, but you’re a freaky little brat.”

“Me freaky!?”

“Yes you. C’mere now.” He’s got you laying on him, his feet flattening on the bed, and now he’s fucking up into you, making you drip down his stomach, everywhere, your mouths devouring each other again. He’s desperate in his kisses, in his thrusts, and you feel yourself impossibly higher, as you’re helpless on top of him, just letting him use you so good.

“S’Toru…” He moans again, lifting your ass up with his big hands like it’s nothing, slamming you down his length so hard your mouth drops open, eyes rolling back.

“How can you feel this perfect? You’re made f’me, fucking say it.”

“N-no!”

“Say it, Princess. Just say it.”

“No!” He smacks your ass now, and you weakly cling to him, just wetter now, pussy so sore and stretched by him, but fuck you want it, you want all of Satoru, the Duke Gojo under you.

“Made for me.” He whispers through gritted teeth, you shake your head. “Stubborn, you’re so stubborn. Every inch of your little body is mine.”

“It’s not. Fuck you. Mmm!” He’s biting your throat now, grinding his hips so that his cock’s tip presses on your cervix, then your orgasm hits so hard you can hardly rememeber a thing. You can hardly keep to this timeline, to anything, all you can cling to is Satoru.

“Made for me. Say it.” He smacks you again, and you just cry out softly, weak and unable to move or hold yourself up. He flips you onto your back, hands entwining with yours, so intimate you can’t stand it, you feel like you can’t breathe when he’s laying on top, staring at you.

“Satoru…”

“Say it. That she’s made for me. Don’t I make her feel so good?” He whispers, rolling his hips again, and you moan, nodding. “Say it.”

“Made for you.” Your words are a breathy sigh, but Satoru is moaning, kissing you so deeply, one hand entwined in yours, the other gripping your hair tightly, pulling at it as he moves over you gently.

“I want you to be mine. All mine.” He says against your ear now, kissing it, biting it, and you’re senseless under him, anything you had left to fight is gone. “God I love everything about you.”

“Satoru!”

“I want to breed your pretty pussy so bad, fuck. How can you make me this way, fucking witchcraft.” He’s babbling nonsensically as he pumps, and you see his pupils are pinpoints, his eyes bright and insane. “How will I ever get over you!?”

“Just… just… feel me. Feel me. I feel you.” Your free hand touches his heart, emotions so deep as you look into his eyes you can’t handle it, you cannot take how much you are falling, it’s a neverending abyss, Satoru Gojo, you’re exhausted from holding it all back. “I just want you.”

“I just want you.” He whispers back, and then you’re so overstimulated every breath brings you higher, his hips are gently stroking, rolling, you’re reaching up for him, for more, drinking in every bit of him. “Never want this to end, fuck. Don’t even wanna cum.” His words are against your collarbone as he’s nipping, biting, declaring things that make your heart falter.

Can you trust him?

Fuck you want to.

“Would I get pregnant if you…”

His eyes go wide now. “Possibly.”

“Then you can’t…”

“Then I can’t…” He presses a hand on your stomach, leaning up and exhaling. “Not until you decide.”

“I want you to, though.” He groans at your insane confession. “Don’t… but I do… want it…”

“Fuck.” He fucks you hard for a moment, chasing his release, clinging to you desperately, then he pulls back. “Can I cum on it?”

“Will that be okay?” You ask, he nods, and you bite your lip. “You can.”

“Jesus fuck, I don’t deserve any of this.” He exhales then, pulling out, stroking his cock, and hot white ropes shoot out, hitting the outer lips of your pussy, he’s moaning as he watches it, and you’re so flushed and flustered, at how lewd it looks. His hot sticky cum all over your pussy. “Oh my god look at you.”

“It’s obscene.” You say, and he laughs then, breathless, all sweaty and glistening, cupping your chin and tilting it up.

“The obscene things I want to do to your pretty body have barely began.”

“Barely began!?”

“You’re so cute.”

“Cute!”

“Mmm. Cute and slutty looking at the same time.” He fingers the sticky substance, all out of breath as you are. “I made you a mess. Shall I clean you, Princess?”

“Why do you seem so devious!? I… Satoru!” He’s lapping up his own cum off your pussy, and then he’s leaning over you, prying your mouth open with two fingers, spitting his cum inside your mouth. You gasp as he does, only serving to make your sore pussy throb with more need.

“You’re so sexy, fuck.” He whispers, as you swallow him all up.

“You’re ridiculous, Satoru Gojo. A fiend.” He smirks, but you’re reaching down, playing with it yourself, sucking him off your fingers.

“Fuck I can’t get enough of you. You too sore?”

“Yes too sore, insane man.” You kiss him again, as both of your fluids are mixing with your saliva, dripping between you both. “I’m exhausted now.”

“Let me sleep with you, please.” He pouts, as if he hadn’t just spit his cum in your mouth, like some innocent puppy.

“Oh fine, but let’s actually clean up. And you’re making me tea.”

“I don’t know how to make fucking tea!”

“You put the kettle on!?”

“What the fuck is a kettle? I’ll fetch a servant.”

“No, you make me tea, or no sleeping in my bedchambers.” He scowls, and you glare now.

“You’re cruel and evil, I made you cum countless times, and demanding more shit from me?”

“Mmhmm.”

“Fine, you teach me.” He cleans you up properly with a washcloth, then he’s dressing you in one of your night wrappers, a pretty soft pale blue, which he ties carefully in the front. “You’re so pretty.”

“Thank you.” You say, and he grins.

“Finally, no arguments?”

“None for the moment. Now, tea.” You drag him by his hand, and he follows you through the halls, you see several of the servants smiling and grinning, even your nan smiles softly as you two enter the kitchen. “Nan, fetch some tea please, I need to show this grown man how to make some.”

“I’ve always had a staff.” He huffs, and your Nan laughs softly, coming with a kettle and several pouches.

“Thank you!”

“You’re welcome, my sweet girl. Your grace.” She curtsies a bit, still giving Satoru the eye, and he sighs as she walks out.

“She wants to kill me.”

“You blame her? She had to see a lot no one else did.” It grows a little serious now, as you prepare the water, setting it in the kettle and firing it up. You look back at him as it begins to steam. “I do not say that to hurt you.”

“I know. It’s just… I cannot imagine what you went through because of me.” You hug him then, letting him sway you side to side, drinking in his presence, letting it soak into your bones, your being. “You told me to make it.”

“You can pour the water.” He snorts at that, changing the tense subject, but as he caresses your cheek, you can tell his actions weigh on him. Finally you set the bags of pretty herbs into two cups. “Let’s see a high pour.”

“A what now?” You giggle, shaking your head.

“Pour high, Satoru.”

He pours the hot, steamy water on top of the tea bags, and you both sit down at one of the servant tables, your pussy and ass so sore you wince. He grins. “Sore, huh Princess?”

“Oh do you ever shut that mouth, Satoru!?”

“When you rode my-”

“Hush, now, sip.” He blows on the steaming liquid, lips that had drank your cries, lips that did obscene things, his long fingers holding the delicate little handle of the teacup, you can barely control how much you desire him, everything about him. 

“There, I made you tea, bratty girl. You’ll lay with me.” He huffs, and then snatches you up, sitting you on his lap.

“Oh fine, if you snore I shall kick you right out, you can lay in your whore bed.”

“My whore bed, hmm?”

“Mmhmm! Oh, we have a ball to go to tomorrow, I nearly forgot with all we’ve been doing in town.”

“Imagine a ball where we don’t hate each other.”

“Who says I don’t.” He smiles then, shaking his head, kissing your cheek softly, hand running down your back. “A little less though.”

“I’ll take a little less. Did you enjoy cooking so much to get away from your mother I wonder?”

“That is how it started. Ugh, she’ll be there. Back to the corset.”

“Fuck no.” He grips your little waist then, and your eyes flutter shut at how good it feels. “You’ll wear no corset, you can wear those stays, so I can see more of your pretty form.”

“Satoru…” He hums then, as you sip your tea, setting it down with a click, wrapping your arms around him. “Fuck it. I’m very happy.”

“I’m so happy with you. Like this with me.” He kisses your chest softly, where your heart races for him, snowy white hair tickling you as it falls.

“I’m scared though.”

“I know. I will keep proving to you that I can be worthy, I swear it.” He declares, eyes looking up at you, and you believe him, you really do.

Maybe you’re a fool but you feel his sincerity.

“Let us sleep, Satoru, and no more funny business. I’m sore.”

“In the morning though?”

“Satoru!” He is laughing, picking you up in his arms again, and fuck it feels good to be held like this. You’re so terrified something will happen, to ruin this, something outside of you and Satoru, so scared it gnaws at you, but it’s eased when you’re later in his arms, under your thick blankets, and he’s holding you.

Satoru Gojo, your husband, spends the first night in bed with you, after nearly a month of marriage.

You fall asleep easily for the first time since you got here.

Part Eleven

[florencemtrash]

The Graveyard Shift: Chapter III

Simon Riley x f!Reader

Author's Note: Credit goes to @gloomwitchwrites and this specific post for inspiring this fic! This idea has lived in my mind rent free for weeks now, so I'm finally just going to do something about it.

Summary: Simon Riley is a lonely grave keeper in Victorian England who puts a marriage proposal ad in the London newspaper. He's ready to make his house a home, but can he convince his new wife that he can be her safe space, or will the secret she carries threaten their newfound happiness?

Warnings: abusive marriages (not Simon), allusions to SA (not explicit)

The Graveyard Shift Masterlist

Masterlist of Masterlists

<- Previous chapter Next chapter ->

Three weeks after answering the advert, the marriage contract and license came to Bishop Thomas signed and sealed. 

Simon Riley. 

His penmanship was surprisingly neat and orderly for a grave keeper. Even Y/n’s stepson commented on it in that pompous, self-important way he’d inherited from his father. She willed herself to stop trembling as they sat in front of the judge. 

Beside her, William Hall II leisurely flipped through the marriage papers, scanning the text without reading — without truly caring what would become of his stepmother.

Her husband, William Hall I, had had two wives before Y/n. Both of them young and both of them desperate in their own way. He’d considered it his duty to marry only the most ineligible women and then make them suffer as penance in return. It offered William a strange power — he could do the most horrid things imaginable and walk amongst his peers as though he were their savior. He could indulge in his vices and feel free of sin while everyone continued to sneer at his wives. 

His first wife, Margaret, had managed to eke out a sliver of his affection and push out only two children before dying of consumption. His second wife, Helena, had had worse luck: four children and death of infection after “falling” down the stairs and breaking her leg. Y/n had had a combination of their fortunes: no children (thank goodness, for she didn’t know how to feel about mothering William’s child)… and the worst of his brutality. 

She let out a shuddering breath as William Hall II came upon the last page. William Hall II as the eldest of her deceased husband’s sons had inherited the estate and all the wealth that came with it. Mercifully, he’d jumped at the chance to be rid of his widowed stepmother. He would have left her penniless regardless, but at least this allowed him a measure of respect from his compatriots. 

What a good man he was! How kind and generous was he for arranging the marriage of his late father’s wife, worthless and of ill-repute as she was. It was a story that would have haunted Y/n in the streets of London if she stayed, but she hoped the tongues would wag less in the countryside where no one knew her. 

William furrowed his brow, deep lines etched that came from frustration not joy. He licked his lips, dipped his pen in ink, and signed with a lofty scrawl. Y/n kept herself from snatching the pen and descending on the marriage license, forcing her shaking hands to still long enough to sign her name and slide the papers over to the judge. 

William pulled his watch out of his pocket, his mind already on to other, more important affairs, and regarded Y/n with only a lazy, “Congratulations on your marriage, dear Mother. You need not write,” before exiting the courthouse. It was all well with Y/n, for the moment the door had shut behind him she pulled out a heavy coin purse with all the pin money she’d saved up over the years and slid it to the judge. His smile was oily and common, for this was an arrangement he was used to. Then it was only a matter of changing William Hall II’s relationship to her from a stepson to a cousin on paper, leaving out the key sheaf of paper declaring her a widow, and suddenly it was as if she was being married for the first time to a humble grave keeper named Simon Riley. 

That evening she packed what little she had into two carpetbags and took a slow, thoughtful walk through all of Hall Manor. It was a handsome estate, but for all its size she could not help but cower beneath the weight of its lofty ceilings that seemed to disappear into nothing and the heavy curtains that fell closed over the dark London sky. 

Goodbye. She murmured with little remorse as she fell upon her deceased husband’s office door. I shall never see you again where I am going. 

Or so was the hope. 

She should have felt free laying in bed that night and tracing the whorls carved into the bedposts and walls of her room. But she suffered greatly from the unknown. It pressed on her chest viciously until she was curled inwardly as tight as a clam. Would her new husband be more forgiving when she burned the morning biscuits? Or would he strike her across the cheek and have her wear bonnets indoors to hide the bruise from the neighbors? At night would he—

She shuddered and willed her body to sink so far into the stiff mattress that she disappeared forever. When light sifted through the curtains, hazy with dust and setting the furniture aglow with woodshine she came to the realization that she had not disappeared at all. She needed to leave this bed, drink her tea, and make herself acceptable for her new husband. 

She moved with the maids in the kitchen, sipping her tea and nibbling at the scone the cook laid in her palm. “For your journey, Madam,” the young cherub woman said. She handed over sandwiches and cheese wrapped tight in linen and string. 

Y/n smiled tightly at the girl in front of her, scarcely younger than herself. “Thank you.” 

She set out alone and waited on the stinking, smokey platform for the first train to Kent. Papers fluttered across cement floors, sticking in puddles where they turned grey and sank. She heard the asthmatic pumping of the train’s wheels as it appeared as a dot, then as a sleek slab of steel and iron before rolling into the station in a plume of heat. She left her black mourning shawl on the station bench for no one to trace back to her and stepped onto the train with ticket in hand. 

The piercing blare of the train horn startled her at first before the carriage lurched into motion, but then she imagined it was her screams echoing down the platform — a curse upon her now dead husband and a cry of relief that she couldn’t voice.

<- Previous chapter Next chapter ->

[obnoxiousprince]

The French Revolution: A Political Myth More Than a True Liberation

The French Revolution is often portrayed as the founding moment of modern liberty, equality, and democracy. In the collective imagination, it represents the victory of the people over the oppression of a monstrous Old Regime and the birth of a new, fairer, and purer world. Yet, when we take a closer look at the actual facts and consequences of this historic event, the glorified narrative starts to crumble, giving way to a far more nuanced, and even critical analysis.

A Moderate King Sacrificed, a Manipulated People

Louis XVI, the last king of France, is often caricatured as an absolute tyrant responsible for poverty and inequality. In reality, he was far from a rigid despot. On the contrary, he was a moderate, intelligent, and hesitant man, a victim of his own advisors and of a political and economic crisis beyond his control. The king had even agreed to summon the Estates-General and seemed open to the idea of a constitutional monarchy.

Moreover, the popular misery — particularly the shortage of bread — cannot be blamed solely on the sovereign. The context was complex, shaped by agricultural failures, economic instability, and social unrest. The people, often illiterate and fueled by anger, were manipulated and pushed toward violence.

Lofty Principles on Paper, Inequality in Practice

The Revolution mostly produced words, theories, and grand ideals: liberty, equality, fraternity, human rights. These declarations, while admirable on paper, were not followed by a real transformation of social relations.

The legal equality proclaimed as a universal right remained an illusion. In practice, the wealthy and powerful always had better access to justice, while the poor continued to be disadvantaged. Freedom of expression, though supposedly guaranteed, remained unequal: those at the top of society could say almost anything without consequence, while the vulnerable often faced repression.

Freedom of Thought: A Natural Evolution, Not a Violent Upheaval

Contrary to popular belief, freedom of speech and thought did not emerge from the French Revolution or from violent upheaval. Long before 1789, under the Ancien Régime, forms of public dissent already existed: pamphlets, caricatures, and open criticism circulated freely, showing a society already capable of debate.

History from other countries supports this idea:

In England, freedom of conscience, religious pluralism, and parliamentary monarchy developed gradually: Magna Carta (1215), Habeas Corpus (1679), Bill of Rights (1689).

In the Netherlands, a tolerant and modern state emerged through compromise and reforms over time.

Even the United States, despite its war of independence, relied on a structured constitution without unleashing mass terror or radically overturning its social order as happened in France.

These historical examples show that freedom of thought is a long, peaceful process of maturation, not the inevitable result of bloodshed and chaos.

After Louis XVI: Rulers More Authoritarian Than the King

The French Revolution removed a moderate king, only to usher in leaders far more authoritarian. Robespierre, through the Reign of Terror, established a dictatorial regime based on mass repression. Later, Napoleon Bonaparte crowned himself emperor, reimposed censorship, centralized power, and rolled back several revolutionary gains, especially women’s rights.

The 19th century in France was marked by a series of authoritarian regimes: the Bourbon Restoration, the July Monarchy, and the Second Empire under Napoleon III. All these governments concentrated power and practiced repression, sometimes more harshly than Louis XVI, who by comparison appears almost restrained.

A Revolution Turned Political Tool: Myth at the Service of the Republic

Since the Third Republic, the French Revolution has been transformed into a state myth, actively used by presidents to legitimize the current system. This instrumentalization operates through powerful, enduring mechanisms.

A State Myth Perpetuated by Presidents:

Each republican regime has presented itself as the direct heir of the Enlightenment and human rights to:

Legitimize itself: “We are the heirs of the free people, of the Republic born from the Revolution.”

Cover up ongoing inequalities: “Everyone is free and equal” (at least in theory…).

Discredit any critique of the system: “You’re criticizing the Republic? Then you’re against democracy, against the people, against liberty.”

Every president, from De Gaulle to Macron, has symbolically positioned himself in this revolutionary lineage.

Republican speeches about secularism, the homeland, values, and the Republic are always delivered with the tricolor flag and the Marseillaise playing in the background.

The unspoken message is clear:

“We are the Revolution. Don’t question it.”

An Idealized Version That Locks Down Debate

This myth serves to shut down debate or alternatives:

It creates the illusion that power lies in the hands of the people, while in reality decisions are made by a technocratic, political, or economic elite.

It narrows the scope of thought: if the Republic comes from the Revolution, then questioning it means attacking democracy itself.

It crushes any other political model: monarchy? = reactionary. direct democracy? = populist. social critique? = conspiracy theory.

This control is reinforced through ritual repetition of symbols: Bastille Day (14 July), the Panthéon, Marianne, so-called “Republican values”.

School as a Relay of the Myth:

From early childhood, school teaches a sacred, binary history:

The good people versus evil elites.

Louis XVI = incompetent.

Robespierre = a hero.

Napoleon = a tragic genius.

There is no room for debate on:

Revolutionary massacres

The Jacobin dictatorship

Ongoing social inequality after 1789

This simplified, glorified narrative lacks nuance and serves one key purpose: to build a collective identity and erase historical contradictions.

Like all founding myths, it artificially unifies a divided society and imposes symbolic legitimacy on the regime.

Conclusion:

The French Revolution did not liberate the people in the way we are led to believe. It mostly replaced one form of power with another, often more authoritarian, while building a beautiful ideological façade filled with principles that were never fully applied.

Freedom of speech, far from being born amid the chaos of the Terror, is the product of a long, often peaceful historical evolution. Social justice and equality still remain unrealized ideals. And today’s elites, like those of the past, are skilled at using revolutionary symbols to maintain their authority.

Even now, the Republic speaks in the name of the people, yet acts in the interest of those far removed from it.

The French Revolution is less a liberating event than a political symbol used to lock in the system.

[maomaopilled]

[tgaa spoilers]

i love all the different ways case 1-1 and case 2-5 of tgaa contrast each other.

in case 1-1 kazuma believes in ryunosuke and wants to defend him in court even if it risks his study trip which is extremely important to him. even though ryu doesn't let him be the defense lawyer he still supports ryu in court and trusts in him. ryu barely has any idea what's even going on and it's a very emotional trial for him bc he could literally be found guilty of a murder he didn't commit. he is so nervous and anxious. so kazuma really is like his rock throughout the trial. kazuma is the one he looks up to and admires, representing such lofty ideals

but then by the time we reach case 2-5 it's like everything has been flipped around.

so many revelations about kazuma come to light, his desire for revenge and his part in the assassination plot and everything else. despite all of that... ryu keeps trusting and believing in him time and time again during the trial. it's a very personal and emotional trial for kazuma and this time ryu is like his rock. ryu isn't anxious anymore he has grown so much. now he is confident and collected and he never stops going after the truth no matter what. he stops kazuma from getting blinded by his own emotions and going too far off track. and where before, ryu was the one admiring kazuma's resolve and following in his footsteps. now it's kazuma who is moved by the resolve of ryunosuke naruhodo and needs to follow in his example of upholding the truth.

and the way that ryu and kazuma were supposed to part ways after case 1-1 with kazuma leaving to go to england but they didn't because ryu went with him. there's an element of codependency there. and i get the sense that part of the reason kazuma wanted him there is because he was afraid (if afraid is the right word?) of what could happen in england and he felt like he could face anything with ryu by his side. but by the end, they part ways willingly, and it is sad but i think they both know it's for the best and it's important for them both to follow their own paths and find themselves. they trust that the distance won't weaken their bond and they will meet again. kazuma isn't afraid anymore, he's ready to face his demons on his own... and ryu is ready to forge his own path.

not just that, i find it so interesting that lord stronghart's plans brought about his own downfall. in the first case, the murder that ryu is falsely accused of is actually one half of the assassination plot. him being falsely accused and defending himself in court is what begins his whole journey of becoming a defense lawyer capable of exposing all of lord stronghart's secrets in the final case. it's that idea that the truth always comes out. stronghart's plan to silence the people who know the truth actually started a young unassuming man on the journey to exposing the entire truth.

and i also love how jigoku is the judge for the first trial and he seems so intimidating and authoritative at first, a symbol of law and order. but by the final trial, ryu is cross examining him, picking apart all his lies, demanding that he can't withhold any information no matter how important his status is. it recontextualises the first trial bc we realise that jigoku knew exactly what was going on and he was okay with ryu being charged with a murder he didn't commit as long as his own secrets were safe and his own status was secure. in the first trial, jigoku was okay with ruining a man's life for his own gain. but by the final case, that same man reveals all his crimes in front of everyone in the court room. it's just so satisfying the way everything comes around, the way the truth always comes out.

[whencyclopedia]

Captive Queen: The Decrypted History of Mary, Queen of Scots

Mary, Queen of Scots is presented through the lens of her surviving correspondence in this new book by Jade Scott. This intimate exploration of Mary's life, primarily focused on her time incarcerated in England, utilises her letters, and most intriguingly, her ciphered letters, to understand the intricate relations and happenings surrounding the unfortunate queen. This is a well-researched and accessible book for those interested in Mary, Queen of Scots.

Captive Queen: The Decrypted History of Mary, Queen of Scots by Jade Scott is a new book focused on the life of Mary Queen of Scots, primarily during her period of incarceration in England by her cousin, Queen Elizabeth I of England. Even more specifically, Scott has used Mary’s correspondence during this period to form the foundation of this book, and most significantly, includes some newly discovered letters. Jade Scott is a historian who specialises in Mary, Queen of Scots; Scott's expertise in the queen’s letters and her passion, and respect for Mary shine through. The book follows Mary, Queen of Scots from her second marriage to Henry Stuart, Lord Darnley, and the troubles that ensued from that relationship through her third marriage to James Hepburn, 4th Earl of Bothwell, to her forced abdication from the throne of Scotland and her twenty-year imprisonment in England before her execution on the 8th of February, 1587.

The concept of ‘decrypting’ is particularly interesting. Mary was often in correspondence with those in her confidence around plots and plans to free her from her imprisonment in England. To keep her letters secret, Mary and her correspondents wrote in cipher. The beginning of each chapter includes a single chosen cipher symbol that represents a person of interest that features in the chapter, a quote from a letter, and a short, reimagined scene of Mary or one of her friends or confidants. It is a great way to initiate a chapter by easily framing the focus of it. Because of the use of letters as primary resources, there is a focus on Mary’s personal relationships with those who she was in contact with, such as her cousin and captor, Queen Elizabeth I of England. There are also intimate insights into her letters to her son who she was unable to see past his infancy, and with those working to free her from her prison, with the lofty hopes of placing her on England’s throne.

Captive Queen does what I think many historical biographies and history books in general struggle to do, and that is to bring the subject close to the reader. This book feels like an intimate story of the second half of Mary’s life. Letters are in and of themselves, a more personal kind of resource, for in some cases we see Mary’s handwriting and her signature and the detail in which her ciphers were crafted that, as Jade Scott puts it in the preface, ‘is like she is reaching out through time’.

This book is a perfect balance of up-to-date research and recent discoveries whilst being completely accessible to the general history enthusiast. I think it is so important to make cutting-edge history and archaeology research accessible to the general public, and this book is an exceptional example of this. I had not heard about the discovery of the new ciphered letters from Mary, Queen of Scots, so in particular, I enjoyed learning about the new aspects of Mary and her correspondence that we have learned from these new documents. Of course, it is also nice when books include images to supplement the text; this book included black and white images throughout and two colored image sections. The inclusion of images of full cipher keys, which is essentially a cheat sheet to be able to understand the cipher code letters were written in, was a highlight. Further, Scott has included both a Dramatis Personae at the beginning that lists all of the important figures that will be encountered in the book, and a helpful chronology/timeline at the end as a simplified rundown of the main events throughout Mary’s life.

Overall, I thought this was an exceptional book. It was easy to read, well-researched (and referenced!), and used the letters in a way that supplemented the story of Mary’s life, whilst also illuminating new information we have learnt about the queen. I would recommend this to all lovers of history, and particularly to those with a love of historical texts, and of course, Mary, Queen of Scots.

This review was first published on Kell Read.

Continue reading...

[heavenboundhotel]

✨SIR PENTINE✨

Name: Elias Pendleton

Species/Origin: Sinner, Snake Demon

Gender/Pronouns: Male - later questioning, He/Him (?)

Sexuality: Unlabeled (Later pansexual, he just doesn't know the actual term)

Year of Birth: 1847

Year of Death: 1888

Appearance:

Personality:

Eccentric, theatrical, and hopelessly unlucky, Sir Pentine is the very picture of a wannabe villain whose bark is far worse than his bite. A snake demon with grandiose dreams of becoming an overlord, Pentine styles himself as an evil genius with cutting-edge inventions, devastating wit, and a fearsome presence—none of which he actually possesses. His mechanical arms, crafted to project power and menace, are prone to spectacular malfunctions, undermining his carefully curated image at every turn.

Despite his villainous posturing, Sir Pentine is deeply anxious, self-conscious, and avoidant in personal matters. His attempts at wordplay and intimidation are laughable, and he crumbles under confrontation, more likely to stammer out apologies than follow through on threats. He desperately wants recognition and respect, believing that climbing Hell’s power ladder will validate his existence and silence his nagging insecurities.

However, Pentine’s soft-hearted nature and inability to truly harm others keep him from succeeding in Hell’s ruthless hierarchy. He overestimates his abilities, underestimates others, and stumbles through schemes with sheer dumb luck as his saving grace. Though he externalizes his insecurities by playing the role of “evil incarnate,” deep down, he’s more kindhearted and moral than he’d like to admit.

Pentine’s over-the-top antics and comedic failures make him a laughingstock in Hell, though he remains oblivious to how little others take him seriously. Still, his persistence—and occasional flashes of ingenuity—suggest that beneath the bluster and insecurities, there might be more to Sir Pentine than meets the eye. Whether he’ll ever realize that himself is another matter entirely.

Backstory:

Born in 1847 in Victorian England, Elias Pendleton came into the world frail and sickly, confined by illness to the indoors for much of his childhood. While other children ran and played, Elias buried himself in books, immersing himself in tales of scientific marvels, alchemical miracles, and fantastical inventions. These stories sparked an imagination unbound by practicality. He dreamed of building machines that could change the world, though he never quite grasped the line between fantasy and reality.

Elias’s parents, well-meaning but strict, unintentionally planted the seeds of his lifelong insecurities. They viewed his fragility as a flaw and his eccentricities as embarrassing, chastising him for his "silliness" whenever he tried to share his lofty ideas. Feeling inherently “bad” or “broken,” Elias internalized their disapproval and began using his tinkering as a way to prove his worth—not only to them but to himself.

As he grew older, Elias’s ambitions outpaced his abilities. He constructed bizarre contraptions that rarely, if ever, worked. Undeterred, he turned to another booming industry of the era: snake oil sales. Drawn in by promises of wealth and recognition, Elias began selling miracle “elixirs” alongside his increasingly impractical inventions. Though his intentions were never malicious, most of his creations were utterly useless, and some caused genuine harm. When customers fell ill or claimed injury, Elias was wracked with guilt but lacked the courage to admit his failures.

Word of his mishaps spread, forcing Elias to flee town after town. Isolated and ashamed, he became a recluse, holed up in small, dingy apartments, where he continued to tinker and dream of success. Despite countless setbacks, he clung to the hope that his next invention would finally redeem him. But Elias never found the breakthrough he sought.

In 1888, at the age of 41, Elias met his untimely end in a freak accident of his own making—an experimental boiler he’d been testing exploded, taking him with it. His death was as chaotic and absurd as his life, and he awoke in Hell with a newfound sense of purpose. Surely, he thought, if he was condemned here, it must mean he truly was a terrible person all along.

Eager to embrace his “true nature,” in order to push away the deep pit of self-loathing thar came with it, Elias transformed himself into “Sir Pentine,” a self-styled evil genius. He crafted a pair of massive mechanical arms—compensating for his lack of limbs in his demonic form—and filled his lair with egg-shaped robotic henchmen of dubious utility. Taking cues from the overlords he idolized, Elias adopted an over-the-top persona, complete with dramatic monologues and theatrical schemes.

Yet even in Hell, Sir Pentine struggles. His inventions fail spectacularly, his plans backfire, and his reputation as a bumbling nuisance overshadows his dreams of grandeur. While he convinces himself he wanted power, he lacks the ruthlessness to pursue it. Deep down, Elias remains the same anxious, soft-hearted tinkerer he was in life, using his cartoonish villainy as a mask to hide his insecurities.

Despite his many failures, Sir Pentine clings stubbornly to his ambitions. Whether out of desperation, delusion, or sheer determination, he refuses to give up, convinced that one day he’ll finally prove his worth.

[aotearoa20]

The coach lurched, nearly throwing her from her seat as she cursed. The journey through the pass was never a comfortable one, especially on today of all days, but this was getting ridiculous. The driver was racing down the winter roads as though the devil himself were behind them and for what purpose?

They ran too swiftly through another rut and she pitched violently into one of the passengers unfortunate enough to be crammed next to her.

“Does he mean to drive us off the mountain?” she grumbled, straightening the creases of her dress in vain.

“It is for the Englishman.” came the hushed reply and she scowled as she glanced up at him.

Tall and wiry, and sitting so stiff he appeared even more so, she'd noticed the foreigner but had paid him little that mind. Perhaps she'd hoped idly that he might be good for conversation, he seemed kind about the eyes and smiled readily, especially when night fell and they all wanted a distraction from the dark. 

“Does his have an engagment in the north worth double all our necks,” she scoffed as she spoke but the man beside her frowned.

“He sent for him”

“He?”

He shuddered, “Him in the Pass.”

Ana scoffed. No one lived in the Pass. Further up on the frontier or around here to the west of it. But no one within it. None would be so foolish to set roots there and risk contending with…

Her hands went suddenly cold as she turned the little posy between her fingers. A gift from her husband for safe travels. It likely would do little if any true trouble came but such gifts were given to comfort the giver anyway. 

“Surely not…” she murmured

But the man nodded gravely, “We are stopping at the end of the Brogo Pass. The driver hopes to get there early and take off before he arrives.”

Ana did not like the sound of that at all. To be sure, she pitied the young man who sat apparently as good as dead across from her by the window, but there was no use risking all their necks for a stranger.

“Does he know where he is going?” she murmured softly to herself.

She turned to him again. He had that odd detachment, the few Englishmen she’d ever come, across seemed to share; though it had none of the usual haughtiness. And in his defense they were all staring at him as one does a ghost.

His fingers were whiteknuckled where he gripped brown notebook in his hands but his face was soft in awe. He was looking adamantly out the window with such wonder that Ana leaned forward to see just what caught his attention. But there was nothing of note. Rivers and strips of forest and the mountains bracketing the sky…

“No Mountains -” she asked before wariness or common sense could stop her. The stranger turned to her curious and despite the twist in her stomach she powered on with the little german she knew “In England? There are no mountains?”

His eyes brightened in understanding and he replied in a quick stream of words, a jumble of german and english that she didn't even bother trying to decipher. Instead she waited for his voice to peter of and raised an eyebrow. He laughed rather sheepish, scratching the back of his neck. He had a nice laugh, damn him, and she felt her heart warm to him against her will.

“Not like these,” he said more simply, or something along those lines. Ana couldn't imagine a place where the mountians did hold up the sky at some point or another. But she tried and when she looked out again supposed they would be rather grand to a stranger. A soft smile crept upon her face.

“My name is Jonathan - ”

“No.No.” And she shook her head firmly even as his face fell. She didn’t know if it was bad luck to learn the name of a walking dead man but she didn't want to regardless. It was like naming the Easter lamb, it did no one any good.

Still she could not help pointing out the great peaks of God's Seat. It was a sight to behold even in her lofty opinion. A darker part of her mind was pleased that the man could see such beauty on today. She hoped it might bring him comfort in whatever the morning might bring for him.

If he made it so far.

The sun set behind the hills and on the travelled. Around her some of the others still talked and debated the Englishmans arrival and purpose and plans. She did her best to ignore them, not wanting to linger on the poor boy's fate. As the coachman lit his lamps however they began to pester her. What little German she was still more than the rest of them combined. Ask what he’s doing. What brings a foreigner into the lions den? Ask, girl ask. What sort of person leaves his homeland to break bread with a monster? So if only to shut them up she did.

The answer it turned out was hard to come by. Speaking in a language foreign to both parties brings a sort of camaraderie in its inevitable failings but doesnt make reaching the goal any easier.

“Business,” she said at last and though she could barely believe it he nodded.

“House business.” he agreed far more satisfied woth their sucess.

She nodded also and kept nodding trying the her head arlund the utter absurdity of it. Lord Almighty. She stood, pushing her head out the window and shouted above the howling wind.

“Faster, driver! Faster - the Englishman walks to his death for fucking real eastate.”

The others inside began shouting also, urging him forward as they all but flew across the thorugh the opening of the Pass. All the while the young man sat, clutching his notebook. He seemed very slight among the excited voices in the half standing crowd. 

“Is all well?” he asked, looking at her, his voice barely reaching over the racket.

She bit her lip and looked away. He knows. Ah, he knows in all the worst ways. Like one who realises they are not alone in the dark. But what light can she shed? And what good was in knowing of the beast in the room when one sits defenseless and trapped. She does not even know the word for ‘vampire’ in his tongue.

Suddenly - selfishly - she leaned forward again and pressed the posy of wild rose and garlic into his hands. Deaf to his protest she sat back and prayed. Others went forward after her. Passing on their own tokens and blessings for the road.

“Cannot be too careful, especially on a night like tonight.” her husband had said to her.

She rested her head in her hands, heedless to the rocking of the coach. St Michael guard him. St Jude aid him. Ah St George arent the people of England under your keeping. Intercede for him as I do. Watch over him, he knows not where he is going.

And then all at once the coach stopped. She hadn't even noticed they'd reached the end of the valley. Now she scoured the dark trees around them for any creature lurking under the boughs. Cicacda screamed into the night, branches whispered and very far in the distance a wolf howled but other than that nothing. The young man, Jonathan, reaches for his watch but someone puts a hand over his. 

Finally the coachman calls down, “There is no carriage here. The Herr is not expected after all. He will now come on to Bukovina, and return to-morrow or the next day; better the next day.”

She might have laughed at the disappointment on his face. She very nearly leant forward. Very nearly took his hand offered him a place in her mother-in-law’s home. There was space in the loft after all and she knew in spite of her illness and all their warnings she will have been making a small feast upon their arrival. The words were on the tip of her tongue.

Then the horses startled.

Ana had never seen the Demon of the Pass. This was her husband's home she did not usually venture this far fron Bistritz. As the calrche drew up beside, she was not excatly sure it was Him. She crossed herself, drawing back as far into the coach as she could all the same. When the coachman's bright eyes fell upon them she did not care who he was at all, just that he stayed far away from them.

When he questions the coachmen she feared he might fall upon them all there and then. She could run, all the way to Bukovina if she had to but in the dark they stood no chance.

‘The dead travel fast,’ says someone beside her and as the demon's attention falls back upin then she wants to cut his tongue out. His teeth flash in the lamp light and she stifled a scream.

She could not look at him. She could not do it and ended up staring baleful at the Englishman as his bags were taken from the coach. Now it was he who avoided their pointed stares. When he moved to get up she thought of grabbing him.

Can he not see? Does he not understand? He reaches out and takes the hand of corpse. For the first time the barest hint of apprehension crossed his face. What she would do to leap forward and spirit them all way from this place and unto the morning. It was a mere fancy of course. There was nothing on earth that could get her to move from the shadowy corner where she sat.

And then he was gone. 

The driver watched until the lights of the caleche winked out into the night and with a heavy sigh urged the horses forward. The rest of the journey was silent and somber. 

You do not know him, she tells her tears. There is no reason to weep. She took a shuddering breath and wiped her eyes. Except that she did. His name was Jonathan. May God have mercy on his soul.

[townsenddecades]

1336 – Day 2 – Glennborough

Mariora greatly enjoys the time for leisure Eibhlín’s service in the house affords her. Besides helping with the cleaning and cooking, the girl also takes over some of the care for Elias, Siobhán and Filimor. Mariora is hesitant, at first – she doesn’t want to overwork her friend’s daughter – but Eibhlín adores the children.

“Besides”, the girl tells her, quite wisely for one so young, “it’s good practice for when I have my own. If I make a mistake now, you can correct me.”

Mariora can’t argue with that logic, so she doesn’t.

Still, it’s strange to sit around idly and read while just a few steps away, someone is doing housework in her home. The longer this goes on, the more she feels like a noblewoman, even while knowing that she isn’t one. She even starts leaving off the headscarf she has worn since coming to Ireland, and instead starts wearing her hair braided with a hairnet, which is far from her modestly covered hair or the practical style she used to wear back in England.

She often wonders what her mother would say if she saw her now, or what the townsfolk actually think of her. Do they think she is reaching above her station? But Lord Goth’s approving look when he first sees this style on her is all the excuse she needs to continue wearing it. She can’t deny that it makes her feel very lofty indeed.

Eibhlín, for her part, couldn’t care less if her mistress is giving herself airs. She is an easy woman to work for, never harsh, always ready to help despite the finer make of her gown, and ever-patient in explaining to her how something needs to be done. The pay is decent, which pleases her parents, and as an additional bonus, she lives under the same roof as her friend Nicolas, whom she has intensely missed ever since his family left the hut near theirs.

She doesn’t see him as often as she’d like, what with him busy on the fields or fishing and her working in the house, but even then, they find moments to chat. He tells her about his homeland across the sea, and about the baron, whom she only sees occasionally when he visits Mistress Mariora, and listens to her stories about her parents. They talk about gossip they’ve heard and tell each other tales and honestly, when it comes to work, Eibhlín doesn’t think she could have done any better.

For the boys, these months are no less busy, because it is time to bring in the harvest. They have only planted a manageable crop – although far more than they would have been able to on the tiny plot of land they had around their previous hut – so between the three of them, it is done rather quickly.

That doesn’t mean that working on the fields is the only thing they do in those months, of course. Whenever he has a moment, Joseph delves into his writing and reading with abandon, much to his much less educationally-minded brothers’ confusion. One day, when Joseph settles down to write while Nicolas is eating, the latter finally cracks.

“What are you writing there, anyway?”, he asks, out of the blue. Joseph’s head snaps up in surprise, before he pulls his scribblings closer to himself, almost protectively.

“Just thoughts.”

His brother scoffs. “What thoughts could you possibly have that need to be written down?” He himself can’t write very well. He has learned how, on his mother’s behest, but he doesn’t really see the point. It’s not like they’re nobles. Knowing how to write doesn’t put food on their table. Knowing how to tend to a field or care for poultry or how to fish does.

Although he is honest enough to admit that his brother isn’t shirking any of his share of the work outside to do this. It’s just that he could do more, instead of sitting inside writing.

“How would you know what will be important later?”, Joseph responds defensively.

“Because you’re a child”, Nicolas responds as if it was the most obvious thing in the world – which, from a certain point of view, it is. After all, he is five years older than his brother. “What do you have to think about that’s so great, planting onions? I’m sure monks or other scholarly folk would be very impressed by that.”

“Maybe I’m just practicing”, Joseph responds, hands shaking on his notes. “We can’t all be big oafs like you.”

“At least I’m doing something useful.”

The only thing that keeps this heated exchange from escalating into a full-blown fight is the arrival, then, of Eibhlín, who points out that screaming at each other might draw down their mother or, worse, wake the baby. But Joseph swears to himself that he will one day show his brother that he will make a living as a scholar, peasant background or not.

After all, Lord Goth’s favour must be useful for something.

Luckily, despite the friction only natural between growing siblings so close in age, the family has no trouble coming together for celebrations. Because there is another birthday this quarter, as Elias turns six years old. This leaves Siobhán as Simon’s only child that hasn’t outgrown toddlerhood yet.

Just as she did for Nicolas’ birthday a few months prior, Mariora prepares a cake as well as Elias’ favourite foods. She invites Eibhlín to partake in the festivities, too, much to the girl’s delight. For Mariora, treating her like part of the family isn’t even a question – even if she wasn’t her friend’s daughter, she still feels she owes it to her for all her help.

Elias has had cake on other occasions, but he is nonetheless delighted to now have one especially for him. There aren’t very many presents other than clothes – the children have toys enough to play with, and anyway, he won’t have much time to play once he starts helping his brothers on the fields – but he doesn’t complain.

What Mariora feels more than anything else is pride. Pride for her son for making it this far, but pride for herself, too, to have cared for her children so well that not a single one of them has perished since their flight to this land. Some of that is probably good fortune – without Lord Goth, they wouldn’t eat half so well – but she likes to think that she played her part in this, too. And now, through the influence she has over Lord Goth, she will give them so much more.

They sit together for a long time around that table, playing games and sharing stories and laughing together, she and her boys and little Siobhán and Eibhlín. Mariora still wishes Simon could be with them – even after more than half a decade, she can’t see herself ever not missing him – but it feels…good.

Somewhere in the course of that evening, Nicolas and Eibhlín end up sitting on the small bench together, still close to the rest of the family and able to take part in their conversation and jests. Not that they do that. Nicolas doesn’t even listen to them, really – he is too busy enjoying the stories his friend tells.

Eibhlín is not what one would call a ‘demure’ young woman. She’s lively and opinionated, and her tongue can be rather sharp, at least when the target of her comments is not in earshot. His mother has scolded her lightly for it once or twice, worried that she might get herself in trouble one day if the wrong person were to hear her, but she is unabashed.

“I’m not an idiot”, she says blithely afterwards – only to him, of course, not to his mother. “Of course, I won’t say anything like that when there is someone close-by that might take offense.”

“I think Mother’s just frightened she might offend anyone”, he had said. “But you’re right, it’s not as if you’re not careful”.

So he continues to laugh about her barbs, and enjoying that he has someone of his own age on the estate to spend time with. Ever since moving here, Eibhlín has been his best – and, truly, only – friend, and that bond has only deepened through the years.

Previous: 1336, Day 2, Part 3/4 <--> Next: 1336, Day 3, Part 1/3

[libraryledge]

The Next Part of My Story (A Tale Set in the World of Wonka)

A/N: In honor of my one year anniversary on Tumblr, I wrote a continuation to the first series I ever posted. Thank you to everyone who showed love to this story. You're the reason this is possible! Please enjoy!

The weather outside was beautiful, like it was ripped out of a storybook, which was perfect considering that I was writing for one. I sat behind my desk, which was piled to the brim with ideas for new stories. It was crazy to think that about a year ago, these were still ideas in my head. London seemed so far away and simply a dream. Now, not only was I living in the city I’d fantasized about, but I had a writing deal with one of the best publishers in England. However, the most unexpected part was also the sweetest: I was living in a chocolate factory.

Upon arriving in London, I moved into a tiny room in the local washhouse, where I planned to work in order to make enough money to support my career. However, I was abruptly made aware that I would have a roommate, in the already tight chambers. He was none other than Willy Wonka, an aspiring chocolatier and magician, with a wild imagination. Truthfully, my first impression of him was that he was a bit odd, and I wasn’t keen on the idea of sharing my room. However, we quickly became friends and promised to help one another with our conquests: his dream of selling chocolate and my dream of publishing a book. Along the way, Willy’s joyful spirit melted my heart, and now, my life is more vibrant because of him.

A knock on the door interrupted my thoughts. A young man in a long burgundy coat stood in the doorway of my room, tipped his brown top hat at me, and smiled.

“Good afternoon m’lady,” he said, entering the room and eyeing the papers on my desk. “It seems like today is turning out to be a productive day.”

I smiled and took in the image of the handsome man before me as he leaned in and placed a kiss on my head.

“It has. In fact, I’ve come up with so many potential story ideas that I’m having trouble deciding which one I’ll submit to Mr. Doux-Amer,” I admitted.

“I know what you mean. It’s been a busy day at the factory. Even with Lofty’s help, it’s been hard keeping up with all the new chocolate orders that are coming in,” he said, honestly.

I nodded. Lofty was an Oompa Loompa, whom Willy befriended and assigned as his business partner at the factory, after the little orange man took a secret liking to his chocolate.

“Speaking of chocolate,” Willy said, pulling out a small wrapped item from his pocket. “I want you to be the first to try my latest creation.”

He unwrapped the items and revealed a long yellow treat that was decorated with chocolate icing on the top.

“I call it the hair repair eclair. They're perfect for anyone who wants to regrow their missing hair or simply wants to experiment and make it a bit longer,” Willy explained.

Then, he broke off a piece of the candy and placed it in my palm. 

“These are meant to be eaten in small quantities, eat any more than three, and you’ll end up like a gorilla!” he warned.

I laughed, “Well, we certainly don’t want that, do we?”

I placed the treat in my mouth and allowed the flavors to melt on my tongue. It was spongy and had a taste of vanilla. 

“Mmm! Willy, this is delicious!” I proclaimed.

Willy beamed at me. “And it worked too! Look!” he said, carefully taking a strand of my hair in his hands. I gasped as I realized that it was now a few inches longer.

“Wow! That’s amazing!” I said, admiring the change.

“I was afraid that it wouldn’t work. I ate a piece of one earlier, but I don’t think it had any effect.” he admitted.

I stood up from my chair, and I took his hands in mine.

“I think it did work,” I said, studying Willy with a chuckle.

“Really?” he said, taking off his hat and running his hand through his curls, whose color reminded me of a never ending river of chocolate. “How can you tell?”

I leaned in and kissed him lovingly on the lips, which made him smile against me.

“Because your mustache tickles me when I kiss you,” I replied with a grin.

“Mustache? I don’t have a-” he replied in confusion, bringing his hand to his upper lip.

Willy’s eyes widened at the realization. “I have a mustache! I’ve never had one before!”

I giggled and responded, “No, you haven’t but you do look mighty handsome with one.”

His cheeks turned a sweet strawberry red over my compliment.

“Oh, stop it!” he said as he traded his signature Wonka grin with a shy smile that melted my heart.

“You always ask for my honest opinion during taste testing. Why should today be any different?” I said, matter of factly.

Willy wrapped his arms around my waist and then placed his forehead on mine.

“I love you,” he whispered, and now, it was my face that was aglow as he leaned in to kiss me.

The exchange was delightful because as per usual, his lips tasted like chocolate, a concept that I couldn’t get enough of. Now, his new mustache contributed to the ticklish feeling in my heart when we joined together.

As we pulled apart, he chuckled and said, “I better let you get back to your writing. Hopefully, I didn’t make you lose your train of thought.” 

“No, that’s ok. I can jump back on it at the next station,” I replied, playfully.

Willy laughed. “Good, I better get back too. Lofty’s waiting for me. We have lots of new orders to fulfil! Oh! By the way, how do you feel about elevator rides?” he asked me, eagerly.

“Uh…fine. I guess,” I replied, a bit confused at his sudden inquiry.

“Great! Meet me in the basement of the factory at about 7:30 tonight. There’s something I want to show you.” he said, grinning from ear to ear.

“Ok, then. It’s a date,” I replied.

Willy clapped his hands, showcasing his childlike excitement. “Yay! Dates with you are my favorite ones.” 

“I would hope so. Although, you’ve got a lot of admirers who could give me a run for my money and would jump at the chance to go on a date with the famous Willy Wonka,” I teased him with a wink.

“Never!” he said, clearly so shocked that I would utter such a statement, that he missed the fact that I was only kidding.

“I’m so grateful for all of the guests that visit my factory, but none of them fill my stomach with as many butterflies as you do,” he said sincerely.

I blushed and turned him around towards the door to hide my rosy cheeks and get him on his way back to work. 

“I was only teasing you, Willy. Now, go before your sappy words melt me into a puddle of that sugary syrup you use in your candy,” I said with a giggle.

As he headed out the door frame, he tipped his hat at me in a farewell gesture. 

“Now, that would be a shame,” he said with a grin.

“WONKA!” a voice boomed echoing through the stairwell and up to my room. It was Lofty, who made up for his short stature, with his big temper.

“Now, I really need to go. Don’t forget! Tonight at severn!” he said, as he raced down the stairs towards the impatient Oompa Loompa.

I chuckled as I watched him disappear from view. I returned to my desk with a smile as I continued sorting through the ideas I’d written earlier. Once again, without knowing it, Willy had provided more inspiration for my writing. I spent the rest of the afternoon whittling away at my manuscript, counting down the minutes until I would reunite with Willy and share with him the next part of my story. 

[cazzyf1]

Mike Hawthorn shaking hands with Lofty England - Lofty viewed Mike like the son he never had

[thiswaycomessomethingwicked]

Man had been rendered both greater and smaller by Napoleon. 

Under this reign of splendid matter, the ideal had received the strange name of ideology! It is a grave imprudence in a great man to turn the future into derision. The populace, however, that food for cannon which is so fond of the cannoneer, sought him with its glance. Where is he? What is he doing? “Napoleon is dead,” said a passer-by to a veteran of Marengo and Waterloo. “He dead!” cried the soldier; “you don’t know him.” Imagination distrusted this man, even when overthrown. The depths of Europe were full of darkness after Waterloo. Something enormous remained long empty through Napoleon’s disappearance.

The kings placed themselves in this void. Ancient Europe profited by it to undertake reforms. There was a Holy Alliance; Belle-Alliance, Beautiful Alliance, the fatal field of Waterloo had said in advance.

In presence and in face of that antique Europe reconstructed, the features of a new France were sketched out. The future, which the Emperor had rallied, made its entry. On its brow it bore the star, Liberty. The glowing eyes of all young generations were turned on it. Singular fact! people were, at one and the same time, in love with the future, Liberty, and the past, Napoleon. Defeat had rendered the vanquished greater. Bonaparte fallen seemed more lofty than Napoleon erect. Those who had triumphed were alarmed. England had him guarded by Hudson Lowe, and France had him watched by Montchenu. His folded arms became a source of uneasiness to thrones. Alexander called him “my sleeplessness.” This terror was the result of the quantity of revolution which was contained in him. That is what explains and excuses Bonapartist liberalism. This phantom caused the old world to tremble. The kings reigned, but ill at their ease, with the rock of Saint Helena on the horizon.

While Napoleon was passing through the death struggle at Longwood, the sixty thousand men who had fallen on the field of Waterloo were quietly rotting, and something of their peace was shed abroad over the world. The Congress of Vienna made the treaties in 1815, and Europe called this the Restoration.

This is what Waterloo was.

But what matters it to the Infinite? all that tempest, all that cloud, that war, then that peace?

Excerpt from the infamous Waterloo chapter in Les Miserables. Emphasis mine.

[darth-grips]

Idk there's just something inside me that is obsessed with populating Star Wars with normies. Like idk not everyone can be a cool mercenary or a rebel or a bounty hunter or connected to gangsters. What sort of life does the guy who pumps gas for the Millennium Falcon lead. What about the single mom who owns the general store on Tatooine (this is specifically why I'm so obsessed with the Kenobi novel). What was Peli Motto's life like before Mando stumbled into her shop? I love Andor soooooo much because so many of the characters are incidental normies in their respective environments. Like, Ferrix having a historical society and clear cultural identity under which to rally around in opposition to the Empire even though it's not a particularly cool or special place to live, it's just sort of your average trade town (it reminds me SO much of the random ass mid-size Flemish city I currently live in in this one specific way, or really any largeish town in New England); and the fact that the Rebel cell set on infiltrating the Imp base used a cultural/religious event unique to the planet as the crux of their grand plan, makes me FUCKING insane. LIKE. Babyfaced Fascist's whole steez about being a relatively low level private security worker whose attempts at playing Nazi Captain America getting him relegated to office drone who has to live with his normal-ass mom is incredible.

Idk I know in Andor this is a deliberate device to highlight that every person no matter where or how they live can either resist or be complicit in the status quo, but I'm also interested in the people that have their heads in the sand or have big lofty dreams or even small ones..... What must it be like to live in a place like the GFFA and just have so much wacky bullshit be normal! Your best friend might be a frog or some other alien physically incapable of human speech, but you can still communicate effectively because you understand each other's languages! There were normal ass people, both human and alien, on vacation in Andor even though they were all living in a fascist empire puppeteered by an evil space wizard who can shoot lightning from his hands! That's so fucking bonkers it's literally all I can think about. Those kids in Skeleton Crew go to middle school and one of them is just casually a baby Max Rebo.

Idk also I love Legends Star Wars' insistence on zooming into the mundane lives of its background extras. Why yes, I DO want to hear about that guy on Bespin hauling ass with the secretly plot-relevant ice cream maker. But also how did he feel when a random prettyboy gambler with no prior business or administrative experience on his resume take over the place where he and probably his entire family lived and worked. How does he feel about the Ugnaught junk and sanitation worker underclass. Does he know or think about it at all?

Idk the GFFA is so huge and crazy the fact that people can be space wizards is only one mildly interesting aspect of it. What about NormalMan McGuy who just lives his life being regular. I can see myself in that dude, but also his life is crazy when compared to mine, if only because one of his coworkers at the insurance firm he works at is a Wookiee and some of the policies he drafts covers shit like spontaneous supernovae events and invasion by droid armies. I think that's so cool that there's room in this universe -- textually, canonically -- to live fulfilling lives without having any connection to the main plot. Like do you see my vision. Or am I just being insane here.

[balladofthewhitehorse]

#2 for engport please!

Thank you for the prompt <3 I wasn’t sure which prompt list you were referring to, so you get both!

[Set During The Peninsular War] + [Battle of Rolica] 

Portugal stood still, trembling in a brand of sunlight. ‘’Get out-’’ He started, abject fury curling in the back of his throat as he stepped towards France - jabbing his finger at them. ‘’Get out of my house.’’ Heart thudding in his chest, Portugal watched as the taller man regarded him with a cool look (like a fox in a henhouse; And the dog was away). ‘’Did you hear me, Fran-’’ 

‘’I heard.’’ A shrug, as if they had only been discussing the weather - Sunny with a chance of martyrdom, France mused quietly. ‘’Shame. I liked you.’’ Their eyes flashed as they slowly stood up and approached Portugal, arms folded behind their back as they cleared their throat, shrugging lazily. ‘’Spain’s troops are arriving anyday, Portugal. You’re welcome to join him.’’ A lofty smile, France raising their chin proudly. ‘’Brothers are a rare thing to come by.’’ 

‘’Why do you say that-?’’ Portugal retorted testily, hackles bristling. ‘’Is that a threat?’’ 

France almost looked disappointed, brows furrowing as they shook their head. ‘’Only cautioning you.’’ They paced the room - strides long and methodical, France’s expression pinched thoughtfully as a long silence stretched (Portugal dared not interrupt - somehow even the very quietness was envenomed). ‘’Your regent has gone already, hasn’t he?’’ It was a cowardly flight - France hovering on the port, nerves thrumming long after the ship had vanished; Coiled tight, expecting a fight that had ended up never happening.

‘’What a fool.’’ Anger dripped from their tongue, France glaring at Portugal suddenly - eyes boring into them. ‘’This is not what the Nation of Portugal is. This is not what you deserve, I can give-’’ 

‘’I will not accept it.’’ Portugal bit back, a lump rising in his throat (the people were angry, their restlessness only fanning his own - until Portugal could no longer tell what parts of him were them and what parts were him alone). ‘’Fuck you, I am more than just-’’ His face contorted, wild and defiant as he lunged for France - grasping the front of their embroidered shirt with balled fists, jerking France close with a venegful hiss. ‘’-My Crown!’’ Portugal bit his tongue, trembling in place (A heady rush of earth and sea - salt-kissed soil - who was he?) 

France regarded this with a lofty smile, peering over the bridge of their graceful nose. ‘’I assume you’re already aware of the consequences.’’ Something venomous crept into their voice, an adder in a lonesome field somewhere by the Seine - France releasing a frustrated huff as they shook their head. Typical, there was that familiar stubbornness (France had tasted its steel, as Spain tore a bloody hole in their flank) and they almost felt a laugh creep up their throat. ‘’For starters, I have your brother’s head pickling in a fucking wine barrel.’’ 

 “No, you fucking don’t.” He wrestled the urge to tackle France right then and there, as the taller country began to slowly walk away. Forget humans and their elaborate warfare, forget their swords and cannons and ships. Portugal wanted to tear into France, talons and teeth alike, a ferocious animal. 

“Why don’t you find out?” France sneered, casting him a malicious glance over their shoulder. “Or are you waiting for your…what’s his name again?” They scoffed, rolling their eyes loftily. “For Perfidious Albion to come running to your heel again?” 

“He’s-“ 

“He’s a dog, Portugal.” 

As France’s footsteps faded down the hallway, Portugal bit back a rising cry of outrage. He’s my Dog, Portugal wanted to hiss - to grab his sword and run France through right here and now, Napoleon be damned. Where anger rose, there was a pang of grief - Portugal suddenly subsumed in a wave of emotion as the weight began to sink in (an anchor around his throat, hands clawing at the briny rope). He had to fight France. For Spain, for England. 

Furious tears welled up in his eyes, Portugal nodding solemnly to himself. 

For Spain, For England. 

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Up, up and over the horizon - Portugal saw it, a ragged banner, blood-red and white. The face of St George was upon him, and Portugal waited patiently as a figure hovered at the prow of the ship, and did not wait before scrambling over its hull, tumbling into the stormy waters (some soldiers nearby had spotted a few of the British lose their lives as their landing craft tumbled in the water - but he knew England had eyes only for him). “About time.” He ground out as England emerged from the salt and foam, slick with brine and arms outstretched. 

“I can’t leave you alone for one second-“ England breathed out, grasping Portugal’s hands - his knuckles were red and raw, shaking as they cradled his lover’s palms (the imprint of a sword’s handle, a personal desire to kill France up close and personal, rather than the distant fury of a musket gun). “-without you hurting yourself, can I?” He growled, heart thudding in his chest - eyes troved Portugal’s body, searching for wounds or bruises, the tumbling of lost land or burned cities. 

“I’m fine.” Portugal replied stiffly, squeezing England’s hand. He knew they couldn’t waste time, jawline tense as he glanced towards his generals. “I mean, it’s okay-“ What burned in England, Portugal understood now to be something more intense than loyalty - something that could not be bought with gold or spice or the newest thing from afar, and as he watched England (his gaze ragged and worn, a man in a trance - the tireless duty of the Grim to its Church).

‘’Come on-’’ He cleared his throat, frowning solemnly. ‘’-We can’t waste any time.’’ ‘’No-!’’ England barked with frustration, staring at Portugal in a mix of disbelief and distress as the man turned on his heel - England trotting after him in a hurry, jaw set as he tried to resist grabbing Portugal by the shoulder. ‘’-No, it’s not okay!’’ A snarl rushed out of England’s throat, lips curling (red gums and white teeth bared, his shoulders bunched defensively). ‘’Not when I feel like I’m going to go batshit fucking crazy, thinking you’ve gotten yourself hurt or killed.’’ He squeezed his hand tightly around the muzzle of his musket gun and cleared his throat sagely. 

Now ruined from the saltwater, Portugal knew that it was ineffective - but not totally useless, given England’s tendency for melee warfare.

‘’Stop that!’’ Portugal snapped suddenly. He stomped his boot against the sandy earth. ‘’We’ve got France’s army breathing down our necks, and I haven’t got time to deal with you-’’ He faltered, England’s gaze heavy as he shook his head. ‘’-Come on, we’ve…we’ve got a long march ahead of us.’’ His brows twisted together in frustration, Portugal scarcely feeling England’s hand on his shoulder. ‘’Get off me.’’ England opened his mouth to say something - and thought better of it, eyes dark as he nodded stubbornly. Without another word, England skulked onward and Portugal fell in step beside him - the sun sweltering overhead as the two men marched in time with one another. 

Guilt clawed at Portugal’s belly, as he kept his gaze level with the horizon (the visible horizon has long been vital to survival and successful navigation, especially at sea - and although Portugal was not at sea, he hoped that it might give him luck; Both in the war and in personal affairs). ‘’...Thanks, for coming.’’ Portugal cleared his throat as he watched his countryside past him, a quiet dread cold and heavy in his chest. ‘’I wouldn’t have wanted to do this alone.’’ But, I would’ve. If you hadn’t turned up - went unsaid, a defensive flash in Portugal’s eyes. 

‘’Of course.’’ England replied numbly, nodding curtly. ‘’That is the rules of our alliance.’’ A flare of irritation blazed through Portugal, although his eyes betrayed nothing; England was right. Ties of blood and ink traced his veins as much as salt and earth did, and Portugal was at war with someone he had once called a brother. Spain was fighting back where he could, and Portugal felt himself weak for the loyalty and affection he still felt for him.

‘’Good-’’ A man called out towards him, Portugal’s gaze flickering off to the right as he squeezed the hilt of his sabre. ‘’-You know your role. I’ll see you after the battle.’’ The look England casted him was a wounding one, Portugal’s lips thinning with distaste as he tried to say something.

England was gone by then - disappearing with the rest of his men, a tightly-wound figure grasping at the hilt of his sword, at the muzzle of his rifle as England longed to strike something (to tear, to bite - to be a dog). ‘’...What are you looking at?’’ He grumbled softly, glancing at his neighbour with a weary, hallowed look in his eyes. ‘’Keep your eyes forward. The French aren’t gonna give you a warning before they blast your brain out.’’ England cleared his throat - before slowly reaching out a hand, gingerly patting the soldier’s back. It would be okay, the gesture said with each gentle thump. England wouldn’t fail.

He wouldn’t. 

Portugal had gone with Trant and his men towards the West - and each passing second was another noose for England’s throat, pulling tighter as he frowned. If France noticed him approaching - it would spell disaster, and quietly the man (pining - a dog left in the backyard, tied to a post and frustrated) moved slowly towards the front, shouldering his way through the crowded army. ‘’Sir-’’ He licked his lips nervously, staring up at Wellesley. ‘’Sir, can we-’’ Sensing the nation’s impatience, Wellesley nodded curtly - and gave the command. It was just a little after 9am, and England watched the horizon for Portugal. If France was…he shouldered through the foray, a snarl rising in his throat as he lifted the muzzle of his gun, a blast of gunpowder and smoke wreathing the air. With impatience, England rammed a fist into the gut of a soldier - curses thick on his tongue as he peered through the foray of dazzling uniform, eyes wild and furtive (the dog began to howl - baying for its master). 

‘’It’s me, you want-!’’ England shouted desperately, furiously as he slammed the butt of his rifle against the ground, knuckles white with terror. ‘’France-! Come to me! It’s me you want-!’’ It was the same as it had always been, the channel between the warring cliffs - an eye for an eye. 

There was a rush - clumsy and unplanned, England’s teeth grit with frustration as he cursed the foolhardy colonel (and yet, all the same, the man could not bring himself to entirely resent Lake; Did he not yearn for spilled blood? To spill himself into Portugal’s arms?) Shots rang out and men tumbled like stones, rattling down the steep hill-side as England found his feet leaden, dragged through the earth and the men and the blood that seeped through the grass. A familiar voice shot across the battlefield and he jerked forward ( and the Earth shifted with him). 

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Portugal wound himself against France’s body, blade to the nation’s throat as they writhed on the ground (He found himself wrestling with fate; Death gripping the front of his shirt as they slammed the butt of their musket against his nose, a sickly snap of cartilage). Dazed, he gave France a swift kick, thrusting his shin against their groin - a muffled curse of outrage as the other country released their hold, allowing Portugal to scramble to his feet. ‘’Fuck you-!’’ 

France didn’t say anything. A chilling silence amongst the scuffles and swears of soldiers, a figment of legend (Had Jeanne D’arc been this tight-lipped among the flames so long ago? It was hard to say - but France would carry her legacy on), as France lifted themselves from the ground and wiped their shirt, a streak of blood - Portugal’s blood - across their jacket. 

The look on their face was a patient one - a hungry one, la Bête du Gévaudan, as France held their sword before them. There was a flash of steel as they moved (Two roosters in the pit - a pair of spurs between them; France made the first move, sinking their sword into Portugal). Round and round they went, with quick swipes and strikes; A sword lost, a sword shattered as they grappled with one another. 

The men around them knew not to interrupt - knew not to intervene. Portugal bit back a curse as France slammed him against the ground, teeth cracking as they shoved their hands around his throat. There was a faint ringing in Portugal’s ears, a snarl bitten back as he felt France’s palm against the bob of his Adam’s Apple. ‘’Bastard.’’ He ground out wretchedly, jamming the remains of a broken sword against France’s breast - bruise purpling his throat. ‘’Portugal-!’’ England came charging through the crowd with teeth bared, dragging France off - enveloping them in his jaws, England burning with fury (Biting-! Biting down into the neck; A dog making off with the farmer’s prized rooster). He scarcely heard Portugal - calling after him - as they both tumbled, slick with earth and blood down the hill; France had dug a hand in his hair, and tugged while England’s teeth clenched against his throat with a growl.

 ‘’Get off-!’’ France shouted, England’s eyes watering as France jerked a boot into his belly, scrambling to their feet. They didn’t seem to take note of the teeth left in their throat, eyes narrowing as they bent to the wet grass; A discarded sword, one of somebody’s soldiers - whose side they had been fighting for was of no concern to France - and stared down their old enemy (old friend, old family, old neighbour). Without a word, they charged England and collided blade-first, crashing against one another like the choppy tides of the Strait.

Portugal cursed as he ran after England and France. They tumbled through the fray, wild and feral things (Squabbles of Man left behind; History bubbling through Portugal’s veins - forgotten grudges brought to the fore); Portugal, France and England wrestled with the weight of each other’s existence - and they crashed in weary, bloodied heaps. As France rolled away, slowly rising to their feet, Portugal rose too - and glared heavily at them, fists balled. 

France’s gaze flickered towards where his men were slowly drawing into a retreat. A bloody trail flowed down their throat, down their chest - down from their open palms, their face grim as they quietly stepped past Portugal, head held high (hair sticky with blood and earth, all too human for their liking). They fell in line with the rest of their men, and soon they were gone.

‘’...England-’’ Portugal cast his friend a furtive look, once France had slipped over the crest of the hill. Anger and relief thrummed through their veins, hot and heavy and all at once as he bit his tongue, fists trembling (adrenaline tumbled through them - the rush of the currents, pulling him hither and thither, sending him falling over and over). ‘’-What the fuck?’’ Shame plucked at his heart-strings, Portugal frowning solemnly. His friend was ragged and worn, bruises like sunsets, and still England stood before him patiently - expectantly. ‘’You bit France!?’’  ‘’Yes.’’ Came a robotic reply, England’s eyes wide and heavy as he began to croon. ‘’Portu-’’ Portugal held a hand up, shaking his head. ‘’England.’’ He couldn’t do it now, not in the middle of the battlefield; Not with the pair of them still in their soiled uniforms - wretched souls. ‘’You need a wash.’’ Fingers looped around England’s, laced together (Promise that you’ll use the finest soap - Promise that you’ll use the warmest towel - Promise that you’ll look after yourself) as they slowly began to lead the other out of the field, weary and dog-tired.

[ 2 ] - “will you marry me?”

‘’Will you marry me?’’ England’s eyebrows shot up as Portugal spoke, voice faint as it drifted from the sofa; An old thing, he had been meaning to get rid of the raggedy thing for a long time - and had simply never gotten around to it yet. ‘’W-wh…do we need to?’’ He replied, pursing his lips together as Portugal slowly got up (the shuffle of a cushion as it was kicked off onto the floor, and then carefully picked up and swung back down on the sofa). The spatula dandled in his hand for a heart-beat, England mulling over his question - just as Portugal appeared in the doorway.

‘’Do we need to?’’ Portugal replied sarcastically, smiling impishly.

‘’Are you serious?’’ 

England bristled defensively, sticking his tongue out as Portugal approached him; Arms looped around his middle, a red flush racing up the back of England’s neck as Portugal gently tugged him up - as if trying to lift him. ‘’I assumed we were already.’’ He grumbled softly, bumping Portugal with his hips as he gently lifted the spatula to his boyfriend’s lips - Does this taste good? - and smiled lightly; In the bright glare of the kitchen lights, England could follow the lines of his wrinkles and scars, rifts wrought by disaster and battle alike.

‘’You know, treaty of perpetual friendship.’’ He shrugged, looking back towards the pan. ‘’Seems fi-’’ Portugal scoffed, pinching England’s ear gently - leaning up on his tiptoes to press a gentle kiss to his neck. ‘’Friendship.’’ He pointed out, manner-of-factly. ‘’I want something official.’’ A gleam of pride shone in Portugal’s eyes (A sunken treasure - golden and desirable, England’s heart racing as he caught sight of it). ‘’And I have just done something amazing.’’ It had been a long time coming - but Portugal was caught up in the joy of his people. ‘’Before you too.’’ 

‘’I was wondering what got you in the mood all of a sudden-’’ ‘’Edmund-’’ Portugal breathed. ‘’-I just want to pretend we’re just humans for a bit.’’ England blinked at the use of his human name, guilt coiling inside him as he sighed. It was a cute idea - and how many times had they proven their devotion to one another, but by cutting one another into pieces? Portugal was right - and England slowly turned around, shifting so that he could tuck his boyfriend close to his chest, cradling his head in his hand with a oft sigh. ‘’Then yes, I would love to marry you.’’

It was hardly the most romantic way to go about a proposal - England mused wryly that they were both standing around in sweatpants and underwear in the bright glare of the kitchen’s halogen lights. ‘’Not going to start crying with joy?’’ Portugal teased lightly, snorting as he hugged England tightly. In the grand scheme of things, humans were fleeting - finite things in comparison, and Portugal knew that he could not always escape his duty; It thrummed beneath his skin, hungry and protective, the beating heart of his nation and Portugal knew that he would always yearn for his homeland in the end, for the rush of the tumbling sea beneath his feet. Yet, to be able to slake off that heavy burden - even for a brief moment, even for a short wedding, it was truly a precious thing. ‘’You wept the first time that I kissed you. I thought you were a wuss.’’

‘’That’s it, I’m breaking up-’’ 

Portugal let out a bark of laughter, tugging England’s shirt as he pulled the man close into a warm kiss (The forest rising to embrace the dawn; The Sun come again). ‘’Eu te amo.’’

[darkmaga-returns]

For centuries, the main reason no government has ever survived its own greed for money and power is that whoever is in power at present constantly assumes that this time it is different—they are in charge. Communities rise from humble beginnings and expand into formal governments that seek to become nation-states, often absorbing the communities around them. When they emerge as a nation, they will typically seek to expand further into empires. To maintain that lofty position, they will inevitably become authoritarian when they feel that power slipping away.

Thomas Paine (1737-1809), whom the British hated because he wrote Common Sense, finally influenced the American colonists to rise up against the abuse of the king and centralized government in England, which they called – no taxation without representation. Thomas explained that those in power bathe themselves in glory and power and quickly forget that they are not the sovereign of the nation – that is, the people. Pasine ex[planned:

“Some writers have so confounded society with government, as to leave little or no distinction between them; whereas they are not only different, but have different origins. Society is produced by our wants, and government by our wickedness; the former promotes our POSITIVELY by uniting our affections, the latter NEGATIVELY by restraining our vices. The one encourages intercourse, the other creates distinctions.”

[anglo-norman]

Shrines to St. Michael.

"Mountains figure prominently at the mighty ganglia of the story of Christianity... As Jesus prays atop the holy mountain, the other world intersects with ours as the divine comes down to the human, as the eternal touches the temporal and mortal. And that other world is the ultimate reality, not this one. No wonder that St Michael, ‘Quis ut Deus,’ has his shrines on lofty peaks; no wonder the Celts worshipped on hills and mountains...

The spirit of the Archangel Michael permeates discussion of the world of the Celts—shrines such as Skellig Michael on precipitous mountain-tops in the cold and wet Celtic desert; early connections with the ancient Eastern world; guardianship of Tuscany, Provence, Normandy, and Cornwall; safe-keeping of wanderers and hermits; motifs of spear, sword, and stone; waging of the war in Heaven and the downfall of Lucifer; the communion of the Grail."

St. Michael: Early Anglo-Saxon Tradition, Raymond JS Grant

(1) Mont St. Michel, Normandy, France; (2) St. Michael’s Mount, Cornwall, England; (3) Castel Sant’Angelo, Rome, Italy; (4) Saint-Michel d’Aiguilhe, Le Puy-en-Velay, France; (5) Abbey of San Galgano, Siena; (6) Skellig Michael, County Kerry, Ireland; (7) Sacra di San Michele, Mount Pirchiriano, Turin, Italy; (8) St. Michael’s Tower, Glastonbury Tor, England