#August Births

[seagull-astrology]

C148 Life, liberty & property and John Locke

How much of John Locke's philosophy came out of his own rearing and approach towards life. Celestiology decides to look at a chart and see.

John Locke was an English philosopher who is called the “Father of Liberalism.” His philosophy was pegged to both a representative government and the importance of individual property rights. Continue reading Untitled

[aryomengrande]

왜 이런 내 맘을 아직 몰라? happy birthday, shinichiro ! (*꒦ິ꒳꒦ີ)♡

[fleshwerks]

This is my late summer wildfire season fey eladrin (more like yeahladrin). His name is 7th of August. Those locust legs will send him flying for about 20 times his own body length. Thus far he's sent himself to fey jesus four times because he is very cool and very stupid. Thrice by his own fireball and once by fall damage. Overshot the cliff's edge by five meters because he can't see shit, lenses thicker than bottle bottoms.

[the-evil-clergyman]

Venus Anadyomene by Jean-Auguste-Dominique Ingres (1848)

[shiocreator]

Gug

[septimusmoonlight]

Anonymous: You would be a lovely experiment, I'd say. Spreading your cervix open with a speculum, implanting golf ball sized alien eggs into you one by one, each vibrating and thrumming in an odd way... certainly you'd be able to take plenty of those eggs. Most breeders would be overwhelmed by the amount in the brood, or the overwhelming sensation, but luckily you've been trained for this. Your body would be examined every second, and you'd be perfect to fill with more once this clutch hatches.

Mmm, this sounds so nice <3

I’d love to be subject to experiments like this, trained to take such hefty clutches by way of unique toys and tools. It should probably start by opening up my pussy wide enough to get to my cervix, of course, but you can’t just proceed directly deeper from there - procedure is to keep my cunt stretched until I’m more than used to it. Only then can you start fiddling with my cervix directly, torturing me with vibrators and fake eggs, spreading me wide over and over again until I stop screaming every time something touches the top of my womb. The sensation takes a long time to stop being so overpowering, especially when vibration rates are considered a legitimate variable, but I get there eventually.

That’s when I’m considered ready for the true experiments to start.

Opening me up is trivial, at this point, and so is inserting the eggs one by one. I’m so used to similar sensations that I’m not surprised by how the eggs feel, but there is something pleasantly different about them; maybe it’s how they vibrate, or their texture, or…something. I can’t put a finger on it. Whatever the case, they hum and shudder inside of me as they’re slowly piled in, my womb stretching easily thanks to my training, and my midsection swells to accommodate. I’m strapped to the examination table to prevent me from squirming too much, my legs held up and out of the way, but they’re not necessary; I lay back and easily comply with the procedure. I chew on my lower lip to stop myself from moaning as my womb is packed more and more full.

By the time the last egg of the clutch is slipped easily past my cervix, my breathing has sped up noticeably and my toes are curling. I’ve taken on similar cargo before, in preparation for this very scenario, but there’s still just something about being wrapped around a load of alien eggs - real ones - that lights up my brain. The speculum prying open my cervix is closed and removed, and I inhale sharply as my cervix pulls shut over my impressive clutch. The following examination doesn’t help, gloved hands prying open my pussy and palpating my abdomen to feel out my womb’s position. I’m so tempted to gasp and moan as the eggs shift inside me, rubbing delightfully against each other and against my walls.

As part of my payment for agreeing to be trained for this sort of experiment, I’m given room and board in this facility, of course. Luckily, that just makes it very easy for me to retreat to my private quarters right after the procedure so that I can pleasure myself. In fact, it becomes a habit of mine, masturbating furiously as I rub one hand across my lumpy midsection. It doesn’t help that the eggs grow day by day, closer and closer to hatching, and that just makes me cum harder. I just hope that the scientists don’t notice how wet I am during every single one of their examinations to make sure that the eggs and I are both in good health. Though, I will admit, sometimes I do fantasize about being taunted and teased for enjoying this a little bit too much, maybe taken advantage of by some researcher or another who wants to help me “practice” for when the clutch hatches…self-indulgent thoughts that pop up every time I touch myself.

The ever-increasing size of the eggs also increases their shivering hum inside of me, which of course is remarkably distracting. If I hadn’t gotten the requisite training, I get the feeling that I’d probably be on my knees and howling at this point, but as it is, I just stagger around, trying to support my enormous middle. I get plenty of researchers putting their hands on me at all times, some of them just so they can help me down a hallway and others so that they can show off their newest “project” to an associate. I politely answer questions when asked, deferring to the scientists when I don’t have an answer, but the entire time I’m soaking through my underwear.

One day, something inside of me lurches.

I pause in the middle of what I’m doing and gasp, putting a hand do my midsection. I wait for the movement to repeat - and it does, twice more in rapid succession. I know exactly what this means, and I hurry off - well, as much as I can hurry in my current state - to find one of the researchers who works on me. As soon as I alert them to the fact that the clutch is emerging, I’m whisked away to my usual examination room and spread out on the table I’m so used to at that point.

Heat is rising in my lower abdomen, so I inform the researchers that the stimulation is causing arousal, making sure to omit the fact that I’ve enjoyed this from the very beginning. I just don’t want anyone to be surprised when I climax on the examination table. To my surprise, they encourage arousal as a reaction, noting that such a response to a clutch as large as this one is a good indicator that further incubations will settle in positively. In fact, they urge me to embrace it, explaining that a positive association with the feeling of being a host will mean fewer problems in the future.

I’m all too glad to follow their recommendations, moaning and gasping as my midsection sways and jolts with each hatch of an egg, each shift of the alien young. I can’t help but notice that most of the researchers quickly sport impressive hard-ons in response, not even bothering to disguise them as they attend me. Some of them even rub themselves over their lab technician scrubs, and one of them goes so far as to press their bulge conspicuously against my face, disguised as leaning over the table to adjust a piece of equipment. Almost without meaning to, I mouth at it, so turned on that I’m willing to serve whoever needs it. That garners a fond chuckle from a handful of attendants, and some of them write something on a clipboard or notepad.

Finally, the time for the young to emerge comes.

One of them presses up against my cervix, and I gasp, my toes curling. I moan as it wriggles and writhes inside, doing its best to dilate me for its escape - and it succeeds with a spurt of slimy fluid, slithering out of me and into the waiting basin positioned beneath my table. I swear loudly, tapering off into another moan as a second follows the first. Then another, and another, and more and more until they’re cascading out of me in slimy bursts, gushes of fluid spattering the table and my inner thighs.

I can’t help myself and I cum loudly, arching my back, my cries of pleasure echoing from the walls, and the attendants all encourage me, more of them fully hard now. Some of them are just outright jacking off as they crowd around to watch me give birth. A good handful are still making sure that the young and I are both in good condition, of course, but most seem too distracted to bother with the pretense of an examination at this point. Honestly, that just turns me on more, and the sounds coming out of my mouth grow more obscene. It’s not even intentional - it just feels like instinct to put on a good show.

My middle shrinks, deflating as my cargo makes its escape. My orgasms decline in intensity as my womb empties, and I yearn deeply for the weight, the mass deep inside, the fullness that comes with being a host. The researchers seem to pick up on this, and the first to notice reassures me that I’ll be full again soon. I whimper, asking them to promise, and a few of the researchers laugh.

Just as the last of my young slip from my body, the door to the research room opens. Two new researchers walk in, one wheeling in a cart - and the other holding a speculum.

[toyastales]

Peridot rings (August Birthstone)

[aboutl0ve]

[whatyadrawin]

The August himbo is back with a baddie. He likes his partners to be wild and dangerous, just like him. After the shootout, you can both go and stir up some trouble at the saloon or knock boots for hours.

[lockwoodshitposting]

HAPPY TENTH BIRTHDAY LOCKWOOD AND CO !!!

On this day in 2013, we met Lucy for the first time 🥰🥰

[seagull-astrology]

Meghan Markle return to Sussex roots

Meghan and Harry way back when Markle’s great-uncle, Mike Markle was an amateur genealogist investigating the Markle line in the 1990s and he discovered their noble forefathers. Mike Markle discovered their paternal great-great-great-grandmother was New Hampshire landowner Mary Hussey Smith (1823–1908), herself a descendant of nobleman John Hussey, 1st Baron Hussey of Sleaford, who had been…

[queenlucythevaliant]

Once, Always

(Edmund has an abundance of birthdays)

 .

“I say,” murmured Edmund sleepily as the fire burned low. “When do you suppose it is here? I mean—what time of year? Do you think it’s the beginning of September, the same as it was in England?”

“Summer,” said Lucy. “Certainly summer.”

Peter agreed. “I think it must be Highgrass, if I had to guess. Perhaps later. Greenroof?”

“If it’s Greenroof, then Edmund gets another birthday,” Lucy sighed. “Eleven or twelve, Ed?”

“Neither,” put in Susan. “A thousand, if you’re going to rationalize it that way. Now everyone hush, please, and get some sleep.”

.

Edmund’s birthday was the fifteenth day of Greenroof by the Narnian reckoning. Greenroof, late summer, when all the leaves were dark and broad. Narnian summers were long, but Greenroof was the last and best of the summer months. Greenroof was hunts through the dense foliage, blackberries heavy with juice, lazy afternoons, bonfires, wild romps, and the pleasant kind of sweat. Edmund’s birthday celebrations were always held on Dancing Lawn in the old days: the sort of long, laughter-bright nights that summer was made for.

. 

The second time Edmund celebrated his eleventh birthday, it was just past three months since he and his siblings had returned home from the country. Their house was glass-strewn and battered, but still standing when they arrived home. By August it was beginning to feel really safe again, but sometimes Edmund still woke in the night to find his mother standing silent in the doorway, drinking in the sight of her two sons returned to her.

The professor sent one of Ivy’s famous spice cakes for Edmund’s birthday. It arrived tied in red string, which made Lucy reminisce fondly about dear Mr. Tumnus. Edmund’s siblings pooled their allowances to buy him the new Nero Wolfe detective novel, and his mother gave him a new cap and an electric torch.

“How do you feel?” his mother asked over dinner.

“I don’t feel any older, if that’s what you mean,” he said. “Eleven feels just the same as ten did yesterday.”

. 

All four of them missed their birthdays the first year in Narnia. Too much else was going on at the time, and none of them was quite sure when their birthdays were supposed to be besides. The measurement of time was a thoroughly tangled issue.

The Narnian year had four hundred days even, divided into fourteen months of inconsistent lengths. Furthermore, the kingdom had only known winter for the last hundred years. The Narnians themselves were still remembering how the calendar worked in a world where the seasons changed. They didn’t have the words yet to explain it to their sovereigns.

. 

“Eustace,” said Edmund, “your journal is wrong.”

“Give me that,” Eustace scowled at once. “I know it’s wrong, but there’s no need to rub my face in it. Aren’t I trying to make up for how I was?”

“No, no, that’s not what I meant. The month is wrong. You’ve got September written here, but time works differently in Narnia than it does in the Other Place. Haven’t you noticed that it’s summer, not autumn?”

“Oh.” Eustace shrugged. “I followed Occam’s Razor and assumed that the climate here was different rather than time itself.”

“Occam’s what?” This was Lucy.

“Occam’s Razor: the simplest solution to a problem is the most likely—never mind. Well, go on, what month is it?”

“Highgrass,” said Lucy.

“July,” said Edmund at the same moment. “More or less.”

 .

They worked it all out one afternoon as the second spring of their reign was ending. Peter and Susan wrote out the English calendar on one stack of parchment while Edmund and Lucy sat down with the Narnian calendar and penciled in seasonal markers as best they could manage.

“The first crocuses came up right at the end of Cleardome, yes?”

“Yes, I think so. And the snowdrops were in their full glory that month too.”

“How do you want to deal with leap year?”

“Just forget about it. Narnia doesn’t have anything similar, so I think twenty-eight days for February is fine for our purposes.”

“Magnolia in Laceveil, yes?”

“Laceveil is a good marker in general. We ought to set that as May and go from there.”

Birthdays were guesses, no matter how much counting they did. Yet as memories of England receded and Narnia’s world blossomed into everything they knew, those guesses solidified into fact. Edmund turned eleven for the first time on the fifteenth day of Greenroof. He was the first of his siblings to celebrate a proper birthday in Narnia.

. 

The fourth time Edmund turned twelve, he received another electric torch to replace the one he’d lost. He laughed for half a minute, holding that gift in his hand.

“Really, you should have expected it,” said Susan primly.

"I did."

Their mother tsked and added something about keeping track of one’s belongings, but that was alright. His siblings understood.

Edmund flicked on the light and watched the beam land on the far wall across the living room. Bright at the edges and dark towards the center where the bulb was. He moved his wrist sideways and watched the spot of light follow.  

. 

Edmund might have forgotten about his birthday aboard the Dawn Treader if Lucy hadn’t remembered. She conspired with the cook to have a spread of Edmund’s favorite foods at supper (such as could be managed at sea) and coerced Rynelf into playing jigs on his fiddle afterwards. While they were dancing, Caspian called for a cask of his best wine, and soon the ship’s whole company was making merry like only Narnians could.

“Didn’t you have a twelfth birthday the last time you were in Narnia?” Caspian asked curiously as the party was dying down.

“Yes,” Edmund replied, “and the time before that too. Confused yet?”

“Ed has all the luck,” Lucy pouted playfully. “We always seem to return to Narnia in the summer, so he gets all the extra birthdays.”

Caspian's face lit up. “How extraordinary! When’s yours then?”

“Cleardome. There’s a year and a half between Ed and me, and he never lets me forget it.”

“It’s really not as exciting as all that,” Edmund added. “We’re not living our lives backwards, or unstuck in time, or any such nonsense. It’s more like—our lives are folded in on themselves, you see? But never the same way twice.”

“I think it’s more like music than anything else,” Lucy said, a kind of fond wistfulness in her voice.

“Yes,” said Edmund. “I know what you mean.”

. 

On the thirteenth of Greenroof, the Telmarines laid down their arms and surrendered to Old Narnia. The next day, messengers were sent forth across the land with news of the surrender and with terms for the Telmarines. Caspian’s coronation followed, and then Edmund woke and it was his birthday again.

Breakfast that morning was long and languid, for Peter and Susan knew that they must say farewell to Narnia, even if the younger ones did not. They lingered round the table with Caspian and Trumpkin and the rest, and presently Peter offered a toast.

“To my brother King Edmund, who is eleven and twelve and sixty-three and thirteen hundred years old today.”

Everyone raised their cups and repeated, “King Edmund.” Caspian nodded and added, “Long live the king,” with an almost ironic tilt to his head.

Naturally, Edmund nodded back. “And to you, King Caspian. Long may you reign.”

Another round of assent followed, and then Lucy cleared her throat. “But also,” she said, “To late summer and the rebirth of Our Narnia. And to the land, the sea, the hills, the trees, the sky, Cair Paravel-by-the-sea and Dancing Lawn and all the flowers that are still in bloom. And to the color green. To all of us here today, and to those who are gone. And to Aslan.”

“Here, here.”

There were tears in Susan’s eyes now. “Happy birthday,” she whispered, and squeezed Edmund’s hand tight. Edmund looked down at his plate, fiercely overcome with love for this place and these people. In a strict, chronological sense, it had been less than a month since his last birthday, but how did the saying go? Time was just a tangled string, or falling snow, or whatever else Aslan told it to be.

. 

“Bother,” said Edmund, “I’ve left my new torch in Narnia.”

Everyone chuckled at this, but Susan said, “Wait a year. We’ll get you a new one for your next birthday.”

[ask-rachethabaster]

Hi Hecate, do you have a favourite kid? And also how is Josephine doing?

Hecate: Of course I don't have a favourite child, I love all my children equally!

Hecate: As for Josephine, she's been doing remarkably well as of late since leaving the hunters. She's been living down at the Waystation in Indianapolis with Hemithea taking in anyone who needs it. She even has a daughter now! I haven't seen her for myself but from what Josie's told me she's absolutely adorable. I know she'll come around to letting me meet her eventually

[ivy-the-archivist]

It's my birthday!!! I'm officially 20 <3

[septimusmoonlight]

Anonymous: god imagine combining the multiple/overlapping pregnancies with a reset-button type scenario. like, right as you're about to give birth, they press the button, and your cunt is back to being virgin tight. or, what if you piss them off one day, and instead of letting you give birth, they plug you up? what if you're also able to give birth to non-human beings?

I think it would get easier over time, having babies raped into me over and over again, but I wouldn’t even have the luxury of practice making perfect. MY gaping, sloppy breeding hole is tightened back up right when I go into labor, just as I’m about to give birth, so that I’m forced to push through a newly painful, body-ruining stretch. If they’re certain a child is particularly tough, then it’s not uncommon for the reset button to get pressed while my cervix is stretched open around it so that I’m suddenly tight again, even while I’m literally in the middle of trying to give birth.

Non-human beings…obviously, I’m on board - maybe even more so than for humans! - but you didn’t specify, so it could be anywhere from someone letting their dog mount my to some local…wildlife deciding to pitch in. Either way, I still don’t have a choice of whose young I’m bearing, whose young I’m pushing from my body, what the shape of the children inside of me is. Sometimes, it’s a roll of the dice on whether or not I’ll be giving birth to a human, or if something more…challenging is fighting its way out of me.

And being plugged up while I’m that pregnant, not allowed to give birth…fuck, if I were supposed to be giving birth every few days, even just a week of not being permitted would wreak havoc on me. My womb would be so full, so painfully stretched, the plug strapped into my pussy keeping me more and more swollen…

What if it were a plug with a fleshlight-like hole that just went straight through my cervix, into my already-crowded womb? A hole big enough for people to jerk off with, but nowhere near big enough for a baby. If people see me wearing the plug, they know I’m getting punished, and it probably just tempts more of them to knock me up while I’m plugged and forbidden from any kind of relief. I would keep growing and growing, unable to move, in perpetual labor even while I’m getting impregnated over and over again…

[voluptuous-von]

Just for my birthday 🤤🍁