#countersign

[sw-fic-reading-club]

It's Wednesday which means it's meme day! Create and/or share a meme about this week's fic.

[bookpdf]

utility companies be like.umm. before you start service at ur new address you must bring us tons of personal docs with this new address to prove you're a real person. docs that you obviously have. even though you just moved there. our process is logical and makes sense. yes.

[barryogg]

In any other context you people are somehow able to distinguish between industrially processed food and doing the process yourself.

The raw milk people don’t even know what raw milk is

[kittenan]

Private Play Terms

Pairing: CEO!Jungkook x Corporate Lawyer!Reader Genre: BDSM AU, Enemies to Lovers, Power Play, Office AU Tone: Tense, seductive, flirty, emotionally slow-burn, fluff Themes: First-time kink, trust building, contract-based D/s, slow seduction, reluctant desire → obsession Warnings: Consensual BDSM, Dom!Jungkook, Brat-tamer dynamic, Desk sex, Orgasm control, Dirty talk, Aftercare Word Count: ~7k

Jeon Industries’ glass tower dominates Seoul’s skyline, a symbol of power you now navigate. You stride through its lobby, heels clicking on marble, briefcase in hand. Hired to oversee a high-profile merger, you’re a force—sharp, meticulous, unbreakable. But no one warned you about him.

Jeon Jungkook, the 30-year-old CEO, is a storm in a tailored suit. Dark hair swept back, inked forearms peeking from rolled sleeves, and a smirk that could unravel a saint. In the boardroom, his eyes linger on your pencil skirt before meeting your gaze, his handshake deliberate, thumb grazing your knuckles.

“Welcome, Counselor,” he says, voice a smoky drawl. “I hear you’re the best at sealing deals.”

You tilt your chin. “I don’t just seal them, Mr. Jeon. I make them unbreakable.”

His lips twitch, the air crackling. “Good. I like a woman who can bind things.”

The merger is brutal—late nights, endless drafts, and Jungkook’s relentless presence. He’s infuriatingly charismatic, leaning too close over documents, his breath tickling your ear as he purrs, “Careful, Counselor. Your arguments make me want to confess sins not fit for boardrooms.” You scoff, but the heat in your core betrays you.

One night, at 2 a.m., you uncover a redacted clause in a merger appendix: Private Play Terms. It’s personal, unrelated to the deal. Curiosity overrides exhaustion, and you confront Jungkook the next evening in his corner office.

The city glitters beyond the windows, but inside, tension hums. Jungkook lounges in his leather chair, tie loosened, sleeves rolled up, revealing tattoos that make your mouth dry. You toss the document onto his desk.

“Explain this, Mr. Jeon.”

He glances at it, then at you, lips curling into a dangerous smile. “That wasn’t meant for your eyes. But since you’re curious…” He leans forward, voice a velvet growl. “I’ll walk you through it. Hands-on, if you’d like.”

Your pulse spikes. “This is inappropriate.”

“Is it?” He stands, rounding the desk, his cologne—sandalwood and sin—fogging your senses. “You brought it up. Tell me you’re not intrigued.”

You should leave. But his gaze pins you, and the thrill of his challenge sparks something reckless. “Fine,” you say, voice steady despite trembling hands. “Explain.”

Jungkook reveals the Private Play Terms was a consensual BDSM mentorship agreement with a former partners, outlining boundaries, safe words, and trust. It’s precise, almost legalistic, but the implications are raw, electric. He’s used these contracts before—purely for pleasure, no strings attached—but there’s something about you that feels different. You see it in his eyes, though he doesn’t say it.

“You’re intrigued,” he says, reading you. “Don’t deny it.”

“I’m… processing,” you snap, crossing your arms. “This is a lot.”

He steps closer, voice softening. “I’m offering a trial. One session, strictly professional. No romance, just exploration. You set the terms. You can walk away.”

Your mind screams no. This crosses every line. But your body hums with his voice, his proximity, the idea of surrendering control. You’ve always been in charge—now, letting go feels intoxicating.

“Why me?” you ask, searching his face.

“Because you’re brilliant. Fierce. You don’t back down.” His eyes darken. “You draft clauses to protect. I write them to own. We’re not so different.”

You swallow hard. “One session. I draft the contract.”

His grin is victorious. “Deal.”

You craft a meticulous agreement: boundaries, safe words (red to stop, yellow to slow), and an exit clause. You sign it in his office, hands shaking as he countersigns.

“Ready?” he asks, voice a low rumble.

You nod, heart pounding. “Let’s see if you’re as good as you think you are.”

The first session begins after hours, the office silent except for Seoul’s distant hum. Jungkook locks the door, dims the lights, and pulls a silk blindfold from his desk. Your breath catches as he steps behind you, fingers brushing your shoulders as he ties it gently, the fabric cool against your skin.

“Trust me,” he murmurs, his voice a lifeline in the darkness. “You say the word, and we stop.”

You nod, the blindfold amplifying every sound, every sensation. His footsteps circle you, deliberate and slow. “Kneel,” he commands, and the authority in his tone sends a shiver down your spine. You hesitate, pride warring with desire, then lower yourself to the plush carpet, knees sinking in, skirt riding up your thighs.

“Good girl,” he says, and the praise ignites a molten spark in your core. He steps closer, his presence looming. “I was going to have you read your merger draft,” he says, amusement in his voice. “But with that blindfold, let’s try something else. Recite the key terms. You know them by heart, don’t you?”

Your mouth goes dry, but you nod. “Yes.”

“Then start,” he says, his hand grazing your jaw, tilting your chin up, thumb brushing your lower lip with a featherlight touch that makes you tremble. “And don’t stop, no matter what I do.”

You take a shaky breath and begin, voice quivering as you recite the merger’s core clauses—asset transfers, liability splits, timelines. Jungkook’s hands roam, slow and deliberate, tracing your collarbone with the pads of his fingers, skimming the edge of your blouse. Each touch is calculated, teasing, unraveling you. His fingers dip beneath the fabric, grazing the swell of your breast, and you falter, voice catching.

“Focus,” he says, voice firm, his thumb circling your nipple through your bra, sending a jolt of heat to your core. “Or I’ll make this harder.”

You try, but his touch is relentless. His hands slide down your sides, gripping your hips briefly before trailing to your thighs, parting them slightly. His fingers brush the edge of your panties, the fabric already damp, and you gasp, the merger terms slipping from your mind. He pauses, leaving you aching, your body screaming for more.

“Start again,” he orders, voice low and wicked, his breath hot against your ear as he kneels behind you. “From the top.”

You whimper but obey, restarting the recitation, voice shakier now. His hands resume their torture, sliding beneath your skirt, fingers tracing the sensitive skin of your inner thighs. He hooks a finger under your panties, pulling them aside, and the cool air against your slick folds makes you clench. He doesn’t touch you where you need it most, instead circling just close enough to drive you mad. Your voice breaks as you stumble through the clauses, each word a battle against the pleasure building inside you.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, lips brushing your neck, sending shivers down your spine. “So wet for me, and I’ve barely started. Keep going, sweetheart.”

You push through, thighs trembling, core throbbing. His fingers finally brush your clit, a slow, deliberate stroke that makes you arch, a moan escaping before you bite it back. He chuckles, dark and approving, and rewards you with another stroke, then another, each one precise, building you toward the edge but never letting you fall. Your recitation becomes a desperate chant, each clause punctuated by his touch—fingers circling, teasing, denying.

When you finish the final clause, your voice is a breathless gasp, body taut with need. “Perfect,” he says, voice reverent. He slides two fingers inside you, curling them against your sensitive spot, and you cry out, hips bucking against his hand. His thumb presses your clit, and you’re so close, so desperate, but he pulls back, leaving you empty and aching.

“Not yet,” he murmurs, lips grazing your ear. “You haven’t earned it.”

He removes the blindfold, and the sudden light makes you blink. His eyes are dark, pupils blown, but there’s a softness there, grounding you. He kneels before you, brushing damp hair from your face. “You were incredible,” he whispers. “You’re made for this.”

You’re dazed, body screaming for release, craving more. He helps you stand, steadying your wobbly legs, and presses a glass of water to your lips. “Drink,” he says, watching with an intensity that makes your heart stutter. His aftercare is deliberate, hands gentle as he checks in, ensuring you’re okay. He wraps a soft throw around your shoulders, his fingers lingering, and for a moment, you see something in his eyes—admiration, maybe more.

You nod, catching your breath, but the session has shifted something. You’re hooked—not just on the power play, but on him. Yet, as the haze clears, doubt creeps in. This is unprofessional. Dangerous. You’re risking everything.

The next morning, you’re a wreck. Your reflection shows smudged mascara, hair wild from last night’s chaos. Your body hums with the memory of Jungkook’s fingers, his voice, the way he unraveled you. But your mind screams: What were you thinking?

You’re a lawyer. You live for ethics, boundaries, control. Last night was a reckless plunge into something you barely understand. The contract was supposed to protect you, but it feels like a flimsy excuse for crossing a line. You let your CEO blindfold you, command you, nearly break you in his office. This could ruin your career.

You avoid Jungkook all day, dodging meetings, burying yourself in work. By evening, you’re drafting an email to withdraw from the trial, fingers hovering over send. You can’t do this. Not with him. Not when his gaze makes your resolve crumble.

He finds you in the file room, door clicking shut. He’s in a black suit, tie loose, looking like temptation incarnate. “You’re avoiding me,” he says, stepping closer.

You clutch a folder. “Last night was a mistake. It’s unprofessional. I’m out.”

His eyes narrow, but he keeps his distance. “You signed the contract. You knew what you were getting into.”

“I didn’t know it’d feel like…” You falter, cheeks burning. “Like I’d lose myself.”

He softens. “You didn’t lose anything. You gave control, and you were perfect. You can walk away, but don’t lie—you wanted it. You still do.”

You shake your head. “This crosses every line. My career, my ethics—”

“Your ethics?” He steps closer, voice low. “You drafted the terms. You said yes. If you’re scared, say it. Don’t hide behind your job.”

Anger flares. “Don’t patronize me. You’re my boss, Jungkook. This isn’t a game—it’s my life.”

He watches you, then nods. “Okay. If you want out, you’re out. I won’t push.” His voice is calm, but his eyes are raw, like you’ve wounded him. “But you felt something. Don’t pretend you didn’t.”

He leaves, and the room feels colder. You don’t send the email, but you don’t delete it either. For days, you’re a ghost—professional, distant. But Jungkook doesn’t give up. He’s used to women diving into his contracts eagerly, but you’re different. Your retreat, your principles, the way you held your ground—it’s new to him. He respects you more for it, and it’s why he can’t let you go.

His efforts start small but deliberate. He leaves your favorite coffee on your desk one morning, a note tucked under the cup: No strings. Just thought you needed this. You sip it, and damn it, it’s perfect. The next day, he sends a memo praising your merger work, cc’ing the entire executive team. It’s professional, but the postscript reads: Your precision is unmatched. I see you. Your heart skips, but you push it down.

At a late-night meeting, he sits across from you, his gaze lingering when others aren’t looking. When you drop your pen, he picks it up, fingers brushing yours, and murmurs, “Careful, Counselor. You’re slipping.” The double entendre makes your cheeks burn, but you don’t engage. Yet, each gesture chips at your resolve, his persistence both infuriating and intoxicating.

One evening, you’re working late when he appears in your office, holding a takeout bag—your favorite ramen from that small street food outlet you mentioned once. “Peace offering,” he says, setting it down. “I’m not here to push. Just… eat something.”

You eye him warily. “Why are you doing this?”

“Because you’re worth it,” he says, voice soft but firm. “I’ve never met someone who challenges me like you do. Not just in this”—he gestures vaguely, meaning the contract—“but in everything. You walked away because you respect yourself. That’s rare. I can’t stop thinking about you.”

His honesty disarms you. You take the ramen, and he leaves without pressing further. That night, you reread the contract, your own clauses staring back. You’d written it to protect yourself, but also to explore. To feel. You don’t decide anything, but the next day, you find him in his office.

“I’ll consider another session,” you say, voice steady. “But we renegotiate. Stricter boundaries. Regular check-ins. A clear end date unless we both agree to extend.”

His eyes light up, but he nods, respecting your terms. “Name your conditions.”

You revise the contract together, adding clauses for weekly check-ins and a one-month trial period. As you sign, his gaze lingers, and you feel it—the spark that never left. “You’re different,” he says, almost to himself. “I’ve never had to work this hard to convince someone.”

You smirk. “Good. I’m not like your other girls.”

His lips twitch, and the game is back on. But beneath the flirtation, you sense something deeper. His efforts—the coffee, the praise, the ramen—weren’t just seduction. They were proof he sees you, not just as a submissive, but as a woman who commands his respect. It’s the first crack in his no-romance rule, though neither of you knows it yet.

The sessions resume, tentative but electric. Jungkook is a paradox: strict yet caring, commanding yet attentive. He reads your body like a contract, knowing when to push, when to pause. At work, the tension is unbearable—his glances, his whispered “Good girl” when no one’s listening, the brush of his fingers.

You grow brattier, deliberately provoking him to spark the fire in his eyes. In meetings, you interrupt him mid-sentence, questioning his strategies with a sly smile. “Is that really the best approach, Mr. Jeon?” you ask, voice dripping with challenge. You linger when handing him files, letting your fingers graze his, watching his jaw tighten. Once, you “accidentally” drop a pen, bending to pick it up, giving him a view of your cleavage. It’s a game—you’re the brat, pushing his buttons, craving the moment he’ll snap. He notices, lips twitching with promise, but holds back, letting you push further.

Why does he tolerate it? Because you’re not just any submissive. Your wit, your defiance, the way you match him—it’s intoxicating. He’s used to control, but your resistance, your intelligence, makes him want more than your body. He wants your mind, your heart. Each bratty remark pulls him deeper.

One night, during a boardroom break, you push too far. You’d interrupted him thrice in the meeting, smirking when his eyes flared. Now, the executives are gone, and you’re alone. He locks the door, grabs your wrist, and pulls you to the mahogany table. “You want to test me, sweetheart?” he growls, pulling a silk tie from his pocket. He binds your wrists, securing them to the table’s edge, your body bent over, skirt hiked up to expose your thighs.

“Stay silent,” he orders, voice dangerous. “One sound, and I stop.”

He kneels behind you, hands sliding up your thighs, parting them slowly. His fingers hook into your panties, pulling them down to your ankles, leaving you exposed. The cool air hits your slick folds, and you bite your lip to stifle a moan. His breath is hot against your skin as he leans in, tongue flicking against your clit with a slow, deliberate lick that makes your knees buckle. He growls softly, the vibration sending shocks through you, and you grip the table’s edge, fighting to obey.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, voice dark with approval. “So fucking wet, dripping for me.” His tongue returns, lapping at you, slow and torturous, while his fingers spread you open, teasing your entrance. He pushes one finger inside, then two, curling them against your sensitive spot, and you nearly break, a whimper escaping before you catch it. He pauses, breath hot against your core. “Careful, sweetheart. You’re doing so well.”

He stands, unzipping his trousers, and you hear the rustle of fabric, the clink of his belt. His cock brushes your entrance, hard and thick, and you arch, desperate for him. “You want this?” he asks, voice low, teasing your folds with the tip. “Beg for it. Silently.”

You nod frantically, pushing your hips back, and he chuckles, dark and wicked. He enters you in one slow, deliberate thrust, filling you completely, stretching you until you’re trembling. Each movement is precise, hitting every spot that makes you see stars. His hands grip your hips, controlling the pace, slow at first, then faster, deeper, the table creaking beneath you. Your silence is your surrender, your body his to command. The pressure builds, your core tightening, but he slows, pulling back just as you’re about to come.

“Not yet,” he says, leaning over you, lips brushing your ear. “You come when I say.”

He resumes, relentless now, each thrust pushing you closer to the edge. When he finally growls, “Now,” you shatter, pleasure crashing through you, your body collapsing against the table. He follows, a low groan escaping as he spills inside you, his grip tightening. He unties you, pulling you into his arms, kissing your wrists where the silk left faint marks.

“You’re mine,” he says, soft but possessive. “You know that, don’t you?”

You nod, heart pounding. It’s not just the kink—it’s him. His intensity, his care, the way he sees you. You’re falling, and it terrifies you.

The merger closes, a success. Your assignment is done, your contract fulfilled. You should be celebrating, but leaving—losing him—is unbearable. You draft your resignation, planning to slip away.

Jungkook finds out. He storms into your apartment, rain-soaked and furious, eyes blazing. “You’re leaving?” he demands, slamming the door. “After everything?”

“It was a contract,” you say, voice breaking. “You said no romance.”

“I lied,” he snaps, cupping your face. “This was never just a contract. Not with you. Your mind, your strength, the way you challenge me—fuck, even when you walked away, I respected you more than anyone. You’re not just another girl. I’m in love with you, and I can’t let you go.”

You crash into each other, lips desperate, hands tearing at clothes. This session is different—slow, reverent, emotional. He lays you on your bed, kissing down your body, his mouth lingering on your thighs. His tongue finds your clit, slow and gentle, coaxing you to the edge with a tenderness that aches. “You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, fingers sliding inside you, curling softly. “I could do this forever.”

You moan, hands tangling in his hair, and he hums in approval, the vibration pushing you closer. He takes his time, savoring every gasp, every shudder, until you’re trembling, begging softly. “Please, Jungkook…”

He rises, shedding his clothes, and enters you slowly, eyes locked, hands intertwined. “I love you,” he whispers, each thrust deep and deliberate, filling you with more than just his body—his heart. Your release is quiet, overwhelming, your arms clinging to him as you both come undone. He holds you after, bodies tangled, lips brushing your forehead.

“Stay,” he murmurs. “For me.”

You nod, tears falling. “I’m staying.”

A week after the merger’s triumphant close, you return to your office at Jeon Industries, expecting another exhausting day of tying up loose ends. Instead, a sleek black envelope sits on your desk, sealed with a crimson wax stamp that screams Jungkook. Your heart skips a beat, a mix of curiosity and that familiar heat stirring in your core. You glance around—no one’s watching—and slice it open, revealing a single sheet of parchment, the kind you’d expect from a royal authority, not a CEO. The title at the top makes you laugh out loud, earning a curious glance from a passing intern.

Contract of Commitment

You skim the first clause, and your laughter morphs into a grin, equal parts exasperated and charmed.

Clause 1: The undersigned will marry the CEO of Jeon Industries. Clause 2: The undersigned will still kneel when ordered.

You lean back in your chair, clutching the contract like it’s a love letter and a legal trap rolled into one. Jungkook’s handwriting—bold, looping, annoyingly perfect—marks the margins with a note: Sign it, Counselor. Or I’ll make you beg for it in the boardroom. The audacity of this man. You can picture his smirk, that infuriating tilt of his lips that’s haunted your dreams since the first day you met. Your fingers itch to sign, but you’re not about to make this easy for him. Not after everything.

The office is quiet, the Seoul skyline glinting through your window, but your mind is a whirlwind of the past few months—Jungkook’s relentless pursuit, the way he wore down your defenses with coffee, ramen, and those damn whispered praises. You’d nearly walked away after that first session, your professionalism screaming louder than your desire, but he’d fought for you. Not with grand gestures, but with quiet, deliberate care that made you feel seen. And now, this—marriage? Kneeling? He’s got some nerve.

You grab a pen, twirling it between your fingers, when your office door swings open without a knock. Jungkook strides in—black suit, tie slightly askew, inked forearms peeking from rolled sleeves. His hair’s a little mussed, like he’s been running his hands through it, and you curse your traitorous heart for stuttering at the sight.

“Caught you,” he says, voice a low drawl, leaning against your desk with that smirk. “What’s the hold-up, Counselor? Contract not up to your standards?”

You raise a brow, waving the parchment. “This? It’s more like a ransom note than a proposal. Where’s the romance, Jeon? No ring, no bended knee—just a clause about kneeling. Classy.”

He chuckles, the sound rich and dangerous, and leans closer, his cologne—sandalwood and sin—wrapping around you. “Romance? I seem to recall you moaning my name on this very desk last week. If that’s not romantic, I don’t know what is.”

Your cheeks burn, and you swat his arm, glancing at the open door. “Keep your voice down! HR’s probably got this place bugged.”

He grins, undeterred, and produces a small velvet box from his pocket, flipping it open with a flourish. Inside is a ring—a sleek band of platinum with a single, dazzling diamond that catches the light like it’s mocking your attempt at composure. Your breath catches, and he clocks it, his grin widening.

“Better?” he asks, plucking the ring and sliding it onto your finger before you can protest. It fits perfectly, of course, because Jungkook doesn’t do half-measures. “As for the bended knee, I’d rather have you on your knees, but I can compromise. Tonight, maybe?”

You snatch the contract, scribbling your signature with a flourish, if only to hide how flustered you are. “You’re insufferable,” you mutter, shoving it into his chest. “There. Signed. Happy?”

He takes it, eyes scanning your signature like it’s a trophy, then tucks it into his jacket. “Ecstatic. But you didn’t negotiate, Counselor. Rookie mistake. Now you’re stuck with me and Clause 2.”

You roll your eyes, but the smile tugging at your lips betrays you. “Clause 2’s negotiable. I’m not kneeling in the middle of a board meeting just because you get a whim.”

He steps closer, crowding your space, his voice dropping to that velvet growl that makes your thighs clench. “Oh, sweetheart, I don’t need a boardroom. Your apartment, my penthouse, my office, the back of my car—I’ll have you kneeling wherever I want.” His fingers brush your jaw, tilting your chin up, and you’re half a second from climbing him right there when he pulls back, smirking. “But first, dinner. I’m not a complete savage.”

You laugh, the sound bubbling up despite yourself. “Dinner? You? The man who once tried to seduce me with takeout ramen?”

“Hey, that ramen worked,” he says, mock-offended, grabbing your hand and pulling you toward the door. “And tonight, it’s Michelin-starred. I’m stepping up my game for my fiancée.”

The word—fiancée—hits like a spark, and you pause, letting it sink in. Jungkook notices, his expression softening, and he cups your face, kissing you gently, a stark contrast to the commanding Dom you’ve come to know. “You’re mine,” he murmurs against your lips, “but I’m yours too. Don’t forget that.”

You nod, heart full, and follow him out, the ring glinting on your finger. As you pass the intern from earlier, who’s blatantly eavesdropping, Jungkook winks at her and says, “Send a memo. Office closed tomorrow. Wedding planning.”

You elbow him, mortified. “Jungkook!”

“What?” He grins, unrepentant, slinging an arm around you. “Gotta start practicing for Clause 2. You’re not getting out of this one, Counselor.”

You groan, but you’re laughing, tangled in his warmth, his audacity, his love. This deal—marriage, kneeling, forever—is one you’ll never break.

A/n: I also need a CEO Jeon for Private Play Terms. What about you guys? 😈

Taglist: @the-djarin-clan . @btsstraykidsateez . @jeonjamiekim . @moonjinniecafe  . @minpdrecs . @bontensbabygirl . @this-most-assuredly-counts . @taolucha . @mytaegiheart . @dear-mono . @lilyficrec . @janeluvwonuuuu . @k-fan-fics . @iztrouble . @pikajooni . @namluvili . @alonahh . @paradise172 . @stay-tiny-things

Important Update: Please check out this post and support on backup account.

Do Follow my backup account : @kittenan2

[dream-louder]

A long joke, as adapted from variations of this joke I have heard on Discord and around some fires, and a few of my own edits, which I figured Tumblr may also appreciate:

---

The king orders that a latrine ditch be dug in the middle of the list field...

In the East: Everyone whines and moans about it for the entire event and tells His Majesty that this is a stupid idea, but by the end of the event, the ditch is dug.

In the West: Everyone says, "Yes, your Majesty. What a wonderful idea, your Majesty." However, mysteriously, for six months, nobody in the kingdom can find a shovel.

In Atenveldt: The king's word is law, even when he gives silly or truly excessive orders. The resulting ditch is mundanely known as the Grand Canyon.

In the Midrealm: Half the populace wants to start digging. The other half argues it's against custom, corpora, and that Cariadoc never dug a ditch. Everyone agrees a ditch can't be dug unless the Ditch Digging Form is filled out, signed by KSen, countersigned by the autocrat, and voted on at two nonconsecutive Curia meetings.

In Atlantia: On Facebook there is a great outcry. People moan to the high heavens that ditches are unnecessary, ugly, non period, and unsafe for children. Online commenters universally agree that nobody wants a ditch and that it is impossible to dig ditches anyway, unaware that offline, at the event site, there's already a team happily digging.

In Calontir: "Great idea, Your Majesty, we'll have somewhere to bury all the dead."

In Ealdormere: An anti-ditch protest song is written that is so excellent that YouTube commenters are being introduced to the SCA via the song, twenty years later. Everyone forgets why the ditch even needed to be dug in the first place, including the king.

In Meridies: There is no need to dig a ditch. Just wait five minutes. The torrential rain will carve one out for you, without need for human intervention.

In Ansteorra: There is no need to dig a ditch. The tornados will dig one for you.

In Trimaris: There is no need to dig a ditch. The list field is already a swamp. His Majesty is welcome to take it up with the alligators.

In Drachenwald: No digging is permitted as the historic site is protected by law.

In Gleann Abhann: Someone starts trying to dig a ditch, however, a small amount of dust is kicked up and hits someone in the arm, which is considered excessive force by Gleann Abhann calibration. The dig team breaks for sweet tea.

---

The king orders a latrine ditch be dug in the middle of the list field and...

The KSCA will tell you that digging a ditch is a dumb idea but they are ultimately oathbound to dig a ditch if the King asks it.

The Laurels get sidetracked with a 15 hour long debate and 500 page long forum thread about period ditch digging methods. By the end, they believe they are ready to form a committee to assess the documentation to build consensus as to the correct period way to carve a shovel handle, though they aren't certain they'll be able to get their hands on the exact correct kind of wood without first growing some medieval trees.

The Pelicans don't need to bother to protest the ditch digging initiatives. They know that if they don't support it, it'll be mysteriously impossible to get it done.

The apprentices will collapse in anxiety not knowing if their ditches are dug straight and neat enough.

The squires will bet ten bucks on a competition to see who can dig the deepest ditch the fastest, and are found the next morning incredibly drunk on a beach, having dug a hole all the way through the earth to Australia. When asked if an 8 thousand mile deep hole really meets the requirements of having been asked to dig a ditch, they offer to share the alcohol if you'll let this one slide and not tell their knights.

The proteges will probably just dig the damned ditch, bless their hearts, poor fools.

(I've never heard a version of this joke that included MODs. Make up your own)

--

The Queen mentions, offhand, that she quite likes ditches.

Fifteen are dug for her within the hour, and five are painted in her favourite colour.

[kabr0ztrousers]

hi, big fan of your writings!! could you do a fem!reader being free-use’d and bred by anthropomorphic bug people, with noncon/dubcon, and intox/drug venom? the darker and more objectifying, the better!

More bugs? Plus egging, intox, noncon and the reader having a really, really bad time? Sounds like fun!

Kabr0z Writes Episode 45: Resistance

This episode concerns Chitinids, we've seen them before in episodes 25 and 26

Find the rest of the Kabr0z Writes anthology here!

CWs: Noncon; warcrimes; military occupation; intox; freeuse; Interspecies; group sex; oviposition; implied impending character death; parasitic pregnancy; forced breeding;

A/N: Another day, another reminder that requests are open, and that if you want to see anything, send an ask or a DM and it'll be added to the list of stories to tell!

Long-time readers will notice a bit of a retcon with a returning species of alien bugs, but hell to it! Nobody's reading these for the rich, cohesive world

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The cities were clean. The streets quiet. Everything eerily safe and sterile. The Chitinid gunships patrolling sky saw to that. They were silent, hanging ominously in the air in exactly the way bricks don't.

You hurried from your office, aiming to get to the old library before one of them noticed something awry. There's always people on the streets, going to and fro, everybody had jobs although nobody really did anything at them. The work was just sitting in meetings and firing off salvos of emails that would be diligently opened and summarily ignored. Chitinid tech had ended world hunger, cured almost all disease, even fixed the climate. Only problem is, it came at the cost of billions of human lives.

They didn't try to hide the farms, where people were processed and converted to semi-conscious milk producers, or the trade in human pets where some of the wealthiest of your insectile overlords would own a human or four, implanting them with cruel machinery to force their subservience. They also didn't hide the 60-minute war, the last stand of the old world. London, New York, Washington, LA, every city with more than a million people was emptied within ten minutes of formal first contact. Humanity launched every warhead that seventy years of paranoia and hate had stockpiled. Those suspension fields caught every one, redirecting them to deep space. The last of mankind capitulated.

Except you, and a dozen or so others you knew of. Rebels in the dark. Your cell was in terse contact with another, who told you they knew of at least one other, and so the chain went on. It's safer if no one link in the chain know too much about any of the others, but some interesting word has come down the grapevine. In your bag was a thermos filled with nitroglycerin, one of your friends was working on a detonator, a set of elevator codes had came over the radio.

The plan was simple, get to the parts together, get to the roof of a building, and drop the package onto a gunship. It wouldn't win the war, it wouldn't even reallt slow them down, but it would send a message. They hadn't won yet, far from it.

The cell met in a cellar under the library. The building had been a pub decades ago, and the old cellar still existed under the stone floor, the hatch hidden under a rug behind the reception desk. Nobody said much, the group was too close knit to need signs and countersigns. The device came together gradually, a cacophony of held breath as the mercury fulminate charge was lowered into the flask, and you were set.

No time to lose. The plan was your baby, and you weren't going to leave it to chance. The codes you had were for an office building, likely to be empty this late at night. You dodged the pools of light coming from the streetlamps. The foyer was unlocked, as promised, and the lift code worked. Clutching your flask to your chest, you ascended the building. It used to be some bank or other, now it's the same office as everywhere else, but the building was still tall.

The penthouse office. You moved carefully, an overeager step would echo off the polished marble tile. The huge desk stood unoccupied, the roof access behind it. You made for the rail overlooking the west corner of the building, and there it was. A black shape on the dim streets below. The gunship stopped at the intersection and scanned its surroundings. You dropped the bomb.

An azure light caught it in midair, projected from the gunship. You ran. A confinement field shone down over you, inches from the door back into the office. Dust whipped around you. The world flipped.

You're in a cell now. Three Chitinids stood watching you. They spoke amongst themselves, or maybe they were speaking to you? You never learned the chittering language they used, and they don't normally speak English. You tried to move in the azure light, the tingling numbness stopped that. One of the bugs held a screen to your face. The library. Your stomach knotted up as you realised, this is a live feed.

Gunfire rained on the old building, within seconds it was rubble, a minute reduced it to a hole. You screamed, rage and hate filling your voice. The bugs laughed, keeping up the bombardment.

One approached you, pushing its sharp mandibles into your face. Strong hands gripped your clothing, tearing it off. You floated, naked and immobile as the three bugs paced around you, pinching and prodding, laughing at your yelps and threats. One grabbed your ass, pulling you weightlessly towards it in the field. A sharp barb jutted out from its mouthparts, and sank into your shoulder.

Your yells turned to moans. It had drugged you with something. Your body got hotter. You tried to turn and grapple it, but all the strength in the world wouldn't move you. One in front stepped up to you, both forelimbs on your tits as one of the lower arms grabbed your cunt, sinking angled fingers into you.

Your body spasmed, you swore as you felt yourself clench around him. The one behind you laughed and bit you again, giving you another dose of the venom.

You came around the fingers stuck in you, cursing and crying as you did. It released your tits and knelt down in front of you, using its forelimb to tease your clit as it pumped its hand into you.

Tears welled in your eyes as you felt another orgasm come on, you tried to suppress it. The one forcing its hands into your cunt bit you. Its mouth barb lanced into the flesh above your womb, instantly driving you over the edge again. You felt yourself spasm and squirt uncontrollably as the roaches laughed at you again. They tipped you over, flipping you end over end in the light, bringing you to rest face-up, waist high to them.

They loomed over you. Sizing you up as you quivered and squirmed, your breath catching, fluid still dripping in thick droplets from your cunt. Chitinous plates parted on the one stood near your face. A long, ribbed appendage slid out of the gap, dripping dark fluid of its own onto your face. You felt your legs part and what you imagined would be a similar thing brush the lips of your swollen cunt. A chittered word, and both thrust into you at once.

The slime was thick, and bitter. It hurt your throat to swallow it, but it filled you with heat, stronger than the venom from their mouths. The one in your pussy was having a similar effect, making your walls shudder and clench against it, the ribs of its exoskeletal cock stimulating you as he slid them in and out of you. Tears were streaming down your face now, moans turning to screams, and back to moans as the cocktail of aphrodisiac mingled in you, driving you beyond your breaking point.

All you could feel was the cocks pounding your body, again and again making you cum all over them.

All you could see was the screen, the smoking hole that was the library burned into your mind's eye.

You felt the one in your throat cum. It forced itself further in, spraying a thick slime down your neck. You gagged, the instinct to swallow the only thing stopping you drowning on the thick cock-slime being pumped into your belly.

It hurt. The slow-moving load coating your insides. Every beat of your heart making your head spin. You couldn't even feel the one in your cunt unloading into your clenching womb. The potent drugs in their sexual fluids keeping you dazed and in a constant orgasm.

You didn't notice the third had a different appendage. Wider, with a bulbous tip. You didn't sense it slide into you, pumping eggs into your cunt where they lodged into your womb, fertilising from the ocean of bug spunk in your body. You could half-see it as it lay its ovipositor on your lips, stopping your breathing as it forced its way into your throat. More eggs, pushing down into your stomach, fertilising, embedding.

You wouldn't be able to know what would happen to you when the eggs hatch.

You couldn't know the hosts of Chitinid young rarely survive to tell of what happens next.

You'll find out

######################################

Dark enough for you?

[quantumofawesome]

Scott has a post saying much the same thing, though it doesn't go quite as far as OP does here, and I think the greater depth is valuable.

I find this all so depressing. The rest of this post is me bemoaning that I am bad at a hard and important skill and flailing around for reasons why this skill shouldn't be important and it is unjust that the world subjects me to consequences for it. How dare!

But... I... waaahhh.

it is absolutely in each participants' interest to be the first one to defect, and to mask that defection for as long as possible; perfect transparency prevents them from being able to do so, and they can and will interpret requests for perfect transparency as being hostile acts.

But it's defensive! It's like saying, "hey, would you mind leaving your gun outside the room?" which I get is hostile in the sense that one wouldn't say it to a trusted ally, but... waah :(

I think this is hitting me hard because I feel like I'm in a constant struggle with a person whom I really want to be my ally to try to get them to reveal more information to me, and feeling really downtrodden about how difficult it is, and now I read this post that tells me I'm being hostile by even trying. That's not fair!!! They're being hostile to me by not answering! I am the victim here! I am an unimpeachable martyr!

social interactions can be a very complex mix of collaborative and competitive enterprises. The ratio between those things can shift on a dime, it can be really hard to figure out where on the spectrum you are at any given moment

the hard work of aligning those values and making a system of interactions 'purely collaborative', such that everybody will be doing their best to help you succeed

sighhh. Yesterday I was engaged in a very minor venture with this person whom I really want to be my ally, and I couldn't tell how much they were really collaborating with me, so I asked them if they would be willing to take responsibility for the outcome. Very high skill move on my part. Did not go over well. Butttt reading this post just makes me feel like, I was so right, I should never trust anyone to be helping me unless I absolutely ensure that they have a very real stake, and know that they have a very real stake, in me succeeding. And I don't know how to do that through cute subtle machinations. And, and, I don't even want to! That's gross! See above about the world being unjust to incentivize this.

Seriously, can't people have real allies and be legitimately transparent with them?

I don't want to overstate this too much; standard social interactions aren't a fight to the death or anything. Typical examples are more like a preponderance of cooperation, but with some jockeying for a larger share of the rewards

okay okay okay. But... 😭

You Aren't Supposed to Win

There's a species of post on Tumblr that's not uncommon: explainers about neurotypical social interactions for the benefit of the neurodivergent. Others, in an adjacent genre, are vent-posts or bewildered people expressing exasperation and impatience with neurotypical social rituals. And these are usually fine as far as they go, but there's a sort of deficit or hole in them that I think tends to go un-addressed.

Basically, a lot of these explainers are very reasonably helping readers to navigate a system for some desired outcome (getting a job, finding a date, or other such things), but with the understanding that a failure to get the desired outcome is a failure of the system. And that's... only kind of true.

Neurotypical social interactions can be a very complex mix of collaborative and competitive enterprises. The ratio between those things can shift on a dime, it can be really hard to figure out where on the spectrum you are at any given moment, and this is the system working as intended. Or at least, as the players in the game intend, which isn't always quite the same thing.

I don't want to overstate this too much; standard social interactions aren't a fight to the death or anything. Typical examples are more like a preponderance of cooperation, but with some jockeying for a larger share of the rewards that follow from a shared project. Or, perhaps, attempts to spend the least effort in a group project, while receiving a full share of the reward.

The thing about this is, the presence of an antagonistic element within these interactions means that perfect legibility is opposed to most participants' goals for the interaction. There is a degree of confusion and uncertainty that is quite deliberate and instrumentally useful. If a particular partnership is going to pivot to 'pvp mode', it is absolutely in each participants' interest to be the first one to defect, and to mask that defection for as long as possible; perfect transparency prevents them from being able to do so, and they can and will interpret requests for perfect transparency as being hostile acts.

At the same time, admitting any of this is also a loss of strategic advantage during adversarial interactions, so it's one of the hardest things to get people to admit. It's even hard for people to notice that they're doing it, because evolution favors mentalities that keep as much of this as possible subconscious; it's easier to defect without warning if you never consciously think of yourself as defecting at all. So explicit discussions of this are quite rare. (There is, however, an entire genre of party games designed to bring them to the fore and let people show off their capacity for adversarial play among shifting alliances and uncertainty, so it's more 'open secret' than 'forbidden lore'.)

The upshot of all of this is, the desire for an explicit, legible system of social interactions that can be exploited for reliable outcomes- can often be a desire for power over others, in a way that I don't think the proponents fully realize. The fantasy of people just doing what you want is a powerful one for everybody, neurodivergent and neurotypical alike. And this isn't an unreasonable fantasy! it's really not fun to be surrounded by people pursuing their own interests at the expense of yours!

But it's important to realize that a lot of the hard work of aligning those values and making a system of interactions 'purely collaborative', such that everybody will be doing their best to help you succeed regardless of skill level or quirks of neurotype, is a really hard problem that nobody has yet been able to solve. And until we get there, a system in which you reliably get everything you want, and which you navigate with perfect confidence, is one that subordinates the people around you.

[inky-duchess]

Fantasy Guide to Constitutional Monarchy

As there are many breeds of government, there are equally as many species of monarchy. Today, we will be learning about the concept of constitutional monarchy and how we can write them within our WIPs.

What is a Constitutional Monarchy?

Constitutional Monarchy is a monarchy that is bound by a country's constitution, where the monarch doesn't rule but they reign. The government acts and runs in the monarch's name, at their pleasure and owes their allegiance to the Crown but they are the decision-makers.

The Power and the Glory

The monarch doesn't have the power to rule but as Head of State, they still retain certain powers and responsibilities.

The monarch has the right to:

Warn a Prime Minister/Chancellor against a decision.

Be consulted about all state matters, crisis and news.

Advise and encourage.

The monarch has the responsibility to:

Be impartial, no matter their true feelings

Support the Prime Minister/Chancellor in their efforts to lead the country

The monarch usually retains power in the form of the Head of the Armed Forces (though most can't declare war), has the power to dissolve a sitting government, has the power to sign bills and legislation into law, by the opening of Parliament and recieves diplomats and ambassadors.

Why a Constitutional Monarchy?

You might be asking, why would a monarch agree to all these rules and limits? They are the King/Queen, no? Shouldn't they have all the power? Easy answer, they want to maintain both their power and their heads. Most modern monarchies have ceded to be bound by constitution because autocracies come with as many dangers as they come with benefits. A constitutional monarchy is often chosen to protect the monarchy, ensure it's longevity, appease the public and modernise to fit with changing opinions. The monarchy that doesn't adapt, doesn't survive. If a monarch truly believes in the role of monarchy and their duty, they would do well to consider how much they are willing to sacrifice in its name. It also provides a unifying figure for the country to look up to without the divide of political opinion and creed.

Constitutional Monarchies Across the World

The UK: The monarch's role is ceremonial, they open Parliament, grant Royal approval to bills and meet with the Prime Minister to be informed of the government's doings.

Sweden: The Swedish monarchy is symbolic only.

Japan: The Emperor of Japan has no governing powers, he recieves foreign dignitaries, participates in traditional events and rituals.

Spain: The Spanish monarchy has the power to dissolve government, summon government and appoint the Prime Minister.

Norway: Norway's monarchy is heavily symbolic but the monarch resides over the Council of State, signs official documents and undertakes state visits.

Belgium: The Belgian monarchy is also ceremonial but has the power to appoint the formateur who leads coalition negotiations, signs laws but these acts must require the signature of a government minister.

The Netherlands: The Dutch monarch has a ceremonial role, with the Prime Minister and Parliament holding political power. The monarch’s duties include signing bills into law and representing the country at official events

Thailand: The Thai monarch has a cultural and ceremonial role but politics is the business of the elected government.

Monaco: The Principality of Monaco is an exceptional version of a constitutional monarchy. While the Prince is bound by the constitution, he had the power to appoint the Minister of State and the Government Council. These bodies are directly accountable to the Prince. The Prince has the right to propose laws to the National Council, veto laws and formally enacts the laws approved by the National Council.

Denmark: The monarch appoints the Prime Minister who leads Folketing, they sign all acts passed by the government which must be countersigned by a Cabinet Minister and participates in state ceremonies.

Lesotho: This monarchy is ceremonial too but the King has the power to appoint the Prime Minister and other officials (on governmental advice).

[todaysdocument]

6915 [Isidor Einstein, New York, NY.] - Federal Prohibition Agent

Record Group 58: Records of the Internal Revenue ServiceSeries: Identification Card Files of Prohibition Agents

Photograph

[front and side view photographs of a man in a dark suit]

Date Apr. 1, '20. 6915

The United States

Treasury Department Internal Revenue Service

This Certifies That

Isidor Einstein

of New York, N. Y. is duly employed as a Federal Prohibition Agent and is hereby authorized to execute and perform all the duties delegated to such officers by law.

Countersigned John F. Kramer

Federal Prohibition Commissioner

Wm. M. Williams

Commissioner of Internal Revenue

This commission is void if photograph of bearer does not appear above.

[baeddel]

I think your analysis of the issue is overall astute, but I also think it's an important nuance that the maturity of the "MILF" has always been disturbingly relative, and I'm not sure that menopause has actually been that likely of a historic quality of one. Sarah Palin had her last child in 2008, and Lisa Ann was eight years younger than her when she performed in "Who's Nailin Paylin?". Youth as a source of feminine beauty is still valued in the MILF, despite the inherent countersignaling of the concept; while it always would have been disingenuous to present a twenty-something as a MILF simply because she could literally already be a mother, I'm pretty sure the type is most commonly imagined in her thirties or forties, a plausible mother figure for a specifically teen or college-aged assumed audience. A whole disquieting coterie out there of not-actually-that-old guys using the concept of MILFs to come to terms with being attracted to women around their own age.

thank you for your useful thoughts... your point about Lisa Ann performing the older woman is a good one, but i want to temper it with something i observed several years ago and made a post about (click), which was the actor Aaron Brandt, who acted in porn movies for a company called Bacchus Releasing (!), had but ten years between his starring in "18 and Horny" and "Guys of a Certain Age 3". but even by the time he starred in "18 and Horny" he had already been in the adult industry for 11 years. so in pornography, age is malleable. as is name, sex, nationality, even ethnicity... pornography, as in stripping and camming, and even full service, are all forms of performance, and there is more to protrayal than possessing the right sort of body.

now i will insert a warning that a very graphic reply continues beyond this point, incl. discussion of rape and pedophilia

regardless, what you say about these terms being used by men to come to terms with their own attraction is an interesting one and i will think about it... i wonder about the age of the ideal viewer of some of these. "nubile teens" and "barely legal" (Chaturbate politely terms it the '18 & 19 Year Old' category) is a genre one can only picture a filthy old man enjoying; but girls like to put themselves in this category, i believe for more than just marketing reasons. a memory of mine: a girl who has already told me she is really 26, but lists her age as 18, asks me what age i am; when i say 31, she seems to get visibly excited by the age gap that doesn't exist. once begun, it is difficult to extract onesself from the coordinates of the performance. "Suppose you couldn't get back, out of the chaos?" what i mean is this: i don't need to be such a filthy old man to be immersed in the fantasy of the barely legal teen, i need only play my part. i mean, when it comes to my own fantasies, i wouldn't even begin to tell you the things that i'm not...

this is how i explain why in eromanga the characters are all teenagers, yet they are not some kind of dark pedophilic sex manga, but a normal manga. it's because the ideal reader is themselves a teen, even in such cases where the manga could not even be lawfully sold to a teenager (although i know in Japan for a long time eromanga could be sold to children; perhaps it still can be, i'm not sure). we are required to immerse ourselves in the highschool performance, in which we play a fellow highschooler. sometimes the anxieties surrounding this are complex to navigate; in Rance (which is focused on noncon), in the first game, Rance rapes girls as young as 16, but if you have him rape a 14 year old girl you get a judgemental game over. when we played it we said "so that's where you draw the line??", but perhaps this is a line that its ideal player would intuitively understand.

yet even in a game so flagrant as Rance we are a world away from, say, Burroughs' letters to Ginsberg and Kerouac, where he describes the things he paid child sex workers to do in Mexico; things that, in his fiction, he would exclusively write as atrocities committed by horrid space monsters. that is the gulf between rape and noncon; it is the crater left by the 'death of the author', the strange effect which comes over us when we put pen to paper, and set about to write something other than a confession.

anyway. to return to the jpeg porn webrings. what is this suburbia that they created? the nubile teen, the girl next door, the college coed, the milf, the gilf... i was the tender age of twelve when i went and viewed them, and i had never once been to such a suburb, yet i knew how to comprehend what i was seeing. i had seen the trailer for American Pie. i had heard Stacy's Mom. i knew what i was getting into. so each cliche need not appeal to any particular real viewer; he need only know how to perform his part. there are old Newgrounds flash games organized along this basis; you go door to door, engaging in different sex acts with different kinds of women; sleeping with a young, flat chested girl in pigtails, then going next door to have sex with a mature, large breated woman with a blonde perm; upstairs you are tortured by a dominatrix, then go downstairs to inflict sadistic punishment on a submissive. even a game of such artfulness as Degrees of Lewdity has something of the colour of that; the charcuterie town where every type of partner may be tried out (or, in the case of DoL, feared and doggedly fled).

in any case, yes, i'll concede that drawing the line at menopause was fanciful.

[loverhymeswith]

How do we feel about a one shot with “Dress” with a little smut here and there😏

Only Bought This Dress So You Could Take It Off

Pairing: Tommy Shelby x F!Reader

Summary: Written for The Taylor Swift Tapes: Tommy Shelby - based on ”Dress”

Word Count: 2.2K

Warnings: 18+ only, minors dni. Smut. Not beta-read.

A/N: Thank you so much, Anon. I love this song and I was hoping someone might request it!

“Your hands are shaking, love.”

The sound of Tommy’s deep voice tears you away from the paperwork in your lap, a handful of important documents that require your signature - ostensibly, the only reason for your presence here tonight.

“I didn’t think they were ever going to leave.” You glance across the dimly lit office, towards the doorway through which Polly, Michael and Arthur have finally disappeared. 

Like your hands, there’s an audible tremor to the words as they leave your painted lips. Business with the Shelby family often seems to be a drawn-out affair, with evenings like this proving to be a lesson in patience. What could have been a fifteen-minute meeting has stretched out into the early hours of the morning. 

But finally, the two of you are alone.

Tommy offers you a cigarette across the desk, but you decline, choosing to watch instead as he lights his own. The brief glow of the flame illuminates the sharp angles of his face, his expression remaining calm. Neutral. It never fails to amaze you - the apparent ease with which he maintains the illusion of control. 

“It’s killing you that much, eh? The anticipation?” The twitch of his jaw confirms your growing suspicion. He’s finding this amusing. 

“It’s been hours, Tom.” You scowl, shifting in your seat and pressing your thighs together. A woman’s patience has its limits. 

Tommy takes a long drag of his cigarette. When the smoke clears, his blue eyes are fixed on you. “And it will be worth the wait.”

“Is that a promise?”

The ghost of a grin flickers across his face, alarming in its rarity. He really should smile more often. Thomas Shelby has always been an undeniably handsome man, but when he smiles he is devastating. 

“Are you going to sign them anytime soon?” He nods to the documents clutched in your hands. Right. Now he’s waiting on you.

Without hesitation, you reach over for his pen and hastily scrawl your name along the first dotted line. 

It had been a curious twist of fate that had seen the Shelby family thrust back into your life almost twelve months ago. When your ailing uncle with no children of his own had granted you joint power of attorney over his growing liquor empire, you hadn’t expected to find yourself returning to your hometown of Birmingham, let alone landing directly in the path of your childhood best friend.

Six years had passed since the last time you had seen Tommy Shelby on the streets of Small Heath - six long years since the outbreak of The Great War. The conflict had irrevocably changed a lot of things; Tommy and his brothers were no exception, the horrors they had witnessed and wrought turning them into shadows - demons - of their former selves. 

But when you first found yourself standing before Tommy in his shiny new office on Watery Lane, it quickly became apparent that no amount of time or turmoil could quell the stirring of desire that had begun to blossom between the two of you in the months prior to him leaving for France.

No distance could erase the mark his friendship had left on you, an invisible tattoo.

By all accounts, it was nothing short of a miracle that had brought the two of you back together, and if this was simply borrowed time, neither of you planned on letting it go to waste.

“All done,” you declare, dropping the paperwork onto the desk with a small smile.

Tommy gathers the documents towards him before leaning over to pluck the pen from your grasp, his fingers lingering for a beat too long against your own. As he swiftly countersigns the agreements, cigarette poised between his plump lips, your pulse quickens. 

Hopefully, this is the last distraction of the evening.

With excruciating care and clearly testing the bounds of your patience, Tommy shuffles the paperwork, straightening the pages before sliding them into a leather bound folder and locking it away in his drawer. 

“Now that business has been taken care of…” He rises slowly, extinguishing his cigarette in the expensive bronze ashtray. “...we can attend to more important matters.”

“What did you have in mind?” You fight to hide the excitement in your voice, equally resisting the urge to stare at his muscular thighs as he rounds the desk to stand before you, hands resting casually in his pockets. 

You’d hate to give him any more satisfaction when you’re already confident he knows just what effect he’s having on you; the master of planning and strategy, indeed.

“That’s a pretty dress,” Tommy observes roughly, blue eyes dipping leisurely to the swell of your chest. 

Before you can respond, he offers a hand to pull you to your feet and proceeds to twirl you around, gaining an even better view of the dress in question. It had been a calculated purchase on your part and so far, the expensive silk number seems to be well worth the investment. 

Apparently pleased by every angle, Tommy stops you abruptly when your back is turned to him, silently stepping closer until you find yourself pressed up against his chest. A large hand lands on your waist, keeping you anchored against him - inescapable, not that you would ever want to try.

As he inclines his head to whisper into your ear, his warm breath tickles your cheek. “But I thought that I might take it off.” 

Your own breath hitches, your blood turning to molten desire as the reality of his words sinks in. “I was hoping you would say that,” you admit as his other hand begins to trail a warm path from your wrist, up to your shoulder, eventually reaching the edge of your satin sleeve. Ever so gently, he tugs it down.

“Here?” You struggle to hide your surprise, biting your lip as his mouth brushes over your exposed skin. With privacy so important to the two of you, Tommy usually takes great care to ensure you won’t be disturbed - a suite at The Midland Hotel, or at least a locked bedroom. “What if they come back?”

“They won’t,” he mutters into the crook of your neck.

“But Polly-”

The sound of your name, murmured softly into the shell of your ear cuts you off, and it’s as if everything else simply stops. 

Time stands still. 

The fear of reproval should either family find out about the two of you fades away as Tommy’s capable fingers slide to the fastenings of your dress. 

“We’ve waited long enough,” he reminds you.

Despite this, Tommy still takes his time undressing you; a small part of you is grateful. After all, you really like this outfit, and it wouldn’t be the first time he’d destroyed articles of clothing in his haste to get the two of you naked. Buttons torn from blouses and shredded stockings, his passion in the bedroom more than matching the power of his machinations in the boardroom.

After helping you step out of the dress, he turns you around, lips parting as his eyes dance over every inch of your bare body. His pupils are blown wide with lust. Along with his quiet confidence, his reaction is more than enough to chase away any lingering doubt about being so exposed here in his office.

With his attention still focused firmly in your direction, his hands rise to the dark straps of his shoulder holster but you step forwards and take his hand, effectively stopping him in his tracks. 

“I’ll do it,” you tell him, a soft smile tugging at your lips. Because two can most assuredly play at this game. 

Tommy stands perfectly still as your fingers brush along the corded muscle of his biceps, sliding the leather straps of the holster over the sleeves of his crisp white cotton shirt before discarding the item on his desk. 

One down…

A muscle in Tommy’s jaw ticks as you meet his eye again, before giving his waistcoat equally attentive treatment. You can feel the beat of his heart, pounding furiously within his chest. A thrill runs through you to know that your touch has this kind of effect on such a man.

Two down…

Once his waistcoat has fallen to the floor, you make a start on the buttons of his shirt, but Tommy growls, grabbing your wrists. 

“Enough.”

It seems his patience has finally run out.

Without warning, he lurches forwards, sweeping the contents of his desk to the floor. 

Before you can even begin to anticipate what comes next, he lifts you by the waist, depositing you unceremoniously onto the edge of the now-empty desk. You gasp as he swiftly parts your thighs, placing himself between them and pressing the hard length of his body into that sweet spot at your centre.

“Tommy,” you moan, shifting your hips in the pursuit of much needed friction.

Countering the rough and sudden behaviour of just moments earlier, Tommy releases your waist and his hands rise to cup your jaw, thumbs stroking your cheeks as he gently tilts your head towards him. 

“No more waiting.” 

He punctuates the command with a claiming kiss, the kind of kiss that ignites the smouldering desire beneath your bare skin until every cell in your body is keenly attuned to his presence, his own desire evident as you continue to rock against him.

“No more waiting,” you agree, muttering the words against his mouth without breaking the kiss, sharp teeth grazing his lips. At the same time, you reach for his belt buckle, fingers fumbling to free him from the confines of his slacks.

Once he’s stripped from the waist down with only his half-buttoned shirt still remaining, Tommy splays a hand across your lower back, the heat of him a burning brand against your sensitive skin. Meanwhile, you clutch his broad shoulders for support, readying yourself for what comes next. 

With his other hand, he lines himself up against your core. 

Tommy doesn’t waste another second - not another word -  before he’s breaching your slick entrance, burying himself to the hilt in a single thrust. His name is torn from your lips, this time in the form of a strangled cry, but he dips his head, quietening you with another kiss. 

It’s a brief reprieve, though. Just long enough for you to relax around him, to catch your breath. Because he knows better than to be patient and gentle now - knows that, just like him, you enjoy the pressure. That you crave the burn as he stretches you to your limit and beyond, over and over again until you lose yourself to pleasure, until you find yourself hurtling towards your release.

In the amber light of the office - darker now since the lamp clattered to the floor - Tommy’s skin is flushed, his ocean blue eyes almost black. But not once does his intense gaze waver as he fucks you over the desk. Like he’s afraid that if he looks away you might vanish - that this might all have been a dream.

Overwhelmed by both his attention and the way he angles his hips to hit that sweet spot deep inside, you rapidly find yourself shattering around him.

As always, he doesn’t let you fall too hard, holding you close as you ride out the wave of your climax.

“I’ve been thinking,” Tommy grunts suddenly, his pace finally faltering as he smooths a strand of hair from your sweat-slick brow. 

“Should I be worried?” you pant, struggling to focus on his words. The room is still spinning. You're drunk on him.

Ignoring your teasing question, he presses his lips against your breast, driving his hips deeper one final time as he spills inside you. 

“I’ve finally woken up,” he rasps. 

It’s so unlike Tommy to speak in riddles that you find yourself tensing beneath him. Roughly, you grab his face, forcing him to look at you. “What are you talking about, Tom?”

He stills, lowering his head until your brows are touching. There isn’t an inch of space between you and when he speaks, his voice is hoarse. “You're the only person who knows me - who believes in me. In my worst times, you see the best in me. And even with my worst lies…you always see the truth in me.”

Concerned, you pull back from him. Clearly, his sex-addled brain is not functioning correctly. “Tommy, what are you-” 

“I love you.”

Silence fills the room. It’s so unexpected, his admission, that you freeze. Imaginary walls fracture like glass around you. 

When this thing between you and Tommy started up months ago, there had been an unspoken agreement that it could be nothing more than lust. An added benefit of your business transactions. Your family history, not to mention the relationship between your two companies, is far too complicated for anything more. 

Love was never part of the deal.

But as much as you might want to believe that he’s simply not thinking straight - that he’s as intoxicated by your body as you are by his, you realise he is right. You see the hope - the truth - reflected back at you in those beautiful blue eyes.

Tommy Shelby has fallen in love with you.

Even if you wanted to, there's nothing you can do about it.

Tommy Taglist: @a-reader-and-a-writer @crysxtal @simpforbuckyb @shynovelist @amberpanda99 @globetrotter28 @iammrsrogers @dragonsondragons @butterfly-lover @sunshineyourethebesttime @that-sarcastic-writer @iwantmyredvelvetcupcake @breezy2and2freezy @fia-thefirst @dreamy-caramel @trixie23

[sw-fic-reading-club]

Countersigns

by Findswoman (@findswoman)

Several times Jyn doesn't succeed in extracting the Rebel Alliance operative she has come to extract from a costume ball at the royal court of Eiattu, and one time she does succeed. <3 A RebelCaptain Secret Santa 2024 gift for annisthree.

This story was submitted by an anonymous recommender!

Recommender's notes: This story is hilarious in the most heartwarming way.

Read along with us as we discuss this fic and tag your posts with #sw fic reading club so we can reblog them here!

[ltwilliammowett]

Ship's Passport, Schooner Venalia, 15th June 1807

Partly Engraved Document on Vellum Signed by Thomas Jefferson ("Thomas Jefferson") as President, and James Madison ("James Madison"), as Secretary of State, countersigned by Wililam Ellery as collector of customs, a ship's passport for the Schooner Venalia under the command of Samuel S. Tripp, born 19 June 1782 in Stonington, Connecticut, was reportedly lost at sea in 1810.

[findswoman]

Countersigns

My RebelCaptain Secret Santa gift story for @annisthree featuring a mission, a ball, costumes, countersigns, Jyn, and Cassian! Happiest of holidays to you, and I hope you enjoy. ❤️

[she-who-paints-with-fire]

AFTERMATH

"They're gonna call this the Thirty Hour War, you know."

First Of Ten Thousand Blades lilted slightly, flat head swiveling as it surveyed the wreckage that called itself a battlefield. Beside her, In Eternal Memory shifted uneasily, charge-blades retracted but metal muscles undoubtedly coiled like a snake's.

"Was it even thirty hours? Felt like less."

"From war declaration to death? Probably about twenty to thirty."

"Huh. Been one hell of a cycle, then."

Dawn Always Comes landed beside the pair with its customary SSC-imbued angellic grace, metal singing like a choir of servomotors. Within the pilot's seat, Lux grimaced at the carnage before her.

"This is a charnel house," she observed.

"No kidding," Protector agreed. "Thank Christ-the-Buddha that Albatross was on hand."

"IFF tag located," Observer reported, piercing straight to the point as always. Team Poirun's sniper had never been one for pleasantries. "Marking on HUD."

The entire team glanced to the point that their sharpshooter had marked. Protector whistled; Karateka stared.

"Looks like the Mercenary Queen met her match," Jadwiga murmured, wincing slightly behind the controls of her Tortuga as she saw the wreckage. "Jadwiga to Highground."

"Highground receiving."

"Mercenary Queen is confirmed dead. Moving on to secondary objectives."

"Copy all. Secure an LZ and I'll pick everyone up."

"Ma'am."

First Of Eighteen Thousand Blades tightened its alloy-metal fingers around its shotgun. "Protector, Observer, start counting bodies. Karateka, you're with me to secure the captured mercenaries. Everyone, stay alert, fingers on triggers. We don't know who's left out here."

"Copy," Lux answered. Observer didn't reply; Protector simply nodded a quick acknowledgement.

In Eternal Memory moved first, heavy metal feet shifting and lifting. Observer's tiny, half-shrouded form slipped back down into the cockpit of Clouded Looking Glass and began to slowly stride away, six camouflaged legs shifting and skittering. First Of Eighteen Thousand Blades lifted a boot from the mud and began to march towards the rendezvous point; Dawn Always Comes followed close behind, moving with the grace of a living being.

They moved in silence, for a time.

Dawn Always Comes was mounted with a TLALOC clone named Sacred Symbol. She and Lux had chosen the name together when they'd first met, on the rationale that Lux had gotten to choose her name, so why shouldn't her copilot? From that day on, the two had formed a bond—not quite inseparable, but certainly good friends.

Sacred Symbol chose to speak up when Dawn Always Comes was within sight of the detained monarchists.

"What are we going to do with them?"

It was an understandable question; the Utopian Pillars forbode simply sticking them in a cell, but doing nothing would cost lives.

"We're just here to secure them. After that, we'll send them higher up the chain for sentencing."

They'd done this in the past, after raiding flash-cloning clinics and taking prisoners of war.

"What then?"

"Then... I don't know." Lux would've shrugged, if she wasn't neurally linked with her mech. "They probably get their licenses stripped and wind up back as civilians, probably under some sort of watch."

"That seems like it's rife for abuse."

It did, but was imprisonment really a better way? Lux didn't know. She chose to keep her response simple.

"Utopia is a verb."

It was a non-answer, and she knew that, but she didn't have a better one.

She stopped just behind Jadwiga, in front of the small crowd of detainees and a pair of badly damaged mechs.

"Three letters signal my distress," Jadwiga offered, as was protocol.

"Transmitted in the name of the wounded," came the countersign.

Jadwiga slipped out of and down from her mech. Karateka joined her, shrugging off the neural link and feeling her skin change to flesh instead of metal. Sacred Symbol remained in control of Dawn Always Comes.

"Jadwiga to Highground. Identities verified. LZ is as follows...

[austinslounge]

I really don’t understand some people in this fandom at times. A rant incoming but with context I promise

Firstly I’m more upset that knowing how loving and sensitive Austin is then he wil have had many very personal things in his house and his Elvis leather suit and other props he may have kept for memories. Plus other stuff he may have kept from when he was with V that would have personal memories for him, stuff from when he was a kid or sentimental presents from friends/family etc. But what really truly breaks my heart is that they could have took something that would be irreplaceable in every sense - something that belonged to his mum or something she gave him. That hurts and as someone who lost their mum this cuts deep. It could be jewellery or a picture or even something small like an ornament that they may smashed when they ransacked the place and yet all these so called fans care about is - he had a gun 😭

A few things I need to get off my chest though but I wanted need to give little context on why some ppl may feel a bit shocked but let me be very clear I DONT CARE ABOUT A GUN IN HIS HOUSE!! To the fans that do care a few things for you to think about - you don’t live there he does, he’s not dating you and until he does his then sorry but your view point doesnt matter to him and last I checked he’s a fully grown man who can make his own choices on what he keeps in his home!

However I can see both sides because in England we have EXTREMELY strict guidelines and I know this personally. I live in N. Yorkshire and am surrounded by the countryside and plenty of farms and my brother helped the farmers hunt rabbit etc so he had 2 hunting guns and he had to do a lot of things to keep them in our home - not only did he need to get a full gun license but also have a police officer come round and sign off that his gun cabinet was dead bolted to the wall, in a secure place and had deadbolts to lock it. So I understand why some people may find it alarming that Austin had a gun in his house because when we had people visit they were very nervous about guns being there. Being a military kid i remember the soldiers weren’t allowed them at home and had to sign any they used in/out from the secured gun room with another person to countersign and they had to keep logs for security reasons and even then only those with firearm licenses were allowed too do this. Do guns that are kept LEGALLY at home is usually unheard of unless your into hunting, clay pigeon shooting or farmers etc.

However saying you’re no longer a fan or view him differently is absolute madness! He lives in the US where laws are different and on top of that we have NO IDEA where the gun was, maybe it was a prop or maybe it was one that he was using for training for an upcoming movie so he could get comfortable with it and knowing him as an actor who takes his work very seriously this would make complete sense to me. But does any of that actually matter - he’s a grown man with a sensible head on his shoulders and maybe he felt safer knowing it was there in case he was home when in this situation. If cash was stolen too it was probably locked in a safe as I doubt money was just sitting in an unlocked drawer or kept under his mattress 🤦‍♀️ and even then we don’t know how much money was actually taken - give your head a shake people - it’s just a very small amount of info from a gossip site who used the right words for click bait!

I’m just glad he wasn’t at home or the outcome might have had a very different ending and probably not a good one - let’s not forgot what happened to Kim K!!!

Thanks for your input on this Anon.

Yea girl, I'm not really understanding the backlash and the think pieces on this whole gun thing tbh. You can't base your view on Austin having a gun in the home when you're not from the US and don't have the same context and background.

Here in the US, it's not uncommon for people to own guns or to have them in their homes. Having the right to bear arms is literally written into our nation's Constitution. My grandfather was in the military and owned a gun in our home. I saw it all the time, but we knew not to touch it. I never saw him actually use it, but he always had it there "just in case" someone tried some funny business.

As for Austin, we don't know anything about the gun. It could have been a family gift, it could have been passed down to him, it could have been something he purchased on his own, it could have been from a film he did, etc. I'm also willing to bet that he's probably had it for years. As I posted yesterday, he and Vanessa used to go to the gun range all the time. As long as people are responsible with guns, it's perfectly fine to own one, and I have no problem with what people choose to own in their own home.

I'm also not understanding the hypocrisy of fans enjoying watching Austin actually shoot stuff up at the shooting range while training on the tactical training facility, but then having a heart attack about the fact that he has a gun in his home. 🤔 That makes absolutely no sense to me.

Also, I hate to burst people's bubbles, but a lot of celebrities own guns lol. It's nothing new. 😅

With all of that said, I agree with you that fans are focusing on the wrong thing. Like you mentioned, we don't know what the burglar(s) could have taken. I would be freaked out just coming home to a ransacked house just in general. Who knows what precious things they may have gone through. When something like that happens to you, no doubt you feel like your privacy has been violated. 😔

As you mentioned, I'm just glad Austin wasn't at home. Can you imagine?

I just wish fans would focus more on this very grave reality instead.