curiositysavesthecat · 4 months ago
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albertstrustie · 30 days ago
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"Say it."
"I want more."
"More of what?"
"More of you."
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p-assionateheart · 2 months ago
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blueeyesfilledwithpassion · 10 months ago
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Soulmates..... 💙
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starry-eyes-love · 3 months ago
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Clawing your hands down his back sends him a clear message:
You're Mine
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etherealarte · 3 months ago
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Brittany Lynn Lutz
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sweetpetaldreams · 5 months ago
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”And at the end of the day is it only you and me”
~🤍~
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w-miescie-krzyk · 25 days ago
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blackcouplesera · 8 months ago
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"...in sickness and in health." 🤣🤣🤣
via Whoreible Decisions Podcast
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jomiddlemarch · 7 months ago
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for danger is in words 
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“My wife’s name is Mary,” he said, first in English, before he noticed and then again in the Portuguese she would understand. There was a something about her face that told him he perhaps hadn’t needed the translation. “Not so different—”
“You did not call me by her name,” Mariko said, a reassurance he should not have needed, but it had been a long time since he’d tumbled a woman and Mariko had touched him in ways he had not imagined, given him pleasure with hands he would have thought devilish clever except for the look in her dark eyes as she’d stroked him. Tenderness and wonder, as if he were precious, an unexpected marvel, not a scarred sea-pilot with manners too rough, too eager, for the subtle Japans.
“’Tisn’t proper to speak of her now, I warrant. After pillowing,” John said, using the term Mariko had. She was a widow, even if not as merry as widow as one would find in London or Amsterdam, so perhaps she had done nothing untoward by her rights, but it didn’t seem polite to hold a woman in his arms, her bare skin more delicate than her silk robe, the taste of her yet in his mouth, and talk of another.
“Men’s tongues wag after congress,” she said. “Unless they sleep.”
“You gave me great joy,” he said. It sounded awkward, formal, but his Portuguese did not run to either poetry or the sweet-talk lovers used, endearments and admissions. Praise was used quite differently here and he didn’t want to risk offending her.
“I thought I must,” she said. “You were very loud.”
He laughed, a low, rumbling chuckle that startled her, a sudden tenseness in her shoulders. He would not have been able to tell if she were wearing her usual robes, standing across from him, but naked, pressed against him, it was undeniable.
“I suppose I was. I offer my most sincere apology if you’d have it,” he said.
“You did nothing wrong. Many cry out at the peak,” she said.
“You did not,” he replied. She had made a very soft sound and he’d felt her body surge around his, her hands tightening on his back, her neck arched. The moonlight through the paper screens had not enough power to give him any color, but he’d felt her flush even if he could not see the roses in her cheeks, the hue of a Tudor blossom down her throat and across her full breasts.
“Did your Mary?” she replied. For once, perhaps, it was not a challenge nor a game whose rules he was meant to discover mid-play. She was curious, about Mary and about English women, about the world he’d left behind. What he’d told her about the Thames had not slaked her thirst but whetted it, but she wanted more than details of a silver river in a filthy city, a jeweled Virgin Queen on her throne. She wanted to know about the bed he’d lain in, conceiving his children, the bedclothes rumpled, the rushes on the floor with their wilting herbs. Mary with her bright chestnut hair unbound, a spatter of freckles across her cheeks, her eyes light. He couldn’t recall their blue anymore.
“Not at first. She was shy, ‘til she learned to like it,” he said.
“To like pillowing?”
“To like make noise. To letting me know I’d pleased her. Or that she wanted more,” he said. Mariko shifted and sated as he was, she stirred him. It would not do to think whether each gesture was studied, a courtier’s or a courtesan’s. He would not know unless she told him and she would not tell him if he asked direct. That at least, he’d learned, how little appreciated was the confrontation, even if his only goal was the discovery of her appetite, her delight. 
“Without you, she is quiet,” Mariko said.
“She is virtuous, a respected matron. Her bed is empty but she is quiet only in that regard. She’s known for her wit, her temper,” he said. Mary would like to be rendered so, even if she sulked to learn he’d shared his bed with another. 
“You miss her,” Mariko said. At least, he heard it thus. The word she chose was one she paused before uttering and he wondered how deficient she found Portuguese to her purpose.
“Less than I ought,” he admitted. “All is dross that is not Helena,” he added wryly, mocking his own inconstancy, ruing the comparison that Mariko posed, in every way lovely and quick, fair and bright and with untold depths he would never plumb.
“I do not understand, Anjin,” she said.
“A line from a play, from home,” he said. “I mean to say, I do my wife a disservice, but one I cannot regret.”
“Because you pillowed with me?”
“’Twas not only such for me,” he said. If he were fluent in her language, still he would struggle to explain to her what he had felt during their coupling, all words platitudes in their attempt to contain the ineffable. He would have felt embarrassed to describe it so except that he felt most himself surrounded by the sea and the horizon, by those things elemental—water and salt, air and star. Something in her answered him, even if it was an aspect she had withdrawn behind her bloody fence, and that was more powerful than any ecstasy.
“To a starving man, a crumb is a banquet,” she said.
“And now I know you have never had a hungry winter,” he replied. He’d had his fair share as a child. He didn’t mention the desperate straits they’d come to before being taken in by the Japans, the men turning in their hammock as if winding their own shrouds about their bony carcasses. “A crumb to a starving man is not a banquet but torture and lying with you was neither feast nor agony.” He leaned in and grazed her temple with his lips, traced the curve of her cheek with his forefinger.
“Sweet,” he murmured.
“You are gentle, Anjin. More gentle than I expected,” she said. He thought of how she’d become very still when he’d brought her palm to his lips and when he’d drawn her close to nestle against him as they rocked together on the cusp of abandonment. He thought of how she’d touched the scars on his back and arm, the ones on his ribs, his belly, the question in her eyes unasked, unconcealed.
“I would have you call me John,” he said. 
“I am not your consort,” Mariko said. 
“That is why I ask. It is not a demand,” he said.
“Only now,” she said. She looked at him and took a breath. Her lips parted, as if invitation. “John.”
“We agreed now is the only time there is,” he replied and pulled her to him, tasting his name on her tongue, sighing the pleasure of it into her mouth and stroking it down her back.
The cry she gave when he brought her to the crest was sharp, like a wheeling gull’s, and so shocking that he spent in the next instant, his groan swallowed into silence. He lay panting, his cock still hard within her, his hand at her waist when she moved to whisper in his ear.
“John. Only now.” 
Shout-out to @aquitainequeen for her post on early 17th century theater and what John could have seen/quoted. I went full-throttle Dr. Faustus, as she suggested he'd had loved that!
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ashleyfableblack · 4 months ago
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"I had this dream last night…"
Twilight lay in her wife's hooves, little spoon to Chrysalis's big spoon. This was their happy place. The couple relaxed in a lazy dreamy state reserved for the kind of lovers with nothing to do that day- or at least nothing that couldn't be put off for more important things, such as an extended snuggle.
Chrysalis raised an eyebrow. "If this is like that one where you were nibbling on a giant piece of licorice we agreed that was an accident."
"No, I-" Twilight chuckled and playfully slapped at her wife's barrel. "You butt." Chrysalis chuckled with her wife, rumbling in a sinister silky low register. She playfully rubbed at Twilight's belly, giving the alicorn to fidget and giggle under the barrage of tickling tarsomeres.
"No, Chryssi. Not that one." she paused to catch her breath. "And the jury is still out on that, you know." Contorting herself to look back to her partner she gave a playful glare. The display earned a playful mocking flicker of her wife's serpentine tongue, tickling at her snoot.
"I throw myself upon the mercy of the court." Chrysalis bellowed in a melodramatic croon. "Failing that-" she craned her neck to whisper in her partner's ear "I will bribe the judge." She gave a flirty nip to Twilight's ear, kneading with her fangs.
Twilight murred. She tucked herself back into the creche of her wife's larger bughorse body with a heavy-lidded smile that signified a silent truce would continue on the matter for now.
"No. We were fillies."
"Fillies?"
"Mnhmm. Little school-fillies. I think your wing was hurt so I was giving you a piggy-back ride to class." She dreamily played with the cracked folds in Chrysalis's hooves. "You kept nibbling on my horn and purring at me. I think we were filly-friends."
"Naturally." Chrysalis extended her tongue to playfully pat at her wife's horn, tickling the bony spiral.
Twilight beamed, simply being in the moment.
She contemplated in silence, held in the adoring embrace.
Chrysalis was ancient, recalling civilizations and species long gone. The changeling queen and her children had existed in the shadows of every species on the planet, guiding their evolution both culturally and in some cases physically. She had seen species rise to power and fall into oblivion, both of which were often orchestrated by her Hive. Much of the knowledge she had first-hoof account of Twilight had only ever read about, secrets long-forgotten, forbidden magics, cultures and creatures which pre-dated the written word.
For her part, Chryssi's body of knowledge was a constant source of fascination to Twilight. Her wife was an impossible, enchanting trove of history and a unique perspective in every subject she could imagine. Like a moth to the flame, Twilight could listen to her ruminations for hours.
She'd never broached the subject specifically as to just how old Chrysalis was. She didn't care, really. Much like Celestia or Luna, Discord in particular, It seemed that, to an immortal existence, past a certain point they stopped caring themselves. The world kept on turning. They simply walked through it, like a traveler on a ship. She was well aware that one day, she too would have a similar perspective.
But in this moment she did wonder, had Chrysalis ever been a child? Was that maybe the one bit of knowledge the one perspective she could never understand?
Her introspection must have changed the mood in the air enough to be noticed by her wife's flickering tongue and changeling sight. Chrysalis shifted. "Is something wrong, beloved?"
Twilight mused and decided to cast her line. "Honeybug… If we met when we were fillies how do you think we would have ended up?" She prodded her wife in the plated segment of her abdomen. "Would we still have… gotten together?"
Chrysalis snickered, not missing a beat.
"Pfft. You need to ask?"
The changeling monarch clasped her wife tightly in a loving embrace. Her fangs clattered as she gave a series of possessive nibbles to Twilight's horn. She craned her neck down and drew in her limbs to form herself into a weighted armored blanket of sorts, equal parts compression and affection. The cool chitin of her angular cheek hissed softly against Twilight's coat as she nuzzled her wife.
"I'd have utterly ruined you."
Twilight erupted in laughter as her bughorse bride squeezed her to her barrel. The heavy rumble of Chrysalis's cricket purr was all the answer she needed.
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albertstrustie · 2 months ago
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We were completely submerged, but she was the only thing that mattered. Her taste, her scent, her touch, her voice. All of her, surrounding me.
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scribs-dibs · 7 months ago
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c c could aventurine be a husband. can we actually think about this for a second. let me be so clear this would take years. YEARS. of assurance and Reassurance and encouragement and support. but realistically it could happen right guys. right. he would have his ring under his glove, guys. because one he does not want to put You at risk two he can freely use his charms still and three less of a risk of losing it. d do you even get it. his devotion to someone after soo long and having the Right to be called a husband. i don't think there'd be a wedding or a ceremony and shit maybe it isn't even legally binding but just. behind closed doors "is that any way to treat your husband" aventurine. him being a light sleeper but sleeping well and thoroughly at your side. him looking around at your shared home and mourning the fact that his family will never ever be able to come visit him and see how far he has come but also relishing that he once again has a Shared Space with someone. kisses that aren't greedy because he knows he already has you. kisses that are so tender that it's like you melt into each other. domesticity. domesticity, guys. does anyone understand me am i insane AM I INSANE
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jukti-torko-golpo · 2 years ago
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Soft Romance
Stolen glances, casually held hands, faces held gently as if the hands are holding a dream in them, words....so many words spoken through eyes....Two very different threads seamlessly interwoven with love.
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curiositysavesthecat · 8 months ago
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*this poll was submitted to us and we simply posted it so people could vote and discuss their opinions on the matter. if you’d like for us to ask the internet a question for you, feel free to drop the poll of your choice in our inbox and we’ll post them anonymously (for more info, please check our pinned post)
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starry-eyes-love · 4 months ago
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Her Seduction
Starry’s Thoughts    18+ Minors DNI
F!Reader POV
“Open that black robe slowly, baby," he whispered in a low voice. 
“Do you like what you see?” You asked with a whisper, slowly biting your lower lip.
“Yeah, baby, I do. Now let me taste you,” he said with a low growl, kneeling before you to devour the delicacy that stood before him—you. 
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