#this was such a hard-hitting stirring speech

[fayes-fics]

Impertinent

2k Celebration Masterpost

Pairing: Anthony Bridgerton x fem!reader

Summary: Sneaking around Aubrey Hall in the dead of night brings you right into the path of one Viscount...

Warnings: very suggestive content, nudity, teasing and touching, Viscount being a total menace but mostly a gentleman.

Word Count: 1.4k (250-word drabbles... I'm HILARIOUS)

Authors Note: Seventh in my 2k follower celebration drabble request fills for @colettebronte with the prompt “You heard me. Take. It. Off.” (ask here). This ended up quite tame, but I enjoyed writing him as a tease. Unbetaed. Enjoy! <3,

You know it's not the right thing to do. To be snooping around Aubrey Hall in the dead of night. But you cannot resist it. As everyone sleeps, you wander silently, tiptoeing around in just your nightgown, the light of the moon streaming through the large windows to guide you. It feels elicit, exciting even. Exploring the home of the man you hope to marry, Viscount Anthony Bridgerton. You have danced and promenaded a few times; this early invitation to spend time with his family ahead of the rest of the Ton bodes well.

You pause at the door of his private study, then, with a fortifying breath, turn the handle and slip into the room. Warm embers glow in the fireplace, and the smell of cigars and expensive whiskey hangs in the air. It is so masculine and so Anthony you can't help but drift to the sizeable imposing desk and take a seat, fingers running over the wood, picturing him sitting right where you are, working hard on something important or other. It makes you lean back, something stirring in your body, just the thought of him arousing.

It's then you notice there is material draped around the back of the large leather chair—one of his velvet, tailed jackets. It smells of spicy cologne, and before you know it, your nose is buried in the material, drawing deep breaths, the scent making your thighs rub together. Something compels you to want to wear it, to feel it against your skin. 

With a boldness you thought yourself scarcely capable of, you stand up and whip off your nightgown, reaching to slip on the jacket. You luxuriate in the feeling of the luxury satin liner against your bare flesh, how it cools your back, snags your pebbled nipples, and how the velvet collar tickles your neck. The front may sit at waist height on him, but on you, the material skims the apex of your thighs, catching deliciously in the patch of hair you have there.

So wrapped up in the sensation of being surrounded by him, by his scent, you don’t hear the door open until it's too late.

“What in the…?” 

You startle and spin around to see there in the doorway is the man himself, Viscount Anthony Bridgerton, casual in just a loose white shirt and his britches with braces slung around his legs. You are caught, red-handed. The power of speech has abandoned you, so you just stand there, a rabbit caught in his crosshairs, guilt, fear and shame flooding your system.

He stalks into the room further now and inhales sharply when he rounds a chair to see an unencumbered view of you, entirely nude except for his jacket. His gaze is heavy, sliding down your body sweeping your bare legs, then fixing on where the fabric only just covers you.

“Take it off,” he orders. 

You almost jump out of your skin at the tone and the gruffness. Your arms and hands incapable of moving; there are few charged moments when Anthony just stares at you.

 “You heard me. Take. It. Off.” This time it's even lower, a growl, predatory, enthralling.

And you scramble to obey, shucking the jacket from around your shoulders and letting it hit the floor with an audible thump. Entirely naked now, his responding noise has your thighs instantly damp.

“How impertinent to let yourself into my private study,” his voice surly as he prowls towards you. You freeze to the spot, your hands flying to protect your modesty. “Oh, it’s a little late for that now,” he chuckles darkly, “put your hands back at your sides right now.”

And you do. Casting your gaze to the floor as your cheeks heat. His stare is so heavy it feels like a robe you wear. Soon he is so close you can smell the same cologne that clung to his jacket but this time from his skin.

He circles behind you, and you gasp as he crouches down; it takes you a second to realise he is picking up his jacket, where you carelessly disposed of it onto the floor.

“Tell me, why would you put on my jacket while nude?” he queries, lingering there, and you shudder as his hot breath glances over your bare bottom cheeks as he does so, still behind you.

“I…I… I wanted to try it on,” you stumble, your voice far too quiet.

“And you had to take off your nightgown to do so?” he snarks, and both of your eyes cut to the side where your gown lays in a heap.

“It seemed like luxurious material,”  you confess, head still bowed, starting at the rug as if it fascinates you. “I wanted it against my skin,” those last few words are barely audible.

“You do not have velvet clothes of your own you could try this with?” he throws out, still behind you, that breath still hot over your cheeks; in fact, you swear it’s closer now.

“Yes, but…” you trail off, having no good excuse. Unable to think of a lie, you screw your eyes shut and decide on the truth “... they do not smell like you.”

You jolt and make a noise of sheer surprise as he pitches forward, and his teeth land on your cheek, inhaling deeply.

“At last…” he growls, scraping his canine over the globe of your bottom, “she admits to it.”

“To what?” you murmur as his wet tongue pokes out, soothing the spot he had touched with his teeth as you tremble.

“That you want me just as much as I want you.”

Your whole body shudders as he runs his tongue up the length of your spine, climbing to his feet, your toes curling, scrunching into the thick wool pile, as he unfurls to his full height behind you. You wish you had something nearby to grab onto; it feels as if you could topple over, the rush of blood to your head so intense.

“Are you a maiden?” his mouth is now hot on your ear.

“Yes.”

“And you have never had a man run his tongue over your body like that before, have you?” his voice dark and laced with bemusement.

“No,” you admit.

A warm hand lands on your shoulder as he stands behind you, and again you jump—your body aflame, your nipples pebbling hard, goosebumps breaking out down your arms.

“And I presume no man has touched your naked body?” 

“No, my lord,” your addition of his title makes him take a sharp breath.

“Good,” he snarls, sounding possessive,

His hand rounds your shoulder and starts to sink lower, mapping over the outer end of your clavicle as you try to school your body, trying to stay still, so completely overwhelmed by what is happening. When warm fingertips brush the top of your breast, you begin to tremble.

“Do you know what could happen to mischievous young maidens who break into men’s offices?” It's just a deadly rumble now while his fingers inch fractionally lower, so close to your nipple that it aches to be touched.

You are incapable of answering, so you shake your head a little, his nose bumping your ear.

“You are lucky, Miss y/l/n, that I am mostly a gentleman,” he purrs, “mostly.” 

You shiver as he circles your areola with featherlight touch but never crosses onto it, your heart pounding from the tease.

“I suggest you grab your nightgown and run now,” he advises, sounding like he is fighting his urges, his hand stilling in its motion.

“What if that is the opposite of what I wish?” you can barely believe you found the gall to utter your thought aloud, staring straight ahead at the bookcase, not daring to look down at his hand on your body.

His lips brush the shell of your ear, and it's like being struck by lightning.

“Leave now,” he whispers, “you may return tomorrow evening. Exactly as you are.”

“Why then?” you frown, disappointed as his hand drops from your flesh.

“Because then we shall be publically betrothed… and nothing should stop us.”

Your world spins, and you have to lock your knees to stop your swoon. “What…?”

“You heard me,” he says for the second time tonight, this time with a smug tone, stepping away and handing you your nightgown over your shoulder.

You take a faltering step forward and quickly pull on your nightgown, finally turning to face him again, and it steals your breath. His pupils are dilated, his cheeks flushed, his mouth damp and open.

“Until tomorrow, Miss y/l/n….” he gestures to the door and still utterly dumbfounded, you stumble towards it.

You cannot wait for tomorrow. 

Anthony Taglist: @makaylan @foreverlonginguniverse @iboopedyournose @colettebronte @aintnuthinbutahounddog @margofiore @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @crowleysqueenofhell @bridgertontess @queenofmean14 @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @eleanor-bradstreet @divaanya @musicismyoxygen84 @benedictspaintbrush @sorryallonsy @lilithseve @cayt0123 @hottytoddyhistory @elizah99 @fictionalmenloversblog @debheart @malpalgalz @amanda08319 @panhoeofmanyfandoms @delehosies

[bioethicists]

responding to this with my shitty redaction because i'm not comfortable posting obvious bait with people's names in them (particularly dead names) but i just wanted to point out the ways in which this ask is prototypical bait written to purposefully generate drama or controversy (idk if this is in a kiwifarms trolling with right wing motives sense or an 'i love drama' person) by trying to appeal to online leftist culture/the fear of being 'problematic'. i see ppl fall for this constantly + i need people to start learning to recognize the signs instead of either engaging or using this as evidence that leftists are stupid/petty/hypocritical (which many of us are, but in much less amusing ways, unfortunately)

the implication that there is a single founder of the "neurodiversity movement" + that evoking this movement at all (which i don't do + i think it's actually pretty evident that my politics are distinct from the much more bioessentialist politics of those who prefer that term, which is part of what led me to conclude that this is a copypasta) is supporting the founder. tracing a broad social concept to a single individual, then disparaging that individual as morally unsound (by evoking other explosive, petty pieces of discourse, like baeddalism + transandrophobia) in order to provoke doubt, fear or anger. demonstrates a hope that leftists will flinch away from anything associated with anyone 'problematic' without applying any critical thinking.

misrepresenting complex events (or fabricating them entirely- idk if these things happened + i simply couldn't care enough to find out) in a way that hits the pressure points of performative activism (she's being mean to an autistic person! other people of color agree with me! this other person is anti physically disabled people!) while also betraying reactionary opinions through language use/implications (claiming to care about 'transandrophobia' yet deadnaming someone? claiming to care about specific events at specific autism conferences but using terms like "severely autistic"? saying you have spoken to "Blacks, Asians, Hispanics, American Indians" lmao did you type this out based on census checkboxes from the 70s?). the author of this ask is clearly not a member of the activist communities they claim to be from because they accidentally slip into the speech conventions + opinions of a kiwifarms/4chan loser who does a lot of hatereading. this one did a good job of hitting the bingo card of divisive intracommunity issues rn- great research skills, bud! put them to better use <3

reframing reactionary beliefs using leftist concepts. this works because many of us do not have a foundational politic outside of "well, i want to be good, so I'm going to support the things that other people i trust say are good". which doesn't make you bad (there is no good or bad! learn this now + quick, if you really want to play a part in building a better world) but it makes you easy to manipulate + unlikely to be capable of meaningful change. notice that the claims this ask is asserting are, at their core, "people make up microaggressions to cause problems when really they could easily suck it up" + "people fake disabilities and being trans for attention". these are reactionary concerns, no matter how artfully they are dressed in social justice language. kiwifarms in particular was very, very good at this- they loved finding the people they stalked to be racist, homophobic, ableist, etc, not because they thought those things were wrong (it was their hobby to be these things!) but because they delighted in identifying hypocrisy, stirring up drama, + destroying people's reputations.

this is hard to explain bcuz i blacked out the names, but if you have a passing familiarity with fascist/reactionary online spaces, particularly the history of kiwifarms, you will know that reactionaries have their own 'pet leftists', just like we have our 'pet fascists' (shapiro, alex jones, tucker carlson, etc). that is, ppl they obsessively follow, harass, + scrutinize + come to believe are representative of everything that we believe. these ppl are rarely ppl who are actually prominent in our online spaces but online reactionaries often believe we are just as obsessed with these people as they are, but as unquestioned paragons of virtue + brilliance. namedropping these ppl is often an accidental tip of the hat, particularly when the ppl aren't on tumblr, haven't been a topic of community discussion for quite some time, or run in a different circle than us (reactionaries don't understand that there are actually thousands of leftist social groups which have very little overlap with some others- pronouns in bio does not mean someone knows or cares about contrapoints, for instance)

tl;dr this ask is a fantastic example of the rhetorical features bait that someone might actually take seriously.

[callsign-rogueone]

allies - b.s.

cadet!Brennan Sorrengail x cadet!reader (part of my Brennan and Duchess series!) ✉: Would you mind telling us how they got each others attention in Basgiath? What made them fall for each other in the first place? words: 801 🏷: no book spoilers and no triggers! just bb bren and duchess meeting in year one at gauntlet training + a little happy moment from threshing day (and some info that will be relevant later in their story hehe). italics are spoken in Tyrrish!

Your foot slips out from underneath you, and there’s no recovering from it -- you’re falling. You manage to grab onto the nearest rope, the rough fibers burning your skin as they slide through your hands. Your descent slows, but you still hit the ground hard enough to wind you. You lie flat on your back for a moment as you attempt to catch your breath, just grateful to be alive.

A familiar face enters your vision; a boy in your wing whose name you can’t remember. He’s cute, his hair falling over his forehead in soft waves as he leans down, light brown eyes watching you with concern. “Are you okay?”

You blink at him, stunned at the sound of the words you’ve only ever heard from your parents. How hard had you hit your head? “You speak the old language.”

He nods in confirmation that you’re not losing your grip on reality. “My father taught me. The ancient languages are a passion of his.” His pronunciation could use some work, but he’s got the vocabulary down. 

He extends an ink-stained hand, and you take it, letting him pull you to your feet. 

“How did you know I was Tyrrish? That I spoke the language?”

He blushes, suddenly shy. “I saw you use it to write your notes for Battle Brief. And your hair. I’ve only seen braids like that on portraits of the old queens in history books. It’s beautiful.”

Your cheeks warm at the compliment -- Tyrrish doesn’t have the same parts of speech or grammatical structure as Navarrian, so his use of it, likely referring to your intricate hairstyle, could have very well been him calling you beautiful in your entirety.

“Thank you,…” you hesitate, trying to remember his name — he keeps to himself, and he’s never been a threat to you, so you had never learned it.

“Brennan,” he offers. A good name. Strong. 

You smile at him. “Nice to meet you, Brennan.”

The crisp accent you say his name in stirs something in his chest.

For a moment, everyone else ceases to exist. You’re the only people out here, the only two who can understand this conversation, who are aware of the magnetism between you.

You still can’t look away, both of you locked in place as you commit every detail of the other to memory; the small scar on his chin, the way his eyelashes move as he blinks at you, the light wash of freckles across his nose… the pattern of your braids, the impeccable neatness of the stitches holding your patches to your uniform, the soft curiosity in your eyes…

Something tells you to trust this boy with the soft voice who knows your language and recognized your traditions, who is looking at you like you'd hung the stars in the sky. 

“Allies?” you ask.

“Allies,” he agrees.

------------------------------------------------

You whistle across the flight field, and Brennan’s head snaps toward the sound, every muscle in his body relaxing as he spots you.

There’s a massive black dragon behind you, the largest of the group you’d seen at Presentation, the one that had taken interest in you from the start of the term. She stands with the same regal posture as you as she surveys her surroundings, appraising the rest of the freshly bonded cadets and their dragons.

You’re grinning from ear to ear, unable to contain your joy. You want nothing more than to run to Brennan and embrace him, but you keep your feet planted to the ground until you’re told to line up to have your names recorded by the scribe.

“Banriondorcha,” you state to the group of officers. A few pairs of eyebrows raise, including the General’s, but they quickly replace the concern on their faces with flat disinterest.

Professor Kaori is the first to speak, the only one who smiles at you. “I was wondering when she’d finally decide to bond. She has chosen well. I look forward to seeing your signet manifest, cadet. I have no doubt that it will be strong.”

“Thank you.”

Brennan had been ahead of you in the line; he’s already returned to his orange daggertail. They look right together, the afternoon sun bringing out the red in Brennan’s hair to compliment the dragon’s scales.

You stop ten yards away from them and lower your head in deference, not daring to speak to him directly, but it’s clear what you’re saying: you come in peace.

He steps back, allowing you to move toward Brennan.

You’re both freezing, having been wholly unprepared for the chill of the air at 3,000 feet above ground, but there’s warmth between you as you embrace, laughing in relief.

“We did it,” you breathe.

He leans down, resting his forehead against yours, a soft smile on his face. “We did.”

[iblameashley]

Regimented Trust

Military | Male | Gay

1,690~ words Content: mostly tame, but please consider the topics to include... trauma, mental health, amputation (leg), solitude, distrust, anxiety, companionship, connections, budding romance.

Captain John Price | Male/GN Reader

!!!SFW!!!

In a support group for military veterans, You and Price navigate the complexities of healing, trust, and camaraderie. As walls slowly crumble and bonds form over the course of many nights and pints, will Price's relentless optimism break through your defences?

You sat there in the dimly lit room of the support group. The building was more depressing than the reality of your life, a thought you had mused every time you came here. The circle of chairs was a little fuller this week, which was always nice to see, but your focus was less on them, and more towards a certain Captain.

John Price sat there across from you, another soldier, but unusual in that he was the first man higher ranking than a Sergeant. His deep brown eyes had a way of boring deep inside you, stirring something you had worked hard to suppress.

Tonight was a rather quiet night, not many people had wanted to speak up. Some nights were like that.

You scratched at the spot on your prosthetic where your leg used to be. Phantom limb, phantom itch. You always felt it around people.

“We're all here for a reason.” Price gruffly mumbled, likely trying to be the leader he naturally was. “War leaves its marks on all of us... and, for a time, I thought all that mattered was patriotism and duty to serve.”

His voice seemed laced with regret and anger.

You felt a twitch in your mouth as you tried to maintain your composure. It was difficult to be here on most days, but the desire you harboured for Price betrayed the promise you had made; never let anyone back in. Don't trust people.

“Trust takes time.” Price continued.

Was he reading your fucking mind? You couldn't help but wonder as he stared at you. You assumed this was meant for you, specifically.

“...that's okay. But we're here to get better, to be better... whatever that may mean, or whatever path that may take us down.” Spoken like a true leader, but you were still unconvinced.

But as ever, Price's motivational speeches had an effect, and some other men in the group began to share things here and there; a nightmare they had. A fallen comrade. Medical discharge from service, and loved ones abandoning them.

That one hit you hard.

That damn itch!

As the group session ended, Price lingered behind as he always did. He checked up on the men who spoke, reassured them as they went on their way, and helped clean up the room.

You had missed the end of the session, being lost in thought. You just sat on the chair, staring into the nothingness as the clean up crew worked around you.

Price had been watching, and gathering the courage, he finally approached.

“Hey.” Price said in his gravelly, commanding voice. “Seems you've been carrying a heavy load as of late. Care to talk about it one on one?” He asked.

Your eyes flickered to Price with a mix of surprise and distrust. Sure you had spoken a few times, participated just enough to not set off any alarms with the other members – or so you thought.

You sat there in silence long enough for Price to deem this important enough for his attention. He swiftly grabbed a chair from the stack. He set it down at an awkward angle from you before plunking himself into it.

He crossed his arms as he leaned back and stared you down.

“I've seen men crumble under some heavy weight.” I said in a factual, flat tone. “If I can help, I want to.”

You sighed and slumped your shoulders, leaning slightly back in your chair.

“Easy for you to say.” You chide. “Always so composed and proper.”

Price gave an amused smile and deep chuckle. “Just a part of my charm, yeah?” He said in a teasing tone. “But I have to be composed and proper, I'm still actively serving, and I do my men no favours by breaking down when they need me the most.” He explains, shifting his tone to something kinder. Honest.

“I've seen too much.” You replied. Why the hell did your leg still itch so fucking much?

You take a deep breath and exhale slowly. “It's difficult to believe there is anything good left. In me or the military.”

Price leaned a forward slightly and nodded. “Well mate, maybe you just need to look in the right places.” He smiled with a glint in his eyes. “How about we talk a bit more at the pub down the road. A drink won't solve your problems, but might help give you the courage to open up a bit, yeah?” He offered, already beginning to stand.

You resisted the smile that was tugging at your face.

You shook your head and sighed again.

“Gonna make that an order, Captain?” The words had seemed more snarky and less flirty in your head. Shit.

“If that's what it takes, I suppose I could.” Price nodded, his face unreadable. “Come on mate, its a pint with a fellow soldier. My treat.”

“Relentless aren't you?” You chuckled, shaking your head.

Fuck it.

You stood up and grabbed your jacket.

“Age before beauty.” You smirked, gesturing for Price to lead.

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One pint at a pub down the street had turned into two and then three. One night had turned into five, and before you knew it, you were spending more time with Price after support meetings.

You had even braved a few pubs with him on days with no meetings.

Price had managed to loosen your lips and pry a little more information from you during these times, but you still kept your walls up; even if they were faltering.

You were currently running your fingers around the base of your pint, watching the bubbles rise as you got lost in thought again.

“You know,” Price began, snapping you out of your trance. “I never saw my mates as just soldiers. They were... they are family. Brothers and comrades I needed to take care of.” He admitted with a sombre tone.

You couldn't help but look at Price curiously. Why was he saying this now? What was with that remorseful tone?

“I see the same in you.” He confessed before taking a long swig of ale. He sighed and shook his head. “No... its not the same. But you're not just some solider from the support group. We all need someone.” Price cleared his throat.

“Even if its just a mate to share a pint with.” He added quickly.

And another section of the wall buckles.

“Need someone like me?” You said, cocking an eyebrow. “Must be desperate.”

Price laughed deeply at your reply, shaking his head.

“Desperate or not, I've seen some pretty fucked up shit. If I can find someone... people, to care about and keep me grounded, its worth pursing.”

You shifted in your seat, tilting your head to the side as you eyed Price over.

“Pursing, eh? You make me sound like a military operation or objective to complete.”

Price smiled, “Operation: One pint at a time.” He joked.

Price took a drink from his glass, wetting his beard with droplets and foam. You hated to admit it – even if it was only to yourself – but it was a rather adorable sight from such a rugged, gruff man.

“Interesting strategy.” You were trying to keep your voice relaxed and composed, not wanting to give away your amusement and piqued interest. “Hope you have reinforcements.”

Price lets out a playful scoff, waving an arm dismissively. “I don't need any damn reinforcements. I'm an expert at covert infiltration's.” He asserts.

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The night was chilly, the kind that made your breath into wisps of fog in the night air. It chilled you to the bone as you stood outside sucking on a cigarette. Price had declined a cigarette from you when he realized he had left his cigars at home, but stood with you for company.

Price, ever the tenacious man, decided to push the boundaries a little further this night. He moved in closer to you and draped an arm over your shoulder, a gesture that seemed meant to comfort and protect.

You did nothing; admittedly shocked by the sudden token of kindness. Your muscles twitched and tensed, and you still had the urge to run like a bat out of hell, but there was a part of you that simply enjoyed the feeling of his arm around you. You eventually relaxed.

“You know, leaning on someone doesn't make you weak.” Price remarked.

Ignoring what he was trying to say, you smirked and inhaled more nicotine. “Sounds like an excuse to lean on me.” You shake your head mockingly, exhaling smoke.

Price let out an exaggerated sigh. “I'm just saying it takes strength to let people in. Its not healthy for people to bottle it all up.” he continued, ignoring your commentary.

“Taking a lot of strength to hold you up right now.” You enjoyed this banter more than your face let on. You loved it. You hated it. But most importantly... that damn itch was slowly disappearing.

“I'm not used to leaning on anyone.” You confessed. Your eyes stared straight ahead as you spoke. “I don't lean on people.” You dropped the cigarette butt and stomped it out.

Why were you telling him this?

There was something in Price's eyes; an understanding.

He cleared his throat and leaned in a bit.

“Maybe it's time to let people in. Lean on someone.” Somehow you know those weren't the words Price had wanted to say.

His grip on your shoulder tightened ever so slightly.

Despite your best efforts to stop yourself, you still ended up leaning into him.

“Walk you home.” Price said.

Not a question.

You nodded.

“Just don't expect me to invite you in for a coffee.” You replied with a weak smile.

“Understood.” Price nodded.

Price's arm remained wrapped around you as you took the lead and started towards home.

Your heart raced, and your mind was yelling at you to stop. He would leave too, just like the rest did. You were better on your own. You didn't need anyone.

But you wanted someone.

You wanted Price. You wanted him to be different than the rest.

[my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction]

Sleep Tight

Jake Lockley X F!Reader Rating: PG  Masterlist | ao3 | want to be tagged?

Steven's Part Marc's Part

A/N: For @loonymagizoologist's ask! I'm sorry this has taken... 293 years... Marc's one is coming!  I headcanon that Jake speaks Ladino as well as Spanish.

Summary: Jake has a nightmare. You try to help.

Warnings: Nightmares. Typos (oh god, why are there always typos?) Please let me know if I've missed a warning!

Word Count: 687

Taglist: @pleasurebuttonwrites @jake-g-lockley @raven-rk @Campingwiththecharmings @alexxavicry @mystinky-butt @cocodiem @oscarisaacsspit @welcometostayingawake @mbakubabe @solobagginses

_________________________________________

You woke, groggy and pulled from sleep by a faint noise. It took you a moment to work out where you were, your bed, and decipher the sound - Jake. 

It was dark. Early morning. 

Jake’s breathing was uneven, laboured, the smallest sound of discomfort between his lips, punctuating little whispers of words.

It took you a moment longer to realise he was still asleep. 

His speech made no sense, some of it garbled, others fragments of sentences in English, Spanish, and Ladino. 

The few words you could make out made your stomach twist. ‘No’, and ‘stop’, and ‘help’. 

You moved closer to him, turning to face him fully as you sat up and gently put your hand on his shoulder. 

He was warm to your touch, sweating and shaking. 

“Jake.”

His whimpering continued.

Now that your eyes had adjusted to the faint light you could see the frown on his face, how his eyebrows were pinched together.

“Jake.” You shook his shoulder ever so slightly, speaking louder this time. 

He didn’t stir. 

You swallowed and bit your lip. “Jake.” 

He flinched like he had been hit. But still did not wake. “Por favor… don’t… hurt…” the rest of the sentence was lost in another shuddered intake of breath. 

Panic started to twist in your stomach, the idea of him being under some curse, of him never being able to wake up started to take root in the back of your head. 

You shook his shoulder again. “Marc? Steven?” Hoping that the others could hear you and wake him themselves. 

But Jake flinched again. “No… hacerles daño… leave th… alone…”

You leaned close and cupped his face with your hands. So carefully, as if he were some small thing that would break between your fingers, you began to run your thumbs over his skin. Gentle circles along his cheeks before trailing upwards and tracing his eyebrows. 

You pressed lightly on his forehead, trying to massage the tension away. 

His breathing hitched, becoming a sigh. 

“Jake.” You pressed a kiss to his temple, your voice soft. “It’s time to wake up now.” 

He didn’t jolt awake, but it was sudden nonetheless. Asleep one second and not the next. He grabbed hold of your right arm instinctively, his fingers digging into your bicep, his stomach muscles clenching. 

You braced yourself, expecting him to roll you over and pin you down. A move you often practised while sparing. Sure that he would still be so caught up in the nightmare he would think he was in danger. 

Instead your name fell from his lips, panicked and small, before his eyes opened. 

“You were having a bad dream.” You gave him a weak smile, instinctively continuing to trace his features with your fingers. 

He stared up at you for a second before he nodded, closing his eyes and swallowing hard. There were tears at the edges of his long lashes. 

“Yeah.” 

There was a moment before you spoke again. “Are you okay?”

Jake shook his head, keeping his eyes closed. 

“That’s okay.” You press another kiss to his forehead. 

As you started to move back Jake’s grip on your arm tightened. “Stay.” He swallowed, his eyes still closed. “Please.”

“Of course.” You kissed his nose, and massaged his temples as he slowly wrapped both arms around you, urging you closer. His movements were sluggish, heavy, sleep trying its best to pull him back. 

You shifted a little, trying to move your legs from their awkward angle. 

Jake let out the smallest sound of distress that cut deep into your heart. 

“I’m staying,” you whispered, moving slowly, “I’m here.” 

He clung to you as you moved, hugging you against his chest until you ended up laying on top of him, like his own personal weighted blanket. 

His rapid heartbeat echoed through to your chest. Though it was slowing now, gradually becoming something closer to normal. 

“Are you comfortable?” You said quietly.

Jake hummed, his breathing peaceful but his arms still firmly holding you. 

“Good.” You kissed his jaw and settled your head on the pillow next to him, your body still on top of him. Grounding him with your weight. “Sleep tight.”

[nymphoheretic]

Synopsis: Kyoujuro likes seeing his wife in his merch and only his merch.

Warning: Actor Au, fem!reader, edging, fingering, mirror sex (implied), biting, daddy kink

Word Count: 1.7K

Pairing: Kyoujuro Rengoku x Fem!reader

Tagging the rengoku girlies(gn): @bakugosbratx @renhoeku @glz-100 @herohibiscus @potofstewie @comatosebunny09 @cherryblossomsenpai @linpunny @unknownspecies @yeahitzally @taisho-era-secrets @auraee @diorsbrando @kyojuro-my-wuv @wanderingfaee and the network @tokyometronetwork

Join the Rengoku girlies: https://forms.gle/YGTATcvxh2oAUc3o9

You sat on the couch, watching your husband’s latest movie. He had warned you that he would be dying in this film, but it did nothing to prepare you for how brutal his death scene was. You screamed at the TV as the demon punched a hole through your soulmate’s stomach. 

Tears swelled in your eyes as I watched his students cry for him as he gave his final speech. Your tears fell down your face as you watched the sweet, happy smile spread over his face as he saw the ghost of his mother telling him how she was proud of him.

The need to turn the movie off before you were forced to witness Kyoujuro’s final breath hit you hard, but you  needed to finish the movie. You  were crying along with the other actors as yor beloved slowly lowered his head as he took in his last dying breath, blood pooling around him from the large wound in his stomach. 

You hugged your Kyou plushies closer to your chest as you  continued watching each of the other hashira’s reaction to hearing about Kyoujuro’s death. By the time the ending credits were playing, you were sobbing and holding onto your plushie for dear life. 

Pushing your Kyoujuro blanket down off yourlap, you wrapped his hashira cape closer around your naked body. You had asked the production team if you could keep the haori as a memento of his best selling movie and thankfully they agreed. You loved wearing the cloak around the house so much. It drove Kyoujuro insane when you would wear it.

Walking into the kitchen, you grabbed some fruit to snack on while you waited for Kyoujro to come home from a recent shoot. Season two of the show he was a part of was airing soon and by popular demand, he was getting a special original episode and a televised premiere of his movie with extra scenes.

Checking the clock, you saw that it was nearly ten at night. Kyoujuro should be home soon. You  left the kitchen to go to our bedroom to put some clothing on. You did not need him trying to pounce on you while wearing your  prized haori.

You put on one of his hoodies that looked like his demon slayer outfit from the movie. What could you say? You would forever support your husband by buying every little bit of merch that comes out of him.  You loved to support his career. You had a whole room dedicated to all his figures and posters.

A smile tilted at your face as you heard the front door to the house open and Kyoujuro tiredly announced that he was home. You stepped out of the bedroom to go greet him happily. Wrapping your arms around his neck and kissing him soundly on the lips.

 “My hero is home.” you said, your voice a happy chirp as you referred to one of the movies you acted together in and he was your savior. It was how the two of you actually met.

Kyoujuro chuckled as he tiredly returned your kiss, wrapping his arms around your waist and hugging you gently. He missed his wife so much. Shooting all those new scenes for the upcoming show was tiresome.

 And having to refilm his death scene left a bitter taste in his mouth. He was happy that his fans wanted to see more of him, but having that fake arm shoved through his stomach for the second time was uncomfortable and the actor who played Akaza messed up the shoot three times this time when he had gotten it perfect the first time.

He arched a brow when he pulled away and took notice of your current attire. “Love, why are you wearing that?” He asked, feeling his cock stir the longer he looked at you wearing his merch. You knew what it does to him seeing you covered in his items. Especially when they draped down your body and made you seem even smaller in his eyes.

You pulled at the neck of the hoodie before giving him an innocent smile. “It's just some of your merch. I was watching the Mugen Train before you came.” you smiled up at him and you backed up so he could see your full attire. You gave him a little spin, the hood of the jacket flaring out some with the movement. “Aren’t I cute?”

“Baby girl...” he said, softly under his breath, his head lowered. While he knew that you had to have cried while watching that movie. You always did this. Make herself cry while watching his movies. 

He knew that his one in particular would make you cry hard because his character had just been introduced in the show only to be killed off in a movie. “Why do you do this to yourself?” He asked, grabbing your arm and pulling you to his chest.

“Hmm?” You hummed as you sunk into his warm enbrace. “I'm just a masochist and I think the demon is hot.” you giggled when he suddenly started to tickle me. “Kyoujuro!” you squealed as his fingers assaulted your sides. 

You tried to wriggle away, but he would not let you, his strong arms holding you in place. “I’m sorry!” you said through laughing so hard, tears were coming down your face. “I was kidding! I only looked at you the whole movie, I swear!”

Kyoujuro hummed as he continued to tickle his wife. “Good girl.” He praised, but didn’t stop his seeking fingers as that danced along your sides, producing more of your melodious laughter. He truly missed you these past few weeks while he was stuck on set with the crew filming these episodes. 

So, he was going to enjoy as much time with you as he could. “My little fireball.” He purred as he finally stopped his attack and pressed you closer to his body, his hands smoothing over the fabric of the hoodie you wore.

You wapped your arms around his neck, leaning in to kiss him softly. “I’m not wearing anything under this hoodie.” you whispered in his ear. “I was sitting on the couch, your hashira cloak draped over my shoulders, with your blanket over my legs.” 

You described everything you did while he was on screen; how you touched your body – eyes closed as you listened to the sound of his voice. “Do you know how hard I ache for you when we have different sets to go to and when you have to stay late for reshoots.” you took his hand and guided it to your legs and under the hoodie where your aching and dripping cunt was. “This much.”

His eyebrow arched when his fingertips were almost instantly drenched in your slick when he touched your throbbing pussy. “You ache that badly, wife?”  He spun you around so that you were facing the large mirror the two of you had over the couch. Pulling the hoodie up to expose your naked body, he had you hold the end of it between your teeth. “Then watch me as I fuck you tonight, my darling.”

You let out a small whimper at Kyoujuro’s lewd words as his fingers dipped inside your clenching hole. His other hand grabbed your thigh, lifting your leg to spread them apart so that you could see his thick fingers slipping in and out. You leaned your head back against his shoulder as the lewd sounds of his pleasuring you filling the living room.

His lips slid over to your ear as his deep voice rumbled yor spine as he told you to keep watch on the mirror. You  had not even noticed that your eyes had closed, lost in the feelings he was stiring within you.

“Keep those pretty eyes open for me and watch as my fingers disappear within you, baby.” He sped up the thrust of his digits, plunging them in and out, the squelching noises increasing. He could tell that you were close and smiled into your neck as he immediately slowed the pace until he was shallowly touching you with the tips of his fingers, softly circling your clit. A chuckle left Kyoujuro at your whine and he bit down on your exposed neck. “Watch me then, pretty girl.”

You opened your eyes and looked at your reflection in the mirror, your face heating with embarrassment from the lewd, erotic sight.Your leg held up in the crook of his elbow while his other hand covered your pussy as his fingers thrust in and out at a leisurely pace.

 “Kyou...” you pleaded, your voice a keening whine as you reached behind you to wrap your arm around his neck. “I'm watching, please?” you could feel the piece of the hoodie that was clenched in yor teeth grow damp from my saliva.

Kyoujuro glanced down at his wife, your body trembling in his hold as he pressed his hips against yours. “Such a pretty thing when you beg.” He turned his head and pressed his lips against your forehead, kissing it softly. The sweet act betreaying the movement of his fingers as he fucked you on them. 

“You’re so tight and wet, my love. Just look at how your pussy is devouring my fingers. Like it can’t get enough.” His eyes never left your face as he watched you witness yourself come undone by his fingers alone. “That’s right, my beautiful wife. Cum. Cum all over daddy’s fingers.”

You bit down harder on the fabric in your mouth, probably tearing a hole in it in the process. Your body shook violently as Kyoujuro thumbed at your clit to speed up your orgasm. You felt lightheaded as you  creamed on his fingers, your walls fluttering; clenching and unclenching tightly. “So good, daddy.” your voice was still muffled by the cloth as saliva dripped out of the corners of your mouth as tears of pleasure burned at your eyes.

 You were slightly surprised when he suddenly yanked the hoodie off of your body, spinning you back around, picking you up so that my legs were wrapped around his waist, and his lips on mine.

Kyoujuro hungrily kissed his wife. He needed you so badly, but something was missing. Setting you back down on your feet, he motioned with his head to the bedroom. “Go put on my Hashira haori.”

At your confused look, he smiled. “I want to fuck you while you’re wearing my merch and what better than my one of a kind haori?” Kyoujuro gave you a light spank as he guided you in the direction of your shared room, where he knew that’s where you stored the cloak.

©️2022-23 nymphoheretic - I do not give permission to copy, edit, alter, or distribute my work. Do not adverse on tiktok. Do not repost on any other platform.

[monstersdownthepath]

Monster Spotlight: Liminal Sprite

CR 2

Chaotic Neutral Tiny Fey

Bestiary 5, pg. 158

These little ladies are afflicted by an absolutely bizarre curse, one which prevents them from ever sleeping inside a building or outside in the open. Thus, as their name suggests, the Liminal Sprites must find transitory places that are neither inside nor outside if they wish to actually rest, but there is also a loophole that allows Liminal Sprites to sleep anywhere that's both inside and outside. Thus, these moths are drawn to civilization, as human construction has created marvels such as porches, bridges,, stairwells, gazebos, vehicles of every description, and hallways which connect two buildings together. Liminal Sprites which end up trapped out in the wilderness must find hollow trees, caves, or even animal dens before they succumb to exhaustion.

Why they possess this strange and paradoxical curse is anyone's guess, as who or whatever placed it upon them is either long gone or no longer known. It may be, as most fey curses, a form of punishment that afflicts their entire bloodline, and whether or not they deserve it is determined entirely by whether or not you've been targeted by their pranks. Liminal Sprites are among the Fey breeds who love, love, love interacting with/pestering mortalkind for their own amusement, taking in all the local news and gossip from their hiding places or shrouding themselves with their 3/day Invisibility while using their extremely swift 60ft fly speed to flutter around busy markets, theaters, and other places of congregation so they may passively absorb whatever's going on in their city. They become sponges for the who's-who in the city, the He's and She's of the he-said-she-said games, though how they use this information is entirely up to them.

Unlike their fellow social butterflies (pun intended), the Danthienne, Liminal Sprites aren't compelled to stir up trouble for the sake of it. Some lean towards Good, using their powers to cause fouler sorts of people to make fools of themselves, while others lean towards Evil and humiliate anyone trying to make their lives better. Most, however, flip flop back and forth depending entirely on whether or not they like a given individual and can be a boon or a bane. A Liminal Sprite wishing to ruin someone's speech can use Fumbletongue 3/day to turn their next 1d4 rounds of words into meaningless babble, or use their at-will Daze to make someone freeze up entirely as though claimed by stage fright.

To anyone they wish to help, Liminal Sprites may use Memory Lapse 3/day to erase a mistake from the mind of an onlooker, or use their at-will Prestidigitation to make their lives a little bit better overall, but more importantly they may sit on the shoulder of their new friend and offer kind advice. Their witty Repartee allows them to take the Aid Another action with Charisma-based skill checks and add +2d4 to the result instead of the normal +2 up to three times a day, meaning the target can get anywhere from +2 to +8 in their attempts to beguile, bluff, or boast past another... or +2d4 to Performance and Use Magic Device checks.

Liminal Sprites are performers themselves, and take little seriously. This, they're able to use Versatile Performance to substitute Bluff and Intimidate checks with Perform (Comedy), which they have +8 to, because c'maaaahn, c'mahn, they're just little guys! they're so little! AND it's their birthday! you're not gonna hit a little guy on his birthday, are ya? But you can't let that routine work on you, or they'll go right back to scrambling your speech and mucking up your memory. Fittingly enough, the book states people wanting a Sprite gone often turn loose animals that their performance won't work against and their magic won't affect, because a trained dog can sniff them out even after they've turned invisible. A dog might have a hard time surpassing the Sprite's DR 5/cold iron, but being chewed on and thrashed about by an animal still hurts even if it doesn't do any damage to the little Fey, so it's still a surefire way to make the Sprite abandon its home in your porch.

No, they're not really a danger to your dog, either. The only damage a Sprite has is its tiny rapier, which deals 1d3-1 damage, so it's only a real hazard if it leads your pooch somewhere dangerous, or if it uses Prestidigitation to skunk-spray the dog. Really, the best part about it is that it condemns the Sprite to madness if it can't find somewhere else to sleep fast enough. A more kind-hearted soul can easily make a Liminal Sprite kind as well, leaving offerings of food and keeping the Fey company each night out on their porch, and a caster of 7th level or higher who's willing to work around their unfortunate resting restrictions can even take one on as a Familiar! Fun fact: Extradimensional spaces fit nicely into the Sprite's curse loophole... Just make sure enough air gets in.

Or, y'know, you could just let them use your tent like a normal person. Not as funny, though.

You can read more about them here.

[toxicanonymity]

Toxic: this is from 🎃 anon who kindly asked about writing something for me. this is amazing and it starts after cucking stepdad with another Joel so read that first. so many references 😭 💗

Anonymous asked:

Halloween here! Here's my lil fic just for you. I had fun rereading both Joels' fics and tossing in some inside jokes and hopefully captured their mannerisms and speech (dialogue is hard for me). Thank youuuuu!:) (also ur the genius not me lol). SDJ=Stepdad Joel

Joelkemon Universe What If?

(what if you met up with Thighs after your latest cucking fun) BY HALLOWEEN ANON

1.5k, thighs out!Joel x f!reader, cuck!SDJ

After the three of you come off your high, SDJ shuffles into the pool’s bathroom/locker room to clean up. He doesn’t come out for a while, and you and Thighs Out swim around a little and you chat and flirt together. You find out he's staying at the resort for two weeks partly on vacation and partly for work. He's a sports agent for a very famous golfer who now in old age is more famous for their spokesperson work for the resort and makes surprise appearances in the course for golf fans.

You both agree to meet for dinner that evening at the nicest restaurant on the water. “If you need anything in the meantime, sugar,” he brushes his thumb against your lip and you sigh. He looks up past your shoulder and his eyebrows go up. “Just give me a call.” He kisses your hand and nods his head, calling over your shoulder “Take care buddy!” to SDJ who just came back from the locker room and has a permascowl across his face. He looks between the two of you and shakes his head. “For god’s sake”, he mutters under his breath and huffs off while you lay on one of the chairs, soaking up the sun with your book. 

You tell your mom and SDJ you have dinner plans with someone and your mom says something like “good for you girl!’ but SDJ's jaw drops and he blurts out a short "No!" and then covers his mouth. Your mom laughs and smacks him in the chest. "Oh c'mon hon she's an adult. Don't be such a square.” You hear them leave while you're in your room getting ready.  

You change into a snug, lacy swimsuit coverup that could pass for a dress. You put on a new, skimpier swimsuit underneath and some strappy, tall sandals. Thighs sends you the name of the restaurant and you send him a mirror selfie from the bathroom. “Damn, sugar 💦 Don’t keep Daddy waiting 🦪” You mentally agree to yourself to send him at least three nude selfie that night during dinner. 

At the restaurant Thighs treats you to drinks and the best meal you’ve had the whole vacation. He asks about SDJ’s deal and you tell him the abridged version of your history. 

“Yeah, he sounds like a-” 

“Jackass, I know” you sigh. 

“I was gonna to say a dumbass prude, but that works too." He leans back and takes a drag of his vape (🍃) and blows it out to sea. "No way I could stop myself if you were under my roof. Hell, no way I'd wanna.” He licks his lips. This stirs something in you and you feel your core pulse under your dampening bikini bottoms. He passes you the pen and you take a huge hit.

“So, do you want to fuck him? No judgement if you do.” He puts his hands up defensively. You hesitate and he laughs.

“Alright..do you want to fuck with him?" You decide he's onto something and you both start plotting.

You move to the bar of the restaurant after dinner and the sun has almost set. You send SDJ a snapchat pic of you holding your near empty margarita glass in front of the sunset. He opens it but immediately notices a glint of light on your chest: it's a very familiar looking gold chain. He immediately messages you to Take That Off and Who Took That Picture. You ignore him and ten minutes later he sends you a link to a stunning and extremely expensive Zeels diamond necklace and message that just says "please" and “im sry”. Maybe we're being too hard on him you tell Thighs. “You could be harder on me,” Thighs pouts jokingly. “You know I’d be happy to return the favor.” You smile and tell him to close his eyes. His eyebrows shoot up and he grins, eyes closed. “Okay, you can open them.” There’s something soft and hot pink sitting on the small bread plate he didn’t use from dinner. Thighs out drops his jaw, for once since you met him, he is speechless.

You text SDJ a thumbs up emoji and a selfie of yourself without the chain. You're leaning over, giving him a decent view of your tits that he came to not four hours earlier. 

SDJ tries to video chat you and you decline the call. He calls you and you pick up, "What is it now?". "Just missin' you s'all." SDJ slurs drunkenly. Your mom made friends with a bachelorette party so I'm in the room…alone…" He sounded more pitiful and sultry. "Look" you say, cringing at how pathetic he sounds. "The only way I'll even think about giving you another chance is that you prove to me you're sorry. For being such an overprotective, prudish, selfish, cheating asshole." 

There's a long pause. "So you don't want to fuck me?" he whimpers. 

"I didn't say that" you say bluntly. He hears a loud laugh and woo that's my girl on your end of the phone. “Just wait for my text, ok?” you say. “‘Kay baby. Love-”. You hang up.

You send SDJ one last picture, this time over text, you’re in your coverup looking out over the bar's balcony at the beach. He replies with a picture of his bulge nudging his veiny hand while laying on the couch and a heart emoji next to his head.

Thighs and you head to the beach with two pool chairs after dinner. It's late enough in the evening that there are only a few people left straggling by the water. The beach bar is far but close enough that someone could see you two if they were really looking for something filthy. 

You really do feel sorry for SDJ. And you really do miss teasing him and sneaking around. But if you two are going to fuck again, he has to prove he was in the wrong. And if that ends up blowing up in your face you can at least blackmail him. It’s a win-win for you either way.

You lay on the chair as the evening cools down your skin. Thighs holds your phone with one hand and with his other peels your coverup off and unties your bikini. He kneads your breasts, continuing to point your phone at your tits and face. "Are we filming?" you purr at him. "Hell yeah, baby. And you look like a fuckin' star." You blush and he chuckles, rubbing his inner thighs off camera where his swim shorts end. You flop back in the chair and he grinds his shorts and his growing dick outline into your core. A little bit of trimmed pubic hair peeks out from the tent in his shorts standing almost at full attention. That show is just for you however. He keeps your phone's camera pointed at your jiggling breasts and face screwed up in ecstasy. "Say stop," Thighs growls as he grips the fleshiest part of your hip and thrusts his covered erection into your dripping seam. "M-more!" you loudly beg and arch your back. A few silhouettes at the bar look in your direction. This only makes your nipples harder and you grind quick little circles into his crotch, aching for some friction. "Be patient, baby. You can do it. Tell your Stepdad your offer." he smacks your bottom playfully as he continues to record. You blush and turn away from the lens, biting your lip and say, "I will forgive you, if you do something for me." You look into the camera lens. 

"There's room service and a box being delivered to your new room, you can thank him [Thighs Out] for covering the cost, in about an hour.” you say. “Open the box and text me if you're game or not. Talk soon!" you wink and the video ends. You send it to SDJ and he texts back "Anything for you. I'll pick up the key now." 

Thighs Out kisses down your neck and sucks your nipple while manhandling your ass so much it starts to feel sore. "Wanna come to my suite, sugar? That is if I can take my hands off this sexy fuckin' ass of yours." He jiggles it while playing with your bikini straps and slowly ties them back up. You nod your head yes and pull on your coverup. You both walk back to the main road in the resort and take a shuttle bus to the expensive side of the resort. You find yourself back in his room, legs splayed and laying on your tummy completely bare. You wiggle against the soft white comforter, Thighs already rubbing your ass and murmuring in your ear. "Do you want to wait for him before we record?" You shake your head and say, "I'll still want to even if he doesn't."

"God I love your energy, baby." Thighs presses a hard kiss into you and carnally licks your mouth. He breaks it off to grab his phone and opens the camera app. 

"Let's get started, baby girl. Let Daddy teach you what a real cock can do."

-------

Toxic: Ok the "woo that's my girl" took me out 😭 like ik it's my line but the context is so perfect and you can just imagine stepdad hearing it on the other end of the line. 😭 Also I 100% imagine thighs out being no-judgment, very in character.

Thank you, 🎃 anon 🖤

--------

[bizaar]

enjolras x fem!reader

warnings: 18+ only - piv smut, oral (f receiving) handjob (m receiving) - general talks and mentions of sex/smut, lovemaking, breeding kink if you squint - mentions of concubines and usage of the word "whore" (reader is a sex worker so proceed with caution), general tooth rotting fluffiness, forbidden love is my bread and butter

word count: 8k (I'm so sorry I'm incapable of writing anything short)

a.n.: This is my first smut so go easy on me :D also, apologies if I didn't do Enjolras justice, I watched clips from BBC Les Mis on Youtube for days and got sort of generally stuck on how to write him talking about anything besides the revolution when ALL he talks about is the revolution - PLEASE BEAR IN MIND THAT READER IS A SEX WORKER so don't come for me tumblr prudes I don't want to hear it.

A chorus of high voices calling your name summons you to the top of the stairs, and it’s there you find him, idling in the foyer below — Enjolras.

Just to see him kicks up a storm of giddiness swirling in the pit of your stomach and you have to resist the urge to say something smart about finding himself in a brothel so late in the evening, just to defuse the tension.

He wouldn’t like that.

Be sweet, Mon Cher, he’d implored you recently in the midst of an intimate moment— stroking your face and breathing hard against your mouth, your legs wrapped around his canting hips, holding him to press tight against your core as he slipped in and out of you at an agonizing pace.

That had been six nights ago — Six nights too many, you think as you pinch your thighs together and feel the first stirrings of arousal in your belly.

Now, the other girls stand around him in a throng of giggling fillies, touching and flirting — the teasing only amplifies when they see you standing there, not so subtly gripping the banister.

“Your man is here —” One of them sings, her voice dripping with a condescending edge as she braces her hands on the flare of her hips and leans into him, very pointedly presenting her ample bosom, spilling out from the top of her stays.

To his credit, Enjolras pays her no mind, he is far too busy gazing up at you with all the reverence of a man set to worship.

Still, the gesture brings a hot flash of jealousy to your cheeks and you scowl at her as you begin your quick descent of the rickety steps. They creak under your weight, despite the way your stockinged feet make no noise against the brushed wood — your worn dressing gown trails behind you like the train of a fine dress.

Enjolras watches you approach, a gentle smile spread over his handsome features that you pretend not to see as you hit the last step and reach for his hand.

He gives it to you.

“Haven’t you all got better things to do than stand around gawking?” You hiss at the silly creatures, pulling to lead Enjolras back up the flight.

“Better things, for sure,” someone muses, “But no better men.”

They kick up with a chorus of raucous laughter and you tighten your grip on his thick fingers like you’re half afraid they’re going to steal him from your grasp if you aren’t quick to get him up the stairs.

The girls all call their teasing, singsong goodbyes to Enjolras as you mount the steps and disappear into the belly of the brothel.

You quietly thank God that the Madam is not home. She would not stand for such idle foolishness, nor would she stand to see you whisking Enjolras off to your room. The girls are all enamored with his soft eyes, kind speech, and good looks — the Madam only cares whether or not he can pay for your company on his meager salary. More often than not you do not even bother charging him, as his company is payment enough — much to the Madam’s chagrin.

How she does like to tell you that time given away is time wasted, and the Madam does not stand for that kind of frivolity.

Your room is at the far end of a long hall of open doors. To peek through you might have seen the other courtesans busy with their own individual fancies between suitors — playing at cards, drinking wine, gossiping — that is if they had not all gathered down in the foyer to fawn over the handsome guest in their midst.

It is strangely quiet for this time of night, though you expect that is likely to change soon enough.

The hard thumps of Enjolras’s footsteps as he follows wordlessly behind you beat in tandem with your heart, and you silently wish to be anywhere but here, where this didn’t have to feel so mercantile, where intimacy could live and breathe without the ever-present guillotine of payment hanging over your heads. You wish it were enough to be lovers and not just a favored whore.

You know he would reject that thinking, despite how true it is.

How many times has he told you he loves you? How many times have you rejected that affection on principle?

You cannot afford to love him while you are so deeply indebted to the Madam… and yet…

Through the door you go, startling the two young girls who have taken refuge in your room. They sit crowded at the vanity, their faces done up in powder and rouge, one wrapped in your fine silk shawl as if they’d been playing at dress up.

Their wide eyes flit back and forth between you and the man you have in tow with a patent unease, like they have been caught red-handed at something.

“Marie, Clotilde, get out.” You say sharply, addressing the girls by name.

They remain staring at you, at Enjolras. Everyone knows about him, the revolutionary — your little pet — you imagine they have heard as much talk of him as anyone else in this house.

They are younger than the others and thankfully have not been set to working just yet. As such they are comparatively harmless, but you are no less inclined to let them share in what little time you have with Enjolras.

He is yours and you intend to have him before the Madam returns.

You clap your hands sharply, snapping the girls to attention and pointing to the door.

“Alons-y! Go!”

They scramble to collect their things and get to their feet before scurrying past you, heads dipped sheepishly as they go through the door.

“Is that him?” You hear Clotilde whisper before shutting the door.

Somewhere behind you, Enjolras sighs.

“They are much too young for this life.” He says, his voice a low timbre that sends shivers through your body.

“No younger than I was when it found me.” You mumble bitterly. “Paris is a cruel city for girls with no means…”

The stillness that falls over the room is but a calm before the storm — you survey the mess, discarded stays, skirts, boots, and petticoats, your delicate shawl lies pooled at the foot of the bed where it was hastily discarded.

You heave a sigh and cross the room to retrieve your most precious trinket from the floor.

“How was your meeting?” You ask idly, desperate to cut the tension over the bleakness of life in the underbelly of Paris.

Enjolras likes conversation, particularly with you — he likes to pretend this is anything but the transactional exchange it really is, so as not to cheapen his feelings for you — your feelings for him.

“It went well, I think.” He says, “There were more people there tonight than I’ve seen before—"

You hum thoughtfully as you uncork a bottle of wine and pour yourself a glass.

You watch, half mesmerized by the swirling dark liquid, and feel the heat of his gaze on your back as he continues.

“People are coming from all over Paris. It feels as though they’re finally ready to stand up for something.”

“For the revolution you mean?” You ask, sipping the wine.

Your tone is decidedly more condescending than you’d intended and Enjolras doesn’t answer. You half expect him to admonish you for mocking his cause, but he remains quiet.

Behind you, you hear the telltale click of the door lock sliding into place and feel butterflies stir in the pit of your stomach — the Madam does not abide a locked door in her house, but you cannot presently bring yourself to care.

His silence would be enough to unnerve you were you not so entirely certain of his gentle nature, his kindness, his affection for you.

When you turn to look at him, you find that he has crossed the room to stand behind you, his body blocking your view. His hands come up to trail feather-light touches up the length of your arms. You feel his breath fanning the back of your neck.

“I missed you tonight.” He murmurs.

You breathe an easy laughter through your nose and shiver under his touch. He takes the glass from your hand and drains it in one gulp — it clinks softly as he sets it down on the dressing table before you.

His arms come up to snake around you and pull you close, the rumble of his contented sigh vibrating through your body.

“How can you miss me when you have your good lady Madam Révolution to keep you warm?” You tease, leaning back into his touch.

“I always miss you when you’re not there.” He says ever so softly, dipping to press a gentle kiss to the junction between your neck and shoulder. “You could come with me, you know. To the meetings?”

“I’ve been to your meetings.” You remind him, turning your head to rest against his shoulder, tipping back into the crook of his neck as his free hand moves to splay out across your belly.

Thick fingers press you back to lay flush against his body and you smirk as you feel the faintest impression of his cock stirring there.

You rock your hips back tentatively against him.

“They weren’t for me.”

“The meetings…” he insists, brushing his plush lips across the highest point of your cheekbone, your temple, your hairline, “…Are for anyone who yearns for liberation.”

You mean to roll your eyes, but arousal has beat you to the motion as the hand on your stomach slips down to cup you between your legs. Thick, calloused fingers draw a slow line over the clothed seam of your pussy and your eyes roll back in their sockets at the sensation it elicits, lips parting ever so slightly on a breathy moan.

You certainly do yearn, though not presently for liberation.

You had meant what you said, though — you aren't expressly unwelcome at the meetings, but nothing deters the good citizens of Paris from turning their noses up at the presence of a common whore in their midst.

You’d met Enjolras at one of his citizen’s meetings, and spent the duration of it being sneered at by the upstanding proletariat in attendance. You hardly cared. You’d been there to work, not to be inspired, but then you’d caught Enjolras’s gaze and found yourself struck, and like a bolt of lightning, you forgot all other men but the brooding revolutionary with the dark eyes.

He was similarly affected by you.

You don’t believe in such fanciful things as love at first sight, and yet you’d spent the evening circling one another, stealing glances and shy smiles before you’d shocked yourself by sitting and listening to him give speeches about liberty and equality among the people.

You would not consider yourself a patriot by any stretch of the word, and as such you didn’t retain a thing Enjolras said that night, only the way he’d said it, and how he'd spent half as much time undressing you with his eyes as he did rabble-rousing.

You thought he was marvelous, and that was dangerous for someone like you.

In some small hope of retaining what shred of good sense you had left, you quietly took your leave before the cheering and songs were finished, as if somehow you knew you were going to fall in love with him if you gave him the chance.

He, in turn, had stolen away from the budding revolution to follow you nearly halfway across Paris, just to ask your name.

It was a gesture romantic enough to make your knees tremble.

For all his serious talk of liberation and freedoms, you were surprised at his secret romantic inclinations — though, of course, you suppose all revolutionaries are romantics at heart.

It takes a great passion to care enough about the plight of the lesser man to want to change things, after all.

Enjolras had asked to walk along the Seine with you and watch the sunrise, and you’d told him he couldn’t afford to buy that much of your time, hoping that knowledge of your profession might deter his pursuit of your affections.

It did not and, against your better judgment, you’d let him kiss you as the sun rose over the river.

He has held your heart ever since and you have not known a day of peace for it.

Nevermind your profession, there is no room for love in the midst of a revolution — to make one life more precious than the lives of the masses is antithetical to everything Enjolras proselytizes … and yet…

His eyes are dark, satin pools, pupils blown wide with desire, staring through you to the depths of your soul. You could come apart under those eyes, even without the help of his fingers, probing experimentally at the growing slick between your legs.

Enjolras kisses you then, a soft, languid slanting of lips that breathes warmth into you all the way to your core. He holds you tight as you turn over in his hands, twisting until you are facing him, only parting so that he can lift the thin cotton shift you wear over your head and cast it aside, leaving you bare but for your stockings.

He takes your face in his hands and catches your mouth hungrily, coaxing you to open up for him just a little more with a heady swipe of his tongue. You make quick work of unwinding his dark crimson cravat to reveal the hard lines of his neck and fumble with the buttons of his waistcoat, desperate to undress him despite how he has not yet even shed his coat.

You breathe hard into the heat of his mouth as big hands roam the length of your body like Enjolras cannot decide where it is he would like most to touch you — the supple swell of your breasts or the soft dip of your waist.

He settles finally on the gentle curve of your rear, cupping you there and lifting you easily so you might wrap your legs around him. It is only as you settle in his strong arms that you finally feel the full press of his hard length digging into your hip, making his trousers all too tight.

You shudder against him and breathe his name, gripping needily at his neck and shoulders as his mouth moves down to leave searing crescent moon shapes over your jaw and the tender columns of your throat. It’s been no less than a week since you’d last been under his bruising touch, but it may as well have been a lifetime for how you yearn for him.

“Enjolras…” you whine.

“Hmm?”

“Make love to me,”

You feel the curve of his broad smile against your flesh and the rumble of gentle laughter in his chest, and you are nearly undone by the warmth swelling beneath your ribs as you are filled to the brim with emotion.

“As you wish, Mon Cher.”

It is only a few minutes more of fumbling, reverent touches and searing kisses before you’ve discarded the last of his clothing and he has you laid out on the bed.

He relieves you of your stockings one at a time, slowly peeling the thin material down your legs, kissing the soft mailable flesh of your thighs as he comes down to settle between your spread legs. You gasp when you feel the scrape of teeth on your inner thigh and push up on your elbows to watch as he settles there.

Searing breath fans your slick folds, a startling contrast to the chill that sends a shiver through your body as he pushes your legs up and out to spread you that much wider, exposing your dewy core to the air. You fist the bedsheets, watching him lick his lips, eyes bright in anticipation of the meal he is ready to make out of you.

The first tentative swipe of his tongue has you jumping, jerking at the wet heat slipping through your folds and drawing teasing circles around your opening. The little kitten licks that follow have you sinking back into the pillows, soft lilting sighs slipping from your mouth to fill the room and match the pleased, hungry sounds he is making from between your legs, muffled by the mouthful he has of your pussy.

His mouth is a sinful thing, all tongue and lips and the slightest hint of teeth, worshiping at the altar of your body with broad flat strokes up and down the length of your slit and teasing flicks to your tender nub. In no time at all you’re writhing against him, rocking your hips in search of more friction, tiny lilting sounds spilling from your mouth in an unending tide of praise and encouragement.

You tremble as he pulls back from your folds with a vulgar wet smack only to press the tip of his tongue to that little bundle of nerves throbbing with inattention. You moan, a high sound of needy ecstasy as he pulls it into his mouth and, ever so tenderly, suckles at it, sending a sharp spike of pleasure lancing you through your midsection.

You card your fingers through his hair, careful not to tug too hard as you guide him to where you need him most, which, at present, is on his back fucking up into you.

You are all too aware of how empty you are, clenching down pitifully on nothing at all.

What you don’t realize, however, is how you’ve been begging for him until he’s crawled up to meet you. He licks a fat, wet stripe up the length of your torso, over the swell of your breast and the pebbled bud of your nipple as he makes his way up. You jump under the sharp sensation as he nips at you, taking your breast between his teeth before soothing the offended flesh with a balm of his tongue.

A trail of searing wet kisses leads him further to your lips, the heat of his ministrations punctuated by the murmured assurances he showers you with. You can taste the sharp tang of your slick spread over his mouth and tongue as you suck his lower lip in past your own and let yourself be drawn up into Enjolras’s lap as he sits up and rocks back into the sea of pillows at the head of your bed.

You settle there, already flushed and a little lightheaded and having to brace yourself against his chest to stay upright as he lays back.

Once you have your bearings, you push up easily on your knees and take his rigid cock in hand, throbbing beneath your touch as you pump the length of him for good measure — not that you need to, he’s as hard as you imagine he can be, with the way his purpling tip responds to the way you swipe the pad of your thumb over his leaking slit.

When you turn your gaze back to watch him, you see his eyes are half hooded and his mouth has fallen open in a wanton panting, he hisses with pleasure when you squeeze and twist the head of him on the uptake, and suddenly his hand flies out to catch you by the wrist and still your motions.

He forces out a breathless laugh.

“Mon Cher — you’ll wring me out before we’ve even begun.” He warns you, and you click your tongue at such a thought.

“What’s got you so sensitive?” You tease, drawing featherlight touches up and down the thick vein throbbing on the underside of his shaft.

He grits his teeth and breathes out hard through his nose like he’s working hard at putting all his energy into keeping himself from spending over your fist. Enjolras shakes his head and forces himself to open his eyes, chest heaving.

“I told you — I missed you.”

Which is to say he’s more than likely been half-hard all evening in anticipation of this moment.

You find that to be immeasurably pleasing, picturing him sitting stoically amongst his compatriots, discussing revolution and democracy and the makings of history, all the while burning with unbridled lust and shifting awkwardly to conceal its effect on him.

You smirk as you lean forward to press a chase peck to the end of his nose.

“Darling, you don’t have to miss me when I’m right here.”

And then you press him to your core and sink down onto his length in one, swift motion that draws a shared groan of relief from the both of you. He’s sheathed in you to the hilt in a matter of moments, the heat of your walls clenching down and drawing him in like it’s desperate for every inch of him, hungry for more even as you’re filled to brimming with him.

It is all-encompassing, the way he clouds your senses, and anything witty you might have said dies on your tongue as you swallow hard, your nails scraping down the length of his heaving abdomen. The heady burn of how he stretches you is almost too much, and for a moment it is all you can do but sit there, speared on his cock and trembling as it presses bruisingly against your furthest wall.

Enjolras grips your thighs like your flesh is all he has to keep him grounded, throwing his head back into the pillows as he does his best to quell the gentle, unconscious rocking of his hips until you’re ready. For half a moment, you wonder if he is about to cum and if, as he’d prophesied, all of this will end before it’s even started.

You wait for his grip to ease up as he comes back to himself, and you breathe out a shaky sigh, nodding reassuringly when you feel him gently tap his fingers on your leg, silently asking after you.

Always the gentleman, checking on you in spite of his state, you could kiss him, but you’d have to rock forward to do so and you aren’t quite ready to move just yet.

You know he must be desperate to take you by your hips and rut up into you until he finds his release, but you also know he would rather cut off his own hand than do anything without your permission, so he waits, and you watch.

Oh how he suffers, your poor idealist.

You think perhaps you could tease him a little, draw this out for as long as possible, but you’d only be torturing yourself — there is no denying that you are as eager for him as he is for you, and your quick and fevered fingers drawing circles over your bud with thoughts of him are nothing compared to the real thing.

Finally, you push up on your knees again, keening at the thick drag of him against your tender walls, lifting almost to the point of dislodging him before dropping back down. Again. And again, until you’ve found a steady rhythm that has your skin crawling with ecstasy.

His isn’t the largest cock you’ve ever had, but you find that it fits you best, like it was tailor-made for you. It is certainly your favorite, though you are, perhaps, at least a tad biased when it comes to him.

Enjolras’s big hands grip and pull at you as you ride him, like he is caught again in the dilemma of where to touch you, how best to hold you. The filthy wet sounds of lovemaking fill the air, commingling with your soft moaning and the creak of the bed frame beneath you. It is the soundscape of any number of brothels across Paris, but between the two of you, it is like music.

And then, without warning, he braces himself against the mattress and cants his hips up to meet yours as you come down again. You yelp, from alarm as much as sensation, and the momentum of his sudden thrusting nearly dislodges you to send you toppling over.

You brace yourself on one arm to keep from falling, though by then Enjolras has sat up to catch you, holding you in his arms while he fucks up into you, just like you’d wanted. You curl your fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck and swivel your hips in perfect time to each of his thrusts, and you move together like a well-oiled machine.

This is how you like it best, straddling him with his arms wrapped around you, forehead pressed against his, inhaling his exhales — pure bliss — you bite your lower lip and smirk as you try to suppress a burst of joyful, breathy laughter.

“What’s funny?” He asks, his voice thick and strained and tinged with the slightest trace of humor.

You shake your head because it feels silly to tell him it’s nothing, only that this is your favorite thing in the world — bouncing on his cock — and you just wish you could do this forever.

Funny to hear someone who fucks for a living say something like that.

You just smile at him.

“I missed you,” you hum, in a gentle mockery of how he had said it before.

He still his motions ever so slightly as his face splits into a big, broad smile of his own, dimples pulling tight to indent his cheeks as he surges forward to kiss you again.

Your heart thumps solidly in your chest and you think perhaps that he is what all those poets must have been talking about when they wrote their sonnets and songs of love.

You think Enjolras must be the envy of the Gods of old, and somewhere, wherever they are, they stand weeping over his beauty because they will never have him.

Say what you will about his devotion to Madame Révolution, right here and now Enjolras’s heart belongs entirely to you, and you’re half inclined to think he might make a romantic out of you for it.

It takes no effort at all for him to roll you, and suddenly you’re pressed into the mattress below him. There is only the briefest moment’s pause in rhythm as the momentum of changing positions causes his length to slip from your heat. You whimper at the loss of him, and he shushes you, petting your face to soothe you because, of course, he is coming right back.

You gaze up at him, beautifully flushed and disheveled, openly panting but still smiling as he kneels over you, supported on one strong arm and readjusting to compensate for the new angle. You splay your legs open wide to allow for him to slot in as close as possible against your core, letting him spread you a little further past the point of comfort with a gentle hand on your knee before hitching your legs up and around his hips.

You only briefly feel the broad flare of him at your entrance as he lines himself up before seating himself in you once again. He pushes all the way to the root in one quick snap of his hips that has you throwing your head back and arching into his touch with a loud, wanton moan.

He is suddenly so much deeper than he was before, thrusting into you, and you feel ready to come apart at the seams as he sets an agonizingly slow pace— pulling almost all the way out before snapping back again, each hungry thrust of his hips slamming home up against that most tender spot at your furthest wall to make you see stars and colors.

It’s punishment for how you teased him before, you know it must be, but this is how he likes it, painfully slow and hard enough to knock the headboard against the wall.

He likes to take his time while he dismantles you, but you are impatient.

You’re fisting your hands in the sheets and lifting your hips up off of the bed, trying to meet his every thrust despite how he pushes you back down with a strong hand and holds you there firmly. It is only enough to keep you teetering on the torturous edge, never enough to send you over, never too little to draw you back.

You can feel the litany of desperate noises tumbling from your lips more than you can hear them over the vulgar squelching sounds that fill the air with every pass of his cock against your sticky walls, the harsh slap of skin on skin, his soft grunting and moaning filling the room as he moves. The slick mess that drips down your thighs makes for a smooth glide in and out of you — you could almost blush to imagine how it must be pooling in your bedsheets and making a sopping wet mess of him as well as yourself.

It’s enough to make your toes curl and your walls flutter and clench over the length of him, drawing a low rattling moan from deep within his chest.

You’re only vaguely aware of the things Enjolras says to you, the little rhetorical questions and naughty phrases to which you can only nod along in affirmation, too drunk on the delicious sensation of being so perfectly stretched by him to form coherent thoughts or responses.

Yes, it feels good — so, so good. Yes, you like it when he fucks you like this —faster, more. Yes, you’re his good girl, taking him so well — don’t stop — yes, yes yes yes…!

The vice he has on your hips is a bruising thing, and where before there was the painfully slow in and out and in and out, he snaps his hip again, and suddenly he’s hilted in you to the base, pelvis pressed flushed to yours as he begins a slow, rutting grind, just the perfect amount of friction against your swollen, needy bud to have you writhing under his weight.

Your eyes roll back and slide shut as you press your head into the pillows, exposing the tender columns of your throat and mewling at the sensation of being so full.

“Oh— f-f-uh—!” You bite the curse off with a shrill gasp, one hand flying down to grip his wrist as his big palm splays over the lowest point of your belly, applying pressure there like he is in danger of bursting through your abdomen and means to contain himself. “E-Enjolras—please!”

You can feel the vibration of his gentle laughter buzzing into you through his cock and it’s nearly enough to make you seize.

“Yes, my darling?” He teases, “What is it?”

You’re not sure you could have answered him at that moment if your life depended on it, you aren’t even sure what you’re asking of him. You’ve suddenly got your lower lip pulled so tightly between your teeth that you half expect to taste blood as the heat in your abdomen quickly begins to wind itself into a tight, quivering coil.

The unconscious canting of your hips to rock against his ministrations is a desperate thing as you try to chase more friction and bring yourself to climax.

And then you feel his movements growing lax, slower and slower until his hips still entirely. It draws a pitiful whine from deep within you as the orgasm you’d been balancing on the edge of turns gossamer and slips through your fingers.

A calloused hand comes up to settle over your jaw then, and rubs tenderly up over your cheek. You feel his thumb brush away a dewiness you hadn’t been aware of forming on your lashes and suddenly the plush spread of his lips is at your throat.

“Open your eyes, mon amour —” he whispers, kissing the tender spot just beneath your ear, “Look at me.”

It takes some effort, but eventually, you obey, chest heaving and eyes blurry as you gaze up at him, suddenly leaning over you on his elbows. You reach up to brush stray curls from where they stick to his sweat-slicked forehead with a shaking hand and feel your chest swelling with emotion again.

He is so handsome and so kind, and he could so easily be yours — he would whisk you away from all this if only you would let him.

How you wish you would let him.

There are tears in your eyes then, spilling over your lashes and down your cheeks to pool at your jawline.

Enjorlas’s brows come together in tight-knit concern and the thumping of his heart against your own is almost enough to make you forget he’s still got his cock in you.

“What’s the matter?” He asks, so gently you could fall apart beneath him as he brushes the pad of his thumb over the spread of your lower lip, like a key unlocking the chest where you keep your most precious secrets.

The words tumble foolishly from your lips before you can stop them.

“I love you,” you gasp.

The confession is shocking, like the clanging of a bell. Ever so briefly, you watch something closer to hurt than you like to see on him flash across his dark eyes, shifted nearly black with wanting. The pained look is gone in an instant, replaced instead by a crumpled smile, like he can hardly believe he’s heard you correctly.

He’s professed his love to you a dozen times over, in and out of the heady spell of lovemaking, and you’ve dismissed the notion a dozen times again.

You’re both all too painfully aware of the hideous cliche you’ve found yourselves in, a man falling in love with a whore, begging her for her fidelity where she cannot offer it, making a thousand promises of the honest life they could live together if only she’d give herself over to him.

You’ve had countless other men make you similar, needy promises in the heat of the moment, caught in the vice of your pussy and teetering on climax, but those intentions always fade to dust the moment they spill over and come back to their senses.

Enjolras has never once gone back on his word, whether he is in his right mind or drunk on your flesh — you’re half inclined to believe he could deliver on those promises, make an honest woman of you, take you away to live with him in some little cottage where he would marry you and you’d raise a brood of wild children together.

You’re almost foolish enough to believe you could be happy together for more than a few fleeting moments of frenzied fucking. Still, your heart throbs in your chest for the impending consequences of what you have just done — you aren’t allowed to love him.

He searches your face for the answer to a question he has not yet asked as he draws an invisible tear down the side of your face with the line of his smallest finger.

His voice is thick and heady with indiscernible emotion when he speaks.

“Say it again.”

You shouldn’t. You ought to shut up, send him away, implore him to forget he ever learned your name, but you cannot.

You push up on your elbows to slot your mouth against his — kissing him to make him believe you, to somehow pass through him and whisper the closest kept secrets of your heart to his.

You wrap your arms around his neck and press yourself to him, feeling the sticky drag of his chest hair against your peaked, sensitive nipples as he moves to snake an arm around your midsection.

“I love you,” you breathe against his lips. “I lov-”

He surges forward and kisses you again, a bruising press of his lips hard enough that you can barely move your mouth to return the gesture.

Your breath hitches in your throat as he suddenly rolls his hips, drawing back and thrusting in once more as he falls into a punishing pace, spurred into action by the admission — the reciprocation — of your feelings.

You brace a hand against the rattling headboard, clanging against the wall in time with the jostling of the bed frame, your high breathy voice answering the deeper timber of his own as he fucks into you in desperate search of his climax.

The coil in your belly grows tight and white hot again and you can feel the muscles in his abdomen growing tense against you.

In no time, his thrusting grows sloppy and erratic as he nears his finish and you grow eager for your own. He banishes your fingers with an aggressive swipe as they scrabble down to brush tight circles over your swollen nub, electing to get the job done himself. You jolt up needily against the calloused flesh of his thumb, abusing that tender bundle of nerves at a rapid-fire pace.

It boils over all too quickly.

Before you can think to open your mouth, warn him of your impending climax, you’ve come up and over, and the coil in your belly snaps.

Your body goes rigid, and you tremble with the agony of your ecstasy, washing over you like the surf, wave after powerful wave knocking you back again before you’ve had time to take a breath. You gasp out a strangled cry and dig your fingers into his arms, Enjolras’s pace only briefly faltering as your walls clench on him like a vice. He continues to fuck into you through your orgasm, stretching the release as far as it will go until you’ve strayed the line of overstimulation and you’re scrambling to try and get away from his punishing touch.

Thankfully, he is not far behind you.

He rolls his hips one, twice, thrice more before he’s pulling you as tight to him as he can manage, burying his face into the expanse of dewy flesh between your heaving breasts and spilling into you with a low guttural moan.

It’s almost enough to have you climaxing again, and you would have cried out at the bright, warm sensation flooding up against the quivering walls of your heat, if your voice were not trapped in your throat. He rolls his hips with each ropey spurt he leaves in you until finally he is spent and he collapses on top of you with a sigh of relief and the dead weight of his whole body.

Time ceases to matter, stretching infinitely before you as you lay together, breathing in tandem. Your lungs protest as they fight to expand, crushed into the mattress beneath him as you are, but you ignore their haughty complaints.

You consider never getting up, letting him slip beneath your skin and live like this in the bright, hazy moments of afterglow with sweat drying tacky on your bodies, the evidence of your joint efforts oozing from out between your legs around his softening cock. You sigh out your contentment, drawing lazy patterns across his back and relishing in how perfect this moment is, without the world pressing in on you.

Enjolras’s chest expands against you as he breathes deep and exhales, and you imagine the exhaustion tugging at him, threatening to lull him to sleep in your arms. You card your fingers through his hair, petting him and listening to the little pleased hums it draws from the hollow of his throat.

You could let yourself love him like this, almost imagining that you are in the life he’s promised you, tucked safely away in a little home, far removed from Paris and the troubles of your lives. Still, nothing lasts forever, and the gentle nagging of consequences begins to tug at you.

You can suddenly hear hushed, giggling voices outside your door and you grit your teeth against the violent feeling they stir in you.

Nasty little voyeurs.

You drum your fingers gently over Enjolras’s bicep and apply the slightest amount of pressure, prompting him to roll off and away from you so that you might sit up. You shiver at the jarring emptiness of his slipping out of you and you push up from the bed, crossing to the wash basin on shaky legs.

In your perfect life, you wouldn’t have to be so quick to wash him from you. You could relish in the sensation of being filled, the possibility of bearing his children, but this is not your perfect life, so you wet a rag and make quick work of cleaning yourself up.

You fetch your dressing down from where it lays discarded on the floor and shrug into it.

“Do you want me to go?” You hear Enjolras ask then, his voice thick and raw.

He’s sitting up against the headboard, breathing a little easier now though still so beautifully flushed. You watch him reach up and brush his hair back from his face with a boyish nervousness that plunges a dagger into your heart.

Of course, it occurs to you now how it might seem like a rejection, so hastily sloughing him off.

You smile and cross back to the bed, sinking down into the mattress and tucking yourself in against his body to banish the notion.

“No,” you purr, taking his face in your hands, “I want you to stay.”

The relief that passes over him is palpable as a tension you hadn’t been aware of until that moment clears.

“Did you mean what you said?” He asks you, the rawness of the question so painfully sweet it puts a lump in your throat, “…that you love me?”

Your heart seizes in your chest, because how could he ask you such a question?

As easily as you can fool yourself into thinking it was true.

You watch him watching you, waiting for the faintest hint of a response, and you lean forward to press a gentle kiss to his lips. A brief, chaste peck that ends too soon and leaves you wanting to do it again and again.

You could waste the night kissing him like that, like bright notes of honey you are entirely too greedy for.

His hand flies up to shadow yours against his face, keeping you there as he turns into your touch and presses a gentle kiss to your palm.

But now you’ve left the question unanswered too long, and the faintest hint of that hurt look is back in his eyes.

“Do you love me?”

You hate to do it, but you have to address the consequences of your actions. You have to be practical for both your sakes.

“Of course I do, mon Chéri,” you sigh, “And you love me, but what does it matter when you have the revolution? Your citizen meetings and all the people who look to you for guidance?”

“What has one got to do with the other?” He huffs, “I love you independently of my duty to the revolution–”

You furrow your brow, because one has everything to do with the other. You are surprised at how he could be blind to that.

You think that perhaps it is a willful blindness.

“My love, you do nothing independent of your duty to the revolution when you are its leader.”

His jaw tightens and his brows come together as he immediately rejects the notion.

“I’m not–” he snaps, then takes a breath, taking up your hand as he corrects himself and speaks a little more gently, “No, I’m not … there are no leaders among us.”

You do your best to ignore the hurt that flashes across his face when you take your hand back.

“Oh no? And who do you think they’ll come for when the city is burning and the aristocracy cries out for someone to hang? Will you send someone else to the noose?”

He shakes his head in a way that you think is perhaps too petulant for someone in his position, with his resolve.

“It won’t come to that.” He says.

“Won’t it?” You press, and then you add with a biting tone, “Are you so unwilling to be a martyr to your cause?”

Enjolras levels you with an incredulous look, something almost halfway to hurt as he turns those big dark eyes on you. He is looking at you like he can’t believe what you’re saying, like you’re rejecting him.

“Why are we talking about this?” He implores, “What does it matter?”

“It matters if you love me. There is no room for love in revolution — you’re the one who preaches that.” you press, leaning into him when he looks away, defiant of his own words.

“I preach nothing.” He says sullenly.

“Don’t make yourself a hypocrite, Enjolras. Don’t give them that to use against you.”

You know he knows this, and were he not so caught in the vice of his feelings he would agree with you, but you also know he doesn't want to hear it anymore than you want to say it.

The silence that blooms between you is tense. You watch him flex his jaw and listen to him breathe, and you wonder if you’ve gone and ruined a perfectly splendid moment for nothing.

Then again what do you know about martyrs and causes? Perhaps you are wrong and it is not impossible, simply improbable.

Somehow you highly doubt that.

You sigh and bring your knees up to hug against your chest.

“Forgive me…” you begin, “It’s not my place to say it. I shouldn’t—”

He doesn’t let you finish.

“Would you come away with me if I asked?”

It is another shocking, bell-clanging moment, along the same vein of your own confession.

You’re fully aware of how you’re gawping at him, but you can hardly believe he even said it as the question lingers between you. The sudden change has you laughing, for shock rather than unkindness.

He remains steely in his resolve and waits for your answer.

“Come away with you?” You echo, and your heart thumps in anticipation of the answer you cannot give him — yes of course.

It’s all you’ve ever wanted. Still, humor is the soothing balm to the way your heart cries out in protest because you cannot go, no matter how desperately you want to ... and yet...

Not impossible... simply improbably...

“What could you possibly offer me enticing enough to abandon my life here, living in the lap of luxury?” You ask, beaming as you gesture grandly to the modest room, with its peeling wallpaper and holes in the ceiling.

In a strident contrast to the way you poke fun, Enjolras is serious as the plague as he takes up your hands again.

“I would offer you everything I have.” He says earnestly, “My life — my fidelity.”

The heat of his gaze is intense enough to have you turning shy and looking down at your hands, at the way he’s caressing your knuckles with the pad of his thumb.

You're laughing again, suddenly giddy with possibility.

“Your fidelity? You would abandon your true love? All your work for the revolution? For me?”

He nods.

“For you, I would leave tonight.”

You hum thoughtfully, dropping your chin to the sinewy muscle of his shoulder.

“What about life and liberation of the working class?”

His voice is soft when he answers, rattling in his chest with a deeply tired sigh, like he hasn’t slept in months. You have to wonder whether he ever rests outside of your company.

“Let someone else fight for a change.” He says, his eyes growing distant. It is entirely uncharacteristic of him, and enough to make you think he might be serious.

He would leave — with you, no less — leave all that he knows behind for a love that is forbidden. How wonderfully uncharacteristic of him.

What a story yours is. A common whore and a jaded revolutionary.

How terribly cliche.

And then like a proposal, he moves so that he is kneeling in front of you, his soul bare for you to judge and do with what you like.

“Come away with me.” He says, “Be my wife.”

You cannot speak, your tongue has suddenly turned to cotton in your throat. You imagine saying yes, leaving tonight, but your heart is torn.

You could marry him, but with what money? He cannot afford to keep you and without an income, you cannot afford not to work. And what would leaving mean for the lives you left behind?

What would happen to girls like Marie and Clotilde without your guardianship? How many revolutions have died in their infancy because lesser men than Enjolras decided to leave the fight to someone else?

Amidst all these worries and questions, another series springs to the front of your mind and branches out, growing wild with reckless abandon.

Why does it all rest on your shoulders?

Why is it not enough just to be lovers?

It is a pretty dream, your other life in a little house, married happily and rearing curly-haired children with their father’s dark eyes — why should you be doomed to live your life resigned to dreaming?

Why? Why why why? ...Why not?

For half a moment, you watch Enjorlas crumple before you, like he is anticipating the rejection.

Your heart breaks for him.

How conflicting it must be to balance his two selves, the stalwart revolutionary with the desperate romantic.

If only his compatriots knew how he suffered for the revolution, you fear they would tear him to pieces.

You would shield him from that if you could.

You bring your hand up to cup his jaw on one side, and then the other, and you draw him to you.

"Your fidelity won't put bread on my table," you say softly, "But I would take it if you let me, if only because you offered it to me."

His eyes widen ever so briefly, and his face splits into that big, shining grin again. He laughs, too struck to speak like he had already resigned himself to the slow death of your impending rejection, and to hear the opposite has wiped clean the slate of his mind.

You love it when he's speechless.

You can’t stop your lips from quirking up into a shy smile. “Unless you didn’t mean it–?” You tease, but he doesn't let you finish, crashing forward to press a bruising kiss to your lips.

“I meant it.” He says quickly, breathlessly between kisses – his hands come up to grasp your shoulders and hold you to the spot, like he’s afraid if he doesn’t have a hand on you, you’ll slip away.

You smile against his lips.

“Then I will come away with you.”

You let him kiss you and bask in the unbridled warmth blooming in your chest because now you never have to stop.

There is nothing more to keep you apart. He is yours to have as you please forever, and you are his.

Somewhere, in the belly of the house, you think you hear the slamming of the front door, the telltale commotion of the Madam's return, but you can't make yourself care. This is the last night you'll spend in this wretched place, the last time you'll have to steal for a moment of intimacy with the man you love. You think on what Enjolras said before, about letting someone else fight for a change, and while you know he won't stop his fighting, you resign yourself to letting go of your own battles with a strange lightness.

You know he won't give up on the revolution. She is the other woman in his life, after all, but you are pleasantly surprised to find that you don't mind sharing him.

You’d been so worried he would make a romantic out of you, you’d never once considered he might make a revolutionary out of you.

A courtesan turned revolutionary’s wife — how perfectly wonderful.

[yourbestpalpercy]

“That’s literally impossible, Tartar. They’re all dead! Are you absolutely sure it’s not an Inkling, Octarian or some other creature?” Mr. Grizz started to get up from his seat, placing on a coat and getting ready to head down to the metro.

“Extremely sure. They sleep like a rock so I was able to check for anything suspicious. It’s a human for sure. I-I don’t know whether to think I’m going crazy or to be extremely excited!” Mr. Grizz could already tell Tartar was bouncing up and down on the other side.

“...Fine, I’ll be down in 15 minutes, don’t forget to be careful. Remember, humans are just as dangerous as anyone else. My wolves almost went extinct at their hands. ..Though I guess it doesn’t matter nowadays…” Mr. Grizz grumbled before realizing that Tartar had already hung up. “Oh for the love of Cod…Tartar, please tell me you understand the risks…” Mr. Grizz grumbled as he left his office.

Tartar turned towards the human as they mumbled something in their sleep. ‘Stop bouncing! You look ridiculous!’ Shouted his thoughts before he grabbed the human’s hand and checked for a pulse. “Ooo, yes! You are still alive,” Tartar pulled away and readjusted his bowtie as he did. He had to look his best.

His slime covered hands were covered, right? He couldn’t imagine how this little human would feel if they saw the primordial slime all over his hands. Wished he could remove it but oh well!

OH, she’s waking up!!!

Tartar brushed his outfit off and watched them stir and stretch. “god…I’m an idiot..falling asleep in the middle of a…dark metro??” She started to slowly stand up, rubbing her eye. “Did I not learn a thing from Fern- Mother?” The human slowly looked up, seeing Tartar.

“Ah! You’re awake, gre-!” Tartar cut off when a sharp pain exploded on the side of his head. It hit the ground rather hard. Great, now it was dazed.

“Who are you!?” The pain in Tartar’s head was taking forever to ebb away. It slowly looked up at the human, she was wielding a golf club. Wh-When in the world did she get that!?

“I SAID WHO ARE YOU!? Don’t make me strike you again!” She pointed the end of the golf club at him. “C-Calm down! H-Hold your horses! Take a dam chill pill!” Tartar held up his hands. The human raised the golf club again, aiming for Tartar’s horn. “I-It’s– I’m just a t-telephone! Th-That’s m-my name actually! Telephone! Just calm down!” Tartar scooted away quickly from the human, a little more angry that the first human in forever attacked him.

“...” The human glared at Tartar before lowering her club. “Good enough, I guess. Why were you watching me sleep?” She growled.

“W-Well, you probably already know but all of humanity is extinct! I haven’t seen a human in the last 12,000 years! ..Which intrigues me..” Tartar stood up and leaned over the human, getting a curious look in his eyes. “Where did you even come from…?”

The human jabbed her club under Tartar’s head upon it getting a little too close. “And tell me why I should tell you ANYTHING!”

“I’ve been trying to bring back humanity? It’s what I was made for.”

“Ha! You’re made for transmitting calls. You’re a phone for a reason,” The human glared at Tartar. “I don’t see why I have to lie to you. I can sanitize you if I want. Human or not!” Tartar slipped off one of his gloves, revealing the slime underneath. The human looked uncomfortable upon seeing it.

“Let’s see…I have that dam monologue prerecorded somewhere…” Tartar started to crack his handle and make strange noises trying to find it. “Monol-?” Tartar held up a finger in a ‘one moment’ motion. The human crossed her arms with a huff.

“[DISABLING CONTEMPORARY SPEECH MODE]”

“I am TARTAR, an AI construct created 12,000 years ago by a brilliant professor. My prime directive is to pass on humanity’s vast knowledge on to the next worthy lifeform. When your kind became self-aware,” Tartar cracked his lever again, stopping the recording. “I don’t believe anything else is really important in that recording.”

“...Oh, well then,” The human now messed with their golf club. “Don’t expect me to tell you my name. You haven’t earned it yet…”

“Oh, I already know it! You’re Everest. Or 10,009,” Tartar folded his hands. “Having scan tools and being an AI is rather helpful.” Tartar put his glove back on, feeling confident that the human wouldn’t attack him again.

“...Don’t you ever do that again…” Everest growled and pointed the golf club at Tartar again. “I don’t think you understand that I don’t wish to hurt you, kid. I’m the Messenger of Humanity, not the Mass Murderer of Humanity,” He poked Everest’s nose. “Boop! As the kids say nowadays.”

“Oh back off, you invasive thing!”

“My point is, I want to help bring humanity back. I’m not here to harm anyone besides the scum, bile and seafood that have evolved to conquer the world left behind by the humans,” He adjusted his bowtie.

“...” Everest still didn’t seem to trust Tartar as she asked, “I should’ve stayed in the mountains…”

“The mountains! That’s where you’ve all been hiding, hm?”

“They wouldn’t take too kindly to a weird, telephone man..”

“Oh it won’t matter! I-I can change my form! I take on this form though because it looks most like an Octarian. Shocked you haven’t seen one yet, they’re everywhere underground..”

Everest started to back away at this point. Tartar made her feel a little overwhelmed with how excited he seemed to be. Humans were nothing special, so why the bouncing and cheer talk?”

“I haven’t seen a human in YEARS, centuries, decem millenniums!” Tartar exclaimed. “You’ll have to excuse how excited I am!” Tartar grabbed Everest’s hand with his own, freezing cold hands. “Hey-! Let go!” Everest yanked back, glancing at her club. “Take a chill pill, I’m not going to hurt you! How many times do I have to tell you that?”

“If you’re trying to trick me into taking you to my village, the answer is no.”

“What??? No! I- ha! I wouldn’t do that. Totes wouldn’t. You’re crazy my dude. Absolutely bonkers, home skillet!”

“Oh please, you started using way more slang, I know a trick when I hear one. You’re not going to the village.”

“Not even for a second?? Please!”

“I ran away from that place for a damn reason! I’m not going to listen to their culty BS about bowing down and offering mercy to those- those–! Those stupid waterblobs!” Everest shouted at Tartar, slightly calming him down. “They stole this planet from us and I’m not going back so I can hear more of ‘If we keep sacrificing sheep to The Leviathan, it will allow us to leave this cliffside’. I’ve grown tired of that CULT!!” Everest grabbed her hair and pulled some of it out.

“I-...I’m not going back…” Everest’s arms dropped to her side.

“A cult, hm?” Tartar picked up on Everest’s worry.

“Yes! A cult based around the bile here! I don’t want to go back, it would be better if they were all wiped out! The amount of people I’ve seen sacrificed to ‘The Leviathan’ is something else!!” Everest grabbed her head again.

“Hmm…” Tartar watched the slime run down his hand from under the glove. “Y’know, maybe you don’t have to go back. I’m willing to give you a sneak peak on my plans. I won’t even lay a finger on you if that’s what you’re scared of…” Tartar gestured Everest over.

Everest watched wearily before approaching Tartar slowly, grabbing her golf club tightly as she did. “None of the sanitized octarians should harm you. They follow my orders exactly. If I tell them not to harm you, they won’t.”

“What do you mean by sanitized?” Everest quickly asked as Tartar opened a small door in the ground. “Simple, I’m creating a primordial goop that will create the ultimate lifeform! I thought too small last time…I should’ve let 8 go. I acted in panic and anger. But this time, it’ll be proper. No one will find out until it’s too late. Especially with Mr. Grizz on my side, we’ll restore Earth to its former glory together!”

The inside of the lab was rather bright and the buzz of talking echoed through the hallways. There were a few signs of struggling, making it clear that not everyone here came here willingly. There were also dried bits of pink ink dotting the walls. When Tartar saw it, he looked disgusted and quickly ordered a nearby Sanitized Octarian to please get rid of it.

“What’s wrong with it? I thought the shade was…rather nice honestly,” Everest told Tartar, watching the octarian splat different ink over it. “No I-...” Tartar trailed off, seeing the octarian smile back at him and wander off. “...I’ll just leave it. Don’t want to hurt their feelings…” Tartar turned away to keep guiding Everest down the hallway. ‘I think mother would find me even more disappointing than she first thought. I thought that interaction was rather cute!’

Tartar soon guided Everest to a room with a large blender in the middle, full of…strange, bluegreen slime. A wave of illness and worry came over Everest. “...You don’t do what I now think you do…right?” Everest glanced at Tartar with clear sickness on her face.

“Well, tell me what you think I do first,” Tartar replied in a rather smug tone, climbing up and sitting on the top of the blender. Everest felt a little more sick as she responded.

“Uhm..well- there’s a blender for one…uh..” The idea of sacrifices fill her head. “...Please don’t tell me you pick off the octarians around you and…sacrifice them to..” Everest pointed a hand at the blender.

“Nope! Well- eh, close. The octarians around you are ones that have failed their tests. All or most of them. I select carefully. What you see here,” Tartar stood up, “Is a blend of everyone who’s succeeded in their tests! Only the most brilliant and greatest octarians end up here. It’s a blend of the most superior is what I’m saying. No one gets sacrificed. I’m not doing this for some false god. I’m doing this to create a lifeform on the level of humans!”

“...Will I end up in there some day…?”

“It’s a great-...what?” Tartar looked over the edge, down at Everest. She looked terrified. The soft glow of the sludge in the blender reflected in her eyes.“...N-No! Never! Absolutely not! I wouldn’t do that to a human!” Tartar leapt down from the blender, carefully holding Everest’s hands again, “I was actually wondering if you’d like to join me! Take back Earth from those slimy freaks above!”

Everest drew back from Tartar quickly. Luckily, he wasn't grabbing her that tightly. “I-I’m not sure I can trust you yet. …What’s in it for me?” Tartar seemed…way to ready for a reply like this. “Well, I doubt you wanna stay sleeping on that cold platform so I��ll make sure there’s a comfy place down here to rest. I’ll make sure you never have to return to your mountain cult, hm…”

Everest started to think. “I can’t let you leave after seeing this…? No, that’s too threatening and besides, you have way too much confidence. You’re the first person in years to strike me and land a good hit!” Tartar extended his hand a little.

“...I mean, all you really needed to mention was getting a nice place to sleep. The mountain is freezing. I’m shocked no one has gotten frostbite at all,” Everest slowly accepted his hand. “PERFECT! We’re in business, my home skillet!” Tartar suddenly scooped up Everest and gave her a tight hug.

“Mr. Grizz should be here so we can hopefully discuss more! Don’t worry, he might be a little intimidating at first but the bear’s a big softie! A total pushover at times even! He won’t hurt ya..” Tartar’s hug eased and it set down Everest.

“O-Oh…r-really??” Everest stumbled as Tartar left the room. “G-...Goodie..”

‘Oh Leviathan what have I gotten myself into…?’

[acroagoraphobe]

What Makes a Man a Monster?

Chapter 4: Man are the only animal who cause their own downfall.

This one is going to probably be pretty fun :3 (ALSO I FIXED THE SPACING SO IT ISNT JUST ALL A WALL OF TEXT ANYMORE SORRY FOR THAT IN PREVIOUS CHAPTERS.)

Sixer continued his trip, or whatever this was to wherever he was going next.

It was a good thing that soldier didn't bother him, because Sixer didn't want to have to deal with being wanted by the NCR again.

His walks were silent, no words spoken by him. Because his words were never really his own, were they? And many times he couldn't even tell if that voice in his head was really speaking.

Because he didn't have a voice, not his own anyways.

He would have to be careful, with the NCR base up ahead. The roads were long as always, but they can always be made longer with altercations with... Distasteful Governments. COUGH COUGH ANY GOVER-

So walking inconspicuously along the road, Sixer passed the NCR base, which he did not care to know the name of, the traders loitering around not even bothering to try to pick their sales onto this obviously broke and homeless man.

Continuing on, He passed by a group of ants feasting on a dead Radscorpion, taking hunks of flesh back to their family? do ants have familial bonds? fuck if I know man.

Dust obscured the farther distance and where the ants were heading. Sixer watched them for a moment, he had and has all the time in the world.

One of the ants noticed Sixer's prescence and made a cautious clicking noise, which Sixer put his hands in the air and stepped back slowly.

[Speech 30/25 I'm goin man, don't mind me my good Sir? M'am? Uh.. M'ant?]

(Success)

Somehow the ant was convinced and nodded? Is Sixer hallucinating again? Fucks sake starting to wonder if he's been hitting the chems again. But hell, when is he not?

Okay, obviously not now but whatever. Sixer steps away, causing the dust beneath him to stir and leave the prints of his boots behind as he does a full turn and speedwalks away, back onto the road.

Soon he reaches one of the damn thousands of ruins across what's left of America. He can practically smell the filth of the raiders that are living here. And well.. Sixer didn't have a damn weapon.

Raiders aren't anywhere near as accepting as ants, which is funny because that means the Raiders are worse than animals. If fucking insects are more chill.

But I mean, Insects havent been huffing jet and shooting up Psycho all day so theres that I guess.

He saw a vaguely sharp-ish large flat hunk of scrap with what somewhat resembled a handle. Taking this as a makeshift weapon he trudged on, knowing he will inevitably have to deal with these assholes.

Kneeling down and sneaking close to what little remained of those walls walls. Good thing he saw the raider first, but... that didn't mean he wasn't going to get shot. Which he definitely did as soon as that dickhole saw him.

BANG, right in the neck.

It didn't kill him, but didn't mean it didn't hurt.

Sixer rushed at that raider full force, kicking him right in the gut. That raider had no Idea what the hell he was in for, along with his.. Multiple other buddies.

As soon as Sixer took him by suprise, He hit that guy in the neck hard with his.. Lets just fuckin call it a sword.

A full force swing from that thing and it got caught in the raider's neck, Splattering blood into the dust and making the raider practically gargle his own blood.

More bullets flew by, multiple hitting Sixer, but considering him, do you think he gave a fuck? Sixer didn't even give a damn to grab the gun the raider that was still currently dying had.

He rushed one of the other raiders, chopping into her with a horrifying crack sound and a fatal hit. Screams of pain fell upon deaf ears as Sixer's slaughter of the raiders continued.

The raiders finally realized after a major hit to their forces that they were faced with death itself, and it was having fun.

Sixer finally stopped when they fled.

FLED.

He was soaked in blood again but this time it wasn't even his own, how he liked it. His weapon drenched in blood and probably the damn tears of his enemies.

Blood soaked the dusty sand and made this look like the scene of an obvious slaughter.

And you can't spell slaughter without and S and laughter. And Sixer begins with S.

Sixer wouldn't leave good loot behind, so he took whatever caps, ammo, and chems the corpses had on them, shoving them into his bag with little care. His Pip-Boy updated his inventory, neat.

Sixer took his makeshift weapon and wiped the blood off on one of the less bloody corpses. He used the bricks remaining on the ruined buildings to sharpen this weapon. Which when he returned to the road he practically dragged it behind him.

He may be the main character, but that definitely doesn't mean he's a good person.

Because he's not.

There's no rest for the wicked, and same goes for Sixer, he kept going, smelling the smoke of a body burning pile. Nipton. Wonderful.

Not the smell someone would get used to, but if you've been around the wasteland, you've absolutely smelled worse just from the people walking past.

A man ran out from the town as Sixer approached, and started yelling about some lottery. He immediately saw Sixer drenched in blood and split it. No time for conversation when there's a man covered in blood dragging a big-ass sword made of scrap metal.

With a look that screams bloody murder.

Sixer is an unpredictable man, but one predictable thing is he is not immune to curiosity. Which can cause pain, but not kill him, because he ain't a pussy.

Blood drying on his clothes and smoke filling whatever Sixer has that resembles lungs, he went towards the Nipton town hall. Seeing men bound to crosses offering no mercy to them, and a man walking out of the town hall that many know too well.

Vulpes Inculta.

[thisstableground]

my new year’s eve party is me, two cats, some questionable homemade cocktails and encanto and it’s really putting me in the sad new year’s bruno vibe, the many different and varied sad new year’s bruno vibes depending on what mood he’s in that particular year

sometimes listening to the raucous, happy party going on for hours outside and pretending he’s part of it. it’s fun, in a way. with all the tons of food julieta’s been preparing for days he been able to steal a much more interesting selection of snacks than usual.  he made little party hats for the rats. they put on a particularly stirring rendition of whatever his favourite show with them is right now. this is just as good as being out there. it is. it’s exactly like being with his family. it is.

or sometimes reminscing about the many new years parties before he even went into the walls that he tried not to attend. it’s better now, really. didn’t he always prefer stepping off to the side, sitting in his room with a good book, enjoying the night in his own private way. didn’t he always prefer that? he must have done. he has to. hasn’t he tried everything he can to forget the years before things got so bad, of being a child with his sisters trying so hard to stay awake late enough to see midnight and mama’s fond smile when the three of them were nodding off against each others shoulders before it even hit 10pm? hasn’t he convinced himself that there weren’t the times that he remembered how fun it is to dance with his family, to laugh with other people, to be in the middle of things, music and food and singing? isn’t this an improvement, actually? now pepa doesn’t have to get so frustrated trying to get him to join in, and julieta doesn’t have to put up with him getting under her feet when he hides from the crowds in her kitchen, and he can read his book in peace. isn’t that what they all wanted? isn’t this better for all of them?

and the times that he thinks, this year, something will change. resolutions, good or bad, none of which he ever has any real intention to act on. he’ll stride right out into the party at the stroke of midnight, to hell with what his mama or the villagers think, and he’ll rejoin the family and he won’t care what anyone says any more. he’ll wait until everyone’s passed out from drink or exhaustion and finally leave properly, an adventure through the mountain pass, a new identity, a new life full of intrigue and fun like his stories. he’ll find a way to stop the vision happening. he’ll find a way to fix what’s broken, to fix himself, or to get it all over and done with and bring the house down himself before mirabel has to bear that burden. he’ll change something, he tells himself, and he knows he never will.

and the years that he can’t be bothered with any self-deception, any meagre reassurance, anything but the cold hard truth. he steals a bottle of wine from the kitchen, and he gets messy sad drunk, and he doesn’t have the energy to try and convince himself himself that he’s happier here (he isn’t), that he did the right thing (he never does), that he’s still a part of the family madrigal (they’re so happy out there, without him). he is miserable, and he doesn’t see an end to it, not this new year, not any year after

and then, there’s the year that he takes his book, and his rats, and his stolen bottle of wine, and he hides in his bedroom because even in dire circumstances like a very large party, casita won’t let him go back behind the walls now that he’s out. he stands firm against any cajoling when pepa comes to find him, when julieta comes to find him, his brothers-in-law, even his mother. bruno will not be budged. a landslide could not move him.

mirabel comes to his door, and says, “dolores told me i’d find you here.”

“did she now?” bruno says. “did dolores also tell you what i said to everyone else, about how i have no intention of joining the party?”

“she did,” mirabel says.

“so you know there’s no use trying one of your motivational speeches on me.”

“wouldn’t dream of it.”

“because it won’t work,” he insists. “i’m staying here and that’s final.”

“hey, you don’t have to explain yourself to me,” she says.

“well...good,” he says, suspicious. he was expecting to have already been physically dragged out of the room by this point.

“but you miiight have to explain yourself to him,” she says, and steps aside to reveal antonio - wonderful, sweet antonio in his smart suit and best shoes, looking so very deeply distraught.

“wait, but --oh, that’s not fair,” bruno protests, alarmed

“tio bruno, you really aren’t coming to the party?” antonio says, in a wavering little voice. mirabel nudges him, and he whispers “oh-oh-oh, i remember!” and then sticks his bottom lip out in the most tragic pout, and, somehow, makes his eyes even bigger and glassier than before.

“i can tell what you’re doing! this is underhanded tactics,” bruno accuses, shielding his eyes. “this is a perfectly transparent scheme, a manipulation. you’re trying to guilt me into joining the party.”

“yes,” mirabel says happily. “is it working yet?”

bruno sighs, resigned, and closes his book.

[storiumemporium]

Milk and Vinegar

Viktor has a conversation with an old friend. | Viktor & Reader | 0.7k | Gen |

A lackluster reentry into writing fanfic for y'all but, it's what I could manage 😔

A pseudo-character study.

Dawn cuts like a knife in most places of the world, the sharp haze of morning lit without pretense.

This is felt with particular clarity on the rooftops of Piltover, soaked in by the eyes of Zaunites.

His hair is askew, shades of familiar tiredness sitting against his face, a picture of more late nights spent poring over texts and angrily battling with theories in the pursuit of invention.

Viktor has always been like this, even since before he'd left- once upon a time it had an endearing quality, a cat furiously seeking out it's owners fish, no matter how many times it has been reprimanded.

Stirring at expensive foreign tea, you note with something like dull amusement how it sparkles in the cup- wondering if that's a genuine byproduct of the leaves, or if it was a cheap gimmick to bump up the already exorbitant prices; jingling keys in front of a child.

"How have you been?" His voice rasps and it almost makes you wince, cutting through the blissful quiet of the early morning. "We have not seen each other in..."

His head shakes, eyes remaining sharply focused on the extravagant skyline.

"Well..." Your voice is music, it always has been, a divine melody gracing tone deaf ears. He had nearly resented it once upon a time, now Viktor wishes he could bottle it beneath his pillow at night- if only for the blissful rest he would have under it's lullaby. "Where do I start..? After you left..? That's- a lot to run through, Viktor."

He begins to straighten, a leisurely, groaning stretch that abruptly stiffens about half way up, his body coming to a sudden rigidity, his shoulders squared out with purpose and poise.

When he faces you, he looks like he's going to war. "I feel that I owe you the time- if, you are willing. If you are not..." he works his mouth, gaze faltering briefly from your own, "I would not blame you. On our parting I broke many promises, ones I will not be able to make up to you."

Your smile is venom and perfume. "I don't resent you for it, Viktor. You've played the game with the best of them- truly the finest example of Zaun and Piltover alike."

Your cup hits the surface of the coffee table- some exotic sandstone from Shurima, likely painstakingly transported across land instead of just being teleported, all for the sake of gloating- and it clatters hard enough to set Viktor's teeth.

"Well- let's see. After you left me saying you'd be back, I continued to work that shitty brothel every day for an- frankly embarrassing amount of time, clinging to the hope you'd be back. Until I realized you wouldn't.

You never even sent me a letter, nothing to tell me where you'd gone, what had happened. It was easier for me to lie to myself and say you had died out there, shunned by them, than to accept what I knew really happened. They saw exactly how brilliant you were and are, and decided to keep you. And having everything you wanted, you didn't need me anymore.

So I decided that moment- that night, staring out at the skyline of Piltover from all the way in our poor downtrodden undercity- I'd make everyone regret overlooking me. Everyone."

You gesture belatedly now, the cold anger having sunk away.

"Most people just think me an expensive prostitute. But you'll find I have more- sway in this city than most. Even Councilwoman Medarda."

Your speech, delivered like sheets of ice, leave his mouth feeling full of cotton. He remembers a sweet girl trying desperately to wash oil out of her hair, sniffling and embarrassed as jealous girls pointed and laughed- he remembered a girl who smiled dazzlingly at him when he awkwardly helped clean the places she couldn't see, the girl that seemed to more often than not forget that Viktor was different.

The woman standing in front of him is not that girl. Not anymore.

You have harsh angles that didn't exist before, and the extravagant silks clinging to your curves reveal themselves to be snares designed to strangle all those drawn in by your intoxicating aura. You've become a predator in his absence, and suddenly the awkwardness turns to sheer dread.

His already rasping voice becomes strangled. "Why did you invite me here?"

He feels as if death has raised his scythe just behind Viktor's back.

"I simply wanted you to know I was in town, now, and likely won't be leaving for awhile. We're likely to run into each other again, but until then, I wish you much fortune, Viktor."

Viktor practically flees your gilded bear-trap.

[cassisanasshole]

this fucking poem i made on allpoetry.com at the age of 12 (cw SH)

in honor of 2024 being around the corner i would like to announce the first poem i ever wrote on allpoetry.com at the age of 12 years and 4 months. coming up on a fucking decade on this piece in which my little awful shitty emo angsty self decided to both start and end the poem with the word 'forevermore',

You are not Edgar Allan Poe, you are a 12 year old girl

i cannot emphasize this enough. i look back on this as an adult and go what in the sweet ever loving fuck. who else was like a super fucking mentally ill 12 year old? i swear to hades, i asked for fallen for my 11th birthday. when i was about that age i drew this picture:

it was a girl drowning in some sort of body of water, with what i can only describe as a traditional comically large drowning boulder attached to her ankle. her cartoonish face stared, panicked, at the viewer--as her mouth, losing air with bubbles and all--uttered one last phrase, scribbled into a curly-q speech bubble.

"I'm going under!"

a callback to the timeless classic going under by evanescence, first track on the aforementioned album fallen.

when i went to school in the fifth grade we had computer lab. sometimes we were graced with the sweet, sweet blessing of free time. in my infantile years as i perceived it then, i did silly things like webkinz. but now i was too old for webkinz (in public--not at home) i was onto bigger and better things such as:

listening to 2012 bangerz such as starships and party rock anthem on full blast with one headphone hanging out to prove i was normal. and then, on hard days when i could not resist the temptation, pulling up evanescence and linkin park and green day and listening to them very quietly.

Nobody could know i was an emo in the making.

once middle school hit though, this was where i found myself: the troubled pubescent experience of being a girl forming kik groups with her in real life friend and random internet strangers. some of whom were our age, some of whom significantly too old to be interacting with us (we know this story.)

staying up til like...2 am! (sleep, child!) to try and convince these essentially random people to not yoink themselves.

well one of these internet friends i don't even remember his name, says all of that and then just disappears, so i wrote this poem. i guess it was what this experience stirred up in me considering i had definitely never seen his smiling face

anyway uh yeah i don't know what the fuck you're meant to take from this but

HAVE IT!

[psalmonesermons]

Love is a weapon Part 2

How should we use love?

Love as a weapon

The concept of love as a weapon is not new as was used to significant effect by Martin Luther King; ‘’ Fifty thousand who took to heart the principle of nonviolence, who learned to fight for their rights with the weapon of love, and who, in the process, acquired a new estimate of their own human worth’’.

God has provided each believer with protection for day to day life and this includes the whole armour of God which describes to us the revelations we need to incorporate into our lifestyles for us to be continually fully protected in our spiritual lives. The weapon known as the sword of the spirit is when we use God’s rhema word as weapon against temptation in its various forms and disguises.

In the church life the weapon of love is displayed in our various actions such as forgiveness, kindness, tolerance, unity, and service (be addicted to service of the saints- tasso).

Are we practicing these day by day? Love is a drug, but it is a good habit.

John 13:35 “By this all men will know that you are my disciples, if you love one another,” This is the acid test of our discipleship. Brotherly love is a great witness and highly reproductive. The weapon of love helps us to win people to Christ.

1 John 3:16 “This is how we know what love is: Jesus Christ laid down his life for us. And we ought to lay down our lives for our brothers,” Agape love is a sacrificial love.

Romans 13:8“Let no debt remain outstanding, except the continuing debt to love one another, for he who loves his fellowman has fulfilled the law,” You owe me a debt of love and I owe you a debt of love, When we forgive each other in love it releases each other from the bondage of unforgiveness which is the breeding material for Satan’s destruction of our relationships. Love is all about giving and forgiving.

Radical love -Loving our enemies

Luke 6:27 But I say unto you which hear, Love your enemies, do good to them which hate you,

In any given situation if we can demonstrate God’s agape love then we will be wielding our most powerful weapon.

Jesus tells us not to render evil for evil but do good to our abusers and tells us even to pray for them. King David fasted and prayed for his enemies. Pretty radical. Most times we struggle to fast and pray for a friend!

In this life if we can keep showing love when people treat us badly then something must give and where we show longsuffering love it will break through albeit later than we had hoped for.

Some ‘Dirty’ tactics

The late Dutch woman and evangelist Corrie Ten Boom had to forgive a prison guard from Auschwitz where her father and sibling were murdered. She could only do this through the love of God. We need to act in love and just as importantly react in love.

Corrie said this; You never so touch the ocean of God’s love as when you forgive and love your enemies: this is very challenging.

Many years ago a neighbour whose marriage had broken up in the then recent past came to complain about my son hitting her son. We told her that we would investigate and get back to her. We sent our son over with chocolate biscuits for her, befriended her and were able to lead her and her son to Christ. Love is a powerful weapon

Do not underestimate the power of even small kindnesses and ask God to show you how to do them every day in life. Many situations can be turned around by small kindnesses.

A cup of cold water on a hot day, a bowl of warm soup on a cold night?

The Love Weapon in our speech

Proverbs 15:1 A soft answer turns away wrath, but a harsh word stirs up anger

How about telling a sibling you have had an argument with that ‘you love them with love of Lord and that you can see in them the glory of our King’!?

It is hard to fight against such power because the love of God is active in it and will touch their heart!

How to use the love weapon

In the spiritual type of battle we often use the opposite spirit to defeat the enemy e.g. when someone forces us to go a mile, we go the extra mile. They are compelling us be we are submitting to them.

If they ask for our tunic give them our cloak as well.

They are demanding but we are compliant. When people are mean to us, we should be kind to them. Love is giving and love is forgiving.

Matthew 5:40 If anyone wants to sue you and take away your tunic, let him have your cloak also.

Walking in love, repentance, and forgiveness –some people have equated this to wearing the shoes of the gospel of peace- (among our weapons of spiritual warfare) and have suggested that this lifestyle is effective against curses, sickness, and hatred. Perhaps this is worth thinking about!

In personality clashes with people when we respond in a godly way by showing love or forgiveness then this usually turns the situation around. Love is indeed a powerful weapon. When you want to hit them, hit them with weapons of love, forgiveness, and kindness!

Conditional or unconditional- my opinion

This love of God is unconditional in the sense that it does not look at who we are, where we have been or what we have done but focuses on what we will become when we are willing to be changed by the most powerful love of God. The ultimate victory of Jesus Christ’s victory over sin and death has the condition that we must believe it to receive the new birth with forgiveness of our sins and the inheriting eternal life.

Wear your weapon of love and wield your weapon of love each day as a lifestyle

Summary

We need to ask the Lord to continue to pour out the Holy Spirit into our heart’s day by day so that the liquid love of God will flow through us producing fruit in our lives that can be tasted by those around us.

Be continually filled with the spirit. We need to use this agape sacrificial love which is out most powerful weapon.

We might need to 'fight dirty' to win hearts and minds and souls to achieve God’s purposes in our lives!

Amen

Prayer

[mobydyke]

DESPERATE to know what the imaginary izzy hands run away with me fic is please I’m begging. I need you to elaborate 👁👁

okay so it stems from "run away with me" by crj and the line "the only retirement we get is death" and I was thinking what if izzy tried to retire? before all of this? before he was blackbeard's first mate? when he thought it could be an option for him?

so in this unwritten fic he's in love. probably with sam bellamy (bc @thegreatblondebalrogslayer has planted izzy/sam in my head and it won't leave now) and they were serving on a ship together, probably under hornigold. ed was with them. anyway izzy and sam r in love and they make plans to run away together. sam is talking about the wonders and joys of living life on land and izzy is totally hooked on every word that comes out of that man's mouth. so they plot and they stock up on supplies and they're so careful and so secretive and the day comes to drop the dinghy and row away under cover of dusk and leave it all behind. and izzy comes out of his room, canvas bag of food and water wrapped around his wrist, and ed is standing in the narrow little hallway, blocking his way out. and he looks at izzy so sadly and izzy's heart drops so fast he swears it crashes through the hull of the boat and descends to the seafloor.

he pushes through, trying to make his way to the deck where he can now hear a commotion stirring up, but ed grabs his arm and holds him back, muttering "mate you don't wanna see this you don't wanna know don't go up there please stop fighting me you don't want this you don't want to see this." but all izzy can hear is the blood in his ears and the sound of someone falling to the floor above him and he violently swings the bag back into ed's stomach and ed's grip loosens as he doubles over, coughing, and izzy takes off down the hall and up the stairs.

and sam is on his hands and knees on the deck, hair hanging in his face and blood dripping from his mouth. he doesn't even turn to look at izzy. the quartermaster, a mustachio'd man named polshek, is standing over him and izzy can see blood on the knuckles of his right hand. he tightens his own fists and begins to move but there is a hand on his wrist and edward's voice in his ear saying "iz- wait" and this time he listens.

and he stands there and watches as polshek drags sam to his feet just to hit him square across the jaw, hard enough to send him right back to the ground. again. and again.

sam never once looks in izzy's direction.

edward's hand is warm and tight around his wrist, like he's worried izzy might bolt at any minute. but izzy is frozen. his brain, normally whirling with next steps and contingencies and backups to the backups, is silent. his heart thuds low in his chest, having apparently returned from its trip to the bottom of the ocean.

sam hits the deck again, blood pouring from his mouth. he spits out a tooth. izzy thinks he can see some tears mixing with the blood on his cheeks but sam won't even look towards him and he can't get a good view.

hornigold, who has been watching from the quarterdeck, raises a hand and polshek immediately steps back. izzy thinks he can see sam's shoulders slump in relief.

hornigold descends to the main and stops right in front of sam, who is now up onto his knees but still looking down at the floor. hornigold looks around at the gathered crew -nearly everyone has made their way to the deck by now to see what all the commotion was- and casually rests his hand on the hilt of his sword.

[I will admit this fic "summary" has gotten away from me but not enough to the point where I am willingly going to write dialogue so uh hornigold gives a good manipulative captainly speech a la bs flint and ends it with "no one leaves this ship without my say. however, I will let you leave if you want." and he turns and stares right at izzy and says "israel hands you have been requested to serve under captain teach on his newly gifted vessel, the queen anne's revenge. you may leave" (episode 9 parallel 👀) and it is clearly neither a question nor a choice being offered.]

izzy is frozen and silent, unable to respond, but edward steps forward, still holding on to izzy's wrist, and says "thank you, captain" before nodding and shifting backwards slightly.

sam looks up at them then, but his glassy eyes slide right over izzy's face, seeming to not even notice him, and he instead stares at edward for a long few moments before turning back to hornigold. and izzy swears everyone can hear it as his newly returned heart breaks right there on the deck in front of them all. it's that clear and that hard. it feels like he's falling. he feels something dark and heavy root itself deep in his chest where his heart used to take residence.

he feels edward's grip on his wrist grow even tighter and he's thankful for the pain as it grounds him, returning him to the world just in time to hear hornigold say "-you, sam bellamy, may also leave this ship. but it won't be in one piece." and in a single fluid motion he pulls his sword and cleanly separates sam's head from his body. it rolls with the rocking of the ship and comes to a stop at izzy's feet and izzy finally gets to lock eyes with sam. one last time.

and then years and years later, standing on the deck of the revenge, edward asks izzy if he's ever heard of retirement. and izzy says "the only retirement we get is death" and he thinks of sam's cold brown eyes staring at him, and he thinks of the warmth of edward's hand around his wrist, and he thinks about the dark heavy creature that lives in his chest and snaps violently at everyone all day long and then he blinks and re-centers himself and returns to the conversation where ed is talking about leaving the ship and the wonders of life on land and izzy has to pretend he hasn't heard this all before and that he doesn't know how this story ends.

anyway. emotion and dedicated side b by carly rae jepsen are izzy hands albums and I will die on this hill but please at least listen to "run away with me" and send me asks when it makes u emotional