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#the worst possible combination of things to be
forcedhesitation · 19 days
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I love that the bg3 guys are all written to have this intense adoration of karlach and lae’zel’s abilities to absolutely eviscerate their enemies. they’ve all got the same taste in women, which is “she could gut the big scary man chasing me, and then princess carry me to safety in her blood spattered arms.” and I respect and relate to that, as a bisexual man myself.
#bg3#thoughts about media#I actually love all combinations between any of the guys and lae or karlach. all very good pairings.#honestly hard to choose a fave... but I do quite like wyll & lae and star & karlach.#idk. something about a guy exiled by his own father and then alienated by fiend’s blood with a girl entirely outcast by her people.#in both cases they are punished despite doing the right thing all because they questioned someone of a lawful alignment.#and then star and karlach... both stripped of their autonomy and treated as nothing but a means to an end...#and the unique romance cutscenes they can get with each other!! actually so sweet.#but don’t get me wrong. I still do love all the other combos too.#and it goes without saying that lae & karlach is a great pair too. nothing like a warrior’s bond.#meanwhile my approval the m/m ships is...well. limited.#I love wyll & star together. I like gale & wyll. I am okay with halsin & any of the boys...but he has to be written better.#and by better I mean give him a little more character and make it less about sex only. because the game largely reduces him to sex alone.#no shart mention because I never take her anywhere unless I have to.#sorry. I do not hate her but she just isn’t interesting to me.#and although there’s writing to acknowledge shartstarion as a possible pair.#I think it’s the worst companion/companion pair and I refuse to think about it.#I mean seriously. it’s a combination of two polyamorous bisexuals and yet the pair feels heterosexual.#please don’t to that to my darling vampire. let him be princess carried by the hot warrior gals.
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emesiisdiazepam · 8 months
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if i post one of my aus for pikmin publically i feel i may be burned at the stake for it
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astral-catastrophe · 1 year
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some days I look at my siblings and I and think “yep, we’ve gotta be the worst possible combination of our parents.”
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tinyorangepotato · 2 years
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fuck sleep
#tiny talking#like is there sowmthing thay actually helps. i havent tried melatonin but i smoke weed so#and most things like nyquill dont even make me drowsy#but like man i thought i got my sleep schedule normal#hut its 2 30 rn and i went to sleep like actually at around 11 i think#and was woken up for bo god dman reason almsot a half hour later and couldnt fall asleep because its hot so i get itchy everywhere#so i have a fan on my but then the hair on my moves so i get itchy and fuck man#im feeling sleepy now and im glad its monday because i dont work till 1 but any other day i wanna be up by 8 if possible#and i would really rather not only have maybe 5 hours of sleep#fucking it doesnt help im sleeping in my grandmas living room and same witb my younger brother ( we have far too many people living here#and the number has actually went down significantly) so when my cousin or his wife or kid comes down fron upstairs to use the bathroom#or someone turns on the fucking kitchen light at midnight whta the fuck#or my little brother comes upstairs to laydown but has chips hes snacking on#or anything reallt it prevent me either from going to sleep and sometines even from staying asleep after i fell asleep#and i have some sort of auditory thing where most sounds fucking slice through my mind. like the crinkle of a chip bag when theres not many#other sounds to cover it up and so it make me wide awake again every fucking time as i am feeling sleepy#or even my brother chuckling at his video. or fucking lofi. lofi fucking is the worst. it makes me anxious and most of them have like the#wrong combination of instruments. like how are you gonna have a soothing gutair and light drums and then boom. snare. like that shit ruins#it and made my brain nore active again like the fucking chip bag. and logi just makes me anxious in general listening to it idk why#there was no point to this but if anyone axtually reads this and has hacks ill take suggestions.#usually around like 2 or 3 am (maybe even 5 or6) then ill feel sleepy and be able to sleep without too too much hassle#but fuck man why cant you do thay at 10 or 11 or even 12. I FIXED MY SLEPE SCHUDEL#I STAYED UP ALL DYA AND NIGHT AND WENT TO SLEEP AT 9#FUCKING STAY THAT WAY PLEASE. it worked for the first maybe 2 days where i would get tired around 10 and be able to fall asleep likeni was#when it was around 2 am. and then it gotnfucked the next day and i was unavle to sleep at 10 or 11 and was tired at 3 am#i dont knownif theres even a way to counteract this expecially since i dont even have an enclosed room to sleep in#so ita not like i can go lay down at 10 with all the lights off and they stay off and no one bothers me or makes any noise and i can just#drift away. (i do have to have a fan going if possible and if not then music but fan is best)#but yeah and just knowing other people are awake in the same room as me prevents me form sleeping too. man you could be so quiet i dont#even know youre there but if you are there and awake im gonna struggle sleeping worse than usual. i dont know why
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blackmoldmp3 · 2 years
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psychiatrist phone call appointment at 8:30 in the morning tomorrow im going to actually fuckin die
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jazzzhd · 36 minutes
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Rant in tags with suicide mention
#im struggling a lot today#i just keep thinking about my grandma and how she refused to help me in this hopeless situation#she has a huge house with three open bedrooms and a whole basement and she refused to let us stay with her#because she wants her new fucking boyfriend to move in with her#and now im out over $2000 for staying a month in this shitty fucking hotel room#when that money could have went towards permanent housing if only she had let us stay a month or two and figure it out#i already cut contact with her when she said she wouldnt let us stay with her#but all day today i cant stop thinking about it. i thought she fucking cared about me but apparently she cares more about a guy#that shes known for maybe 2 years?#combined with the suicidal thiughts i have#i just cant stop thinking about committing and what i would say to her before doing so#i cant stop thinking that if i did commit if we become homeless that she could have easily prevented it#i just want to hurt her as much as she has hurt me#and i hate that. but im in the worst situation ive ever been in my life and she cant even help me by giving us money even#when all the rest of my family is doing everything they can#becuase weve wasted all our savings were going to have to stay here at least another month#but possibly even 2-3 more months#when we could have just taken a month or two at max to get things figured out and get permanent housing#i cant rationalize why she would not help us unless she doesnt give a shit about me#so honestly FUCK her. i told her she should never expect to hear from me again and i stand by that.
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dinsfire24 · 3 months
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high tide glowflies marooners bay. how about that
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coldbycrossfade · 4 months
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Zenith On Spotify REAL
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donutghoul-a · 10 months
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sumire pspspspspspses
❝ you uh … gonna keep pspsps’ing at me, buddy? ❞
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giving him a nervous grin, leaning far away as possible. he’s about to materialize right through a wall behind him.
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biboomerangboi · 27 days
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Hua Cheng essentially cockblocking himself for possibly all of eternity will literally never not be the funniest thing MXTX ever wrote.
Xie Lian was pretty much completely in love with him the second he saw those lanterns (and completely oblivious about it) and then we get the wonderful first kiss underwater moment and Xie Lian is basically drawing hearts around Hua Cheng every time he sees him. While like quietly dying cause he literally has no idea what to do with it. Like at this point he doesn’t even really understand that he is head over heels totally gone for this man.
Until Hua Cheng is like I have a beloved I just haven’t won them over yet. Which he thinks is perfectly reasonable because his self esteem is the worst and he doesn’t understand how he could have won Xie Lian over yet. (He’s only on step 22 of his Marrying Dianxia 3000 step Master Plan ((that he debates throwing out on a regular basis because he doesn’t deserve to even dream about wanting Xie Lian)). So course he’s like yeah I have this wonderful noble beautiful beloved I just haven’t won them over yet wink wink nudge nudge.
But Xie Lian is like oh of course obviously I don’t deserve nice things and fuck I actually wanted him so badly I’m actually in love with him and now I will resign myself to never being happy for his sake. (Their combined self esteem is truly a so low it’s a hole in the ground which is hilarious because they think the other person is to good for them and unattainable forever because they literally have the same neurosis.) So he starts boxing up his feelings forever constantly wanting Hua Cheng and feeling guilty about it and literally dying inside because he wants Hua Cheng like he’s never wanted anyone.
Like essentially books 3 and 5 only happen because Hua Cheng has now cursed them both by saying he has a beloved because Xie Lian believes he isn’t wanted and therefore any nice thing Hua Cheng does is just him being nice and not Hua Cheng pulling out steps 23-34 of his plan thinking he still hasn’t won Xie Lian over. (He has he so has but he shot himself in the foot so badly it’s painful to read).
Like thank the Gods Hua Cheng is so unhinged and created the cave of 10000 Gods cause Xie Lian would literally be at his own wedding to Hua Cheng still convinced he wanted someone else and this was in fact a thing they were doing to solve a case together otherwise.
Like he needed something that unhinged to put 2 and 2 together otherwise he never would have caught on he’s Hua Cheng’s beloved. Meanwhile Hua cheng is like 🥺 he’s going to think I’m a weirdo now and I’m only on step 50 of the plan 🥺 like the two of them wouldn’t have been fucking nasty 2 books ago if he just kept his mouth shut and didn’t cockblock himself so violently.
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inkskinned · 1 year
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i love my therapist but i hate being in therapy. 10 minutes before my appointment, i'm in a meeting with my boss - we discuss my artistic choices; my boss recommends i artistically choose less. 10 minutes after therapy, i wash my hair and think about everything that was said, and then i have to switch it off, like a lamp, and go back to work again.
i was on a walk the other day and someone had the perfect combination of his cologne and whatever-else. it was almost exactly his scent. i fucking hate that. after all these years, i remember that? i tell my therapist - i feel like a fucking wolf. try telling a middle-aged blonde lady. oh i scented him on the air. i'm 30, and i'm having a panic attack over something that would be a plotline in the omegaverse.
what they don't tell you about mental illness is that if you are lucky enough to survive it into adulthood; it becomes a weird slice of your life. because you do, eventually, have to build a life. i realized in a panic somewhere around 22 - oh. i don't know what i'm fucking doing, because i always assumed i'd just go ahead and die. i didn't die, and i'm grateful for that, and i'm very happy about that choice. but it does mean that i am an adult in an apartment, living with my conditions side-by-side like. oh, that's my roommate, adhd. ignore the glass, bytheway, that's ocd.
so you pick your stupid life up by the scruff of the neck and you're, like glad for it (so much laughter and light and friends you would have never thought possible, when you were in the worst of it). but it feels so strange to be dancing around these odd little microcosms, these patchwork moments of your symptoms. if you have a panic attack at night, you still need to wake up and walk the dog in the morning. if your depression is making everything boring, well, you don't have any sick days left, and a job's not really supposed to be that exciting anyway. your ocd tears out each individual leg hair, and then, an hour later, you sigh, patch up the bloody bits, and go get dinner with friends. and the life is kitten-quiet, mewling and pathetic, but it's also like - it's yours, so you're fond of it.
and it's like - you're real. so you still enjoy pushing the shopping cart really fast and then riding on the back of it down an empty aisle. and you're not, like, so sick anymore that when you accidentally drop a mug you burst into tears (except for the days you do that. which are bad). and no, you're not allowed around certain items anymore. oops! but you've learned to be good about brushing your teeth most days of the week. and yeah sometimes in the middle of the day you have a little freak-out about how fucking unfair it all is, how fucking hard, how other people can just do this without having to fucking hurt the whole time. and then you sigh and force yourself to sit down and fucking journal about it so you can tell the nice middle-aged blonde woman yeah i had a hard day but i practiced grounding. you still sometimes want to burst out of your own skin, but you force yourself to eat kind-of healthy and to take your vitamins. you let yourself chop off all your hair in the sink in a dramatic poetry of control and relief - and you also have developed good hobbies that help you move your body more frequently. you feel helplessly behind, lost in the shuffle - but you also practice gratitude, taking stock of what you have garnered. because you're trying. even if you're never gonna be normal, you have something... close enough.
and the little kitten of your life, this mangy, starlit tigercub, this thing you expected to rot so young: in your arms, it turns itself over, belly-up. exposing this new soft part, all the organs and guts. like it's saying i trust you now. you won't give me up.
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yeyinde · 2 months
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when your need grows teeth | John Price x f!Reader
John's the type of man to lock his jaws around what's his, preferring instead to ruin things, puncture it full of holes, and litter it with scars, rather than let it go. It starts when you ask him to pick up your birth control—like dangling a piece of bloody meat in front of a starving dog.  Of course he's going to take a bite.  He thinks you ought to have known this by now. 
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SMUT 18+ | gratuitous smut; HEAVY breeding kink, breeding; Dom!John Price; p-in-v sex, unsafe sex; rough sex; mentions of spanking; mutual manipulation; this is roughly 10k of John Plotting and fucking you; John is: unhinged, obsessive, possessive, and Scheming. mentions of birth control tampering but nothing is followed through. No. He’s going to knock you up the old-fashioned way—by making you beg for it.
AO3 MIRROR
John has always had this desire—this awful, instinctual drive in the back of his head to knock someone up. Get them fat, swollen with his child. His. 
And maybe that's the crux of it. Possession. To have something of the most rooted kind. To irrevocably change someone—their anatomy, their body, the chemistry in their brain, their status in life from them (single no dependents) to mother (mother of his child), their very atoms—and create life from the combined parts. 
It's this almost fantastical beast, this unreachable dream for him. 
It's his Shangri-la. His castle in Spain. 
He's not under any disillusionment that this idea of fatherhood, of parenthood, is slightly skewed. That most men who want children don't feel this overwhelmingly greedy desire to fundamentally alter someone in such an irreversible way. It's not quite ownership, but it's the same ilk. A bastardised, unwanted child of it. 
And it's not just this idea of claimation—to forever be the father of their child, even if neither of them stays together; a piece of him will always be there, parasitic, no matter what—but something deeper. Something a bit less—egregious. 
This is, and always has been, about yearning. 
John's the type of man to lock his jaws around what's his, preferring instead to ruin things, puncture it full of holes, and litter it with scars, rather than to let it go. 
Marriage, he finds, is breakable. Divorce, separation. He's always on his worst behaviour in the initial stages of dating, so it's never something he has to entertain since no one ever sticks around long enough for it to be on the table, much less the menu, but the idea of it—of signing papers, of hashing out the split, of being known as ex-husband—leaves a bitter tang between his teeth. It won't do. He needs permanence. Perpetuity. 
Nothing says forever quite like a child, does it? 
And sure—he’s aware that countermeasures exist: custody orders, sole custody, shared; allotted visitations; divisional lines in this new age that keep the parents from ever interacting—but while you can get divorced, you can't unmake a child, can you?
The child would never write him out, either. 
Where deadbeats exist, it's important to note that their counterparts do, too. The ones like him who will gouge their eyes out of their skulls before they ever let what happened to them growing up trickle down and impact their child, polluting the pool. 
Simply put: John Price knows he'd be the best dad there is because he's stubborn that way. 
It helps, he supposes, that he really only has so much love to give out to the world, and greedily, he stashed the entirety of it away in a box to give to his would-be wife and their child. An overwhelming deluge that promises happiness should it ever be unlocked. Pandora's box, perhaps—down to the very essence because if John Price were to ever love someone, then it's probably in their best interest to run from it, this gaping, needy chasm. 
Not that it would ever be a possibility, of course—he’s much too good at compartmentalisation, in taking out his anger, his viciousness, on the ugly world he drenches himself in, the one his hands have a tangible cause and effect principle in place that will forever feed that starving beast inside of him.
Ergo—he’s a staunch supporter of the theory: happy wife, happy life. Though where those men think in a box stuffed full of emotional intimacy, flowers, chocolate, maintaining love, all-consuming and enduring, he takes it to extremes that would have them cowering a little bit. Maybe a lot.  
But that's fine. He only has to make sure his family is happy. No one else matters, save a select few who have a seat at his table during Sunday dinners. 
The rest, though? Spare parts. 
(The ice-cold resolve in those two words is apodictic, brass bound, and he's sure if his higher-ups knew about it, well—
His chest candy would be a hole in the ground. Put the rabid dog down before it has a chance to bite.)
But that all-consuming, devouring, obsessive love he has to give, that begs to be let free, is the reason why it's so tightly leashed. Locked up in a box. Untouchable. Inaccessible. 
It's why he isn't married. 
Ghost once asked him why the women he dated were older. Much older. Menopausal (always). And he'd said something to the effect of it being his type. Older women who wouldn't cower away from the acrid burn of him, who wouldn't hurt their delicate little hands on his gritty surface. 
But the real reason is because he knows better. 
He's a starving dog, and it's just bad form to dangle a piece of meat in front of it. Especially when the hand holding it is his own. 
Don't bite the hand that feeds you, and all. 
(The keen look in Ghost's eyes told him that, perhaps, the man already knew the reason when he asked, and was just satiating himself with kinship—the dark, awful look on Simon's ugly mug after the dredging the underbelly of Price’s rotten, mouldering mudfloor of things unsaid spoke volumes. 
They'd both nodded. Content, then. And promptly ordered a shot of whisky to drown the salivation, the hunger, from clogging their throats. Killing the urge to bite.
A pair of packless, stray dogs.)
But then he found you, and all his careful planning, all his distance, blew up in his face. 
It's always been on his mind since then. Lingering in his periphery—this fevered, tantalising vision of you, round and swollen with his child. 
It's unattainable, of course. A fantasy. 
Though, this—you throwing up in the washroom of his penthouse, undoubtedly knocked up by his machinations—is probably because he kept that desire too close to where he hides his questionable mortality, the one that allows him to throw innocent people to their deaths, and send mothers and fathers to an early grave just so he can rip his fists apart on their bastard offspring in his own brand of catharsis that always bites back when they grow up, hankering for revenge. 
He's always been good at snatching dreams out of the air, clenching them tight in his fists. Taming chimerical wants, whims, until they were docile, domesticated. Making realities out of fiction. 
And really—he’s just not a good man.
He thought you'd have known this by now.
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He remembers the first time he growled the words into your ear as he came, your cunt clenching around him like a vice. Desperate for it, he teased after, fingers fucking into your sloppy, leaking hole. Pushing his spend back into you. Half-drunk on the taste of you still clinging to his beard, but mostly just mesmerised by the sight of you—pretty pussy all ruined, swollen from the vicious, hateful pounding he gave it, and dipping with his cum like a faucet. 
(It pissed him off—still does, really—when you waste it like this.)
Gonna fill you up, he snarled, low and wrecked. Gonna make it take—
It was a fantasy. Still is. But the way it took root in the garden of your bedroom, like it belonged—native flora, he thinks, a touch mad with it—had something ugly, oil slick, rearing up from that untouchable place in his head. 
He could really blame you for it—and does. The way your ankles locked tight around his thighs, hands reaching, grabbing at his waist, clawing at his asscheeks to press him in deeper, deeper still, as he came inside of you, cock lodged right against your plug, had that untameable beast cocking its head in consideration after you danced too close to it, waking it from his long, restful slumber. 
You wanted it. Ached for it. He could feel it in the way your walls tightened around him, practically starving for it. Your pretty, glossy eyes rolling back into your head. Drool running down your chin. A litany of pleas spilled from your kiss-bruised lips, begging him for it. Please, John. Please. Please—
Who was he to deny you? 
Even if you made a big, flustered show of waving it off—not something I've ever imagined for myself, you know? and–and your lifestyle, what you do—is something like that even possible for us?—he saw how it curled around your shoulders, dipping its silver tongue into your ear. Germinating. 
He let it. Encouraged it. 
“Something to talk about later,” he indulged, reaching over for a cigar just to smother the urge to breed you stupid. To tie you to his bedposts and keep you full until your belly was swelling with more than just the absurd volume of his seed he pumped inside of you. 
And, oh—
The uneasy smile on your face reeked of disappointment. 
Fuck. Fuck—
John went to the washroom after that, heart pounding out of his chest, and jabbed the lit end of his cigar into his thigh to kill the fever in his veins. To rewrite the desperate, ugly howling in his head with pain instead. 
It worked. Works—
Until you came to him, all watery-eyed and worried, and told him to please, please stop falling asleep with a lit cigar because you think you might just go mad if you lost him to a cigarette fire. And doesn't he see how silly it is, these burns look so bad, John, and I worry—
His teeth ached. He smiled, but it felt like a grimace. A dog holding back the instinct to bare its teeth. 
“Sure, love,” he'd said, and started taking out his anger on your cunt instead, fucking you deep, and stupid. Getting you all cockdrunk, and hungry for the dream that spoiled so badly in the back of his head, he's sure a proper man would call it a nightmare. “Anything you want.”
(Brassbound. Apodictic. You know that, he knows you know that, so imagine his surprise when you come to him, all soft and tender, and ask him to pick up your birth control as if he hadn't spent the better part of two years grumbling every fucking time you took it and wasn't on the verge of tossing the damn bottle out the window, and fucking you until it took—
But—you do know that, don't you? 
Well, then. Whatever his lady wants, right? Right.)
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“Can you stop by the pharmacy on your way home tonight?”
He hums, fiddling with the belt of his slacks in front of the mirror. “Sure, love. You feelin’ sick?” 
“No,” you murmur, sliding behind him on your way to the washroom, wearing nothing but a towel tucked under your arms. “I need my refill. For birth control.” 
His hands still. A gnarled, rotted tendril curls over the edge of the cesspool, murky, ink black water splashing all over the place. “Oh, yeah? Still taking that, hm?”
You fluster. Hands waving, chock full of nervous, emotive energy you can't seem to shake off. “Well—yes. I mean, obviously.”
And he'd leave it there, let the spillage dry on the hot pavement, if you hadn't glanced back at him, all damp keenness, slightly skittish, and asked, feather-soft and utterly fragile, “right?” 
Right? A question, he notes. Not a statement. 
He licks his teeth. Tastes something rancid in the gaps. 
“Mm. I suppose so.” He leaves it vague, but drenches it in the heavy weight of his disappointment. Anchors dragging it down. You flit around the space like a house-locked bird, slamming into the walls and ceiling as you try—blind and panicked—to find an escape. Any escape. 
He finds the whole thing utterly charming. Especially when you realise he pitched himself in front of the only exit, thick, heavy hands curled around his belt, cock outlined against his slacks, already thickened, drooling in his pants. 
There's gasp—wet, and sharp—as you take him in. The liquid of his eyes as his want bleeds out of his skull. The flush on his cheeks, the twitch of his cock at the mere mention of you not taking your silly little pills. 
John lets it sit for a moment, taking in greedy lungfuls of your unease as you glance everywhere but at him, as if looking in his direction, breathing in this toxic miasma will give you a contact high. Infectious. Gnarled. 
The little seed that started germinating blooms. 
He fights back the urge to grin, all teeth. Madness staining them black. 
“It's—it’s on—” and fuck, he's never seen you so unsure before, this nervous. You handle him like a wrangler, wrassling his brutish dominance until it's putty in your hands, splitting his head into pieces and galvanising the madness inside until it's scripture for you to peek at whenever you need guidance, insight into him, his essence, his being. 
Your dyadic has always been built on permeance. 
John doesn't think there's a single person alive who understands him as much as you do. The only person who seems content to gorge yourself on his rotted marrow like it was a delicacy. 
Seeing you like this rents his resolve in two. 
“It's the pharmacy near the, uh, the school. The kindergarten.” 
He chokes on a groan, and thinks he tears something in his throat with the strain of keeping it down. There's blood, ash, in the back of his throat.
“Alright, love. I'll pick it up.” 
You smell it, and shiver. 
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It's giving meat to a starving dog, and saying, dog, don't take a bite. 
And so, of course he does. 
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John picks up your prescription, tossing it in the passenger seat like it personally offended him. And it has. Does. It's what's standing in the way between what he wants, what he craves, and there's a distinct thrum of irritation welling inside of him. One that started when he had to bark out your name at the counter earlier, and the pharmacist looked at him, and calmly, kindly, explained what it was he was picking up. 
Make sure she takes them once a day. Preferably at the same time. This brand of oral contraceptive can be taken with or without food—
Fuck off, he thought—thinks, even now, glowering into the tinted window of the pharmacy. 
He grips the steering wheel tight until his scarred knuckles bleach white under the strain, and sits in the parking lot, staring, unseeingly, at the shops. Pensive. Thoughtful. It gnarls over his expression until he's the picture of that grizzly-like intensity you often accuse him of. All furrowed brows and a pinched, angry twist to his lips. 
There's a series of complex equations running laps in his head. He's no stranger to this process, needing to make life or death decisions in less time it takes someone to snap their fingers, or tentatively stammer out his title. 
This one is more linear than the rest. One plus one, so to speak. But the weight of it is profound. Heavier, even, than deciding between the success of his mission and the life of an innocent bystander. 
(But he thinks he's just selfish like that.)
In his head, he debates the ethics of replacing all of these silly little tablets that stand in his way with sugar pills. 
It would be the quickest path to the end, but the risk-reward ratio ebbs and flows the more he considers things without the miasmic influence of that abomination throwing itself at the walls of its enclosure, howling in an endless cacophony of do it, do itdoit—
A better man wouldn't even have such a temptation. He supposes that's what you deserve, but he already had this particular crisis a few months after he met you, and realised that the things he wanted to do to you would undoubtedly put him on a list. Slapped so hard with a restraining order, his ears would still be buzzing. 
That something about you made his jowls twinge, and his teeth ache, and no amount of stay away from her, Price; she deserves better than you was going to keep his dirty hands from curling around your throat, leaving soot-stains on your skin in the shape of his fingerprints. Brandishing ownership in burst blood vessels; a pretty collar for you to wear because as much as you like to pretend otherwise—
You're a dog just like him. 
In any case, he's the best choice for you. The only one who'd burn the world just to keep you warm, and that's what you really need. Protection. 
And fuck—you toy with that particular urge that has always been etched in fine lines within the walls of bones; dipping your fingers into it, and spreading it over the apples of your cheek. Everything about you prickles along his hindbrain. Renders him from a modern man with modern ideals to an animal who can only speak in growls, snarls; pure primalism, all instinct. 
You're made for each other down to the bone. He's sure he could split your head apart and find that your cranial sutures are perfectly mirrored. Made in the same image: you were grown from his missing rib, and he always meant to be cradled in the brackets of your thighs. 
So, crisis of worthiness aside—because there are none, not anymore—he plots. Plans. Schemes. But his machinations keep catching on the soft fibrils of your wants. 
John doesn't know what he'd do if you changed your mind. 
(Or, rather, he does but that's another madness to unravel with his personal therapist.)
It's with this—the slight brandishing of his uncertainty in your certainty—that he gives up the idea, pocketing it for a later date, and drives home, back to you. 
He doesn't toss the bag on the counter, but sets it up perfectly, placing it as close to the edge where the bin sits under it. All it would take is a breath of wind for it to fall into the trash. 
That doesn't happen, though. You stare at the white, crinkled package for a moment as he sips on his tea, quietly contemplative. With your expression hidden from him, he has no idea what might be going through that pretty head of yours. Disappointment, he can only hope. And then you're reaching for it, fingers gripping the bag tightly in your fist. He hears the paper crumble. It sparks something inside his chest. A bloom of hope that you might just throw it out. Toss it in the bin—
You turn to him instead, knuckles white. 
“Thanks,” you say, and the matter is dropped. 
He goes to tuck that want back where it escaped, leaving slick trails of putrefying rot behind, but—
John peeks in the vanity later that evening, but where he expects to see the little rectangular package sitting in its usual spot between his aftershave and the mouthwash, he finds nothing. Just an empty spot on the ledge, spotlit by the lack of dust. A clean square of white paint, undisturbed. 
His jaw twinges. He wonders if you're hiding it from him, keeping it safe from his machinations, but then he finds it shoved in the drawer with his shaving kit, and the box of condoms he bought when you'd first started dating (for show, naturally—John had no intentions of using them and learned persuasion was your Achilles heel; that and you tended to get a little glossy-eyed whenever he growled filth in your ear, the smell of your cunt heavy on his breath). 
The package is crinkled like you squeezed it tight in your little fist before you tossed it in. 
You're always meticulous in the way you put things in their places. Even the junk drawer is organised, all neat. 
This speaks volumes, but he's not quite sure what it says. They are still here, though. Accessible. One is missing from the pack. It dampens his mood. 
He picks up his toothbrush, and runs through those calculations again to see how he can convince you to skip the one you're meant to take tomorrow. And the next day, and the next, and the next—
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He stays awake as you sleep beside him, looking into how many days you can miss before your brand of birth control stops being effective. 
Seven pills in a row. 
He files it away, lost in thought. 
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The next morning, he leaves his phone open on the bedside table with the article pulled up. He kisses you awake before he leaves to shower, humming something soft under his breath. 
When he returns, he finds you sitting up in bed with your knees drawn to your chest. There's something pensive about the look on your face. Paper soft, as though it would all blow away at a mere whisper. 
You regard him almost cooly but something raw, fractured splits over the ravine. A waterfall of midnight black sludge rains down. 
(He wonders if it tastes of the same rot, the same madness, as the basin of the untouched recesses of his head—)
“I'm working late tonight,” you murmur after a measured beat, and he can't place your tone. “Maybe we can watch a movie when I get home.” 
John nods, and your eyes drop, scaling down his bare, broad chest as he breathes in the flint staining the air. Your gaze is white-hot when it bludgeons into him, feverish. 
It doesn't take much beckoning at all to have him crawling toward you, towel ripped from his hips and thrown somewhere in the aether. 
As he steals the madness from your tongue, his eyes flicker to the phone still sitting on the table. It looks perfectly untouched. The screen is off. 
That, too, he files away. 
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John comes to the succinct conclusion that the only means he has in his arsenal to get what he wants—legally, and somewhat morally, anyway—is persuasion. 
There's no recourse if he can water that burgeoning plant inside of you, make it seem like this is something you want, too. A family. With him. 
(Only him.)
He knows that you see things quite similarly to him. Wherein love is desire. Desire is hunger. And there's nothing more profound to you than to eat the person you love alive. Consumption of every part—the good, the beautiful, the bad, the ugly, and the rotted: skin, fat, muscles, blood, and bones. All of it. 
So, even if somewhere down the road you think you hate him for this, it'll be fine. He'll just consume that, too. 
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John Price is a tenacious man. Stubborn. 
(Bullish, he hears around the barracks. Fuckin’ stubborn prick, too.)
It helps that this line of work is perfectly suited for such a peremptory drive to the finish line, no matter the cost. Utilitarian to a fault, despite his rather recalcitrant disposition. It's how he gets his way more often than not. Brutish dominance. Loutish suppression. 
But a near reckless, suicidal loyalty that attracts the sort of beasts this line of work needs. 
But that's work, not this. Not trying to convince you, his sugar-sweet (and viciously diabolical) lover, to bear the burden of giving him a family because society says it's uncouth (and illegal, morally reprehensible, villainous) for him to chain you to his bed to keep the darker parts of himself that want to rip into anyone who had the pleasure—pleasure that no longer belongs to them—of looking at you. 
That's all for him. 
(Nasty old bastard.) 
And, of course, because he's ready. Everything clicks. Locks into place. There's no one else out there for him. 
Really, though—it's your fault for prodding that beast in the first place. For letting inside your house, your bed. For thinking it could be tamed. And so. You should accept responsibility for it. 
(Nasty, nasty—)
But just as much as you know him, he knows you. You'll give him a litany of reasons why this shouldn't happen, and none of them will be because this isn't what you want. It'll be filled with reasons why you think he doesn't. 
And that simply won't do. 
So, he plots. Plans. 
The thing is. No one ever taught him how to hold things in his hands without crushing it. 
He doesn't think he can be delicate. Gentle. There's no way to gently nudge you into this. No. 
He'll convince you to yield the same way a tsunami convinces a house to move out of the way. 
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Buried to the hilt in your cunt, he growls gospels into your ear about this beautiful Shangri-la, this sprawling castle he has in Spain until you're clenching down around him tight, conditioning your body to come at the thought of swelling with his child. About letting his seed take root, letting him knock you up. 
It's a crass image that he spits into your head—fuck you until it takes, love; breed this pretty cunt every day until you're fat and swollen—serves as the positive reinforcement to his classical conditioning. He'll turn you into one of Pavlov's mutts, salivating at the sound of him groaning into your ear as he fills your pussy up to the brim. He'll reshape you, change your wants until you only come around his cock when he's spitting his release against the plug of your womb. 
And when you make to get up, letting all his spend slip from your sloppy cunt to take your pill, he pulls you closer under the guise of wanting to feel your body on his, murmuring diabolical compromises he has no intention of letting you see through. 
“Later,” he rasps, pulling you closer. His mouth slots across your temple. “Just take it later, sweetheart. Later.”
“But—”
“It’ll be fine.” 
And, as if you'd been waiting for that reassurance, you melt into his hands, wet putty. 
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(you take the bloody pill later, and he adds that to his mental calendar, adjusting the maths. He supposes he’ll just have to try harder next time.)
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John's desire for you is overwhelming, all-encompassing, and he schemes around his wandering hands, bullying into your messy cunt only moments before your alarm is meant to go off, reminding you to take your pill, reinforcing that irritating little wall that keeps his come from reaching your womb. 
It goes off, but he hardly hears it over the roaring in his ears, the sweet, sweet litany of moans that slip out, staining the pillow with your pleasure. He just keeps fucking you through it, growling mindlessly into your ears about how badly he wants to come inside of you. His warnings, threats, about how close he is intertwining with your desperate begging for him to come, come inside me, John is the most beautiful harmonisation he'd ever heard, and it sews itself into his marrow, polluting the ugliness inside with a new, fresh hell for him to torture himself with. That delicious pleasure-pain that drives him mad—
He fills you up, palm pressed taut to your lower belly as he spits his virile release deep into your cunt. He can feel the heavy outline of his cock against your skin, stuffed full of him, and it's this—the way he moulds your body around him, cock visible through your flesh—that makes his eyes roll back into his head. Makes the urge to fuck, to breed, to claim bludgeon into him, shattering reason, logic. He wants to change you, irrevocably. Forever. To mar you with his touch, his essence. 
“Mine,” he chokes out, ugly and raw. It's a mangled mess in his throat. A threat. “All fucking mine, aren't you, love? All mine—”
His words seem to throw you into another climax, cunt clenching greedily down around him as he softens inside of you, plugging you up. You liked that, he notes, purs. The notion brands itself across his resolve, reshaping it into something that would make anyone else recoil in fear, disgust. 
But you preen at this creature that bares its fangs at you, snaps wicked teeth against your jugular. Fingers threading through its hair, shushing it, soothing it, as you pull it back into your embrace, head tucked against your chest. You lull it into complacency with the heavy thud of your heart, your sweet, earthy scent. 
What a pair, he thinks, and clamps his hands around your wrist when you murmur something about taking your pill now. Need to take it before it gets too late, John—
He makes his move, distracts you with his mouth, his tongue. 
“Just take it after,” he murmurs into your pussy, thighs bracketing around his head. His hands pull your waist down, pressing you harder against his mouth. “Later, love. It'll be fine—”
“But, John—”
The protest dies, turns to ash, when he grunts, sealing his lips around your clit, bullying it with the rasping press of tongue until you're arching your back, riding his face. Thoughts of your silly pill are gone, swallowed by him as you gush, drenching his mouth in your slick. 
And after, when you make to get up again, he pulls you close instead, voice curling around you like smoke when he tells you to take it after. 
“No, love. Stay in bed with me,” he peppers kisses to your cheek, your jaw, chin, sweetening his words, and folds you into the tight embrace of his arms. “Take it in the morning. It'll be fine to miss a day.”
You level him with something that shadows the ravines in your gaze with pure, unadulterated scepticism, but as he scouts the canyons, the valleys, the pretty craters that make up the composite of your eyes, he finds no discernible trace of wariness, uncertainty. The terse line in his shoulders ease. 
But while fossicking around he unearths something else. Something a bit more enigmatic, calculative, than doubt. Equivocal, slippery, it runs from him when he tries to give chase, tucking itself back into the harsh tenebrous that shades the landscape. 
He hums, wanting to ask, but you sigh in quasi-acquiescence, and burrow deeper into his embrace. 
“Fine,” you huff, but he tastes a purring sense of satisfaction in the air. “I'll take it tomorrow instead.” 
“Good girl.” The praise slips out, low and gritty, perfumed with his heavy greed. 
You shiver against him. The hitch in your throat is quiet in the bedroom, but to him, it sounds like a gunshot. 
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John keeps meticulous track of the empty pill slots, and notes with a sticky, resinous sense of glee that the numbers are becoming muddled, skewed. Later becomes tomorrow, and your soft acquiesce has days skipped. Missed. 
You can't double up, you huff to him, mournfully slinking into the bed. It's nearly one in the morning. Technically, a brand new day. I absolutely have to take it tomorrow, John. Make sure you remind me—
There's something pointed in your tone. Something oil-slick. He nods, bites back a grin. 
“Sure,” he pulls you close, breathes in the sweet, loamy scent of you—sweat and sex and the lingering remnants of your perfume, your soap—and lets it stain his lungs. “I can do that.” 
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You say nothing at all when he doesn't bring it up until well past midnight the next day, offering little more than an exasperated groan, and a huffy roll of your eyes, as if this was just a missed dinner with friends and not a life-changing misstep. 
(The beast purrs. He places his hand over his chest, and feels the rumble under his skin.)
“Need to be more responsible than this, John,” you say, squirming in his hold to try and rush to the washroom to take that pesky little pill. 
“Sorry, love,” he offers, and means none of it. Clings tighter to you. “Got a bit carried away today, is all.” 
“It's not your fault—” something curls out from a dark crevasse when you look at him. “I've been so—off lately, you know? Must be the new batch. Maybe I should call my doctor.” 
He stills. Body tensing, coiling. John tries to speak, but the words are ash on his tongue. He clears his throat. 
“Could stop taking it.” 
It crackles in the air. Hangs heavy like a stormcloud. 
You blink, stunned. But it's artificial, hollow. Pulled from a wicker basket where you keep all your different skins. 
“You mean—what? Stop it all together—?”
You flit in the space once more, but it's less of an injured bird searching for an escape, he realises suddenly, and more of—
A boomslang. 
One rearing up, searching for the perfect place to strike. 
Wishful thinking, though, because you're flustered and skittish once more, a small prey animal he isn't sure what he wants to do the most—sink his teeth into you, tear you into pieces, and devour you whole, or hide you away from the world. 
“I can look for something else in the meantime,” you sound shy, hesitant, and it prickles across his skin. “But we'd need to be careful, you know. Otherwise you might actually get me pregnant.”
He tries to swallow his groan. Chokes on it instead. 
“Sure, sure—” he hacks into his palm. “Of course, love. We'll be safe. I'll pull out—”
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Naturally, he doesn't. Makes no effort to even try despite promising you he is. 
“Not my fault your pussy won't let go of me, love,” he grumbles, hand cupping your weeping sex in his palm. The heat of you is searing. Blistering. He thinks he could happily melt inside of it for the rest of his life, and leans down to whisper his devotion into your come-slicked folds, the bitter tang of you, of him, admixing on his tongue. An elixir he could drown in. 
You huff at him after, all glossy-eyed and sex-drunk, and tell him to please try harder, John, I'll have to get plan b tomorrow—
You don't, but the threat of it, the possibility, lingers in the back of his mind, souring his thoughts. 
Next time, and I'll have to, John, you say, featherlight, lips pressed against the head of his cock. A warning, a goddamn tease—
His voice is strained, pinched. “Of course, love,” and he guides your mouth back to his cock, letting the matter fall into pieces when you suck on the sensitive head, tongue licking, coy and kittenish, over his frenulum. 
It's only later, when watches you swallow down his come, that the beast slinks out of the shadows, pocketing the fragments. 
You're off birth control—barely any scheming words of whispered concern needed—but the idea of you taking a little pill to wipe away his efforts has him pulling back. Recalibrating his plans. 
He decides on a different route to the same end. 
Damnation at your own hand. 
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John, for his credit, does begin to pull out after that—albeit, with a great deal of agonised reluctance—and instead comes all over your pretty face. 
With thick ropes of his pearlescent spend dripping down the apples of your heated cheeks, he doesn't think he's ever seen a sight more beautiful than this. 
And one with more opportunity.
Slowly, he swipes at it with his thumb and then promptly brings it down, hard, on your clit. You flinch, mewling at the overstimulation, and the threat he brings so close to your raw, unprotected sex. It's dangerous. This thin line he dances along could snap at any moment. Could rain hellfire and fury over his broad shoulders, unmake all the progress he'd steadily built up. 
He walks the precipice, anyway. He pulls his hand away, and brings two fingers up to curve over your cheeks. His thumb, stained with your slick and his come, slides across your bottom lip. 
The pout you give him—all wet-eyed lachrymose—has his spent cock twitching against his sticky thigh. “Fuck, love. Gonna send me to an early grave if you keep starin’ at me like that.” 
“You're cracked,” you slur around his thumb. In retaliation, he digs it into your tongue, and preens—full of nasty, gnarled satisfaction—when your eyes flutter, rolling into the back of your head at the taste. 
With this brief distraction, he drops his come-stained fingers to your mound, and rubs along the swollen rim of your hole. Just touching, pressing. A tease, a whisper. 
You tense. “John—” it's muffled around his thumb, and he isn't sure if it's a warning or a plea. 
He pushes the tips in, barely to the first knuckle, and just pets around your rim. 
It's a battle of wills, now. “No more than this,” he promises, and the undercurrent of his threat rents the air. Makes you bristle. 
You always loved a challenge—especially coming from him. 
“Just the tip?” You tease, spittle running down your chin. Your eyes are dark—midnight skies, ink black—and he's struck by the afterimage of himself in those pools. Made in the same image. 
He grunts, slides into the first knuckle, and scissors them apart. 
“John—” it's breathless. Your teeth spear his thumb, tight around his bone. He wants nothing more than to have you bite down hard, scar his bones with the gnawed meteors of your desire. Your desperation. “Fuck—please—”
You give in so prettily, and he barely has a moment to think about how quick it's been when you angle your hips, hand falling to grip his wrist tight as you slide down his fingers, all the way to the last knuckle. 
You clench around him like a vice. A pretty bow. He fucks you with his fingers, meeting your shallow thrusts with ones of his own, slamming viciously into your pussy as he coos adorations into your ear. 
With his other hand, he reaches down and fists himself over your bare mound, pressing the tip against your clit where it weeps prespend over your flesh. His thumb sweeps across what spills out, dragging it back down to your sopping hole, pushing it inside. 
It's probably not enough to reach your womb, to get you pregnant, but he clings to that tantalising fantasy as he drills his fingers into you until you come, breathlessly begging him to fuck you harder, to fill you up—
He isn't even fucking you with his cock, and you still beg him for it. 
John pushes the tip into your slit, fingers still buried deep inside of your throbbing pussy, and groans with the force of his release. It makes him dizzy, almost nauseous with it, filling his head with nothing but the sweet, wounded sound of your moans filling the room, and the wet squelch of his fingers pulling out of you. 
When he catches the threads of cognisance in his fingers once more, he leans back on his haunches, chest heaving, and brands the messy sight of your pussy fluttering, clenching around nothing, as his spend drips down your slit, over your hole, and pools in the sheets below. 
He's not sure if heaven exists, but he knows the sight of you, breathless and whimpering on his bed, is the closest a man like him will ever come to seeing it. 
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The push-pull of this little game stretches on. 
Price likes to see just how far he toe the line before you're whimpering into the sheets, telling him don't, John, don't come inside me, I'm not anything, John—and he's ripping himself away from the tight clutch of your wet, hot cunt, and coming all over you.
The illicit tease of barely pulling out in time, and then scooping up the mess he makes on your face, your breasts, your belly, your ass, lower back, thighs, and spooning it into your pussy until it's a fixture in your bedroom ritual. 
And maybe it's the threat of it all, of playing such a dangerous game, seems to cudgel under his skin the most, ripping apart the thin veneer of that man he once pretended to be—righteous and good—shedding it off with each hiccupped gasp you make when he presses his come-slicked fingers inside of you, murmuring guttural words of affection in the shape of impish mockery (want it bad, don't you, sweet thing; so fuckin’ greedy for it, love—). 
He likes it the most when he can fuck you stupid on his fingers. Cockdrunk, and come-starved (because you are, of course; he hasn't come inside of your cunt in weeks, and doesn't miss the mournfully pitiful whines you give when he pulls out, depriving you of the pleasure of feeling him come inside you), you're too blissed out, swimming in pleasure, to think about what he's doing. 
In fact, he doesn't really give you much of a chance to think at all. 
The next few weeks are filled with him fucking you each night brutally, viciously, snarling low in your ear about how bad he wants to come in you, stuff you full, and then keep you plugged up all night with his cock that it takes, and then pulling out right before, committing the sight of your betrayed expression to memory where it'll sit like a trophy when you finally break. 
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You make an appointment with your gynaecologist, and circle the date on his calendar. 
John notes it down. Tucks it away. 
And then he amps up the pressure.
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John's fingers root behind your knees, pushing your thighs apart as he settles between them. His gaze drills into your bare cunt, slick and wet, and so ready for him. Eager for it. 
He'd counted the days, and knows that if there's ever the absolute worst time to have unprotected sex, to come inside of you, is now. 
Which, of course, means he has to. The clause in that is ironclad. Apodictic. 
“Bit dangerous,” he rasps, and lifts your leg up, resting your ankle on his shoulder. You fluster beneath him, panting and pretty, and fuck—he’s not pulling out of your pussy tonight at all. “Should I pull out?” 
It's a tease. A test. 
He reaches down as he says the words, gripping his cock and bringing it down against your wet heat. The bare, blunt head of his cocks slaps against your clit, and you arch, keening. Nails bite into the thick muscles of his biceps, and he leans into the sharp sting. Letting it ground him. Centre him. 
This will be your cacoëthes. 
He's been depriving you for weeks, and John knows that you're wanting for it. Desperate. The little twitches your hips give, as if begging him to fill you up, are proof enough of how much you want this. 
This. The dream he dripped into your ears, hot oil congealing over your frontal lobe; infectious and thick. You can try to chisel it off, but the pollution is already damning. Ruining. 
You want this. He wears the axiom like armour. 
And you beg for it—eyes shaded in gut wrenchingly beautiful lachrymose—and John snuffles closer, inching the weeping head of his cock into your tight, warm heat. 
The sight of splitting you open is something he never grows tired of. Something that, without fail, makes his balls ache. His chest thrum. Blood turns to ichor. To wine. He's drunk on the contrast made between you—a garish chiaroscuro of your pretty pussy, soft and sickly sweet—almost nauseatingly so—swallowing down the fat, girthy length of his cock. The thick streams of veins running along the flushed, heavy shaft against your puffy, soft folds is almost hideous. Sinful. He can't equate it to anything else except corruption. The horrific beast sullying the princess. 
And fuck—
The thought alone makes him throb. 
He's sullied you plenty, he reckons, and yet you always look so sweet. Especially now, when your rim is stretched taut around the thick of him, pussy squeezing, clenching around him in a vice, as if you weren't sure to push him out or pull him deeper. 
John decides for you. Opting instead to push your knees down to your chest, nearly brushing your ears, and follows with the bulk of his body until he feels your breath rush out of your lungs. You struggle for a moment, gasping wetly into his ear as his weight—every bearish pound of it—rests on you in the perfect mating press. Your bite into his biceps, keening prettily into his ear as he bullies the full length of his cock into you. Spears you open. Splits you apart. 
He can feel you gush around him, drenching his groin and thighs with your slick. 
Like this—chest to chest, forced to breathe in the same air, the same madness—he likes to just stare at you, taking in the heat simmering under your skin, the sweat beading along your temple, the pinch in your brow as you struggle to adjust to the sheer width of him cudgelling you open. A battering ram you're forced to make room for. 
He takes it all in, each flicker of emotion, each heaving gasp. Burns it into his memory. Lets it soften the iron around his heart. Keeps it there, nestled in the cradle of his limited love, held aloft by indelicate, bearish hands. This sweet thing. 
He can't wait to ruin it. 
If these weeks leading up to this were lovemaking, fucking, then this, this, is mating. Animalistic. Primal. He pushes in as deep as he can, until the tip kisses the ripened seal of your womb, and grinds his hips cruelly into the cradle of your thighs. 
Your nails leave bloodied indents in his flesh. A scar he'll proudly bear the mark of. A tattoo of the time when he turned you into something new. 
His balls are soaked. The sheets, too. He mocks you for it, a rasping growl lodged deep in his throat, taunting you about how fucking wet you are for him. How badly you need it. 
“Gotta plug you up, hm?” He grunts, and sets a pace that serves only to accentuate the sloppy, messy squelch of your cunt. 
His cock pistoning into you, alternating between deep, full thrusts that knock the air from your lungs, and heavy, slow plunges meant to badger the blunt head of his cock against your walls. 
You seem to like it best when he shifts his weight between each thigh, content to just grind into you. Make you feel every inch of him. You cling to him, yowling in his ear about how good it feels, how much you love this, love his cock—
The thick bed of wry, umber curls on his chest, stomach, and groin grow slick with sweat from the intensity of it all, from the shared heat. Pressed tight against you, he feels every quiver. Every flinch. Each moan is made known in a slight reverberation across his skin before he hears it. 
Drenched in sweat, glued to you as he fucks you into the mattress, John feels very much like the beast making a house out of a twisted whim in his head. Feverish, sick, he drives into you with the single minded goal of filling that home up with three. Then four. Five—
As many as you'll let him.
And he almost loses himself to that thought alone. Dancing sugar plums that make his balls tighten. He stems the flood by pulling out of you, letting his heavy cock slap against your sticky, soaked cunt as he heaves into your hairline, sucking in the heady loam, the humus, of your scent. 
The whimper you make when he pulls out of you sounds like a wounded animal, and the noise tickles across his hindbrain. His jaw aches. He bites down on a snarl as you thrash against him, mindless with the need to have him inside of you. It brings a nasty, vicious curl to the ends of his mouth, and he doesn't even bother trying to tamper it down. John lifts his head and lets you see his foaming muzzle, drooling with thick globes of saliva. 
“Stay still,” he growls, low and dangerous. It's as much of a warning as it is a command, and the way you react, tensing, coiling tight—the flash of unease. Shock. And then the need. Achy, heavy. He feels it against his jugular when you shiver, moaning his name into the space between you where it reeks of desperation. 
To soften the submissive tremble in your jaw—and maybe to temper down the challenging talons sharpening in your gaze—he nuzzles his cheek against yours, peppers wet kisses to your skin. He licks across your jaw, bites down on your flesh. 
He tastes salt and sin on your skin. 
(His eyes roll so far back into his skull he thinks he might get lost.)
“Gonna cum on your pretty cunt if you don't stop squirming, love.” 
And John loves you most for your waspish intelligence—the ire smouldering in your throat. The way you bite back just as hard, never afraid to bear teeth when he snarls. He doesn't think he could ever love someone too soft—not without tearing them to pieces. To shreds. 
But you wear plush, tender conchoidal skin over jagged, rough obsidian. He'll ruin himself if he ever tries to rip you apart. 
Like this, though—you melt. 
All that keen, vicious intelligence snuffed out. His scheming Cleopatra tamed on his cock. 
Your heels dig into the back of his thighs, urging him closer to your sex. “Come on, John, just fuck me, fuck me already—”
(Tamed, though, perhaps being a misnomer.)
He huffs into your neck. “Impatient little quean.”
It gets him a sharp bite to the tip of his ear, and the floor roars so loudly in his veins, he gets dizzy from it. 
“Fuck—”
He's pressing back into you again, into your warm, tight heat, and it's nirvana kissing his nerves. Liquifying his spine. He rolls into you with a weighted groan, buried to the hilt once more. 
But even with the respite, he knows he won't last. 
John needs you fucked stupid, docile and soft just for him, and sets out to do just that. Pounding into you with a spiteful twist of his hips that he knows will leave you a little sore, and tender tomorrow. But the idea of spreading your puffy, achy folds apart and soothing the slight hurt with his tongue for hours until you're sobbing into the cushions quells any hesitation that rears, begging him to slow down. 
Go easy on your pretty cunt.
(As if.)
John batters into you until your eyes glaze over, and your chin, cheeks, smear with drool. Until the challenge in midnight black melts into submission. Docile, and malleable. Perfect for him to mould. Shape. 
Reshape.
He glues to you, touch starved and tactile, and basks in the liquid heat that blooms from deep within you. 
“Gonna cum soon,” he snarls, broken by the heave in his chest as he fucks into you, starved. “Gotta pull out, love—”
You're gripping him tighter, anchoring him to your body. You haven't come yet. Something he dangles in front of you like a threat. 
He watches the slow crawl of realisation crest over your messy face, and thinks he falls just a little bit more in love with you at the sight of your little pout. 
Loves, even more, the way it breaks apart when he pounds into you harder, viciously, watching drool dribble off your chin, and reason leak from your ears—
“Please, John—” the sound of your whimpering has him grunting, head dizzy with the saccharine sweet taste of it on his tongue. “Please, please—come inside me. I–I want you to–to fill me up—”
“Yeah?” He taunts, mean and breathless. “Want me to come inside your sloppy cunt? Dangerous, ain't it? Jus’ might take, sweet thing. Is that what you want?”
You're howling a litany of sin into his ear, desperation drenches each clamour of his name, each orison uttered, begging him to come, to fill you up, and then—
“Fuck—I want it so bad—” his head is filled with static. Whitenoise. “Want it to take, John—”
He comes inside of you, cock pulsing so hard it feels like a sob. Filling you up. Wishing on all the stars that it takes—
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As a reward for your good behaviour, he spreads you out over the sheets, and growls his approval into your sopping pussy, drenching himself with the taste, the smell, of you, promising to wear it like a perfume so everyone knows how good you are for him. Him, alone. 
(His, his, his—)
When you come, you nearly smother him, and he thinks he sees a glimpse of nirvana in baby soft yellow before he's pulled back by your shaking hands brushing the hair off his sweat-slicked forehead. 
“Are you okay, John—”
He rolls you under him, fucking into your drenched pussy like a man starved. That tantalising vision glues itself to his hindbrain, so close he can scent the fresh dew of fresh milk, and warm bread in his nose. Feel the bump of your stomach. 
He's almost angry about it, about being ripped away from that dream, and takes his aggression out on your sloppy, leaking cunt. The way his come trickles out, staining the mattress below and the back of your thighs has him growling darkly into your nape. 
“Keep it in,” he snarls, words sharpened on the whetstone of his need. “Keep it all inside, love.” 
“Ah, John, John—” something falls from your split-slicked lips, and his fingers bite into your hips. Punishment for the slurred backtalk. 
“I'll spank your ass if any of it leaks out—”
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It does. Of course it does. 
He bends you over his knee, and slaps his broad, rough palm over each cheek ten times before deliriously shoving two thick fingers into your sloppy cunt, stuffing his come back inside your tender, swollen hole, rough and mean, as you howl, squirming in his lap about how you promise you'll be good next time, John, please—I'll keep it all in, I swear, I—
“You fuckin’ better, love.” He groans, and thinks about cumming on your messy face, all slick with sweat, and drool, but decides against it. A waste, he thinks, and leans over you to shove the thick, twisting length of his angry cock inside you to the hilt just spit his release against your seal once more. 
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“That was…” You're still panting against his chest, eyes dazed, and body laxed. Melted wax over his chest. “Intense,” you settle on after a beat. 
There's a hiccup in your breath when he hums, chest rumbling with the sound. 
“Mm, but you liked it, didn't you?”
Of course you did. Of course. The evidence of it is drying, tacky and slick, on his groin, his thighs. 
You burrow into his side, peeking at him from over the thick bed of wry curls that clot over his chest. “You're fucking me like you haven't in years, John. Makes me wonder if you have an agenda.”
He considers your words. The weight of them. Wonders just how much you've clued into, but huffs when he catches the same look in your eyes as the one reflected in his own.
Cheeky little—
“Can't I just want to fuck you? Not everything has to be about schemes, love.” 
The oil of his lies, the sticky resin of his evasion makes you huff into his skin.
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In all his meticulous planning, he'd picked up several books on this particular topic, and scoured every available, reputable, site he could find. John knows what to look out for by now, and keeps a keen eye on you—one that very quickly dips into obsessiveness, but you're kind enough to call it overbearing. 
Jesus Christ, John, why are you asking me how many times I pissed today? 
He just needs to wait things out. 
But rather irritatingly, he's called away overseas for the next week. 
Ah, well. He'll have to try harder next time. 
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He arrives in Heathrow mid-morning, and follows Laswell into the office. There's a mountain of reports to fill out—things that, rather irritatingly, require his signature—and resolves to spend the rest of the day hunched over at his desk, even though there's an itch in the back of his skull demanding he go home. 
It is always like this, though—both the post-mission ritual of banal paperwork that seems almost comical considering what he'd just done, and the undeniable urge to flee back into the sanctuary of your shared home. 
His bones ache for it. 
Laswell huffs when he lingers by the exit, and he swallows a groan. 
While he was away, you'd been silent. Moreso than usual. 
Where he'd have expected an update on what was going on—the mundanity of your life that he clings to when the beast in his head whets its talons a little too sharp, digs into a little too deep—you’ve gone silent. Not radio. Not completely. But the information you give is sparse. Cagey.
You don't tell him about the visit to the gynaecologist, offering nothing but a quiet hum into the receiver, all blase and nonchalant, and a simple, equivocal: “good.” 
He tucks it away, lets the matter drop. 
If he timed things correctly—barring your impish prevarication aside—then something will begin to show soon. You would have mentioned something. Some nominal change to your physical well-being, but when pried, pressed, you huff. 
“I'm good, John. When are you coming home, anyway?”
He raps his knuckles on his desk, still smarting from the punches he'd thrown recklessly this past week, too keyed up to let his anger simmer instead of boil, and thinks. About you. About this. 
A week isn't a lot of time—he’s been called away for months in the past—but this feels like it's lingering. Time stretched and distorted. Elongated. And a part of him feels chipped, fractured after touchdown. 
It wasn't as if this particular assignment was any more, or less, dangerous than the ones he went on before. If anything, it was comparatively mild. Muted. He honed into his training, and did his goddamn job. And yet—
Yet. 
You lived in the spaces he occupied. The air he breathed. The water he drank. 
He brought you with him, something he's never, ever, done before. Perched pretty on his shoulder, he heard your voice in his head with every step he took, every radio call. 
But it was hallucinatory. Chimerical. You weren't there, you were here, but the problem lies in the lack of a divide that usually bifurcates the world into two fractions: his job and you.
It eats at him. 
He brought you where he's never taken anyone before. Never let them in. 
His thoughts were asunder. Pulled in all directions, but the centre was always you. His compass pointing north. He wants you. Needs you. His whole being has been recalibrated with the needle aimed toward you. 
An alert on his phone shakes him from his reverie. 
He reaches for it, slides his hand across the lockbar. The notification pops up. A message from his bank. 
His card—the one he gave you, the one you've used all of once to buy a chocolate bar when he gruffly, surely, complained about you not spending his money—has been used. 
Curious now, he opens his app, eyes scanning the threadbare purchases—all mostly interest fees and service charges, bar one. It was recently used at a drugstore for under twenty dollars. 
He doesn't know what this means, what you're playing at. He makes to text you, but he gets an email next. 
Thank you for your purchase; here is your e-receipt. 
His heart does something strange in his chest. Turns in on itself. Goes all askew. 
Not only are you using his card, you're using his account, too. He clicks it, eyes scanning through the purchases (only two), and blinks. 
A card, and—
His want takes the shape of a hand, presses against his jugular. 
—a pregnancy test. 
He knew when he started this game that this was, of course, the inevitable outcome, but having it here, right in front of him—in that sneaky, noncommittal way you always do things; behind his back, and in the dark, like you enjoy watching him try and sniff out the truth—has his belly knotting up. Churning. 
A pregnancy test. 
Fuck—
(and out of all the ways to tell him, you cheeky little—)
He's up out of his chair before he's even aware that he's standing. 
“Laswell,” he gets out, and can't be sure how his voice is so measured when his head is being shredded into pieces. “I'm out for the rest of the day. This whole bloody week, too—”
“Something bad happen?” 
His hands shake when he pulls his jacket on, slips his car keys into his hands. “No. Quite the opposite, actually. I'm going to be a father. A bloody dad—”
It's on that sentiment when his voice breaks. Shatters. He clears his throat, blinks furiously. Fuck. Fuck. It's happening—
Shangri-la sits in his fist, taking the shape of an e-mailed receipt. 
In his periphery, he sees Simon's head come up. Watching him. Measured. 
Laswell, too, eyes him with a degree of wariness. He supposes to them this means the end of everything. 
She breathes in. “Tuscany would be my choice.”
“Oh?” He tears his eyes away from the screen, gracing her with a steady, unflinching look. “Was thinking something a bit more local. Liverpool.”
It gets a scoff, one full of disgust. “She'll divorce you within the year.” 
“I'm having a baby, Laswell. Not getting married.”
“Oh, no?” It's a challenge. “I seem to recall something about someone being a proper gentleman, or was that just the lie you told your unofficial missus?”
“We'll get married. That's not up for debate—” an intern makes an alarmed face, like perhaps it ought to be. Had he not been holding nirvana in his hand, he might be a bit more cautious with his madness. Too bloody bad. “Wherever she wants—Tuscany, Udaipur, fucking Siberia. I don't care. What I’m a bit more concerned with is my expectant wife.” 
“Soon-to-be,” she volleys, just because she knows it's the sort of thing that will itch under his skin. 
“Already is, Laswell.” He gripes, flat. “Or damn near close to it.” 
“If she knows what's good for her, she'll say no.”
“Lucky me, then, that she doesn't.” 
Lucky him, indeed. 
On his way out, Ghost utters a heated congratulations to him, and John can see his gaze is absent. Turned inward, mind whirring. Reeling. He can hear the gears grind from where he stands, and if the ink-black madness in his lieutenant’s drifting, pensive eyes means much of anything, then John sends a silent hail mary to whatever unlucky person was misfortune enough to unleash the muzzle on that particular dog. 
Well. It's not really his problem. Until it is. Until it becomes one. But since it's not something that'll impact him in the next five minutes, he tucks it away. “Thanks.” 
He doesn't linger. Doesn't, really, even remember the ride home, head buzzing with thoughts that keep twisting around themselves, driving him mental. Things like, is it real? what if you were joking. what you weren't? 
Oh, fuck—
You better not be. 
But you wouldn't. You're conniving and wily, but you're not cruel. 
This is happening, then. 
You've been playing house with matches inside of a tinderbox. He shouldn't be surprised when it all goes up in flames, in smoke, but as he walks through the door, and glimpses the pregnancy test perched innocently on the counter beside a card—congrats, daddy (and the caricature of a man in a pinstripe suit nearly makes him gag)—he feels all the maligned pieces inside of crack. 
It shifts—
You walk out, hand cupped protectively over your lower belly. Eyes gleaming like a wild cat crouched low in the tussocks surrounding the savannah, watching him an eager sense of anticipation, excitement, and just the slightest edge of what he can only imagine the unfortunate mate of a black widow sees before it's consumed. Spare parts. 
It thrums inside of him. Ignites this wicker basket he calls a heart until it's cinder. Ash. Soot. He breathes it in. Tastes you on his tongue. 
John doesn't have the words. Can't think beyond the steady brag of his burning heart. 
His. His.
—and then it all falls into place. 
Yours.
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He dotes on you with an almost unhinged devotion, murmuring stilted, gruff words of muted affection into the shallow bump on your belly. Ones that you, politely, pretend not to hear. 
A new bedtime ritual, one he adheres to with an almost obsessive need. 
Until it becomes too much. 
“Go and get my prenatal vitamins from the washroom, please. I just need five minutes without you smothering me, you stupid bear of a man.”
“You love it,” he grumbles, but acquiesces, giving your small, barely there bump a pat. “I'll be back soon.”
“Oh, no… please take your time.” 
Despite the prickle in your tongue, your eyes are soft. Warm. Melting him just a little more. 
John pulls away, and doesn't even pretend the reluctance to be apart is feigned. 
“It's in the drawer,” you call, voice stretched. Echoing. “Next to your shaving cream.” 
He pulls the drawer open, scanning the contents briefly, before finding the purple bottle in the back. Why you chose here of all places to put the bloody things—
His knuckles knock against the old box of condoms, tipping it over. There's a strange rattle as it falls, and his brows furrow at the noise. 
Curiously, he reaches for it. Shakes it as he picks it up. The same sounds spill out. He pops the flap of the box open, peering inside, and—
A gruff chuckle crackles in his throat. 
Inside the old box of condoms—the ones he never bothered to throw out, or use—is an accumulation of all the pills you'd meant to take. 
His jowls ache. He rubs at his jaw with his hand, and feels the skittish patter of his heart thudding out of his skin. Madness in his veins. 
John closes the drawer with his knee, and then tosses the box of condoms in the bin, leaving it for you to find later when you're inevitably wracked by another wave of morning sickness. A little shred of vindication for this little game you made him play. 
Though he supposes turn-about is fair play, and the number of pills in the box is less than the months he spent scheming for this vision of his.  
In the back of his head, the beast purrs.
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“Do we need to play these games again for the next one,” he rasps. “Or can I just fuck you until it takes.” 
You blink at him, wide and owlish. Full of faux innocence as you coax the beast out of hiding. “I don't know what you're talking about, John.” 
More games, then. He thinks he might crack open your ribcage and rest his weary head on the frantic beat of your heart. 
“Mm, don't know what I'd do without you,” he says, guns aching. He reaches for the pack of gum (no smoking around the baby or you'd toss him off the balcony), and pops a spearmint into his mouth. “Might live longer, I reckon, but—”
Your elbow digs into his side. “You sure about that?”
He just kisses your crown in response, and places his heavy, scarred hand over the curve of your belly. The beast inside purrs, content for now. Satiated. 
When he looks into your midnight eyes, he finds your own beast slumbering away. 
A match made in a tinderbox, he guesses, and kisses you until you're dizzy. His very own Shangri-la sitting pretty inside his bed, nestled in the castle in Spain you helped him build.
Will help him fill. 
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harmoonix · 10 days
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Tales of the white fox
🌸 (Astrology Observations) 🌸
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~We are here, we're all alone in our own universe~
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🌸 Jupiter in Aquarius/Jupiter in the 11th house, Jupiter finds joy among the friends here, if you are attracted to men this placement can indicate a very friendly spouse/boyfriend
🌸 Uranus square the Midheaven (MC), was raised to be rebellious, unique, having an eccentric nature, this placement can make you independent in your career
🌸 Out of all the signs and based on my experience Cancer, Pisces, Libra and Scorpio placements need the most reassurance to feel better
🌸 Leo Moon (Moon in Leo Degrees 5°, 17°, 29°), what I honestly appreciate about them is their self worth, these natives appreciate themselves so much
🌸 Neptune/Moon/Pluto/Sun in the 1st house are sensitive planets to have, mostly because can make the native's body to be more sensbile than the rest, they can have sensitive skin/hair/can get allergies fast and can be prone to acne sometimes
🌸 Mars in the 5th house natives are those type of people who invite you at the party and get the most drunk out of it, when they say they enjoy life, trust them
🌸 Mars in the 11th house or in Aquarius (Mars at 11° 23° degrees) there can be some sexual tendencies between them and their friends, sometimes even flirt or just friends to lovers
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🌸 Moon in the 10th house natives weakness can be that they expose their sensitive energy to others, sometimes without knowing
🌸 When you have South Node aspecting Saturn and someone did you wrong in a past life they can backfire by him in this lifetime (Not sure 100% of this obvs yet)
🌸 Sun aspecting the ascendant can make you to be open communicative/open minded/open at the heart, gives people a good energy when they're around you
🌸 South Node in the 9th house could've possibly have studied or practiced occult or witchcraft in a past life
🌸 Venus in the 8th house on Venus in Scorpio at their worst can steal other people's energy, to be like a energetic vampire especially when it comes to seducing
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🌸 Eros (433)/Juno (3)/Groom (5129/ in the 2nd house can get spoiled by their hubbies, but also they can have this type of bf who can cook for them
🌸 Eros (433) in Libra/Scorpio/Pisces/Aries > Roses on the bed 🛏️, maybe with the text "I want to make out with you" is definitely their thing
🌸 Moon aspecting the ascendant, this beautiful aspect makes the native to have beautiful eyes, maybe a lot of people have told you this too
🌸 Uranus in the 9H/11H their friends group can be a combination of everything, every nation, every ethnicity, every race, are in their friend group
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Forever and ever together, we sail into infinity
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🌸 Sagittarius Risings have their 8th house in Cancer which indicates that they seek for nurturing and a safe place/security in bed, I'm not a Sag Rising but I love this energy period.
🌸 12th house placements love sleeping especially Sun/Moon/Neptune and Saturn!! Sleeping is their hobby I swearrrr (Cannot relate I have insomnia with a 12H Sun😭)
🌸 Mars or Aries in the 6th house can practice a lot of sports! Idk but they need a lot of movement and stimulation and they love to compete with others
🌸 The 6th house in your chart can also tell you about how you are with the plants/nature and their energy
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🌸 fire sign or mars in the 2nd house can be prone to eating fast, you see them eating a soup and it the next 2 minutes the soup is gone.
🌸 Virgo in the 2nd house/Earth Sign in the 2nd house, you cannot tell me that they're not eating something healthy or something that contains some vitamins/protein
🌸 Moon or Venus in the 2nd house or Taurus/Capricorn can have gifting as a love sign, they love buying things for their loved ones
🌸 Sun in the 3rd house/Gemini makes the native to be really a curious one, like they be the one telling "What's this for" "What does this thing do" etc + they can also put a lot of questions they're adorable imo
🌸 Venus in Cancer/Venus in Cancer Degrees 4°, 16°, 28°, for some reason I thought of an angel while writing this, definitely the vibe of "the mom of the group" they take care of everyone!!
🌸 Ascendant at 11°, 23° degrees can make the native taller/slimmer/skinny (Aquarius Degrees)
🌸 Mars in Virgo/at Virgo Degrees 6°, 18° there is something so sensual about their waist?? Is definitely something seductive
🌸 Jupiter in the 9th house, I see people saying they gonna travel a lot with their hubbies but this placement can also indicate meeting your bf/spouse in school/highschool/university etc
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🌸 Moon in Sagittarius (Sagittarius Degrees 9°,21°) somehow their outstanding energy makes them to get along with everyone in general these natives are pretty known for having large groups of friends
🌸 Pluto aspecting Mercury natives can tell when they're being lied at, don't try to lie or hide things from them, first because is very dissrespectful and second because they're gonna get hurt
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Tonight, tonight eternity's an open door
No, don't ever stop doing the things you do
Don't go, in every breath I take I'm breathing you
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🌸 Moon conjunct/sextile/trine Venus, these natives are genuinely loving, you fall in love when you're with them, they're also kind and that makes them adorable
🌸 Your Saturn placement can also tell things about your dad some examples here:
Leo Saturn - Prideful Dad, can put themselves into the spotlight/attention but also confident
Virgo Saturn - Analytical dad, a dad who thinks about all the situations and circumstances
Scorpio Saturn - The dad can be very changing in his mood, dad went through a lot when he was young and very defensive towards his loved ones
Aries Saturn - This gives me the cool dad vibe but somehow the dad with anger issues, bold but easily getting angry
Cancer Saturn - Nurturing dad, they can be sensible to your needs and often wanting to make you feel better
🌸 "Quincunx" aspects can sometimes have a more challenging energy than squares or oppositions!
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🌸 Aquarius Risings are bold when it comes to fashion take Zendaya as an example, she always wears very attractive clothes!! They can also have a unique way of styling themselves
🌸 A lot of gamers can have their 11th house prominent or prominent Aquarius energy in their house aswell as Gemini or Virgo!!
🌸 Capricorn/Libra/Scorpio/Aries Men give dominant energy!! Especially if they share common things between eachother in the natal chart
🌸 Asteroid Ceres (1) aspecting the ascendant indicates the native needs nurturing, maybe their body/mind/soul/heart, maybe a little self love..would help you so much!❤️
🌸 Ceres aspecting the Moon (in positive aspects) this placement can mean having a nurturing mom, and that you tend to be nurturing with most people in your life
🌸 Jupiter in Libra or at Libra Degrees 7°, 19°, > Is not always about your spouse girly..😍 this placement often shares loves/compassion and kindness towards you, but you definitely look after a relationship...Like Jupiter expands this side of you anyway🤣
🌸 Scorpio/Aries/Capricorn and Gemini in the 3rd house can indicate talking dirty a lot of cussing/cursing its becoming a habit..
🌸 Aquarius and Sagittarius in the 3rd house LOVE to be sarcastic when they talk I swear, they're like "Let me tell you something ************" and "ARE YOU SERIOUS?? ..after they say "I'm just sarcastic 🤌🏼"
🌸 SUN or MOON in the 9th house makes the native to be drawn toward other cultures and traditions, but in the same time they are abundent in theirs. Embrace your culture!!🌸
🌸 Venus/Sun or Mercury in the 5th house can have multiple talents/passions they're extremely creative esp if you have these plantes in a air or water sign
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~ A new week today, that means a new post for youuuu so here we go y'all! Enjoy! Also have a great start of the week everybody! 🌸🌸🌸
Har🌸🌸nix
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bluecloudsandwhitesky · 6 months
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Ok so the ONE thing I will give Crowley a little bit of shit for ( and even then I’m so sorry bbg but just listen) is the “ no nightingales” line.
Cuz that was so unnecessarily cruel?? Like at this point they’d already broken each other’s hearts. This is before his last hurrah to communicate via smooch. So like just why?? Why throw that in his face? Your song? The symbol of your love? Yeah it smushed our hearts but it cut Aziraphale deeper than all of us combined. Look at his face after Crowley says this. He’s not just hurt. He’s angry. He’s pissed that not only has he been rejected ( his POV) but now Crowley is just kicking salt in the wound. I think this is the only time on their whole entire history Crowley has truly and willfully been cruel to his angel. Which like.. Crowley you dumbass! You can’t just say the worst possible thing to the person you love most in the universe and then kiss him!! On what planet was that going to work?!?!
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sforzesco · 9 months
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DO NOT BE AFRAID
this is combining Ovid's Heroides and the Excidium Troie because I can't stop thinking of Hermes telling him not to be afraid. what the fuck!! Ares is wearing the crown that Paris gave him.
I have. thoughts. about Paris. he's almost got this Troilos parallel in my mind, that the event that defines him in detail exists in a lost narrative that we don't have (the Cypria), but everyone else knew. the event that defines Troilos is his death (murdered, butchered by Achilles, the violence of which haunts everything after. Achilles, child killer, you can't escape that!), and the event that defines Paris is the Judgement. what's a lost text but a kind of grave!!
idk I don't think that Paris before the Judgement would recognize himself after bc when you become god touched, it rearranges your guts. you become transformed in the worst way possible! how could you recognize yourself! but I also think that all the Parises after the Judgement would recognize each other because that event is so locked into the trauma of war and the scar it leaves on the land, it's like a scar on the narrative too. it exists like this forever, over and over again, so you exist like that forever too. Troy collects grief and despairs.
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Troy as trauma: Reflections on intergenerational transmission and the locus of trauma, Andromache Karanika
and Paris is like. a miserable little god/corpse-puppet or something, like a match for the gods to throw onto gasoline.
The Excidium Troie + Ovid's Heroides:
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Excidium Troie, trans. Muhammad Syarif Fadhlurrahman
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Ovid, Heroides 16 (trans. Harold Isbell)
a collection of things regarding Paris that made me go 😬 but under a cut bc this is getting. very long.
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The Divine Twins in Early Greek Poetry, Corolla Torontonensis
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Iliad 24 and the Judgement of Paris, C.J. Mackie
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Elegy and Epic and the Recognition of Paris: Ovid "Heroides" 16, Elizabeth Forbis Mazurek
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Ennian Influence in "Heroides" 16 and 17, Howard Jacobson
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Paris/Alexandros in the "Iliad", I. J. F. de Jong
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whore-era · 1 year
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1-800-GIRLS - part 2
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☁︎ modern!ellie x sex-hotline-operator!fem!reader, very small mention of dealer!ellie ☁︎ summary: in which ellie takes her favorite phone sex hotline operator out on their first date! ☁︎ warnings: contains smut! 18+ only. top/dom!ellie, bottom/sub!reader, interactions with men, dirty talking/praise, fingering (r!recieving), use of fem nicknames, slight mention of petplay, let me know if i missed anything else pls. ☁︎ a/n: back by popular demand, and to thank you all for 1k. i love u all from the bottom of my heart. thank u all so so so much. also there will be NO PART 3! s/o to my girl @clearheartgreyflowers for staying up w me til 3am writing smut LMAO ☁︎ word count: 5,124 ☁︎ 1-800-GIRLS part 1
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thursday, 1:15am → ongoing call with sir steven (ft. lauderdale, FL)
sir steven (client): thank you, sugar. did good as always, pretty lady.
sugar: no problem, sir.
sir steven (client): have a good night, darlin'. good night.
the line clicks on the other end, and you finally let out a big stretch, able to relax as you close the hotline for the night. you made 13 calls tonight, which usually wouldn't be enough to help with bills, but much to your dismay, ellie had been sending you money nonstop.
it's been a couple of weeks since you first met her in the library, and since then, you've seen each other here and there, most of your communication being made through texts and calls, as you both have been extremely busy with final exams and work. barely getting any real time to spend together besides having lunch together or walking to class when the time allows it.
however, ever since you revealed to ellie your real name and gave her your personal phone number, she's been using it to her advantage — sending you money through applepay/paypal, paying for food to get delivered to your apartment when you tell her you haven't ate that day, or getting uber's or taxis to pick you up when she wasn't able to come get you herself.
she was very persistent in being your provider, insisting that with her income, she could support you full-time and buy you everything you needed and more.
but you didn't have it in you to just quit this hotline gig. you didn't want to feel like you had to rely on ellie, and the last thing you wanted was to burden her with your own issues.
thursday, 1:30am → incoming call from ellie (jackson, WY)
you: ellie...?
ellie: hi baby.
you: why are you calling the hotline? you have my number, silly.
ellie: what? can't check in on my girl?
you couldn't help the flush in your cheeks. ellie never failed to make you blush. she always made a point to flirt, hard, and you both weren't even in a relationship, yet.
you: what can i do for my favorite client?
ellie: hm, how does going out with me on saturday night sound?
you: like...a date?
ellie: yeah, don't you think we're a bit overdue for one?
you: sure! what should i wear?
ellie: 's up to you. you make anything look beautiful.
you hated how easily she made the heat rise to your cheeks.
ellie: are you blushing?
you: ....no.
ellie: liar. just for that, you owe me a kiss on our date.
you: hm, we'll see.
ellie: guess we will.
-
saturday couldn't have arrived any faster, and by the time you knew it, it was 6:00 in the evening, almost time for your first date with ellie.
you couldn't make up your mind on what to wear, trying on different outfit combinations, determining which one you think ellie would like more.
groaning in frustration, you seemingly settled on a baby blue dress, with a light and warm cardigan. the weather was absolutely perfect for this type of outfit, not too hot with just the slightest breeze.
as you touched up your makeup, swiping on your favorite gloss, you couldn't seem to calm the nerves boiling in your belly. what was there to be nervous about? you were going on a date with one of the coolest and prettiest girls you have ever seen in your life.
overthinking every possible worst-case scenario that could happen tonight, you took some deep breaths, shaking off the images of you possibly falling on your face, snorting while you laugh, or accidentally passing gas in front of ellie. oh god, if that were to happen tonight, you didn't think you could ever face her again.
you would have to change jobs. and schools.
"god, jesus, whoever, please have my back tonight," you whisper to yourself, suddenly jumping at the small 'ping' coming from your phone.
unlocking your phone, you see it's a text from ellie:
ellie <3: I'm on my way up baby, u ready?
you: yes! i'm ready hehe
you take the time to lace your shoes at the front door, giving yourself a quick one-over in the mirror to see if you were presentable, at the least.
two soft knocks on the door resonated through your apartment, and you took a deep breath as you unlocked the latch, mentally preparing yourself for tonight.
swinging the door open, you're greeted by the tall, emerald-eyed girl.
"hey, baby," she greets, leaning over to plant a kiss on your cheek, "you look gorgeous."
your eyes fell to the ground, cheeks flushing with crimson. get ahold of yourself. you're acting like a teenage girl with a puppy-love crush, you echoed in your mind.
"thanks, els. you look pretty cute too," you compliment shyly, looking down at her fit — a white shirt complimented with a red flannel and dark-washed jeans. of course, hair styled in her signature half-up ponytail and sporting her white and black converse sneakers.
"ready to go?"
"yeah, let's go ahead."
"cool, just parked over here in the parking lot."
taking hold of your hand, the two of you head out to the parking lot, and she takes the lead in guiding you to her car. her hands felt warm and clammy— and you wondered if ellie was feeling just as nervous as you were.
and she was.
ellie was freaking the fuck out. from the outside, you appeared calm and relaxed, which put her at unease. were you not excited to be going out with her? were you going to like what she planned for tonight? what if you absolutely hated the date she organized? it'd tear ellie's heart to pieces.
but ellie couldn't overthink, especially not right now. she couldn't let her emotions get the best of her, and she only had to think of the present — you.
ellie fished out her keys from her pocket, briefly letting go of your hand to unlock the car and open the passenger side door for you.
getting inside, you mumbled a quick 'thank you'. as ellie scurried to the driver's side of the car, you scanned your eyes around the interior of her car.
what the hell? was she driving a...dodge hellcat? you knew ellie drove, but you didn't know she drove such an expensive muscle car. how much money did she make being a dealer?
her car smelled just like her, fresh and musky, and she kept it fairly clean.
ellie piled in the driver's seat of her car, putting the key in the ignition and turned on the engine.
"soooo, where are we going?" you queried.
"that's a surprise," ellie smirks, and suddenly she places her hand behind the head of your seat, turning her neck to look at the rear windshield as she backed out of the parking spot.
you swallowed thickly, focused primarily on how hot she looked doing something as simple and elementary as reversing her car. the way her neck flexed, the way her arm tattoo looked by your face, and the way she was concentrated on moving the vehicle — suddenly turned the heat up in this confined space.
"you okay? you look a bit warm," ellie asks, interrupting your train of thought.
"huh? yeah, no, i-i'm okay," you smile meekly, "it's j-just a little warm in here."
"oh, sorry," her hands went to turn on the air conditioning, the gentle breeze of cool air providing relief, "there you go. better?"
you nod, "much better, thanks."
"wanna play some music?" she asks, holding her phone up.
"hmm, you can put whatever you want on. i wanna see what type of music you're into."
"okay," ellie says with a wide smile, "suit yourself."
approaching a stop light, ellie uses the window of opportunity to tap away on her phone, searching for her favorite song. the song 'the spins' by mac miller plays throughout the car at a mellow volume.
"great taste. i love this song," you chime.
"yeah? me too," ellie states, "i loved mac miller since like, forever."
eyes gravitating towards ellie, you couldn't help but get lost in a daze at the way she drives, the slight spread in her legs, one hand on the wheel, the stray strand of hair that falls in her face — she was dangerous.
and ellie could feel the burning gaze you were searing on the side of her face, "you okay there?"
"hmm?"
"you keep staring at me."
"oh— uh— i'm sorry. i didn't mean to—" you sputtered, ashamed that you'd been caught red-handed.
"it's fine, baby, no worries. just wanted to know if there was anything on your mind was all," ellie briefly tears her eyes away from the road to check on you.
you had to quickly think of an excuse, something to save you from this embarrassment — "just thinking of where we're going."
the girl chuckles, "well, we're already here."
the neon lights were the first thing that caught your attention, then the rapidly moving contraptions, and lastly the laughter from the crowds of people.
"we're at the carnival?!" you squealed, unable to contain your excitement.
"yea," ellie muttered sheepishly, "uh— i saw on your instagram how you shared the posts about wanting to go on your story, so i-"
you cut her off with a forceful hug, "oh my god! ellie! we have to get out now! let's go, let's go, let's go!!"
"alright, baby, let me put the car in park-" she began, but you were already halfway down the entrance.
-
"wow! ellie! that one was so fun! it was exhilarating!" you breathed out, fueled by the rush of adrenaline pumping through your veins after riding the 'slingshot' rollercoaster.
ellie couldn't be any more amused, smiling down at you, "yeah? you liked that one, babe?"
"yes! i loved it!" you squealed, but as the adrenaline wavered, you began to feel that familiar rumble in your stomach, "it did give me an appetite, though."
"wanna get a little something to eat?" ellie's hand is securely interlaced with yours, guiding you towards the various food stands.
you nod, "mhm, i am starved."
"just tell me what you want, and i'll get it for you, m'kay?" she gives you a smile and squeezes your hand as your eyes scan the numerous items to choose from.
corndogs. cotton candy. kettle corn. pretzels. chilli cheese hot dogs. funnel cake.
"hmmm, i think i want some funnel cake," you suggest, "we can share it."
"sounds good to me," ellie shrugs and you both fall in line. she orders and pays for the sweet treat and the worker hands her the food, as you find a vacant picnic table to sit at.
digging into the crispy, creamy treat, you couldn't hold back the moan of delight that came from your mouth.
"oh my god! this is amazing!" you moan, whip cream getting all over your lips.
ellie was too busy hyper-fixating on the cream that sat on your lip, and before thinking about anything else, she swiped it off your bottom lip with the pad of her thumb, bringing it to her lips and sucking it clean.
"mmm, delicious," she commented, then consumed the dessert as if nothing had happened.
leaving you stunned, you gulped the cup of water she gave you, attempting to soothe the heat seeping down below.
"so, which ride do you wanna get on next?" ellie spooned more of the funnel cake in her mouth, looking up at you, awaiting your response.
"not sure, why don't you choose? i picked the last one after all," you clean your spoon off, getting every last bit of leftover ice cream.
"we can ride theeee..." ellie scours the carnival rides, "...the haunted hospital."
your heart fell to your stomach, you hated anything related to horror.
"oh no..ellie, i don't think i'll be able to ride that—"
"are you scared?" she taunts in a playful tone.
"yes. i'd be covering my eyes the entire time, el."
"good thing you have me with you, i'll fight anyone who gets too close to you. promise."
"fine."
when you both finish the funnel cake, you quickly discard it and ellie rushes you over to the line to the haunted attraction, but as the line goes by quicker than you anticipated, the fear began to set in deeper and deeper.
"ellie, i'm scared," you whisper as you both approach the front of the line, watching the people in front of you climb into the little mechanical car and disappear into the darkness.
"hey, i'm here, baby," she coos, rubbing your back, "besides, it's all fake, okay? 's not real."
and on cue, the attendant calls you both up, "next!"
walking slowly towards the black cart, you get on first and take a seat, with ellie following closely behind you.
"alright, hands up," the attendant commands as the handlebars latch down and lock onto your lap, "keep your hands and feet in the cart at all times. have fun."
as the cart begins to move forward and ascend into blackness, you curl into ellie's body and her arm instinctively wraps around your body, holding you tight.
this is exactly where ellie wanted you, up close and personal. she wanted an excuse to hold you all night, and after seeing the 'haunted hospital' sign, she knew this ride was the perfect place to do that.
your heart was pumping in and out of your chest, preparing for the worse to pop out and jump-scare you.
"ugh, i can't look," you stammer, covering your eyes. ellie takes hold of your wrists, gently taking them away from your face.
"hey, just focus on me, okay?" ellie whispers, her hot breath fanning in your face, "it's just me and you."
"o-okay."
and the fear that took habitat in your belly faded away, your mind zeroed in on ellie and how close she was to you. if you even breathed too hard, you probably would’ve accidentally kissed her.
but luckily for you, ellie was five steps ahead.
she reached her hand out to cup your cheek, resting it on the soft, warm skin of your face.
"can i kiss you?" ellie asked, her mouth taking over her brain, but she didn't mind it. she wanted to kiss you. she's been wanting to kiss you ever since she heard your voice that night she accidentally called you.
“please. please, kiss me.”
leaning in, ellie pressed her lips on yours, her other hand snaking around your waist, pulling you in closer. her lips were soft and inviting, and they tasted sweet — they were definitely a good distraction from the horror props popping out at different intervals. 
her lips leave subtle pecks along your lips, enamored by how your lips tasted, and how it left her wanting more. 
ellie pulls away, inciting a small whimper from you, “the ride’s about to end, babe.” 
“hmph, okay,” you pout and ellie pecks your lips again.
“we’ll have plenty of time to continue later,” she reassures you with a laugh. as the both of you emerge into the light, back to the entrance of the attraction, you notice your lipgloss smeared all over her lips, eliciting a small giggle from you.
“what’s so funny?” 
you point to her lips, and her eyes dart down to her face, using her sleeves to wipe off the pink gloss from her mouth as you both get off the ride. 
you smile sheepishly, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear as you both stroll around the carnival, “sorry, that was my fault.”
ellie smiles and shakes her head, “don’t worry ‘bout it,” she says coolly, “hey, let’s go over there. there’s no line.” 
pointing to an attraction behind you, you turn around and follow her trail, your eyes settling on the ferris wheel.
hand in hand, you both get on the little capsule of the ferris wheel, the employee holding it sturdy so you and ellie would have time to climb in. 
they latched the door closed and you both begin the slow, upward descent. 
“wow, the view is beautiful,” you breathe out, astounded by how pretty the lights looked in the city as you towered over the area below. 
“yeah, the view certainly is beautiful, huh?” ellie murmured, but she wasn’t staring at the view. her eyes were on you, taking in how breathtaking you looked in this moment — eyes glimmering in amusement, perfect, plump lips slightly parted, and hair a bit messy from the breeze, but framing your face in all the right places. she took her phone out, snapping a quick picture, never wanting to forget this moment. 
she moved seats, before, sitting on the bench facing you, and now sitting right beside you. 
“uh, there’s something i have to tell you,” ellie began, her nerves shocking every cell in her body.
“yea? what is it?” you ask, turning to face her, “is everything okay?”
“yeah, yeah, i just—” ellie bit her lip nervously, “i just really like you. like, i think about you all the time. when i first heard your voice that night i dialed you, i just knew i had to talk to you again. there’s just something about you that always brings me back and— fuck, i never thought i’d find myself catching feelings so hard for a girl before.” 
your cheeks were hurting from how wide your smile was, but you didn’t care. ellie put her arm around your shoulder and held your hand with her free one, leaning in closer.
“what i’m trying to say is that— i really, really want to be with you. i want to be the one who you tell the weird stories about your clients to and i want to be the one to take care of you after a long day at class. i want to be the one who protects you and who you share your favorite meal with. i just— i really want you to be my girlfriend,” and before ellie continues any further, you cut her off with a kiss.
“if this is your way of asking me to be your girlfriend, the answer is yes, ellie williams,” you answer, briefly pulling away for air. 
ellie’s smile grows wider, “cool,” she quirks before connecting your lips again. 
the sun was long gone and the moon had taken over the night sky. but your date with ellie was far from over. 
after spending an evening filled with thrill rides and greasy, fried snacks, you and ellie both decided to calm things down by taking a walk along the boardwalk, occasionally strolling up and down the pier.
“would you say this has been a good date so far?” ellie’s eyes flitter toward you, her arm slung over your shoulder as you stride down the various closed stores and restaurants of the boardwalk. it was empty, only one or two people passing by, but other than that it was only you two. 
“mmm, i’d give it a…six out of ten,” you tease, gaining a scoff from your new girlfriend. 
“a six? seriously?” she shakes her head, “damn, not the response i was hoping for.” 
“i’m just kidding, els,” you giggle, “this date has been amazing. i loved every bit of it. thank you.”
you lean over and press a small kiss on her cheek, watching how the vermilion scatters across her freckles.
“now that’s more like it.” ellie laughs, continuing the promenade forward, with no destination in mind.
your eyes settle on this small, old-fashioned photo booth tucked away in a corner of the boardwalk. the sign above it flashing ‘PHOTOS: 4 different poses’. it was the perfect idea to end the night and have a little souvenir to remember your first date.
you let go of her hand, dashing towards the photo booth, ellie confusedly following after you. you open your bag, searching for some change, and you insert four quarters into the small coin slot. 
“let's go inside,” you enthuse, excited to try out the photo booth.
ellie went inside first, taking a seat on the extremely small bench, barely leaving any space for you to sit beside her. the booth was such a tight enclosure, only allowing enough space for a maximum of two people. 
“i— uh— don’t know where to—” you stammer, but she interrupts you as she grabs your hips, sitting you down on her right thigh.
warmth rose to your face, feeling secure and sturdy sat upon her leg. ellie closed the black curtain, covering the entrance and blocking any light that would shine through. 
“okay, we have three minutes and four poses,” you say, turning your neck to look down at her, “what should our poses be?”
“i dunno, i’m sure we’ll look great doing any. we can jus’ do them as we go along,” ellie shrugged, and the photo booth began to count down from five.
sitting up straight in her lap and fixing your hair, you and ellie put on a smile, and the light flashes white, signaling the end of the first pose.
for the second pose, you turn your head and plant your lips on ellie’s cheek as ellie scrunches her nose up, and the flash lights up for a second time.
for the third pose, you loop your arm over ellie’s shoulder, and you both look each other in with adoring eyes and loving smiles — flash.
you both couldn’t even bother getting ready for the final pose, too lost in each other’s admiring gazes to think properly. you were focused on the jade green of ellie’s eyes, wishing you could jump in and swim in the pools of emerald. ellie was hooked on your face, and memorizing every detail like her life depended on it — tracing her eyes over your pouty lips. 
and as the countdown went to one, ellie smashed her lips onto yours, her arms tightening around your waist to pull you closer. this kiss was different from the ones from before — there was urgency, there was eagerness, there was a burning passion, one you’ve never experienced before. 
her tongue shoves into your mouth, tasting the mint you’ve chewed previously. immodest and perhaps, pornographic wet sounds from your mouths resonate throughout the small photobooth. one of her hands trail from your hips towards your tits, groping the soft, pillowy flesh underneath your baby blue dress, eliciting the faintest of whimpers — a sound ellie has been dying to hear again.
you couldn’t help the arousal building up in your core, compelling you to grind your crotch against the denim fabric of her jeans. 
“e-ellie, i— i’ve never—” you struggle to let out, pulling away from her lips, a trail of spit lingering on your bottom lip, and her lips plant sloppy, wet kisses along the side of your neck. 
“we can stop if you want, sweet girl,” she murmurs against your skin, and you quickly shake your head.
“n-no, don’t stop, p-please,” you gulp and with your approval, ellie’s other hand goes down to hike your dress up, bunching the fabric up around your waist. her hands push your legs apart, and she lifts one of your thighs up to rest on the wall of the photo booth. you were exposed, the only thing concealing your bare, pussy was the thin fabric of your panties.
she sat back against the corner of the booth, leaning against the wall and allowing you space to lean against her body as well. her hand cupped your panty-covered crotch, rubbing against it.
the sudden friction made you jolt, your breath picking up, “b-but what if— what if someone hears us? or—or sees us?”
“then you better keep it down, pup.”
ellie’s hand slips inside your panties, her index finger sliding between the warmth of your folds, drowning in the wet, hot juices leaking out from you, “fuck.”
you let out a pitiful whine, needing more pressure, craving satisfaction. the nights after that call with ellie, your own fingers no longer sufficed the needs your body demanded. you tried so hard to replicate the same feeling ellie gave you that late evening, but there was no avail as you realized the only person who can truly serve your body correctly was ellie. 
“p-please, more,” you begged, hoping she would show you mercy and give you what you wanted.
“please, what? huh? use your fuckin’ manners,” she snides in your ear, breath fanning against your neck. you immediately knew what she was inferring.
“please, daddy, please. i want more,” you bucked your hips up to her hands, and she happily obliged. two of ellie’s fingers made their way to your throbbing and swollen clit, applying pressure as her digits created circles. 
you couldn’t suppress the moan that emerged from your throat, clamping a hand shut over your mouth, careful not to alert any strangers nearby, knowing people would still be able to hear despite the thin, black curtain covering the photo booth.
“you look s’ fuckin’ pretty,” ellie whispers against your neck, and her hand grabs your jaw, turning your head to look at her as she smushes her lips against your swollen, red lips. 
a stream of melodious moans vibrated against ellie’s mouth, and she was drinking it in, savoring the sound of you against her lips. the way ellie’s tongue fucked your mouth felt ungodly, and almost immoral. someone who harbors the power to make you feel how you do is something close to the devil, as pleasure this wonderful was sinful.
her fingers disappear from your clit, leaving you feeling empty. 
“open.” ellie orders and you part your lips. she pushes her fingers in your mouth, and you suck them clean, your tongue lapping the salty juices like a puppy desperate for water on a hot day.
“such a good fuckin’ girl, shiiit,” ellie praises, slipping her fingers in your pussy, continuing the circles on your hardened clit.
“you know what good girls like you get? huh?” ellie’s fingers pick up speed, “they get to cum. you wanna cum for daddy, baby?”
unable to think of any response, you nod your head up and down. 
“use your words, pup.”
“yes, daddy. puppy wants to cum,” you whine out. that was enough for ellie to give you what you wanted. one hand rubbing circles your clit, her other hand pushes your panties to the side and inserts one finger in your leaking hole, gently sliding it in and out.
“ellie!” you cry out, astounded by the added pressure. her finger was long and filled you up almost, completely. 
“gotta stretch you out, baby. get you ready for my cock,” ellie smirks as she slowly adds in another finger, still maintaining her slow, neutral pace. 
your pussy clenches around her fingers, and you scrambled around to grab ahold of anything you can get your hands on. you were drunk on ellie, the way she talks to you — almost condescending — combined with how she had you writhing under her fingers. you were unequivocally hers. you were ellie’s.
she added a third finger to your clit, applying more pressure on your sensitive clit, and her fingers began to pump faster inside your pussy, coating it in a thick, creamy layer of your juices.
“god, you’re such a pretty fuckin’ girl,” ellie kisses the side of your neck, “look at you, making a mess all over my hands, like a filthy pup.”
all your mouth would utter was these weak, pathetic whimpers and moans, fucked out dumb and stupid. you don’t even think you could remember your name right now. 
the familiar feeling of your orgasm coming undone begins to rise, accompanied by a new pressure you feel in your abdomen — the urge to push. 
“daddy, think m’ gonna— p—pee,” you stammer, not wanting to embarrass yourself and closing your legs, “it feels like i have to—”
“baby, let it happen. promise it’s not piss or anything,” ellie reassured, figuring this was your first time squirting. “just let go, sweet girl.”
the sweet sounds of your wet pussy echoed throughout the confined spaces of the booth, just how ellie liked it. it was music to her ears. 
the feeling of your walls tightening around her fingers told her that you were just right on the edge, and she was going to give you that push to fall over and come undone all over her hands.
the pad of ellie’s fingers massaged figure eights on your pussy, almost tracing infinity signs on your clit. her fingers found rhythm and continued thrusting her index and middle fingers inside you, curling up to rub the flesh of your walls, hitting just the right spot and emitting an angelic moan from you. 
ellie was in heaven and she had this honey-sweet angel melting under her touch. 
you squirmed in her lap, your back instinctively arching, about to come apart in this small photo booth.
“daddy, i’m about to— can i? can i cum? pretty please?” you cried out, almost pleading, like you were begging for your life, but you felt like you were going to simply die if you didn’t finish right now. 
“yes, pretty baby, cum all over me,” ellie coaxes you through your orgasm, “make a fuckin’ mess, puppy.”
you came undone, falling apart right there. your pussy clamped around her fingers, a stream of milky-white cream trickling onto her hands. your body overcame your thoughts, and you pushed out — releasing a gush of watery, squirt all over the place. spurting out, imitating a fountain.
ellie pulled her hands out of you, and brought them to her mouth, sucking and licking them clean. still coming down from the high that was your orgasm, your breaths came out heavy and unlabored, a tear falling down out of the corner of your eye and streaming down your cheek. 
“you alright, babe?” ellie asked, fixing your panties and pulling your dress down.
“y-yea, i’m okay,” you stutter, standing up and exiting the photo booth, finding the boardwalk still deserted. legs still shaking, you trip over your own feet and lean on the walls of the booth for support. ellie took hold of your waist, ensuring you don’t fall.
“hey, look, our picture,” she points out, taking the strip out from the slot and showing the black and white photo to you. 
ellie smiles at the strip, “we look good, huh?”
you nod, still simmering down. ellie takes notice of your state and plants a kiss to your lips, rubbing your waist soothingly. 
“how ‘bout we get outta here and get some real food? sound good, baby?”
you nod, smiling, “sounds perfect.”
🫶🏼
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