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#Brandy does art
honeyfluff-does-art · 7 months
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It's a little suspicious, I'd like to know some more
Maybe we're not as different as I believed before
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Elvis and Redd's dynamic in the Starverse sure is fun, with the way Elvis thinks of himself, and the tension between them as he tries to set things right.
(song: Occam's Razor by ferry)
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deathclassic · 2 months
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requested by @invisible-brandy
request an outfit here
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humanhalfofachilleus · 4 months
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I'm painting again! Haven't done anything like this in literally four years, so I'm quite proud of myself. The quote at the bottom is from Party Of One by Brandi Carlile: "Don't even think about your freedom or taking that flight / or going back upon your promise after fighting for the right".
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phrynewrites · 2 years
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How lethal are Bosco and Jasmine in this proposed espionage AU? And what are their favourite methods of getting rid of "unwanted" people?
OOOH first espionage au question !! Excited!!!
I think they're fairly lethal. They both have a clear understanding of their mission and have always been trusted by their agencies to get the results using "whatever means necessary," given that they both have the understanding that a clean death is far easier to clean up.
Jasmine's always one to play into her nature—a temptress, an actress—seducing the unwanted person before slipping something into their drink, leaving them with a fairwell kiss as they slip away and Jasmine slips away as well, stealing their hotel room key and safe code.
And Bosco's always up on the latest technology, always trying out new tactics that simulate medical emergencies, leaving them fully unsuspected. However, they do like a good old fashioned neck-cracking, especially when afforded the time and space to do it.
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suzukiblu · 10 days
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If you feel up for it, for the writing meme prompt, Clark Kent/Lex Luthor, with the song You And Me by Lifehouse? If it's not your thing I totally get it though and hope you have a great time and fun writing the things that do catch your fancy!
I think we ALL knew that I was gonna do baby Kon for this, lbr. Also ngl, this came out way more cracky than the prompt would suggest it should've but it is absolutely my favorite thing I’ve written for this meme so far, as the necessity for the following cut should help attest, haha.
Unfortunately, Lex takes one look at Cadmus’s progress report on the newly-crafted Experiment Thirteen and realizes he has paternal instincts. 
Well, that’s inconvenient. And a little disgusting, honestly. Certainly a disappointment. 
He supposes it could be worse. He could be Lionel about this. 
Anyway, that’s how he has a physiological four year-old on his lap when he hears the news about Superman coming back to life and fistfighting an evil cyborg with his own face about it, because of course the man didn’t have the decency to just stay dead. Why would he, after all? 
Lex needs a drink. That would be a bad example for the physiological four year-old, though. 
Then again, Experiment Thirteen should be completely immune to the effects of Earth-based alcohol in about another four to six months of consistent yellow sun exposure, so . . . 
Lex is halfway through his second brandy when Superman shows up on his balcony at super-speed wearing a very pretentiously dramatic black suit and looking both winded and bewildered. And still alive, unfortunately. 
“Don’t you have a murderous cyborg to be ensuring is in custody?” Lex asks dryly, deciding to just not acknowledge the presence of the physiological four year-old who’s moved on to messily but methodically coloring on the floor underneath his desk. Lex didn’t actually give Experiment Thirteen either a coloring book or crayons, mind, but he appreciates the clone’s resourcefulness in breaking into the office supplies. Anyway, it’s useful for developing its hand-eye coordination and fine motor control. 
Superman’s pupils are pin-pricks, barely even there at all. Which is an unusual reaction from him, and Lex notes that fact reflexively but doesn’t particularly care about it. Meant-to-be-dead people do unusual things, especially the alien ones. And it isn’t as if–
“Baby,” Superman blurts, his eyes wide. 
Lex . . . pauses. Takes a slow sip of his brandy. 
Alright then. 
“Yes, I’ve noticed,” he settles on eventually, raising an eyebrow at him. Experiment Thirteen peers out from under the desk, immediately decides Superman isn’t an interesting presence, and then goes back to coloring all over Lex’s floor. It seems to be drawing either a puppy or a chain of complex genetic sequencing, but judging by the kinds of things it’s been drawing so far, it’s fifty-fifty. Lex has been getting the impression the clone actually likes art, which is a baffling interest to find in his own progeny, but how does that quote go . . . “I am a warrior, so that my son may be a merchant, so that his son may be a poet”? 
Or something like that, anyway. 
“No, I–baby,” Superman stresses, looking bewildered as he floats down a little closer to the open balcony door. 
“. . . yes, I’ve noticed,” Lex repeats, raising his eyebrow again and taking another sip of brandy. Superman looks frazzled, bobbing up a little higher in the air again to get a better view of Experiment Thirteen under the desk. Experiment Thirteen keeps ignoring him in favor of its coloring, displaying no apparent interest in the most powerful uninvited guest in the history of illegal immigration. Lex experiences a moment of overwhelming paternal pride, which is such a bizarre and unanticipated experience that he doesn’t even know what to do with it. 
“Where’d he come from?” Superman asks with a wondering expression. Ugh.
“A cloning lab,” Lex replies dismissively, setting his near-empty glass down on the desk. It’s hardly worth lying about Experiment Thirteen’s origins at this point. He didn’t want to murder everyone in Cadmus to keep the secret. He might need them if there’s an issue with Experiment Thirteen’s genetics later, after all. “We mixed it up a couple weeks ago while you were off wasting everyone’s time being dead."
“You had my baby?” Superman says, tilting in the air and still staring at Experiment Thirteen, as if he's somehow forgotten both how much kryptonite Lex owns and how much kryptonite he keeps specifically in this office. “While I was dead. You had my baby while I was dead.” 
. . . alright then, Lex thinks again, both eyebrows raising this time. 
“I really wouldn’t put it that way, personally,” he says. “Also, I don’t recall saying it was in any way yours.”
“Baby,” Superman repeats inanely, then lands on the floor and ducks down into a crouch to peer under the desk better, his pupils still reduced to barely-there pinpricks. Lex is so mystified he doesn't even activate the security system or the weaponized red sun lamps. Experiment Thirteen frowns at Superman–Lex, again, basks in unanticipated paternal pride–and then turns its back on him and hides all its drawings from him as seriously and carefully as if they were under NDA. 
It's almost adorable, frankly. 
Not that Lex finds things adorable, of course. 
“His heartbeat's so cute,” Superman says, looking absolutely fascinated. Which is surprisingly useful of him to mention, actually, since Lex had previously been vaguely concerned that Experiment Thirteen's odd thrumming heartbeat might be a sign of a heart defect, but apparently it’s just a Kryptonian thing. A . . . “cute” Kryptonian thing, according to Superman. 
Lex is increasingly mystified by this interaction. 
“Can’t say I’ve spent much time listening to it, personally,” he lies, because he has in fact obsessed over that heartbeat’s health and stability since first finding out about its unusualness and has done a truly aggravating amount of research into heart murmurs and conditions and the like. But that’s hardly Superman’s business, now is it. 
“. . . what’s his name?” Superman asks hesitantly. Lex is possibly having an out of body experience. 
“Experiment Thirteen,” he says. Superman immediately looks offended. 
“We need to give him a name, Lex,” he says. Lex, again, has an out of body experience. 
“‘We’?” he repeats incredulously. “I made it, I get to decide what it’s called.” 
“He’s got my DNA!” Superman protests, looking indignant. Lex has absolutely no idea how to process that expression. 
“It has both our DNA, in fact, yours was too irritating to stabilize alone,” Lex informs him dubiously. More accurately it was literally impossible to stabilize alone, but he’s not mentioning that to Superman. “So it has my DNA, and I made it. And also put eight point two billion dollars into its production, as a lowball estimate. Therefore I’m the one who decides what its name is, thank you very much.” 
“Lex,” Superman says disapprovingly. “You can’t call a baby Experiment Thirteen.” 
“It’s physiologically developed enough to complain if it doesn’t like it,” Lex retorts, narrowing his eyes at him. Superman frowns at him. Lex has never had a more ridiculous conversation with the man, including all the times Superman’s tried to appeal to his nonexistent “better nature”. “Well it is.” 
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Superman says, then ducks back down and peers at Experiment Thirteen again, gentling his voice to address it while Lex is still incredulously mouthing “ridiculous”? to himself. “Would you like a real name, kiddo?” 
Experiment Thirteen sticks its tongue out at him. 
Lex is finding parenthood to be a very rewarding experience, actually. 
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pilfappreciator · 4 months
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ATTENTION TROLLS FANDOM!!
This is very important. Mostly to me but maybe you guys have been wondering this too idk but anyways:
How does troll reproduction work exactly?
Cuz I'm genuinely curious. I dont think anyone on the series production team has said anything and so far I've seen absolutely no one touch on this subject but as someone who's always had an interest in the habits of creatures (both fictional or otherwise), I kinda sorta maybe NEED to know this otherwise I'll never be able to sleep peacefully again
Full disclaimer that I'm specifically talking about the whole egg situation, I am NOT ASKING HOW THEY GET IT ON IF I WANTED THAT ANSWER I'D GO TO DEVIANT ART OR TWITTER OR WHATEVER LAWLESS PLATFORM GOD STEERS CLEAR OF. This discussion shall remain STRICTLY educational, thank you very much
But anywho. Let's dive in
So trolls come from eggs. This is basic knowledge. First instance of this phenomenon (as far as I know, I've only seen the movies) is from World Tour.
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Egg pops out of Guy Diamond's hair, egg hatches and BOOM, (literal) baby. Now I understand that this whole sequence was probably just a gag and a way for DreamWorks to implement another (merchandisable) addition to the cast HOWEVER this sequence also raises a few questions
First off, as far as I know Guy Diamond has no partner (again: I haven't watched any of the spinoff shows). Either that or maybe the other troll was a sorta one-night-stand/no-longer-in-his-life kinda situation? Which is great either way cuz its shown he obviously cares for his son and we at Tumblr appreciate a loving single father no matter the circumstances, but if my former theory is correct than that would imply that trolls are capable of reproducing asexually. Like onions.
Now if that hypothesis is, as they call it, "cap" then that would mean that some sorta hanky panky has to go down before an egg comes into question. And if that's the case, does this mean that male trolls are traditionally the ones who carry the eggs?
But that can't be right, can it? Afterall, World Tour gave us yet ANOTHER egg scene later on in the movie
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In Cooper's flashback, we clearly see Queen Essence being the one carrying the eggs meanwhile King Quincy is eggless. Now, as far as i see it, this could be explained either one of four ways:
1) Quincy was the one who actually produced the eggs and Essence is merely holding them for her husband (since her hair seems more fitting to be a makeshift nest compared to Quincy's)
2) Female trolls are the ones who produce the eggs. Guy Diamond is just a trans icon
3) Troll reproduction differs from genre to genre
4) There is a... *sighs* a/b/o type of dynamic among troll kind where certain trolls are capable of giving birth/siring children depending on a secondary gender
In regards to theory #3, this could also explain why Guy Diamond seems to reproduce and hatch an egg in such a short amount of time (like 5 seconds I'm pretty sure) as opposed to Queen Essence/King Quincy who's eggs presumably went a while longer before actually hatching.
Actually, speaking off eggs, are trolls the only species in their world that reproduce that way?
Because now that Band Together has officially been released, we now know for certain that it's possible for different species to crossbreed. Biggest example? Resident DILF Bruce and his giant muppet wife
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(Credit to @captainunderkrupp )
When I saw these two... I swear...
And these two already have a shit ton of kids okay so like... either Brandi was the one giving birth or trollsona Daveed Digs was over here pumpin out eggs, which I mean-
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DO YOU SEE HOW BIG THESE THINGS ARE COMPARED TO BRANCH AND POPPY?? Believe me I am PRAYING that Bruce gave himself some serious maternity/paternity leave because my guy is honestly a trooper
But yeah any thoughts? :))
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escenariosinfumables · 3 months
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Blood, blood, blood
Dracule Mihawk x gn!reader
Note: vampire au. biting. mention of blood. little nsfw. violinist reader. too much wine. gothic and elegance. vampires aren't my thing, but somehow i made this hot shit. enjoy ♡
Word count: 2,819
What was the point of being immortal if you are condemned to witness humanity always making the same mistakes? Mihawk thought about it a lot, sitting in his gloomy and lonely Gothic castle in the middle of an inabilited island. Far from the humanity that hated him so much and that he also hated so much. He was fine with that. Loneliness was an old friend. He does not remember, in his long years of life, not having been alone. Again, was fine with that. He enjoyed being alone with his thoughts, drinking the best wine in the world and reading great classics and moderns. However, sometimes he needed interaction with humans. Then he would approach an island in search of food, the both types of food.
He also enjoyed traveling across the vast sea alone. It was always an adventure. Especially when a ship crossed their path. At other times, he might meet an old acquaintance in the middle of the ocean and have a glass of alcohol.
His destination was the island habited by one of the few people he considered worthy of respect. Sir Crocodile was a businessman, distrustful like him, but they shared his worldview and the value of high culture. He always received him with a glass of his favorite wine and in the privacy of his study. They talked about politics, art, pieces of classical music, business and good alcohol. They both trusted each other enough to let their guard down a little and consider themselves partners.
It was there where he met you. Crocodile showed off his new favorite entertainment: the violin. After your routine meeting, you invited hawkeye to listen to you play the violin while you shared a glass of your best brandy. Mihawk wasn't a big fan of the drink, but he appreciated classical music. Besides, you had to be extremely talented to be flattered by the businessman.
You walked into the room dressed in cream, your back straight and your face stoic. The white violin with golden details ready to be played. You didn't need sheet music, you knew a lot of pieces from memoirs and you enjoyed improvising too. Sir Crocodile gave you the freedom to play as you liked, simply enjoying your music.
When he offered you the position, after hearing you play in the local church orchestra, you took for granted what would await you. Yes, the salary was more than enough to support your family, but he was a Warlord. And a very intimidating one, with his height and the hook. It was a pleasant surprise to discover the man's calm personality. As long as you didn't do anything to make him doubt your loyalty, you'd be fine. And he was a cultured man, knew a lot about various arts and disciplines. You accepted, after all, he just wanted to enjoy the same thing as you: music.
However, that day you felt a heavy gaze on you. You had not been informed of the guest, no one other than another Warlord. The rumors about his intense gaze didn't do him justice. Little by little you got used to Crocodile, you weren't sure you would ever get used to his golden eyes. It was beautiful, you admitted it. Beautiful like something lethal. Sharp. Irresistible.
"Play something of your own," your boss ordered after your bow of greeting. Steady with your head before adjusting the instrument under your chin.
From the moment Mihawk saw you, he knew. Every pain has a name, and he needed to know yours. He knew it would hurt from day one.
Your jasmine perfume reached him with the force of a hurricane. You were so human that it hurt him to be able to feel the blood running through your veins, the muscles and bones moving with each musical note, each nervous palpitation of your heart. He could sense the nervousness that his presence caused you. The monster addicted to power grew inside him.
You are beautiful. And talented. You looked appetizing. It took all his self-control not to bite your neck off.
As you continued playing, images of you, bathed in your own blood and with your neck all for him, developed in the man's mind. Your blood should taste as sweet as his favorite wine.
The glass emptied when you finished your song. Sir Crocodile flattery your talent with a shake of his head, drinking the bottom of the brandy.
"What do you think Mihawk?" he asked proud of his new acquisition. "Isn't it brilliant?" Mihawk was agreed with a vague gesture, the bloody and tantalizing images still in his mind. His partner let out an amused laugh. "I can provide you with his services if you are interested" he lit a cigar, amused by the swordsman's reaction . "You must be bored in your stereotypical vampire castle alone"
You tried to let your frown go unnoticed. You were fine with your job, but the idea of being considered an object stung your pride.
"Maybe another time." The vampire answered, leaving the empty glass on the table before getting up. He needed to get out of there. The man wouldn't be happy if turned his office into a crime scene.
They didn't see each other again for a long time, not even until the strange assignment from your boss. On a private boat, accompanied by Mr. 19 and Mr. 20, you were sent to a distant island. You didn't ask many questions, you never did. You just accepted the job and obeyed. Until then your boss had never put you in danger, and you trusted his word a little.
Your bodyguards accompanied you to the shore of the sinister island. There you recognized the figure waiting for you. Dracule Mihawk. He was carrying his elegant hat and Yuri on his back. A type of gorilla appeared in the distance, curious about the stranger. It was the first time you really doubted your boss.
For months his golden eyes and sharp teeth haunted you in your dreams. Sometimes you would wake up in the middle of the night, agitated and with the sensation of a soft scratch on your neck. The reflection in the mirror confirmed that it was just a dream, but it felt too real. You started seeing it everywhere. In the bottle of brandy he drank that time, in the wine section, in the eyes of wild birds, in the delicate pieces of Gothic art. In that damn song. You couldn't play that piece without remembering everything he made you feel just with one look. How your body reacted to the vampire. And that scared you so much. Curiosity killed the cat, they say.
You were dying to find out what it felt like to have your blood taken. There were rumors, as old and modern as humanity itself. Serving your blood, allowing a creature of the night to defile your body felt like touching the sky with your hands. Ecstasy in its purest form. An incomparable climax.
Mihawk welcomed you as his guest, the deal was to stay a few weeks and do your job. Play for him in the afternoons and evenings in the large main library. You had to help with daily tasks, since you were surprised to notice that only he lived there, but then you would be free to roam around the castle and the garden. Warned about violent creatures outside marked territory.
It was a fair plan. You would earn twice as much and you could finally stop working and seek to join the Great Orchestra of the New World. Any musician's dream.
The first days were uncomfortable, even your music sounded more regal. Being alone in a gloomy room with a stoic man was not something new for you, but it felt different somehow. Sir Crocodile used to sit behind his desk, with his cigar and a glass of liquor while he nodded slowly to the rhythm of your instrument, always focused on work. You rarely saw him relaxing on his big couch or chair, closing his eyes. You had a lot of respect for your boss.
Instead, Mihawk sat in a single red chair, worthy of a king's throne. A glass of blood-red wine always accompanied it. Sometimes, a book too. The difference was the focus of his hawk eyes on you. You could feel him analyzing every fine movement of your body with the knowledge of a skilled hunter. It was uncomfortable, yes, but there was also a certain pleasure in being admired like that.
You spent the rest of the day locked in your room, too scared to find him. Lunch was your responsibility, and dinners were his. You cooked in peace, enjoying the huge kitchen and the fresh foods. The vampire orchard was one of the few areas you dared to explore. You thought vampires didn't eat vegetables, which made you laugh a little. The food was always uncomfortable, sitting so far from each other they ate in silence. He never complimented your cooking, nor yours, but they always ate the whole plate.
Little by little you managed to explore more of the castle, avoiding the main room, the library on the first floor, the orchard in the morning, learning that they were the places where man was usually found. You learned his routine, and little by little you made your own. 
This is how you found your favorite corners of the great castle. The music room, filled with classical instruments such as a grand piano, cello, a beautiful solid gold harp and even some guitars.  You spent hours creating new pieces, or practicing the great classics.
The third floor balcony was ideal for tea. From there you could admire the great coastline and the beautiful garden below you. More than once you found yourself there, admiring the owner of the island training with the swordsman gorillas. Humandrill, he had called them.
You barely saw each other, only for music sessions and meals. That was until that particular night. You managed to control your nerves in his presence and played a piece that you had been practicing for a few days. You played with your soul, forgetting his presence for a moment and letting everything fall into your skillful hands. It felt liberating.
Mihawk paid special attention to you. Seeing you let go like that was exhilarating. Delicious. Your face gestures every emotion, bathing between the warm heat of the fireplace and the moonlight that came through the window. You rose in the darkness like an ethereal goddess. At your side, the Venus is a cartoon.
By the time you were done, your heart was racing and it was hard to breathe. Mihawk ran his tongue over his teeth, licking his lips at the image. Never spoke, he used to say goodbye with a vague wave of his wrist, but that night was different. With his free hand motion for you to come closer.
Maybe it was the excitement of the performance or the heat in his gaze, but you obeyed without question. Hypnotized, you let his icy hand take you until you were sitting on the armrest of his chair, with your legs falling over his. Maybe, you drugged yourself, vampires could hypnotize their prey. That's how you felt, like prey about to be devoured. A prey delighted to be slit by such fine hands.
With a serious face, the vampire brought the rim of the glass to your parted lips. Golden orbs fixed on your dark ones. You let the sweet wine enter your system, with an unnatural thirst. Dank the entire contents, without breaking contact. It was the most pleasant and torturous experience you have ever had. And you want more.
You taste the rest of the wine on your lips, catching the man's gaze falling on your mouth for a second. An unexplained confidence invades you and leads to fall from the couch into his lap as delicately as possible. You feel him tense beneath you. Hands are still on your legs, knowing that one wrong move would end everything. You felt like a mouse playing with a hungry cat.
With a raised eyebrow, he set the glass aside. Analyzing in detail every detail of your face. You were smart not to move. He leaned back on the couch, with an aura of satisfaction and power. He felt you controlling yourself, the heat of your body, your chest trying to rise and fall as slowly as possible. He especially felt the tachycardia pounding in your neck and further down. He had you where he wanted and without laying a finger on you.
He considers himself a generous lover, but also a sadistic one. Would drive you to despair before giving what you want so much.
From his place he cleared the hair from your neck with his fingertips, wanted to admire your beautiful, long expanse of skin up close. He smiled vaguely as he felt you clench your thighs. With his other hand, squeezed your knee as a warning. You bit your lips, didn't recognize yourself, so desperate for a simple touch. You remembered the rumors and unconsciously stretched your neck outward a little. You congratulated yourself as you heard the small sound of satisfaction the short man from you let out. Stroking his thumb behind your knee as a reward.
"My dear" he whispers, delighted to see you melt with just one touch. Brings his mouth close to your neck, enough for you to feel the warmth of his breath. "It would be so easy to break your little neck."
You suppress a sigh as you feel his hand on the other side press right on your artery. The cold hand gives you chills and you barely shake, just enough to be immobilized by your neck and legs. Pressed against the white shirt, hitting your regal chest against the gold crucifix. You moan lowly without being able to control it. You feel on the edge of the precipice.
The small sound is what is necessary to break the vampire. Seeing your face contort like that, feeling the excitement in you.
He trailed his warm mouth along your neck before tracing the same path with his tongue. You tasted like sweat and sin. So sweet. You opened your neck wider for him, just for him. You felt dizzy as you felt the sharp fangs scratch your skin. You moaned, squeezing the arm around your legs and his white shirt. You feared punishment for touching him, but you needed to hold on to someone. To your surprise, he allowed you to touch him. The hand on your legs moved up to your hips, adjusting you better against him. You could feel the hardness of his body carved from marble.
"Do you want it?" He asked against your ear, mocking. "Are you that desperate for me, my dear?" Moved his hand again, moving up your chest until he was on your left side. "You're a little mouse begging to be eaten. Your heartbeat doesn't lie." Squeezes your left breast and you feel like you're going to faint. "Speak, I haven't gotten your tongue out yet."
"Yes, I want it" you manage to say through the haze that surrounds you. You feel him murmur against your neck.
Hurts. His fangs sink hard into your main vein. You feel him squeeze your body with force, almost desperation and for a second you are afraid that he will destroy your neck. Then, it hits you. A wave of overwhelming pleasure sweeps you into a state of extreme ecstasy. The rumors don't do it justice. You become addicted to it from the first moment.
Mihawk has to use all of his self control not to drain you. You have the sweetest blood have ever tasted. And he's sorry for Crocodile, but now you belong to him. He doesn't believe can continue living without your blood. Not even without your music. Or without your sweet presence around him.
The smell of blood mixes with wine and your jasmine perfume. You both reach heaven without needing anything else. Your body falls on top of his. His white shirt bathed in red. It takes you a while to catch the breath. Feeding has never been so exhausting.
Dracule closes his eyes as he holds you against his chest. When you manage to stabilize your breathing, look at it from below. His mouth is full of you. In an act of bravery, run your finger over his beard, collecting a bit of your fluids. Catch his attention and fixes his tired eyes on you, which darken as watches lick your finger so delicately. The taste of metal mixed with the wine in your mouth.
Mihawk hopes you can resist the lack of blood, because he was just getting started with you. He had found the meaning of the immortality in a little violinist.
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ninjaturtlemaniac · 17 days
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Part 8 Trolls Headcanons/ Theories/ Thoughts/ Ideas
Part1 Part2 Part3 Part4 Part5 Part6 Part7
Queen Barb - messing with the Rock String made Thrash lose his mind and made Barb more aggressive. Notice they both seemed to be more level headed after the strings were destroyed?
Riff - studying to work in Aged Care. His studies are sponsored so that he can look after King Thrash.
Classical Trolls - hosts the Trolls version of the Met Gala. All the tribes leaders and their entourages are invited. Also huge names in each genre are invited; Brozone, Sugar Gals, Bad Hair Day, Val Thundershock. (The MeTROLLpolitan Museum of Art 😆)
Trollings - can't make their hair into a gradient style until they are older. (survival/camouflage situations they can do, but only temporarily)
Putt Putt Trolls - use the courses tokens as general currency.
Viva - blows raspberries on peoples cheeks/arms/stomachs to show affection.
Viva - likes to collect 'things'. (Canon?) Never know when you might need the thing again. It can be reused for a different purpose. Side effect of trying to survive. Borderline hoarder. Clay does it too, he is just more organized about it.
John Dory - sometimes refers to himself in the third person. "John Dory doesn't need a map!"
John Dory - doesn't 'get' modern art, pretends he does so people don't think he's dumb.
John Dory - will try to use fancier sounding words in a sentence, thinking it makes sense. It doesn't.
Clay - has a lot of energy. When he isn't dancing, he fidgets, taps his foot, bounces his knee, drums pens.
Clay - has many, many of the same sweater romper. All of them are different shades of green.
Clay - eventually hires an assistant. The assistant is mentally prepared for Clay to be a dictator of a boss. They are shocked when Clay keeps saying things like "Have you had a break yet?" "I think you need a day for your mental health." "Yes, that's how much I'm paying you. How are you going to save for your own pod if I pay you any less?" (I have designed him, I've called him Rye if anyone wants to see him)
Floyd - used to busk to earn extra cash (based on that one concept art)
Floyd - felt he needed to start a solo career because he wrote a lot of songs that JD didn't pay attention to.
Floyd - did in fact live with the other Troll tribes for a while. Hard Rock Trolls were the last ones he met. This was where he met his manager/mentor. (Have also designed him if anyone is interested)
Bruce - all the kids now request Brozone songs instead of lullabies.
Bruce - opened the restaurant before he met Brandy. Used all the money he had left from Brozone to open it.
Bruce - teaches his kids about body positivity.
@jorjafrozen 🤪
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honeyfluff-does-art · 7 months
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Reid loves her dumb, reckless explosion boys!!!
And they love her too, very much.
Fun fact: Reid is the only one of the BTL polycule who doesn't have a tail. Koalas don't have tails!
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witch-and-her-witcher · 3 months
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Intermediate
Feysand | T | Corporate Mod AU
1.5k, part 1 (two will be shameless smut), tysm @popjunkie42 for reading this over and joking about excel with me 😘💖
lucien's coffee mug
~☆~
Feyre may have elaborated on her past work history on her application.
“You can't be homeless, you can’t be homeless,” Feyre chants, feeling her breath catching in her throat as her mind works on overdrive to follow anything on the secondary screen with a Youtube video ‘Vlookups For Dummies.’
Alright, she flat out lied.
“‘Intermediate Excel experience’? Great advice, Lucien, fucking inspired — Wait.” Of course, how could she forget? Feyre’s lifeline.
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“Prick,” Feyre grumbles. Technically, he did her a favor helping her get this job that she desperately needs to support her true passion, painting, but he’s still way too aware of how good-looking he is and acts too cocky for his own good.
The mahogany door opens and the most beautiful man she has ever seen pokes his head out, silky black locks having no right to fall so seductively over one side of his face.
“How much longer, darling?”
“Oh, not very! Almost done!”
“You’re a lifesaver.”
The door clicks shut and Feyre is as red as the bottom of her knock-off shoes. If it wasn’t mortifying enough she is completely incompetent and slid through the interview by memorizing corporate jargon with Lucien and wearing her best push-up bra, now she has to add looking like a bimbo in front of a man like that.
Rhysand Night, playboy entrepreneur who took his family’s old money and completely flipped the tech world on its head — all to benefit the end user, and not to line his own pockets or that of his shareholders.
Of course, not that he isn’t loaded.
Rhys is the most eligible playboy in Velaris and he tosses his black card around as much as his gleaming, heavily insured smile and perfectly sculpted, heavily tattooed muscles.
The things she would do to get in a room alone with him with as few clothes on as possible.
For her art's sake.
A perfect male specimen to model for her painting didn’t come around every day. Sure, there were plenty of attractive men who came to the studio to pose, but all of them paled in comparison to Rhys Night’s Instagram pics, sailing shirtless on a catamaran on the Adriatian Coast.
What else she’d do with the mental images of his nude body would be between her and her twenty dollar special, jersey cotton sheets.
Damn it, focus!
Feyre squeezes her thighs together to suppress the horny mess she is and begins typing in a flurry.
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Heartbeat somewhere in her throat and sweat starting to collect along her hairline, Feyre clumsily clicks around the screen until she’s started a call with Lucien with the mic off and —after first flipping her camera on and nearly screeching at the level of incompetent she is feeling — she gets the two spreadsheets on the screen for Lucien to view.
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Another thirty seconds wasted searching for that button, and Lucien is highlighting a cell and beginning the formula when the office door in front of her desk is sliding open again.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
This time, Rhys doesn’t just poke his head out. Oh, no, ohnonono, the walking sex god is fully out of his office. Sauntering over to her with his hands in his immaculate suit pockets. She can see out of the corner of her eye that Lucien is typing something or other, a question about an array? Jesus Christ, Lucien, as if I know what that word means if I need your help!
No, she’s Feyre Archeron. When her back gets pushed against the wall, she does her best work.
“Sorry to rush you, darling, but I really need that document for this meeting,” Rhys drawls and she can hear late nights with glasses of brandy, lacey red numbers and a thigh tossed casually over his lap in his voice. “Mistakes to call out, asses to chew, and all.”
His steady, clipped footfalls haven’t stopped.
Rhys is coming to her desk.
Fumbling like the ditzy blond men normally take her dishwater hair for —it's really more brown, but the fantasy is what they want— Feyre manages to close out of the Teams call.
The formula is only just started.
Feyre tucks a stray wave behind her ear and smiles cheekily up at the man stealing every bit of oxygen out of the air as he comes around her desk. “You must have slowed up the whole company’s computers with all your work, even mine is lagging.”
The full force of that smile right over her shoulder is too much as Rhys leans back against the wall and looks down at her like the dark fantasy he is. Those blue eyes flash nearly violet as he looks her over, letting his gaze linger on her low neckline.
Shit, she should have worn the push-up bra today.
“In my experience, if the boss shows up, it’ll make the system start working again. Just to make you sweat, you know?”
Can he see how sweaty I am? Oh god.
Feyre forces a laugh, prays it sounds natural and not like she’s losing her absolute mind.
His hands shift in his pocket and it draws her attention.
Being tall, dark and handsome means the first part lines his crotch nearly right up to her eyesight while she’s sitting at her desk. There’s the slightest bulge … Feyre swallows thickly and quickly looks back up, sure she’s blushing enough to hide even her freckles.
Rhys doesn’t catch her gawking. He’s looking at his office and then back to her screen.
God, right, he really needs this sheet.
“Want me to move aside and —”
“No, no, don’t let me micromanage you.” He squints ever so slightly. “What’s that? I haven’t seen that formula before.”
Feyre turns back to her screen and sucks in an inhale, nearly chokes on her own spit, but recovers enough to answer, “Oh, yeah, this. I was trying something new. Trying to impress the boss, y’know?” She laughs uncomfortably.
Rhys places one hand on the back of her chair and cages her in by placing his other on the desk beside her keyboard. He’s leaning over, spilling the scent of his citrus and sea salt cologne over her and the overwhelming sense of foreboding that she is definitely, irreversibly, about to get shit-canned from this job and single handedly embarrass herself beyond saving in front of the most beautiful fucking guy ever.
“Just do a vlookup, it’ll be faster. No need to impress anyone here, Feyre.”
He knows her name?
Oh god, he knows her name.
Why does it sound so god damn sinful coming off of his tongue?
He has to know what he’s doing to her.
Feyre presses her thighs even harder together, as if that will do anything to help her now. A cold bucket of ice water is all that will do.
“Let me just get rid of this and start again.” Feyre feels her mouth shape the words, feels her hand on her mouse highlight the cell Lucien started the xlookup in, feels her hand shift to her keyboard.
Tap tap tap goes the ‘backspace.’
But nothing happens.
Feyre wants to sink into the ground. Fall through a hole that sends her straight down the twenty floors to the basement, better yet to a pit preferably full of mud to bury herself under.
Rhys makes a noise in the back of his throat.
“Just, let me —”
“Feyre, darling?”
“Y-yes, Mr. Night?”
“What’s your Excel experience level?”
“It’s um, well, it’s. You see. When I said ‘intermediate,’ I meant in like, the functional role I was in before. Which, was, you know, really different and um. So.”
“So … You’ve never opened an Excel document before?”
Feyre is mortified. She is never, ever going to recover from this never-ending moment and it’s all that fucking red headed prick’s fault and her own selfish desire to sleep under a roof.
Since when is being a starved, homeless artist so bad? Builds character.
Feyre shouldn’t have tried to bypass the character building part.
She lifts her chin up and looks sideways at Rhys who is still leaned over her shoulder, dazzling eyes staring at her screen in amusement. His sharp nose turns towards her and suddenly they’re sharing the same breath.
“My, my, what are we going to do about this, darling?”
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areyoudoingthis · 5 months
Text
S2 coda fic series
Wanna be with you all my life
Edstede. Rated E
Ed gets an orgasm. As a treat. - "I almost expect you to start purring any second," he jokes. The collar still sits around Ed's delicate neck, jingling softly every time he moves. The thought won't leave his head. He runs a hand slowly through Ed's hair, then smooths it down his shoulder, his bicep, repeats the gesture on his other side. "Stede, are you fucking petting me?"
The art of fishing
Edstede. Rated T
It's been a few weeks of their newfound domestic intimacy when he feels the need to say the words. He's held safely in Stede's arms, warm in their own bed, in their own room, on this ship that is their home. "You were a mermaid when I almost died." - Ed tells Stede about his near death experience. Stede comforts him.
Put the collar on, Captain
Edstede. Rated E
The collar makes an encore. - He reaches tentatively for Ed's hair, delighted to be allowed to pull it aside to reveal the expanse of his neck. He opens the clasp on the collar and reaches around Ed to slide it in place and close it securely. He doesn't miss the full body shiver that runs through Edward when the collar is resting safely against his skin once again, bell tucked neatly into the hollow of his throat. Ed turns around to look at him. He looks ethereal in the bright afternoon light, hair a halo of silver around him. His next words are like molten lava poured over Stede's head. "What would you have me do, Captain?"
Port in a storm
Edstede. Rated E
Some days he feels like he never woke up from the dream where magic was real and Stede was a mermaid. Not because this -their relationship, their life together- doesn't feel real, because it does, it feels real like the breeze on his face and the ground beneath his boots and the immensity of the sky above him, but because he never knew any of what he's experienced with Stede over the past few weeks was possible. In his wildest fantasies, maybe, he dreamed of sweet tea and fine fabrics, the warmth of good brandy sliding down his throat while the fire kept his feet cozy and Stede's voice spread like wildfire through his chest. But his imagination failed him so completely when it comes to Stede Bonnet. - Stede takes Ed dancing.
Do you want to know a secret
Edstede. Rated G
"Do you want to know a secret?" Stede whispers in his hear. "I love you, you nut. I want to spend the rest of my life with you."
Press me to your heart
Edstede. Rated E Stede draws the curtains shut, enclosing them in the dark, intimate space of the bed nook, anticipation running recklessly through his veins. He turns to Ed, looking up at him expectantly on the bed, the cascade of his hair loose around his shoulders and his eyes huge and vulnerable, bathed in the golden light of the fireworks the crew is setting off on deck. - Ed cries out, grips Stede's arm tight enough to bruise, and Stede will wear the lovely shades of purple on his skin proudly, a mark of their passion to match the ones he left on Ed's thighs earlier. "That's it, hold onto me. Let me give you what you need." He needs to take care of him so very desperately. - Picks up right after Stede closes the bed curtains. Tender, horny sex ensues.
Now I'm water
Edstede. Rated G
Ed makes his way back to Stede after watching the ships burn. - Something settles into place within him as he hacks and slashes his way back to Stede. He doesn't want to do this anymore, he's certain of that. But maybe he doesn't have to burn his bridges to get to where he's going. Maybe everything he's capable of can serve him well sometimes, maybe there's some middle ground between fisherman and pirate.
As we go hand in hand
Edstede. Rated G
The memory flashes through his mind of Ed gifting a couple of kids on the Republic a bag of gold and a pair of knives, and claiming they weren't pirates but inn owners afterwards. How long has he been thinking about this? How long has this been a dream of his?
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ghostboneswrites2 · 18 days
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Doe Eyes || Ch.1 - Woodbury
Overview: You (y/n) are taken captive by the Governor and recruited as one of his fiercest soldiers. As you slowly uncover the atrocities committed behind the walls of Woodbury and at the hands of the Governor himself, your already questionable loyalty begins to dwindle. When Woodbury falls, your only friend (a sassy, formerly rich farmer's daughter type named Brandy) decides to take the offer from the rival group to join them at their secure home in a prison. Despite your apprehensiveness -- and your preference to be out on your own -- you decide to tag along with your friend and seek refuge with Rick's group. You become a valuable, able-bodied asset to them, and that's when a certain crossbow slinging southerner becomes a part of your life.
Story begins in S3 and ends when Aaron finds the group to take them to Alexandria. It is mostly canon compliant. Lots of canonical dialogue. This story is finished. There is one OC: Brandy
18+ MDNI || Warnings: Story contains TWD typical violence, profanity, deaths of major and minor characters, gore, etc etc.
Chapter list
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        "Well, so far, so good, except the dehydration. I'm going to give you these electrolyte powders. Drink them twice a day in a glass of water, and make sure to drink plenty more in between." The doctor lady told you, handing you six slender packets. "Someone will be in to show you around."
        With that, she walked out of the room and you just sat there, stunned. A doctor? In today's world? Where the hell were you? Maybe you were dead and this was some kind of strange DMT trip before your lights went out for good.
        The door opened and in walked a tall man with a fake smile. He was the type to work at a law firm or something. 
        "Good afternoon." He greeted cordially. "Name's Philip. Most people just call me Governor."
        "Governor?" You snorted. "Like 'ello gov-nah'?" You joked, mimicking a sad excuse for a British accent.
        "Funny." He chuckled, but something told you it wasn't actually that amusing. "Come on. I'll show you around, then I'll take you to where you'll be staying."
        "Staying? I don't know about that. I was doing alright on my own." 
        "Alright?" He considered your words for a moment, slowly pacing his way toward you. "Wouldn't you rather be doing well? Great, even? Just let me show you around, give you a place to stay for a day or two, and then if you still want to go, fine. We'll send you off, maybe give you some supplies to get you started."
        "What about my weapons?" You inquired. When they took you, you had a .38 and a crowbar. You'd become pretty efficient in the arts of melee since the world fell to shit.
        "Of course. You can have 'em, and we'll even give you a box of ammunition for that pretty piece of yours. It's nice, by the way. Where'd you get it?"
        "Oh, I got it when I got my first place on my own." You shrugged. "You know, wasn't in the best area and all."
        "Understandable." He nodded, showing off that eerily friendly grin of his. "Good thing you had it."
----
        "So, what do you think?" He asked. He'd just given you a quick tour of the town. Woodbury, he called it.
        "It's real cute. Never seen anything like it." You admitted.
        "No different than any other little town in the south." He chuckled.         
        "The walls, I mean." You clarified. "The armed guards. So many people. How'd you do it?"
        "Well, Rome wasn't built in a day." He shrugged, feigning humility.
        "It also wasn't built in a world infested with flesh-starved freaks." You retorted. His eyes narrowed. He was growing tired of your observations and the way you questioned everything. It threatened him, really. But he'd seen the way you fought out there. They'd been watching you for a few days, Philip and Merle and whatever goons they'd bring along for the day. They watched you fight two grown men off as they tried to raid your supplies and probably yourself. You took down the biters with ease, one swift blow to the side of the head, and another down on top. You were quick and sneaky. You made it look effortless. You had survival down to a science, which was either a threat or an asset. He hadn't decided. 
        He forced a smile that more closely resembled a sneer. 
        "I'm sure you've got loads of questions. You're a smart gal. However, I have some things that need attending, and you still haven't been shown to your place." 
        "What, like my own house?" You furrowed you eyebrows. He looked around.
        "You see any houses around here? C'mon, it's in here." He said as he led you inside the building you two had stopped in front of. It was a small apartment building it seemed, maybe twelve apartments total, if that. Yours was on the second floor. It was small, but it had everything anyone could need. "There's some food in the kitchen, and running water. Come find me if you need anything. Feel free to wander and make friends." 
----
        When you'd been at Woodbury for a few days, the Governor had cornered you, asking you to make a decision, because anyone who stayed had a job to do, and if you were going to leave, it needed to be soon so not to use up any more valuable supplies. You told him you'd stay, but he seemed skeptical all of a sudden, asking what value you had to offer. Of course, you told him about the only skill you had in this new world. You were a fighter. He seemed to like that response. He assigned you to the wall at first, then he started bringing you on runs.
        That was weeks ago. Just recently you guys brought in two women, Michonne and Andrea. They made it clear they weren't sticking around, so the Governor gave them the same offer he gave you; chill out for a few days then be on their way.
        Andrea eventually decided to stay but Michonne wanted no part of it. Thing was, Philip never intended on letting them leave alive. You and Merle were tasked with killing her. She got away from Merle, and you let her. The two of you had decided to just tell him she was dead and be done with it. Not like she had much of a chance up against their paramilitary militia anyways. That was when you truly lost any trust for Woodbury. The benevolent ruler façade was already less than believable, and the hit on Michonne did nothing but prove your suspicions. 
        Really, the only  upside to any of this was that for the first time since everyone you knew was eaten alive -- or doing the eating -- you made a friend. Brandy was a tan, dirty blonde, supermodel of a woman. She grew up on a very profitable farm. A plantation, really. She was your typical southern belle, or as she would call it, a 'Georgia Peach.' She was sassy and classy and everything in between. She was probably the only person in the world that still wore mascara and lip gloss and carried a purse. You were drinking with her at her place that night.
        "So, what did you do, anyways? Before all this?" She asked, pouring another glass of wine. 
        "Honestly?" You giggled. "I was a clerk at a pawnshop."
        "Wow, a real classy place, I bet." She joked. You rolled your eyes. 
        "Oh, yeah. The tweakers trying to pawn their decade old VHS players for a sack was real classy."
        "I didn't have a job." She admitted as she poured you a glass. "Daddy pretty much gave me whatever. Paid for my college classes." She lamented. "I had a real good life."
        "That's good." You smiled. "Mine wasn't so bad, but I definitely lacked in the rich dad department."
        "Yeah, well, I'm sure you got a lot more life experience than I could ever dream of. I used to wish I could just live like a normal girl sometimes. Life with a silver spoon ain't all it's cracked up to be, you know?"
        "Oh, yeah. I'm sure that was real tough." You snorted.
        "Only when I wanted a boyfriend who wasn't studying to be a doctor or a lawyer." She giggled. "Or that one time they caught me smokin' pot with my friends in high school."
        "Pot?" You raised your eyebrows. "My, my. A rebel, I see."
        "Something like that, yeah." She nodded.
        "Got any pot now?" You wondered. She laughed.
        "No but if you find any, let me know." 
        "So, what's up around here?" You asked, breaking away from the casual banter. She gave you a confused look. "I mean, like, how come nobody gets to leave this place?"
        "Why would anyone want to?" She scoffed. When she realized you were serious, her smiled dropped. "What do you mean? We're free to go whenever we want. Nobody ever wants to, though."
        "I don't know about that." You mumbled.
        "What are you on about?" She asked warily.
        "Look, you cant tell anyone." You said, growing more serious as you leaned forward on the table where she sat across from you. "That girl Michonne, she left. Governor sent me and Merle after her."
        "What, to bring her back? I thought you said nobody gets to leave?" Brandy tilted her head.
        "That's what I'm saying. He sent us to kill her." You whispered.
        "You killed her?" She gasped.
        "No no no no!" You shook your head and waved your hands. "She got away and I let her."
        "Well why the hell would he send y'all after her? What did she do?"
        "Nothing, man." You shook your head. "Not a damn thing. She just didn't want to stay. I don't get it."
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fayes-fics · 1 year
Text
Endeavour
Double Bind Masterpost
PREV | NEXT
Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader
Summary: Follow on to Forbidden, Benedict makes his attempt to replace Anthony.
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Warnings: 18+ smut minors DNI, dom/sub relationship, dirty talk, hair pulling, bondage, biting, squirting, oral sex (m to f), slightly rough vaginal sex.
Word Count: 7.0k
Authors Note: This is a request fill for @eleanor-bradstreet to continue this series now known as Double Bind. I hope you enjoy my interpretation of your wonderful suggestion, my dear. Thank you for entrusting me with your thoughts on where this could go. There will be at least two more fics in the series after this one. Thanks to @colettebronte for giving this a check through. Enjoy <3
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Benedict’s scent lingers on your sheets the following morning, and he fills your thoughts. But you daren't invite him back to your bed under Anthony’s roof—once was daring enough. Besides, your sojourn at Aubrey Hall ends later that day, with you waving out of your carriage to both of them, each likely thinking your farewell is for them alone, standing as they do in almost a line, Benedict directly behind Anthony.
Two days later, at the first event back in London, the decadent Trowbridge Ball, Anthony is notably absent, not feeling well apparently. Still, the rest of the Bridgertons are in attendance. You slip Benedict a note via your trusted friend’s brother.
Meet me on the dark walk. 
You only include your initials; too risky to include your name in case it’s intercepted, but you hope it’s enough that he will know who it’s from. 
As you slip away into the cool night air, you take a deep breath and slink unseen into the shadow of the building. You take pains to avoid being seen, and he does the same; you see his furtive approach a few minutes later before he spies you.
“Benedict,” you breathe his name from a darkened alcove of vines, and he is on you. Sweeping you into his arms, into a warm, enveloping hug. He smells just as delicious as he did that night, citrus, woodsy, breath sweetened by brandy and smoky from cigars.
“My sweet girl,” his voice is honeyed and soothing by your ear. “I am so very happy to see you.”
“I… didn’t know how to contact you discreetly…,” you admit honestly, clinging to his jacket, not wanting to let go.
“I cannot stop thinking of our night together,” he cuts in, “have you given any thought to my proposal?”
You exhale heavily at his reference to his parting request at Aubrey Hall that you leave Anthony for him, and you step back from his embrace. “I cannot make such a decision at this moment. Anthony means a lot to me; we have a special arrangement. There are… things I need, things I crave, that he offers me,” you look him square in the eye. “I wonder if you can provide those things?” you muse bluntly.
“What sort of things? His voice is laced with intrigue as he reaches out a hand to hold your wrist.
“Domination. Punishment. Harsh treatment sometimes. An escape from this world to a place where I am mindless with need,” you answer, matter-of-fact.
He looks temporarily taken aback, and his grip slackens. “I know of such things,” he confesses quietly. “If that is what you need, what you want, I shall try it. An experiment, a new sensual endeavour, if you will.”
“Very well then,” you nod brusquely. “I shall attend your bachelor lodgings on the pretence of an art lesson. My friend can be my chaperone for propriety's sake. I assume you have a back exit to your home through which she can slip away unseen?”
He looks impressed with your forethought and ingenuity. “Certainly,” he assures, drawing closer, eyes piercing yours.
“Wonderful. Then it is just the matter of which day,” you opine, allowing his hands to twine around your waist again.
“Tomorrow?” He suggests, a bit breathless, his lips skating your temple.
“Such enthusiasm,” you mutter coyly against his jaw. “Tomorrow works for me. I look forward to seeing your darker side, Mr Bridgerton,” you wink salaciously as you pull back slightly. 
It’s like a storm rolls in across his face. A hand clamps around your throat, and his eyes look uncharacteristically flinty. “It’s sir to you,” he growls, his fingers sinking into the column of your neck as he steps into the role as if he was born to play it. 
Your body is suddenly awake, a live wire, your breath shallow. “Y.. yes, sir,” you stutter.
Then, with a wink and a breathtaking smile, his hand falls away, and he is gone.
Oh, that definitely works for you.
——
The next afternoon you and your best friend bustle through the busy streets of Mayfair towards Benedict’s home.
“Are you certain of this?” she asks. “This seems like you are playing with fire, to be courting the brother of your paramour….”
“The Viscount is not my paramour,” you argue, “he is someone with whom I share a special, albeit unconventional, arrangement. To the outside world, yes, it appears we are courting, but that is a veil under which we must meet clandestinely. But we have no agreement of exclusivity, and I do not wish to be bound by the restrictive rules of society. I wish to be free to pursue my interests, which, as of now, includes Mr Bridgerton.” you shrug.
You can see your friend wanting to be supportive and empathetic, to understand your wishes, but it is clear she does not understand the dynamics of how your, or indeed any, intimate relations work.
“All I ask is that you keep this secret for me. For the purpose of the rest of the world, I am receiving art lessons from the brother of the man courting me. And you are my chaperone for the day. You are free to leave via the rear courtyard once we are in the house. And thank you again for doing this.”
She nods as you pull up to his door, and a friendly-looking older man, presumably Benedict's valet, answers. Without waiting for an introduction, your friend bids you goodbye as soon as the door is closed to the outside world. She squeezes your hand and nods to the valet, who obviously knows of this plan, leading her to the back door.
As you watch her retreating figure, you sense a pair of eyes on you. You turn and find Benedict leaning in the doorway to what you assume is his drawing room, a playful smile writ large across his face.
“Y/n,” the way it drips off his tongue, decadent and low, sets the fire in your belly.
“Mr Bridgerton…” you return in as seductive of a voice as you know how. Then you squeal in delight as he lunges for you, effortlessly picking you up bridal style, his body flexing against yours as he athletically bounds up the staircase to his bedroom.
It’s when he lets you down to your feet and turns to lock the door that the butterflies truly erupt. Just the two of you now, no interruptions or distractions—no chance of Anthony listening at the door this time. This is your chance to know the measure of the man. To see how he compares to his brother in the matters of your intimate needs, crude as it is to say.
He draws you into his solid frame and tilts your head up with a hand on your jaw. And it's just like it was at Aubrey Hall. His kiss is passionate and plundering, and you melt into him. Feeling all those things you did before. That you would let him steal you away from everything and everyone you know as long as he just keeps kissing you like this—like you are the very air that he needs to breathe.
“I hope I can be everything you need, that you desire today, my girl,” he begins as he finally breaks the kiss, spidering a finger up your arm, a crooked smile tugging at his handsome features.
“I am looking forward to it...sir.” The last word is pointed, and you roll it in your mouth like a tasty morsel.
He inhales sharply, and you are captivated by how his pupils rapidly dilate. His tongue peaks out the left corner of his mouth and swipes across his bottom lip as if he is tasting the charged atmosphere between you.
“Take off your dress,” he orders, and his voice is suddenly gruff. 
You smirk wordlessly in challenge, wanting to see how he will react to your pushback. See if he can tame you the way Anthony does so effortlessly.
His eyebrow raises at your audacity. “Are you suddenly deaf, my dear girl, or are you asking for a spanking?”
There it is.
“Wouldn’t you like to know,” you needle, smirking wider.
That large hand is back at your throat as it was the day before. He crowds into you. “You had better choose a word that tells me to desist right now, should you wish to continue to defy me like this,” he warns, and his rumbling voice slides over your skin like wildfire, your heartbeat racing. 
“Red will do,” you snark back as his grip tightens, the heel of his palm at your windpipe.
“Mmm, red it is,” he murmurs, his lips on your cheek. “Now do as you are told, or I will do it for you. But I will tear your frock to shreds, and then you must leave my house naked.” 
He releases his grip looking at you expectantly.
You are positively vibrating with how thrilling this is already. You hold his gaze challengingly as you undo the buttons to loosen your dress, intentionally choosing one that doesn't need a lady’s maid to remove. Confidently pushing it off your shoulders, you raise an eyebrow as you stand in your stockings and chemise.  Your stomach fizzes with anticipation that he will soon find out you chose to forgo underwear today to incite him.
“Lose this too,” he clips, tugging on your chemise. As you disrobe from it, his gaze falls heavily to your bare breasts, and he sucks in air loudly through his teeth.
“Where are your stays?” He scolds.
You shrug, and suddenly there’s a hand in your hair, pulling.
“Answer me!” he growls.
You hiss as he pulls your hair tighter, a slight burn on your roots.
“Easier access for you, sir,” you reply through gritted teeth.
“Good girl,” his mouth twisting into an approving smirk as his hand twines around your hair. 
The blunt fingernails of his other hand trail over your breasts so light it almost tickles, and your skin erupts into goosebumps, your nipples pebbling diamond hard. You suck in a deep breath and watch him through heavy lids.
 “And what about your underwear?” low and deadly. Those same fingers spider down your abdomen, over your belly and into the thatch of hair at the apex of your thighs.
“Same, sir,” you answer, practically panting in anticipation. 
“Mmmm, you are lucky; I like that you are so wanton,” he murmurs low, his breath hot on your cheek, fingers swirling teasingly in your pubic hair but not dipping low enough to touch where you are aching. “Now tell me, what are your favourite colours?”
You frown at the rather strange question to the point that you just answer honestly. “Green and blue.”
“Excellent,” he nods, pulling you closer by your hair until he whispers in your ear. “Go and lay on the middle of the bed, stretch your arms above your head and keep them there.”
He releases you and walks away to what appears to be his dressing room. Still slightly confused, you do as told and go lay on his bed. As you settle back into the pillows, you notice they smell like him, like yours did after that night at Aubrey Hall. You turn your head and inhale deeply. The scent memories come flooding back—his face between your legs, making you scream as Anthony sat outside the locked door. It’s so visceral, and you are already so aroused that you begin writhing slightly. Desperate to get some friction on your rapidly swelling clit, trying to rub it between your thighs, not wanting to be caught disobeying the requirement to keep your hands above your head.
“What are you doing?” the tone is intrigued. Benedict is back in the room. 
“Your smell,” you answer honestly, “it's all over your bed.”
“My scent makes you writhe like a little vixen in heat?” he mutters, almost disbelieving, stalking towards you predator-like.
“Yes sir,” you affirm, shooting him your best coquettish look, your movements a little more performative now, just for him.
“And you called me the dangerous one,” he tuts with a shake of his head as he mounts the bed gracefully, cat-like. “Well, maybe these will help you stay still, my naughty girl,” and in his hands, he shows you three cravats, one in navy blue and two in green - one mint, one teal.
“What are you planning to do with those?” you query as he crawls over your prone body.
“I'm going to tie you to this bed until you learn to stop defying me,” he warns.
“I’ll never stop,” you goad with a twisted pout, hands already grabbing the headboard, eager to be tied to it.
He pushes a knee high between your thighs, the wool of his trousers tickling your slit. “Then I’ll just have to tie you face-down and spank you; maybe then you will learn how to behave,” he states almost casually, pulling the cravats taut between his hands, so the heavy silk makes a snapping sound. 
“You wouldn't,” you challenge, wanting what he suggests more than anything. 
His stare turns at once both flinty and flirtatious. “Turn over right now,” he commands, lifting away slightly.
You raise an eyebrow but do as you are told, flipping over underneath him. As you settle on your tummy, he brackets your thighs with his knees so your legs are pressed together, then leans over you. His cock slides along the cleft of your buttocks, making your eyes widen. You have never seen it, but it feels sizable and hot pressing through the fabric of his trousers. It appears certain things do run in the family.
His body is warm over your back as he moves your left hand out wide at a diagonal, looping one end of the mint cravat around your wrist and the other around the bedpost. Then he does the same with the teal cravat on your right hand. Your arms are stretched out above your head but not uncomfortably so. There is enough slack to move but not get up—just the perfect light, restrictive hold.
On instinct, you try to push up and back into him, a little rebellion.
“Stop squirming, or I won't let you come,” he declares gruffly. 
Instantly you still. But you can't help mewling as he teasingly surges his cock over you again, covering your whole back as he lays over you. 
“What if I did this all night, just thrust my clothed cock between your delicious bottom cheeks and came that way? Not touching you where you need it most? Would that make you behave?” his mouth near your ear, his tone dripping with an entirely arousing threat.
“No sir, please don't sir,” you beg quickly, unable to bear the thought of being turned on but having no chance of relief.
“Mmm, not so insolent now, are you, my girl?” he crows. “Maybe we have found a way to make you obedient, hmmm? Will you do what I tell you now?”
“Yes sir, please let me come too,” you whine into the pillow as he thrusts again and groans.
“Trouble is my girl; your bottom is so shapely I can't seem to stop myself rutting over you,” he grunts and slides again; you feel your skin turning red with the chafe of the wool.
“Please take your trousers off; I want your skin on me,” you implore.
“If you are a very good girl, maybe,” he chimes.
You were uncertain that Benedict had it in him to tame your wild streak, to combat your willful behaviour. But he is doing wonderfully, with just the right balance of dominance and teasing. In fact, it's more playful than Anthony is, and you are finding the dynamic entirely, well, charming.
“How am I doing?” He whispers keenly, breaking character as if he can intuit where your thoughts have gone.
“Wonderful," you murmur over your shoulder, and he looks so pleased that a little warmth blooms in your chest. He is so keen to fulfil your needs; it's very sweet.
“Are you sure you are comfortable?” he checks.
“Very,” you assure. “Now tame me, Mr Bridgerton,” you challenge, and like a switch, he is back and snarls in response.
“I’ll tie your legs open, too, if you don't behave. I have a wardrobe full of cravats and all the time in the world, my girl,” he warns steelily.
“Promises, promises, sir,” you provoke.
There is a sudden, stinging slap to your left buttock, and you squeak loudly.
“Behave,” he admonishes.
You just giggle and wiggle your bottom at him in defiance.
“I have a riding crop to bring my steed into line. Are you asking for the same, my girl?”
A frisson runs down your spine; even Anthony hasn’t done that yet. You bite your lip, considering it.
“No answer to that, hmmm?” he hums with a tinge of victory.
You twist your head and allow one eye to catch his gaze, it’s a heated staredown, and the flash in his pale eyes makes you shiver under him. It’s amazing how he can seem so utterly sweet in one moment and so utterly authoritative the next.
“Just your hands are fine, sir,” you retort with a pout, and he guffaws at that.
“Not really in a position to negotiate, though, my girl, are you?” he points out. “It's funny. You say you want domination and punishment. But I think you really relish challenge and surrender,” he skewers you so accurately that you almost break out of the scene. “And my brother is too focused on the physical to realise that you want someone to spar with you with words as well. Does he talk to you?”
“Of course,” you frown.
“No, I mean, does he talk to you? Does he tell you every little thing in his head when he has you like this? Under his control?”
“I….” you pause, “I suppose not.”
“Hmm, that's his first mistake, isn't it? You don't want just the physical act. You crave to know the intangible too. You want to know what someone is thinking. The intellectual puzzle of it all,” he continues, his voice bringing you under his spell even as he barely touches you. “You know how I know this?”
“How?” you breathe.
“Because of that night, in that corridor. You were an unsatisfied woman, and you told me it was what you asked for. You asked my brother to fuck you without pleasure and send you away? If you were into the dynamic for purely physical pleasure, you would never ask for that.” His monologue is murmured against your naked back as he runs his lips and tongue over your spine and ribs, contouring every line. “You are chasing experiences, something to make you think. Something to push your boundaries. And luckily for me, you found out one other thing that night.” 
“What?” you whisper, enrapt in what he has to say as he glides lower and his teeth graze the globe of your bottom.
“I will make you come, even if you don't ask for it, particularly when you don't ask for it, as that means you probably need it even more. Same as I will decide if my hands are enough. Not you. When we are playing like this, it's my job to intuit what you need before you even know it yourself. I can see what your body tells me, even when your mouth is arguing. And if Anthony had just seen that himself and pleasured you, despite what you claimed to want, you would not have ended up with my tongue between your legs, desperate to scream my name, not his.”
You are actually panting by the time he pulls your legs apart roughly and licks a hot stripe up the inside of your thigh, making you gasp loudly, lapping up the trickle of moisture there. He groans at your taste, but it doesn't stop him from talking.
“Just as I know you are dripping down your thighs right now because of what I just said as much as what I just did,” he argues, his tone muffled as he sucks hard on your inner thigh, biting down, but you barely feel it, the endorphin high blotting your mind. 
You had no idea he was capable of this. It’s more mental than physical. He is talking you into submission—filthy words winding you into a state of panting, needy arousal.
“Fuck me,” you exhale shakily.
“Not yet,” he responds, and you actually whimper, exasperated. “There's something else you should know about me.”
“What?” it's just a needy breath.
“I won't fuck you until you are begging for my cock. I’ll never be mean to you. Im not that sort of man. But I will control you, bring you into line. If I don’t touch your little weeping cunt I can make you so mindless you’ll properly surrender, do anything I told you to. You would crawl naked on your hands and knees to me in front of strangers.”
The mental image makes you startle. Every single thing you have done with Anthony has been in private. The title of Viscount means he must maintain public decorum; he prefers to keep personal affairs private. You have certainly never done anything in public. Now Benedict is suggesting you submit to him in front of people, and the shocking thing is… you just might. 
“Now, did you forget about the third cravat?” he laughs, climbing back over your body. You had, but you don't admit it. “Hmm, your silence suggests so. Well, this one is for your eyes.” 
His voice is suddenly back at your ear as the navy silk wraps around your face. There is a tug as he secures the cravat with a knot, the world blacking out. Butterflies roar in your tummy as you realise you are now tied down and blindfolded—giving him your trust willingly.
“Bring your hips up high but keep your head on the pillow,” you can practically hear the smirk on his face as he gives the order.
You do as commanded, shuffling as best you can without your hands and sight until your hips are high off the bed.
“Excellent,” he compliments, his warm hands rubbing delicately on your bottom. “Now tell me, does Anthony spank you?”
“Yes, sir.” 
“And I assume you enjoy it?”
“Very much so,” you confirm, flexing your hips slightly, hoping he will get the hint.
A large hand spanks your left cheek. You squeak and instantly know his technique is different to Anthony’s. He keeps his hand there, grabbing your flesh, fingers pulling at and digging into your skin, elongating the sensation, like he enjoys the heat radiated from the sting he just created. “How’s that, my girl?”
“Very good sir,” you moan tacitly.
He spanks your right cheek just the same. Both hands are now grasping your flesh.
“More, sir,” you mumble, your face burrowing, his scent there sharper now you cannot see, pushing back into his hands.
He chuckles richly, and you hear him shift slightly. 
“What else does Anthony do to you that you enjoy?” he questions, pulling your cheeks apart further and sliding his clothed cock there again.
“He fucks me roughly, sir,” you answer, hoping it will finally goad him into doing the same.
“Hmmm, I will need more detail than that, my girl.”
“He takes me from behind, just how you are now, sir, and leaves handprints on my body,” you expound. “Sometimes he gags me if Im being particularly willful.”
“Are you ever not willful?” he banters, and you just know he has a cocked eyebrow.
You twist your face over your shoulder even though you can't see him. “Not often,” you volley back with a twisted pout. His responding bark of a laugh makes you giggle.
“You are just delightful,” he opines and then spanks both cheeks in quick succession, making your head drop and groan. “I would happily go and get another cravat to gag you if you wish, but I so enjoy your insolent tongue; and all your wonderful noises, it seems almost a shame.” he ponders bemused, smacking both cheeks again so hard the sound echoes up the walls.
Your curse is muttered under your breath. Benedict certainly takes his time more than Anthony does—it seems he wants to luxuriate in the experience. By now, his brother would be inside you, telling you to shut up.
“I could do this all damn night,” he confesses, as if reading your mind, his tone like velvet. 
“Just fuck me already, sir,” you whine, frustrated.
“You do know that the more you demand, the less inclined I am, you brazen little nymph,” he intones, and a hand strikes yet again. 
Your bottom is now burning. He hasn't varied hand position like Anthony, who covers your entire cheek with a tingle. Benedict is hitting the same fleshy spot repeatedly until it’s so intense, a direct line to a throb in your clit. Which he hasn't even so much as nudged yet. When he does, you will be so hyper-sensitive you know it will be a jolt you’ll feel everywhere - you relish and dread it in equal measure. 
“Begging, however, is encouraged,” he adds, interrupting your thoughts.
“Please, sir, please, please fuck me,” you change tack and realise this is what he said would happen.
“Mmmm, now that is something I love to hear,” he hums low, his voice taking on a rough edge as he surges his cock against your tailbone yet again. You hear sounds of clothing rustling and realise he is undressing slightly—somehow, it feels like a victory. He leans over your back, and warm, smooth flesh brushes your shoulder blades.
“There you go, my girl; I removed my shirt,” he compliments. “Keep it up, and I might just get naked for you.” To punctuate the end of his sentence, he pulls back upright and spanks you again.
You know you are moaning and even drooling a touch, dampening your cheek. His technique is definitely more languid and deliberate; the drawn-out tease is beguiling.
“Please, please, please fuck me, sir,” you try again, hoping it will get him to take off his remaining clothing.
Sure enough, his wrist grazes your sore bottom cheeks, working open his trousers roughly.
“Yessssss, sir, please,” you add, going all out for the performance of it all, revelling in the theatricality of the moment.
“You sound so beautiful when you beg,” he rumbles. You scream as two fingers suddenly plunge into your cunt entirely without warning. “Good christ, you are soaked.” 
You can hear the squelching noise of your body as he rocks those long fingers into you, and you keen loudly. Clit throbbing even harder as the blunt round of his fingernail scrapes along your inner walls.
“Please, sir, oh god, give me more. Give me more fingers, your cock, anything,” you babble.
With his other hand, he grabs your hair, pulling your head up like a puppet as you hiss at the prickle on your scalp.
“You will take what I give you, do you hear me?” he growls and everything in your body pulses at the utterly commanding tone.
“Yes sir, of course, sir,” you moan, those fingers inside you curling harder now, and you cry out as he finds that spot inside that makes you crazed.
“There it is. Let's see you soak this bed like the little wild thing you are,” he snarls and suddenly, the languidness of the moment is gone. His hands are urgent and rough, your hair being pulled so tight, his fingers pushing inside your cunt.
You yell, cry out and curse.
“Yes, that's it,” he urges, breathing heavily.
The whiplash moment catches you unawares, and you can't fight what your body is doing; you don't even want to. It's a dizzying sensation as he pushes you fast towards a crescendo. It's not the usual climax; he’s still not as much as touched your clit. It's different, pressure building up inside you that feels almost frightening to let go of. Your wrists tug in your bindings, and you thrash slightly, resisting the tide rising in your body.
“Don't you dare hold back,” he demands, “let it go, don't fight it, give it to me,” he sounds so on a knife edge as his fingers plunder your body that you can't do anything but obey. Your whole body shakes as you cry out, and the pressure erupts—something gushing from inside you, soaking his arm, the bed, and the back of your legs.
“Fuck that's it, yes, yes, yes,” he cries victorious as you squeal and shake and want to collapse, but he grabs your hips, so you stay upright.
You are still quaking all over when he surprised you, releasing your hair, and as your head slumps back onto the pillow, he pulls your ass cheeks wide apart and leans down to plough his tongue between your folds from behind, stubbled chin pressing your clit.
You call out loudly, feeling it in your throat.
“That’s it. Cry for me, my girl,” his tone muffled into your slit, drinking up the fluid leaking there as your body still quivers.
The most obscene noises fill the room as he laps at your body. You moan and writhe under his tongue, already overwrought, the high morphing into something else. He’s taking your body to another different high, stabbing at your clit with long, pointed tongue strokes.
“I want you to come too,” he orders, the heat of his breath making your clit pulse.
“Sirrrr,” your muted protest sound drunken, and that’s how you feel, like every bone in your body is liquid, like you can't possibly come so soon after the intense experience you just had.
“What?” his chuckle has a flinty edge to it.
“I…I can’t,” you groan.
“Don't defy me, girl,” he warns, and a hand reigns down on the back of your thigh, where it meets your bottom, and you jump, pushing your knees wider. He takes advantage of the new stance, tilts your pelvis further so your back is arched low and sinks his whole face into your slit.
You breathe out a curse at just how pressed into your body he is. Your hands tied, unable to do anything but writhe, your lashes flutter heavily against the soft silk tied over your face. Again he is right; you want challenge and surrender, and this is the moment you surrender; with a shaky breath, you bury your face and let him take you somewhere primal and instinctual. Where you are rooted in your body but also somehow floating in a haze of exhilaration.
Your clit pulses, almost painful, as he sucks it between his lips and bites down gently over and over until your thighs twitch and a white-hot burn all around where his mouth holds you captive.
He can feel the ripples emanating from your channel on his face, and he utters encouragements into your soaked flesh. You start to fracture as his whole mouth, nose, and chin engage with your body, taking you over an edge that has you gripping the headboard until your knuckles are sore from gripping and your throat feels hoarse from all the sounds he is wringing from you.
Suddenly his mouth is gone, and you want to yell in frustration that you are not yet done; you want to ride out more when he straights and, with no warning, he thrusts his cock into your palpitating channel. The invasion is almost too much—like you are being split open. The hot hits stretch of him feels so different to Anthony in a way you can't describe, but it’s everything you need at that precise moment. 
You scream. Scream so loud he probably wishes he had gagged you after all. But he doesn't seem to care, doesn't reprimand you for being so very loud, not that you could stop even if you wanted to.
“Fuckk, your cunt is so very juicy and swollen,” he grunts through gritted teeth when you quieten to just panting. He holds still buried deep inside you. “No wonder Anthony cannot resist you. You feel exceptional, my girl.”
His filthy words just make you want more; you drag your cheek groaning a litany of noises, flexing your hips, asking for movement. But he doesn't move. He just stays still, fingers banded around the crest of your hips, the hair of his thighs tickling the back of yours.
“Please move, sir,” you lament.
“Beg for it,” he instructs.
He is doing quite an exceptional job in a different way to Anthony, making you surrender to his will, turning you supplicant, pleading, frantic. He was right—you want to do this. 
“Please, sir,” you gust through gritted teeth, “please fuck me; I need to feel you moving inside me,” you state loudly, clearly, unashamed.
“Good girl,” he compliments and withdraws slowly. Then ploughs back in fast, making your breath catch, your whole body rolling to the point you grab the headboard and push back.
“Yes, that’s it; show me how much you want it,” he growls, and you yearn to please him. To be exactly what he wants.
“Give it to me, sir,” your voice jagged, needy.
“What do you want?” His tone imperious.
“You. Your cock, sir. Fuck me rough,” you breathe.
And that’s all he needs—the green light. Fingers grip hard as he sets a punishing pace. Spearing deep into your body. So far, your lungs feel squeezed as you curl and roll at the force he takes you with.
Your moan is resonant and sounds almost foreign, like it didn’t come from inside you but from some other wild, untamed place. 
He hisses his approval at your noises. He seems to like you loud and vocal, whereas Anthony often tells you to stay quiet and take it, where you have to whimper and drool around his makeshift gags. Benedict doesn’t appear to care who may hear you; it seems he is almost taking pride in the sounds he can wring from you. Hell, he wants you in public; that exhibitionist streak intrigues. Everyone in his household surely knows what is transpiring in his bedroom on this sunny late afternoon.
“Sirrrrr,” you slur as your whole body moves under his rough treatment, your knees scrabbling on the bedding, your hands gripping the headboard, your cheek pressed so deep into the bedding, you know you have crease patterns on your face.
“If you want something, girl, tell me,” he pants each word as he thrusts hard, those fingers a vice-like grip on the crest of your hipbone, leaving marks, jerking you back onto his cock as he presses forward, driving so deep.
“You are so far inside me, sir,” you comment, the feeling of being so drilled into almost blooming into an ache. But an ache that pulls on a string inside, making your eyes roll back, and your mouth fall open, chasing more, wanting it. To feel so viscerally invaded to the point it hurts, him slamming into you, hips snapping, snarling as he does so.
“Yes, I am,” he preens, “and don’t you take all of me so well,” he flatters, leaning down over your back, his skin dewy from the exertion smearing dampness onto your spine. “This is what you need, to be fucked so hard you don’t answer back, isn't it?” he snarls hot into your ear.
“Yes sir,” you answer when he clearly expects a response.
“My little defiant one is finally submissive and taking it like a good girl,” the tone is entirely smug.
You groan as he grabs the knot on the back of your blindfold, pulling you suddenly upright. The slack binding on your wrists snapping taunt, the knots tightening to the point of a faint tingle in your fingertip, your arms suspended in the air in front of you.
He shuffles forward, buried inside you, manhandling you, so you sit on his lap facing away, your legs on either side of his.
“Ride me,” he commands, “take hold of the headboard and fuck me, my girl. Show me what you can do.”
You do as told, rising off his cock, sinking back down, revelling in the new angle you can hit, the steely plunge inside that makes your eyelids flutter.
“Faster,” his orders clipped.
Your thighs begin to protest. Riding him hard as he breathes so loud right by your ear. Then a hand snakes between your legs, and fingers snag your clit. You bite your lip and moan loudly, every muscle ache worth it.
“Are you going to come for me again?” He asks, but it’s not a question. He knows the answer. He can feel the pull of your cunt inside, rippling as he strums your pulsing clit.
Suddenly there is a glancing blow on your breast from his other hand, a light finger spank that catches your nipple and makes you howl. It doesn't hurt, but it makes your nipple throb. 
“Answer me.” His voice a gravelly menace.
“Yes. Yes, sir, I'm going to come for you,” you rush out, smarting from the tingle. You crave he does the same on your other breast, but he doesn’t, his hand too preoccupied between your legs.
Leaning forward slightly, you use the headboard for leverage, and he complements as you speed up. Every fibre on your body pulling taunt as you chase that breaking point. Almost using his body and hands with little thought to his pleasure, mindlessly pursuing your own as he ordered.
He swaps hands, and that’s when you break the renewed vigour of movement too much for you to take. You slump deep onto his cock and scream his name, not the title of sir, his actual name; as you fracture, one of his arms bands around your waist, so you are held in place, the other around your neck, fingers tight over your throat.
“Yes,” he growls in your ear, sounding more animal than human, grunting as he tilts his hips to piston into your convulsing cunt twice more, then suddenly withdrawing, painting your lower back with his warm release as he traps his cock between your bodies.
There is nothing but panting breaths for a few seconds, and then a gentle touch pulls your blindfold up and away. Warm, soft lips on your neck as he reaches for the binding on your wrists and releases them. You flex your hands on instinct, rotating your wrists.
“Was my binding too tight?” His ask is meek, fingertips tracing the redness there.
“No, it was merely silk; this will fade within the hour,” you murmur, twisting to give a quick smile of assurance. 
He pulls you into him and shuffles until you can lay together, limbs entwined, recovering slowly. 
“Was that everything you wanted?” his ask is so endearing you can't help but settle into his arms a little.
“Mmm, it was wonderful,” you assure.
“So, will you be with me?” he whispers, his lips brushing your temple with a sweet kiss, the tone so hopeful.
“I can't answer you yet, Benedict,” you respond honestly, pushing up onto your elbows to touch his jaw affectionately. “I have something special with your brother; I will see him tomorrow and see where I stand. I will not make you any promises, but please know tonight was wonderful, and I wish to be with you again.” 
He looks so pleased you are satisfied and nods, seeming to accept your reasoning. You lay in his arms momentarily, then rise to get dressed.
“Will you not be spending the evening or night with me?” he inquires, his voice almost small.
“No,” you shake your head, “I never do so with Anthony either,” you add to reassure. 
He gets up from the bed, throwing on some clothing himself, his shirt open to the waist, britches held up by braces, and, in a gentlemanly manner, sees you down the stairs and to the back of his home.
“I hope to see you again soon,” he murmurs as he opens the door for you.
Stealing a glance around to see there are no witnesses from nearby windows, you press a brief kiss to his lips. But he spins you and crowds you into the doorframe, turning it into a lingering passionate moment. Opening his lips and stealing into your mouth, the taste of your arousal strong on his tongue.
“You will see me, anon; I promise,” you whisper into his cheek after you break apart. 
Before his fervent kisses can change your mind, you quickly steal down the steps without a look back, slipping unseen into the small alley behind his home and out to the street to hail a hack as the sun sets. You can sense his eyes watching you go. 
You are in a quandary. You don't know if you can pick between them now. Benedict stepped up and was exactly what you needed. But with a different edge, his approach was more mental, to Anthony’s passionate physicality. They are so different, and yet both so beguiling. It's entirely possible you need both brothers fulfilling different needs as they do. The problem is, would they ever accept that? Benedict knows about Anthony but wants you all to himself. And Anthony has no clue. You can’t conceive of how you would broach the subject with him. His penchant for jealousy can be a problem, but the possessiveness it brings out in him is undeniably attractive. Part of you hopes you can delay making a decision, greedily taking from both what you want.
This dilemma will rear its head much quicker than expected. Unbeknownst to you, Benedict's teeth have left a little mark high on your inner thigh—it's not even something you feel. But it certainly doesn't go unnoticed by a certain someone the very next day.
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Benedict taglist: @makaylan @foreverlonginguniverse @iboopedyournose @colettebronte @aintnuthinbutahounddog @severewobblerlightdragon @margofiore @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @nikaprincessofkattegat @baebee35 @crowleysqueenofhell @bridgertontess @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @angels17324 @broooookiecrisp @queen-of-the-misfit-toys @eleanor-bradstreet @divaanya @musicismyoxygen84
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therangerunionoffical · 8 months
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#Union PSA - in character post by the Union responding to an event in the community
#pokemon ranger event #event submission- casting call for IRL Pokemon community events
#pokemon art #pokemon fanart - artwork related to pokemon or pokemon ranger
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I don't have a bakestone but my mums always made rlly good welshcakes with a frying pan so hand over the recipe I want to see if u can compete (I hope u can my mums a terf and I don't want to rely on her welshcake recipe forever 😔)
Ah ha, well, fuck terfs, here's a recipe! Or three.
Welsh Cakes (basic recipe)
Okay so the enemy of Welshcakes is dryness so we must FOCUS on that. A common mistake is to roll out the dough too thin, I suspect, but I’ll come to that.
Um, the currants: I know they're traditional. I know that. So I have included how to use them BUT I hate them, so I have also included The Other Option: you cut them in half and sandwich them with a filling like jam, and then they’re called 'splits’. Right:
Rub together:
8oz self-raising flour
4oz margerine/butter (I’ve used sandwich spread before which is basically fine but only use 3oz then)
1 tsp cinnamon or mixed spice
Pinch nutmeg
Until breadcrumb-y. Then add:
3oz caster sugar
1 large egg
(Optional) 4oz currants that you have been soaking in tea during this time (this makes them richer and also moister, which you want, never trust a Welshcake recipe that omits that step)
This should make a dough rather than a batter. Roll it out to between a quarter of an inch to half an inch thick (don't go thinner! Dryness is the enemy!) Use a cutter to get little cakes (mine are heart-shaped because that's the shape of my cutters for some reason. Use a mug if you lack a cutter.) If you decide to omit the currants, like me, you’ll need to make it half an inch.
Anyway IT'S BAKESTONE TIME or in your case frying pan time - you're quite right, it does work, but just be aware that the cooking process will have to involve you flipping them much more often than on a bakestone. But that's fine you do you.
Heat your bakestone to a low to low-medium heat. On my hob, the heat goes up to 12; I use a 4, and leave the stone for an hour to hit temperature. You will not need to wait so long! As a frying pan heats much faster than an inch thick slab of cast iron. Run a bit of butter over the stone, and then off you go! Put the cakes onto the stone. They should take roughly four minutes each side normally. Don’t be afraid to keep flipping them, though. There’s an art to it at this point - when you take them off the very centres should still look like they’re just still dough instead of fully cooked, but it takes a bit of practice to spot it. Don’t fear experimenting. You’ll have loads.
Once they’re done, if you used currents, sprinkle sugar over. If you didn’t use the currents, let them cool slightly, then cut them in half and put jam in - raspberry or blackberry for preference. And you’re done!
HOWEVER here are some alternatives that I have made
Welshcakes (Chocolate Chilli and Lime)
Amend the base recipe as follows:
Sub up to an ounce of flour for cocoa powder, and use half a teaspoon of chilli instead of the spice.
Go to Tesco or some shit and buy lime curd (or marmalade if you like it I guess but I Hate Rind)
Split them with the lime curd
Alternatively you can omit the chilli and split them with Nutella for Double Chocolate
Welshcakes (Christmas Pudding flavour)
Ohhhhh, trust me on this one. Amend the base recipe thusly:
When soaking the currants, spike the tea with brandy
Use brown sugar instead of caster
Substitute one ounce of the flour for ground almonds and half a teaspoon of baking powder
Up the spice to 1 tsp cinnamon, 1 tsp mixed spice and ½ tsp nutmeg
Add the zest of one lemon and one orange
If you make splits, split them with brandy butter. Then everyone eats them and they smell like Christmas.
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ivorydragoness44 · 2 months
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Maul Monday Update
Work In Progress
Tumblr media
Line art is almost complete!!
"Barely There" / "Nude Maul" coloring page is almost finished. All I have to do is the fine detail little lines, the inner lines. Like his eyes, ear, and belly button. Once all of the line art is done, I'll be going in and editing them. Especially the tattoo lines around his naval, so they don't blend into each other.
Oh! And I decided to totally make up his tattoos from his hips down. Does he have half a heart tattoo on his butt? Maybe.
I hope you're doing well ❤️
~ Brandi
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If you are interested in supporting this project, and receiving the PDF when it's complete, please check out my post here! ✨
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