#clamoring to become profound

[deunmiu-dessie]

ⅴ▬ ⁽ 𝑜𝓇𝒸 ⁾

𝓌𝑜𝓇𝒹 𝒸𝑜𝓊𝓃𝓉 ♡︎ : ₅˖₇ₖ ˚₊·—̳͟͞͞♡

𝓌𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔𝓈 ♡︎ : mdni----- unedited, NSFW,  explicit content, teratophilia, orc/royalty!human, rough sex, unprotected sex, creampie, overstimulation, breeding, spit kink, sloppy kisses, size difference, somnophilia, slight voyeurism, orcish, reader loses all forms of etiquette and just babbles-- stupidly, belly bulge. ₍⑅ᐢ..ᐢ₎

𝓈𝓊𝓂𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓎 ♡︎: as royalty it's your duty to marry and provide heirs for the kingdom, however, your parents have a different plan for you.

꒰m!orc ₊⊹ afab!reader꒱

 𝐹or as long as you can remember, you have been allured by the forbidden. Whenever your parents commanded you to abstain from a certain act or sternly prohibited you from engaging in another, it ignited a fervor within your being. And inevitably, you succumbed to its allure.

Your relationship with your parents was not a harmonious one. From the time you were but a child, they made it abundantly clear that you were not conceived out of their love for one another, but rather out of an obligation to the throne. To them, you were an inconvenience, a mere hindrance that they longed to be rid of. Thus, you existed in a perpetual state of unease, forever uncertain of their next move.

The castle bustled with activity this week, the number of knights seemed to have multiplied, and your encounters with your parents grew scarce. Your daily meals together became non-existent- not that you were complaining. Instead, during supper, they scorned and mocked you—drawing comparisons to your elder cousin who had recently become betrothed to a Duke. You were aware that they would arrange a marriage for you; it was inevitable, but you hoped it would be to someone who would eventually cherish you as you would them.

Verily, this day seemed naught but a replica of the day prior—a day draped in melancholy. The heavens were adorned with clouds of a somber ashy hue, obscuring the radiant sun in its entirety, and permitting but a scant ray of light to penetrate. You lay sprawled on your bed; the clamor from beyond your door kept you from getting any sleep, so you opt to lay there, eyes shut and breathing even.

The two hefty thuds at your door jolt you awake, your eyes snapping to the entrance. A servant girl stood there, her gaze piercing, and her upper lip curled in a sneer. "The King and Queen request your presence for a meal in the dining chamber."

You release a heavy sigh and nod. "Yes, I shall join them shortly, Nadia." she scoffs and closes the door with a soft thud. Rubbing the remnants of sleep from your eyes, you rose from your bed, slipping into your shoes with a sense of resignation. Hastily, you arranged your disheveled hair and adjusted your attire in the mirror, preparing yourself for the impending encounter. Finally, summoning your resolve, you embarked on the descent towards the dining hall.

 Your stomach churns uncomfortably as you motion towards the knights, fingers twisting nervously as they swing open the heavy oak doors. Stepping into the chamber, you swiftly bow and linger there for a moment, awaiting permission to be seated. "Hail to the Sun and Moon of the realm." Your sire grunts and gestures for you to take a seat; you release a shaky breath and settle across from your mother, who pays you no mind.

Within the dining hall, a profound stillness prevails, accompanied solely by the gentle clatter of utensils upon porcelain plates. You dare to disrupt the silence, your heart constricting within your breast, burdened by your uneasiness. " Pray tell, have I heard true? Have the demons breached the borders, causing mayhem? Is that why the ranks of the noble knights have swelled in recent days?"

The older man looks up from his meal, steely eyes on your face. "I did not deem you astute enough to discern matters of such nature, but aye, it is true. The Orcs shall breach the barrier if we do not do something. The knights from Tvatian shall not grace us with their presence for a week's time, yet our defenses wane with each passing moment."

The sound of your mother's throat being cleared reverberates through the air, abruptly drawing your eyes towards her. "You shall soon attain the age of twenty, my dear. Do you have any intentions of entering into wedlock?" Her voice possesses a cloying sweetness, signifying her ulterior motives; she is forever scheming. As you carefully place your knife and fork on the table, you grant her your undivided focus. "Aye, mother," you reply, your words tinged with a touch of uncertainty.

With a disapproving click of her tongue, she gracefully lifted her goblet to her lips, attempting to conceal the mischievous grin that flickered across her features. "Verily, a little bird has whispered in my ear that Orcs take pleasure in having humans as mere playthings, using them as harlots and passing them amongst themselves. How dreadful."

 Your hands clench beneath the table, and you struggle to suppress the bile that threatens to rise. Your heart thumps sporadically in your chest, almost painfully. What is she implying? "Pray tell, what is the essence of your words?"

"The royal family's expectations are not to be taken lightly, my child. If you persist in shirking your responsibilities by avoiding marriage and offspring, alternative measures must be considered. You shall be delivered to the head Orc at the border; mayhap that will pacify them until the Tavatian knights arrive." Your father had spoken this time, causing you to swiftly turn your gaze towards him. Tears welled up in your eyes, and a soft laughter escaped your lips. "Pray, father, assure me that you jest."

The answer lies within his silence. Your hands collide with the table, your head sways vehemently from side to side. "Nay, nay! You shall not subject me to this. What offense have I caused thee? I have obeyed all your commands unquestioningly, and you are planning to— Nay, I shall not proceed."

As the succulent salmon dances on her fork, your mother's laughter fills the air, resonating with a warmth that belies the gravity of her words. "My dear child, you find yourself bereft of options. You shall be deemed a traitor to the noble lineage and condemned to perish before your very birthday." A lump lodges itself in your throat, and tears stream down your face, as you rue the moment you stepped out of your room. "For what reason do you bear such animosity towards me?"

"Escort her back to her chamber; she's giving me indigestion," your mother states with a grimace.  The knights pause briefly, uncertain of how to guide you away. Dismissing them with a wave of your hand, you rise from your chair and exit the chamber, tears clouding your sight. The journey back is unsettling, with the maids gossiping and gesturing, their disdain evident on their faces, and their disapproving gazes following you.

The door is forcefully slammed shut behind you, and with great urgency, your feet carry you to your bed, where you collapse with a heavy sigh. Almost immediately, your pillow becomes saturated with the tears that pour forth, and you huddle into yourself, simply becoming smaller. 

  Indeed, you knew this would occur eventually, but you hadn't thought you would be handed over to some hideous monster who would likely slay you upon arrival. Violent sobs wrack your body, shaking you to the core, while your nose runs uncontrollably, the pillow muffles a scream of agony.

After half an hour had passed, you lay there, sleep welcoming you with warm arms. The answer to this puzzle would reveal itself upon your awakening.

—

Woken by the sound of shuffling, faint whispers, and delicate clinks, you remain motionless, filled with trepidation, and unwilling to stir from your position. You quickly clench your eyes shut upon hearing the intruder approach. As much as you desired to confront them, you were also intrigued to uncover their intentions within your room.

"Seize her limbs; we must transport her to the dungeon." In an instant, your heart falters, trembling fiercely, and for a moment, your breath is held captive. As your eyes snap open, the ceiling of your chamber looms above you. Swiftly, you strike at the person nearest to you, expressing gratitude to the gods as you hear their curse.

Emerging hastily from the confines of your bed, you sprint towards the exit, a shrill cry escaping your lips as a hand clutches your ankle. You descend abruptly, your chin colliding with the cold marble beneath, silently expressing gratitude for the prudent act of placing your tongue against the roof of your mouth in the final moments.

   Swiftly flipping over, you kick frantically, tears streaming down your face as your legs are forcefully spread apart, and the assailant inserts themselves between your thighs, seizing hold of your arms.

Your vision blurs as a heavy slap is brought across your face. The brief respite from your struggle grants the assailants the opportunity to lay a cloth upon your nostrils. Your eyes flutter shut, darkness casting a shadow upon your vision. The feel of your body being lifted is the only thing you remember.

Within the confines of the cell, you find yourself in a state of contemplation, your head gently leaning against the cold metal bars. The sharp sound of heels striking the ground causes you to straighten up. The passage of time remains elusive, yet the atmosphere hints at the arrival of a new day, shrouded in the quiet of dawn.

Your mother's face came into view, causing you to sneer in disdain as you buried your head in your knees, refusing to meet her gaze. The very sound of her voice sent shivers down your spine, igniting a mixture of anger and sorrow within you. She callously auctioned you off, displaying a complete lack of concern for your well-being.

"I reckoned it would be preferable for you to don your best attire, but it would be futile. A watchman shall be present shortly to guide you to the border, make no disturbance, do you understand? 'Twould be unsightly if you do."

You ignore her, but deep down, you are filled with dread to venture towards the border. You longed to weep and plead with her to refrain from sending you, but it would only wound your pride. Instead, she smiles and draws nigh unto the prison bars. "When we emerge victorious in this war, and if you are still breathing, I shall dispatch you to a brothel. I couldn't possibly have such a defiled child. Revel in your sojourn there, my dear."

The clatter-clack of her footwear slowly vanishing into the distance brings forth a torrent of tears. Why must this befall you? What sin have you committed to warrant such treatment? The jingle-jangle of keys catches your attention; the guard stands before you with a look of pity. "Your majesty, the time has arrived."

You nod in a pitiful manner and rise from the ground, using your soiled hands to dry your tears, leaving traces of dirt on your cheeks. As you draw near to the guard,  he pulls down his sleeve and tenderly wipes your cheeks with a sympathetic smile. You bow softly in gratitude and proceed to walk with him to the carriage.

He assists you inside and closes the door; a click prompts you to peer through the tiny gap. A lock secures the door; as you lock eyes with the guard, he merely sighs and shakes his head. "The Queen has requested this. I beg your pardon, Your Majesty." 

  You remain silent, leaning back in the seat and staring blankly at the castle. You see your father standing at his office window, observing. You avoid his gaze, curling up in the seat. Then, as the carriage sets in motion, your heart swells, and tears flow.

The carriage's abrupt jolt awakens you from your nap; the sun is just beginning to descend, signaling the end of a day filled with endless riding. The only noise is the steady trot of the horses and the occasional whisper of the soldiers. Have you arrived already? You swallow nervously and flinch as the door is forcefully opened. "We have arrived, your highness."

You nod and sit up, clasping his hand to disembark from the carriage. Your eyes swiftly survey the surroundings. Despite the tales, the border seemed relatively serene. You couldn't hear anything from beyond the wall. At length, a throat is cleared,  causing you to look up, and the guard beckons you along. You hesitate for only a moment before fortifying your resolve and walking forward.

After much anticipation, the distant voices grow more distinct. "Captain, 'tis here! Shall we unseal the gates?" The clamor of the ponderous wheels turning and ascending is loud in your ears. The gate opens enough to allow your passage beneath. They weren't wasting time at all. The guard places a hand on your lower back and pushes you forward gently. "The Orc General has agreed to receive you; he's on the other side waiting."

You suppress the lump in your throat and proceed, every gaze fixed upon you. The wall loomed thick and intimidating,  and you couldn't shake off the fear of it collapsing on you as you reached the other side. However, as you eventually crossed over, your gaze locked with his.

Standing tall at a minimum of 9 feet, he possessed a powerful build adorned with thick muscles, and hair decorating his chest. Dark brown hair cascaded down to his waist woven into an intricate braid, contrasting against his pear-colored complexion and a thick beard enveloped his jaw. Scars crisscrossed his body, enhancing his rugged charm.  Despite his blunt tusks, one of which was slightly chipped, there was no denying the outrageous attractiveness of this Orc.

As he takes a step forward, an instinctual reflex compels you to retreat, a shiver of trepidation coursing through your being. Your legs, heavy as if forged from lead, refuse to heed your desperate plea for escape. A subtle chuckle escapes his lips, the corners curling upwards in a smug grin. "Time is not a luxury I possess, little human," he mocks, his voice dripping with impatience. 

  You part your lips to utter a response, but only silence greets your futile attempt. The resounding thud of the closing wall seals your grim destiny, causing your weakened knees to buckle beneath you, surrendering to the tender embrace of the grassy ground. With a deep sigh, he strides towards you, casting a towering shadow over your slumped figure, a chilling reminder of his overpowering presence.

With utmost ease, he effortlessly lifts you, as if you were as light as a feather. Your body tenses in his embrace, a mixture of vulnerability and anticipation. The tears well up, threatening to spill over. Surprisingly, his touch is tender, his hands delicately traversing your legs and back. Summoning your courage, you manage to muster a question, your voice trembling slightly. 

  "Might I inquire about your name?"  Despite your hesitant speech, he pays no mind, his voice resonating with a deep timber that sends a surge of desire coursing through your veins. A flush of warmth spreads across your face, compelling you to avert your gaze and focus on your lap. "I am Loran, the General of the Mammoth Clan."

Silence envelops the air for a fleeting moment before your voice breaks through once more. "My name is (Name)" He acknowledges your introduction with a subtle hum, and together, you navigate through the labyrinthine paths until you arrive at a large tent. With utmost care, he settles you upon a sumptuous bed adorned with furs, then proceeds to position himself near a table, obscuring its contents from your prying eyes. 

  A knot tightens in your throat as you summon the courage to voice your deepest fear. "Might you have intentions of devouring me?" you whisper, recoiling at the childlike vulnerability that tinges on your words.

His laughter causes a flutter in your chest; every aspect of him leaves your insides twisted. At last, he ceases his actions and pivots to meet your gaze, his arms folded. You had to physically remind yourself to avert your eyes from his well-defined muscles. "Would you like me to?" His voice carries a teasing lilt, yet his words hint at something more intimate.

You shake your head in denial and draw your knees closer to your body. He was nothing like the figure you had imagined; you were convinced that your life would have ended by now. Your gaze wanders aimlessly as you delve into your own musings. Unbeknownst to you, he crouches down before you. The calloused tips of his fingers grazing your chin send a shiver down your spine. Your eyes meet his, and you find yourself holding your breath.

"The hour grows late; retire for the night. "

 You offer a silent nod, watching him leave the tent. Following his guidance, you settle back onto the furs. After the tumultuous events of the day, slumber swiftly envelops you, embracing the plush comfort of the bedding.

The warmth seeping into your skin prompts you to wriggle out of the furs. The weight of an arm flung over your stomach arrests you, dread settling in your heart and coiling around it like a vice. Though yesterday's events come rushing back to you and you relax, your tense body melting into Loran's embrace.  

  Despite the circumstances that brought you here, he had shown nothing but kindness, even playfulness - he didin't really make you uneasy, and it seemed as though a burden had been lifted from your shoulders.

In the realm of uncertainty, his actions remained capricious, yet amidst this unpredictability, a newfound liberation enveloped your being, you were free. Loran, with an irresistible allure, draws you nearer, your bodies melding as your front meets his. You place your hands on his chest and gently create distance, huffing as he cuddles closer.

After struggling a bit more, you come to a stop and seize the opportunity to examine him closely. Withdrawing your hand from his chest, you gently place it on his cheek, relishing its velvety texture. Loran possessed a striking appearance. Tracing your fingers along his lips, the sensation of his tusks lightly brushing against your fingertips captivates you once more. Their smoothness leaves you mesmerized. The rounded tips are gentle and harmless; they would not cause any discomfort if you were to share a kiss.

 Blushing with embarrassment, your cheeks turn a rosy hue, and for a fleeting moment, you seek solace by burying your face into his chest. Raising your gaze once more, you cautiously wave your hand before his face, ensuring his continued slumber. With no signs of movement and a steady rhythm of breath, a sigh of relief escapes your lips. 

  Gradually, you shift your position, ascending along his form, while your heart flutters nervously within your chest. With a mixture of fascination and unease, you lean closer, drawn to an inexplicable magnetism emanating from him. His lips, so alluring, entice you irresistibly.

 Placing your hand on his cheek, you lean in with deliberate slowness, capturing his lips with yours. The sensation of his tusks grazing your skin sends a rush of pleasure up your spine. With closed eyes, you deepen the kiss, savoring the unexpected softness of his lips. His taste is intoxicating, akin to a forbidden elixir. You have always been drawn to forbidden pleasures.

With a hint of reluctance, you retreat, allowing your eyes to slowly unveil the world around you. A startled gasp escapes your lips as your gaze meets Loran's. Despite your endeavors to break free from his embrace, his arms encase you like unyielding steel, entrapping you. Loran's chuckle resonates with a profound and drowsy timbre, while his hand ascends to firmly grasp your chin. "Do not flee from me, Sma ni." ( little one )

His lips are on yours, gentle and governing. His other hand gripping your waist and quickly lifting you onto his chest. The sensation of his thick and moist tongue overpowering your mouth elicits a fervent moan from deep within you, while your thighs instinctively clasp around his stomach. As his hands glide up your top, the pads of his fingers diligently work out the tension in your soft skin. Gradually, they find their way to your hips, expertly guiding them to grind against his abdomen.

With a soft whine escaping your mouth, you break the connection of his kiss, and your tongue lazily protrudes, leaving a trail of warm saliva on your chin. A primal growl resonates from deep within his chest, causing your thoughts to blur. Your hands instinctively find their way to his chest, the rough hair gently tickling your palms. The pressure on your hips eases, and his hand tightly grasps your hair, enabling him to sit up and halt the rhythmic grind of your hips.

A soft whimper escapes your lips as the throbbing sensation between your thighs intensifies.  Loran's lips trail along the curve of your throat, delicately nibbling at your tender skin, while his tongue glides with ease. Suddenly, a tearing sound startles you and a rush of cool air caresses your newly bared legs. The remnants of your shredded trousers gracefully descend to the floor, leaving you vulnerable and exposed.

Upon the velvety fur, Loran tenderly positions you, his voracious eyes meticulously exploring the expanse of your body. In a swift motion, he removes the sole obstruction that conceals your body, leaving you vulnerable to his cravings. You clench your thighs, your pussy pulsating with emptiness. This man was sinful; he looked so delectable, his lips shimmering with the remnants of your passionate kisses, and his complexion adorned with a captivating flush.

He lets out a deep groan, settling himself amidst your thighs, the ache in your legs a mere whisper compared to the intensity of his touch, tongue dancing over your nipples, nipping and tugging. Loran's hand travels up your body, his thick fingers entering your warm, wet mouth. You suppress a gag and suck on them shyly, tears welling up in your eyes. As his fingers delve deeper into your throat, you grasp his wrist firmly, your hips grinding against his thick bulge.

Loran pulls his fingers from your mouth, watching the rivulets of saliva drip down his digits. Leaving a glistening trail of moisture along your body, Loran delicately caresses his fingers through the soft curls of hair on your pussy, teasing you with the soft touch of his fingertips. With deliberate precision, he gradually eases one digit into the confines of your snug entrance stretching you. You pull your fleshy bottom lip into your mouth, teeth digging painfully. Your lashes flutter, exposing the whites of your eyes as they roll back in blissful surrender, eyebrows arching. Your mewls are soft and pleading. "Mmph! L-Loran. Please "

Your voice is a siren's call to him, as you whimper and plead for him. His desire to possess you completely, to fuck you full of his cum, to have you swollen with his young, consumes him. The mere thought of it almost brings him to the brink of release. Granting mercy upon your adorable, fucked out face, he finally sinks his finger into your cunt, relishing the exquisite tightness that embraces him, while your delicate hands clutch his braid and tug.

  With his other hand, he gently cups your cheeks between his large, powerful fingers, causing your lips to pucker. His mouth descends upon yours, messy and dominating, leaving a trail of mingled saliva that pools down your flushed cheeks. He chuckles as your eyes wander elsewhere, glazed and hazy with pleasure as he eases a single finger inside you.

A high-pitched sound escapes your lips as he expertly probes a sensitive spot deep within you, causing your hips to tremble and your inner walls to clench around his fingers. Leaning closer, his warm breath brushes against your ear, sending a shiver down your spine. "Ayh lat naka ve cum, sma shara? " His mother tongue is foreign to you, but it sounds absolutely erotic, especially while he's stroking your drooling pussy skillfully. You shudder fervently, emitting mewls and whimpers, as the squelching noises of his thrusts fill the confined space of the tent. “I—uhn~ w-wait p-please, Lor…” You babble nonsensically. ( are you going to cum, little human? )

 Loran, in a teasing mood, complies with your dumb prattling, and moves away from you, fingers slipping out with an erotic pop. A soft whimper escapes your lips, your lower lip jutting out in a pout as tears well up in your eyes from the empty feeling in your pussy, your eyes widen at seeing him suck on his dampened fingers. “N-no, why’d you stop!” 

 With a chuckle, the Orc leans in to press a tender kiss on your flushed cheeks, his warm breath sending shivers down your spine. "I simply did as you asked, Faushnu," he whispers. Pulling back slightly, he studies your expression - your eyebrows furrowed, lips parted, and your chest rising and falling rapidly. "I did not mean for this," you whimper, grinding your hips against his growing bulge. “M-more. Give me more.” You give him a stern glare, that only turns him on more, his little hostage was so demanding. ( baby ) "Of course, Your Highness," he says, his tone dripping with playful mockery. Loran's large hands firmly grasp your waist, swiftly maneuvering you onto your stomach. With a gentle yet commanding motion, he elevates your hips, causing your face to be buried in the soft furs beneath you. The sensation is almost agonizing as your back arches, eliciting a sharp squeal from your lips. A glob of warm saliva unexpectedly lands on your moistened pussy, causing an involuntary clenching reaction. "What are yo--?" 

  Before you can finish, the sudden roughness of his tongue against your throbbing cunt has you seeing stars. His feral growls reverberate through the air, as his tongue delves and ravishes you with an insatiable fervor. Reduced to a whimpering wreck, tears of rapturous delight cascade down your flushed face.  Desperate to regain control, you weakly press your small hand against the crown of his head, attempting to halt the relentless onslaught. "No more, please, m'gunna cum. Want to cum for you," you manage to slur amidst incoherent babbling, your words a contradictory mix. 

Loran, enraptured by your musings, fingers your pussy once again, effortlessly finding that spongey nerve inside of you and deftly curling his thick finger into it, time and again. A torrent of scorching pleasure engulfs your entire being, as you succumb to an intense climax, your trembling thighs embracing his head while your pussy flutters around his finger.

" Loran! "You slur, thighs still convulsing as the feel of Loran's hands on the fat of your hips seems multiplied, your mind filled with goo. The rustle of fabric falling to the ground barely registers before his thick cock presses into your pussy, hands guiding your hips onto him. Warmth trickles onto your pulsing cunt, his saliva lubing where you connect. You clench around him, emitting obscene moans. 

   He delves deeper, your snugness yielding to his thick, heavy cock. You swear you can feel every pulsating vein, every ridge of him inside of you. You whimper and whine when he fucks half of his big cock into your tiny little hole, and you thrash and let out small mewls of pleasure. "Mmph, Lor--!! it won't fit!" you whimper amidst sobs. 

"Hm?" He utters, his voice a low hum, as he observes with rapt attention as you stretch around his green, monstrous cock. The pressure within your abdomen steadily intensifies, inch by inch, until Loran thrusts in the last couple of inches, his large balls flush against your engorged clit. You're already fucked stupid, pupils blown, and moans strewing from your lips. The Orc takes hold of your hand, guiding it towards your stomach, allowing you to feel the undeniable presence of his shaft protruding from your belly. "Do you feel me? Feel my cock in your insides, my little human?"

With a forceful motion, he retreats, then thrusts forcefully into you, his grip tightening on your hair as he pulls.  A fervent moan escapes your lips, as the resounding collision of his hips against your ass fills the air, the only thing you can hear. The wet squelching of your arousal intermingles with his precum, cascading onto the opulent furs beneath you. His name becomes a sacred mantra, slipping from your tongue like a fervent prayer. "S'good, m'gunna cum, let me cum, please, please."

With a gentle caress, Loran's hand ascends your stomach, pinching your sensitive nipples. You mewl, back arching as you clench and pulse around his thick length, cumming harder than before, a wave of darkness gently tinting your vision. A low, guttural moan reverberates from deep within you, harmonizing with Loran's unyielding thrusts. “That's a good fuckin’ girl.”

The Orc's hand comes down on your ass, observing the quivering flesh. Your violated hole trembles around Loran's thick length, and he snickers, his hips stuttering. "You're mine. Hm? Do you understand, pet?" His thrusts became more profound, faster, not giving you rest, groaning as you nod quickly, whimpering.

You turn your gaze towards him, his fingers constricting in your tresses. "Loran, want you to cum inside me, please." Your feeble arms emerge from beneath your form, delicate hands reaching to spread your pussy wider. "You will, right?"

 Your wanton plea hurls the massive Orc over the brink. Loran's hips slam into yours once more as his scorching cum coats your walls; the copious amount of it had you cumming once more. Loran continues to pump his seed into you, his cock still hard and balls full of cum. He longed to see you swollen with his offspring; he wouldn't stop until he knew you were trapped with him.

You are not permitted to rest until the early morning, curled against his chest with his seed leaking from your stretched opening. Your body is tender, marked with bruises on your neck and chest. Loran places his large hand on your cheek; although he is running late for the meeting, he decides to allow you more time to sleep.

He lifts you gently, thankful that he has cleaned you up and changed the bedding. You snuggle into his warmth, almost convincing him to delay for another hour. "My zemar, it's time to wake up. We must rise before the sun sets." (my heart)

Stirring in his arms, your eyelashes flutter before you slowly open your bleary eyes. Attempting to close them once more, his hearty chuckle resonates, partially rousing you. Placing you gently on the bed, he drapes one of his shirts over you, guiding your arms through the sleeves. Loran picks you up again, cradling you as he carries you out of the tent, shielding your eyes from the glaring sun. The short walk to the other side of the campsite goes unnoticed by you.

He arrives promptly, his raven perched gracefully on its stand. A soft whistle escapes his lips, a signal for the bird to gather the troops. Loran takes his place at the head of the table, positioning you to face him, your legs wrapped around his waist. With spit on his fingers, he traces circles around your cunt, pleased that it had returned to its original state, tight and warm. After lubricating your entrance, he spits on his palm and wraps his member in a firm grip, ensuring that it's slick. 

  Loran aligns himself with your little hole and eases inside, emitting a deep groan at the vice grip; you let out a sleepy moan, tightening around him. His large hands grip the fat of your hips, guiding you down the rest of his thick length. He pulls his shirt over your ass, concealing where his cock is nestled inside of you.

He has to stop himself from fucking you on the table in front of all his tribe members. Once he had you in the perfect position, his soldiers began to file into the room. He couldn't help but notice how your warm, tight hole was becoming slick. Unbeknownst to you, his thick cock was already buried deep within you.

The meeting unfolds seamlessly. With nightfall as their ally, they conspire to dismantle the impenetrable walls of the Kingdom on the morrow. A sacred covenant governs The Mammoth Clan, dictating that the fairer sex and the innocent offspring shall be spared from any affliction. Thus, the innocent shall be granted mercy and protection.

Awakening towards the end, your pussy pulsating and enveloping something thick and long. A twitching motion stirs inside you, nudging your G-spot. A soft moan escapes your lips as you hide your face in his neck. Loran dismisses it as your mere awakening, soothingly caressing your back. Only a fool would miss the evidence of your arousal - the glistening juices trickling down your bare thighs and the hint of green meeting a clenching hole

" Dismissed. "

The orcs file out of the room, speaking amongst each other. Loran's gaze descends upon your petite frame, concealed beneath his garments. He looks feral. Once the auditory commotion subsides, you cautiously lift your head, locking eyes with his penetrating stare.

"Loran, please."

The Orc emits a deep snarl, his lips forcefully meeting yours as he firmly grasps the flesh of your hips, hoisting you off his slick member. Swiftly, he plunges you back down, thrusting into you with fervor, fucking you onto him. You're moaning mess, the spit from your sloppy kiss sliding down your chin and eyes rolling to the back of your head. The sound of wet slapping resonates loudly within the confines of the tent. With a gasp for air, you disengage from him, your hands finding solace on his broad shoulders.

 A particular thrust causes the swollen, mushroom-shaped tip of his cock to abuse your g-spot and your moan is shrill. You climax, your body trembling around him, leaving a creamy, ivory ring at the base of his cock. Stars burst in your vision as you weakly press your lips against his throat, whimpering as he continues to thrust into you, your sensitive and throbbing core tender. " Lor-.. no more.. s’too.. much!" you sputter, sloppily pressing your lips to his and sucking on his large tongue. 

Despite the roughness of his hips snapping into yours, he caresses your sides softly and pulls away from your kiss, licking his lips. "Be a good pet, hm? Let me use my pussy, can you do that for me? " You nod hesitantly, and he smiles, sending your stomach to unfurl languidly. "S'my good girl." You bury your face in his neck with a whimper, but when your blunt little teeth sink into his collarbone it pushes him over the edge; and he stands up with you still bouncing on his cock, thrusting so deeply that you hiss. Ropes of cum paint your pulsing walls, filling you up.

Loran's shallow thrusts ensure not a single drop is wasted as you envelop him in your embrace, closing your eyes and inhaling deeply.

Mayhap, the circumstance of being dispatched to this place was not as grievous as first imagined...

connected with this post!

[yzzart]

hii love!! i'm new to your work but i've fallen deeply in love with your writing and your way of writing Tom 😭😭 i absolutely love the actress!au stories so i thought about one myself: where tom and reader are already in a established, public relationship; and they attend a gala or some kind of event together, and maybe one of them had to host or talk in front of the guests and they keep mentioning and talking about each other. and the fans are going crazy after that interaction 💘 thank youuu

"A peculiar moment."

pairing: tom blyth x actress!reader.

summary: at an event and being the host, Tom interviews the first person of the night, you.

word count: 1.452!

“You look so beautiful, Y/n!”

A mix of voices asking, clamoring for photos, autographs or at least a four-second attention exclaimed in your ears and of course, echoed throughout the environment. — Also, accompanied by several flashes, one stronger than the other, from cameras; it bothered you a little, but nothing too profound.

After all, besides being used to it, this had already become a routine for you.

Walking, carefully and holding a small part of your dress so you don't trip in your steps, to a large one that separated the fans from a part of the carpet, you are greeted by more screams, compliments and smiles. — Along with several photos of you, posters for "The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes" and other films that featured you, and some notebooks looking for her autograph. — Doing your best, you tried, completely, to pay attention to everyone.

There came a time when you needed to draw on a fan's arm, because she warned you that she was going to get a tattoo; a completely surprising request for you. — There were a lot of people, so paying attention to all of them was a very difficult job, but you did your best to welcome and talk to them. — Also, thanking everyone for the support and so much love.

After a specific period of time, which was a little long, preparations for future brief interviews had already begun, along with the photo sessions; the cameras were already recording and capturing everything that passed in front of their lenses. — A good number of the interviewers were already organized, talking and interviewing some people and some were talking to the event employees.

The environment was magnificently exquisite and dazzling; flowers of different colors, but most of them reddish in pigmentation, possibly intended to match the red carpet and the charming decorations that were present. — Everything was impeccable. — And the lights, lighting matching the color palettes.

Continuing to walk along the carpet, and being careful with your steps in your dress, you greet the photographers, quickly answering questions about your well-being and requesting attention for their respective cameras. — While posing, smiling, in a gratifying way, you looked for a certain person who was scheduled to be present at the event.

Perhaps, it could be considered a little rude as your eyes were roaming, freely and lightly, across the large hallway as the flashes captured your every movement. — Well, just maybe. — But your chest was anxious, more than usual, during your silent and barely disguised search.

"Here, Y/n!" — An unknown voice passed through your ears, removing your thoughts from your attention and consideration, and the owner of the request waved holding his camera; trying to attract your focus and succeeding. — "That!" — His small smile of gratitude became visible.

Even though he directed a smile accompanied by a pose for the camera, fulfilling the photographer's request, your eyes remained on his objective, but in a discreet and not so flashy way. — In each flash, you moved your eyes to the side and observed person by person. — Until, instantly, your eye sockets collided with the image of a familiar person. — He turned around quickly, and finally his eyes met yours.

Holding a microphone, which had a marking saying "host", and standing next to the camera that was in front of him, Tom watched your photo session with a proud smile. — The recording, which was live, did not focus on his entire smile, just a part of it. — He wasn't just watching, he was admiring, contemplating you; he always did it and could never get tired of it.

Tom received an exclusive invitation, considered splendid by you, to host the event; a large and responsible role and mission, too. — It was a great emotion, at the same time you received it, your boyfriend immediately told you; and, of course, you were the first to know about it. — Therefore, one of his fundamentalist roles included interviewing the guests.

Blyth was nervous, that was obvious, but also confident; perhaps, due to the fact that you would be the first person he would interview that night.

Your genuine, radiant smile went through the photos and stood out among them, making them all magnificent, and already being planned to be posted. — And the photographers were more than satisfied. — Before leaving and heading towards the interview point, you moved your head towards some cameras and said goodbye to them.

The small point, which resembled a small stage, where the host's interviews began was not far from where you were; Just a few steps and you could walk without any problems or worries about your dress. — Something you were grateful for, mentally.

It was only when you were going up, on one of the steps of the small stage, that you needed a little help. — Your boyfriend offered his hand towards you, which you quickly accepted, and carefully directed you onto the platform. — And yet another camera focused on you, now, broadcasting everything live.

"Look who we have here." — Remembering the microphone in his hands, Tom brought it to her mouth, at an appropriate distance. — "Good night, y/n!" — He tilted his head, with an inviting smile paying attention to the sparkle in his eyes while directing the microphone towards you.

"Good night, Tom!" — You answered. — "How are you, darling?" —Imitating your gesture, your head is tilted, delicately awaiting his answer.

"Better now and you?" — Tom raised his eyebrows, uttering a answer that was perhaps bold but sincere; and there was no trace of concern, even in front of the cameras.

"I can say the same." — Your eyes roamed to a small point that cried out for your attention, the necklace he wore; the one where your initial was carved. — It was the third time Tom had worn it in public; an action that enchanted you. — "I can actually say the same."

"On a night as beautiful as this, did you come with someone?" — He decided to play, relax with you, acting as if your relationship wasn't public; you laughed, understanding what it was about.

"Oh, unfortunately not!" — Your ears heard a brief laugh from the people working behind the cameras. — "However, i met a guy, by pure coincidence, who has your name and looked like you, but i lost track of him." — Anyone would be impressed by how quickly you created that story, Tom thought it was funny. — "He's an incredible man, in fact, a special man to me."

"From your words, i can see that." — Your boyfriend didn't seem embarrassed at all, he was appreciating your words, even though they were short and also coming from a small joke; Tom had forgotten where he was, in fact. — "I know him?" — You turned your eyes upward, pretending to be thoughtful.

"I don't think so, but it should." — A corner of your lower lips were nibbled by your teeth. — "I feel like he's definitely a charming man in my life." — You shook your head, confirming your words, losing the meaning of the little joke. — "The only downside is that i lost track of him."

"I'm sure you'll find him soon, my dear." — Blyth assured with a beautiful smile on her beautiful face, which was probably accompanied by a reddish tone on her cheeks. — "You're perfect, my love." — In just a few seconds, the joke was put aside; Tom couldn't resist, much less you. — "Always is."

"Just like you, dear." — You approached of the oldest, subtly placing your hand on his arm and placing a kiss on his cheek; it was a little slow, but not so slow as to complain, and Tom would never dare make a complaint. — "See you soon?" — You referred to the end of the interviews.

"Of course, love." — He replied holding your hand; noticing the only ring on your finger, the one he gifted you. — "It looks like someone is going to be reunited with a certain companion." — Tom commented, looking briefly at the camera with one eyebrow raised and helping you get down from the small platform.

Tom admired and followed your steps with his eyes, contemplating your sweet smile when greeting people; If he had the chance, he would spend his entire time watching you. — And even forgetting that it was being recorded and broadcast to thousands of people.

Now, it seemed that there was a mark, so soft and delicate, of a kiss with lipstick present on his cheek, it was not very visible, only if it came very close to his face. — The camera managed to capture and notice the small mark, bringing it into focus.

And your fans brought immense focus to the point of commenting about it on twitter, causing an insane moment for them.

[ginxyy]

Becoming a family (Minghao)

Happy Birthday Baby!

The evening sky is painted in hues of twilight, a gentle blend of lavender and blush that resonates with the fluttering of your heart. Each breath you take feels charged with the kind of anticipation that could ignite fireworks. Outside the window, the world seems blissfully unaware of the whirlwind of emotions coursing through you a secret yet to unfold and a life waiting to begin.

You’ve known Minghao for a while now; your connection blossomed quickly, a flame that ignited with laughter, shared dreams, and whispered secrets. The two of you were caught in the magic of a fleeting romance, those playful days leading to fleeting touches and lingering glances a beautiful melody playing against the backdrop of reality. And now, those innocent moments, those stolen kisses behind the curtains, hold the weight of something infinitely more profound.

Today is his birthday, a day you always wanted to do something special for him. You remember how he always craved the simplest things his fondness for the Earth, those gentle walks under the stars, and his laughter, that beautiful sound which could ease any tension in your heart. But now, the stakes are higher; you carry a secret deep within, one that could change everything. The flutter in your belly and the weight in your heart remind you of what’s coming.

As you prepare for the evening, you sprinkle a touch of fairy dust over the mundane motions. You fill the room with sparkling lights and the scent of his favorite jasmine and sandalwood candles. The cake, adorned with colorful frosting and candles, stands proudly in the center of the room. But it’s the small, wrapped gift resting beside it that contains the truth your truth, your baby’s truth, and its connection to him.

When the door finally opens, your heart races. He steps inside, cheeks flushed from the chilly air, eyes sparkling with a mixture of curiosity and joy as they land on the transformed space. “Wow,” Minghao breathes, his smile brightening the dimly lit room. “You did all this for me?”

“Happy birthday, Minghao!” you exclaim, your voice laced with warmth that mirrors his gaze. The atmosphere is electric, filled with the harmony of memories shared and a future yet to be written.

He moves closer, taking in every detail the fairy lights dancing above like suspended constellations, the aroma of your homemade goodies, the cake. Slowly, he wraps you in his arms. His embrace is gentle yet firm, the kind that makes you feel cherished and safe. “You’ve made this the most magical birthday,” he whispers, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead.

As he pulls away, your stomach knots. The moment has arrived, your heart clamoring for honesty as you reach for the gift. “There’s one more thing I want to give you,” you say, your fingers trembling as you hand him the small box.

With furrowed brows, he takes it, curiosity glinting in his eyes. The anticipation hangs like mist in the air as he shakes the box lightly before tearing off the wrapping. Inside, a small ultrasound picture smiles up at him, an image revealing the tiny beginnings of life. The room seems to hold its breath as he examines it, his expression shifting from confusion to an overwhelming surge of emotions.

“Minghao…” you start, your voice breaking slightly as he processes the news. “We’re having a baby.”

For a moment, time stands still; the delicate sound of his breath is the only thing breaking the silence. His eyes widen, and then the sweetest smile blooms on his face, radiating a warmth that envelops you. “A baby?” he echoes, each word filled with wonder. "Really?"

You nod, tears welling in your eyes at the intensity of the moment. The air is thick, and suddenly, you’re both caught in a whirlwind of emotion. fear, joy, anxiety, love, all swirling together like a dance between two souls so perfectly intertwined.

“Wow,” he repeats, the word a whisper that teeters on the edge of disbelief. “I… I don’t even know what to say.” It’s a beautiful struggle, watching him reconcile the reality of fatherhood with his current life, but you’re taken by the depth of his emotion, the beauty in his heart.

He pulls you into another embrace, this one stronger, filled with promises and excitement. “This is incredible. I can’t believe we’re going to be parents.” His voice trembles, raw and sincere, as he pulls back slightly to gaze into your eyes. “You’re going to be amazing, and… I’ll do everything I can to support you and our baby.”

His heartfelt words settle in your soul, igniting warmth like the first rays of dawn breaking through the dark. With every declaration he makes, with every trace of his sincere sweetness, the fear you once held begins to dissipate, replaced by burgeoning hope.

��I never thought I’d be so lucky,” Minghao continues, his fingers brushing your hand with affectionate certainty. “I’ve always wanted a family, and to share this experience with you ”

His voice falters, heavy with emotion. “It feels perfect.” The sincerity in his eyes pulls you in closer, wrapping around you in an unexpected intimacy that deepens your connection. You see his dreams reflected within you, the future stretching out like a golden horizon.

“I know this is overwhelming,” you manage to say, your voice soft, “but we’re in this together.”

“Together,” he affirms, yet another soft smile gracing his lips, tender and filled with possibilities. In that moment, the concerns that lingered at the back of your mind fade into mere whispers. The future may still be uncertain, but with him beside you, you feel the courage to face the unknown.

The night unfolds like a beautiful story, the cake, the laughter, and the tender conversations with mingled dreams and laughter. You share your hopes for the future, what kind of parents you both want to be, and how you plan to cherish every moment, each heartbeat of the tiny life that will soon join your world.

The next morning, the first rays of dawn slip into the room, casting a warm glow over Minghao’s sleeping form beside you. The events of the night still feel like a dream a beautiful, fragile dream held between whispered promises and hopeful gazes. A gentle smile tugs at your lips as you place a hand on your belly, a soft sense of wonder filling you at the thought of the tiny life within.

As the day unfolds, Minghao can’t contain his excitement, insisting that today is the day you tell his bandmates. “They’ll want to know right away,” he grins, his eyes sparkling with the same joy that colored last night’s conversation. And so, you agree, bracing yourself for the barrage of reactions you know his friends will have.

In the afternoon, you find yourselves at the practice studio, where the rest of his bandmates are laughing and rehearsing. Minghao catches their attention with a wave and a subtle grin that suggests he’s hiding something big. You hold his hand tightly, taking a deep breath as everyone turns, eyebrows raised, curious about the interruption.

“Hey, everyone!” Minghao begins, his tone laced with excitement. “We… well, we have some pretty big news to share with you guys.”

The room goes quiet as they exchange glances, leaning in with an eager anticipation that’s almost comical. One of them, Seungkwan, crosses his arms with a smirk, eyes narrowing playfully. “Alright, what is it? Did you two finally decide to adopt a pet?” he jokes, glancing at you with a wink.

No, no this is way bigger than that,” Minghao says, barely able to contain his excitement.

There’s a pause as everyone waits, their curiosity practically tangible. With a smile, you reach into your bag, pull out the ultrasound photo, and hold it up for them to see. For a moment, they all stare, blinking as they process the image. And then, like a dam breaking, the room erupts in shouts and cheers.

“You’re pregnant?!” Hoshi practically yells, his face split into the widest grin you’ve ever seen.

“Whoa, this is incredible!” Jeonghan exclaims, his eyes glimmering with pride as he steps forward to give you a gentle hug, careful not to squeeze too tightly. “We’re going to be uncles!”

As they all gather around, pouring out congratulations and questions, Seungkwan holds a hand to his chest in mock horror. “Oh no, does this mean we all have to… grow up?” he jokes, before giving Minghao a heartfelt pat on the back. “Congrats, man. You’re going to be an amazing dad.”

There’s a mixture of love and playful banter as they each take turns asking questions and offering advice some useful, some questionable. “I heard playing classical music to the baby makes them smarter,” Jun says, nodding with an exaggerated air of seriousness. “Mozart, Beethoven. I’ll make you a playlist.”

“We’ll play it during rehearsals,” Seungkwan jokes. “So, not only will the baby be super smart, but they’ll know every song we ever sang. Imagine, our littlest fan, right from the womb!”

The guys are all practically beaming with excitement, showering you with attention. They insist you sit down, despite you assuring them you’re perfectly fine. Hoshi even runs off to get you water, while the others start brainstorming names for the baby, debating what it should call them Uncle, Godfather, Coolest Friend. Minghao can’t help but laugh as they argue over who’ll be the best role model.

From that day on, the band takes their “uncle” duties very seriously. During every visit to the studio, someone is always watching over you. If you so much as pick up something from the floor, three of them rush over with cries of, “No, no, no! Let me get that!” There are always snacks on hand, sometimes bizarre combinations that they claim are “perfect for the baby’s development.” One day, Hoshi shows up with an enormous stack of baby books, insisting you read them “to make sure Minghao learns how to change a diaper.”

When rehearsals get intense, they start creating rotations for “baby breaks” so you’re never alone or uncomfortable. And anytime someone catches Minghao doing something even remotely risky jumping too high, spinning too quickly they immediately reprimand him, shouting things like, “No injuries allowed! You have a baby to think about now!”

One evening after rehearsal, Seungkwan hands you a small, handmade bracelet adorned with tiny beads spelling out “Future Superstar.” “For luck,” he says with a wink. “So the baby can start their career early.”

The protectiveness only grows when Minghao suggests a casual hike for fresh air. He’s barely mentioned it when everyone else steps in, horrified. “A hike? What if she trips?” Jun exclaims, his expression serious. “We’ll all go. Safety in numbers.” And sure enough, the entire band ends up tagging along, turning your peaceful outing into a lively caravan of overprotective “uncles” who won’t let you so much as look at a rock without ten pairs of eyes assessing it for danger.

With each passing day, you realize just how deeply loved your little family already is. Every smile, every protective gesture, and every playful joke only strengthens the connection you all share. Even the tiniest of gestures like Jeonghan singing a soft lullaby or Dino whispering to your belly as if the baby can already hear him reveal the unbreakable bond that’s blossoming within this close-knit family.

One night, as you and Minghao sit in the living room, reminiscing over the past few weeks, he squeezes your hand. “I never imagined it would be like this,” he says, his eyes warm with gratitude. “Not just us, but… everyone. It feels like we’re all one family.”

“Your friends are wonderful,” you say, smiling at the thought of each of them.

As if on cue, your phone pings with a message from Seungkwan: Just checking in to make sure you’re both comfy. Let me know if you need ANYTHING. Like a midnight snack? Maybe a baby lullaby playlist?

You laugh, showing Minghao the message, and the two of you share a warm glance. It’s then that you realize that this journey is filled not only with love but with laughter, support, and an overwhelming sense of belonging. Minghao’s hand rests gently on your belly, and as the two of you sit together, wrapped in the magic of this moment, you know that you and your baby are truly blessed.

As the months roll by, the anticipation builds, filling each day with new moments and memories. And though there may be challenges and surprises ahead, you know that, surrounded by the love of this beautiful, crazy, wonderful family, you can face anything.

It’s a sunny afternoon, and you’re wandering through the aisles of the grocery store, ticking off items for your dinner plans. Though you’re nearing the last weeks of your pregnancy, you feel unusually calm, content with the gentle fluttering of your little one who seems to enjoy all the sights and sounds of the bustling store. You grab a box of Minghao’s favorite tea, smiling as you imagine his face lighting up later when he sees it.

Then suddenly a strange pressure builds low in your belly, followed by a warm, spreading ache. You pause, your hand instinctively reaching for the edge of the shelf as a realization hits you: the baby is on its way. A small, sharp gasp escapes you as another wave of pressure rolls through, catching the attention of an older lady nearby.

“Oh, honey, are you alright?” she asks, peering at you with a look of motherly concern.

You offer a shaky smile. “I think… I think my baby’s coming.”

The woman’s eyes widen. “Oh, my stars!” she cries, springing into action. She quickly flags down an employee, who appears equally wide-eyed and panicked, stammering something about calling an ambulance. You’re still trying to catch your breath, your phone clutched tightly in your hand, your thoughts racing. Should you call Minghao? But before you can even process, the paramedics arrive, and you’re whisked off to the hospital.

At the hospital, things are moving quickly. Nurses guide you into a cozy birthing suite, offering calming words as they hook you up to monitors. The realization that you’re here alone hits you suddenly, and you manage to tell one of the nurses, “Could you please call my partner, Minghao Xu? He needs to be here.”

She nods and reassures you, quickly making the call. Meanwhile, you focus on your breathing, trying to keep yourself calm despite the growing intensity of each contraction.

Across town, Minghao is sitting in the studio with his bandmates when his phone rings. He answers with a casual “Hello?” but when he hears the nurse’s words, he practically jumps out of his seat, sending the chair skidding behind him.

“Wait, she’s in labor?!” he exclaims, his voice filled with a mix of shock, excitement, and pure panic.

The other guys, picking up on his alarm, immediately surround him, their faces mirroring his confusion. “What’s going on?” Seungkwan asks, eyes wide.

“It’s happening! She’s in the hospital she’s having the baby!” Minghao stammers, his voice high with nervous excitement. He barely has time to think before Seungkwan grabs his arm and shouts, “What are we waiting for? Let’s go!”

In a flurry of chaos, they pile into the nearest car, Hoshi insisting on driving. Though, in his panic, he floors the accelerator and nearly takes off without half the group, prompting Dino to shriek, “Are we trying to get to the hospital or to the afterlife?”

The entire drive is filled with frenzied chatter. Minghao’s knee bounces nervously, while Jeonghan rubs his back, murmuring reassurances. Meanwhile, Seungkwan, despite his excitement, is busy reminding Hoshi every five seconds not to “get us arrested on the way there.”

After what feels like an eternity (but is actually only ten minutes of dangerously fast driving), they finally screech into the hospital parking lot. They burst through the entrance as one loud, jumbled mess, a panicked gaggle of young men demanding directions to your room.

The poor receptionist, wide-eyed at the sight of them, points them toward the maternity wing, and they charge down the hallway with a mix of excitement, anxiety, and outright terror painted across their faces.

In the birthing suite, you’re breathing through another contraction when the door flies open, and in tumble Minghao and the rest of the crew, looking like they just ran a marathon.

“Babe!” Minghao exclaims, rushing to your side, his eyes filled with concern and love. “I’m here I’m so sorry! I wasn’t there, and I should’ve been there, but I’m here now!”

Despite the situation, you manage a small laugh at his frantic words, reaching out to take his hand. “You’re here, and that’s all that matters.”

Seungkwan steps closer, patting you gently on the shoulder. “You’re doing great!” he says, looking a little green around the gills, as if he’s not sure whether he might faint at any second. “And don’t worry we’ll all be right here, supporting you… from a safe distance,” he adds with a sheepish grin.

Jeonghan, sensing that the tension could use a touch of humor, puts a hand on Minghao’s shoulder. “Well, I always said our family was growing, didn’t I? But I didn’t expect it to grow this soon.”

The nurses kindly offer the others chairs, while Minghao holds your hand, his thumb brushing comforting circles over your knuckles. Each time you grimace, he whispers gentle reassurances, his voice a steady anchor in the whirlwind of the moment. The other guys, meanwhile, alternate between whispering encouragement and exchanging bewildered glances, their expressions torn between awe and mild horror.

Then, a particularly strong contraction hits, and without thinking, you squeeze Minghao’s hand hard. He winces but doesn’t let go, gritting his teeth with a whispered, “Wow, you’ve got… an amazing grip!”

Just then, Hoshi, who’s been watching with a mix of fascination and trepidation, leans over to Seungkwan and mutters, “Should we… should we, like, cheer her on or something? Isn’t that what people do?”

Seungkwan gives him a side-eye. “She’s having a baby, not running a marathon, Hoshi. Let’s just stay out of the way and not make it worse.”

But despite his words, you can’t help but notice how they keep sneaking closer, offering support in their own endearingly awkward ways. Jun shyly offers you water every five minutes, while Dino, looking terrified but determined, offers his scarf, saying, “You can hold onto it if you need to… y’know, if Minghao needs a break.”

Minghao just laughs, his expression softened with gratitude as he shakes his head. “I think I’ll be okay,” he says, holding your hand tighter. “But thanks.”

As the hours pass, they all settle into their roles, whether it’s Seungkwan keeping you entertained with funny stories from the tour, Hoshi’s attempts at singing soft lullabies, or Jeonghan reassuring Minghao that “no one ever really knows what they’re doing in parenthood, and that’s okay.”

Finally, as the doctor announces that it’s time, the group exchanges anxious but excited glances, each of them whispering words of encouragement to Minghao and, of course, to you. The tension rises, the anticipation nearly palpable. They step back, some of them covering their eyes or peeking through their fingers, each one practically holding their breath.

And then, after a whirlwind of effort and a surge of emotion, you hear the first cries of your little one filling the room. Minghao’s eyes widen, tears glistening as he takes in the sight of your newborn. “We did it,” he whispers, voice thick with emotion. “You did it.”

The others, not far behind, are wiping away their own tears, though Seungkwan tries to hide his by pretending he has something in his eye. “That’s our baby,” he murmurs, his voice breaking just a little. “I mean, your baby, of course, but… you know what I mean.”

One by one, they come closer, peering at the tiny bundle in your arms with a mixture of awe and pure joy. Each of them offers a quiet congratulations, their gazes filled with love and a hint of wonder.

“Well,” Jeonghan says, leaning in close with a grin, “I guess this little one’s going to have some very dedicated uncles.”

The room erupts in gentle laughter, the atmosphere charged with love, warmth, and a shared sense of joy. Minghao presses a soft kiss to your forehead, his hand resting tenderly over yours as he murmurs, “Thank you for everything. You’re… amazing.”

And as the night draws to a close, with everyone huddled around, you realize that your little one has entered the world surrounded by an incredible family a family filled with love, laughter, and a whole lot of protectiveness.

[onceuponatown]

The history of Christmas traditions kept evolving throughout the 19th century, when most of the familiar components of the modern Christmas including St. Nicholas, Santa Claus, and Christmas trees, became popular. The changes in how Christmas was celebrated were so profound that it's safe to say someone alive in 1800 would not even recognize the Christmas celebrations held in 1900.

Washington Irving and St. Nicholas

Early Dutch settlers of New York considered St. Nicholas to be their patron saint and practiced a yearly ritual of hanging stockings to receive presents on St. Nicholas Eve, in early December. Washington Irving, in his fanciful History of New York, mentioned that St. Nicholas had a wagon he could ride “over the tops of trees” when he brought “his yearly presents to children.”

The Dutch word “Sinterklaas” for St. Nicholas evolved into the English “Santa Claus,” thanks in part to a New York City printer, William Gilley, who published an anonymous poem referring to “Santeclaus” in a children’s book in 1821. The poem was also the first mention of a character based on St. Nicholas having a sleigh, in this case, pulled by a single reindeer.

Clement Clarke Moore and The Night Before Christmas

Perhaps the best-known poem in the English language is “A Visit from St. Nicholas,” or as it’s often called, “The Night Before Christmas.” Its author, Clement Clarke Moore, a professor who owned an estate on the west side of Manhattan, would have been quite familiar with the St. Nicholas traditions followed in early 19th century New York. The poem was first published, anonymously, in a newspaper in Troy, New York, on December 23, 1823.

Reading the poem today, one might assume that Moore simply portrayed the common traditions. Yet he actually did something quite radical by changing some of the traditions while also describing features that were entirely new.

For instance, the St. Nicholas gift giving would have taken place on December 5, the eve of St. Nicholas Day. Moore moved the events he describes to Christmas Eve. He also came up with the concept of “St. Nick” having eight reindeer, each of them with a distinctive name.

Charles Dickens and A Christmas Carol

The other great work of Christmas literature from the 19th century is A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens. In writing the tale of Ebenezer Scrooge, Dickens wanted to comment on greed in Victorian Britain. He also made Christmas a more prominent holiday and permanently associated himself with Christmas celebrations.

Dickens was inspired to write his classic story after speaking to working people in the industrial city of Manchester, England, in early October 1843. He wrote A Christmas Carol quickly, and when it appeared in bookstores the week before Christmas 1843 it began to sell very well.

The book crossed the Atlantic and began to sell in America in time for Christmas 1844, and became extremely popular. When Dickens made his second trip to America in 1867 crowds clamored to hear him read from A Christmas Carol. His tale of Scrooge and the true meaning of Christmas had become an American favorite. The story has never been out of print, and Scrooge is one of the best-known characters in literature.

Santa Claus Drawn by Thomas Nast

The famed American cartoonist Thomas Nast is generally credited as having invented the modern depiction of Santa Claus. Nast, who had worked as a magazine illustrator and created campaign posters for Abraham Lincoln in 1860, was hired by Harper’s Weekly in 1862. For the Christmas season, he was assigned to draw the magazine’s cover, and legend has it that Lincoln himself requested a depiction of Santa Claus visiting Union troops.

The resulting cover, from Harper’s Weekly dated January 3, 1863, was a hit. It shows Santa Claus on his sleigh, which has arrived at a U.S. Army camp festooned with a “Welcome Santa Claus” sign.

Santa’s suit features the stars and stripes of the American flag, and he’s distributing Christmas packages to the soldiers. One soldier is holding up a new pair of socks, which might be a boring present today, but would have been a highly prized item in the Army of the Potomac.

Beneath Nast's illustration was the caption, “Santa Claus In Camp.” Appearing not long after the carnage at Antietam and Fredericksburg, the magazine cover is an apparent attempt to boost morale in a dark time.

The Santa Claus illustrations proved so popular that Thomas Nast kept drawing them every year for decades. He is also credited with creating the notion that Santa lived at the North Pole and kept a workshop manned by elves. The figure of Santa Claus endured, with the version drawn by Nast becoming the accepted standard version of the character. By the early 20th century the Nast-inspired version of Santa became a very common figure in advertising.

Prince Albert and Queen Victoria Made Christmas Trees Fashionable

The tradition of the Christmas tree came from Germany, and there are accounts of early 19th century Christmas trees in America, but the custom wasn’t widespread outside German communities.

The Christmas tree first gained popularity in British and American society thanks to the husband of Queen Victoria, the German-born Prince Albert. He installed a decorated Christmas tree at Windsor Castle in 1841, and woodcut illustrations of the Royal Family’s tree appeared in London magazines in 1848. Those illustrations, published in America a year later, created the fashionable impression of the Christmas tree in upper-class homes.

By the late 1850s reports of Christmas trees were appearing in American newspapers. And in the years following the Civil War ordinary American households celebrated the season by decorating a Christmas tree.

The first electric Christmas tree lights appeared in the 1880s, thanks to an associate of Thomas Edison, but were too costly for most households. Most people in the 1800s lit their Christmas trees with small candles.

The First White House Christmas Tree

The first Christmas tree in the White House was displayed in 1889, during the presidency of Benjamin Harrison. The Harrison family, including his young grandchildren, decorated the tree with toy soldiers and glass ornaments for their small family gathering.

There are some reports of president Franklin Pierce displaying a Christmas tree in the early 1850s. But the stories of a Pierce tree are vague and there doesn't seem to be contemporaneous mentions in newspapers of the time.

Benjamin Harrison's Christmas cheer was closely documented in newspaper accounts. An article on the front page of the New York Times on Christmas Day 1889 detailed the lavish presents he was going to give his grandchildren. And though Harrison was generally regarded as a fairly serious person, he vigorously embraced the Christmas spirit.

Not all subsequent presidents continued the tradition of having a Christmas tree in the White House. By the middle of the 20th century, White House Christmas trees became established. And over the years it has evolved into an elaborate and very public production.

The first National Christmas Tree was placed on The Ellipse, an area just south of the White House, in 1923, and the lighting of it was presided over by President Calvin Coolidge. The lighting of the National Christmas Tree has become quite a large annual event, typically presided over by the current president and members of the First Family.

Yes, Virginia, There Is a Santa Claus

In 1897 an eight-year-old girl in New York City wrote to a newspaper, the New York Sun, asking if her friends, who doubted the existence of Santa Claus, were right. An editor at the newspaper, Francis Pharcellus Church, responded by publishing, on September 21, 1897, an unsigned editorial. The response to the little girl has become the most famous newspaper editorial ever printed.

The second paragraph is often quoted:

"Yes, VIRGINIA, there is a Santa Claus. He exists as certainly as love and generosity and devotion exist, and you know that they abound and give to your life its highest beauty and joy. Alas! how dreary would be the world if there were no Santa Claus. It would be as dreary as if there were no VIRGINIAS."

Church’s eloquent editorial asserting the existence of Santa Claus seemed a fitting conclusion to a century that began with modest observances of St. Nicholas and ended with the foundations of the modern Christmas season firmly intact.

By the end of the 19th century, the essential components of a modern Christmas, from Santa to the story of Scrooge to strings of electric lights were firmly established in America.

Source

[communist-manifesto-daily]

Socialism: Utopian and Scientific - Part 1

[ Table of Contents | Next ]

1892 English Edition Introduction - 1

General Introduction and the History of Materialism

The present little book is, originally, part of a larger whole. About 1875, Dr. E. Dühring, privatdocent [university lecturer who formerly received fees from his students rather than a wage] at Berlin University, suddenly and rather clamorously announced his conversion to Socialism, and presented the German public not only with an elaborate Socialist theory, but also with a complete practical plan for the reorganization of society. As a matter of course, he fell foul of his predecessors; above all, he honored Marx by pouring out upon him the full vials of his wrath.

This took place about the same time when the two sections of the Socialist party in Germany — Eisenachers and Lasselleans — had just effected their fusion [at the Gotha Unification Congress], and thus obtained not only an immense increase of strength, but, was what more, the faculty of employing the whole of this strength against the common enemy. The Socialist party in Germany was fast becoming a power. But, to make it a power, the first condition was that the newly-conquered unity should not be imperilled. And Dr. Dühring openly proceeded to form around himself a sect, the nucleus of a future separate party. It, thus, became necessary to take up the gauntlet thrown down to us, and to fight out the struggle, whether we liked it or not.

This, however, though it might not be an over-difficult, was evidently a long-winded business. As is well-known, we Germans are of a terribly ponderous Gründlichkeit, radical profundity or profound radicality, whatever you may like to call it. Whenever anyone of us expounds what he considers a new doctrine, he has first to elaborate it into an all-comprising system. He has to prove that both the first principles of logic and the fundamental laws of the universe had existed from all eternity for no other purpose than to ultimately lead to this newly-discovered, crowning theory. And Dr. Dühring, in this respect, was quite up to the national mark. Nothing less than a complete "System of Philosophy", mental, moral, natural, and historical; a complete "System of Political Economy and Socialism"; and, finally, a "Critical History of Political Economy" — three big volumes in octavo, heavy extrinsically and intrinsically, three army-corps of arguments mobilized against all previous philosophers and economists in general, and against Marx in particular — in fact, an attempt at a complete "revolution in science" — these were what I should have to tackle. I had to treat of all and every possible subject, from concepts of time and space to Bimetallism; from the eternity of matter and motion, to the perishable nature of moral ideas; from Darwin's natural selection to the education of youth in a future society. Anyhow, the systematic comprehensiveness of my opponent gave me the opportunity of developing, in opposition to him, and in a more connected form than had previously been done, the views held by Marx and myself on this great variety of subjects. And that was the principal reason which made me undertake this otherwise ungrateful task.

My reply was first published in a series of articles in the Leipzig “Vorwärts”, the chief organ of the Socialist party [1], and later on as a book: "Herr Eugen Dührings Umwalzung der Wissenchaft" (Mr. E. Dühring's "Revolution in Science"), a second edition of which appeared in Zurich, 1886.

[1] Vorwärts existed in Leipzig from 1876-78, after the Gotha Unification Congress.

[ Table of Contents | Next ]

[icannot3]

"Enough"

(Peter Maximoff x reader)

Word count: 1.1k

Warnings: none

I did something a little different with this one, I hope you guys like it! :)

.......................

Fire. There is a fire lit inside of him that burns hotter with each passing moment. It’s in his lungs- his legs. It only drives him to move faster with each long stride. He almost leaps across the dark halls.

Peter's mind has become a frenzied wasteland with your safety knowingly at stake. Moments before he had been notified by the team that you'd been left behind. He didn't wait for the next planned course of action. Charles's voice is soft in his head. "Peter, you need to be rational. This is not how we go about things. Stop at once, and please return."

Unluckily for the Professor, Peter does not view this matter as one that consecutively needs agreed on. He's hightailing it through the perimeter, scouting every crevice of the large building. Only after his breath falls short and his legs physically can no longer move from the exhaustion does he slow.

The walls are shaking, and the foundation of the building is slowly crumbling. He knows it's only a matter of time before the place is a complete pile of ash. The idea of you covered in the debris leaves him far more winded than the running.

No. He won't allow it.

With a newfound level of incentive, he whips through the premises once more. Peter is screaming your name, hoping you can hear him from wherever you may be knowing that you're going to be okay.

"Peter. Stop. You need to come back. This is just putting you both in danger." Charles is much louder now, his urgency appearant. Suddenly, every muscle in his body contracts and locks up in a still position. He's left paralyzed in an upright position. His heart hammers in his chest uncontrollably. "I do not want to resort to force, Peter."

Tears are welling up in his eyes now. Nothing is in his control. His breath shutters. Peter's movements become his own once more as the Professor releases him. There's a loud crashing noise, and a large piece of ceiling falls to the ground. But he couldn't care less. Instead of escaping, he simply slumps to the ground defeatedly.

"You just don't get it, do you, Professor?" He runs his gloved hand through his hair. "You have no clue what it's like living your entire life as a screw up." He blinks, grimacing as he imagines Charles hearing him now. Peter's glad he can't see the knowing look on his face, as if he possibly understands the issue beyond digging through the secrets in his mind. "Don't act like you do. Ah! The life of Peter Maximoff, the fastest man alive, yet can't seem to make it on time to spill the beans to dear old dad! Irony, right?"

If Charles even bothered to respond, Peter surely can no longer hear anything but his raging thoughts. "I mean, I can outrun time, dodge bullets, even grab a snack mid-rescue, but admit to Magneto that I'm his son? Now, that's a marathon I can't seem to finish. "

He throws his hands in the air, now hysterical. "Oh, but for such a pathetic guy, I gotta have some sort of redeeming quality, right? Maybe I can save the girl! But it appears that the love of my life is in danger, and I can't even do that. Yippie. That's me, Peter Maximoff! Always a step ahead, yet always a step behind."

He stands, wiping his face off with his hands. In the midst of the chaos, there came a silence. A silence so profound, it seemed to swallow up the world around him. No witty retorts, no bursts of speed, just him and his thoughts. It was as if the world had come to a standstill, leaving him trapped in the slow crawl of introspection. In this moment, he is completely and utterly as alone as he has always felt.

The clamor of the world fades into a distant hum, replaced by the deafening echo of his own heartbeat. Everything around him blurs, details lost in a sea of uncertainty. His breath catches in his throat, a silent plea for a respite that wouldn't come.

Suddenly, like a lightning bolt, clarity strikes Peter. Self-deprecation won't save you. His gaze hardens, determination replacing the fear. The world comes rushing back, the noise, the chaos, all of it. But now, he's not drowning in it. He's using it, channeling it.

His feet move before he even realizes it, each step a silent promise to himself. He won't let you down. Not this time. The world blurs around him as he picks up speed, everything else falling away until there's only one thing left, the one thing that matters - you.

Peter's heart pounds in his chest, not from fear, but anticipation. The rubble slowly crashes behind him as the building nears its demise. He searches high and low, not wasting a single second.

There's a sound. It's so faint that he almost misses it entirely. But he sprints towards its direction, leading him outside of the building. There you are, limping away from the structure that in Peter's mind is slowly toppling over and is about to crush you. In your injured state, it's been made impossible to escape. Luckily, he swoops in at the perfect moment to catch and pull you away.

Relief washes over him, sending chills through his body from the intensity. You're both coughing from the inhalation of dust that has soiled the fresh air. He could care less and only pulls you to him tighter. He can feel your strong heartbeat. The previous fear and doubt he felt all began to melt away. It's replaced by a sense of accomplishment, knowing that despite everything he saved you.

He's pressing kisses to your brow, consoling you as much as he can. With a sigh of relief, he finally lets go of the guilt that had been gnawing at him. He has proven to himself that he is capable, that he is enough. And in that moment, he finds closure. He's no longer the boy who can't act fast enough. He's the hero who did.

[utilitycaster]

I will say: as someone who does make a habit of observing fandom trends and fan behaviors in parallel with fandom, I actually am rather hesitant about novelizations of PCs on the whole.

I cannot count the number of times I have seen this exact cycle:

People gravitate to a character or ship specifically because there's a lot of wide open space on which they can project their own traits/desires and create their own transformative works.

Those same people often, however, clamor for more canonical material, because those transformative works/projections are ultimately from within them (ie, there's nothing new), and fanon ends up having the same narrowing of possibilities as canon does as one person's headcanon takes off and becomes accepted as the truth (the fandom monocropping, as someone else once put it).

If they get the canonical material, and it does not validate what they already believed to be true but not confirmed, they become unhappy because those projections and headcanons are now not just unconfirmed but actively contradicted.

Either they begin actively rejecting canon after this breaking point, which tends to isolate and stagnate oneself in a fandom; or they move on to a different character (or ship) still rich with potential and possibility having lost interest in the one that they once loved now that it isn't what they wanted it to be. A few people manage to accept it, but especially if their initial motivation was that open space, this requires a profound and drastic shift in how they engage with fiction.

This happened with the Lucien novel: a lot of the people I recall being very excited for it hated it because it (in my opinion, very reasonably) introduced new characters they couldn't have possibly forseen to his backstory and contradicted their own works and headcanons. The people who liked it (myself included) were often people who didn't like Lucien much as a character, but were interested in how he came to be.

[v-ividus]

17. In Pursuit of Separation: Reclaiming Unity from the Grasp of Spectacle and Despair

“Separation is itself an integral part of the unity of this world, of a global social practice split into reality and image. The social practice confronted by an autonomous spectacle is at the same time the real totality which contains that spectacle. But the split within this totality mutilates it to the point that the spectacle seems to be its goal.” — Guy Debord

Isn’t it unsettling to ponder how willingly we entangle ourselves in the web of societal deception, allowing our very identities to be dictated by a chaos of external forces? In a world ensnared by an abyss of despair, profound uncertainty, and widespread instability, we find ourselves embroiled in a relentless struggle, wrestling with the pernicious constructs that claw at our core—those multifaceted social, political, religious, and psychological frameworks meticulously engineered to bind us. The grotesque theatre of deception unfurls before our eyes, a macabre spectacle wherein reality becomes a fleeting specter. Guy Debord’s incisive critique emerges as our unsparing arbiter, illuminating the agonizing disintegration of our existence.

In this savage battleground, separation transcends mere strategy; it wields the potency of a lethal psychological armament, essential for our emancipation from the suffocating shackles of societal conventions clamoring to constrict both mind and spirit. We must grasp the unvarnished brutality of this confrontation—it is an existential duel for the very essence of our humanity. To extricate ourselves from these restraints, we must gaze unwaveringly into the reflective surface of our own being, shattering the delusions that ensnare us. Only by doing so can we emerge from this bleak arena, defiantly redefined and seething with resolve, prepared to dismantle the tyrannical structures that have long relegated us to the role of prisoners. The moment has arrived to liberate ourselves from the clutches of conformity and to fervently embrace the untamed power of our authentic selves.

As we struggle against the seductive allure of conformity, we must fortify our resolve to engage in radical transparency, uncompromising integrity, and visceral honesty. This profound endeavor demands that we confront those deeply rooted fears and insecurities that perpetually tempt us to dwell in the shadows of artifice. Each skirmish within this psychological arena becomes a conscious attempt to deconstruct the phantoms that limit our potential, thereby allowing authenticity to emerge as a formidable catalyst for transformative change.

In this relentless struggle, we redefine the boundaries of our individual identities, transforming each encounter into an exploration of the self. Ultimately, this quest for truth elevates the wrestling match into a higher psychological ideal, empowering us to transcend the limitations imposed by societal constructs and reclaim the value of our lives.

The Illusion of Control: Reclaiming Reality Through Truth

In the intricate chess game of existence, we stand upon a perilous precipice, ensnared by potent social, political, and religious frameworks that seductively whisper promises of power and autonomy. These meticulously constructed psychological facades are nothing but elaborate illusions, forged to entrap our minds and lead our spirits captive.

History is littered with the corpses of empires, their grandeur mired in ambition, conflict, and the relentless desire for domination. The Roman Empire, a titan of antiquity, is often romanticized as a pinnacle of civilization. Yet behind its marble facades and military triumphs lurked a grotesque reality—a brutal narrative of oppression, exploitation, and the desperate flailing of those crushed beneath its iron heel.

At its zenith, Rome encompassed vast territories and a medley of cultures, yet it viewed these lands not as diverse societies but as mere spoils to be plundered. The Gauls, fierce and proud, were seen as both a military menace and a treasure trove of resources. Julius Caesar, with his insatiable thirst for glory, unleashed a campaign of terror upon Gaul, culminating in the brutal siege of Alesia in 52 BCE. Though he emerged victorious, this conquest was more than a display of military might; it was an act of calculated subjugation, stripping away the Gauls’ fiercely guarded autonomy and replacing it with Roman enslavement.

Enter Vercingetorix, the indomitable chieftain of the Arverni tribe, a beacon of defiance in the face of Roman tyranny. His insurrection was more than a mere rebellion; it was an act of visceral resistance, a rallying cry for the oppressed tribes that chafed under Roman oppression. Vercingetorix’s guerrilla tactics showcased not just his strategic genius but the burning spirit of a people yearning to reclaim their identity. Yet, faced with the might of Rome, he stood on the precipice of annihilation, embodying the tragic heroism of a nation fighting for its very soul.

Rome’s response was nothing short of barbaric, employing ruthless tactics designed to quash dissent. The Empire’s propagandists spun a web of lies, presenting themselves as the benevolent bearers of civilization, while the grim truth lay in the blood-soaked soil beneath their sandals. The reality was a systematic erasure of cultures, where local languages and customs were crushed underfoot, replaced by the insipid monotony of Romanization. The promise of stability was nothing more than a cruel manipulation—a veneer of order masking the choking embrace of imperial control.

To maintain control over its vast and diverse populace, ancient Rome resorted to a calculated strategy known as “bread and circuses” (panem et circenses). This infamous policy was not merely a means of entertainment; it was a sophisticated political tactic designed to stave off dissent and divert attention from the growing socio-economic disparities and political corruption of the Empire. By providing free grain and grand public spectacles, such as gladiatorial games and exotic animal hunts, the Roman authorities created a façade of prosperity and unity.

The theatrical displays of violence and excess were orchestrated to sedate the masses, drawing their focus away from the harsh realities of their lives. Events held in the Colosseum were meticulously designed to enthrall citizens, turning their attention away from the erosion of their civic responsibilities and the decline of traditional Roman values. Within these arenas, the agonizing fates of gladiators became a spectacle, transforming human suffering into a source of entertainment, while the populace celebrated their own disempowerment.

As they indulged in these mind-numbing distractions, citizens unwittingly became complicit in their own subjugation, willingly surrendering their agency and dignity for the fleeting pleasures offered by the Empire. The ultimate irony lay in their paralysis: as they reveled in the brutal games and lavish banquets, they failed to recognize the deepening cracks in their society—cracks that, if left unchecked, would lead to the very unraveling of the Roman state itself. Thus, the opiate of the masses, cloaked in the guise of entertainment, served as both a sedative and a shroud, obscuring the systematic decay of their civilization.

Yet, this façade of control could not extinguish the fire of rebellion. The Gauls’ uprising, sparked by Vercingetorix, encapsulated an eternal struggle against tyranny. Their clawing resistance echoed through the annals of history, a clenched fist raised defiantly against the oppressive rule of Rome. The embers of this defiance sparked the flames of future revolutions, inspiring generations to challenge their oppressors in a march toward self-determination and identity.

We stand now at a crossroads, confronted with the bitter truths of our own time. Just as the Roman Empire sought to homogenize culture under the guise of unity, modern authority often wages war on individuality, cloaked in the illusion of freedom. The narratives fed to us are intoxicatingly sweet but intoxication begets compliance, blinding us to the insidious chains that bind us.

In reviling the lessons of history, we must awaken to the reality that liberation is not a passive dream but a fierce battle cry. Vercingetorix’s defiance offers a potent reminder: reclaiming one’s identity is an act of war against oppression. We must cut through the lies that enshroud us, dismantling the narratives designed to enslave our minds and spirits. True power lies not in submission but in the unyielding assertion of our real selves.

Like the Gauls who refused to be crushed, we too can confront the forces that suffocate us, exemplifying that the fight for truth and identity is not just necessary; it is an act of fierce defiance against those who would keep us silent. Let us take the torch from the hands of our ancestors and illuminate our way forward, for the struggle for freedom, for authenticity, is a war worth waging.

Yet, hidden within this suffocating abyss is a fiercely transformative antidote: radical transparency. To face your own brutal truths—stripped of all lies and pretense—is to launch an audacious rebellion against the insidious falsehoods and seductive illusions spoon-fed to you today by our modern systems. This awakening, though rife with excruciating discomfort, births an unshakeable strength; it forges a path where your liberation becomes not just a possibility, but an absolute certainty. By tearing down the deceptive facades imposed by a toxic society, you seize back the authentic power that has always belonged to you.

True transformation, however, does not arise from the din of the masses. It starts within the conscious mind of each individual. You, the reader, must scrutinize the stark divide between the empty promises of oppressive systems and the raw, unfiltered truth of your own reality. The elaborate distractions crafted to divert your attention are a deliberate strategy to manipulate your perceptions and weaken your agency, pushing you to conform for the benefit of a privileged few who hold the reins of power.

As you traverse this perilous path of self-discovery, grasp the piercing truth that your real self is your greatest weapon against these unyielding forces. By unapologetically cutting ties with these outdated systems, you place yourself at the helm of your own narrative, ready to reshape your reality according to your desires and values. Liberation is not a far-off illusion; it is a deliberate strategy firmly within your control. Claim it, and observe as the world around you collapses and rebuilds in the reflection of your own creation.

Vulnerability as Strength: Fostering Connections in Isolation

How much time have you wasted contemplating the grotesque irony of our societal façades, where hollow pretense and superficiality conceal the chilling, twisted truths of our sometimes grim existence? In a world saturated with deception, the harsh demand for radical honesty rises from the depths, particularly in the grim realms of spousal abuse and neglect. Picture, if you will, a woman ensnared in a sinister web of torment, enduring unrelenting emotional and physical violation at the hands of her so-called partner. Each hollow day drains her essence, each malicious word burrows deeper into her psyche, leaving wounds invisible yet reverberating through the hollowed caverns of her soul. She balances precariously on the edge—frozen by the fear that revealing her unvarnished truth will invite scorn or disbelief, her voice silenced by the iron shackles of shame.

Yet, in a pivotal moment, she gathers the strength to lay bare her façade, to expose her suffering within a sanctuary of fellow survivors. In doing so, she ignites a flame capable of searing away the suffocating silence that wraps around others. As she shares her haunting experiences, her tales of betrayal and brutality echo powerfully with those who have also wandered through similar dark abysses. In this courageous act of vulnerability, she transmutes her anguish into an invitation— a whispered recognition that resonates deeply within the hearts of all who have battled their own silent wars. Herein lies the paradox: in the act of revealing her wounds, she not only liberates herself but also offers others the courage to confront their own lurking shadows.

Envision this now, formidable woman, her trembling voice cutting through the air in a dimly lit room filled with fractured souls. As she recounts the horrors of her confinement, her words become a visceral tapestry of pain and strength. Gasps of recognition ripple through her companions; tears are shed, and anguished expressions adorn their faces. In that sacred moment, vulnerability morphs into an electric current, binding them together in a shared understanding of the nightmarish reality that haunts their lives.

What compels us to turn a blind eye to the unsettling truths of our reality, clutching instead at the comforting illusions society provides? To cling to the raw truth of these lived experiences is to wield a weapon against the insidious forces of fear and shame that bind countless individuals in invisible shackles. The act of exposing stark realities brutally shatters the illusions of isolation and despair, casting illuminating light upon the pathway to empowerment and collective healing. In embracing this shared vulnerability, individuals engage in a profound act of rebellion against a system that thrives on silence, a call for justice resonating from the depths of their agony.

Within this grim landscape, where hope often emerges as a faint specter, the raw truth of our suffering transcends mere emotional release; it stands as a revolutionary act. Through unfaltering courage, individuals pour their narratives into the world, emerging as luminous beacons of strength for those still ensnared in darkness. These unvarnished truths forge the very foundation of an unwavering community, one tempered in the fires of shared anguish and compassion, poised to rise and dismantle the insidious structures of abuse that seek to keep them in chains.

The Art of Strategic Withdrawal: Shattering the Illusions of Control

In the twisted theater of our existence, social, political, and religious frameworks cling to us like a foul stench, suffocating any semblance of real selfhood. These systems frequently orchestrate a revolting spectacle, hijacking our perceptions and reducing us to mindless automatons, utterly dependent on their soul eating lies. To withdraw from this festering pit emerges not merely as a retreat but as a radical act of defiance, compelling us to confront the nauseating truths concealed beneath layers of deceit.

Each step back toward the abyss lays bare the grotesque underbelly of our corrupted frameworks. This savage realization demands we confront the vile truths that fester beneath the surface. We are not merely retreating; we are boldly defying the fetid control that perpetuates our subjugation, peeling away the repugnant layers of deception that have ensnared us for far too long.

In this fierce act of rebellion, we confront the loathsome realities that society dares not acknowledge. Withdrawal reveals an unsettling purity, a purging of the soul-sucking expectations that demand our compliance. As we engage with the decaying structures that dictate our lives, we unearth a dark clarity that rattles us to our core. This journey is neither easy nor tidy; it is a harrowing exploration through the muck of discomfort and repulsion, a true test of our resolve to break free from the chains of cowardice and conformity.

With each act of defiance, we strip away the sedating illusions crafted by those in power, revealing our truest selves—unfiltered, raw, and undeniably potent. To withdraw is to rise from the ashes of conformity, shedding the loathsome remnants of imposed identities, casting aside the sickening ideological chains that have suffocated our spirits. As we face this grotesque reality, we harness our moral fury, igniting a flame of consciousness that can no longer abide the stench of mediocrity and deceit.

Emerging from this tumultuous journey, we navigate with newfound resolve, not as victims, but as vigilant warriors against the suffocating rot of society. We reclaim our narratives with vigor, rewriting the script of our lives in defiance of the vile constructs that sought to diminish us. Rejecting the comfortable lies, we arm ourselves with the brutal truths that drive us forward, resolved to combat the horror that encases us and fiercely declare our place in the world—a place free from the grotesque grip of the past.

Redefining Unity: Creating Shared Commitments to Truth

So what compels us to remain ensnared by this quagmire of societal conflict, perpetually battling fractured narratives while the illusion of unity shields a chaotic battlefield from our view? In this grotesque spectacle of existence, our grand narrative, fought on myriad fronts, breeds a painful dissonance that leaves us fragmented, wandering through a labyrinth of confusion. Each ideological skirmish, steeped in an us-versus-them mentality, raises fortifications of fear and misunderstanding that cleave the very connections that define our humanity.

Yet, amid this tumultuous struggle, one formidable weapon emerges: the radical courage of unvarnished truth. To wield this potent force is to commit to an intense introspection, laying bare the self-deceptions lurking within the recesses of our hearts. It demands an unyielding dedication to engage in open dialogue, compelling us to confront the insidious enemy within—those lies that tether our potential for genuine connection. In this battleground of ideas, vulnerability reveals itself as our greatest ally, dismantling the protective barriers we have erected in the name of survival.

Engaging in this conflict while armed with radical truth enables us to excavate the shared experiences obscured beneath the rubble of division. Recognizing that our personal battles—though diverse in strategy and terrain—are waged in the same war allows us to forge unexpected alliances across estranged lines. This shared commitment to unveiling truth transcends mere idealism; it emerges as a strategic imperative in our relentless quest for understanding and empathy, a necessary redefinition of unity in a world desperate for resonance.

As we systematically dismantle the defenses erected from ignorance and delusion, a profound sense of compassion emerges within us. Each instance of truthful engagement serves as a breach in the fortifications of disconnection, casting light on the common ground we share. In these pivotal moments, the stark chasm between the realities of our struggles and the superficial images we project begins to wane, revealing the intricate interplay of our shared humanity.

This struggle for unity does not necessitate the eradication of individuality; rather, it beckons a bold acceptance of our multifaceted identities. Each individual becomes an invaluable asset in this tumultuous battle, offering unique perspectives while acknowledging that our struggles coalesce into a broader campaign for meaning and connection. As we wholeheartedly embrace this collective endeavor, we inch closer to a harmony that arises not from subjugation, but from recognizing the interconnectedness of our paths.

To redefine unity within this brutal arena is to comprehend that our identities are molded by the very realities we choose to defend. This transcends a mere quest for connection; it is an unrelenting war against the insidious complacency that numbs our senses. We would all like to believe we're secure in our convictions, but this belief warrants a reevaluation. This psychological conflict demands that we deconstruct our biases and confront the uncomfortable truths that lurk in the shadows of our complacent psyches.

In this game, only those who dare to engage in the relentless pursuit of authenticity will fortify their bonds, forging alliances that shatter the flimsy facades of superficiality. The illusions that bind you are nothing but a gilded cage. It is time to strip away the layers of deception and expose the raw, unvarnished truths that define our existence. Only then can we navigate the treacherous terrain of human connection with clarity, safety and conviction.

In this ongoing war for truth, we illuminate the way toward a resilient unity—a collective force strengthened by our commitment to honesty and empathy. By engaging in this battle, we cultivate a future where our shared narratives become the bedrock of an authentically united existence. Through the courage to confront the complexities of our human experience, we transform the chaos of division into a luminous tapestry of connection, forever altering the landscape of our shared reality.

Transformation through Transparency: A Journey Toward Authentic Existence

Radical transparency is not merely an ideal; it is a merciless strategy for profound personal and societal transformation. To expose oneself—laying bare your darkest fears, deepest desires, and relentless uncertainties—invites an unyielding confrontation with the very essence of who you are. Such an act of unveiling demands not only immense courage but also an unwavering commitment to confronting uncomfortable truths.

When you consciously choose to embrace your complexities instead of retreating into the shadows, you cast aside the paralyzing grip of despair. In this act of bravery, you find your grounding in an authentic existence that recognizes the myriad shades of human experience. You dismantle the pervasive myth that suggests retreating into the self is synonymous with defeat.

Grasp this fundamental truth: the act of confronting your vulnerabilities is far more than mere liberation; it represents a fierce defiance against the corrupt social, political, and religious frameworks designed to manipulate and control your reality. This confrontation becomes essential—not just for your survival, but for the progress of your very spirit. It enables you to reclaim your narrative, to reassert your agency amidst a landscape riddled with manipulation and deceit. Ultimately, this journey of brutal honesty is not just an external battle; it is an invitation for you to stand at the forefront of your own existence, forging a path towards unapologetic realness.

As we methodically peel back the layers of our psyche, we gain profound insights into the intricate interplay between individual identity and systemic oppression. This critical self-examination fosters a heightened awareness of our interconnectedness, shedding light on the profound truth that our struggles are not isolated incidents—they form part of a pervasive, collective struggle against the corrupt and deeply entrenched power structures uniquely at work against us.

In this analytical process, we recognize that to thrive, we must separate ourselves from the corrosive influence of these systems. By rejecting their narratives and conditioning, we destabilize their hold over our perceptions and emotions. This is not simply an intellectual exercise; it is a psychological necessity. Only through the dismantling of the mental barriers erected by these corrupt frameworks can you cultivate a genuinely real self-identity and embark on a path of true progress.

In embracing our vulnerabilities, we fortify ourselves against the disempowerment inflicted by these external forces. We transform our struggles into a rallying cry for individual and collective emancipation, forging connections based on shared resistance and mutual understanding. This journey is not a path of solitary reflection; it is a call to arms that galvanizes us toward meaningful change, setting the stage for a future where we thrive independently of the corrosive systems that once sought to define us. In this way, we do not merely survive; we evolve, reclaiming our inherent power and charting our course toward a more authentic existence.

This journey is inherently confrontational, compelling us to dismantle the protective facades that obstruct genuine connection. It serves as a fervent call to arms against the pervasive complacency that numbs our senses and stifles our potential, demanding that we harness our authentic selves as a wellspring of strength. In this relentless and often brutal dance with reality, we do not merely stumble upon our true selves; we assert our dominion within the complex interplay of existence.

By engaging in this rigorous process of self-examination, we wield the profound power that arises from authentic self-awareness and radical honesty. This empowerment is not passive; it is an active reclamation of our agency, enabling us to confront the external forces—social, political, and religious—that seek to dictate our lives.

As we strip ourselves bare of societal expectations and intrusive narratives, we cultivate meaningful connections rooted in truth rather than superficiality. This courageous vulnerability becomes our armor, shielding us from the insidious influence of the systems that wish to control us.

In this intricate dance of life, we find rhythm in our resilience and clarity in our purpose. The power we gain through this unfiltered engagement with ourselves and others reshapes our reality, allowing us to co-create a future that honors our individuality while forging revolutionary paths of solidarity. Thus, we emerge not only as survivors but as architects of authentic existence—fully aware, fiercely united, and profoundly impactful in our quest for meaningful change.

Conclusion: A Path to Empowerment and Unity

In a world that quakes beneath the weight of its own fear of truth, the bold call for radical transparency, integrity, and unabashed honesty emerges not merely as an invitation—it is an imperative! This is a clarion call to arms, a rallying cry for those brave enough to strip away the veils of illusion that enshroud our existence. As we battle through the abyss of despair, uncertainty, and confusion, the fierce embrace of our authentic selves illuminates the path to wielding collective empowerment.

To defy the seductive illusion of separation and shatter the omnipresent spectacle of deception is to assert our reality with jaw-dropping audacity. It is in this defiance that we cultivate a profound, almost savage understanding of our shared experiences, igniting a wildfire of meaningful connections and reigniting a blazing sense of unity in a world sundered by fragmentation.

Through the raw power of honesty and the audacity of vulnerability, we hack through the chains that bind us, carving a pathway for explosive transformative growth. As we confront and embrace our deepest truths, we don’t just reshape our own identities; we revolutionize the very fabric of our collective fate, forging a radiant future, shimmering even in the depths of our shadowy reality.

Emboldened by this collective journey, we reclaim our sovereignty and ignite a relentless movement toward a more unified, fiercely aware, and utterly empowered society, ready to tackle the titanic challenges that loom on the horizon. This is our moment—let us seize it with unyielding fervor!

[thepastisalreadywritten]

SAINT OF THE DAY (December 7)

Today, the Catholic Church celebrates the memory of St. Ambrose, the brilliant Bishop of Milan who influenced St. Augustine's conversion and was named a Doctor of the Church.

Like Augustine himself, the older Ambrose, born around 340, was a highly educated man who sought to harmonize Greek and Roman intellectual culture with the Catholic faith.

Trained in literature, law and rhetoric, he eventually became the governor of Liguria and Emilia, with headquarters at Milan.

He manifested his intellectual gifts in defense of Christian doctrine even before his baptism.

While Ambrose was serving as governor, a bishop named Auxentius was leading the diocese.

Although he was an excellent public speaker with a forceful personality, Auxentius also followed the heresy of Arius, which denied the divinity of Christ.

Although the Council of Nicaea had reasserted the traditional teaching on Jesus' deity, many educated members of the Church – including, at one time, a majority of the world's bishops – looked to Arianism as a more sophisticated and cosmopolitan version of Christianity.

Bishop Auxentius became notorious for forcing clergy throughout the region to accept Arian creeds.

At the time of Auxentius' death, Ambrose had not yet even been baptized.

But his deep understanding and love of the traditional faith were already clear to the faithful of Milan.

They considered him the most logical choice to succeed Auxentius, even though he was still just a catechumen.

With the help of Emperor Valentinan II, who ruled the Western Roman Empire at the time, a mob of Milanese Catholics virtually forced Ambrose to become their bishop against his own will.

Eight days after his baptism, Ambrose received episcopal consecration on 7 December 374. The date would eventually become his liturgical feast.

Bishop Ambrose did not disappoint those who had clamored for his appointment and consecration.

He began his ministry by giving everything he owned to the poor and to the Church.

He looked to the writings of Greek theologians like St. Basil for help in explaining the Church's traditional teachings to the people during times of doctrinal confusion.

Like the fathers of the Eastern Church, Ambrose drew from the intellectual reserves of pre-Christian philosophy and literature to make the faith more comprehensible to his hearers.

This harmony of faith with other sources of knowledge served to attract, among others, the young professor Aurelius Augustinus – a man Ambrose taught and baptized, whom history knows as St. Augustine of Hippo.

Ambrose himself lived simply, wrote prolifically, and celebrated Mass each day.

He found time to counsel an amazing range of public officials, pagan inquirers, confused Catholics, and penitent sinners.

His popularity, in fact, served to keep at bay those who would have preferred to force him from the diocese, including the Western Empress Justina and a group of her advisers, who sought to rid the West of adherence to the Nicene Creed, pushing instead for strict Arianism.

Ambrose heroically refused her attempts to impose heretical bishops in Italy, along with her efforts to seize churches in the name of Arianism.

Ambrose also displayed remarkable courage when he publicly denied communion to the Emperor Theodosius, who had ordered the massacre of 7,000 citizens in Thessalonica leading to his excommunication by Ambrose.

The chastened emperor took Ambrose's rebuke to heart, publicly repenting of the massacre and doing penance for the murders.

“Nor was there afterwards a day on which he did not grieve for his mistake,” Ambrose himself noted when he spoke at the emperor's funeral.

The rebuke spurred a profound change in Emperor Theodosius. He reconciled himself with the Church and the bishop, who attended to the emperor on his deathbed.

St. Ambrose died in 397.

His 23 years of diligent service had turned a deeply troubled diocese into an exemplary outpost for the faith.

His writings remained an important point of reference for the Church, well into the medieval era and beyond.

St. Ambrose has been named one of the “Holy Fathers of the Church, whose teaching all bishops should in every way follow.”

[girlfromanotherside]

[gracegrove]

WWII Harringrove au

Where Steve's parents purchased him a draft deferment but Billy volunteered because he wanted to get the hell out of the run down house and away from the beatings from his old man when he didn't come home with enough money. Billy lied about his age, knew he'd be drafted in a year anyway.

Steve feels a profound sense of guilt as more men his age leave and he remains in his small town. One of just a few men left his age. The others denied or exempt with family farms to run or personal health difficulties. Steve feels like a chump and finally volunteers in late 1943.

Steve struggles through his training but eventually makes it to England by the spring of 1944. He is hopeless on his feet with many drills and tasks, but his commanding officer sees a special talent in him and volunteers Steve to enlist into the Army Air Corps. Steve joins the 101st Airborne as a paratrooper.

While Steve is at the main base in England he meets a loud and cantankerous young army officer who has risen through the ranks in his own right. Lieutenant Hargrove.

They become rivals.

Steve flouting respect for rank and pushing his luck when he's out on passes in town. Returning to base past curfew and drunker than a skunk.

Lt. Hargrove has threatened to court martial him, but often opts for putting Private Harrington through unnecessary drills in the cold driving English rain. Crawling on all fours through muddy pasture and jumping stonewalls. Running down countryside roads until Harrington is doubled over and cramping. Before Lt. Hargrove let's Pvt. Harrington clamor into the back of his jeep groaning. And they drive back to base.

On June 6, 1944 they both learn that they will be crossing the Channel and into the razor sharp teeth of the Nazi defenses on the coast of France. Lt. Hargrove is assigned with his men to a navy destroyer. Pvt. Harrington is given orders to go by air and drop behind enemy lines straight into the beast's waiting mouth.

They have one last meal together. A quiet understanding reached. A truce, as they exchange glances between bites. The camp wide siren blares. It's time.

They stand. A hand on one another's shoulder, the other hand in a desperate grasping handshake that takes each man by the forearm and holds tight.

"Take care of yourself you sonnuva bitch." Lt. Hargrove forces in a tight mouthed wish of luck.

"You too. Stubborn bastard." Pvt. Harrington smiles, his eyes betraying the grin.

The parting is shaking. A brittle break from one another as they walk in opposite directions. They spare each other one last glance before they leave.

It is not until August of 1945 that they see each other again. In Paris.

[timeless-fanfic]

Hi, can you do a Jesus one where he spots a woman crying and sees what’s the matter? Maybe someone yelled at her?

A Quiet Comfort

Word Count: 855

Jesus x (Platonic) Reader

The marketplace was alive with the usual buzz of activity: merchants calling out their wares, customers haggling, and children laughing. Yet, amidst the bustling crowd, a quiet sorrow stood out. A woman sat alone on a low stone bench against a wall. Her head was bowed, her shoulders hunched, and tears streamed down her face, making her colorful garments seem dull in comparison to her distress.

Jesus noticed her from a distance. His compassionate gaze followed her as He approached, moving through the crowd with calm and grace. He knelt beside her, his presence a soothing contrast to the clamor around them. “Shalom, sister,” He said softly. “What troubles you?”

The woman looked up, startled by His gentle voice. Her eyes were red, and her face was wet with tears. “I... I made a mistake,” she said, her voice trembling. “I spilled some wine while serving at a banquet, and the host—he yelled at me. He said I was careless and worthless.”

Jesus listened with deep empathy, His eyes never leaving her tear-streaked face. “And what did the host say exactly?” He asked, His tone kind and patient.

“He said I ruined his event and that I was a failure,” she replied, her voice breaking. “He made me feel like I don’t belong anywhere. I’ve never been treated like this before. It’s hard not to let it get to me.”

Jesus’s heart ached for her. He placed a comforting hand on her shoulder, offering warmth and reassurance. “People sometimes speak harshly when they are troubled or do not understand. Their words reflect their own struggles, not your worth.”

The woman’s eyes welled up again, but there was a hint of relief in her gaze. “But their words hurt so much,” she said, her voice catching.

“I understand,” Jesus said softly. “Words can wound deeply. Yet, remember that you are valued and loved by God, regardless of what others say.”

He took a moment, allowing His words to settle. “When you are treated unfairly, it does not change your worth. God sees you for who you are and loves you deeply. He is with you in your pain, offering strength and comfort.”

The woman listened, her breathing gradually becoming steadier. “Thank you,” she said quietly, her voice gaining a bit of strength. “I needed to hear that I’m not worthless.”

Jesus smiled warmly, His eyes reflecting genuine care. “You are never truly alone. Even in your darkest moments, God’s love surrounds you. He walks with you through every trial and supports you in every struggle.”

As Jesus prepared to continue His journey, He gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “Take care of yourself,” He said softly. “Remember that you are cherished and loved.”

The woman watched as Jesus walked away, a sense of peace beginning to replace her sadness. The noise of the market seemed less overwhelming now. With a renewed sense of strength, she stood up from the bench and began to walk through the crowd, feeling more confident and uplifted.

The marketplace’s busy sounds were still present, but they no longer felt oppressive. The woman carried with her the comforting assurance of Jesus’s words, which transformed her perspective. As she went about her day, the memory of the compassionate encounter stayed with her, bringing a sense of calm and hope.

Later, as she continued her daily tasks, she found herself reflecting on the conversation. Jesus’s words had touched her deeply, reminding her that her value was not defined by the harsh judgments of others. She began to see her situation in a new light, recognizing that she was not alone in her struggles.

The marketplace, once a place of overwhelming noise and stress, now felt like a backdrop to a profound personal realization. She walked with a lighter step, her heart more resilient. The comfort and encouragement she had received from Jesus gave her the strength to face her challenges with renewed hope and confidence.

As she moved through the crowd, she encountered others with a new sense of empathy. The kindness and understanding she had received from Jesus inspired her to offer the same to those around her. In small ways, she began to share the comfort she had found, passing on the message that everyone is valued and loved.

The experience had changed her, not just in how she felt about herself, but also in how she interacted with the world. The woman understood that even in moments of pain and difficulty, there was always a source of love and support. She carried that knowledge with her, finding peace and strength in the assurance that she was never truly alone.

Scripture References:

Isaiah 43:4: “Since you are precious and honored in my sight, and because I love you, I will give people in exchange for you, nations in exchange for your life.”

Matthew 5:11: “Blessed are you when people insult you, persecute you and falsely say all kinds of evil against you because of me.”

Psalm 34:18: “The LORD is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.”

[dalsofile]

“I tried so hard to come back..”

Shattered

the future for you and wonyoung is abruptly torn apart when one partner must sacrifice everything to address a catastrophic crisis.

tags :: romance, angst, character death, tragedy

wc :: 1,250

cast :: y/n, wonyoung

song :: golden age - ethel cain

The city skyline shimmered beneath the dusky sky, the twilight painting the horizon in shades of pink and gold. You and Wonyoung were nestled together on the rooftop of her apartment building, your favorite escape from the clamor of everyday life. The cool evening breeze tousled your hair as you leaned into Wonyoung, the two of you savoring a rare moment of calm.

The rooftop had become your sanctuary—a place where you could escape the chaos of the world below and simply be with each other. It was here that you had first begun to explore the depths of your feelings, and it was here that you felt most at home. Wonyoung’s head rested lightly on your shoulder as you both watched the city lights flicker on one by one. She turned to you, her eyes reflecting the last rays of sunlight, and took your hand in hers. The warmth of her touch was a soothing comfort in the cool evening air.

“I’ve been meaning to tell you something,” Wonyoung said softly, her voice carrying a hint of nervousness. “I’ve been thinking about us a lot lately.”

You squeezed her hand gently, urging her to continue. “What’s on your mind?”

Wonyoung took a deep breath, her eyes meeting yours with a mixture of vulnerability and resolve. “I love you,” she said, her voice steady despite the emotional weight of her words. “I’ve loved you for a long time.”

The confession hung in the air like a tender promise, and for a moment, you were overwhelmed by the depth of your feelings for her. Your heart raced as you looked into her eyes, seeing the love and sincerity that had grown between you over time.

“I love you too,” you said, your voice choked with emotion. “I’ve wanted to say it for so long, but I was afraid. Afraid that maybe you didn’t feel the same way.”

Wonyoung’s smile was a beacon of warmth as she leaned in to kiss you gently. The kiss was soft and tender, a reflection of the love that had blossomed between you. As you pulled away, you felt a profound sense of contentment and hope for the future.

But reality had a cruel way of upending dreams. The following day, news broke of a catastrophic chemical spill from a nearby industrial plant. The crisis was rapidly escalating, and the city was gripped with urgency. The authorities issued a call for all available hands to assist with the evacuation and containment efforts. Both you and Wonyoung found yourselves entangled in the whirlwind of emergency response.

Wonyoung’s phone buzzed with a series of urgent messages, her face growing increasingly pale as she scanned the details. “I have to go,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “They need me to lead the coordination on the ground. It’s a critical role.”

The gravity of the situation was clear. Lives were at stake, and Wonyoung’s expertise was needed. But as you both faced the reality of her impending departure, a heavy silence fell between you.

“What if you’re away for a long time?” you asked, your voice cracking. “What if something happens to you?”

Wonyoung’s eyes filled with tears as she took your hands in hers. “I don’t want to leave you, especially not now,” she said softly. “But if I don’t go, the consequences could be worse. People’s lives are at risk.”

Wonyoung hugged you tightly, her warmth a bittersweet comfort. “I promise I’ll do everything I can to come back,” she said, her voice resolute but tinged with sorrow. “But I need to do this. It’s part of who I am.”

The reality of her words hit hard. As the hours ticked by, you found yourself saying goodbye, the weight of impending separation heavy on your shoulders. You watched as she walked away, her figure growing smaller against the backdrop of the city lights. The promise of a future together now felt like a distant hope rather than an assured certainty.

Days turned into a blur of worry and heartache. You followed the news closely, each update a reminder of the crisis that continued to unfold. The reports were filled with harrowing details and the toll it was taking on those involved. Every day that passed without word from Wonyoung felt like an eternity.

The day finally came when the crisis was declared under control. You were filled with a mix of relief and dread as you awaited news of Wonyoung’s return. When the message arrived that she was coming back, you clung to the hope that you would be reunited.

But the message that followed was not the one you had hoped for. Wonyoung had been injured during the crisis. The chemical spill had caused severe damage, and despite her efforts to help, she had sustained life-threatening injuries. The reality of her situation was stark and brutal.

You rushed to the hospital, your heart pounding with fear. When you finally saw her, the sight of her in a hospital bed, bruised and unconscious, was almost too much to bear. Her injuries were severe, and the doctors’ faces were grave.

Hours turned into a blur of waiting and hoping, but the prognosis was not favorable. The damage was extensive, and despite the best efforts of the medical team, Wonyoung’s condition was critical. The reality that she might not recover was a crushing blow.

As you sat by her bedside, holding her hand, the tears flowed freely. “I’m so sorry,” you whispered, your voice choked with sorrow. “I didn’t want it to end like this. I wanted us to have a future together, to build a life. Please, just come back to me.”

Wonyoung’s fingers twitched slightly, and her eyes opened for a brief moment. She looked at you with a mixture of pain and love. “I’m sorry too,” she managed to say, her voice barely audible. “I tried so hard to come back..”

Her words were a piercing reminder of the dreams that had been so suddenly dashed. As the hours passed, her condition worsened. The hope that had once seemed so tangible now felt like a cruel mirage.

In the quiet solitude of the hospital room, with the machines beeping softly in the background, Wonyoung’s hand grew colder. The reality of her loss settled over you like a heavy shroud. The future you had imagined together, the life you had just begun to embrace, was slipping away.

Wonyoung’s final moments were filled with a profound sadness, but also a bittersweet sense of closure. As she took her last breath, you clung to the memory of her love and the promise of what might have been. The city lights you had once admired now seemed distant and indifferent to the profound loss you felt.

As you left the hospital, the weight of her absence was a physical ache. The future had been stolen away, and the dreams of a shared life lay in ruins. The love you had shared was a bright flame that had been extinguished far too soon, leaving behind a darkness that felt both overwhelming and final.

The sky had indeed fallen, and the storm had passed. The love that had once seemed like a guiding light was now a memory, a bittersweet echo of what could have been. And as you looked out over the city, the future that once held so much promise now felt like an empty void, filled with the echoes of a love that was lost too soon.

[thenightlymirror]

I think I only mentioned this to Patrick, and didn’t write it down. I listen to Otherworld all the time, and I guess it gets you into a certain mindset where you just spontaneously understand “Well of course you should never fuck with a Ouija board.” But… I don’t actually believe that, do I?

I, technically (I feel like I say this a lot these days), don’t believe in anything supernatural, period. In practice, in my daily life, I’m basically a mystic Quaker and amateur demonologist. I am constantly aware of angels entering the room, the thoughts of God, his dumb jokes, geomagnetic flows creating psychic channels. I just wave this all away as latent schizophrenia. I’m a radical anti-theist. Surely.

But, I’ve had some theories about a few things. One, my theory is that the Ouija board is a very effective method of giving yourself dissociative identity disorder. There are probably quite a few ways to break your own brain, but for some reason, distributing accountability to a few comrades while all having your hands on the planchette allows your ego to detach in such a way that it takes a little while to forget this new ability.

I felt this about the HEMI-sync meditation I did. I only did one, because it was so powerful. I know my blog is not as exciting as it was before I had a CPAP machine so I was dying in my sleep and having prophetic lucid nightmares every night. A guy needs to sleep, you know? And I need a certain amount of sanity to continue going to my god awful job because being homeless might be slightly worse than not having psychic powers. There’s just some sacrifices you have to make. (You sometimes hear people with profound psychic abilities say, “I realized I was here on earth for a reason, to experience what it was like to be a human for a while.”)

But after the meditation, all I would need is to hear some pink noise, and I would enter right into that state of unearthly calm and attention again. Thanks CIA! And it became clear to me, maybe I should chill on this. Come back to it when I’m a little more stable.

With the paranoid life, there are all these security measures people take to protect themselves from demons and fairies and jinn who might want to take advantage of them as they are, say, standing in a doorway too long in the office. Harper literally complains about this every day. And my thought was, as a pantheist, I don’t have these problems.

It would never occur to me that the world is secretly full of demons that want to take advantage of you, because in the background of my mind is the unconscious belief that there is only one consciousness that is shared by everything, and identities are just blockages and illusions.

It made me wonder if monotheism really was a huge leap towards reason by virtue of being just one god short of atheism. Close enough to elide superstitions that would make reason impossible to hear over the noise of every paranoid haunted thought. Which became two thoughts. One, pantheism as a necessary illusion to pacify your own mind. And two, that reality is a kind of metaphysical polytheism, a gesture like the one Badiou makes where God becomes impossible because there is never only one infinity. There is an infinity of infinities, and you just have to accept the chaos, the decentering of all minds into a clamor of demons with no true north.

When you can no longer make decisions of any import to affect your actual, material life, what difference does it make?

[heroes-anthesis]

INTERVIEW WITH "HOUND" (K9NSA68R)

I recall with clarity the harrowing silence that followed the bombs' detonation, there existed a profound stillness, a momentary cessation of time where the soul seemed to hang in the balance, teetering between existence and oblivion. There exists a moment of stark revelation—a bone-jarring impact not of sound but of the soul, as the earth itself shudders under the weight of destruction. This silence, oddly serene, a precipice upon which the mind fell between the past and the inevitable future. It was in this quietude that the true impact of devastation settled deep within the marrow, a chilling realization of mortality's fragile thread. The dust settles, a silent witness to the chaos that has transpired, and life, with its indomitable spirit, persists in the face of obliteration. I recall the moment when the eruption of gunfire shattered the stillness, a violent intrusion that clawed back the momentary reprieve, heralding the onset of chaos. The cannonade that follows is a mess of survival and despair, a harbinger of missed fates and escaped destinies. The terror it invokes is primal, a visceral understanding that each bullet not met with flesh is a cruel lottery of life and death. The cacophony of battle, though initially arresting in its intensity, gradually became a backdrop to existence, a constant companion whose presence dulled the senses to the horrors it conveyed. Amidst this tumult, I found my purpose—or rather, it was foisted upon me. I, a product of war, find my place not in the quietude of peace but in the clamor of battle. Born, perhaps, under a different star, fate deemed it fit to mold me into an instrument of conflict. The first memory etched into my consciousness was not of warmth or affection, not of toys or games, but the cold, metallic heft of a Beretta M9—a burden and legacy entrusted to my tender hands. Its heft was burdensome, and unwieldy, to my youthful frame, and became an extension of my being.

It taught me the gravity of life taken, demanding a resolute heart for its operation. From that moment, the path was set, each step a further entrenchment into the realm of warriors, where the weight of a gun becomes the measure of one's resolve. This lesson molded me into the instrument of war I became. To carry the same gun to this day is not merely a preference for a weapon; it is a totem of my journey, a constant reminder of the path that was chosen for me. It symbolizes the weight of life and death that rests in my hands, a weight I have carried since those nascent days. The conviction required to wield it is not born of malice but a profound understanding of the stakes at play. In this world torn asunder by strife, I stand as a testament to the resilience of the human spirit, sculpted by war, yet ever-vigilant in the search for meaning beyond the battlefield. In the quiet moments that punctuate my existence, my fingertips wander across the textured surface of scars—those etched into the metal of my Beretta M9 and those that mark my flesh—testaments to a shared history steeped in conflict and survival. We share a kinship, the weapon and I, bonded by the scars we bear, each a memory of a tumultuous past steeped in conflict.

My age remains a mystery to me, obscured by the relentless tide of warfare that defined my upbringing within the ranks of Rose Company. My name, too, is lost to the annals of a life not chosen, replaced by the moniker bestowed upon me: Hound. My existence has been a series of commands followed, a life dictated by the will of others. Yet, within this imposed path, I have forged a legacy, one marked by the blood of adversaries, a path distinct in its depth and darkness. In Sierra Leone, they whispered "Dede Kontri" with a mix of fear and awe, for I was the harbinger of death, leaving a trail of silence in my wake. In Mozambique, they knew me as "O Carniceiro," a relentless butcher from whom no enemy found respite. In Kuwait, the epithet "Kalb Yanhaq" was spat from the lips of those who opposed me, for my approach heralded the onset of war. I embody many roles—a murderer, a cutthroat, a creator of widows, a beast, a war criminal, and one betrayed—labels that, while accurate, barely scratch the surface of my existence. My hands, forever marred, carry the ingrained stain of blood, each deed a mission with no regard for the moral weight it carried. I harbor no illusions of redemption, for I seek not the solace of absolution. My deeds, though devoid of personal vendetta or pleasure, are mine to bear. Each act of violence, each life taken, was a mission completed in the cold calculus of war. My existence is not one of joy or sorrow, but of duty fulfilled, a path marked by the relentless pursuit of objectives laid before me.

In this way, my life, much like the weapon that has been with me since my inception, is a record of survival in a world dictated by the unforgiving nature of conflict. Now, I stand as an instrument of the Superhuman Oversight Bureau, cloaked in the title of Captain of the Wardens within Charlotte's confines. Yet, the essence of my being seldom graces the solitude of the office assigned to me, for the streets demand my presence, a sentinel on perpetual vigil. The power bestowed upon me now weaves a cloak of respect around my form, a garment that in times past, I would have had to drench in the lifeblood of my adversaries to claim. My dominion is that of "Pocket", a realm where space and time bend to my will, a kingdom where I am sovereign, unchallenged, and absolute. Alongside, I wield "Flash Studio", a cunning and malicious specter of deceit, creating illusions so convincing they ensnare not just those who dare oppose me but occasionally, ensnare even myself in their web of lies. In this new chapter, I am known as Hound, a fortress of order amid the tempest of chaos, the unyielding guardian of order. As a Warden, my efficiency, though ruthless, in quelling threats is unmatched, earning my name utterances filled with equal parts admiration and dread. My existence remains tethered to the battleground, my spirit indomitable, my resolve unyielding. I have not departed from the war; rather, the battlefield has transformed. Here, in this urban expanse, I continue to wage war, not as a soldier of flesh and bone, but as an embodiment of order, guarding the fragile balance that teeters on the brink of pandemonium.

[sharri-byfaith]

Discovering Your Identity in Christ: Embracing Your Unique Spiritual Journey

In the tumultuous journey of life, one of the most profound quests we embark upon is the search for our identity. Amidst the chaos and clamor of the world, finding a sense of self-worth and purpose becomes a vital pursuit. As Christians, our identity is deeply intertwined with our faith in Christ, guiding us to a profound understanding of who we are in Him.

Understanding Your Identity in Christ

Scripture provides us with a rich tapestry of verses that illuminate our identity in Christ. In Ephesians 2:10 (NIV), we are reminded, "For we are God's handiwork, created in Christ Jesus to do good works, which God prepared in advance for us to do." This verse underscores the inherent value and purpose bestowed upon us by our Creator. As children of God, we are fearfully and wonderfully made, uniquely designed to fulfill His divine purposes.

Furthermore, Romans 8:37 (NIV) declares, "No, in all these things we are more than conquerors through him who loved us." This powerful affirmation assures us that, through Christ's love, we have the strength to overcome any obstacle or challenge that may come our way. Our identity is rooted in victory, not in defeat, as we navigate life's trials with unwavering faith.

Embracing Your Spiritual Journey

It's essential to recognize that each believer's spiritual journey is unique and deeply personal. While some may possess certain spiritual gifts or talents, others may excel in different areas of service. Romans 12:6-8 (NIV) reminds us, "We have different gifts, according to the grace given to each of us. If your gift is prophesying, then prophesy in accordance with your faith; if it is serving, then serve; if it is teaching, then teach; if it is to encourage, then give encouragement; if it is giving, then give generously; if it is to lead, do it diligently; if it is to show mercy, do it cheerfully."

This passage underscores the importance of embracing diversity within the body of Christ. We are all integral parts of the same body, each contributing our unique gifts and talents for the edification of the Church. It's crucial not to compare ourselves to others or measure our worth based on external standards. Instead, we should celebrate our individuality and the diverse ways in which God works through us.

Being Kind to Yourself

In our pursuit of spiritual growth, it's easy to fall into the trap of self-criticism and comparison. However, it's essential to remember that God's grace is sufficient for us, even in our weaknesses. 2 Corinthians 12:9 (NIV) reminds us, "But he said to me, 'My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.' Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ's power may rest on me."

Rather than striving for perfection, we should strive for authenticity and humility, recognizing that God works most powerfully through our weaknesses. By extending grace to ourselves and embracing our imperfections, we open ourselves up to the transformative power of God's love.

Discovering your identity in Christ is a lifelong journey filled with twists, turns, and moments of profound revelation. As you navigate this journey, remember to cling to the promises of Scripture, embracing the unique gifts and talents that God has bestowed upon you. Be kind to yourself, knowing that God's grace is more than sufficient to sustain you in every season of life.

Above all, rest in the assurance that you are deeply loved and cherished by your Heavenly Father. Your identity is secure in Christ, and nothing in this world can separate you from His unfailing love. Embrace your uniqueness, celebrate your journey, and continue to walk in the abundant life that Christ has promised to all who believe.

Sharri Van Zyl

08-03-2024