#my dad grew up with the end of rationing

[missanthropicprinciple]

"This kind of thing will really happen if you don't save paper."

Funniest public service announcement I've ever seen: Save Paper (1948)

[berberriescorner]

pregnant sexs w rio

I had to sit and think of which direction I wanted to take this in. Whew, chileee! Way too many scenarios are playing in my mind. This man����😍!

I'm going to keep it a stack with y'all. This turned into a whole-ass fic.

Sit back, buckle up, and prep yourself for the trip my imagination's about to take you on♥️. Love, comments, and reblogs are appreciated, lovelies💞.

A/N: Sexual frustration and prolonged foreplay ahead. If that's not your vibe. You may want to skip out on this one. A couple of twists and flips here and there. I hope you lovelies enjoy what I did with this♥️. Just a heads up, I really got into this one, so it's going to be pretty lengthy. Worked on it for a while. Even made a damn mood board...I couldn't resist.

One More Note: A polite, gentle reminder that I don't usually take requests. If you float something in my ask that I just can't resist. I will give in here and there. In other words, if you don't get a response, please don't take it personally.

If you missed any other ask about dad!rio or hubby!rio, they're all listed on my Masterlist under Rio Asks/Headcanons (in order). Enjoy my lovelies! Feel free to love, comment, and share🥰.

Song Inspo💜:

"Let's Go Little Kitty-Kat"

Livid. Irritable. Restless. Each one of these words perfectly describes your current mood. The kids had begged to spend their spring break with Rio’s grandmother. Marcus was spending his time off with her, and his siblings loved to follow big brother’s every move. You weren’t surprised that they wanted to be wherever he was. It didn’t hurt that their great-grandmother spoiled them rotten and gave them whatever their hearts desired. Even your sweet baby boy left his momma in the dust. That wasn’t the reason for your foul mood (though being in this big, empty house didn’t help).

You were angrily resting on the couch, a permanent pout etched on your face. You huffed loudly as your husband’s voice sounded on the other end of the phone call.

“So, you’re not going to say anything?”

 Silence.

“Mama,” he sighed. 

You were willing to bet any amount of money that Rio’s hand was running down his face right now. Were you overreacting? Possibly. Maybe even being a bit unreasonable? Probably so. Did you give a damn? Not at all. Blame it on the hormones.

“Let me make sure I’ve got this right. You’re pissed off–again? That’s two days in a row, mama. I’ve still yet to figure out the reason behind yesterday's bad attitude. Normally, I don’t let that shit slide, but I understand you’re emo-.”

“Call me emotional one more time, Rio.”

“And you’re going to do what, darlin’,” he questioned, voice laced with a hint of warning. Rio chuckled sarcastically, “I got a lot going on right now. Call me back when you’re ready to talk like an adult. Ready to get back on your grown woman shit.”

“Whatever, Christopher. You called me. Nobody wanted to talk to your dusty ass anyway. Get off my line,” with that, you both hung up on one another, more irritated than before the call.

You knew your behavior was coming off as petty, but too much pent-up frustration kept you from acting like a rational human being. You rolled your eyes so hard they nearly got stuck as you recalled yesterday's events.

You lay awake in bed, your body vibrating with lust. The day had dragged by slowly as your need for Rio grew more and more. You changed positions so many times your head scarf came undone.

“If I can just manage to wait up at least another hour. Maybe Rio will get here soon enough to put my ass to bed.”

Nope. The tiny human growing in your womb pulled you into a deep slumber. 

By the time Rio reached the threshold of your master bedroom. You were snuggled deep into the covers with pillows surrounding you. His shoulders lowered with a hint of disappointment. Rio knew you wanted him home, even if you hadn't said the words aloud. He could sense the attitude and frustration in your voice when he called to tell you not to wait up. Rio had tried his hardest to get home hours ago, but with every attempt at leaving came more matters that required his attention. He lowered himself to your sleeping form. Adjusting your scarf so it wouldn’t slip off, Rio softly pecked your nose and cheek. After a quick shower, he carefully climbed into his side of the bed, gently pulling two of the many pillows from behind your back. It took some effort, but he managed to cuddle up to you and delicately pull you into him. You stirred for a few moments but quickly fell back into a deep sleep. Your husband watched, smirking at the light snores you released.

“Night, Mama. Love you,” he whispered, kissing your neck.

The following morning, you woke up. Still horny as hell. You rolled over to find his side of the bed empty. He had been there. Rio’s side of the bed looked slept in. Your head turned in the direction of your en suite. Not a peep sounded. He wasn’t in there.

Maybe he’s downstairs. I should fix him something before he heads out. Perhaps he could eat me for breakfast. These freaking pregnancy hormones are out of control. Every waking moment, I feel like swallowing this man whole. When I’m not hungry, I’m horny. When I’m not fiending for my husband, I want to eat everything in sight. Fucking Rio. The dick just doesn’t miss. He shoots the club up every.single.time.

You smiled at your small bump, rubbing soft circles at the sides. Honestly, you didn’t mind being pregnant for the fifth time, but for your sanity (and the kids), this would be your last. If Rio wanted more babies, he had better find a damn good surrogate. Mama’s tired.

Does this man not realize he’ll have to pay for three, possibly four, weddings? Who am I kidding? In his mind, Rio probably believes he’ll be able to chase off any and every potential love interest. He’s in for a rude awakening. My dad didn’t like his ass at first. I have a (legally) pistol-toting father as well. That didn’t stop shit. Now look at us: marriage and a gang of children.

Pregnancy turned you into an impatient woman. When you wanted something, there was no convincing you different. 

In your thoughts, the bedroom door crept open. Rio’s head peeked inside. He noticed you sitting on the side of the bed and stepped into the room. He swaggered over to you, a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. His voice was low, and restlessness lingered in his tone.

“Morning, Mama. You sleep alright,” he asked as his fingers took hold of your chin, tilting your head back for a kiss. His rough, calloused fingers danced along your jawline, trailing low enough to graze the outside of your breast. He smiled as you gasped against his lips.

The kiss started sweet, turning into hunger in mere seconds. You tried tugging your husband down onto the bed. Rio pulled back, pecking your lips a few times, before standing upright, hand slowly stroking the inner part of your thigh. With just a few inches, he would've been dangerously close to where you wanted him most. 

“I had to come to kiss my beautiful wife before heading out. I need to slide, mama. I’ve got a lot on my plate today. It's going to be hectic, and shit might get active. I ordered you some breakfast. It’ll be here soon. I’ll probably get in late tonight. Don’t wait up for me. Make sure you and my baby get some rest. Love you,” he said, kissing you again.

“Love you too, Papa,” you exhaled.

You watched him leave and groaned with irritation. 

It would be two nights in a row that he’d be coming in late at night. That typically wouldn’t be an issue. You had grown used to it throughout the years. The only time it became a problem was when you were in your current state: knocked up, horny, and hormonal. It was just something that switched in your brain during these times. You wanted all Rio’s attention. The need to have him buried deep inside you was high, and you couldn’t quite get your fill of him.

Several attempts to distract yourself throughout the day had failed miserably. No matter what you did, your thoughts always redirected themselves back to Rio and sex. You made one last effort to ignore the constant need to devour your husband. Turning Apple Music on shuffle, you opened a magazine and thumbed through it. Unfortunately, the universe wasn't on your side. Every song was more explicit than the previous one. A frustrated sigh fell from your lips as you shut the music off.

Enough is enough. Hubby won’t come to me, but rest assured I can go to him.

You padded to your bedroom closet, looking for a sexy little number. Slipping on a pair of Steve Madden heels, you snatched up your car keys. You set forth on a journey to Rio. Bringing him lunch would be your excuse for showing up unannounced. That reason, however, wasn't enough to prevent the lecture you received from an overprotective husband, Rio. As if that wasn’t enough, you also caught shit from your meddlesome bodyguard/homie, Mick. He escorted you into the warehouse when you arrived.

“Boss lady, you know you’re not supposed to be here,” he instigated.

“Mick, hush. I can bring my husband some lunch. Chill on me.”

“Alright, but you already know. The boss won’t be happy you're out, running around for him.”

“I went to get him some takeout. I didn’t even get out of the car. It was a curbside pickup.”

You were about to continue the debate when Rio’s voice sounded behind you.

“Mama.”

How could one little word send your body into a frenzy? You could sense both curiosity and a little anger in his tone. Mick stood there smirking at you. He knew what was about to go down. It was one thing for you to be out and about with no security detail. That was enough to put you in hot water. The fact that you were pregnant pushed his disappointment to another level.

“Mick, that thing we were about to take care of? Start without me. I need a few moments with my wife.”

He nodded in agreement, giving you a ‘good luck’ smirk on his way out. You turned your attention to Rio after the door closed. His jaw ticked as he shook his head in disbelief.

“What did I tell you about leaving the house with no security detail? You’re supposed to be at home relaxing. What are you even doing out and about? I specifically told you I’d be busy today. You know that’s code for business dealings. Your ass shouldn’t be anywhere near this warehouse right now.”

“I just wanted to bring you lunch, Papa. I needed to see that handsome face,” you replied in your best baby voice.

“Nah, that little voice and smile ain’t cutting it right now. Why are you so damn hardheaded?”

Now you were starting to get a little pissed. It was understandable that Rio was always concerned for your safety, but what choice did you have? Several, you had several. It just couldn’t wait. Yes, you were slightly irritated by his reaction, but the ache in your core grew even more being in his presence. The scent of his cologne wafted through the air. With just one sniff, you could feel your nipples harden.

These hormones are so out of control. I need this man to wreck my shit. The sooner, the better.

Taking a deep breath, you attempted to plead your case.

“But baby-”

“Listen. I’m too busy to have this argument with you right now.”

Rio closed the distance between you and placed his hands on either side of your face. He angrily sighed and pecked your lips.

“I appreciate the gesture, Mama, but please listen to me next time.”

You bit your lip, looking at him apologetically. Snaking your arms around his body, you allowed him to engulf you in a hug. Wrapped tightly in his embrace, Rio caught you off guard, giving you a hard swat on the bottom. His voice was low and gravelly as he growled, “You're trouble, Mama.”

You moaned, pushing your backside deeper into his palms. Eyes drifted shut as you stood on your tiptoes and puckered your lips for a kiss. Rio’s hands caressed the soft, plush globes as his breath fanned your lips. He denied your request for a kiss. Instead, his lips ghosted your neck, and his mouth traveled to your ear. Nipping at your lobe, he rasped, “Sorry, mama. We don’t have time for that. I have to go handle business.”

He pulled away, smirking at the frown that quickly shifted to a pout.

“We can’t spend just a few more minutes together?”

“Don’t do that, ma. You know this is important. Since you’re already out and ignoring my demands, why don’t you spend some time with your best friend? Here, take my card. Lunch is on me.”

This man is so preoccupied with business. He doesn’t even see that I came here to give him a piece of pussy. For some reason, that irritates the hell out of me. Usually, he can read my body like a book. I see where his priorities are at the moment. Business must trump his pregnant wife’s needs. I gave this man four and a half babies, and this is the thanks I get? Let me take my pregnant, horny, irritated tail home. His ass is sleeping on the couch tonight, and I don’t give one fuck that I’m being irrational.

“Nah, I’m good,” you waved your hand dismissively.

Sensing attitude, Rio tilted his head back, giving you a look of incredulity.

“Look, I ain't got time for the dramatics right now. I told you I would be busy. Go home, mama. We can discuss this in the privacy of our home.”

Cocking your head to the side, you gave him an irritated glare. A rush of pregnancy hormones came hurtling towards you. Snatching your handbag and keys from his desk, you stormed out of the room. Rio knew he struck a nerve and possibly hurt your feelings. Stepping into the hall, he called after you. Ignoring him, you stomped out of the building. With an exasperated sigh, your husband ran his hands over his face. Taking a deep breath did little to soothe the irritation that started festering inside him. It also didn’t help that the idiots working the warehouse floor were ogling your behind as you angrily switched out of the building.

“Y’all got a death wish or something? Fuck you looking at,” Rio barked towards the group of men.

“I suggest you get back to work before I unload the clip in this bitch,” he boomed, walking back into his office to cool down before heading to the meeting.

“She’s almost to her car. Hurry up! Follow her. Keep a watchful eye over her. She’s in her feelings. Make sure my wife and child make it home safe,” he ordered one of his men.

Her ass is out here walking around in those tight-ass jeans. We’re about to have a heated exchange when I get home. Out here showing out. She’s over here pressing on my last nerve and still making me want to put her on her back at the same damn time. Thick-ass. Feisty-ass. Sexy-ass. Spoiled-ass. Hormonal-ass woman.

Rio’s detail only served to anger you more. Pulling into your driveway, you flung the car door open, grabbed your stuff, and turned toward the henchman.

“I don’t need a fucking babysitter. Either wait out here or take your ass back to the warehouse.”

Not waiting for a response, you went into your home. Setting the alarm, you settled in for a quiet, lonesome evening. You had hoped a nice relaxing shower, comfy PJs, and stuffing your face would put you in a better mood. It could have worked, but your husband kept blowing up your phone.

Annoyed by the fourth call, you answered icily, “What can I do for you, dear?”

Rio could hear the sarcasm in your voice. “This what we on tonight?”

“Why, whatever do you mean, husband?”

“Cut the shit, mama. Why are you ignoring my calls?”

“You were oh so busy. I’d imagine that ignoring you would give you more time to concentrate on business, sweetie.”

“You petty as fuck. Stop being mean, mama.”

His mini flirtations went ignored.

This man hasn’t seen petty yet. Watch me work, Daddy.

“What can I do for you, Christopher?”

“Oh, are we using government names now? Bet. Why are you being stubborn?”

Silence.

“So, you’re not going to say anything?”

 Silence.

 “Mama,” he sighed. 

“Let me make sure I’ve got this right. You’re pissed off–again? That’s two days in a row, mama. I’ve still yet to figure out the reason behind yesterday's bad attitude. Normally, I don’t let that shit slide, but I understand you’re emo-.”

“Call me emotional one more time, Rio.”

“And you’re going to do what, darlin’,” he questioned, voice laced with a hint of warning. Rio chuckled sarcastically, “I got a lot going on right now. Call me back when you’re ready to talk like an adult. Ready to get back on your grown woman shit.”

“Whatever, Christopher. You called me. Nobody wanted to talk to your dusty ass anyway. Get off my line,” with that, you both hung up on one another, more irritated than before the call.

Hours later, you came down from your mood swing. Guilt slowly started to seep into you. Not one to give in and apologize first, you decided it was the right thing to do. Unlocking your phone, you sent a request for FaceTime. It rang twice before being denied.

He’s probably busy. I’ll try again in an hour or so.

The next time you tried his cell, you called. It rang several times before going to voicemail. Waiting another hour, you tried again. Ringing once, it went to voicemail.

Now, wait a fuckin’ minute. One ring means he hit the “f you button.” See, now a bitch is starting to get mad again. Woosah. Fight them mood swings, girl. Fight them!

Just as you had calmed your nerves, a text came through.

Husbaeee (Papa)🥰😈👅💦: You and the baby good?

Wifey (Mama)🌎💍: Yes, we’re fine. Why haven’t you called me back? Are you okay?

Husbaeee (Papa)🥰😈👅💦: I’m busy, remember? You didn’t feel like talking earlier? Why are you so chatty all of a sudden?

His petty ass.

Wifey (Mama)🌎💍: Stop making it hard to tell you sorry, Papa. Chill on me.

Husbaeee (Papa)🥰😈👅💦: Keep your sorry, ma. I’m cool on that. See you when I get home.

Oh, okay! It’s just, ma, now? Bet.

Slipping his phone back into his pocket, Rio smiled to himself. He purposefully pissed you off again. Part of him did it out of payback, but his main objective was getting you frustrated. If it had done the trick. You would be ripping his clothes off and begging to be fucked once he made it home.

Not one to tell a man where he can and cannot go in his own home. You decided against telling Rio to sleep on the couch. However, the need to be petty was vibrating heavily in your bones. You fought sleep as long as you could, hoping to wait up for him long enough to ignore him for a bit. The baby again had other plans and lulled you into a deep sleep.

Rio braced himself for whatever you had planned to throw his way. He smirked to himself, releasing a low chuckle before exiting the car. Dragging his tired body into the house, your husband entered the code into the security system. Resetting it, he headed in the direction of the bar. He filled a tumbler with two fingers of bourbon. Tossing it back, Rio let the warm liquid flow through his chest. He rinsed the glass, set it in the dishwasher, and headed upstairs. 

Her moody ass is probably sleeping.

Attempting not to wake you, he quietly padded up the stairs. Rio unbuttoned the first couple of buttons on his shirt as he walked toward your shared bedroom. He nearly made it there but stopped in his tracks. The look on his face turned stone cold, and he slowly turned his head to peer into the guest bedroom.

What the fuck is this shit?

There you were, the door cracked, and lights dimmed just enough for him to see you tucked in tight, slumbering peacefully. Your plan to ignore him may have fallen through, but you still managed to be petty even in your sleep.

You jolted awake, feeling arms slip under your frame and pull you up from the mattress. Moments went by as you willed your eyes to wake fully. Your sight focused on Rio’s angered expression, and you pushed at his chest.

“What the hell are you doing? Put me down, Christopher!”

He ignored you. Rio’s jaw ticking as he took long strides exiting the guest room. He carried you into your bedroom, laid you in bed, tucking you in. You started to explain that you were a grown-ass woman and could sleep anywhere you damn well pleased. The look in his eyes forced you to think better of it.

“I don’t give a fuck how angry you are! Your ass will sleep in this bed regardless. Go to bed mad if you want to. Your stubborn ass is going to do it lying next to me. No room for debate, mama. You mad at me? You don’t want to be near me right now? That’s all good, but you sleep in our bed. Roll to the edge of the bed. That's all the space you're getting.”

Rio snatched his shirt over his head and threw it into the clothes hamper. You did your best to bite back any more snarky responses as you watched Rio stalk to the bathroom. The door flew shut, and you mumbled, “Dramatic much.”

The bathroom door swung open. Standing in the doorway, eyes set on you, Rio commanded, “Can you stop talking? Please give me a moment of peace, ma. All that talking’s gon’ land your ass in a world of trouble. Save yourself, mama. Be quiet.”

You cut your eyes at him, sliding down into bed. You lay on the side facing away from him. The corners of your mouth pulled into a mischievous grin. Waiting for the shower to start, you attempted to remove yourself from the bed and head toward the exit. Rio's voice bounced off the bathroom walls, halting your movement.

“Get back in bed, mama.”

You kissed your teeth, “Ain’t nobody left. Shut up, Rio.”

“You heard what I said. Stop playing with me.”

Pouncing back on the bed, you snarled towards the bathroom door.

“Fix your face, ma. You’re trying my patience tonight.”

Can he see through the damn walls or something?

“Nobody worried about you, Christopher.”

“Yeah, okay. Your stubborn ass got back in that bed. Didn’t you?”

Rio wanted to wash the events of the day away. He wanted a few quiet minutes to destress, but being a little hellcat, you wouldn’t give him that. You had a response for everything. He loved you combative and keyed up, but tonight, you were laying it on thick and wouldn’t let up. Rio was slightly irritated that his plan to piss you off again was starting to backfire. Taking a few calming breaths, he readied himself to regain control of the situation.  

The water cut off, and he walked into the room, towel hanging dangerously low around his waist. There were beads of water sliding down his naked torso. Being irritated by him wasn’t enough to stop your eyes from tracing him from head to toe. Squeezing your thighs together, you bit your lip, fighting the urge to jump on him. Rio felt your eyes on him and smirked in your direction. He laid a fresh pair of underwear on the foot of the bed. Standing upright, his eyes connected with yours as Rio pulled the towel from his waist. His eyes stayed on you as he took the time to dry the rest of his body. Your vision latched onto his manhood as you watched it swing from side to side. The tip of your tongue danced across your lips, and Rio rasped, “You hungry, mama?” The knowing smirk on his face aggravated you. Not thinking it through, you mumbled, “Like you give a fuck.”

A low and bitter chuckle fell from Rio’s lips. That was your last chance. His bottom lip pulled between his teeth. His eyes darkened and held yours as he slipped into his underwear. Tossing the towel into the hamper, he crept toward you. The silence that filled the air added to the moment's intensity.

Rio’s fingers glided along the column of your neck. His digits cupped your chin, giving it a light squeeze as a warning. His face crowded your own. You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from smirking. Finally, you had pissed him off enough to get the reaction you craved. Wetness pulled between your thighs in anticipation.

“This all could’ve been avoided, mama.”

Rio’s thumb traced your bottom lip as he backed away. You watched in confusion as he stepped into a pair of sweatpants and grabbed his phone. Stepping toward the door, you asked, “Where are you going?”

“Thought you didn't want to be near me, darlin’? I think you need some time alone. Just go to bed. I'm not tired.”

“I’ve been alone for two days! You’re such an asshole.”

His hand gripped the doorknob as he rolled his neck and shoulders. He was fighting the urge to pounce. With his back to you, Rio finished, “Next time you want to be fucked. Just say that, ma.”

You growled in annoyance, chucking a pillow against his back as he walked out of the room.

“Your ass is lucky you're carrying my baby. It's the only thing keeping me from snatching your little ass up. Crazy ass woman,” he called out from the hallway.

You punched your pillows and got back in bed. Too upset to sleep, a slew of emotions rained down on you. First, there were tears of frustration. Then anger, followed by another round of guilt.

Why do I keep putting this man through hell? All over some dick. That’s what it comes down to. However, if he would’ve cracked my damn back, this shit could’ve been avoided. You're so damn busy you can’t slide inside me and bust a quick nut? 

You smiled, rolled your eyes, and finished your thoughts.

Damn, I’m a brat. Let me drag grumpy pants back to bed. I thought, “wE sLeEp BeSiDe EaCh OtHeR No MaTtEr WhAt,” Head ass.

Rio was sitting on the edge of the living room sofa, arms draped over his lap. The longer he sat there thinking over the day and your attitude. The more he had to fight the urge to do the things he truly wanted. Rio fisted the top of his pants as wicked thoughts of you crying out for him cycled through. His hands trembled, filled with the need to possess and punish you. He closed his eyes, tilting his head back to calm his hunger. That plan fell through as your scent flowed into the room. He groaned, opening his eyes and settling his gaze on you.

“You could’ve slept in the guest room. Why are you being extra? I thought we didn’t sleep in separate rooms anyway?”

“I’m not about to keep going back and forth with you. Just go back to bed, Mama,” he responded with tiredness in his voice.”

That pulled at your heartstrings.

Be nice, bitch.

You swallowed your pride and made the first move toward reconciliation.

“Come back to bed, Rio. I’m sorry for being unreasonable, papa.”

Still standing in the entryway of the spacious living room, you waited for a response. The room was painfully quiet as you two watched one another. Rio’s gaze trailed your body. It was just something about you in his T-shirts that always drove him crazy. He kept his expression blank, making it hard for you to get a read on him. The silence continued for a moment. When he finally spoke, his voice was different. It wasn’t angry, but it wasn’t happy either.

It was dominant, possessive even. 

“Come here.”

Oh, shit. Not that voice. Anything but that.

There were two types of dominant Rio. One, you had been working his nerves for. The other? Not so much. You stayed frozen in place.

“Don’t make me ask again.”

Your legs carried you over to him. Stepping between him and the coffee table, you waited for further instruction.

“Look, I know I’ve been working your nerves-.”

“Mm-Mm. Quiet. Talking seems to be your downfall, Mama.”

Rio’s hands reached up and grasped your hips.

“Sit,” he instructed, pulling you into a seated position on the coffee table.

His elbows rested on the top of his knees, hands folded underneath his chin.

“You’ve been doing your best to get my attention. Now that you have it. You seem a bit worried, Mama. It’s what you wanted. Right?”

Silence.

“Good girl. You finally learned how to listen and not talk. It’s a little shocking, honestly. You’ve had so much to say for the past two days. Now, when it seems you’re about to get the response you want, and then some. You don’t have shit to say.”

You could feel the heat radiating off of him. Fucked. That’s what you were. There were times when you would overdo it, pushing him too far. Tonight was going to be one of those nights. Pulling in a shaky breath, you continued to listen. Being pregnant, you didn’t know how he would play it. That alone sent a shiver down your body.

See, this is what my emotional, spoiled ass gets. It’s too late to turn back now. Dear sweet Kitty Kat, I wish you the best of luck, girl.

“What’s wrong, darlin’? You seem a bit nervous.”

More silence.

Rio leaned towards you, placing his hands on your plush thighs. He was so close your noses were an inch apart. He tilted his head, angling it to nip your bottom lip. Pulling back, his hand massaged your left cheek. It circled your skin as he leaned back in.

“My hands itching to wrap around your throat, Mama. You know I can’t act like this and do things like that when you’re carrying my child. I don’t take risks with my seed, and you know that. Playing with your oxygen supply is the same as messing with theirs. So why the fuck do you keep trying me,” he groaned.

“Baby, I’m-“

“Shhh.” He laid a gentle kiss on your lips. “You've been talking all day. Right now is a time for listening, darlin’.”

He leisurely rose from the couch, towering over you.

“Let’s put your mouth to better use. Yeah?”

Your breath hitched as his fingers threaded through your hair. Tugging it, he tilted your head back, pecking your lips again. Rio’s eyes held yours as his free hand dipped inside his sweatpants and briefs. Releasing and stroking his member, he hovered over you.

“You wanted some attention. Right, mama? You need dick? Open that pretty little mouth for me.”

Rio jerked your head forward. Hand still wrapped tightly around his thick length, he tapped it on your lips. Your mouth watered and instantly fell open.

“Now you want to be a good girl,” he groaned, swiping the head of his cock on the tip of your tongue.

You started to wrap your mouth around him, but he backed away. A whimper fell from your mouth. Rio held your chin, “I’ll tell you when you can eat it up, Mama,” he whispered, gently tapping your face with his girth.

“You so fucking fine. Wet juicy ass lips got my shit throbbing,” Rio moaned, bending down to kiss you again. Eyes blazing, you used your mouth to capture his thumb. You suckled it, giving him doe eyes. It was as if your beautiful orbs were pleading for him to give in. Your body was so wound up it screamed for some sort of relief. You so desperately wanted to taste him. Thoughts of him spilling his seed into your mouth had you salivating. Rio’s lips parted as his tongue did that snake motion you loved. He slid his thumb from your lips, moving it out of reach.

“Can’t even ruin you in the manner you deserve. I want to shove my dick in that pretty little mouth and fuck your throat until you choke. Damn, I want to leave you gasping for air, voice hoarse. You know I love the way you swallow the dick.”

 An appreciative whimper sounded from your lips. Rio’s eyes danced with excitement. He took joy at the needy and desperate look on your face. The rise and fall of your chest quickened as sinful sounds came from your sweet lips. 

“Look at you moaning and whimpering. That’s my nasty bitch. Does the thought of me shoving myself down that pretty little throat turn you on, mama? It makes you wet. Doesn’t it?”

You shivered and released a stuttered breath, “Daddy, please.” He smiled wickedly, “Damn, I love it when you beg, darlin’.”

“Christopher, please. I’m about to go crazy. I don't think I've ever wanted to swallow you down this bad. Please, Papa. I need you.”

A chuckle fell from his lips. Rio swallowed hard, and you could see the pulse dancing on the side of his neck. His eyes grew darker as he leaned close enough, and you felt his breath brush against your lips.

“You are so cute, mama. Beg as much as you want. The question is: Do you think you deserve it,” he whispered, peppering your lips with light kisses. The corners of his lips lifted, forming a smile as you panted the word yes. “Mm, no. I don't think so, darlin’. You've been stomping around, throwing tantrums, twisting and turning, rolling that neck for days now.”

Your impatience and temper got the best of you.

“If you're so tired of my damn attitude. Put me out of my misery already. You're the one being stingy with the dick! You can't find a few moments to love on your wife?”

There was that sinister smile once more. Rio’s hand went to wrap around your throat, but halfway he stopped. Closing it into a fist tightly, he forced it down to his side. He smirked, slowly opening his mouth to speak, “You’re letting these hormones rattle you, mama. They got you impatient as fuck and coming out of pocket.”

Tucking himself back into his sweats, Rio reclaimed his spot on the sofa. Leaning back into the cushions, he watched your face twist up in frustration.

“Fuck this. I’m going back upstairs. Sleep wherever you want. I don’t care.”

“Sit. Down,” Rio roared.

You froze, back still facing him.

“I’m getting tired of saying things twice,” Rio hissed. “Sit your ass down.”

You swung around and stomped to the coffee table to reclaim your seat.

“Not there. Come here.”

Standing in front of him, you crossed your arms over your chest.

“You beckoned? Dear sweet husband.”

Though Rio wore a thin smile, you could tell he didn’t find shit amusing. Glancing at his lap, he whispered, “Sit.”

You kissed your teeth, plopping into his lap. He pressed up against you, hands gripping your waist. “You enjoy making me tick. Don’t you darlin’?”

Not waiting for you to answer, one hand abandoned your waist. It slid into your hair, tugging at the strands. The action caused you to release something Rio couldn’t decipher. What had started as a gasp shifted to a whimper and ended as a moan. The sound caused his erection to twitch underneath you as he bit back a groan.

“Why are you giving Daddy a hard time? Thought you loved me, Mama,” he teased.

Your lips parted, but he tugged more, signaling you to remain silent.

“Don’t deny it, love. I’m over here fighting everything in me right now. I know how you want it. You ain’t in no condition for that, baby girl.”

“How do I want it, Papa,” you whispered breathlessly.

Rio’s hand trailed to the column of your neck. He gave it a light, gentle squeeze. Pulling your ear to his lips, he groaned, “You want that rough shit. Need me to choke you. Talk my shit and say all the nasty things you like. Pin you down, fuck you until you cry. That’s what you want, yeah,” he questioned, nipping at your earlobe.

A smirk danced across his face at the sound of your whimpering.

“Can’t you just do it as gently as possible? Please, you begged, grinding into his lap.

His growl bounced off the living room walls. It was a signal, a warning, but you couldn’t help yourself. Circling your hips, you pressed further into his erection. Rio hissed, “Behave. You really gotta chill, Mama.”

You stood long enough to turn and straddle his thigh. His hands cradled your small bump. Pecking his lips, you watched as Rio’s eyes fluttered closed. The two of you slipped into a sensual kiss. Your hips rolled as you started to grind your moist panties against his thigh.

“Papa, please. I’m begging you. I need you. I’ll take it any way you’d like.”

He sucked in a shallow breath, grasping your chin.

“I know you will. You don’t have a choice, mama.”

Cocky motha-.

“Keep grinding that slick little pussy against me, baby,” he rasped, grabbing up the globes of your behind. “Now I know you can do better than that. Grind harder,” he finished with a smack to each cheek. Mouths collided as your fingers traced patterns along the nape of his neck. Your tongues wrestled for dominance. His palms dug into your supple flesh, guiding you along the slick spot that started to form on his thigh.

“Damn, mama. Just the sound of my voice makes that little pussy weep, yeah?”

He watched you with pride, your eyes shut tight, breathing ragged. Rio moved his hands to your breast, giving them a light squeeze. He moaned as his teeth sunk into your bottom lip.

“Go a little faster. Pull yourself toward the edge, darlin’.”

Your body rocked faster against his drenched thigh as his hand crept until it found its way underneath your shirt, pulling at the hardened nipples.

“Christopher.”

“Hmm, baby? Talk to me, mama. What do you need from Daddy?”

The words got stuck in your throat, and you edged closer and closer to the brink of ecstasy. Your head tilted back, and the mewl you released made all Rio’s blood rush to his thick member. He peppered kisses along the soft skin of your neck, cooing, “You close, baby girl? Hmm? Come on now, tell me how you feel, darlin’. Let me hear that pretty voice.”

“So damn close. Add a little pressure, Daddy. Press into me, please.”

Rio chuckled, lifting his thigh just enough to give you the desired pressure.

“That better, sweetheart?”

“Fuck,” you whispered. Ye-I’ma come. Please-.”

You started to tremble, signaling an explosive orgasm. Rio’s fingers gripped your waist, halting all movement. A high-pitched whine echoed throughout the room as you tried to power through his grasp and thrust your hips. His hold on you was too strong to fight. The teasing chuckle he gave frustrated you.

“Why would you do that? Don’t play with me like that, Rio,” you whimpered.

“Oh, you thought this was about to be easy? No, love. See where all the nagging and expectations got you. Playing with my patience had you believing I would let you have your way. Fuck that. You better work for that shit, mama. You know how I operate, and I ain’t feeling too generous right now.” He pinched your nipple, sucking your bottom lip into his mouth.

Shoving his shoulder, he fell back against the couch, pinning you with a mischievous glint.

“Ain’t shit funny, Rio. You’re pissing me off,” you snapped, pacing the hardwood floor.

“That makes two of us,” he countered, shrugging his shoulders.

“What happened to a happy wife, a happy life? I’m carrying your child. Where is the love?”

“So damn dramatic. You just knew you’d get your way, huh?”

You stopped, turning to face him. Your arms crossed your ample chest. Frustration ran deep in your mind. The two of you matched glare for glare.

Rio’s eyes darkened as he stood, walking toward you. He kissed you long and hard, backing you toward the living room wall. Your body shivered as you made contact with the chilled surface. He broke the kiss and rasped, “Should’ve used these past few minutes to make a convincing argument,” he tsked. “I don't even know if you deserve to come at this point, darlin’.”

Rio dropped to his knees, and you watched his head disappear underneath the fabric of your shirt. Heat pulsed throughout your core as you felt Rio pull fabric aside. Thousands of tiny sparks flooded your body as you felt his wet, warm tongue trail from the bottom of your dripping sex to the top. His middle and pointer fingers spread you open while the tip of his tongue danced around your bundle of nerves. You released a shuttered breath, head tilting back as your eyes fluttered closed. Without having to look up, Rio paused his licking and growled, “Keep you’re fucking eyes on me. Take off this damn shirt, and watch me eat this pussy up, mama.” 

Say less. I got you, Zaddy.

His eyes burned with passion at the sight of your breast. “You don’t need these either,” he rasped, tearing the panties from your body. Without another word, his head dipped back between your thighs. He teased you with nips and licks until you squirmed, begging for more. The pace had started achingly slow. His breath fanned your lower lips, “Look at you wiggling and shit. Are you aching for me, mama?” Rio inhaled your scent, “Damn, I’m about to eat this shit up.”

“Less talking. More licking, Papa,” you mewled, trying to thrust your heat back into his face. Rio leaned away.

“See, that’s your problem. You need to learn patience, mama. We don’t need to rush. Let me take my time and enjoy all this fine dining.”

“Truthfully, you get off on torturing me, don’t you?”

Instead of using his words, Rio answered with action. Still holding your lips apart, three fingers from the opposite hand pressed into your clit, rubbing wide circles slowly.

In a husky tone, he taunted, “Come on, sweetheart, I know you can get wetter than this.” Your sarcastic rebuttal halted as he continued, “Let me help you with that, ma.”

His words fully registered as you felt his saliva collide with your silky flesh. His mouth covered your lips again, alternating between slow, languid strokes and rapid, hungry licks. From the movement of his tongue to the way he gripped your thighs. Feeling everything at once was hurdling toward a powerful orgasm. His fingers rejoined the party, using them to fumble with your clit as he thrust his tongue into you.

“N-no, baby. Not ye-it’s too soon. S-slow down, fuck!”

Your hand wrapped around his wrist, trying to pull his fingers away. Rio swatted it as he hoisted you higher, locking his arms around your thighs.

“I thought you wanted to come though, Mama,” he teased. “Let me switch it up for you, yeah?”

His tongue replaced those same fingers, licking and sucking your sweet little nub like a man who hadn’t eaten in days.

“Oh! You fucking demon. Daddy, no,” you mewled, body starting to jerk. The sensation sent tingles throughout as your fist pounded against the wall. The digits of the other hand dug into his scalp. You felt him smile against your flesh, moaning and growling. Slipping three fingers inside, he flexed them, deliciously tapping your g-spot. The pace of his digits quickened as his lips wrapped around your abused clit, and he sucked as hard as he could. Your body writhed. The feeling was so intense you considered climbing the wall.

This bitch would go harder. I need to learn how to shut up.

Rio tsked again, “There’s nowhere for you to run, Mama. Daddy got you locked in,” he taunted, fingers speeding up a little more. “Thought this is what you wanted, hm? You've been crying for this all day. Is it too much for you, baby?” Rio’s fingers slipped out of you, and the palm of his hand delivered smacks over your lips. “Yeah! There we go! That’s that wet shit, mama.” Rio dove back in, the sounds of his mouth on your body growing more lewd by the second. All you could do was tremble and whimper. Rio groaned, his mouth devouring you. His words tickled your slick heat, “ You gon’ come for me? Hmm? My mouth got you leaking all over the place.” Your legs started to shake as his tongue lashed at your skin. 

“Answer me, ma,” he demanded, harsh yet sexy.

“Yes, fuck. I’m so close, shit!”

“Beg me to let you come.”

“Please, Papa! Let me come all over that sinfully delicious tongue.”

“I know you’re close. Look at that pretty little pussy squeezing around my fingers,” Rio teased, adding a fourth finger. “Look at these thick thighs shaking,” he taunted. Your husband took a moment to nip at your inner thighs. “Soft as fuck. Tastes so damn good.” His lips licked and sucked at the soft skin as he massaged your g-spot.

“Hold on a bit longer for me.”

His eyes glistened, and you knew Rio was about to make you suffer. There was something in his expression that just reeked of revenge. Minutes ticked by, and you were proven right: every torturous lick of his tongue was his getback. Every time his lips captured your bundle of nerves, it felt like he was trying to suck the soul out of you. He had brought you to the edge for the third time, only to slow down. Tears threatened to spill as you begged and pleaded. At this point, you were no longer begging him to come on his talented tongue. You just wanted him to wrap your legs around his waist and pound you into an earth-shattering orgasm. Twice, you had tried pulling his head away, pressing him to fuck you. Both times, Rio denied you and went right back to eating. His greedy mouth slurped at your juices, “Mm-mm, mama. Daddy’s still hungry.”

His tongue grazed your clit, causing your body to shiver with force. You cried out, “Rio, please! You have to let me come. I can’t do this anymore.” Tears trailed down your cheeks, tugging at his heart a bit. He kissed your nub once more before he pulled up from between your legs. Using the pads of his thumbs, he wiped at the remnants of your tears. Pecking your lips, his hands cradled your face. “I’m sorry, mama. Shh, I know, baby. I know. Breathe for me, catch your breath.”

How could your emotions be all over the place? Yet, every ounce of you still ached for him. Though you were irritated and pissed at the way he edged you. The need to be fucked and orgasm was still the top priority. You could curse him out later. Truthfully, you had done it to yourself. You knew pushing him too far was what brought you here. Patience and understanding had been an option that would have left you well rewarded. Instead, you had opted to try to force his hand.

I’m pregnant, horny, and a bit illogical at the moment. I want what the fuck I want, and I want it now.

Rio’s eyes locked with yours, his orbs still dark but sympathetic at the same time. His teeth sunk into his bottom lip as he swept hair that blocked your vision. Taking a deep breath, he leaned in, lips brushing against yours.

“I’ma stop fucking with you, mama,” he whispered, stealing a kiss.

Rio shushed your whimpering as his hands trailed back down your body and between your thighs. His fingers brushed your slit, collecting moisture along the way. His fingers slid lower until they reached the destination they were in search of. Two fingers penetrated you as his free hand tweaked your nipple. You sucked in a sharp breath as his digits tapped against that special place in warp speed.

“R-rio. Oh, God,” you mewled. “No, please. I want you inside. I need you inside me, baby. Why won’t you just-.”

His head fell into the crook of your neck as you pleaded. An anguished growl echoed against your throat.

“I can’t right now, mama. I just can’t,” he responded helplessly as his fingers kept slamming into you. “Give it to me, mama. I know you can’t hold it anymore. Come for me, baby girl,” he moaned against your skin.

“But why? Oh! Fuck! Y-yes. God, yes,” you cried, falling over the edge.

“Fuck, mama. My arm’s soaked,” he groaned, breath shallow, as he trailed kisses down your neck. He waited for you to respond, but the only sound he heard was sniffling. Rio pulled back with a quickness, hands cradling your face once more. He kissed you, “What’s wrong, mama? Why are you crying?”

“Are you not attracted to me anymore?”

“Mama. Don’t start. Why wouldn’t I be attracted to you? That’s a wild ass question. Please don’t take this wrong, but these hormones got you all messed up. You know better than to ask me such a ludicrous question.” 

Your eyes started to water again, and Rio threw his head back, running his hand down his face. Releasing a long sigh, “Don’t start again, mama. You’re all over the place today. One minute, you’re cursing me out, trying to push me away. The next minute, you’re on me. I damn sure can’t keep up with the mood swings today. Now I’m getting pissed all over again because you're questioning my love for you.”

“It’s a simple question, Rio. Something must be wrong since you won’t fuck your wife. It can’t be that bizarre of a question. Just admit it. I’m gaining weight (not to mention I was already plushie before), so you’re not interested.”

“What number mood swing is this?”

“Fuck you, Rio.”

“You’d like that? A fuck. Wouldn’t you?”

“Such a dickish response!”

You stormed away, ignoring his demands not to walk away from him. Upon entering your bedroom, you slammed the door. Climbing under the covers, you snuggled down until you found a comfortable spot. He didn’t immediately follow you upstairs. Sinking back into the couch, he tried to calm his temper. 

Rio’s mood/urge was why Y/N hadn’t gotten what she wanted in the first place. He was right back to being as pissed as he was earlier. It was all the more reason to stay where he was until he could calm himself. During the first round of this sexually charged argument, it had taken every fiber in him not to fuck you relentlessly. No matter how bad you both wanted it. He wasn’t comfortable with manhandling you at a time like this.

He tilted his head back against the cushions and chuckled to himself. Looking back over the day, you had been a pain in the ass. However, Rio loved that you were adamant about getting what you desired.

The fact that she thinks there’s a way for me to be gentle and rough in that sort of head space is laughable. I love this crazy ass woman.

He replayed the last of your conversation. Guilt crept in as he remembered how your lip trembled as you fought back tears of frustration and neediness while leaving the room. Thinking the situation over, Rio started to hold himself accountable. He knew what to expect at times like this. If he was being honest, having another baby was mainly his idea. That thought alone had him shaking his head and smirking.

This woman is going to drive me insane. She can’t be serious thinking I’m not attracted to her right now because she’s pregnant. If anything, that makes my dick harder. These kinks, man. Her ass knows I love her any size. Mama knows I love it when she’s stupid thick. Damn, I want to bend her ass over something. Just wait until baby girl or boy gets here. I’m going to remember every single mood swing and attitude. Like that man Miguel once said, that pussy gon’ be mine. Let me check on her mean ass. Remember to remain calm, Rio.

He flipped off all the lights downstairs and made sure everything was locked up tight. It was pitch black in the master suite. Rio entered quietly, not wanting to wake you. The faint sounds of sniffles came from under the covers on your side of the bed. Your husband’s head hung low at the sounds, shaking it side to side in disbelief. Sadness ached deep in his chest. It had never been his intention to make you feel unwanted. He certainly didn’t mean for you to feel unattractive. You had pushed him to that place of uncertainty. Rio didn’t trust himself enough to remain gentle. His anger had been raging off and on for the past two days. It was time for him to set the record straight and make things right.

Self-control, my boy. Self-control. I may not be able to choke her. Let that mouth get to firing off again. I’ma spank this woman. Lord, help me.

He approached your side of the bed, attempting to lower the comforter, but it wouldn’t budge. You grumbled, “Don’t, Christopher. Just get in bed. Let’s get some rest. We can discuss this in the morning.” The fabric of the blankets muffled your voice a bit, but Rio could hear how you fought back tears.

Rio gently rubbed what he believed to be your hip. “Don’t hide from me,” he rasped.

“I’m not. Goodnight, Papa.”

He lowered his head, rubbing soothing circles against your back. He stood there a few moments, trying to find a way to make things better. A thought entered his mind. His head leaned to the side as he gave a quick head nod. Heading to his side of the bed, Rio checked his notifications one last time, setting the ringer to silent. He grabbed an item from the nightstand, setting it to the side. Rio got into bed, sliding closer. The feeling of his chest pressing against your back as he joined you under the covers.

“You still mad at me, Mama,” he questioned, leaving butterfly kisses against your skin. “You gon’ forgive me, hm?”

“Shut up, Rio,” you responded with a giggle and sniffle.

“You know you’re crazy for thinking that bullshit, right? I love you, mama. Don’t you know that you’re my favorite person in this world? I love you for life, woman,” he explained. “I’ll always be attracted to you, no matter what. You’re my heart and world, baby girl.” Rio nibbled at your neck. “Those better be happy sniffles, he teased.

“They are, trust me. Thank you for the reassurance, Papa,” you responded, voice still shaky.

His fingers caressed your thighs, drawing small patterns on your flesh, lips peppering kisses against a bare shoulder back to the soft spot below your ear.

“Papa, I don’t think that’s a good idea. I’m still wet from earlier,” you whispered, lower lips tingling again.

Rio shushed you as his tongue swept across the column of your neck. “You looked so damn good in those jeans with the heels. You just had to get me hard while I was working. Didn’t you? How am I supposed to focus with images of fucking you against my desk floating through my head?”

“I just wanted to see you, baby.”

“Yeah. Okay.”

His hand slid between soft thighs, swiping at the moisture pooling between your folds.

“Always wet. Forever ready for me. Shit. Give me those lips, ma.”

Both of you tried to take control of the kiss until his fingers pulled away. You huffed, “Not this shit again-Oh! Shit,” you moaned. Not only had he placed his hand back where it was, but you felt a lovely buzzing sensation against your clit. “Yes,” you whispered.

“Been waiting for the right time to break this out. You’ve been rambling on about that damn toy, so I bought you a rose, Mama. How’s that feel?” Unable to speak, you answered with a sweet sigh. Rio’s lips connected to your temple. “I’ll take that as a yes,” he laughed, increasing the speed.

Between his lips and the toy, you hadn’t noticed Rio tugging down his sweatpants. The kiss broke as you mewled. He bit his lip, watching you gasp at the feel of the rose pressed against your nub while his aching erection slid back and forth against your folds. The leaking tip dipped in and out of your spasming channel. The covers kicked down to the foot of the bed as Rio’s hungry gaze drank in the writhing of your bodies. His breathing quickened, listening to your faint moans.

“I think we’re both a bit calmer now. Don’t you agree, Mama,” he questioned, sucking in a breath at the wetness pulling around his tip.

If you had heard him, Rio didn’t wait for a response. He reclaimed your mouth, sinking his thick, veiny rod inside you.

“Got Damn,” you both moaned in unison.

“That’s a good girl. Take it all, Mama. So fucking tight. Grip that shit.”

Burying your head in your pillow, you trembled, moaning repetitively. Rio’s hands sunk into the plushness of your waist. His finger sunk deeper, pressing your behind into his lap. Pumping you slowly, you felt his hips do that circular motion. 

“Faster, Daddy. Please go faster.”

“Whatever you say, love,” he answered, pulling your hair and snapping his hips harder. “The settings go higher, baby.” Shifting the rose to its highest voltage, he growled at the screams that bounced around the room.

“T-too much. Fuck!”

“No, ma. You got this. Take that shit. Don’t you want me to make that pussy feel good, yeah? Yes, baby. Oh, shit. Take it, baby. Just let me pound that pretty little flower.”

Every thrust sent you higher. Your fingers dug into Rio’s hand as you thrashed about the bed.

“You keep fucking me like this. I’m not going to last much longer,” you whined.

“You got that. Go on and wet that shit up, mama. Fall apart. Come for, Daddy. I’ll put you back together and break you apart again. Don’t bury your face in the pillow. Let me hear you come loud and clear. Come for me right fucking now,” he demanded, giving your ass a hard smack.”

“Fu-Chris! Baby,” you screamed, body tensing, shaking violently. Kisses danced along your temple. Whimpers continued to fall from your lips, the aftershocks sending waves throughout your body. Rio attempted to center and bring you back down from the high.

“You’re good, mama. I got you. Good job,” he praised. 

You couldn’t imagine a better way to end a long day. At least that's what you thought until Rio decided to take it one step further.

“I’m not finished with you yet, baby girl,” he whispered.

Rio slid out of you, laying on his back, while he waited for you to turn toward him. Your face hovered over his. Staring lovingly into his eyes, you spoke softly.

“Tell me what you need, Papa,” you questioned, stroking his jaw.

He reached for your leg, bringing it over his to straddle him. Hands traveled the length of your body, stopping to cup your breast. Through body language alone, the communication was clear. Giving him a gentle nod, lip tucking between your teeth. Rio felt your digits wrap around his length, rising just enough. You slowly slipped his throbbing length into the slick cavern. The two of you moaned in unison.

Rio sat up, wrapping his arms around your waist. You rode him slow and steady. Biting your lip, he encouraged you, “Mm, that's it, mama. You feel so good.” He wrapped his lips around your nipple, tongue circling it hungrily. Giving it a playful bite pulled a meal from your lungs. Releasing the taut bud, Rio whimpered, “Keep squeezing me. Just like that. Fuck.”

He tugged one of your hands from his shoulder, placing the digits around the column of his throat. He smirked as your eyes widened.

“I can’t choke you, so why don’t we switch shit up? You be me for a change, mama. Be rough with Daddy, yeah?”

A tremble coursed through you at the thought of it.

“It’s your body, mama. You’re in control. Ride me as hard as you can stand it.” He pecked your lips, cooing, “Are you going to ride your daddy nice and hard, hm? This is your dick. Take it, mama,” he insisted, giving your bottom another slap.

Pushing at his chest, you laid him back against the mattress. Your hand tightened around his throat as your hips circled, taking him as deep as possible. Your head fell back as your speed increased.

“Oh,” you cried. “Daddy!”

“Look at me,” he gasped.

Your face floated above his, and you started to bounce erratically. Rio’s face twisted up as he grunted your name. The hold on his throat tightened, causing him to bite his lip harder. You felt his hands spank and grip your cheeks. The two of you entered a lip lock as the headboard banged against the wall. Coming up for air, you felt him twitch inside you.

“Fuck, Mama. I’m about to nut. Is that what you want, baby? Do you want to be filled up? Yeah, I know you do, darlin’. F-fuck! Come with me, mama! Right now!”

You both plummeted over the edge, calling out each other’s name. Trying to keep balance, your hands rested against Rio’s chest. He sat up, pulling you into an embrace. Leaving kisses all over your face, you giggled breathlessly. His arm reached around your waist, guiding you to lie down comfortably.

“Let’s get you cleaned up. Stay right here. I got you, mama.”

Rio disappeared into the bathroom, returning moments later with a warm towel. With the aftercare complete, he quickly got himself together. Making his way to the kitchen, Rio returned with a glass of ice water for you.

“Drink up. You need to replenish, ma.”

“Thank you, Papa. What about you, though?”

“Drank it downstairs, " he responded, cuddling up to you.

“So we’re switching roles now? Is that what we are doing,” you teased.

Rio’s laugh bellowed throughout the room. “Listen, ma. You’re little thirsty ass needed that rough shit. I figured since I’m not doing that right now. You can get your fix if I relinquish a little bit of that power. Temporarily, of course.” He gave your shoulder a playful bite. “You should know I’m keeping tabs for the remainder of this pregnancy.”

“Tabs? What tabs?”

“I’m keeping a mental log of every time you act up. The moment the doctor clears you. That thick ass will be stinging, and you won’t be able to walk straight for a few weeks. Maybe a month,” he shrugged, nonchalance written on his handsome face. His eyes reduced to slits, “Breath play’s about to be a beast for you, mama. Hate it for you.”

“No, you don’t, liar.”

“You said it. Not me,” Rio shrugged.

He felt your fist collide with his arm.

“Aye, chill out now. You know what, let me put this shit in my notes. What is this? That makes at least eight offenses. For the day alone.”

“Whatever. Goodnight, crybaby.”

“Says the woman that’s been crying all night.”

“Don’t piss me off again, Rio. Go to sleep. Keep in mind that you won’t be leaving for work on time. I can tell that I’ll be just as needy in the morning. Have my dick ready.”

“Just admit that you only want me for my body,” he teased.

You kissed your teeth and mugged his forehead.

“Aye! Chill. Where my kisses at?”

Rio pulled your leg over his waist, cradling your bump, and kissed you goodnight.

What did y'all think about that roller coaster? Hope you enjoyed it. Reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated, lovelies 💕!

lovelies��:

@darqchilddaydreamz @4everbrookemarie @fineanddandy @rio-reid-whoreee @novaniskye @that-one-anxious-mango @1andonlytashae @blkbutterfly816 @lovedlover @vanityinvenus

@librarian1002 @banana123pudding @fezcosonlylove @sunshine-flower @invisiblegiurl

@astoldbychae @amorestevens @starrynite7114 @alertyoulikeitsamber

[connorsblog]

pretty boy | c.g

loosely inspired by "pretty boy" by the neighbourhood!

genre : fluff !

summary : reader & carl take turns describing how they see eachother in their eyes, or eye in carls case. fluff ensues !

a/n : sorry if this sucks !!! i havent written in forever, so it might be a bit ooc :(

"i have an idea," carl shifted on the carpeted floor, watching judith play with her makeshift toys in the corner of his eye.

"shoot, and not literally," i joke shortly, chuckling as carl seems to stare into my soul with his eye. it's scary how he can do that.

"we should describe eachother. not like how an outsider would see it.. but the way we see eachother. it sounds fun, you in?" he inquires, tilting his head the same damn way his dad does.

"i can go first," he says as i stay silent. i nod my head as an internal battle begins in my head. what if i mess up? what if i say the wrong thing?

"i think you are pretty. and not just outside," he pauses as his voice cracks a bit. he clears his throat to continue, "the way you look at judith like she's your own sister, the way you care for people that dont even know you."

carl seemed to hesitate continuing.

"i can go next," i murmur as my throat seems to close up. the walls felt like they were closing in, but one look into carl's eye and everything was fine again.

i didn't know how to start, so i just decided to act rational and hope for the best.

"you're calm and warm, everything about you is warm," i paused. "i hope that makes sense," i whispered.

"it does," was all carl said. out the corner of my eye, i saw his slender hand snake towards mine. i decided to be oblivious, hoping to make the moment better for him.

i felt the warm skin against my hand, heat flushing to my face as carl smirked. his sideways smile always gave me butterflies.

out the window of carls room, i saw the sun setting down into the horizon line. it was quiet today, no accidents and rick didnt even interrupt them.

i glanced over to judith, she was asleep against the blanket wall we had made for her. she looked peaceful. she always did when she slept.

carl cleared his throat. it seemed like he wanted to say something, but i decided not to push too hard and just stay next to him.

"something is quiet about today," i said after a few deafening moments of silence.

he turned to me slightly, his eye outlined by the ray of light peeking through the window.

"were you.. serious earlier?" he inquired. i wasnt sure what part he meant, i had said a lot earlier. even before the game.

"which part?" i asked, turning towards him slightly. our hands were still intertwined, pinkies holding eachother like we'd held hands before.

"the part where you said i was warm. i have one eye, how can i be warm?" i heard his voice shake ever so slightly.

sometimes i forgot he was just a kid when his eye was shot out.

"yes, i meant it. every part." i whispered tightening my grip on his hand ever so slightly.

a grin grew on his face, that lopsided smile giving me butterflies as always.

"even with one eye, you're gorgeous." i furrow my eyebrows together as his smile grows just a tinge bigger.

— — —

pretty boy, you did this with me, boy. now it's all about to end.

— — —

a/n : i hope you enjoyed ! :)

[whorbidmore]

okay, so, I've fallen victim to the leon kennedy brainrot steadily overtaking me, following me from Tumblr to Pinterest, to Instagram and even the absolutely fucking dreaded application of TikTok. I don't even use it that often??? and the algorithm is just like 'wow, yeah, this little fuckers gay as hell send in the 40 year old meow meow!!' and having watched Death Island fairly recently, I'm gonna have my opinions on what this dude would be like. Cus my brain loves to rationalize shit and think ab 'what if this mf was someone real?' so... fuck it.

Leon Soft Kennedy Headcanons

SFW

accidentally bigoted. - im sorry but let's be so fucking real here. he's a 40 something year old man who spent the majority of his life in either the military, a police training academy in the 90's, or otherwise working under the U.S Federal System with minimal/no time between missions to unpack absolutely everything he's got going on... the guys gonna have some problematic tendencies. Obviously that doesn't mean he means any of that or is incapable of change, etc. etc., but I know for damn certain this dude would laugh a little at Bill Burr's borderline to blatantly misogynistic material and has probably chuckled unironically at the attack helicopter jokes. But, he's not a complete dick, and would definitely become more critical of those kinds of jokes if it's pointed out to him.

honest to God, Dad Without Kids™ - it's not simply enough for me to leave it at 'but it's the vibes!!' so, I'm gonna break this shit down. Leon is absolutely Gen X incarnate. I can fucking guarantee you that on his off days he accidentally ends up dressing as an undercover cop; I'm talking cargo shorts, light blue button up, those fucking standard issue boots cus "they're perfectly good shoes" and those stupid ass sunglasses... you know the ones I'm talking about. Let's say you're living with him, right? And you're... you, and you wanna watch something on TV. This dude would strain himself getting up like a turtle fallen backwards on its shell, stand up, walk right in front of the TV screen and stand there with his hands on his hips. It doesn't matter that he had to piss, he needs to get a better look of what's happening! Does those really loud, obnoxious coughs and sneezes, absolutely blows his back out doing one at least five times a year.

Only watches British Reality TV - Considering he's canonically a film buff, I'll say that this is purely for whatever he gravitates towards on general streaming services. I honestly don't see him being the type to regularly tune in to standard American cable TV, or only does so under specific circumstances like American Ninja Warrior or maybe Forged in Fire if there's absolutely nothing else. It's not something that's exclusive to Americans, — I'm from New Zealand and I do this too, — but Leon absolutely falls into the category of watching British Reality and Game shows purely because of the accents. I'm talking Jeremy Kyle, The Big Fat Quiz of Everything, Taskmaster, The Great British Bake Off and so on and so forth. It doesn't matter that baking isn't his forté or a passion of his, if Josephine curdles her buttercream by over mixing, his hands are in his hair in utter disappointment. 100% tries to mimic their accents too. We all do it, don't lie.

Has... very dated music tastes - I don't know if you could guess, but the last paragraph included me calling myself out and name dropping some shows I watch anyway or grew up watching, and I'm just saying that this is gonna be no different. If anything? This'll be worse! Since I'm very passionate about the music I listen to and have the inability to keep my interests separated from the other, of course my love of particular bands will bleed over into my interpretation of Leon's character! Anyway, all that for me to say that Leon fucking LOVES 90's grunge musicians, specifically Pearl Jam and Soundgarden, as well as early nu metal bands like Korn (their dubstep phase did not happen.), TOOL, and Rage Against the Machine — and no, he unfortunately doesn't see the irony of him being a fed and listening to Rage, — but would also have a soft spot for psych rock, post-punk and shoegaze. My man's definitely laid awake at night, sobbing without expression as he struggles to accept that Ada never really wanted him like he wanted her while listening to fucking Slowdive. My hottest take here is that he doesn't really listen to Deftones. Like he'll occasionally blast My Own Summer, Change, Bored or Rosemary, but anything outside of those? He just didn't listen to 'em. My second hottest take is that he does NOT like Slipknot, which kind of pains me 'cus I do, but I fucking bet you this dude would actually adopt one piece of "Gen Z lingo" or whatever just call them cringe. Though admittedly he would've been jamming the fuck out to Psychosocial and The Devil in I when they came out. Went off the deep end in Vendetta, obviously, and drunk-cried himself to sleep on the couch listening to Linkin Park.

Very confusing spending habits - On one hand, we all understand that Leon came from money, — he was implied to have been born into a mob family from my understanding? And I doubt he'd ever really had to worry about being fully, irrevocably broke, — but I'm sure that growing up in the U.S Foster Care System made him at least a little more cautious of where his money comes from, where it's going, what he's spending it on, etc. So, on the one hand, he's apprehensive to spend recklessly, particularly on perishables. But also, if he can drop over $100,000USD on a motorcycle that got absolutely fucking cheese grated into the road, and spend a perceived, metric fuck ton of money on designer leather jackets and massive watches, it's gonna be hard for me to call him 'financially conscious'. On one hand, he gets apprehensive on spending more money than he needs to on food since he's "just gonna shit it out later", but if he sees a cool watch or a nice suit in a shop window? Money's suddenly not an issue! Not because he's materialistic, but because the one thing he really maintains a sense of control over in his life are his possessions and the way he dresses. The D.S.O can call him in for another months long mission whenever they please, and all he can realistically do is allow the government to tug on his leash and put him where he's needed. He may as well spend their money on things he wants!

Gets out... enough? But also, not really? - So, personally I've pegged Leon as more of an introverted person, — amateurly typed his MBTI as possibly ISFJ? — so he doesn't really feel the need to go out and meet new people or really hang out with anyone. If somebody invites him out? Sure, he'll go. Otherwise, it rarely occurs to him to meet up with friends or colleagues at a cafe or anywhere. I think he'd prefer to just go there alone, mostly for the sake of having somebody else cook for him as opposed to actively seeking out the atmosphere. It's pure convience in his mind. And remember when I said in the beginning about him accidentally being at least a little misogynistic? Yeah, that was me trying to say that he regularly tries to hit on younger waitresses. Not because he actually wants anything to do with them, but simply because it's an ego boost. He likes that he can make girls half his age blush or offer him their numbers, because it tells him that he's still desirable, and ultimately, that gives him the power to reject them politely and go about the rest of his day. If they don't reject him first, of course. Admittedly, Leon's audacity towards women peaked during Infinite Darkness.

Since I'm planning on posting more NSFW headcanons for this guy, — and more NSFW kinds of posts, — here is the obligatory Minors DNI attachment. For your own safety, I don't care if what I have to say is tame so far, you can hold it off I promise.

[babyangelsky]

BL Challenge 2k24 ✨Day 7✨

Hello and welcome to @negrowhat's 15 Day BL Challenge! Full challenge can be found here.

Favorite Villain: Korn Theerapanyakul

It isn't often that we get an actual villain in a BL. We have plenty of love rivals but those are rarely ever villains in the true sense of the word. We also have a large, unfortunate array of shitty parents and parental figures, some of which absolutely do fall into the villain category, but they don't deserve my effort or your attention.

But then we have Korn.

Korn is a villain. Make absolutely no mistake about that. This man has dedicated his life to playing 4D chess with everyone around him, including and especially his sons, and he's brilliant at it. There is never a moment where he isn't in control, there is never a moment where he hasn't thought at least five steps ahead, and he has very few blind spots.

What gets me—and what makes him that much more insidious in my opinion—is how he presents himself to the world.

♡ gif by @guzhufuren from this set

"This man, a villain? Never! He's just a nice, soft-spoken dad in a sweater vest! Sure he's a bit intimidating but he's in the mafia, it's to be expected. And just look at how accepting he is of his gay sons! He's looking at a photo of his son and his son-in-law and smiling, isn't that lovely?"

False!

Korn's image is perfectly curated and if you only look on the surface, from the outside that's exactly what he is: a nice dad and a respectable businessman. He's rational, calm, and level-head, especially when you compare him to Gun—which you can't not do. It's impossible to have a conversation about Korn without talking about Gun, who is absolutely just as bad and who I easily could've chosen.

The difference is that Gun's evil is overt and in a way, it's more...honest because of it. He's not out here pretending to be a good person or trying to be anything other than exactly what he is. What you see is what you get. However, I chose Korn precisely because of that insidiousness, because his evil appears so much more subtle but only when it remains in the shadows.

♡ gif by @kinnbig from this set

Because when everything gets brought to light? Hoooooo BOY.

This man kept his foster sister in isolation under lock and key for years after he killed her husband and took her away from her two little boys. Then he left those little boys in the care of a degenerate gambler and watched them sink further and further into debt. And that's only the thin end of the wedge! If we got into all the ways he fucked up his OWN boys, we'd be here all damn day.

Kidnapping on perhaps more than one occasion, a hit squad, Kim's entire personality, Kinn's emotional range, need I go on?

But getting back to Porsche and Chay, Korn could've helped them at literally any point but he didn't lift a finger until they grew up and became useful to him. He could've cleared their debts, paid for Chay's education, provided for them, kept them from getting remotely close to a situation were men were beating them and trashing their home. But he did exactly none of that because whatever sense of obligation Korn might have felt toward them absolutely pales in comparison to his need for control.

♡ gif by @kinnbig from this set

That's what this all comes down to: control. The world is a chessboard and everyone in Korn's orbit is a piece on it. He proposed an outcome for himself and he got it.

He made sure Kinn was cemented as head of the main family and found a way to cement Porsche as head of the minor family. He got rid of Gun and the threat he presented and succeeded in burying the truth of what happened to Porsche's parents with him, because the truth that Korn gave simply is not the whole truth. It never will be because divulging the truth means giving up control, and that is something he will never do.

I could literally talk for hours about Korn. He's a fascinating character. He's got so many layers. Bottom line?

Este señor es el mismísimo diablo. This man is the living breathing devil.

[patscorner]

For The Rest Of My Life

TW: fluff, and a teeny bit of angst if u squint

The red is what I got from the song, even though this is loosely referencing it.

______________________________

5 years. It's been 5 years since Chris begged his best friend, Nate, for your number. You all were in high school at the time, juniors, to be exact.

You remember it like it was yesterday, when Nate asked for your permission to give your number to Chris. You remember your heart beating out of your chest with anxiety and excitement, surprised that Chris even knew your name.

You said yes, of course. That night, Chris and you blossomed a love that nobody could break. Except yourselves.

The first time he kissed you, you were on your third date, sitting in the bed of your dad's truck, under the stars. Chris knew at that moment that he'd love you for the rest of his life.

The first time he met your mom, he was so nervous, scared that she'd hate him. But that quickly faded, as you were an exact replica of her, both personality wise and looks wise. He loved her so much as they both instantly clicked. Sometimes, you questioned if he was only with you to get to her cooking, a real staple in their relationship.

That question died down as he made you feel like you were the only girl in the world. He took you on small dates and he treated better than anyone else ever could.

Even for your first time having sex together, he made it more special than you could've ever imagined. He was slow and sweet, making sure you were comfortable with everything he was doing.

You were kids, of course, so neither of you knew how to communicate rationally when you're upset. If Chris was angry, you'd smile at him, and he hated it, but he stayed. If you were upset, Chris would try to help, but in the end, he'd be frustrated and leave you alone with your thoughts, and you hated it, but you stayed.

You both matured together. You both grew up together. You both had your glow up together. Through the ups and downs, you stuck together. Every weekend, you go to his house, or he'd go to yours, and those were the core memories that stuck with you.

Eventually, you graduated high school together, and you followed Chris and his brothers to LA. The triplets job in social media was both good and bad.

The good part was, that you'd been in videos since you were in high school, so everyone knew you as Y/N Sturniolo, which was incorrect, but you kinda liked the way the last name looked on you.

When you and Chris announced you were dating, the internet almost exploded. Some fans were confused, some were upset, but most were supportive.

The hate got to you at times, but Chris was always right there to help you. He was there to reassure you, and he was there to defend you against the people who hate from behind a screen.

5 years. You and Chris had been dating for 5 years. 5 years, building up to this moment.

You weren't in a public restaurant because Chris knew how much you hated unwanted and unnecessary public attention. He'd always hold you close to him when he was swarmed by teenage girls during your mall outings, making sure you were okay.

Chris suggested that you all go to Boston and invite both families to hang out, having a little get together.

You thought it was strange, but you complied. All 4 of you, as well as Madi and Laura, packed your bags and got on the flight to Boston.

You'd been there for about a week, and Chris had planned a bunch of stuff out. He paid for you and your mom to get your nails done, and he gave you money to go shopping at the mall. You couldn't be more grateful.

Little did you know. Today was the day.

____

"Good morning, ma." Chris's voice rang throughout the quiet room. The sun glistened through the curtain, painting the room a golden yellow. You rolled over and made eye contact with blue eyes.

As you take in your surroundings, you feel Chris's big hands on your back, rubbing small circles comfortingly.

You hummed in response. "Come on, you gotta get up. I planned some stuff for us to do today." His deep voice broke at the end of his sentence, earning a smile from you.

"What time is it?" You asked, your morning voice finally breaking free from your mouth.

Chris smiled. "7:30pm." You and Chris always take midday naps, but this one was more of an evening nap.

You groaned and playfully slapped Chris's chest lightly. "What if we just lay here?" You closed your eyes tightly.

Chris chuckled lightly. "What if I tell you I made food?" You opened one eye, scanning Chris's face for an explanation.

"I'd call bullshit. The house is still standing." You joke.

Chris laughs lightly. "Okay, fuck you kid. Get up before it gets cold." He kisses your temple before pulling the covers off himself and standing up to put a shirt on. "Get dressed. Casual clothing, we're going out." He smiled before walking out of the room.

You sigh as you follow suit, putting a black croptop on, with a white jacket. You put a pair of blue jeans on and your white Air Forces that Chris got you to match his.

You do your hair, brush your teeth, do your makeup, and put your earrings on before walking downstairs. Your jaw drops as you see your beautiful boyfriend sitting at the island, which is covered with all of your favorite foods.

"Wha- what's all this?" You ask as you move towards Chris slowly. He smiles as he stands up and approaches you. You meet in the middle, and he wraps his hands around your waist. You rest your arms around his neck, pulling yourself closer to him.

"Surprise, baby." He said, pulling you in to give you a sweet, passionate kiss.

You smile into the kiss. "What's this all for?" You ask, turning your head to admire the spread of food in front of you. Another thing Chris knew about you was that you were a foodie. No matter what you were doing, food would make it a hundred times better.

He shrugged, his face turning a light pink color. "I just felt like it." Is all he said.

You tilted your head in confusion but nodded nonetheless. "Thank you, baby. I love it." You smile.

"I knew you would." He leaned in to kiss your cheek. "Now, dig in. We gotta be there in an hour." He let go of your waist and guided you to the island.

"Be where?" You asked, sitting down at the island.

He shook his head and grinned. "You'll see."

______

"Chris, come on! Can I take this off now?" You said, pouting, tugging on the blindfold.

He laughed but kept his eyes on the road. He carrassed your thigh gently. "No, ma, but we're almost there."

You groan, putting your head back. "I've been in the dark so long." You whine loudly.

Chris laughs. "I know, I know, but I promise it's worth the wait."

You roll your eyes, even though he can't see them. "It better be." You grumble.

You feel the car be put in park. "See, we're here. Was that so hard, sweetheart?"

You cross your arms. "Yes." You lie, smiling.

Chris shakes his head. "Whatever. Let me get the door for you." You hear Chris open and close the door, leaving in a brief silence before you feel your door open.

You feel for Chris's arms, which immediately help you out of the car. He pulls you into a hug. "I love you, baby." He whispers, his voice quiet and shaky.

You cock your head in confusion. "I love you, too. Everything okay?"

You feel Chris lift the blindfold off your head, your eyes immediately shutting at the sudden brightness. "Damn, Chris." You mutter, rubbing your eyes.

He laughs lightly.

When your eyes adjust to the brightness, you see that you're in a park.

But it wasn't any park. It was the park where you and Chris both said your first 'I love yous'. The park that was above the beach, a place where you could park your car and watch the sunset.

This place held such a sensitive place in your heart, and it immediately tugged in your chest as you looked at Chris, who had tears in his eyes.

"Baby, what're we doing here?" You wipe his tears, and he laughs softly, wiping them as well. "I told myself I wasn't gonna cry yet."

You shake your head. "It's okay. What're you planning?"

He shook his head, grabbing your hand and walking you through the park. You approach a blanket with words written on it. You can't make out the word before Chris pulls you into him, as you both stand up in front of the sunset.

He wrapped his arms around your waist as your back pressed against his chest. He swayed you both back and forth as you both just relished each other's company for a while.

Eventually, he spoke. "Come on." He grabbed your hand, walking you to the blanket, where you can see the letter clearly now. It spelled out 'will you marry me?" In your favorite flower petals, because he knew you didn't like red. (Unless it's red, then replace with fav color)

You freeze and look at Chris, who is now kneeling in front of you with a ring.

You cover your mouth with your hands, tears threatening the fall.

Chris wiped his tears before his spoke, clearing his throat. "Y/n Y/l/n, I love you so much. I never knew I could ever feel this way about someone. I never knew I could be so happy." He choked, wiping his tears once more. "Fuck. Okay, okay. You're my strength and my weakness. You help me battle my demons, and so far, we're undefeated. After all these years, I still have a crush on you, and it's never faded."

He swallowed, not bothering to wipe his tears anymore. You're still standing in front of him in shock, listening to his proposal.

"I love you so much, and if you let me, I'm gonna love you for the rest of my life. And if you let me, we can start a family. And if you let me, I can call you my wife. So, Y/n Y/l/n... will you marry me?"

You stare at Chris for a moment longer before kneeling in his level and engulfing him in a hug. You both are an emotional mess, using each other for comfort.

You pull away and wipe your tears. Chris smiles. "Is that a yes?"

You nod, laughing tearfully. "Yes, yes, of course." You pull him into an emotional kiss before pulling away.

He attempted to slide the ring on your finger, but he was shaking. "Oh baby, you're shaking." You sniffle.

He smiles shyly, finally getting the ring on. "I know, I was nervous as fuck." You pull him into another hug as he stood up.

"I love you so much, Christopher." You say into the crook of his neck. He smiled. "I love you more. You have no idea."

You feel tears prick your eyes again, never feeling more loved. Chris looked at your glassy eyes, wiping the tears. "Don't cry again, or I'm gonna cry again." He says, his voice shaking.

You laugh. "I can't help it! I'm gonna get married!" You sigh.

"Well, get it the fuck together! I told Matt and Nick I wouldn't cry." He exclaimed jokingly.

You laugh, wiping his tears. "They didn't believe you, did they?"

Chris rolled his eyes. "Give me that ring back." You laugh as he grabbed your hand and pulled you back to the car.

"Where are we going?" You ask, buckling up.

"They're waiting for us at the restaurant." He said.

"What?"

He looked at you. "I love you so much, ma. I can't wait to be your husband." He smiled. Your face flushed as you leaned in to give him a deep, passionate kiss.

He smiled into the kiss. "If I get one of those every time I say that, don't expect any other words to come out of my mouth from now on."

You laugh as he puts the car in drive. After about 15 minutes, you arrive at the restaurant.

From the car, you can see yours and Chris's whole family through the window. You look at Chris. "How -"

He put his hand up. "Magician never reveals his secrets." You smile, getting out of the car, holding hands with Chris as you both walk into the building.

You walk in and the building went silent. All the eyes looked at you, but they didn't make you nervous, because you knew all of the familiar, comforting eyes look at you.

Chris clears his throat. You look at him before looking back at everyone. You smile and hold up your hand with the ring on it.

"I'm getting married!" You say, earning cheers and claps from the audience. Matt and Nick immediately walk up to Chris and give him a giant hug and say congratulations.

Matt pulled you into a comforting hug. "Did he cry?" He asked as he pulled away.

You smile. "Like a baby." You laugh, earning a laugh from Matt and Nick. Chris stared at you. "Snitch." He muttered.

Nick embraced you into a hug. "Congratulations. I'm surprised he managed to keep you after all these years." Nick shook his head. You laughed.

"Me too. But I wouldn't trade it for the world."

Nick cringed. "Corny." He smiled, shaking his head.

You smile, before saying goodbye and walking over to Chris, giving him a kiss on the cheek.

"I love you, baby." You whisper in his ear, his arm snaking around your waist.

He smiled back at you, tears pricking his eyes again. "I love you, too."

You were going to get married. Married to your best friend and soul mate. And you couldn't be happier.

______________________________

[bcolfanfic]

spare...spare more details about young vets curt and ken becoming parents?

yesss. have been meaning to!

they both know somewhere in their heads that they want kids, but curt esp kinda talks himself in circles about it.

grew up in a very chaotic home with an abusive father and similar to gale he just has a lot of "what if i turn into my dad" anxiety

they go the surrogacy path and i don't think i ever actually pinned down *why* but. i think it would make sense if they had an almost-adoption fall through and were just...a little too rattled by all that to potentially put themselves through it again.

re: parentage they do the thing talked about in this article where they both ~donate~ and it'll work out however it works out. neither of them have super strong feelings about it either way so whatever happens happens (:

and it happens that (a) the embryo that ends up getting transferred is curt's bby and (b) it splits (: surprise twins (:

lmfao both boys about hit the floor when they get that news. curt goes full pale as a piece of paper mode and almost passes out and ken is just kinda. standing there in shock.

it's silly but i loveee the idea of them pulling something like in those viral videos from over the years ie not telling anyone outside of maybe curt's mom that its twins until the babies are born.

gale and bucky facetiming to see them and going gaga over curt w/ one lil baby but then oh hi ken- wait why do you have a baby too????

bucky lossesss his mind lmfao. in a very affectionate way but. can't belieb it. remembers all the shit him and curt got up to in tech school and when they were both enlisted and god now both of em have kids??? crazy stuff!

the girls are named meadow and bry/bryony. meadow after the sopranos (curt's choice) and bry to stay in line with the naturey theme (ken's choice)

by this point ken's kids soccer coaching thing manifested itself into a full time elementary/middle school athletics department job. so he does that, and curt still does the personal trainer thing but he works for himself so he can schedule around staying home with the girls when they're itty bitty.

was so scared shitless of being a dad after his own childhood, and hell after all his shit from the war too. which seeing john with josie and micah helped him push past in a lot of ways <3. because if john can overcome and be *such* a good dad, hey maybe i wouldn't be terrible at it.

but he loves those girls so so much. has a lot of moments just lookin at their lil faces and hearing them following him around the apartment and getting all (,: because he can't believe they're his.

meadow ends up verrry much like him and bry like ken. they try to put *both* girls in soccer when they're little which bry takes to like a fish to water. but meadow just kinda plops down in the grass and cries lmao. bless her heart.

they're both *such* good kids too which makes em laugh sometimes because curt was...a handful and a half to the extent that he was worried he might get some karma thrown his way for that.

his mama kinda ribs him about it and says the lord gave him a pass on that because he's been through enough.

well at least until meadow and croz's oldest boy jj get involved which causes soooo much drama but. that needs to be its own separate post. (tldr: she's a senior in college and he's 29 pushing 30 lmao it's only like an 8 year age gap and rationally perfectly fine, but curt as you can imagine is um. not of that mind at first lmfao jj run!!!)

ken is such a good dad too. never in a billion years imagined back when him and curt first got involved that *this* would be their life but he's so happy. is such a jabberbox when he first goes back to work tellin' everyone everything and showing them pictures.

[skyloftian-nutcase]

I can't help but wonder if the Gdorf that was transported to a new land. I think Golden Mercy?

I wonder if he realizes that the entire reason that OoT Link even came after him was because he essentially killed the closest thing the boy had to a dad? And then he went on to kill OoT Zelda's dad, too. So, now he has 2 children after him.

Like, does he even recognize how much his actions upturned the lives of those 2 children?

Not only that, but he went to his neighboring kingdom, put on this show, & attacked the King's allies to steal 3 sacred relics, even killing one of them in the process! He threatened them, invaded a holy site, & stole what amounted to the holy grail.

Isn't that tantamount to destruction of cultural property? You know, a war crime??

Like, how does that man rationalize all this?

He really doesn’t, because he’s a selfish piece of garbage. That’s what happens with selfish people, they do not care about the impact they make on others, only what benefits them. To Ganondorf, it’s all just things that need to be done because he will get what he wants, and he does not care who burns to accomplish that. He’s king, it’s his right to take what he wants. That’s how he grew up.

Ganondorf hasn’t learned his lesson. The main reason he doesn’t cause a bunch of problems any earlier than he did was simply because he was kind of satisfied with what he had for a little while, until he learned that the Triforce existed in this Hyrule. Having children has helped him a little, making him gentler at times, trying to make him more rational and reasonable, but at the end of the day he never addressed the issues that led to his actions in his own original Hyrule, and therefore he hasn’t learned from it. As decent as he becomes in his new home, when the temptation strikes he doesn’t fight it, and giving in to that urge makes him completely reprehensible as time goes along. He starts a war, he eventually kills his wife when she turns on him, and he tries to kill his daughter when she teams up with Link. And by heaven did he completely upturn their lives, the Gerudo people, and all of Hyrule.

But worry not, my dear lovely, a few thousand years in agonizing captivity will make him far more contemplative. :)

I mean, I love writing the guy, but that doesn’t make him a good person. The reason I use the good Ganondorf tag is not because of his actions prior to Hyrule Warriors, it’s because Golden Mercy gives him a chance at redemption.

[princess-of-the-corner]

CC!NextGen

So, in general, Naomi’s adoption, as follows -

Naomi: “Excuse me? Miss Bat?”

Himiko: *takes one look and tries to ignore her instinctive reaction of ‘something is wrong/pinging of my Trauma™’* “Hey kiddo! What’s up?”

Naomi: “Do you think I could be a Hero? Even if I have a villain’s Quirk?”

Himiko: *concerned, but still ignoring the more insistent voice saying 'this is familiar’* “Well, anyone can be a Hero, and there’s no such thing as a villain’s Quirk! Quirks aren’t Heroic or Villainous, they’re just Quirks! All that matters is how we use them. Who told you yours was a 'Villain’s’?”

Naomi: “My parents.”

Himiko, internal: *mini-Himiko slams her fist onto a big red button labelled TRAUMA. Def-Con alarms start blaring, red lights flash, “-all personal, please move to your emergency stations-”*

Himiko: *deep breath, bright smile* “What’s your name, kiddo?”

*a walk 'home’*

“WHAT THE FUCK KIND OF HARRY POTTER BULLSHIT IS THIS!?”

*a few hours later*

Kimiko: “Dad’s back!”

Sato: “Hey munchkins! Himi, I picked up the extr- who’s this?”

Himiko: “That’s Naomi-”

Naomi: “Hi!”

Himiko: “-She lives here now.”

Sato: “O … K, and her parents are-?”

Himiko: “Us.”

Sato: “… since-?”

Himiko: “Three hours ago.”

Naomi, excited: “Bat-Mom said I don’t have to sleep in the closet anymore!”

Sato: “… ah.”

Tooru: “Ok, so does anyone know why Eri just gave me a bunch of her old clothes? Cause Kenichi doesn’t like cats that much, and Kimiko’s too tal- who’s this?”

Sato: “Naomi. She lives here now.”

Naomi, spontaneously growing a cat’s tail and ears: “KITTY-SHIRT!!”

to expand, Naomi tracks down Himiko after a villain fight to ask if she can be a hero with a “villain’s Quirk”, because Himiko technically has a “villain’s Quirk” too, so she’d know, right? Himiko gets a vaguely uncomfortable feeling on meeting Naomi, but tries to ignore it. She occasionally gets similar feelings when meeting certain people, mostly kids, who ping something that reminds her of her childhood. And nine times out of ten, the feeling leads to nothing, or nothing that requires Hero intervention, so she does her best to ignore it, or at least manage it. Then Naomi drops “My parents said I have a villain’s Quirk” and Himiko’s Trauma™ button gets slammed HARD. She needs to do something. Because the fight is all wrapped up, and Himiko’s patrol is done for the day, she offers to walk Naomi home. Naomi, of course, is thrilled with this, and accepts.

So, Himiko is trying to rationalize to herself. Naomi is setting off more warnings the longer they talk, but Himiko doesn’t actually KNOW anything for certain. She’s also aware that her experience wasn’t exactly normal, and also leads her to jump to conclusions on occasion. She’s planning on having a talk with Naomi’s parents, see if she can suss things out, maybe get them access to certain resources. Maybe call in another Pro, just so she has an objective party.

The 'talk’ lasts about ten minutes, during which time the parents are insulting, cruel, shout at Naomi for bringing an “Evil Hero” home, and try to lock Naomi in a hallway closet, which is apparently what happens when Naomi does something her parents don’t like. She only gets to sleep in her room when she’s been “good”.

Given they do all of this IN FRONT of Himiko, it takes very little time to have the pair arrested. Himiko then proceeds to call Saito - I Headcannon her old crush grew up to be a social worker, who somehow ended up specializing in helping Heroes who find kids, he and Himiko are friends now - and tells him what happened, and that she’s adopting Naomi, can he get the paperwork for that started, please? Shinso was at the agency when Himiko calls back to tell them what happened, he says he’ll send Eri over with some of her old clothes. Himiko then goes to pick up Kenichi from daycare, Kimiko from school, and informs them they have another sibling now.

She doesn’t realize until Sato comes back from the store, Tooru from the agency, that she didn’t tell Tooru or Sato what happened, or that she’d started the process to adopt Naomi. Given the givens, neither are mad, mostly just concerned (for Naomi AND Himiko. After the kids are asleep, Tooru has to cuddle Himiko through a panic attack, while Sato deals with some phone calls and detail stuff Himiko kind of … “forgot”? She spent most of the day in a bit of a frantic haze, no one really blames her for stuff slipping. Though, she’s gonna be rolling up to her therapist appointment that week like, “Susie, you are not gonna BELIEVE this shit-!”). They are, of course, all for the adoption. Tooru is thrilled when Naomi calls her “Shine Mama”. Sato ends up as “Papa Sweets”, but given she started with calling him “Sugar Daddy”, he’ll take it.

At least one person congratulates Himiko on “pulling an Aizawa”. Someone else laments they’ve really lost money now, cause they bet Izuku or Shinso would be the first, but it was Tokoyami and Himiko instead. The amount of money they won is kind of obscene.

(It was Sero. He was NOT expecting to win those bets. Given the amount - these guys are Pro-Heroes now, the money matches - he basically just gives it over to the new parents, for anything the kids need.)

(Aizawa would be more annoyed, but he is currently in the middle of negotiating custody rights for Kuroba, so its not like they’re WRONG.)

(Also, Kuroba and Naomi are friends now. Best friends. Same age, similar backgrounds-ish. Given Naomi is usually the bright, happy-go-lucky, optimistic one, while Kuroba is the lazy cynic, people just look at Aizawa like, “are you SURE she’s not yours??”)

So, thoughts, feelings, opinions? Again, all suggestions, feel free to alter, change, or discard at leisure!

-

Ahahahahahahaahaha

Yeah I do think they’d need to have a long talk but GOD the fact that these fuckers really are just the kinda. ‘ah shit child in need guess they’re mine now’.

[dailyanarchistposts]

Chapter One. Faith

Unlimited tolerance must lead to the disappearance of tolerance. If we extend unlimited tolerance even to those who are intolerant, if we are not prepared to defend a tolerant society against the onslaught of the intolerant, then the tolerant will be destroyed, and tolerance with them. In this formulation, I do not imply, for instance, that we should always suppress the utterance of intolerant philosophies; as long as we can counter them by rational argument and keep them in check by public opinion, suppression would certainly be most unwise. But we should claim the right to suppress them if necessary even by force; for it may easily turn out that they are not prepared to meet us on the level of rational argument, but begin by denouncing all argument; they may forbid their followers to listen to rational argument, because it is deceptive, and teach them to answer arguments by the use of their fists or pistols. We should therefore claim, in the name of tolerance, the right not to tolerate the intolerant. We should claim that any movement preaching intolerance places itself outside the law, and we should consider incitement to intolerance and persecution as criminal, in the same way as we should consider incitement to murder, or to kidnapping, or to the revival of the slave trade, as criminal. —Karl Popper, The Open Society and Its Enemies [1]

I grew up in a small farming town in upstate New York where my life, and the life of my family, centered on the Presbyterian Church. I prayed and sang hymns every Sunday, went to Bible school, listened to my father preach the weekly sermon and attended seminary at Harvard Divinity School to be a preacher myself. America was a place where things could be better if we worked to make them better, and where our faith saved us from despair, self-righteousness and the dangerous belief that we knew the will of God or could carry it out. We were taught that those who claimed to speak for God, the self-appointed prophets who promised the Kingdom of God on earth, were dangerous. We had no ability to understand God’s will. We did the best we could. We trusted and had faith in the mystery, the unknown before us. We made decisions—even decisions that on the outside looked unobjectionably moral—well aware of the numerous motives, some good and some bad, that went into every human act. In the end, we all stood in need of forgiveness. We were all tainted by sin. None were pure. The Bible was not the literal word of God. It was not a self-help manual that could predict the future. It did not tell us how to vote or allow us to divide the world into us and them, the righteous and the damned, the infidels and the blessed. It was a book written by a series of ancient writers, certainly fallible and at times at odds with each other, who asked the right questions and struggled with the mystery and transcendence of human existence. We took the Bible seriously and therefore could not take it literally.

There was no alcohol in the manse where I grew up. Indeed, my father railed against the Glass Bar, the one bar in town, and the drinking in the VFW Hall. We did not work on Sunday. I never heard my father swear. But coupled with this piety was a belief that as Christians we were called to fight for justice. My father took an early stand in the town in support of the civil-rights movement, a position that was highly unpopular in rural, white enclaves where Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. was one of the most hated men in America. A veteran of World War II, he opposed the Vietnam War, telling me when I was about 12 that if the war was still being waged when I was 18, he would go to prison with me. To this day I carry in my head the rather gloomy image of sitting in a jail cell with my dad. Finally, because his youngest brother was gay, he understood the pain and isolation of being a gay man in America. He worked later in life in the gay-rights movement, calling for the ordination and marriage of gays. When he found that my college, Colgate University, had no gay and lesbian organization, he brought gay speakers to the campus. The meetings led gays and lesbians to confide in him that they felt uncomfortable coming out of the closet to start an open organization, a problem my father swiftly solved by taking me out to lunch and informing me that although I was not gay, I had to form the organization. When I went into the dining hall for breakfast, lunch and dinner, the checker behind the desk would take my card, mark off the appropriate box, and hand it back, muttering, “Faggot.” This willingness to take a moral stand, to accept risk and ridicule, was, he showed me, the cost of the moral life.

The four Gospels, we understood, were filled with factual contradictions, two Gospels saying Jesus was baptized by John the Baptist, while Luke asserted that John was already in prison. Mark and John give little importance to the birth of Jesus, while Matthew and Luke give differing accounts. There are three separate and different versions of the 10 Commandments (Exodus 20, Exodus 34, and Deuteronomy 5). As for the question of God’s true nature, there are many substantive contradictions. Is God a loving or a vengeful God? In some sections of the Bible, vicious acts of vengeance, including the genocidal extermination of opposing tribes and nations, appear to be blessed by God. God turns on the Egyptians and transforms the Nile into blood so the Egyptians will suffer from thirst—and then sends swarms of locusts and flies to torture them, along with hail, fire and thunder from the heavens to destroy all plants and trees. To liberate the children of Israel, God orders the firstborn in every Egyptian household killed so all will know “that the Lord makes a distinction between the Egyptians and Israel” (Exodus 11:7).[2] The killing does not cease until “there was not a house where one was not dead” (Exodus 12:30). Amid the carnage God orders Moses to loot all the clothing, jewelry, gold and silver from the Egyptian homes (Exodus 12:35–36). God looks at the devastation and says, “I have made sport of the Egyptians” (Exodus 10:2). While the Exodus story fueled the hopes and dreams of oppressed Jews, and later African Americans in the bondage of slavery, it also has been used to foster religious chauvinism.

A literal reading of the Bible means reinstitution of slavery coupled with the understanding that the slavemaster has the right to beat his slave without mercy since “the slave is his money” (Exodus 21:21). Children who strike or curse a parent are to be executed (Exodus 21:15, 17). Those who pay homage to another god “shall be utterly destroyed” (Exodus 22:20). Menstruating women are to be considered unclean, and all they touch while menstruating becomes unclean (Leviticus 15:19–32). The blind, the lame, those with mutilated faces, those who are hunchbacks or dwarfs and those with itching diseases or scabs or crushed testicles cannot become priests (Leviticus 21:17–21). Blasphemers shall be executed (Leviticus 24:16). And “if the spirit of jealousy” comes upon a man, the high priest can order the jealous man’s wife to drink the “water of bitterness.” If she dies, it is proof of her guilt; if she survives, of her innocence (Numbers 5:11–31). Women, throughout the Bible, are subservient to men, often without legal rights, and men are free to sell their daughters into sexual bondage (Exodus 21:7–11).

Hatred of Jews and other non-Christians pervades the Gospel of John (3:18–20). Jews, he wrote, are children of the devil, the father of lies (John 8:39–44). Jesus calls on his followers to love their enemies and to pray for their persecutors (Matthew 5:44), a radical concept in the days of the Roman Empire. He says we must never demean or insult our enemies. But then we read of Jesus calling his enemies “a brood of vipers” (Matthew 12:34).

The Book of Revelation, a crucial text for the radical Christian Right, appears to show Christ returning to earth at the head of an avenging army. It is one of the few places in the Bible where Christ is associated with violence. This bizarre book, omitted from some of the early canons and relegated to the back of the Bible by Martin Luther, may have been a way, as scholars contend, for the early Christians to cope with Roman persecution and their dreams of final triumph and glory. The book, however, paints a picture of a bloody battle between the forces of good and evil, Christ and the Antichrist, God and Satan, and the torment and utter destruction of all who do not follow the faith. In this vision, only the faithful will be allowed to enter the gates of the New Jerusalem. All others will disappear, cast into the lake of fire (Revelation 20:14–15). The Warrior’s defeat of the armies of the nations, a vast apocalyptic vision of war, ends with birds of prey invited to “gather for the great supper of God, to eat the flesh of kings, the flesh of captains, the flesh of mighty men, the flesh of horses and their riders, and the flesh of all men, both free and slave, both small and great” (Revelation 19:17–18). It is a story of God’s ruthless, terrifying and violent power unleashed on nonbelievers:

The fourth angel poured his bowl on the sun, and it was allowed to scorch men with fire; men were scorched by the fierce heat, and they cursed the name of God, who had power over these plagues, and they did not repent and give him glory. The fifth angel poured his bowl on the throne of the beast, and its kingdom was in darkness; men gnawed their tongues in anguish and cursed the God of heaven for their pain and sores, and did not repent of their deeds. (Revelation 16:8–11)

There is enough hatred, bigotry and lust for violence in the pages of the Bible to satisfy anyone bent on justifying cruelty and violence. Religion, as H. Richard Niebuhr said, is a good thing for good people and a bad thing for bad people.[3] And the Bible has long been used in the wrong hands—such as antebellum slave owners in the American South who quoted from it to defend slavery—not to Christianize the culture, as those wielding it often claim, but to acculturate the Christian faith.

Many of the suppositions of the biblical writers, who understood little about the working of the cosmos or the human body, are so fanciful, and the accounts so wild, that even biblical literalists reject them. God is not, as many writers of the Bible believed, peering down at us through little peepholes in the sky called stars. These evangelicals and fundamentalists are, as the Reverend William Sloane Coffin wrote, not biblical literalists, as they claim, but “selective literalists,” choosing the bits and pieces of the Bible that conform to their ideology and ignoring, distorting or inventing the rest.[4] And the selective literalists cannot have it both ways. Either the Bible is literally true and all of its edicts must be obeyed, or it must be read in another way.

Mainstream Christians can also cherry-pick the Bible to create a Jesus and God who are always loving and compassionate. Such Christians often fail to acknowledge that there are hateful passages in the Bible that give sacred authority to the rage, self-aggrandizement and intolerance of the Christian Right. Church leaders must denounce the biblical passages that champion apocalyptic violence and hateful political creeds. They must do so in the light of other biblical passages that teach a compassion and tolerance, often exemplified in the life of Christ, which stands opposed to bigotry and violence. Until this happens, until the Christian churches wade into the debate, these biblical passages will be used by bigots and despots to give sacred authority to their calls to subjugate or eradicate the enemies of God. This literature in the biblical canon keeps alive the virus of hatred, whether dormant or active, and the possibility of apocalyptic terror in the name of God. And the steady refusal by churches to challenge the canonical authority of these passages means these churches share some of the blame. “Unless the churches, Protestant and Catholic alike, come together on this, they will continue to make it legitimate to believe in the end as a time when there will be no non-Christians or infidels,” theologian Richard Fenn wrote. “Silent complicity with apocalyptic rhetoric soon becomes collusion with plans for religiously inspired genocide.”[5]

As long as scripture, blessed and accepted by the church, teaches that at the end of time there will be a Day of Wrath and Christians will control the shattered remnants of a world cleansed through violence and war, as long as it teaches that all nonbelievers will be tormented, destroyed and banished to hell, it will be hard to thwart the message of radical apocalyptic preachers or assuage the fears of the Islamic world that Christians are calling for its annihilation. Those who embrace this dark conclusion to life can find it endorsed in scripture, whether it is tucked into the back pew rack of a liberal Unitarian church in Boston or a megachurch in Florida. The mainstream Protestant and Catholic churches, declining in numbers and influence, cannot hope to combat the hysteria and excitement roused by these prophets of doom until they repudiate the apocalyptic writings in scripture.

The writers of Genesis, as the Reverend William Sloane Coffin has pointed out, who wrote about the creation of the world in seven days, knew nothing about the process of creation.[6] They believed the earth was flat with water above and below it. They wrote that God created light on the first day and the sun on the fourth day. Genesis was not written to explain the process of creation, of which these writers knew nothing. It was written to help explain the purpose of creation. It was written to help us grasp a spiritual truth, not a scientific or historical fact. And this purpose, this spiritual truth, is something the writers did know about. These biblical writers, at their best, understood our divided natures. They knew our internal conflicts and battles; how we could love our brother and yet hate him; the oppressive power of parents, even the best of parents; the impulses that drive us to commit violations against others; the yearning to lead a life of meaning; our fear of mortality; our struggles to deal with our uncertainty, our loneliness, our greed, our lust, our ambition, our desires to be God, as well as our moments of nobility, compassion and courage. They knew these emotions and feelings were entangled. They understood our weaknesses and strengths. They understood how we are often not the people we want to be or know we should be, how hard it is for us to articulate all this, and how life and creation can be as glorious and beautiful as it can be mysterious, evil and cruel. This is why Genesis is worth reading, indeed why the Bible stands as one of the great ethical and moral documents of our age. The biblical writers have helped shape and define Western civilization. Not to know the Bible is, in some ways, to be illiterate, to neglect the very roots of philosophy, art, architecture, literature, poetry and music. It is to fall into a dangerous provincialism, as myopic and narrow as that embraced by those who say everything in the Bible is literally true and we do not need any other kind of intellectual or scientific inquiry. Doubt and belief are not, as biblical literalists claim, incompatible. Those who act without any doubt are frightening.

“There lives more faith in honest doubt,” the poet Alfred Tennyson noted, “believe me, than in half the creeds.”[7]

This was my faith. It is a pretty good summary of my faith today. God is inscrutable, mysterious and unknowable. We do not understand what life is about, what it means, why we are here and what will happen to us after our brief sojourn on the planet ends. We are saved, in the end, by faith—faith that life is not meaningless and random, that there is a purpose to human existence, and that in the midst of this morally neutral universe the tiny, seemingly insignificant acts of compassion and blind human kindness, especially to those labeled our enemies and strangers, sustain the divine spark, which is love. We are not fully human if we live alone. These small acts of compassion—for they can never be organized and institutionalized as can hate—have a power that lives after us. Human kindness is deeply subversive to totalitarian creeds, which seek to thwart all compassion toward those deemed unworthy of moral consideration, those branded as internal or external enemies. These acts recognize and affirm the humanity of others, others who may be condemned as agents of Satan. Those who sacrifice for others, especially at great cost, who place compassion and tolerance above ideology and creeds, and who reject absolutes, especially moral absolutes, stand as constant witnesses in our lives to this love, even long after they are gone. In the gospels this is called resurrection.

Faith presupposes that we cannot know. We can never know. Those who claim to know what life means play God. These false prophets—the Pat Robertsons, the Jerry Falwells and the James Dobsons—clutching the cross and the Bible, offer, like Mephistopheles, to lead us back to a mythical paradise and an impossible, unachievable happiness and security, at once seductive and empowering. They ask us to hand over moral choice and responsibility to them. They will tell us they know what is right and wrong in the eyes of God. They tell us how to act, how to live, and in this process they elevate themselves above us. They remove the anxiety of moral choice, the fundamental anxiety of human existence. This is part of their attraction. They give us the rules by which we live. But once we hand over this anxiety and accept their authority, we become enslaved and they become our idols. And idols, as the Bible never ceases to tell us, destroy us.

I have seen enough of the world over the past two decades—for although I graduated from seminary I was not ordained, and instead worked in Latin America, Africa, the Middle East and the Balkans as a foreign correspondent—to grasp that men and women of great moral probity and courage arise in all cultures, all nations and all religions to challenge the oppressor and fight for the oppressed. I also saw how the dominant religions of these nations were often twisted and distorted by totalitarian movements, turned into civic religions in which the goals of the movement or the state became the goals of the divine. The wars I covered were often fought in the name of one God or another. Armed groups, from Hamas in the West Bank and Gaza Strip to the Serbian nationalists in the former Yugoslavia, were fueled by apocalyptic visions that sanctified terrorism or genocide. They mocked the faiths they purported to defend.

America and the Christian religions have no monopoly on goodness or saintliness. God has not chosen Americans as a people above others. The beliefs of Christians are as flawed and imperfect as all religious beliefs. But both the best of American democracy and the best of Christianity embody important values, values such as compassion, tolerance and belief in justice and equality. America is a nation where all have a voice in how we live and how we are governed. We have never fully adhered to these values—indeed, probably never will—but our health as a country is determined by our steadfastness in striving to attain them. And there are times when taking a moral stance, perhaps the highest form of patriotism, means facing down the community, even the nation. Our loyalty to our community and our nation, Reinhold Niebuhr wrote, “is therefore morally tolerable only if it includes values wider than those of the community.”[8]

These values, democratic and Christian, are being dismantled, often with stealth, by a radical Christian movement, known as dominionism, which seeks to cloak itself in the mantle of the Christian faith and American patriotism. Dominionism takes its name from Genesis 1:26–31, in which God gives human beings “dominion” over all creation. This movement, small in number but influential, departs from traditional evangelicalism. Dominionists now control at least six national television networks, each reaching tens of millions of homes, and virtually all of the nation’s more than 2,000 religious radio stations, as well as denominations such as the Southern Baptist Convention. Dominionism seeks to redefine traditional democratic and Christian terms and concepts to fit an ideology that calls on the radical church to take political power. It shares many prominent features with classical fascist movements, at least as it is defined by the scholar Robert O. Paxton, who sees fascism as “a form of political behavior marked by obsessive preoccupation with community decline, humiliation, or victimhood and by compensatory cultures of unity, energy, and purity, in which a mass-based party of committed nationalist militants, working in uneasy but effective collaboration with traditional elites, abandons democratic liberties and pursues with redemptive violence and without ethical or legal restraints goals of internal cleansing and external expansion.”[9]

Dominionism, born out of a theology known as Christian reconstructionism, seeks to politicize faith. It has, like all fascist movements, a belief in magic along with leadership adoration and a strident call for moral and physical supremacy of a master race, in this case American Christians. It also has, like fascist movements, an ill-defined and shifting set of beliefs, some of which contradict one another. Paxton argues that the best way to understand authentic fascist movements, which he says exist in all societies, including democracies, is to focus not on what they say but on how they act, for, as he writes, some of the ideas that underlie fascist movements “remain unstated and implicit in fascist public language,” and “many of them belong more to the realm of visceral feelings than to the realm of reasoned propositions.”[10]

“Fascism is…a kind of colonization,” the Reverend Davidson Loehr noted. “A simple definition of ‘colonization’ is that it takes people’s stories away, and assigns them supportive roles in stories that empower others at their expense.”[11] The dominionist movement, like all totalitarian movements, seeks to appropriate not only our religious and patriotic language but also our stories, to deny the validity of stories other than their own, to deny that there are other acceptable ways of living and being. There becomes, in their rhetoric, only one way to be a Christian and only one way to be an American.

Dominionism is a theocratic sect with its roots in a radical Calvinism. It looks to the theocracy John Calvin implanted in Geneva, Switzerland, in the 1500s as its political model. It teaches that American Christians have been mandated by God to make America a Christian state. A decades-long refusal by most American fundamentalists to engage in politics at all following the 1925 Scopes trial has been replaced by a call for Christian “dominion” over the nation and eventually over the earth itself. Dominionism preaches that Jesus has called on Christians to build the kingdom of God in the here and now, whereas previously it was thought that we would have to wait for it. America becomes, in this militant biblicism, an agent of God, and all political and intellectual opponents of America’s Christian leaders are viewed, quite simply, as agents of Satan. Under Christian dominion, America will be no longer a sinful and fallen nation but one in which the 10 Commandments form the basis of our legal system, creationism and “Christian values” form the basis of our educational system, and the media and the government proclaim the Good News to one and all. Labor unions, civil-rights laws and public schools will be abolished. Women will be removed from the workforce to stay at home, and all those deemed insufficiently Christian will be denied citizenship. Aside from its proselytizing mandate, the federal government will be reduced to the protection of property rights and “homeland” security. Some dominionists (not all of whom accept the label, at least not publicly) would further require all citizens to pay “tithes” to church organizations empowered by the government to run our social-welfare agencies and all schools. The only legitimate voices in this state will be Christian. All others will be silenced.

The racist and brutal intolerance of the intellectual godfathers of today’s Christian Reconstructionism is a chilling reminder of the movement’s lust for repression. The Institutes of Biblical Law by R. J. Rushdoony, written in 1973, is the most important book for the dominionist movement. Rushdoony calls for a Christian society that is harsh, unforgiving and violent. His work draws heavily on the calls for a repressive theocratic society laid out by Calvin in Institutes of the Christian Religion, first published in 1536 and one of the most important works of the Protestant Reformation. Christians are, Rushdoony argues, the new chosen people of God and are called to do what Adam and Eve failed to do: create a godly, Christian state. The Jews, who neglected to fulfill God’s commands in the Hebrew scriptures, have, in this belief system, forfeited their place as God’s chosen people and have been replaced by Christians. The death penalty is to be imposed not only for offenses such as rape, kidnapping and murder, but also for adultery, blasphemy, homosexuality, astrology, incest, striking a parent, incorrigible juvenile delinquency, and, in the case of women, “un-chastity before marriage.” The world is to be subdued and ruled by a Christian United States. Rushdoony dismissed the widely accepted estimate of 6 million Jews murdered in the Holocaust as an inflated figure, and his theories on race often echo those found in Nazi eugenics, in which there are higher and lower forms of human beings. Those considered by the Christian state to be immoral and incapable of reform are to be exterminated.[12]

Rushdoony was deeply antagonistic toward the federal government. He believed the federal government should concern itself with little more than national defense. Education and social welfare should be handed over to the churches. Biblical law must replace the secular legal code. This ideology, made more palatable for the mainstream by later disciples such as Francis Schaeffer and Pat Robertson, remains at the heart of the movement. Many of its tenets are being enacted through the Office of Faith-Based and Community Initiatives, currently channeling billions in federal funds to groups such as National Right to Life and Pat Robertson’s Operation Blessing, as well as to innumerable Christian charities and organizations that do everything from running drug and pregnancy clinics to promoting sexual abstinence-only programs in schools.[13]

While traditional fundamentalism shares many of the darker traits of the new movement—such as a blind obedience to a male hierarchy that often claims to speak for God, intolerance toward nonbelievers, and disdain for rational, intellectual inquiry—it has never attempted to impose its belief system on the rest of the nation. And it has not tried to transform government, as well as all other secular institutions, into an extension of the church. The new radical fundamentalisms amount to a huge and disastrous mutation. Dominionists and their wealthy, right-wing sponsors speak in terms and phrases that are familiar and comforting to most Americans, but they no longer use words to mean what they meant in the past. They engage in a slow process of “logocide,” the killing of words. The old definitions of words are replaced by new ones. Code words of the old belief system are deconstructed and assigned diametrically opposed meanings. Words such as “truth,” “wisdom,” “death,” “liberty,” “life,” and “love” no longer mean what they mean in the secular world. “Life” and “death” mean life in Christ or death to Christ, and are used to signal belief or unbelief in the risen Lord. “Wisdom” has little to do with human wisdom but refers to the level of commitment and obedience to the system of belief. “Liberty” is not about freedom, but the “liberty” found when one accepts Jesus Christ and is liberated from the world to obey Him. But perhaps the most pernicious distortion comes with the word “love,” the word used to lure into the movement many who seek a warm, loving community to counter their isolation and alienation. “Love” is distorted to mean an unquestioned obedience to those who claim to speak for God in return for the promise of everlasting life. The blind, human love, the acceptance of the other, is attacked as an inferior love, dangerous and untrustworthy.[14]

“The goal must be God’s law-order in which alone is true liberty,” wrote Rushdoony in Institutes of Biblical Law:

Whenever freedom is made into the absolute, the result is not freedom but anarchism. Freedom must be under law or it is not freedom…. Only a law-order which holds to the primacy of God’slaw can bring forth true freedom, freedom for justice, truth, and godly life. Freedom as an absolute is simply an assertion of man’s “right” to be his own god; this means a radical denial of God’s law-order. “Freedom” thus is another name for the claim by man to divinity and autonomy. It means that man becomes his own absolute. The word “freedom” is thus a pretext used by humanists of every variety…to disguise man’s claim to be his own absolute…. If men have unrestricted free speech and free press, then there is no freedom for truth, in that no standard is permitted whereby the promulgation or publication of a lie can be judged and punished.[15]

As the process gains momentum—with some justices on the Supreme Court such as Antonin Scalia steeped in this ideology—America starts to speak a new language. There is a slow and inexorable hijacking of religious and political terminology. Terms such as “liberty” and “freedom” no longer mean what they meant in the past. Those in the movement speak of “liberty,” but they do not speak about the traditional concepts of American liberty—the liberty to express divergent opinions, to respect other ways of believing and being, the liberty of individuals to seek and pursue their own goals and forms of happiness. When used by the Christian Right, the term “liberty” means the liberty that comes with accepting a very narrowly conceived Christ and the binary worldview that acceptance promotes.

America’s Providential History, by Mark A. Beliles and Stephen K. McDowell, published in 1989, is the standard textbook on American history used in many Christian schools. It is also a staple of the home-schooling movement. In this book, authors Beliles and McDowell define the term “liberty” as fealty to “the Spirit of the Lord.” The work of “liberty” is an ongoing process, one mounted by Christians, to free a society from the slavery imposed by “secular humanists.” This process frees, or eradicates, different moral codes and belief systems, to introduce a single, uniform and unquestioned “Christian” orientation. Liberty, in a linguistic twist worthy of George Orwell, means theocratic tyranny:

The Bible reveals that “where the Spirit of the Lord is, there is liberty” (2 Corinthians 3:17)…. When the Spirit of the Lord comes into a nation, that nation is liberated. The degree to which the Spirit of the Lord is infused into a society (through its people, laws and institutions) is the degree to which that society will experience liberty in every realm (civil, religious, economic, etc.).[16]

The Global Recordings Network, a missionary group striving to bring “the Name of Jesus” to “every tribe and tongue and nation,”[17] gives close attention to the meaning of “liberty” in their teachings. A tape of a missionary lesson plays: “I want to make you understand this word ‘liberty.’ It is written in God’s book: ‘Where the Spirit of the Lord is, there is liberty.’ Some say there is not enough liberty in this land, but if that is true, it is because there is not enough of the Spirit of the Lord. What do you think yourselves? Do people do as God commands them? Do they love each other? Do they help each other? Do they speak the truth? Do they flee from fornication and adultery? You know there are those who steal, who lie, who kill, and who worship things that are not God. These things are not of the Spirit of God, but of the spirit of Satan. Then how can there be true liberty?”[18]

The “infusion” of “the Spirit of the Lord” into society includes its infusion into society’s legal system. Liberty is defined as the extent to which America obeys Christian law. When America is a Christian nation, liberty becomes, in this view, liberation from Satan. This slow, gradual and often imperceptible strangulation of thought—the corruption of democratic concepts and ideas—infects the society until the new, totalitarian vision is articulated by the old vocabulary. This cannibalization of language occurs subtly and stealthily. The ghoulish process leaves those leading the movement mouthing platitudes little different from the bromides spoken by those who sincerely champion the open, democratic state.

These tactics, familiar and effective, have often been used by movements that assault democracies. This seemingly innocent hijacking of language mollifies opponents, the mainstream and supporters within the movement who fail to grasp the radical agenda. It gives believers a sense of continuity and tradition. Radical logocides paint themselves as the defenders of an idealized and more virtuous past. Most revolutionary movements, from those in Latin America to those shaped by Islamic militancy in the Middle East, root their radical ideas in what they claim are older, purer traditions.

While the radical Christian movement’s leaders pay lip service to traditional justice, they call among their own for a legal system that promotes what they define as “Christian principles.” The movement thus is able to preserve the appearance of law and respect for democracy even as its leaders condemn all opponents—dismissed as “atheists,” “nonbelievers” or “secular humanists”—to moral and legal oblivion. Justice, under this process of logocide, is perverted to carry out injustice and becomes a mirage of law and order. The moral calculus no longer revolves around the concept of universal human rights; now its center is the well-being, protection and promotion of “Bible-believing Christians.” Logocide slowly and stealthily removes whole segments of society from the moral map. As Joseph Goebbels wrote: “The best propaganda is that which, as it were, works invisibly, penetrates the whole of life without the public having any knowledge of the propagandistic initiative.”[19]

Victor Klemperer, who was dismissed from his post as a professor of Romance languages at the University of Dresden in 1935 because of his Jewish ancestry, wrote what may have been the first literary critique of National Socialism. He noted that the Nazis also “changed the values, the frequency of words, [and] made them into common property, words that had previously been used by individuals or tiny troupes. They confiscated words for the party, saturated words and phrases and sentence forms with their poison. They made language serve their terrible system. They conquered words and made them into their strongest advertising tools [Werebemittel], at once the most public and the most secret.”[20]

And while all this took place, he points out, most Germans never noticed.

“The language and symbols of an authentic American fascism would, of course, have little to do with the original European models,” Robert O. Paxton wrote in Anatomy of Fascism:

They would have to be as familiar and reassuring to loyal Americans as the language and symbols of the original fascisms were familiar and reassuring to many Italians and Germans, as Orwell suggested. Hitler and Mussolini, after all, had not tried to seem exotic to their fellow citizens. No swastikas in an American fascism, but Stars and Stripes (or Stars and Bars) and Christian crosses. No fascist salute, but mass recitations of the Pledge of Allegiance. These symbols contain no whiff of fascism in themselves, of course, but an American fascism would transform them into obligatory litmus tests for detecting the internal enemy.[21]

There are at least 70 million evangelicals in the United States—about 25 percent of the population—attending more than 200,000 evangelical churches. Polls indicate that about 40 percent of respondents believe in the Bible as the “actual word of God” and that it is “to be taken literally, word for word.” Applied to the country’s total population, this proportion would place the number of believers at about 100 million. These polls also suggest that about 84 percent of Americans accept that Jesus is the son of God; 80 percent of respondents say that they believe they will stand before God on the Day of Judgment. The same percentage of respondents say God works miracles, and half say they think angels exist. Almost a third of all respondents say they believe in the Rapture.[22]

American fundamentalists and evangelicals, however, are sharply divided between strict fundamentalists—those who refuse to grant legitimacy to alternative views of the Christian tradition—and the many evangelicals who concede that there are other legitimate ways to worship and serve Christ. Evangelicals, while they often embrace fundamentalist doctrine, do not always share the intolerance of the radical fundamentalists. While a majority of Christian Americans embrace a literal interpretation of the Bible, only a tiny minority—among them the Christian dominionists—are comfortable with this darker vision of an intolerant, theocratic America. Unfortunately, it is this minority that is taking over the machinery of U.S. state and religious institutions.

In a 2004 study, the political scientist John Green identifies those he calls “traditional evangelicals.” This group, which Green estimates at 12.6 percent of the population, comes “closest to the ‘religious right’ widely discussed in the media.” It is overwhelmingly Republican; it is openly hostile to democratic pluralism, and it champions totalitarian policies, such as denying homosexuals the same rights as other Americans and amending the Constitution to make America a “Christian nation.” Green’s “traditional evangelicals” can probably be called true dominionists. There are signs that this militant core may be smaller than even Green suggests, dipping to around 7 percent of the population in other polls, such as those conducted by George Barna.[23] But the potency of this radical movement far exceeds its numbers. Radical social movements, as Crane Brinton wrote in The Anatomy of Revolution, are almost always tiny, although they use the tools of modern propaganda to create the illusion of a mass following. As Brinton noted, “the impressive demonstrations the camera has recorded in Germany, Italy, Russia and China ought not to deceive the careful student of politics. Neither Communist, Nazi, nor Fascist victory over the moderates was achieved by the participation of the many; all were achieved by small, disciplined, principled, fanatical bodies.”[24] These radicals, Brinton went on, “combine, in varying degrees, very high ideals and a complete contempt for the inhibitions and principles which serve most other men as ideals.” They are, he said, “practical men unfettered by common sense, Machiavellians in the service of the Beautiful and the Good.”[25] And once they are in power, “there is no more finicky regard for the liberties of the individual or for the forms of legality. The extremists, after clamoring for liberty and toleration while they were in opposition, turn very authoritarian when they reach power.”[26]

Traditional evangelicals, those who come out of Billy Graham’s mold, are not necessarily comfortable with the direction taken by the dominionists. And the multitude of churches, denominations and groups that do lend their support in varying degrees to this new movement are diverse and often antagonistic. While right-wing Catholics have joined forces with the movement, many of the movement’s Protestant leaders, including D. James Kennedy, disdainfully label the Catholic Church a “cult.”[27] These variances are held in check by the shared drive for political control, but the disputes simmer beneath the surface, threatening to tear apart the fragile coalitions. And those few evangelicals who challenge the dominionist drive for power are ruthlessly thrust aside, as the purges of the old guard within the Southern Baptist Convention three decades ago illustrate.

It is difficult to write in broad sweeps about this mass movement and detail these conflicts, since there are innumerable differences not only among groups but among believers. In the megachurches, there are worshippers and preachers who focus exclusively on the gospel of prosperity—centered on the belief that God wants Christians to be rich and successful—and who have little interest in politics. There are strict fundamentalists who view charismatics—those who speak in tongues—as Satan worshippers. There are small clusters of left-wing evangelicals, such as Jim Wallis’s Sojourner movement and Ron Sider’s Evangelicals for Social Action, who believe the Bible to be the literal word of God but embrace social activism and left-wing politics. There are evangelicals who focus more on what they can do in their communities as Christians than on what God’s army can do to change the course of American history. And there are old-style evangelists, such as Luis Palau, who still tell Christians to keep their hands clean of politics, get right with Jesus and focus on spiritual and moral renewal.

But within this mass of divergent, fractious and varied groups is this core group of powerful Christian dominionists who have latched on to the despair, isolation, disconnectedness and fear that drives many people into these churches. Christian dominionist leaders have harnessed these discontents to further a frightening political agenda. If they do not have the active support of all in the evangelical churches, they often have their sympathy. They can count on the passive support of huge numbers of Christians, even if many of these Christians may not fully share dominionism’s fierce utopian vision, fanaticism or ruthlessness. The appeal of the movement lies in the high ideals its radicals preach, the promise of a moral, Christian nation, the promise of a renewal. Its darker aims—seen in calls for widespread repression of nonbelievers; frequent use of the death penalty; illegalization of abortion, even in case of rape and incest; and the dismantling of public education—will, if achieved, alienate many who support them. But this combination of a disciplined, well-financed radical core and tens of millions of Americans who, discontent and anxious, yearn for a vague, revitalized “Christian nation,” is a potent new force in American politics. Dominionists wait only for a fiscal, social or political crisis, a moment of upheaval in the form of an economic meltdown or another terrorist strike on American soil, to move to reconfigure the political system. Such a crisis could unleash a public clamor for drastic new national security measures and draconian reforms to safeguard the nation. Widespread discontent and fear, stoked and manipulated by dominionists and their sympathizers, could be used by these radicals to sweep aside the objections of beleaguered moderates in Congress and the courts, those clinging to a bankrupt and discredited liberalism, to establish an American theocracy, a Christian fascism.

The movement has sanctified a ruthless unfettered capitalism. In an essay in Harper’s magazine titled “The Spirit of Disobedience: An Invitation to Resistance,” Curtis White argued that “it is capitalism that now most defines our national character, not Christianity or the Enlightenment.” Although the values of capitalism are antithetical to Christ’s vision and the Enlightenment ethic of Kant, the gospel of prosperity—which preaches that Jesus wants us all to be rich and powerful and the government to get out of the way—has formulated a belief system that delights corporate America. Corporations such as Tyson Foods—which has placed 128 part-time chaplains, nearly all evangelicals or fundamentalists, in 78 plants across the country—along with Purdue, Wal-Mart, and Sam’s Wholesale, to name a few, are huge financial backers of the movement.

White concludes that “ours is a culture in which death has taken refuge in a legality that is supported by both reasonable liberals and Christian conservatives.” This “legality” makes the systematic exploitation of human workers—paying less than living wages, while failing to provide adequate health care and retirement plans—simply a “part of our heritage of freedom.” White goes on to excoriate our nationalist triumphalism and our unleashing of “the most fantastically destructive military power” the world has ever known in the course of “protecting and pursuing freedom.” Among the resultant diseases of culture, he lists the “grotesque violence of video games and Hollywood movies,” the “legality of abortions [which] at times covers over an attitude toward human life that subjects life to the low logic of efficiency and convenience,” meaningless work, mindless consumerism, a distorted sense of time, housing developments where houses are “coffins” and neighborhoods are “shared cemeteries” and, “perhaps most destructively, the legality of property rights [which] condemns nature itself to annihilation even as we call it the freedom to pursue personal property.”[28]

The power brokers in the radical Christian Right have already moved from the fringes of society to the executive branch, the House of Representatives, the Senate and the courts. The movement has seized control of the Republican Party. Christian fundamentalists now hold a majority of seats in 36 percent of all Republican Party state committees, or 18 of 50 states, along with large minorities in the remaining states. Forty-five senators and 186 members of the House of Representatives earned approval ratings of 80 to 100 percent from the three most influential Christian Right advocacy groups: the Christian Coalition, Eagle Forum, and Family Resource Council.[29] Tom Coburn, elected in 2004 as senator from Oklahoma, called for a ban on abortion in his campaign, going so far as to call for the death penalty for doctors who carry out abortions once the ban went into place. Senator John Thune is a creationist. Jim DeMint, senator from South Carolina, wants to ban single mothers from teaching in schools.[30] The 2004 Election Day exit polls found that 23 percent of voters identified themselves as evangelical Christians; Bush won 78 percent of their vote. A plurality of voters said that the most important issue in the campaign had been “moral values.”[31]

The Bush administration has steadily diverted billions of dollars of taxpayer money from secular and governmental social-service organizations to faith-based organizations, bankrolling churches and organizations that seek to dismantle American democracy and create a theocratic state.[32] The role of education and social-welfare agencies is being supplanted by these churches, nearly all of them evangelical, and the wall between church and state is being disassembled. These groups can and usually do discriminate by refusing to hire gays and lesbians, people of other faiths and those who do not embrace their strict version of Christianity. Christian clinics that treat addictions or do pregnancy counseling (usually with the aim of preventing abortion) do not have to hire trained counselors or therapists. The only requirement of a new hire is usually that he or she be a “Bible-believing Christian.” In fiscal year 2003, faith-based organizations received 8.1 percent of the competitive social-service grant budget.[33] In fiscal year 2004, faith-based organizations received $2.005 billion in funding—10.3 percent of federal competitive service grants.[34], [35] The federal government awarded more than $2.15 billion in competitive social-service grants to faith-based organizations in fiscal year 2005, 11 percent of all federal competitive service grants.[36] Faith-based organizations are consistently winning a larger portion of federal social-service funding, a trend that has tremendous social and political consequences if it continues. The Bush administration has spent more than $1 billion on chastity programs alone. Thirty percent of American schools with sex-education programs teach abstinence only. Not only is there little accountability, not only are these organizations allowed to practice discriminatory hiring practices, but also, as research shows, while abstinence-only programs can sometimes get teenagers to delay sex, they also leave young men and women unprepared for sexual relations, resulting in higher rates of teenage pregnancy and sexually transmitted diseases.

It is perhaps telling that our closest allies in the United Nations on issues dealing with reproductive rights, one of the few issues where we cooperate with other nations, are Islamic states such as Iran. But then the Christian Right and radical Islamists, although locked in a holy war, increasingly mirror each other. They share the same obsessions. They do not tolerate other forms of belief or disbelief. They are at war with artistic and cultural expression. They seek to silence the media. They call for the subjugation of women. They promote severe sexual repression, and they seek to express themselves through violence.

Members of the Christian Right who have been elected to powerful political offices have worked in several instances to exclude opponents and manipulate vote counts. The current Republican candidate for governor of Ohio, Kenneth Blackwell, a stalwart of the Christian Right, was the secretary of state for Ohio as well as the co-chair of the state’s Committee to Re-Elect George Bush during the last presidential election. Blackwell, as secretary of state, oversaw the administering of the 2004 presidential elections in Ohio. He handled all complaints of irregularities. He attempted to get the state to hand over all election polling to Diebold Election Systems, a subsidiary of Diebold Incorporated, a firm that makes electronic voting machines and has close ties with the Bush administration. By the time of the elections he had managed to ensure that Diebold ran the machines in 35 counties. In an August 14, 2003, fund-raising letter, Walden O’Dell, CEO of Diebold, told Republicans that he was “committed to helping Ohio deliver its electoral votes to the president next year.”[37] O’Dell and other Diebold executives and board members are supporters of and donors to the Republican Party.[38]

Blackwell, an African American, oversaw a voting system in which African Americans, who vote primarily Democratic in national elections, found polling stations in their districts, especially in heavily Democratic areas such as Cleveland, grossly under-staffed. There were in these polling stations long lines with delays that sometimes lasted as long as 10 hours, sending many potential voters home in frustration. Aggressive poll monitors questioned and often disqualified new voters because of what the monitors claimed was improper registration. Blackwell banned photographers and reporters from polling places, making irregularities and harassment harder to document. The Diebold machines recorded record high turnouts—124 percent in one of the precincts—where Bush won overwhelming victories and low voter turnout in districts that went for Democratic Senator John Kerry.[39] Kerry campaign workers reported numerous irregularities, including the discovery of a machine that diverted votes from Kerry to Bush. Ray Beckerman, part of the Kerry campaign, said that he found that touch-screen voting machines in Youngstown were registering “George W. Bush” when people pressed “John F. Kerry” during the entire day. Although he reported the glitch shortly after the polls opened, it was not fixed. All reports of irregularities, including complaints about precincts where votes were counted without the presence of election monitors, passed through Blackwell’s office.[40] Nothing was ever done. Indeed, Blackwell went on after the elections to issue to county boards of elections a demand that voter registration forms be printed on “white, uncoated paper of not less than 80-pound text weight,” a heavy card-like stock. This allowed his office to disqualify registrations because the paper was not thick enough.[41] The ruling has, his critics say, jeopardized the right of tens of thousands of would-be voters to participate in the next elections. As the Christian Right gains control of state offices throughout the country, it is being tarred by opponents with similar accusations.

Followers in the movement are locked within closed systems of information and indoctrination that cater to their hates and prejudices. Tens of millions of Americans rely exclusively on Christian broadcasters for their news, health, entertainment and devotional programs. These followers have been organized into disciplined and powerful voting blocs. They attend churches that during election time are little more than local headquarters for the Republican Party and during the rest of the year demand nearly all of their social, religious and recreational time. These believers are encased in a hermetic world. There is no questioning or dissent. There are anywhere from 1.1 million to 2.1 million children, nearly all evangelicals, now being home-schooled.[42] These children are not challenged with ideas or research that conflict with their biblical worldview. Evolution is not taught. God created the world in six days. America, they are told, was founded as a Christian nation and secular humanists are working to destroy the Christian nation. These young men and women are often funneled into Christian colleges and universities, such as Jerry Falwell’s Liberty University, Pat Robertson’s Regent University, and a host of other schools such as Patrick Henry University. They are taught, in short, to obey. They are discouraged from critical analysis, questioning and independent thought. And they believe, by the time they are done, a host of myths designed to destroy the open, pluralist society.

Most of America’s fundamentalist and evangelical churches are led by pastors who embrace this non-reality-based belief system, one that embraces magic, the fiction of a “Christian nation” in need of revitalization, and dark, terrifying apocalyptic visions. They preach about the coming world war, drawing their visions from the Book of Daniel and the Book of Revelation. They preach that at the end of history Christians will dominate the earth and that all nonbelievers, including those who are not sufficiently Christian, will be cast into torment and outer darkness. They call for the destruction of whole cultures, nations and religions, those they have defined as the enemies of God.

As American history and the fundamentalist movement itself have changed, so have the objects of fundamentalist hatred. Believers were told a few decades ago that communists were behind the civil-rights movement, the antiwar movement and liberal groups such as the ACLU. They were racist and intolerant of African Americans, Jews and Catholics. Now the battle against communism has been reconfigured. The seat of Satan is no longer in the Kremlin. It has been assumed by individuals and institutions promoting a rival religion called “secular humanism.” The obsession with the evils of secular humanism would be laughable if it were not such an effective scare tactic. The only organized movement of secular humanists who call themselves by that name is the American Humanist Association (AHA), which has about 3,000 members and whose credo was published in the 1933 Humanist Manifesto I and the 1973 Humanist Manifesto II. Its Humanist Magazine has a minuscule circulation. In terms of influence, as Barbara Parker and Christy Macy wrote, “these humanists rank with militant vegetarians and agrarian anarchists, and were about as well known—until the Religious Right set out to make them famous.”[43] But it is not important who is fingered as Satan’s agent, as long as the wild conspiracy theories and paranoia are stoked by an array of duplicitous, phantom enemies that lurk behind the scenes of public school boards or the media. As the movement reaches out to the African American churches and right-wing Catholics, it has exchanged old hatreds for new ones, preferring now to demonize gays, liberals, immigrants, Muslims and others as forces beholden to the Antichrist while painting themselves as the heirs of the civil-rights movement. The movement is fueled by the fear of powerful external and internal enemies whose duplicity and cunning is constantly at work. These phantom enemies serve to keep believers afraid and in a heightened state of alert, ready to support repressive measures against all who do not embrace the movement. But this tactic has required the airbrushing out of past racist creeds—an effort that, sometime after 1970, saw Jerry Falwell recall all copies of his earlier sermons warning against integration and the evils of the black race. The only sermon left in print from the 1960s is called “Ministers and Marchers.” In the sermon Falwell angrily denounces preachers who engage in politics, specifically those who support the civil-rights movement. The effort to erase the past, to distort truth and reinvent himself as a past supporter of civil rights, is a frightening example of how, if a lie is broadcast long enough and loud enough, it becomes true. Distortions and lies permeate the movement, which fends off criticism by encasing its followers in closed information systems and wrapping itself in Christian vestments and the American flag.

The movement is marked not only by its obsessions with conspiracy theories, magic, sexual repression, paranoia and death, but also by its infatuation with apocalyptic violence and military force. On its outer fringes are collections of odd messianic warriors, those ready to fight and die for Christ. These include American Veterans in Domestic Defense, a Texas group that transported former Alabama Supreme Court justice Roy Moore’s 2.6-ton 10 Commandment monument by truck around the country. Moore, who graduated from the U.S. military academy at West Point, lost his job as chief justice of the Alabama Supreme Court after he defied a judge’s order to remove his monument from the Montgomery judicial building. He and his monument instantly became celebrities for those preaching that Christians were under siege, that there was an organized effort to persecute all who upheld God’s law. These carefully cultivated feelings of persecution foster a permanent state of crisis, a deep paranoia and fear, and they make it easier to call for violence—always, of course, as a form of self-defense. It turns all outside the movement into enemies: even those who appear benign, the believer is warned, seek to destroy Christians. There are an array of obscure, shadowy paramilitary groups, such as Christian Identity, the members of which, emboldened by the rhetoric of the movement, believe they will one day fight a religious war. Military leaders who stoke this belief in a holy war are lionized. After leading American troops into battle against a Somalian warlord, General William Boykin announced: “I knew my God was bigger than his. I knew that my God was a real God and his God was an idol.” General Boykin belongs to a small group called the Faith Force Multiplier, whose members apply military principles to evangelism in a manifesto summoning warriors “to the spiritual warfare for souls.” Boykin, rather than being reprimanded for his inflammatory rhetoric, was promoted to the position of deputy undersecretary of defense for intelligence. He believes America is engaged in a holy war as a “Christian nation” battling Satan and that America’s Muslim adversaries will be defeated “only if we come against them in the name of Jesus.”[44]

These visions of a holy war at once terrify and delight followers. Such visions peddle a bizarre spiritual Darwinism. True Christians will rise to heaven and be saved, and all lesser faiths and nonbelievers will be viciously destroyed by an angry God in an orgy of horrific, apocalyptic violence. The yearning for this final battle runs through the movement like an electric current. Christian Right firebrands employ the language of war, speak in the metaphors of battle, and paint graphic and chilling scenes of the violence and mayhem that will envelop the earth. War is the final aesthetic of the movement.

“Now, this revolution is not for the temperate,” the Ohio pastor Rod Parsley shouted out to a crowd when I heard him speak in Washington in March of 2006. “This revolution—that’s what it is—is not for the timid and the weak, but for the brave and strong, who step over the line out of their comfort zone and truly decide to become disciples of Christ. I’m talking about red-blooded men and women who don’t have to be right, recognized, rewarded or regarded…. So my admonishment to you this morning is this. Sound the alarm. A spiritual invasion is taking place. The secular media never likes it when I say this, so let me say it twice,” he says to laughter. “Man your battle stations! Ready your weapons! They say this rhetoric is so inciting. I came to incite a riot. I came to effect a divine disturbance in the heart and soul of the church. Man your battle stations. Ready your weapons. Lock and load!”

BattleCry, a Christian fundamentalist youth movement that has attracted as many as 25,000 people to Christian rock concerts in San Francisco, Philadelphia and Detroit, uses elaborate light shows, Hummers, ranks of Navy SEALs and the imagery and rhetoric of battle to pound home its message. Ron Luce, who runs it, exhorts the young Christians to defeat the secular forces around them. “This is war,” he has said. “And Jesus invites us to get into the action, telling us that the violent—the ‘forceful’ ones—will lay hold of the kingdom.” The rock band Delirious, which played in the Philadelphia gathering, pounded out a song with the words: “We’re an army of God and we’re ready to die…. Let’s paint this big ol’ town red…. We see nothing but the blood of Jesus….” The lyrics were projected on large screens so some 17,000 participants could sing along. The crowd in the Wachovia sports stadium shouted in unison: “We are warriors!”[45]

The use of elaborate spectacle to channel and shape the passions of mass followers is a staple of totalitarian movements. It gives to young adherents the raw material for their interior lives, for love and hate, joy and sorrow, excitement and belonging. It imparts the illusion of personal empowerment. It creates comradeship and solidarity, possible only as long as those within the movement do not defy the collective emotions of the crowd and willingly devote themselves to the communal objective, in this case creating a Christian America and defeating those who stand in the way. It gives meaning and purpose to life, turning a mundane existence into an epic battle against forces of darkness, forces out to crush all that is good and pure in America. And it is very hard for the voices of moderation to compete, for these spectacles work to shut down individual conscience and reflection. They give to adherents a permissiveness, a rhetorical license to engage in acts of violence that are normally taboo in a democratic society. It becomes permissible to hate. The crowds are wrapped in the seductive language of violence, which soon enough leads to acts of real violence.

Apocalyptic visions inspire genocidal killers who glorify violence as the mechanism that will lead to the end of history. Such visions nourished the butchers who led the Inquisition and the Crusades, as well as the conquistadores who swept through the Americas hastily converting en masse native populations and then exterminating them. The Puritans, who hoped to create a theocratic state, believed that Satan ruled the wilderness surrounding their settlements. They believed that God had called them to cast Satan out of this wilderness to create a promised land. That divine command sanctioned the removal or slaughter of Native Americans. This hubris fed the deadly doctrine of Manifest Destiny. Similar apocalyptic visions of a world cleansed through violence and extermination nourished the Nazis, the Stalinists who consigned tens of thousands of Ukrainians to starvation and death, the torturers in the clandestine prisons in Argentina during the Dirty War, and the Serbian thugs with heavy machine guns and wraparound sunglasses who stood over the bodies of Muslims they had slain in the smoking ruins of Bosnian villages.

The ecstatic belief in the cleansing power of apocalyptic violence does not recognize the right of the victims to self-preservation or self-defense. It does not admit them into a moral universe where they have a criminal’s right to be punished and rehabilitated. They are seen instead through this poisonous lens as pollutants, viruses, mutations that must be eradicated to halt further infection and degeneration within society and usher in utopia. This sacred violence—whether it arises from the Bible, Serbian nationalism, the dream of a classless society, or the goal of a world where all “subhumans” are eradicated—allows its perpetrators and henchmen to avoid moral responsibility for their crimes. The brutality they carry out is sanctified, an expression of not human volition but divine wrath. The victims, in a final irony, are considered responsible for their suffering and destruction. They are to blame because, in the eyes of the dominionists, they have defied God.

Those who promise to cleanse the world through sacred violence, to relieve anxiety over moral pollution by building mounds of corpses, always appeal to our noblest sentiments, our highest virtues, our capacity for self-sacrifice and our utopian visions of a purified life. It is this coupling of fantastic hope and profound despair—dreams of peace and light and reigns of terror, self-sacrifice and mass murder—that frees the consciences of those who call for and carry out the eradication of fellow human beings in the name of God.

Societies that embrace apocalyptic visions and seek through sacred violence to implement them commit collective suicide. When Jerry Falwell and Pat Robertson, as they do, sanction preemptive nuclear strikes against those they condemn as the enemies of God, they fuel the passions of terrorists driven by the same vision of a world cleansed and purified through apocalyptic violence. They lead us closer and closer toward our own annihilation, in the delusion that once the dogs of war, even nuclear war, are unleashed, God will protect Christians; that hundreds of millions will die, but because Christians have been blessed they alone will rise in triumph from the ash heap. Those who seek to do us harm will soon have in their hands cruder versions of the apocalyptic weapons we possess: dirty bombs and chemical or biological agents. Those who fervently wish for, indeed, seek to hasten the apocalypse and the end of time, who believe they will be lifted up into the sky by a returning Jesus, force us all to kneel before the god of death.

If this mass movement succeeds, it will do so not simply because of its ruthlessness and mendacity, its callous manipulation of the people it lures into its arms, many of whom live on the margins of American society. It will succeed because of the moral failure of those, including Christians, who understand the intent of the radicals yet fail to confront them, those who treat this mass movement as if it were another legitimate player in an open society. The leading American institutions tasked with defending tolerance and liberty—from the mainstream churches to the great research universities, to the Democratic Party and the media—have failed the country. This is the awful paradox of tolerance. There arise moments when those who would destroy the tolerance that makes an open society possible should no longer be tolerated. They must be held accountable by institutions that maintain the free exchange of ideas and liberty. The radical Christian Right must be forced to include other points of view to counter their hate talk in their own broadcasts, watched by tens of millions of Americans. They must be denied the right to demonize whole segments of American society, saying they are manipulated by Satan and worthy only of conversion or eradication. They must be made to treat their opponents with respect and acknowledge the right of a fair hearing even as they exercise their own freedom to disagree with their opponents. Passivity in the face of the rise of the Christian Right threatens the democratic state. And the movement has targeted the last remaining obstacles to its systems of indoctrination, mounting a fierce campaign to defeat hate-crime legislation, fearing the courts could apply it to them as they spew hate talk over the radio, television and Internet. Despotic movements harness the power of modern communications to keep their followers locked in closed systems. If this long, steady poisoning of civil discourse within these closed information systems is not challenged, if this movement continues to teach neighbor to hate neighbor, if its followers remain convinced that cataclysmic violence offers a solution to their own ills and the ills of the world, civil society in America will collapse.

“Hope has two beautiful daughters,” Augustine wrote. “Their names are anger and courage; anger at the way things are, and courage to see that they do not remain the way they are.”[46]

Anger, when directed against movements that would abuse the weak, preach bigotry and injustice, trample the poor, crush dissent and impose a religious tyranny, is a blessing. Read the biblical prophets in First and Second Isaiah, Jeremiah, Micah and Amos. Liberal institutions, seeing tolerance as the highest virtue, tolerate the intolerant. They swallow the hate talk that calls for the destruction of nonbelievers. Mainstream believers have often come to the comfortable conclusion that any form of announced religiosity is acceptable, that heretics do not exist.

The mainstream churches stumble along, congregations often mumbling creeds they no longer believe, trying to peddle a fuzzy, feel-good theology that can distort and ignore the darker visions in the Bible as egregiously as the Christian Right does. The Christian Right understands the ills of American society even as it exploits these ills to plunge us into tyranny. Its leaders grasp the endemic hollowness, timidity and hypocrisy of the liberal churches. The Christian Right attacks “cultural relativism,” the creed that there is no absolute good and that all value systems have equal merit—even as it benefits, in a final irony, from the passivity of people who tolerate it in the name of cultural relativism.

The most potent opposition to the movement may come from within the evangelical tradition. The radical fundamentalist movement must fear these Christians, who have remained loyal to the core values of the Gospel, who delineate between right and wrong, who are willing to be vilified and attacked in the name of a higher good and who have the courage to fight back. Most liberals, the movement has figured out, will stand complacently to be sheared like sheep, attempting to open dialogues and reaching out to those who spit venom in their faces.

Radical Christian dominionists have no religious legitimacy. They are manipulating Christianity, and millions of sincere believers, to build a frightening political mass movement with many similarities with other mass movements, from fascism to communism to the ethnic nationalist parties in the former Yugoslavia. It shares with these movements an inability to cope with ambiguity, doubt and uncertainty. It creates its own “truth.” It embraces a world of miracles and signs and removes followers from a rational, reality-based world. It condemns self-criticism and debate as apostasy. It places a premium on action and finds its final aesthetic in war and apocalyptic violence.

The pain, the dislocation, alienation, suffering and despair that led millions of Americans into the movement are real. Many Americans are striking back at a culture they blame for the debacle of their lives. The democratic traditions and the values of the Enlightenment, they believe, have betrayed them. They speak of numbness, an inability to feel pain or joy or love, a vast emptiness, a frightening loneliness and loss of control. The rational, liberal world of personal freedoms and choice lured many of these people into one snake pit after another. And liberal democratic society, for most, stood by passively as their communities, families and lives splintered and self-destructed.

These believers have abandoned, in this despair, their trust and belief in the world of science, law and rationality. They eschew personal choice and freedom. They have replaced the world that has failed them with a new, glorious world filled with prophets and mystical signs. They believe in a creator who performs miracles for them, speaks directly to them and guides their lives, as well as the destiny of America. They are utopians who have found rigid, clearly defined moral edicts, rights and wrongs, to guide them in life and in politics. And they are terrified of losing this new, mystical world of signs, wonders and moral certitude, of returning to the old world of despair. They see criticism of their belief system, whether from scientists or judges, as vicious attempts by Satan to lure them back into the morass. The split in America, rather than simply economic, is between those who embrace reason, who function in the real world of cause and effect, and those who, numbed by isolation and despair, now seek meaning in a mythical world of intuition, a world that is no longer reality-based, a world of magic.

Those in the movement now fight, fueled by the rage of the dispossessed, to crush and silence the reality-based world. The dominionist movement is the response of people trapped in a deformed, fragmented and disoriented culture that has become callous and unforgiving, a culture that has too often failed to provide the belonging, care and purpose that make life bearable, a culture that, as many in the movement like to say, has become “a culture of death.” The new utopians are not always wrong in their critique of American society. But what they have set out to create is far, far worse than what we endure. What is happening in America is revolutionary. A group of religious utopians, with the sympathy and support of tens of millions of Americans, are slowly dismantling democratic institutions to establish a religious tyranny, the springboard to an American fascism.

[definitively-different-drivel]

WIP Wednesday game

Yo! I was tagged by @whimsicalmeerkat and @dear-massacre I'd tag folks but I suspect they've all been tagged already. It's also a bit late, so I'll just get on with it. Here's a bit of my latest brain worm that I put some words in on this week. Fair warning, it's full rough draft, no real editing done. Premise is that Stiles finds himself slipping into alternate realities and quickly realizes something's gone terribly wrong with his magic. Anyway, here's some of what I have so far on Falling out of Rhythm:

It started out innocuously enough.

Stiles had a dream. Any other dream and he'd be concerned at just how real it felt, but this?

He sat up in a warm, dark room, scattered with pictures of Derek and Stiles, of pack both known and lost and living. A warm, gravely voice spoke from the bed as Stiles' hand rested on the doorknob. "Stiles?"

"Derek?"

He heard Derek roll towards the door. "You'll wake the family. Come back."

Stiles chewed his lip. "But-"

"You really want to face my mom?"

Stiles hesitated; he shook his head. Everything felt fuzzy, muted. He could hear Derek shift, waking in his concern. "Sorry, had a weird dream."

It wasn't a lie. This was definitely a weird dream, but he didn't want it to end, not with Derek's arms wrapped around him beneath ungodly soft blankets as the crescent moon peeked over the horizon, casting eerie tones across the sleep-rumpled bedding.

He couldn't help it. Sleep took him, depositing him back in his own bed with Stiles none the wiser.

It went on like that for a while. Stiles came to enjoy the prospect of sleep. It didn't get too awkward even though you'd think it would, catching dream-glimpses of lives that weren't his own, but Derek was always there.

Things weren't perfect in all of them. They weren't perfect in most of them. Plenty of the strangely vivid dreams showed evidence of tragic pasts, like the dreams that saw them sitting on the steps of the Hale mansion, silently sitting before the wreckage of Derek's family.

Others, though, saw glimpses he grew to love.

His favorite glimpses were those with his mom, as much as it hurt. She seemed so vibrant and alive, so thoroughly her that he couldn't help blending into the play, pretending the dream were true.

He really should have known better.

Light streamed through the windows as his dad sat at the table, sipping coffee as he surveyed files from the station. Stiles set a pate at his elbow, earning a look from his dad.

"Eggwhites, Stiles, really?" "No heart attacks on my watch, old man." He settled into his seat. He almost missed the covert fork that snatched a bit of Stiles' double-yolked monstrosity. "Hey!"

They fell into easy bickering as Stiles sought for supremacy in a mock-battle over delicious, terrible yolky forbiddenness.

One moment, he was denying his dad artery-clogging danger, the next, he was perched atop a picnic table overlooking the most spectacular view of his life. Fading rays of light painted the sunset brilliant shades of purple and blue as they reflected off endless waves.

It took his breath away.

He found himself leaning against a warm, strong frame; fingers traced through his hair. He closed his eyes, resisting the urge to count fingers. His heart ticked up; he rationalized. This had to be a dream. Maybe he'd developed narcolepsy? He didn't want to go, didn't want to acknowledge that this wasn't-

The fingers stopped. Derek made a noise of concern.

"I'm alright." He wasn't. Derek tensed. He corrected himself, "Or, I will be."

"You sure?"

Stiles leaned into the touch. It occurred to him, in a vague sort of way, that he should be freaking out, but everything felt so fucking right. He sat there, curled against Derek until he flicked back into his own reality.

It was the most natural thing in the world.

The sunset blinked out; he was staring down through misty eyes at a photo album as his dad fretted.

"Stiles?" His mouth went dry. "I think I need to talk to Deaton."

[perhaps-in-anotherdream]

Hello!!! I hope you're well. I want to ask you if I'm the only one who thinks that Víctor wasn't his mom's priority... I don't want to upset anyone, but I feel like his mom abandoned him a bit when she went to Paris, and she didn't care much about what will happen with little Vic, as at one point we are even told "Although I don't understand why Mommy had to go so far to work as a teacher, she had been visibly grumpy for a while (...) But luckily, ever since she went to France, I've seen smiles on her face again." I feel like the lady prioritizes herself, and she won't care how much Victor needed her. Sorry for such a long comment LOL. And again, I know many revere the lady, and I don't want to offend anyone, I just want to know if anyone else saw this.

hello! I’ve been doing much better lately, thank you! hope you’re doing well too~ ಡ⁠ ͜⁠ ಡ

there’s no need to walk on eggshells, haha. and to be very honest with you, no you’re not the only one. i’ve had similar conversations with other players both on global and CN before (even had one yesterday with @/thedummysdummy after seeing your ask), and have read the CN players’ different analyses on it before too.

if you want my personal take on the matter, it’s one of those moments as the omniscient audience, y'know? and precisely because we’re shown the entire picture, it becomes harder to decide whether you want to be rational about it or be driven by human emotions. but one thing I would say first, regardless of what went down, it’s a wonder that he was so mature beyond his years since childhood and grew up to be the wonderful man he is today, given that when you really think about it just how easily he could’ve grown up with traumas/ or some form of abandonment issues considering his childhood experiences and how deeply sentimental he is. to borrow MC’s words, the grand miracle indeed.

—

✦ regarding Victor’s mom and her moving to Paris permanently:

from Victor’s contents throughout the years, we know that Victor’s mom and dad would talk on the phone for hours on end (3rd birthday story), his dad would still call his mom’s number after she had passed away (4th birthday story, and just like how Victor used to as we found out in the Rooftop Date story), he would send her gifts and stuffs when little Victor went to visit his mom (Sea-circle event story) etc., indicating they had a good relationship. Victor’s mom had her ring on in his 3rd birthday card, which meant they were still together. And despite all this, you can feel that cord of dissonance between them— we never got any mentions of Victor’s dad visiting her, and Victor’s mom moving away from her beloved and child permanently like that really doesn’t sing harmony either. but then again, we can’t make any assumptions given that we don’t know what really went down between them.

another point to note, Victor had spent a good share of his early childhood in Èze, France at his maternal grandparents’ (S1 CH 37 R&S, Passing the Winter ASMR). Later on, his mom permanently moved to France when he was 7 years old (or rather moved back), and even her cemetery is in France. This makes you wonder if she never got over her homesickness/ adapted to this country? What exactly was her illness, especially since there’s no details on that end?

again, his mother loved him, like you expect a mother to love their kids, undoubtedly. But it’s the harsh reality when you have working parents, who also happen to have their own ambitions to chase after.

—

✦ and that brings us to how this affected little Victor:

y'know his maturity beyond his years is both a blessing and a curse. I can vouch for that from my personal experiences too, haha :> anyway,

« it’s a curse, because » when I was going through the sea-circle event you quoted from, all I could think about was just how deep his selflessness is rooted in. he was a 7 year old for god’s sake— but all he wanted was for his parents to be happy, no matter how much it pained him. and you know what happens as a result? people take you for granted. his parents loved him dearly, yes, but they were absent for most of his life.

he mastered the French cuisine when he was only 11-12 years old (S2 30-33 R&S), because his mom was already settled in Paris and his dad could never be home. he never told anyone about his Evol, never told anyone about the orphanage kidnapping incident and losing MC in that horrific situation. and he kept searching for her in however ways a little kid could without ever telling anyone, until he grew up and built his piller himself for more effective and thorough approach e.g., appointing a detective etc.

he learned stock market handlings when he was only 14 years old to earn for himself and bear his responsibilities (e.g., paying for Yan Yan and the kid), so that he could grow up fast. because he did not want to be a burden nor did he want to rely on anyone for what he wanted to do (4th birthday story).

human emotions are very fragile and delicate. once smashed, they are nearly impossible to piece together, just like broken shards. tbh, the gradual negligence and feeling of loneliness can leave scars even deeper than a traumatic event. wonder why he built that armor for himself and the writers emphasize how he’d have succumbed to that life of loneliness and solitude had it not been for MC stepping into his barren desert? and not to mention, his Evol itself is the biggest curse on him, paving the road to perpetual loneliness and solitude.

────

« it’s a blessing, because » again, what comes under the light here is just how mature he’s always been. you can see how despite his obvious disappointment, loneliness, pains — he never once let himself “feel”/ ponder the direction that he was being left behind. even when he felt too worn down to bear, he directed his thoughts to his parents’ happiness. and when you think about how throughout the years, we’ve seen him clinging onto every little shard of his mom he could find — you can see the budding of negative impacts were right there on the other side of the threshold, but he never allowed himself to cross that door. *points wildly at Winter World Victor and S2 CH 46 amnesia Victor*

as he grew up, he split his attention to different plates, kept himself busy and occupied to never allow that seed to be sprouted. he let himself be content and never expected anything more (flashbacks to his 5th birthday date).

and you see this coming into the surface in his relationship with MC— how despite his suffocating schedule with all the responsibilities he has— he still manages to rip out even a little bit of time for only MC, his most precious lover, out of his daily schedule and makes the effort to make every moment count, proves to her how he takes each of her words, however big and small, to heart and puts them into action.

ever wonder why “quality time” is one of his primary love languages? there’s your answer on a silver platter. (⁠｡⁠ﾉ⁠ω⁠＼⁠｡⁠)

—

[scuttle-buttle]

In full disclosure, I haven't seen MOTA yet (seeing all of your recent posts is pushing it higher up my list!! Especially since I love BoB so much) - but what are your thoughts/HCs for Crosby and/or Rosie for (and apologies if these are already addressed... otherwise just have fun with what you want 😊):

Favorite holiday? Any traditions that they particularly enjoy and/or will miss? Would they enjoy or hate each other's traditions?

Who writes the better letters?

Does one enjoy going to the movies more than the other? Would they enjoy the same types of films or debate who's better (Bogart or Grant or other)

Favorite desserts? Once the war is over and rationing ends, will one of them eat their weight in chocolate cake or cherry pie or other?

Take care, Bee!

Holiday:

crosby is a Christmas guy. Grew up in a house in the Midwest who's mom baked cookies and treats especially at Christmas. He loves the lights and the decorations and the excuse to kiss his loves more under the mistletoe.

Rosie likes Purim a lot, the costumes and games and parties. (Take this with a grain of salt because I am not well educated on Jewish holidays, but I know I heard that Purim is one of the more fun holidays)

They enjoy participating in each other's traditions and holidays. I think during the war the whole point of the fight was to prevent evil and promote the ideas behind the beauty of cultures and peoples and traditions.

Letters: I dont think I could really pick one above the other? They are both obviously very talented with their words. Rosie reads like crazy, and Crosby becomes a lit professor or something. Language is important and special for them.

Films:

Oh rosie is a cinephile 110% he will go see every new movie in the theater. In fact it becomes him that other lawyers and employees at his firm go to for movie recommendations. That being said, he prefers comedies to anything else that's too dramatic. Like he will 100% go see a movie he won't enjoy for the sake of not being a quitter and seeing things through. And he can say he's seen everything once.

Crosby will go to the theater if the film sounds good. I take him the type to love all sorts of movies - comedies, romance, drama, historic. He gets teased by his wife and rosie for when he tears up at the sad and romantic parts - but don't worry it's a cute teasing to get him to blush those precious pinks

Films 1.5 - rosie thinks crosby does awful impressions but he humors him because they are in love

Dessert:

Is it too on the nose to say rosie likes cheesecake? 😆 I get the vibe rosie has weird taste in sweets. He will eat the ones he ma makes and say they are wonderful, but I don't think he'd be into sweets in general. I think he would love dark chocolate tho 🤔

Croz loves a warm, gooey butter cake (if you haven't had one you're missing out btw) his mom made it, and taught the Missus how to make it. So the night he shipped out his wife bid him a farewell with the taste of butter cake on her lips. He began to crave it during the war and would brag about "gosh you should taste my wife's butter cake - it would send you straight through the clouds boys". It's definitely croz that eats his weight in stuff. He's working on his dad bod lol

[mirza-majoris]

Chapter 6 : Chocolate and bitter thoughts

–Dad... Is this it ?

Leon frowned a bit turned to look at his son. After Raymond has gone to pick up his mother, they had decided to take something to eat while waiting for the Scottish man to return and the archaeologist decided that it would be fair to let Desmond –the young boy still wanted to be called like this, to him Hershel was now his little brother and he was safe, somewhere out of Targent's reach– choose what he wanted to eat before dinner. The boy had looked around and there was nothing but a little cafe right in front of the park, where Ray had left them. This was a logical and pragmatic choice and, as a matter of fact, the boy was having a very rational mind, seeking pragmatism most of the time, especially not to make his father's life more complicated than it already was. They had sat outside and ordered while waiting for Raymond, and so Desmond had asked for some pancakes and hot chocolate while Leon had only taken a coffee. Black, no sugar. Better to stay awake since he hadn't slept the previous night and almost not the night before either. But he forced himself to smile and keep a rather positive mindset for his son's sake. However, the question got him perplexed.

–What do you mean, my boy ?

Desmond looked down at his chocolate and sighed.

–Are we going to stay here ? I mean... longer ? I... You know, I just wish that we could settle down a bit... maybe a year at least, and do what... what a family do...

Leon's expression grew sadder in the instant and he gulped while trying to restrain a few tears to the corner of his eyes. Of everything, that was what he regretted the most, not being able to protect his family. In fact, he had not been able to do so. And it was because of him, because ofthe Azran– no, because of HIS enthousiasm regarding this ancient civilisation and how much ambition he had put into it, neglecting the danger such a discovery had brought upon him and upon his family. It was HIS fault if these guys showed up one day at his door and tried to have him in a sort of a cult. It was his fault if they had put their threat into act and had taken him and his wife away. Desmond had told him what had happened after this. For two months, both brothers had been living alone in their house while trying to think of a way to stay together but in the end they ended up getting separated and Desmond too was about to get adopted if Leon hadn't come back to pick him up and flee from Targent. And it was all his fault, because if he hadn't tried to escape, Rachel would still be alive at least and Theodore –now Hershel Layton– and Desmond wouldn't have been targeted by a terrorist organisation.

–Dad ?... I-I'm sorry, I didn't mean to make you cry !

The english man jolted and opened wide eyes before getting dragged out of his thoughts, realising that in fact he was indeed crying, just a few tears but crying anyway. Damn, his father would've called him a crybaby for sure, especially now that he was himself a father. But in this instant he couldn't help but to let out a shy sob. He tried to smile and wipped his tears quickly before shaking his hand.

–No, no, it's fine my boy, it's fine ! I... I'm just a bit tired, that's all... But, to answer your question... I truly don't know... this whole story seems kind of crazy and I don't know if Raymond's mother is going to accept such a proposition.

He wasn't the best when it came to catch the hints Desmond was putting into the conversation, usually Rachel was better at this and she always had the good words, the right words, to comfort their children. But he thought that maybe it would be a good idea to dig it up a bit. If Desmond was asking him about settling down, it probably wasn't coming from nowhere.

–You'd like to have friends I guess ?

Desmond shook his head and looked away, a bit embarrassed. He had tried to hint it when he had said his father he would like to have other sources of knowledge but maybe even that was too subtle for him.

–Not really... That would be nice, indeed, but I... I'd like to go back to school, you know... To learn new things and... maybe go to high school later ? I'd like to learn more, to know more, there is so much I'd like to see, so many places I'd like to go, and–

He stopped and looked at his father, almost desperate by his own words. In his mouth, it sounded incredibly pretentious, petty, ungrateful, but he didn't want to live like a runaway for the rest of his life. But then, with all these questions came the means and the way to achieve such schools. Especially financially.

–I-I can work too, to help you with everything, and–

But his father only chuckled a little and messed with his hair before offering him a bright smile.

–These are grown-ups anxious thoughts, my boy. But I'll tell you. If you want to settle down, then I'll do anything so you can settle down. If you want to go to school, then I'll make sure you'll be able to. If you want to study, I'll make sure you can. So don't worry about anything else but what you truly want, and let me worry about these things. Whatever you want, wherever you go, I'll always support you. Always.

This was enough to make the boy cry, and for a moment Leon thought he had said or done something wrong but his son jumped off his chair and then hopped on his knees to hug him tight and let out all this pressure that had been put on his shoulders for months by now.

–––

In the park, near the gate in front of which the cafe was, Ray was sitting with his mother on a bench, looking at the boy and at the English man, puzzled but certain of something : these guys had been on their toes for far too long, they needed a place to land, a place they could rest knowing there was no enemy outside or inside. His mother was knitting something, her work was done mechanically as if she didn't even had to look at it, and she indeed hadn't taken her eyes off these two people.

–So... Ye truly like this sassenach and his beag, don't ye ?

–They are good people. And ye could come more of'en at yer cottage, mà. We would take good care of it. And the boy could be safe too, loek at him.

–Alright then. Let's not wait any longer, the ballach beag is cryin' !

She put her knitting work, whool and needles in her purse and stood up, already coming to see the boys with a very quick pace. Ray smiled and shook his head, almost having troubles to follow her. If anything, she had never been able to resist a child crying, she always wanted to see happy faces and hear laughters instead of sobs and tears.

When Leon saw them approaching, he seemed a bit confused and anxious, not knowing exactly what to do. He couldn't stand to greet her since his boy was still on his laps, and he couldn't even shake her hand or Desmond would've fallen down.

–O-Oh, hum... Good evening madame !

–Oh, call me Maighread an' quit the salutations, sassenach ! So, who may ye be, lads ?

Leon and Desmond looked at each other and opened wide eyes when they heard her accent. Ray chuckled and shrugged while taking a sit.

–Don't act surprised, A know she's got a helluvan accent, A'm just an amateur, pale. Now, mà, let me introduce to ye... hum...

Leon thought it could be a good way to break the ice a bit and to try to apologise for his rudeness regarding how surprised he had been by her speaking manners, and so he made sure to put Desmond down, stood up carefully and gulped before offering Maighread a hand to shake.

–P-Please to meet you madame... My name is Nikolaï, Nikolaï Sycamore, and this is my son, Desmond.

–Greetings madame, it is... it is a pleasure !

Desmond added before smiling a bit, not knowing how to behave either. The old lady smiled like the happiest person in the world and she seemed to love the idea of having her son bringing people home.

–That's so cute, ye truly are a very distinguish li''le boy, right balach beag ?

She then looked up at Leon and chuckled a bit, which was enough for the archaeologist to relax a bit. Maybe he wasn't making such a bad impression after all. The lady was quite common looking, her hair was like Ray's, her hazel eyes were clearer though and she was older, maybe around 60 probably, but her smile would've make her noticeable anywhere at anytime. Her clothes were common too : heels, a beige skirt with merely a embrodery on it, a rose maybe, and a blue cardigan, and of course a hat, the most sophisticated part of her outfit, carefully pinned on her hair.

–That's delightful to have people comin' here ! Ray barely comes to see me, but can A blame him ? He's a free spirit, as they say these days !

She took the time to stare at the English man and was quick to notice that he seemed to have eat nothing but air for the last past months. She grasped his face and frowned, rather with concern and a bit of reprobation.

–Gracious Lord, look at these cheekbones ! Ye needa eat something boy ! Good thin' Mà Bannag is there ! Now... Ray, ye can go with yer motorbike, A'll take the bus with Nikolaï and his son. This way ye can clean up a bit, it's probably dusty and needs some fresh air, me boy.

–Màààààà... A'm no handyman...

Raymond blushed a bit while scratching the back of his neck. Ah, ntohers, they always know how to embarrass their children, don't they ? However he couldn't say no to her, she was always very comprehensive, never angry, or at least he couldn't think of one single day during which she would've shown anger, and she was never asking him anything anyway. She deserved a lot more than just some help with the cleaning.

Finally, he gave up.

–Fine, I'll do it. Don't be late, OK ?

But before he could go to his bike, Desmond grabbed the edge of his jacket and his eyes were shimmering with excitement.

–Please, can I come ?!

Maighread was having the fondest smile ever hanging on her lips while Ray was surprised enough to open his eyes wide, but not enough to really be cought off guards. Seeing how the child loved mechanics already, he could tell how fascinating a motorbike could be.

Leon, as for himself, was livid. It was as if every trace of colour had left his face and his hand was trembling a little while he was gulping nervously. Let his son go by himself with a total stranger ? Sure, Ray had saved their life once, but Leon was always having his son near him, not too far, and if he had to leave him alone to go to London for example, he would do it knowing there were people ready to take care of him, like in their previous village, or when he was absolutely certain there was no danger. And yet he would never leave for more than an hour, two at best. But right now, leaving his son going by himself with Ray, in a foreign country, alone, on a motorbike, in the countryside, that was too much for his little heart.

And what if they had an accident? What if Targent was there, looking for him and his son even here in Dingwall ? What if Ray was not a good person in the end ? What if he had given his trust to someone dangerous ? What if he was putting his son's life on the line again, just like he did with Rachel and Theodore ? His breath got shorter and his heart seemed to want to jump out of his chest, so much that he was wondering if he wasn't having a stroke.

–Hey, sassenach... !

A firm hand on his shoulders brought him back to reality and he looked at Ray who was trying to understand what was going on here, his hands on his shoulders and a worried frown carving his forehead. Desmond was not saying anything but he bit his lower lip whike clenching his fists and looking away. He was young, right, but he knew his father wasn't fine and in fact he knew that his father was having these kind of struggles rather often. Most of them late at night.

–Y-yeah... I'm fine... I'm fine, I just- I...

–Dad, you're not...

Leon could feel his heart beat painfully in his chest, because he was now again feeling guilty for his behaviour, for his choices and for what he was showing to his boy. No no no, he had to be better, to show him that he was there, even if times were hard, he had to show him that he could protect him. It was his goddamn role, as a father ! He forced himself to smile but his face was still pale, and he bags under his eyes were contrasting so much with his carnation that he seemed to almost be sick.

–I'm just a bit tired, t-that's all.

–No, it's not...

–Sassenach...

Raymond sighed, knowing perfectly well how the English man's brain was reacting and thinking about the boy's wish. He trusted no one. He trusted his son and that was all, and deep down Ray couldn't blame him, that was a way to survive, a very good strategy when you had very few allies. But it was a vicious circle, because you couldn't have allies if you were not able to put some trust in people.

–A doubt ye'll trust me on ev'rythin', but... A swear A wanna help ye... ye both... So, if ye don't feel like lettin' your boy comin' with me, A won't try to convince ye otherwise. Yer son's lucky to have ye as a father...

He looked at his mother who just smiled sadly, as if both were understanding each other without a word, and he shrugged before messing with the boy's hair.

–Don't worry, maybe later balach beag.

–W-Wait...

Everyone looked back at Leon who was trying to take a decision. His face was still showing how uneasy he was, how internally he struggled to give an answer, and how much he wanted the best for his son, even if he was crazily worried for him. He began to fidget a bit, playing with the edges of his coat, and he gulped nervously before taking a deep breath.

–I... I am trying... really... it's just...

Suddenly, and before he could say more, Raymond seemed to have an idea and he clapped his hands together, making Leon jolt again.

–A know ! What if we get on me bike and A drive in front of yer bus ? This way, ye can see us, and the boy's getting a ride !

Desmond opened wide sparkling eyes and a large smile flew across his face before he looked back at his father, with bug puppy eyes pleading for it. Leon seemed to ponder the idea and, after a sigh, he bit his lip and nodded, even if his smile was a very poor mask to hide his worry.

–...I... Yes, why not ? But... you'll be careful, right ?

Raymond smiled. But this time it wasn't a cynical grin or anything, it was a true smile, a kind one, showing how touched he was, to be entrusted with the child. He patted his shoulders a few times and winked.

–No worry, sassenach, we'll be just right ahead.

Desmond almost jumped in his father's arms and hugged him as much as he could, knowing perfectly fine how much this decision was costing him.

–You're the best, dad... thank you.

Leon couldn't help but offer him a smile in return and caressed his hair before kissing his forehead and letting him go with the Scottish man. In fact, seeing them getting on the motorbike, he had almost forgotten that they were four and not three. When Maighread pinched his cheek, his winced a bit but blushed, embarrassed, and stared at her whole she was staring at him, calmly and happily.

–Ye're a good boy, fer sure. Ray's right, yer son's lucky ! Now... come, son, A think we need a li''le chat here.

Ahe looked to her left, Leon followed his eyes. A few meters away, there was a bus stop and, away again, a bus coming right to it.

-> First chapter

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[hazzabeeforlou]

objectively speaking how an adult kissing a kid on the lips couldn't convince people that they're related? the alternative is just insanely creepy. i know fans wouldn't want to think that about Louis. don't get me wrong, i'm a larrie, i KNOW it's not his son but i'm just trying to be rational. louis is not an old person with old habits of kissing random kids on the lips. i know i won't change my mind or start to believe it and also don't care about how many will unlarrie or whatever. it's just that this basically means it won't ever end. publicly if Louis had any doubt about the paternity he wouldn't do that and if later is revealed he isn't the father then omg the scrutiny and critics for this act alone he'll receive.. madness, also even IF it ends, at this point it won't ever end, Louis won't just turn his back. i think about the wasted time and wasted energy, rbb/sbb, shirts, lyrics, tweets, signs, clear messages, subtle messages, all for nothing. feels like Louis gave up. and now he wants us to too

I mean I’ve bothered Gina to no end with the theory that at some point, Louis decided too much harm had been done (circa 2020) and he would just be the kid’s dad, for better or worse, and F grows up with two dads, and he’s well loved and the son of a POP STAR and has access to wealth and a loving family that adores him and showers him with attention and care. Idk, not a bad deal for a kid. The thing with kids is they don’t know what IS normal and what’s not until they see a bit of the world, that’s why they’re both so vulnerable and so accepting.

Louis could also feel like, hey, situation could be worse, and I don’t have kids of my own. Man, I don’t know. All I can hope is that whatever they’ve told the kid, it’s a kind, loving narrative, and he feels safe and secure. (And as someone who grew up with lip kisses, that part is not a big dealio to me, it’s kinda regional/cultural)

[soullikethesea]

I made it through today.

Everything with my family is just so freaking complex. I can't. When I got home all I wanted was to hurt myself. For not feeling the right things, for not having done the right things, for not being rational and grateful and open.

I look at the collection of people my parents brought together and really, they are good people. They raised us together. They worked hard for that.

I wish I could tell them and set them free.

There were triggers again. My stepmother pointed out that they brought out a bucket that I used to bathe in as a baby/toddler. Too small to lie down in, so I couldn't drown. It really made me wonder how small I must have been. How small I must have been when my stepmother could have connected with me and didn't.

There were some tricky dynamics with my brother that really make me wonder if he just has really bad ADHD or if he's also dissociative. I try going on things he says, but then it turns out that actually they're not as he said they were and it makes us both feel really confused. I feel like I'm missing the point of connection with quite a few of my siblings at the moment. In a weird way.

My nephew was all over me again. I don't know if I did that wrong also. My niece was extremely cute and her language development has made a huge leap. She gives such a big smile when you've managed to understand her!

My dad gave off big loving vibes. As long as you don't approach him with any needs, he can be like that. There was another trigger when he showed his workplace. Those same smells and interesting things as when I was a kid. Except now I was observing other kids take it in. It was interesting to see how he later set up invitations to play, seemingly without even thinking about it. It made me understand more about how we as kids grew up to be so creative and good at problem-solving. Lots of neglect, but also lots of enrichment in other areas.

I also spoke to another semi-distant relative and it really felt like she sees me. We click. It feels kind of heartbreaking that even she could not save me. I remember she gave me a little notebook when I was around 10 years old and that's where I ended up writing down Lucas' name a few days later. It was right in the middle of that trauma time and I remember feeling so glad that she gave me that booklet and I really clung to it.

But booklets are not enough, are they? I think at some point nothing you can do can be enough. You can't change the big things.

I'm not belonging, but it's not about me. It's about a family in chaos and a little girl lost in the middle of that storm. The storm was about her, also. But not in ways she could help or change. It's grown-ups getting stuck in trauma and fighting and trying to pave the way while not knowing the way. I was a little girl, just like my niece. Little kids have big needs and need strong and secure adults to help them navigate the world. When the adults and the world are in chaos, little girls like that can get lost in the middle of it.