#no way to clean themselves of the blood and fluids

[rxqueenotd]

PART IV

In the Roman world, damnatio memoriae was used to describe a range of actions taken against former leaders and their reputations. These actions included: defacing visual depictions, removing heads from public statues, chiseling names off inscriptions, and destroying coins.

summary: reader, who goes by 'Prima', was raised by a powerful Roman consul, under the reign of Imperator Septimius Severus. When it comes time for his eldest son, Caracalla, to marry again, a chain of events is set off, changing the course of Prima's life and the lives around her.

warnings: arranged marriage, foul language, mentions of blood, bodily fluids, Ancient Rome as a warning in itself, bloodletting, p n v penetration, orgy-ish situation, animal sacrifice.

notes: literally posting this from a McDonalds parking lot on the way to a Christmas party. A quick thanks to my brotha @trashmouth-richie and @londonfog-chan for all the help. I owe you guys what’s left of my soul. Please like and share if you enjoy this series! Over 7000 words in this chapter alone.

The delicate aroma of fresh bread and honey wafted through the air, mingling with the faint scent of blossoming flowers from the courtyard outside. Fine earthenware plates held an assortment of breakfast delicacies scattered across an oval table in the middle of the room: warm, crusty loaves of panis glistened with honey, bowls of ripe figs and olives, and delicate cheeses. A pitcher of cool, refreshing water sat alongside a flask of rich, dark wine—though it was early, you had indulged yourself. The gentle clinking of utensils and the soft rustle of linen filled the dining room as guests served themselves, enjoying the simple pleasures of the morning. A musician played softly in the corner, the gentle strumming of a lyre adding a serene layer to the room. You sighed happily as you sat alone at a table in the corner of the great room with the perfect view of the courtyard. For all the drama of the previous day, you revelled in being alone, relishing the magnificent frescoed walls that depicted scenes of mythological feasts and playful Bacchanalian revelries. The sunlight shone in delicately, warming the marble flooring in which you drug your barefoot across under the table.

“You must have said something to set him off. I could still smell your perfume when I walked into his chambers—he was that quick to summon me,” Caracalla said, plopping down in the chair across from you with an exaggerated huff. You sighed, placing your cutlery down, knowing fair well that any peace you had maintained over the course of the morning was over. His new golden incisor caught the light as he spoke. You had stepped out onto the balcony for just a moment when the physician had come to fix the cracked tooth the night before, a souvenir from Septimius’s fist meeting Caracalla’s lip.

“Just because you think we share a common enemy does not mean we are allies,” you shot back. Making it clear that your act of cleaning him up and reaching an agreement the previous night did not give him the right to intrude on your peaceful breakfast.

“He never even made it to Baiae,” he retorted, glancing at you dismissively. “He only got as far as Ostia. This was just a test to see how well I could manage on my own.”

His face was swollen, bruises bloomed in deep shades of purple and green around his nose and mouth, the latter catching dramatically on the light as he spoke.

“A test you failed spectacularly,” you replied, arching an eyebrow as you bit into a particularly sour grape.

“Did you let him turn you into a quivering mass of need?” he asked, a mocking giggle escaping his lips, “Did he entertain you with tales of his wild sons and his deceased wife?”

“No,” you admitted, shaking your head, “He did not reduce me to anything but confusion.” You let out an exasperated sigh. “I find that I am still confused.”

“If he truly cared for Rome,” he said, his tone dripping with jealousy and hurt as he turned to meet your gaze, “If he truly cared for me as his son, he would step down and stop fostering Geta’s hope that one day this empire may be ours together.”

The weight of his words hung heavily in the air, bitterness lacing his voice.

“Surely you see that I am just your wife—no consul, no philosopher, just a woman.” you replied, feigning innocence as you took a sip of your wine, challenging him with your gaze.

“Ah, that’s a rare admission from you, wife.” he said, a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Do you think it was him?”

You flicked your gaze toward Senator Blandus, a quick movement that Caracalla caught. Senator Blandus stood with a slight stoop, his height diminished, yet his presence was still imposing. His once broad shoulders sagged under the weight of years spent navigating the treacherous waters of Roman politics. The edges of his toga were slightly tattered, its white wool dulled with age, carelessly draped over his shoulder. The deep purple stripe that signified his senatorial rank had faded, hinting at a man who had seen better days. His gaunt face and sunken cheeks accentuated his unkempt style, with thin, wispy hair and a matching gray beard that was scraggly and untrimmed. His murky brown eyes held a suspicious gleam as they scanned the surrounding people, narrowing even more when they landed on you and Caracalla.

He set his wine cup down with a sigh, glancing around the room before looking back at you.

“I have already had him investigated. He spent the night at his mistress’s villa.”

“That leaves us with only a few suspects.” you countered, leaning in closer, rolling a plump grape between your fingers.

“Indeed,” he replied, shifting in his seat, “But my wager is on Macrinus.”

You leaned back, crossing your arms, challenging his assertion. “Do you honestly think he’s that ambitious? Surely it is some sort of breach of conduct to obtain my correspondence and report to your father regarding your every whim.”

“He has been whispering in Geta’s ear since the unfortunate passing of Plautianus.” He snickered, finishing off his wine and fixed his gaze on you, “Ambition spreads like a plague within these walls.”

He set down his wine cup again, looking around as courtiers, senators, and servants bustled about the lavish dining hall surrounding you both.

“Is this what you have been doing all morning?” he asked, a hint of accusation in his voice, “Leading your own investigation?”

“I do not know what you are talking about,” you replied sarcastically, “I am merely enjoying breakfast, unlike some people.”

“Like I said,” he said, standing and looking down at you with a challenging glare, “there is always a motive here.”

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________

Anxiety snaked tightly around you as you made your way to your quarters in search of solace. The night spent in Caracalla’s chambers had offered no restful sleep; instead, you found yourself waking unceremoniously on the chaise by his balcony, time and again, while he lay sprawled across his bed, a thin sheet barely covering his bare ass, snoring and mumbling like a drunken soldier. It had felt strange to seek refuge in his quarters, united by the turmoil brought about by his father’s hand.

It was easy to crawl in your bed and get lost amongst the silky sheets. Having not slept properly the night before, you allowed yourself to be pulled under, letting sleep claim you without a fight.

You woke suddenly, a weight pressing you down, your breath caught in surprise as your body refused to move. Above you, a pair of pale eyes—hazy and unrelenting, like the sky before a storm—fixed themselves on you. Their intensity felt heavier than the body that held them. It took a moment for your senses to settle, for your vision to clear, and when it did, you realized Caracalla’s body was tangled with yours—his legs draped over your left thigh, his hands planted on either side of your head as though framing you.

There was no telling how long he had been there, silently watching, and it was clear he had no intention of stopping then, even though you had caught him. You let your eyes roam over his face, taking in the rough texture of his pale skin, like polished, blighted marble under the soft glow of a torch. His pupils shifted, dark and wide, as they moved over you, drinking in every detail, the quiet between you charged with something unspoken.

“Will you have me?” you whispered, your voice barely audible as you gazed up at him. You knew all too well how Caracalla’s moods shifted like the tides—unpredictable and dangerous. The effort to stay steady, not to be swept away by his waves, weighed heavily on you.

He nodded, silent but certain, and tugged his tunic over his head, baring his silken chest to the flickering lamplight. You remained still, letting him take the lead, scared that even the slightest misstep might stir his infamous temper or send him retreating into the shadows. His hands moved with surprising care as he slipped your toga down your slender form, letting it fall away to the ground to reveal your body beneath.

For a moment, neither of you moved. You simply stared, locked in a gaze that spoke more than any words could, as the last barrier between your bodies was cast aside. The air between you was heavy, charged, and waiting.

You felt the heaviness of his cock against the soft skin of your thigh as he worked himself rhythmically, his closeness stirring a deep ache within you, a tension that spread like fire beneath your skin. The intimacy of the moment caught you unguarded, raw, and unspoken. He leaned forward, pressing his forehead gently to yours, his breath mingling with your own. Unable to resist, you caught his lower lip between your teeth, biting softly before his mouth overtook yours. He sighed into you, his resolve melting as he met your kiss. Your tongues tangled, slow at first, then urgent, as though the space between you had collapsed entirely.

You opened your legs for him, this time by your own will. Yet, as he moved to settle himself between them, his breath, warm and uneven against your neck, suddenly stilled. His movements ceased, and a heavy sigh escaped him, brushing against your skin.

“It is not—” he began, his voice taut with frustration, “I cannot—”

He propped himself up, looking down at you with a furrowed brow, his expression a storm of shame and anger. Unsure of what to say or do, you felt the heat of embarrassment creep up your cheeks as your gaze drifted downward to his softened cock.

“Is it me?” you asked quietly, half-ashamed.

He let out another sigh, his eyes closing as though in pain. “It is not for lack of desire, I swear it.”

“Is there something I can do?” you asked, sitting up, clutching the sheet to your chest, suddenly feeling the weight of self-consciousness.

“No.” His reply was short, and he rose abruptly, pulling his tunic over his head forcefully. He avoided your gaze as he reached for the wine on the bedside table, pouring himself a cup with trembling hands.

The crash startled you. He had flung the cup against the wall, the red wine streaking down like blood spilled from a gaping wound, pooling darkly on the marble floor.

“Get out,” he growled, his voice low but heavy with restrained fury.

“These are my chambers,” you reminded him, pulling the sheet tighter around you, trying to steady your voice.

“Get out, Prima.” His tone was colder now, his warning unmistakable.

Swallowing your pride, you hurriedly adjusted your toga, your hands fumbling to secure it in place. You retrieved your veil, crumpled between the pillows, and made your exit with hastened steps.

Outside, as you slipped your sandals back on, the crash of objects breaking echoed through the wooden door, followed by a muffled scream that sent a shiver down your spine. You clenched your fists, your breath steadying. Though you had lost this battle, somewhere deep within, hope remained—for the war was not yet over.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________

As you stepped inside the temple of Juno, you were immediately enveloped by a sense of tranquility. There had always been something about Juno that stirred you, but now, with your own marriage in turmoil, you felt a deeper connection to her. Her struggles with Jupiter mirrored your own in ways you had not fully grasped before. As the patron goddess of the empire, it felt right to ask for help as Augusta yourself. A child granted by Juno’s favor would surely be blessed, a gift of divine intervention. Marital help could wait, you told yourself. For now, you had one prayer, and it was for a child.

The air was cool and inviting, a welcome contrast to the warm sunlight outside. Delicate frescoes depicted scenes from Juno's mythology—her fierce protectiveness over women, her role in the great tales of heroism, and the beauty of marriage. Each brushstroke told a story, and you would have allowed yourself to be swept up by every tale if you had not been on a mission.

The temple was supported by regal, marble columns, their surfaces gleaming, reflecting the light from the stained glass windows onto their polished surfaces. The soaring ceiling was painted in rich hues of blue and gold, much like the sky at dawn, and you found yourself looking towards the heavens at its beauty.

As you moved deeper into the temple, you came upon the central altar, an imposing structure made of polished stone, carved with symbols of Juno—a peacock, representing beauty and pride, and a scepter, symbolizing power. The altar was adorned with offerings left by devoted worshippers: fresh flowers in vibrant colors, fruits from the harvest, and fragrant incense that filled the air with a sweet, calming aroma.

Juno’s statue stood front and center on the altar, surrounded by statues of different sizes, each capturing her essence in their own way. Some portrayed her as a regal figure in flowing robes, while others depicted her in a more maternal light, holding a child or surrounded by symbols of family.

“Your Excellency,” a priest approached, bowing his head in reverence, “it is an honor to stand in your divine presence.”

Upon his head sat a laurel crown, its fresh green leaves glistened with dew, a symbol of both honor and divine favor of the goddess herself. You remembered him from your wedding day- specifically how the laurel matched his deepset, green eyes.

Cassia presented to you a basket brimming with fragrant lilies, glistening white candles, a flask of the finest vintage wine, and a jar of the sweetest honey ever tasted. With a wave of your hand, you dismissed her to take her place outside the temple, accompanied by your assigned praetorians. You felt assured, having sent word ahead to the temple of your arrival, requesting both discretion and a sacred space in which to invoke the goddess.

“I trust that my offering has been prepared,” you remarked.

He nodded in acknowledgment. “Follow me.”

You trailed behind him to the rear of the temple, descending a flight of marble stairs into an atrium of sorts. The soft glow of white candles illuminated the room, their flickering flames dancing upon the golden statues that adorned the shelves embedded in the walls. At the center of the chamber lay a medium-sized tiled bathing pool, set into the floor.

As you approached, the distant bleating of a lamb reached your ears.

"We shall begin when you are prepared," the priest stated with a respectful nod. With a sense of dignity, you removed your robes, standing tall before the gaze of the goddess.

At that moment, another priest entered the chamber, leading a lamb, adorned in a flowing white robe accented with a rich purple trim at the hem, wearing the same radiant laurel crown you had seen earlier.

Both priests raised the lamb above your head, their voices intertwining as they recited ancient prayers to the goddess, carefully steadying the creature before making the first cut. You closed your eyes, centering your thoughts on the heavens. As the warm blood began to cascade over your face and down your neck and shoulders, you raised your voice proudly to the goddess, proclaiming your devotion and intent:

“We adore thee Goddess, we invoke you, Juno, for it is written that you will bless those who call upon you and sacrifice to you. I pray to you, Goddess Juno, and offer these gifts so that you may favor my house and household.”

As you stood there, your thoughts continued to drift back to Caracalla—the way he had faltered just hours before, leaving you feeling a mix of frustration and concern. It was hard not to dwell on the sacrifices you had made and would continue to make, all in the hopes of giving him an heir.

The weight of your marriage pressed down upon you, and you only felt relief when you stepped into the bathing pool, submerging yourself as the thick blood mingled with the warm water.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________

As you knelt before the grand statue in the main hall, redressed and feeling lighter, you pressed a gentle kiss to the goddess’s feet. The lilies were arranged just right, symbols of your devotion, a reflection of what you desired and prayed the goddess could help you with.

You dipped the candle ends into the honey, feeling the sticky sweetness as you prepared to light them. The oil lamp glowed warmly as you ignited the first candle. One by one, the other candles caught fire, illuminating the space around you as you set them in the designated holder.

You poured the wine, its rich color glistening in the candlelight, and set the bottle down with care. As you whispered the prayer again, you felt a sense of calm wash over you. Closing your eyes, you let the words sink deep, hoping that the goddess would hear your heart.

Suddenly, your moment of peace in the temple was broken by another presence. Before you could even open your eyes to see who it was, he spoke, his voice dripping with playful sarcasm.

“I cannot believe there is still a lamb left to sacrifice after your wedding. They must have sacrificed so many that the whole flock is nearly extinct.” Geta knelt beside you, a smirk on his face.

You quipped with a serious face, “Shall I offer you as the next sacrifice? Surely, one of your esteemed stature would grant me favor with the goddess.”

Geta laughed, the sound sharp and out of place in the quiet of the room. “Ironic, is it not? Not even a full cycle of Luna has passed, and you are already making offerings to save your fragile union.”

He seized your hand, running the edge of his nail beneath your own with deliberate care. A thin line of blood appeared, evidence of the sacrifice, vivid against your skin. He drew it to his lips, his eyes never leaving yours as he tasted it, a sly smile curling at the corners of his mouth.

“Do you think your husband knows how devout his wife truly is? So unwavering in her dedication?” Geta’s tone dripped with mockery, each word drawn out as though savoring the chance to provoke.

“Why are you here, Geta?” you asked, weariness lacing your words. His constant mockery was like salting an open wound, relentless and cruel.

He tilted his head, his eyes sweeping over your face with the precision of a blade. “Tell me,” he said, his voice like silky steel, “do you know what your husband does while you linger here in the temple, like a devout little dove?”

You sighed, your gaze fixed on the statue before you. “What, pray tell, is he doing now?”

You rose to your feet, giving him a silent nod to lead the way. The journey back to Palatine Hill drew curious glances as Geta’s guards merged with your own, their strides echoing in the narrow streets. You walked side by side, close enough to appear united yet distant enough that the silence between the two of you felt natural, you would offer him no word or glance to break the tension.

Rome pulsed with life around you. The aroma of fresh-baked bread mingled with the earthy scent of clay and smoke, a reminder of the city's crowded living spaces, where families lived stacked upon one another. Cassia, ever dutiful at your side, stole glances when she thought you would not notice. Her unease was palpable, and you made a mental note to instruct her in masking her emotions—though you could hardly claim to be a master yourself. Your jaw clenched tighter with every step, the pressure so fierce your teeth threatened to shatter.

As you approached the grand imperial palace, the atmosphere remained unchanged. You waved dismissively to Cassia while Geta signaled his soldiers to depart. Your own guard bowed in respect, and you returned the gesture with a simple wave of your hand.

Leaving the atrium, you trailed a few steps behind Geta as he strode down a lengthy corridor, ascending a flight of gilded steps that led to the private chambers of the palace. Upon reaching the threshold of his quarters, he paused and beckoned you inside with a wave from the doorway.

“This is a bad idea, and you are well aware of it,” you replied, shaking your head in disapproval, “You know Caracalla has requested that I do not converse with you under any circumstances.”

“You can either come with me or stand there like a fool,” he said, leaning casually against the doorframe. “Your choice.”

With a reluctant sigh, you stepped into his quarters, moving just enough for him to close the door behind you.

“What happens next?” you asked, trying to mask the unease in your voice.

He led you across the room to another door, swinging it open to reveal his impressive study—similar in grandeur to Caracalla’s. Just as you suspected, he slid aside a panel next to a bookcase, revealing a hidden passageway, the same one he had guided you through on your wedding night when Caracalla had been passed out. You navigated the narrow corridor, following Geta, a knot of anxiety tightening in your throat.

“I have had enough of these secret passages, of hidden motives and lies,” you admitted with a heavy sigh. “And I am emotionally drained from dealing with the fragile egos of you and your brother. I am sick from whiplash due to both of your ever changing moods. Have we not moved on from those childish days in Sicilia?”

Geta paused for a moment, the flickering torch light illuminating his features. “You speak as though we have tormented you day in and day out for years. I assure you, it was and will never be personal.”

“What is life if it is not personal, Geta?” you inquired sincerely.

“It is merely a game, Prima. We play the cards we are dealt.” He turned, his gaze thoughtfully assessing your expression. “Do not feign ignorance. You are indeed playing your hand, I have observed it myself.”

“Make sure you cover yourself up properly,” he said, glancing at the veil you wore, adjusting it to better hide your profile. “And take off that necklace.”

Feeling confused, you did as he asked, surprised when he took the necklace from you and placed it gently over the bridge of your nose, fastening it at the back of your head.

“To hide your face,” he explained.

“Hide my face from what?” you asked, but before he could reply, he slid the door open.

He stepped into the chamber, his silhouette suddenly illuminated by the flickering candlelight, a hazy cloud of incense swirling around him like a mist. With a graceful gesture, he extended his hand toward you, and before you could second-guess your instincts, you accepted it, allowing him to guide you from the dim corridor.

Before you, a scene of unabashed hedonism played out, where pleasure took precedence. Bodies entwined on every available surface; no lectus was spared from the terror of lovers lost in ecstasy. The air was thick with a chorus of moans and sighs, punctuated by the occasional sharp sound of flesh meeting flesh.

The chamber itself seemed to have once served as a sleeping quarters, now transformed into a sanctuary of indulgence. An elevated bed rested against the wall, draped in sheer curtains that obscured its occupants, their movements a hazy blur. In the area where you and Geta had entered, a grand table stood opposite, filled with exotic fruits and succulent roasted meats, inviting guests to partake in the feast while they watched the show. They swayed gently to the sultry melodies played by skilled musicians on lyres and flutes, the atmosphere alive and electric.

Geta guided you further into the chamber, his presence momentarily undetected as he settled into a high-backed chair that afforded him a prime view of the bed’s occupants. You lingered before him, your senses overwhelmed by the sights and sounds, when he suddenly drew you down to sit on his lap.

“Geta—” you protested, a hint of disapproval in your voice, “this is highly inappropriate.”

“Amidst all around us, you single this out as inappropriate?” he quipped, a playful smirk on his lips. “Sit still and enjoy the moment.”

His words hung in the air, a blend of mischief and allure, as the curtains on the bed began to sway, promising a view of its occupants lost in their own worlds.

There, amidst a tangle of hands and mouths, Caracalla lay sprawled in the center of the bed. His eyes were tightly shut, back arched away from the mattress as a woman stroked his cock with a dizzying rhythm—first lazily from root to tip, then with a fervor that blurred her hand around his delicate member. His toes curled, and his eyes rolled back as his seed spilled onto the woman’s fist, lost in the throes of ecstasy.

You tensed in Geta’s lap, torn between horror and fascination as the scene unfolded before you. Caracalla’s cock, spent yet firm against his thigh, filled you with a wave of shame as you recalled how flaccid he had been hovering over your own bare form earlier in the day.

Surrounded by three women, you watched as they descended upon him like vultures. The petite one mounted him, her cunt swallowing his spent cock in a single fluid motion. She rode him without pause, her gaze fixed on the other two girls who writhed at the head of the bed, their moans rising and falling in a symphony of pleasure as Caracalla’s fingers danced in and around their cunts, his ministrations causing them to lose all sense of reason as evident by their sounds.

You squeezed your thighs together, trying to block out the pulsing sensation. Sensing your turmoil, Geta placed his hands on your hips, guiding you to press down and grind your damp cunt into the firm flesh of his thigh.

“No,” you breathed, inhaling shakily as you pushed his hands away.

A stunning woman approached the two of you, and you stood, excusing yourself from the scene. You watched as she led Geta away, his head turning back towards you, a fleeting look of longing crossing his features as you slipped away toward the panel, revealing the hidden corridor. It was only once you reached the solitude of your quarters that you finally allowed your mask to fall, the weight of the day finally sinking in.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________

It took exactly a week to ready Cassia, building her confidence for the task ahead. Though you had been anxious at first, desperation had a way of gnawing straight to the bone. Once you accepted the reality of your situation, you knew it was time to act—to wound Caracalla as deeply as he had wounded you.

It was common knowledge that Septimius had generously gifted you part of his late wife’s collection: a set of ruby rings, the golden diadem he had placed upon your head on your wedding day, and a striking emerald necklace. Of all these treasures, the rubies had become your favorite, their deep crimson a perfect match for your heirloom wrist cuffs, which you chose for your daily attire.

Cassia took pride in her role, carefully preparing each piece as you dressed daily, her timing impeccable as she laid them out. She beamed whenever she knew she had chosen well, her satisfaction a quiet victory. Though she was still reserved, Cassia had begun to open up, sharing bits of her life before becoming a servant of the palace. She spoke of her family, her village, and, to your surprise, revealed that the two of you shared a name day.

“Perhaps this is the gods’ way of blessing our budding friendship,” you said with a smile, resting your hand gently on her forearm.

“Perhaps, your excellency,” she replied, her cheeks flushing with color.

“I must admit, I detest such formality,” you said, tilting your head with a playful grin. “You may call me Prima.”

“I could never,” she murmured, her gaze dropping to the floor. “It would be dishonorable.”

“I believe it falls to me to decide what is and is not a dishonor,” you reassured her, your tone soft but firm.

Over the next few days, you spoke candidly with Cassia, sharing glimpses of your life before becoming Augusta. You told stories of fleeting childhood encounters with the Imperator and his sons with personal anecdotes, revealing just enough to make her feel at ease.

As the seeds of friendship began to take root, you started to stitch together the threads of your larger scheme.

“Cassia,” you asked one morning as she fastened the clasps on your tunic, “have you ever been to the villa that houses the concubines?”

“I… have not,” she admitted, her hands pausing briefly before returning to their task. “Though I am close with one of the regular servants stationed there.”

You nodded, your expression neutral as you combed your hair before the looking glass, watching her reflection as she carefully selected a veil to complement your attire.

Two days later, as you strolled through the rose garden, Cassia presented a petite blonde girl to you.

“Your excellency, may I introduce Metella,” she said, her tone light yet tinged with nerves.

The girl, no older than Cassia, bowed low. You tilted your head, studying her with quiet curiosity.

“She works at the villa, your excellency,” Cassia added, offering context, doing your bidding without you having to ask her to.

“Yes, of course,” you replied with a measured nod. “A pleasure to meet you, Metella.”

“The pleasure is mine, your excellency,” Metella said softly, her faint smile barely reaching her eyes.

You spent a good portion of the afternoon in their company, walking the garden paths. Cassia and Metella trailed close behind, pausing whenever you stopped to smell a set of roses. At your direction, they clipped the blossoms you favored. As they worked, Metella spoke in hushed tones about the villa.

“Behind the palace,” she began, her voice just above a whisper as she clipped another rose, “up the gravel road that leads away from the stables, there is a villa. Three ladies live there now.”

You nodded, already certain of whom she spoke, but said nothing as the pieces of your plan continued to fall into place.

You stopped abruptly, spinning on your heel to face them. The speed of your movement caught Cassia and Metella off guard, and they nearly stumbled into you.

“If I asked a favor of you both, would you consider it?” you asked, your tone calm but carrying a weight that left no room for dismissal.

The girls exchanged a glance, an unspoken conversation passing between them. Cassia was the first to respond, her face lighting up with a genuine smile.

“Anything for you, your excellency,” she said, bowing low. You couldn’t help but smile softly at her devotion. Metella quickly followed suit, her bow a little less confident. It was in that moment you knew—the plan would succeed.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________

It took two days to carefully craft every detail. You scrutinized the scheme in your mind, playing out every scenario until you felt confident enough for the plan to officially be carried out.

Late one night, under the cover of darkness, you met Cassia and Metella in the stables. The air was thick with tension as the girls paced nervously, their movements quick and uncertain. You had already arranged for the stable hands to be elsewhere, ensuring complete privacy.

“There will be panic,” you began, your voice low and deliberate, “and the servants’ quarters will be turned upside down in the search for these jewels. But if you listen carefully and follow my instructions exactly, no blame will fall on either of you.”

Both girls nodded, their wide eyes fixed on you as you reached beneath your cloak and produced a small satin bag.

“In the morning, Metella, place a piece of jewelry into each of their jewelry boxes after you have dressed them and they have left the villa,” you instructed. “Metella, once it is done, come straight to my quarters.”

Metella nodded, her trembling hands reaching for the bag. She tucked it into her satchel, her knuckles pale from holding the satchel so tightly.

“If, at any point, you feel frightened or unable to carry out the task, return the jewels to me immediately,” you said, your tone softening slightly. But then your expression hardened, and the faint moonlight caught the sharp edge of your gaze.

“And know this—if either of you breathes a word of this plan to another soul, I will see you crucified. Your entrails will hang from the city walls, and your families will be exiled to the furthest, most desolate rock beneath the sun.”

The chilling threat lingered in the air. Cassia and Metella glanced at each other nervously.

They turned back to you and nodded, their expressions solemn.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________

The morning of, you could not stop pacing your chambers, every detail of the plan playing on a loop in your mind. You woke early, bathing slowly, letting the warm water and scented oils calm your nerves. By the time you dressed and added the finishing touches, you felt more prepared—or at least looked the part.

Cassia appeared in your doorway, her hair slightly out of place and worry etched on her face.

“Your excellency, am I late?” she asked, her voice small.

“I am merely early,” you said, smoothing the folds of your tunic as you checked yourself in the looking glass. You barely had a moment to exhale before the door slammed open, and Metella rushed in.

“It is done,” she said, breathless and quiet.

You nodded, keeping your expression neutral even as your pulse quickened. “Good. Now, listen carefully. I need both of you to prepare an offering to Juno in my name. Once you have gathered what is needed, go to her temple and spend the day praying—ask her to grant me an heir. Do not return to the palace until dusk.”

They exchanged a glance but nodded quickly, bowing their heads.

“I will give you enough time to get ready before I speak with the Imperator,” you said firmly. “You are dismissed.”

The door shut behind them, and the silence that followed was deafening. You leaned against your dressing table, gripping its edge to steady yourself. For a moment, you let the mask drop, your fear bubbling to the surface. Taking a shaky breath, you whispered a prayer—not just to Juno, but for the strength to face what was coming. You could only hope the Imperator would not see right through you.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________

“Prima, what a delightful surprise,” Septimius exclaimed as you approached the table on his sunlit terrace. He nodded, dismissing the praetorian who had guided you inside, returning him to his post.

“I hope I am not intruding,” you said, glancing down at the imperator’s feet, which rested in a basin filled with amber liquid.

“Ah, the trials of age, nothing more,” he reassured you, gesturing for you to take a seat across from him. He poured a cup of rich wine and offered it to you. You nodded in gratitude as his gaze searched your face.

“What troubles you?” he inquired, tilting his head slightly.

“What do you mean?” you replied, taking a sip from your cup, feigning innocence.

“There is a shadow of worry behind those lovely eyes,” he noted, crossing his hands on the table.

You sighed and set your cup down. “I am embarrassed, Imperator,” you began, watching as his brows knitted together, “something has occurred.”

“What has happened, Prima?” he asked, leaning in closer, his concern evident.

“The rubies you gifted me, the ones that belonged to your late wife—I fear they have gone missing.” You covered your face in shame as he reached out to grasp your wrist gently.

“When did this happen?” he pressed, his delicate grip urging you to speak.

“I noticed this morning,” you murmured, “I sent my two servants to the temple of Juno at dawn, instructing them to make offerings in my honor and not to return until dusk.” You paused, gathering your thoughts. “I dressed myself to meet with my father, to catch up on family matters, but when I went to retrieve the rubies from their resting place, they were gone.”

Septimius sighed, leaning back in his chair, stroking the gray stubble on his chin. “Have you confided in Caracalla?” he asked, and you shook your head.

“He is not pleased that I wear his mother’s jewelry,” you admitted. “He has threatened to take them from me and give them to his courtesans if I continue to wear them. He thinks me unworthy.”

Septimius’s eyes narrowed. “He still indulges with his courtesans?”

“Please, your excellency, do not say it was I who revealed this,” you implored, reaching for his hand and giving it a gentle squeeze, asking for his discretion.

“I have heard whispers that the three he favors have taken residence in the villa behind the stables.” You spoke softly, shame flooding your cheeks.

Septimius straightened, his jaw tightening as he regarded you. “Spend the day with your father, and allow me to address this matter,” he instructed, and you nodded solemnly. “Exercise the utmost discretion and speak of this to no one else.”

“Of course.” You rose, but he caught your hand before you could express your gratitude and leave his quarters.

“Everything shall be well in due time,” he promised, kissing your knuckles as he met your gaze.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________

Word spread like wildfire through the bustling halls of the palace, as the praetorians stormed the servants’ quarters, tearing through each room, leaving a trail of chaos in their wake. It wasn’t long before you learned the news: the jewelry had been found in the possession of Antonia, Tullia, and Marcella, the ladies residing in the villa behind the stables.

As soon as the jewelry was found tucked away in each lady’s respective jewelry box, the villa was locked down tight, with guards stationed to ensure no one could slip in or out, all by the direct order of the Imperator. The three women were swiftly banished from the palace and exiled to the farthest reaches of the empire, their families shamed by their actions, forced to join them in their sentencing. It was truly a stroke of luck that they still had their heads on their shoulders, for the Imperator could have dealt them a harsher fate.

Your plan had worked like a charm, unfolding just as you had hoped. The pieces fell into place perfectly, and you couldn’t help but feel a sense of satisfaction at how it all turned out.

As night descended and you faced the weight of your choices, you let your emotions wrap around you like a heavy blanket—neither ashamed nor particularly proud, but feeling as though you had sunk lower than expected. Shaking off such thoughts, you turned to the polished bronze mirror on your dressing table, brushing aside the strands of hair that clung to your neck and wiping away the remnants of kohl from your eyes.

It was then that the echoes of an angry voice grew louder, approaching your quarters. You sprang to your feet, frozen in place, the sheer fabric of your gown pooling around your feet as your gaze fixed on the door.

When Caracalla burst in, you remained still.

“You!” he spat through clenched teeth, flinging a handful of precious ruby rings in your direction. “You deceitful, rancid wench!” He advanced, pointing an accusatory finger at you.

“You have made a fool of me!” He seized your shoulders, shaking you with fury.

“You’ve done that to yourself!” You pulled away, but he was quick to grasp you again, forcing you backward until your back hit the wall beside the door.

“I was merely reclaiming what is rightfully mine,” you declared, holding your head high, “what was taken from me.”

“What was taken from you,” he sneered, his arms pinning you in place as his hands braced against the wall on either side of your head. “Nothing here belongs to you.”

You struggled against his grip, but he pressed you closer to the wall with his own body.

“If we are to claim our rights, then I shall take what is mine.”

With a sudden motion, he hoisted you by the back of your thighs, slamming your back against the wall once more. You protested, pushing against his shoulders and striking at his solid flesh, but he merely laughed, relishing the moment as he held you against the wall, lifting your gown to expose your bare form.

“Deceitful wench,” he hissed through gritted teeth, yanking down the collar of your gown to reveal your neck and collarbones. You cried out as a sharp sting pierced the skin between your neck and shoulder, his incisors biting into your flesh. He pressed harder, a trickle of blood staining the sheer fabric of your gown.

You felt paralyzed, your tongue stuck to the roof of your mouth as he pulled back, wrestling with his toga, his hands trembling with rage.

He held you so tightly that it started to hurt, burying himself deep inside you, lifting you off the wall with every thrust. He devoured the tender flesh of your neck and chest, biting, kissing, and sucking, his teeth grazing your soft skin.

All you could do was hang on to him, clinging to him so fiercely that it was hard to tell where he ended and you began.

With a loud grunt, he spilled himself within you, letting his head drop between your shoulder and neck as he gasped for breath. When he pulled back to look at you, he searched your face just as you searched his. Both of you were left wondering what had just happened and why it stirred feelings in you that you had never felt before.

Tag list:

@alwaysahiccupandastrid

@justnobodynothingmore

@miamariposita

@niungguang

dividers: @ghoulbloggerrr

[bones4thecats]

➸ Frontline; RoR! Thor × Goddess! S/O

Characters: Thor A/N: This was so cute to write. It turned out slightly different than intended, but I like it regardless. Anyways, enjoy! ➥ Summary: When sent out to deal with a newly developed Jötunn invasion, Thor runs into a new Goddess. Could this be the start of a beautiful relationship? Or possibly the start of a tear in the Norse Pantheon?

╔══════════════════════════════════════════╗

╚═════ Thor ═════════════════════════════════╝

🌩️ While the Gods discussed in the room, a large-figure walked down the halls. There was no sign of a smile on his face, complete darkness covering his eyes as everything evolved

🌩️ It was a mere few days ago that the Norse Pantheon received news that the Jötunn had invaded once again. The Gods was fearful that they could possibly overpower the not-nearly experienced fighters around and possibly destroy everything in their paths

🌩️ The God of Thunder and his father on the other hand, declared that it would be pointless to just sit by in fear and leave any room open for the large-monsters to come in through. Odin had told his son to ready himself for battle in the next few days

🌩️ Thor just nodded and stood, grabbing his hammer, and walking out of the room towards the exit. He knew what his father meant. Hunt those bastards down and end them as fast as you can. And disobeying his father and missing such a fight is something Thor just couldn't do

🌩️ As he walked through the forests surrounding Asgard, Thor heard something from afar. Looking upwards from the ground, his hood slightly moved from the wind. Above the treeline was a decent amount of large, disfigured heads. It appears the Jötunns were closer to Asgard than he initially figured they'd be

🌩️ Gripping his hammer tighter, Thor jumped in the air. Every swing resulted in bursting one of the monster's heads, causing blood to splash everywhere, even on the God, as he swung

🌩️ Thor had managed to take down many Jötunns, but there were even more than predicted as well. Around maybe tens of hundreds. Honestly, it was impressive how they managed to jumble together with enough brains to not try killing each other for walking the wrong way

🌩️ The God of Thunder narrowed his eyes and threw his weapon at the giants. It had gone through nearly six of their bodies before it was knocked away by one of the Jötunns. Thor's eyes widened in surprise and caught the flying-hammer quick enough so it wouldn't fly off

🌩️ He looked at Mjolnir and furrowed his eyebrows, glaring down at the monsters with growing fury. They had never, ever, been this hard to deal with. They must have been evolving from the many years of the Gods taking their kind out for trying to take them out themselves

🌩️ All of a sudden, one of the Jötunns dashed to make it above Asgard's walls, but, before Thor could get there, its head exploded. But, instead of there being Odin, there floated a woman

"You need some help there, dear?" The female said.

🌩️ Oh great. And she was arrogant.

🌩️ Thor huffed slightly and threw Mjolnir at another giant's head, making it smash and blow blood everywhere. The woman just smiled and jumped out of the way easily, though she did manipulate the branches of a nearby tree to come up and block the blood with its leaves, successfully saving Asgard from cleaning their streets and buildings of the red-bodily fluid

"Not a talker. Understood." She joked.

"You dare oppose the Jötunns, Goddess? We will have your carcass for such a grievous insult!" A Jötunn yelled.

🌩️ The woman with a ponytail smirked and laughed, her hand covering his eyes as she leaned backwards

"I'd like to see you try laying one of your mold-growing hands on me."

"Why you-"

🌩️ Thor blinked in surprise again as you cut the beast's hand off with your sword, making it wail in pain as you smirked larger and began to cut its face apart happily. You were just as, if not more, sadistic when fighting like Thor was

🌩️ When you finally stopped harming the Jötunn, you looked up at the rest, who just gulped and ran off in fear. You had made them flea with just knocking down one of them without any mercy. He'd have to take some notes there

"Anyways, now that this is over," you began, looking up at the God above you. "Aren't you gonna introduce yourself to the little-lady?"

🌩️ Nodding, Thor held out his right hand, transferring Mjolnir to his opposite, left, hand out of habit.

"I'm Thor, God of Thunder of the Norse Pantheon and son of Pantheon-Leader, Odin." You smiled and shook his hand happily, slightly bouncing as he watched.

"Well, Thor, God of Thunder of the Norse Pantheon and son of Pantheon-Leader, Odin. My name is Y/N, Goddess of Nature and the Feminine Warriors of the Norse Pantheon. Pleasure meeting you!"

[acapelladitty]

spider eye lamb

Summary - As his loving 'wife', Eddie Gluskin demands that you drop to your knees and shine his shoes for him. (A commission from the absolutely lovely @loathsome-goblin)

(tw for: varied abuse, forced feminization, bootblacking, shoe humping, mentions of nc, psychological abuse)

Link to AO3 ☆ Fic Masterlist ☆ Ko-Fi

In his darker moments, Dwight sometimes wished that he has just let the groom kill him after their first encounter because a harsh hand around his throat followed by a slow, fatal snap could not have been worse than all the things which had followed. But survival and time had allowed both cowardice and a traitorous hope to settle into his bones and no matter what horrors he found himself subjected to as the days progressed, he could not bring himself to push back and allow his new husband to now offer him up to the sawing table.

And so, kneeling on the filthy floor of Mount Massive Asylum between the legs of Eddie Gluskin, Dwight plastered a meaningless smile across his lips he inhaled softly though his mouth – a skill he had naturally developed to overcome the stench of death which hung heavily in the asylum air. To the floor at his side lay a small shine box, one which Gluskin had produced from his stash of stolen items with a theatrical flourish as he excitedly ushered poor Dwight into another absolutely menial and insane task to prove his devotion to his new role.

In only a few days, he had received an intense course on how exactly the infamous groom - a creature so evil and depraved that even the other monsters of the asylum gave him a wide berth - liked his filthy living space to be cleaned. How he liked his meagre offerings of food to be cooked. How he liked to be addressed. How he liked to make love.

That last lesson was one which Dwight had not truly allowed himself to process yet. It was one which he didn’t think he could allow himself to process without going as mad as the screaming inmates whose cries echoed through the corridors across the long nights. He went through the motions of the act, saying the words he knew would keep him alive as he allowed Gluskin to use his body.

More often than not, he would tilt his head to the side and focus on the streaks of dried blood which stained the filthy walls instead of the traitorous heat in his groin which the physical stimulation forced on him – the scant pleasure worse than any violence in how it fucked with his mind and sparked hollowing guilt.

But endure he did, and every possible moment was dedicated to thinking about escaping this hellhole of a place with both his body and mind as intact as possible.

“Darling?” Gluskin spoke, his melodic voice stretching out the vowels as he called for Dwight’s attention. His dark hair was pushed into a familiar hairstyle atop his scabbed skin, unnatural eyes sparkling their insanity as he ran his fingers through the strands. “Are you lost in one of your little fancies?”

“No, Eddie.” Swallowing down the familiar disgust which burned his throat as he looked up at Gluskin, Dwight smoothed out the front of the stained dress which he had been forced into wearing several days ago – the light fabric utterly ruined by fuck knows what kind of filth and fluids its prior wearers had allowed to accumulate on it. He suspected that it was once white, but in its current state it was almost impossible to say that for certain.

“Then make a start! These shoes won’t clean themselves.” Eddie continued, tapping the very tips of his feet together in a playful, expectant way.

Glancing down at his latest task, Dwight bit the inside of his lip to keep his expression from shifting. The shoes were disgusting. A deep, black leather almost every inch was completely covered in grime and blood, each shoe absolutely wearing the last remnants of their previous owner like a badge of sick pride.

"Spic and span, my darling." Eddie beamed down from his seated position, the toe of his right foot shifting to prod at the rusted shine box. "It's a wife's place to make sure her beloved isn't embarrassing himself with untidy footwear."

Nodding submissively, Dwight’s fingers trembled as they opened the shine box. Inside, lay a small stained rag and a tiny pot of black shine, the wax within utterly dried up and useless for its intended purpose. Unwilling to indicate any issues, Dwight dutifully picked up the rag and made a show of swiping it across the black before dropping his hands to Eddie’s feet.

Rubbing the rag across the shoe with a firm grip, Dwight flinched as Gluskin broke into a jaunty tune, the notes humming free of his throat as his gaze settled on something distant and unseen. His hands kept up their motions though, alternating between trying to scrape off as much of the filth from the shoes as possible while keeping his movements as unobtrusive as possible – not wanting to regain the attention of the monster he was servicing.

He allowed his thoughts to wander. After this, no doubt Gluskin would insist on a dance, something to show off his new shoes, and the ratty old radio which the monster seemed to genuine love would find itself tuned to some old-fashioned show to keep up the delusion which Dwight had found himself forced to play a sordid part in.

Only once, he had messed up the basic box-step which he had been made to learn and before he could issue a quiet apology, he found his jaw almost knocked out of place by a harsh backhand from Gluskin as the groom lost his damned mind over the minor misstep. It was truly frightening and, stunned into submission, Dwight still shivered when he considered it. Gluskin was bigger in every way, his height and strength a very real threat, and as Dwight had fallen to the floor in shock, his head rung with the blow while he found himself subjected to a barrage of verbal abuse.

Words which didn’t even apply to him.

The insults, which seemed to come from an outside source as the criticisms appeared to apply more to the man screaming them than the victim he had just struck to the floor, were shocking. Violent and sexual, the fear which seized Dwight’s chest had rendered him useless – curling his body into as small a ball as possible, instinct guiding his movements.

But then the apologies had been quick to follow. Sweet, sickly, honeyed words whispered into his ear as Gluskin pulled him close and showed him how sorry he was. Touched him in ways which were worse than any blow that his hands or feet could have delivered. Told him he was loved as he forced his cock between his legs and pushed past the dry discomfort as he sheathed himself with no care for how it made Dwight bite back his whimpers.

“Sweetheart!”

Jerking back to the task at hand as his thoughts were once more snatched by Gluskin’s booming voice, Dwight looked up at him with empty eyes.

“I lost myself in thoughts there, love. I don’t want you to feel forgotten as you do such lovely work. So, I have had an idea, a wicked idea! Allow me something naughty to make up for my little neglect.”

Gluskin's foot snaked its way beneath Dwight's dress and Dwight focused on steadying his breath as he felt the soft leather press teasingly against the panties which were forcibly pulled on his body to cover what little decency he had left. He hated the panties, hated the off-colour material flecked heavily with red, and the enthusiasm and gratitude he had been obligated to fake upon their gifting had made his throat ache with repressed bile.

"Eddie-" Dwight hissed despite his desire to ignore the teasing, the shoe grazing his enlarged clit in a way that made his stomach lurch with discomfort and, shamefully, arousal. Despite the horror, his body still reacted in a physical way to much of Gluskin’s touch – his nerves not quite on board with his mind when it came to how to respond to the various stimulations.

"I know, I know!" Gluskin interrupted, running his hand through his shortened hair. "It seems improper- almost perverted! But a man is allowed to tease isn't he? What wife wouldn't love her velvety mound receiving some attention?"

Hiding a grimace at the term, Dwight forced a smile to his lips - one which he hoped was close to a wry, satisfying smirk but definitely fell short of his vaguely repulsed gaze. Gluskin met his eyes and Dwight saw it, that spark of madness which shone from behind the veneer of infatuation.

Sometimes, when night fell on the asylum and Dwight found himself pulled into the marital bed, that spark was missing - replaced by a calculating, almost sadistic look.

It was a look which frightened him more than anything as it was the only true glance which he received of the man behind the groom. A man who deluded himself into acts so horrific that Dwight doubted, even if he somehow escaped this living hell, that he could ever share his experiences with another living soul. A man who mutilated men without hesitation and only spared him due to his own physicality.

"Sweetheart!" Gluskin had exclaimed with genuine joy as he tore the denims from Dwight’s restrained body and discovered his lack of unsightly bits. "You're perfect! A vision! Beautiful! No need for any nasty corrections…"

And Dwight has been thankful. The floor to his side still covered in the vomit he had been unable to hold back as he watched the last potential wife be carved up by the saw. The sight of the blood and flesh as it were torn and spat in several directions was somehow less traumatic than the noise of the poor inmate as their screams and pleading for mercy dissolved into guttural noises; inhumane and filled with a primal distress which pulled the contents of Dwights stomach swiftly to the floor.

"Are you paying attention to me, sweetheart?" Gluksin interrupted Dwight's scattered thoughts with a sharp, insistent tone. "I hope you're not thinking of someone else while I'm pleasuring you. A good girl must think only of her love, lest she be accused of being a filthy slut. No one wants a whore for a wife." His words growing steadily more agitated as he spoke, Gluskin's foot moved with increased aggression, pressing the top of his shoe into Dwight's cunt with such pressure that Dwight couldn’t help but shift around to avoid the worst of it.

"Just you, Eddie." Dwight bit out from behind a placating smile.

Bringing his hand up, he laced it around the back of Gluskin's leg and gave it an encouraging squeeze, hoping that the offer of some physical affection would be enough to calm his mood. The foot moved in a slow rhythm, brushing along his concealed cunt like a lover’s palm and Dwight hated how his body accepted the touch, a slight dampness pressing at the fabric which would no doubt result in Gluskin discovering just how much he enjoyed his little torment.

“Good! Good, good, good. Just what I thought. Now, stand up and let me see you.”

Thankful for the removal of his foot, Dwight stood on shaking legs as quickly as he could while allowing the pleasure to dissipate. Even seated, Gluskin’s height was impressive and his head came up to Dwight’s chest as he straightened up fully.

“My beautiful wife.” Gluskin crooned, mad eyes washing across every inch of your dress covered frame. “So lovely, and almost perfect.”

Biting the inside of his cheek, Dwight took the words with a grim smile as he tucked his head slightly to hide the disgust in his eyes.

"I do wish there was more here." Grumbling, Gluskin placed his hands over Dwight’s chest.

Surgery scars long since healed, the slight bulge of his tits was only due to residual fat distribution and nothing more and he was thankful for it as Gluskin tended to leave his chest alone due to the lack of a voluptuous base to work with.

"Perhaps something you could work on, my love. After all, a successful marriage is all about trying our best for the one we love. Don’t you agree?” Gluskin continued.

Enhancing the grim smile into one which was almost manic as he fell into his role, a need to survive stripping him of every last dignity, Dwight nodded in full agreement as he catered to his own personal monster.

“Yes, Eddie. You’re absolutely right.”

[kookicat]

Acts Of Faith

She can't help herself.

There's packs of hygiene wipes- pleasantly scented in mild citrus- scattered throughout the habitat and hopper and she finds one, rolling the slick metal canister between her palms as she crosses back to the seating-cum-bunk where their SecUnit is lying. 

She sits, looking down, faint nausea rolling in her stomach. It's from the motion of the hopper, she thinks and knows she's lying to herself. It's not from that at all. 

The wipes are cool and moist as she pulls one free, rubbing harder at the smear of tacky blue metallic blood drying on her hands. I did what I had to, she thinks, ignoring the churning in her stomach and setting about the task she'd given herself. 

Their SecUnit is more bloody than she'd been, and it bothers her. She can't do anything for the damage to its torso - both self inflicted and not - but she can clean its hands and face, make it look just a little bit less like a victim. A bit less beaten up and beaten down. It's an act of faith, of believing they can repair the damage and bring their SecUnit back online.

There's blood, tinged with a darker, thicker fluid, in more places than she'd realised. A tacky smear under one nostril. A thin trail from one ear, spreading over its neck where the skin suit had moved against its skin. A wide streak across one cheek, almost managing to hide the bruise there. 

She hadn't even known SecUnits could bruise. 

The nausea rolls again, and she bites the inside of her cheek, hard, until the pain takes over and chases the feeling away.

She wipes carefully, gently, even though she knows the person under her hands can't feel anything that she's doing. And it is a person, not a machine. One who had sacrificed themselves to keep her - and the rest of her team - safe. 

It's not something she can think about, not yet, not in a too-fucking-small hopper with other people too-fucking-close, so she drops the soiled wipe in her hands onto the lightly vibrating deck and pulls another one free, focusing only on the face she's slowly restoring to order. 

It's a handsome face, well favoured, kind, and she wonders if that's a deliberate choice, to make The Company's clients feel better, or if they were just lucky. There's strength too, but no savagery, nothing inhumane, nothing that would turn a head for the wrong reasons in a transit hub. Nothing that screams other, different, dangerous.

She moves on, hands fumbling over the unfamiliar armour until she finds a catch that depresses under her fingers with a snap. Some of the armour comes free - she doesn't know the names of the pieces, has never needed to know that- and she drops it on the floor, tugging and pulling until the person under her hands is bare to the waist. 

There's more blood, drying stiff and tacky already, around the wounds on its torso and side. They've stopped bleeding, finally, clotting down to dark, vaguely blue tinted scabs. There's more bruising, especially around the self inflicted shot, and something about it makes her chest tighten for a long moment.

She cleans around the wounds, careful, glancing down the length of the hopper. The others are gathered near the med system, and she doesn't want to draw any more attention, especially from their new friend. She hesitates, then wipes the worst of the blood away so she can cover each wound with a dressing. It seems redundant - she's pretty sure SecUnits can't get an infection, and the bleeding doesn't seem likely to start again - but something in her rebels at leaving the damage exposed for everyone to see. 

There's going to be quite enough of that once we reach the habitat, she thinks, and rubs a wipe over her hands, bloodstained in more than one way. It's another thing she can't think about, not here, not now, so she pushes the thought away, glancing back down at their SecUnit. 

The hopper beeps, telling everyone they're in range of the habitat and she stands, knees and back aching, to take over the landing. 

She glances back at the bunk, at the inert body, then shifts her gaze to her team, hoping they all make it safely out of this clusterfuck. 

The hopper beeps again, demanding her attention, and she closes her hands around the controls, muscle memory taking over as she lowers the ship to the ground.

We will all survive this, she vows.

[cimucina]

The Ossuary

"The ritual, a spirit... a chaotic vortex of feathers and fears"

[mature/violence - 3/?]

<- previous | next ->

A black vortex of feathers and claws:

The water opens and he re-emerges with a breath so deep that it swells his chest, burning, makes tears fall from his eyes and he throw up, coughing all the water he had swallowed.

Zara, who had moved away, immediately turns to look at him: <<... Yes, dear! Rise to a new life for me!>> With sincere joy she looks at him, there, motionless with his face turned to the ceiling; his breathing so calm and quiet, as nothing had happened.

The first word he utters is incomprehensible, like the first sentence that is then abruptly interrupted.

A jolt from his throat, as if his voice had returned again: <<HuMAn...>> he whispers croaking.

<<Yes! Yes my precious...>> the woman replies approaching him, even if with caution; she cared too much about this experiment, if it had come out the way she wanted, it would have been one of her greatest achievements.

He finally lowers his head:

His body is intact, not a sign of the beatings of the previous days or the stab of Zara in the chest; not even the blows suffered under water.

Only then does he turn his first gaze and dedicate it entirely to the woman in front of him: his eyes are black, the irises of an unnatural fluorescent purple, the pupils a very thin white dot lost in the brightness of that unnatural gaze.

<<hUMan!>> A grotesque smile appears on his face.

The wizards shout at the woman to move away. The two guards who had led him there pull her back just in time, before he hits the platform on which she was standing with such violence that it cuts it clean off: <<Human!!>> he repeats in a playful tone.

A lightning bolt strikes him unexpectedly from behind his back: a flap of wings and the electricity of the spell dissipates in sparks in the air.

"Oh, don't teach a spirit how to exploit oblivion."

He leaps out of the pool with an agility no longer human: he lunges at the unfortunate man who had thought of attacking him from behind and with a slash of his wing he cuts him perfectly diagonally; a clean lash that leaves a clean cut and the poor guy with the awareness of seeing his body in pieces before dying.

An unnatural laugh, with a voice that is not his, breaks the air throwing those present into agitation; another, panicked, tries to hit him with another spell that does not make him end up any better than his companion.

Other heavily armed guards burst into the room, pounce on the demon who instead seems to enjoy the warm blood on his hands.

<<End the ritual!!>> Zara's thunderous voice orders the subjects to remain in position.

She mumbles something, holding the vial with Lucanis' blood:

the creature shudders and turns with contempt towards the woman.

If they don't bound them together, it will be a massacre, they must unite them so that the blood can command them!

With a lunge, he plants his hand in the shield of a soldier who had stepped in front of him; his fingers, covered in ghostly purple claws, pierce the metal up to the poor man's arm, which he breaks with a violent gesture. The guard falls to the ground grunting, but a second blow with his free hand stops him from suffering immediately, opening his throat with a claw.

Again the woman recites words that force the demon to contract, shouting: <<StOP it!>> He replies, growling.

The soldiers throw themselves at him, it doesn't matter if they hit him or kill him, as they see it, better him than them.

But they are not so lucky: the spirit finds itself in a body that perfectly follows its will, precise in every movement it thinks; if it could possess it completely, it would no longer feel the weight of the flesh and then it would truly become perfect.

A man lunges at him, spear in hand, but he cuts it off with a fluid movement of a wing; another man with a shield steps in front of him to protect the other.

Another jolt: it is as if the woman's words make him faint. As if that bond loses connection.

Enraged, he launches himself with a kick toward the men in front of him, knocking them off balance: with a back flip he throws feathers like arrows from black wings, which wound one and kill the other instantly. But it follows a disastrous fall; the woman has almost finished her spell.

<<Demon of determination! It will be a pleasure to make you grow stronger!!>> she shouts, resuming her chant.

<<I will plEAsuRE to EAT yOur soUl OUT fRom your DEAD body, FEmale!>> he croaks, trying to get up and dive towards her; a leap that is again interrupted halfway.

The wizards are bothering him too much: he grabs part of the grate he had cut earlier and, as if it were not made of heavy wrought iron, he throws it towards two venatori as if he had thrown a stone flat on water; the effect is very similar, as far as the blood splashes.

A smell.

There is a smell that attracts him like a light in the darkness.

Two men fall on him, hit him in the ribs with their armored boots and crush him to the ground.

For the first time the spirit tastes blood; his blood.

He smiles ecstatically, it is all so new!

With a blow of his elbow he unseats the man on top of him, sending him tumbling back into the water, while he grabs the other man by the ankle and throws him after him.

A jolt along his spine, which he feels pass through the entire nervous system to his brain; he freezes, or rather, freezes him.

That witch...

She has something that smells like him... blood! He has to get the bottle!

He has to...!

At the end of the ritual, soul and spirit are welded and she finally has her new toy.

Demon and man lie unconscious on the ground before her. She lets out a sigh, not quite what she wanted, but it has potential.

<<You did well, lil' crow>> she whispers, turning his head with the tip of her toe, looking at him: <<Take him away>> she orders the few who were still standing.

Dark dreams...

There is thick, black fog, wind, screams coming from it that deafen him; it is as if he were in the center of a cyclone.

Feathers everywhere whirl so fast that at a certain point they seem like knives. Or maybe they are?

"Lucanis..."

He turns around suddenly but there is no one; the contours of that intangible wall tighten around him.

No, no, no...

"Lucanis."

He turns around again and finds himself with that cyclone tightened around him.

What... what happens if he touches it?

Between fear and uncertainty he raises two fingers:

there is something shining...

The feather...

"Lucanis!"

He opens his eyes wide, breathless, completely sweaty;

What... when...?!

He runs a hand over his chest, then over his face.

Ragiona.

He stands up suddenly, but staggers, his head hurts, his ears ring, everything flutters with his movements; his eyes do not follow his body and everything arrives late. He approaches a corner and looks around quickly:

he is in a room, no, a cell; how did he get there?

In any case, for the moment he is safe.

A deep sigh through his nose. Back against the wall, he slides into a sitting position, resting his head on the cold stone.

Another deep nasal breath.

He passes a hand over his ears, his forehead... it's hot.

What happened? What kind of nightmare did he have?

The memory comes to him violently, as if he were feeling the pangs in that moment: prey to an uncontrollable agitation, he touches his chest, his leg, lifts his shirt and checks his side.

Nothing.

He wasn't dressed... or was he?

He tries to reconnect:

Was it just a bad dream?

The chains, the ritual, Zara...

Quella brutta pu-

"LUCANIS!!"

He jumps up.

Eyes wide open, he holds his breath and remains still, glued to the wall.

His gaze moves quickly in the dim light outside the cell;

No one.

Is he imagining it? Is it all a figment of his imagination? Fever delirium?

A sigh through his nose.

The tension in his fingers that gripped the large stones of the wall loosens.

Tight.

He lets out a sudden cry, clutching his head with one hand; a rattle in the back of his throat.

What the hell is happening now...?

Silence.

Only the crackling of a torch hanging on the wall opposite his prison, breaks the void, casting dark shadows against the bars. It is the first time that the darkness not offered him comfort.

For the first time, he feels an uncontrollable fear of what he might see in the darkness...

His head starts to throb, not particularly insistent but enough to bother him. He decides to shake himself and move away from the wall. He feels a little precarious on his feet, a cramp in his stomach almost bends him in half; hunger...

And not only that: he is dehydrated and if he has to question, he's cold and even the contact between his skin and clothes hurts... probably, no, he definitely has a fever.

It could explain the delirium of the day before.

Because it had to be delirium...

A feeling of pressing despair takes hold of him; they sold him...

Who?

Why?

Whoever it was, as soon as he got out of there he would surely make them pay and, by the Creator, he was damn good at stalking a target.

"LUCANIS!"

A shot! The air that catches in his throat, his eyes wide again, the pain in his head that he ignores by force of circumstances; there is someone watching him.

Silence, again.

Who is it?

For the umpteenth time his eyes fly quickly from right to left, searching above and below for anything that could continue to call him.

A drop.

Beyond the beating of his accelerated heart, beyond the muffled breathing and the crackling of the fire, it was the only thing he heard.

For a moment, as the pain passed, he thought he had imagined that too.

Ok, calmati...

They had done something to him, it hadn't just hallucinations or a bad dream, those events of the other day, he had really experienced them.

A deep sigh through the nose, like when he wants to force himself to stay calm; like in training, when his grandmother trained them when they were little. And right in that little breathing exercise he suddenly feels his nasal septum full, a retching that forces him to swallow and then, disgusted, to spit on the ground. It's not mucus, it's darker... it's blood.

Realizing this in the crackling light of the torch, he brings a hand to his face, finding his chin and mouth wet with the blood that was dripping from his nose.

Quando...?

Are the twinges making him bleed?

For a moment he had a thousand thoughts in his head; almost none of them positive.

It's not good to lose blood from the head, is he dying? Have they poisoned him or done something that will make him die soon?

His pupils completely dilated as he searches for anything in the dark;  why not just kill him?

Why do Venatori always have to torture people??

Then, calm, lucid.

To each his own job...

He was the one who, for ethics, would have made them stop suffering right away; and he would have done it. Yes, he would have done it this time too.

He had to get out of there, he just had to.

It doesn't matter the pain, the fever, or whatever the fuck happened before - days ago or whatever - he had to get out of there!

He carefully crawls like a shadow towards the bars: thicker than usual, but above all, running two fingers over them, he feels an unusual roughness. No, they are not rough: he puts a hand on the bar, rubbing his palm against it and notices that they are clear signs, deliberately engraved; claw marks from a poor guy who got there before him?

He gets close to almost touching them with the tip of his nose, before focusing and realizing that they are completely covered in symbols;  strange writings...

Only then does he realize that, although there is a door... there is no lock.

A glance upwards, a quick glance to the left, towards the light source: proviamo.

He starts to move forward with conviction, hands open to grasp the bars, when a jolt, as soon as his fingers weld around them, forces him to scream once again and to a disastrous fall that leaves him exhausted.

"DON'T TOUCH IT!"

<<Enough!!>> he shouts back this time, panting, trembling on the ground, while he feels his eyes heavy and everything around him fading.

Stinging pains in the back of his neck:

a voice.

A voice, or maybe a thousand, begin to speak animatedly in his head; he doesn't understand what they're saying, they speak a language he doesn't know.

Like that dream, the one with the hurricane, he feels them mounting in his head and whirling around him along with the walls of the cell that tighten and the ceiling falling on him.

[prettysureimlost]

I found this list of "BDSM Humiliation and Erotic Degradation Ideas" the other day, and I got to thinking, hmm, what if I wrote a snippet for every number on the list, as a little writing exercise. and then I thought, why not make it a prompt game?!

SO send me a number and a pairing (or just a number, or more than one number, whatever!) and I'll write a snippet for you! I will also be posting them on my ao3 <3

warning, list is very nsfw

Release bodily fluids (cum, blood, spit, urine) or fecal matter on their body

Servitude

Forced oral sex or other sexual gratification

Acting as furniture (erotic objectification)

Requiring physical rituals

Controlling bathroom usage

Watching while using the toilet

Wearing collars or other jewelry as a sign of ownership or punishment

Prohibiting clothing

Sexual denial, which can include a chastity device

Requiring a dress code

Removing privacy during activities such as using the bathroom by removing or opening the door

Anal penetration with toys like butt plugs or pegging

Requiring permission to masturbate or orgasm

Forced crossdressing/gender bending (sissification for example)

Making them masturbate in a humiliating way

Scolding like they’re a child

Mockery

Making them repeat words, commands, or honorifics

Requiring permission for daily activities

Criticizing the shape, size, or appearance of body parts

Slurs

Degrading names (bitch, slut, whore, etc.)

Belittling nicknames or descriptions (child, boy, girl, baby, sissy, etc.)

Insults

Describing them as an animal

Forcing them to dress like an animal, and eat, sleep, or toilet like one

Embarrassing them

Poking fun at their sexual abilities

Tie them up and leave them

Require men to sit down while peeing

Compare them to photos or other media

Write insulting things on their body

Make them consume their own sexual juices or other bodily fluids

Flick cigarette ashes on them

Use them as a toilet or trash can

Take an unflattering or embarrassing photo or video of them

Laugh at them

Require them to refer to themselves with a negative descriptor such as “slut”

Make them beg for what they want or need

Ignore them

Holding or wearing an embarrassing sign

Force them to do embarrassing things in a photo booth

Cover them in food

Make them clean in a maid’s outfit

Force them to wear a diaper and carry or suck on a pacifier

Urinate in their mouth or other orifices

Penetration with something other than a sex toy

Force them to eat food they can’t stand or past the point of fullness

Require them to buy gifts or pay for your bills

Make them keep a journal detailing their behavior, training, punishments, etc.

Sit on their face

Force them to worship part of your body

Make them flatter you with words

Require an extravagant title

Give them homework

Have them write a humiliating phrase repeatedly

Make them say something embarrassing about themselves

Require permission to talk

Force them to bow or curtsy when entering or leaving a room

Mould his penis to make a sex toy (Clone-A-Willy) then penetrate him with it

Make them kiss your chair before and after you sit in it

Require their legs to be shaved

Braid ribbons or bows into hair (head or pubic)

Write words of ownership and humiliation on their body (My slut, her hole, etc)

Add semen to ice cubes or use it to top ice cream and force your partner to eat/drink it

Forced to eat with children’s utensils

Cavity check or vaginal/anal examination

Forbid eye contact

Called by a name of another gender

Forced to wear a feminine or strange mask

Make your partner come up with new methods of humiliation

Forced to scrub floor or toilet with a toothbrush

Make them crawl on all fours

Give an enema

Clip-on earrings for men

Made to suck suction cup dildo attached to a mirror

Compare penis size to a large, realistic dildo, stating how you’d rather fuck that

Try humiliation bondage that leaves their genitals exposed or forced open

[macgyvermedical]

Caring for Someone Who Can't Move

Requested by @control-whump

So here's the thing. Humans are meant to move. Even when we look like we're sitting still or asleep, we are moving. Constantly.

So if there's a reason someone physically cannot move, such as paralysis, unconsciousness, or a problem with sensation or drive to move, there are things we have to do to prevent injury to that person.

Why do we move?

There are a few reasons. The first is that we have blood vessels and nerves throughout the body. Any time we are still, there is pressure being placed on some part of the body- the bottom of the feet, the butt, the back, etc... That pressure on blood vessels means there is less blood getting to that area. Pressure on nerves changes how signals are sent between that part of the body and the brain. When we don't move at all, damage begins to occur to the tissue due to lack of blood flow. Too much pressure for long enough can also damage the nerves (you have experienced a mild version of this when your limb "falls asleep" and gets tingly when you try to move it after a long time of laying on it.)

Veins- while the heart pumps blood out to arteries, veins use a series of valves to push blood back to the heart. This system relies on the muscles around the veins contracting. If they didn't contract, fluid would pool in the lowest part of the body, usually the feet, which would cause swelling. This is also a problem because the lack of blood movement increases the risk of blood clots that can lead to heart attacks or strokes.

Maintenance of muscle tone- If you sat on a couch and "didn't move" for a week you would lose muscle tone. But not as much muscle tone as you would lose if you actually didn't move for a week due to paralysis. Plus, over long periods of disuse, tendons shorten, causing something called a contracture, which can sometimes only be treated with surgery.

If someone is able to move, we usually encourage that first. If you've ever had surgery you know that getting you up and moving is the #1 thing you will be doing as soon as you are conscious enough to do so. This prevents blood clots and speeds healing. The sooner a person can return to normal activities, even assisted, the better off they will be in the long run.

But what if the person can't move- How do we prevent problems related to immobility?

Well, a lot of times we artificially "provide" movement for the immobile person. For example, we turn people every 2 hours (basically leaning them one way for 2 hours and then the other, trying to redistribute pressure and give the nerves and blood vessels a break) to prevent skin breakdown and we do range of motion exercises for the person several times per day to prevent contractures and loss of tone.

Range of motion exercises mean moving each joint in all the directions that joint moves multiple times per session. Here is an example of assisted ROM:

There are also other things we do to support the person overall, like making sure they have adequate nutrition (makes the skin better at tolerating sub-optimal blood flow), cleaning them up promptly when they urinate or defecate (if urine or feces sits on the skin it irritates it and causes wounds), and making sure there are no wrinkles in the sheets or clothing that presses on particular parts of the body.

What other things do we need to consider if someone doesn't move?

They're probably not able to take care of themselves in other ways, like cleaning themself or brushing their teeth. They are also probably not able to feed themself or clean themselves when they urinate or defecate, or be able to take medication for themself. So all of these things have to be done for the person.

[answersfromzestual]

what does a tdick like... actually look like? or how they behave post-testoterone and pre-surgery? I haven't really been able to find like anything educational about how they work- what the look like, how they differ from other genitalia during sex and/or arousal, any of that stuff. I'd really appreciate it if you could explain it?

Bottom Growth or T-Dick Info:

For educational purposes only

I will be calling a "T-dick" a "T-phallus" in this answer.

I highly suggest all read through my second source, it is very informative about growth, sensations, and also has some good general knowledge as well.

Clitoral hypertrophy: the clitoris growing in length and width while taking testosterone.

So a t-phallus very much looks like the head of a penis, the shape, the contours, it just doesn't have a hole for urination like a penis or a shaft especially when you are aroused. A t-phallus gets erect when you are aroused just like a penis. It is considered the pleasure organ.

During arousal (turned on), it actually swells up and fills with blood, becoming erect and more stiff (hard)

While your t-phallus gets bigger on testosterone many people describe their changes in their orgasms and pleasurable feeling. For example you may like a different kind of touch now because that feels more pleasurable. "Some people describe feeling a more erection-like sensation when aroused." - source 2

Typical bottom growth on testosterone therapy is typically 1 to 4 cm, sometimes even more, this growth varies. One small study¹ about bottom surgery reported the average length of bottom growth measured from 2.5 cm to 4 cm in the study participants who eventually underwent surgery. Another study² found that at the one year mark, the average growth was 4.6 cm.

During sexual intercourse with someone with female genitalia: will require you to use a dental dam as protection (dental dam information), this is just basically a sheet of latex or another kind of plastic (like male condoms), to prevent direct contact. You don't not just need to use one during oral sex but if you are rubbing your genitals together it may be a good idea. If you are sharing toys make sure to clean them thoroughly between using it on the opposite person. (Making sure sex toys are clean is always a good idea).

If you are having sexual intercourse with cis males/ male genitalia: you should be requiring that person to wear a condom, even if they are trans themselves, any bodily fluid contact can spread a STI. Or you can use female condoms.

Here are some articles on sexual health.

Sexual health article 1

Sexual health article 2

Below are example images of a t-phallus and growth:

Source²

Source²

- a more realistic view.

You can see that there is a tip that gets slightly thinner with the connective tissues. So you have a head of a penis to put it very generally and your 'shaft' is almost buried in the connective tissue/ hood (which I used to call my 'foreskin', it made me feel more comfortable.

Sources, Images, and Studies

Source 1

Source 2

Medical Study¹ -PDF

Medical Study²

Fun facts: We all are actually considered to have female genitalia in the womb until about the second trimester of pregnancy, then your body gets a flood of either estrogen (X) or testosterone (Y), which is what tells your body to form the genitals. This is actually interesting because it shows that the clitoris is actually a tiny penis in a way, since it actually does become a penis as a fetus develops. - I learned this in my child development class.

[think-ill-watch-it-burn]

So I was going through some of my old notes...

And I found some Konro headcanons I was apparently Viktoring out about several years ago.

I didn't edit this beyond adding bullet points, and I wrote it sometime in 2021 so I'm not sure how accurate the info is now, or my uh, scientific theories, LOL. But some of it struck me as kind of interesting so I thought I'd share.

He trains and practices his swordsmanship daily. Outside of chores, Beni and the twins, and cooking, his blade is the largest part of his life. He cleans, sharpens, and polishes it daily… I bet sometimes he just takes it out to admire it - all they’ve been through together and how, despite his debilitating injuries, they still work beautifully together. His time with his blade really does mean a lot to him - but he frequently pushes himself too far, whether it’s unexpected or an intentional act of frustration and defiance against his body. Being unable to “mind-over-matter” himself beyond his limitations was one of the most crushing truths he was forced to accept after his injuries.

I’m struggling between the idea that he has accepted his status and that’s what is limiting him (vs someone like Kurono, who is utterly insane so I’m not sure that’s fair…), and believing that he’s TRIED to overcome these limitations and so understands what he is *truly* capable of. It’s really hard to know for sure without canon insight, particularly since the current FF world is an amalgamation of our known reality and the projection of our own thoughts as a whole. Thought does influence reality in FF, so I’m honestly a little confused why Konro is SO weak. I really do think him envisioning himself this way - and thus his presentation to others who come to view him this way - really, really does limit him hugely. On the other hand, I also think I’ve generally grossly underestimated the devastation of his injuries.

So, from what I’ve been able to interpret, his back between his shoulder blades, shoulders themselves, and up his neck a little are littered with actual open wounds. When he tries to use his ability to stop Beni from attacking the 8th, his wounds literally BLEED. This leads me to believe there is *some* living tissue there, especially since there are large swaths of skin still attached between the wounds. If it was dead, it would have sloughed off, which indicates blood flow. So what’s happening with the muscle tissue underneath that According to canon, tephrosis literally carbonizes the tissue. You ever burn something, like paper or fabric or wood, and when it’s done all that’s left is a hard bit of crumbly black substance? That’s carbonization. The charcoal you buy for your grill? Miscellaneous varieties of carbonized wood. From what I understand, carbonization involves removing all evaporating liquid and reducing matter down to its most basic elemental level via fire, generally turning the matter into a hard but fragile blackened mass. Can you imagine if your own muscle tissue burned itself alive from the inside?? Plus there’s all the major organs there - his lungs, which were apparently hugely affected, and his heart which would also affect his breathing. They can’t have been entirely carbonized or the lungs wouldn’t expand and contract and his heart would be unable to beat… so it’s likely either partially carbonized, or affected by the carbonized tissue around them. In my head I imagine the worst of the hardening is toward the surface of his shoulders/upper back. He seems to still have full mobility of his arms, but with difficulty. Muscle tissue is built in striations (“stripes” kind of), and my thought is that some of those striations were more vulnerable and burned up/died more quickly. It seems like tephrosis is caused not necessarily by overheating and boiling the blood, but by depleting the oxygen that transports the heat/flame through their skin allowing them to utilize their powers. Once that’s gone, there’s nothing left to protect the fluids in their body and they start to evaporate, burn, and char, causing tephrosis that likely affects the most vulnerable parts of their anatomy closest to where their power originates - the main area the flaming oxygen is expelled, and the most vulnerable/thinnest areas of those parts, like thin striations in shoulder muscles. I imagine Konro mostly experiences muscle stiffness in his heart and lungs, aided by the lack of circulation in the carbonized tissue and the general muscle tension compensating for chunks of carbonized muscle. He struggles to draw in enough oxygen (I wonder if pyrokinetic abilities put extra general stress on o2 intake and utilization? Are their lungs more effective to compensate?), and to compound that, his heart struggles to keep up with the strain he tries to put it through, so the little oxygen he can absorb in high-stress situations struggles to timely circulate through his body. He probably experiences numbness and tingling in his hands and feet - in fact, that may be a signal to him that he needs a rest. I would hope he’d be doing breathing exercises to work and expand his lung capacity. I also wonder what the medication he’s getting from Haijima is doing, and tbh what information they have about him and if there’s potentially more they could be doing but choose to not to keep him “manageable.”

[rinsvg]

Put your mouth to good use

warnings —written with black female reader in mind but anyone can read, unestablished relationship(you just putting him in his place), eating out, fingering, usage of bodily fluids, reader is sorta demanding.

⋆｡°✩ You hate men who think themselves inferior to women; you absolutely loathe it, so it’s only natural that that hate basically gravitates toward Naoya and his stupid masculine energy. Always walking around campus, spitting out the vilest words that could ever come out of his mouth against women. So it was only natural that you, as a woman, had him under you, putting his mouth to good use for the first time.

As his head dips between your thighs, you can only see the contour of his massive shoulders. He takes his time at first, smelling the scent of your sex and dragging his tongue through your longing folds—just feeling you, tasting you, and taking his sweet time. You grab the base of his scalp and pull him towards you. "Eat," the demand came so easily to you; you were, of course, used to dealing with men like Naoya.

You gently rubbed your hips into Naoya as he followed your instructions and started to suck your pussy. He started by circling your clit with his tongue, which made your entire body tremble. Given his way with ladies, he was remarkably skilled at dining with women.

You couldn't help but clench your teeth as his face continued to become wetter and wetter by the second. You watched Naoya suck your juices from his face as they began to drip. “Holy shit, that was hot”. You thought as he then stuck his tongue into you and tried to wring every last drop of you out. For the third time that day, you started to feel heated.

His nose nudges your clit, and you grind against his face again, dragging your pussy against his lips. He groans in contempt—a low sound that sends vibrations straight to your core.

"That’s it," he murmurs, "use me." He's so into it that he doesn't even realize what he's saying. It's fine; you'll just remain him the next time he annoys you.

"Oh fuck, naoya," you pant, your body trembling as your release begins to simmer in your veins.

He starts eating you in earnest, flicking his tongue over the swelling bundle of nerves at the apex of your sex and laving the flat of his tongue over your folds. Your grip on his scalp is tight, holding him in place so he can suck his lips to your cunt. Your keening cries reverberate in the dorm room like music in his ears.

"Use your fingers," You demanded.

He whines in agreement, releasing one of your thighs so he can lower his hand and press two fingers into the slippery, warm canal of your cunt. He coils them, pressing into that sweet place behind your pubic bone. You clench your fists around his slim fingers as he sucks your clit between his teeth.

A blast of heat sends you over the brink, your pussy tightening and spasming as white-hot ecstasy sears your blood. He yanks his fingers away and replaces them with his tongue, digging deep to savour every ounce of your sweet release.

As your body calms to the serene aftermath of the release, he keeps his mouth on you, gently running his tongue from your entrance up to circle your clit in a continuous motion. Until your chest finally stopped heaving and you pulled him away.

"You know, we should do this again someday." Naoya grinned while cleaning his face, until you began laughing in his face.

"No, but you can leave my room." You laughed all the way to the restroom as Naoya swore at you while grabbing his belongings. You yelled out to him just as he was about to close the door.

"Hey Naoya"

"yeah"

"Make sure to lock my door on your way out." You smirked at him while closing the bathroom door and turning on the water. The last thing you heard was a low murmur of "bitch" and a door slamming shut.

[sevasey51]

In the “different kind of help” multiple flares that keep bringing her to ER is brought up. Can you do a mash up of “ stubborn streak” is the flare that put the port on Connor’s mind. Ava and Hannah as physicians and friends are really concerned. Ava and Hannah both order full work ups and want the results ASAP so they do some parts of their work ups themselves. Ava gets worried because of the stress that her heart keeps getting out under and Hannah is concerned about the bleeding and checks her cervix and uterus for clots.

Thnak you honey! ❤️

Did you know during your period your cervix dilates to 1-2cm? Crazy!

The Line We Can’t Cross Again

Summary: After a string of brutal flares and too many ER visits, Y/N ends up back at Med—this time worse than ever. With her heart rate spiking and blood pressure bottoming out, Ava starts to worry about long-term cardiac stress. Hannah sees the bleeding and immediately orders an urgent pelvic exam, concerned about clotting and damage. Connor stays glued to her side as his wife slips further into exhaustion and pain, and for the first time, he’s the one to bring up the port. Because love means knowing when it’s time to stop waiting for things to get better—and start changing the way they fight.

It had started with a migraine—again.

A blinding, nauseating, pressure-soaked migraine that had lasted three days. Then came the bleeding. Heavy, unrelenting. Her legs ached. Her back screamed. Her heart rate wouldn’t settle below 130.

Connor had carried her into the ER just after midnight.

She was pale. Quiet. But when her BP hit 82/45 and she whispered, “I think I’m going to pass out,” his brain flipped straight into trauma mode.

Again.

They got her into a room fast. Familiar faces everywhere—April, Maggie, Dr. Charles checking in briefly when he saw her name on the board.

But the ones who mattered most were already on their way.

Ava and Hannah.

Connor had called them both personally. Not as doctors. As the people who knew his wife better than anyone else in the hospital.

“She needs more than band-aids,” he told them. “This is different.”

By the time Ava arrived, Y/N was mid-IV fluids, curled on her side, pulse still high and erratic. Connor hadn’t left her side for a second.

“Her heart rate’s been hovering in the 150s with minimal exertion,” he said, voice low and tight. “We’ve cycled through every migraine protocol. She’s dehydrated, bleeding heavily again, and we haven’t been able to get a clean line in either arm. Took four sticks.”

Ava didn’t waste a second.

She strode to the bedside, brushing a knuckle gently over Y/N’s wrist. “Hey, it’s me. I’m going to listen, okay?”

Y/N nodded weakly, tears pooling in the corners of her eyes.

Ava placed her stethoscope over her chest, frowning almost immediately. “There’s a gallop rhythm. You’ve been tachy too long. Your heart’s overworking.”

Connor looked like he’d known it already. But hearing it aloud cracked something in him.

“I’m ordering a full cardiac panel,” Ava said. “I’ll scan her myself if I have to.”

“You’ll have to,” Connor said. “She’s too unstable to wait.”

Hannah arrived ten minutes later, already snapping on gloves and glancing at the vitals.

“She’s losing too much,” she said to Connor, voice grim. “You said it started three days ago?”

“More like five. It just got worse yesterday.”

Hannah’s expression hardened. “She didn’t tell you?”

“She didn’t want to worry me.”

“Halstead stubborn streak,” Hannah muttered, already preparing for a pelvic exam.

Y/N whimpered at the mention of it, but didn’t protest.

“I need to check for clots,” Hannah explained gently. “If there’s tissue build-up or pooling, we could be looking at a secondary complication.”

Connor stayed by her head, holding her hand while Hannah examined her.

“Cervix is soft and open,” Hannah said, brows furrowed. “That’s not normal for her right now. She’s passing clots like it’s a full-on cycle and it’s not. Her uterus is boggy, maybe a partial retention. Could be why she keeps bleeding through meds.”

Ava returned at that moment, echo images pulled up on the screen.

“She’s showing early signs of cardiac fatigue,” Ava said, her voice low but urgent. “Her heart’s compensating, but not well. We need to stop pushing her through this.”

Connor looked between them.

“She needs a port,” he said, finally.

Ava and Hannah both froze—then nodded.

“She needed it three flares ago,” Ava agreed quietly. “We’ve been watching her tank for months and her veins keep collapsing far too often.”

“But she’s scared,” Connor said. “She sees it as giving up.”

“It’s not giving up,” Hannah said gently. “It’s choosing a different kind of help. One that doesn’t keep breaking her body just to get fluids or meds in.”

“Then let’s give her the choice,” Connor said, eyes flicking down to his wife, who looked so pale and wrung out she could barely keep her eyes open.

They waited until she stabilized, her BP finally creeping above 90, her heart rate falling below 120. The bleeding was managed—temporarily. The clots had passed. The IV had finally held.

And then, gently, Connor leaned down.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he whispered. “I want to ask you something, but only if you’re up for it.”

She blinked, barely awake. “M’listening.”

“I think… we need to talk about a port. Not because you’re failing. But because you deserve better than this. You deserve to feel safe. To not go through this every month.”

Tears slid silently from the corners of her eyes.

“You wouldn’t be giving up,” he said. “You’d be letting us take care of you before it gets this bad.”

She didn’t answer right away. But she squeezed his hand.

And that was enough.

Later that night, after they admitted her for observation and pain management, Ava and Hannah found Connor sitting in the corner of the room, one hand in hers, the other running through his hair.

“We’ll get everything prepped,” Ava said. “We’ll do the consult tomorrow.”

“She trusts you,” Connor murmured. “She trusts both of you.”

“We trust her too,” Hannah said. “She’s stronger than she thinks.”

“Maybe,” Connor whispered. “But even the strongest people need backup.”

Because when the body breaks down,

the best thing you can do isn’t to tell it to be stronger—

It’s to change the battlefield.

To make care easier.

To stop treating survival like it’s the only option.

And finally,

after too many falls,

they were ready to give her more than just emergency answers—

They were ready to give her relief.

[httpshercherrywrites]

Something a lil weird but can I have a smut fic with Ichigo in a three-way with Azusa and his painting double from the zero drama CDs dominating her with bondage, cockwarming and knife play

Hello! Of course you can love! I truly apologize for my delay in writing this and I hope you enjoy it!

(also I’m truly sorry if this is not good since it’s been a while since I’ve listened that drama CD)

NSFW WARNING! (bondage, cockwarming and knife play)

It was already late at night, you were trying to escape from the rain with Azusa so why not enter a museum, you loved those and he never visited one…Why not? But when you entered the place you already felt a thick and low energy from there, it seemed truly empty but you didn’t care, not at all you were with Azusa, you felt safe so it was okay, until you guys entered a room that seemed much more like a haunted place than anything, art supplies everywhere, drawings, paintings, until he accidentally bumped onto a pile of drawings, you helped him picking it up until… “Azusa, isn’t that you?” you showed him the portrait, it looked exactly like him you almost had a heart attack when you saw the painting gaining life, that guy was exactly like Azusa but his personality were the fully opposite, you noticed this with little talking but much more in sex when both of them agreed to share you, it felt amazing you couldn’t deny it, having you movements restricted by a rope, four hands giving you pleasure while one was sadist, other masochist, you just loved it. Who wouldn’t?

The higher moment of your delight was feeling both of your favorite man drinking your blood, while their hands gave you pleasure as one of them stimulated you nipples, while the other fingered you, their whispered sweet nothings on your ear, all of it made you cum quick than usual, when they both focused on kissing your body and sometimes even inflicting some pain with superficial cuts on your skin you almost melted, and you thought it was ending? Poor of you, they decided to arrange themselves on your entrance (let’s consider mouth and womanhood but I’m going to let the imagination flow here), moving in a single pace that almost drove you crazy, the stimulation almost becoming too much, you didn’t remembered having such a strong orgasm for a very long period of time, as they waited for you to come to finally pour their fluids inside of you only handed potence to your orgasm. They gently untied you and massaged you body, complimenting you, kissing you, licking you, and when you asked for more they decided to hand you a treat by staying inside of you, not moving, only massaging your body, sucking your blood, licking your nipples, sucking them, at this rate none of you cared about going home anymore, they stayed until they ame, you didn’t noticed how much time passed, neither did they, when you came again you felt their fluids inside of you, they stayed until a while than putting their members out gently while cleaning you out, you loved the attention you got that night, unfortunately you and Azusa had to go back home, the big surprise was when the time didn’t even seem to have passed, at least it wasn’t raining anymore, when arriving home you had an amazing time with your Azusa assuring him of how much you loved and needed him while he fucked you slowly and deep.

[oliciouz]

More sneak peeks from my fanfic. This is from the second book. Cerian and Levi reunite. Some things might change but ugh so cute

💙💙💙💙

The silence between them was heavy but not uncomfortable. It was the kind of silence that came from familiarity, the kind that didn’t demand to be filled with words. Levi lingered near the heavy wooden table, his arms crossed tightly over his chest, his posture stiff as though he were trying to remember how to be still. Cerian was tidying up the scattered papers left behind by the council, her movements fluid and deliberate. She didn’t need to clean up—it wasn’t her job—but Levi wasn’t surprised. She had always been like that. Always doing the work no one else wanted to do, always carrying burdens no one else could bear.

She hadn’t changed much. Not really. She still carried herself with that quiet grace that made people believe in her. She still had that polished composure that could silence a room full of squabbling officials. But Levi’s sharp eyes, honed from years of reading people and situations like a battlefield, caught the little things—the faint lines around her eyes, the way her shoulders sagged just slightly when she thought no one was looking. And when her gaze finally flicked up to meet his, he saw it there too: the weight.

It was a weight he understood all too well.

Cerian had always been good at wearing masks. Levi had watched her build them piece by piece, watched her slip into them as easily as slipping on a coat. Back then, he had been one of the few who could see past them, who could catch the glimpses of the ruthless, determined woman beneath the warmth and charm. And now, standing here after all these years, he realized that hadn’t changed either. She was still wearing her masks, still carrying the world on her shoulders with a smile that seemed effortless to everyone but him.

Five years…

He didn’t say anything. Levi never had been good with words, especially with her, and besides, what could he say? That he understood? That he saw the toll it was taking on her? That he still—?

No. Some things were better left unsaid.

Cerian broke the silence first. “I’ve heard about you,” she said softly, her voice carrying the faintest hint of amusement. She didn’t look up, her attention still on the papers she was stacking neatly, but there was a warmth in her tone that made the tension in Levi’s shoulders ease, if only slightly. “People talk about you like you’re a myth, you know.”

Levi huffed, the corner of his mouth twitching in what could almost be called a smirk. “Tch. A myth, huh? Guess that makes me some kind of monster.”

Cerian’s hands stilled for a moment, her head tilting slightly as she finally looked up at him. Her blue eyes, still bright despite the exhaustion etched into her features, studied him carefully. “Not a monster,” she said after a pause, her voice soft but firm. “A legend, maybe. The kind people tell stories about to give themselves hope.”

Levi’s smirk faded, his expression hardening as he looked away, his gaze falling to the floor. Hope. That word felt foreign to him now, almost meaningless. He thought about the lives he carried on his shoulders, the faces of his squad, the blood on his hands. If he was a legend, it wasn’t the kind that inspired hope. It was the kind that served as a harbinger for death.

“You’re still the same,” Cerian said suddenly, her tone lighter now as she returned to her task. “Stoic, brooding, impossible to read. Though, I think you’ve gotten even better at it. The walls are impressive, Levi. I’ll give you that.”

Her words made him glance at her, his eyes narrowing slightly as he tried to gauge whether she was teasing him or not. But her expression was genuine, her lips curved into a faint smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. It was a smile he recognized—a mask.

“I’ve heard about you too,” Levi said quietly, his voice rough but steady. “Doctor Zackly. The miraculous healer. The kind, brilliant woman who saves lives and makes politicians look like fools without even trying.”

Cerian laughed softly at that, shaking her head as she finished straightening the papers and set them aside. “I don’t know about miraculous,” she said, her tone modest but tinged with humor. “But I do what I can. The people in Trost… they’ve been through hell. My staff has been drowning, trying to keep up. The breach, the dead, the wounded—it’s been… a lot.”

Levi didn’t respond right away. He was watching her again, his sharp eyes catching the way her shoulders tensed ever so slightly as she spoke, the way her fingers brushed against her temple as though trying to ease a headache. She carried it well—the weight of it all. But it was still a weight. He could see it in the tired lines beneath her eyes, in the faint slump of her posture when she thought no one was looking.

“You’re carrying too much,” he said finally, his voice low and blunt but laced with a care he didn’t recognize, but she did.

Cerian blinked, startled by the unexpected comment. She turned to face him fully, her expression softening as she studied him. “And you’re not?” she countered gently, her tone free of accusation.

Levi’s lips pressed into a thin line, his gaze dropping to the floor. She wasn’t wrong, but that didn’t make it any easier to hear.

For a moment, they just stood there, the silence between them heavy but not uncomfortable. And then, to Levi’s surprise, Cerian stepped closer. She hesitated for just a moment, as though giving him the chance to pull away, but when he didn’t move, she reached out and wrapped her arms around him.

The hug was tight, warm, and completely unexpected. Levi stiffened at first, his body going rigid as though he didn’t know how to respond to a tender touch anymore. But then, slowly, he let himself relax, his arms coming up to hold her in return. His grip was firm but careful, as though he were afraid that if he held on too tightly, she might disappear.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” Cerian whispered, her voice muffled against his shoulder, still in his arms.

Levi didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. Instead, he closed his eyes, letting himself linger in the moment just a little longer than he probably should have. For the first time in a long time, he allowed himself to feel something other than the crushing weight of duty.

When she finally pulled back, her hands lingered on his arms for just a moment before she stepped away, her smile soft and genuine. “You should come by the hospital sometime,” she said lightly, though there was a warmth in her tone that made the invitation feel far more personal. “I could use someone to help keep the staff in line. You’re good at making people listen, after all.”

Levi snorted quietly, shaking his head. “I’ll think about it,” he said gruffly, though the faintest hint of a smirk tugged at his lips.

As Cerian turned to leave, Levi watched her go, his gaze lingering on her retreating figure. The weight of his responsibilities, the walls he had built around himself—they were still there, as unyielding as ever. But as he stood there in the empty room, he couldn’t shake the fact that she would always be a constant.

Even if it didn’t have a place in his life anymore, he would always love Cerian Zackly. And that, he decided, was enough.

[narawryana]

My ocs for each individual lis [happy]!!

＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚　˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚　˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚　˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊

Manobawa [online freak] × Xavier [irl freak]

~°~

The day hasn't even started (it's 7AM), the sun has not shone (he's using blackout curtains) and there's no rapid pitter-patter of his starlight's footsteps (she's already late to work, so she left without informing him).

Suddenly, like an uncouth intruder, his phone shone like it came from the All-mighty Himself.

"Ugh.. " he groans, patting the bed for his phone.

What greets him is not his alarms, not a good morning text either, but a—

Starlight ♡ : I'm gonna touch you lil' bro 🙏..

Starlight ♡ : [freaky sonic GIF]

Me : what 💔

Sigh... woe is he. Not only does he not have the privilege to wake up early to look at his beloved longer, his beloved is also a modernized pervert.

He supposed that's a nice thing. He can return the favor easily that way..

—-

Fighting wanderers under direct sunlight does break his sweat, unfortunately. He feels like a shrimp about to be cooked in a sea food boil or steamed for a spring roll..

His phone buzzed. Maybe it's his starlight asking to eat lunch together? It is 13.45, after all.

Starlight ♡ : [image]

Starlight ♡ : WHOA!! Careful white chocolate... wouldn't want you to melt..

...ah, it's her usual shenanigans again.

"Xavi-baby!!"

A sweet voice calls for him. A voice that sent him reeling to meet the source and spinning his head in a whiplash.

"I've ordered us some food. Come!"

At least she remembered it's lunchtime.

—-

The room is dark. The only source of light coming from the screen displaying the blaring cause for the muttering and grumbling falling from his mouth.

"Dude, it's just one round. " "..." "You sound like you got a stick up your ass. " "I'll make you have a stick up your ass. " "...what. "

—-

The sun was shining, the birds are chirping gleefully, the breeze cools down the sweat and other kinds of bodily fluids covering their figure right now.

"Ah.. it's already morning. "

Gently, he set down his violently trembling starlight, watching as she kept babbling on for "mercy" and "please forgive me" when there's nothing in her (other than the buckets of cum now pooling underneath her, of course).

He pressed a chaste kiss on her forehead, hugging her body close to him.

"One more time, okay, honey?" "N-Nooo—!!"

Melati [hyperfixator of history of medical malpractice] × Zayne [#1 hater of history of medical malpractice]

~°~

The sun, while somewhat bright, brings warmth into the otherwise cold sterile office. The scent of coffee wafts in the air, while the soft gulps from a certain someone drinking her canned avocado latte resounds from the other side of the room, the click-clacks of keyboard and the soft swish-swish from papers being flipped and written accompanying their peaceful time together, in each other's presence.

Then suddenly, unprompted—

"I wonder how those people who has to be amputated prior to anesthesia's invention felt. "

Zayne felt his soul left his body.

"I mean, most of them died. Like those under that one surgeon. Robert Liston, was it?"

No, no he doesn't want to hear that horrific figure from that awful time period be uttered by a pair of lips as precious as yours.

"Not only did he amputate a patient under 2½ minutes—I think?—he somehow managed to amputate his assistant's fingers—"

Oh that poor, poor soul. He prays for no human being ever to relive a time period where pus and blood are the same substance; where the barn might as well be as clean as the medical bay; where no medical practitioner knows how to clean themselves properly; where medicine is coated with gold simply because it looks pretty; where obtaining hospital gangrene is as easy as dying from influenza at that time.

"—he also slashed through a surgical spectator.. right? And then that spectator died from shock–"

"Please fetch me a vanilla pudding, dear. " "Ok!"

The moment his beloved left the room, he breathes a sigh of relief whilst his body trembles and shivers from fear and repulsion.

...perhaps it is better to let you watch true crime documentaries instead.

Dahlia [no words, head full] × Rafayel [much words, much thoughts]

~°~

For weeks (really it felt like just a few hours), he had locked himself up in his paint room. He has refused galas, interviews (as always), most of his mealtimes, of course he never said no to water, but he ignored the world as if it's only him and that painting that co-existed within the universe.

"What do you think?" He asked his most reliable art critic (read : future wife) only to have her staring at the canvas with that awful blank expression that he could never read. She stares, she stares, she stares, and she sta—

"Give me a moment. "

Way before he could utter anything, she already ushers him out, shooing him like one would an intruding chicken.

She sat down, staring, lock-jaw, muscles chained in place. She picked up her trusty mini notebook and her pen, scribbling down anything that she can observe—some of the paintbrush hair stuck on the paint, the way a few strands of his hair stuck on the nail, a slightly discoloured part, what she thinks of the painting, what she interprets from it, what she can feel from the color scheme—

This lasts for 5 hours.

Annoyed and impatient, Rafayel shouts from outside; "Are you done yet?!" "IT'S FUCKING UGLY!" (it's a lie, of course. She's just mad he disrupted her 35 paragraph line of thought)

Vrahatnala ["I know a place"] × Sylus [*already pulled out his black card*]

~°~

The woods separating the N109 Zone and the flourishing city of Linkon is dark. A bit dry, damp in some spots, filled with bioluminescence that doesn't look natural and looks like it came out of a chemical factory.

It's 3AM, he has much work to do and no sleep to catch on, but his heart— his lofty, magnificent, beloved, dearest heart, shook him and said "I know a place. "

Assuming said "place" is a small diner crushed by the towering skyscrapers and the brutalistic buildings, he prepared his black card.

However, wandering through these bushes and moss.. he began to question where exactly he's being lead.

"Sweetie," "Hm?" "You said you know a place. " "Yeah, we're close. " "..we're in the woods. " "Come on, don't you want to look at the unfinished railtracks and the abandoned train station and trains during Linkon's colonization?" "...????"

Ardhani [ill (derogatory)] × Caleb [ill (affectionately)]

~°~

From the outside, the Deepspace Hunter looks.. normal. Cheerful and sparkly-eyed, even. With a pair of pouty lips that makes everyone soft and a personality that brightens up the room. Completely feminine; pastel ruffles and white frills decorating her whole body, a soft pink lipstick on her lips always and a hue of pinks and oranges patted on her eyelids.

Her childhood friend, however, is different. Charming, sure— kind, intelligent, playful, helpful—everything a girl could ever want wrapped in a pilot's uniform.

But there's this.. hint of malice in his eyes. A manic obsession that reappears when his pipsqueak leaves his side for just a moment, a sharp deadly glare sent everyone's way when she's not looking.

But who they are outside, doesn't reflect who they are indoors.

Lines and lines of a certain pilot's voicemails, voice calls, recorded and rolled in other stashes of voice-line tapes, ready to be played by the CD player next to it.

Scraps of gum, bitten pencils, a straw, a box of chocolate milk, a ripped off piece of paper, a heap of dirty clothes, a few strands of hair sewn into a doll, in a shrine, smelling like oranges and sunshine in the dark room that came out straight from an occult movie.

The colonel's euphoric place, however, is lined with soft satins. Cottons, frills, petticoats, small strands of thread taken from who-knows which clothes. Pinks and soft sunset hues decorated the room, sweet pictures where they are unaware, asleep, doing their job, eating like a hamster, small drawings she made when she was young, a friendship bracelet, the first ever shoe she wore, the earrings that she thought she was lost, locked up in soft wools and ribbons. Panties of all shapes and kinds carefully put together.

Truly, a coquette dream.

＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚　˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚　˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚　˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊

An idea i yapped to @harlotistic a few days ago improvised teehee

[honeysucklethornsandalligtrhorns]

Lex's List: Truths, Advice, Quotes, Mantras, & Words to Live By:

Fuck it, we ball.

Take it easy, but take it.

Life is not measured in a series of wins and losses; some things just are.

Don't approach a horse from the rear, a cow from its side, or a fool from any direction.

Perform random acts of kindness and senseless acts of beauty.

Be gentle with yourself. You are still learning.

Be gentle with your past self. They were still learning.

Treat yourself as you would treat your daughter.

We all die, you either kill yourself or get killed.

Fuck around and find out.

To accept queerness, disability, neurodivergence, mental illness, differing religions, differing cultures, and a differing world, is to accept 'weirdness' and learn how to properly educate yourself on new (sometimes only to you) ideas, subjects, concepts, ways of life, etc..

One essential way to properly educate yourself on new ideas, subjects, concepts, ways of life, etc., is by listening to the stories and experiences of people who are of that specific group, from them themselves.

"Because I'm sexy! And chubby, man." "Why aren't you on a diet?" "Because I like to eat, is that such a crime?"

There are two types of anger-- explosive and implosive.

Intrusive thoughts are not from you, your brain is a wrinkly hunk of fat with lightning in it and it doesn't always know what it's doing. Just let them pass on and don't dwell on them.

Maybe they're just new at it.

You need to love yourself before you try to love others.

Saying sorry doesn't guarantee forgiveness. It's an offering, not a fix-all.

Trust, like respect, is earned.

In that sense, respect & trust can be given and taken away. They are privileges. You have to uphold them.

Phases are a natural part of life. Embrace them.

Everybody talks.

Whatever you do, there is a child out there doing it better than you.

Comparison is the thief of joy.

Everything is a social construct because we live in a society.

Family is not just blood or genetics.

It's okay to need help, but clean up your own messes.

If you leave towels crumpled up instead of spreading them properly, they won't dry correctly.

If you leave issues untouched instead of addressing them and communicating, they won't dry correctly. They will fester.

Water damage is real. Clean up your spills.

This is your only body. Take care of it.

At the end of the day, it's only meat, fluids, electricity, and bone.

You have free will for a reason.

Homosexuality is present in over 1,500 species. Homophobia is present in one.

Never make assumptions.

Fact check everything.

Do not get involved in drama that isn't yours.

It's just fabric, get over yourself (in regards to judgment of others' clothing).

It's just fat, get over yourself (in regards to judgment of other people).

It's just skin, get over yourself (in regards to judgment of other people).

Admitting you were wrong takes more balls than arguing over who's right.

Ask first.

Mean what you say and say what you mean.

Use deodorant.

Vaccinate your kids.

If you can afford it, go to therapy.

Don't expect rewards for basic human decency.

Healthy, safe, and well-informed sex education is vital and should be taught in schools.

Don't purposefully walk into a strip club and then act shocked and offended to find strippers.

The axe forgets, but the tree remembers.

Your ancestors looked like you, and they all managed to get laid. There's hope.

Spite is the world's greatest motivator.

Do it bored.

If we want the rewards of being loved we have to submit to the mortifying ordeal of being known.

You are the light. It's not on you, it's in you. Don't you ever in your motherfucking life dim your life for nobody. Don't you ever stop being who you are and dimming your light for none of these motherfuckers out here.

Art should calm the disturbed and disturb the calm.

Thousands of years ago, ancient peoples got bored.

There's a likelihood that you are not the first in your family line to be queer.

Nine days before the Wright brothers' flight, it was predicted that man would not achieve flight for another million years.

To love and be loved-- that alone is what makes this lifetime bearable.

Those who mind don't matter and those who matter don't mind.

Language is fucking weird and accents are natural.

To laugh is to feel such joy you cannot contain it.

90-year-olds still go on dates. You will find someone.

Don't put metal in the microwave.

Taking 'unnecessary' precautions is favorable to getting unnecessarily hurt.

You can switch religions whenever you want.

And the universe said I love you/ And the universe said you have played the game well/ And the universe said everything you need is within you/ And the universe said you are stronger than you know/ And the universe said you are the daylight/ And the universe said you are the night/ And the universe said the darkness you fight is within you/ And the universe said the light you seek is within you/ And the universe said you are not alone/ And the universe said you are not separate from every other thing/ And the universe said you are the universe tasting itself, talking to itself, reading its own code/ And the universe said I love you because you are love.

To be willfully ignorant is to welcome death.

The Nation that makes a great distinction between its scholars and its warriors will have its thinking done by cowards and its fighting done by fools.

Coercion is not consent.

Make sure you have a safe word set in place.

Grief does not disappear. You simply grow around it. You live with it.

Your conscience is a triangle. It pokes you when you do something wrong. If you ignore it enough, it'll smoothen out and become a circle. You won't feel the pokes anymore.

To live is not to survive.

Change your perspective, even if you think you're seeing clearly.

Don't be a dick to kids.

Money may not buy happiness, but it buys comfort.

First, you have to forgive yourself.

Don't panic. Panic drowns thought.

Carelessness is to die.

Your art hot like potato chip.

Remember to take your meds + drink water + eat a snack + unclench your jaw.

If you wouldn't take their advice, don't take their criticism.

'Bad' art that's made with passion is better than 'good' art that has no soul.

Hate is a learned trait. No one is born intolerant.

Love was the law and religion was taught.

Arrive early.

Just because someone looks like you does not make them a friend; just because someone does not look like you, or is unfamiliar, does not make them an enemy.

There are different temperatures and steeping times needed for different types of teas. If you get it wrong, your tea will turn out flavorless or bitter.

Don't store raw meat next to vegetables.

You can't 'just cut the mold' off of soft cheeses, fruits/veggies, or most dairy products.

Boiled water is not the same thing as boiling water.

Bake flour to remove the bacteria. Boil water to remove the bacteria. Put toxic things (such as tarantulas) in boiling water and boil for at least an hour to remove the toxins.

If you don't take yourself seriously, neither will others.

Defeatism is to die.

We are made of stardust.

Never make generalizing statements.

If small things bring you joy, fill your home with small things.

To be cringe is to be free.

Punch 'em in the throat.

[awriterlivinginaconstantdream]

IV A New World

Chapter 1: Lost Bird Sneak Peek

Warnings : plane crash, blood, cuts, scars, bodily fluids, death, slight gore.

I’m so excited to show you guys the rest of it 💕💕💕💕💕💕

Any feedback is welcome 🤗

The heat from the sun baked the dirt into a hard layer, and the breeze lifted small clouds of sand into the air. The flames from the smoldering engines of the plane didn’t cool things down either. No matter where you went, it burned you. Blood painted throughout the plane creating its hellish home of pain and misfortune. A faint rustling was heard from inside the remains; it sounded like it came from something small. Maybe a small animal decided to seek shelter, but even an animal wouldn’t stay somewhere like this. An intricate web of wires trapped anything that remained to be devoured by a slow death while claws of metal scraped painfully if it tried to move. The rustling grew louder as something wiggled to get out. A bloodied hand reached out into the flaming air as it tried to grab something to help in its endeavour. Landing on a broken arm rest, the hand slowly pulled a body out of the pile, it looked weak and fragile. It held onto the arm rest as it tried to stand, shaking as it held itself up only to buckle and land to its knees. Looking closer at themselves, there were several cuts and gashes on their hands, their arms, their face. There wasn’t a sliver of skin that wasn’t covered in sticky blood and dirt. They coughed and hacked as they tried to breathe, everything was painful. BOOM! The second engine of the plane fell off and filled whatever clean air was available with thick, dark smoke. It spread through as if a curtain of death fell over the crashed plane, as if it were trying to drop any survivors. The body did its best to crawl its way out of the curtain. The pain and fear were catching up to them as the smoke began to wrap a dark hand over everything, choking it. Its grip tightening the more the body tried to move. The body tried to wrangle away from it, but its grip became deathly as the smoke thickened with every breath they took. The smoke began to fill their lungs as the body inched closer to the exit. Moving closer and closer with every laboured breath. Wires crackled and sparked as the body brushed against them. Hissing in pain, they pushed forward, keeping their survival at the forefront of their mind.