#the mental blocked have grown so large

[queen-lucy-the-valiant]

Each of the seven Narnia books has a moral message or theme at its foundation. Every major beat of the story is centered on and refers back to this theme, so if you take away or alter the theme, you alter the entire foundation of the story. Obviously these themes/messages align with Christian principles because this is Lewis we’re talking about. So, my interpretations of the themes are the following:

 Magician’s Nephew is about taking responsibilities for your actions, LWW is about being selfless but also about forgiveness, Horse and His Boy is about the golden rule, Prince Caspian is about belief without proof, Voyage is about conquering temptation/evil within yourself, and Silver Chair is about trusting in God’s plan even when it doesn’t make sense, and Last Battle is about hope and doing what you think is good even when it seems hopeless. 

Which I think is one of the reasons the Voyage movie falls flat when compared to the other two. One explanation is that it changes many things from the book, but Prince Caspian does that too. Both movies make drastic changes from their source material, but Prince Caspian doesn’t feel (at least to me) as drastically changed as Voyage, because Voyage’s changes go down to the very foundation of the book’s theme. Lewis is saying that there is ‘evil’ in everyone that we all have to repeatedly overcome while the movie is saying that evil is outside of us and that we can overcome it once and be done with it, which drastically changes the central theme of the story. Prince Caspian on the other hand adds a lot of the story but all of the changes stay true to the central theme of belief without proof (or they correct some of Lewis’ inconsistencies). You can change the details all you want for the most part, but the core theme of the story has to remain the same otherwise it’s just not the same story so it won’t feel the same.

So there’s this really big essay I want to write detailing all the changes and how they alter the theme or go along with the theme etc.

[monstas1ut]

Grown

NAMAMI KENTO x black!reader

Summary

__ black!reader is ravaged, stretched, and disciplined by her older side piece, Nanami Kento. there's no more "trying to work things out" with her boyfriend. not when this older, experienced man is fucking her raw.

Contains

__ size difference, thick reader, reader is cheating, impreg, raw dogging it, nanami smokes, oral fixation, sucking dick heavily, daddy <3, lots of teasing, almost caught

__ brown skin can be dark, light, medium color..whatever. brown is brown.. and it's gorgeous

__ a/n : not truly proof read(which means not really read by me a thousand times before posting. Sorry for any mistakes lol

Patience was a word that originated with the businessman well. There were many things that failed in his life, and yet patience is what drove him to success. It was a mere moral that he went by ever since that day. However, a sudden surge of intensity flowed through him like electricity. It began to nag at him every day, and it scratched at his insides.

It was an itch he somehow couldn’t reach.

It appeared overnight, and the itch would mentally drain him. He knew full well what the issue was, but saying it or admitting it would be his downfall. Everyday he’s tried to forget, shun, and or cause the thoughts to disappear. But he was losing patience with himself. It was hilarious really, but the funniest thing about it was that the root cause of all of this was… pussy.

As blunt and as pathetic as it sounded, the blonde knew all well that this was about pussy.

And this wasn’t any regular pussy.

It wasn’t just pussy.

It was your pussy.

The purest gold between your legs caused Nanami Kento to lose patience. Let’s not get it wrong, he knew he could have it on a silver platter. Nanami knew he could have it at his front door. The man knew he could have it on his balcony. But you were playing around a bit too much for him to snag you right back in. You’ve ignored his calls, avoided his messages, and you’ve surely blocked him from your socials. But this was all a facade and Nanami knew it.

You think a man as smart as him would fall for such nonsense? A few weeks ago you were just beneath him, begging, sobbing, and using that dreamy pussy to quench his thirst. You had no problem parting your legs for him, and you had little to no problem conjuring up a sore throat from giving him brain in his Rolls Royce.

That little boy who was your so-called “boyfriend” was surely the problem. And although you were in your twenties, and your boyfriend also happened to be the same age, Nanami was older. The experience flowed from him like water, and it showed in the ways he’d treat you. That boyfriend of yours was the problem. He showed little to no care towards you, and he’s the one who shacked up with another woman first. You just happened to retaliate a bit better. However you’ve now gotten back with him, and stopped contact with Nanami. That’s what was peeling at him day and night.

But the blonde was tired of games. It was all childish to him, and he’s a grown man with a grown ass dick, he has no time to waste. This was evident whilst he blew out the smoke from his cigar. The night was quiet and only the sound of a lame sitcom show in the background was able to be heard. The tv light glossed over Nanami’s large, weighty hand as it laid on your head. And the sloppy saliva and pre cum surrounded the base of his pole of a cock. The cigar in his hand was laid in the tray on the table near the couch, and he fully relaxed in his position.

“That seems better… Do you not miss it in your throat..?”

There was much tease behind each word, and frankly a load of annoyance. Nanami could contain his emotions well, but with the way he began gripping at your well glued frontal, you knew he was utterly pissed. His fist was full of body wave curls, and you were filled with his girthy cock. It was wrong, yes, but when he invited himself inside of your home and demanded answers, it came to this. There was no answer, you missed this. You wanted this.

You truly needed this.

“Tell me.” With the assertive tone that slipped from his lips, you stared up into his eyes, finally able to breathe as he pulled you off his drenched cock.

“Yes… I m-missed this big dick in my throat daddy..” you practically choked this out with a sob as your throat already felt the raspy tingles. Your lower face was covered in saliva and it was dripping from your chin. Nanami enjoyed seeing that, however he wanted to mess you up. He needed you to be absolutely helpless after this, so helpless and needy that it would be obvious that you got some dick.

“I would like to believe it.”

“I did!….I really really did..” you whined, knowing you sounded far from bratty, even though that was your frame. You were sassy, confident, and sometimes even bitchy, but here you were using your pretty plump lips to drain his cock as best as you could. Your hands were near the base of his cock as you twisted them lightly. Your head bobbed up and down and in a slight circle as your eyes gently rolled. There was something about sucking this man’s dick that made your pussy so profusely wet. You just enjoyed making it sloppy, and you also enjoyed when he’d moan.

Your soft gags are what gives nanami a surge of energy, it gives him a surge of dominance as he lets his head fall back on the back rest of the couch. He could feel one of your hands disappear and it be replaced with the feeling of your tight throat. You were going deeper and deeper just for him, and your throat could barely take it.

All he did was come here to your home for answers, it surely ended up in an argument, but then ended up in a different type of fight.. Now he was about to leave as a soon to be father because he just knew you were about to be knocked up. It was inevitable.

“Shit…” Nanami bit down, baring his teeth behind his lips as he looked down at your messy face. You drooled on his cock before quickly moving your hands up and down his cock. Your pretty brown breasts jiggled underneath your tank top as you did so, entertaining the male just as much as your pink, duck shaped acrylics that decorated his cock.

“Put it back in for me” Nanami’s voice was still stern, it always was, there was always authority running through it. It caused you to not think twice about anything, so of course you put his cock right back in your now slightly, sore throat.

“You listen to everything I say because you are so cock driven, so blank from the pleasure. Even if I demanded your body in front of your little boyfriend you’d still do it.. now wouldn’t you?”

No response, only your whimpers and half nods gave him his answer as you were drowning in the sexiest cock ever. The veins, the pink tip, the large filled balls that were hanging low from the audacity he held. This was no regular man, this was a grown man with only purpose.

His aura was far from plain, it gave off such strong power and confidence in his ability. This is what will cause a bratty girl to fall into the deep end, a grown man. A grown man with a certified big dick, and you could take it. This is why the blonde needed you. Pretty, confident, yet eager to become submissive towards him and him only. No woman would suck dick like this if they didn’t feel submissive.

The way you slurped it, the way you rubbed it on your cheeks before slipping it back in your mouth. Nanami enjoyed it so much that he felt himself slipping into a peak of excitement.

“You must crave my cum with the way you are acting, dear.” The man actually smirked at your state. He enjoyed seeing you this way. Your energy towards other men was a dominant force, hard to get, and more of a ‘hot girl’ as one would call it. It was quite funny when he’d look back on it, especially now.

His veiny hands, filled with pure strength, pulled gently at his tie. He slipped it off and began to undo his buttons on his blue dress shirt. One thing led to another in such simple fashion, and the older man pulled you from his cock, watching the saliva drip and string from your bottom lip. You looked all helpless and adorable… especially messy.

“I will give you what we both need. How’s that sound?” Nanami seemed genuine, and there was a part of him that truly was. But you doubted him the moment he clenched your hair again, his face moving down to hum in your ear.. “hm…?”

Swallowing the underlying fear of how sore your throat will be, you also felt how drenched you were becoming. “Yes sir…” you whispered, watching him move and straighten his posture as he stood before he gripped the base of his cock with his other hand.

You could see every detail of this man, and in this moment before he shoved his hard cock in your mouth, you could see that slight smirk at the corner of his mouth. His glasses were discarded before all of this even occurred, so you could fully see how his eyes even spoke of command. His blonde hair was intact, barely a hair out of place. His skin was airbrushed yet as well as having the sharpest jawline you’ve ever come across.

And this man adored you. He adored those sweet lips and he adored the brown sugary skin that would rub against him. He was far from using you, he was pouring into you. And with the way his cock was now thrusting into your throat, you knew that physically he was soon about to pour into you.

“Your little boyfriend will be coming soon is he not..? A shame that he’ll see you’ve craved my cock again. Maybe this will teach him to be a bit more faithful…” Nanami spoke in a matter of fact type of tone, fairly nonchalant as he watched the tears fall down your face from gagging on his third leg. You could feel it twitch and become harder right then, and you knew he was close to his peak… all of the pleasure you’d given him before hand really riled him up.

“And Maybe this will teach you to listen to me a little more” he actually grumbled that part as his hips moved back and forth, only gripping at your hair tighter to keep you in place. He couldn’t speak much longer without letting out a moan or a breath of air. He would give out firm groans, as well as deep breaths as he watched your pretty eyes roll back. That’s what did it.

It was as if a balloon popped in your mouth. The sudden, thick substance practically coated the back of your tongue, threatening to side down your throat. That’s before he pulled you off and let the rest of his salty sperm fall right on your gorgeous, brown, sun kissed face.

The sexiest thing about it was how willing and how far you’d let him go. His white, thick cum was mainly around your lips, but yet fell on your soft, fluffy eyelash extensions.

A little shaky sigh came from Nanami before he fully composed himself. The wave of pleasure was still passing over him, but he needed to release the rest of the energy you’ve given him. Ever since that nagging feeling hit him over the head, it’s felt like he’s been edging himself this entire time. He didn’t need to do that anymore, not when such a pretty, thick doll was in his possession.

“I think we both realize that I cannot just let you go. Your boyfriend may have had you back, but only for a bit of time. You’ve always known where home was… So come back to me..” nanami effortlessly picked you up from the floor, only fluttering your heart more as you were spoken to in such a dreamy manner. Your back gently touched the couch cushions, and you could truly see how much larger this man was towards you. His muscles ranged. They were large, thick, and far from simple. Each vein was quite prominent and it looked like you could cut them with a piece of paper.

“I won’t ask again, I will only do. And as far as I can recall, you enjoy being taken.”

What you hated was that the older man was correct. His ways of disciplining you, taking and fucking you were the first things you could think of in the morning, even while your boyfriend would be next to you. It was naughty, but it was the truth. That’s why you slowly nodded your head to his words, parting your lips.

“M’sorry…”

“Yes… Yes we both understand that. However, I’d rather see actions than hear words…”

Nanami teased, making sure to make you feel every emotion about this situation. Worry, disappointment, arousal, anger, submission. There were things you couldn’t explain but if you could explain this in one word it would be : ‘control’. Nanami was out of control, yet in control of everything he touched, especially you.

It was obvious in the way you slowly parted your legs, revealing your unfathomable vulnerability. The largest damp spot between your legs, it seeped through the thin, gray shorts that you wore to bed. Sucking Nanami’s cock was enough to do that, and he knew it. He could tell you enjoyed it very much.

“Good girl, lovely job. Actions speak louder than words do they not?”

While speaking such naughty words, the male let his head slowly fall in between your legs. The heat from your gentle pussy caressed him before he kissed the wet spot. “Usually I’d be gentle with you when you’re fairly good… but you’ve caused me to have the most intense lack of sleep.” Nanami huskily whispered as he trailed his rough hands up and down your juicy thigh. There was almost a soft smile on Nanami’s face as he could remember the times you have been good per say.

But today? His smile disappeared ever so slightly, and he gripped your legs before licking his lips. “Turn over.” He demanded as he helped you slide and turn to being on your knees. Those thin grey shorts rode up between your crack, so there’s no way nanami was going to rip them off, that was just extra time. What was better was him sliding them to the side. The soft smell intoxicated him as well..

“Good…” Nanami spoke like silk when he said this to you, and you felt like a feline in heat. All you saw was regret in your future, but you were still here with a nicely arched back. Your ass was large and it had Nanami flustered beyond belief every time he got to see it in its full glory. It was quite obvious how he felt about it, considering that’s the first thing he grabs when sliding in.

Nanami unfortunately didn’t have any remorse for you, and you were quite wet anyway. It’s not that you were being treated like a whore, he was simply treating you like his whore. There was a distinct difference.

And the second that fat, pink tip slipped past your dark lips and into your gushy pussy, you understood. Nothing came close to the feeling of him sliding in with ease, like a puzzle piece. He molded your pussy with his cock plenty of times, and that’s why it fell into place. Of course you were his whore, you were his only whore, that’s why he couldn’t let you go.

“Fits just right, I highly doubt he can fill my spot. You’ve had me for too long, y/n…” of course he had to tease you about it, his hands softly running around your hips and your ass. His thumb hooked on your shorts, holding them to the side so he could make sure to see that pretty pussy even more as he gently began to move his hips. This made him bury into you even more, and that made you want to tap out right then.

“N-..Nanami… ooh fuck~” you whispered this, and he could still hear you. And with his other hand on your lower back, he knew you were just losing it. The wetness from you coated his cock well, and it made it so slick that he slipped out. To be fair it surprised him a little, he’s a large man, and to squeeze and slip him out like that?

Oh you were undoubtedly wet.

“Put it back in, show me how badly you want it, love” there was a sweet softness to his words, and it was far from teasing this go around. He however, awaited you to do exactly what he asked of you. Luckily things didn’t have to get rowdy because you happily followed through with grabbing his pulsing cock. It throbbed, feeling like it almost had a heart beat before you slipped it back in easily.

The feeling was too strong and difficult to simply explain. The way elevator doors opened, the way water splashed through a river, both of those things mixed together explained the sensation at hand. And with each gasp, you felt yourself losing the thoughts completely.

That large pole began digging into you while you felt your mind slip. Nanami could see it in your body movements and the way you tried to release the arch in your back. However, he pushed the hand he had on your back, down. While arched even more, your pussy juices dripped onto the couch. Nanami enjoyed feeling every inch of your hole, as well as the lustful liquids you produced. Wearing a condom was far from what he wanted, and of course you wanted nothing to do with one either. Careless, yes… but he’s already established that he has to trap you some way or another.

This was a mission to knock you up. Nanami hadn’t thought about it until now. He’s completely changed his tune from annoyed to devious. As a grown man, sure he dislikes playing games but playing with you seemed to be the funnest thing he’s been a part of.

He was fucking a pretty babe with an ass so fat that it was as if it was hypnotizing him. The way it recoiled and jiggled for seconds later whenever it hit his pelvis. Or, when he’s pounding in it and it claps against him. Your back shots sounded like heavy office doors slamming, and that was quite loud. That mixed with the pleasant, precious sounds that released from you was golden.

“Daddy!… oh fuck-.. oh fuck daddy stop.. t-too much.. too much of that big fuckin’ dick~!” There was a soft lingering scream coming from you after you tried to talk through those moans. You could feel your insides clenched around that length of his, and you were so tight you didn’t even want to let him continue.

Nanami couldn’t have that, no. His hand forced your shorts fully to the side, stretching them with popping noises making it clear that he’s stretched them out. While doing that, his hands moved like butter to your waist and he leaned forward just a tad. But yet the way he hovered over you, it felt like you were being overtaken. Your chest was on the cushions, but your stomach was hovering. Your ass was perfectly high and your arch was a god’s gift.

“We can’t have that… open up for me.” Nanami sounded almost animalistic when asking you to open up. He wanted you to relax and simply take his cock till he cums. And you knew he wasn’t going to stop until then, which was obvious since he began to thrust more at a downward angle.

This angle was quite the difference, quite the contrast from before. This man was hitting a completely different part of your pussy, and he knew this. His smirk hesitated but stayed once you gripped and slightly tore at your soft couch. “please!?… please~?.. shit!” You breathed in sharply through your teeth, your pretty, glossy eyes rolling back with pleasure.

You were so consumed in the sex that you could barely hear any noise outside. There was a non literal window to the outside world and you were stuck being ripped in two by grown dick. The blonde man had his ways, and he was so physically and mentally powerful that he caused you to blatantly ignore the ringing of your phone and the firm knocks on the door.

It wasn’t rocket science to figure out who that was, and yet you couldn’t care. There were bigger things to worry about. Bigger, thicker and sexier things. Nanami happened to be just that, and he had your full attention and your full body.

“Your little boyfriend has arrived…” Nanami grinned this in your ear, and yet you spoke out something you thought you’d never say. The dick felt so good that you lost yourself for a while.

“I don’t care-.. fuck- I don’t fucking care daddy..”

“J-Just keep beatin’ my pussy up~” you slurred, moving your hands to open your pretty cheeks, revealing the tight hole the pale cock was inside of. Something Nanami could never get tired of..

“You do not have to inform me of that… inform him how badly you want me to ‘beat it up’ when I open that door myself.”

ⓒ Monstas1ut , Do not copy

[mxstellatayte]

Hii could you write a smut one shot w sub Carlos and dom reader?

HOLY JEEZ MY FRIEND

I MOST CERTAINLY CAN HERE YOU GO

(you said one shot and i heard 1.5k words of PURE PORN)

nsfw under the cut <3 minors please do not interact!

warnings: very not beta read! carlos is a whimperer i don't make the rules, friends to fuck buddies to idiots in love, bro meets jesus, legal use of alcohol, making out, sex under the influence, creampie, hickeys, open ending, stupid fluffy vanilla bullshit

it started out with one too many shots of shitty tequila after mexico 2023 and a chayanne song.

gods damned mexican liquor.

max had, yet again, won, except this time, he had broken yet another record. so of course he invited everyone on the grid and their friends out to drinks.

"come on, lia, a couple of drinks won't hurt! plus, i can probably rope carlos into paying."

you and carlos had grown up together in madrid, and you'd always been his biggest supporter in the garage. it didn't matter who else he could've brought along, because when the two of you have a connection so deep that all you need to do to laugh is make eye contact after anyone says something even remotely sexual.

there was always an air of awkward tension between you since that time you accidentally walked past his bedroom door and heard him moan your name. you just pray that, with all the nights you've spent at each other's houses, he's never heard you moan his name while you fingered yourself across the thin walls.

and so here you find yourself, in the center of the dance floor in a club in the heart of mexico city following the grand prix weekend, your heart pounding, your confidence blooming, and your ass grinding up against carlos' crotch to the rhythm of mi gente by j balvin, his large hands resting on your hips.

you aren't sure how the idea springs into your mind, but you'll blame it on the liquid courage. as the next song comes on, you spin around in carlos' hold, your right leg slotting between his own, and that's when you realize it. he's hard. a smirk tugs at your lips and when you look up at his face, your eyes meet and that's when you know. if you don't get out of this stifling club and back to your hotel in the next ten minutes, you might just have to fuck him in one of the vip rooms. your hands come up to rest on his chest and you hinge forward, your lips directly next to his ear.

"you wanna get out of here?"

"please," he says, and the pure desperation in his voice makes your stomach erupt in butterflies.

"then let's go." you grab his hand off of your hip and immediately book it out of the club. thank god your hotel was less than one block down the street, because if you had to drive anywhere, you might've just sucked him off inside the car. your feet hurt from your heels, but with your level of arousal and in your drunken state, you couldn't care less. all that you care about is that this elevator is moving way too slow and that carlos' lips feel so good on your own. the kiss is hot, wet, and messy, a flurry of lips and tongue and teeth, hands scrambling to hold whatever they can.

the elevator reaches your floor, and you've never run faster in heels. you're holding carlos' hand, the two of you running down the hall like a pair of horny teenagers (which, being entirely honest, is the mental state you've been reduced to at the concept of finally fucking your best friend,) and laughing uncontrollably. you almost fall over laughing when he fumbles through his wallet for his keycard, drunken fingers lacking any sort of dexterity. the sound of the door finally unlocking is your favorite sound at the moment, and you throw the door open, push carlos against the nearest wall, and kiss him harder than you've kissed anyone before.

your right hand holds the side of his neck, the tips of your fingers barely weaving into his hair, while your left goes down to cup his incredibly hard cock through his jeans. palming over his erection pulls some of the greatest sounds you've ever heard from him. forget hearing him moan your name through the wall as you pass- instead, hearing his whimpers at your hand is the greatest thing you've ever heard in your whole life.

"are you okay with this?" you pant, your lips coated in a mixture of both of your salivas, carlos' eyes heavy with lust.

"i've been hoping and praying for this for years, amor. please. i need you." without hesitation, you pull him back to you and kiss him with no mercy. he pushes back, stepping forward and eventually gently laying you down on the bed. "need this off," he says, tugging at your dress as he undoes the clasps on your heels and throwing them across the room.

"zipper. back. fuck." his hands somehow regained the dexteriety he lacked five minutes ago as he expertly undoes the zipper of your crimson dress and helps you shimmy out of it.

"ay, diós, you're beautiful." you're left laying on the bed in just your strapless bra and black panties, carlos way too overdressed, and his eyes admiring your body. his lips continue kissing down your neck as his hands reach beneath you and unclasp your bra, hands immediately cupping your tits.

"mm, carlos, as amazing as this is, i need you inside of me in the next sixty seconds."

"as you wish." carlos strips as fast as he can as you pull your panties off, and when he slides into you slowly, you throw your head back and grasp at his upper arms, your breaths heavy and labored. "oh... oh, fuck." his forehead presses to yours when he finally bottoms out inside of you, your breaths mingling as you hold him as close as you can.

"carlos, please. move. i can take it." you emphasize your point with a clench around his girth, and your body heats up infinitely more when he whimpers.

"'m not gonna last long if you keep doing that," carlos groans, and you tease him once more with another flutter of your walls around him.

"i'm not either, but i need you to fuck me right now, baby." he responds by pulling his hips back, then pushing back into you. he maintains a steady pace, and your moans continue with every punching thrust. "feels so good, baby, just like that."

"keep... keep doing that. please?" from the way his dick twitched inside of you when you praised him, who would you be to deny him such a request when he asked so nicely?

"mmgh, carlos, so good. faster, baby, please, i'm close. i'm so close." his hips snap into you faster, and you moan loudly as your nails scrape at his broad back and shoulders, surely leaving marks that will raise and turn red with time. with the pain, carlos' volume matches your own, and you can't help but grin as he bites at your neck, leaving his own marks for you to admire later. you yell with his left thumb comes to play with your clit, finding the bundle of nerves after a moment of searching, and he rubs tight hard circles that have you cumming hard.

"oh, fuck, carlos, i'm cumming, i'm cumming, oh my god. just like that baby, so good, so so good." you're reduced to a babbling, mindless, moaning mess, and your eyes are held open as they focus on carlos' face, eyebrows creased in pleasure, lips hanging open, and eyes shining with pleasure.

"i'm gonna cum, amor. i'm... where? where do you want it?"

you don't hesitate for an instant before mumbling out an "inside. inside, baby," and carlos' hips stutter and he cums inside of you with a groan. the warmth of his cum inside of you turns you on more than you could ever imagine, but you're too exhausted and fucked out to even consider a second round at the moment. "just like that, baby. just like that. ah~" you moan one last time when he pulls out of you, both of you panting and gasping hard for breath. carlos flops down on his stomach next to you, completely boneless and fucked out, and drapes his right arm over your waist.

"thank you," he mumbles into your neck. "i've wanted to do that for years."

"so have i," you say, the post-orgasmic haze crawling over your body. your eyes are heavy, but they snap open when you hear what carlos says next.

"you aren't that quiet, and your walls are thin."

your head rises from the pillow to look down at him. "cabrón, are you telling me you heard me moan your name and you didn't tell me?!"

"yeah, i guess so. i wanted to tell you after we finished secondary school, but you were with that other guy... what was his name? manuel? mateo?"

"matías," you laugh, bringing your hand that isn't gently playing with his hair up to your face, giggling hysterically. "i only got with him in hopes that you'd get jealous or something!"

"en serio? we were that blind?"

"i guess we were." you both burst out in laughter at your dual idiocy, but as you calm down, sleep takes its grasp on both of you, and you eventually succumb to its hold, safe in each other's embrace.

[hells-wasabii]

I’m shamelessly asking for some Carmilla Carmine x fem!reader where reader gets nearly killed during extermination day, maybe severely hurt kind of thing cuz I’m a sucker for angst

A/N: And I am shamelessly answering this wholeheartedly Can I just say that I love Carmilla?? And one can never have enough angst. I went ahead and decided to make it a drabble

A/n's A/N: I came back after finishing this, i really didn't mean for it to get so long. It's not a drabble anymore, it's a short fic. the word count is nearly three times what i usually allot for my drabbles.

Character: Carmilla

Type: Fic (Carmilla x fem!reader injured during extermination, Angst, Fluff)

All it takes is one second. Time meant everything during the annual extermination. If you drop your guard, let yourself get distracted, it could mean certain death. This was something that Carmilla had been extra diligent in teaching her daughters, and something that she had always reminded you, her love, her heart, of constantly.

You would always offer a soft smile of reassurance, pressing a kiss to the overlord's hand.

But things don't always go as planned, do they?

No one expected to get separated.

There had been an explosion that had taken out most of the city block. Some sinner trying to put up a fight before their inevitable demise, her daughters informed her after the fact. She had found Odette and Clara easily, both on the same side of the blast as she had been, but she had lost sight of you. You hadn't been caught in the blast, she knew that for sure. You were durable enough for something as measly as that to not be of much effect, anyhow.

But the fact that she didn't know where you had gone made her nervous. No one was truly safe during the exterminations, only hellborns and the king.

Her blood ran cold when your scream met her ears, her head snapping in the direction.

No.

Carmilla was in motion before her mind could catch up. The arms dealer instinctively ran through the streets littered with death and destruction, Clara and Odette calling after her. It wasn't like their mother to act so impulsively.

Turning the corner, there you were, lying in a slowly growing pool of blood. The arms dealer deflated upon seeing you in such a state. If only she had gotten here sooner. Luckily, the exorcist has gone. Likely to chase down some other damned soul like an animal, she thought bitterly. Skidding to a stop, she dropped to her knees at your side.

You were in a bad state, disheveled, bruised, bloodied. The worst of it appeared to be a rather large stab wound just above your hip, likely from some sort of spear.

But you were still breathing, nonetheless. You could still be saved. Hope bloomed in Carmilla's chest, as she pushed aside your blouse to better reveal the worst of your injuries.

"Girls," Carmilla called out once she was sure that it was safe for them to follow.

As she checked you for other injuries her daughters knelt by her side.

"Mother, here." Clara sounded as frantic as Carmilla felt. The overlord briefly turned to her daughter, surprised to find her taking off her coat to offer her. "To apply pressure," her daughter clarified. Her heart swelled at the action, accepting the coat and pressing it to your wound.

"Look!" Odette called out, and out of the corner of her eye, Carmilla saw her pointing to the sky. "The angels are retreating!"

"She's right!" Clara chimed in, placing a hand on her mother's shoulder, "We should get her back home, then we can tend to the wound properly."

Carmilla had never felt prouder of her daughters, they truly had grown into exceptional young women. She made a mental note to properly thank the both of them once things had settled.

But home was too far away, they would never make it there before you bled out. Lady luck was on your side as the four of you hadn't been too far from one of their safe houses, however, they needed to move quickly before you lost too much blood.

The next hour and a half were a blur. The moment they had unlocked the door to the safe house the Carmines got to work

Your wounds were cleaned and dressed. Carmilla herself had been the one to wash off the blood and dirt that caked your skin and you were laid up in bed. Odette and Clara had left once they were sure you would recover, choosing to give you and their mother space.

The arms dealer couldn't help feeling partially responsible. She thought if only she had been more diligent, and kept you close to her, maybe you wouldn't be left in such a state. The realization hit her, hard. She could have lost you.

"Carmilla?" your voice pulled the overlord from her thoughts. You were awake! In an instant she was by your side, taking your hand in hers.

"It's okay darling, Everything is alright now." You don't answer, at least not with your words. instead, with a grateful smile turning up the corners of your lips, you gave her hand a gentle squeeze. She couldn't help but return the smile, relieved. Leaning down, she pressed a kiss to your temple.

"Funny, for a moment there, I thought I'd somehow made it to heaven. Mistook you for an angel," you managed out a strained laugh, though you immediately regretted it when a sharp pain shot through your lower abdomen. Your smile returned, however, as Carmilla couldn't help but roll her eyes. But you had met your mark, the arms dealer finally let the tension leave her body.

"Mi amore."

"Yes, Carmilla?" You at first thought that the arms dealer was going to scold you for making light of the situation. You never would have expected the next words out of her mouth. She breathed out, gaze softening, her request was barely above a whisper.

"Marry me."

[system-of-a-feather]

Honestly, real talk, I feel like people largely do not understand just how much characters within those who are maladaptive daydreamers and/or were maladaptive daydreamers literally are "parts of them" and how both healing and destructive that dynamic can be and I find that a bit visible with how people in DID communities talk about maladaptive daydreaming as a "form of plurality"

Its an absolutely different experience but that doesn't mean that the label of "plural" isn't equally suitable. Since that topic has come up on our radar like way back half a year or year ago, we honestly have been thinking about it as someone who is considered "recovered" from DID and has recovered from maladaptive daydreaming but still has a brain that functions creativity and imaginative worlds with the same semi-autonomous functions whether I like it or not

And honestly? My characters are very much not "my creation", nor are they "just my OCs" - the very way all of my character are made and at this point the only way I know how to write and make characters is by taking a part or aspect of myself (conscious or subconscious) and throwing it out there with a name and face. That part of myself engages with the world I created and develops within the narrative and impacts the world itself.

I repeat and do this for all my characters and the world that I have created serves as a hypothetical exploratory way to understand, engage with, and explore very complex topics with exaggerated and isolated parts of myself. I have never really "planned" a character of given them traits or really anything other than a basic premise of a name, MAYBE a gender, and a vague role and I let them define their own story. No real character arc planning. No real likes and dislikes. No real narrative or secret message.

The function and means of which that I "created" these OCs and the level of which I don't control the way they form and grow is extremely similar to how I "create" alters, albeit one is far more voluntary and intentional than the other and one is physically sharing my life with me and the other is sharing a mental world with me.

((Additionally I don't engage in the mental world I made for them beyond the half joke that I'm the god of the gods of that world and they dont know))

The dynamics I have with my characters is WAY WAY WAY different than my parts / alters but BOTH my characters (maladaptive daydreaming) and my alters (DID) are equally fair to call "parts of me" and "parts of a whole" in a very literal not "Oh yeah Im a writer and this character means a lot to me theyre a part of me"

With my writing partner (who does this as well) we regularly use our characters as well to explain what we are going through / how we are feeling to help facilitate real talk and venting a lot because we have a mutual understanding that while this is a story and these are our characters, both of us have "built" this world by literally giving very specific aspects of ourselves the ability to explore, grow, and learn in a world and that while some have grown SO far from who we are now, they represent an aspect and potential part of us that could have been should something have gone one way in a specifically extreme way in a specific environment.

With that in mind, I absolutely feel its fair to compare DID and MaDD "plurality" with some obvious understanding that while there are similarities they are also different (AND THATS OK).

Cause honestly? If I actually talked to my characters (like a lot of people with MaDD tend to do) I could see myself calling and feeling as though they were a system and I don't think it would be all that inaccurate and wrong. I don't have that experience as my MADD and DID are mostly entirely two seperate dissociative coping mechanisms, but I know for a fact the line between the two is a lot less clear and its just food for thought

-----------------

[SYSCOURSE AND DEBATE WILL BE BLOCKED.]

[Good faith conversation and discussion is WELCOMED and ENCOURAGED.]

[If you don't know the difference, don't add on.]

[whatgaviiformes]

Fic: Muted/Unmuted

Summary: A visit to his brother's university doesn't go as planned - but it's what was needed.

Characters: Virgil, John

Words: 3K

Warnings: depression, hinted.

A/N: I have a small contribution. Look, it's been so long, I'm going to drop this and run. Have 3K of Virgil playing piano.

Or, Read on Ao3

~*~

Muted/Unmuted

The restaurant had a coat check, and that’s how John knew he’d have to use the Tracy name to get himself a table coming in without a reservation like he was. Taking advantage of their privilege wasn’t among his favorite things to do - or any of theirs really - but he made a mental note to donate to a local food kitchen, deciding the time with Virgil was worth him using his name for personal reasons.

“Near the music, if available,” he advised the hostess once he’d handed over his gray overcoat. Though it looked flat on the hanger, it was specially tailored to his silhouette. Around his neck, he continued to wear the long, wide scarf he’d walked in with. It had kept him warm walking through the campus of Denver Tech. Though it was warmer inside the building, he’d carried some of the outside chill with him. He’d been out walking a lot longer than he’d intended - once he’d managed to find the Edwards building from Virgil’s scrawl, one of his suitemates had redirected him into town, here, where Virgil had apparently picked up a last minute shift. 

John hadn’t even known that Virgil was working, not with the coursework he had on his plate to keep up with his two majors. But Virgil was like Scott, like John himself, and like their father before them: a man of action. He liked to keep his hands busy. 

He couldn’t deny the skip in his step, for it had been too long since he’d had a chance to visit Virgil in person, let alone had the chance to listen to his music live. Gordon or Alan or even Scott would’ve lamented the time lost, especially when the weekend was already so short to begin with, before finding something else to keep themselves busy. But John had arrived earlier than expected and it made him smile to know nothing had really changed about his brother since going their separate ways to University. Virgil would always step up when he was needed. 

There was nothing John would rather be doing with his first evening visiting than spending a few hours listening to his brother play the piano. The large textbook adding weight to his satchel reminded him he had his own studying he could do. It would be just like old times -  him lounging in the armchair deep in a book and Virgil practicing his scales and arpeggios before launching immediately into whichever piece was his current creative outlet. Sometimes it was the school play, sometimes a competition piece, and for a while his Juilliard entry, back when he thought he might apply. 

“I’ll likely settle down here for a while,” he advised the woman seating him as he relieved himself of the weight on his shoulder and placed his bag on the private booth before sliding in himself. 

“Of course, Mr. Tracy.” 

Privacy curtains blocked out the tables in his periphery, and though he wasn’t directly in front of where Virgil would play, they had secured him a space adjacent to the small stage space with two pianos, currently empty. 

He worried not about the clientele, letting the people fade away from his mind. But he was curious about the place his brother spent so much of his time, noting the soft, warm lighting, swirls of cloudy marble for each table counter, and seating cushioned with velvet. The kind of luxury they’d grown up with. 

Movement at his left caught his eye as Virgil situated himself at the piano. A black suit, slimming, but not among those specially tailored to his form, gave him the appearance of similar elegance. John recognized it for what it was, a uniform just as much as those worn by the other employees. A tie, nondescript enough that he couldn’t make out its coloring in this light. Though his hair was gelled into his usual coif. 

When he noticed John's eyes on him, Virgil gave him a small smile in acknowledgement from across the tables as he flexed his wrists in preparation for his set. John waved back, then opened his textbook to the latest chapter.

The piano keys, pliant under Virgil's capable fingertips, fluttered familiar melodies with the accompaniment of gently clinking glassware and the hum of dinner chatter. For awhile, John lost himself in physics, math, possibility, and theory. A glass of amber, cooled by stone, opened his mind to think a little looser and with a little less pressure sitting behind his brow. 

He thanked the server for bringing out his first course and used the opportunity to glance around the room. For as much as he liked to keep to himself, people-watching was among his favorite pastimes. When they were younger, he and Virgil used to make up backstories for the people they encountered. It had been a simple form of entertainment and yet great practice for their respective creative endeavors where they both relied on their powers of observation and expression. 

But for all the exercises in years past, his brother stole his gaze this evening, so familiar and yet changed in the months since they'd seen each other last. His face had filled out a little around his high cheekbones, five o'clock shadow a bit more prominent in the evening light. The suit squared his strong shoulders, and it made him seem bigger behind the instrument. Not that Virgil ever seemed small sitting at the piano keys, not with the way he enchanted audiences and conjured emotions in tones. 

Virgil was unaware of his prying eyes, his expression locked on the space where his sheet music usually rested. It was blank. Where his fingers flew over the keys with ease, the music itself was beautiful. Light and ever so gentle. But looking over the crowd, enamored with their respective dining partners or focused on the business portions of their dealings that evening, not one gave a care to the direction of the music. So much so that Virgil was practically background; when he paused between songs, there was no applause or acknowledgement to his performance. 

John’s antipasto turned in his stomach, the silverware suddenly loudening in his ears in a moment where Virgil paused and caught him looking, no doubt his expression bewildered. Barely a breath, and his brother was back in his set. And this time, with his mind less divided with his schoolwork set to the side, John heard it. 

The music was beautiful. That hadn’t changed, and Virgil was as precise as ever.

But it was soulless, as lifeless as the chestnut eyes that refused to meet his. 

~*~

Virgil performed two more sets after the first finished, three in total spanning from six to half after nine, with short breaks in between where he scurried somewhere in the back. John tried both times to catch him on his way to the restroom, but both times his brother had eluded him. After the second, a part of him wondered if the disappearing act was intentional. 

“Would you like a refill, Mr. Tracy?” a server asked, a gloved hand reaching for his glass of water before he could answer. “Do you know him, sir?” she asked, noticing his gaze during the final set. “The pianist?”

The more he watched, the more he noticed. There was a lack of embellishment, and his heart pounded over the lack of flourishes in the melodies. After a while, every tune started to sound like the same song repeated, Virgil’s movements rote and uninspired. 

“No.” 

“Oh, well, if you are into music, we have dueling pianos every Thursday night. It’s a bit more lively with two of them.”  

“Does V- he ever play?” 

“Oh, yes, sometimes he’s on the schedule. But you’ll want to come for Monsieur Allard. Should I see about securing you a reservation this upcoming week, Mr. Tracy?” 

John shook his head and broke the news that he was just in town for the weekend, waiting until she’d left to hiss out the breath he’d been holding. It wasn’t the server’s fault that Virgil was playing at barely half his talent, stifled and muted in this space of opulent luxury. It was apparent they didn’t know who Virgil really was, otherwise she wouldn’t have asked. And if John knew his brother, that had been intentional, a place to unwind where he could just play and not be his father’s son with their name marketed for the clientele. 

But, oh, the cost. He didn't know everything, yet. He intended to find out, but one thing he knew - this place was bleeding the life from him. 

He paid his check long before Virgil finished, loath to linger any longer than he needed to in the restaurant. His meal had been as luxurious as their menu boasted, and though the decadent flavors had turned flavorless in his observations, he sent his compliments to the chef and left a generous tip nonetheless. 

Out front, he received in message form. And with that he slung his messenger bag back over his shoulder, retrieved his coat, and happily left the building behind him.

Virgil beamed when he saw him, his arms laden with a garment bag and struggling with his phone. He'd since changed into casual jeans and flannel where the collar peeked through a similar overcoat. 

"You made it!" he laughed, pushing off the wall he was leaning on and slinging his free arm around John's thin shoulders. 

"A bit early," John admitted, the excitement infectious. 

"Come on," Virgil gestured In the direction of campus. "A short walk then we can get you out of the cold." 

They walked in step, and Virgil voiced the directions as they went. John had memorized them on his way in the first time, but there was no reason for him to tell Virgil that, especially when the instructions came with storytelling about which classes he had in the buildings they passed or which dormitories had the most drama. 

"The arts building is to your left." 

John didn't know what to say. He knew Virgil didn't have any classes there; they'd discussed their respective semesters at length this past summer. 

Virgil smiled at him, and it seemed genuine. 

But those eyes. John couldn't ease the turn in his stomach left by the way they looked through him. The glassiness he'd witnessed was long gone, but that didn't mean whatever was doing that to his brother was resolved. 

And they'd seen this before. 

"Are you okay?" The words burst out of him. "You'd tell one of us if you weren't, right?" 

Virgil's expression crumpled. 

John stopped in his tracks, a tentative hand reaching for his elbow "Virgil?"

"Why do you ask?" he replied, spinning toward him. 

“You - you just didn’t seem like yourself.” John dropped his hold on him.

Virgil sighed, wincing as the instinct to tug at his hair left residue on his fingers. He rubbed them anxiously on his jeans. “I guess I owe you an explanation.”

“It’s who they want you to be.”

He bowed his head. “I’m Vince Tanner there; I really thought I’d be doing right by mom’s name. I’d be playing after all. Anyway, I’m sorry I didn’t come say hello; they have rules around us approaching the dinner patrons.” 

“They what?!”

“Anything on the set list has to be pre-approved, all these crowd pleasers. They all sound the same after a while, you know? And I’m not normally so irritated by repetition; but I can’t even -”

Virgil reached out his hands before him, as if invisible keys had sprung out to answer where the words couldn’t, and he played a tune John couldn’t hear. “I tried once. They said I was too disruptive to the guests.” 

John hummed. “What about this Allard person? He any good?”

Virgil snorted. “He sounds sophisticated and smart.”

“Do you get to release any of that,” - he didn’t have the music theory knowledge for the right descriptions, but he knew Virgil understood what he meant - “during the dueling piano nights?”

“No. That whole thing is a joke, and we’re supposed to be there to make Andre sound good. That’s all.”

“Virgil!” At this time of night, the campus was still busy with night owls like themselves or those returning from evening festivities at their party or tavern of choice -  some even on their way to. John didn’t care how his voice raised. There was no visible wound, but Virgil was being bled dry nonetheless. “Why do you even show up?”

“Diego called out sick.” 

“Not just today. Any day. Why are you letting them do this?”

For that, if Virgil had an answer he didn’t share it, his jaw tight. In the yellow light of the street lamps, his skin turned sallow, and he’d crossed his arms over his chest. To protect himself from the cold or from the conversation, John didn’t know fully. But Virgil always did wear his heart on his sleeve. 

“You’ve given me an explanation. Thank you,” John stepped in front of him and grasped him by the shoulders. “But that’s still not an answer.” 

“Can you let it go?” Virgil pleaded, his voice small and deflated. “I don’t want to bring this visit down anymore than it has been.”

“No, I can’t.”  

He glanced up, his eyes welling. “I’m fi-”

“You’re not.”

“No,” Virgil shook his head finally, “I’m really not.” He tightened his arms around himself, breathing deep to push back the swell of tears threatening to fall. “I’m not okay. I’m not.”

This would be the moment big brother would have wrapped him in a hug, Gordon would’ve done the same long before, and Alan wouldn’t have known to push that hard. But John? John had a different answer. Keeping his hands firmly on his brother’s heaving shoulders, he urged them both out of the walkway and toward the building they’d just passed. 

~*~

John let Virgil believe the door had just been open; his rule-abiding would’ve had him running all the way back to Kansas if he’d known they’d broken into the music and arts building. The lock jammer built into his watch was a gift from Parker upon John’s graduation. He hadn’t known if it would work on its own; he’d only had his hope that Denver was as unaware of their security issues as Cambridge. But sure enough, John budged the door open easily and ushered his older brother through the threshold. 

After admitting his struggles Virgil had gone silent. That was ok, John knew. At this stage, the music would speak where Virgil couldn’t yet. 

“Do you know where the music room is?” he asked him. “That’s ok,” he continued when Virgil shook his head mutedly. “We’ll find it.” To the center seemed to be a concert hall, with a gallery lined along the walls of the surrounding hallways. Likely the classrooms would be further back. John stepped further into the left hall, looking for any indication of whether it was approaching the art wing or the music one. 

“Here.” John cocked his head at his brother’s voice, where Virgil was holding the door to the concert hall open and gesturing for John to come back the way he came. “They have a few performances this weekend,” Virgil explained thinly. “I figured the piano might still be here.” 

The theater was Virgil’s space, not John’s, and within a few minutes, Virgil had found the controls he needed to give them a bit of light. The grand piano was situated stage right, facing towards the orchestra seating to provide the audience a side view of the instrument and the pianist. 

While the audience seating looked much more comfortable, John opted for grabbing one of the chairs set up for the back violins and pulled it closer to Virgil’s side. He wanted to stay close. Virgil hands hovered over the keys. Bright eyes looked over to him, unsure.

 “I don’t know where to start.” 

“Play something you wanted to play tonight. Something not on the approved setlist.” John couldn’t help the condemnation laced in his words, nor did he try to. 

Virgil’s flat smile twitched at the edges, and he huffed in agreement, though the sound was shadowed by a trickle of tones that molded into an elaborate musical story. 

Angry and somber, the melody from Virgil’s hands was familiar and the instinct to fill in the poetry of the words overtook him - not enough for John to sing out loud, but with each progressing chord he felt a jolt to his gut. 

It was a cry, a song lamenting the loss of times of war. 

“It feels so wrong to feel the way I feel when there’s this happening. Every day, when I wake up my thoughts drift to Scott, and I wonder what he’s seen that day. How much worse it must be to be in the thick of all this violence.” 

His breath hitched. 

“I want to play something that matters.” 

A harsh crescendo of notes from Virgil’s left hand. The right continuing the melody, softly while the chord bounced along the auditorium and faded. 

“Something mom would be proud of.” 

He stopped. 

“You know,” John tried. “Others’ experiences don’t negate your own just by being worse. I’m worried for Scott too.” 

A flicker of life with a trill, and his hands fell to his sides. 

He looked at John. “Every day my decisions feel like mistakes. Would dad be proud of the path I’ve chosen? Would mom understand? I feel so wrong and worthless. All the time.”

“Oh, Virgil.” 

He sucked in a breath and turned away, hands poised back above the ivory. “This isn’t going to be pretty.”

“Doesn’t need to be, just make it real.” John leaned forward, then asked if Virgil wanted him to go.

Virgil shook his head. “No. You can stay.”

Vulnerable with the cover of night, in a space sacred to Virgil, emotion poured from him, fragmented at first - anger, sadness, jubilance quieted all too quickly - before they converged into a jumble of sound and frustration. 

His soul bled beat after beat. A refrain of Juilliard’s audition pounded from the heart. 

Slashed with another, until it was the two melodies speaking to each other before one assimilated the other.

The cry of war mashed with the trill from earlier, turned minor with panic and worry, persisting. Unrelenting - soulless and lifeless. 

And then it built back up from a singular note, repeated into a quickened pulse, blurred with discordance, then the themes came back, louder, fiercer. Crescendoed while Virgil’s heart purged itself upon the keys.

Songs from the restaurant cascaded around them, the pretty made furious as it washed over them.

Virgil pushed back from the piano stool, standing, his whole self looming over the the movement of his hands, while he borrowed from the strength of his trembling arms and shoulders and back as he pounded on the instrument - and pounded until the music left them breathless, choked of air until there was only heat and noise. Until -

He broke.

A sob slashed the last chord, and Virgil fell to the stage with a thump of his large form. John tumbled forward to his knees in front of him, the pressure behind his own eyes released from watching. But at least Virgil hadn’t been alone. And as soon as he was near enough, Virgil launched himself at the closest brother he had while John gathered him close and whispered not that he was ok, but that he wouldn't be alone.

[kingofthewilderwest]

Moral Orel hit me in a sweet spot. I think it’s beautiful seeing fans on different paths discussing how the show touched them. I’ve seen people who’ve left the church, agnostics, atheists, and Christians all say the show spoke deeply to them. Of course the show’s black humor on religion offended many, especially before its last season aired, but I think the show’s resulting legacy - connecting to people who’ve both left and who’ve stayed - demonstrates successful nuance to how Moral Orel was crafted.

The show’s creators have said it’s not against religion per se, it’s against hypocrites. Even with the first season, I felt that and found appreciation (frankly, joy) for what was satirized. Here was a show speaking up, exaggerating, and lampooning the facets of Protestant American Christian culture I’ve vented about in confidence to relevant friends and family - without, like many modern shows which tackle this subject do, mocking followers themselves, faith itself, and suggesting to viewers one way of life is better than another, one group of people is (ex: intellectually) superior to another.

Some people have stepped away from Moral Orel and said, “This show comforted me when I left church,” or outright, “This show taught me there is no god.” And that’s not an unfair way to interact with Moral Orel because it doesn’t preach what you “should” do there (a sign of mature writing, really). I stepped away from Moral Orel and said, “This show comforted me in the areas I get frustrated,” which assuages my feelings and makes me more confident in my faith and place within culture.

I feel awkward in contemporary culture because I was raised with minimal secular exposure - daughter of a worship pastor, student at a private Christian school until high school. Meanwhile, in adulthood, I didn't attended church functions for over a dozen years. My group of friends have largely been non-Christians who hold negative opinions about the religion and don’t live remotely similar lifestyles to what I was raised with. I love what I've learned from them. Unfortunately, this also means the cultural building blocks that make me who I am seem shared by no one I'm around, which, even though I'm in my 30s, remains disorienting.

On the flipside, I'm the weirdo with the third eye in Christian spaces, too. I’m an ever-thirsty knowledge-seeker who strives to comprehend forbidden topics from all angles. I spent my twenties researching, questioning, rebuilding knowledge, and critically analyzing everything about the Bible. Church attendees and services feel painfully artificial, with mental blockers to topics I feel are critical to understand.

In either community I partake in, I feel “off.”

I’m grateful to have been raised by parents who didn’t pussyfoot around issues, with a father who deep-dives research. Discussions, delving, and digging into the hard stuff has always been fostered. My family spoke to pastors when we disagreed with their theology. I grew up around people who practiced passive acceptance, but my family was not that.

In the last year, I’ve returned more strongly to my faith and have been reintegrating with the Christian community. In some areas, my faith has grown and, humbly, I’ve learned much from peers. Despite stereotypes, I want to note that, in certain fields, the church community has always been deep and meticulous! And there are so many beautiful and uplifting areas in the church. But likewise there are those areas that get assumed, aren’t questioned, and aren’t… responded to well by questioning spirits. There have always been areas in the church culture I find disingenuous, foolish, illogical, limited, oversimplified, denialistic, or susceptible to hypocrisy and immorality. I’m not better than any person on this planet, but I’m rubbing shoulders with a community that has different blinders than I do, who don’t even consider asking the types of questions or seeking out the information I find necessary for a solidified faith.

Moral Orel disparages the toxic elements of Protestant culture, the misinterpretations, the artificial facades, the mindless assumptions, the poorly-hidden underbelly, all the areas Christian community can and does go wrong. It makes me feel justified feeling awkward in two worlds: someone for whom Christianity is deeply important, but someone whose mindset doesn’t jive with the rest of the town. Someone who can find and wants to find the best lessons outside of Christianity. Someone who believes in questioning, rethinking constantly, raising her eyebrows at common notions within church culture, and striving for the actual love, sincerity, dedication, and goodness our faith should be based on.

[f1writingbyme]

The Nights Are Long (But It's Easier Together)

IT'S FINALLY HERE!

My God, this took me forever

My first ever longer work of fiction. It took me months to finish it, but I'm so extremely PROUD of what I created and I hope you will enjoy it!

I want to give a very special shoutout to Mona (@lestappenforever) who has been my ROCK and an absolute ANGEL whilst I was writing. Mona, thank you for listening to my rambling, reading every single thing I sent to you, for your thoughts and input and not to forget, the betaing! I love you so, so, so much, words can't describe how much I appreciate you! ❤️

You can read it here.

Summary: The fire in his apartment is only the beginning of a long list of misfortunes that await Max. Fortunately, he has Charles by his side to help him through it. That is until Charles is the one that gets targeted.

PLEASE NOTE THAT THE CATS DO NOT EXIST IN THIS FIC. I REPEAT: THE CATS DO NOT EXIST! Please don't hate me.

Enjoy the first bit here.

The party is in full swing. Leave it to Lando to plan a well attended party during summer break where normally everybody would disappear to another country to not see any of the other drivers, having seen plenty enough of them during the race season. Charles knows, because normally he would have fucked off to some country where he could lie on the beach and drink cocktails for most of the day, spending time with his brothers and mother, and maybe some other family too, before having to turn back to full concentration again. 

But for some reason, most of the drivers were here and Charles realizes he is actually truly enjoying himself. He’s on the couch next to Pierre, listening to some kind of story George is slurring at them, having had just two too many drinks by now. Charles knows he should have stopped him when he gets up to get another refill, leaving both Pierre and him on a cliffhanger, but he isn’t particularly bothered with George’s alcohol intake. He’s a grown man who knows what he’s doing - or at least most of the time. He can deal with his own hangover tomorrow. That is not Charles’ job. 

He takes the break from George’s rambling as an opportunity to glance across the room. Every driver he gets along with on the grid is present, along with some friends of Lando he already knows, but the majority of the crowd is unknown to him. The only thing he knows is that some of the female friends present are more interested in all the drivers surrounding them than in their actual friends. If you could even call them friends. 

Charles’ attention is drawn to the corner on his right. Max, Daniel, Martin Garrix — Martijn, Charles corrects himself mentally — are stood in a some resemblance of a triangle so that they can all face each other, listening to Martijn telling a story. Charles sees that Daniel is fully invested, eyes wide, a large smile on his face as he nods along. Max, on the other hand, is also listening, but every few minutes or so, he’s distracted by his phone, frowning at the screen, before rejecting the call. He then presses some things on his screen and to Charles it seems like he’s blocking the number. Unfortunately, he has had to do that himself one too many times. 

Max’s attention is back to Martijn, taking a big sip of his gin and tonic. A bit of the drink runs down his chin. and Max uses the back of his hand to wipe it away. Charles’ eyes are glued to it, the movement of the big hand wiping away the little drop of the alcoholic drink before it makes its way down his neck. His strong, muscled neck. Charles wishes the drop had made its way down, just so he could–

“Tu regardes,” Pierre’s voice breathes in his ear. (“You’re staring.”)

It startles Charles, spilling half of his own drink over his hand and on his trousers. He feels the blush creep up his face, painting his cheeks a dark shade of red. He rips his eyes away from Max and his group, because they have all turned to face the two men on the couch after hearing Charles’ rather loud gasping and spluttering. The spluttering ends in a coughing fit, and tears gather in Charles’ eyes as he desperately gasps for air.

“He’s fine,” he hears Pierre say as he pats his back. 

Through his watery eyes he sees that Pierre is talking to Max, who looks at Charles in concern, but smiles after Pierre’s words and turns back to Martijn, who restarts his story again, not paying attention to a slowly suffocating Charles Leclerc. 

“Calamar, tu dois vraiment te contenir,” Pierre says once Charles has caught up with his breathing. (“Calamar, you really need to contain yourself.”)

“Je n'ai rien fait,” Charles wheezes. (“I didn’t do anything.”)

“Oui, continuez à vous le dire,” Pierre snorts and then, when Charles frowns at him, he adds, “Vous étiez pratiquement en train de baver en le regardant.” (“Yeah, keep telling yourself that. You were practically drooling whilst staring at him.”)

“Je n'étais pas.” (“I was not.”)

“Tu l'étais.” (“You so were.”)

“Tais-toi,” Charles mumbles, finishing whatever is left of his drink. (“Shut up.”)

Pierre sighs deeply. He turns to face his friend, bringing his head closer to Charles’ to have a little bit more privacy in a crowded room full of strangers. "Tu n'as pas à prendre de décision maintenant, mais s'il te plaît, Charles, soit tu lui parles, soit tu l'oublies. Arrête de te faire du mal à cause de lui. S'il te plaît." (“You don’t have to make a decision right now, but please, Charles, either talk to him or forget about him. Stop beating yourself up about him. Please.”)

Charles wants to reply to that, he really wants to, but he simply can’t. It’s not as easy as Pierre makes it sound. He can’t just forget about Max, but he also can’t just go and talk to him about the stupid little crush he has on the Dutchman, either. Or, as Pierre likes to say, ‘just tell him you are head-over-heels in love with him’. Charles neither confirms nor denies that he used a bit too much force behind his punch on his best friend’s arm after he said that.  

Just as Charles is ready to vocalize the answer he has formed in his head, he’s interrupted by Max’s ringtone yet again that evening. How many calls has he already received, Charles thinks, and he realizes this must have been the sixth time within the last hour he has heard the phone ringing. He expects Max to yet again decline the call and block whoever is calling him, but he sees him frown at his screen before excusing himself to Daniel and Martijn. Charles watches him as he makes his way to the somewhat quieter kitchen area, answering the call. He sees that Max is trying to speak to the person on the other side, but every time he tries to get a word out, he stops again, probably being interrupted by the person on the other end of the phone, gesturing wildly with the hand that isn’t holding the phone, pacing back and forth in the kitchen area.

Curiosity getting the best of him, Charles excuses himself to Pierre under the pretense of getting a refill as he makes his way over to the kitchen where Max is. He knows that Pierre thinks he is finally going to declare his undying love for the Dutchman, judging by the smirk on his face. Charles rolls his eyes. Of course he’ not going to tell Max how he feels. If he ever decides to tell him how he feels, he will definitely pick a much quieter location to do said thing, away from the prying eyes of female strangers and crowded rooms. 

Charles sets his glass down on the counter and opens the fridge, listening in on Max’s heated conversation. That’s what he expects it to be; heated. He expects to hear him angry, but what he definitely doesn’t expect is to hear Max trying to speak French – a very heavily accented French. 

“Je ne, uh, parle — shit — pas français…”

Charles raises an eyebrow, head still buried in the fridge, obviously taking way too long to make it believable that he’s only there to get a refill. 

“Mrs. Corvetto, I don’t speak French… Je ne parle pas français!”

Charles can’t take it any longer. Max starts to get frustrated, he can hear it in the tone of his voice. He closes the fridge and turns to the Dutchman. He raises his hand to wave at Max, grabbing his attention. Pointing to the phone, he asks, “Need any help?”

Max lets out a sigh, lowering the phone from his ear to hand it over to Charles. “Thank fuck. It’s my neighbor. Normally she speaks English, but she’s freaking out and I don’t know why. She never calls me, only when there’s an emergency.”

“Mrs. Corvetto, you said?” Charles asks as he takes the phone, already hearing the frantic voice of Max’s neighbor coming through the device and he hasn’t even put it anywhere close to his ear. When Max nods, he brings the phone up, making sure not to bring it too close to his ear, before he kind of shouts, “Madame Corvetto?”

He doesn’t get a direct reply from the woman, but what he does hear makes his blood run cold. He freezes on the spot, arm with the phone lifted in the air, hovering somewhere near his head. Charles just stares at Max as Mrs. Corvetto continues to shout over the phone in rapid French. 

“Oh, God, what is it?” Max groans. “It’s Mr. Corvetto, right? I knew it. I’m telling you, never move into an apartment next to elderly people. It’s just– Why does she call me? What the hell can I do? Doesn’t she need to call an ambulance or something? Or, I don’t know, her family, or–”

“Max.” Charles interrupts Max’s ranting. He ends the phone call, cutting off Mrs. Corvetto’s panicked yelling with a simple press of his thumb. He stares at the blue-eyed man in front of him. “Your apartment is on fire.”

[danses-with-dogmeat]

Day 8 -- Legate Lanius

The (nsfw) details for Kinktober, Day 8 are just below the cut!

Minors, please don’t interact.

Breeding with Legate Lanius x F!Six

Ahem.......

Yeah, I'm so sorry. This is utter filth and depravity. It's everything wrong with the Legion and Lanius, it's awful, I don't know what possesses me with these horrible Legion guys, honestly, it just... Ugh.

I hope you like it though, it's definitely quite filthy, but I know there's at least a couple of you out there who are into that 👀 so this one's for you!

(just an FYI, if you liked my Vulpes kinktober work from last year, this is pretty similar.)

PLEASE read ALL of the Included on this one... it's a doozy and it's full of trigger warnings!

Here is the link to the Kinktober 2023 Event List so you can stay up-to-date, or re-visit these works as you please.

Included: Breeding, Master/Slave, noncon/marital rape, thoughts of suicide, abusive relationship, blow jobs, misogyny, legion bullshit, one (1) face slap, sexual slavery, regular slavery, mating press, size kink, large cock, penis in vagina sex, painful sex, cervix bullying, creampie, cockwarming, SUPER toxic man and relationship. Lil bit of Stockholm syndrome.

Words: 4.1k

--

Six thought back sometimes, to how different things might’ve been… Maybe if she’d listened to House, or Yes Man, if the NCR had been more wary, had been more prepared, if she’d gathered more allies, then maybe… Maybe things could be different than they are now, with the Legion in control. 

It hadn’t surprised her all that much when the Legate had chosen her to be his wife.

Wife… odd how anyone could call her that, when the true nature of their relationship was as far from a happy marriage as two people could get. He must’ve chosen her for that reason, Six thought, as she let out another huff of air just before entering their tent, before opening the flaps and allowing the large sack of supplies to drop to the dusty ground below. 

I’ll have to sweep in here before he returns. No matter how often I do it though… Dammit, but the sand always seems to come back in the span of five whole minutes. It was never-ending.

Lanius must’ve picked her just to make her suffer. To make her regret ever trying to stand up to The Legion, ever even attempting to resist him. It made Six's stomach churn as she thought back on his victory, to the night after, when bloodlust ran thick and hot in the air and The Legion staked its full, violent, unopposed claim on the Mojave. 

She was glad she could only remember bits and pieces, her mind having blocked out the majority of it defensively. 

“Wife.” 

Lanius’s booming voice rang out behind her as Six unloaded the pack of supplies. How such a massive man managed to move so quietly, she’ll never know, but she's grown used to it. That, and many, many other aspects of her new reality.

“Master.” She turned and immediately kneeled before him. As was customary.

The Legion and their customs… they weren’t to be taken lightly. Six had realized that early on too. To disrespect their traditions is to disrespect Caesar himself, which-- as is known among all within the faction-- is unthinkable.

Resisting, as well, as Six had tried for so long… it was futile. Another form of disrespect that earned her more than a few permanent marks upon her skin, and as much as she'd like to think otherwise, it always amounted to nothing.

She never thought she'd come to regret fighting back against a man so villainous and detestable as Lanius was, but when it only ever meant pain and humiliation, when it meant a sort of suffering that her past self couldn't even comprehend... Six wondered how she ever thought her defiance could mean something.

If her time here had taught her anything, it was that it hadn't. Her struggles, her misery, her wounds both mental and physical, they didn't make her stronger, they only weakened her empathy, her resolve, and any chance she had to hope.

Escaping this hell maybe wasn’t completely out of the question, though. That sole belief was all that remained of her previous optimism, all that had survived the purge of her noble convictions.

If not... If there was no escape; however, then there was nothing for her at all. The only thing left to hope for was a swift death at the hands of those who captured her.

“Well?” 

Six blinked up at her husband, her neck craning as she remained kneeling down in his broad shadow on the sandy floor. He didn’t like repeating himself, she knew, but unfortunately, this often happened. 

“Lost in thought again, pet?” 

“Yes, master.” Six hung her head as she spoke, showcasing her shame at her failure to attend to him, as was expected. As she knew.

“Hmph.” Lanius's grunt left him like a lead barrel from a cannon, making her flinch. “And what have I told you about that? Thinking… For a woman in your position. It’s dangerous.” 

“I know. I’m sorry, master. I should focus on my duties.” 

The words left her so easily now. Ones that used to feel like burning, heavy, molten steel as they were forced painfully out of her throat. But she’d been taught the lesson too many times now. 

She would obey. She would be his perfect little slave, until the time came that he could trust her. She only hoped that came before–

“Well, if you’d been listening, you’d know what I require from you. What time it is.” 

“Yes, master. Of course.” Her voice grew instinctually smaller. “I live to serve you.” 

An appreciative hum left him, and though it shouldn’t have, his approval sent warmth to pool within Six’s belly. 

“Here, then, wife.” He moved to take a heavy seat in the desk chair near their bed roll, and began to remove his mask.

Six was careful to look away as he did this. 

As his wife, she was glad that he had decided not to blind her, like he had so many other slaves, to keep his face a secret from any and all eyes who may seek to question the story of his past. With Six though, he had simply told her to look away from his face. Always.

And she did... whenever he was awake to see, that is. Six had seen him now; though, more times than she could count, and she knew the truth of his past merely from the lack of scarring there. Yet, even still, she never broke the habit of averting her gaze. He need never know the truth of her disobedience. 

Next, she heard the clinking of the decorative belt over Lanius's tunic as he removed it, and set it upon the desk beside him. 

No armor today. She’d noted when he was gone this morning, knowing it meant he’d be back earlier than usual, that she would be subjected to his torments well before the sun went down.

Their marriage did have its... routines in that way, so maybe… Maybe it wasn’t a complete sham. 

But she couldn’t think that way. Not if she ever wanted to get out of here with her mind intact. 

Her body never would be, Six knew. Not with the marks upon her, the brand seared into her skin, not with everything Lanius has taken from her. But that didn’t mean that– one day– she couldn’t at least be partially free of him. 

At least in her mind, one day she wouldn't have to consider his every move, fear the times his voice rang out, cringe under his cruel touch. There would be a day, she hoped, when his voice didn't rule in her head as it had out in the world now, for so long; suggesting, reprimanding, praising her only when she did exactly as he'd demanded, and scolding her harshly when she slipped up, berating her, when she spoke out-- or even thought of opposing him.

Six moved towards her husband now, not wanting to upset him with her lack of haste. She crawled on the still-sandy floor, feeling the roughness dig into her knees and the palms of her hands before she reached the space between his spread legs. It was there she settled on her knees, with her gaze drawn down to the floor, her hands folded neatly in her lap, and waited for his instruction. 

Lanius stood up, not bothering to tell her to move back as his clothed crotch pressed to her face, and removed his tunic from over his head. 

He was fully bare beneath it, but she refused to let her eyes wander over his large, muscular form, refused to let her gaze focus in on his broad member, where it was surely beginning to stand at attention between his huge thighs, where she could feel the undeniable heat coming off of his skin from right in front of her. Six was glad though, that now she knew him-- his form-- well enough not to have that fear spike through her at the mere thought of having someone so substantial inside her. 

Lanius settled back in his chair, his meaty hands spilling over the sides of the armrests, and she knew the word he would speak before his mouth even opened. 

“Begin.” 

At that, Six leaned forward, feigning eagerness as her hands swiftly wrapped around the overwhelming girth of his manhood. Even half-hard, like he was, Lanius was more than well-endowed. It was like he'd been created specifically to instill pain in the bodies of those he was close to; to her, in particular.

There was more than one reason all of the other slaves were terrified of him, but this… this likely was the main one. This, or his infamous temper.

Both traits often reminded her how lucky she was to be the Legate's wife.

With one hand, it was impossible for Six's fingers to wrap fully around him, and even with two, it was startling how difficult it was to do so, but as she said before, the courier had grown used to it by now. 

Her body had re-shaped itself to accommodate him, much like her mind had had to re-form with this new lifestyle.

It truly did put things in perspective. 

Her mind continued to wander, as it often did, as she set her mouth upon him. Her tongue laved over the length of his shaft, working from base to tip as her hands followed suit, stroking rhythmically until she’d spread the moisture of her spit over the whole of him. Then, she directed his broad, darkening cockhead between her lips, and began to ease it inside. Lanius’s breath picked up from above her, and her eyes watched as his stomach swelled and deflated, as she worked him over with her obedient, worshipful lips and tongue.

He was often silent through most of their trysts, and Six didn’t much mind it. She figured he liked to hear her, but only a ‘tasteful amount’ as he’d once put it. He didn’t like when she squealed and whined like an inexperienced slave, it only got him mad. 

God…

Thoughts like that reminded her that Lanius truly was the worst scum she’d ever had the displeasure to meet, and now… Now she was used to him. Now she heard his sighs, his hums of approval and they made her unwillingly giddy, now she obeyed him without question, she apologized for thinking, she let him debase her this way, without qualm or complaint. 

I really am losing it. 

A light smack against her cheek had Six jolting from the sudden pain. 

“Stop thinking.” He growled down at her, and Six pulled her mouth away briefly as her hands continued stroking over him. 

“Yes, master. I apologize.” 

“Don’t care if you’re sorry, pet. Don’t let me catch you again.” The edge in his deep voice sent a chill through her body, and she nodded as she set her attentions back on his cock. 

Six was more intentional this time, making efforts to run her tongue over him just the way she knew he enjoyed, sucking and hollowing her cheeks until they ached from the pressure. For a moment, she pulled her hands away, taking him as far down her throat as she could without gagging, and shimmied the top of her slave rags down to her waist, unveiling her breasts to his gaze. 

Another hum of approval, and Six felt wetness pooling between her thighs. 

She tried not to think about it.

Her hands returned to their work, running over the remaining half of his shaft she couldn’t fit down her throat; though, she tried. For him, Six always tried.

She had to. 

Each forward bob of her head, and she took his massive cock a fraction deeper, and felt her eyes water as she began to gag with the movement. 

Six was rewarded for her efforts, though, with a light buck of Lanius’s hips that jammed him into the very back wall of her esophagus. His generous way of appreciating her actions.

As her lips made it steadily further up his shaft , one hand tucked down between his legs, running over the inside of his meaty thigh and taking his heavy balls in-hand. They pulsed against her touch, hot and wanting as she methodically massaged them with careful, diligent fingers.

Another soft grunt told her he approved of that action as well.

She hated that she knew his preferences better than her own these days. Hated that she committed details-- like the sounds he made, the feeling of him, the signals of his body-- to memory in order to better please him.

I may not feel like his wife, but I'm most certainly his slave.  

All she had to ask herself now was... which was worse?

Lanius soon reached full hardness form her efforts, his balls now twitching and tightening where her palm worked them over, his length stiff as a rock as he filled her throat to capacity over and over.

Tears pricked at Six's eyes, drool ran down her bulging neck and she felt that draining wetness drip down over her jostling breasts as their combined actions grew messier, less rhythmic, more aggressive.

“Off.” Lanius finally said, his voice only a bit strained, as one hand grasped at the fuzzy scalp of Six's buzzed head and pushed her back and suddenly off of him. She gagged again, at the rapid drag of his cock against the walls of her esophagus, but released him without preamble, and only a couple of coughs. 

“Down. On the bedroll.” 

His rough voice commanded as she tried to catch her breath, Six hadn't realized in the moment how much she’d had to hold it to keep him so deep in her throat-- how long she'd been holding her breath in order to bring him unwilling pleasure. 

“H-how would you like me, master?” It came out as little more than a croak, and she heard what she could only guess was a prideful scoff at the sound of her struggle.  

“What am I doing to you, pet?” 

Six gulped, her blood running cold in her veins at his question. 

“B-breeding me, master.” 

And he had been trying, for the past two months. She’s been lucky so far, still able to keep thoughts of escape in her head without the added obstacle of pregnancy. But Lanius was growing impatient. Like any respectable man in the Legion, he craved male heirs, and if she couldn’t provide…

“Then you should know. Use those thoughts of yours to serve, slave.” 

“Yes, master.” 

Six didn’t allow herself to get too caught up in her worries. As it was, she already had enough fear coursing through her body at any given time. She couldn't give in to that possibility, couldn't lose even more of that last hope she clung to so desperately that it left blisters on her hands and lacerations in her muscles, fractures in her bones. She needed that last hope, or she surely would never be free again.

Six crawled over to the bedroll as Lanius stood up, his cock now shining with her spit and jutting proudly outward, as much as the hefty weight of it would allow. 

She felt like it was threatening her, just with its mere presence in this tent, attached to the intimidating body and cruel mind of her husband.

Arranging herself onto her back, Six set her hands beneath her thighs, pulling them up and towards her chest in a traditional mating press.

In preparation. 

Lanius grunted his approval of her position, at the ease in which she fell into it. After months of hardship and intense training, now she was almost docile.

It's what I need him to believe. Six told herself firmly as she relented to his every word without an ounce left of hesitation.

One of Lanius's large hands crept down to slot around his cock as he approached, giving it a few quick jerks as he settled onto his knees in front of her well-presented pussy. 

“Wet for me?” He asked, almost cheekily. Obviously knowing the answer, since he was looking directly between her legs as he touched himself. 

“Always, master.” 

Six felt the broad tip of his cock nestle between her slickened folds as she continued avoiding his visage, staring up at the cloth ceiling of their shared tent instead, noting the way it gave with the breeze outside, the way the light of the setting sun seemed to set it ablaze.

If only.

“Good.” Lanius growled, interrupting her thoughts for the hundredth time, and with one immediate, unforgiving thrust, he slotted the whole of him inside her. 

That too, was a habit of his.

Lanius was an impatient man, and he would never debase himself by easing politely into one of his slaves. They were meant for this treatment, it was their most important duty, a product of their nature. Their bodies had to take him, and Six’s most of all. 

Still though, as accustomed as she was to having him inside her, filling her up to the brim so suddenly like this, she couldn't stifle her gasp at the painful intrusion. He gave her no time to adjust, either. Again, the issue of patience, of courtesy towards her; it drove him to set a fast and aggressive pace into her body right away, lest he be taken for soft, kind, or sympathetic. 

God forbid. Six thought with a grimace, feeling tears wet her eyes again as he bruisingly reached the very back of her, and then pulled away until he’d fully left her. Already, she was sore and gaping from his attentions, but he paid her clenched jaw and pained expression no mind as he pressed back in to the hilt. Lanius always did this a few times first, tearing her walls open for him, shaping her entrance to his girth, pressing far enough inside to nudge her cervix painfully, to remind her where he was meant to pour his seed, where it was meant to stay and take root in her womb.

His womb. Her broken mind reminded her, even in the midst of his assault, for all of me belongs to him now. 

Though it wasn’t true, Six knew it wasn’t true, that she was her own person… It felt like it just about now. With him pile-driving into her, forcing her body to yield to his will, forcing both pain and pleasure upon her traitorous physical form all at once.

It hurt, he always hurt inside her. He wasn’t the kind of man she could ever be truly used to. He was just so much larger, so rough and selfish; but what pained her even more was how she responded to him. Her body complied with his dominance over her, submitting to his will, growing wet from it, her own slick making it easier to pound into her and claim her as his every damn night. Any time he chose. 

Strained little grunts left her with each savage lurch into her body and Six’s legs began to burn at the stretch of holding them up, but finally, she felt a small sense of relief as Lanius unbraced his arms and let his body lay fully overtop hers.

That meant he was a little closer, at least. He was finished pulling out of her completely now, instead opting to jam the entirety of his cock as far inside as it would go, straining the back wall of her cervix  and making her feel like the end of him was in her throat. His heavy-laden balls pressed firmly to her ass, their fullness flexing as she felt his length twitch inside her, as she could see the distinct bulge of him pulsing and jutting out the skin of her belly.

Now that her husband was settled over her, his weight crushing her body into the hard ground below, his broad shoulders forcing her legs wide apart, and high up until her feet were well over her head, he shimmied his hips, ensuring his tip was nestled painfully against the very back of her, and began to thrust anew.

Lanius was hardly pulling out of her now, just cruelly jabbing his cockhead against the opening of her cervix over and over again, without respite.  

With that, Six couldn’t help it. The pain was blinding, was aching to the point of intense nausea, and she began to shout aloud at the overwhelming feeling, the way the nerves lit up her spine and belly with immensely uncomfortable pressure. Without the conscious decision to do so, she began to struggle, but Lanius’s substantial body weight held her firmly down and in place as he continued his brutal assault.

“Since you seem u-unable to quicken from my seed," He grunted out, his voice heavy and deep with arousal. "This action is necessary, wife.”

Six only let out another yell in response, her throat already sore and straining after his earlier abuse, as he ruthlessly ground into her again.

“Siri assured me. Your body will yield." Lanius growled, as though her womb could hear him. As though he could intimidate that into submission, too. "It has no choice. I will barricade its final defenses, and hear me now, slave. It. Will. Yield.” 

“Y-yes, master.” Uncontrollably, Six was beginning to sob now, the pain of his abuse making her sweat and writhe and flinch all at once as he took her, as he drove into her with the force of the siege weapon he was likening himself to. 

“You are mine.” He punctuated the words with a series of wild thrusts, his pace growing more unsteady, more unbridled with every passing moment. 

“My wife.” He thrust forward with a grunt, and Six saw black dotting her vision, felt like there wasn't enough air in the world to be able to fill her straining lungs. 

“My slave.” He growled, and his cock gave a notable throb within her very depths. 

“Mine!” Lanius roared through gritted teeth, his hips merely flexing rapidly now, no longer bothering to pull out at all. The head of his cock bullied her cervix relentlessly, forcing the miniscule opening as wide as physically possible with his fruitless hope of penetrating this last, unsullied orifice until; finally, his balls tightened against the swell of her ass, and he shouted out his explosive release. 

Six still sobbed as she struggled to keep her legs up, allowing– encouraging, even– his body’s assault of her innermost place as it did as he demanded and yielded to him. 

Warmth spread within her as her husband shuddered and twitched, pouring his spend against the mouth of her womb in forceful, overwhelming spurts. He filled her up easily, the size of him forcing some of his cum out to drizzle down the crack of her ass as he completely overloaded her depths with his claiming seed. 

Finally, one last notable flex of his cock, one final buck of his hips into her, and the very last of his release emptied inside.

She actually felt heavier, as Lanius laid inside her, keeping his seed plugged within as he breathed heavily and came down from his high. 

Six wasn’t sure if she came or not, she knew Siri recommended that as well, to increase odds of pregnancy, but most legionaries scoffed in her face at the notion. With Lanius, he wasn’t one to actively deny her-- women were meant to take pleasure in serving their masters, he believed-- but he would never go out of his way to pull one from her. 

Either way though, her body felt like lifeless jelly beneath him. Her insides ached and protested at his persisting presence, at the continuing, aching pressure against her tired, defeated cervix, but at least… At least it was over now. 

For now. Her mind corrected.

Obediently, Six held onto her thighs, remaining completely still as he laid above her and still within her, willing his cum to do it's duty within. Slowly, his substantial cock began to deflate, and the pressure against her walls eased a bit, allowing her to finally breathe properly. 

“Your body,” Lanius panted out, making sure to keep his length still inside her as he sat up, bracing both hands on either side of her head. “It will yield to me. Do you understand?” 

“Yes, master, I understand.” Six answered him quickly, her voice so weak now, it hardly came out as a squeak. 

“Good. Because if it doesn’t, this,” He bucked his hips forward for emphasis, causing sparks to fly over her vision from the pain, “Will be your reality until it does. This, or something worse.” 

Finally, her husband pulled out completely, leaving her gaping and sore beyond reason as he stood to grab a towel from the dresser. 

“You understand?” Six vacantly heard him prompt as blackness threatened to overtake her vision. 

“Yes, of course, master.” She managed out with an aching twinge in her chest, as she stayed still-- like he'd demanded-- and darkness overtook her. “I will yield to you, always.” 

[libras-interactives]

Do you have any OC’s for Lackadaisy who didn’t make it into the fic or who were made after you started writing? I love hearing about all of them so much

;v; wagh

So 2~3 of these kitties are connected to Devil's Moon characters but probably won't show up (or at least, will only be mentioned), and two arent related to it at all.

Viviana Carmina Holst - Slyvester's wife, who Ive thought so much about but may not even show up "on camera" LOL. A calico with auburn hair she keeps in a fairly old-fashioned style, to match her more modest dress. She's thin and has big, bright green-brown eyes.

She's quite sociable, observant, easygoing and a terrible cardshark. She loves company and doesn't get it nearly as much as she'd like; they live in a modest yet well-decorated home outside St. Louis city limits. Carmina comes from a large Italian family. She was the first of her siblings to be born in America. She's always been known as Carmina to them (there were already three Vivianas in the extended family), and Vivi to her husband.

Because she and Slyvester could not have children, they adopted three nephews after the boys' parents passed (Carmina's side). The boys are now grown and the two oldest are quite successful. The youngest still lives with them to help his mother, as Carmina is disabled and Slyvester works a lot, and they've yet to find a live-in nurse that suits them.

Carmina and Slyvester grew up together in the same Italian-majority neighborhood; his family is Danish and was one of the few non Italians on the block. Carmina's parents approved of him bc he agreed to convert, they knew he wasn't a drinker, and they were relieved their sickly daughter was able to get married and have someone take care of her for the rest of her life.

Flynn's Family - I've thought a lot about them but I don't think they'll be super relevant or come up, alas. His older brother Seamus is fairly important to the business, but rarely makes himself known. He has some pretty bad physical and mental damage from the war, so tends to be anti-social, plus years of Flynn's emotional manipulation have taken their toll. Tomas was the youngest and the golden child, died in the war. Flynn couldn't stand him. Sorcha was older than Tomas but younger than Flynn, I'm still unsure what happened exactly, but she's not around her parents anymore. They didn't really dote on her like they did the boys, or Tomas.

Their mother was tall and slender, while the father was more stout and broad, and a little shorter - only Seamus had his build and coloring, the rest of the children were looked and were built like their mama. All of them had orange and black markings but the Flynn we know is the only chimera.

I keep wanting to think of more for the family - their history, and appearances and whatnot, but then I pull back because it "won't be relevant" in Devil's Moon ... well, might do it anyway bc I just like writing family dynamics and drama, lol. I already wrote a ton about Carmina so might as well.

Okay these two are 100% not UTDM related and from an Arkham Horror board game/kinda tabletop bc we rp'd it a ton. The setting is 1920s anyway, and I forced my friends to play and make lackadaisy OCs (it was my birthday damn it 😂). These two characters rotted a crater in my brain for 2 weeks straight and I still like em a ton. Sister Marguerite was mine and Father Elijah was initially my partner's but I have since stolen him haha.

Sister Marguerite, formerly Adelaide Whitaker. Wheeww... so much to say here but I'll condense it. Originally from a wealthy East Coast family, she was forcefully sent to a "wellness and manners" sort of school for "esteemed ladies" that was really just a ruse to hide her pregnancy. It wasn't a Magdalene asylum/laundry, though. She lost the child, but a handful of nuns showed her such kindness (and she'd had religious-fixated OCD for years that her family actively made worse anyway) that she converted to Catholicism and began the process of becoming a nun once she was old enough. She's happy with her current life, enough that her OCD has lessened somewhat, but ofc there are still bad days. She often fixates on physical purity, baptism and "healing water"; most of her sisters chalk her "peculiarities" up to her extreme devotion and are willing to overlook her bad, spiraling days bc shes v dear to them. She's a good-hearted woman, quiet, and doesn't scare easily. Puts others before herself again and again.

As a cat, she's white with unsettling sectorial heterochromia, big slender ears, and an odd face. Lackadaisy cats are generally pretty cute but she's meant to be more "homely". Her eyes are more unnerving than striking. This is the photo that was the first inspiration for her, though this kitty is very cute, haha. If she were human I think she'd have bright eyes and a very plain face. I've drawn her but my art is pretty oof! I need to keep practicing bc her face and headshape in particular are kinda different.

Actually considered reworking her backstory to be one of Jack's many siblings; he did have a sister who ran off, but thats kinda irrelevant in UTDM rn. If anything itd be mentioned in an epilogue.

Father Elijah - A handsome man from a good Midwestern family. They were disappointed when Elijah joined the church, feeling like he was wasting his potential. He's always felt close to God and wanted to help others, but he's also a deeply scholarly person and loves theology, even if some things he studies would be considered heretical. This doesn't necessarily mean he's open minded, especially to those he considers "irredeemable", but he's always polite, protective of his flock and usually a pretty affable guy.

Elijah certainly has some kind of mental stuff rolling around in his noggin; I don't want to call it disorder or illness, especially since he doesn't really have a name for it at the time period (like Marguerite with her OCD). In the tabletop, they came to Arkham together as allies and quickly became rather ... obsessed with each other. He's very fixated with Marguerite, believing her to be a pinnacle of what a godly person should be, and later believing she can actually speak to angels (or is one??). He wants so much of her attention, to hear her opinions and interpretations of faith. To say he puts her on a pedestal is an understatement. Calling it "romantic" interest isnt the whole picture, and too simple for... whatever the hell he's got going on. Marguerite admires him deeply but in a more "inspired" way. Platonic is also too simple for what she's feeling, but her attachment certainly isn't as deep as his.

As a cat he's an orange tabby with pretty blue eyes. Meant to be a really tall good looking dude, a contrast to Sister Margy. Maaany women in the church have admired him but he's never considered or indulged in feelings like that until Marguerite; he doesn't even consider his appearance much. Just tries to keep tidy. I also terribly drew him real quick for the tabletop. I think his ears should have kind of a cute shape and he's got extra fur around his face :3 Still not sure on what sort of tail he'd have, though.

Shoutout to tabletop!Father Elijah who dual wielded a pistol and giant crucifix on the regular, constantly threw himself into danger to save Margie and slowly became twisted by the dark powers he was trying so hard to stop 👍🏽 One of my favorite scenes was both of them jumping into a portal together, then getting separated bc we rolled poorly and they both got HP/Sanity down to 0. Elijah woke up in the hospital in extreme pain, left without fully restoring HP and ran all the way back to the church to find Marguerite. They held each other at the altar for a while and she gave him her rosary bc he lost his crucifix in the void. and they promised to never leave each other again and stayed attached at the hip in spite of the usual eldritch horrors. normal arkham horror things. I'd love to make Arkham LCG cards for them; theyve already got custom cards for the 2nd edition board game (but now my other fixations and nerdness is showing so ill stop here).

(shoutout to that poor eldritch-corrupted NPC who sister marguerite believed needed a baptism to restore him, so father elijah held the dude down while he almost drowned and margeurte prayed over him and one party member witnessed all this and told the others so EVERYONE avoided "those catholic freaks" for the whole session sdkdskfs)

[mamafaithful]

Something I wrote this because Aqua back to the 80s is stuck in my head all flicking day and I’m tired. And if my random ass brain can imagine Steve in a scoops suit singing dark trauma to cheesy Euro-pop music you will also be subjected to it. All those colours. Barbie doll. Anyone. No. Whelp looks like it’s just me.

The rest of the gangs around somewhere. Didn’t know how to fit them into the bullet points though.

It’s 89, post Vecna, post government mountain of paperwork, Eddie’s pouting about not being able to continue with CC as his face is too recognisable and they don’t need anybody questioning the government’s hapdash attempt at a cover up. He’s spending his off time (which currently is in abundance) writing his trauma into songs (and if he so happens to write a certain dethroned king’s into little cheesy earwigs because it makes that certain person laugh, it means nothing)

It’s 90 and Eddie is having a mental block on writing when he hears something that gets the juices flowing. It’s summer, the party is at Steve’s and Eddie was going to get a drink from the kitchen where he’s halted just outside the kitchens doorway arch. Inside Steve is spinning a giggling Robin about as he sings cheesy made up ditties just to make her smile, which Eddie realises are his earwigs he made about Steve’s trauma. What surprises him more is god that boy can sing. Eddie disappears into Steve’s dad’s office and isn’t seen till dinner.

It’s 91 and Eddie presents steve with a finished lyric sheet and a cassette the CC boys and robin helped him make. A song about vecna and the witch hunt wrapped up in bubblegum pop. [think euro pop band Aqua -esk]. After a bit of confusion, he explains about hearing Steve sing so he wrote a song for Steve to sing with Robin as second. By Christmas they have a song painstakingly recorded, multiplied and sent out to record companies.

It’s 99 and [insert band name here] is popular. Their most popular songs are about a cookie cutter Ken doll who doesn’t fit in, a little birdy with no responding song, two siblings from a small American town with home grown conspiracies, a haunted mansion full of family ghosts, and a song written without their main writer about a curly haired boy, with a large smile and a bigger personality. Rumours of a curtain curly haired metalhead sneaking in backstage are rapidly growing.

As the bell tolls midnight bringing in the millennium a photo is captured and circulated of the metalhead with one of the lead singers of [band] and it certainly wasn’t Buckley who everyone was speculating the metalhead was visiting regularly.

It’s 92 and there is conspiracies galore about the missing [band] members who disappeared only months after the picture was leaked of Eddie Munson and Steve Buckley kissing on new years. What really happened was they all decided to settle down in Italy, run a small holiday vineyard and get some qualifications.

It’s 2016 and Steve Munson is mortified and happily fielding questions from his class as they’ve somehow managed to find old videos and images of his days in [band]. Talks about Robin getting married to an Englishwoman in 2013 when it became legal. About how his husband wrote most of their songs. And when asked about the subject matter he responds with “we had over-imaginations and a case of the whimsies”.

[frostise]

🏆 how long i've been roleplaying for + ⭐️ my roleplay pet peeves!

𝐌𝐘 𝐄𝐗𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐑𝐎𝐋𝐄𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐌𝐔𝐍𝐈𝐓𝐘   ┇   accepting ♡

🏆 how long i've been roleplaying for?

i would roughly say 3-5 years with large gaps in-between because of my personal life. i was probably 16-17 when i first joined the RPC with my friends ♡

⭐️ my roleplay pet peeves!

some of yall are about to be real mad at me...but it must be said!!

following but never interacting. i will never understand why i used to get followed only to be ignored for almost a month straight?? it's frustrating AF to deal with because i make an effort to communicate through liking their headcanons, sending a message, reblogging prompts for them to respond IC if they're not comfortable talking OOC and posting starters but all i get in return is radio silence. there's no point in following someone if they're never go to showcase their interest towards me.

people who follow me without reading my rules. it's the bare minimum. it's my only requirement. i can ALWAYS tell when somebody doesn't read them. the lack of respect is icky.

a villain is a villain. do not follow me if you cannot handle her rude comments or disturbing actions. please don't expect her to be nice just because your muse is 'special'. louise will not care...unless you're a monster, but that doesn't mean monsters are safe from her wrath if they end up provoking her.

when i see a RP blog with no tags. it's so difficult to navigate and find specific things like prompts/memes. i will not bother checking out a tagless account.

people who refuse to interact with OC's. why?? do people not know canon characters were someone else's OC?? the math ain't mathing!!

people who use AI to generate a reply or create meaningless artwork. i'm strictly anti-AI. i believe suffering for your art or writing is what makes it so... relatable to me. there has to be REAL tears of passion otherwise i'm not moved 😭😭

needing internet validation 24/7. it's SUPER exhausting telling someone they're good enough to write only for them to discard it. i know we all have our bad days but it gets to the point where it becomes overwhelming and sets off my anxiety.

DNI MINORS!! i am a GROWN adult. i wish more minors would actually hang out with their age group instead of trying to interact with me. i only interact with muns over 21+ for a reason!!

posting too much negativity without tagging it or putting it under 'read more'. for the sake of my mental health, i will soft block. the same goes with drama because i do not want to be dragged into someone else's problems or start the day off with negativity.

people who only see female muses as sex objects and nothing more. i put my entire SOUUUL into louise's characterisation. she was always sexualised by DC in the past but i see her as a complex character in desperate need of flourishing. plus, she's a killer not a seducer. louise did not come here to flirt. she came here to start chaos.

personals who spam my account with likes and reblogs. this one gets on my nerves A LOT!! it's why i had to turn off the reblog feature and hard block them on sight.

[madinscurianmermaid]

My bio:

*read before you follow, like or interact!*

My name's Orion (my online name to protect my privacy). Here's some background about me:

I'm 30 years old

I'm an interfaith believer in Christ, with many additional Christian influences of Native American Christianity, Quakerism, Catholicism, Ringātu (Māori indigenous Christianity), Calvinism, Celtic Christianity, Hellenic Christianity, Appalachian Indigenous Christianity, Hellenic Judaism and Messianic Judaism as part of my faith and beliefs (yes, like it or dislike it, we interfaith Jewish believers in Christ exist. You don't have to worry about me forcing it on you as I'm aware it's a messy and complex topic to get into but don't get nasty, rude or disrespectful in my comments via invalidating my Jewishness or insistently trying to force me to not talk about my faith. Respect me and I'll respect you and vice versa).

This page and account is an adults only page for grown 21-30+ adults and older adults only.

I'm autistic, neurodivergent and mentally ill, with comorbid clinical depression, anxiety, bipolar disorder, ADHD, chronic and severe debilitating OCD, borderline personality disorder, complex PTSD, schizophrenia, antisocial personality disorder, schizoid personality disorder, schizotypal personality disorder, etc.; I believe in both professional diagnosis and in self diagnosis and every mentally ill and neurodivergent individuals' illness and neurodivergency presents differently in each individual, so don't start any pointless discourse as it always tips into abelism, disrespect, rudeness and neurotypical social desirability standards and I'm not in the mood for any of that.

I'm extremely mixed race, with extensive Black Native, Afro-Indigenous, Afro-Native, Afro-European, Afro-Aboriginal, Blasian, Romani, Melungeon, Asian-Indigenous and Jewish ancestry. Don't start any pointlessly rude and disrespectful discourse thinking you have any right to dictate how a mixed race and biracial individual should identify or express themselves or what they should look like; it's racist, featurist, colorist and plain rude, point blank.

I support the Jewish community especially as I'm Jewish and a Jew of color, so antisemitism will not be tolerated.

I'm also pro Palestinian and anti zionist and yes, like it or not, being Jewish doesn't automatically equate to being zionist and being Jewish doesn't require anybody to be zionist; plus, zionism's fascism and white supremacy, and with me also being a mixed race Afro-Palestinian / Palestinian Jew, I refuse to have anything to do with zionism. If you're zionist and have a problem with any of this, block me immediately.

I'm intersex. I was born intersex and have a large amount of intersex variants (i.e. polycystic ovarian syndrome (PCOS), PCOS-related hypoandrogenism, XXX syndrome, Non-classical Cogenital Adrenal Hyperplasia (NCAH), hypogonadism, partial androgen insensitivity syndrome (PAIS), etc.); the only type of questions I'll answer are questions that are respectful not just to me but intersex folks at large, especially intersex women/femmes and black and brown intersex women/femmes of color and also intersex men/mascs and intersex men/mascs of color. Any questions that get invasively oversexual, rude and intrusive will be stopped immediately. And any form of intersexism, interphobia, intermisogyny, intermisogynoir as well as intermisandry and intermisandrinoir, whether it be intersexist erasure and invalidating intersex folks' existence, regurgitating of harmful and offensive right wing conservative or radical "feminist" eugenicism that reduces and stigmatizes, and wrongly and falsely paints intersex folks as medical deformities or pitiable defects in need of "fixing" (aka promoting unethical and unwanted surgeries that leave us intersex folks physically, mentally, emotionally and psychologically damaged and traumatized) or just any type of manipulative, abusive and disrespectful intersexist gaslighting and endosplaining will be reported and online trolls that do these things will be blocked. Oh, and if you're a radfem = instant block. Ya'll are the worst perpetrators of everything I mentioned and I know ya'll are bigoted, extremist IERFs (Intersex Exclusionary Radical Feminists) by proxy, and we have nothing to talk about and I have no interest in listening to any of the baloney ya'll have to say. Ya'll are not feminists and are not radical, ya'll are frauds and chronically online fake feminist Karens.

I'm an Appalachian and an Urban Appalachian and want to know more about that part of my culture especially given my Melungeon heritage and my roots in midwestern and southern states such as Texas, Louisiana, Virginia, Oklahoma, Arkansas, Ohio, Mississippi, Missouri, Tennessee, Illinois, Georgia, Indiana and Florida, and the Ozark Mountains.

DNI (do not interact) if you're: zionist (liberal or conservative), right wing conservative, Donald Trump/MAGA supporter, Andrew Tate defender/sympathizer, Amber Heard defender/sympathizer, Justin and Hailey Bieber fan or defender/sympathizer, Ron Desantis defender/sympathizer, Lovatic/Demi Lovato fan/defender, Trey Songz defender/sympathizer, radfem, redpill fratdude, racist, white supremacist, divester, an apologist for any type of abuse towards others, if you have any hateful antisemitic views, if you have anti Palestinian racist and xenophobic views, etc.

[idiotwithanipad]

A Candle To Light You To Bed

(A reoccurring nightmare that Humphrey wakes up from set in my Gore Au. In my Gore AU, all the ghosts memories and mental states are warped due to trauma and time. They're constantly in the mindset they were in moments before their deaths)

Humphrey's ears had grown numb to the sound of the droplets of water trickling through the cracks and gaps in the stone blocks comprising the cell. The clanking of the heavy chains around his wrists didn't bother him anymore. The scurrying of the malnourished rats in each corner sniffing for any flesh to feast on didn't concern him, even as they tested their bravery and scampered over his shoes.

Less than ten hours ago, things seemed as normal as ever, until the guards arrived. Sophie had fled, and he remained. He settled with taking refuge in the priest hole up inside the chimney breast, but as he pressed one foot forward above the hearth, ready to hoist himself up into the tight channel of uneven brick, a tight hand clamped around his ankle.

A fighting frenzy had resulted in Humphrey being wrestled into the back of a horse drawn carriage, and into a cramped steele cage hanging by chain from the roof. He wasn't alone in the cage; he recognized in the dark, each of Sophie's acquaintances, hands and feet bound painfully behind their backs.

The air inside the carriage was stale and damp, soaked with condensation and rainwater which leaked through the wood. Each stone the wheels rolled over, each dip in the road, each slight jolt of the carriage sent the cage crashing into the sides of the carriage, crushing the fingers of whichever poor idiot tried to steady themselves inside the cage by gripping the bars.

No room to stretch, not high enough to stand, barely any elbow room, any jostle of the carriage would have the person beside you plunge their elbow into your ribs painfully and suddenly, knocking the wind from your lungs. This was essentially a mobile 'Little Ease'.

The journey seemed to go on for days, leaving the countryside and entering the big city. Onlookers outside the carriage chattered and parted in the roads to allow the carriage to pass, the booming shouts of the guards at the seat announcing their authority and reason for taking up the roads.

Before long, just as Humphrey's eyes dropped shut after his body had succumbed to numbness from hours of being twisted into an untold amount of uncomfortable positions, the carriage came to a stop. The weight of the guards above them leaping from the carriage caused the cage to sway one final time before the small doors at the back were pulled open quickly, flooding the occupants with the bright sunlight of a new day.

Seemingly, they had traveled all night to reach their destination.

One by one, each occupant was carelessly dragged from the steel cage and down onto the cobblestone path beneath the wheels, before being frogmarched into a towering building. More darkness, more dripping, more chains, more bars. Except these cells were a far cry from the one they'd spent the last night in, cramped and unable to move.

It remained this way till late in the afternoon, when only Humphrey was left in the tiny cell. The echoing clunk of a hefty key startled Humphrey from his dazed slouch, and the pounding of shoes from along the dark corridor made his blood freeze.

A dim flickering light began to spread thicker and brighter against the damp stone walls until a figure emerged from the side of Humphrey's cell. A hooded man holding a candlestick in one hand and a ring of large keys in the other. Roughly and angrily, the man unlocked the cell and stepped inside, holding the candlestick higher so that Humphrey could finally see his face.

Pitch black eyes.

"Right. We've just dealt with that lot, now it's your turn, come with me" The man's cruel voice droned in his thick city accent, his hand swooping behind Humphrey to grab the back of his cloak. As he was forced down the narrow hall, Humphrey's eyes scanned briefly into the empty cells where Sophie's comrades had sat just moments ago.

He could only focus on them for a mere second before a rough hand shoved his head forward causing him to stumble.

"Keep movin'!"

Soon, they ended up outside, through another heavy locked door, and out into a courtyard. The evening mist and smog of the city filled the space with an eerie cloud of uncertainty and dread. As Humphrey focused his eyes on the mist for just a moment, he saw through the rolling coulds, the silhouette of a set of gallows, three ropes, and attached to the end of each of these ropes were the dead bodies of Sophie's acquaintences.

Before the horrified cry could even leave his lungs, another door appeared before him, which the guard unlocked and hauled him inside once more, back into the darkness, but not as dark as the last; this one sat alit with many candles, and was much cleaner than the rest.

A sizeable square table sat in the middle of the room beneath a podium.

A courtroom.

The aggressive guard kicked the back of Humphrey's knee, causing him to drop down onto a stool beside the podium, where a judge arose with a quil.

"Sir Humphrey Ignatius Bone?"

Humphrey gulped and turned his gaze away from the judge towards the table - which WAS empty only seconds ago - now surrounded by occupants holding rolls of parchment and quils of their own. Each of their faces were painted the same; each glared at him with a mixture of malice, disgust and betrayal.

"Such a crime to commit, sir. Treachery to the queen and crown?" The judge's voice rippled from above him. Humphrey pulled his eyes from the jury and looked up, imploringly to the judge.

He opened his mouth to speak, to plead innocence, but no voice came. Just a vacant exhale of breath. No voice remained to plead with.

"So you plead guilty?" The judge spoke, his tone that of a man in complete shock, as though he couldn't believe what he was hearing. Humphrey could only shake his head and stutter out more gusts of breath as he shot his eyes back towards the jury.

Each of their eyes had turned a deep obsidian black, their mouths contorted into vengeful sneers, except for the individual now sat at the end of the table, though she still stared at him with the same hate as the rest.

She spoke, in her heavy French accent, pointing a sharp finger right at him.

"He did it"

Before Humphrey could implore for her help, even if he felt he didn't deserve it, the judge's booming voice erupted from above.

"We find you guilty of high treason against the queen and crown, you will die like the rest!"

The echoing of the gavel stricking the stand shook Humphrey to the core, before two iron tight hands clamped down onto his shoulders and hauled him to his feet, before spinning him around and throwing him forward.

Bracing himself for impact, Humphrey screwed his eyes shut. Yet, as he felt ready to peel his eyes open, expecting to see floorboards beneath him, instead, what he saw was a crudely woven basket. Beyond the basket where cobblestones and mist. The courtyard again.

His neck and head wedged in the stockade below the blade. There was no crowd, no noise. Only the mist and the executioner behind him holding the rope that would, in moments, release the blade.

Humphrey screwed his eyes shut and didn't know whether or not begging for mercy or praying would get him anywhere; nobody was here to hear it.

Behind the basket, a shoe came into his eyeline, a large, thick, black shoe with three distinct inch long metal spikes, which looked to be from another time entirely. But he recognized it, somehow he felt all too familiar with the appearance of that shoe, and it's wearer. As his eyes drifted upwards past the legs and stomach of the individual shrouded in the rolling mist, he recognized her face.

His little girl. His sickly, voiceless child, Amy. She stood before the guillotine, trembling and crying, a stiff hand pinned around her forearm. Humphrey's gaze lifted some more, following the other hand higher until he saw the other individual who belonged to this hand. Sophie. Sophie again. She scowled at him and took her other free hand, pressing it over Amy's lips, silencing her.

The woman's French accent rose again in a grim whisper, almost like a warning.

"She is mine"

Slowly, both Sophie and Amy were dragged backwards by the mist, disappearing into it like two dead leaves sinking beneath clouded water. Before Amy's form could be swallowed completely by the mist, her unclamped arm shot out to Humphrey, trying to reach him before the blade fell.

He jolted awake. The East Wing was the same as it was when he last saw it. The wallpaper as drab and untouched as always, the floorboards creaky and neglected, the candle no longer flickered from that leaky hallway.

Being careful not to rock his head from his shoulders again, he spun to face to bed. Amy, still there, slept curled up on her side. Her eyes, rendered unclosable, glimmered slightly in the moonlight beyond the window, her hood pulled up over her head, her arms crossed around her chest, her knees curled. As she usually slept.

She was still here. The guards didn't arrest him. He didn't get the sentencing, and Sophie didn't hate him. Not really. It was their situation she hated, not him; they were both powerless in their father's decisions to wed them. Sophie didn't want him to die. She never meant to keep her pregnancy a hidden secret for as long as she did, she was just frightened of persecution or harassment from the public.

Regardless, Amy was under his protection now, Sophie would return soon, but until then, he'd have to find new ways to put out the candle which lights him to bed.

[two-reflections]

🌟!

This ask is in response to this fanfic writer's Director's Cut meme!

There are so many stories I'd love to talk about, but today, I want to talk about Ritual Catharsis, one of my least-read stories.

I understand why almost no one read it. It's not super shippy, doesn't contain canon characters, and is kind of a midquel to another story very few people read, Five Games Radjedef Lost and One He Won.

I have a massive soft spot for the original story because it's about the Thousand Sons characters my spouse and I came up with together for their Kill Team. The two of us brainstormed the sorcerors' personalities and interpersonal conflict while picking blackberries late last summer. Though the story does have its weak points, I was so glad when I had the chance to write it all out for last December's gift exchange, and my lovely giftee seemed to like the story too. 💙

While writing that story, the character Setka Radjedef quickly became a favourite of mine. He's a seemingly soft little wizard who often downplays his most powerful abilities. Though he was in the Athanaean (basically TSon Astropaths), his true skills lie in rituals, manipulation and mind control. Before the final game, the only time we see him fully bring out his powers is against a Space Wolf terminator during the Burning of Prospero, and he wrecks the terminator despite being fully unarmoured and in an enclosed space.

I like it when a character with that sort of power also has a conscience. Radjedef knows how unpleasant his ability to magically manipulate others is. He tries hard not to influence the brothers he cares about, but he fails, constantly doing it in ways even he isn't fully aware of. In the end, he can only win the game when he consciously employs his powers, which threatens to break his relationship with his beloved friend Kemal Afshar. But for years, Afshar has won using his own clairvoyance to its maximum potential. Isn't it time for Radjedef to have a turn?

In the longer story, I didn't actually manage to show how Radjedef cleared his mind from the guilt of the past in order to let himself use his powers in the final game against Afshar. I also didn't fully explain why he's covered with sorcerous tattoos at the end. I tried to show the reader that Radjedef has been through a lot of personal growth in the time between the penultimate and final games, but I didn't actually write a scene showcasing any of it, since the story focuses on times when Radjedef and Afshar are together.

Still, I always felt like something was missing...

Until I saw this prompt meme prompt:

PERFECT.

In Ritual Catharsis, Yazid Melek, a new friend Radjedef has made post his arrival on Sortiarius, conducts a ritual to clear Radjedef's mental blocks and focus his power. The ritual covers Radjedef's body in beautiful sorcerous tattoos that enhance his powers, but what clears his guilt more than anything is Melek treating him gently, like a treasured friend who deserves all this power and attention.

Melek and Radjedef's relationship is very different to the obsession and almost familial toxicity that has grown between Afshar and Radjedef over the millennia. It is a bit more transactional, but is rooted in respect and good vibes. Melek gives up something pretty important to him to power this ritual, and then says it was worth it. Radjedef can tell he truly means it. This is what gives Radjedef the power to finally beat Afshar back in the main story. He finally wants to and believes he deserves to win, even if it means using powers Afshar looks down on.

One last thing:

I filked/rewrote a large chunk from Aleister Crowley's The Rites of Eleusis for this. The bit I used was from The Rite of Jupiter, Part III.

I love writing rituals and sorcery. At larp, sorcery and ritual are two of my favourite things to get involved in, and it was great to have a chance to bring that fun into another story. That's a big reason why I've loved writing for the Thousand Sons, tbh. Even though neither story was a huge hit, I may do so again in the future. We'll have to see.

Thanks for the ask! If this wasn't the story you were expecting or wanted to read about, please feel free to request another.

[kenziedrawz]

give the akira wing au lore (please)

oh absolutely. In fact, I'll just give you all the fic outline since I don't know when I am going to actually write it.

the fic outline will be under the cut. it also includes a bit of lore explanation as well so...

but, timeline wise this does take place post near future. And in an alternate timeline of Near-ish Future where Hoshi's group didn't pick to investigate the temple/lake/statue. Quick warning for mentions of human experimentation as well.

also, another disclaimer but this au is subject to change at any time. As it's not as entirely fleshed out as I want it to be. I just wanted to give my boy(akira) wings. So this au may change plotwise in future.

[ Essentially, Akira has (secret, he doesn't know about them) wings due to getting kidnapped at fourteen-fifteen by the conspirators (something about being a potential vessel for Odeo or somethin, idk it’s not touched that much on) and experimented on. Yes Lawless did kick a lot of ass to save him, but that’s not entirely important. This is just backstory lmao. 

The actual fic portion opens up with Akira bitching about school and backpain(/hj).

And yes, he is in class while sulking, hence why Hoshi( still using the last name Asagiri) does come up and ask if he’s okay because Akira’s discomfort could be noticed from the fucking moon. Provide a bit of exposition here. Since this technically takes place in Near-ish Future it’s around a few months after the whole Odeo thing, at least over half a year since then. And during that time Akira had to start high school, which kinda sucks.

And, there’s also fuckass history project. Which is essentially picking a place in Nippori and investigating its history, Akira is silently thanking the gods that his group- which includes Hoshi btw- didn’t pick the temple(Lake of Unity) or Tsukuba Labs. You can automatically guess why he does not want to go to either of those places.

Back to the present, Hoshi points out that Akira’s been slouching a lot more lately and the fact that he seems more surly, Akira briefly mentally notes that someone would have had to actively pay attention to him to notice that, but Hoshi’s weird anyways so he brushes it off… For now, as there’s still the fact that Hoshi is just pretty weird in general under the surface.

It’s not like anyone other that Akira noticed it, considering he can (somewhat) read the other’s thoughts (it’s almost like something’s blocking him out)

Eventually, they wind up going to the nurses office- but the nurse is on vacation, or out, either way there is no nurse and instead of- y’know, just leaving. Hoshi decides ‘fuck it, we ball’ and essentially decides to at the very least, check Akira out to make sure nothing’s really fucked up. Cue a bit of banter and eventually Akira’s getting his back examined, yay!

So it turns out there’s two pretty large bumps near Akira’s shoulders, which is… probably not good since they practically are almost the length of his entire back. Now, Hoshi’s no medical professional, but he can tell there’s definitely something wrong here. Maybe even something of the supernatural variety. Which is pretty weird of an assumption to make in Akira’s opinion.

But, curiosity does take over, and he does touch one of them.

They feel weird, and Akira flinches at the touch. Odd. it’s as if there’s something moving under them.

And since Akira’s been peering into Hoshi’s thoughts for this, he freaks out a bit because what the fuck do you mean theres something under his skin Hoshi- Hoshi notices Akira beginning to silently, y’know, freak out and does attempt to reassure him- it works to a degree.

And then he gets an idea, which is essentially cutting open the bumps, which seem to be whatever is moving under Akira’s skin covered by layers of skin. Like something had grown underneath it. You can use this as a chance to maybe write body horror by the way. But, either way he asks Akira to trust him after he takes a quick search around the medical office and finds a scalpel and a local anesthetic. Akira, after a bit of deliberation, agrees.

So now we’re at the part where Hoshi cuts Akira’s back bumps open. But before doing so he lets Akira take one of his hands, asking him to squeeze it if it feels uncomfortable. And then it actually begins. Hoshi is careful to not, y’know, fuck up and hurt Akira because he’s under the anesthetic and won’t really feel it, but he gets the first thing loose. And there’s a pause.

Akira feels the urge to move, But Hoshi warns to not move ‘them’ until he’s done.

And so Hoshi continues, and the other thing is free. Thus, finally letting Akira move and- Oh, they’re wings.

Oh, they’re wings. Cue realization that this is what the conspirators had done to him at the lab around two-ish years ago. Which is, uh, not fun. He’d thought they just fucked with his mind because he had psychic powers, not this. 

But also, how the fuck did Hoshi get the idea that it might be like this?

As it turns out, Akira might not be the only one who’s gone under human experimentation in the past. But there’s more important manners to deal with now.

Such as how the fuck they’re gonna get Akira to brightsparks, or somewhere that isn’t school while hiding the fact he has wings.]

and that's all i have in the fic outline 👍 be aware that it may change as I work on the au more.