#differences in fiction

[thefloatingwriter]

It feels pointed to insert Bee having a family and a bigger age game with Wire, like I got the feeling Collins is weirdly focused on ships (and squashing certain ones) with the new book because so much of the relationship changes were out of nowhere but also oddly definitive. Like Haymitch didn't just have a girlfriend, he "mated for life" and was obsessed. Beetee suddenly had a wife and kids. And for Bee it's like, hey we weren't the ones who wrote that he came back to life when talking about Wiress, we didn't write him as literally inseparable with her.

this is sooo true, and it feels completely random as well. like beetress is honestly such a small ship in comparison to so many other ships in the thg fandom, and virtually unproblematic from what i’ve seen and interacted with. it felt weird how suzanne shut it down indirectly through giving beetee a whole ass family (that was never mentioned before this point!!) and an age gap of around fifteen years. could be completely unrelated and nothing to do with beetress obviously, but still. weird.

the main problem i have with a lot of the romantic relationships displayed in the book is that it feels like a way of saying that people have one Person in a soulmates type of way. like haymitch’s girlfriend dies because of his actions and directly in front of him. yeah that would fuck me up too. but to never get into another relationship again??? it honestly just felt like such a waste. and yes traumatic experiences can cause many people to never truly heal, but it felt so sad to think of a forty year old man still stuck on his girlfriend from when he was sixteen.

and also yeah!!! suzanne wrote it first, we just took it and ran with it.

[xpurplepiex]

neoliberal temptress

[rosieofcorona]

just something sexy about a man in total despair

[collgeruledzebra]

the thing about trying to recommend fiction podcasts to someone who isn't familiar with them is that not only are so so many genres represented but also the level of production can fall anywhere from "basically an audiobook" to "major motion picture minus the pictures"

[who-suffered-more]

how do i even…

@zillychu if you don’t want this posted just let me know and i will take it down 👍

Submitted by @the-cat-demon and/or @apollos-dodgeball-target

Propaganda: [this] post, summarised in the screenshots below (cw for medical stuff):

[jjkbambi]

boy next door luigi mangione x reader (18+)

summary!!! (((smut)))) your roommate luigi wants to help you get over your breakup.

warnings: long fic so we’re starting off with fluff, smutty and rough, blowjob, head pushing and hair-pulling and choking on it bc y/n is #real, p in this v fr, Tie, jealous-ish?, (is in the kitchen public?), he’s very talkative, daddy and his good girl <333

^^ unedited and im a procrastinator

you still haven’t gotten luigi the secret santa gift. with the end of december closing in, all the other $25-and-under gifts sit neatly wrapped beside the tabletop tree. by friendsmas standards, you’re embarrassingly late.

but it was hard!!! he spent most of his time tucked away in his room, the door always cracked just enough to remind you he wasn’t entirely gone. you’d catch glimpses of him hunched over his desk, surrounded by books and papers scrawled with notes you couldn’t begin to understand. he never started conversations, only speaking up to correct you or drop some fact that left you feeling both impressed and annoyed.

it was so desperate you tried the campus bookstore, staring helplessly at the rows of penn merch to no avail. he already seemed to own everything—hoodies, mugs, even a pennant on his door. a gift card felt impersonal, but anything else felt like a gamble.

“good morning,” you hum, stepping into his room. luigi’s snaps his head up, standing shirtless by his closet, scrambling to pull on a sweater. for someone who barely left the house, the sight of his six-pack catches you completely off guard.

“what do you want?” he asks, voice gruff.

you lean against his wall. “do you prefer american or chinese food?”

he huffs out a laugh before leaning onto his blackwood desk. “what, are you taking me out on a date?”

“no, no, no, your secret santa asked me to ask you.” you lie. “they also asked if you wear a size medium or large.”

“don’t worry, i can’t make it to movie night,” he says casually. your lips immediately drop into a frown. it was the annual tradition in the house—a night where all five roommates came together to watch a terrible holiday movie and exchange department store gifts. he couldn’t miss it. “i’ve got a mandatory frat event,” he adds with a shrug. “apparently, it’s not optional this time. i’m surprised your boyfriend didn’t tell you about it.”

you feel yourself dull at the mention of him. “we’re on a break.”

luigi raises an eyebrow. “a break, huh? didn’t see that one coming.” his tone is neutral, but there’s a flicker of something underneath. “what made it happen?”

you shrug, avoiding the conversation.

luigi’s expression softens, his gaze shifting to something a little more concerned. he takes a small step closer, his voice quieter now. “you okay?”

“yeah,” you weren’t, and it was overtly obvious. luigi stands over you, his tall frame leaning closer, his warmth wrapping around you like a quiet embrace. “i thought i heard you say you were done with all that fraternity nonsense,” you say, remembering the times he complained to your roommates about the tumultuous nights and endless responsibilities waiting for him at the phi kappa psi house. it’s strange to picture your boyfriend in that world now.

“you’re nosy,” he says.

“you specifically told my boyfriend it was a huge waste of money.”

“ex-boyfriend.”

“we’re on a break!” you emphasize, eyes narrowing. “plus, it sounds like you’re just trying to get out of secret santa.”

luigi leans in slightly, his voice lowering, teasing. “and it sounds like you’re getting me a gift card.”

you can’t help but laugh, the tension between you both shifting into something lighter, something that felt just a little too comfortable. “alright fine,” you say, accepting defeat. “secret’s out. what is it you want?”

he pauses, studying you for a moment, the faintest smirk curling at his lips. “what do i want?” he murmurs, his voice low, as if weighing the question. hesteps a bit closer, just enough to make the space between you feel charged. “i don’t know, what are you willing to give me?”

you flush under his gaze, unsure of what to make of this moment. you have a boyfriend—yet you’re ninety percent sure luigi is flirting with you, and about a hundred percent sure you’re liking it.

the warmth in your chest is both unsettling and familiar, a confusing mix of guilt and something else you can’t quite place. you try to shake it off, but the way he looks at you lingers in your thoughts, pulling at you in ways you didn’t expect.

he seems entertained by your befuddlement, his eyes lingering on yours in a way that makes you second-guess yourself. he looks away, breaking the moment with a soft chuckle, then turns to leave.

“i’ll see you,” he says, but it’s not casual. it’s something else, something that makes you wonder if he’s looking forward to seeing you again as much as you are him.

you bring yourself back to reality, forcing your mind to settle. you can’t flirt with him. it would upset the house dynamic, intrude on your peaceful living space—you cannot let that happen. you shouldn’t. you were on a break from your boyfriend, a small pause in something that still felt important. and soon enough, you’d be back together, just like you always were.

as much as his presence lingers in your thoughts, you remind yourself of the needed boundaries, the reasons why things can’t get blurred.

still, as you continue baking cookies, dodging glitter explosions, and downing soju bottles, his absence nags at you, a quiet reminder that you’re trying not to want something that might never be.

“you’re still awake.” luigi’s voice cuts through the quiet kitchen, startling you so much that you nearly drop the piece of ribbon you’re holding. you whirl around, clutching your chest, only to find him much closer than you’d expected—close enough that you have to tilt your head up to meet his gaze.

“sorry, didn’t mean to scare you.” he says as you try to shake off the way your pulse seems to have kicked off into overdrive. “you’re not tired?”

“not yet.” you shake your head. “the party didn’t exhaust you?”

“it did.” he says, exhaling. “figured i’d check if i’m eating american or chinese tomorrow before i hit the hay.”

you pretend like you’re offended. “i’d never get you something so thoughtless.”

you grab a gray glittery gift bag and toss it his way. his teasing falters for a second, a flicker of surprise crossing his face. “a tie?”

“yeah, you’re always dressed fancy, going fancy places…” you say, brushing the glitter off your hands, suddenly feeling self-conscious. was it the wrong choice? did fancypants mcgee only wear silk imported from asia? “you don’t like it?”

“no,” he says quickly, the corners of his mouth lifting into a faint smile. “it’s sweet.”

you glance at him, unsure what to say, and his smirk softens into something else, something warmer. he steps closer, the space between you narrowing just enough to make your breath catch.

“guess i’ll have to step up my game,” he says, his voice low, almost thoughtful. “didn’t realize you were paying attention.”

you blink, caught off guard, scrambling to come up with something, but before you can, he leans back, breaking the tension with a chuckle. “looks like you could use some help.”

“you don’t have to.”

“i want to,” he replies, tossing the ribbon into the trash before grabbing the broom from the corner. “besides, i can’t have you using this tie to guilt-trip me later.”

“it’s weird having you be so nice to me,” you blurt out the words before you can realize the reprussions. his dark brown eyes glance up at you, eyebrows pinched together.

the regret is immediate. “i just mean we’ve never really talked before.”

luigi looks at you, his expression shifting slightly. “was that my choice or yours?”

you blink, caught off guard. you’d always assumed it was mutual. “well, that’s not really the point,” you say, trying to brush it off. “we’re friends now, right?”

his dark eyes shift away from yours for a moment, but only to return with even more intensity, holding you in place, freezing you in the moment. your heart stutters in your chest. “i was never interested in being your friend.”

“oh.” the word feels hollow as it leaves your mouth, and you instantly feel your face go pale. you scramble for something to say, anything to make the moment feel less heavy, but the silence hangs between you, thick and unrelenting.

“that’s not what i meant—“

“it’s fine of course, you don’t have to—”

“no.”

he shakes his head and runs up to you, closing the moment of confusion with an abrupt force—his mouth is on yours, tongue slipping past your lips and sliding into you.

whether it was the warmth of the kiss, his big hands groping your body, or the fact that this was just all so irredeemably wrong—you didn’t know—but the rush you got from being with him left you dizzy and dazed and desperate.

luigi laughs into your kiss. “you’re so fuckin’ eager.”

you should be reasonable. you shouldn’t be doing this, this is a mistake. “sorry, i—”

“no, don’t be sorry,” he says, smiling into another sloppy kiss. it felt so tender, so loving, when he takes you into your arms. reason flies out the window. “i want you, too.”

“luigi,” you whimper into his lips, not recognizing the desperation in your voice.

“i’ll give it to you baby, don’t worry,” he hums.

your fingers rush to unbutton your top, half-way done before luigi realizes what you’re doing and he grabs you. “keep your clothes on. i don’t need you naked to make you cum.”

he’s so strong and forward and unlike anything you’ve ever had before. in one swift motion, he turns you over, pressed against the kitchen counter as he slides his warm hand down your silk shorts and cradles your tit with the other.

“you put these on for me, didn’t you?” he tugs your lace panties, pressing them against your hot cunt. your back arches at the sensation and you feel his cock hard underneath his jeans.

“luigi.” you whimper, barely breathing.

“admit it,” he says, in between licking and kissing and biting the nape of your neck, sure to leave marks. “you wore these for me, didn’t you? wanted me to take your mind off that fuckin’ asshole, hm? wanted me to take care of you?”

you swell underneath him, shaking. he grinds his straining cock against your plump ass as he works your pussy, groaning into your neck.

“oh, baby, is that too much for you already?” luigi’s breath is hot against your neck, hands busy rubbing your clit and pinching your delicate nipple.

you felt like you couldn’t breathe. the expression on luigi’s face is smug. “you haven’t even had my cock yet, look at you.”

he brings his wet fingers up to your lips, then shoves them into your mouth without permission. you can’t help but shudder underneath his wicked touch. “yeah.” he laughs. “squirm like that, slut.”

“lu,” you pant. “i want it.”

“no, not yet,” he says, rubbing his hard big cock against your clothed ass. “see how hard i am for you? see how worked up you got me?”

“yes,” you whimper, fingers still in your mouth.

“get on your knees,” luigi grunts. “show me how much you need it.”

you needed it more than anything. dropping down to your knees, you notice a spot on his jeans wet with precum. he’s straining for you. you try to get as much of your mouth on him as you can as soon as his bottoms are off, desperate to show him how good you are.

“you’re so pretty like this,” luigi murmurs as you try to fill your mouth with his entirety. seeing that you’re struggling, he puts his hand on the back of your head and guides you down onto it. “such a good girl.”

he rocks hip forward deep into your warmth, using your face. “choke on it.” he orders. and you do. your eyes tear up at the feeling of his length touching the back of your throat. “god, you’re so fuckin’ filthy.”

before you can breathe, luigi pulls himself out of your mouth and barks out another order, “put your hands up against the wall.”

you do as you’re told. your core aches like it misses his touch. pulling your shorts down, he groans at the sight of your wetness, driving his big cock inside of you.

“slipped in so easy with your spit all over me,” he whispers in your ear. god, he’s driving you fucking crazy. the pleasure is almost overwhelming as he leans down, forces your chin back to bring your lips together, a sloppy, loving kiss.

“i knew you were gonna be like this,” he purrs into you, sucking and biting.

“like what?”

“like a fuckin’ slut.” luigi grumbles. he grabs something off the counter, and you don’t know what’s happening until you feel the silk material fasten around your wrists. the tie.

“luigi.” you gasp.

“i’ve been waiting to get my fuckin’ hands on you.”

you shiver at the confession. “really?”

he groans as he watches your ass ripple against his hips—at how easy and soft and weak you were at his mercy. he melts at the sight of you, using your binded wrists to buck deeper into you. you moan and whimper and scream on the force—he’s so harsh, so mean, so good—you’ve never even dreamt of a pleasure like this.

“listen to you.” he buries himself so deep inside you that you could feel his balls pressed against your ass. “you’re fuckin’ loud when you’re getting treated right, aren’t you?”

“please, daddy,” you whine, completely out of your mind.

luigi groans, pushing your head into the kitchen counter. “god, i didn’t think you were gonna call me that,” he rumbles, rocking his cock hard into your frothing core, rubbing against your clit and sending sparks of pleasure swirling through your body.

he pulls your hair back again, causing you to shriek. “didn’t call him that, did you?” he says it like a statement, leaving no room for correction. “god, i used to jerk myself off listening to you moan. wondering if you were riding him or bent over your fuckin’ mattress.“

“luigi.” you cry.

“always knew i could treat you better,” he growls. “always wanted to bend you over in front of everyone and make you beg for it.”

“i would’ve let you,” you mewl out, helpless.

“yeah?”

“you’re s’good.”

his thrusts come faster, more frantic. “better than him?”

“yes!”

you’re so close and so needy. your mind glows white as he fucks into you. squirming underneath him, the friction of your frantic movements growing hotter as the both of you chase your high. “good girl,” he praises, kissing all over your neck and back. “cream all over daddy’s cock, baby.”

“luigi,” you moan as your orgasm gushes beneath him, shivering as you feel his cock quiver, his load shooting deep into your cunt. he grunts with his final thrust, whimpering your name.

he kisses your shoulder as he pulls out of you. “so good,” he pants, just as helpless and shaken as you were. he unties the present you’d given him and pulls you in for another kiss.

“luigi,” you sigh against his lips.

“pretty girl,” he whispers back, running his hot wet kisses across your lips, your cheeks, your neck. “let me take you out tomorrow, yeah? a proper date. i’ll wear my tie ‘nd everything.”

you laugh—a mix of disbelief and something else—something lighter. before you can say anything, he’s leaning in again, kissing you softly, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“it was a good gift, right?” you hum.

“yeah,” he agrees, the corner of his lips curling into a smirk. “versatile.”

MASTERLIST send requests and leave feedback :3

[flo-n-flon]

In continuation of this drawing showing Siuan's hair going white from shock after her stilling, I wanted to draw and reflect on women and violence in fiction, and letting brutality and age and survival mark their skin rather enshrine their youth in death and memories.

I have a lot of feelings about narratives exacting terrible violence in life on women, and then keeping them eternally young and intact in death, often elevating them as symbols, images rather than people, thus turning them into immutable objects of meaning rather than letting them live with scars, heal and eventually grow old. One of the reasons older women are so important is that they live bearing scars and wrinkles like a tally and a stamp of persistence on their skin. All that to say, I appreciated greatly the show's decision to keep on screen Moiraine's chest scar in season 2 and had great hopes for Siuan getting similar visible scars after her deposal and torture.

It wasn't meant to be in this life. So here's my turning of the Wheel where they lived on to cherish the other's body that had gone through so much. (The Lichtenberg scars on Moiraine's back and shoulders come from pien-art because Moiraine gets beaten up by the One Power with a notable frequency and gets back up often enough to earn cool scars.)

[nostalgebraist]

Imagine that you can still draw, or paint, if you feel like it, and have the tools. That hasn't changed.

And (no, this post isn't about AI, there we go, where was I) all the other newer tools still exist too: Wacom tablets exist, and Adobe Photoshop, and every sort of camera, and so forth. If you have these tools ready at hand, you can just pick them up, and make pictures with them.

And tumblr still exists, and all the rest of the internet with it. And so – if you like – you can use these venues to share the pictures you make with others, easily and immediately, for free.

However, there is also another venue, for sharing pictures.

That is the only thing that is different.

The other venue is... let's say it's a magazine that only prints visual art, and which has an extremely large number of subscribers.

Everyone knows about The Magazine. Most people you know are subscribers.

Before the internet, The Magazine was the main way that visual art got into people's homes (if it wasn't created there in the first place). Your parents speak of The Magazine as though it's just where art lives, as though the notion that there might be art somewhere else has never really crossed their minds.

Much of what appears in The Magazine is, in fact, pretty good. Conversely, much of the truly great art of the recent past made an appearance in The Magazine, at some point, before or after appearing in galleries and/or being reproduced in other ways.

But a lot of it is just... fine. Trendy, competent, workmanlike.

You flip through the pages and mostly you think, yeah, this sure is the sort of thing that gets printed in The Magazine, in the current year. Occasionally you're impressed by something you see there, and even more rarely something moves you, transfixes you.

Much the same could be said of your tumblr dash, of course.

It must be noted, however, that The Magazine has a higher quality floor than your tumblr dash. Everything that appears there looks polished, professional, carefully worked-over. This counts for less than one might think; that professional gloss can do nothing to elevate ill-conceived or simply dull work (and The Magazine does print such things fairly often).

In a gallery, you might encounter mere sketches, or blatantly unfinished paintings (Leonardo left behind plenty of both, after all). But you will never find such things in The Magazine.

The Magazine's cultural and psychological prestige is immense. It holds the popular conception of "art" in its tight, totalizing grip. If you ever pick up a pencil and draw, it will be assumed – by default – that you aspire to eventual publication in The Magazine. If you are not very good, people will tell you to keep at it; maybe someday you will make the grade. If you are good, people will tell you so, and ask you whether you've prepared anything for submission, whether you've sent it, whether you heard back.

It is tremendously inconvenient to appear in The Magazine.

After all, anyone can pick up paper and pencil, but The Magazine only has so many pages per month. So, The Magazine has standards. It is persnickety. It couldn't afford to behave differently.

But even if it could afford to behave differently, it would not want to. For it so happens that The Magazine prides itself on its active role in the production of "art" (meaning, "that which has appeared in The Magazine").

Even if you are one of the "lucky" few who does not receive a simple rejection letter from The Magazine, you will not simply be allowed to put your drawing or painting or what-have-you into The Magazine as it is.

Unmediated transmission of art, straight from artist to viewer, is for lower-class venues ("tumblr.com," "physical reality and its tendency to project images of nearby objects onto the retina," etc). The Magazine has standards, and they have a full staff of not-quite-artist, not-quite-art-critic people who are employed to impose them. If you do not get a rejection letter, what happens instead is that you begin a long and laborious transaction with one or more of these strange middlemen. They will tell you that your work is a good start, but that you really should have put this part over there, or made the symbolism more obvious or less obvious, or "applied your evident talent" to a more socially relevant choice of subject matter, or something of this nature.

Eventually, after a protracted interaction like this, you might succeed! A new, different, quite possibly worse picture – produced by laboriously adjusting your original one (which, being original/unmediated, is of course unprintable by definition) until The Magazine's staff feel satisfied in the relative scope of their role versus yours in the collaborative act that is "art" production – will end up on a page somewhere in the next issue of The Magazine.

And, finally: real art has been produced! You've made it!

You're in The Magazine. And your work ("your"? you don't feel so sure anymore) does look nice, sitting there on one of those oh-so-glossy pages.

It is nice enough that you spend nearly a minute lingering over it, before you go back to tumblr.com, where all the rest of the pictures are.

(And then, on the weekend, you go to a museum, and look at pictures which were being lauded as masterworks centuries before The Magazine was even founded. You could never produce anything like them, you know – and you feel envious of their creators, not so much because of their greater talents, but because no one ever praised them by saying, hey, this stuff is good enough to be in The Magazine!)

But at least your mom and dad will look at your drawings, now, and think: my child is an artist. You were an artist before, too, but it was just amateur stuff. Now it's for real. Professional. In The Magazine.

Professional? Well, The Magazine did pay you a little in the end, as a prize. And there are some people who make their livings this way. They have good, longstanding, hard-won relationships with The Magazine's staff of intermediaries. They are unusual; by sheer force of numbers, only a select few can make a decent and reliable living in this manner.

(Indeed, The Magazine's insistence on imposing its standards is essentially inimical to steady, reproducible money-making for individual artists. You shouldn't feel secure already that they'll print your next picture without delay, before you've even sent it in for assessment – that would mean they are not keeping standards at all, wouldn't it? And so, cultural forces within The Magazine conspire to degrade its value as a potential source of one's livelihood.)

Those who appear regularly in The Magazine have unparalleled reach. As a child, perhaps, they shaped your notion of what an "artist" was; as a child, maybe you wanted to be just like them, when you grew up.

But then you did grow up – and so, you realized that they were employing the tools at hand (pencil, paper) to a very unusual end. Anyone can pick up the tools and draw. But few can make it into The Magazine, and perhaps even fewer than that should want to appear there.

After all, there is something almost shameful about the exercise, isn't it?

The Magazine says: I am the means by art is produced and disseminated. And many people, passively following the ambient culture, unconsciously nod along.

But in fact, The Magazine has no potency in it whatsoever. It is you, and the viewer, who create the work of art and create the experience of experiencing art. You can just draw things. You can just show your drawings to people.

And The Magazine cannot turn an uninspired artist into a genius, or an unskilled artist into a master; it can only trim perceived fat, arrange perceived rough edges into a more agreeable shape, apply gloss and trendiness and "professionalism." But those were never what anyone liked about art to begin with. You don't need them – unless you do, for your own artistic reasons (and your viewers'), and in that case home-made versions will probably do the job well enough.

There is, in fact, not much reason at all to want to appear in The Magazine.

And that, in itself, is a strong argument against the idea.

You ought not to play along in the charade, pretending that the whole laborious exercise has a point after all, if you know that it is in fact pointless. This is a matter of integrity, if nothing else.

Anyway, that's how I feel whenever anyone's like, "so are you gonna try to get this stuff published or what"

[comfort-character-central]

"self shipping is cringe" ok who cares "shipping urself with characters is weird" ok don't care "I would never self ship" ok good for u "I could never post that idk how u do" well good thing ur not me so

[alexispunkkk]

god only knows masterlist

- pairing: joel miller x preacher’s daughter!reader

CHAPTER LINKS

chapter 1: in the house of my father

chapter 2: unspoken sin

chapter 3: god is a man

chapter 4: soaked

chapter 5: animal

chapter 6: not yours

chapter 7: faded scent

chapter 8: survival

chapter 9: get free

more coming soon 😇

wc (so far): 37.4k

on ao3

JOIN THE TAG LIST FOR POST NOTIFICATIONS WHEN I UPDATE!!!

your father built the town’s church with his own hands, laid the foundation when your mom was pregnant with you. you were raised to wear white on easter, to memorize psalms before you even learned to ride a bike. but god never felt like love, he hung like a weight on your shoulders.

everyone watched you grow up—the preacher’s daughter, the town’s sweetest girl, god’s little lamb—like you were a glass doll kept on the altar. your sunday school teacher, the grocery store clerks, your youth leaders. and joel miller.

joel was one of the few to never get too close, never try to grace you with sweet words and touch because of your father. he kept his distance, nodded politely, and you were always too young. he looked at you without reaching. you remember him fixing the gutters at the church, help your dad lead prayer circles. mr. miller’s voice was tired, but always kind. a good man. a man of the church.

everyone adored you, but you had your own secrets—as did everyone in town. skipping town at 18, leaving the church, you learned to cry without praying first. sleep too much. kissed strangers who didn’t care about your last name.

returning to town a few years later, the house is emptier than you ever remembered. crosses hung above the beds, a thick layer of dust somehow covering every inviolable room. your father is quieter. has too much shame.

and there’s joel. but now, he keeps looking at you like he sees everything you’re trying to hide. there’s something else in his eyes than the rest of the men your dad surrounded himself with after church.

and you? you’re tired of being holy.

- warnings: tons and tons of religious trauma, guilt, blasphemous themes, biggggg age gap (early 20s reader, joel is 56), toxic family, power imbalances, grief, death in family, shame-based sexuality, psychosexuality, smoking, alcohol, southern gothic and small town setting, gaslighting, purity culture and repression, sexual trauma, forbidden romance, slow burn, dark romance, gaslighting, cursing, intimacy in religious setting, no outbreak!!!!, obsession, just so much religious guilt and discovery please don’t read if you’re not comfortable with that! and obviously tons of smut—but i’ll go more into detail with that bit when i post more chapters.

very roughly inspired by preacher’s daughter by ethel cain—just the same vibe! southern gothic, the baptist church, laying by the creek, sunday dresses and crosses above the bed. with joel. it’s perfect.

slow burn, religious trauma, so so much guilt, lust, and total ruin.

follow for updates, I’ll be posting more soon, love yall freaks mwah mwah mwah mwah

[sansculottides]

pisses me off to no end when people on reddit or whatever complain that the show wouldve been better off without the tuunbaq.....did we watch the same show? the tuunbaq is everything, it held everything together. the tuunbaq is the main transformative element of the terror. the tuunbaq elevates the text beyond mere historical fact and lets it say something about the expedition's broader context of imperialism. it hunted the british men who were trampling on its home as a mere stopover, a side casualty, to finding the northwest passage (for, you know, "trade with china" after britain beat china into submission after the imperialist opium war). silna couldnt complete a proper ritual with it because of the british men - just as british colonizers have historically intruded and disrupted the practice of indigenous culture. and in the end the tuunbaq dies, after all the injuries it's taken from the british over the course of 10 episodes and finally chokes to death on the worst of them. because there's no escaping the reality of colonial history, and there is especially no fantastical escape for the colonizer. there's no proper way for us to move forward otherwise.

good historical fiction doesnt have to limit itself to accuracy - it needs empathy to draw out meanings in history using literary craft. thats what the tuunbaq means to me.... if you wanted a straight depiction of historical record, just go watch a documentary.. TUUNBAQ DENIERS DNI

[animasola86]

LOST & FOUND 🫂 CH1

Sometimes, Mommy and Daddy don't see eye to eye with how they handle their little girl: you. After Mommy disciplines you for a clumsy mistake and its aftermath, Daddy comes to comfort you, and you show him just how thankful you are.

soft!Daddy!dom x Mommy!domme x little girl!reader

WARNINGS: F!Reader insert. NSFW! Explicit sexual content! Dd/Md/lg dynamics, Daddy/Mommy kink. Age gap. Size difference. Pet names. Love triangle. Hurt/Comfort. Implied caning. Aftercare. Cock worship. Oral sex, deepthroating attempt. Hand job. Dry humping. Fluff. (More notes below the cut!)

WORDS: 7k 🔷️ READ ON AO3 🔷️ 1–2–3–4–5–6 7–8–9–10–11–12

A/N: Reader (we call her pumpkin) is in her 20s, Mommy and Daddy are in their early and late thirties. Everything's more or less consensual. There's a bit of backstory for Reader (who basically suffers from depression and anxiety), but other than that, she's pretty neutral (only attributes she has are: hair long enough to braid and female genitalia, and she's bisexual or at least bi-curious, and leans more to the submissive side of things). Also this may not be your typical little girl story as I'm not that much into ageplay, so this will be a wild mix of different elements of the Dd/lg dynamic with a good dose of Dom/sub, a bit of the Good cop/Bad cop trope (Daddy being the soft!Dom, while Mommy has a darker side), lots of F/F and F/M (and F/F/M) intimacies, and more. If you're open for anything, this may be a story for you! (READ THIS if you're curious/wondering about the tags I listed this under!)

🔷️ Chapter 1 🔷️ Chapter 2

You toss and turn in your bed, unable to find a comfortable position. Your butt hurts, as red and tight as it is, but you try to fight any new batch of tears that comes when you think back to how you got into this predicament. The worst part is the disappointment crashing through you, the anger at yourself, for not being a good girl.

Before you can fall deeper into your dark thoughts, your bedroom door opens. You stiffen, holding your breath, biting your lip as you listen intently. The door shuts again, before footsteps come closer. But as soon as the edge of your bed dips by someone sitting down, you turn around and pull the covers down, chewing on your bottom lip as you look up at the figure leaning over you, his big frame illuminated by the little night light on your bedside table.

“How's my baby girl?” His low voice immediately calms you, and you wriggle out from under your blanket to sit up and throw your arms around the tall man's neck. He catches you and holds you tightly, sighing deeply. “Mommy told me she had to discipline you today. She got you good, hm?”

You hum into his shoulder. “But I deserved it...” you mumble under your breath, clinging to him desperately, ignoring the sting of your bruised buttocks as you squirm on your knees.

“Yeah? What did you do?” he asks quietly, rubbing his large hand over your back.

“I... I made cookies,” you stammer, inhaling deeply, before the words just tumble out of you with haste. “But when I... when I wanted to pull them out of the oven, I tripped and dropped them and then... then... the tray fell onto the counter and... and smashed one of Mommy's herb pots. There was such a mess...”

“Oh pumpkin,” he sighs, squeezing you a little more. “That was just bad luck, wasn't it?”

“Yeah... I... I didn't mean to do that! You gotta believe me, Daddy!” you mumble, still holding onto him and hiding against his neck.

“I do, baby girl. But we gotta work on your clumsiness. You gotta be more careful, okay?”

You nod against him, chewing on the inside of your cheek.

“Say it.”

“I... I will be more careful. I promise,” you say quietly. “I never wanna see Mommy so angry again...”

A hum escapes him. “What did she give you?”

You squirm on your knees, rubbing against him to keep your butt from touching your heels. “Twenty hits...”

“With what?”

A shiver crashes through you. “The cane.”

“Oh sweetie, I'm sorry,” he tells you, hugging you tighter, one of his hands moving lower until he teases at your burning cheeks. “That sounds a bit excessive for a simple act of clumsiness. I guess I gotta talk to Mommy, hm?”

“No! It's okay, Daddy! Don't fight with her, please. I deserved it, it's okay. I took it like a big girl, she said so,” you say quickly, finally leaning back to look up at him, your hands kneading his wide shoulders. He gives you a warm smile, caressing the back of your head with the hand that's not palming at your ass.

“I'm sure you did, pumpkin. Can I see?” he then asks, tilting his head at you.

You bite your lip, but nod quickly. Climbing off his lap, you get off the bed and pull your oversized sleeping shirt over your head before you bend down, leaning on your hands, showing him your welted backside (it hurt too much to put on panties, so you just left them). He stands too and walks behind you, his hands moving along your hips before you feel his fingertips along the red lines covering your rear.

“She must have really loved that herb pot, huh?” he muses, and you flinch badly when he presses his palm against your left ass cheek, your blood thrumming just beneath the surface, warming even more under his touch. “This is too much,” he adds under his breath. “I'd given you five, max, and definitely not with the cane...”

He then grabs your waist and pulls you back up, slowly turning you around, watching you closely. “Did you clean up after yourself?”

You nod furiously. “Of course, Daddy. I cleaned the whole kitchen. I was sad about the cookies... I made them for you, you know, your favorite kind? But I had to throw them away because there was dirt all over them...”

Warmth floods his dark eyes, and he leans in to pull you against his chest. “You'll make another batch, don't worry,” he says soothingly.

You hug him tightly, pressing your whole body into his. “I'm sorry I wasted so much stuff. I guess that's also why Mommy was so furious... I did such a mess and nothing came out of it...”

“Stop,” he says sternly, leaning you back by your shoulders. His eyes bore into yours. You swallow thickly. “You received your punishment. It's done. You will not cry about spilled milk, do you understand?”

“Yes, sir,” you whisper, biting your bottom lip. He raises an eyebrow, and you stop the nervous motion, pressing your lips together.

“What did you learn from this?”

“I... I should be more careful. I will not waste any food. I will ask for help if I can't do something on my own. I... I shouldn't get overwhelmed and make an even bigger mess...” you add in a breathy whisper. He nods to your words, a small smile playing around his lips.

You stare at him for a moment, mesmerized by his handsome face. There's a dimple on his cheek as the smile deepens, and creases in the corners of his eyes as he watches you. He's so pretty, you think as you feel a familiar tension settling in your lower stomach. I'm so lucky he's here for me.

“So you made me cookies, pumpkin?” he whispers as he crouches down in front of you, his hands rubbing along your arms until he grabs your hands and cradles them in his large palms. You nod, smiling shyly. “The ones with peanut butter?” You nod again, your smile growing bigger. He smirks at you. “The ones Mommy hates and can't eat?”

You freeze, your smile vanishing instantly. Your lips move to form a silent Oh. He leans in and brushes his lips to your forehead. “I... I forgot...” you mumble, feeling tears burn in your eyes.

“Might explain why she was so angry, hm?” he muses, shuffling closer until he can throw his arms around your shoulders and pull you against him. “Don't worry about it, baby girl, she'll calm down again. I'll talk to her. Maybe there was more afoot than meets the eye.”

You hug him back slowly, unable to hide the tears anymore as a quiet sob escapes you. He shushes you, rubbing your back. “I'm sorry, Daddy. I never meant to cause trouble...”

“I know you didn't, baby,” he says quietly. “You've been such a good girl for us, since the day you moved in. You adjusted so well. I'm really proud of you, you know?”

Another sob slips from your trembling lips, and you try to hide it by burying your face in his chest. He holds you tighter, a deep sigh ringing in your ears. “C-can you –” you start, your voice breaking mid-question.

“Hm?”

“Can you stay here tonight?” you ask quietly, your heart beating faster.

“Are you sure, pumpkin? Won't you be in pain?” he whispers, moving his hand along the back of your head, tangling his long fingers in your hair.

“It'll be better when you're here,” you reply, leaning against him. “But... but I understand if you... if you don't want to... or... or if Mommy asked first...”

“She didn't,” he says. “But I gotta talk to her first. We don't want to disrupt her punishment, right, darling? If I stay here, she might see that as a reward you don't deserve.”

“You... you could... you know...” you stammer, your cheeks burning up badly as you cling to him, your heart beating even faster as you try to word your wishes.

“What, baby girl? Use your words.”

“You... you don't have to be gentle with me, you know? You could punish me too. For... for not giving you the cookies I promised you...”

A laugh rings in your ears. “But you never promised me anything. I can't be mad if a surprise you planned didn't work out, can I? And you know, if you ask for punishment... that's not really punishment after all. Is it, pumpkin?”

“No,” you mutter, pressing your forehead into his shoulder. “I guess not...”

“Unless you want me to punish you for being too needy. Are you too needy, sweet girl?” he asks quietly, slowly letting go of you.

When you meet his gaze, your face is flushed, your stomach tense, that throb between your legs almost as bad as the stinging in your tight butt cheeks. “Maybe...” you press out, chewing on your lips.

His smile turns slightly more sinister at your reply. You watch him lick his lips, a motion that holds you captive for a moment, before he leans in and grabs your upper arms.

“Tell me why you're here,” he then says, his eyes never leaving yours.

You swallow, wet your suddenly dry lips. “B-because I... because I needed a Daddy... and a... Mommy... someone to tell me what to do... someone to help me... someone to be there for me... so I'm not alone...”

He listens closely, his hands tightening around your biceps. “And what did we want in return, baby girl?”

“Me... whenever you want... however you want...” you whisper, barely audible as you stare back at him, your mind already emptying as you repeat the words he drilled into you.

Letting go of your arms, he stands up again, towering over you as he nods slightly. “We gave you a home, you gave us your body. Is that a good deal, baby?”

You frown slightly, licking your lips. “Yes?” you whisper, not sure what he wants to hear from you.

His eyes narrow a little. Your mind is reeling as you watch him, before you fall to your knees in front of him, your hands holding onto the stiff fabric of his pants as you tilt your head back to look up at him.

“Yes, Daddy, it's a good deal. I wanna make you feel good because you make me feel good. I wanna be a good girl for you, and for Mommy, because you've been so good to me. I... I will not be needy, only when you want me to be.”

As you stumble over your words, his eyes move over your flushed face. He listens patiently, and by the end of your ramble, he's smiling down at you.

“Get up,” he says softly, holding out his large hand to you.

You grab it, or rather close your hand around his index finger as you pull yourself up. He's so tall and big, so strong, intimidating, and yet you feel safe just looking at him. His free hand finds your cheek, his thumb pressing down on your bottom lip.

“Listen up, kid,” he starts, and you nod, holding his gaze as you part your lips and let him put his digit on your tongue. “I will not spend the night with you. No, don't pout, listen. But I want you to come to us later tonight and give your Mommy a good time, okay? She'll appreciate it if you show a little initiative. And if you've been a good girl, I'll give you a reward too, how does that sound?”

You smile around his thumb in your mouth, nodding enthusiastically. He pulls it from between your tight lips and raises his eyebrows. “Yes, Daddy, I'll do that. I'll be your good girl. I'll give Mommy a good time,” you whisper hectically.

He gives you a soft pat to the cheek, before he takes a step back and looks you up and down for a moment, his eyes raking over your naked body. You've long overcome the embarrassment of being in the nude around him (or Mommy). It feels natural now.

“I really don't like it when Mommy is mad at you, pumpkin,” he says quietly, silently giving you a sign to turn around. You do, holding his gaze for as long as you can before you spin slowly and present your backside to him once more. “I had plans for tonight. But maybe I can still make them happen, hm?”

You feel him walking closer, his hands on your shoulders, his short fingernails scraping over your skin as they move down your spine, leaving goosebumps in their wake. His breath ghosts your shoulder blade as he crouches down behind you, causing you to shiver. You squeeze your thighs together and hold your breath, trying to show him how absolutely not needy you are. You probably fail miserably. He can always see right through you.

A sudden yelp escapes you when his hand comes into contact with your bruised ass cheek, a soft slap that brings the pain back under your skin. You whimper, trying to remain calm as you stand there for his inspection. “I really don't know why Mommy is so fixated on using the cane. I don't like seeing you like this, baby girl. Did she make you come while she did it?”

“No,” you breathe, your head spinning as you squeeze your eyes shut.

“Hmm,” he hums darkly, his big hands gently cupping your glutes, giving them a subtle squeeze. “Do you want to come now?”

Your breath hitches, but you see through his question immediately. You weren't always that quick about it. “No, Daddy, I don't deserve it, I haven't been a good girl,” you reply quietly, your hands clenching into fists at your sides.

He traces the throbbing lines on your ass, making you squirm against his touch. “Too bad,” he sighs, his fingers teasing between your cheeks, giving both of your holes a little prod that really makes you fight not to react. “Did she give you something to put on here?” he then asks, his hands moving down your legs now.

“No,” you whisper through clenched teeth. “She said it didn't look too bad, and the blows weren't that hard to begin with. And there was no blood...”

He sighs again, standing up, and before you know it, he turns you around, grabs your waist and flings you over his shoulder. You squeak in surprise, your hair falling over your head as you cling desperately to the back of his shirt. His large hand holding onto your calves, he carries you into your ensuite bathroom and rummages through the medicine cabinet above the sink.

“I swear, this woman has a scar kink,” he mutters darkly, more to himself, before he gives your thighs a gentle rub. “Nothing warrants permanent damage to your beautiful skin, pumpkin,” he tells you quietly as he moves out of the bathroom again.

He puts you down carefully, then sits down on the edge of your bed, patting his lap. You follow the hint quickly and drape yourself over his thighs, stomach pressing into his leg as you brace yourself. “But she said –”

“She definitely broke your skin a few times, baby, she wasn't perfectly honest with you. I really need to talk to her, this isn't acceptable. Hold still now,” he says, and you feel him fumbling with something before his hands move over your warm butt cheeks. At first it's cold, then it stings, and you suck in a sharp breath as you claw your hands into his pants, a little whimper escaping you.

He keeps rubbing whatever ointment he found onto your bruised skin, and once he's done, your head is spinning and a few tears have rolled down your cheeks. But you've endured, like the big girl you are. He pulls you onto your feet then, watching you closely before he wipes at your wet face.

“How about you get a good night's sleep now, hm, sweetheart?” he says softly, giving you a small smile as you scrunch your nose when he boops it playfully. “Let's push our plan to tomorrow. You can surprise Mommy then, okay? I'll help you make breakfast, and then you'll give her a good time. Remember, she is not a bad person, even if she has her weak moments. I'll find out what bugged her today, don't worry. Trust me, it was not your fault,” he adds, cupping your face to pull you closer to him.

You chew on your bottom lip, watching him. “But –”

He clicks his tongue and shakes his head. You freeze and blink at him, more tears burning in your eyes. “You dropped some cookies and smashed some plants, baby, that doesn't justify twenty cane hits. She was taking something out on you, and that's not right. Stop worrying now, okay, darling?”

You sniffle, nodding to his words. Moving one hand to your lower back, he nudges you closer until he can press his lips to your forehead. Your fingers twitch before you find the courage to grab the front of his shirt, leaning against him. “Are you mad at her?” you mumble as he pulls one arm around you.

“Well, maybe a little. But don't worry your pretty little head, sweetie, you know we have our ways of dealing with pent-up emotions.”

His reply sends a shiver down your spine. Oh you know that, you've heard it many times, how they deal with stress and anger. If you wouldn't get out-of-your-mind aroused by the noises coming from their shared bedroom, you'd be terrified by them. You remember watching them once, unintentionally, but they did leave the door open, and what you saw still haunts you in your dreams sometimes.

They can play rough with you too, but how they treat each other (when they think nobody is watching) is really something you don't want to experience first-hand, ever. It's brutal, but it does seem to calm them in the end. It's a strange dynamic, but you've known that since you moved in with them so many months ago.

Before you can think back to how it all started, you feel a big hand grabbing your chin, making you look up. You meet Daddy's dark eyes, the intensity in them making you squirm immediately as your core starts throbbing even more. You blink a few times, focusing back on him.

“How do you feel now, pumpkin?” he asks quietly, watching you closely.

“Better,” you whisper back, smiling shyly. “Thank you, Daddy.”

A smirk lets the corner of his mouth twitch. “You wanna show Daddy how thankful you are?”

Heat crashes into your face. Averting your eyes for a moment, you nod timidly, your fingers playing with the buttons of his shirt. “C-can you... uh... can you lie down for it, Daddy?” you ask barely audible, still not looking at him.

He considers your request. You know he prefers to have you on your knees in front of him, but since he knows about the pain in your butt, he seems to accept your words. Well, in his way. “Look at me,” he tells you. “Look at me and tell me what you want to do.”

You swallow hard, inhaling deeply, before you look at him, immediately mesmerized by the hunger in his eyes. “I... I want to show you... how thankful I am... by... by...” You bite your lip, frowning, fighting against voicing the things you have no problem doing, but putting them into words, saying them out loud, is still not easy for you.

“Come on, baby, use your words.” His voice is calm and comforting, never condescending, but you still feel a tight knot forming in your stomach.

You exhale loudly through your nose, blinking, your eyes flicking over his face. “I... I wanna showyouhowthankful Iambysuckin'yourcock,” you press out, your words fast and barely coherent.

The grip on your chin tightens, his thumb and forefinger pressing into your jaw. “Again, slower. No need to be ashamed, pumpkin. It's completely natural. Just say the words, I know you can do it.”

You swallow again, furrowing your eyebrows as you look at him. “I want to... no, I'd like to... suck your –” You inhale deeply. “– cock, Daddy, because... because I am really thankful that you are... here for me...” Your voice is still quiet, but you get the words out, and even though your cheeks burn up badly, you feel some sort of accomplishment when he nods and smiles at you.

“Good girl,” he praises and stands up, letting go of you, and you smile back shyly. “Alright, let me get comfortable then, hm?”

You watch him opening his belt, his long fingers moving lower to continue on the button and zipper with ease and confidence. He winks at you when he pushes his pants down his hips and steps out of them (his dark boxer briefs doing absolutely nothing to hide the obvious bulge), before he pulls his shirt over his head and sits down on the bed, scooting back to the headboard, his long legs stretched out. Tilting his head, he gives you a gentle nod, and you follow him immediately, crawling between his legs, trying to keep the pressure off the tight skin of your ass.

He crooks a finger at you, smiling wider, and before you focus on the task at hand, you clamber over him and bring your face to his. He grabs your chin and pulls you the rest of the way, pressing his lips firmly against yours, his eyes hooded but still as intense as he watches you. When he licks at the seam of your mouth, you open it and let his tongue in, quickly meeting it with your own as he deepens the kiss. Your eyelids flutter, as does your stomach, and the more you feel his warm mouth on yours, the calmer you get, ready to take on what lies ahead.

Not that you dread it. On the contrary. You meant it when you said you wanted to. Since you moved in with Mommy and Daddy, you've learned two very fool-proof ways of shutting your nagging mind off: one – by giving up complete control when either (or both) of them uses you, and two – by focusing all your energy on the pleasure of someone else. It's a strange thrill knowing that it was your mouth and hands (and body) that brought them to their peak. Seeing that relaxed expression, the bliss in their eyes, the little noises they issue, it's a joy in and of itself.

While you don't particularly care if you have a cock in your mouth or your tongue in a cunt, you do prefer hearing Daddy's noises. Mommy is never shy to scream it into the heavens when she is satisfied, Daddy usually keeps to himself, always focused on you (or Mommy), he would grunt and groan, sure, issuing sounds of effort when he'd fuck you (or Mommy) senseless, but when you give him head, when he relaxes into your ministrations, he really lets go, letting it all out, and hearing him moan while you work on his cock is the best thing ever.

The only thing that bugs you about this very special task that only you are allowed to perform on him (mainly because Mommy would probably bite off his dick instead of pleasuring him, she is rough like that), is that Daddy's cock is huge. In your eyes, anyway, maybe your mouth is also very small, but in comparison to the few dicks you've seen in the flesh in your life, he is definitely very well-endowed. And the problem with that is that you can't fit all of him into your mouth, or even down your throat, like you always try but are never able to.

Whenever you'd watch porn with him or Mommy, you find yourself getting envious of the women being able to deepthroat any cock they've encountered, mostly even without gagging, while you feel like you are dying when he is just bumping the back of your throat. You want to make him happy, because he makes you happy, but you've still failed many times. Though despite it all, you've kept going, learning to pleasure him with the means you are given, knowing it'd impress him all the same.

He's been so patient with you, letting you get accustomed with his cock, letting you try things out, soothing you when you thought you failed, encouraging you when you almost had it. It's the praise and the smell and feel and taste of his cock that makes you continue on your journey to become the best cocksucker this man has ever seen. And you'd bet that list is very long, and getting to the top surely feels like mastering a craft you have barely any experience in.

But he taught you to never give up, not just in sexual aspects, but in life. You owe him so much. It seems a small task to fight that gag reflex over and over again. And if you still manage to get him off and hear those sweet moans, it is all worth it anyway.

It's you who has to force yourself away from Daddy's lips and focus on what's waiting for you further below. He watches you as you brush your lips down his neck and over his collarbones, focusing on peppering small kisses on his pecs, relishing in the little shivers you cause by flicking your tongue around his nipples. You keep looking up at him from under your lashes, wanting to see all the small reactions, and when he shoots you a smile, one that goes straight to your throbbing cunt, you smile back shyly and keep kissing down his stomach.

It's always a pleasure to just explore his body like this, taking your time, letting him watch, and him letting you do whatever you want. The trust you developed in just a few months is remarkable. But he (and Mommy) have made it so easy for you to let go, to let things happen, to be bold enough to chase what you desire. It wasn't always easy to voice it, but sometimes actions spoke louder than words, and they both accepted that about you. (Mostly. Daddy still often trains you like he did earlier.)

Inhaling deeply, you finally focus fully on your self-proclaimed want, trying to shut out thoughts and memories, being in the moment. It's easy enough once you reach the trail of coarse hair vanishing under the soft fabric of his boxer briefs. There you linger a little longer, lips pressed to his warm skin, tingling under the scratch, his scent filling your nostrils. It's certainly a strange thing to admit, but one of your happy/safe places is indeed his crotch.

Months ago you were not even aware of having an oral fixation, but it quickly came to you how calm you became once you could suck on a thumb or had fingers in your mouth, or best case scenario could suckle on a cock for hours on end. It was mostly Daddy who gave you that peace of mind because it was so easy for you to let go with him, to let your guard down, to forget about the world.

It had been embarrassing at first, noticing your body's reactions (mostly how your saliva pooled on your tongue, how you literally started drooling as if you were a hungry dog), but now you embraced it. Licking your lips, trying to contain the need burning under your skin, you move your hands to hook your fingers around the waistband of his underwear, looking up once more before you're going to dive in. He gives you an encouraging nod, one of his arms bent behind his head, the other hand resting casually on his thigh.

Then you peel the last layer away, pushing his boxers down enough to let his cock spring free. An intimidating sight that couldn't be more intriguing to you. Your mind is already emptying, focused on the smell and feel and soon taste of him, your heart beating faster as your core throbs in anticipation. Your hands, so small, try to wrap around his shaft, picking him up. He's heavy in your grip, warm and already hardening.

You shift back on your knees, still aware of the burning skin on your rear, and lean down more to bring your lips to his tip. A few flicks of your tongue and he's already twitching into your hands, a deep inhale sounding from above. You smile against his cock as you press soft kisses along his shaft, moving your hands down to the base, one squeezing a little, the other pulling his underwear down more to get to his balls.

You give them a gentle massage, eager fingers digging into soft skin as you roll them in your palm (like stress balls, how Mommy once said when she taught you how to handle him correctly), while you continue to kiss and lick along his length, from the base all the way up to the tip. Bending over him, you focus your lips to the slit at the top, poking your tongue against it, giving it a little suck while your hands move back to push his tight skin up and down his hardened core.

His breathing gets a little louder, still no moans, but you'll get him there, and when you look up at him with your lips closed tightly around his tip, you see the focused look in his eyes, his holding-back face, and you smirk to yourself as you give him another suck and prod, watching the muscle in his jaw clench. As caring and easy-going as Daddy is with you, he is usually a serious man, hard working and intimidating, both in stature and demeanor, dominating in a way that silences the entire room, but when you have your mouth on him, that facade he tries to keep up is quickly crumbling.

And you revel in the power you have over this handsome, stoic man. You are his little girl after all, and that role quickly became exactly what you needed to be in life. It gave you strength and a purpose, knowing that he and Mommy both found comfort and peace in being with you, cuddling you, kissing you, fucking you. And it wasn't even that sexual in nature, not all the time, it was also freeing to let them dress you, brush your hair, to do what they told you.

It gave you time to explore yourself, what you wanted in life (beside being their little girl), and while you spend most of your time with them, in the few hours you are alone, you try out and explore as many hobbies as you can, the last one being baking, and while you failed today and paid the consequences, you usually quite enjoy it.

You hope Mommy's punishment won't affect your enjoyment, and you won't always have to expect pain whenever you make a mistake. Though you do wonder what made Mommy so mad. Daddy is probably right, there has to be more afoot.

You huff a deep breath against Daddy as you realize that your mind has wandered again. None of that. Stop it. Concentrate on him. This is for you to shut up that annoying brain of yours.

Blinking your eyes into focus, you let them wander up his torso. He looks at you, a bit of worry etched between his eyebrows. You feel his hand moving until his fingers brush against your hair, fingertips pressing softly into your scalp, both to comfort you and to push you a bit further onto his cock.

You take the hint and open your mouth a bit more, allowing more of him into it, while your hands move up and around his shaft, pulling and pushing his tight skin, feeling the thick veins throbbing against your palms. Your tongue licks around his tip, exploring the smooth mushroom shape and the ridges below, and when you angle your head a bit differently, you feel him pushing deeper, nudging right against the back of your throat.

Your stomach tenses, your breathing getting a bit more labored as you remember the last time you tried to shove him down your throat. You've been a sobbing mess covered in spit, terrified of choking on him. But you won't give up. And so you focus on swirling your tongue around what does fit into your mouth, lips tight around his warm skin, hands pumping and pumping the rest of him, and when you hollow your cheeks and suck, a twitch goes through his body, his hand tightening in your hair.

You keep going, encouraged by his reaction, starting to bob your head up and down until half of his cock is lathered in your saliva with a bit of drool running down your chin. Your fingers close around his shaft, giving him subtle squeezes, while your mouth is full of him. Instead of forcing him into spaces your body refuses to open to him, you turn your head and let him fill your cheeks, a pump left, a pump right, knowing he enjoys seeing the bulge of his cock under your skin (he especially enjoys the little bump in your stomach when he presses particularly deep or when Mommy tries one of her longer straps on you, literally rearranging your guts, and after being terrified of it the first few times, you've grown quite accustomed to seeing them deforming your body like that).

You keep nudging him into your cheek, sucking at the same time, your tongue pressed against his sensitive underside, and as you dare a look at him, you see him with his head tilted back, staring at the ceiling, lips parted, louder breaths slipping past them. “Just like that, pumpkin,” he rasps, his hand in your hair easing and tightening. “You're doing great.” He already sounds breathless, but it's not enough for you. You want to see him completely dissolve into pleasure.

So you bob faster, suck harder, squeeze him tighter. You even dare to prod him against the back of your throat again, your eyes watering at the sensation, your body shuddering, anticipating the worst, but you focus on seeing him so relaxed, that handsome man who trusts you so much, who lets go for you just as you let go for him.

Squeezing your eyes shut, ignoring the tears spilling past your lashes, you take a deep breath through your nose, forcing your tense muscles to ease up (which may sound counter-intuitive but somehow it works), and then, you lower your head, your hands tight around his shaft, holding him steady as you open your jaw and swallow him as much as you can. His tip slips past that point that usually makes you retch immediately, inch after inch, and you only convulse when he's really in there, so deep you can barely breathe, surprised and horrified at having his cock in your throat.

And then you gag, violently, your body jerking, and you pull back, spluttering, coughing, spit flying everywhere before you bury your flushed face in his thigh, trying to calm down. His hand eases down your nape.

“You okay down there, baby?” he whispers.

Your heaving breaths echo in your spinning head, and you feel shame flooding your body as more tears burn in your eyes. “S-sorry, Daddy,” you mumble, swallowing the excess spit, licking your soiled lips.

“It's fine, pumpkin,” you hear him say. “Don't stress about it. I told you you don't have to do that.”

“B-but I... I want to... I have to...” you whimper, cheek resting on his thigh, nose brushing against his cock still in your hands.

“You don't have to!”

You freeze, his harsher words ringing in your ears. “B-but...”

“Did Mommy tell you that?” he asks, and you feel him sitting up a little, his other hand finding your chin as he pulls you up again.

You look at him, vision blurry, your face wet, and when you try to wipe at it, he grabs your hand and puts it back around his cock before he wipes at your cheeks himself. “No, I just... I want to... everyone else can do it...” you murmur, averting your eyes.

“Everyone else? Who?”

“The... women in the videos...” you croak out, feeling even more embarrassed.

“Oh pumpkin,” he sighs, and you see him closing his eyes for a moment. “That is not everyone. Trust me, it's a rare gift to be able to deepthroat a cock. Don't believe for a second that every girl, every woman, hell, even every man out there would be able to do that. And if they can, it takes a lot of training to get to that point. You're not there, and you don't ever have to get there either! If Mommy told you –”

“She didn't!” you say quickly, biting your lip. “But she told me to watch... these videos... to get used to the idea of it...”

“Did she?” He exhales again, shakes his head. “Pumpkin, you are our little girl, not a porn actress we hired to perform some special tricks.” He shifts a bit more, spreading his legs to sit up and pull you up against him, his lips brushing against your temple. “Please keep your innocence, sweetheart. Don't force yourself to do things your body can't handle. It's okay not to be perfect. It's not a flaw!”

You lean into him, watching him as he talks, his words sinking in but you still feel as if you should be better, as if he expects more of you even though he says otherwise. His hand moves around your rear, brushing against the welts burned into your skin, reminding you of other things you're not good at. A few more tears spill from your eyes.

“Straddle my thigh, baby girl,” he then tells you, his gaze intense, dark.

You swallow, nodding as you blink the tears away. Shifting on the bed, you put one knee on either side of his leg (one of them nudging his groin), carefully sitting down on the bulk of his thigh. He grabs your hand and guides it back to his cock. You watch him move it up and down his shaft, curling your fist around his tip, his larger hand so big around yours.

It's almost an instinct to start grinding your bare crotch against his leg, slow little tilts of your hips, falling into the rhythm he sets with your hand. A familiar warmth settles low in your stomach, throbbing in your clit that catches on his skin with every backwards motion.

“Whatever you do, pumpkin,” he says softly, and you let his words sink in, spoken in that deep thrum of his voice that vibrates through your entire body, fueling the fire burning in your core. “I am proud of you. Because I know you are trying, you are trying harder than anyone I've ever met. You may not see it for yourself, but I can see the effort, the passion you put into everything you do. You are enough, baby girl, more than enough, you are my perfect little girl, our little girl, and yes, Mommy is proud of you too, even if she had a bad day today.

“You've come so far since you came to us, and you'll go even farther, I'm sure. So stop worrying, okay? You are so beautiful, so talented, so easy to be with. You make me incredibly happy,” he finishes softly, his hands moving up to cup your face as he pulls you towards him, your cunt still rubbing over his leg, your hand tight around his cock, moving seemingly on its own, as you focus on the soft expression in his eyes.

“Daddy,” you gasp.

He smiles, leaning in to nuzzle your nose. “I love you, pumpkin,” he breathes against you, his hands pulling you in until he captures your lips for a searing kiss. It's the combination of his words, the softness of them versus the demanding hold he has on you, the warmth of his body, the way his cock twitches in your hand, slick with his precum and your saliva, the heat burning in your core, your clit pulsing under the friction, and suddenly it all explodes into countless lights, like fireflies flickering at the edge of your vision.

You hiccup into his mouth when you come, body tensing before it relaxes into a wave of shudders, and he holds you, pulls you closer, his arm around you, his hand back on his cock, guiding yours, until he too shivers under the sensations crashing through him, one of those beautiful moans echoing in your ears. You hold each other as the waves of pleasure wash over you, your mind blissfully empty, except for one thing that slips from you like a little gasp as you break the kiss and lean your head against his shoulder.

“Love you too, Daddy.”

You've come a long way to be able to let go like this, to allow this man into your heart, to allow yourself to feel good. It isn't perfect yet, you still have a lot to learn, but compared to how it all started, how it has been before you met the most important people in your life (before Mommy and Daddy saved you), your life is nothing short of bliss now.

And you know it wasn't always like this...

🔷️ Chapter 1 🔷️ Chapter 2

End notes: Hello and welcome to yet another little smut story of mine! Thank you for giving it a chance! We start with an established relationship, and the next chapter will show how they met. Stay tuned!

By the way: the header images (are of course only to set the mood and not to depict any characters mentioned) show if Daddy or Mommy (or both) are present in the chapter, blue for Daddy, pink for Mommy. (Mommy was mentioned here, so only a little bit of pink.)

Thank you for reading! New chapter every Saturday!

Up next: We dive into Reader's backstory and how she became Mommy and Daddy's little girl.

Not interested in Reader's backstory? Skip to chapter 3 here!

MASTERLIST 🔷️ AO3 🔷️ ORIGINAL WORKS

[stingray-art]

you cling so tightly to the beast that waits to devour you

(please don’t tag as ship)

[choccy-milky]

bird in her gilded cage 💙🪽

[bethanydelleman]

Thinking more about historical arranged marriage and how it's portrayed in media and I think I've come to a final conclusion. The problem is that the woman's emotions are often not explained. It's a default assumption from the writer that every woman thinks "arranged marriage = bad" no matter their circumstances, era, culture, or personality. It's bad writing and bad characterization of women (shocking! that never happens)

I was just watching a show where the daughter is abused by her stepmother. She has a marriage arranged and the guy seems sweet. The girl attempts to run away. At no point are we told her thinking as to why she doesn't want this. But like, why? Her family is awful to her. If she is a runner, why has she not escaped from her abusive family? It would have taken 20 seconds of air time for her to say to someone, "I got a bad vibe from that guy/I don't trust this because Stepmom seems happy/devil I know/whatever." But they didn't do it, because of course arranged marriage is always automatically bad, right?

Another show I watched did such an excellent job explaining why a woman was unhappy with her arranged marriage. She had been spoiled and indulged by her entire family for her childhood. She knew she'd be marrying within class (high nobility/royalty), but she thought her family would allow her to pick from the very limited options (literally 4 men are eligible). Then she learns, and scolds herself for not realizing it sooner, that (almost) everyone in her family actually intended her to marry the crown prince for political reasons. Her emotions made so much sense! She was a teenager; she understood the world imperfectly and was disappointed. Her unhappiness felt like something a person in her era and social position would think, not a transplant from the 21st century. She made sense as a human and a character.

In conclusion: write women as people

[voluptuarian]

I'm trying to avoid people's dumb takes on Nosferatu but I keep being exposed to the tip of the iceberg and am annoyed enough about it to rant about it.

There's nothing in there that implies she was a kid. She lived in her family home, in the room she had lived in her whole life-- very typical for an unmarried adult woman at the time, especially in a well off family. Everyone determined that this had to be Orlok "grooming" a "child" are just fixated on that interpretation because it's nasty-sounding enough that they can condemn the relationship as "irredeemable" and "problematic" without sounding like pearl-clutchers. It's the magic word that lets them look vindicated in writing the whole thing off. She's not played by a child, she is dressed and styled as an adult, and the needs she's expressing, for attention, for recognition, for physical and emotional intimacy, are in no way limited to children. She's a young woman yearning for things that everybody wants and she's been denied. Ellen having been neglected, lonely, and starved for affection doesn't negate her adulthood. Her walking into a bad situation as a result of all that doesn't make her "groomed." Plenty of grown adults wind up in bad relationships because they're naive and desperate for love.

Similarly, everyone determined that one side of the triangle here wasn't "real" or that she "actually" only felt a connection with one of them and nothing for the other is similarly ridiculous. Thomas is the relationship Ellen chooses intentionally and conscientiously and which provides her the future she wants while satisfying her physical and emotional desires in a safe, secure, loving environment. Orlok is the first love, the first major relationship that she fell into because she was reckless and desperate for affection, that at first satisfied her needs but turned sour and dangerous-- that relationship becoming scary, unpleasant, coercive, doesn't erase the good things they had together once. Ellen and Orlok is the bad breakup between people who's freak matched too well. In the normal world it'd be a bad breakup with a toxic partner; in hers he's unfortunately also a an amoral inhuman manifestation of consumption.

And as for "Orlok doesn't love Ellen blah blah he's only an appetite blah blah." Love is an appetite. Need is an appetite. Loneliness is an appetite unmet. It's all hunger!! Why the FUCK is a zillion year old ghoul aristocrat holed up in a ruin in Eastern Europe tuned in enough to immediately respond to the random calls of some nameless unimportant woman he's never met a thousand miles away?? Because he's as desperate as she is, and for similar things. He was already listening, was already looking for someone-- he was desperate and searching first. His needs are twisted because he's a literal monster, but they still echo hers. The freak is matched, the freak in this case being deep emptiness and desire to be wanted and embraced. Unfortunately for him, Ellen can look elsewhere to satisfy those desires when he no longer makes her happy and find people who will-- and she does. Orlok can only go where he is called, must be chosen under special circumstances, which, seemingly out of everyone within his considerable reach, only she has offered. If what Orlok feels isn't love, its the survival in his mockery of life of what would have been love. But what ends in real love with union, ends for him with destruction and a return to lonely solitude-- that's his curse.

Ellen saves the man she chose by rejecting their future together, by breaking their marriage vows, and by sacrificing herself. She chooses the sacrifice as an act of autonomy, but one that subverts her own desires and victimizes her. It's a tragedy, but it's also a victory. It's a succumbing to the predations of the lover who wouldn't let her go, but its also making peace with him, taking into her embrace a figure she hates and fears but still feels connected to. It's fulfilling the monster's insatiable need, granting him the union he craves the only way it can be: through his death. Orlok is loved, and betrayed, and saved. Thomas is loved, and betrayed, and saved. Ellen chooses love for both of them, betrays them both, saves them both, betrays and saves herself. All of those things can be happening at once, just as tenderness, rejection, repulsion, evil, and love can all be happening at once. Is it comfortable? No. That's the point! But expressing your discomfort with that story as "I will willfully misinterpret this movie and dismiss its themes in whatever most easy to excuse way I can because I feel uncomfortable" is the path of the hack and the coward, and I think that's the what the majority of these "takes" are really about.