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religion-is-a-mental-illness · 11 months

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Konstantin Kisin - The Speech The World NEEDS To Hear

Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn once said that the strength or weakness of a society depends more on the level of its spiritual life, than on its level of industrialization. If a nation's spiritual energies have been exhausted, he said, it will not be saved from collapse by the most perfect government structure, or by any industrial development. A tree with a rotten core cannot stand.

When he was allowed to leave the USSR Solzhenitsyn went to the US, where he was given a hero's welcome. But he quickly realized that American society was far from perfect. He started lecturing Americans about the problems he saw. Americans don't like that. Like Solzhenitsyn, I come from the Soviet Union, but I have no intention of repeating his mistake. That's why I've come to Britain, where you love being told what's wrong with you by foreigners.

But I do have to be honest. Six months ago, when Jordan and Philippa asked me to come here and speak at ARC about the importance of audacity, adventure and a positive vision for our civilization, I was honored and delighted.

But as I stand here today, after watching crowds openly celebrate mass murder on the streets of our cities, after watching the police spend more time debating Islamic theology on Twitter than enforcing the law, I'm starting to lose faith. I don't know how long our civilization Will survive.

For years now many of us have been warning that the barbarians are at the gates. We were wrong. They're inside. Now look, I'm not going to be all doom and gloom, there are positives as well. I mean, say what you want about Hamas supporters, at least they know what a woman is.

But joking aside, I have to be honest. I've been in a dark place these last few weeks, so I did what I always do when I don't know what to do: I talk to my wife. It's not the only time I talk to her, but you know, get the point. And she said, look, you need to clear your mind, take a few days off, let's go on holiday. And I know, it's a weird thing to say, I don't like going on holiday, cause I love working, and I hate spending money. Protestant work ethic in a Jewish man's body. My wife is exactly the other way around, unfortunately.

But she was right. She's always right. That's her best and most annoying quality. So, we went to Barcelona. Beautiful city. And as we were walking down the main tourist street, La Rambla, many of you will know, when you get to the bottom, you hit the Christopher Columbus Monument. It looks like a giant column with a pillar of Columbus on top pointing towards the New World. And this reminded me of my son, Nikolai. He's 16 months, and this is what he does, he sits on my hip and points in the direction he wants to go. Treats me like a horse, basically. And if I don't act quickly enough, or if I don't comply, he does what all toddlers do: he throws a tantrum and starts screaming. How dare you! You have stolen my dreams with your empty words! And when he does, we read him a story and put him to bed. We don't give him a standing ovation in front of the UN.

Anyway, trigger warning, I am going to talk positively about Christopher Columbus. I know he committed some pretty sizable microaggressions, but he also changed the world. Do you know why he changed the world? Yeah, he tried to reach India and by accident discovered America. But why go west to India? Europeans had been trading with India and China for centuries via the Silk Road. Why risk your life to go out on a limb? There were many reasons of course, but the main one was the decision to try and reach Asia by going west, was not made out of choice. Europe was desperate. Only a few decades prior, in 1453, the Ottomans sacked Constantinople, and they cut Europe off from the Silk Road. The West Was facing a huge challenge and a new threat. No smaller than the one we face today. And like us what they needed was another way.

But when Columbus took his idea to go west to India to the kings and queens of medieval Europe, they laughed at him. They didn't laugh at him because he was some misunderstood genius, he wasn't Galileo. They laughed at him because he was wrong. If you go out in the street and ask a random person why Columbus discovered America, they'll tell you he worked out that the Earth was round. Not true. By the time Columbus set off on his voyage in 1492, people had known the Earth was round for two millennia. There's probably more flat Earthers now than there were in the 15th century. God bless the internet.

The reason Columbus discovered America is not that he'd worked out that the Earth was round. The reason is that he massively underestimated the size of the planet. They were right to laugh at him. He was wrong. But he took that wrongness, he persuaded 90 other men to get into three boats smaller than the size of this stage, and sail into the unknown. And he persuaded Queen Isabella of Castile and King Ferdinand of Aragon to fund his voyage.

The moral of the story is, it doesn't matter how wrong you are as long as you've got rich friends.

That's not the moral of the story. The moral of the story is, the history of our civilization was not made by people who always got everything right. It was made by people who'd made mistakes too. It was made by people who dared to believe that they could solve the problems they faced. The story of the West is a story of audacity.

The big debates of the last decade, the culture war, the polarization, are about one thing and one thing only: the future. There are people like us in this room who believe that our future is to be prosperous, powerful and influential. We are the majority. But there are also some people whose brains have been broken by an excess of education, who believe that our history is evil. That we do not deserve to be great, we do not deserve to be powerful, that we must be punished for the sins of our ancestors. To them, our past is abominable, our present must be spent apologizing, and our future is managed decline.

My message to those people is simple: how dare you. You will not steal my son's dreams with your empty words.

But Jordan is right, we need a positive message too. So here it is: from the dawn of time, human beings have had to work to make the world a better place. We captured the mystery of fire. We invented the wheel. Today we build buildings that would shock and awe almost every human being that has ever lived. We split the atom, we spliced the genome and we connected the world through microcomputers that fit in our pockets, that allow us to do amazing amazing things.

This morning, I destroyed someone on Twitter with facts and logic from the toilet. It's magic! Remember your grandparents? Remember them? If I could go back in time and transport the grandparents of your grandparents into this room, just four generations ago, they would think they'd been abducted by aliens. that's the progress we've made. We haven't made that progress by whining and acting like victims. We've made that progress by unleashing the creativity and talent of people like us here in this room.

But I do think we've forgotten what adventure is. Being adventurous is not ordering extra-spicy chicken at Nando's. Wrong reference for this room. Let me try again. Being adventurous is not ordering extra-spicy chicken from your personal chef.

When Columbus and his men got on those boats and took a journey into the unknown, they sailed to certain death. You know why? It's not because they were braver than you and I, it's because they knew something we forgotten: all death is certain. And so I say to our friends in the world of business, you've made your fortunes by maximizing your returns on your investments. We are in the fight of our lives. there is no greater return on your investment than to protect and preserve our civilization.

And so I invite you to follow in the footsteps of Elon Musk and Paul Marshall and Ben Delo and many of you here who are using your fortunes for the betterment of humanity.

I say to our friends in the media: truth matters! We are in the fight of our lives. There is more to life than clicks and downloads. Let’s move beyond the culture war where all we do is bat away the litany of slanderous allegations about our history. Let’s set the agenda. Let’s remind our fellow citizens why we are where we are. Let’s remind them that we are the most tolerant, open and welcoming societies in the history of the world. We’re not embarrassed about our past, we’re proud of it.

And to my colleagues in new media especially I say this. The legacy media is dying for a reason. They cannot be saved, they cannot be reformed. Let’s stop complaining about them and start building the media empires of the future ourselves. We have everything we need. We’ve even got rich friends now.

I say to our friends in education and academia: I understand that many of you feel like the French Resistance or Soviet partisans, stuck behind enemy lines, undermanned and out gunned. And you’re right, we are in the fight of our lives. So keep fighting for every young mind you can. It will be worth it.

And finally, I say to our friends in politics. Many of you here are conservatives. I’m not, I look terrible in tweed. That’s why I identify as politically non-binary. But I can tell you conservatives something. You will never get young people to want to conserve a society and an economy that is not working for them. We will not overcome Woke nihilism as long as young people are locked out of the housing market, unable to pair up, unable to have kids, unable to plan for the future.

I know it’s difficult, and I know that whoever solves the housing crisis may well pay the price at the ballot box. This is true of many pressing issues too, or at least you think it is. But you did not get into politics to get re-elected. You got into politics to make a difference.

We are in the fight of our lives. And if courage means anything it means doing the right thing and being willing to take the punishment if you have to. Let me say it again: all death is certain. We do not get to choose whether we live or die. We only get to choose whether we live before we die. Thank you very much.

#Konstantin Kisin #western civilization #the war on the west #war on the west #religion is a mental illness

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tryingtimi · 1 year

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[ LEAN ] : sender leans tantalisingly close to receiver to retrieve something or catch their attention.

Stench of Fear

Hi, hello, here's the first ever Lonel piece in a probably very dark wrapping uh. Thank you for the prompts they were fun, even tho I didn't really made them for romantic tension as I should have. Sorry, loves!

Context: It's time for Lonel to tell and show Odena his darkest secrets, which among is the fact that he keeps a vampire caged in his father's basement to get information out of him.

The basement smelled like the graveyard of rotten, damned souls.

Odena turned around slowly, her painted lips parted as she drank in the sight. Her eyes first stopped at the scythe on the wall Lonel last used on his captive. He washed it throughout, yet he couldn’t scrub off the smell of blood and death. It seeped into the cracks of bricks, drying at the edges of hunting knives and various other tools.

Lonel crossed his arms before his chest, leaning against the doorframe as she walked closer to the hanged ones. She was careful, and he wasn’t sure if it was because the scene frightened her, or because she was clever. He assumed the latter since he has barely seen her frightened, not even as a child. And she had nothing close to the bitter scent of fear. Still, he flexed his jaw in disapprovement, when she stepped closer to the tool table.

It wasn’t the brightest idea bringing her here, but what choice did he have now?

The single lightbulb’s dim brightness reflected on the machete Odena lifted. She turned it in her hands, took a deep breath, and then put it back down.

Finally, she turned to the cage at the centre of the small place.

“Is he alive?” she asked, some kind of concern nesting in her voice. Still, it sounded calm as the undisturbed sea at night.

“Needs to be. He said he can’t die from starvation. But be careful, this cur is good at acting.”

Odena glanced at him as if signalling her acknowledgement, then cautiously squatted before the cage. The bastard was hiding in the back corner devoured by heavy shadows, where the lightbulb’s light couldn’t reach him. His form was barely interpretable, mostly just a shapeless pile of bones with skin tightly dried at them.

“Did you do this to him?” Odena asked as she tilted her head, trying to take a better look at the captive. Lonel would have loved it if he could read in her mind just for a second.

He munched on his words before speaking.

“I did.”

There was no further questioning about that. She only nodded, her eyes focusing on the motionless vampire in the cage. From time to time, she wrinkled her nose, shards of disgust splintering across her face.

“Don’t you smell that?”

Her question made him push himself off of the doorframe, and pull out a wrinkled textile tissue, along with a vial.

“What would that make you feel if I’d say I’m used to it?” he added quietly, oiling the cloth in his hand. Then, he squatted beside Odena, leaning over his tighs to look at her while extending the tissue. She caught his gaze with a delicate brow raised, yet no fear in her eyes. As he got lost in those dark brown irises for a moment, Lonel almost blurted out how she smelled like worry, but he bit his tongue instead. “For the smell. Put this over your nose.”

“I’d say you’re lying.” She offered him a tiny, subtle smile, taking the tissue. “Thanks, Nel.”

Not in a moment, her face melted back into that serious expression he couldn’t decipher ever. She was inspecting the creature in the cage like an artefact in the museum, but Lonel knew it was different. He could smell her worry, but he couldn’t know what was its core exactly. She had seen the remnants of his making with this devil, and that would have been the reason. Yet, she did not seem concerned around him.

“How did you find him?”

The creature took a ragged breath, slowly moving, but not showing his face. It hung low between his twig-like shoulders, damp, dirty hair as a dark veil shielding it from them.

Lonel was aware of how grim his expression turned.

“You don’t wanna know,” he answered with a low tone. Only those little movements made his blood boil, the wounds on the creature’s chapped skin following the motions like snakes crawling under it.

Odena scoffed. “Nel.”

He pushed his tongue to the side of his mouth, knowing full well Odena was no faint of heart. If he won’t tell her, she will find out on her own. And that would have been suicide enough.

“There was a family massacre of three that I needed to clean once. I found the mother last. I read in the report that she was three and a half months pregnant. But… she’s been clawed open.” He pointed at the vampire with his bearded chin. “This one arrived before me. To feast.”

Only the quiet sizzling of the lightbulb and the wheezing of the creature filled the silence that fell in the room. They both watched him twist and twirl, chains clattering on his ankles and wrists. Unintelligible whispering came from his direction, and Lonel could bear it no more. He turned to pull out a cigarette.

“That’s horrible, Nel, I’m sorry,” Odena offered her words and a soft, reassuring touch on his shoulder. The metallic scent of worry multiplied in the air.

It happened in a splinter of a second.

Lonel launched before Odena, right when he noticed the blur of motion from the corner of the cage, to where they squatted. Metal rattled, and the creature shrieked when the cage crashed to the opposite wall as Lonel kicked it away. He growled at the hissing and trashing vampire, arms tightly around Odena.

“Who is the cur now, you fucking animal?” The vampire rasped, his fangs dripping with his own blood from the bites on his tongue. “Yours is not the only set of footsteps you’re hearing, even though you’re walking alone. The shadow… the crimson shadow is always there!” he sang the song Lonel knew way too well. ”Give me! It lures you there. Give her to me! Now!”

Lonel’s head clouded for a second, while the creature’s muted red irises bled into crimson. He let out the most bestial bark he could muster, and that fortunately put out the controlling shine in the other’s eyes. The cloud disappeared as the vampire scattered back to the furthest corner of the cage, quietly whining, and hiding his head in his dirty locks.

“Hungry,” he whimpered, cradling himself, “so, so hungry.”

The singular lightbulb swayed over them evenly, forcing the vampire even more into the shadows when it inched towards him. Lonel heard his own blood thump in his ears, nearly staring a hole in the creature. He then looked down, finding Odena frozen in his arms. She was clutching his checkered shirt as if it would have been her last lifeline, her eyes widened and glued to the creature. There was no shaking in her body, yet Lonel caught the scent of something that reminded him of decaying plants. The unmistakable stench of terror.

“He’s mumbling to himself,” Odena stated, her voice just as normal as before. Lonel squashed his rage out like an insect, holding her close to himself.

“Hunger can do many things to someone, even to a spawn of the devil.” He carefully caressed her arm, checking if she was about to pull from him too. Odena, however, snuggled even closer to him instead. “I didn’t know there was still such a vigour in him. We should be more careful from now on.”

She looked up at him, and despite the smell, her eye reflected determination as she nodded to him.

#Lonel #Lonel snippets #Odena Slyher #Project Lonel #writeblr #writing community #tw gore #tw mention of homocide #tw homocide #tw torture #tw gore connected to pregnancy #tw mention of pregnancy #idk man im anxious

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fuckthisshitimin · 2 years

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You know -- I still get terrified of what people might think when they meet the real me. I didn't grow up religious, I've been raging for years against Christianity's idea that a thought can be a moral crime, I've deconstructed so many things, I've unlearnt so much guilt, so much judgement.

And if I don't believe in God (?) I believe in Soul // I believe I have a soul -- I am scared it is bad. My soul, my core, that's the real me, the rotten and bruised essence I live on, the beautiful divine humanity that got thrown against every wall, right? It's my soul that yearns and prays, my soul that knows the bottomless pit of anger and the deeper yet hunger for love -- it's my soul that knows they are the same.

When I am scared, I think of the voice that screams hate from inside, I think of how little I care. People, and other's feelings and the mass of other souls that I waltz through every day. I don't care about them. I don't care about you.

The shards of anger that I swallow back -- when she has done nothing but she stands in my way, move hag, I am so sorry, I won't say that. The secret occupations -- how I say poems in my head when you rant about the same problems again, I don't care, I don't care, I am sorry, bad, bad friend.

Bad, ugly soul, unwitnessed, sacred, rotten, secret.

And I do nothing -- I eat it up so it won't hurt, because I don't want others to see, I don't want to fuck this up, I don't want to be mean.

It's the paradox of a non-believer in a culture shaped by the Cross -- my instincts are vile and they do no harm and I have no one to ask forgiveness to. I am sorry.

I am sorry, I say again, and to no one, I feel sorry.

When I look at myself from outside, when I try, I think -- if I have wronged no one, I am not wrong, here. The real me, maybe, is closest to what I show, furthest to what I hide. Maybe the real me isn't a secret I only know, maybe the real me is the visible sum of my efforts, maybe the real me isn't my soul, but the one that is loved. Maybe the curation of my soul and the craft of offering the best bits while keeping the unfair blood-hungry ones away from the world is who I am.

And I don't have a definite answer. Because I believe in my soul. Maybe it needs a God, to make sense, maybe I need to be its God.

In the meantime I will try to be less afraid, and less guilty.

I will try to be my friend. When I spend a week ruminating on a bad day I'll listen and say a poem in my head and patiently nod until I don't need to spill anymore. When I stumble on my own feet I'll refrain from swearing at it, from resenting it.

When a friend tells me they are scared I'll hate the real them, I know I'll say: I know the real you. They say hello to me every day. I know the real you, you show them to me, I don't care about your secrets, they are yours to keep, they are yours to carry silently in your stomach when we speak. Then the words you choose will have steeped in your secrets, and when a shard of glass you swallowed will come back up your throat and you cough it into my face I promise you I won't hate it, I promise you I won't be scared. Maybe I will cough back, maybe I will swallow my knives and play with your ragged glass, maybe I will make a spectacle of the edges cutting my fingers. I will tell you they are just like mine.

#bloodposting #[meaningless statement]#mikhail writes #hey i'm on my periods so i gotta write stuff i guess

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nuclearforest · 2 years

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#29: I know I better distraction than this

Athena I have been jumping between so many ideas. Heist/prank vibes. Maybe giving you a certain butler. But naw. Brain said I need to write up the convo @rotten-hearts-sharp-teeth and I had a couple days back about Briar (mine) and Barrett (Rotten’s) and certain bar activities. It’s 2.4k of spicy with a side of public cockwarming. Enjoy! [Also yes this needs a sequel but I’ll get there eventually.]

“Those sorry cunts don’t even look alive!” Barrett’s loud voice joins the chorus of booing in the bar. Briar sits in the very corner of the bar in the dark little booth in the back that their group of friends had grabbed, nursing her half-full pint glass. That naughty word usually contained other connotations coming out of his mouth and, try as she might to suppress it amongst the packed crowd of uproarious men, she feels a light heat rising to her cheeks.

They were at a dingy little pub, for goodness’ sakes, watching the local soccer team get shredded by a team just up north. Briar didn’t really care for the sport and had come along on a whim, mostly to spend a little more time with her mate and get to know his friends a bit better. Sounded like a nice enough time, anyway, with an excuse to sit at his side and enjoy a drink or two. What she hadn’t been prepared for was how feral Brits were for soccer, her own more-feral-than-most lover included. “The fucker’s asleep on his feet!”

With a quiet sigh, Briar takes another small sip of her drink and looks up to the line of TVs hanging over the bar. For a moment, she thinks that the little shock that had run down her core and the blush went unnoticed by the werewolf next to her in his cloud of displeasure at his team’s performance. But then he’s going and wrapping his arm around her, waving at the broadcast with a spare hand before snatching his own drink from the table and throwing it back.

“They should be playing better,” he looks directly at her, “they’re playing for my girl, after all.” The woman in his arm chortles and leans into his side to rest her head on his shoulder.

“It’s not their fault they’re human,” she reminds him, unsurprised when he sets a now empty glass on the table and nudges one of his friends in the side with a wordless request for another drink. With a bit of unintelligible grumbling, he acquiesces and returns with a full pint just as the game starts up again.

A few more pointless exchanges pass before Barrett’s cussing again. “Where did these stupid cunts learn to play? The States?” A shudder works its way down the fae’s back as Barrett’s crew laughs in agreement, clapping his shoulder and offering their glasses in cheers. When they settle again and turn their eyes back to the TV, the werewolf squeezes her shoulder and leans down to whisper in her ear, warm breath tickling the side of her face in a way that has the hair on the back of her neck standing on end. “What’s wrong, bunny?”

He's picked up on it.

Leaning further into her space, he touches his nose to her ear and traces down her earlobe, along the curve of her jaw, and down her neck. At the same time, his hand slips down her side from her shoulder to her thigh, where he settles his grip with a firm squeeze. In her mind’s eye, she can imagine the way his tongue brushes over his fangs in anticipation. The game had lost its appeal long ago, but he found a new fixation. A new outlet for his predatory energy that certainly had been building in frustration watching simple humans chase a ball.

“It’s nothing,” she says, grip on her glass shaking slightly, “I’m fine.”

He hums before pressing a kiss into the crook of her neck. “You know, love,” he breathes, just low enough that she can barely make it out over the din of the room around them, “they can’t be playing like cunts if they aren’t that good.”

He gives her another squeeze before sliding his hand further towards her inner thigh, arm coiling around her to seal her in place. The already stuffy room grows even more stifling when his fingertips play with the edge of her skirt. All she can do is grip her drink more desperately, taking a sip in the hopes that the desert growing in her throat disappears.

Barrett is not so kind a tease.

The werewolf takes his sweet time tracing the edge of her skirt against the skin of her thigh without even looking, turning his head away to watch the next play of the game. That’s easy enough to ignore. To steel herself and stop her shaking hands until, with the next upset cry at a missed shot on the goal, he cups his hand under her skirt. Not so good indeed.

She tries to keep herself calm, grounded. Ignore the way a single finger starts to run up and down, a tantalizing offer in the face of a boring game. Out of the corner of her eye she can see his wolfish smile, lips quirking even as his mates roar in protest over another missed shot. The little bunny is on her own in a den of wolves.

Taking another sip, she simply turns her head away from him and starts to look over the jerseys hung on the wall from unfamiliar teams and unfamiliar players. He isn’t about to make her life easy, though, turning his head back to her to press his lips to her ear. “Game’s not really worth watching,” he breathes, “how do you think we should spend our time?”

The fairy can’t help the way that the hair on the back of her neck and along her arms stands up. Can’t help the way her thighs jolt when he runs over her clothed clit. Can’t help the way she grows helplessly wetter.

“We can play a drinking game?” she offers, desperate and struggling to find something appealing and willing to take whatever her fate was as an extreme lightweight. But the werewolf can’t be deterred.

“I know a better distraction than that,” he rumbles in her ear, fingers starting to work more deftly as he snatches her earlobe between his teeth. It takes all she has not to squeak when he finally shifts her panties to the side, slipping a finger down to test her entrance and teasing her button with his thumb.

Miraculously, the other patrons don’t even glance over. Even as her heartbeat drowns out the booing and chatter in her ears and her chest heaves with breath, she’s invisible. Just a little bunny in the hold of a wolf in the corner of the bar. “We can play our own little game,” he promises, and Briar barely notices that he sets his drink down.

In a flash, she’s pulled onto his lap with the back of her skirt bunched up against his midsection as he leans over her, pinning her to the table. His hardening cock sits between her legs and only then does he remove his hand from her heat to stroke himself. He picks up his beer with his spare hand and takes a sip over her head, ignoring the sudden cheers in the bar as the team scores a goal and his friends clank their glasses together in celebration. Barrett offers his own, briefly, and Briar just sits in his lap with her face flushed red and her glass shaking in her hands.

When they turn back around to keep watching, the werewolf bounces her on his lap and angles himself just right to slip inside. The still invisible bunny gasps, knuckles white as her grip on her glass tightens and her thighs shake at the sudden, pleasant intrusion. She can’t say anything. Can’t do anything. At his mercy on his lap in the corner of the bar with his cock firmly seated inside her.

So she takes another sip, steeling herself and calming the shaking in her hands, trying to will the raging blush on her face to settle. Barrett turns his head to rumble in her ear again. “Comfortable?”

If she tries to talk she knows she’ll squeak, so she just shifts her hips against him and counts a victory in the choked sigh she gets in return. It’s as close as he’ll get to a very, because at this point they’re in far too deep and she’s playing his game until the end of the televised one.

“Let’s see if you can finish before the game,” Barrett whispers against her, wrapping his free arm around her midsection before lifting his head and taking another drink. In her current state it would be a challenge, but he seems to understand, too, and lets her take a moment to adjust before suddenly pulling her closer and rocking up. Just hard enough that his knot pops in and she is truly seated against him.

That gets a gasp. And his arm around her midsection loosens and he looks back at the television, biting his cheek to keep from smiling too widely as his little mate closes her eyes and takes a sip to try and cover for herself. Still, nobody looks.

He’s wonderfully filling, stretching her in just the right way and pressing against her in a way that sends sparks along her skin with even the slightest movement. Normally she’d be a whining mess with his knot buried inside her, begging for him to rock his hips against her and claim her as his mate all over again with his teeth buried in her mark. But in the bar, she just bites her tongue and flutters her eyelashes, trying to gulp down the desire to visibly bounce on him and settling herself for minimal shifting.

But mercy, his leg starts to bounce under the table and even with his eyes glued to the screen he isn’t stopping her from moving. All the same, he isn’t looking down at her to watch as she wrestles with the urge to get up from his lap and bend herself over the table for a proper fucking.

For as frustrated as she is, Briar just keeps up rocking against him, all but forgetting her drink to the table and internally chanting that she has to keep her composure. If anybody were to watch, they’d only see the flush on her face, her fluttering eyelashes, and twisted mouth. She knows the werewolf can hear the low sounds in the back of her throat, the little groan buried under the din of bar chatter and clinking glasses.

She knows in the way his knot throbs inside her. She knows it in the way his grip on her tightens. She knows it in the way his chest stutters against her back. And try as she might to reach her finish against him, it’s just a bit too far out of her reach.

Just before she breaks with the urge to whine, Barrett downs the rest of his drink, drops his glass to the table, and leans back down to her ear. “We’re nearing the end, dovey,” he whispers to her, gravelly voice just barely tightening the coil in her belly. “I thought you’d have finished by now.” She shudders and clenches down around him when his newly freed hand slips beneath the table to feel up her thigh.

“No thanks to you,” she gasps, finally, leaning forward onto her elbows and starting to rock imperceptibly with slightly more purpose.

The werewolf follows the curl of her body, choking his laugh into her neck as his hand finally reaches her mound. “Let me help with that,” he breathes, “wouldn’t want everybody to stop watching the game and start looking at you.” His statement ends with a bit of a threatening growl that has her thighs shuddering around him. There was as much a promise as there was a threat in there—for as public as this was, she was his and his alone.

He starts to slide back against her, hips gently rutting with a finger gravitating to her clit as disappointed cries echo around them. Briar just holds her eyes closed and moves to grip the edge of the table, letting her wolfish lover take the lead as he whispers praise into her ear. Good bunny. Took his cock so well whenever he wanted her to. Perfectly quiet.

She almost loses it at that one. Can feel the whimper bubbling in her throat. But she bites down on her tongue a little harder and holds it in as her eyes roll back bit by bit. The wild man could really drive her wild.

“Better finish soon,” he growls in her ear, “the game’s almost over and we wouldn’t want somebody to see.” Her throat goes completely dry and she tastes a hint of copper in her mouth she bites her tongue so hard. Barrett growls quietly, finger speeding up and mouth lowering to her mark. A soft kiss is all the warning she gets before he opens his mouth and sinks his teeth into her. That’s all it takes for her to slip over the edge, heat in her core rolling out in a wave of extasy that has her shaking, silently, and her jaw loose.

The werewolf rocks against her for a little longer before finally reaching his own end, flooding her with cum before pulling his head back. She can feel his chest twitch against her shoulders with the urge to howl but he, too, must bite his tongue and hold it in. His warmth floods her and they rest, breathing against each other, before the final buzzer goes and the pub erupts into dissatisfied cries.

All the while Barrett chuckles and shakes his head, and then the delightful throbbing knot locked inside of Briar disappears and she is gently slid from his lap back to the booth bench as the werewolf fixes himself in his pants.

His friends all turn around and give him shit for the tired smile, but he just shakes his head. “I’ve had enough of those losers for one day,” he tells them, “and if I’ve got my girl on my arm then who am I to frown?” Sure he’s told to come off it—and the men ask why she’s so red—but it’s easy enough to buy that she’s a lightweight has to be carried out to the car when it’s finally time to go.

“Next time watch your language,” she speaks up to chastise the men anyway, mouth slow, “it’s not becoming in the company of a lady.” Even Barrett manages to laugh at that as they all stumble out half baked apologies; the tricky gleam in the corner of his eye, however, tells her that he’ll do whatever he damn well pleases. So she goes back to nursing what’s left of her drink as another round is ordered for the table, herself included, and plots on how exactly she’ll make it even.

#mun's snippets #mun rambles #werewolf smut #oc smut #werewolf boyfriend #Hellsing OC #bunny briar

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you-are-my-neverland · 2 years

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[id: a graphic with a series of three images: a girl with her eyes cast in shadow, a statue of a saint dripping gold, and two hands with light between them. the text overlaid reads ‘the metamorphosis of the lost’ / end id]

THE METAMORPHOSIS OF THE LOST → A ROUND UP

“Kevla is rotten to the core,” June continued. She was as close to impassioned as India thought she would ever visibly be, reminding India of the times June had opened up before, the anger burning like a bright, cold, distant star in her eyes. “You can’t fix Kevla. All you can do is remove some of the damage.”

after roughly fourteen months of writing, i am proud to announce that the first draft of the metamorphosis of the lost is officially done. at the start of the summer last year (2022), i had only 120k words, and the end seemed unreachable. now, i’ve wrapped up the first draft at a rounded up value of 310k. it’s crazy to think that i’ve actually reached this point. i started tracking my writing progress during my summer goal of 200k, and continued to do so during the fall semester, of which i only failed to write one day. in retrospect, all those days where i was too tired to write more than a few sentences, with word counts under 100, and the months where i struggled to hit my goal of 500 a day - all those days piled up to the completion i achieved right on time for 2023 to hit.

will i definitely do more work on this novel? who knows. i can’t say for certain that i’ll ever go back to it, or that a second draft will occur. but i hope i will. i always planned for tmotl to have a companion piece, for this to be the first part of a duology. do i have nothing but a few scattered ideas tying the two together? yes. i do need to actually tackle the plot of that rumored companion novel soon.

“What did you ever do for me?” she asked bleakly. “I’m dead because of you. If you had cared at all, the Black Saint would have died long before I came back to find him still alive.” If he had been dead then, I might have come back to you, she didn’t say, because it was something that she would never be able to take back if she did.

i’ve posted a lot of (unpolished) excerpts on here before, so in honor of finishing the first draft, i figured i would let myself talk about the writing process and all the little things i haven’t shared yet! if you were ever interested in finding out more about this wip, or read the posts i’ve made and thought ‘idk what this is about but this is cool’ (as i never did post those character profiles or setting notes or anything informative beyond the wip intro...), read on.

(fair warning: it’s long.)

Kevla itself might be larger than life, but India didn’t believe in the city either. She just knew it existed, because she couldn’t ignore its presence in her life.

Maybe Kevla was God.

we’ll start with the city itself. kevla, a city set somewhere on the coast, estranged from the rest of the world that it can’t really be imagined somewhere on a map. kevla is, at it’s heart, a gritty thing to behold: it is a city that is trying to kill you, and the only thing that will save you.

there have been many times when i’ve looked at a wip and said, this wip is just going to be normal. there will be no magical realism in this wip.’ this was not the case for tmotl - when i was first visualizing the story, i knew that i wanted the city the vigilantes occupy to be alive in a very magical realism way. therefore, kevla is a sentient being, though it is never explicitly called that. it is only understood by the characters throughout the story, by anele and india and vin and june. it is talked about as something that acts on its own. in this, kevla becomes both the setting and a character.

kevla itself is neatly divided into districts. i live in the suburbs, and have not lived in any big metropolises, but i have visited nyc, and d.c. is kevla not exactly designed as a realistic city would be? yes. but i think it fits into the rest of the novel - kevla has to be small for logistical reasons, but it also has to be larger than life. it has to be a peninsula, with a raging coastline, and it has to have a living forest cutting it off from everything else. the people who live in kevla understand the uncanny nature of their city, but it is not unusual to them - it’s just the place they live.

He didn’t say anything. India drew in a shuddering breath and felt his chest expand slightly, in the barest way, ribs rigid through his costume. She could draw a knife right now, stab him fatally, slide it into the spot between the ribs, drive it in through his skin and break through his back. If not that, then a bullet at close range. The possibilities were endless. At this point, she could see the seams in his body armor. Everything and anything could be destroyed at this close.

india, india, india. tmotl definitely doesn’t have a single main character - june and india both share that title, and many other characters have a substantial amount of povs - but tmotl is also very much india’s story, because she’s the girl i wanted to write about first. an angry girl. an outcast. someone who is overflowing with all the wrong emotions. someone who bares her rage on her teeth.

india as indigo is directionless. she’s stuck in place, and she doesn’t know where she’s going. it’s only after she’s killed by the black saint and returns as the red saint that she finally has a purpose - to kill the black saint, and to prove the world (the vigilantes) wrong. to show them. where she had just been following other people’s paths, and rules, now she forges her own. still, even, she’s torn in her heart - does she really want burned bridges? does she want death? apologies? for all that india claims, she doesn’t really know, herself, but it takes her a long time before she can admit that to herself.

india is, at her core, unpredictable. she’s a series of contradictions, which is intended. no matter how much drive you have, it doesn’t amount to anything if you don’t know where you’re going, or why you’re going at all. she’s a treasure trove of trust issues, impulses, and sharp edged defenses. she doesn’t trust anyone, because she was abandoned from birth - there was never anyone in her corner until she met anele and vin. even then, even with a found family, she put up the walls; she wants to be understand, while believing so strongly in the fundamental divide between them all - that they will never understand what it’s like to be her.

india is a mouthpiece for something that often echoed throughout my thoughts, especially when first brainstorming for tmotl. who gets to decide who the good guys are in vigilantism? are you the good guys, india asks, because you didn’t let your trauma affect you? because you dealt with it ‘neatly?’ am i the bad guy for not being able to?

“I didn’t die easily,” June said ferociously. “None of us died easily. People like you didn’t let us die easily. Our death, to you, was nothing but a chance, but for us it was hell, over and over again. Why do you expect compassion from me when you never had any for any of us? You didn’t change anything. You didn’t save anyone. You took a legacy and let it live on.”

She swallowed back her anger and lividity, fingers curling around the knife handle.

“Complacency is a crime.”

june, our other leading lady. summer 2021, when i was first having the beginnings of an idea of what this story would become, june’s description was ‘a revenge driven victim of nonconsensual body modification/experimentation.’ she was always designed to be the perfect experiment, in a way. she’s the timepiece, not a cog, of the weaponization of children.

june’s story is one of agency. of irony. she’s dissociated from her body - it is just a thing she lives in. it was something that was made by other people. she uses that body to kill the people that made her, as if saying, ‘look what the body you made can you do. look what the thing you made is capable of.’ she is the sword that turns on its owner, the weapon that fights back instead of fleeing. where does the weapon end and the girl begin? she doesn’t even know herself.

june is the ice to india’s fire. they complement each other like that. she’s the level headed one, the executioner. india’s all impulsivity and anger, emotions spilling out over the edges as june keeps everything she feels close. she doesn’t even know how much she’s feeling at any time; june keeps everything muted, a further dissociation from the self.

her revenge is not really revenge so much as it is vengeance. it’s the only way she can even begin to reclaim her agency, and while she acknowledges that at some level, outwardly the reason for what she does is simple: so that it never happens to anyone else. not for herself, but for everyone else. or so she tells herself.

“We’re here,” Vail said. “If you ever want to talk more about any of it, we’re here.”

“But you’re not,” Emrys said, hating the way her voice cracked on the last word. “All of you are here, but you’re not there.”

They were alone. She felt terrible and peculiar, as if they were pins on a map, standing in the same city but far away from each other. As if walking in parallel lines, but heading in different directions. When India had been there, things had been different. When Aerin had been there, Emrys had thought she would at least have the comfort of knowing she wasn’t alone, but she was alone. They all were.

emrys wasn’t supposed to be that main of a character, but she ended up badgering her way into the story anyways, snatching up a large percentage of povs. she became very close to my heart, maybe because, out of all of the characters, she was the most like me in her mind (and i spent a lot of time in her mind). kind of like my embodiment of girlhood - she’s in her nebulous coming of age, in the background: confronting hard truths and hard feelings alongside grief, as she steps into new shoes all on her own. she didn’t quite end up following the ideas i had in mind for her, but i’m pretty satisfied with the emrys i have left.

emrys was supposed to be the hope of the group. in every story (at least for me), there must be someone who represents the new when it comes to the old (pain, trauma, tradition, etc). in a twist of irony, emrys herself became aware of this - she herself thinks that she doesn’t want to be hope, or in pandora’s box at all.

for a character that was supposed to be the happy, bright one, the emrys we meet in tmotl is living out an aftermath. that happy, bright girl is who she used to be. the girl she is now is one transforming, becoming a darker shadow to her brighter body. many of the things she does throughout the story would be considered uncharacteristic from those who know her, and even though the readers are not aware of who this girl used to be (and only catch glimpses of her), the reactions of other characters tell us this.

“You know why I saved you,” Catrin said.

“I do,” Vin agreed. He could never forget the life debt he carried so heavily on his heart, which had stayed his hand a hundred times over. It was the reason he was loyal to her after all; their relationship was built on mutual debt, with which came a degree of shared trust. Vin had always known that one day she might aim him at someone with intent to kill, and he would do it. If only to keep the balance.

onto vin, one of the older members of this vigilante group at 25, but no less important. he is supposed to come off as almost inhuman - flexible beyond measure, moving like a shadow, so quiet that he makes no noise at all, as if he was a ghost. vin is a mystery, and a private person, who is frustratingly hard to understand to his younger counterparts, such as india and emrys, and still an enigma to his older partners, such as anele. he has one of the most thought out characterizations (because i had so much to work out when it came to his character), but you probably learn the least about him throughout the story.

vin bears the brunt of india’s anger and emrys’ frustration in the story, partially because he’s so hard to communicate with (in a way), and partially because he’s the one they want to prove themselves to. he’s aloof and talented; he never messes up, or calls the wrong shot. he was built for the job, it seems. of course, this is what it looks like on the surface - underneath tells a story, the dark side of june’s moon. human experimentation to the point of dehumanization. on the surface, he looks ordinary. inside, who knows what he has become.

vin operates by a strict moral code. he’s brutal, and capable of extreme cruelty, but he never kills. in a fight, he says, the only thing that matters is the people you want to protect. one rule, but it’s the only thing that matters. this is where he and india clash - she wants the black saint dead, but vin will never kill (for reasons relating to backstory info that can’t be shared at this moment lol).

a fun fact, though, which i don’t think i actually mentioned in the first draft even though it’s so clever, is that vin is short for corvin. corvin derives from corvinus, which derives from the latin word corvus in turn. corvus literally means raven, but it also refers to the genus of birds including crows, ravens, etc. his vigilante name is crow btw.

Angry was too close to being a bomb herself, and for all her sermons on understanding bombs, Anele had already died in the face of one. She did not want to become one herself.

When bombs exploded, they left no survivors. Even the ones who lived were not untouched.

The ones who died, too, even.

anele!! the wisest of the bunch, maybe, if wisdom equals years. she’s not the mother figure, but more like an older sister to many of the vigilantes. someone you would go to for advice. where everyone else came from empty and hard childhoods, anele grew up loved with a single father, in a suburban neighborhood. she has memories she can look back on with fondness, instead of ones tainted by death or grief.

although anele is always moving forwards, she, too, is mired in the past. she grieves for herself. she visits her father as a ghost, leaving him things without ever knocking on the door, because she is afraid she wouldn’t be welcomed back as one of the living. so much of her current life is trapped in the half second before she died the first time. she might not have believed in the system, but she participated in it, until dying. then, she realized it was always going to fail her. despite being straight laced, she believes in the gray line between black and white, the area outside of laws and all that.

anele steps into the role of x-le with ease, but at the heart of the matter, she doesn’t trust catrin, especially since she never asked to be saved, or to be brought back to life with metal in her veins. she doesn’t allow this to color her professional relationships, but on a personal level, she doesn’t hide her scrutiny.

anele and vin have by far one of my most favorite relationships in the novel, mostly because she is, at least, deeply in love with him in a way that can’t even be described as love. it’s subtle, but interwoven in all their interactions. feelings where there shouldn’t be. emotion where it can’t exist. makes me go insane, honestly.

You didn’t have to answer, Diem thought, but couldn’t make herself say it, because a part of her had always been waiting. Ever since her childhood, when she had first heard the whispered rumors about her father, when she had realized that there would always be questions about her birthright and place following her, she had been waiting for a father to claim. For a father to destroy.

Her mother’s hand on her own, helping her slide the knife into skin, wiping the blood spray for her face gently, showing her how to clean the blade.

diem is, out of all the vigilantes (our heroes and heroines), the most antagonistic one by design. she is one of the characters that was meant to stay the truest to their original designs (of an old wip also called tmotl i half planned back in 2019-2020, of which several characters were taken off the shelf and dusted off for this story). the diem i created then was cutthroat and hard to the bone, the kind of person who used people and threw them away when she was done. here, her personality is a bit toned down, if only because she has to take the back burner - she’s not the leader, but now a ‘lackey.’ a team member. however, although diem might be one with the team, she very much chafes against the idea, an independent contractor.

daughter of the infamous bowman, a criminal overlord, and an unnamed man, diem grew up in a life of elite crime. she might have died since then, but it only made her harder. out of all of them, diem is the one who focuses the most on impartiality, of cutting things off before they drag her down. she cuts her losses before they can cut her. sentimentality has no place in her - she is a brutal machine, always pushing herself forward. the only soft spot she has is for vail, and even then, she’s hard pressed to show it. to diem, all her weaknesses became her strengths, including her death.

to india, diem is someone she wants to destroy. prior to death, they were always at each other’s throats, and after it, it’s no surprise that diem is the main voice preaching that india can’t be saved. their similarities only cause their differences to be more abrasive.

Kevla already had one saint. It didn’t need another. The audacity they had to call themselves Saints when all they did was contribute to the hell so many people were trapped in made Vail vengeful—he didn’t believe in Saints, and even if he did, they wouldn’t be the ones who walked the streets. Saint wasn’t a title one gave themselves; it had to be earned.

vail is the quiet one. where everyone else is brimming with opinion and emotion, vail is in the backdrop, a muted color against all the vivid, dark ones competing for space. he is kind and compassionate in comparison to diem’s hard headed ruthlessness, but he’s also the only one who can meet her head on without getting emotionally involved - maybe that is why he is the only one who can temper her.

vail is a man of family and faith, but he keeps both those things close to his heart. although he is a sentimental person, he is always hiding that part of himself, because it got him hurt, over and over again. family and faith hurt him, killed him, but he doesn’t know how to let it go. can’t.

all the characters pay homage to some sort of divine presence at least once or twice throughout tmotl, but vail is the only one who believes in a specific god, instead of an entity-that-might-be-a-god, or kevla-as-a-god-or-divine-being. kevla is a city that kills organized religion, but vail’s faith is too great to be killed.

He’d thought that he had gotten over it. That the past had stopped chasing him. That, when the past finally found him, Mika would be ready for it. That he would fight it. That he would kill it.

How many times had he dreamed of that night? How many times had he dreamed of another dreary Kevlan landscape, where this time he was the victor?

mika, son of the mockingbird. like diem, he believes in absolute strength, not allowing himself any sign of weakness. he’s very independent, and though he seems unwavering, he’s actually insecure in his identity, if only because of the immeasurable shadow his parents - a chemist and famous vigilante, respectively - left behind.

mika’s story is one of legacy. like his mother before him, he traverses the city in the guise of night, as phantom. he’s cynical, the pessimistic voice among those who believe in the best, and deals with everything that bothers him with coldness, putting up high walls. although he seems closed off, inside he carries a bone deep determination to survive, to defeat ‘evil’ and triumph. his thoughts on justice are often unclear, as is his morality, but he approaches the title of vigilante with a ruthless efficiency.

catrin flint, emrys’ aunt, is mika’s guardian, through a series of loosely explained events - often because it is not clear to mika or emrys themselves how catrin knew his mother, and what led her to take him in. mika never wanted another family, and that much is clear to both flints, but he is also the one who ends up being the most in emrys’ corner as she goes through grief and changes. he doesn’t agree with her on most things, but he stays by her side all the same.

mika was originally supposed to have a touch of magical realism to him as well - and he should still, if the necessary revisions are done and hints portrayed. mika was supposed to be someone who walked the shadowy line of the veil, seeing/communicating with the dead, or hand in hand with death (with nebulous connections to his own death or near-death experience).

Suicidal, Drakov had called him back then, when he had spared him and Jericho had thrown it away in favor of not taking the hint, trailing him because he had seen a lifeline in the other man, one he wanted to grasp, like flailing in the ocean and chancing upon a buoyancy device. It was coming out of a haze, like a dying man who had been living life with the expectation of it ending only to realize that he wanted to live.

But Jericho wasn’t fifteen. He was Jailbird, had been for years. He’d trained under Drakov, the only person he knew who had had the honor. He’d managed to survive in this shitty city, had gotten out of the trap where thousands of others had died, and had carved out a living without paying penance to anyone but himself.

jericho’s the only vigilante without a team, but he makes up for it by having plenty of connections. he’s india’s friend, before and after. he becomes mika’s and emrys’ connection in the grimy city, and potential ally. he communicates with the dragon, the only person who can reveal information on the assassin on a personal, instead of professional, level (with the exception of a few).

a vigilante who is more like a mercenary, jericho goes by the pseudonym jailbird, and mostly keeps to himself. he’s shrewd, witty, and plays the game as smart as he can as a kid on his own - and it’s worked; he’s managed to avoid any major trouble. out of all the cast, jericho is one of the few who avoids a near death experience.

still, he deals with a fair amount of imposter syndrome and guilt, most of which is only alluded to, as he only gets the rare pov. i can’t speak much on him because several big facts about him are technically plot relevant info that gets revealed in the novel itself.

June wondered if that was before or after he had died for the first time, before or after the first time he had tried to kill himself. With Rhys, the first time had never been the last. She thought of what he had said the last time they had talked so closely. I don’t care about life or death, June. I don’t care about the people I kill. I don’t care if it gets me killed.

She held the blade up to him. The pale light glinted on the edges, showing the smooth, glossy sheen of it all.

if winter were a person, it would be personified through rhys. aptly enough, his last name is winters, although this never gets mentioned in-text (i don’t believe). surprisingly, rhys doesn’t get a single pov throughout tmotl, even when most of the characters mentioned here get at least one (like mika). still, he has a presence, if only because he is june’s partner in crime. they come from the same history, cut from the same cloth.

rhys is the apathetic type of person who doesn’t believe in anything. he’s suicidal (to a lesser degree in the present, but this is still an explicit textual fact). he likes to weaponize his discomfort and acidic personality to make other people (namely kit) uncomfortable. human misery on the downlow, though this could also be attributed to the fact that he lives a miserable existence - as if his history wasn’t bad enough, in death he was saved and made alive only through the fact that he is literally toxic, consigning him to a life wearing a gas mask, as his breathe could kill people if it is not filtered.

in tmotl, rhys is in many ways an abettor. does he care for june’s revenge? not really, but he helps her with it anyways, because what he feels for june is complicated, but he would follow her anywhere, if only because she gives him something to do. does he care about kit? does he care about human life? who knows. sometimes he says things just to be contradictory.

rhys was also from the original wip, and he stays much the same, if a little more fleshed out. so does his and kit’s antagonistic relationship.

Flames were dancing in the fever bright blue of Kit’s eyes, his arm running red as he carelessly studied the tracker, letting it catch the light. She could see the thin displeasure set in Rhys’ mouth, even behind the gas mask, which snaked around his ears, the rebreathers fitted like a glove to the lower half of his face. He passed her a strip of cloth wordlessly, his own arm bound. She in turn took Kit’s hand, nodding at the tracker as she cinched a quick tourniquet.

“I know,” Kit murmured, and then threw the tracker back towards the warehouse. His skin beneath June’s cool, blood stained fingers was burning. She could feel the thud of his heartbeat beneath the thin skin of his wrist, beating a wild rhythm, but when she looked at him more carefully, he still stood unwavering, which was good enough.

this excerpt is actually from page number one. kit, our final ‘main’ character (besides the villains and adults of the story, which are not quite as interesting, and also don’t have much i can reveal about them without spoiling things), is part of june’s team of three. he doesn’t go out in costume like basically every single other character; he doesn’t even have a code name. he’s the technology behind june’s operation, the one who runs things behind the scenes for her and rhys.

kit is important because he’s who june wants to protect. he’s one of the reasons she keeps moving forward at all. he’s a failure, at least to the organization - they saved him, but they couldn’t make him something better. sometimes, when you fix something broken, it doesn’t turn out as it was. for kit, this means a slow, aching death sentence, fighting the deterioration of his own body.

still, kit tries to stay brave in the face of it all. he’s light hearted, especially in comparison to rhys and june’s dark moods. he’s a light - something june follows, and rhys abhors. much of kit is a mix of appearance and projection; it is as it looks, but it also isn’t. sometimes, you’ve barely scratched the surface, because as much as kit is the open one, he also has a history of lying and conning that mark him as as much of a street kid as india, or june was.

he’s destined for death. the only question - one that is revisited throughout tmotl in scenes - is how long it will take before he gets there.

That last day in the Fold had never stopped being a blade lodged in his sternum. Vin could still feel it, the wound it covered. If he ever pulled the knife free, he would bleed out, but the longer he kept it in, the more damage would be done in the long run.

He kept the blade in. It was the risk he could take, for now.

that’s it for now. i could go on and on, but i think i’ve written enough for now. if you have any questions about this work on the characters, or just want to know something, please reach out via my ask box or messages! i hope this piqued your interest - that being said, if you would like to be added to this specific taglist, or my general taglist, let me know in some way shape or form!

taglist: @cannivalisms @sunshineomeara @thepixiediaries @muddshadow

#.txt #wip: tmotl #wip: the metamorphosis of the lost #writers on tumblr #my writing #creative writing #wip info #first draft #writeblr #wip #wip excerpt #gratuitous amounts of folly here (me rambling about it)#this is SO long but in my defense this is what i want on my blog. long posts where i just talk about my writing #no more making stuff look pretty. i want it to be what i want. and that is about how much i LOVE what i write ok #anyways. hope this cleared some things up or made them more confusing #i have a whole tag you can peruse if you want to learn more or refresh your memory #10+ characters that i never introduced outside of excerpts...we love to see it #this is so crazy and insane and this took me days to write on top of that #but i'm DONE so please interact if you want #if you have the time <3 #and send me an ask if you want to know more!!!

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stxr-bxster · 2 years

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🍇 - Who has the greatest influence over their life? Who can easily change their mind or push them to do something they don’t want to? Negatively or positvely. 🍉 - What is something they have done that they feel the most guilt over? How do they handle this guilt? Does the guilt ever get resolved?

🍇

At her current point in time, Krigg has... burned most of her old bridges, rendering her fairly hard to influence, in a "no strings to yank me around" sort of way. She's somewhat slow to reintroduce into her life people who would be able to influence her demeanor. She's had relatively poor experiences in the past with people pushing her towards behaviors she didn't feel quite right about - peer pressure, especially from people you trust and work with on the daily, is remarkably hard to ignore, even if it's not just from one person. A young Krigg's past tendencies towards being eager to please and well meaning often clashed with gut feelings quite hard around people in her social circle. Most of her young life was spent in an environment where the same rigid ideas and behaviors were bounced around on loop with little room to argue. It eventually tipped over into her violently pushing back against it all, but it took a hard shove for her to get to that point.

That said, she's not so bullheaded that she wouldn't listen to other people setting down things like boundaries in the name of common decency. She may be somewhat hard to influence, but at her core, she remains someone who won't pick a fight with people without good reason. Well, good for her anyways.

🍉

While Krigg feels guilt over a good handful of things she has done in the past, mostly due to a conformity to a specific standard, there is one specific event that is particularly hard for her to ignore. Without going into too much detail, which I will delve into with later Lore posts, well meaning actions on her part have led to a small number of innocent people losing their lives. While Krigg was not directly responsible for their deaths, she still unknowingly brought them into harm's way by trusting implicitly the wrong person with their safety.

Krigg feels deeply ashamed for her failure to protect them, and often feels that she carries the blame for not detecting a rotten element in a structure meant to support her, and from her then optimistic point of view, act as a side of reliable good. She feels that she should have foreseen that such a thing could have happened, and views her trust in others then as naive.

Most of her processing of that sensation of guilt is not exactly healthy. She tries very hard to avoid thinking about it or delving too deep into past mistakes, but it rears its head up from time to time anyways. Those days are... Not good times, and it often takes her a long while of staring at the wall in numb apathy before she can force herself to get up and keep walking.

She tries to think about the day she will finally right her wrong in a meaningful manner, to give herself the push needed to go on. Part of her doesn't believe it ever will be righted, seeing as the person responsible is still out and about, sleeping soundly at night, and having since gotten better rather than worse. The world is full of utter bastards for whom conscequences are an afterthought, and that live long and prosperous lives without Karma ever coming back to bite their ass. The other, smaller optimistic part often counters she won't know for sure if she doesn't keep on living.

If not for a better tomorrow, then at least for the spiteful wish of someday putting a plasma bolt between their eyes.

#Ask meme #Lore

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moonlitdiane · 2 years

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Queen Mother of the Dead The Abyssal — Xiwangmu 西王母.

Tales of a goddess of Death who wore a flowing white hanfu and a mask of bones once filled every corner of Hylaria. Once, she was the Queen Mother of the Dead and now; she is only The Abyssal. Once, people believed death was a chance to start anew, now death is an inescapable nightmare. Death used to smell of chrysanthemums and calming petrichor. Now it is rotten but deceptively sickeningly sweet.

"Xiwangmu once wore a terrifying mask to cover half of her ethereal beauty, the same face that had the mighty Sol falling from his throne. Doashis used to tell me that this was to symbolize the complicated nature of death, that on the surface it might seem terrifying, but if you just bothered to look past its icy surface, you will stumble upon its melancholic beauty—the beauty of the temporary.

Although we know her as Xiwangmu, there are whispers of a name only one pair of lips can utter. Xiao, is what Sol called her. Xiao. His little dawn. My job is not to sit here and dreamily sigh of my deity's matrimony, it is to preserve her in the way her followers remember but I cannot deny the inherently romantic about the goddess of Death being the god of Life's very own dawn. The light that breaks through the darkness of his nights.

Unfortunately, that was once upon a time long gone. We had been forced into hiding after the gods turned their back on her, after the entirety of Hylaria turned their back on us.

Did you know that the reason we play guzheng at funerals is because Xiwangmu herself was an exceptional guzheng player? There is also one tale, of a war forgotten, mostly unimportant. Xiwangmu joined none of the spats the rest of the pantheon got themselves into, but the one time she did—it was said that the sound of her fingers as it roughly, loudly, and terrifyingly plucked the strings of her ivory guzheng had paralyzed the entire world. She had finished a war even before it started. Her fingers bled for days, they said, that the blood that fell to our earth grew what we now know as red spider lilies.

Why do I tell you this? I know none of her followers will ever say it out loud, in fear of being more prosecuted than we already are but we are all desperate to hear the sound of strings playing loud enough to shake the core of Hylaria and strike fear into the hearts of the betrayers.

You know, dear reader? Sometimes I feel my own heart race reading about the things Sol himself had done for Xiwangmu but most times, I feel nothing, knowing that no matter how much they love you, they are still capable of destroying your heart, life, and being."

— excerpt from "Memoir of Shadows" written by Sun Fuchun, a follower of Death.

𓆩♡𓆪 PINTEREST BOARD 𓆩♡𓆪 PLAYLIST 𓆩♡𓆪

So...I might have impulsively made my Death in Sims 4????? The "excerpt" is also a preview of an edit I've been putting off for a while, I've had this idea of making a fake scan of a book about my Death in a while now, I just need to finish writing a few pages. Just wanted to post this one real quick because The Abyssal is still my favorite IF and I really wanted to post something new. And of course, as usual, The Abyssal is written by @theabyssal and their wonderful gorjus gorjus big brain!

#the abyssal: xiwangmu #the abyssal #interactive fiction #meet my mc #if

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littlefreya · 4 years

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Prince Of Darkness

Summary: There'll be no escape tonight, the devil always gets what he desires.

Pairing: Devil!August Walker x Unnamed OFC (3rd person pov)

Word count: 6k

Warnings: 18+, DARK! NonCon, kidnapping, stalking, breeding, exhibitionism, loss of virginity, supernatural stuff, sex in a cathedral, mention of heaven and hell. Please proceed with caution.

*No permission is given for reposting my work, copying it, ideas or parts it and claiming it as your own

A/N: I have put a lot of effort into this story, and I’m really anxious af. We all like to see August as a demon, but I decided to go all the way... And I’m nervous at your response and going to die after hitting submit. So bye.

Many thanks to the love of my life @agniavateira, for support, brainstorm and beta. And to @crimsonrae and @wondersofdreaming who held my hand.

Please give feedback and reblog if you enjoyed my work. 🖤

Title: Prince of Darkness

Blood painted the streets, courtesy of the blinding scarlet lights that danced upon gravel and tar before dwindling into darkness. The soft, beaming glow pulsed with the muffled beats of a monotonous song that played inside the luxurious nightclub. Like thundering war drums, it rumbled in the ears of the elegant man who stood along the shadows.

Leaning against the cement, he took a sip from a glass of spiced Bordeaux and brushed an index finger over his thick moustache to wipe away misguided droplets of wine.

‘How could anyone enjoy this abomination?’ He wondered with a guttural groan, never quite grasping this electronic noise thing; but then again August was older than this music, and his tastes far exceeded cheap and trivial antics. He was a man driven by the appetite for destruction and forbidden delights, and tonight, he was finally about to obtain both. After decades of anticipation, the succulent fruit was ready to be plucked.

Oh, what an intoxicating and delicious mist his unsuspecting beloved emanated, setting his heart aflame with her sheer ripeness.

‘It’s been so long, so painfully long.’

Time had lost its meaning as he waited, curving and swerving into a stream of an infinite river flowing with decay and death.

But as the old saying went: all haste comes from the devil.

So the man lingered against the wall, a sparkle enkindled and crackled in his eyes, morphing into black wells whilst the waves of her honey-liqueured ambrosia grew pungent, seeping through his airways and sinking in his throat. The corners of his mouth twitched slightly, revelling in the sound of harsh tapping heels that echoed louder with every step until she came summoned into the naked wilderness of the city street.

‘Beautiful and innocent as the garden of Eden. Of course, of course...’

The stranger scrutinised the young woman with another sip from his wine and a bite of great intrigue - but stoicism and silence, for now, were his most valuable allies.

Clad in a lithe black dress and a stylish leather jacket to keep herself warm from the chill autumn breeze, she fished for the mobile device in her purse while distress washed her wrinkling brow. Illuminated by the bright screen, her face sulked as for the seventh time in the last 30 minutes, her attempt to find an Uber bore no success whatsoever.

Was there something about tonight that all drivers were kept occupied, or had her luck simply run dry?

Showing her face to the moonlit sky, she sighed in great frustration. This must have been fate’s retribution to a mindless bad decision; she should have left with her friends, but staying alone to fruitlessly catch the eye of the uncaring bartender seemed more significant as the buzz of alcohol dimmed any ray of logic. Now deep into the night, walking home alone didn’t appear to be the most sympathetic solution, yet it occurred to her that there wasn’t much of choice.

“You seem distressed.”

Equal to a dark chant sputtering words of witchcraft, the low yet incredibly soft baritone of his voice slithered from the corner and crept down her spine with icy scales. A lurching hollow flared within her gut, her neck seized by the tight grip of a serpentine phantom.

His vibrato sounded like a voice that called her through a dream she never had before; despite the unsettling arctic spasm gyrating through her shaky limbs, it lured her to return a stare and meet the cryptic face behind the seducing chant.

Two sharp glaciers glimmered at her as the stranger sauntered into the penumbra, momentarily lit by another flash of neon red that broke onto his face and highlighted his ethereal features. Her lips drew open, her nipples hardening against the fabric of her dress as a shiver ran through her. To say that the stranger was handsome would be an understatement, as it almost seemed as if he was ‘designed’ by a sculptor - carved cheeks led a path to slightly pouted lips, and a stark, dimpled chin was shadowed by dark stubble. His chocolate-brown hair was elegantly combed to the side, with a couple of large lustrous locks gently nestling over his brow.

Though it wasn’t his good looks that left her riddled with prickly goosebumps, but the unprecedented magnetic haul that made her feel as if she was physically drawn toward this mysterious man.

Frightened by the unbidden reaction of her own body, she quickly retreated to gawk at the phone and provided no answer to his inquiry. A strange yearning to submit grew between her clenching thighs, a primal response to his striking looks and charms.

But she killed the seed before it set roots in her flesh.

‘They said Ted Bundy was charming as well…’ she mused. Frivolous as she wanted to be, getting murdered was undoubtedly not among her plans tonight.

Revelling in her silent reply with an arched brow, he tilted his head when a blinding flicker abruptly caught his keen eye. Kissed by the pale moonlight’s beam, a small silver cross rested upon her collarbone. His sharp fangs begged to peek with sardonic amusement, but he kept his lips clamped, not wishing to scare her too soon.

There was to be plenty of that later...

“May I offer you my help, sweetling?”

Threading his long fingers between the smooth stem and clasping them around the bowl, he lowered the glass to the side of his hip, dragging the girl’s unwilling eye to the healthy bulge in his groin.

Her lips drew open as a surge of staggering heat flushed at her apex.

It seemed enormous...

“Name’s August, like the emperor, but you can call me whatever your heart desires...”

Embers burnt at her cheeks; in her belly, the odd mystical calling continued weaving at her core in an urge to accept whatever it was he had to offer. Her eyes warred to tear her gaze away from his nether region as her lashes fluttered to meet the abysmal glance that bestowed both frost and fire through her tendons.

There was something archaically familiar about this man as if she knew him before the days had names. Yet she swore, it was the first time she ever saw his striking face.

“I can take you wherever you need to go.”

Breath laced with wine titillated her nostrils as the words spilt from his lips, whilst another crimson ray broke upon the marble of his face. Never had he urged, but instead suggested with a tongue soaked with honey. Still, a blazing aura of danger encircled him. And even though the very natural fear of walking home alone grappled her, it still seemed like a much better plan than entrusting her life to a stranger who was twice her size.

Deciding to keep her tongue knotted, she turned and began striding away. ‘Best not to engage him,’ she thought, but once she moved past his bulky figure, her heart suddenly picked up its pace and her legs refused to function as if they no longer belonged to her.

Seconds stretched into eternity. The thought that this civilised savage will assail her and drag her into the night scratched at the back of her head. But the worst of it was the simmering throb. Unforgiving, like gathering storm clouds, it thundered the closer she walked by him and then gradually died out as she finally managed to move away and free herself from this invisible bond.

Savouring the final drop of wine, August watched amused as the frightened little lamb quickly oscillated on her feet, scampering into the horrors offered by the dark. It was funny how fear made animals act so heedlessly and rush straight into the burning heart of peril.

A toothy grin peaked his chiselled cheeks. Always the gentleman, he shifted from the concrete, discarding the glass carelessly to shatter on the sidewalk. His sinew stretched in a relaxed ripple of an apex predator before he straightened both vest and jacket and stroked his thick moustache.

Though her heavenly fragrance still soaked the air, the girl was already gone from normal eyesight. It was a pity to see her leave, yet there was no need for him to rush.

There was never really a choice for her.

Strangely, the night kept growing unnaturally darker. A great ocean of blackness and crystalised stars spread from above, casting looming shadows across the tall buildings that resembled a maw filled with rotten teeth. The tepid wind that blew between the vast concrete monoliths was nothing but the breath of a mythical beast intoning her name through the shadows.

Clawing at her forearms, she meandered through the inert street with a wary eye. Desolate neon signs flickered hauntingly, bequeathing a vibrant beacon of dread over the shimmering, onyx road. Not a living soul was in sight as if the world descended into stillness, dominated by an eerie, dead silence save for the harsh echo of her hasty heels. And yet, the long path felt anything but lifeless. With every step landed on the ground, she could sense the movement beneath the surface: swarming vile things, slippery and scaled. Unseen by the human eye, they hissed dirty little secrets and slithered with sinister hunger, drizzling down their fangs.

‘You can already feel me inside you, can’t you sweetling…’ Remaining hidden, he had to admit that watching the little lamb leap shivering into the slaughter has been somewhat of foreplay.

A veil of fumes emitted from her parted lips. The air became colder, summoning a terrifying truth that made her lungs clench around the black void that abruptly filled them with the notion that maybe... maybe… that chill, liquid-like thing that threatened to touch her ankle wasn’t just in her crazy imagination.

There was something out there, something undeniably familiar. This unusual gust of wind brushing at her nape has accompanied her since she could remember herself, an unsettling breeze bidding that evil lurked between the creases, holding its sinewy fingers clasped together while waiting for her to answer his hushed calling.

‘And once you finally answer, there is no turning back…’

Fear gnawed its frosty fangs at her bones, puncturing tiny painful cavities that were needles in her flesh. Tonight, of all nights, the same hazy feeling became stronger than ever before. Deep inside, she knew she would meet her end. Pressing the oily pads of her fingers at the sharp corners of her pendant, she inhaled and chanted a prayer, refusing to succumb to the noxious malice when a frozen pin pierced her heart.

Like the lark calling on the dawn, an unbidden chant carried her name.

Drenched with frigid sweat, she exhumed a shuddering breath, praying to God that it was only her imagination playing tricks on her ears.

‘The greatest trick he ever pulled was convincing the world he didn't exist.’

Indeed in the darkness, leered the beast. All teeth and malicious glee, August moved from one shadow to another, feasting on the aphrodisiac that was the mixture of her harrowing terror and unveiled desire. If only she knew the trail her scent left for him to follow - he could smell her from miles away.

The little flower between her legs began blooming the moment their entities finally encountered one another, and it was his ancient name her dew had dripped for.

‘My sweet little thing, tonight I will finally grant you a purpose...’

Like a hound awakened from a deep slumber, he flexed his bulging muscles and tailed her in utter silence. The same spell that burnt in her core seethed the blood gathering in his ardent loins. Since the dawn of humankind, he had more women than any other man on this earth, yet none has evoked such hunger in him.

He would have eaten her alive and torn her to shreds if only he didn't have bigger plans for her.

Still hidden by the unnatural night, August stalked from behind, the blaze of his enkindling burn licking her path as he crept further to ensnare his prey. He wished she could see herself through his own flaring glance, how beautiful she was with tears of despair rolling down the tender slope of her cheeks.

His beloved girl; his, by ancient law. Spirited as a rageful tempest, she insisted on escaping her prophesied fate. Muscles and bones strove against the panic that turned her boiling blood frigid. But no power, physical nor divine could revoke this otherworldly attraction that bound her to him. His bidding could never be undone and as much as his blood relished from the thrill of the chase, it was time to put an end to this dance and seal their union.

Appearing from a stygian haze of a spectral nightmare, the beast drew his claw to grasp the fleeting girl’s shoulder.

The world froze along with the scream that died in her throat. Cold, slippery wet, the phantom serpents slinked around her ankles and held on to the ground as the thing behind her bit his nails into her collarbone. His touch was no ghost, but as real as the quiet moon that voyeured her fate from above and did nothing. A wretched gasp of anguish shuddered through her airways as his fingers stalked forth to cinch at her neck.

His grip was tighter than the icy finger of death, yet its caress was the sensual lick of a gossamer tongue.

It was almost as if he worshipped her.

Shadows befell her as the assailant leaned close, wafting a mist of intoxicating fumes scented of poisonous elixirs and an ancient forest that laid deep between the veils of the underworld, hiding forbidden mysteries that none dared speak of. Seeping through her orifices, it stung her eyes and raked remorseful tears.

“Please…” she broke into sobs, shaking her head at the dawning of her fate.

The man inhaled deeply. Though she could not see him, the joyful malice that danced on his pleased breath roared in her ears.

“Do not fear me.” The sonorous rumble caressing her ear was hardly a surprise in its familiarity. It was him, the handsome bewhiskered gentleman from earlier. But of course, it was always him: the whisper in the dark, the slithering things moving beneath the tepid ground, and the smell of burning pyres.

But who the hell was he?!

As if he read her mind, his hand twisted around her nape and with a careful sway, turned her to face him. The voice inside her head warned her over and over again not to look at him; yet the temptation was too great, peeling her eyes open to stare at the thing that made her heart drop to her gut.

Vast, raven wings spread from each side of an Adonis figure, their intimidating length denying her widened eyes to look at anything but the dark god that soared tall in front her. No, not a god, a devil. A pair of small golden horns peeked from the mane of long curls, and the heavenly icy gaze she remembered from earlier had melted into an abysmal lake of fire.

He was beautiful.

He was monstrous.

And just like that, she descended from the earth, swept into a thick swamp of darkness that swallowed her whole. Never letting so much as her feet kiss the ground, August scooped her into his strong arms. Peering down upon her, he broke into a delightful grin, already enamoured with his delicate new bride. The pang of lust tingled in his groin, though despite the raging need to claim her now, it was her screams he desired more than all as he would consummate their eternal marriage.

Wicked tongues of fire licked up the shallow air, casting a faint amber glow into the abominable sombre of a vanishing nightmare. Shy as feral nymphs, the bursting sparks ascended melancholily, whispering tales of perishing days that fell to harmony with a strange mumbling chant. Still locked in a void of unconsciousness, the fallen girl shifted with disquiet, her hands restlessly clutching at a virginal silk gown that covered her body.

Vaguely remembering a horrifying dream of a demonic entity, she woke with a sudden electric jitter. A peal of breathless pants pushed through her heaving chest before she slumped into the intense relief one experiences from a brush with either death or a ghastly fantasy.

“Thank God…” she whispered with a fist pressed to her breast.

Yet, something was amiss. The low vocal melody continued despite her state of clarity, tangled with the eerie presence of a hundred cutting glares that stabbed her crawling spine. Slowly and carefully, she lifted her head and scanned her surroundings.

The blood drained from her face.

Swaying like shadowy wraiths stood men cloaked in black velvet hoods. Tears of milky boiling wax trickled from the candles held by their stringy fingers, yet they didn’t seem to flinch as the burning rivulets seared their flesh. Their hollow eyes were fixated upon her while words of a dark sacrament sputtered from their lips and reverberated through the endless archways and ribbed vaults that towered above them.

Her trembling muscles were briskly stifled under the unsettling realisation of her whereabouts - a cathedral, a thousand years old if not more. Burning torches lit crumbling pillars and statues of monstrous winged creatures that encircled them from every niche, their malicious shadows dancing upon dusty obsidian bricks. Unglazed windows were barred by black iron, the beautiful floral shapes preventing any means of escape.

Only the fractured ceiling held a cheap shred of hope, as a vast rupture of broken stone exposed her to the scarred carmine wolf-moon.

If only she had wings…

Bones rattling beneath her crawling flesh, she sat upon the hard surface with wells of despair. Her hands clutched around the edge of the bed, only to be kissed by the sharp corners that pierced the delicate flesh. Hissing with pain, she lifted her arms and stared below at what appeared to be a midnight-black marble creased with golden veins and saplings-like patterns.

It was beautiful, just like the creamy gown that covered her body.

“Do you like it, bride?”

Rising from the crowd like a flame among charred coals, appeared her handsome abductor. Suitable to a true evil prince, a long red cloak enrobed his broad, sturdy form, the velvet hem trailing behind him like a thick river of blood while he marched forward with no haste in his dauntless mien. Human once again, August offered the most endearing grin; two profound dimples embellished his scruffy cheeks, and his eyes shone brighter than a frozen sea.

Yet in her sullen gaze, he was nothing but a monster.

Abruptly enraged and driven by pure instinct, she jumped off the marble and paced backwards. Tears of anger and fright rimmed her swollen lids and her bare feet nearly collided as she shook her head at August who was neither impressed nor concerned by this foolish protest.

“You stay the fuck away from me!!!” She warned with a scream and hastily turned away.

Lost in some trance, the praying mob never stirred, granting the girl a fair chance to escape the bewhiskered man who was still several strides away. Her feeble legs made three to four steps when her muscles swiftly turned to stone, and her stomach lurched.

‘No! It couldn’t be! How?!’

Curls shining like precious coils of onyx, August emerged in front of her, continuing his relaxed gait as if this was a natural occurrence. His bright icicles melted into malicious dark pools of twisted desire, and his tongue briefly laved his plump lips at the sight of pure disbelief that cascaded over her face. He could feel right under her skin, hear the thrumming heart that both chilled and fumed for him. Further beyond her thoughts, his betrothed yearned to be defiled and torn open by him.

It was her destiny, whether she liked it or not.

Still she fought, so ferocious and defiant, flinching away from his attempts to seize her. It was almost comical to watch her deny him, knowing that her fate would be no different; she will spread her legs and submit to his conquest. And yet, her battle was immensely appealing; what better bride to the dark lord than a woman who breathed fire.

“Who are you?!” She cried, her trembling voice rising with panic and her cheeks soaking with tears, “What do you want from me?!”

August's face was devoid of mercy, her whimpering hisses did nothing to deter him and only further increased the appetite of the deprived wolf that circled in his gut. With a wring of his wrist, his fingers snapped at her elbow, hauling her against his rock-hard chest with such might her heels hovered above the ground.

Writhing in his grip she flung her hands at his face, clawing streams of crimson to trickle down his cheeks. The notion of hurting this vicious man brought somewhat of a sick joy; but her onslaught died at once, and her mouth fell agape as his skin healed with not even a trace of injury.

“Oh God, what are you?!” She shuddered.

Still holding her elbow hostage, his free hand travelled to the hem of the white gown, the long, perverted fingers twisting around the fabric before yanking it off at once. A resounding rip echoed through the tall arches, causing the chanting choir to halt their susurrations at once.

All eyes were afloat as the cold air kissed her skin. In vain, she attempted to cover herself only to be felled by the restraints of August’s grasp.

“God?...” The man finally spoke, his melodic voice ending with a sonorous hum that sprouted through her arteries like a deadly toxin. Not less poisonous, his gaze trailed down her form, worshipping the very sights of his delightful prize.

“Not God, but once I was an angel,” he suggested and leaned down to inhale her skin with a gratified growl before he flicked his wide tongue at her chest.

A groan of approval emitted from his lips, the sheer coat of sweat that layered her bosom was soaked of freshly brewed fear, his most favourite savour. His wet, velvety snake swept the sweet-briny wetness and licked further down her breasts, twirling around the erect nipple.

Unintended, she moaned. A river of delights rushed between her grinding thighs.

“No!”

Wrongful, unwanted bliss awoke in her. She felt desecrated and allured at once. Her fickle body deceived, mistaking this vile conquest as consensual. And the more August took, the more she desired; her dutiful womb demanded to consummate this bond, almost as if the beast had bewitched her a long while ago, embedding his essence in the marrow of her bones.

August grinned against her skin, the scent of her arousal fresh in his nose while his lips travelled to kiss down her sternum and the slope of her torso. His thick whiskers left a trail of fluttering butterflies.

“Have sympathy, my love. I had built my own realm and waited in the forlorn abyss. Empires fell and worlds disintegrated into ashes while I waited for thou,” he explained and clutched the cheek of her behind in his claw, squeezing it possessively. “I have longed for your touch since the day your ancestor promised you to me, little lamb. A hundred years’ worth of waiting for the bargain to reach its end, and for you to finally be ripe.”

The beast pressed one last languid kiss below her navel, a guttural hum exuded in between his lips, huffing hot against her belly. Slowly he rose to his full height, towering above his helpless victim who hugged her arms to cover her naked body and watched her nightmare unfold once more. Cold wind chilled her damp cheeks as August flung the blood-red cloak and exposed his naked figure before her.

He was massive, a masculine build fit for a warrior angel, covered with thick bulging muscles and dark hair. Lips parted, she forgot herself, gawking in awe and allowing her gaze to trail down to his unapologetically monstrous cock. Firm and throbbing, it dripped with hunger, urging to find release inside her clenching cavern.

She didn’t even know a man could be this vast, but alas, he was no man at all.

It was at that moment when blackest wings spread before her that realisation finally struck through like a blunt hammer to the back of her head. Covering her mouth she cowered away, her exposed back hitting the raised altar behind her.

August was no man nor god, but Lucifer himself.

Seeing the hope die in her eyes, the devil sneered.

“No, no, no! This can’t be real! This isn’t real!!!” She yelled, pathetic little hiccups sputtering from her lips.

August tilted his head, giving a scornful pout and scoffed with amusement. “Am I not?” He asked as he lifted an arm to flick his fingers, summoning two of the hooded servants to approach the dais. Their eyes were soulless gems embedded to a grey face that was cracked like a broken eggshell.

“I am real, beloved, as real as the child you will conceive me tonight.”

Shrills of terror flew through the great hole in the ceiling. Kicking and screaming, she fought as the men seized her arms and dragged her to the altar, forcing her flat down and holding her arms to prevent her from escaping. They never blinked at the ferocious war she waged against them, though an impish smile slowly possessed their faces as their master strode forward.

“Sweet little lamb,” August chanted, enamoured with his fiery bride while he sauntered by the edge of the altar. His Adonis body golden in the candlelight, his fingers squeezed and pumped the ravenous demon that hung heavy between his legs. The twinge in her womb rose in response, a low roar thrumming as it yearned to succumb to its unbridled purpose. Sheen, the arousal trickled between her kicking legs and onto the smooth stone, making her cheek flame.

Much to August’s pleasure.

“Our son will burn this world to cinders,” he promised and snaked his fingers at her ankles. Calmly deflecting her attempts to kick against him, he dragged her toward him until her knees folded over the edge and spread between his thighs. The platform was in the perfect height, positioning her delicious Eden at the height of his blessed demon.

“You will make an excellent mother.”

Her entire body shook, her cunt clenching along her sobs in both defence and beguiling need as August leaned in and grazed the silky pink crown between her wet petals. She begged he wouldn’t be able to invade her, but her prayers fell to deaf ears.

“Please don’t do this to me! I will do anything… please!” She wailed a bargain, still trying to escape the servants’ grip and looking at him pleadingly, “I… I...haven’t been with a man!”

“Oh I know…” August beamed and stroked himself back and forth between her engorged lips. Vamping flames tingled at her flesh, her core foolishly squeezing around nothing in demand for this wretched monster to defile her.

“You’ve kept yourself for me, didn't you? I have waited for you too, for centuries even, but now our waiting has ended, and I can finally love you.”

With one brutal thrust, he breached through the gates of her sacred haven, corrupting her purity and ripping her open with the elegance of a savage.

Exasperated bats fluttered their wings over the red moon at the sound of her pained howl. Eyes flared to the bleak sky above; the girl watched them in a daze, disbelieving the blazing demon that scorched her from inside as he nestled himself between her resisting gates with no intention to cease.

In his villainy, August pushed further. Stunned thunders of ecstasy erupted from his lips, all to humiliate her along with the dark minions who circled the altar to pervertedly witness this sacrilegious ritual in which their master ravaged the unwilling maiden. Ignoring her body’s vehement protest, he forced himself unfathomably deep, only stopping until the head of his cock kissed the gateway of her cervix.

Crystalised tears rolled down her temples and stained the cold marble beneath her body. Slit impossibly sore, she twitched and sobbed at the overwhelming feeling of being invaded by another entity. Her once protected realm was now under the domain of a ruthless prince, and he took no prisoners and granted no mercy nor care at her vain endeavours to push him out.

He would never stop. He would have her again and again until her sacred little womb would be plentiful with his seed.

“Tight,” he blurted out in a blissful huff and reached his talons to bite into her quaking thighs. Spreading her wider, he hooked his hands below her knees, moulding her into a vessel to be fulfilled. Arctic orbs glazed down her naked figure, his plump lips cooing at her aching whimpers. The taut and hairy muscles of his gut flexed as he carefully withdrew his vicious cock, coated in the crimson sorrow of her maidenhood.

Hollow pain throbbed in her empty cunt as he suddenly abandoned her. Distressed and overwhelmed, she hoped he would stay out, yet her traitorous body coveted his return in a false faith that it would ease the fervid twinge that soared to her belly and even burnt in her breasts.

It was far from true.

No less vigorous than before, August plunged back inside her, stretching her again, shaping her as his own as she yipped and struggled to escape. His head threw back with a roar of divine pleasure, feasting at the thrill of her dauntless veils wrapping around him like a succulent flower. For a moment there, he wondered who preyed on who. Her concupiscent little cove sucked him so wantonly it threatened to swallow his raging cock.

‘But of course, every virgin is destined to become my whore.’

Hot and heavy, his shaft seized the void that had always been inside her, their heaving organs collided in euphoric bliss like two broken shards that were lost for decades and finally pieced back together. And even though she seared with every jerk or shift he made, the impassioned flames licked at the seams of her twitching cunt in waves of ache and foreign desperation.

“No…” she whispered, shame singeing her throat as the little pesky sparks enkindled where the devil had violated her. Vision blurry, she gazed at him utterly mystified. Part of her warred to stoke the fire that screamed heresy, while the other begged to yield to her demise.

As August pulled away again and thrust harder, a breathless moan tore from her lips.

A cutting grin radiated onto his face. “It feels so good inside you,” he sang and slid one hand to stroke all the way down from her sweat-ridden thighs to her belly, feeling the movement of his cock with every push and shove.

He was taunting her, yet she couldn’t care less. Over the cinders of pain and virtue, a garden began to bloom. With every abysmal stroke of his swelling shaft, she could feel green saplings and coy vines growing within her uterus—soft, beautiful tendrils stalked through her arteries, sprouted through her cove, and engulfed his swelling demon as well.

She was no longer burning but becoming alive. Pained cries suddenly evolved into asphyxiation of bliss. Beyond her realisation, she undulated her hips in the desire to endure each of his wet claiming thrusts. Her spine coiled against the surface, further allowing him easier passage to nourish the wilderness that continued spreading through her blood.

Noticing the change in her, approving groans rumbled in his throat; his little bride was growing tighter around his demon, her quivering lips and fluttering lashes the image of true Elysium. It was not long before he would plant his seed in her fertile lush. Her cunt milked and suckled around him, demanding to be bred by the devil.

“Yes, my love! Give in to me! Give in to your primal sin!” August urged, enhancing the rhythm until he was thrusting into her like a battering ram, the sinful elixir of their union smearing on his groin and dripping down her rump. “Descend with me!”

In her delirium she witnessed magical nightshades and sinewy stalks growing amidst the gritty bricks, encompassing the ominous cathedral with bright colours.

It was paradise on earth, given to her by the unearthly rapturous joy of having this demon violate her, slamming harder with growing frustration until his thick girth ripped through the last threads of her self-preservation and that which she tried so hard to deny erupted through her clenching core.

Euphoria.

For a lingering moment, she had wings of her own, pale as precious pearls and lustrous stars. Tingling waves of ethereal white heat burst at her seams, purifying her as she flew above the cathedral, and watched their ungodly union from above. But her wings suddenly caught aflame and before she knew it, she crashed onto the earth with a secondary, more violent climax.

The beast’s roars erupted into a brutal thunder, causing the sturdy pillars of the cathedral to quake and crack like thin glass. With all his might, he clutched her thighs and hauled her against him, slamming his swollen cock deep into her belly and releasing his smouldering, milky essence until it seeped from her sleek. August’s wings flew open as he found his own rapture, blazes following through and consuming the ancient hall.

This was no longer a hallucination.

This was Inferno.

Still radiating with orgasmic glow, she screamed horrified as everything around them vehemently burnt to coals. Even the soulless servants crumbled into dust, accepting their fate without so much of a yip. The fire raged and died within seconds, leaving nothing but broken pillars and ashen smoke.

Shortly, the tepid air of night caressed her naked skin as they remained alone in the ruins of what was once an ominous cathedral. Still buried in her viscera, August broke into a low, stretching groan of relief which made her immediately return her eyes to him. Shame rose bitter in her throat and new fresh rivulets trickled on her cheeks.

After all that he had done to her, she could see nothing in him but a beautiful monster.

“My beloved queen,” August keened to comfort her and moved his hand to tenderly stroke her lower belly.

A toothy smile broke upon his face, his eyes gleaming with surprise as he felt the life that had already begun growing in her angelic fortress. A son, strong and glorious as his father. For the first time in his long existence, the devil was truly elated and he vowed in that moment that he would give her much, and much more. But first, she needed to be cared for.

Her assaulted hole convulsed with pain as he pulled himself out, leaving a trail of creamy fluids to dribble at his departure. Sniffling and shaking, she watched him bemused, as he climbed onto the altar and moved to lie beside her. Though she no longer flinched as he touched her, what was the point of it anyway? He had already destroyed her and stolen her innocent soul.

“You make me so happy, my beloved queen,” August had murmured as he gripped her jaw and pressed his lips to hers. His kiss claimed her breath, pillaging whatever left of her chastity and wit until she absentmindedly kissed back, forgetting herself as his tongue bested her will.

When he broke away, the taste of spiced ruby wine and blood lingered in her mouth.

“An eternity awaits us,” the devil explained as he pecked her nose and her forehead lovingly, to which she shivered - out of fright or out of want, she couldn’t tell the difference anymore.

“You had made me the happiest, now give me the chance to grant the same favour, ask for anything you want in the world and it shall be yours,” he begged and wrapped her in the shelter of his strong arms to lie down with him on the smooth stone surface.

Absentmindedly, she welcomed the protection offered from his embrace and stared silently as flakes of cement broke from the remnants of the wall floated in the air around her before she opened her mouth.

“I wish for…”

Her whisper faded into the dark.

*Disclaimer: I do not own Mission Impossible or August Walker

Beautiful dividers by @firefly-graphics

#henry cavill #august walker #henry cavill fanfiction #august walker x ofc

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daryl-dixon-daydreams · 4 years

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Words: 2,759 Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Reader Reader pronouns: she/her Era: Alexandria Warnings: Language, mentions of violence, references to gore, mentions of anxiety, disturbing imagery, typical TWD stuff Summary: Daryl and Y/N are outside the walls when they hear a baby crying. A/N: THIS IS SO SOFT I MIGHT DIE. Requested by anonymous! Hope you like it! Thanks for the request!

Your name: submit What is this?

You froze. You glanced back at the archer, “D’you hear that?” you asked him in a harsh whisper.

Daryl strained his hearing. “Heard somethin’.”

You’d been venturing out with Daryl for tracking lessons for quite some time. He’d been somewhat opposed to the idea at first, not liking the idea of you wandering around outside the walls, but you’d worn him down. Now, you were getting quite good at reading sign and he had noticed that you seemed to be much more observant, vigilant as you moved through the trees. Your footsteps were nearly silent.

You straightened up, turning from the trail of the deer you’d been tracing, and Daryl watched as you turned to the side, your eyes lifted to some unknown distant point in the trees.

“What is it?” he asked, noticing the slightly anxious look on your face.

You shook your head almost imperceptibly. “I don’t know. It’s just a feeling more than anything.” You glanced back at him and were met with his steady blue eyes. You chewed the inside of your cheek for a moment. “Come on,” you said, stepping away from the deer trail and moving in the direction you thought the sound had come from.

You didn’t have to go far before you heard the sound again, and this time it was much clearer. Your wide eyes met Daryl’s, his brow heavily furrowed. Your stomach twisted. You turned and increased your pace.

You moved through the brush as quietly as you could and finally you saw a shape looming ahead. It was an abandoned house, more of a shack really than anything. The sound was clear now as you crouched at the edge of the lot. Daryl knelt beside you and you exchanged a harried glance with him.

It was a baby crying and it was coming from inside the house. There were about a dozen walkers beating on the rotten woods of the dilapidated structure. It looked like it wouldn’t be long before they broke in.

Daryl worried his bottom lip with his teeth. “S’a lot of walkers,” he murmured.

You gulped and looked back. “We have to do something.”

He sighed, hesitating, his eyes flickering between your face and the group of the dead.

You couldn’t wait anymore. There was a swell of urgency growing in your chest, like a high tide rushing in. You swore under your breath and unsheathed the knife at your hip. You rushed out of the brush and right toward the walkers.

Daryl scrambled up to follow you.

You plunged your knife into the skull of the first walker lurching at you and immediately repeated the action with another. As you pulled your knife out, you landed a kick into one of the dead who was grappling for you.

Daryl was soon beside you, slashing and stabbing just like you were to clear the way to the building.

By the time you were done, you were drenched in sweat and Daryl looked at the circle of now still corpses around you. There was a spray of walker blood across your neck. He was about to scold you for rushing in, but he was taken aback by the number you had killed, and you weren’t done with your somewhat frantic mission.

You charged to the door and saw that it was splintered from the latch. They’d almost broken through. You turned the handle and pushed inside. You froze with just one foot inside the small house.

Daryl looked in past you, over your shoulder.

There was the desperately wailing baby, still swaddled to its mother in a makeshift carrier. She was dead. You made a lunge toward the infant, but Daryl’s hand clasped your shoulder gently and stopped you. You glanced back at him, your eyes glistening with tears and your expression pure desperation.

He nodded. “We dunno what she died from. And she could turn at any second. Be careful,” he murmured.

You nodded at him and he lifted his hand. You approached the prone figure cautiously, all the while the baby’s cries piercing straight through you. You knelt down and carefully lifted the swaddled infant from the body of its mother, being careful and kind to the body of the woman who had probably given her everything to see that her child survived.

Daryl watched as you murmured to the infant in a soft voice, shushing and humming. “Shhh, it’s alright. It’s okay.” You pressed the baby to your chest and stood, bouncing slightly to try and soothe the cries. Eventually, she stilled. You glanced up at Daryl, your eyes still wide and glistening, although no tears stained your cheeks.

He was staring at you with a curious expression on his face. It was soft and thoughtful. He shouldered the strap of his crossbow and moved farther into the house, looking around. “Gotta be some supplies for that baby here somewhere, right?” he said. He felt the need to focus on a task because looking at you with the little bundle against your chest was bringing to life some warm, fluttery feelings he didn’t want to acknowledge.

“Hopefully,” you said, wrapping the sling around yourself and settling the baby inside. You smiled sweetly as she grasped your finger and a little laugh of joy bubbled out of you. Daryl looked up from his search and saw you smoothing your hand over her soft hair. “She has to be starving,” you said, your eyes a little starry.

Daryl tore his eyes away from the scene again. “Mm,” he acknowledged, the best he could do because he was worried what might slip out if he said any more. “Here,” he said, picking up a small duffel bag. It had some bottles and formula in it, as well as cloth diapers and a baby toy.

He shouldered the bag and walked back to you, peeking in over your shoulder at the little face pressed against you, your finger in her tiny, curled hand. “C’mon,” he said softly, surprising himself and you as his hand landed lightly on your lower back. “Let’s get her back somewhere safe.”

You looked up into his face and saw that his expression was open, earnest, soft. Your heart jumped. You nodded, but hesitated a moment when he started to head toward the door. Daryl looked back when he didn’t feel you behind him and saw that you were staring down at the still figure on the floor. “We can’t just leave her like this. She’ll turn,” you said softly, your brow furrowing.

He gulped and nodded. “Alright. Just wait outside a sec. I’ll do it,” he said, unsheathing his knife.

You gave him a sad but grateful look, pressing the baby against you more securely and nodded. “Thank you.”

_ _ _ _ _ _

You arrived back at the gate to Alexandria and Rosita let you in. Her eyes went wide when she realized what you exactly that bundle slung across your chest was. She came closer and peeked into the sling, her eyes flitting up to meet yours.

“We found her in an abandoned house, surrounded by walkers. Her mom was already dead,” you whispered. She was sleeping against you.

Rosita’s expression was sad for a moment, but then she smiled at the rosy cheeks and long eyelashes fanned out against the little girl’s cheeks. “Preciosa,” she murmured.

You smiled up at her.

Daryl was watching the whole interaction from a couple feet away and he couldn’t take his eyes off you. You were so soft and gentle, the look in your eyes like you’d never seen something more beautiful in your whole life. He kept feeling waves of warmth blooming out from his core and suddenly seemed unable to stand still, shifting his weight and tapping his fingers against his leg. “We should take her to get checked out by the doc,” Daryl said quietly.

You nodded, giving Rosita one last smile and then falling into stride beside him.

Daryl glanced over at you as you walked to the clinic. You caught him studying your face and gave him a questioning look.

“I wanted to yell at ya out there for rushin’ in like that,” he said. He glanced again at the baby. “But I get it. If you hadn’t, I woulda.”

You nodded. “I don’t what happened—I just couldn’t sit there and let them get her, even if it meant I might—” you broke off, not wanting to speak what was always a real possibility outside the walls.

“Yeah. Ya killed like seven of ‘em yourself before I even got there,” he said, slight amusement turning one corner of his mouth up.

You smiled abashedly. “Yeah…”

“I mean, I know ya can fight but—” he broke off, shaking his head, that vague smile still slightly curving his lips.

You arrived at the clinic and Daryl led the way inside. Denise looked up as he came in and immediately sighed. “Oh, no. Don’t tell me one of you needs stitches again?”

But she froze when you stepped in with that swaddled bundle in your arms.

Her eyebrows lifted. “Is that what I think it is?” she asked, bewildered, as you wandered over.

“Can you take a look at her?” you asked, lifting her out of the sling that was draped around you. She woke and stirred, immediately starting to cry again. The sound tugged at your heart.

Denise nodded. “Of course. Bring her over here,” she said, leading the way to a cushioned exam table.

“Shhhh, it’s okay. It’s alright,” you cooed, setting her down on her back. You offered your finger and she gripped it tightly. You smiled up at Daryl and his heart skipped a beat at the breathtaking light in your eyes and that irresistible grin. “She feels strong. That’s good, right?” you asked, turning to Denise.

She was setting her stethoscope aside. “Lungs and heart sound great. She looks healthy.” She glanced up at you. “I don’t know exactly what happened out there, but I have a hunch she’s lucky you found her.”

You nodded. “Yeah…”

“I think I saw some baby formula and other stuff you might need in the supply room. Lemme just check,” Denise said.

You scooped the little girl back up into your arms and her cries immediately became less desperate. You pressed her to your shoulder and rubbing her back softly, shushing her and bouncing, pressing her soft hair to your cheek. “Daryl, would you mind making up a bottle for her?” you asked.

He nudged his nose up in a nod, and you felt warmth in your face as you watched the tough biker pull out the canister of formula and a bottle, which looked tiny in his hand. You smiled to yourself as he went to mix up a bottle.

Denise returned with another canister of powdered formula and more cloth diapers as well as some other odds and ends for baby care. She shoved them into the bag Daryl had found at the abandoned house. Denise smiled and smoothed a hand over her soft hair. “Pretty amazing. Everyone is going to lose their minds over her. Little ones are so rare now,” she said. “First Judith and now this sweet little one.”

You nodded. “Yeah. I can’t stop thinking about what would have happened if Daryl and I had waited until tomorrow to go tracking, or if I had just ignored the first sound I heard.”

Denise nodded. “But you didn’t. And she’s safe and healthy now.”

Daryl came back with a bottle he had warmed slightly in the microwave and you grinned at him as he handed it to you. You adjusted her in your arms and she immediately latched on to the bottle and started eating. Daryl studied the tender expression on your face, that little smile that seemed like it might stay there forever now. He reached a hand up and rubbed absently at the ache in his chest. You looked up at Denise again. “Thanks, Denise,” you said. “We should head back to the house.”

“Anytime.” Denise gently smoothed her hand over the tiny girl’s hair one more time and gave you a kind smile.

You and Daryl started back toward the house at a leisurely pace. He still had the bag slung over his shoulder and you watched as she drank the formula hungrily. You could feel Daryl’s eyes on your face again and you glanced up at him.

“This mean you’re a mom now?” the archer drawled. You were struck by the question your eyebrows lifted.

“Huh… I hadn’t really thought about it that way,” you said, adjusting the bottle in your hand and looking back down at the little one in your arms. “She needs a mom. And I’m here,” you said softly. “I guess so,” you said, looking back up at Daryl. “Life is strange,” you said, shaking your head, peering back down at her.

“Mhm,” Daryl agreed. “She’s lucky to have ya.” Your heart skipped a beat at his words.

You were immediately swarmed by the group when you arrived back at the house. Everyone pressed in to see the baby, cooing and smiling. She was going to be so loved.

“Can I hold her?” Carol asked immediately.

“Hey! Nuh uh!” Daryl said, hurrying to set down the baby bag and his crossbow. “I helped save her and I ain’t even held her yet. Give her here,” he said, holding his arms out.

You grinned at him and carefully passed her to Daryl. He smiled down at her, rocking her from side to side. The sight of him with that sweet little baby in his strong arms was doing things to you… You hoped your face wasn’t turning red from the flush of heat you felt. “She needs a name,” you said thoughtfully.

“Easy. Lil’ Asskicker 2.0,” Daryl said, letting her grasp onto his finger. Everyone had a good laugh about that.

_ _ _ _ _ _

That night you fell asleep on the floor of the living room with the little girl beside you on a blanket. You were curled around her and she was pressed close against you, needing the comfort of someone to sleep.

Daryl was sitting on the couch nearby, alternating between cleaning and sharpening his blades and thoughtfully watching you sleep beside the new group member.

Carol leaned on the back of the couch beside him, looking over at you and the baby, smiling. Daryl turned to look at her.

“It’s nice to be reminded that good things can still happen,” she said softly.

“Mhm,” Daryl hummed, nodding. He flicked his thumb over the edge of the knife blade he was sharpening, testing to see if it needed more. “Ya should have seen her out there. She just ran right into this group of walkers and started takin’ ‘em out.”

Carol’s smile widened. “Maternal instinct,” she said. She glanced over at the archer and saw his blue eyes fixated on you. “Looks like she has a mom. She’s going to need a dad.”

Daryl’s eyes snapped over to peer back at Carol, his brow furrowing low. He scoffed a little at her statement. “She’s got a whole group of us. She don’t need me.”

“So, you wouldn’t like that? Having your own little family within our big family? Especially with Y/N…” she said, a knowing smile on her face. “Come on, your ears turn red every time she enters the room!”

Daryl shifted uncomfortably as Carol spoke a wish that was close to his heart, but which he was too terrified to act on.

Carol quit her teasing and sighed, looking back at you and the little one sleeping peacefully. “You’re not your father, Daryl. You’re you. And you’d be an amazing dad,” she said. “And if you don’t try, find something worth holding onto, worth protecting, what’s the point anymore?” And more than anything, Daryl knew that you were worth protecting. And now so was this little one. So, maybe it was time that he tried for what he wanted.

#daryl dixon fanfiction #daryl dixon twd #the walking dead #twd fanfics #daryl dixon drabbles #daryl imagines #daryl dixon x reader #fanfics #writers of tumblr #twd drabbles

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dangermousie · 3 years

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Hello !

I was wondering whether you could rate and tell us of your top 5 favourite webnovels/cnovels of all time ?! (Sorry if this has already been answered lol😅)

Thank you, stay safe and have a nice day🖤

Awww, thank you and that is such a lovely ask!!!

From n1 to n5, here they are (they happen to be all danmei.)

1. The Husky and His White Cat Shizun (2ha) - my n1 forever and ever.

Taxian Jun, the horrific cultivation emperor of the world who razed cities and destroyed sects, is surrounded on his mountain. The righteous sects are terrified to confront him but tired of living, Taxian Jun consumes poison and dies by suicide at the age of 32. And opens his eyes as 16 year old Mo Ran, Mo Ran long before he became Taxian Jun, Mo Ran who is excited at a chance to save the one person he loved and lost. Oh, and to deal with his loathed shizun, the unapproachable and strict Chu Wanning, his past life’s biggest enemy.

I have no idea if it’s objectively the best on this list but it hits every trope I love, its bleak worldview (the world will change only incrementally but that’s enough, average person will not appreciate the sacrifice but it’s still worthwhile, and love is worth everything) mirrors mine, and the sheer complexity of the plot and cascade of plot twists each of which is insane and yet completely logical, is amazing (this is a rare novel where it’s even more fun to reread than read for the first time because you keep seeing all the hints and trail crumbs laid out that you did not see the first time.)

And the characters!!! I mean, this novel has multiple universes/timelines, a side trip to the Underworld AND the demon realm, a plot more twisted than a store’s worth of pretzels and yet the thing that hits me the most are the characters. Mo Ran is my favorite web novel character of all time and I love Chu Wanning so. All the secondary characters are wonderfully written (and some of them made me bawl) and they are all complex. My opinion of all of them changed many times over; the novel doesn’t make it easy to love some of them but then you do and it’s so worthwhile! That slow change is one of the delights of the novel - I started out disliking the unpleasant, superior Chu Wanning and cruel, callow Mo Ran and then I loved them so so hard and cried for them so so hard and was in awe of their heroism and sacrifice and selflessness and capacity to love.

Oh, and the fact that this novel does something almost impossible - it has its protagonist start out as so clearly irredeemable and then slowly and painfully and thoroughly redeems him (without ever letting the reader forget what it is he needs redemption for.)

Also, for a novel that made me cry so hard I felt ill, this book is just so damn funny with the most sarcastic sense of humor imaginable (the serious angst doesn’t even kick in until 90+ chapters!)

Anyway I should stop or I will write a dissertation. But this is the one web novel that I would put in my top 5 not just web novels but any novels in any shape or form. The plentiful trigger warnings are there for a reason so stay away if they are an issue, but if not, if anyone hasn’t read it yet, what are you doing with your life?!

2. Stains of Filth (Yuwu) - another novel by the author of 2ha. Clearly she just pushes all my buttons every time. This one is much shorter and has a plot that is twisty but less twisty than 2ha. Still, all that means is that intensity and the pain are more concentrated.

Aristocratic Mo Xi and former slave Gu Mang were both legendary generals of the empire and lovers. But Gu Mang betrayed the country and switched to the enemy. Now he is back as a peace offering by that country and Mo Xi has to deal with the fact that his feelings are as strong as ever.

This novel!!! So much pain and intensity!!! So many amazing plot twists and supporting characters. The same bleak world view, the same unjust society, the same protagonists doing right things despite the cost. Mo Xi’s intensity and inability to let go (he’s imprinted on Gu Mang and that’s it) is romantic, bone-shakingly intense, and tragic all at once. And oh Gu Mang! So many times I just wanted to reach into the book physically to protect him. The novel deals with unjust societies, memory versus personality, what it’s like to be good in a bad universe etc. And it both made me sob and giggle, repeatedly, and sold me on literally death-defying (but not honor-defying!) love.

Oh, and special shout out to the fact that like 2ha, you may start out hating some characters and end up a rabid fangirl (cough Murong Lian!)

3. Qiang Jin Jiu - a dense political tome that takes a while to get going but then it’s a runaway train.

In a fictional dynasty, Shen Zechuan, the only remaining son of a disgraced aristocratic family and Xiao Chiye, the younger son of a family of generals guarding the border join forces (and then something else) to get power and pull down the dysfunctional system.

This is so elegant and smart (a rare web novel I’d recommend to anyone who just loves solid period fiction) and you probably need a notebook to keep track of the politics and military strategy. These characters are very very smart not just because the author says so.

As to the characters, there is a large cast and I love many of them, but for me the novel is made by Shen Zechuan and Xiao Chiye. SZC is gorgeous and delicate and icy and can kill you before you have time to blink. Saddled with the sins of the family he had no pleasant interaction with, he claws his way out of hell (seeing the sinkhole he was trapped in, literally as well) to take down those who wronged him but also to amass power so all the tragedy and corruption won’t happen again and the whole rotten system comes crashing down. XCY is a military genius who is trapped as a hostage in the capital because the court doesn’t trust his family. He longs to return to the plains of home and to take his rightful place. The two men start out as bitter enemies, then reluctant and sniping allies, then as friends and eventually as one of the most gorgeous, tender, swoony OTPs.

Anyway this is one is a bona fide masterpiece, equal parts smart and emotionally intense.

4. Wu Chang Jie - are you an emotional vampire? I am and this novel is a banquet.

In a highly fantastical setting, we meet our protagonists - the sunny Xie Bian and the intense and surly Fan Wushe. Xie Bian is a human who assists his master in conveying souls to the underworld and making sure no mishaps happen. Bian is concentrated sunshine in human form and to meet him is to love him. When the novel opens, his drunk master brings back another human to be his shidi and assist with duties - said human is uncommunicative, intense and surly Wushe. Bian is excited to have a shidi but little does he know that a story dealing with the horrors of past lifetime is about to start.

Anyway, why WCJ? So many reasons. It has such a dark bleak worldview - this world is a horrifying system where powerful cannibalize each other’s cores for an impossible chance to ascend, where gods have sealed off their realm and all that’s left is neverending human misery and hell (the only way you’d see a deity is if they’d been sent down to suffer over and over and over), where even reincarnation doesn’t fix things and bad acts are often unpunished. And the novel then asks - is it worth being a good person in such a world? More, is it worth being a good person in such a world when nothing good has ever happened to you and you have been repeatedly betrayed due to your goodness? And the answer, on Bian’s part, is an uncompromising yes.

Ah yes, the other reason to love this novel - the protagonists and their fucked up fucked up relationship. Bian (who was Prince Ziheng in the past life) is so genuinely good. But he is that rare thing - good but not saintly, noble but not cloying. So much of the novel is his getting taken apart over and over and barely able to put himself back together every time but his soul is still as amazing as ever.

And then there is Wushe (who was Prince Zixiao in past life, Ziheng’s not-bio-related brother.) Wushe is not a good person. He is a monster. And he loves Bian/Ziheng more than his life and his soul and the entire world but he’s also the one who hurt him more than anyone else ever could and did it over and over. His love survived a literal century of torture in the worst kind of hell and refused the usual memory loss of new life. But it also humiliated and broke Ziheng down to his constituent parts.

One of the things that is so fascinating to me about this novel is the question of what can be forgiven/what should be forgiven/what kind of expiation is enough/can you ever love someone who you loved so much and then he hurt you so badly and is now repentant? And it never sweeps trauma under the rug or hand waves it away but deals with it head on.

If you want healthy relationships, you should stay far away from this novel but if intense insane ones with a feral barely human one capable of destroying the world leashed by love and guilt to the sane deeply good one is your bag, come right in.

There is also the world building and the fact that yes, the big fall out between Ziheng x Zixiao is based on not knowing all the facts but it’s not “why can’t you talk?! This is dumb!” But is totally in keeping with both events and their characters. It’s reasonable for Ziheng to do what he does and for Zixiao to misunderstand and decide Ziheng is now his biggest enemy (but still one he’s fixated on) and for Ziheng to never be able to clarify.

Anyway, once again this is trigger warning central so please heed those, but if they are no issue, this one is wonderful.

5. OK, this is hard and switches between Sha Po Lang, Heaven Official’s Blessing and The Golden Stage depending on my mood. So what the hell, I am gonna write about all of them.

Sha Po Lang - so smart and so much clever world building. There is enough politicking to satisfy a Qiang Jin Jiu fan, it’s steampunk, and our two protagonists - Gu Yun, the empire’s most powerful general, who’s loyal to the empire despite being badly wronged by it, and Chang Geng, a cursed prince with barbarian blood and horrifying childhood - are wonderful separately and together. This is a huge slow burn but it’s totally worth it! They fall in love with each other’s hearts and brains and ability as much as anything. (Yes, this is the one with the yifu thing. Gu Yun is made Chang Geng’s foster father when he rescues him and brings him back to the capital as a way to keep CG safe in imperial strife. They are 12 and 19 at the time so clearly it’s never a parental relationship.)

Heaven Official’s Blessing (TCGF) - I love it’s sprawling narrative and cast, I love its inventive setting and picaresque story. It’s hilarious and can make me cry. But the novel’s place on this list is due to Xie Lian who is part Kenshin part drama WWX part pure goodness wrapped in heartbreak and trauma wrapped in sunshine.

The Golden Stage - two smart and principled (yes, they both have principles different though they may be) men navigate their arranged marriage, their past friendship and their past break up, become a super couple (one of the healthiest danmei couples I’ve ever read and proves healthy doesn’t have to be boring), save the country and bring down the emperor or two and just generally this is my rainy day book.

I guess I didn’t write as much for the three n5 candidates as I did for 1-4 but my brain is beginning to curdle so...

#cnovel #heaven official's blessing #2ha #yuwu #sha po lang #qiang jin jiu #wu chang jie #the golden stage #tcgf #asks

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