#slave classifieds

[thee-radio-host-is-a-kookaburra]

the fact that coquette aesthetic girlbloggers are trying to glamourize the word "drapetomania" is um. fucking disgusting holy shit??

[i-am-q]

SOS ho o needs her medicine

[alavestineneas]

i can feel the soil falling over my head; no people are here, just the void in my chest

pairing: Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen x fem!reader summary: Harkonnen men rarely wed; they just take what they capture—men and women—and turn them into slaves. Some, if particularly sweet, are reserved for fucking. There are no special songs for that; there isn't a specific word in their native tongue for wife, either. warnings: mentions of death, violence, implied/referenced child abuse, religious symbolism, daddy and sister issues, bald men chapter 1 - chapter 2 word count: 6,5K

author's note: hi beautiful people! this chapter may be classified as a prologue (yes, I am aware of its size, sorry, lol), but it is still integral to the story. we love evil people, especially evil bald people, in this house, so have fun and don't forget to wash your hands before reading! also, if you see things that are not canon, just know that me and the books are two parallel lines and we do not cross. feel free to point out grammar mistakes, though - english is not my first. love you!

Kaitain, 10176 AG

The violent streaks of light fight with the heavy cloth of drapes to find their way into the small, stifling chambers. The time was slowly crawling towards noon in the heavy summer heat, and the woman lying on the heavily decorated sheets was battling to get a breath in. Whether because of the annoying star, or the poisoning waiting, the patterns of sweat stained her tired face with esculent ornaments. Her lips, formed into a thin line, gleamed with small spots of dried crimson.

''Where is the messenger?'' The woman's voice was barely above a whisper, her eyes glued to the dancing light filtering through the window. ''The girl is strong; I can't hold her for much longer.''

The black figure on the chair in the corner slightly shifted at words. She was veiled, despite the heat—like a black hole, she seemed to suck the little air left. ''Forbearance,'' her raspy voice cuts through the room. ''The child makes you impatient. Control yourself.''

''I've waited, and waited long enough,'' the woman snapped, her frustration evident in her trembling hands. ''A few more minutes and all that is left of her will be a corpse.''

''Be quiet, Echidna. The child will live. If not, she was never meant to be part of our world in the first place.''

The woman clenched her jaw in a wave of pain and nodded. The girl ought to see the light of this planet today. Deep in her thoughts, she almost missed the rushed steps behind the door.

One of the Emperor's guards burst into the room, his eyes almost frantic. ''Lady Anirul has graced the Imperium with a daughter.''

Echidna smiled in relief, but her expression quickly changed as a beast-like cry pierced the air. The child was coming, with little care for the damage it caused to her aching womb. She tore the tissue down to the individual cells, gnawing her way with fists and elbows, moving the bones aside with brute force. Soon, her own cries were answered by much louder ones, as the head of the girl showed itself, covered in a thick layer of almost black blood. Just for a moment, the woman wished it would not steal another breath from the room, but she sharply composed herself. With a final push, the child left her body forever, leaving it a raw wound.

The small creature shrieked when the black figure approached, and slender, wrinkled arms took it from the warmth of rufous-red liquid. Echidna watched as the figure carried the girl away, resting her hurting body against the soaked pillows. She fulfilled her duty; she granted Bene   Gesserit the daughter they wanted. She is bleeding under a beautiful sun; she is holding the ghost of her child in her arms—the real one was never hers anyway. Echidna knows the Emperor will not come. From now on, it is just her and her never-passing pain. Thus, Kaitain, home to the Corrino dynasty, was warmed by the light of a new sun—Princess Irulan, an heiress to the Imperium—and chilled by the shadow of her sister, born a few minutes later.

-

The calmness of the gardens was disturbed only by the soft strokes of brushes against a thick canvas. YN sighed, her eyes still fixed on the tree nearby, its young branches swaying with the wind. Her body ached from stillness, the tension in her neck from holding her head slightly bowed spreading down to her small back. They posed for a portrait of what seemed like an eternity to a child, and was almost it to an adult who dared to inquire; the painter, while satisfied with the draft, looked at the group of young girls almost in fear—no normal child of that age would be unmoving for three hours. And yet, they were.

YN felt one of her sisters shift even through the thick fabric of her silver dress. Small Chalice turned, her cheeks red from the heat or tiredness, her lips forming a pout—the child was tired, sleepingly rubbing her eyes. YN thought for a moment, debating if the punishment would be worth it, or if her sisters could wait just a little bit more until the man with colours would end the session for today. She noticed how Irulan's face was starting to droop, her eyes fluttering closed and opening just a second later. Their youngest, Wensicia, was already asleep in Irulan's arms; her golden hair spread across her and YN's laps as a beautiful cover, shining under the faint sun.

''I am tired, Master Chen. We should end the painting for today,'' YN finally spoke; her voice was almost a whisper. She did not know whether it was not to awaken her sister or out of fear of the Emperor's anger; it did not matter. The man nodded and left, taking his canvases with him, leaving only a few drafts behind. Then, the sisters were left alone in the garden.

''Thank you,'' Irulan said softly, placing her head on YN's shoulder.

YN only nodded. Her eyes found the paper not so far away, her gaze studying the strokes of the pencil with interest. Wensicia, a beautiful girl of two, was smiling brightly, holding an olive branch in her chubby hands, her small feet peeking under the hem of her white dress. Small Chalice was at the opposite end of her, her curly hair surrounding her head like a halo as she leaned forward, holding a small dove inside her palms. Then, sitting at the bench, surrounded by lush greenery and bushes, they. Irulan and the Other.

YN was placed just a step away from her older sister, her head turned away from the gaze of the viewer. The delicate folds of her silver dress carefully cascaded down, creating an air of mist around them. Her hands were empty; she did not know if the artist hadn't decided with each object to grace her with, or left them hollow intently. She looked like a shadow—a ghost, maybe; her eyes were escaping the viewer as if hiding a secret.

Irulan was different. She was a sun-kissed creature, her head facing straight ahead. Her eyes, as if inviting for a challenge, were made from duty, steel. With a burning star on her regal forehead, crowning the streaks of golden hair, Irulan was water and air, dulcet and ever-bending; her figure held the place and her pose was distinct and commanding.

YN looked at the girl beside her, who was now quiet nearby. Irualn was wise, the wisest of the sisters; her eyes were all-seeing, her heart all-knowing. She was created in the shape of a mother since they could walk, and the small ones bathed in her light, drinking her till the last drop —like flowers following the warm embrace of the sun. The only one who could not enjoy the love was her, the Other. The other sister, the other half. For they have been too close in age, too similar to let each other pretend the burden was not a heavy one to bear.

When Irulan was natural in her all-caring shape, YN had to claw her way to the only role left—the father. An unbent tree, a silent soldier—she was not born to fit as one, but wishing for a different order of things was almost blasphemy. That's how it always was with them—out of two, one was the protector, the other - the protected. "Husband," Irulan humorously called her often. She smiled, and, for a moment, the wave of resentment in YN's soul calmed. She never called her wife in return: Irulan was too whole to be one, too proud to be moulded into. She stood alone, on a higher pedestal than all of them, closest to the Emperor, whom the Other was to call father, and closest to the Truth. No, Irulan was God.

God does not know how to love someone who is not his servant, because there is no one who would refuse to serve him; it is the only way. God guides, despite all one's protests. God gives, and God takes. God demands; Irulan demands—silent obedience without a need to explain or answer. That, she takes from their father. So, the Other takes a blade into her hand without compassion for her dead wishes and learns to wield it in God's name. She is the one little ones turn to when the world is too wicked for their fragile souls when the creatures under their beds lose all of their human form and turn violent. She takes their sins and bears the punishments, for they are not deserving of such cruelty. YN thinks not of her own guilt—what difference would one scourage make to one who counts in centuries? And when the sun shone, and God smiled, the Other almost forgot of the bruises she carried.

-

The first time he saw her, it was not supposed to happen at all. Feyd-Rautha just closed the door to Maester's chambers with such force that it shook against lean walls; the grumble echoed in the long corridors of Giedi Prime's fortness. The ache in his body was muted, but still present; the torn flesh inside his heart howled and clawed, slicing the ribcage in half. He would've screamed, or perhaps beat his hands bloody against the concrete until the dull pain turned into something as sharp as his knife's blade. Maybe he would've drowned himself in a small water bowl by his nightstand and done anything to escape the shame and humiliation that consumed him from within. But instead, Feyd-Rautha stood still, his jaw clenched tight and his breathing shallow. One day, it will pass. One day, he will see the world choke on its own spit.

That's when he noticed a small, shadow-like figure at the end of the hallway staring at him. A girl, not older than him, was in a dress so foreign to him that it hurt his eyes. The daughter of the Emperor, he guessed. One of many—only then would the golden stitching on her sleeve would make sense.

''What are you doing here?'' he barked, caring little for the common courtesy. Of course, she was a guest almost as prized as her father, but she was in his territory and dared to look at him for long enough without averting her eyes. Long enough to notice the bruising on his pale skin and a swelness surrounding his lips. Long enough to hear him cry.

''I was walking with my mother, but then I turned into the wrong hall,'' she shrugged. ''Will you be kind enough to show me the way out? Or should I find it myself?"

Feyd-Rautha ignored her question. What a weird creature she was—with cascades of hair and eyes that seemed to see too much. ''It is dangerous to walk these halls without guard, Princess.'' It is dangerous to be here, alone with him and the weapon strapped to his hip, but he did not add it.

''There is no use of guards if the one who wishes to kill you is their master.'' The girl took a step forward, pointing to the weapon at his side. "I am not afraid."

Feyd-Rautha laughed. It came out more as howling than human sounds, the abrupt nature of it ringing with high notes, tip-toeing down to hysterical; it sounded creaky, like his throat was not made for such sounds; yet here he was, laughing. ''Come,'' he gestured to her, his hand moving quickly, like ordering a slave around. ''I will show you why you should be.''

So, they walked. Inside the grandiose chambers and small rooms, filled with ancient artefacts or the newest technology Harkonnens came up with; inside the green lavish garden inside the dim castle and the training grounds, Feyd-Rautha showed every place that was built to display the greatness of his house and bestone fear inside both guests and people inhibiting it. He wanted to see the horror in the girl's eyes, to make her eyes water and her frame flee. Instead, he listened to her steady breathing just a step behind him, her curious questioning satisfying another need he did not know his heart possessed: reverence.

He was the youngest member of the ruling line, the smallest stone in the castle of power his uncle had built. His title meant nothing within these walls; he was too small in comparison to the Baron and his authority. Feyd-Rautha was feared, despite only being nine; he was the shadow in the corner that grew longer as the sun set, the whispered name that sent shivers down spines. But here, in the hallway he led the girl into, he turned out to be something else.

''Stunning,'' the girl whispered beside him.

Weapons. The walls, from the floor to the high ceilings, were covered in ritual and fighting blades. The pride of house Harkonnen, the tree of their dynasty, black, silver, golden, and steel knives, swords, and daggers gleamed in the dim light. Feyd-Rautha smiled, revealing a row of sharp teeth. "Welcome to our burial ground."

They stopped near every one, his voice briefly covering the story of each blade and his owner; barons that came before him; fighters and rules that defined their legacy. Some still have blood on them—the highest honour; some look almost virgin. The small signs underneath them tell the names of people who wielded these weapons, their stories forever immortalised in the cold metal. ''Each Harkonnen ruler is crafted a blade of his own, the one he is to honour in battle.''

The girl nodded, her fingers tracing the shape of the last blade carefully. Her palms danced around the sharp edge, taking in the ancient symbols she had no chance of knowing. ''Will you have to kill Baron Vladimir in order to have one, like he did with his father before?''

Feyd-Rautha paused. Of course, he has thought about it before. The idea he repeated like a mantra in his head for all of his short life, the belief that spread burning flames down his spine. The words left his mouth for the first time but felt almost natural against his cracked lips. ''I dream of the day I have the chance to.''

The pair of foreign eyes that stared back at him held a glint of intrigue that quickly changed with a flash of acknowledgement. Feyd-Rautha held the gaze; not a single thing about it was hard. Still, he was the first to turn away; the burning sensation of being  seen  made him want to tear his flesh apart. ''Let me escort you to your rooms, Princess. The walls grow colder as the evening approaches.''

-

The weather on the planet leaves too few guards out of their breath, Irulan notes. The striking sun burns through the rounded windows of man-built walls, the frankly depressing landscape of huge boxes constructed with little intent for anything else but utilitarianism. She must not fear, while those lands will also be under her power with time, but the dreadful atmosphere of the lonely planet makes her skin break out in hives.

She believes the people here are more terrifying. White, hairless creatures with eyes as dark as the sun above them speak with just nods and courseys, paying little to no attention to the world around them, save for the concrete floors.  ''Tell them to set themselves on fire, and they will,''  Irulan recalls Baron Vladimir telling her father over the banquet. She believed it to be a simple boast at first, but now, after a few days in the strange world, the words make greater sense.

Perhaps, the harsh weather made people here hardened. Perhaps, such cruelty is necessary for survival. What terrorised her more was her sister—the one who now silently reads nearby, her long dress carelessly spread on the floor. Irulan would never allow her dress to wrinkle before the concluding dinner, but she is not Irulan. Despite them being demisisters, they shared fewer similarities than one could guess. Two lambs, as many in court would call them—the white and black ones. They knew one another better than anything else; where one went, the other followed. Where Irulan failed, her sister succeeded. What was allowed for her sister, was fobility towards Irulan. No one was embedded in their small circle; no one could get close enough to understand the bond they shared—together, they were whole.

Yet as they grew older, the bond seemed to thin. The path to the mind of her sister was more often closed to her now, her thoughts veiled by the silence rooted deep into her veins. Irulan knows they are just growing up, trying to find their path in the unknown. But she is scared; what would be of her without her sister? What use would the river have without fish to fill it?

''I shall go,'' her sister says, closing the book. ''The dinner starts soon, and I wanted to return the book before it.''

''Is it the one Na-Baron recommended?'' Irulan voices. Truth be told, she would never touch anything that Baron or his family possessed, even more recommended, but her sister seemed to enjoy the ancient text.

''It is. Rather interesting are the traditions of these people. Did you know their slaves have no tongues?''

Irulan feels sick to her stomach; the thought of having slaves brings the small bits of her recent meal to her very present tongue. ''Can I come with you?'' she asks, instead of answering. Irulan does not want to leave the faint safety of her rooms, but even more, she does not want to be left alone. She feels vulnerable—she is not of power here, despite being the embodiment of it in all of the other corners of the Imperium.

''You know I walk without guards.''

Irulan knows. While she is not able as much as bathe without the presence of someone with fighting knowledge, the rules do not seem to apply to her younger sister; she can move freely, as she wishes. Was it because she carried a thin blade with her and knew how to use it, or because of the lack of care from their father? Irulan was not sure. What she was sure of, was that no woman of twelve should leave her sister alone in the halls of Harkonnens' fort.

''It is just to the reading room and back, is it not?''

''Yes,'' her sister nods.  ''I'll take you,''  it means.

So, they walk. Fortunately, the guards usually waiting outside are nowhere to be found, and they manage to slip away unnoticed. Irulan holds the hand of her sister tightly, with each noise from the outside digging her nails deeper into her soft palm. Her sister says nothing; she steps calmly into the labyrinth of corridors, navigating them without much evident trouble. Soon, they find themselves in front of a huge black door, incarnated with words Irulan hold no knowledge of.

Inside, the chamber is massive; it forms a beautiful, round circle with ceilings so high that the air in it is always chilly. Rows of books and manuscripts fill the shelves out of oxidant, contrasting starkly with the white wall. The black circle table of cold stone is filled with replicas and ancient artefacts, each emitting a soft glow.

Who knew the small, desert planet held such treasures inside? Irulan forgets about her sister entirely—the texts call to her, golden lettering shining under the light. Irulan follows the names on the covers: legends, myths, histories, and art overviews. Some even contained gardening and soil research; Baron likely held those for a good laugh.

Irulan travels deeper and deeper until the voice of her sister addressing the only library keeper almost disappears, consumed by tall bookcases. The section she finds herself in is solely dedicated to martial arts; where, if not here, would the hundreds of books on such a topic be stored? Some of them are used; the spines are slightly older; others look brand new.

Irulan is brought to her senses only when she notices a black figure moving in the corner of her vision. She puts the book back and Listens. Just like the Sisters taught her, her inner ear picks up the faint voice of her sister, and the moving of two sandaled feet—the slave handling the books. She feels something else, too. A presence familiar enough to recognise but not enough to name.

''We have to go,'' she says, grabbing her sister by the shoulder and pressing. ''We will be late,'' she explains to the slave. Not that it would question the whims of the princess.

''Why?'' her sister turns to her, confused. ''I was looking at some other books. Weren't you also?''

''Please,'' Irulan whispers. ''We spent enough time here as it is.''

Just as her sister was about to answer, the atmosphere shifted. The air, sitting in its calmness, heavied. The silent before slave turned on its feet, its eyes burning holes in Irulan's body. It lurches towards them, opening its obsidian mouth to show the blackened void inside—indeed, it possesses no tongue.

Irulan freezes. The void seems to suck her in, the sharp mouth growing wider as its owner approaches her body. The fear paralyses her, planting her otherwise quick feet deep into the ground. Now, her training as Bene Gesserit should awaken—she should oppose, or at the very least dodge, the attack. But the black mouth continues to draw her in, clouding her thoughts with terror.

The body beside her shifts; her sister is quick. With one strong thrust, she pushes Irulan aside. '' Hide ,'' the voice within her head commands, and Irulan has no force to object to the technique. She crawls under the heavy stone, frantically looking for something—anything—to protect herself with.

Despite the long skirts, her sister moves like Adam's wine; she bends and turns, and strikes the man far taller than her, but he seems determined on the idea of killing her. Her sister grunts under the heavy hits; one sits in her abdomen, and another lands on her knees. The slave's nails leave a trace on her skin, rough enough to pierce the young dermis.

Eventually, her sister grows tired; the slave pushes her to the ground, pressing his slender body on top and closing its white, almost translucent hands on her throat. Irulan clasps the found sharp cutting instrument to her chest, desperately trying to calm the wave of fear forming there.  ''I must not fear. Fear is a mind killer,''  she whispers again and again.

She watches as her sister's hand slips under her clothes and emerges an illicit, slender blade—it shines under the light just as lettering did on the books a minute ago. To Irulan, it feels like a year's hundred. ''No!'' she wants to shout as her sister raises the steel and preys it into the eye of the slave, but the words are unable to leave her throat. Like a waterfall, crimson covers her sister's face, staining her light grey dress in hot circles.

The slave falls on his back, his hands leaving their place on her sister's neck.

''Enough, please! Sister, stop!'' Irulan cries, crawling out of her hiding spot but daring not to get closer.

Her sister doesn't hear; she lurches towards the man in a slick puddle and takes his life quickly, cutting his throat in one swift motion. The blood from his arteria leaves the body in pulsations; they spatter everywhere, some drops going as far as touching the shelves.

The silence settles in the chamber once again; only the sound of weakly flowing blood disturbs the stillness. Her sister does not shed a tear; she meticulously cleans the blade with the slave's white cloth and slips it back into the folds of her gown.

''What have you done?'' Irulan whispers. Her hands tremble; the sight before her crawls into the deepest corners of her mind and tears everything there down. How can one kill so easily? How can one be so cold and calculating, as if it were nothing more than a daily chore? How could that one be her sister, the one she shared a life with?

''I protected.'' Her sister's voice is hoarse, but firm. There is no remorse in her tone, only weariness. ''What have you  done?'' She turns to face her. Her hair, carefully braided by servants for dinner, is undone; the wet strands of it grip her face like a vice, framing the unseeing eyes.

Like that, she looks like a woman mad. Irulan backs into the safety of the doors, feeling her fear turn into something much greater. ''Do not come near me,'' she commands. Just as the heavy doors close behind her, she sets off running.

-

YN waits until the footsteps of her sister are no longer heard, and only then does she come out of the reading room. She pays the body on the ground little attention; no one would bet an eye on the death of a useless creature like that. It did not intend to kill; rather, someone made it do it. Who, in their right mind, would try to harm the heir of the Emperor? How would they know that Irulan would follow her there?

Irulan. The one who watched as the Other almost gave her life for hers, the one who had the nerve to be repulsed by the blood on her hands—the blood she spilt protecting her. What do you do when you are not allowed to be angry at God? Why does God shame one for the will she herself inflicted on one to bestone? YN would ask the sun, but it hid behind the walls of the fort. She would ask, but no one would answer.

So, she does what she is meant to do—finds her way into the large dining hall, where everyone, of course, is starting to gather. The Emperor would be dissatisfied to find her not there on time; she has no time to fix her appearance. In light of the slight possibility of shaming their House with her muddled hairstyle or suffering yet another punishment for being even late, she chooses the first option.

The guards let her in without saying a word. YNr watches as the shield slides open, revealing a full hall. Rows and rows of tables, filled with foods one would imagine never would have made their way to the Giedi Prime, and laughter not so usual for a harsh realm.

''Princess...'' the servant starts, announcing her arrival, but she shushes him with a slight wave of her palm. She does not notice the crimson liquid staining it.

The Other makes her way to her seat calmly, careless of the way people around her stumble and twist their faces in shock. The only eyes that watch her without fear at the Emperor's table are those of Lady Echidna. Her face betrays no emotion at all—hidden by her veiled black cloth, it only slightly moves when the YN passes her seat.

She holds the angry gaze of the Emperor calmly. He will demand an answer, of course if Irulan has not whispered the truth into his aged ears already. Her sister probably would do no such thing; in that, she would admit to disobeying the orders bestowed upon her. YN is puzzled at the attention directed towards her humble figure—the first thing a Bene Gessarite in training learns is not to be repulsed by the anatomy of her body. Why be grossed out by the liquid coursing through her veins—the liquid she carries all her life? Why be scared of death, when it is always at your doorstep? In the sway of her thoughts, the Other also seems not to perceive the pair of icy blue eyes glued to her figure as she finds her seat and takes her place.

-

"The boy follows you around like a dog." The mother's tone stands not in judgment but rather simply states the truth.

Lady Echidna is not veiled now; her heavy hair is still tightly braided out of her face. Just a small black ribbon highlights her status as one of the Emperor's senior concubines, a position most would bear with honour. To her, it was yet another stain on her earthly body—the body she could not call her to possess. The black sun of Giedi Prime is finally long behind them; nothing but a few light orbs floating around illuminate the chamber, yet her intense gaze seems to pierce right through the girl that sits across her.

"I know, mother. His steps are heavy; his thoughts are even heavier; they follow me much more often."

The woman's fingers stop working on an intricate needlework for a moment, before continuing as it was. "You are to call me Sister, girl," she speaks, her voice low.

YN drags her teeth across her tongue, feeling the anger flow through the veins in her body. She wishes to be far away from this small chamber, to run and never face the woman's eyes again. "The girl has a name, Sister. Or do you fear to voice it?"

Lady Echidna places the cloth on the table beside her gracefully, as if paying no attention to the words spoken. But YN can sense can feel the resentment that burns inside her mother's stomach, spreading its molecules to her throat. "A name holds meaning; for a person to have a name, one must first be of character and substance. You are none."

YN bit the soft flesh inside her mouth; it tasted bitter. It was better if her mother shouted, if she hit her if she did anything to prove YN is still here in her eyes, that she was not just a void the woman spoke her riddles into. Maybe then the pain inside her would have a meaning, would have a reason better than just childish hurt. "Did I not have a beating heart when I left your womb, Sister? Did you not hear it loud and clear? What kind of proof is needed more of me?"

"My daughter died that day, screaming. You took her place. So do not bother me with your foolish talks anymore, for we both know they just waste the air we breathe. Am I heard?"

She was. The tears dried on YN's face before having the chance to spill, and she turned to her studies. Once more, a feeling of ever-lasting cold surrounded her shoulders. The never-leaving vision in her mind appeared once again—her mother's quick steps as she walked away in another corridor of Giedi Prime's fort, her head straight ahead as YN pleaded not to leave her alone, her legs glued to the command spoken. It was a blessing that the boy found her earlier than his uncle.

-

Time has passed since the first time YN's eyes saw the black sun of the foreign planet so far from hers. The Other trained, restlessly, in the tongues of ancient warriors and the most prominent whisperers, slowly earning the right to bear Knowledge in her crown-empty head. She had much yet to learn, but the prospect did not frighten her; with every passing day, she felt power building in her hands and soul. Patience, the greatest virtue of all. She was alone now, without her half of a sister; alone, in her solitude, the heavy bearings seemed not as heavy—she had no one to enlighten about her battles. Still, God was on her mind; YN felt her presence near, her watchful eyes guiding her. Like the tight, dampened cloth on her bruised knuckles, her sister was stuck to her open wound of a soul.

Irulan has grown. Her complexion changed; she no longer looked like a bright-faced girl who left her sister alone in Harkonnen's library; the plump cheeks were gone, and so was fear. At the Other stared a sole statue of power she bloomed into. Silver collars, light blue waves of fabric—the cut is, as always, straight. The Other eyed her up and down, taking in each detail of the painting-like sight. Irulan did the same—a slight disgust at the Other's simple tunic and pants, creased from the sparring. Irulan did not need to be broken in order to be a Sister in the Bene Gesserit; they wanted her Corrino first, and a servant second. The Other, however, held no such value—a child carried not by the lawful wife, a second, a spare. So, there would be no bone in her body left untouched by the lessons, no string in her soul unharmed by the knowledge. They crushed her cartilage in grey sand and forced her to swallow the bitter truths of their ways. Yet, God remains undisturbed—stoic. Eternal.

''Will you not eat again?'' Irulan musses, putting another piece of dish in her mouth.

The Other would take it as a cruel joke from anyone else, but not from God. She shakes her head instead. ''I am forbidden.''

Irulan hums. It was not the first time YN would be disciplined this way; the cycle of punishment and forgiveness was all too familiar to her. The room is silent; there is no one but the two of them. She could offer to eat, and no one would know she did, but Irulan won't offer. The Other does not expect her to; pity is not something a sister can possess.

''How are your lessons going? A fresh knowledge, perhaps?''

YN nods. If she opens her mouth now, her voice will betray her. She could cry all she wanted in the presence of a sister, but it is not appropriate for a thirteen-year-old to behave this way in front of God. The Other is reminded of that with an absence of bruises on Irulan's skin; her hands were never cut by the sharp blades, and her mouth was never starved. ''Why was I summoned from training?'' She asked, directing her eyes to the figure in front of her.

''I am here as a messenger from the Emperor.''

YN's eyes narrowed. ''And what does our dear Emperor desire to tell me now?'' She wishes not to hear anything he has to say; the Other is perfectly content here, amongst her Sisters. Here, she is of cost.

''Recently, Baron Vladimir turned to our House for guidance. He and na-Baron Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen felt misled by the House Artreidis, and their promise of a bride that did not come. Our father has graciously offered to negotiate the conflict and pay the needed price for the Baron's cooperation.''

''Of course, he did. With all of our might, we are still afraid of the savages that made Arrakis their home. With what advice, may I ask, did the Emperor provide the Baron?''

Irulan's lips turn into a straight line, with the small wrinkle on her forehead appearing. Something that she carried with her through childhood. Something that still reminded of home. ''With the proposal of a woman of our House to na-Baron Feyd-Rautha.''

''A gift? Irulan, I am so sorry.''

Sure, the bridge between them was long forgotten, growing with tall grass and wildflowers, but the weight of their shared history still lingered in the air. Irulan was still her sister, no matter how many times the Other tried to tell herself otherwise. And no woman sane would consider giving her sister to the inhumane brutes that were Harkonnens—the people even Bene Gessarit wished to observe from afar; the people so ruthless mothers told stories about them to their small offspring in an attempt to instil fear and obedience.

Irulan does not answer. She hides her gaze, her eyes following the wooden panels of the quarters.

''What is it, sister?  Speak .''

''The offer Emperor found the most fitting would be of your hand, not mine.''

The Other exhales. As if a heavy stone were put on her chest, she fights to bring much-needed oxygen to her bloodstream. She almost feels the erythrocytes scatter from her face into her neck, hidden by the cloth, and gather there in an attempt to regrow their might. Her throat twists and closes, its muscles compressing until not even an ounce of air can get in. All of her organs, from heart to stomach, made their presence known; one by one, they tensed and burned, forcing the otherwise relaxed hands to grip them.

It was supposed to be Irulan. The first one to marry is the oldest sister; the title high enough to satisfy the ambitious Harkonnes would be hers, no less. Yet, here she stands, not even looking at the one taking her place as she sentences her to an ultimate death. No matter how much power the Corrino name held, on Giedi Prime, she would consider herself fortunate enough if she were to meet her end quickly.

''Why, Irulan? Have I not been a loyal servant to you all those years? Have I not followed every order without question? ''

Irulan is unmoved in her position. ''We can not risk the Harkonnen blood getting on the throne, you know it.''

''You mean we can not risk you? We are not eight anymore, dear Irulan; you can speak truthfully now. Do you really think the Emperor will treasure you more if you say nothing now? We are no sons, Irulan; we are sisters, you and I. Please, spare me this fate.''

''Yes,'' the girl lifts her eyes, taking a step closer. ''We are no sons; you knew that one day we would marry for the peace of the Imperium. Why do you shout now?''

''Married, yes, but not murdered for the sake of the fucking old man who could not hold his promise. They are monsters, Irulan, spilling innocent blood for the fun of it. I beg of you, sister, show me the mercy I know you are capable of.''

''You are worried about blood? What could one more splash of blood mean to you? You have been no sister for a long time; I order you, as an heir of the Emperor and as the messenger of his will here, to comply. Do not make it harder than it has to be.''

The Other smiled—she would not grant the pleasure of tears. ''Very well, then. Someone needs to go first. I'll go; I'll be first, at least here. Tell the Emperor that I will comply with any of his wishes, whether it be to throw me to the sharks or to feed me to the sandworms. As a confirmation of my undying loyalty, you may show him this:''

She slaps her. She slaps her not like a warrior, not like the trained assassin she was raised to be; she slaps her like a sister, bitterly, harshly. For the first time in her short life, YN raises a hand on something she deems holy—the God's shocked face brings a sense of satisfaction to the Other's veins, even if the same blood courses through them. She turns on her heels and walks away, leaving the forsaken room behind. Leaving God behind.

[kemetic-dreams]

Once you call yourself a Negro, the scientifically written you out of existence. There is no land called Negro, no language or culture- Malcolm X

Right now, in this country, if you and I, 22 million African-Americans -- that's what we are -- Africans who are in America. You're nothing but Africans. Nothing but Africans. In fact, you'd get farther calling yourself African instead of Negro. 

Black names don't exist, black land does not exist, black language does not exist. Human skin comes from the darkest brown to the lightest hues. We are Africans. African populations have the highest levels of genetic variation among all humans.- Khepri Neteru

By the early 1900s, nigger had become a pejorative word in the United States. In its stead, the term colored became the mainstream alternative to negro and its derived terms. After the American Civil Rights Movement, the terms colored and negrogave way to "black". Negro had superseded colored as the most polite word for African Americans at a time when black was considered more offensive.[126][failed verification] This term was accepted as normal, including by people classified as Negroes, until the later Civil Rights movement in the late 1960s. One well-known example is the use by Dr. Rev. Martin Luther King Jr. of "Negro" in his famous speech of 1963, I Have a Dream. During the American civil rights movement of the 1950s and 1960s, some African-American leaders in the United States, notably Malcolm X, objected to the word Negrobecause they associated it with the long history of slavery, segregation, and discrimination that treated African Americans as second-class citizens, or worse.[127] Malcolm X preferred Black to Negro, but later gradually abandoned that as well for Afro-American after leaving the Nation of Islam.[128]

Since the late 1960s, various other terms for African Americans have been more widespread in popular usage. Aside from black American, these include Afro-American (in use from the late 1960s to 1990) and African American (used in the United States to refer to Black Americans, people often referred to in the past as American Negroes).[129]

In the first 200 years that black people were in the United States, they primarily identified themselves by their specific ethnic group (closely allied to language) and not by skin color. Individuals identified themselves, for example, as Ashanti, Igbo, Bakongo, or Wolof. However, when the first captives were brought to the Americas, they were often combined with other groups from West Africa, and individual ethnic affiliations were not generally acknowledged by English colonists. In areas of the Upper South, different ethnic groups were brought together. This is significant as the captives came from a vast geographic region: the West African coastline stretching from Senegal to Angola and in some cases from the south-east coast such as Mozambique. A new African-American identity and culture was born that incorporated elements of the various ethnic groups and of European cultural heritage, resulting in fusions such as the Black church and African-American English. This new identity was based on provenance and slave status rather than membership in any one ethnic group.

By contrast, slave records from Louisiana show that the French and Spanish colonists recorded more complete identities of the West Africans, including ethnicities and given tribal names.

The U.S. racial or ethnic classification "black" refers to people with all possible kinds of skin pigmentation, from the darkest through to the very lightest skin colors, including albinos, if they are believed by others to have African ancestry (in any discernible percentage). There are also certain cultural traits associated with being "African American", a term used effectively as a synonym for "black person" within the United States

[thechanelmuse]

Kendrick, Drake, and Ethnic/Cultural Identity

One of the most discussed topics during this exchange between the two is if Drake is a culture vulture. In short, yes. He's always been. It boils down to inherited cultural identity and respected history, not the upholding of a social construct of “race.” 

Race is a goofy non-biological caste system that operates in various countries and it’s a dumbass global push to get people to embrace a superior to inferior hierarchy in classifying the globe into 5 broad groups solely based on perceived skull sizes, hues of skin color, and perceived traits and phenotypic features via the teachings of François Bernier, Johann Blumenbach, Carl Linnaeus, and them other hoes. Get race tf outta here.

I’m gonna make this concise as possible, but fleshed out a bit for full understanding.

Kendrick Lamar is Black American on both sides with his roots most likely coming out of Mississippi and/or Alabama to Chicago to Cali by way of the Great Migration. (He may even descend from Duckworths from Louisiana). I haven’t done his genealogy, but now I may out of curiosity.

Black American is a double ethnicity. We’re citizens of America (nationality = US Citizen), and our ethnic group (Black) was created & descends from this land (ethnicity = American) through ethnogensis. It has nothing to do with one’s brown skin color or how the cops see us 🙃, but everything to do with the lineage of one’s parents and their parents, etc. (For info on lineage tracing, refer to my post here.) 

Black Americans are an ethnic group (the largest from this land and largest in this country after Germans), while “white Americans” are a self-identification race to remove ethnic identity and conflate numbers. I can break this down further in another post if y’all want since American history is complex and will explain why Black Americans have been reclassified seven times by the US government 🙃. 

Now.

Culture is largely passed down through your mother, and her mother, and her mother, and so forth for Black Americans (and I’m sure other ethnic groups). No matter if it’s a two-parent or single-parent household, she’s your ultimate teacher in setting the foundation of your cultural upbringing. It’s the same if one is raised by their grandparents. It largely stems from the grandmother. If one’s father is their main parent, that’s a different case of course. 

Drake falls in line with this as someone from a single-parent household. He is half Ashkenazi of Latvian and Russian descent (ethnicity) through his mother and of half Black American descent (ethnicity) through his father. He is a dual citizen of Canada and America (nationality), who was raised in Canada with his Ashkenazi Jewish mother and Ashkenazi relatives with an Ashkenazi upbringing. He went to a Jewish day school and was engulfed in all aspects at home. 

Kendrick is ethnically and culturally Black American. Drake is ethnically and culturally Ashkenazi. He is also ethnically Black American (through lineage), but not culturally Black American. Does that make Drake a culture vulture? No. He just didn’t have the cultural upbringing but could always immerse himself in learning, appreciating, and respecting the other half of his history and culture.

What makes him one is how he operates as an outsider. He participates in an aspect of Black American culture (Hip-Hop) for his monetary gain, adopts a manufactured image for his perception of believability, and disrespects the people of this culture. “…run to America to imitate culture.” It’s like a jacket to him. He takes it off to try on another (like a Jamaican accent) and swaps for another, etc. 

A few examples that’s been touched on: He blackened his face to depict blackface while wearing a Jim Crow t-shirt… That’s specific disrespect towards Black Americans, mocking our history and our ancestors. “Whipped and chained you like American slaves.” That’s specific disrespect towards Black Americans, mocking our history and our ancestors. “[You] always rappin' like you 'bout to get the slaves freed.” Do I even need to explain this? Hopefully it’s understood.

The muthafucka is not like us.

[sp1d3rpu7k]

What ultimately gets me every time about Star Wars(including the Star Wars Jedi Apprentice series) is how much Obi-Wan suffered throughout it all, as well as his destiny of infinite sadness. From before he had even become a man, he was fighting for the light and for good and it backfired in every instance. He worked hard as an initiate to find a master to take him on, but was ultimately unsuccessful until Bandomeer where Qui-Gon finally decided to take him. He did his best to be a good padawan and still follow the will of the force, especially once Melida/Daan happened and he chose to stay with the Young to help them fight. He still ended up leaving the order and breaking his bond with Qui-Gon to stay and help the Young. But Cerasi still ended up dead anyway and so he went back to the Jedi. We also know that Obi-Wan had a mission on Mandalore when he was still a padawan, where he was assigned to protect Duchess Satine Kryze, and where he consequently fell in love with her. Obi-Wan himself confirmed that he would have left the order(again) and chosen to stay with Satine if she had only asked him, but she never did. Obi-Wan wasn’t allowed that happiness or love. Then later Obi-Wan has to watch Satine be murdered by Maul right in front of him as he is helpless. He had to watch as Qui-Gon freed Anakin from slavery and decided to take Anakin on and thrust Obi-Wan into the knighting trials when he was clearly not ready. Obi-Wan had to watch as Qui-Gon dropped dead from Maul’s killing strike while protecting him and Anakin that same week. Obi-Wan had to promise to Qui-Gon to train Anakin, a challenge that Obi-Wan was in no way prepared or ready for as a freshly padawan-turned-knight. Obi-Wan had to suffer through slavery on Zygerria with Rex, an experience where he became severely injured and suffered immensely from both his physical injuries and the mental and emotional injuries of witnessing the other slaves hurting too. How about the Rako Hardeen mission? Obi-Wan had to do what the council(and the chancellor) asked and follow through with the mission, changing himself bodily and suffering mentally in the process. Obi-Wan was harassed over the mission and the fact that he did not inform people of the mission prior. Yet he was only doing what he had to- an undercover mission where the details HAD to be classified. How about Anakin’s betrayal? Obi-Wan had to watch as the boy he RAISED and loved like his own son or younger brother fell. Watched him turn so dark that he had to put him down. Obi-Wan had to force himself to do what needed to be done to keep Anakin from taking any further harmful and murderous actions. Obi-Wan had to deal with the fallout of his SON falling hard to the point where he slaughtered the jedi younglings in cold blood and turned away from everything Obi-Wan had taught him. Obi-Wan had to help Padme through her pregnancy and then urgently rush to find them good homes where they can be raised safely away from their father. Obi-Wan had to suffer through Order 66 and watching his men that he cared deeply for turn on him. Obi-Wan had to witness the chaos of Jedi masters and knights and padawans dropping one after the other from the betrayal of the clones(since the Jedi did not know of the inhibitor chips at the time- making it even more heartbreaking for them). Obi-Wan had to exile himself on Tatooine after everything that had gone down, withering away in both appearance and spirit. And then, he had to die, die by being killed by his own ex-padawan- his son.

[eetherealgoddess]

ꨄOur Alphaꨄ

Oneshot - Yandere Celebrity/Omegaverse Au

❦You have to survive as a maid in a celebrity omegan mansion❦

Sano Manjiro, Hanemiya Kazutora, Sanzu Haruchiyo & Haitani Brothers x Reader

Not fully proofread

MY TR FANDOM WORKS ARE ONLY ON TUMBLR, AO3, AND WATTPAD UNDER EETHEREALGODDESS! REPORT IF YOU SEE IT POSTED UNDER ANYONE ELSE BUT ME!!!

I know there are different variations of omegaverse with sub gender roles. For this specific story, female alphas are not likely to get pregnant but it’s still possible, the omega males are usually the ones to nurture the child, traditionally. Y/n will have female genitalia. Basically omega females will be impregnated, alpha females may get pregnant by alpha males as well as omega males but omega and alpha males cannot get pregnant. Omegas of both genders get heats while alphas of both genders get ruts.

In this world, omegas are at the top of the hierarchy in sociatel terms because of their divine energy. They’re the nurturers while alphas are seen as aggressive and easy to sway, only thinking with their genitals which is seen as weakness even though omegas can be manipulative and murderous. Alphas are basically used to breed. For heats, alphas can be used but if not then omegas help each other, without the markings and ruts.

Notice:

✩Y/n is 18+. I picture her as a black female but you can see her however.

✩Some parts of the story may not be realistic or factual. After all, this is a work of fiction.

✩Although it's a dark 'romance,' I do not condone any of the behavior displayed.

✩Dark content such as: gore, violence, triggering topics, graphic scenes, vulgar language, explicit sexual content, etc.

✩There may be scenes that involve non con and/ or dubcon so don’t read if that makes you uncomfortable

✩That being said, this story is for 18+ only.

Enjoy!

Our Alpha

Being an alpha in this world can be challenging. Constantly having to prove yourself no matter the circumstances in which you find yourself in. You could be murdered by an omega and still get blamed for whatever happened to you. Some omegas have even falsely accused alphas of terrible behavior, winning in the process while the alpha gets the most gruesome punishment. Alphas are almost always classified as low class citizens, getting the scraps that the omegas may or may not give.

Sure, there are successful alphas out there but only the few favored by omegas, gaining their way to the top by bargaining their own bodies. Regardless, it’s very dangerous to be an alpha involved with an omega, even if traditionally your instincts yearn for it. Tying yourself to an omega is a life sentence of becoming a slave considering once you bite them, you’re tied together by a bond for life. This is why you have made sure to steer clear of omegas of any gender, getting through your segregated schooling as well as gaining a decent job to survive.

You’ve only had romantic and platonic relationships with other alphas and betas, experiencing sex as any person would without the sub gender roles considering there were no enticing pheromones that could put you in a hypnotic trance. Omegas are naturally pretty creatures, ethereal beauties that can lure you into their traps. You despise their power. You despise your own subgender; to be so easily swayed is embarrassing.

Everything was going well until you got laid off by your job, an omegan bar replacing the building as they always do to alpha companies. It’s as if they’re trying to rid all of the alphas' abilities to live a substantial life without the help or permission of omegas. It was frustrating. You became desperate considering the lack of alpha owned businesses in your area. You had no choice but to find an omegan business that would hire you.

Unfortunately, the only job placement you’d be hired for is a maid, some kind of servant, or sex slave. So you decided to post an offer of your services, desperate for income to be able to afford your small apartment. The only response you received was to become a house maid for the sons of the omegan stars who needed a new maid. Although you’d be living in the mansion, you couldn’t pass the pay that was offered. Considering how high it was, you could live there for a few months and be able to move out on your own when you’ve made enough.

Once your bags were packed you traveled to the area in which you’d be living, passing by beautiful scenery that the alpha territories lack. Alpha areas are very dull and dim whereas the living quarters for omegans were pigmented and beautiful. Once you arrived at the mansion, you were guided by one of the beta butlers to your designated room, setting your luggage down as you were handed your uniform that consisted of black pants and a white shirt. Very plain but convenient for cleaning. Your room consists of a twin sized neatly made bed and a window, along with a desk and dresser. The room is also connected to a small bathroom.

Considering you don’t start until tomorrow, you begin to settle into your new living space, sighing once you are through. Deciding to take a shower, you set clothing to change into on your bed before heading to your shower. After you were done, you wrapped yourself in a towel before walking out of the bathroom, only to be startled by the presence in the room. You stare in shock as the blonde male eyes you as he sits on the bed in a crisscrossed position.

“U-uh can I help you?” You attempt to ask politely.

Having never been around an omega in your lifetime, you instantly could tell that an omega sits in front of you by the sweet smell radiating off of his form. A smell you’ve never had the privilege to sniff. Your body is tense, not wanting to make the wrong move as you know how unpredictable they can be. You keep your anxiety levels low considering they could smell fear a mile away. You’ve taken time to study the ‘predators’ though you’ve never seen one in person which is why you know so much.

He hops off the bed and walks toward you, staring at you with intense black eyes as he studies your form. You shift uncomfortably as you keep a hand on the towel wrapped around your figure, your skin moist from the residue water from the shower.

“You smell sweet for an alpha.” He says with his head tilted, leaning in as your eyes widen. His face stops near your neck as you hear him sniff slightly before pulling back. You wanted to reply with a smart remark but held back, not wanting to risk your life over something so petty.

“Y/n?” You nod.

“Mikey.” You already know their names, their parents are known for being famous as well as their children. You damn near grew up together through the screen, always seeing them on your timeline no matter how many times you blocked omegan accounts. There were even alpha owned accounts who were smitten over the pretty boys.

Without another word, he walks out of the bedroom, not bothering to shut the door. You huff as you shut the door and lock it, although now you know the lock doesn’t really matter. Once you were dressed you went to bed and scrolled on your phone until you fell asleep. Your alarm woke you up at five in the morning, hopping out of the bed reluctantly as you did your morning routine and put your uniform on.

The head beta maid met you at your door right before six o’ clock. You noticed that she wore an actual maid’s dress and not the cheap attire you have on, not that it bothered you. She went over the rules as well as the to do list for each day. She guided you to the cleaning supplies, showing you where to find everything as well as touring the rooms, not entering the male’s rooms considering they were still asleep.

Once she left you on your lonesome, you walked into the living space, dusting the windows and wiping them down with a cloth and cleaner. You dust wipe down the lamps and the light fixtures, moving onto the baseboards and window frames. Once you turned around to continue, you were startled once more, facing two of the males who eyed you. You eye the twins, purple orbs studying you before smirks grow on their faces. Their sweet scent meets your nostrils as you stand there.

“Looks like we got a new plaything, brother.” The shorter one states, hands in his pockets with a mischievous glint in his eyes. You tense as they walk towards you. The oldest one slightly leans over.

“Did you hear about what happened to the previous alpha who worked for us?” He questions with a sly smile. You shook your head in response, curious to know though dreading the response.

“She was such a dirty pervert, spying on us while we undressed.” They slowly circled around you like predators would their prey. Your grip tightens around the dusting brush, eyebrows furrowed as you follow them with your eyes.

“She even watched us while we were in heat. There were more problems before she finally got castrated.”

Castration happens when an alpha is accused of perverted behavior. For the male the penis will get detached as well as for the female's clitoris. It’s a horrific punishment nobody wants to go through. Although there are cases where alphas broke the law and gave into their instincts in a disturbing way, a lot of the times they get falsely accused.

“You know how alphas get when they can’t contain themselves. After all, you are one of them.” Rin says before he stops in front of you along with Ran.

“Not all alphas are the same.” You rebutled with irritation. Of course they would generalize the sub gender.

“No?” Ran chuckles, “I guess we’ll see.” He says before walking away, Rin stops by the window and rubs his hand along the glass, the sound causing you to flinch as you see the smeared handprint form.

“Missed a spot.” When they exited the room, you groaned, spitting a few curses as you got ready to re-wipe the window. You had a feeling that spoiled omegans were going to be difficult.

Hours pass and it’s time to clean their bedrooms. Apparently, they should all be out at this time, working on whatever projects or endeavors they’re famous for which is why you were surprised when you walked into the spacious bedroom, and saw piercing blue eyes narrowing at you. The sweet smell contrasted with the aura of the platinum haired male.

“Get out.”

You didn’t hesitate to comply, saving the room for later and heading to the bedroom next to it. You walk into another spacious bedroom. You could hear the shower running through the door of the bathroom. You decide to rush through the already semi cleaned room so you could get it over with considering you already had another bedroom to come back to.

Tidying the spaces that needed a touch up, you pause when you hear the click of the door opening, not noticing the shower had stopped a few minutes before.

An instant sweet aroma mixed with a fresh scent fumed into your vicinity as you turned towards the male who was holding a towel around his waist. You yelp once he removes the towel, rubbing it against his hair as you turn to grab your equipment.

“Sh-! Uh… I’m sorry!” You say as you rush to the exit, only for a hand to grab your wrist. You kept your gaze down toward the door, not wanting to catch a case.

“Hey, wait. You’re Y/n, right?” He questioned with his index finger and thumb rubbing his chin. His grip only tightened when you nodded your head, gasping as he pulled you into a moist hug. Your eyes are wide as you pause in surprise, the warmth of his body radiating off of him as well as the fumes engulfing your nostrils. His arms snaked around your waist as his face nuzzled in your neck. You ignore the feeling of his limp bulge against your covered thigh. You stare at him with disbelief once he pulls back with a closed eyed smile.

“Kazutora.” He says before he turns around, towel still in hand as he walks to his walk in closet, disappearing into the smaller room. You breathe out heavily as you run out of the room, face warm as you place your hand on your chest.

You couldn’t believe how close he got to you, naked and all. How familiar he acted even though you only just met. You rub a hand over your head as you wipe off any residue shower water, your shirt slightly stained. Once you finished the other bedrooms, you pushed your anxiety to the side to knock on the scarred man’s door. When he didn’t answer after the third knock, you entered anyway. Eager to get done with cleaning for the night so you could eat dinner.

When you saw the room was empty, you began your process, unknown to the prowling eyes on you from the cracked door of the bathroom. You could smell him but you thought it was because you were in his bedroom. You jump when you hear something break. Turning around you eyed Sanzu with confusion as he stood there with his arms crossed.

“Why did you break that?” Your eyebrows furrowed.

“You know I didn’t break that.” You say, missing the glint in his eyes towards your response.

He walks over to a pillar and pushes the vase off. You gasp as you look back at him.

“You’re not a very good maid. So clumsy.” He hissed before yelling for the head maid.

“Yes!” She says when she all but runs to the doorway.

“Look at the mess your new maid has made.” He points to the broken objects. She apologizes on behalf of you before she walks to the storage room to grab a dustpan and broom. You glare at him when he glares at you.

“Such vile creatures you alphas are.” He says before walking out of the room. The head maid runs back into the room, handing you one of the brooms and a dustpan.

“Don’t take it to heart, they taunt the new alphas everytime. You just have to be careful so you don’t end up like the last maid.” She informs you.

“Didn’t she spy on them?” You question as you sweep the mess. She shakes her head.

“Oh no. She wasn’t like that. Not at all. They… well… just be careful Y/n. Try not to gain any more attention than you already have.” You pause from her vague response.

“Can you please tell me? I need to know what to look out for.” She looks up at you before sighing.

“Alright, but you didn’t hear this from me. Apparently, much like you, an alpha was hired as a maid. Unfortunately, they didn’t seem to like her, not that many omegas like alphas initially. Instead of firing her, they made her job harder any chance they got. I guess they got bored of their game considering they set her up, resulting in castration and jail time.”

You gasp. You knew how omegas were but to be at such a risk was terrifying.

“There’s not really a way to dodge them once their minds are set but just try to stay in your lane and just get your job done.”

After dinner, you head to your room to shower and get in bed, searching for the old maid as you feed your fears. You fall into darkness, awaiting for a new day.

A couple weeks pass and time goes smoother than you thought. Besides a little teasing from the twins, you survived two weeks of living in this mansion. Nobody seemed to bother you thankfully. You continued to dodge the men as you completed your daily chores. Having succeeded for the two weeks you felt as though you finally had a little room to breathe. Although you weren’t bothered, you couldn’t help but feel eyes on you everyday. You always ignored the feeling.

The day was finished and you went to take your routined shower, basking in the warmth of the water with your eyes closed. Once you were finished, you turned the faucet off and pulled the curtain back, screaming once you pulled it to cover you once more. Your hand trembled as your eyes were wide, the intruder’s hand gripping the curtain to pull it back as you kept it in place.

“Hey, what are you so shy for?” Kazutora questions with a chuckle.

“What are you doing in my bathroom?” You exclaim, smelling the scent he’s letting off as he fills the room. You cover your nose as you gripped the curtain harder. You yelp when you see him pulling it from the other side, snatching your towel quickly as you cover yourself and hop out of the shower.

“Well, I was bored.” He shrugged as he looked you up and down. “

“C-can you get out? Now!” You growl, frustrated with the situation as you cover your nose once more.

“Why?” His smile drops. “What’s up with the tone?”

You pass him as you walk into your bedroom, turning back to face him.

“K-Kazutora, can you please leave? Just let me change real quick.”

His smile returned, “You’re kinda cute when you’re all flustered. It’s only fair I get to see you naked since you walked in on me.”

“You know that was an accident. That’s not even how it we-. Okay, just please turn around if you’re going to stay here.” You say. He sighs before placing his hands on his hips and turning in the opposite direction.

You quickly dried your body as you frantically put your pajamas on.

“Alright, I’m done.” He turns back around to face you. “Now, what can I do for you?”

Before he answers, Mikey walks into your room as Kazutora hops on your bed. The blonde follows behind.

“What the h-! What is going on? Why are you both in my room?” You had to keep your nose covered from the aroma covering your room by the two men, as if they were scenting your room.

“For you to entertain us.” You shook your head.

“I don’t know what you want me to do so there’s nothing I can do. I have to wake up early to complete my job so…” The door opens revealing another blonde who enters your room, sitting next to Mikey as he leans his head on his shoulder, another smell adding to the fumes.

Following after him were the twins who strolled into the room, one sitting at your desk while the other sat on the dresser. You cover your nose with both hands as you eye the newcomers.

“Look, I know you all probably don’t like me and want to get rid of me like you did the other maid. I can stay in my lane and we don’t even need to cross paths.”

“Are you telling us what to do?” Rin asks in an accusatory manner. Your eyes widen as the omegans glare at you.

“No! I-I’m stating my peace! I’m just trying to work.”

“Why should alphas like you get to work? You’re nothing but breeders.” Sanzu hissed as his fumes became higher. Your face becomes warm as you begin to feel light headed.

“You’re all such weak little things. Look at you.” Ran says as he gives off more of his scent. At this point you’re beginning to see stars as you try not to lose to your instincts, fighting off the rut that’s beginning to come forth.

“What’s the matter, Y/n?” Kazutora questions with a fake look of concern, fumes adding to the rest of the scents as you could barely breathe, sweat dripping down your skin.

Mikey gazes at you quietly with narrowed eyes, studying your movement as your vision becomes blurred.

“It’s only a matter of time before you pounce, so just give in.”

You immediately dash out of the room, running down the hall to the maid’s floor as you remove your hand from your mouth, stopping in front of her door to knock frantically. She opens it, gazing at you with concern. You pant heavily as your hands are on your knees.

“They scented my room. Where else can I sleep? Fortunately with her being a beta, you both switched rooms for the night. You didn’t sleep much, too caught up with your thoughts as you couldn’t believe how you almost went into a rut just by the intense scents. You looked up different rut suppressants, ordering some over the counter after a late night trip to the nearest store. Once you took it, you were finally able to fall asleep.

Few more weeks passed and it’s finally been a month since you moved in, the suppressants helping whenever they used their scents against you. No doubt it caused frustration for the men. They made more messes as well as just being plain rude. They switched the liquid of your cleaners with juice as well as causing messes where you already cleaned. They finally left you alone when they saw none of it was working.

Thinking they gave up, you continued on with your job. Dodging them every chance you got as well as getting used to their schedules so you didn’t run into them. You kept reminding yourself that the pay was worth it until it’s time to go. If only you would’ve noticed the way some of your dirty clothes would disappear or the pairs of eyes on you while you slept. You thought the little knick knacks or random clothing that showed up mysteriously in your room was from the maid, never really having that happen before. You didn’t really know why the other maids began to distance themselves, unknown to the threats that would occur whenever they would come too close.

“Y/n, I need to talk to you.” The head maid states, pulling you to the side out of the kitchen with the chefs.

“What is it?” You ask.

“Y-you need to watch your back.” Your eyebrows furrow. They’ve been leaving you alone so you have no idea what the problem is.

“I think the guys are courting you.” Your eyes widen.

You didn’t know much about courting except that it was a way for alphas to show affection to omegans. Traditionally, not the other way around though it does happen. Omegans have only been doing so to other omegans.

“What? How? Why would they do that?”

“I’ve caught them in your room while-!” Her name was called from a distance.

“I-I’ll tell you later. Just be mindful of your surroundings.” She says before walking off. Your eyebrows furrow as you follow her figure, standing in place.

The next day, her body was found on the ground next to the mansion in a bloody puddle. It was deemed a suicide considering the open window. You mourned for your one and only friend of the house, surprised when a hand was placed on your shoulder as a way to comfort you by Mikey.

One day, your suppressants went missing, causing you to not take them for a few days because you never had time considering you would immediately go to bed after you showered when the chores were finished. Considering they stopped messing with you, the need for the suppressants went out the door. You think back to what the maid was trying to tell you from time to time, not really believing that omegas could have a crush on an alpha like you. There was no reason too, especially since they’re celebrities.

You had just finished showering and getting dressed for bed before a knock on your door echoed. When you opened the door you eyed the omegan maid in confusion.

“Come with me.” She states as she walks off, you following behind.

When you stop in front of the door, she giggles.

“You’re a very lucky alpha.” She says before she opens the door and pushes you in, shutting and locking it behind you. You fall, kneeling to the ground as you look up. Your hands cover your mouth and nose as the fumes take over, the sight in front of you causing your eyes to widen.

The sweet mix of different aromas meet your nostrils as it goes straight to your clit, the intensity of the smell overwhelming you as the air is thick with omegan heat fumes. Panting men lay on a large bed in front of you as they desperately touch themselves, loads of slick everywhere as you hear moans and whimpers.

You’ve never experienced anything like this, desperately clawing at the door as you stand up on your trembling legs. You turn around, kicking the door as you struggle with opening the knob.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck! Let me out, please!” You realized you’ve been set up, now afraid of castration as you try to keep yourself under control.

“Alpha?” Your breath hitched at the soft voice. Now that you’ve been noticed, you repeatedly kick the door harder as you try to break out.

The scents thicken as you avoid turning around, too scared to eye the vulnerable men. Your head hits the door as tears fall out, sliding down on your knees as you try to keep it together. You jump when a wet hand touches your jaw, forcing you to look into dark eyes.

You tense as you smell the residue slick against your face, tightening the grip over your nose and mouth as the fumes become stronger from Mikey’s closeness. He uses his thumbs to wipe away the tears as he pants, face red with sweat wetting his hair.

“Stop crying.” You want to move his hands away from you and try to break the door down, but if you move your hands you will surely go into a rut.

You hear a moan coming from the bed, the scarred man fingering himself fast as you could hear the squelching of his wet anus.

“Touch me, Alpha!” He demands with his head fallen back. You bite your lip under your hands, pressing yourself against the door as you smell Sanzu’s fumes become stronger, an attempt at luring you in. It almost works, his voice going straight to your core causing an ache to form.

A pain forming from kneeling, you plant your bottom on the floor, preparing to cover your whole face until Mikey pushes his body in between your legs, his hands grabbing your wrists as leans over to your ear.

“I want you to mark me, alpha.”

You shift your gaze to the loud moan coming from the bed, Kazutora face down, ass up with his head looking behind toward you. His heavy lidded eyes are feral as he stares at you, fingers engulfed in his hole as he tugs his hard on, milking his cock as you watch the slick drip on the bed that you now notice has some of your clothes.

You turn your gaze to Ran who is gazing at you while sitting on the bed, rubbing his cock as he bucks his hips, panting with an aroused expression. You could smell all of them from where you sat. Rin kneels in front of you as he hugs your waist before picking you up, carrying you to the bed as you struggle against his grip, tossing you in the middle as you're surrounded by the men in heat.

You shut your eyes tightly, your hands being ripped from your nose and mouth by him.

“You’re taking too long.” He hissed before he pinned your wrists above your head.

“Stop! You don’t want this!” You yell as your shirt is torn by Sanzu, your pants being tugged down by Mikey.

“Please! I don’t want to be castrated or binded!” You exclaim, tears falling as you feel your rut being triggered by all of the overwhelming fumes.

Two palms grab your face from behind as you gaze above you with teary eyes, residue slick from his hands rubbing against your face.

“We’ll protect you, alpha.” Kazutora gives a dazed smile before his lips meet yours, your eyes wide as his neck blocks your view. The color in your eyes dim as you fight off the rut to the best of your abilities, the instincts taking over as your pupils dilate.

Once Kazutora pulls back, you gasp at the feeling of a thick girth entering your pussy. Glazed over purple eyes stare down at you while his hips pull back before shoving back into you. Ran leans over as one of his hands reaches behind your neck as his face nuzzles on the opposite side.

“I couldn’t wait, alpha. S’ fucking good.” He rutts inside of you, not bothering to go slow as you grunt and moan, eyes shutting closed tightly. His beautiful moans reach your ear as well as the other omegans who were touching themselves by the heated sight, waiting their turn. Kazutora and Rin grab your hands, circling your fingers around their cocks as they thrust desperately against your hands.

After a while, Ran pulls out of you, picking you up before you are turned over on all fours. Sanzu positioned himself under you as he forced you to drop on his cock. Ran’s wet cock easing into your ass as it stretches, the slick on him making it less painful. They both release moans as they buck their hips. You pant against Sanzu’s neck, trying not to lose it.

“Bite me. Make me yours alpha.” Sanzu says against your ear as he moves your hand to wrap it around his throat. Your fangs come out, biting your lip to prevent yourself from tying any bonds no matter how tempted you were to do it. Blood drips on his shoulder from your lip as they accelerate their speed.

Your hand grips his neck causing him to moan out your name. You curse as your body rocks in between them, both men going harder as the slick oozes out of your holes.

“God, you want it so bad Y/n. I can smell it from you.” Kazutora groans as his head falls back, his hand tugging his erection as he breathes heavily. Mikey shifts to kneeling beside your face.

“His neck is bare for you. How could you pass the opportunity for such a pretty omega?” You whimper against Sanzu’s skin, whispering, “Fuck!”

“I’ll be so good for you, alpha.”

“Please!” You beg for them to stop with their words.

“Come on, Y/n. We’re giving you permission.” Rin breathes out as he rubs his wet cock. Finally, your eyes darken, panting, you insert your fangs into Sanzu’s neck, drawing out a loud whine from him.

“Yes, alpha!”

By the end of their assault, you had ended up losing your senses to your rut, marking each of their necks as they all pounded into you. You were knocked out, lying in the bed full of nests made by your own clothes mixed in with theirs. You were scented as you breathed heavily stuck in a deep slumber. They are bound to you forever as you are to them. Your position as a maid was dropped now that you are living with them for good. Your worst nightmare came true and now you’re stuck to be the omegan’s alpha. Your own freedom has been ripped from you, though at least you weren’t castrated.

[ghouldtime]

Tomorrow. (An "Alone. Truly Alone." Drabble)

Wrote this because I was getting stumped on Chapter three. Have a little tiny Ghoap moment ;3

I love him so much look at him!! What a guy!! (Also being able to actually see him in motion has helped me so much trying to figure out how to write him)

Mwah I wanna kiss his face

CW: Mentions of blood, death and dying. Nothing too graphic but it's still very much there! It's angsty too

💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀

Tomorrow.

Oh, how he loathed that one, single, simple wretched word uttered carelessly without as so much as a second thought by so many. How he hated tomorrow. 

Tomorrow stood as an uncertain promise held aloft every evening as the sands of time trickled through their limitless hourglass, slowly emptying into the chalice that soon would turn as the earth once again shone a different face to the sun. Tomorrow wasn’t something anyone could truly count on when the tides could shift in an instance, changing everything you knew. Simon Riley knew that better than anyone.

Serving years slaving away in arid deserts and frozen tundras alike with nothing but the weighty gear on his back and a gun in his hand meant he knew better than any other that tomorrow was a measure of time, nothing more. No matter how many times tomorrow had been said, promised, spoken so truly imbued with intent already plotted on its horizon, it didn’t change fate. It didn’t change whether you were going to make it to then or not. The world didn’t care if you made it through or to tomorrow. It only made tomorrow happen.

How many tomorrows had passed since he had been trapped in this washed-out, colorless hell surrounded by walls damning him to eternal solitary confinement with no promise of escape was something he couldn’t answer.  The sun had long since ceased warming him with its golden rays in the morning and the moon had made itself scarce, never showing when it hung in the twinkling night sky. A being damned to purgatory didn’t deserve such warmth or beauty. Every wall encasing him determined such a thing would be true as long as he lived in his unliving state. Cold and unfeeling, nothing he did could change the immovable fate that shackled him down and buried him alive in the cement cage.

That didn't stop him from etching the passage of everything he loosely guessed was a day into the walls. Keeping track of something, as minute as it may be, at least kept him saner than he would be with nothing else. Carving into the walls with the few tiny metallic medical tools that had been abandoned and left to rot, the same as him, stood as the only form of retribution against his prison that he could manage.

Each nick, dig, and mark struck against it stood in a silent testament to say that he lived despite death itself having clasped its frigid, clammy hands around his neck as it choked him out until his lifeforce faded. Every insignificantly significant tiny white line marring the concrete stood in testament that even if he was trapped, the bitter taste of defeat still remained foreign on his decaying tongues. His normal body may have long been forgotten and replaced with too many twisted limbs and cerberic heads, but he was still Simon; the very same Simon that would fight with all of his too many teeth and blackened nails until his true final breath.

Though his life had been forced from his mortal shell with the reaper's digging claws until it was pulled from his body, he still somehow lived. How fitting of an "end" for someone like Simon, someone who couldn't even catch a breath when the dark angel came calling his name, only to turn him back to the world as it took a part of him with it. True peace was never fitting for him, he supposed. When all of his life was spent dedicating to fighting, it's only expected he would go toe to toe with his own mortality too.

Yet this pathetic existence hardly classified as what he could call living. He breathed, yes, air filled his lungs but it served no function. Nor did the existence of his heart or any of his organs that were little more than placeholders these days. It was a blessing to be some form of alive and to still have his brain perfectly functioning, but being trapped in this shell stood as an eternal, tormenting curse. Punishment for escaping death one too many times, endlessly taunting it as he dodged all too many bullets, is often how it seemed.

Death would've been the preferable option than staying trapped in the decaying government facility alone and the body that held him prisoner to match.

How he wished he could be permanently buried in the dirt, his eyes closed in a true state of rest. The waking world was a poor imitation of what he hoped death's true embrace would feel like as it came calling his name once more and beckoned a single, crooked skeletal finger. Thin, yellowing sheets that covered the dusty hospital beds where he lay each night offered little comfort for the constant numbness surrounding him in a static void.

Every physical sensation that brushed against his poor-excuse for flesh drowned in the barrier of his unalive state before it could reach him. Heat, cold, pain, pleasure, hunger, thirst - none of those things mattered to a being who could no longer feel in such a corporeal sense.

The same couldn't be said for his feelings. Now that the pesky things such as normal human bodily needs abandoned his form, his heart and mind made up for their absence tenfold as they held him down and forced him to feel everything and anything in between in the murkiest depths of his soul. Like a twisting, red-hot blade they relentlessly engraved their grievances on chunks of his very essence, permanently scorching his soul as they scarred far deeper than any of the hundreds of weapons that had been turned against him ever could hope to.

Despite the stillness of his heart and the absence of what used to be a steady, rhythmic beat, his heart still burned as if it were thrown into the deepest depths of hell whenever he turned his gaze and locked eyes at the tiny picture on his nightstand of him and Soap together, blacked out in tactical gear. He should've thrown an arm around him and made their last picture together more memorable - but it was too late for that. Should've was already too late. He was too late.

The extra heads forced together by sinewy webbing never were much help when it came to focusing with his already clouded vision. Straining to look as he brought the picture closer to his faces, to truly see through all of his eyes, was minor inconvenience he could bare. For it meant that his eyes were graced with three sets, three times, the visage seared into his memory of the one who took on the world for him. The same one who fought for the world, his world, and so readily gave it up for him without a second of a hesitation. He deserved that at the very least - to be seen, recognized, admired. Johnny deserved that and the world itself.

Pouring pure alcohol into his veins and setting it alight would hurt less than the pang of primal agony that rippled through him, shredding his heart and spitting its venom into his soul, whenever he set the picture down and glanced at his left size where an arm - Johnny’s arm, lay fused to his own. Taught skin webbed between it and where his own original arm stood long before he became an abomination and a product of science going too far. The strong fingers that had cradled his hand so gently throughout some nights when the other thought he was asleep, the hand that strangled, shot, and killed for him - now usually clung to the tattoos that inked up his flesh as if afraid to let it go once more even in this harrowing state.

The single limb agonizingly sacrificed to him remained the only one didn’t have perfect control over. It never fully listened, much like the man it came from. No matter the orders he barked at the sergeant, he wasn't one to heed with his head alone. Sometimes that noble, brave heart of his that let him charge up the ranks so fast took the reigns before he could do anything about it.

Stand down, Johnny.

Get out of there, MacTavish.

Don't you dare, Johnny. It's not worth it. Not for me.

....

The longer he lived with the errant limb and dealt with the non-compliance, and the usual near constant grip on his forearm, in a twisted way, he didn’t want things to change. He didn't want it to listen. That wouldn't be Johnny's arm - that wouldn't be Johnny if it did. It wouldn't be the last solid reminder he had if it complied, even if it was connected to his consciousness now.

For now, it was something he could cling onto like a starving dog lapping up scraps of meat outside the back of a butcher shop. Deep down, he knew that he was feeding the delusions as he blindly clawed for anything he could cling onto as a reminder, but bringing himself to care enough to stop wasn't an option (as unhealthy as it might be). Living with the miniscule fantasy served as a balm to his gouged soul that bled out more and more as the seasons marched on and days tumbled forward into one another. It was enough for a man like him who would scavenge for anything his many hands could get ahold of, clinging to any threads as if they could carry him out of the abyss until they inevitably crumbled to dust under the crushing weight of him.

Some nights as he lay on the creaky hospital bed staring up at the same blank ceiling that matched the same gray that covered his senses in a blinding fog, he could almost pretend that Johnny was still here, still talking to him in the thick brogue that was so distinctly him, still smelling of the scotch he loved so much tinged with gunpowder from all the explosives he had set up.

If he closed all six of his milky eyes, the phantom sensation of Johnny's warm form beside him as he imagined him close once more nearly caused him to feel something along his sensationless form. Those deft fingers that worked along intricate wires of dangerous weapons never followed the same pattern twice as he traced his tattoos in the same routine he had many nights before as they lay near one another underneath a flimsy tarp deep in enemy territory, the uncertainty of their own mortal lives continuing for another sunrise strung along the stressful line of their work.

And sometimes if he truly shut off his brain, his mind could truly run wild as it conjured up the words he’d heard so many times before. The same point of contention uttered once more that Johnny always circled back to as he marveled the black lines marbling Simon's skin, “You really should let me color ‘em, LT.” He’d breathe, voice so quiet it could be lost on a breeze as he stared at them with the softest look he had seen on the sergeant’s face, a quiet contemplation written in the furrow of his brows.

If confronted, he knew it would be played off as a joke and nothing more. But the way the roughened pads of his fingers traced the whorls permanently etched into his skin spoke otherwise, echoing words and feelings that ran deep that neither dared to voice. Every moment he lay there alone in his new "life", regret sank its fangs into the vulnerable underbelly of his heart, the heavy feeling settling like molten lead in his stomach as he berated himself for not touching him back, even if it was a tentative hand smoothing a thumb over the back of his.

No matter how many nights and countless times Johnny fell into the routine of tracing his tattoos, Simon's dark gaze would fall right back over the other to trace the tired lines on the other's face and the stubble of his jaw with his eyes. His fingers always twitched restlessly as they lay folded on his chest, aching to feel something aside from the fabric underneath. Yet the ugly, grating voice of doubt pestered him until he hesitated, never letting him the courage to reach up and caress him, even for a second.

His turmoil was obvious to anyone who knew him like Johnny did. The tension in his body, the near constant movement of his fingers, the unblinking look in his eyes as he couldn't help but to stare. But Johnny was smart, significantly smarter than many gave him credit for. He knew better than to point it out with his voice alone but the small upward twitch of his lips spoke a thousand words as he shifted closer, closer.

“Add a little more color to your life. Things can’t always be black and white.” Johnny always insisted as he leaned further in, the weight of his body sinking in, nurturing the warmth blooming in his chest.

Breathing had never been harder as those blue eyes peered up at him through dark lashes. All air left his lungs in a flash, his heart halting as he stared into those eyes, helplessly held captive by those beautiful blues that would put the finest aquamarine gems to shame.

How he wished he listened.

What he wouldn't give to go back to that moment, if only for a fraction of a second, to get lost in those expressive pools of his newfound favorite color.

No amount of time nor disease would pry that memory from him as he lingered in the stagnant, abandoned base. The warmth he felt that night bloomed within his chest even now, even when hindered and reduced to nothing more than a faint fuzzy feeling tickling his chest.

Not even the fusion of the two heads on the side of his could even hope to gnaw it away with their own plaguing whispers and intrusive thoughts that bit through his skull as they tried to worm their way into his brain like the parasites that they were. But he wouldn’t let them. Nothing could.

No, nothing could make him forget Johnny. Not even the end of his world as he knew it. Death may have taken him temporarily into his clutches, dangling him between the precipice of life, but that wasn't enough. Because his world didn't end when he died, no. That was insignificant. His world ended not when he rasped his last breath, endless rivers of crimson spilling onto the operating table. It ended when he used the last of his energy to tilt his head to take one last look at Johnny, knowing that he would never see him again.

...

Endless amounts of tomorrows could add up in the gouges of more tally marks and scores into the wall, covering every nano angstrom of the base and he still would loathe them with all the contempt his heart could well up until it sat in a venomous soaked vat of his festering rage.

He hated tomorrows because each mark was another reminder of the tomorrow that wasn't to come, the tomorrow swiped from underneath his feet by fate's cruel hand, the tomorrow he promised, the tomorrow that would never be - the tomorrow with Johnny.

[nerdygaymormon]

Unfortunately, we have a tendency to look for differences and to classify people in categories, we determine who isn't worthy to participate in church or to receive God's blessings. This is the opposite of what we're called to do.

————————————————————

"For the Lord seeth not as man seeth; for man looketh on the outward appearance, but the Lord looketh on the heart."--Samuel (1 Samuel 16:7 KJV)

"Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these."--Christ (Matthew 19:14 NIV)

"Thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself."--Christ (Matthew 22:39 KJV)

"Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me."--Christ (Matthew 25:40 KJV)

"By this shall all men know that ye are my disciples, if ye have love one to another."--Christ (John 13:35 KJV)

"Love does no wrong to others"--Paul (Romans 13:10 New Living Translation)

"There is neither Jew nor Gentile, neither slave nor free, nor is there male and female, for you are all one in Christ Jesus."--Paul (Galatians 3:28 NIV)

"he denieth none that come unto him, black and white, bond and free, male and female; and he remembereth the heathen; and all are alike unto God, both Jew and Gentile"--Nephi (2 Nephi 26:33)

"We believe in being honest, true, chaste, benevolent, virtuous, and in doing good to all men;"--Joseph Smith (Articles of Faith 13)

[defire]

Masterpost

Very active whump blog containing mature themes. I would classify whump as a subgenre of horror/thriller, involving an intense focus on the torment of one's favorite protagonists and the process of moving past one's trauma.

Favorite whump tropes!

Defiant/stoic whumpee

Living weapon!

Child abuse whump and minor and young adult whumpees

Gang whump/multiple whumpers

Captivity/pet/slave/conditioning

Punishment/humiliation

Beating/whipping

Restraints and threats

Rape, noncon, nudity

All the little fucking details (the tiny touches, closing eyes, swallowing, the ANGST)

Humor

Realistic caretaking with friction and PTSD

Dance of Death <fantasy riches-to-rags book>

When a young noble finds out that her friends are being legally abused, she sees no choice but to take a political stand against it, using humorous comments that cleverly discredit her opposition. But she has no idea how far her enemies will go to crush her spirit.

Masterpost ao3 (nsfw version) Amazon (nsfw version)

Back to the Dregs <Used-as-bait novella>

A young detective thought he'd left his problems in his past, but when he's kidnapped as bait for his gangster brother, he has to find a way to escape. Before they figure out his brother hates him.

Masterpost ao3 Amazon

The Ghost of Seattle <Living Weapon Book>

In post-apocalyptic Seattle, a boy becomes a living weapon for his abusive father. When he takes his life into his own hands and joins another gang, he believes he's now fighting for people that won't use him. But he is wrong.

Details Amazon Ghost's theme song

Information on The Kill-Touch (coming soon)

My music (it's not whumpy it's just kind of autistic)

My favorite Tumblr whump stories (post)

[incredibly-delirious-biznasty]

So now that I have an opportunity to scream about Kendrick Lamar’s Genius on Tumblr

Help yourself to this analytical essay I wrote in 2016 examining “To Pimp a Butterfly” and dissecting the stance that Kendrick is, by definition, a conscious rapper.

Shoutout to Drew Lindsay, the professor whose class I wrote this for. Also, please engage in lyrical analysis and music theory with me 🥺

Throughout his album To Pimp a Butterfly (TPaB), Kendrick Lamar is grappling with big issues of race and resentment. There are many layers to each song on the album and like any modern masterpiece, the true meaning lies below the surface and must be teased out. Many songs on TPaB come across as strictly fighting racism and helping along a powerful message in support of his roots. When digging deeper, we find that even the most overt black support anthems on the album have an argumentative element which questions Lamar’s roots and his thoughts on perceived racism. The conflict evident throughout the album is the incarnation of Kendrick’s personal struggle and reflects the conflict within the black community. TPaB’s message is not overtly positive or uplifting and is highly conflicted and therefore can not be classified as realist or conscious. At it’s core, To Pimp a Butterfly is not a conscious manifesto, telling the viewer exactly what to think, but a conversation about current racial issues that is not firmly positive or negative.

! “King Kunta” is the only track on the album that has a seemingly triumphant message all the way through; however this message takes on a sad note when put in the context of the rest of the album. When taken out of context, “King Kunta” comes across as a celebratory anthem, not only for Kendrick himself but for his homies and his people as well. The Lyrics, “Black man taking no losses” extends from his personal success to the triumph of a black art becoming the most popular music form in the mainstream. Even the title references the prolific slave “Kunta Kintae” who’s leg was

hacked for his “slights” against his white captors. Like a conscious track, it seems to have a clear surface meaning. However, as it happens over and over across the album, the traditional wholesome respectful themes of conscious rap are largely disregarded. The beat and production on this track are some of the most radio friendly and “trendy” on the album and the the first track to carry a piece of Kendrick’s Poem at the end. This seems to give “King Kunta” the high note before the gut punch of meaning. The message of “King Kunta” is predominantly “We made it guys,” but as the album progresses, we are made to beg the question “Made it where?”. As the next track on the record starts to deal with Kendrick’s old neighborhood and the clear negative points of contention start to reveal themselves, “King Kunta” becomes bleaker and more hollow in hindsight as the record progresses.

! “Institutionalized” compares Kendrick’s Compton neighborhood to a prison and starts to unpack conflicting feelings about the draw to his personal roots, and all the negatives that come with. As the preceding snippet of The Poem states “At fist you was conflicted,” it only makes sense that this theme rings throughout this song in many ways. There are many layers of conflict as well as many layers of persona in this track that should all be taken into account. Kendrick himself is “trapped in the ghetto” in more ways than one as he struggles to make a name for himself in the industry. Kendrick misses his home, but feels he can no longer relate to his old station after finding success; and yet he can never shake his ghetto roots and the baggage that comes with. There seem to be no positives left about Kendrick’s home and this displacement is furthered after he takes his homies to an award show and their first instinct is to steal from the celebrities around them. He so desperately wants to have a safe place in his

home when faced with the chaos and pressure of the music industry, but finds his home is now just as confining as the industry. As with most of the tracks on this record, Kendrick also acts as a surrogate for members of the black community to reflect common issues. The BET situation can easily be applied to any black kid who comes out of the ghetto and attempts to make something of themselves. The neighborhood and the attached stigmas follow any possible success and no matter how successful any one of these people gets, the inherent shame and conflict of their less successful or motivated peers and life station will always weigh on their minds. Throughout a predominantly conflicted and negative track, the chorus gives a single ray of hope through the mantra of “Shit don’t change unless you get up and wash your ass”.

! “Alright” uses a black stereotype to grapple with his personal struggle through life and compares it to the struggle of the black community as a whole. When we reach this track, the Poetic additions have reached “the evils of Lucy was all around me” and on the preceding track of “U” Kendrick and the album had hit their lowest point. As the track starts, a slew of new conflicts hits the table. Kendrick is facing his vices and the path he is headed down due to his fame and the influence of the music industry; comparing the game to “Lucy,” an incarnation of the devil in the form of a crafty woman. Again, he doubles as surrogate for the black community and the communal struggle, but fans out this connection to God. The “lawd lovin darkie” is a stereotype that Kendrick is playing on as a positive and embracing despite the pull against such topics in the mainstream rap industry. The voice of the track feels vastly positive; the bounce after the rock- bottom of “U”. However, “Alright” is nothing if not weighed down with struggle and sadness. The conflict of depression and hope clashes with every run of the chorus.

Lucy’s echo of Uncle Sam on “Wesley’s Theory” is a direct comparison of The Music Industry to Satan, a notion that Craig points out has been “a prominent, reoccurring theme [in music] for the past 30 years.”(Vigilant Citizen, 4). The bars have the same rhythm, but manage to hold their identity despite the change from 112 beats per minute(bpm) on “Wesley’s Theory” to the 56bpm of “Alright”. For a composition standpoint this is so impressive and Connor’s description of “...genius level record management in the tradition of Dr Dre”(Connor, 2) is not an exaggeration. The bpm change reflects Kendrick’s state in each song. “Wesley’s Theory” begins the album with a whirlwind ride to money and success with a fast beat and and a blasé attitude. By the echo, Kendrick has hit bottom and his life is crawling through the mud at a snails pace, prolonging his inner conflict and misery. “Alright” has the blurriest line between Kendrick as himself and Kendrick as the silhouette stand in for his people. Although the hook is positive and uplifting, the lyrics have weight and imply that Kendrick’s problems are also the problems of black individuals and the black community as a whole. The hook tells us that “We gon‘ be alright,” yet he describes his hope and his faith failing in times of deepest struggle, leaving the listener feeling (what a shock) conflicted.

! “The Blacker the Berry” is the summation of Kendrick’s struggle throughout the rest of the record; pitting racism against the existing problems perpetuated in the black community, resulting in an inconclusive conversation. This track is easily the most mind- bending and certainly the hard-hitting thesis of the record. Kendrick begins by claiming to be the “biggest hypocrite of 2015” in a mantra that gains weight as the song progresses. With the first verse confronting the white population and police brutality shattering the black community, the weight of the line “You made me a killer,” seems

obvious and, although striking, not extremely unique. As the track progresses, Kendrick accuses The Music Industry of making him a killer. Finally, Kendrick aims his accusations at his black brothers; gangbangers and thieves. If that wasn’t enough, the tracks introduction states “sometimes I get off watchin' you die in vain,” referring to his people. Although this could be the product of internalized racism, or Kendrick’s roots in the Blood/Crip war, nonetheless, it’s taking a stance that is not seen in conscious rap. Kendrick is facing that there is not one reason for violence or racism and therefore the problem can’t be fixed in any simple manner; certainly not one he holds the answer to. So who really made Kendrick a killer? Who made killers of any black man? As a representation, summation, and thesis of the rest of the album, Kendrick is having a conversation about where violence starts and presenting many possible options. They all repeat the same mantras, making them all equal and not singling any one out as more or less valid. In the end there is no clear resolution; just the statement of a problem and an intellectual presentation of thought. “The Blacker the Berry” states that many people and many groups are responsible for the perpetuation of racism, violence, and stereotypes, without attempting to “fix” the situation or even place blame as conscious rap is wont to do. When all of these things are called out, it is no longer about pointing a finger and starting a lynch mob. It becomes a critical reflection and the seed of a conversation. The running theme of the album persists as Kendrick becomes the echo of the black community and his inner conflicts become the conflicts within his community.

! As the album closes, Kendrick’s personal struggle is completely conveyed in a masterful comparison of himself to Tupac Shakur. His journey is not tied up in a neat

bow and the entirety of the album is left open-ended. We are not told explicitly “Kendrick will/will not meet the same end as Tupac,” but left to ponder and discuss. In the same way, we follow Kendrick’s reflection of the black community to its close without resolution. Many believe that “Underneath the tragedy and adversity, To Pimp a Butterfly is a celebration of the audacity to wake up each morning to try to be better, knowing it could all end in a second, for no reason at all,”(Jenkins, 3) and although that is a fair assessment of the album; trying to wrap up a record as complex and nuanced as To Pimp a Butterfly in a neat bow of optimism like that doesn’t do it any justice. TPaB would be nothing without its unending conflict and roller coaster of ups and downs. This blend of conflict and pain is our heart line direct to Kendrick’s soul as his confessional develops and our uniting point as a community under the problems he presents. As The World’s Busiest Music Nerd stated, “[Kendrick’s] not telling us what to think... [he’s] contradicting himself”(Fantano, 11:08). This inability to take a stand (among other explicit sexual and violent gangster themes) is ultimately what disqualifies To Pimp a Butterfly from the conscious spectrum. If the album was anything but what it is, we as the listener would not be able to discuss how we address the problems presented. The album would lose all intrigue and conversation if we were left with a solid resolution. To Pimp a Butterfly is a 78 minute conversation, to create a century’s conversation.

Sources Sited

Theneedledrop, and Anthony Fantano. "Kendrick Lamar - To Pimp A Butterfly ALBUM REVIEW." YouTube. YouTube, 18 Mar. 2015. Web. 14 Apr. 2016.

An in-depth analysis of the formal elements of “To Pimp a Butterfly”. A moment I found really compelling was just around 11:18 when Fantano talks about the conflicted nature of the album. Alludes to Kendrick making a conscious album, but pays very close attention to the music beneath the flows and how it compels the message. The rare 10/10.

Connor, Martin. "Kendrick Lamar: Rap Music Analysis." The Composer's Corner. Blogspot, 24 July 2015. Web. 14 Apr. 2016.

Connor analyzes Lamar’s production unity despite multiple producers. He hails this foresight into record management as genius level: on par with Dr Dre’s production insight and Jay-Z’s ear for album unity. Connor goes on to compare the seeding of musical ideas across tracks to classical compositions. He uses the example of an echoing verse with identical musical rhythms; despite the bpm change across tracks (56bpm on “Alright” and 112bpm on “Wesley’s Theory”

Jenkins, Craig. "To Pimp a Butterfly." Kendrick Lamar: Album Review. Pitchfork Publications, 19 Mar. 2015. Web. 21 Apr. 2016.

“Underneath the tragedy and adversity, To Pimp a Butterfly is a celebration of the audacity to wake up each morning to try to be better, knowing it could all end in a second, for no reason at all.”

Business, Music. "Kendrick's Deeper Story." Vigilant Citizen. The Vigilant Citizen, 27 Nov. 2015. Web

[jojoma]

When I think about Karlach's decade in Avernus I wonder what position a tiefling might take in the hell. Tieflings are not adapted for life in nine hells, so there should not be many of them. We know that Karlach was used in the Blood war as a Zariel's chain dog. Dammon also mentions that not everyone was as lucky as he was after the fall of Elturel. Then are tieflings classified as low hellish creatures and are they used as slaves? Also from some resources, I realized that tiefling could become one parent of cambion (in this case tieflings are more related to the human race), and the second parent is the devil or the powerful tanar'ri. This information makes me to think that tieflings may have been used as sex slaves or to bear powerful spawns (ofc I could be wrong).

Anyway, this leads me to the point that Karlach ended up in an environment that was cruel to her, where she had a low position by default. Perhaps if she hadn't become a Zariel's slave, she wouldn't have lived in Avernus for so long (not to mention that she wouldn't have gotten there at all). Perhaps the marks on her body protected Karlach as the property of the archdevil. Or, despite this, did she have to constantly fight off those who wanted to devour or rape her?

[shikai-the-storyteller]

For everyone asking "What do you MEAN Cucurucho might've been reset / replaced / had his memory erased?!?!" we actually have strong evidence that this has happened at least once.

Roier had a very close playful relationship with Cucurucho in the beginning of the series. However, on Day 4, Roier and Cucurucho have a fight and Roier (half-jokingly) says “You know what Osito Bimbo, you know what? I’m tired of you treating me badly. You and I are no longer friends,” and dramatically logs out.

This is the last time we see "our" Cucurucho.

On Day 5, Cucurucho left Roier this message:

Translation: 0037 [Roier's ticket #] Through this I want to express my most sincere apologies for treating you as a slave. We are sorry for any discomfort I may have caused you. We hope you continue to enjoy the island at its best. You won’t see me, but I will see you. Best regards, Federal QSMP Commission

There are a few things weird about this message, namely the fact that it's signed by the Federal QSMP Commission. (It's worth noting that upon seeing this message, Roier says “No! No!!! I want to keep seeing you Osito!” and responds to that message with "Hello my dear Osito Bimbo :) I like you, please keep showing up. And that’s all, uwu."

Day 10:

Cucurucho comes back, but he isn't the same. Cucurucho keeps his distance from Roier, refusing to answer his questions or acknowledge why he hasn't been visiting like usual.

Roier: Do you not like me anymore?

Cucurucho: …

Roier: Do you not like me anymore? I thought we… I thought we were buddies.

Cucurucho: Maybe. I don’t know.

[ A short time later, Roier sings and does a little dance for Cucurucho that he's done before ]

Roier: – And that’s how it went. Huh? Don’t you remember? How come you don’t remember? Those were good times, when we spent time together! How come you don’t remember? Remember!!!!

Cucurucho: I don’t know. (It repeats this several times)

Roier begs him not to leave again, refusing to abandon him even when Cucurucho fires several warning shots. Eventually Cucurucho runs off where Roier can't follow.

Day 32:

Roier encounters Cucurucho, and yet again asks Cucurucho why he stopped visiting. [Timestamp: 2h 41m]

Roier: Where were you all that time? Why did you stop talking to me? Why did you leave my life?

Cucurucho: Classified.

Roier: Cucurucho, Cucurucho, Osito Bimbo, why did you stop talking to me? [...] Did you leave because you had to, or did you leave because they made you? What happened?

Cucurucho: …

Roier: I already know what happened, I know what happened. It was Mariana, Mariana bothered you and told you, “YOU LIKE ROIER, you like him, you like Roier!” Right? Was that it?

Cucurucho: [ Turns away and hangs its head ]

When Cucurucho starts to leave at the arrival of Bad and Dapper, Roier says: "If you want to leave, you can leave if you don’t love me anymore, it’s ok."

But Cucurucho stays (that is, until Bad starts being a "nosy gossip" and tries to get too close to see what's happening).

Day 34:

Roier has a private conversation with Bobby sharing his thoughts on the sudden change he's seen in Cucurucho. [Timestamp: 3h 57m 45s]

"I think Cucurucho is sad. It’s just that, I remember I used to hang out with him a lot when I first came to this Island. I hung out with him a lot. He always came to see me and help me. But from one moment to the next, I realize that he had changed. He stopped being so kind to me."

A lot of people theorize that the inhabitants of the Island have missing memories because of the Federation (which has been more or less confirmed since so many of them can't remember things that happened before coming to Quesadilla Island), and with this information, I think it's safe to say that they aren't the only ones whose minds have been messed with.

So the question is: is this really our Cucurucho, or has he been replaced? Or has he merely had his memory wiped over and over again? And if his memory  was wiped: why? Is it because he upset an Islander, or is it because he's becoming too fond of Roier, and the Federation is worried that might affect Cucurucho’s ability to do his job?

If you're interested in learning more about the strange interactions Roier has had with Cucurucho, look here! I've compiled all of them since Day 1.

[padawansuggest]

I just think it would be funny if both Ben and Yoda came back in time to Obi-Wan’s pre-apprentice years and Yoda is all ‘fuck Qui-Gon I’ve got a Sith to murder’ and takes the kid for his own Padawan so they can plan and argue all day long and now Obi-Wan is sitting in on classified meetings and Mace is all ‘??????’ Cause he can’t convince Yoda to stop bringing him OR Obi-Wan to leave and the entire order is being relegated to the LOUDEST buzzing from their constant telepathic arguments and how to go about things but instead of it relieving them that Obi-Wan is giving back as much as he’s given, everyone is panicking every time Obi-Wan disappears from temple only to show up with new kids or slaves or Mandalorians and Yoda is all ‘ugh, we get it, you have a Mandalorian fetish, stop being weird’ and even ended up getting adopted by Mand’alor Mereel along with Obi-Wan when Obi-Wan told Mereel it would be funny and he’s basically a super old toddler and throws tantrums a lot and Jaster is all ‘free ade???? For me????????’ And Yoda is trying to kill a Sith (Palpatine has gone into hiding cause the force is telling him to run for his fucking life rn) and Obi-Wan is all ‘what if I saved Mandalore and also killed all the Hutts who deal in slavery and instated a no-slavery policy everywhere and also slowly tortured slavers to death???? I just think that would be cute’ and keeps bringing him people (like a 6 month pregnant Shmi lmao) to the temple and telling Yoda he’s got a new kid, deal with it.

[grecoromanyaoi]

omg I thought you knew this already but basically the polish soldiers napoleon sent to suppress the haitian revolution ended up siding with the rebelling slaves instead, so they became the only white people welcome there and the government officially classified them as noir (black)

HUH. interesting.

[chuckeroo777]

Dungeon Meshi Volume 8 Part 3

Welcome back! Let's finish up volume 8. We got some real juicy content, so let's get started.

Yes, I am using this in every post from now on. Why wouldn't I? It's perfect.

I mean, you saw his tall-man form. Was that the face of a happily married man? Yes.

So much to talk about here. First, who is the person at the top? Dandan is the only former party member not shown, but he seemed to be positively inclined to Laios.

Second, does the quaver indicate an active relationship? Honestly, it does not feel out of character for Laios to think he and Shuro have something deep. Shame it never goes well in any universe.

Also, I wonder how Chilchuck would classify his relationships if he included them here.

What's the story there? I'd guess the parents set up an arranged marriage or something, but you both left when you were pretty young. Please don't tell me Asivia actually managed to trick you into something.

There is so much to glean from this title page, but this bit intrigues me. Where is the royal grave? They aren't talking about the graveyard with the dryads, are they? Surely the graveyard in the castle town is for nobility, and the royalty interred somewhere within the castle? Granted, I don't know much about graveyards. Is this supposed to foreshadow post-canon events? Or is this just a joke about Senshi giving him the ol' birds and bees.

Also, Chilchuck's strongest relationship is with Laios, and I find that heartwarming.

:( She isn't lying. She has eaten rats. Back when she was a slave, she would eat anything she could catch.

Well, I think you're a good boy Laios.

See what I mean about them having a respectful relationship? As soon as Chilchuck expresses he isn't comfortable, Laios jumps in to do it instead.

Gluttons and Dragons!

If you were curious why Chilshi is so popular, here you go. The one piece of canon evidence.

Haha, get it? Cause she's gay? Bisexual actually, but that still falls under pride.

We went with Infidelity for the seventh sin, cause we really didn't want to watch Laios lust over the bicorn. Also, looks like someone else needs a lesson on stamens and pistols.

If good and evil are defined dubiously, then how the hell is that defined?

When your friend is being vague, so you out all of their secrets through the medium of interpretive self-insert fanfiction where you roleplay as their estranged wife.

Ha-HA! You fools thought he was a deadbeat dad, but all this stuff went down AFTER they left the nest! Also, oddly enough, the anime changed his confession in the griffon episode to say 'kids', so this joke won't hit as hard.

Plus, they're extremely merchandisable.

Laios may be a troll, but Chilchuck is the one trolling him.

Oh hey, here they are. I guess their first appearance isn't them dead in a nightmare. That's nice.

And that's it for volume 8! Join me next time as we look at Volume 9, which oddly is the only volume with six chapters, but they are some of my favorites, so oh boy!