With that out of the way, I'm CC. Nice to meet ya. Maybe you recognize this blog from my cringey senior year fanfic days (not to say fanfics are cringe; I very much still read other's fanfics, the writing I had was just awful), maybe you're new. Who knows? It's the internet.
Currently a freelance graphic artist, and RP hobbyist.
Anyways, this blog will be mostly for reblogging fanworks that I enjoy and maybe some other random things. I'm just warning now that it's a hot mess but I try my best to categorize with my tags.
It's opening day at Eden Manor.
On the wind-scoured cliffs of Rathlin, where the Atlantic gnaws at limestone and black rock, and the lighthouse keeps its solitary vigil, there stands a manor seldom marked upon any map. The clouded sun gleams in the pristine windows, watchful as the seagulls that wheel above. Those who dwell in the nearby village seem to harbour no knowledge of its existence, for the house is dripping in deterrent charms.
Within its paneled halls, beneath chandeliers that burn with a persistent, amber glow, a more clandestine commerce thrives. Eden, it is called in certain whispered circles of Pureblood society. Admission is granted by blood and discretion. Behind lightweight curtains and locked doors, Muggle-born and Half-blood witches are offered as desirable indulgences, their presence both coveted and condemned by the very clientele who seek them.
Yet pleasure is only the manor’s most visible vice. In a shadowed space far from prying eyes, alliances are forged and sealed. Muggle servants move like hunted prey animals, aware that missteps are punished without mercy. The current architect of this dominion is Viola Gaunt, formidable and unflinching, her diminishing ambition as cold as the sea spray against the cliffs.
Under her gaze, the young Riddle brothers are groomed as heirs to Eden’s empire. Their blood is contested, and their loyalty assured. On Rathlin’s edge, where the lighthouse beam cuts through endless night and cloud, a dynasty prepares to rise to new heights.
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Christmas came under lights too clean to be trusted. Neon bled into sweat, bass rattled bone, and bodies pressed close enough to forget names. He danced because standing still invited thinking. Hands slid over his shoulders, down his back, familiar as muscle memory. Fake snow hissed out of vents and died before it hit the floor. Later, the night folded into heat and perfume and limbs that didn’t ask questions. He slept because it was offered. Woke alone. That felt right.
By the time the noise faded, wood and dust took its place. The bar was scarred, the mirror worse. His palms ached from a day of wrestling stubborn ground, coaxing death out of dirt that had no care. A paper wreath sagged over the bar, cuttings shedding onto the counter. He drank slowly, letting the liquor settle like a stone. Outside, the field slept under frost. Inside, men laughed too loudly. Christmas didn’t dress itself up here. It just showed up and waited to be endured.
Smoke hung thick enough to chew. Cards snapped down, money followed. The room glittered — cheap jewelry, sharp smiles, dresses cut to invite trouble. Luck leaned his way, and he didn’t push it off. Each win earned him cheers, weight on his knee, fingers tracing his jaw like he was something gold. A horn mangled a carol in the corner. He laughed and spent the night hard, because tomorrow could take care of itself. Christmas was just another excuse to feel full.
Then there was ash. Quiet. Gray drifting down like snow that forgot how to be kind. He stood in a field burned past use, a bottle loose in his hand. The world smelled empty. A weight touched his shoulders, steady and familiar. He didn’t turn at first. When he did, there was no one. Just ash and silence. James took another swig and let Christmas go.
Summary: Josephine Evans, a fragile young university student, is slowly drawn into the disarming world of Silas Farraday — an artist who tempts her toward exposure, surrender, and forbidden understanding under the guise of philosophical discovery.
Word Count: 5.1k
TRIGGER WARNINGS: Manipulation, Marquis de Sade (I do not condone a number of his teachings), sexual philosophy
SETTING: University College London in the 2000s.
Author's Note: Yes, I said I'd only post the smut. But I figured, why not post it all with this one since I already put in all the work for everything? To note, a huge difference is that I did not write any of the exchanges these two had. It was a quick he let her borrow the book, then fast-forward to the end where the smut then started (it was originally only 1.2k words, if you can believe that). The slow corruption of Josephine was hardly shown, and with this, I am more satisfied in showing that progression.
Josephine remembered the music by its vibrations — heavy bass thundering through the cavity of her chest like a relentless assault on a fortified door. The whirling lights swept around her, bleeding through her closed eyelids into a kaleidoscope of blurred colors until all she could do was breathe slowly and count her breaths, each exhale a plea for calm. Her flatmate had promised an intimate gathering, a handful of scholars sipping wine and engaging in lofty debates about Nietzsche. Yet, the stairwell pulsed with an overwhelming throng, bodies colliding in a chaotic dance of intoxication. Laughter erupted in warped cadences, reverberating off the walls.
She clung to the oak railing, her fingertips paling against the smooth, varnished wood, and descended out of instinct. Each footfall tremored through her body, rattling her bones. The scent of smoke, spirits, and sweat mingled in the air, too much for her senses to bear. The hall beyond glowed with a sultry crimson luminance. The air thickened like molasses, smothering her, and her chest constricted. Her pace faltered, then broke into an urgent sprint.
Panic sharpened her steps into frantic scrapes against the hardwood floor. Her nails skimmed peeling paint, splintered edges biting beneath them. She stumbled upon the first door and slipped inside, closing it with a trembling hand as though something — or someone — pursued her. Only then did she inhale.
Silence.
Not the silence of emptiness, but one resonating with reverence.
She opened her eyes to a muted world, cloaked in deep shadows. A study. Leather-bound volumes lined the shelves in meticulous order. A desk sprawled with parchment, ink uncapped and pooling. An inviting armchair sat beside a low fire, ember-lit and flickering, casting gentle shadows across the room.
Josephine traced the spines of books with her bare fingertips, reading texture where titles eluded her. Some were cracked with age, others smoothed by countless hands. One felt entirely different. Sleek. Cold. Impeccably painted. Her fingers lingered, drawn to it, before she dared to look.
Charcoal black. Silver-etched title.
Philosophy in the Boudoir.
She tilted the cover just enough to catch the glint of the firelight, her throat tightening at the memory of her flatmate’s teasing laughter about “forbidden filth penned by mad Frenchmen.” Josephine had assumed it was mere satire. Or gossip. But here it was — nestled among theology, ethics, and metaphysics in a stranger's home.
Before she could open it, the door clicked behind her.
Light spilled across the study.
And then it hit.
A loud, boisterous thud.
Her vision blurred. Flesh moved — someone entering — an indistinguishable figure drowned in a horrific costume. Her breath hitched; her muscles locked. She felt a hand touch her shoulder, and she struck without thought.
Bone against bone. A muffled curse. Then silence.
The air between them was charged, like the quiet before a storm. Josephine’s fist hovered near her chest, shaking slightly from the suddenness, and she dared not meet the man's gaze. Her vision darted to a darkened corner instinctively. Yet she sensed him there — tall, deliberate, silent, watching.
“You strike with conviction,” he said, voice measured, smooth, yet not without a trace of surprise. It carried a weight that was carefully borne, yet it was muffled behind a mask. “I would expect no less from someone who values her boundaries.”
She swallowed, chest rising and falling with shallow, uneven breaths. “I… I did not—” Her words failed her. The syllables trembled, small and uncertain, betraying the pride she had clung to so tightly.
He took a step back, offering space. “It’s fine,” he said. “You were startled.” His voice softened slightly, almost imperceptibly. “I apologize if I frightened you. That wasn't my intent. I wasn't aware that anyone was in my father's study.”
Josephine’s shoulders relaxed fractionally. She kept her eyes lowered, but he did not move closer. He observed, noting her posture, the tilt of her head, the cautious curl of her hands at the apex of her hips.
“You were holding this,” he said, nodding toward the book at her feet as he bent to retrieve it. “You seem interested.” His tone was curious rather than judgmental.
She stiffened. “I… I found it,” she admitted, voice quiet. “—I did not mean to…”
“To take it?” he offered, a hint of amusement lacing the edges of his words. “Don’t worry. No harm done.” His gaze softened, as if observing fragile glass. “If you wish, you may borrow it. I'm sure he won't miss this old thing.”
Josephine’s hands trembled slightly at the gesture. She had not expected permission, nor generosity. Slowly, she inclined her head. “Thank you,” she whispered. “I do not often read… anything like this.”
He tilted his head, studying the small, pale figure before him. “Do you read much at all?” he asked, voice neutral, but with a flicker of interest.
“Of course, I read,” Josephine replied, her words clipped. “But not philosophy that is so overtly—”
He nodded. “I understand. Curiosity is… dangerous, sometimes. But it is also necessary.” His gaze drifted to the book in her hands. “I see curiosity here.”
The room fell silent except for the faint creak of old leather as she straightened the copy in her grip. He did not push, did not insist. His presence was patient. He allowed the pause to stretch, letting the tension between them thicken.
“I'll be careful,” she said eventually, her voice firmer. “It's only for study.”
He smiled imperceptibly at her. “I expect nothing less.” His eyes softened, but his posture remained controlled. “I'm Silas Farraday,” he added, offering a name as if that alone might anchor her in the space he occupied.
Silas. One of the men in her flatmate's study group. But why was he throwing this party? It was her understanding that his father was the superintendent.
“Josephine Evans,” she replied, barely more than a whisper despite herself. Her words were fragile, yet precise.
“Josephine,” he said, tasting the name as if it were a thought he wished to consider. “A pleasure to meet you properly, Josephine. I hope the book will serve your curiosity well.”
“I hope so,” she said, shifting slightly, as if the movement alone could keep her grounded. The weight of his gaze pressed gently, not cruelly, and she could feel its intelligence.
For a moment, they existed in quiet understanding: the stillness of a shared space, a single book bridging their distance. No words rushed them. Her pulse had slowed, just enough to allow observation rather than panic.
“Perhaps,” Silas said after a brief pause, “if you find it… illuminating, we may discuss it. Philosophical debate can be rather informative.”
Josephine felt a flicker of hesitation, an unfamiliar tug at the edges of her calm. Very few wished to indulge her in such discussions. She inclined her head ever so slightly, the faintest gesture of agreement.
“I would like that,” she admitted quietly.
“Good,” he said. His voice carried satisfaction, not triumph. “And don't worry. I'm patient. Curiosity need not be hasty.”
She nodded again, and for the first time since her initial entrance to this room, a fraction of ease returned. Her hands still gripped the book tightly, the weight of it grounding her, yet the words on the cover promised a journey she did not yet understand. And he — Silas Farraday — was not gone. He lingered, a shadow in the edges of her world, careful not to impose yet impossible to ignore.
She was still very cautious. She still kept her gaze from fully landing on him. And yet, somewhere beneath the tremors and the fear, a spark had been kindled.
A spark that would one day burn.
Weeks had passed since that first encounter, and Josephine found herself lingering at the edges of the library corridors, her mind tangled with fragments of conversation and observation. Silas's presence remained a constant, a shadow at the periphery of her daily routine. She had come to anticipate their discussions — not the kind of chatter most students engaged in, but deliberate examinations of text, art, and quiet intimacies.
The book had become both a curiosity and a crucible. She held it gingerly each time she read it, digesting in short, careful bursts. Its contents were disorienting. Tales of moral transgression interlaced with philosophical exposition, licentiousness serving as a metaphor for power, consent, and defiance. She found herself now steadily analyzing passages as if they were mathematical proofs rather than scandalous anecdotes, questioning the logic of libertinism while noting the audacity of thought.
“The imagination is the spur of delights... all depends upon it, it is the mainspring of everything,” she read aloud softly one evening, voice low, tone controlled, as she perched on the edge of a corner library bench.
“Indeed,” Silas had murmured, watching her with a quiet intensity. “And yet, whose imagination? Yours? Mine? Or that of the one who writes it?”
Josephine had drawn in her breath sharply, the abstract consideration of the question rattling her like a sudden draft. She had yet to read a book that prompted her to question not the content itself, but herself. Other philosophies simply struck a chord with her regarding society, not her inner being — her boundaries, her propriety, her capacity for observation detached from moral panic.
Several afternoons later, he had allowed her a glimpse of his charcoal drawings. Soft shadows on textured paper, devoid of color, yet intimate in their composition. Portraits of hands clasped, a draped figure in repose, the contours of a human form suggested rather than revealed. The drawings were careful, controlled.
“You notice restraint here,” he said, leaning against the doorway of his studio, arms folded. “The absence of color is not deprivation — it is precision. It forces the mind to complete what the eye cannot.”
Josephine had nodded, tracing the outlines of a draped figure with her fingertips. “I see… shape. Form. Intention.” Her voice was tentative, thoughtful. “The strokes themselves speak more than color ever could.”
“Exactly,” he replied, satisfaction threading his words. “And understanding form, in thought or in art, is the first step toward comprehension. You don't yet need more than that.”
Yet the book simmered in her satchel, pages still whispering daring concepts — libertinism as philosophy. Consent and defiance are intertwined. Pleasure is education. Every sentence unsettled her in a measured way, forcing reflection rather than reaction. She often found herself rereading passages, testing them against her own moral compass.
One evening, after their discussion on a particularly audacious passage, Silas spoke, tone quiet, almost conspiratorial. “Josephine… I wonder if you would accompany me to my studio tomorrow. Not to pose, necessarily, but to observe. To discuss. Perhaps to see the work in practice, in its intended environment.”
Her pulse fluttered — anticipation or anxiety, she could not tell. “To… observe?” Her voice was tentative. “I'm not certain — what exactly do you wish to show me?”
“Merely demonstration,” he replied. “The process of creation, of control, of… interpretation. You're now familiar with the principles in the book. Here, you may witness the theory manifesting in shadows and lines rather than words and scandal.”
She considered the offer, her chest tightening at the thought of entering a private space dominated by him under these new circumstances. Yet the control he promised — the slow, deliberate pacing — was comforting in its own way. She had already begun to trust that he would not overstep beyond what she could bear.
“I'll come,” she said at last. “I wish to understand.”
“Good,” he murmured, a faint smile brushing his lips. “You don't need to rush.”
When she arrived at the studio the following afternoon, the room smelled faintly of graphite and sandalwood, the air dry and still. Light fell in long, muted beams across the floor, shadows accentuating the curves of furniture and the subtle ridges of unfinished work. Silas stood beside a newly sketched figure, charcoal smudges marking his fingers, a pencil tucked behind his ear.
“Observe,” he instructed softly, stepping aside. “Don't touch. Merely see, and perhaps, think aloud.”
Josephine’s fingers brushed the fringes of her shirt sleeves, grounding her as she stepped forward. Her eyes locked to the page, letting only formed shapes guide her. Her breathing slowed in a careful rhythm, matching the deliberate gestures of his strokes over the paper, the movement of the charcoal across the page.
“The lines are not random,” he explained. “Every stroke conveys weight, tension, anticipation. You can see it even without color, can't you?”
“Yes,” she whispered, feeling the truth in the statement resonate in her chest. “Even without color, the form is clear and the intention palpable.”
Silas nodded. “Good. That is the foundation. Understanding is second. Engagement comes only when you are ready. And perhaps, you will find that engagement is more than mere sight or touch. It is thought, and reflection, and consent in contemplation.”
Josephine nodded again, lips barely moving. Her heart, still cautious, had begun to expand in ways she did not yet understand. The book had provoked her mind; the drawings, her imagination. And the man beside her had begun to teach her a different kind of language: one of latent possibility.
As the afternoon waned, he offered her the book again. “Take it. Read. Reflect. Consider the arguments and the audacity. And when we meet next, perhaps we may discuss the passages you find most compelling.”
She accepted it silently, fingers brushing the leather cover. Her lips parted slightly, forming the faintest murmur of gratitude. In that moment, the seed of their connection was planted. It is curiosity, understanding, and the quiet thrill of venturing into dangerous thought.
Josephine felt, for the first time, the faint stirrings of trust and a peculiar awareness that some boundaries, once tested, might never fully restore themselves.
The afternoon light fell in softened streams through the tall windows, dust mites drifting like phantom whispers across the floor. Josephine clutched the book to her chest as she stepped into Silas’s studio, hesitant but resolute. Charcoal sketches hung on the walls — figures half-formed that promised more than they revealed. It was a balm to her senses, a quiet order in the chaos.
Silas waited by an easel at the center of the room, his hands folded loosely behind him. “You’re punctual,” he remarked, voice smooth, a trace of warmth brushing the edges. “Good.”
Josephine nodded, hands still trembling slightly. “I brought the book,” she murmured. Her fingers brushed the cover, tracing the title in silver script. She remembered the passages she had underlined, the lines that lingered in her mind like whispered suggestions from miniature devils.
Her pulse quickened at the images the script etched in her mind's eye. They were dizzying, dangerous in their simplicity, and she felt a thrill of anticipation.
“Ah,” Silas said, noticing the subtle tightening of her grip. “You have your favorites.” He stepped closer, careful not to startle, and measured the space between them. “I'd like to hear them. Perhaps aloud. Your own voice will lend clarity for me.”
Josephine hesitated, gently nibbling her lower lip. Her lashes fluttered, eyes remaining lowered. “I think of this one most,” she whispered, quoting the line, trembling slightly. “That everything around you gives you its utter attention, think only of you, care only for you.”
He inclined his head, expression unreadable, then reached out, fingers brushing the edge of her shoulder. The touch was light, exploratory, and sent an unexpected shiver down her spine. “Yes,” he murmured. “Imagine, then, the world bending to you. Every breath noted. Every motion acknowledged.”
She swallowed, heart thrumming in her chest, aware of the warmth radiating from his hand. “I never thought…” Her words trailed off. The room felt smaller somehow, confined by shadow and possibility.
“Would you enjoy that, Josephine?” he suggested softly. “For the world to give you their undivided attention?”
His hands traced lightly along her arms, the subtle pressure deliberate, claiming space without demand. She could feel the shape of him beside her, each movement attentively purposeful.
"No," she rasps, "Not the world."
"Then who?"
Her reluctance should have been enough, and yet, he persists by asking again. This time, his voice is firmer, shaped in a way she had never heard from him.
She whispered the answer, almost reverently. Each word tasted of something forbidden and thrilling. “You,” she murmured. “I want your undivided attention.”
Though unable to see it, she knew he was pleased with her confession. He allowed his fingers to glide lightly along the line of her back, brushing her spine in a manner that had her inhaling sharply. The sensation was charged yet unidentifiable — his touch not invasive, but deliberate enough to disrupt her calm. She felt exposed, aware of every inch of skin he brushed, yet oddly safe because he did not press beyond the edge of what she could bear.
“Good,” he murmured. “Notice how the attention, even the lightest, changes your perception. You feel it, and yet you aren't harmed.”
Her chest tightened as she absorbed the concept, her breathing shallow. The space between them seemed alive with electricity, the shadows of the transparent curtains flickering across the walls as though observing along with him.
“You're learning, Josephine,” he said, fingertips lingering on her shoulder. “Learning the subtlety of surrender without fear.”
She nodded, lips parted slightly. Surrender without fear. The phrase lingered, twisting in her mind like a delicate knot. She could not see him clearly, yet the weight of his presence pressed into her awareness. She felt her own body respond to the brush of a hand, the warmth of proximity, the careful modulation of touch.
Brushing her hair lightly aside, the gesture almost intimate in its deliberateness, he said, “Consider what it might mean to allow someone to see your unspoken thoughts without judgment.”
She shivered, the sensation crawling along her spine. Her pulse rattled in time with the faint hum of understanding — his touch, his words, the book's teachings — all merging into something that was not fear, not excitement, but something entirely new. Corruption by thought, she realized, is more insidious than corruption by hand.
Yet it was the latter that had her throat drying and her thighs clenching.
Silas’ fingers drifted lower, along the contours of her arms and sides, never pressing, never demanding, but always present. Each contact teased the edges of her composure. She leaned slightly into him, breath hitching, aware of the paradox: safety in exposure, curiosity in submission.
“You feel it,” he whispered. “The power of being acknowledged entirely, thought of, cared for.” He smiled faintly, not cruelly, not triumphantly.
Josephine’s lips parted, and the faintest sound escaped her — a breath, a murmur of surprise, perhaps delight — as his touch lifts her palm to his lips. She did not know. She only knew the world had narrowed to shadow and sensation, philosophy and presence.
When he finally drew back, allowing her to regain a semblance of composure, she opened her book again, tracing lines of text with trembling fingers. Her mind replayed the passage aloud quietly, over and over, tasting the weight of each word.
That everything around you gives you its utter attention, thinks only of you, cares only for you. Silas regarded her with a calm patience that seemed to shimmer just beyond the boundaries of propriety. Yet in that moment, something personal echoed in his tone, something that unsettled her entirely. “Josephine,” he murmured, his voice soft as velvet, “I wonder if you would allow me to draw you with your barriers down?”
Her breath caught, a delicate whisper silencing the space between them. His phrasing was scholarly, yet the intent was unmistakable, curling around her consciousness like smoke. She felt her body stiffen, the weight of his words settling in her mind like a delicate, dangerous flower blooming under the glow of his gaze.
He pressed on, weaving warmth through his initial detachment, “I mean… without disguise, without layers. To behold your form as you exist unshielded.” In that instant, an electric awareness surged through her; her cheeks flushed despite her resolve. The quiet hum of the ceiling fan drifted through the air, syncing with the thrumming pulse within her. Curiosity tangled with hesitation, and the heady mix spurred her heartbeat into a wild dance.
With a steady resolve, she met his shadowed gaze, piercing through the haze of her uncertainty. She looked at him — really and truly looked — with her jade eyes, weighing the implications of his request against the backdrop of the studio's quietude, the sketches leaning against the walls, and the passages she had memorized pressing against her like phantoms of the past, all urging her toward him.
Silas’s fingers traced an absent line through the air, close yet respecting the invisible boundary between them. “Only if you are ready,” he said, his voice a captivating blend of temptation and respect.
"I am," she stated, her voice steady, determination lacing her words. Finally, the walls she had so carefully built began to tremble, ready to crumble.
With deliberate slowness, she unfastened the clasps of her blouse; each button released a small act of defiance against the hesitations that lodged within her. As the last clasp fell away, the white silk cascaded down her body, pooling softly around her bare feet—a gentle whisper of fabric that contrasted sharply with the silken touch of his fingertips grazing her shoulder. She felt a shiver run through her at the subtle connection, the anticipation curling in her gut like smoke.
“How will you draw if you are near me?” she asked, her voice barely a breath, quivering in the tension of their shared moment, almost as if the air itself held its breath in anticipation.
“Don’t worry. I have a great memory.” His voice dripped with a smug assurance, a layer of confidence that she felt yet couldn’t quite challenge. He was in his element, a master navigating a delicate art, and she understood it was best not to disturb him now.
His hand drifted lazily down to her lower back, guiding her deeper into the room, stripping away her final threads of dignity with each calculated movement. She stood on the threshold between light and shadow, a place that felt both exhilarating and terrifying. His fingers wrapped around her hip snugly, almost possessively, anchoring her in place as warm air gathered between them, breathless and alive. He lifted her effortlessly onto a small pedestal, her cotton underclothes following the descent of her blouse, landing softly on the floor like discarded petals.
Velvet straps wrapped around her bony ankles, securing her in place and creating a surreal sense of vulnerability. She felt something smooth underfoot through the fabric—was it polished wood, cool marble? In this moment of abandonment, she couldn’t quite tell, nor did it matter. The sensation of being so exposed consumed her entirely.
Spread and vulnerable like a salacious secret, she perched atop her makeshift throne with little hope of escape. A ghostly touch transcended her barriers, reaching her sensitive peaks and teasingly tautening her muscles, each caress igniting a fire deep within her. Her heart raced, pounding in her chest like a wild bird desperate to escape. “Have you ever touched yourself here, purposefully?”
“No,” she managed to reply, her breath heavy with uncertainty. His touch descended lower, pausing to dance around her navel before halting directly over her unshaved mound, every moment wrapped in an intoxicating silence that enveloped the room like a shroud.
“Here?” he queried again, his voice low and laden with expectation.
“N-no.”
“Good.” The simplicity of his response unfurled layers of meaning within her. He took pleasure in touching her, in clouding her senses, awakening the timid beast she hadn’t known resided within her until the moment she read that foul opus and dissected its every grisly detail. Here, she found confusion mingling with curiosity, wrestling with guilt. How could one derive enjoyment from stripping away the innocence of another? It was a question that hung heavy in the air, ripe for exploration yet fraught with peril.
A wave of confusion washed over her as sensations intertwined, blurring the lines between discomfort and an unfamiliar thrill. Each tender prod sent jolts through her, rippling from her core to the tips of her fingers. She clung to him as if he were an anchor amidst her spiraling thoughts, yet also a source of uncharted exhilaration.
“Breathe, Finny,” his voice was low, a soothing balm over her racing heart. As she inhaled deeply, the air felt charged with an electric tension. Her senses awoke, and she became acutely aware of the room: the soft flicker of candlelight casting shadows, the faint rustle of fabric against skin, and the rhythmic pulse of her own heart echoing in her ears.
With each slow, deliberate movement he made, the pressure intensified, curling deeper inside her like a vine seeking sunlight. It both thrilled and terrified her. She could feel the warmth pooling within, an intoxicating blend of desire and hesitation. Her skin prickled where his touch lingered; it felt as though every nerve ending was alive, singing with each subtle shift of his wrist.
“Does it feel good?” he murmured, curiosity lacing his tone. The question hung in the air, heavy with unspoken meanings. How could she articulate the haze of emotions swirling within her? The pleasant heat slowly snaking through her veins made her breath hitch, a soft whimper escaping her lips. It seemed too raw to assign a single label to what she was experiencing.
“Maybe...” she whispered, unsure. As the friction built, so did her need for clarity, for something more firm, tangible. She shifted, trying to gain some control over the delicate balance of pleasure and restraint. But he sensed her rising urgency, his touch deftly withdrawing just when she was on the precipice of something transcendent.
“Patience, Finny,” he cautioned gently. “You’re discovering yourself in this moment. Let the sensations flow over you.” The way he spoke wrapped around her like silk, both commanding and comforting. The longing lingered, a subtle ache that teased at the edges of her consciousness.
Her body responded instinctively, arching toward him, desperate for more. It was then that she realized that beneath the layers of uncertainty lay an undeniable hunger—a hunger she yearned to explore, to embrace. The confusion began to dissolve, replaced by a burgeoning confidence to ask for what she truly desired.
“May I...?” She paused, embarrassment creeping into her cheeks. But something in his gaze urged her on, a spark of understanding passed between them. She felt safe, and in that warmth, courage welled up inside her.
“Yes,” he replied softly, his eyes glimmering with encouragement. “You can have what you want. Just tell me.” The invitation hung between them, filled with possibilities.
In that moment, she understood: this was not just a discovery of sensations, but also of herself. Each heartbeat became a question, each breath a silent promise of what was to come. And as she looked up at him, the weight of her shame began to dissolve, replaced by a profound sense of agency as she took the first step into the unknown.
The air around her was thick with an intoxicating mix of warmth and tension, every tiny shift in temperature igniting her skin. His breath, warm and grazing over her cheek, sent shivers cascading down her spine. She could hear the quiet pulse of her own heartbeat, a primal rhythm intertwined with the soft rustle of fabric that hinted at deeper desires, fluttering like the wings of unseen butterflies.
As he continued his exploration, her senses heightened further. The coolness of the room contrasted sharply with the heat radiating from their bodies, each sensation sharpening — every intrusion of his fingers, every caress awakening parts of her that were previously dormant. She felt the dampness of her own skin mingling with the air, the slight tingle in the pit of her stomach coiling tighter with anticipation.
“Look at me. I want to see your eyes,” he urged, his voice low and commanding, reverberating deep within her. This time, it was the weight of his gaze that ensnared her, drawing her in like a moth to a flame; the warmth pulling her closer as if she could melt into his presence.
The taste of salty tears mingled on her lips, a bittersweet reminder of her vulnerability. “I-I can’t!” she protested, yet even as she said the words, her breath hitched with excitement.
“Yes, you can. Trust me,” he urged, his voice a soothing balm as it wrapped around her, luring her into surrender. She felt his patience against her wavering strength, the heaviness of his presence planted firmly as she surrendered a tear, a tiny testament of her reluctance giving way to desire.
As she dared to look up, panic momentarily ebbed as their eyes locked — his dark depths contrasting against the vividness of his skin, swirling emotions painting the space between them. The sense of his grip on her jaw was grounding, insistent, as if he could mold her into something new. Heat washed over her stomach, mounting with every second, igniting the space between courage and fear.
They connected, the soft collision of breath and warmth spilling over into uncharted territory. She hesitated, but the thrill of his touch coaxed her to pull him closer, their kiss messy yet fervent, a collision of tender chaos. It was electric — the sensation of skin meeting skin, his fingers intertwining inside of her, dancing an intricate ballet of longing.
He pulled her back by the hair, allowing her the fullness of connection while setting a boundary that caused her heart to race. The world outside faded; all that existed was the intensity of their shared breaths and the saltiness lingering on her tongue. The rhythmic pounding of her heartbeat thundered, each pulse in sync with the symphony of sensations coursing through her.
As her body rang with unfamiliar pleas, he withdrew, teasing her senses and leaving her breathless. His gaze was appraising, exploring her with a hunger that sent cascades of excitement coursing through her. With a single command, he introduced a new layer of intimacy, forcing her to engage her senses more fully, to surrender to the moment entirely.
“Clean them,” he said, and she obeyed, the act igniting a blushing heat within — the primal taste of her becoming part of the experience as she wrapped her tongue around each finger, the tangy remnants binding her to this moment.
As he released her, allowing her to reclaim the fragile barrier of her clothes, her thoughts wandered. All the sensations clashing within her reminded her of de Sade's teachings. She felt an undeniable pull towards the embrace of unchecked passion, realizing that perhaps, just perhaps, there was virtue in exploring the depths of her desires rather than suppressing them. In that moment, she leaped into the unknown, ready to discover all the layers of herself.
To preface: no, I am not quitting what I have committed to. I am simply updating. As it may be apparent with the first prompt, I struggle with strictly writing smut. I can only write smut when I have a certain dynamic in mind with some build-up.
Despite this, I am going to attempt to share strictly the smut for now. Everything else will be edited at a later date and fully shared when it's ready. I say this because with this next prompt, I am sitting at 3.5k words with the re-edit, and I haven't even tackled the smut yet. I fear otherwise, I won't complete Kinktober before the end of October. I hope everyone is understanding of this 💜
Perspiration slicks James’ sunkissed skin, the Texas sun hammering down from the west like it aims to brand him where he stands. He wipes a mocha brow with the back of his hand, breath steadying as the air rolls thick with the fecund smell of sweet corn, an undertone of tartness seeping through the cracks. With a grunt, he straightens, sore legs protesting, and lifts the plaited basket. A small beet tumbles from the top, saved mid-fall by the farmhand.
“Careful there, boss,” the young man ribs, his grin too familiar for James’ liking. “Wouldn’t want yer old lady findin’ a bruised crop.”
James’ mouth quirks to one side, a low hum of amusement in his chest. “No, we can’t be havin’ that.” His palm cups the underside of the bulb, the root poking between his fingers, and he sets it back among the others. Chin tucked, he makes his quiet exit toward the farmhouse.
Now, he isn’t blind. He’s seen the way the Donald looks at his wife — seen that hunger brewing behind polite eyes. That is why James had suggested to her that they test each other’s restraint, a kind of unspoken dare between them since the last town dance. And that is why he chose this day to prove to both of them that temptation, for all its charm, never stood a chance against what is his.
When he steps inside, the faint croon of Guitar Slim meets his ears from the radio perched on the shelf. The house smells of terpentine, cornbread, and dayflowers. He places the basket on the dining table — already set with care — and leans against the kitchen threshold.
Beverly stands at the sink, the afternoon light catching the sheen of brown sugar hair where it had come loose from its pins. Her dress, a faded pastel cotton number, sways as she pours boiling water into a tin can. When she bends forward, the fabric tugs just high enough to show the backs of her knees — a sight that nearly undoes him.
“All this for little ol’ me?” he teases.
Her shoulders jerk as she sets the empty pot down, and she turns with a mock pout. “Now that ain’t fair, James Breslin.”
“Come on, darlin’. Don’t be cross. That ain’t what you were callin’ me the other night.” His rough hand captures hers, spinning her until her back meets the counter. His hips pin her there, nose nudging along the curve of her neck, but she turns her face aside, avoiding his mossy gaze.
“Yer face was clean then,” she mutters, though a smile tugs the corner of her lips. She plucks a cloth, wets it, and lifts his chin with her thumb. The little furrow in her brow deepens as she wipes away the grime. He watches her — that steady focus, that quiet tenderness buried under mischief — until she drops the rag into the sink.
“I gotta put supper away,” she says softly.
But he doesn’t move. A low hum rumbles through him, brushing against her shoulder. “Donnie can wait. Ain’t dusk yet. Boy’s got plenty o’ chores left.”
He shifts just enough to reach past her, the counter creaking under their shared weight. His hands find the faucet, turning it with a rusty squeal. The cool water runs clear over his knuckles, dark streaks of earth slipping down the drain. He scrubs slow, measuring her, his chest still pressed firm to her, breath hot against the shell of her ear. The scent of Ivory soap and skin mixes heavily in the air. When he reaches for the dish towel beside her hip, his wet fingers brush the hem of her dress, leaving damp spots that cling to the cotton. “Can’t be touchin’ my girl with field dirt,” he murmurs, voice low, half a tease, half a promise.
His gaze drifts through the window to where the farmhand lingers too long by the fence. “Make yerself look busy,” he exhales against her temple, spinning her to face the sink.
She hesitates — just a beat — before his hands slide down, gathering the loose pleats of her skirt around her hips. His knees press to the tile, the floor cool beneath him, his breath hot against her left thigh. “You went without the girdle like I asked,” he rasps, voice rough as the horns on the bull he rides. A grin cuts across his face, and his tongue licks a stripe from one hole to the other. “Good girl.”
A soft sound escapes her as she braces against the counter, her fingers whitening on the edge. “James,” she warns, though it comes out breathless.
“What did I tell ya?” he demands, pushing her further against the oaken counter and tearing the panties from her.
“T-to look busy,” she stammers when the air leaves her lungs in a shiver.
“That’s right. Now turn that water on.”
She obeys, the faucet sputtering to life. Cold drops splash her dress front as he nudges her closer. Once the pressure lowers, her reward is a gentle flick of his tongue, and his words are a low drawl against her skin. “Soap up the pan, sweetheart — nice an’ slow.”
The sound of rushing water mingles with the slick rhythm of his work. She grips the dish bottle, squeezing too tight, a soft plop breaking through her sharp gasp. Ivories graze a freckled thigh, a warning and a promise all at once.
“James — he’s lookin’ in!”
“Then show him that pretty smile.”
She does — Lord help her, she does — that same smile that’d lassoed him from the rodeo ring years ago, when he’d been too proud, too wild, and too easy to win. That was why she’d agreed to this game of his — because they are made of the same wicked pride. She’d tested him once after his last rodeo win, bold as brass in the parking lot where half the town could’ve seen, and Lord, did she pray that they did. Now, however, he is settling the score in his home.
Yet he does not rush her. James is a man who understands patience, the kind that comes from seasons of drought and waiting for rain. The kind that makes reward taste all the sweeter when it finally comes. His breath traces heat across the back of her thigh as his hands, roughened by his labor, guide her hips in slow, unspoken rhythm. She grips the counter until her knuckles blanch, the muscle in her arm trembling from restraint.
The sound of the radio wavers from the parlor, half swallowed by the soft rush of water from the sink. The faucet stutters, hisses, and catches again, a steady accompaniment to the pulse that fills the air. The scent of soap and earth mixes with something warmer — salt, sweat, the sharp sweetness that lives only between them.
“Keep washin’, darlin’,” he murmurs, voice low, like a secret meant for her alone. His thumbs press lightly against her hips, urging her to move just so. She obeys, though her motions falter, each small shiver betraying her focus.
Her breath comes in quiet gasps, half-formed sounds that barely leave her lips. He can feel them in the air, quickening in time with his own heartbeat. Every drawn breath, every tremor, builds a tension that could snap the moment one of them gives in.
Beverly's chin tilts forward, gold-flecked eyes shut tight, her lips parted in a silent plea she refuses to voice. Behind the faint ghost of her face in the glass, the farmhand still lingers, pretending to work while his body betrays his curiosity.
Her fingers tremble on the dishcloth, squeezing it too tightly until a stream of suds drips over the counter. The faint patter of droplets against tile joins the rhythm of her breath. His hands slide lower, a palm finding the familiar warmth of her thigh, gently gliding through her folds with his middle and ring fingers.
The world seems to shrink to that one kitchen, that one slice of afternoon thick with sunlight and want. Beyond the window, cicadas drone in the dwindling heat; inside, her quiet sighs become a song all their own.
When he finally stills, the silence that follows is deafening. Only their breathing fills it — his slow and steady, hers catching somewhere between laughter and disbelief.
James rises by degrees, his chest brushing the fabric of her dress, his breath ghosting against her ear. He doesn’t speak at first, only watches the ghost in the glass — the young man’s face paling as the truth dawns bright and cruel beneath the sun.
A grin tugs at the corner of James’ mouth. He turns her gently, his chin glistening with the proof of his pride and her trust, the air between them humming with the remnants of what they shared.
Her hand found his jaw, thumb sweeping across his cheek with the same tenderness she’d shown before. “You’re impossible,” she breathes, eyes glinting with fond exasperation.
He catches her hand and kisses the inside of her wrist, the gesture both apology and claim. “Maybe so. But you married me anyhow.”
When she laughs — low, unguarded, and still breathless — it fills the kitchen with a warm tenderness. Outside, Donald turns away, shoulders stiff as the fence posts he was meant to be tending.
James leans in close, his words brushing her temple like a vow. “Go on, put that gelatin in the icebox. I’ll be waitin’ in the tub.”
He leaves her there with the sunlight spilling through the window, her cheeks still flushed, her hands still trembling, and the unmistakable scent of summer passions clinging to the walls. Dinner, he knows, will be quiet — save for the way his wife’s eyes would find his across the table, gleaming with the same unspoken dare that keeps their hearts beating in tandem.
For those unaware, I participated in Kinktober in 2024 with my OCs. I did not post these pieces publicly, only privately for some friends. I'm aware I may be doing this late in the game (I probably should've pre-done these, as I should've last year 💀). I'm just finding myself with more free time lately and I need to fill that space for my sanity.
I would like to:
read these pieces (with some new edits made).
read entirely new Kinktober pieces involving those characters.
Well... It's not over, but I think I'll call it done 😂 Re-edited pieces, it is. I'll aim for three posts a week, for a grand total of nine Kinktober pieces.
For those unaware, I participated in Kinktober in 2024 with my OCs. I did not post these pieces publicly, only privately for some friends. I'm aware I may be doing this late in the game (I probably should've pre-done these, as I should've last year 💀). I'm just finding myself with more free time lately and I need to fill that space for my sanity.
I would like to:
read these pieces (with some new edits made).
read entirely new Kinktober pieces involving those characters.
The Chrome Lotus invites you to a special community celebration: half-priced drinks and an exclusive meet-and-greet with none other than adult film star Francesca Scavullo.
Francesca has starred in countless productions; you may know her from Swingtime in Silk, Beyond the Boudoir, and Banned in All Sectors. We’re honored to welcome her as an official Petal of the Chrome Lotus, joining the ranks of our most distinguished talent.
Future appointments with Francesca may be arranged through club membership at the front desk with owner Annelies van der Meer. As a bonus, enjoy 30% off your first session when you bring a paying friend. Raise a glass, meet a star, and celebrate in true Lotus fashion.
The Lotus Eclipse event has started as of Saturday, August 16th. Fast-forward to a future with neural mods and high society elites.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: The interaction shown in this takes place during the above event and is held between two roleplay characters: Francesca Scavullo and Annelies van der Meer. I have done my best to compile this in a way that doesn't read like a roleplay, without stealing the words and thoughts of my writing partner's character and their narration style.
All thoughts shared in this are Francesca's and Francesca's alone. Most thoughts she has are in Italian; therefore, translations of her thoughts will be in red, like this. If interested, please reach out to the account above or me for any questions about the server.
At first, Signor Wakasa looked calm. But Francesca knows calm performance; she knows better. His composure cracked the moment her past was dragged, naked, into the light. What had been outrage twisted into something uglier: a little theatre of punishment.
Someone once told her it would always be a man’s world. Che verità amara. What a bitter truth.
Now that world thrums with her name, spat across neon headlines: Francesca Scavullo, adult film star. The face of Swingtime in Silk.
Not the actress clawing her way toward respectability, not the girl from Speakeasy in the Sky with critics whispering she might finally have her break. No — stripped, exposed, dragged back to nineteen and the choices she thought she’d buried.
"You're late, do not make a habit of it," the copper-haired woman chastises — her voice brisk, her authority unmistakable — yet she still slips a glass toward the star.
“Apologies, Miss van der Meer,” Signor Wakasa declares as they settle at the bar, his voice too bright, too polished. “There was a delay with filming — an amateur extra.”
Francesca crosses her legs, smile lacquered on her mouth. Painted lips, painted charm.
The glass he slides to her fizzes pale gold. Is it drugged? Rather than dwell, she swallows her last shred of dignity. She swallows it down with the champagne, pride dissolving with each bubble.
Her flute rings against the second executive’s glass. “I won’t, Miss van der Meer,” she murmurs, velvet over steel. A promise, a presentation.
"How is that my problem?" Miss van der Meer cuts in, her venom aimed squarely at Signor Wakasa. "The Chrome Lotus is the most influential club in the Pulse District."
Influente. The word hangs between them, veiled. The starlet hides a scoff behind her glass, bubbles masking her disdain.
Then, turning with pointed grace toward the actress, Miss van der Meer leans across the bartop, her words slipping against Francesca’s ear to pierce through the music and chatter of the club. "You decided to work for us; we are not competing with your other job. You are being graciously compensated here; many of our talent work for years before earning what you will in one."
A silence gathers, heavy in the musky air, before she adds with a sharper edge, "Do not make me regret my generosity. While we welcome you, there is a queue of others eager to take your spot."
“I understand, Miss van der Meer. I won’t make a habit of tardiness,” she replies, regret painted carefully across her smile. “Your generosity is much appreciated.”
Ho molta più esperienza di quanto sembri, molto più del principiante che immaginate. I have much more experience than I seem, much more than the beginner you imagine.
Her manager chimes in smoothly, “Yes, and thank you for agreeing to our terms. If need be, you may dock her for the minutes she’s missed.”
Francesca’s lashes lower, eyes sliding sidelong toward him. A single glance speaks of an intimacy that is not intimacy at all, but a quiet recognition. She suppresses her tongue with a tiny nip.
Shuffling at the bar draws attention back to Miss van der Meer. Her painted lips quirk, though Francesca notices it never quite reaches her eyes. Inscrutably displeased, she turns her words toward Signor Wakasa.
"She's proven she can speak for herself. Why not entertain yourself with a petal; there are plenty to choose from. All very beautiful."
Then the Italian feels it, the imperceptible shift. It isn’t physical; rather, it is ethereal. It is the air surrounding Signor Wakasa. Thicker, like the melted sludge of an old film canister.
“Of course,” her manager answers, curt.
He bends to her ear, breath brushing her skin. “Don’t forget what we discussed outside.” A hand, all performance, presses to her shoulder before he disappears toward the pods.
Only when he is gone do olive shoulders loosen, a quiet surrender she allows no one to see.
Finalmente, cazzo. Finally, damn it.
Her thumb circles the damp, crimson ring of her flute. She hesitates, then tips back the rest, letting the bubbles claw their way down. Setting the glass on the gaudy bartop, a faint, breathy exhalation escapes her lips.
“Grazie,” she murmurs, eyes settling on steely counterparts. A smile curves, sly and weary. “I tire of his tyranny.”
A test — for herself, and for the latest director of her life.
"I don’t want us starting off on the wrong foot," Miss van der Meer continues, her gaze sliding elsewhere, the conversation not her sole focus. "I’ve no tolerance for hoops or artifice — and even less for situations engineered to erode sovereignty. Maybe that flies in the film industry, but here? I prefer my employees with claws."
With a sharp flick of attention, she briefly dismisses the invisible distraction that had tugged at her.
"Nance," she calls to the bartender at her left, "How long have you worked for me?"
"Since opening."
"That’s right. And in all that time, have I ever let anyone give you hell?"
"You haven't," the woman replies firmly.
Steely eyes find hazel once more. "See?" A crimson brow arches. "You have no need for a moderator who goes home at night, twists his frustrations into a flick, and keeps company with a restless hand. They’re weak."
Oh, quanto sei deludente. Con il tuo tipo la soluzione è sempre la stessa. Oh, how disappointing you are. With your type the solution is always the same.
It never stays at a single outburst. For all their supposed progress, men still clutch the reins, and in her world, performers are pawns dressed to fit someone else’s narrative.
A lapse in her public persona, she ruefully inquires, “And if he can cut my supply at any moment, or ruin my reputation with a flick of his wrist?”
One well-timed rumor. That is all it will take to bury her deeper in the pits of ruination.
"Not the delightful little submissive everyone thinks you are, are you?" Miss van der Meer observes, draining her champagne with finality before Francesca may answer. "Good."
She slides past Nance and claims her place on the far side of the bar, rooting herself behind the starlet like a quiet sentinel. "So what if he does? Forge a new reputation. Let that anger propel you. But do not, under any circumstances, wallow in an unlatched cage, bearing envy as though the world owes you salvation. No one will pause to care. They will only exploit you, keeping you ensnared, because you allow it."
But the break in composure is brief. Francesca’s smile reappears, polished and practiced, vowels rolling warm from her throat. “Now, please,” she purrs, “may we carry this show along? I leave the concerns of my day job at the door.”
Their gazes meet, orbit crossing for a moment’s measure. "I'll get out of your hair."
The clink of glass still echoes after Miss van der Meer’s departure, sharper now in the hollow space her presence leaves behind. Francesca lingers, lips parted as if a retort might still escape, but the words turned to lead on her tongue. Not the delightful submissive… The phrase clings, crawling over her skin like an old costume she had thought retired.
A brittle laugh threatens, aching at the back of her throat. Instead, she exhales it into the rim of her empty flute, the glass catching her sigh like a confessional screen.
E se lo facesse...?
She rises, slow and deliberate, the stool groaning at her departure. Champagne shimmers in her veins, warm but unsatisfying, a poor substitute for courage. Fingers trail across the bartop, gathering the tack of someone else’s spill. She does not flinch. Around her, the Chrome Lotus pulses: neon veins throb against dark walls, dancers unfurl on their dance partners like mechanical blossoms, and music weaves a spell meant to intoxicate.
Francesca drifts into its current, heels carrying her through the crowded floor and into a narrow passage. She studies the faces she passes — patrons with glassy stares, performers perfect in their calibration, bartenders smiling, likely only because the job demands it. Pedine. Pawns, every one of them. Merely arranged on the board differently than she is, positioned by the king for more strategic moves.
A ripple of heat from the dance pods grazes her cheek as she passes, light fracturing across her painted lips. In the mirrored column, she rehearses her smile. Soft, dazzling, a mask honed to perfection.
This is her new life. A cage, perhaps, but one with a live audience. She adjusts her posture, spine straight, head tilted just so, and walks on as though she already belongs. Backstage, where her debut will then be center stage.
Before that, though, Signor Wakasa presses a key into her palm without her noticing.
“This is for your new apartment. The other petals will show you to it at the end of the night. I’ll see you on Monday to continue filming.”
Se lo fa, allora perdo lo scopo. If he does, then I lose my purpose.
Backstage, holographic walls swallow the pulse of the club, muting it to a low throb. The dressing room reeks of powder and perfume, half-faded sequins scattered like fallen scales across the floor. Francesca peels herself out of the day’s armor — the snug fabric that still holds the scent of her latest romantic lead's cologne — and slips into silk.
The dress waits for her like an old friend. Pearl-white, weightless to the touch, yet heavy with scandal. She slides it over her shoulders, the cool fabric kissing her skin before clinging as though it remembers her every contour despite the abuse it sustained. Fingers smooth the skirt, tugging it just enough to test its familiar swish. She pauses at the mirror, gaze locking with her reflection.
Her smile rises like a psalm recited at the altar — pious in form, blasphemous in intent. Those lips seal the prayer, and the mask is set.
The stage lights snap awake, and the opening riff of Bad Reputation rips through the Chrome Lotus — a contractual obligation. Francesca emerges in her offering — the notorious Swingtime in Silk dress, her scandal immortalized in every thread. The crowd crackles, a mix of gasps and applause rising at once.
Her grin slices through it all. Chin lifted, lips lacquered crimson, she moves not with languid sway but with sharp, deliberate bursts — shoulders popping, skirt snapping as she twists to the guitar’s bite. Every beat is a cue, every riff a chance to toy with them. Her confidence is that of someone who comprehends what currency her body carries.
Her gaze sweeps the audience, breaking each faceless stare with something tailored: a quick wink to house right, a mocking pout aimed dead center, the playful stretch of her leg, and the glide of silk to knee-height once she reaches house left. Some lean forward, ravenous; others shout nonsense into the din. Attention without identifiable features — her inheritance. And tonight, she will claim every ounce.
In the front row, a hand adjusts a groin held in trousers. A shadowed face, a total stranger. Fervor flutters and, for a fleeting moment, she wonders why she ever left the life of sensuality. She blows him a kiss, punctuating it with a coltish wink. She parts her lips, ready to deliver her lines, when the stage lights stutter and die.
The Chrome Lotus invites you to a special community celebration: half-priced drinks and an exclusive meet-and-greet with none other than adult film star Francesca Scavullo.
Francesca has starred in countless productions; you may know her from Swingtime in Silk, Beyond the Boudoir, and Banned in All Sectors. We’re honored to welcome her as an official Petal of the Chrome Lotus, joining the ranks of our most distinguished talent.
Future appointments with Francesca may be arranged through club membership at the front desk with owner Annelies van der Meer. As a bonus, enjoy 30% off your first session when you bring a paying friend. Raise a glass, meet a star, and celebrate in true Lotus fashion.
The Lotus Eclipse event has started as of Saturday, August 16th. Fast-forward to a future with neural mods and high society elites.
Planet Earth 2093. 🌍 Humanity has spent decades buried in bunkers, sealed away from the world they scorched in war, nursing their wounds underground.
But change is in the air. Literally.
The Amaryllis Nexxus is stationed above the clouds, a self-sustaining, floating society built to restore Earth from above. Populated by the brightest minds... and a handful of wild cards chosen for reasons not everyone understands.
You're told it's salvation. A new start. A second chance.
But under the polished chrome and perfect smiles? Secrets.
Deep ones.
Which bunker did you crawl out of?
What truth will you uncover?
And what will your story become?
Welcome to the Nexxus. Your file's been opened.
Writer's must be 21+ Dead Dove, AU friendly. -- Message us for link or details.
Welcome to the Amaryllis Nexxus!
Earth fell. Humanity rose.
In 2093, thirty-one years after the nuclear devastation of World War III, humanity launched its final hope into the sky. The Amaryllis Nexxus — a floating sanctuary in Earth’s upper atmosphere. Home to hundreds of survivors, this orbiting city offers the safety, stability, and community no longer found on the surface below. But like any home, it survives only through the hands that maintain it. Every resident contributes—working together to preserve life, repair what was lost, and shape a future beyond the fallout.
We do not look back in fear. We orbit forward in defiance.
About the Server Amaryllis Nexxus is a small, inclusive RP community dedicated to immersive storytelling, collaborative worldbuilding, and character-driven plots with ever-changing twists and turns. We offer a safe, supportive space for writers seeking to explore mature, post-apocalyptic themes in a unique sci-fi setting.
Writers must be 21+ due to the sensitive and adult nature of the narrative.
All characters must be 18 or older. Interested? Questions? Reach out via DMs for more information. We’d love to welcome you aboard.
Quiet lurker of Ghostblr for... well, years. Anyways, with Skeletá Rockin Eve mostly repeating things, except for the stuff on the hour, I'm mainly playing Stardew with Ghost on shuffle in anticipation for when I can enjoy the album in its entirety. Before I ramble much longer, there's something so cathartic about hearing the live performance of Respite On The Spitalfields 20 minutes before I can hear the new album.
...And back I go to my little cozy farming sim with Bible playing as I wait
Been awhile, and I sincerely apologize about the lack of updates concerning Victoria and Aileen. It's with a heavy heart that I say that I don't feel quite as connected with them as I once had.
By the start of next week, I will be wiping everything and the accounts will be converted to different characters. Everyone is free to unfollow their pages if they wish. I won't be upset.
For those still interested in my writing, I deeply appreciate you and this is the info you will want to know. These characters aren't in any way related to Hogwarts Legacy, though one of them would have been a sixth year during the events of the game. For more information concerning the universe, I suggest taking a look at @sanguis-lunae-tm as that is where they come from and where I have been for several months.
Now, what will I be sharing?
That will be the snippets of their story where I feel is most interesting. I will do my best to summarize their important RP. The server is also looking for additional roleplayers, for those interested in joining. Professor Wheatley would love to help integrate new characters into the story 💜
