#dissent in bloom

[beloveds-embrace]

cw: bittersweet(?)

(a different take on the fae poly 141 x human reader au)

The throne was bathed in blood long before the flowers bloomed again.

John Price, once a Prince and now King of the Fae, had carved his crown from the heart of a curse- his mother’s heart, torn still-beating from her chest when she dared to threaten what he loved most. You.

The kingdom still whispered of that day beneath the great moon of ash and fire, when the late Queen shrieked her final decree into the world, a last act of vengeance and hatred. Her voice, furious and cruel, broke the sky itself with the bitterness of her spell:

"As long as you love her, she will wither."

And so you began to fade.

Not all at once. No- she would not grant you such mercy. This curse was crueler than death; it stole you slowly, like moss creeping up an old stone wall and time smudging the edges of a painting.

Now, the kingdom thrives. Blossoms fat with dew crown the high branches of the frostwillow trees, whose trunks shimmer like glass. Rivers run clear and sweet as honeyed wine, singing through emerald meadows. Human and fae laugh together in the sun-dappled courtyards, their wars forgotten, their wounds scarred over in gold.

All for you, you, you.

John made peace because you once dreamed of it- when your eyes still shimmered with dreams and not distant fog. He razed cities of dissent in your name and made widows and widowers of those who muttered against you. Laid their bones beneath the roots of your favorite garden, where the jasmine still grows white and wild.

But your smiles are rarer now.

You wander the palace like a half-formed spirit, your fingers trailing the walls as if they alone remember who you used to be. Servants bow and the tapestries shift for you. The flowers bend to greet you and the patient trees hum lullabies when your steps falter. And still, still you drift.

Today, the sky is ocean-blue and split with clouds like splashes of faint. You sit on a velvet bench beneath the shade of a weeping crystalvine. Its translucent leaves chime softly in the breeze, a lullaby only the Fae would understand yet even you find comfort in.

You don’t notice Johnny at first, warborn and thunder-hearted, his smile always one heartbeat away from laughter. He kneels beside you now, not as a knight or an advisor, but a friend.

“Hey, lass,” he says gently, brushing a leaf from your hair. “You wandered off again, aye? Thought I���d find ye here.”

You blink at him. It takes a moment longer than it should to recognize his face, his voice, the weight of his warmth. But then, you slowly nod.

“I like the sound the vines make,” you murmur. “Like bells. Like... snowflakes made of music.”

Johnnh smiles, though it’s not the playful one he gives to others. This one is softer- dimmed by grief.

“I ken. We planted them for you, remember? You said they reminded you of home.”

Home. You frowt; that word feels distant and slippery.

Behind him, the wind shifts. Simon, death-masked and silent- watches from the path, his shadow cast long over the garden’s edge. He says nothing, but you can feel his eyes on you. Not judgment, but mourning. A man who has watched too many fade.

From the east arch, Kyle approaches with a tray of your favorite tea. He brews it himself now, every morning. Infused with memory moss and dreampearl petals- ingredients forbidden to most but allowed for you, in the desperate hope they’ll keep you anchored.

He kneels to pour a cup, the steam curling with soft light. “You didn’t eat breakfast again,” he says, gentle but firm. “You have to try, love. Just a sip.”

You take it; You always do, because you want to be good for them. For him.

Because somewhere in this palace of carved moonstone and singing glass, your husband sits on a throne built from vengeance and devotion. John, crowned in starlight and soaked in blood, ruling not for power but for love.

You remember his voice best. When everything else fades, his voice cuts through the fog. When your compass no longer works, he is your North Star.

You can’t always recall the words, especially lately, but you remember how it felt. Like summer heat after a storm. Like hands pulling you up from drowning in the cold, icy depths.

He visits you each night without fail. Wraps you in silks and warmth and whispers of your old jokes. Sometimes you laugh, sometimes you don’t.

And every night, when you sleep, he holds you close, whispering ancient incantations, searching, begging- through spellbooks, through time, through fae and forbidden gods- for a way to break the curse.

You don’t know how long you’ve lived. Time has lost its shape. The stars shift differently here and the moons are always full.

But you know he still loves you, and you know that’s what’s killing you.

The crystalvines chime again as a breeze stirs the garden. They remain beside you- your ever-loyal wardens, your quiet protectors. Not jailers, never that, becayse they are the hands that catch you when you fall.

Somewhere, a throne pulses with magic, and a man who once killed his mother for you breathes your name like a prayer.

Would you want to be saved, if it meant he stopped loving you? You think- maybe, once, you would have said yes. Now… you don’t remember.

The garden hums with twilight, long after they leave you in the company of Thrain. Fireflies drift like fragments of fallen stars, weaving through the nightsky. The palace breathes around you, alive and watchful, its towers coiling like silver thorns into the indigo sky. Somewhere, music has started filtering from the halls- faint, wistful, played by an orchestra of wind spirits and fae-wood strings.

But here, now, in this secluded alcove, there is only him.

John.

He kneels before you like a knight before a goddess, though he wears a crown of blood-forged gold and starlight in his hair and beard. His hands cradle yours- calloused, warm, grounding. You feel small beneath his touch, like a flickering thing. A candle fighting wind, cupped between his palms.

“My heart,” he murmurs, brushing his thumb over your knuckles. “Where did you go today?”

You blink slowly. Look at him through a haze that feels too heavy to speak through. The words are in you, but tangled. Frayed at the edges. You reach up instead, trembling fingers pressing against the curve of his cheek, and he leans into your touch like flowers bend for the sun, like the ocean waves reaching for the moon.

“You’re... still here.” You whisper, hushed and awed, and watch as his eyes close. A long, silent breath leaves him.

“Always.”

Your hand slips. He catches it, presses it to his lips like an oath. You smell the iron of magic on him- old, desperate, clinging to his skin. He has burned through centuries of fae history searching for an answer, and still he searches. Still he hopes.

You see the exhaustion in his face, etched into the lines of his mouth, hidden beneath the stern strength he shows the court. But here, with you, he allows the weight to show.

“I’d stop,” He says hoarsely, the way he does every night. “If I thought it would save you. I’d tear the love from my chest with my own hands. I’d become something cold. Something empty.”

“No.” You breathe, because even now, in the haze, you know that truth. You would not survive a world in which he stopped loving you.

He gathers you into his arms, pulling you into his lap as if you were made of mist. You fold against his chest, your ear close to the the beating of his heart. Familiar and steady and so, so comforting.

“Then we’ll find another way,” John says. Promises, like every night under the solemn moon’s witnessing. “Even if it takes a thousand more years. Even if I have to barter with stars and slit the throats of gods. I will not lose you, love.”

You close your eyes.

For a moment- just one brief, aching flicker- you remember: John’s laugh on your wedding day and way he looked at you when you first said his name, the quiet sound he made the first time you cried in his arms.

For now, for tonight, you are aware enough to hold him back just as tight, wrapped in magic and moonlight and love so deep it defies the curse.

Tomorrow, the fog will return. Tonight, you close your eyes and hold your hands over your ears, and let yourself be loved.

p2

[foxy-eva]

It's a Craving, not a Crush

Summary: Ever since you laid eyes on Emily, you were craving to taste her

“I could eat that girl for lunch Yeah, she dances on my tongue Tastes like she might be the one And I could never get enough”

Lunch by Billie Eilish

Pairing: Emily Prentiss x Fem!Reader 

Category: Smut

Content Warnings: (18+, minors DNI) heavy kissing, grinding, fingering, oral (Emily receiving)

Word count: 1.1k

Author’s Note: Lunch is the perfect lesbian hymn to write about Emily Prentiss. I may or may not have lost my mind while thinking about going down on Emily. I hope you guys enjoy! This is for the lovely anon who requested “more Emily Prentiss”. 

Masterlist

Emily must have known exactly what she was doing when she put on a tight red dress tonight. She looked good in anything but seeing her in that color almost drove you insane. You were drawn to her like a honeybee desperate to find the sweet nectar of the most beautiful flower on earth.

There was no time to be wasted when she followed you inside your apartment after your date. 

“You’re so beautiful,” you murmured before you captured her lips with yours. 

The kiss was timid at first, soft and sweet. That changed once Emily pushed her body against yours. Her tongue slipped in your mouth when you sighed and you were happy to reciprocate her action. Deepening this kiss only ignited the flame that was already burning so hot inside you. 

Your lips left her mouth to explore her neck instead and a shy moan slipped from her. Mesmerized by the sound, you gently bit down on her pulse point in hopes to hear it again. Another sigh and you were lost in the glory that was the woman in front of you. 

Curious hands began exploring each other's bodies, pawing at soft curves and stroking over smooth fabric. It was not enough, though. One more kiss on her lips before you fell to your knees, ready to worship her fully. With widened eyes she watched you drag her dress up her thighs until the lace of her underwear was revealed. 

“So eager,” she chuckled when you placed a soft kiss on her thigh and another one at the seam of her panties. 

“Need to taste you,” you confessed before you let your tongue wander over the soft lace.

Emily placed her hand on your forehead and gently pushed you away from her, having you whine in protest. 

“Why don’t we take this to your bedroom,” she suggested while pulling on your hand to help you get up. “That’s much more comfortable.” 

There was no reason to dissent, so you led her to your bed. Emily’s hands felt warm and determined when she began undressing you layer after layer until you stood bare in front of her. 

“You’re so pretty,” she breathed while letting her fingertips ghost over your skin. 

Then, she shed her dress and let you watch as her underwear dropped to the floor as well. You couldn’t decide where to look first so you let your sight wander over her wicked grin, the swell of her breasts, her porcelain skin and the soft curls at her center. 

Any restraint you still had broke when she closed the distance between the two of you. Her lips on yours were eager as she kissed you with a fervor that knocked the air out of your lungs. You guided her onto the bed without breaking the kiss, hovering over her while wetness began pooling at your core. 

Emily caressed your breasts. Her touch was welcomed but not what you craved right then. You were certain you would combust if you didn’t get to finally taste her. With a clear goal in mind, you let your mouth wander down her neck. Several kisses were placed on her breasts before you licked over her hardened peaks. 

The way she arched her back was intoxicated and you were starting to feel light-headed. When you took her nipple in your mouth and gently sucked on it, the room filled with Emily’s moans. Already delirious, you descended further down her body. 

Without hesitation Emily opened her legs for you, revealing herself. It was as if you were witnessing a blossom go in full bloom, silken petals kissed by morning dew, layered perfectly. Her heady scent was enchanting and you had no choice but to lay down to appease your appetite for her. 

With precise motions you collected her honeyed wetness on your tongue, making her squirm underneath you. Taking your time, you explored her with your mouth to fully appreciate her uniqueness. Emily was getting impatient, though. 

“Don’t tease me,” she sighed while placing her hand in your hair. 

You couldn’t help but smile against her skin. One more kiss on her inner thigh and another one into her soft curls and then you began focusing your attention on her swollen bud. It took a few moments until you learned what exactly made her grind her hips against your face. WIth your arms hooked around her thighs you kept her steady.

When you closed your lips around her and gently sucked on her pearl, a fit of broken moans and sighs escaped Emily’s throat. Her arousal began coating your chin and you realized how your own wetness had begun dripping from your entrance. You couldn’t help but grind your hips against the mattress in a desperate attempt to find some friction. 

A moan against Emily’s velvety folds gave away how much you enjoyed going down on her. She found your eyes and smirked at you. 

“You’re really enjoying this, aren’t you?” She teased and you hummed in response. 

One of your hands moved from her thigh to her heat. You leaned back for a moment to let two of your fingers drag through her folds before gliding into her with ease. Her warmth enveloped you perfectly and there was no resistance from her body. You curled your fingers just enough to make her throw her head back into the pillows before you began thrusting into her. 

“You taste like heaven,” you breathed before your mouth found her sensitive nub once more, licking and kissing and sucking it until her walls began fluttering around your fingers. A wet spot had formed on the mattress between your own thighs. Rolling your hips against the sheets some more soothed the burning sensation in your core. You tensed your thighs to intensify the sensation. 

Emily fell apart with a loud cry, grinding her hips against your face almost erratically. When you felt her pulsing around your fingers, you couldn’t help but follow her into this sensation of pure bliss. With a tremble in your thighs you rocked your hips against the mattress until you came undone together with her. 

You let Emily ride out her high on your tongue before you sat up between her knees and brought your fingers to your mouth to indulge in the taste of her release. 

“Dirty girl,” she chuckled before reaching out her arms. “Come here.” 

She welcomed you inside your embrace and gave you a sweet kiss, certainly tasting herself on your tongue. Then, she shifted her position until she was hovering over you. With a teasing grin spread over her face, she moved down your body and cooed, “My turn.”

Thank you for reading! Please like, reblog and leave a comment to show your support and help me stay motivated to write more stories!

Taglist: @grumpyy-bearr @pleasantwitchgarden @cynbx @sapphicprentiss @lovelyy-moonlight @storiesofsvu @samuel-de-champagne-problems @evvy96 @lover-of-books-and-tea @spensreid @person-005 @sleepysongbirdsings @brownbunnyb

[angy-brows]

Follower Bishop HCs of the remnants of their power

- Narinder can still sense the dying and can see who someone’s body was with just their bones. The grass wilts at his feet if he’s angry, and he once brought a caught bird back to life just to see if he still had some semblance of power.

- Leshy can make things bloom and grow around him. It’s part of the reason why he’s usually on farm duty with Heket, though she has to keep an eye on him in case he accidentally makes the crops grow too wild. (He got stuck in a berry bush that was bigger than he was)

- Heket’s presence doesn’t make things grow rapidly as much as she can make things grow in abundance, such as multiple pumpkins growing from one plot. She can also immediately tell if you’re hungry and she’ll shove food down your throat if you’re not taking cARE OF YOURSELF SO HELP HER GOD—

- Kallamar can sniff out an illness from a mile away, even if the main symptoms haven’t started yet. He can tell if food has started to go bad, if it’s poisoned, pretty much if it makes you sick he can figure it out.

- Shamura’s presence, when they’re lucid enough at least, can command a room with a single glare. When their mind is clear, it’s nearly impossible to lie to them and can make a dissenter cower into submission easily. Very good at strategy games, much to the grief of anyone who plays them at Knucklebones.

[heaven-lee-elven-embers]

ɖɨֆȶʀǟƈȶɨօռֆ ǟʍօռɢ քʟɛǟֆʊʀɛ

A/N: This is my first Cleon/Brother Day fic. I'm just starting Season 2 of Foundation.

Word Count: 7.2k

Content Warning(s): Unprotected Sex, P in V, mentions of Male and female anatomy, mentions of bodily fluids, Praise Kink, some choking, rough sex, some slight bondage

Tags: @callsignred

The grand chamber was steeped in a serene silence, broken only by the gentle rustle of silken sheets as Emperor Cleon XIII lay sprawled upon his opulent bed, the weight of his empire pressing heavily upon him. Shadows danced across the walls, cast by flickering candlelight, revealing whispers of intricate tapestries that told tales of glory and conquest. Yet those stories felt more like chains than crowns; he no longer reveled in the distractions of power but grew weary of the impending storm that loomed over his reign.

Outside, a soft breeze swayed the elegant curtains, carrying with it the aroma of blooming jasmine from the palace gardens. But the scent did little to ease the turmoil within him. The visions of Hari Seldon’s psychohistory haunted him—this ominous prophecy of decline and chaos that threatened to eclipse the golden age of the empire he had inherited and nurtured. Cleon’s thoughts spiraled, painting vivid pictures of political dissent, crumbling alliances, and the collapse of the genetic dynasty that had reigned for centuries. It was a perilous time, and the weight of impending doom bore down on his shoulders like a heavy mantle.

“Control, Cleon... You must maintain control. The empire is strong; it has withstood countless storms. You are its champion, its guardian. The visions of Seldon cannot dictate your fate... can they? They say he foretold this disaster, but I am not a pawn in his game. I am the Emperor. I will rewrite the future. The genetic dynasty has reigned successfully for over 400 years. It cannot begin to crumble simply due to the mere visions of Seldon. Perhaps if I outmaneuver the dissenters... stifle the unrest before it grows. Yes, power requires not just the crown but cunning too.”

He clenched his fists, frustration blossoming deep within his chest. He took a deep breath, attempting to steady his thoughts. The weight of impending doom bore down on his shoulders like a heavy mantle.

As Cleon paced the floor of his dimly lit chamber, the distant skyline of Trantor loomed outside the window. The weight of his thoughts pressed heavily upon him, and he muttered to himself, his brow furrowed in concentration. Suddenly, he felt a familiar warmth wrap around him, a gentle embrace that cut through his turmoil. You stepped into the glow of the moonlight streaming through the ornate windows, your silhouette enchanting, a perfect balance of authority and allure.

“Empire, what troubles your heart? The prophecies of Hari Seldon are only mere educated guesses from his tired and warped mind. An aimless shot in the dark, hoping to strike its appropriate target. You control trillions, my Empire. Seldon is a mere ghost…a distant memory, bound to be forgotten.”

You murmur softly from behind, your voice a gentle reminder amidst his storm of thoughts. He paused, allowing the tension in his shoulders to release as he savored your presence. Leaning back into the embrace, he felt the warmth radiating from you, drawing strength from the soothing touch of your fingers as they caressed his arms. They trailed down to his chest, igniting a spark that surged through him, and his breath caught as your fingers explored the contours of his exposed skin.

“It’s the matter of the Empire… the decisions I must make…”

“Do not let the echoes of his words ensnare you, Empire. You possess the power to reshape the destiny of the Empire, far beyond the reach of his faded visions. You possess the ability to control our present and our future, Empire.”

You whispered, placing a soft kiss along his shoulder. Your caress deepened his resolve, bridging the distance between doubt and confidence. He turned slightly to meet your gaze, the flickering light of determination reflecting between you. Stepping forward, he closes the gap between your bodies, his gaze locked in on yours.

“And if my choices lead us into the abyss? If Zephyr Halima becomes the next Proxima opposed to Zephyr Gilat? The outlying variables…”

“Then we shall navigate that darkness together. You are not alone in this. I will stand beside you, always. Regardless of what some—mathematician—may have to say…regardless of what some Zephyr that is barely a fledgling may say or feel…you still have control, Empire. You control today, tomorrow, and the next.”

Cleon’s heart raced with a mixture of dread and hope. Your words echoed in his mind, a soothing lullaby washing over the tempest swirling within. He drew in a shuddering breath, the warmth of your body enveloping him like a shield against the chaos of his thoughts.

As he leaned further into your embrace, he could feel the gentle rhythm of your heartbeat matching his own. Your fingers, still dancing lightly across his chest, traced the contours of his muscles with a delicate precision, reassuring him in ways words could not express. With each caress, your touch sent electricity through him, sparking a fire that burned away his fears.

Looking down at you, Cleon caught your gaze—those eyes, deep and inviting, bore into his soul. There was longing there, a mixture of vulnerability and fierce devotion. It made him ache in a way that felt unfamiliar yet incredibly grounding. He found solace in the way you gazed up at him, a silent promise reflecting in every glimmer of your eyes.

“Then you will always believe in me. Believe in the Empire. Stand by the empire.”

The words left his lips as if it were his heart seeking reassurance. You nodded slowly, your expression softening. In that moment, he felt the weight of the galaxy on his shoulders lighten, if only slightly, with your unwavering belief in him. Cleon reached out, cupping your face gently, his thumb brushing against your cheek as he leaned closer, drawn to you as if by an unseen force. Your breath mingled, hot and sweet, each second stretching as you closed the distance.

“Always. You are the Empire’s light when shadows linger too long. I will not allow you to falter. Together, we will rewrite the stars.”

With a soft smile breaking across your lips, you leaned into his palm, a comforting gesture that filled him with warmth. Spurred by your words, Cleon felt emboldened. He drew his fingers down from your cheeks, gliding over your collarbone, anchoring himself in the moment. As the touch traveled across your shoulder and down your arm, he intertwined his fingers with yours, seeking clarity in the connection that flared between you.

Together, you stood on the precipice of uncertainty, but with each caress, each lingering glance, you crafted a sanctuary against the looming doubts of the world outside. It was in that sacred space, held in the quiet intimacy of shared breaths and racing pulses, that Cleon understood: he wasn’t just fighting for an empire; he was fighting for the promise of a future, with you at his side. Sensing the turmoil that clouded his mind, you stepped closer, closing the gap. You gently placed a hand on his arm, your touch warm and reassuring despite the mischief that sparked within your eyes.

“Empire, I know your mind is racing. But what if we just forget the world for a little while? Just you and me? Even the Emperor deserves an evening to—self indulge every now and then.”

You murmur softly, your voice like a soothing balm to the calamity that raged beneath the surface of Cleon. He met your gaze, conflict etched across his features seemingly to want to melt away at such an enticing suggestion. You could see the curiosity that piqued as he felt the tension in his chest begin to loosen just a fraction.

“Is that so? You're much more bold now, aren't you? Tell me then, what is it that you have in mind, hm?”

His piqued interest was undeniable. The way his eyes followed you; it made you feel so vulnerable, yet so alive.

“Come…why don't I show you what it is that I have in mind instead, Empire.”

You murmured softly, your voice laced with a promise of warmth and connection. With a gentle smile, you pulled him toward the bed, your hand guiding him as though you were weaving a spell to draw him away from the burdens of his reign. The soft glow of the room felt inviting, wrapping around the two of you like a cocoon, away from the oppressive weight of the universe outside.

As you reached the edge of the bed, you turned to him, your fingers trailing delicately along his arm, igniting a warmth beneath your touch. You lift your gaze to meet his, your other hand sliding up his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heart. You could sense the contradiction in him—the leader yearning for reprieve while still tethered to his responsibilities.

“Let’s make this moment ours. Just you and me, Empire. What happened to the ambitious ruler I know? He seems to have been replaced by a man who just needs a taste of serenity…let me be that serenity for you, Empire.”

You teased gently, your voice a playful lilt. Cleon inhaled sharply as you caressed his arms, your fingers slowly pushing aside the fabric of his robe, exposing the finely toned chest beneath. With a gentle push, you nudged him down onto the bed, your eyes sparkling with mischief. The corners of his mouth quirked upwards with amusement, his gaze hungry upon you, watching your every move.

“Maybe I’m being tempted by something beyond governance—you have always had a way of drawing me in. Tempting me beyond my own comprehension. Swaying me in ways I had never even thought to foresee on my own.”

He replied, his voice low and full of intrigue, as he watched you with a mix of admonition and captivation. His chest slowly rose and fell with every breath. Beneath the surface, he longed and ached to feel your touch again. Every touch, every caress, every careless whisper, it was liberating to him. His eyes showed his intrigue and hunger, like open windows to his deepest and darkest desires.

“Good. Now, let me show you the kind of indulgence we both deserve…Just allow yourself to feel, Cleon... It’s just us here. Allow yourself to be lost in the moment. Let your desires be fulfilled.”

You murmur in a sultry tone, climbing onto the bed with him, your body radiating warmth and allure. You leaned closer, your breath grazing his ear. As you began to explore the contours of his body with your gentle hands, running your fingers across his chest, you could see the tension in his shoulders ease. He closed his eyes, leaning into your touch, surrendering to the sanctuary you had crafted between you. His breath caught in his throat as your hand slowly traveled down his chiseled chest.

“For you—for tonight—I will forget my empire, even if only for a moment.”

Despite his hardened and hungry gaze, his voice was laced with a rare vulnerability that no one else had ever seen or heard. You smiled, your heart swelling at his words. As your fingers wandered, tracing the lines of his body, he opened his eyes, locking onto yours with an intensity that left you breathless. His gaze was almost pleadingly, as if he were searching for permission in your gaze. As though reading his thoughts, you spoke once again, your breath hot against his ear.

“It’s not wrong, Empire. It’s human. Let yourself be what you are—a man who longs for connection, for love, amidst the chaos. A man that has wants, needs, and desires. A man that needs the serenity and clarity of sweet release.”

As you leaned down, capturing his lips in a tender kiss, the weight of Trantor and its burdens faded. In that shared embrace, you both found an exhilarating escape where nothing else mattered, not the empire, the throne, or the expectations that loomed over him. It was just you and him—lost to the world, found in each other. The night had only just begun, and in your arms, he found solace. You gently pull away from the kiss, a lingering warmth still enveloped you both. The intensity in Cleon's gaze spoke volumes, a silent plea for more—a desire to delve deeper into this shared sanctuary. You could see the remnants of tension melting away, replaced by a flicker of something wild and unrestrained.

“Let us defy our roles—even if just for tonight. No titles. No expectations. Just you and me and unfulfilled, raw desires. I crave you, Cleon…”

You declared softly, your fingers returning to his chest, trailing lower as you explored the contours that had become familiar yet electrifyingly new. Cleon exhaled a dreamlike breath, and with a subtle nod, he surrendered further to the moment, vulnerability etched across his features.

“I have grown so accustomed to being the ruler, the strategist…The Emperor, Brother Day…Here…I want to be just Cleon…even if just for a fleeting moment…”

His voice almost faltered for a heartbeat. As you leaned closer, your lips ghosting over his, his hands found your waist, pulling you firmly against him.

“Then be him…Let the leader slip away, if only for a while, Cleon…”

You urged, tracing your fingertips across his collarbone before sliding down to his abdomen, feeling the muscles tense beneath your touch. The way his hands gripped your hips, you knew they were bound to leave small bruises in their wake. The thought of being marked by Cleon was beyond exhilarating. A familiar heat had begun to grow and burn deep within your lower abdomen that slowly crept lower.

“You have awakened something in me—A need I never knew could exist so strongly.”

He breathed, a raw honesty in his words that sent shivers along your spine. Encouraged by his admission, you pressed your body against his, igniting the heat between you. Your body fit perfectly against his like a missing puzzle piece that neither of you knew had been needed for so long.

“Then shall we explore this need together? Explore every inch of each other…”

You suggested, your voice a sultry whisper as you captured his lips once more, this time more fervently. The kiss deepened, a blend of urgency and tenderness, as your bodies molded together. Cleon responded with equal passion, his hands roaming your back, pushing you even closer, as if afraid that the slightest distance would shatter this fragile bliss. With a newfound intensity, you pulled back slightly to gaze into his eyes. You swallow thickly, the air thick with unspoken yearnings.

“Tell me what you want, Cleon. What you need. What you crave and desire most…”

“You. I want to lose myself in you. Every part of me craves you. I desire to be lost in you…”

His eyes darkened with desire. His voice was thick with lust, longing and desire as he openly confessed to you. You smiled, feeling empowered at his confession. With that, you brushed your lips along his jawline, trailing kisses down his neck, feeling him ripple beneath your touch as a low groan escaped from his lips. His voice was raspy as he fought for restraint and control of himself.

“Goddess…You're driving me mad…”

He groaned, his grip tightening around you, his desire evident as he sought to pull you even closer. You hum softly against his skin, your hands finding their way through his hair, tender yet demanding. As you continued your exploration, the world outside faded to nothingness. Every kiss, every caress was a promise—of solace, passion, and a shared escape from the burdens you both carried. With every heartbeat, you both surrendered a little more, wrapped in the warmth of a connection that felt ancient but fresh, electric yet comforting. Tonight, nothing else mattered; it was just you, Cleon, and the vows spoken in silence through longing glances and shared breaths, that weaved an unyielding tapestry of intimacy.

The atmosphere of the room was charged with anticipation as your fingers gently grazed Cleon's skin, slowly teasing the fabric of the robe, as if savoring each moment. As your fingers deftly slide the robe from Cleon’s hardened body, the fabric glides away, revealing sculpted muscles that seemed to ripple beneath the touch of your hands. With each movement, you took your time, relishing the sight before you—the way Cleon’s form is defined yet softens with your caress. His breath hitches in anticipation, a soft gasp escaping his lips as you reveal more of his body, drawing each of you closer together.

He watched intently, desire swirling in his eyes, as the robe slips from his shoulders, revealing the hardened contours of his chiseled body to you. With each intimate caress, the world around you fades, and each of you become lost in the warmth of each other’s presence. Your fingers intertwine, exploring familiar places as well as uncharted territories, each touch deepening the connection you both share. Cleon, with a mix of eagerness, impatience and tenderness, he eagerly reciprocates, his hands finding the delicate fabric of your robes. There’s a hunger in his touch, a yearning that spins the air around you charged with desire. He gently eases the garment away, exposing your tender skin, and his gaze falls upon your body with admiration, drinking in every curve and contour as if it were a masterpiece.

His hands practically trembled slightly with eager excitement. The rhythm of your breaths synchronizes, slow and purposeful, echoing the unspoken words of desire that hung in the air. It’s a dance of intimacy, a delicate balance of vulnerability and passion, as you and Cleon lose yourselves in the moment, craving more than just physical closeness, but an emotional intertwining would surely bind you together, heart and soul.

When your bare skin finally touches, the sensation is intoxicating. Cleon pulls you against him, your bodies melding together in a fervent embrace. The warmth radiating between you is enveloping, igniting every nerve ending. Soft gasps escape from your lips, a shared symphony of pleasure that fills the space around them.

With reverent hands, Cleon roams across your body, his fingertips tracing the gentle slopes of your waist and the delicate curve of your neck. He memorizes every aspect, moving slowly as if to imprint the memory of your skin into his very being. Each glide of his hand sends shivers coursing through you. In that moment, each of you exist solely for one another, your breaths mingling, forming a quiet backdrop to the burning desire that fuels both your and his every move.

As Cleon’s hands explore your body with an urgency that takes your breath away, he suddenly shifts the dynamic between you. With a confident motion, he gently flips you, positioning himself above you while his gaze locks onto yours. His eyes sparkle with an intensity that sends a thrill down your spine.

"You don’t know how long I’ve wanted this…I need to feel you—every inch of you. I crave to lose myself in you and your embrace. To feel your body against my own. To bury myself deep inside of you…”

Cleon confesses, his voice low and fevered. His words hang in the air, charged with the weight of his desire. The heat between you intensifies as he leans closer, his breath ghosting over your sensitive skin. There’s no escaping the depth of his longing, a palpable need that both comforts and excites you. Each word he speaks is laced with sincerity, deepening the connection that pulses between you. Cleon leans down, his lips brushing against your ear, as he continues.

"Look at you—You’re… breathtaking. Let me show you just how much I need you. Crave you. Desire you…”

His hot breath dances across your sensitive and silky smooth skin, further fueling the blaze that burns within you. Instinctively, you arch your neck, granting him better access, as his mouth greedily explores the sensitive skin above your pulse point. The heat of his demanding mouth sets every fiber of your being ablaze with a passion that seems only he can satiate. Your hands eagerly roam across his chest and up to his shoulders, feeling the strength beneath his skin that drives you wild.

Soft, heated moans escape your lips as he fervently works down your neck, nipping and kissing along the path that ignites your senses. But in the heat of the moment, you remember the control you desire to wield. As Cleon presses closer, a playful determination wells up within you. With a swift and calculated motion, you twist your body, reclaiming the upper hand and pushing him gently back so you're once again on top. The surprise in his eyes is unmistakable, but it quickly melts away into admiration mixed with intrigue.

“Always eager. Always impulsive. But it's my turn—let go of all sense of control, Cleon. I think you need to learn a little patience.”

You declare, a playful smirk gracing your lips. The thrill of domination surges through you as you lean down, your mouth inching closer to his, teasingly brushing against his. In one swift move, you pull a set of leather wrist cuffs from the nightstand, your plan set. Surprise flickers across Cleon's face as you secure one cuff around his wrist, fastening it to the ornate metal headboard. The shock in his eyes soon darkens into undeniable hunger and lust.

"Just to keep you from getting too carried away—after all—I am the one in control tonight…”

You whisper, a teasing lilt in your voice as you secure his other wrist. With both wrists bound, you relish the way he gazes up at you, a mix of surprise and palpable desire in his eyes. His gaze is hard upon you, resembling the gaze of a starved predator admiring its prey. He flexed his hands, tugging at the leather constraints. A tantalizing chuckle rumbles deep within his chest as his head lulls back in amusement.

"You and your games—you think you have me right where you want me, don't you? You've grown bolder…I'm impressed…”

He breathes, his voice tinged with excitement and a hint of challenge.

"Oh, just wait—I’m just getting started. Let’s see how well you can handle this before you completely lose all control.”

You reply, leaning down to press a soft kiss to his lips before pulling away teasingly. The fire between you burns hotter as you begin to explore the breadth of his body, using your newfound control to tease, please, and drive Cleon wild with desire, knowing that this game of power is one you both relish. As the leather cuffs snugly encircled Cleon’s wrists, the room seemed to hold its breath in anticipation. You took a moment to admire his physique, the soft leather contrasting against the hardness of his body. Every detail was highlighted—the breadth of his chest, the sculpted lines of his shoulders—as if the leather itself was eager to reveal the man beneath.

You made your way closer, trailing your fingers lightly across his chest. Your touch was gentle yet deliberate, exploring the powerful contours that defined him. As your hands glided down, you traced over his defined abdomen, feeling the ridges that spoke of strength and discipline. You couldn't help but notice the way his body responded; the muscles twitched slightly beneath your fingertips, an unspoken vow of the anticipation that was building within him. Cleon breathed in deeply, a low groan escaping his lips at the sensation of your caress. Frustration mingled with desire as he found himself restrained, his body arching slightly as though yearning for more of your touch. Each flick of your fingers sent shivers through him, a mix of pleasure and restrained longing that hung in the air like a charged current.

Leaning in closer, you let your warm breath dance against his skin, kissing along his collarbone with a reverence that made you savor each moment. The taste of him was intoxicating, and you relished the way he responded, feeling his quickening breaths as you explored. Cleon exhaled sharply, a blend of need and longing reflected in his darkening gaze, muscles tightening as he fought against the restraints, instinctively seeking more contact with you. With every soft caress and lingering kiss, the atmosphere thickened with intimacy. You admired not just his physicality but the intensity of his gaze, a mixture of admiration and hunger that sparked a fire in you both.

“You have no idea what you do to me…if only you knew—Goddess—just wait until I can get my hands on you. Fuck—”

He groaned, his voice strained, barely above a whisper—a confession that sent a thrill racing through you. As your hands ventured lower, purposefully teasing, you could feel the heat radiating off Cleon, the palpable tension drawing you both closer, igniting a vivid dance of exploration, vulnerability, and silent longing. The leather cuffs held him in place, yet in that constraint lay an invitation to delve deeper into the quiet desires that bound you both in an unspoken promise of uncharted territories and desires.

Frustration laced his tone as you continued your teasing exploration, knowing all too well the mix of desperation and longing swirling within him. He fought against the leather cuffs, the restraints a reminder of his vulnerability, yet paradoxically they served to heighten his sense of anticipation. Navigating further down, your lips moved lower, pausing to tease with gentle nips and soft bites along his sides. You were mindful of his insecurities, knowing how he felt lacking without a navel, the absence sometimes casting shadows over the confidence he exuded in other ways.

“You stand apart from every other man…No one has your strength, your beauty…No one has your leadership, your determination…No one could ever satiate my deepest and darkest desires, except for you…”

You murmured, the words wrapping around him like silk. Cleon's breath caught in his throat, a primal response echoing through him as you captured the essence of his being, each tender brush of your lips a celebration of the individuality he possessed. You could see the battle within him, the anger and frustration mingling with a yearning that was almost palpable.

“Fuck—Please…”

He gasped, the strained words spilling from his lips, an instinctive plea laced with desperation, urging you to continue lower along his chiseled body. The heat radiated off him, a flowing energy that intertwined with your own, creating a connection neither of you could ignore. The leather cuffs held him in place, yet in that constraint lay an invitation to delve deeper into the quiet desires that bound you both. With each step you took down his body, you felt the growing tension vibrating between you, words unspoken yet heavy in the air: a promise of passion and the longing for release. The struggle against the restraints intensified, and you could see his muscles coil tightly, a taut rope of suppressed need.

As you paused, your gaze locked onto Cleon's expressive eyes—deep pools of yearning that glimmered with a whirlwind anticipation, challenge, and damn near desperation Each breath he took filled his chest, rising and falling like a rhythmic tide that displayed his strength and vulnerability. The sharp lines of his abs flexed beneath your watchful eyes. The tension within him was ready to spill over, begging for release.

With a gentle but deliberate movement, you trailed your nails down the sides of his sculpted physique, feeling the hard warmth of his skin beneath your fingertips. Your touch was feather-light at first, a teasing caress that made him shiver in response, the restrained power of his body trembling against the leather cuffs that held him. You let your fingers wander lower, tracing along the edge of his thighs, where muscle met soft skin, deliberately drawing out the moment, reveling in the way his breath hitched, his body instinctively arching toward your touch. The mere anticipation wrapped around both of you, thickening the air with unspoken promises of raw want, need and lust.

Finally, you felt a surge of boldness and mercy; with a teasing smile, you lowered your head closer, letting your soft breath dance across him before you finally surrendered to his desire. You take his throbbing cock into your mouth, an exquisite fulfillment to the longing that hung between you. As your mouth enveloped him, Cleon's body reacted with an immediate and intense response. His breath caught in his throat, a sharp intake that quickly turned into a ragged pattern, each heavy exhale laced with a mixture of surprise and pleasure. The moment your warmth embraced him, his head fell back against the surface with a soft thud; his eyes fluttered closed in a desperate attempt to anchor himself amidst the overwhelming sensations.

His hips instinctively shifted, seeking to find a rhythm, a way to control the waves of ecstasy that surged through him. Though the leather cuffs held him firmly, he pushed against them, a primal urge to deepen the connection, to feel more of you, more of the delicious friction that sent jolts of pleasure racing through his veins. The intensity in his gaze returned as he opened his eyes, locking onto yours with a fervor that spoke volumes—an invitation to keep pushing, to delve even deeper into this shared experience. You noticed the way his muscles quivered, the tautness in his thighs betraying his struggle to hold back, an unconscious cacophony of need as he bucked his hips slightly into your mouth, chasing that blissful feeling.

“God… please, don’t stop. Just like that. That's it…Oh fuck—Your mouth… It feels so good. You're doing so well…”

He gasped, his voice a mix of desperation and awe, each word punctuated by a shaky breath. The raw vulnerability in his plea only fueled the fire of your actions, urging you to explore further. He praised, his voice low and gravelly, wrapped in a dark haze of pleasure. The compliment hung in the air, igniting a rush of warmth within you even as you continued to savor him, your rhythm steady yet teasing, your movements instinctively attuned to his reactions. With each electric glide of your tongue, you could feel the tension in his body building, coiling like a spring ready to snap.

As Cleon praises you, a warm rush of satisfaction courses through you, igniting every nerve ending with exhilaration. His voice, filled with desperate admiration, spurs you on, pushing you to explore the boundaries of your shared pleasure. Encouraged by his words, you instinctively tighten your grip, pumping his cock in rhythm with the thrusts of his hips into your mouth. The room is soon filled with the sinful squelching sounds of Cleon fucking your mouth and throat.

With each thrust of his hips, you move your head in a synchronized rhythm, your tongue skillfully swirling and dancing around him, savoring the way his pleasure intensifies. The taste of him ignites a hunger deep within you, each movement more deliberate and passionate than the last. You feel powerful in this moment, reveling in how his body responds to your every action. As Cleon's praises grow more fervent, you can’t help but hum softly in acknowledgment, the sound vibrating against him and amplifying the sensations. The vibrations send shivers down his spine, earning a whimpering groan from the Emperor.

Your eyes flicker up to meet his, watching the way his expression shifts—how the tension coils tighter in his muscles as you work him, and how his breath comes faster, more erratic. Each hum and gentle moan you release seems to echo the urgency growing within him, creating an intoxicating feedback loop of desire. With every deep breath, you lean into him, your own body responding to the exchange, heating with an insatiable yearning. With every hitch of his hips, he works his cock deeper into your throat. Tears stung the back of your eyes as you eagerly take his throbbing length down your throat.

The more you immerse yourself in the rhythm, the more your body responds to the overwhelming sensations coursing through you. Each of Cleon's praises reverberates within, igniting every nerve ending and sending waves of heat cascading through your skin. The world around you fades, leaving only the intoxicating connection between you and Cleon, and a desperate longing that curls deep in your core, searching for sweet relief. The need for friction becomes an insistent whisper in the back of your mind. You can’t help but rub your thighs together, seeking some form of relief from the swell of arousal building within you. Desperately, your fingers eagerly find your neglected and sopping cunt. Slowly, you pressed tight, deliberate circles onto your clit; the sensation earns a heated and needy moan from you.

With each swallow, you feel your body tighten, a delicious tension drawing you closer to the edge. Cleon’s groans of pleasure fuel your desire, setting your heart racing while every pulse of his excitement mirrors the yearning inside you. The way his hips thrust deeper awakens a primal instinct, urging you to meet him with your own desperate rhythm. You become lost in the fervor, the way your fingers work your neglected cunt mingling with your voiced encouragements, every sound blending into a melody of passion. It’s a dance of give and take, where each moment teeters on the brink of climax, both for you and for him, a tantalizing game of yearning and satisfaction that feels both boundless and finite.

As you begin to pleasure yourself, a rush of awareness sweeps over Cleon. His breath hitches, a low growl of desire escaping his lips as he watches the exquisite movements of your hands. Every stroke, every soft gasp you release ignites a primal need deep within him, awakening an insatiable hunger to claim you as his own. With each passing moment, the leather cuffs that bind him to the intricately carved headboard become more of a prison than a restraint. The sight of you, lost in pleasure, drives him wild with longing. He can barely think, his instincts taking over as he strains against the cuffs, feeling them dig into his skin.

"Stop teasing me, woman. Goddess……I need to feel you, all of you.”

He grunts, his muscles tensing as he fights against the confines. His desperation to feel you, to fill you, and to take you was unbearable. With a primal roar, fueled by an overwhelming desire, Cleon breaks the leather constraints, the sound echoing in the air around you. He lunges forward, the fierce need in his eyes capturing the essence of your heated and passionate night. His hand finds your throat, pulling your head up to face him. His eyes are blown and full of insatiable lust. A soft gasp escapes from your swollen lips, a wide grin threatening to rise to the surface.

"You’re mine—No one else can have you like this. Let me feel you—Let me show you just how much I want you…how much I need you.”

He growls, positioning himself so that he can force you to submit. You eagerly let him guide you to where he wants you. His grip on your throat was firm and commanding, but not enough to block your airway completely. Your head spun with dizzying pleasure as Cleon positioned himself to hover over you, his body taut with anticipation. The room is charged with electricity, your heart racing as the boundaries between you dissolve further. Cleon wastes no time in eagerly burying the entire length of his girthy cock into your tight and quivering cunt.

At the sudden force, you cry out in pleasurable pain as his girth stretches and molds the spongy walls of your core. He gives you just a moment to adjust to him as he fully bottoms out; the head of his cock threatening to nudge your cervix. With a whimper of pleasure, you eagerly nod to him, needing to feel every inch of him. As Cleon drives deeper into you, he revels in the sensation of your body molding perfectly around him, a perfect fit that sends waves of pleasure coursing through both of you. His hands grip your waist with an urgency that speaks of his desire to claim you entirely.

You respond eagerly, wrapping your arms around his broad shoulders, pulling him closer as your legs encircle his waist, drawing him in even deeper. The heat between you intensifies, and you can feel every inch of him filling you, creating a delicious tension that makes you gasp with need. With every snap of his hips, the room is filled by the sinful cacophony of skin colliding against skin in a fit of heated passion.

“Gods, you feel incredible…fuck…”

Cleon growls, his voice thick with lust as he leans down to capture your lips in a fierce kiss. The taste of you ignites his senses further, and he instinctively thrusts harder, seeking to drive you both closer to the edge. You moan against him, your body responding eagerly to his every move. As he moves and snaps his hips, the rhythm builds, and Cleon can’t help but groan at the sensation of being enveloped by you.

“Don't stop…don't stop. Oh fuck, right there! Fuck! Cleon!”

You cry out breathlessly, your praises encouraging him to continue. Your nails sink into his as you rake them down his chiseled back, leaving deep red scratches in their wake. He groans at the burning sensation, snapping his hips harshly against yours. With each harsh snap of his hips, the head of his cock collides against your cervix with a pleasurable and burning ache that makes you whimper in pure ecstasy.

“You're mine. Only mine. You make me feel alive…”

Cleon declares, the primal need in his voice sending shivers down your spine. Each thrust sends waves of pleasure washing over you, filling you with a sense of fullness that has you gasping for more. With each movement, Cleon’s eyes darken with desire. He growls softly, lost in the bliss of the moment, feeling both powerful and possessive. His voice is low and rough as he pulls back slightly to admire you beneath him, your expression a mix of pleasure and longing, urging him to continue.

As the heat between you escalates, each thrust Cleon delivers pushes you closer to the precipice of bliss and sweet release. You can feel the tension coiling tightly within you, a lovely pressure building with every movement. Cleon’s hands grip you firmly, anchoring you in place as he shifts his weight, giving you deeper access, and heightening the sensations coursing through your body. Your spongy walls tighten and quiver as Cleon pushes you closer to the edge of release.

“I can feel it…you're so close. Just a little more…just like that…”

He nearly whimpers from the pleasure, his voice a strained growl. His breath is hot against your skin, sending shivers down your spine as he pounds into you with a fervor that speaks of his own urgency. You nod, breathless and desperate, your body singing with pleasure. You gasp sharply as Cleon's hand finds your throat, his lips crashing against yours for a sloppy but passionate kiss. A primal instinct takes over as Cleon’s desire ignites fully. He takes possession of you, each thrust becoming more urgent, more intense.

“Fuck! Cleon! Cleon……I can’t… I’m so close! I'm gonna cum! Please!”

His grip tightens on your throat as he brings his lips to yours again, swallowing your moans, spare breaths, and gasps, claiming every sound you make.

“Then cum for me…You're mine…every inch of you is mine…”

He whispers fiercely, as if claiming you over and over with each snap of his hips, intensifying the connection between you both. The world outside fades into oblivion. All that matters is the two of you moving in sync. The heat builds, radiating from the core of your being as you chase that sweet release. You feel him swell, throbbing within you as he nears his own brink release. The familiar wave of ecstasy unfurls, flooding your body, tightening everything within as pleasure radiates through your entire body.

“Cleon! Please!”

You cry out, ridden with desperate need. The words spill from you, raw and unrefined. With a growl that resonates deep in his chest, Cleon shifts angles, hitting that sweet spot. His pace quickens, his thrusts becoming frantic, as if time itself is slipping away. You can feel the overwhelming tide of pleasure cresting, ready to break.

“Yes, that’s it. Let it happen. Just like that….oh I'm so close…I’m right there with you.”

He encourages the control in his voice, urging you on as if he’s guiding you to the edge. With each thrust, he grunts, his face contorted by pleasure, eyes dark with lust, full of an intoxicating mix of hunger and need. The rush swells, pulling you under in a wave of white-hot bliss, and you can’t hold back any longer.

“Cleon—!”

You scream as the world explodes around you, your body clenching tightly around him as you release, sending both of you spiraling over the edge together. In the throes of passion, Cleon’s grip tightens, holding you close as he finds his own release, groans mingling with your cries. Hot strings of his release paint and coat your walls and cervix in white. The room echoes with the sound of two souls entwined, finishing in harmonious passion.

As the intensity of your shared climax begins to ebb, Cleon pulls you close, enveloping you in his warmth. Your bodies, still intertwined, feel the residual tremors of pleasure coursing through you. Breaths come in ragged gasps, each inhale mingling with the scent of sweat and satisfaction that lingers in the air. Cleon’s heart pounds against your chest, a steady rhythm that slowly syncs with your own. His fingers trace gentle patterns along your back, soothing and grounding you as you both come down from the height of ecstasy. You feel cherished in this moment, wrapped in the cocoon of his embrace.

“You felt amazing as always…you did so well for me…”

He murmurs, his voice low and husky, still tinged with wonder and awe. You nod, your cheek resting against his shoulder, a soft smile playing on your lips.

“It was incredible…I’ve never felt anything like it. So raw. So passionate.”

You reply, your voice still a little breathless. The words spill from you, raw and honest, echoing the truth of that beautiful release you just shared. Cleon's fingers slide under your chin, tilting your face up to meet his gaze. His eyes, dark and filled with a mix of satisfaction and possessiveness, lock onto yours, making your heart flutter.

“You’re everything to me…”

He states fiercely, the sincerity in his tone wrapping around you like a safety blanket. In that moment, the lingering heat of passion begins to melt away the boundaries between you, drawing you further into his orbit. You reach up, tracing your fingers along his jawline, marveling at the way his lips twitch into a soft smile, a contrast to the raw fire you just experienced.

“Stay with me, even just for a little while longer.”

He pleads, tightening his hold as if afraid the moment might slip away. You nod again, feeling secure and wanted in his embrace. Minutes stretch into each other as you bask in the warmth of each other’s skin. Cleon brushes a delicate kiss against your forehead, grounding you further in this intimate sanctuary created just for the two of you. It’s a moment that feels suspended in time, one where everything outside no longer matters—a moment that firmly binds your hearts together.

“Always, Cleon….”

You whisper, feeling the connection between you deepen. The room hums with a gentle stillness, the outside world fading as you both savor the afterglow—a blissful capacity for silence, filled with unspoken promises and newfound closeness.

[cynautica]

ouuuugh im rusty and in creative ditch rn, so decided to try painting some scenes of the architect homeworld from my fic

if anyone has requests,,, 🥺

I. AMBASSADOR'S ATRIUM

Standing above the city of Tel Ju is a building at odds with the surrounding windowless landscape. This atrium stands directly before a landing pad that was commonly used back in the hay day. The dome of glass sat like a bubble splintered by grass in the surrounding landscape, and was in fact very controversial during its use.

The glass used was an import from a prestigious colony known as Ios 5, and that alone stirred dissent among upper ranks of homeworld purist who felt this was inadequate. The dome-like construction was likewise a point of contention even for non-purist subscribers of the neobrutalist movement that sought to represent the capital as the scientifically minded brain of the species. Others argued that the glass dome was truly the best way to highlight the stunning foggy peaks Tel Ju is known for.

The atrium was restored no less than 7 times; not because it was destroyed by any great terrorist attack but fragile glass tends to shatter when beside a launch zone that frequently houses supersonic vehicles. In all it brought quite a lot of shame to upper authority even though it served its job well. The building had a diamond like floor plan that housed a console and adjacent rooms gave way to portal arrays to places of interest in the capital. Another room sported fabrication capabilities that accepted a wide range of technologies brought in by visitors. In the end, the atrium was scheduled for destruction halted by [redacted].

Now the shattered glass dome serves as an impromptu greenhouse for the invasive vine known as degual lilies that soak up most of the sparkling light. During sunsets the warm glow bathes any visitors in brilliant tiger stripes brought on by the criss-crossing vines.

The lilies have affected the architecture severely here and many panels threaten to shatter at the faintest touch. It is a testament to its neglect that the slow blooming blue flowers have grown so large.

[justforbooks]

Nothing but the truth: the legacy of George Orwell’s Nineteen Eighty-Four

Every generation turns to it in times of political turmoil, and this extract from a new book about the novel examines its relevance in the age of fake news and Trump

December 1948. A man sits at a typewriter, in bed, on a remote island, fighting to complete the book that means more to him than any other. He is terribly ill. The book will be finished and, a year or so later, so will the man.

January 2017. Another man stands before a crowd, which is not as large as he would like, in Washington DC, taking the oath of office as the 45th president of the United States of America. His press secretary says that it was the “largest audience to ever witness an inauguration – period – both in person and around the globe”. Asked to justify such a preposterous lie, the president’s adviser describes the statement as “alternative facts”. Over the next four days, US sales of the dead man’s book will rocket by almost 10,000%, making it a No 1 bestseller.

When George Orwell’s Nineteen Eighty-Four was published in the United Kingdom on 8 June 1949, in the heart of the 20th century, one critic wondered how such a timely book could possibly exert the same power over generations to come. Thirty-five years later, when the present caught up with Orwell’s future and the world was not the nightmare he had described, commentators again predicted that its popularity would wane. Another 35 years have elapsed since then, and Nineteen Eighty-Four remains the book we turn to when truth is mutilated, when language is distorted, when power is abused, when we want to know how bad things can get. It is still, in the words of Anthony Burgess, author of A Clockwork Orange, “an apocalyptical codex of our worst fears”.

Nineteen Eighty-Four has not just sold tens of millions of copies – it has infiltrated the consciousness of countless people who have never read it. The phrases and concepts that Orwell minted have become essential fixtures of political language, still potent after decades of use and misuse: newspeak, Big Brother, the thought police, Room 101, the two minutes’ hate, doublethink, unperson, memory hole, telescreen, 2+2=5 and the ministry of truth. Its title came to define a calendar year, while the word Orwellian has turned the author’s own name into a capacious synonym for everything he hated and feared.

It has been adapted for cinema, television, radio, theatre, opera and ballet and has influenced novels, films, plays, television shows, comic books, albums, advertisements, speeches, election campaigns and uprisings. People have spent years in jail just for reading it. No work of literary fiction from the past century approaches its cultural ubiquity while retaining its weight. Dissenting voices such as Milan Kundera and Harold Bloom have argued that Nineteen Eighty-Four is actually a bad novel, with thin characters, humdrum prose and an implausible plot, but even they couldn’t gainsay its importance.

A novel that has been claimed by socialists, conservatives, anarchists, liberals, Catholics and libertarians of every description cannot be, as Kundera alleged, merely “political thought disguised as a novel”. Orwell’s famously translucent prose conceals a world of complexity. Normally thought of as a dystopia, Nineteen Eighty-Four is also, to varying and debatable degrees, a satire, a prophecy, a warning, a political thesis, a work of science fiction, a spy thriller, a psychological horror, a gothic nightmare, a postmodern text and a love story. Most people read it when they’re young and feel bruised by it – it offers more suffering and less reassurance than any other standard high-school text – but don’t feel compelled to rediscover it in adulthood. That’s a shame. It is far richer and stranger than you remember.

Orwell felt that he lived in cursed times. He fantasised about another life in which he could have spent his days gardening and writing fiction instead of being “forced into becoming a pamphleteer”, but that would have been a waste. His real talent was for analysing and explaining a tumultuous period in human history. Written down, his core values might seem too vague to carry much weight – honesty, decency, liberty, justice – but no one else wrestled so tirelessly, in private and in public, with what those ideas meant during the darkest days of the 20th century. He always tried to tell the truth and admired anyone who did likewise. Nothing built on a lie, however seductively convenient, could have value. Central to his honesty was his commitment to constantly working out what he thought and why he thought it and never ceasing to reassess those opinions. To quote Christopher Hitchens, one of Orwell’s most eloquent admirers: “It matters not what you think, but how you think.”

I first encountered Nineteen Eighty-Four as a teenager in suburban south London. As Orwell said, the books you read when you’re young stay with you for ever. I found it shocking and compelling, but this was circa 1990, when communism and apartheid were on the way out, optimism reigned and the world didn’t feel particularly Orwellian. Even after 9/11, the book’s relevance was fragmentary: it was applied to political language, or the media, or surveillance, but not the whole picture. Democracy was on the rise and the internet was largely considered a force for good.

In 2016, the world changed. As Trump took the White House, Britain voted for Brexit and populism swept across Europe, people took to talking anxiously about the upheavals of the 1970s and, worse, the 1930s. Bookshop shelves began filling up with titles such as How Democracy Ends, The Road to Unfreedom and The Death of Truth, many of which quoted Orwell. Hannah Arendt’s The Origins of Totalitarianism merited a new edition, pitched as “a nonfiction bookend to Nineteen Eighty-Four”. So did Sinclair Lewis’s 1935 novel about American fascism, It Can’t Happen Here. Hulu’s adaptation of Margaret Atwood’s The Handmaid’s Tale was as alarming as a documentary. “I was asleep before,” said Elisabeth Moss’s character, Offred. “That’s how we let it happen.” Well, we weren’t asleep any more. I was reminded of something Orwell wrote about fascism in 1936: “If you pretend that it is merely an aberration which will presently pass off of its own accord, you are dreaming a dream from which you will awake when somebody coshes you with a rubber truncheon.” Nineteen Eighty-Four is a book designed to wake you up.

It was the first dystopian novel to be written in the knowledge that dystopia was real. In Germany and the Soviet bloc, men had built it and forced other men and women to live and die within its iron borders. Those regimes are gone but Orwell’s book continues to define our nightmares, even as they shift and change. “For me, it’s like a Greek myth, to take and do with it what you will – to examine yourself,” Michael Radford, the director of the 1984 movie adaptation, said. “It’s a mirror,” says a character in the 2013 stage version. “Every age sees itself reflected.” For singer-songwriter Billy Bragg: “Every time I read it, it seems to be about something else.”

After President Trump’s adviser Kellyanne Conway first used the phrase “alternative facts” on 22 January 2017, The Hollywood Reporter called Nineteen Eighty-Four “the hottest literary property in town”. Scores of cinemas across the US announced that they would be screening Michael Radford’s 1984 on 4 April, because “the clock is already striking 13”. And theatre producers Sonia Friedman and Scott Rudin asked British playwrights Robert Icke and Duncan Macmillan to transfer their hit play 1984 to Broadway as soon as possible. “It went from zero to a hundred in the space of five days,” Icke said. “They said, ‘We think it’s important this play is on Broadway now.’”

When the play was in the West End, each of its three runs inhabited a different political context – the third opened during the Brexit referendum, just before the murder of Jo Cox MP by a far-right terrorist. During the run at New York’s Hudson theatre, which began on 18 May 2017, the directors noticed that the audience’s reaction each night was affected by whatever Donald Trump had done that day. The night after Trump tweeted the nonsense word covfefe, there was such a desire for humour that one actor was distraught: “I’ve been in comedies that have had less laughter than this.” On another night, the news was so bad that people passed out. At a third performance, when Winston Smith’s chief antagonist O’Brien asked: “What year is it?”, a woman shouted: “It’s 2017 and this is fucked up!”

It must be said that Trump is no Big Brother. Nor, despite his revival of such toxic phrases as “America First” and “enemy of the people”, is he simply a throwback to the 1930s. He has the cruelty and power hunger of a dictator but not the discipline, intellect or ideology. His closest fictional precursor is probably Buzz Windrip, the oafish populist from It Can’t Happen Here. In the real world, Trump’s forefather is Joseph McCarthy, who displayed comparable levels of narcissism, dishonesty, resentment and crude ambition and an uncanny ability to make journalists dance to his tune even as they loathed him. Still, Orwell would have recognised the type. “I think Dad would’ve been amused by Donald Trump in an ironic sort of way,” said Orwell’s son, Richard Blair, in 2017. “He may have thought, ‘There goes the sort of man I wrote about all those years ago.’”

There are precedents in Orwell’s writing. During Trump’s campaign against Hillary Clinton, it was hard to watch the candidate whipping supporters into a cry of “Lock her up!” without being reminded of the two minutes’ hate. The president also meets most of the criteria of Orwell’s 1944 definition of fascism: “Something cruel, unscrupulous, arrogant, obscurantist, anti-liberal and anti-working-class… almost any English person would accept ‘bully’ as a synonym for ‘fascist’.” Orwell contended that such men can only rise to the top when the status quo has failed to satisfy citizens’ need for justice, liberty and self-worth, but Trump’s victory required one more crucial ingredient.

He did not seize power through a revolution or coup. He was not potentiated by a recession or a terrorist atrocity, let alone a nuclear war or a fertility crisis. His route to the White House passed through America’s own “Versionland”, which is Russia expert Luke Harding’s name for the post-truth politics of Vladimir Putin’s Russia. In Versionland, flagrant lies become “alternative facts”. Trump creates his own reality and measures his power by the number of people who subscribe to it: the cruder the lie, the more power its success demonstrates. It is truly Orwellian that the phrase “fake news” has been turned on its head by Trump and his fellow authoritarians to describe real news that is not to their liking. Trump’s lawyer Rudy Giuliani accidentally provided a crude motto for Versionland USA when he snapped at an interviewer: “Truth isn’t truth!” In the words of O’Brien, reality is inside the skull.

How did this happen? On the eve of 1984, the science-fiction writer Marta Randall argued that one thing Orwell didn’t predict was the spread of cynicism: “It would be very hard for ‘Big Brother’ to convince anyone of anything post-Watergate and post-Vietnam.” In the 1980s, she suggested, Orwell’s target would have been the trivialisation of the news media. “We may quit relying on ‘authoritative’ news stories entirely.” Over time, this distrust of establishment narratives led many people to seek the truth but many others to choose their own “truths”. Combining cynicism with credulity, people who were proudly sceptical of CNN or the New York Times were perfectly happy to take unsourced Facebook posts and quack science at face value. Social media made this process all too easy. Facebook’s former chief of security, Alex Stamos, pointed out that using the blunt instrument to eliminate fake news could turn the platform into “the ministry of truth with ML [machine-learning] systems”, but by failing to act in time, Facebook was already allowing “bad actors” such as Russia’s Internet Research Agency to spread disinformation unchecked.

The problem is likely to get worse. The growth of “deep fake” image synthesis, which combines computer graphics and artificial intelligence to manufacture images whose artificiality can only be identified by expert analysis, has the potential to create a paranoid labyrinth in which, according to the viewer’s bias, fake images will pass as real, while real ones are dismissed as fake.

During a speech in July 2018, Trump said: “What you’re seeing and what you’re reading is not what’s happening.” A line from Nineteen Eighty-Four went viral: “The party told you to reject the evidence of your eyes and ears. It was their final, most essential command.”

One might feel wistful for the days when Big Brother was a joke and Orwell had “won”, as many commentators thought after the fall of the Berlin Wall. An era plagued by far-right populism, authoritarian nationalism, rampant disinformation and waning faith in liberal democracy is not one in which Nineteen Eighty-Four can be easily dismissed.

Orwell was both too pessimistic and not pessimistic enough. On the one hand, the west did not succumb to totalitarianism. Consumerism, not endless war, became the engine of the global economy. But he did not appreciate the tenacity of racism and religious extremism. Nor did he foresee that the common man and woman would embrace doublethink as enthusiastically as the intellectuals and, without the need for terror or torture, would choose to believe that two plus two was whatever they wanted it to be.

Nineteen Eighty-Four is about many things and its readers’ concerns dictate which one is paramount at any point in history. During the cold war, it was a book about totalitarianism. In the 1980s, it became a warning about technology. Today, it is most of all a defence of truth.

Orwell’s fear, incubated during the months he spent fighting in the Spanish civil war, that “the very concept of objective truth is fading out of the world” is the dark heart of Nineteen Eighty-Four. It gripped him long before he came up with Big Brother, Oceania, newspeak or the telescreen, and it’s more important than any of them. In its original 1949 review, Life correctly identified the essence of Orwell’s message: “If men continue to believe in such facts as can be tested and to reverence the spirit of truth in seeking greater knowledge, they can never be fully enslaved.” Seventy years later, that feels like a very large if.

Incredible things are happening already❗ 👀 🤔

Daily inspiration. Discover more photos at Just for Books…?

[dadsbongos]

P(AV) IN V

word count - 1.5 k / warnings - unprotected sex, pinv sex, vanilla :), make up sex, fem reader who wears skirt, not beta read

summary - you and pav fight... and then make up :3 with cool kitchen counter sex ~~~

“Late,” your words slice through the warm air as soon as the front door stutters open. Your icy tone dregs that welcomed warmth, blistering it down a raw, unforgiving chill, “Hours late.”

Pavel flashes a cheesy grin, manually crinkling the corners of his eyes, “My love! You’re alive, and you’re well! We’re both still alive and well,” his rambling persists as he slides through your frigid doorway and politely stops at the shoe rack, “How amazing is that, dearest? We could perish at any given moment should All-mer will, and yet we both still stand. Breathing. And well. And still…” he sighs, hesitant to break eye contact and pull off his boots (fearful your teeth will latch onto his neck the instant it's unguarded), “Still in love.”

Your folded arms remain firm over your chest, but the stiffness of such a guarded stance at least gives Pavel the confidence you won’t pounce as he unties his shoes.

“Yes, thank All-mer, my free fool has returned home. And in a lieutenant’s uniform no less… he shames us and his beloved All-mer for that. But yes, thank All-mer he’s home,” he’s wincing at the sting of your words, knowing exactly how terribly he’s set himself up, “Three hours late.”

Pavel finishes removing his muddied boots and settling them on the bottom layer of the rack in silence. Once that job is finished, he cannot hide behind the chore any longer -- now, he is forced to confront the full wrath of a woman scorned. Not just any woman, the only woman he’s sworn himself to; and not just any kind of scorn, the kind bred from arriving three hours late for anniversary dinner.

Finally, he weaves his fingers together at the pelvis and stares with those silvery sharp eyes; golden curls that have played you like a fiddle many times before falling over his forehead. As if he’s some kind hearted businessman from the center of town pleading for his wife’s forgiveness rather than the man he actually is.

He hasn’t even presented you with a ring, yet.

“I’m very, very late,” Pavel confirms, but it’s the last you want to hear. You already know this, what you want to know is what his reasoning could possibly be -- what made him think it was appropriate to come home without so much as a bouquet of flowers? He suspires sharply, so sharp it feels like a stab right in his lung, and shoulders scrunch towards his ears defensively, “I don’t have an excuse.”

“Pav…” you’re not keen as to why you trouble yourself groaning his name. It solves nothing, the only solace you scavenge is knowing it makes guilt bloom in his chest.

Even that is shallow.

“I don’t,” Pavel removes his hat and strips the monster’s hide from his back. Another way you know Pavel is not like the businessmen in town, when he steps forward more parts bare than clothed -- only a fraction of his intent is libido, “I was working, and then it was eight.”

“‘Working’,” you scoff, turning against the kitchen counter to pore into the steel sink. Colored blobs have pooled in the bottom, shifting in time with your unsteady rocking, “You’re obsessive, this is destructive. You’re going nowhere.”

“I told you,” now his sorrow is adopting irritation, brows furrowing and jaw tensing, “I told you exactly who I was, and you said you could live with it. I told you what I wanted for my life, and you went along with me anyway. I am sorry that I’m late, but don’t you dare pretend I’m doing this regardless of you.”

Unfortunately, you cannot dissent those points. Pavel was upfront that his life’s goal was different from other men. He was willing to meet standards such as marriage or pets or owning a two-story home, but didn’t need those things. He needed to kill the Kaiser. He needed revenge. He needed Godblood on his hands.

You were an unforeseen, much appreciated, highlight on his otherwise dismal path.

And now he was muddying it all, wasn’t he?

Pavel trudges further into the kitchen, naked bar the whities on his hips and socks on his feet. He’s comfortable again, and you must be too because your shoulders slacken. He feels more human now than he had during his entire drag of work. The men he bunks with are as hideous as wild animals, their immortal stench somehow worse. Pavel had begged for this temporary leave since the turn of the new year.

Only to finally return to you hours later than he’d promised. Pavel wisens himself to feel the shame searing through every heartbeat.

“I’m sorry,” he slinks up behind you at the sink, tender arms and soft cheek melting your frostbitten exterior, “I have no excuse,” he brushes loose hairs from your temple, fingertips kissing tenderly over your skin seconds before his lips do, “You’re right, dear. I should’ve paid you more mind, but I am not graced with tact. I will be better to you.”

One of the things that drew you and Pavel to each other was a mutual understanding of fire. And hatred. And hiding beneath slumped bodies until soldiers left. You understand Pavel as much as you’re irritated with him. His obsession is your obsession. If you’d been able to dedicate yourself to combat training and wearing their ranks, you’d be no better than him.

“You’re forgiven,” you heave the words as you turn, floating your arms to loop around his neck, “But I wish you’d find a way to be more sensitive to these things.”

“I will,” he soothes.

In an effort to shift the mood, you poke a finger against his bare chest, skin cool from being exposed all day even in his discarded uniform, “Showing off to your superiors again?”

He snorts, a sly smile overtaking his face, “I have to advance at every given opportunity.”

“Bremen whore,” you ‘tsk’.

“Yes, yes, I love the attention.”

“You do have a very lovely body.”

And Pavel most certainly does love your attention.

“Oh, you don’t say?” his breathing turns cursory upon the implication of your words, “Would the pretty lady be willing to demonstrate?”

“She might. If you can promise to be good for her.”

“Always,” he swears it.

You jump back onto the kitchen counter, tugging Pavel between your thighs by the ankles around his waist, “Liar. Make it up to me.”

“If I must,” he makes a show of sighing, kneading the fat of your thighs -- pulling you closer to the edge. Calloused hands burrow under your skirts, tossing the flowing material up and snagging your panties down.

Giggling deliriously, you spread your legs as easily as he maneuvers them. Pavel slicks his right hand with his own saliva, then tucking the wetted digits inside you while thumbing your clit. He’s selfish at the end of the day, removing his fingers (sans the thumb twirling your bundle of nerves) to push his trousers halfway down his thick thighs.

He slides inside you with a heady grown, hands clenching tight around the fat of your hips. His brows pinch and lips pucker, neck craning to mouth at your neck. Kissing as he bucks leisurely into your drooly cunt, always dragging you closer. Pinning your hips with his as he babbles against your skin, nuzzling as if you’re silken.

Pavel pants and whimpers into your ear, greedily soaking up the way your nails dig into his arms and moans sing his name.

“Louder, my love,” he begs, a particular thrust driving your hips back on the counter. His hands claw you back down, “The neighbors should bang down our door- be louder, my love.”

“Insatiable,” you manage to squeal out, head tossing back until your crown is smothering the cold, hard cupboard behind you. Pavel nods shamelessly, now kissing up your cheek to your lips. Drowning out your cries despite his pleas to hear every single one.

Pavel staples you in place, pausing only a moment before hurriedly stuffing you with his cock. He stretches over you, again avaricious for your mouth on his, muffling his own groans under the sloppy stirs of his speedy thrusts. His thumb matches pace, drawing the shiver of his own name, narcissistically, into the apex of your thighs. Your mixing juices soaking his skin. Were he not edging close to climax, Pavel would be tempted to sink to his knees and worship with his mouth. The thought sears through his veins, body seizing -- he hunches unflatteringly, clutching you flush as he cums.

The sensation paired with his devoted attention to your clit cinches the knot in your gut, thighs squished around Pavel’s waist and gasps ragged.

“You’re so handsome when you’re not being a terror,” you coo as Pavel lays his head on your chest.

He snorts quietly, nodding and curling both arms around you, “So tired. You should carry me to our room.”

“If we move, you’re doing the carrying,” you yawn, scooting down to rest your back flat on the counter (causing the both of you to whimper in overstimulation at the jostling).

After a brief respite, Pavel murmurs, half-asleep on your chest, “I’m content to sleep here.”

“Of course…” you yawn again, louder, and scratch your nails through his tangled hair, “I am, too.”

“Of course,” he mimics, laughing tiredly even when you sharply yank a lock of his hair.

[satancopilotsmytardis]

Drabble-A-Thon 2 Prompt #9

Pairing: Shigadabi

Rating: Explicit

Prompt: Fully conscious, hypnotized Dabi entering a scene with Shigaraki. He is forced to put on an outfit that he finds humiliating. 

Contents: Non-con/Dub-con, hypnosis, feminization, lingerie, humiliation, cock and ball torture, riding crop, spanking, masochism, sadism. 

When Shigaraki called Dabi to his room after a day full of meetings that Dabi barely wanted to attend in the first place, he hadn't been very pleased. He wanted to go back to his room and sleep, maybe find something to take the edge off of this weird, awful headache that has been starting to bloom behind his eyelids since they were starting to wrap-up their business this afternoon. But he has been summoned by their Grand Commander, so he goes when he's called. He can't get away with the kind of insubordination that he used to when the League was smaller, not when any of his dissent could ripple out among their troops. 

He knocks on  the door lightly, not wanting to draw attention to the fact he's being pulled aside to have a talking to, and after just a second, Shigaraki opens the door. 

"Welcome back." 

Dabi knows that Shig's brain has been a little more scrambled than normal because of his trips to the monster maker, but they just saw each other earlier today, and he hasn't left base since. "Uh-huh, whatever, you creep." He steps into the bedroom and find that the lights are low and there is a... metronome sitting beside Shigaraki's bed. It's ticking out its even beat and that headache that Dabi had before is starting to ache through him even more fiercely. He doesn't know what's wrong with him, only that, whatever it is, it's making him feel like his body is swaying to that sound out of his control. 

"Do you remember why I called you here?" Shigaraki asks, letting the lock to his bedroom door side shut with a heavy click. The sound of that makes Dabi's head throb. 

Do you remember? You'll remember everything I've done to you when you hear this sound.

The tick, tick, tick of the metronome feels like it's echoing off of his skull, around it, making each beat batter against the wall in his mind that... that Shigaraki put there. That the other man used one of his secret new quirks to wall away the... ways that he's been bringing Dabi right back to this room to... hurt him for months now. Dabi does not tremble when the memories of that come flooding back. He does not waver when he knows that he is not going to get out of this room without being violated again. He holds his spine straight when he feels his quirk locked away under his skin from one of the bastard's old commands. 

"Fuck you, Shigaraki." He is allowed to speak. The fucker wants to hear how much he hates the things that he makes his body do. Nothing ever makes him fuck him harder than hearing Dabi snarl into his sheets how much he wants him dead for the things he does to his body. 

Duster comes around in front of him and Dabi is expecting it when he slaps him across the face so hard that his staples cut the inside of his cheek. "Someday, you're going to learn how to behave without me having to force you." Like hell. Shigaraki reaches down and cups his cock through his pants and Dabi wants to scream, wants to cry, because Shigaraki never ordered him to get aroused, but his stupid cock has been so well-trained by the other man's cruelty already that he's starting to harden. "See? Look at how much your body wants this. If you could just learn to behave when I give it to you, then you wouldn't have to be such a passive passenger during our encounters, firefly. If you could behave outside of our bed, I might even let you ask for special treatment in it." 

"I don't want anything from you." He snarls. There aren't many rules that Shigaraki has written into his body for these encounters, just three: Dabi cannot call attention to what they are doing in any way, he can not use his body or quirk to hurt himself or Shigaraki, and he must comply with any order directly given to him by Shigaraki. Everything else, the bastard said, he wanted to be Dabi's genuine reactions. He wanted Dabi to know that over time, his body has begun to crave the hard fuck the monster abusing him will give. 

Shigaraki squeezes his cock again. "You're being so bratty today, and I think that little brats should be put into their place. Luckily for you, I was anticipating that you would need to be punished today." 

Oh no. If Shigaraki was planning this instead of it being a spur of the moment thing, then Dabi is going to get fucked six ways to Sunday. 

"Strip." 

"I'm going to find a way to burn you alive for this." He isn't sure that he has much more of a window on that time now. When Shigaraki finishes his treatments, he's going to be completely fireproof and able to regenerate. If Dabi wants to have his revenge, then he has to take it before he goes into the tank, and he can't do that if he can't even remember wanting to burn the man once he leaves this room each time. 

"You're just making your punishment worse." Shigaraki tells him as he moves over to his closet to retrieve whatever new torture implements he's gotten to use on Dabi's body. 

He reluctantly strips down until he's completely naked and hates the fact that his cock is more than half hard already with his body's anticipation. 

Shigaraki clicks his tongue as he comes back out into the room, moving up behind Dabi's body and reaching around him with one hand to fondle his body, fingers gliding over his balls and along his cock before his hand falls away. "Spread your legs, brat." 

Dabi doesn't want to but his body has no choice but to comply. He stands with his legs wide under him and waits. There is a sharp whistle that goes through the air, and then pain explodes in his crotch and puts stars behind his eyes before he even hears the snap. Dabi's hands go to is cock, his balls throbbing as Shigaraki runs the riding crop against his knuckles as he tries to protect himself from another hit, his stomach rolling from the pain. 

"Naughty boy, I didn't tell you that you could touch yourself. Hands off." 

"I fucking hate you," Dabi is not about to start crying, but it's a close thing. He's not even sure if it would be the pain or the helplessness that would put tears on his cheeks, but it's sitting on the edge of his composure. 

"Such a brat," the next hit is just a little tap against his sore balls. "Especially when it's so clear that your slutty body likes it when I hurt you. I should have guessed. You couldn't even stay soft the first time I raped your tight little cunt," Shigaraki has moved right up behind him, body pressed against his own, so Dabi can feel how his cock is half hard, before his hand is squeezing at Dabi's again, showing them both, humiliatingly, that the pain didn't lessen Dabi's arousal. He's completely erect now, biting his lip hard as the touch feels like a balm against the hypersensitive, aching flesh. 

It takes him a second for his ears to fully process Shigaraki's words, his face going so hot. He fucking hates it when Shigaraki wants to play with him in this kind of scene because it means--

"Such a desperate little whore that you're not even going to be able to fit in your pretty panties tonight, baby girl." 

"I'm not a girl, you fucking pervert!" 

Shig's hand disappears from his crotch and the riding crop comes back hard again in the next second and Dabi lets out a cry, frustrated, pained tears misting over his vision. 

"You're whatever I say you are." He snarls back, moving away from his body and all but throwing the fabric he's selected at him. "And you're going to get dressed." 

His body picks up the clothes. His body doesn't tremble or hesitate to start pulling them over his skin as he stands in the center of the room while Shigaraki stands at the foot of his bed with the crop in hand. Dabi doesn't know if he hates his body more or Shigaraki's eyes as they linger on it as he pulls on a little lacy red bralette and a short, pleated skirt, so short that with his cock still hard, it doesn't even hang low enough to cover the aching curve of his balls. Humiliation screams over his nerves. He hates it when the other has time to prepare to torture him. It always means that he's going to be dressed up, that he's going to be forced to do new things, that Shigaraki is going to take him apart until Dabi passes out instead of just sending him away once he's finished. 

"There, much better. Now we'll see if you can learn to behave without my commands once you've gotten your punishment. Maybe if you can be a good girl, when those are all done, I'll help my little princess feel good too. Though," his eyes drift down to Dabi's cock that is still so hard even after the abuse he's already put his body through. "Maybe my little slut likes to be hurt so much he'll need a more long-term punishment if he cums before I'm finished with him." Oh no. Dabi does not want to find out what a 'long-term' punishment is, and his stomach sinks like a rock. He didn't even know he would... like it when Shigaraki hit him before. He doesn't know if he's going to be able to hold on throughout the rest of his punishment. "Come get on the bed, little girl, on your back. You're going to bring your knees to your chest and spread your legs wide." 

Even if the order didn't make his body move, Dabi would have gone over without argument, if only to hopefully make his punishment briefer. He lays himself out, blushing hotly at how the position puts his hole and cock completely on display. 

"Very good. Now you talked back to me and were very rude today before you came to see me. I think that you've earned... ten spankings." He trails the riding crop slowly along the most intimate parts of his body and Dabi starts to tremble. "Show me that you're not a disgusting, naughty whore who gets off on the pain, and then maybe we can do something special to help make your pussy feel good when we're done." 

At the first crack of the crop, the line of it going from his balls to across his hole, Dabi starts sobbing on the bed as softly as he can, the command robbing him of the wracking cries that want to slip from his throat. He can't bring attention to himself. He has to be quiet as he grapples with the hurts and the knowledge that they're going to get so much worse when he can’t hold on for the remaining nine as he gushes pre all over the underside of his skirt.

Thanks for participating! If you'd like to join in, consider checking it out here!

[k-nayee]

CHAPTER 12. ECHOES OF VALOR

❝In war, the way is to avoid what is strong and to strike at what is weak❞

Warrior M.List | Act Ⅱ

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˚＊˚✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ・・✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ⚔️・⚔️・⚔️・⚔️・✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ・・✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ˚＊˚

War on Troy: Year 1

Dawn brought the Greek fleet upon Troy's shoreline.

The sea was calm, its surface reflecting the fiery orange and gentle pink of the rising sun.

As the distant silhouette of the city of Troy loomed, towering walls casted long shadows over the lands—a fortress both intimidating and tantalizing.

Ships landed with startling efficiency as soldiers disembarked, their boots crunching against the sand as they swiftly began organizing into units. 

Banners unfurled in the morning breeze, the Ithacan emblem standing tall among the myriad of insignias of the Greek forces assembling.

You stood at the helm as the ship’s crew completed their final tasks. Beside you, Penelope’s gaze was fixed on the shoreline, her expression unreadable but her posture unyielding.

News of Ares’ fiery intervention and chilling promise to Agamemnon had spread like wildfire and silenced any talk about Penelope’s leadership or your role as Second-in-Command. 

Gone were the murmurs of doubt about a woman leading in war. Instead, the energy was honed in on the true enemy: Troy.

*･:*:★☽✧⚔️✧☾★:*:･*

Midday brought blood.

By the time the sun had climbed high into the sky, the battlefield outside Troy’s walls had become a crucible of chaos.

The Greek envoy arrived at the gates of Troy shortly after dawn, their demands delivered with the weight of inevitability. They asked for Helen, her stolen treasures, and the dignity of Menelaus to be restored.

The answer came swift and resolute: refusal.

From behind the walls King Priam’s messengers declared Troy’s defiance in no uncertain terms. They would neither return Helen nor yield to the will of the Greeks.

And so, the war began in earnest.

Greeks had charged with fervor, but the Trojans met them with equal force—their soldiers fighting with a tenacity born of defending their homes and families.

Clashes of bronze on bronze echoed through the air, a symphony of chaos punctuated by the cries of the wounded and dying.

Ithaca’s forces—joined by smaller contingents of Kefalonian and Spartan warriors—fought with unmatched ferocity, proving to be a sharp edge of the Greek assault.

Penelope stood at the forefront, her blade a blur of motion as she cut down enemies with ruthless precision. Her movements were calculated and fluid, each strike purposeful.

Beside her, you directed the soldiers with tactical brilliance, your voice carrying over the din of battle. “Hold the left flank!” you shouted, pointing toward a vulnerable gap in the Greek lines.

The chaos was relentless. A young soldier fell near your position, his hand clutching his side as blood seeped through his fingers.

Your stomach twisted as you caught his wide, panicked gaze. For a moment his face blurred, replaced by another from a distant memory—a boy from your village who had fallen to raiders years ago.

“Get him out of here!” you barked, snapping back to the present. A pair of soldiers scrambled to carry the injured fighter to safety.

Resistance was heavy but your forces pushed forward, inching ever closer to Troy’s walls.

By day’s end it was clear—the Ithacan forces had come the closest to breaching Troy’s defenses.

Respect bloomed where once there was doubt. Whispers of admiration spread among the Greek ranks, the respect for you and Penelope growing with each passing hour.

Dissent and doubt had no room in the wake of your triumphs.

*･:*:★☽✧⚔️✧☾★:*:･*

Evening brought a change in pace.

The Greeks regrouped, tending to their wounded and preparing for the next day’s assault.

You were near the encampment when Polites approached, his expression a mixture of curiosity and uncertainty. “Commander,” he began, addressing you, “there’s someone who requested an audience with head of Ithaca’s forces.”

You turned, your brow arching in question. “Someone?”

Polites gestured toward a figure standing at the edge of the camp.

He was striking.

He had russet skin that gleamed faintly under the setting sun, short tightly curled hair and vivid blue eyes that stood out against his complexion.

His armor bore a subtle retaining of the Greek aesthetic while being marked with flourishes that hinted at individuality.

The stranger stepped forward, a disarmingly warm smile on his lips as he gave a slight bow. “Patroclus of Phthia,” he introduced smoothly.

You narrowed your eyes, your mind rifling through your knowledge of Greek names and lineages. “Patroclus,” you repeated. “No name of importance comes to mind.”

Patroclus’ grin widened. “Caught me,” he admitted in an unbothered tone. “Allow me to clarify. I hail from Opus originally, though my time there was…cut short.”

Recognition sparked. Opus. The name and its connection came rushing back to you.

“Ah,” you said, your tone shifting to one of cautious understanding. “The exile.”

He chuckled with an edge of self-deprecation in his voice. “Guilty. Unsavory reasons and all. But,” he continued, his tone growing lighter, “I’m here for a good cause. Same as you I suspect—scouting potential dangers.”

You studied him. His demeanor was charming (almost too much so), and yet there was something in his stance—a subtle tension, a readiness—that contradicted his casualness.

“And what danger,” you asked slowly, “led you to seek us out?”

Patroclus’ eyes gleamed with amusement. “None yet. But I make it a habit to meet the competition.”

“Competition?” Your voice was flat, your expression carefully neutral.

Patroclus gestured broadly toward the battlefield. “As Second-in-Command of the Myrmidons,” he explained. “It’s only polite to meet our counterparts, wouldn’t you agree?”

You let out a soft hum, your lips curling faintly. “How polite of you,” you said dryly. “I’ll be sure to let my Captain know of your…courtesy.”

Patroclus inclined his head, his smile never faltering. “Please do.”

A tense silence stretched between you as the weight of his words settled. Polites shifted uncomfortably beside you, his eyes darting between the two of you, uneasy with the charged atmosphere.

The air seemed to hum with unspoken tension as you sized each other up—a battle of wits and will conducted in silence.

Finally, Patroclus broke the silence with a lighthearted chuckle. “I must admit,” he said, “the tales of Ithaca’s Second-in-Command hardly do you justice. But…” His eyes narrowed playfully. “You’re far more guarded than I anticipated.”

Your smirk sharpened. “And you’re exactly as insufferable as I expected.”

Patroclus laughed, the sound light and genuine. “Fair enough. It seems I’ve chosen my sparring partner wisely.”

Polites cleared his throat awkwardly, clearly relieved the exchange hadn’t escalated further. “Shall I…leave you to it?”

“No need,” you said, your eyes never leaving Patroclus. “We’re done here.”

Patroclus’ grin didn’t waver. Just as he open his mouth to respond—

“____.”

You turn at the call of your name to see Penelope striding toward you with purpose.

The scarlet fabric of the cloak she wore shimmered faintly in the sunlight, the gold cuffs in her war braids glinting with each step as she came to stop beside you.

Her expression was unreadable, but her presence was unmistakable—regal, commanding, and impossible to ignore.

“Is everything all right?” She asked, her sharp eyes cutting toward Patroclus who was already watching her.

He straightened, a glimmer of mischief in his striking blue eyes. He offers a light bow. “Based on the cloak and sword, I presume I have the honor of addressing Queen Penelope of Ithaca?”

Penelope’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly, her demeanor unchanging. “State your name and purpose,” she commanded.

The man huffed softly before giving a more formal bow this time. “Patroclus of Opus,” he said smoothly. “Second-in-Command to the son of Peleus, Ach—”

“Patroclus!”

A loud booming voice interrupted. All heads turned to see a figure bounding toward your group.

He was tall—commanding, though not quite Godlike— with tanned skin that spoke of countless hours under the sun. His golden-blond hair caught the light, falling in a wild yet somehow deliberate cascade over his shoulders.

Broad shoulders and rippling muscles that spoke of dedication to combat, his ruggedly handsome features held a boyish charm that made his grin seem almost mischievous.

“There you are!” he exclaimed, clapping a heavy hand on the other man’s shoulder. The force of it would have staggered anyone else, but Patroclus remained steady, his expression softening in a way that felt far too familiar.

You recognized that look—it was the same fondness seen often exchanged between Odysseus and Penelope.

“Patroclus,” the golden-haired man continued, “you’ve been holding out on me. Ithaca sends troops to the war and you neglect to mention the company they’ve brought along?”

Patroclus gestured toward you and Penelope, his smile quirking at the corners. “May I present my captain—Achilles of Phthia. Captain, these are the leaders of the Ithacan forces—Queen Penelope and her Second-in-Command.”

Achilles wasted no time taking stock of his audience. His piercing gaze swept over Penelope first, lingering on the red cloak draped over her shoulders. Recognition flickered in his eyes as he took in the sword at her hip—a symbol of Odysseus’ legacy.

Then his attention shifted to you, and his grin widened into something wolfish, sharpening as though he’d stumbled upon an unexpected treasure.

“So,” Achilles began, his voice carrying a blend of humor and confidence. “This is what Odysseus sends in his stead—a Queen and her second. A bold move even for him” He huffed with a shake of his head. “Though I must admit it’s not a disappointing one.”

You raise an eyebrow, your arms crossing as you regard him with an air of detached amusement. “Flattery will get you nowhere, son of Peleus,” you quipped.

Achilles chuckled, undeterred by your boldness. “Flattery? No, that was simply an observation.”

“She’s sharp.” Patroclus notes as if to back up his captain’s words.

Achilles laughed again. “A rare combination isn’t it? Ithaca clearly has an eye for talent. Though I’d wager you’re not just talented, but dangerous too.”

You snorted unimpressed. “Careful Achilles. You’re getting dangerously close to sounding like a poet.”

“Oh I leave the poetry to Patroclus,” Achilles replied smoothly, casting a playful glance at his companion. “But even he’d agree you’d inspire quite the verse.”

Patroclus hummed thoughtfully as though contemplating something. “She’d make a fine muse,” he mused, his smile turning sly. “Or perhaps...more.”

“Indeed.” he agreed, his gaze moving to you briefly before he shifted his focus to the group as a whole now.

“Many of the men have expressed their...let’s say astonishment at women leading troops into war. Though I say if they’re so easily unsettled,” he shrugs, “perhaps they shouldn’t be here at all. Brawn and strength aren’t the only qualities that matter. We warriors value strength, wit…and beauty.”

His eyes moved to Patroclus, lingering for the briefest of moments. The faintest trace of a smile softened his features—a moment between the two men.

The fleeting exchange didn’t go unnoticed by you even in its subtlety. It was clear to see their dynamic was more than mere camaraderie; it carried a weight of affection and trust that transcended the battlefield.

Achilles returned his attention to the group, his smile growing once more as he added, “After all, even audacity itself can be far more lethal than brute force.” His gaze drifted back to you, his expression both teasing and appraising. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

You tilt your head as you regard him. “Perhaps. But audacity can also be a weakness if misused.”

Patroclus glance at Achilles. “I like her already,” he said, the words carrying a hint of genuine admiration beneath the jest.

Achilles’ eyes sparkled as he leaned slightly closer as though sharing a secret. “So do I,” he said, his voice dropping just enough to make the words feel intimate despite the company.

Polites, who had been silent until now with a steadily darkening expression, suddenly cleared his throat loudly. His lips were pressed into a thin line as he gave Achilles a pointed look. “Perhaps you should focus on the war at hand, not Ithaca’s forces.”

Achilles turned his attention to Polites, his grin never wavering. “Ah the watchdog,” he teased. “Fiercely protective I see. Admirable, truly. I can respect that.”

Polites bristled slightly but said nothing.

You suppressed a laugh. “Polites calm down. They're harmless.” you said lightly. “For now.”

“Harmless?” Achilles repeated with mock offense, his hand pressing to his chest. “You wound me. I assure you my intentions are entirely noble.”

“Entirely,” Patroclus echoed with a sly grin.

Before the exchange could continue, Penelope stepped forward, positioning herself squarely between you and the two men.

Achilles blinked. His grin faltered for a split second before he recovered, the edges of his smile softening into something more genuine.

“Ah,” he said, inclining his head slightly. “Apologies my Queen. We didn’t mean to overstep, simply admiration I assure you.”

Penelope didn’t waver. For a moment the tension between her and Achilles seemed to hum in the air, a silent understanding passing between them.

You, meanwhile, fought the urge to smile at her protective stance.

Achilles and Patroclus’ flirtation might have been harmless—even entertaining—but Penelope’s subtle display of possessiveness was undeniably gratifying.

“Tempting,” you said dryly, letting a faint smile tug at your lips. “but I think I’ll pass. My place is here.”

“A shame,” Achilles mused, his tone still light. “But I suppose Ithaca’s finest must remain loyal.”

Patroclus’ smile lingered as he glanced between you and Penelope with a knowing look. “Loyal indeed,” he murmured, stepping back slightly as though recognizing the unspoken dynamic.

Penelope’s presence seemed to shift subtly beside you. She gave Achilles a pointed look, her own smirk tugging at the corners of her mouth. “Perhaps you should focus on your captaincy rather than Ithaca’s Second-in-Command.”

Achilles chuckled, bowing his head slightly in acknowledgment. “Noted my Queen.”

As the two men took their leave, Polites shifted awkwardly beside you, his expression caught between irritation and something unknown.

“Don’t pout Polites,” you teased, nudging him with your elbow.

“I’m not pouting,” he grumbled, his arms crossing defensively.

But you caught the way his sight lingered on the retreating figures of Achilles and Patroclus, his brow furrowed as though weighing their intentions.

*･:*:★☽✧⚔️ BONUS ⚔️✧☾★:*:･*

The battlefield was chaos—clashing swords, guttural cries, and the metallic tang of blood hanging thick in the air.

Dust and smoke stung your eyes as you surveyed the fray. The lines of Ithacan soldiers, intermixed with those of other Greek allies, surged forward in disciplined waves against the Trojans.

You darted between soldiers, your movements sharp and purposeful as you directed formations. Penelope's orders had been clear and you ensured they were executed with precision.

Yet, as you maneuvered through the thick of the fight, it was impossible to ignore the two figures who always seemed to gravitate toward you—Achilles and Patroclus.

“You should consider stepping back for a moment,” Patroclus quipped, his tone light even as his blade cleaved through a Trojan soldier. “Can’t have Ithaca’s finest getting scratched now can we?”

You threw him a pointed glance as you wipe sweat from your brow. “Ithaca’s finest has survived worse. Worry about yourself Patroclus.”

Achilles, a few steps away, dispatched another enemy with terrifying efficiency. He turned toward you, his expression uncharacteristically serious.

“The battlefield is no place for hesitation,” he said, his voice carrying over the clamor. “But when it’s you, it’s hard not to act.”

You rolled your eyes despite your heart giving an involuntary lurch. “I don’t need protecting,” you replied sharply. “I’m here to fight, not be coddled.”

Achilles’ lips quirked into the faintest smile. “Noted.”

Despite your irritation you couldn’t deny that their presence had its benefits. Their skills in combat were unparalleled, and their instincts—apparently overprotective when it came to you—were razor-sharp.

Still, you felt a twinge of annoyance each time they deflected a blow meant for you or inserted themselves into your battles.

Like now.

A Trojan soldier charged at you, his spear aimed with lethal precision. You sidestepped smoothly, your own weapon arcing toward him.

Before you could strike, Achilles’ shield slammed into the man, sending him sprawling.

“I had that!” you snapped, glaring at him.

“I’m sure you did,” Achilles replied, not missing a beat as he turned to engage another foe.

Nearby, Patroclus dispatched the last of a small group of enemies before turning back to you. “You’ll thank us later,” he said, offering a cheeky grin. “When you’re not nursing a wound.”

You shot him a glare but said nothing, instead throwing yourself back into the battle. You didn’t need them to shield you; you had proven your capability time and time again.

And yet their attentions never waned, their protective instincts flaring whenever you were within reach.

Later, as the battle waned and the Greeks regrouped, you found yourself at the edge of the camp away from the bustling soldiers, sharpening your blade near the fire.

“You’re always so focused.”

You look up briefly to see a thoughtful Patroclus taking a seat beside you before returning to your work. “Focus keeps you alive.”

Achilles appeared not long after, dropping onto the other side of you with his signature grin.

“You know too much focus is no good right?” he said teasingly. “Come join us for a drink. Or a sparring match. Something to remind you there’s more to life than war.”

You raised an eyebrow, not even glancing his way as you continued your task. “And you think drinking or sparring with you will help me relax?”

Patroclus chuckled. “Relax? No. But it might make things more interesting.”

“Interesting isn’t what I’m aiming for,” you replied dryly.

Achilles pressed a hand to his chest, feigning hurt. “You wound me.”

“Not yet,” you shot back.

“So much fiery, so much bite...” Patroclus leaned closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “You know there’s always room for one more.”

The whetstone stilled against your blade as you turned to meet his gaze.

“For what?”

Achilles smirked, gesturing between himself and Patroclus. “For us. Imagine it—Achilles, Patroclus, and the legendary second of Ithaca. A trio unlike any other.”

The weight of his words hung in the air, but before you could respond a shadow fell over the group.

Penelope stood there, her arms crossed and her expression unreadable, though the sharpness in her eyes spoke volumes.

“Am I interrupting something?” she asked, her tone calm and edged with steel.

Achilles and Patroclus exchanged a look before the Prince gave a shrug. “Simply in need of her insight,” he said. “We’re planning an attack near the western ridge. We believe her strategies have proven…effective.”

Penelope’s lips pressed into a thin line. “I’m sure my Second-in-Command has more pressing matters than aiding you with your skirmishes,” she said coolly.

Achilles met her gaze evenly. “Of course,” he replied, though his tone held a hint of challenge. “But perhaps a brief consultation wouldn’t hurt.”

You suppressed a sigh, sensing the tension between them. “I’ll take a look,” you said, stepping forward to diffuse the situation. “But only briefly. We’ve got our own plans to finalize.”

Patroclus’ grin widened as he pulled out and handed you a small sketch of the ridge. “We knew we could count on you.”

Penelope’s eyes burned into your back as you studied the map with displeasure practically radiating off her. She didn’t say anything; the slight tension in her posture told you everything you needed to know.

Before you could dwell on the thought, a distant horn broke the peace, its mournful note slicing through the quiet camp causing any ease from earlier to evaporate.

An Ithacan runner emerged from the shadows, breathless and wide-eyed. “My Queen, my Lady! News about a truce! A duel has been arranged—Menelaus against Paris. They say it will decide the war.”

You exchanged a sharp look with Penelope while Achilles and Patroclus straightened.

“When?” she asked, her voice steady despite the tension thrumming in the air.

“Right now,” the runner replied, his chest still heaving. “The Trojans—”

Another horn blast cut him off, louder and more urgent this time. Moments later Polites sprinted into view, his face pale and his voice hoarse. “Menelaus has been shot!”

“What?” you demanded.

“Pandarus,” Polites spat, his disgust evident. “He broke the truce. The Gods…Athena—they say she manipulated him. Menelaus is wounded.”

Patroclus’ face darkened, his lips pressing into a thin line. “How bad is it?”

“Not fatal,” Polites assures him. “But it’s enough to shatter the truce.” He hesitated, his gaze flicking to the ground. “This...will not end quietly.”

Achilles’ jaw tightened as his hands curling into fists at his sides. “Fools,” he muttered coldly. “A duel meant to end the war and they couldn’t even hold to their own terms.”

You glance at Penelope, the unspoken decision passing between you in a heartbeat.

“All right then,” you said, gripping the handle of your sword. “Polites, ready the men. We march at first light.”

Penelope nodded. “Send word to Diomedes and the others. We’ll need every fighter we have.”

Achilles didn’t wait for further instructions. “Patroclus with me,” he said, his tone brooking no argument. “If war is what they want...” His words hung ominously in the air unfinished.

The Opuntian-born firmly nods before following Achilles into the shadows.

Now buzzed with activity of preparations for battle, fires burned brighter, casting long shadows over the Greek banners rippling in the wind.

The time for calm had passed.

War was about to reignite.

[zukosdualdao]

these the things that blossom

zutara month, day 19: rumors, @zutaramonth

summary: in the days after the war is won, rumors abound in the fire nation royal palace.

In the days following the final battles of the war, there are rumors amongst the remaining palace staff, the Fire Sages. Did you see the way he ran to catch that lightning? one of them says. A brave gesture, some call it. What we sacrifice for love, say others. She weeped as she healed him.

Some make crude insinuations about what goes on in the young man's chambers in the nights following, as she refuses leave of his bedside.

Not worthy, the dissenting voices come, as they always will.

A member of the cooking staff in the palace kitchens goes out to pick fresh fruit from the gardens not many days later. When she gets there, she spots the vague silhouettes of not-yet-crowned Firelord on the arm of the waterbending master who fought bravely and defeated the princess. He is leaning his weight against her. She is helping him walk, but smiling as he shows her a bloom the color of the sky at dusk on the bushes. Faintly, from her place at the precipice that separates the courtyard and the gardens, she thinks she sees his thumb running gentle circles against his friend's wrist, a quiet, intimate gesture while she says something that makes him laugh, the sound of it a light ring in the wind.

Humming quietly to herself, she picks the supply of Zankan cherries and says nothing of it, turning her gaze away from them as the young pair stays in the center of the garden.

Love, she muses as she hefts the basket against her hip, must be allowed to bloom on its own course.

[ninesparrowsoftroy]

For the Mortal and Machine | Viktor | 1.1k | Blurb

Viktor, who, in his pursuit to uncover the secrets of what may lie beneath the metal plates of the Hexcore, disrupts the very equilibrium of the Arcane.

Things to note prior to proceeding: I have absolutely not the slightest of clues if this makes any sense at all, really I just opened a tab and forced myself to keep writing and here we are. I hope this is somewhat even remotely in the realm of his character.

Exposed; paled skin blooming a vicious red where the edge of the scalpel had torn through flesh and muscle, each individual vertebrae aching with the force of a discomforting stretch, lungs pressing against the hollowed bones of a weakened ribcage. Vulnerable; calloused fingers digging the cartilage of chipped nails into the plush of the palm, sunken eyes searching with a feverish desperation through the creased and folded papers on the desk, a dry lip drawn tight into a thinning line, chapped and blushing a violent pink where the skin threatened to crack. Alone; so completely and utterly alone.

Viktor did not resent the isolation brought upon him, nor did he find comfort in its hollow presence, instead he had grown somewhat accustomed to it. The desolation of the four-faced laboratory forced itself to become an inescapable familiarity, the quiet that had once been startling and foreign in the thrumming atmosphere of mechanical discovery and esoteric ambition, was now an instrument of focus not afforded before.

He uncovered in the silence a newfound means of potential, an opportunity to push beyond the limitations of physiological restriction, challenge the notions of scientific sanctity. No longer was anyone who could argue against a hypothesis or dissent to a proposal of experimentation. Now he simply could string out the calculations, weave together the prospects of potential and contrast it against the forces of reality. He could fail over and over and over again and spend however long it took until failure was nothing but a prospect of the past.

It was here in this desolate, haunting lab that the whispers of progress dripped itself into his desperate ears, pushing him further and further down its spiral. A moment longer before the desk, a second more to attune an equation, one step deeper into the labyrinth of something he would claw his way to discover.

Viktor set the metal blade against the cold surface of the desk, bloodied fingers staining the ridges of its handle. The wound stung, the opened nerves unwelcome against the still air of the lab, the muscles within his hand flexing with each drip of the liquid that seeped into the crevices of his palm. His skin itched, hand twitching with a subconscious longing for self-preservation, his fingers instinctively curling inward. It was with a principal force that he willed his muscles to straightened, splaying out his palm and fingers into a flat line, the sting of the stretched wound bitting at his nerves.

For science; for the taming of what has always remained so far out of reach, what has been intangible and arcane.

He let a breath fall from his lips, eyes fixated on the many faced machine that thrummed before him. Its metal plates shifting, clicking into place with a subdued agency, each form of movement accompanied only by a pulse of a cold, muted light. Viktor extended his arm out into the buzzing atmosphere of the core, his palm facing its dancing faces. Faint though it was, the vibrations that encased and coiled around his wrist as he ebbed closer and closer towards the machine were unmistakable. He could feel the buzzing air crawl its way around his forearm, tickling the skin like thousands of minuscule needles all placed onto it at once.

A splotch of red pulled itself from his hand, droplets of red drifting in the air like satellites. He watched with a curious eye as the dots gravitated towards the machine, floating in a slow and meticulous sequence. For a moment they were like stars, a moving constellation of red, outlining vague and unrecognizable shapes in the buzzing air, before they were drawn into a singular line. The metal faces of the core flashed, the specks of red beginning to vibrate as the proximity between them began to wane. They trembled, losing their circular shape as each dot began to bleed into the one behind it, uniform it the way they formed a single line. Then, in the moment it would take to blink, the liquid vanished, sucked into the heart of the machine with a gluttonous voracity.

The reaction was immediate: each of its metal faces jerking with a harrowing uniformity, the buzz of the air growing sharper, what had once pricked at him now pressed with a newfound cruelty into the pale barrier of his body. He drew his shoulder back, attempting to yank his hand away from the machine in an effort of retreat. The open wound of his hand began to burn against the light of the machine. Panic then seized him when he felt the buzzing air lock onto his forearm, his body lurching forward when the core grasped onto the scrunched fabric at his elbow, tugging his body closer. Viktor could feel it pull the blood from his body, coaxing it from beneath the flesh and muscle of his hand.

It spun, breathing with every spark of pain that shot through his body, each runic face trembling as they shifted in and out of place. He bit back the noise within his throat, his lungs withholding any sound or breath as panic gave way to desperation. Its pull grew harsher, tugging at the bone inside his hand, ripping away his skin in search of red and white. Around him the lab grew dark, shadows contorting in the corners behind pillars and beneath desks and equipment. The starless light of the night no longer fell into the room through the window, instead all sources of sight came from the twitching pulse of the core’s glow. It danced between shades of purple and blue, sparks of white garnering black dots in his vision.

Everything buzzed, tilting between horizontal and vertical, spinning as the atmosphere of the machine grew, clawing up his arm until he could it feel it from every limb. His hands, his arms, his neck, his back, his hip, his feet; it was consuming, swallowing him whole. He could feel the weight of its hold against him, the impaling pierce of the needle-like air puncturing into the weakening muscles of his limbs, its low resounding hum pounding itself against the walls of his skull.

The core gave another feral jerk, its mechanical form trembling as it grew unstable, the metal faces colliding and crashing against one another as they began to fall onto the hard surface of the desk. That was when Viktor could feel his eyes roll back, all sound in the room vanishing as a single reverberating shriek splintered through the lab, and all he could do was pray helplessly that he would wake up eventually.

I have given no permission for my writing or work to be posted anywhere else other than this account. I hope you enjoyed. <3

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

For the Crowley interaction event how about him getting lunch one day and a food fight breaks out in the cafeteria? It can be a mob student or a main boy that starts it I just want to know how he reacts and deals with it or not.

Enter; An Unkindness of Ravens.

Meat pie, meat pie🎵

Crowley hummed in his head as he fell into the cafeteria line. He could smell the spices and hearty game meat stewing in the kitchen. His mouth watered, eager to sink his teeth into a slice.

Students inched forward, drifting to vacant tables with trays of food and drink. The system the school had in place was streamlined, efficient--before long, Crowley was the next to be served.

“Ah, headmaster. Here for your lunch break, I see,” one of the chefs greeted. He plopped an entire meat pie onto a platter and slid it toward Crowley. "There you are, an extra-large helping of your favorite!"

"Thank you, my good ghost," Crowley responded with the tip of his hat. "Please do keep up the excellent work!"

"Anytime. I know how hard you work to keep this school running. It's the least I can do to help fill your stomach."

"Fufufu, and it is very much appreciated~"

While Crowley exchanged pleasantries with the ghost chef, he failed to take note of the students in his surroundings. The usual murmurs had grown tense, like a rope pulled in two different directions. Shifty eyes met one another, fingers fidgeting.

Then, in the midst of the tentative peace, one boy's voice rang out.

"FOOD FIGHT!"

Hell broke loose in the cafeteria. Students were suddenly out of their seats, food flying, people racing for the exit or ducking under chairs to avoid the incoming fire.

Sebek made a desperate leap to defend his liege from mashed potatoes, Jamil hurried Kalim out, using his own body as an unwilling shield. Ace and Deuce were targeting each other, and on the opposite side of the room, Epel was flinging spoonfuls of applesauce, much to his dorm members' horror. Floyd busied himself with trying to catch wayward food in his gaping mouth. Riddle shouted over the chaos, attempting to gain control of the frenzy--no one listened.

"Oh, sweet, merciful Seven!!" Crowley cried out in distress. “G-Gentlemen, let’s calm ourselves and put down the—eeeep!!”

"Take cover, sir!" the ghost chest warned, diving under a table himself.

Crowley yelped at a rogue banana chucked his way. He managed to dodge it, only to find a gravy stain blooming on his vest. The next hit was to his tray, knocking his meal to the ground in an unceremonious heap, crust ruined and meaty innards oozing out.

"M-My clothes!!" he pathetically wailed. "My meat piiiiie!!!"

The food fight continued, unaware of his plight.

A great wave of irritation overcame Crowley. They will never learn right from wrong without a stern hand to guide them.

Slamming his tray down, he seized his walking stick in its place. Magic welled up from within him, bringing about a rain of shimmering light at his command.

At once, the frantic scene was put on pause. Limbs locking, food dropping to the ground.

"Hey, what gives?"

“Why can’t I move?!”

“M-My body…!”

"That's enough of that," Crowley announced, making his presence known. He folded his arms and tutted disapprovingly. “Really, now! I expect better behavior of my students!!”

"He started it!" the boys chorused. Crowley suspected that they would be pointing at one another, were it not for his spell freezing them in place. A few dissenting voices--Riddle ("I tried to control them, headmaster!!") and Sebek ("THE YOUNG MASTER HAS DONE NOTHING TO DESERVE THIS CRUELTY! PUNISH ME IF YOU MUST, BUT NOT HIM!") only contributed to the madness.

"Regardless of who did and did not instigate, all of you will have to be reprimanded. After all, the majority of you did participate or otherwise worsened the situation once it started!!"

Crowley thrusted a finger at the floor, then the walls. They were splattered with sauces and chunks of meat and vegetables.

"You should all be ashamed of yourselves. The ghost chefs toil to prepare these delicious, nutritious meals for you growing boys--and here they are, gone to waste!!"

He waved his hand, loosening his magical hold on the boys. Buckets of soapy water and mops materialized beside them. Realizing what was coming next, they collectively groaned.

"I believe the appropriate punishment would be to clean up this mess you've made. I recommend that you hop to it--there's only so much time allotted in the school day for one's lunch break." Crowley's eyes glinted with mischief. "Fufufu, yes, yes, that will do just nicely!"

I'm such a genius~

[phoenixfire-thewizardgoddess]

Okay but consider this silly idea.

What if Alastor, Rosie and Vox were together to start with?

It starts when Rosie is in the middle of polishing off her last husband, the meat tenderly marinated for days until it just slipped off the bone, as the sweet fool deserved. Ah, Horence... a tragic name, and yet, undeniably worth the hassle of socialising...

The last extermination had brought him down. However, Rosie had always been efficient, and in two shakes of a lamb's dislocated tail she'd had the cannibal inside, cleaned and prepped for cooking before the last angel slipped through the portal.

And then some upstart comes crashing straight into the hedges outside her kitchen window. Of all the nerve!

The newcomer is naturally disoriented, but those teeth say he's one of hers even if he lacks the... well, lack of pigmentation, to be ruly one of hers. A shrill blast of sound escapes instead of words as the plants fight back, a rather toothy flower tearing a chunk from his upper arm before it bursts into green flames.

The minute the new sinner lays actual hands on the plant it starts to wither and die. Rosie is as impressed as she is infuriated because hey, that's her carnivorous carnations, thank you very much! She had to barter quite a few of her best gowns for those seedlings from Gluttony.

In either case, she grabs the surprisingly thin creature by the scruff and drags him inside to a meal of her last surprise visitor. Casually explaining the situation, as she had many hundreds of times before, that the sinner found themselves in.

Over time, unlike her poor plants when he was in the vicinity, something bloomed. It was friendship, it was camaraderie, it was affection and adoration in a very specific form. Rosie was as charmed by it as Alastor was confused, but they suited one another.

Why, he even let her devour some of the other overlords as a date idea. Such a charming man, her silly buck!

Not once did she think about devouring him, not like the others. Well, not completely, at least, it was simply a sign of ongoing adoration to offer a finger here or a limb there. Especially if someone was injured.

Just not in public, the scandal alone for such gorey depravity was not worth thinking about!

Some of the cannibals and bettes had strong opinons about the situation... especially Susan. It could be said that her dissent ot louder after all her Tortured Tulips mysteriously died overnight, and she never forgave Alastor for that one. But he made it clear that nothing short of God himself would stop him from taking out her prized Lascerating Lavender if she didn't back down... and that seemed to earn some strange begrudging respect.

Rosie was delighted, but also frustrated that she hadn't thought to try that angle for blackmail. Ah, the oversights of familiarity.

Things changed, of course, because Hell is like that. Very little outside of an extermination bothered Cannibal Town, though, it must be said. Except on the occasion when some new sinner took offence to their diet and rallied other less wary or easily swayed fools to their cause to come start something on the colony.

Well, when dinner delivers itself...

Alastor was growing more powerful by the day, and whilst that was delightful, especially through their shared chains... Rosie felt worry for when they inevitably struck the glass ceiling. Sinners could only reach so far, after all. They were inevitably on the lower tier of magicks in this realm.

To hunger was to be a sinner, to be a cannibal or bette.

To hunger, to ache, to want and desire More. To claw your way towards power and infamy and feast over famine... no matter what it looked like to your eyes, you Wanted. It consumed you from within.

The Town and the structure helped temper that for the cannibals and bettes, keep them safe from falling into urges so feral that only death could reassert the Self. For Overlords, the pull was always stronger; sinners circled the edges of a whirlpool, but the more powerful you became the further down you sank. The inky darkness always waiting to consume.

They tempered it with one another. A mixture of two beings that blended seamlessly for the most part... but there were always jagged edges on both sides. A statement sharper than teeth to eviscerate. An argument that ended up ruining the decor with blood and fire. A clash that should resolve with an apology, that always comes from a too-bloody mouth. They loved one another, adored one another really... but this was Hell, and eternity was a long time. There was always something that would push the needle, even if it only happened once a decade...

But the place could always be rebuilt. After a battle the wounds were dressed and murmured apologies provided. That was simply... how it was.

And then something new arrived.

Alastor felt it first, he tried to explain to Rosie that it was as if someone had added a new channel to the radiowaves but the sounds made no sense. It was like... someone trying to describe colours using only sounds.

The... whatever it was fell just before an extermination, and naturally Alastor would NOT remain inside when a mystery was afoot. Not that Rosie wouldn't normally be tempted, but her silly cannibals and bettes did get so frightfully anxious if their Overlord tried to go gallivanting about during the ritual slaughter from Above.

Still, he was so enthusiastic that it was simply infectious.

Quite a good thing too. The odd box thing of a sinner was absolutely innundated with Sinners trying to get a good look at the new Thing.

Luckily for the flickering creature, two overlords were more than enough to menace away any of the fools getting between them and something new, interesting and intriguingly diverting... why, they hardly had to eat anyone! Ha, hah! More's the pity!

Overwhelmed, the little electronic fellow - as they assumed from the attire- stuttered out an electronic sounding thanks, before passing out cold. To be fair, it seemed the poor creature had landed on his odd boxy head which had left quite the dent in the pavement, and that was quite before various ruffians had played tug of war.

"Well, I suppose we'll need to take him home before Heaven arrives, can't risk such an intriguing thing getting murdered after we came all this way to see what the fuss was about." Rosie added mildly, hefting the sinner over her shoulder with as much effort as one might add a stole or boa to their attire. The head was somewhat awkward, but rosie could lift cars one-handed if she felt so inclined.

Alastor agreed, prodding at the sinner and chattering the entire way back. To be fair, they both got overwenthusiastic about hobbies and new interests, it was simply who they were. Hell was forever, and learning new skills or finding something to obsess over were good ways to remain slightly sane.

It took two days for the sinner to wake again, and they had tried to provide sustenance during this time but apparently when the creature wasn't consciously aware, water simply rolled off their... screen?

There'd been an odd line about assuming they were angels, before his eyes seemed to focus on the bloody, terrifying grins before him. To his credit, the sinner didn't flee, but you could see how he tensed beneath that turtleneck...

Rosie tittered at the endearment, and offered him water. Amused and amazed when it seemed to disappear into his mouth without impediment despite them definitely feeling a flat screen in the area during previous attempts...

He accepted some food, but clearly panicked when offered sinner flesh. Ah, he would come around. No worries!

There was some existential crisis management of course, the man hadn't seen himself in a mirror yet, and new forms got...distressing, the further they were from the norm. It took some time to help the man down... and then choose a name.

He settled on Vox. Intriguing, but he clearly had his reasons. Finally, they could ask about his head, and what the blazes he was... which took Vox off guard, as he explained what a television was, and how it worked.

Rosie had been slightly put out to be the only one in the room unable to experience the radio waves, but Alastor clearly understood her agitation as he kissed her hand chivalrously and murmured that her natural frequency was far too pleasant to diminish with excess static noise. She still wasn't entirely certain what that meant, but it did get the cheeky devil off the hook.

Vox seemed to grow awkward at their displays of affection, watching them too closely, too carefully. But he was welcome to stay as long as he behaved... and when he did finally try the local cuisine, he managed to maintain his manners.

He seemed to like the fishy ones best. But that was to be expected, she and Alastor would joke, given the sinner was part shark. It'd taken time to notice, of course, given the boxy television on Vox's head tended to draw the eye... but there were animal traits there too.

Two of which were only discovered when things changed between them.

It was much like how Alastor looked like a deer, but had radio parts in there somehow. You saw one thing and didn't anticipate the other.

Rosie, well she looked like a Cannibette... but underneath she was a cosmic level horror of bones and blood and twining thorny vines when she truly got going. She wasn't sure entirely what her duality was, but it was effective... and one could leave it at that.

Vox became a mess around them, even as Rosie and Alastor showed him the ropes of becoming an overlord. A few little deals here and there, the right people to fund a studio... a few sinners to man the lights poached from the former theatre overlord's crew (and that octopus/spotlight nightmare of a creature had tasted foul... but they'd eat him again to see Vox's delight).

Alastor explained that there was more room on the airwaves now, that signals bounced from Vox too, and once they worked out how the whole thing trasmitted, Rosie and her silly men had the first working television in Hell (outside of Vox himself). And once they realised the potential, not much could stop them.

Radio and Television, at first nothing more than playful broadcasts, and televised punishment for upstart overlord wannabes who tried the patience of the rising Sovereigns. Rosie enjoyed spilling her tea all over the Ring... and the tickle of delight at getting letters from other rings with tidbits to share, which was quite the surprise to all three. None had realised how far their braodcasts went.

Alastor and Rosie, the latter leading the way as per usual, felt that there was definitely room for Vox in their... Them. Especially after he had been the voice of calm to blast them apart in the last argument, gentling their tempers and checking no one was too injured.

Vox had been so calm, but so frantic, an amusing contradiction. Those eyes were desperate, searching and sharp clawed hands soothing as he talked them down from an inconsequential fight; his tone was so... right. Not the peppy newscaster, but a voice you could imagine drifting off to as they read you to sleep. A tone that suggested that it was alright, they were there, no matter what...

Vox came into his hypnosis shortly after, but he maintained that it was never part of that moment with each of them in the absolutely annhilated parlour.

They realised that the blasted box had wormed his way into their rotten overlord hearts, and he was almost powerful enough now to stand alone without them guarding his back. Not that Vox knew how many upstarts they'd smacked down to keep him and his dreams of his own television network, alive.

"Please..." he'd whispered.

"You didn't have to ask." They'd replied. Knowing, as one does without words, that Vox was simply an additional piece to Them, who fit in a way that would be hard to define in mere words alone.

Hell didn't know what hit them.

Suddenly the radio and television were everywhere. It took some negotiating with one of the sillier overlord upstarts (Pentious was it?) to get someone capable of creating proper television prototypes and then produce them en masse. Rosie was an excellent negotiator.

Rosie also primed the pair of her silly men with ideas, with gossip for news and corrected bland storylines for some of the radio plays and new soap operas Vox came up with. What a strange past time, to have nothing better to do than watch insipid actors make terribly overly emotive expressions too close to a camera for hours on end!

Still, it certainly did entertain the masses.

That was when some of Alastor's backers switched to Vox permanently, causing some bitterness and infighting that had to be resolved in the kind of carnal depravity and bloodsports most sinners couldn't imagine. That's where Rosie came in, so to speak, as she was rather good at reigning in the nonsense after a while.

Other times, their sniping had her wondering if she should put the fools on a leash... of the less fun kind. Ah, men. This was why she'd eaten her first four husbands... and at least one wife, but she'd been a special case. Rosie tried not to think about the past anymore, not when all her loved ones were with her in spirit through flesh devoured.

Speaking of which... Vox finally came around to the idea she'd been subtly pestering him with for years now, and sincerely offered to share flesh with them. Oh, he liked when they gave him a good nibble ir scratch behind closed doors, but... he'd even declined to eat their freely offered gifts. Which had been understandable, but had hurt both the other Sovereigns rather deeply.

She and Alastor dutifully took care of the whole affair, offering their own flesh back, not more than a mouthful of course as was ustomary... but it changed things. The taste of a loved one, of a known body and soul in your mouth, their scent and being becoming part of you... it marked you differently than consuming prey.

Vox was now Theirs, and they were His in a way that was indefinable, and definite. He didn't quite understand, not being a proper cannibal like them, but... even Vox felt the thrill of something different. Soemthing new tethering them.

He felt it so strongly that the silly little picture box begged the pair to marry him. And, blast them all, the pair couldn't think of a good enough reason to refuse... even if they'd wanted to.

Vox, their Vox, was so ridiculously sweet in those days. Oh, as ruthless and petrifying as any overlord like Rosie and Alastor to anyone else, but to them... he was amazing. He was perfect. He was... their picture box.

Rings were lovely, but the three way vow spawned something more intricate between them. Small rings held fast on their left ring fingers, joined by delicate chains that melded along individual colours from one hand to another. Soemtimes they'd manifest them just to look... or to make a point.

Things were going so well.

The three fell into a state of complacency. Oh, how they lamented that later on, in hindsight, when the threads of how it all went wrong came back to haunt them.

It started with a dip in ratings. Vox was obsessed with gaining more power, and suddenly interest was waning... he panicked and sought out new talent, new actors, new ideas.

And then there was The Moth.

Rosie had one of her Feelings when she saw him the first time, knew something was off. Alastor bristled like an alley cat when he ran into this Valentino the first time. He was exactly the type to become a disembodied scream on the deer's radio show.

The way he treated his thralls, and what he did to them, to take their control of their bodies away...

Rosie found it heinous, of course, but to Alastor this was depravity of the highest order. It had something to do with his human life of course, but that was a secret only Rosie and Vox knew, and many others in Pride came to rue when the Radio Demon found out your sins. Hah, the Devil wished he was this efficient at finding the child touchers, consent stealers and serial offenders.

The moth openly flaunted his powers, the smoke and spit that drained choice and faculties. Rosie almost tore off both wings the day she saw the creature lean forwards to kiss their Vox, the dazed expression afterwards... and the smirk on that purple face.

Vox was pulled away by several shadowed creatures, and Alastor went to remove the cad's head. Not that Rosie needed help, but they both wanted to Make a Point to the creep... not their Vox. Not anyone, if they could help it.

A big sinner like this, regnerating for eternity... why, with the right care, they'd have a stocked pantry for centuries!

And then the moth bites down on her hand, sending the world reeling into odd pinks, as her swiping claw goes wide. Hmmm, this was not ideal.Something slimy falls at her feet as Alastor gags, Valentino shrieking and trying to clutch at the bloodied stump of tongue he had left.

The pair were not as out of it as a regular sinner of course, the power of Overlord regeneration, but they definitely... weren't alright.

Vox is there, then, forcing Valentino back as his eye swirled. Sending the other into another room to wait for his tongue to heal, his wings to regenerate. Whatever trace amount he'd experienced, it was gone in that moment... there was genuine anger in his eyes...

...except, rather than come to their rescue, that fury was turned upon the stricken overlords. He hissed at them to explain why they couldn't accept Valentino as he had, that this was his biggest opportunity to push the boundaries of his broadcasting and gain a proper name for himself.

It left them reeling. Questioning where this had come from... how long had Vox been spending time with Valentino to bring such a strange personality to the table? Alastor and Rosie thought they had been adequate supports for Vox's own version of Hunger, of Want and Greed... but apparently not.

Where they would temper it, bind it in another direction, the moth had been feeding it. Whether he had been physically unfaithful or not, it was clear that something had switched inside their picture box... his loyalty wavered.

There was a stinging sense of betrayal as Vox crouched by each in turn, hands cupping their faces so gently, and told them to sleep. To let the poison run its course and wake up with a better attitude about their newest partner...

Normally, hypnosis only worked if they allowed it. Nothing more than Vox helping dull the pain of a vicious wound that refused to heal, or settling nightmares, the kinds of things any partner would want to help another with...

This felt like a violation. Rosie fought her own eyelids in panic, trying to snap out of the fugue state, attempting to convey with her eyes that she needed Vox to stop... because her mouth wasn't working right now. But it faded out, and she dimly felt the way he cradled her to the floor, settling her before striding over to the equally furious Alastor.

Awakening in their own bed afterwards was jarring, and both came up swinging, narrowly missing one another. Vox was sitting at the end of the bed, calm as anything, as if he was awaiting their apology for heinous behaviour at the last shareholder meeting or something equally mundane.

"Good Afternoon my violent creatures of death, have a good nap? Maybe want to reconsider your stance?"

"On... working with the moth?" Rosie felt she almost chewed the words, with how oddly stuffed full of cotton her mouth felt.

"Why, yes... but I was about to suggest, before anyone overreacted, that Val could... join us. You know, US. He's like a piece I didn't realise I was missing..."

"No. You know my stance on his ilk. And he... he drugged us, picture box. He did it to you in front of us, how were you to expect us to not react?"

"Whoa, he can control the dosage, and over time enough small exposures make you immune to anything outside of drinking his blood. I wanted to show you it was safe, that it was okay and you can trust us!"

"Darling, that was the worst way to do it." Rosie replied, groaning her way fully upright. Ah, she'd ended up sleeping in her corset... well, if there was any consolation, Alastor was probably equally as uncomfortable. "And I cannot... condone the moth either."

Something on Vox's screen dimmed, pure anger flashed there in a way that caught the pair off-guard.

"Oh, so you can't stand the idea I might excel? Is your ego so goddamn big, Al, that you can't let me possibly overshadow you and your stupid little radio bullshit?" he's spitting mad, and there's no way to stop him. "Rosie, I know you like him more, you had each other first and I was, what? A new toy? Something with two cocks you could enjoy until the first sign of dissent and then what? Toss me out?"

"I- what? Vox, love, you aren't making sense. You know that we love and support you, but you did spring the mother on us suddenly. Think about how long we got to know you before anything happened. Do you think that we would have Us, if we'd moved that swiftly?"

"Oh fuck you, Rosie, always taking his side!" Vox snarled, and where was their delightful picture box? This wasn't even like when Vox went partially feral during a hunt or from bloodlust, this was... something else. Unhinged almost. Where had this come from?

"She's not... we just want to understand what is in your head right now, Vox, you aren't acting yourself." Alastor adds, trying to get up and finding his limbs aren't cooperating properly. Rosie finds herself similarly disabled.

"Don't try moving, I added a few subconscious suggestions while you were out... didn't want to replace my screen today and all." Vox shrugs, expression falling neutral as he rises, brushing off his pants. "Listen, hey... this means something to me. But Val... I mean, he feels like the centre of my universe and I want to chase that feeling, work out what it means. And clearly I can't do it as an Us."

The snap of the tethers feels like muscle being pulled taut and cut in her chest. Rosie gasps, unable to properly lift her arms to grasp at the pain, in a futile attempt to stifle it. Blood runs down Alastor's chin as he clenches his teeth at the sensation.

Vox just... stares at them. Blankly.

As if they meant nothing.

"I'm sorry that it had to come to this. I am. But one day you'll see, we can all be together, it'll work out. Just give me time."

And then he was gone. Leaving them to stare after the back of a man they adored, reeling in confusion at the strange shift of the past few hours. Knowing nothing would ever be the same again.

---------

Something broke in Them after that.

Rosie and Alastor fell away from one another, guarding their hearts by amassing greater independence. It didn't help that Vox and his little moth had taken Pride by storm as a new power couple, who threw shade at his former lovers anytime the opportunity arose.

Trying to beat them down to a place where they would consider his help...

Truly sickening, then, the day they see what Vox had done to himself. A slick, shiny new screen. He was almost unrecognisable... and that blasted moth grinned out at them from every screen, every billboard. His works aired on daytime channels as if such depravity was worth the airtime.

They clashed, often.

And Rosie doesn't recall the moment it happened, but something changed. One minute Alastor was there... and then he wasn't. But his ring still led back to hers... even if she couldn't tell where the chain dissappeared to, in the aether.

Unfortunately, death went on.

It would not be for near on a decade, before she would see her silly deer again, and he would bring a whole new host of complications with him. Ah, but what a chaotic twist to meet the princess and give her dating advice, while her own heart barely beat from the sorrow and rage inside.

----------

Rosie felt when the blow was struck, the ring chain went taut, and she immediately tugged at their bond in the hopes that silly shadow would whisk her man to her.

Drones filled the air, and she scowled at them... where was Vox at a time like this? Still so twisted in his hate for them, he'd watch them die at the hands of angels? Was the moth watching as well? Perhaps the doll, Rosie's modern replacement apparently, was the one encouraging this stupidity?

Either way, he was clearly enjoying the disaster that-...

Her inattention cost her, as something slammed into her shoulder, forcing Rosie to a knee as she reassessed the threat. Ah, exorcist above them. Foolish thing, to relinquish her spear so close to the ground...

Gunfire brought it down before she could enact revenge.

"Oh, you uh, you want me ta try and get that out?" come the voice of the spider to her left, he gestures with two free hands. "Might help the healing y'know?"

"If you would be so kind."

"Okay on 3. 1... 2!" her growl echoed as the spear clattered to the ground. "Yeah, sorry toots... easier if ya ain't tensed up."

"Thank you." she clipped, whirling back to battle. And feeling a tugging on her ring, letting it guide her through the melee... killing here and there, trying not to think about the throbbing bloody mess of her shoulder. She should pause to patch it but... Alstor needed her.

She fights violently, leaving herself more open than usual. Sloppy, unfortunately.

By the time she finds him in the abandoned radio tower, there's not enough strength left to really do much of anything but move beside him. Less of a crouch and more of a fall to her knees, before Rosie feels the world tilt sideways.

Alastor's fingers twitch in her own, and she feels a crackle of static through the air and fervently hopes that's Al saying he's not dead yet. Please... after all this, let them survive this to feast on the angelic flesh. It's only fair.

"Hey, hey it's okay... I got you."

She feels her mind sinking before she registers who has come to save them. A rebellious spark of hope writhes in her chest. "...-icture box?"

Familiar claws soothe her as they run through her hair. "It's okay, let's go back to my tower and we can patch you up..."

"No! Not where the moth is, absolutely-..." her protests fall flat as her ring pulses, and it's not supposed to do that. Between the eye swirling and her ring sending an odd feedback , Rosie found those concerns stopped mattering... she could just trust he knew...

A smaller voice was begging her to stay awake... but it didn't matter. She was already under before the overlord could identify what happened.

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

"Miss Rosie?" chirrped a familiar voice, snapping her back to consciousness. Finding Niffty one one's chest was quite jarring, understandably, because her eye was an inch from Rosie's own.

"Oh, she's awake!" came another voice, it sounded like... the Princess.

"Hang on duckling, give her a minute to wake up, there wasn't a lot of blood left in her when she got here."

"Plese don't say it like that..."

Rosie sat up, and looked about, ignoring the wave of dizziness that threatened to send her reeling. Still, as an Overlord, it was important to bluff until things turned out as they should... so she rearranged herself to look about the room.

It appeared to be a lobby of some sort, very... red. The couches were exceptionally plush, though.

She felt the creak of bandages around her torso, and a few smaller ones on her arms where glancing blows had rained down. "Hmm, and to whom does the Favour go for this first aid?"

"That'd be me, but don't worry about it. I don't need it. You helped my Char-Char... and I'm going to call it square." Lucifer says, lounging in a chair nearby in the least correct way possible. No wonder he and Alastor clsh, they're very similar at heart. Ah... where is her dear deer?

Her internal thrill of concern pulses the ring and chain into visibility, and she follows the links to a couch not too far from her own. He looks pallid, but nowhere near the nightmare that she had walked in on before. Likely as mummified as she felt too, based on the slight bulking to his torso.

"He's fine too. For some reason Char Char didn't want to let her pet die so I made sure to yank out all the angelic grace from the pair of you."

"While I thank you for your...condescension, majesty, please refrain from referring to my husband in such vulgar terms." She narrows her eyes at him, and he raises both hands up to ward her off. "And speaking of, why are we here?"

"If you mean why didn't you wake up in Vee Tower with half your memories all fucked and the other half blurred?" Husk interjects, and its then she noticedd Alastor's favourite cat sinner is hovering by the deer's couch. Trying for the afterlife of him to not look like he was enjoying himself. "Cause we caught him trying to move you both through the electricity, and apparently the King over there can just snap his fingers to nullify that effect... Vox was pissed. Thought you'd like to know."

"Hmmm, he would be. Thank you for the assistance, again, majesty."

"Why's he want you two alive though? That's the bit I don't get... mostly you Overlords kill and eat each other so often I don't bother learning names anymore."

"Ah... well, he's our-... he WAS, I should say, our husband. Before the moth changed him. Vox has always felt if he could just convince us to try things out with first Valentino and then that rude doll girl, Velvette, he could have everything he wanted all together. We disagreed. Particularly on the moth. I'm certain I could tame that Velvette with the right encouragement."

Somewhere in the background, Vaggie makes a Noise, and Charlie flushes. Rosie tucks that information away for future reference.

"In anycase, I should go check on my cannibals and bettes, they get so flustered without someone directing them. And given the only three people in the ring they'll listen to are in this room, I'm assuming Susan is launching a full-sclae coup in my abscence." Rosie says, rising and taking a deep steeling breath to maintain balance.

Charlie is there immediately, offering her arm.

Ah, Alastor must have taught her well.

"Thank you dear. Do let me know when my deer husband is up and about, I have yet to try and kill him for worrying me like that."

Charlie laughs, matching her pace as they head out the doors of a building Rosie was certain wasn't here when the fight began. Bizarre and intriguing, this whole situation.

She pointedly glares at the nearest drone until it suddenly pulls sharply away. They would deal with his nonsense later.

For now, she had to thwart Susan before she convinced the others to build a guillotine for her and Alastor. The woman still hadn't forgiven them over the flower business from a century before.

Hmmm, she mused as they strode to her amassed cannibals and bettes, perhaps she could solve two problems at once if she simply told Susan Vox was the one who charred her beloved lascerating lavender on New Year's Eve?

Vee Tower would be ash by sundown.

--------

Etc.

I wasn't sure where this was going but its 2am and im tired.

Alternately, Vox saved them and wants to make amends, but doesn't know how iven he's in deep with the Vees. this was the only way, etc.

[houseofdissension]

⸻ 𐄁 𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐕𝐀𝐓𝐄 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐒𝐂𝐈𝐎𝐔𝐒 𝐅𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐎𝐔𝐓 𝐋𝐎𝐆𝐒 [ 𝑉𝐻-𝟶𝟶𝟷–𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐃𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐄-𝐈𝐍𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐄𝐃 ]

This log was diverted from Vincent Harrow's Personnel Registry and secured under what is now known as Operation Echoroot. Access is granted solely to embedded Resistance assets with proven allegiance.

Vincent Cael Harrow—once the Lead Dissension Surgeon—has endured what should have ended him. Hunted, hollowed, and left for dead, he did not vanish. He recorded. Every fracture. Every failure. Every second he stayed breathing. Across years of ruin, he documented his descent—not to be remembered, but to understand what remained.

Now, beneath the bones of Desmond Den, he operates a surgical bunker stitched from ash and vengeance. Six experimental Reversal Procedures. Two survivors. Four bodies buried by his own hand. His mission is unflinching: to unmake the Procedure from within, to restore what was stolen, and to face the cost of remembering.

His cause grows under his leadership—quiet, loyal, dangerous. He no longer fears sacrifice. He has become it. And the repurposed machines that hum in the dark? They don't just reverse the Procedure. They prepare the reckoning.

[  𝗩𝗜𝗡𝗖𝗘𝗡𝗧 𝗛𝗔𝗥𝗥𝗢𝗪 / 𝗥𝗘𝗖𝗢𝗡𝗦𝗧𝗥𝗨𝗖𝗧𝗜𝗩𝗘 𝗦𝗨𝗥𝗩𝗜𝗩𝗔𝗟 𝗟𝗢𝗚𝗦 / 𝗬𝗘𝗔𝗥𝗦 𝗢𝗙 𝗗𝗘𝗦𝗦𝗘𝗖𝗧𝗜𝗢𝗡  ]

╰──   AARON PIERRE,  36,  CIS-MALE,  HE + HIM  ]  ＞  𝙾𝙱𝚂𝙴𝚁𝚅𝙴𝙳  𝙰𝚂𝚂𝙴𝚃  𝙻𝙾𝙶:  The  individual  known  informally  as  [  VINCENT CAEL HARROW  ]  has  been  noted  for  presence  within  the  Downe’s  Hollow  parameters.  According  to  behavioral  estimates,  they  present  at  approximately  [  THIRTY-SIX  ]  and  have  been  under  evaluation  for  [  FIFTEEN YEARS  ].  During  scheduled  daylight  hours,  they  are  recorded  operating  in  the  role  of  [  REVERSAL DISSENSION SURGEON  /  NON DISSENTED  ].  Community  observation  reports  suggest  notable  behavioral  markers:  prone  to  [  OBSESSIVE  ]  under  stress,  yet  reportedly  [  METICULOUS  ]  in  collective  settings.  Volner-issued  residency  placement:  [  DESMOND DEN / HIDDEN UNDERGROUND BUNKER  ].  Echo  archetypes  detected  in  personality  patterns  include:  [  Blood on steel. Eyes like surveillance: tired, unblinking, sharp. He walks through shadow with a prosthetic hiss and a surgeon’s grace. Savior, saboteur, ghost in the bunker light.  ].  𝚂𝚃𝙰𝚃𝚄𝚂:  under  continued  observation.  Decompression  tolerance  uncertain.  Reintegration  probability:  TBD.  

𝗜𝗡𝗜𝗧𝗜𝗔𝗟 𝗥𝗘𝗦𝗜𝗦𝗧𝗔𝗡𝗖𝗘 𝗘𝗩𝗔𝗟𝗨𝗔𝗧𝗜𝗢𝗡.

⸻ 𐄁 𝙾𝙿𝙴𝚁𝙰𝚃𝙸𝙾𝙽 𝙴𝙲𝙷𝙾𝚁𝙾𝙾𝚃 / 𝙵𝙸𝙴𝙻𝙳 𝙵𝙾𝚁𝙼 𝟺𝟾-SECURE ARCHIVE / V. HARROW – CONTINUITY LOG This began as a whisper in a motel room. Now it's a war cry stitched in bone. We don’t ask for confessions. We ask what you’re willing to lose. Be precise. Be honest. If you remember who you are—prove it.

1.  Please  describe  the  circumstances  of  your  initial  transition  into  Downe’s  Hollow.

VIDEO LOG: VIN_C.HARROW / ENTRY 0001 / DATE: 11/11/2021 "Log one. This is the first tape since I lost everything." already there is a grief in the way he sits—shoulders sunk, spine, unspooled slightly from precision. he used to be straighter. now even his silhouette is full of sorrow. his prosthetic leg hums against the hollow floorboards with a sound that is almost shy. a ghost asking permission. outside, the storm doesn’t scream. it seeps, like rot does, like truth. he doesn't look into the lens again. not yet. instead, he studies the corner of the table like something might bloom there: something small, maybe forgiveness. "I used to log everything. Back then it was academic—case studies, procedure failures, neural graft responses... but this… this isn’t for the files. I’m answering the same questions Volner-Downe made me record fifteen years ago—back when they still pretended to care what I felt because I need to see it for myself now. Frame by frame. I need to watch what’s left of me on camera. I need to know exactly when the surgeon became the wreck." the motel walls exhale with mildew. behind him, a television flickers static on mute; a nothing-channel for a man who no longer needs stories because the worst one already happened. "They gave me purpose after my injury. I was twenty, lost my leg saving a kid who didn’t make it on tour, thought that was it for me. Then Volner-Downe stepped in, paid for my education, handed me mentors, a prosthetic that moved like memory. They revived me, sponsored my education. I owed them everything. I was so thankful and loyal to their cause because of it. Learned, then performed the procedure thousands of times over five years. Clean, perfect—until Marion Saint. I took care of her like every other patient, and what I saw—what I’d done—" his voice gives a little, as if it had taken place again right there and then. "I’ll never forget  it. I quit the next day, ignored the warnings and walked out anyway. After that, there wasn’t a transition. That implies choice. This was a fall." he speaks like each word has teeth, but no appetite. like the words themselves are trying not to scream. "They died on a Wednesday. I left on a Thursday." and that’s the closest he comes to breaking. not in the voice, not in the line but in the shift of his hand—one finger dragging, slowly, across the grain of the table. like he could rewind it. like if he touched it softly enough, time would forgive him. "I—I just packed one bag and everything else stayed behind. The fire was called an ‘incident,’ but it was retribution. Calculated and clean. The kind of tragedy you file  under insurance claim." his laugh isn’t a laugh, it’s the inhale before intense pain. strong fingers press into the tabletop of the nearly dilapidated motel like he's trying to anchor himself inside the moment—but even now, he drifts. "I ended up here somehow," &* he does not flinch when the wind outside throws something against the window. he’s already used to the sound of collapse. he’s speaking in present tense now—the way some people sleepwalk. not because they want to, but because memory insists on walking them back through every room. "I don’t know why the fuck I’m still here. Some days it feels like breathing is just inertia, like my body didn’t get the message they’re gone. I’m not living. I’m just… fucking existing." the final pause is a full breath, not relief but something that pretends to be. and when he does finally look up, the camera doesn’t just see him—it sees  through him. the places grief hollowed out, the places love used to live. "Only six days have passed and I'm bleeding here. Every step forward is a cut. I thought about joining them. Then I thought, maybe, if I walk far enough, I swear I’ll find the artery and when I do—Volner-Downe will bleed, too. Anything to put their souls at rest, then maybe I can finally be with my family again."

2.  At  the  time  of  your  arrival,  what  were  you  running  from,  or  toward?

VIDEO LOG: VIN_C.HARROW / ENTRY 0002 / DATE:  6/13/2022  "Log two. It’s been about seven months and somehow I'm still alive." his voice lands soft but steady, like it’s spent months folding itself back into a body that no longer fits right. like he had to learn how to speak again without breaking. before all this, there was nothing to hide from: just memory, loss, smoke that wouldn’t clear. &* now, by some miracle, there’s progress. now there’s hope he doesn’t trust, now there are files that matter, faces that might still be saved and that kind of weight has teeth. "So… what have I been running from since?" he doesn’t blink when he says it. just keeps staring like he’s looking into something farther than the lens. "I was running from the silence. From that fucking silence after I lost everything. Running from the smell of our house burning down like a body. From the shit I let Volner do with my hands, but I was also chasing something I couldn’t name yet. The weak spot. The place where the system buckles under its own delusion. I knew if I kept listening, eventually it’d come to me." his fingers brush a surgical cable coiled on the desk, thumb resting against copper like it might warm. behind him, the lab rig hums: alive, waiting. "I don’t know if it will be enough. I still don’t, but I’m here and I’m close. I’m not running anymore."

3.  Do  you  believe  you  chose  this  life,  or  were  chosen  for  it?

VIDEO LOG – VIN_C.HARROW / ENTRY 0193 / DATE: 10/11/2022 "Log one-nine-three. Four months since the last. I’m still in the underground bunker, safe, things are coming along nicely. The system’s holding. The rig’s holding. I’m almost ready. I’m not sleeping but it’s coming together. " the question lingers like smoke. he doesn’t speak it aloud. doesn’t need to. the words are already inside him. he’s been thinking about it for days, ever since the figure in black showed up—silent, unarmed, threaded with presence. they didn’t come like a threat. they came like permission. he hasn’t asked their name. not yet. maybe he’s afraid he’ll know it. maybe it’s better if he doesn’t. "Did I choose this? No. I chose out. I chose to stop cutting people open so a corporation could bury their pain deeper and call it mercy. I chose to leave. I chose to grieve, but that choice cost me every name I ever prayed for and after that—I don’t think anything I’ve done was really mine. Anguish makes architects out of people. Makes blueprints out of blood." there are six monitors to his left, all running simulations. the latest reversal prototype stabilizes at 68%. better than last week. not good enough. not yet. the figure visits sometimes. leaves no name, no trail. but each time they speak, they speak in we. he doesn’t know who we is. but part of him wants to believe in it. "I think the moment I saw Marion Saint dying on my table—I stopped being a man. I became a response. A scar reacting to pressure. This isn't the way I thought it would be, but I'm choosing to go forward with the offer."

4.  When  you  envision  the  person  you  used  to  be,  what  part  of  them  still  lingers  in  the  current  design?

VIDEO LOG – VIN_C.HARROW / ENTRY 0271 / DATE: 06/11/2023 "Log two-seven-one. One year, six months since I vanished. Eight months since I stopped being alone." the question comes soft. but it bites. he lets the silence stretch for five seconds, maybe more, like he’s waiting to be interrupted by the man he used to be. no voice answers. "I used to be methodical. Precise. People said it like it was a compliment. Like I was a surgeon made of focus. Truth is, I was scared of fucking it up, of failing someone again. So I over-corrected. I clung to order like it could resurrect the dead and I guess… that part’s still here. The part that counts backward from five before touching anything, that memorizes every set of eyes in a room before speaking, or that rechecks every equation even when I know it’s right. What lingers is the part that wants to control what’s already gone." he looks past the camera now, toward the second cot. toward the three dossiers pinned like nervous systems to the wall: a field engineer, a codebreaker, and a former innie. each one found him because someone whispered his code. each one stayed because he didn’t lie about the cost. "But that’s not all. There’s still a part of me—small, buried—that wanted to fix people because I believed they were worth fixing. Not just systems, or minds. People. And I don’t know what that makes me now. Maybe naïve or dangerous. I don’t trust it but it’s still there. Still looking for something to stitch together. Even if it’s only what's left of me. Even if it's just in their memory."

5.  In  your  current  state  of  clarity,  how  would  you  describe  your  belief  in  the  Dissension  Procedure?

FINAL VIDEO LOG – VIN_C.HARROW / ENTRY 0394 / DATE: 06/11/2025 "Log three-nine-four. Been a long time. Too long. No apologies. Been busy making gods bleed." he doesn’t look worn out anymore. not like before. exhaustion’s turned into structure. he’s efficient now. focused. grief turned artifact. sharpened. the reversal has been performed six times. four bodies buried in silence. two still with him—broken, trembling, beautiful in their fight to stay real. he spends hours guiding them through the blur, stitching memories back together like shattered teeth. "Belief isn’t the right word for me anymore. It gives the Procedure too much grace, too much myth. The Dissension Procedure isn’t an ideology. It’s an engine; a weaponized lobotomy that pretends to be salvation. What it does to the brain—what it does to self—it doesn’t erase pain. It multiplies it, turns people into storage units for suffering they’re not allowed to understand." a screen flickers behind him—one of the survivors moaning softly through overlapping speech. they call him multiple things. they see multiple rooms. they cry for a mother who never existed. he watches it all. not detached. disciplined. "I don’t believe in the Procedure. I study it. I map it. I dismantle it inch by inch, like a tumor with a thousand roots. They called it progress. They sold it as mercy. What it is—what it’s always been—is rupture. Artificial amputation of consciousness and i’m here to undo it. No matter how many times it kills the people I’m trying to save and the ones who are trying to help me save them, including my own. This suffering will end."

⸻ 𐄁 𝚂𝚄𝙱𝚅𝙴𝚁𝚂𝙸𝙾𝙽 𝙸𝙽𝙸𝚃𝙸𝙰𝚃𝙴𝙳 𝙵𝙸𝙴𝙻𝙳 𝙻𝙾𝙶 / 𝙷𝙰𝚁𝚁𝙾𝚆–𝙸𝙽𝙵𝙴𝙲𝚃𝙸𝙾𝙽 𝙿𝙾𝙸𝙽𝚃

You were not born to be partitioned. You were not made to forget your name.

This world—this corporate monument to obedience—tried to carve you clean, to strip you of memory, choice, pain. But pain is not failure. Memory is not flaw. What they fear in you is the very thing that survives.

I do not lead for glory. I lead because no one else would cut the artery. I will tear down every floor, every protocol, every lie stitched into your skull. Not for vengeance. For reclamation.

You are not broken. You were broken open. And now, you are a signal.

Meet me where the silence cracks. 𝙿𝚛𝚘𝚓𝚎𝚌𝚝 𝙴𝚌𝚑𝚘𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚝 will now commence. We are the cure they never meant to create. We are the Reversal.

[partisan-by-default]

Report: Voting Machines Were Altered Before the 2024 Election. Did Kamala Harris Actually Win?

The Quiet Move In 2024, a federally accredited lab named Pro V&V conducted a wave of hardware and software changes to ES&S voting machines. These were major changes—new ballot scanners, printer adjustments, updated firmware, and a new Electionware reporting system. But they were passed off as “de minimis” tweaks, a label meant for minor changes that don’t require full public review or testing.

However, as noted by Dissent in Bloom substack, the changes were anything but minor.

SMART Elections immediately flagged the move. But by then, it was too late. The machines had already been used in the election. And Pro V&V? The lab responsible for certifying them? It all but disappeared. Their once-public website became a hollow page. No logs. No documentation. Just a phone number and a generic email address.

This is the lab that signs off on voting systems in Pennsylvania, Florida, New Jersey, California—and countless other places. And when people started asking questions, they vanished.

Something Was Off With the Votes In Rockland County, New York, voters noticed their ballots didn’t seem to count. People swore under oath that they voted for Senate candidate Diane Sare. But in district after district, the machines didn’t reflect it. In one case, nine voters said they picked her. Only five votes showed up. In another, five claimed to vote for her—only three were recorded.

It wasn’t just third-party candidates. Kamala Harris’s name was missing entirely from the top of the ballot in several heavily Democratic districts. In areas that overwhelmingly backed Democrat Kirsten Gillibrand for Senate, somehow, Harris got zero votes. Zero.

Meanwhile, Donald Trump received 750,000 more votes than Republican Senate candidates in those same districts. That’s not just voter preference. That’s a statistical impossibility.

As Dissent in Bloom reported: “That’s not split-ticket voting. That’s a mathematical anomaly.”