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screampied · 11 months ago

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‘ CALL ME BY YOUR NAME ?! ★

geto, toji, choso, gojo, sukuna. moaning the wrong name during sēx.

cw. fem! reader, unprotected, crack, brat taming, substance usage (weed), true form sukuna, spit, size kink + size diffs, impact play, cōckwarming, cērvix mentions, edging, overstim, dumbificafion. req.

wc. 3.6k

SATORU GOJO ☆

with your body steadily rocking back and forth, rolling and jerking at a more hastily pace—satoru can’t help but strum his thumbs against your curves. your figure, he couldn’t help but feel against it, feel the specific curves, the outline of your gorgeous physique. all his. “fuck, thaaaat’s it baby, that’s my girl,” he praises you in a cooing berceuse, stuffing your cunt with thickset inches of his cock. the constant elastic-like stretch makes you whimper, burying the outer cusps of your fingertips into his bare flesh. his broad wide shoulders lower and alleviate as you’re maintaining such weight on him.

already, you were so close to reaching your inescapable peak. the abiding repetitive creaks of the mattress was loud, creating its own personal mixtape as you whine mercy. with glossy eyes, you peer up at satoru who’s panting himself, a slippery sheet of perspiring sweat coating the top part of his forehead. groaning, he spanks your ass continuously the moment he starts to feel you slow down. “nah, c’mon. don’t get weak on me now, angel. move those f— fuckin’ hips, yeah.”

his words, they ran straight towards your cunt. as he’s delving his fat cock into your stretchy walls time and time again, satoru feels your little butterfly of a pulse. “mhhh,” you squeak out, shaky arms throwing over his slouched shoulders. “s-suguru, ‘m close, fuck.” and the look on his face says it all, what the fuck.

“what,” his eye twitches, and as he’s still tucked inside - buried balls deep into your pussy, there’s a forming pout. satoru doesn’t even look pissed, he just seems .. offended. you huff out a devestated breath at how he just stops and his voice cracks. “did you just call me suguru?”

“i mean shoko—” and then you gasp. “eh, satoru.”

big hands of his hold onto your waist, locking you in a firm grip. satoru’s got the most twisted expression. snowy white brows contort into a repelled furrow as he’s still pumping you full without actually moving.

“no way did you just say shoko,” and he grunts, feeling himself throb at the thought of you and shoko. satoru stares at you and its more of a gawk really. he grips your chin, a soft thumb toying against your quavering bottom lip. so kissable, even while being a brat �� he thinks. “did you say that on purpose, baby?”

“n- no,” you lie through your teeth, desperate for him to start up his pace again. you craved it, already missing his fat thick inches breaking past your fragile, soddened walls. this was practically torture, just sitting and waiting for him to start again. whenever you were edged, it was hell. he hums at your impatient expression nonetheless. satoru could read you like a book though - he gives you an eyebrow raise and you gulp, feeling that same twitch arise between your thighs. at this point, he felt it too. “you and s-suguru’s name’s sound the same.”

with a deadpan, he grabs a nice amount of your ass before smacking it. whack, the sting gives you whiplash and you bite down on your lip. “nuh uh,” he murmurs with a concise head shake.

icy blue eyes peer into yours and you let off another gasp once he grabs ahold of your hips again—bouncing you back onto his dick. “don’t like when my babies lie to me. ‘s exactly why ‘m gonna have ‘ta break this pussy for tonight,” and you heard the sudden gruff in his tone. you’re babbling as you’re being fucked dumb on his dick again - up and down, treated like nothing more than a priceless rag doll. you moan so sweet that it’s almost pornographic—the entire scene was obscene, your noises only fueled him to ruin you further. ruin your cunt, anyway. shamefully, you hide your face into his neck, getting a redolent waft of his signature cologne.

teasingly,

satoru leans right into your ear, grabbing your neck gingerly whilst another unoccupied hand slithers down your body, spanking your cunt. it’s so wet, he feels a splash of your slick coat his palm and he chuckles. whispering to you, he grunts out a gruff.

“aw, goin’ somewhere?” he jeers, noticing as you’re trying to move again but secures your hips with two hands. satoru’s got the most shit-eating grin and you just wanted to wipe it straight off. “but heh, while i show this nasty cunt some manners, you won’t cry for me, right?”

SUGURU GETO ☆

the seraphic warmth and pleasure of your body continues to rub off against his skin - so warm, it’s tepid and almost sweltering hot. the strong stench of pure passionate sex with a mixture of his own scent drives you insane.

you’re dragging your pussy back and forth against him, riding him in reverse with your mouth stupidly dangling open. “s- suguuu,” you whimper, pointed tips of your nails gripping onto his thighs. the only other thing that stuck against him besides you, was his grey sweats—grey sweats that were lazily pulled down. your rhythm makes him kiss his teeth, cocking his head back as he takes another puff of his blunt. you wanted to ride him while he took a smoke and he could never refuse to his sweet babygirl. “right there, fuck ‘s big, sugu.”

“perfect size jus’ for you too,” he purrs against your left earlobe, playfully flicking his tongue against your skin. as always, you tasted so sweet for him — he groans at your flavor, a bit of salt that lingers on near your neck falling right onto his tastebuds. once he licks your neck in such a raunchy way, you moan loudly. it’s almost muffled though, a gargling sound forming near the very back of your throat. just seconds ago, your ear twitches from his hot breath fanning into your sensitive canal. your cunt’s having a melodramatic spasm of its own, releasing sweet cries of squelches that never fail to echo throughout the thin apartment walls. “mhm,” and you lean back into his chest, feeling a tickling sensation of brief curled chest hair ghost against your back. “lean into me like that, focus on that arch, good girl.”

the natural rough deepness in his tone always has you pulsing for more - it’s lewd, carnal and downright filthy. as geto inhales, emptying his lungs for a second, he exhales—blowing the clouded air directly away from you. dark hazed irises that were fully blown flicker down toward your ass. the way it moves,

it’s just nasty,

jerk after fucking jerk.

the recoil that slams back into him makes his jaw clench. your cunt’s already a bit overflowed with his cum from before. it’s slippery, dribbling all down the sides of your plush thighs before you whine out a pleading sob. “s- satoru, more. h- harder,” and you hear his lips smack immediately. suguru geto—always a sassy man, you’d bet money he even rolled his eyes too. after your little 'accident' blabber, you suddenly grow mute, realizing the syllables you spat out wasn’t even his.

“who?” he utters, yanking both hips of yours into an abrupt pause. you whine, trying to grind back against him but he only spanks you. “princess, i know you didn’t just say what i think you said.”

it was a type of low purr to his tone and it turns you on regardless. you feel your pulse slowly pick up - both pulses.

specifically between your thighs and your heart.

his loud scent had you aching for more and it only made things ten times worse once you feel his hands grab against your neglected tits. “s- suguru,” you correct yourself, mewling out a pathetic whine. “you know what i meant.”

“do i?” he hums, gently squeezing two fingers against your sensitive nipples. you slump back, still having his cock shoved right into your gummy walls before you start to salivate. right up against your ear, all close and personal, he starts to suck near your tender collarbone. “mhm, y’know exactly what you’re doing, sweets. but since ya wanna call me satoru, maybe you don’t need this dick after all.”

“wha—” and before you could even get a word out, he slides you off of his cock, repositioning his half on shirt. you pout, so close to finishing—so so close. the slimy trail of heat that pours between your legs only grow as you pant, meeting the gaze of the dark-haired male. “but y- you didn’t let me finish.”

with a mocking gesture of bending his head down to your level, he strokes your chin. “yeah, exactly baby,” and his stare at you arouses you way more than you thought. dark, sable tinted pupils return your expression before a smug grin spreads across his pink slicked lips. “but ‘m sure you’ll find a way to finish,” and he ogles at your exposed cunt one more time, an unamused tch leaving his lips. “maybe ask satoru to finish your sloppy pussy off.”

“fine—”

“girl i was joking???”

TOJI FUSHIGURO ☆

some nerve you had—you thought it would’ve been funny, and oh, did you think wrong.

toji’s relentlessly pounding into you from behind. slow, languid strokes massaging into your grippy walls. you’re a mess, tongue lolled out and a few strands of hair sticking to your forehead as he’s just churning up your sweet sweet insides.

every few seconds, a bit hand smacks against the right cheek of your ass, then the left, then the right. it’s constantly repetitive, the sting making you drool all onto the pillow. it’s a nice trail, a translucent color that’s just drizzling out of the corners of your lips.

you’re stupid, head bobbling against the cushioned fluff as if you were just a doll. you were never in a million years a match for toji—let alone his brutal, sharp hips.

“fuckkk,” he hisses out a raspy growl, watching intently as few remnants of his cum from the last round decorate the outer parts of your pussy. viridescent, jade pupils dart toward your thighs, taking in your jolting body. so weak, he can’t help but gawk at the way his hot cum oozes out of each hole. it’s so sloppy, he couldn’t help but swipe his thumb against your puckering entrance, getting a taste. “mhm,” he utters, lapping the fat print of his thumb over his tongue. toji never had a problem with it. relishing the bitter tang of his own, it was on you after all so it was even sweeter. the jiggle of your ass from each stinging swat he gives you makes his dick twitch. “sluttin’ y’erself out on me, good. keep the fuckin’ arch, yeah.”

there was a raspy pitch in his voice, gruff. you whimper, feeling him clamp both of your wrists toward your back - a slope of drool trickling past the corners of your lips before you let out a defeated snivel. “s-shiu, hngh. ‘m so close, shiu.”

and right then—he stops his hips, you’re clenching around nothing but his cock, his cock that was now idle. your panting slows down and the debleating rapture goes away once you moan out his colleague’s name. “w- what happened?”

“w-what happened?” he mocks your tone, even quivering out his lip to capture your little whine. your ass gets met with another serrated smack and the brief clash of his hips makes you hiss.

“shiu, huh?” and he sounds .. amused. you weren’t even looking at the man but you could tell he probably had the most smug expression imaginable. your ass was still propped and raised in the air — ass up, face down. your left temple buries itself into the velvety sheets before you start to clench around his non moving length. “dunno whether ‘ta be offended or turned on, baby.”

you swallow, feeling a broad hand grip against your ass. toji gawks at the sight of you all all arched, feeling your pussy thump in sync with your irregular breaths. he snickers at your current position, a thumb poking inside of your slick cunt before maneuvering it around. doing so, it makes the delivery of your words shudder. “i s- said toji.”

“shut the fuck up.” he grits.

you hold back an incoming giggle and you could visibly feel the glare displayed on his tense expression.

toji grabs another piece of your ass before lightly shoving you further into the mattress. “ehh. but fine, since you wanna say shiu, ‘m curious. who’s bigger? me or that bum?”

“do you .. want me to be honest?” you sheepishly murmur.

he didn’t expect you to say that.

“……..”

SUKUNA RYŌMEN ☆

all four arms roam over your body - exploring every inch, taking pride in your curves that presented itself in such a nude, salacious way.

you gasp at his strength, the demon lifting you up with ease, fucking you stupid whilst you’re in the air. you’re a mess, a nice stringy strand of your own spit starts to race out of your mouth and into the cracks of your chest. “ah,” he raises a single slit brow, holding you up and fucking you with deep, thorough thrusts. inside of his domain, the temperature was cold—the more your body lurches midair, the more you’re hit with a breeze of frigid cool wind. “such a dumb little face y’r makin’,” he points out, a big hand cupping your chin.

within no time, you’re slobbering all down his hand, feeling him puncture such deep areas into your cunt. sukuna bares a fang in a cocky manner, another hand gripping your chin so that you could look straight at him. “someone’s dumb again, today huh,” he grits, the hits of his dick sending you on a frenzied spiral. you’re babbling incoherent words, two weak arms thrown over his shoulders as you’re just bouncing and bouncing. he’s so thick too, his angry mushroom tip repeated its gesture of coating your cervix with a plethora of chaste kisses. “oh, don’t give me that pout. wanna cum, huh? ‘s that why you look so stupid?”

“t— tojiiii.” you whine, trying to grind your hips further to your incoming release. ripples of waves ignite its way into your body in short welts of pleasure. languidly, they form into tiny little surges of shockwaves before you short circuit. it’s early, you’re panting and you don’t even realize that you’re gushing all down his cock.

an entire mess—you’re an entire mess and you don’t even realize the repulsed expression sukuna’s giving you. “pardon, little girl.”

“i.. i said sukuna.” you moan, making an attempt to kiss his neck but he growls lowly, restraining one of your hands. his reflexes were quick, preventing you from moving a single inch further. you’re still behind held up with his other arms, fat hefty cock buried deep into your drooling, loose walls before he peels your bottom lip down. “don’t stop, ‘kun—”

“no, you said toji,” and he stares you dead in the eyes. you’re met with cruel mighty ones, and still you throbbed regardless. with your weak legs snaked around his waist - sukuna hmphs at you, watching your body try to move itself. you can’t help but be needy, he’s still inside of you but he just wouldn’t move. your teeth was shattering, nails piercing into his skin before he wraps a single hand around your throat. “how do you even mix up our names?” and he lightly knocks against your head, making you lie flat against the mattress. “must be nothin’ in that brain, huh. my girl’s such an airhead today.”

“ryo,” you moan, feeling a bit exposed now that you were laid flat on your back. the satiny sheets run against your skin as you sprawl your legs open voluntarily. he watches, a tongue scraping over his upper lip before aligning himself again. ryo, you were aware that that wasn’t even his name but you always liked to tease him about it. your cunt’s throbbing ridiculously still from its most recent crazed release. with your thighs shaking ruthlessly, you spread your swollen cunt lips open with two fingers. “s- sorry, ‘m sorry. didn’t mean it.”

he chuckles, knowing full well you were basically pleading for him to keep going. you were desperate, physically and metaphorically frothing at the mouth for his heavy shaft. your eyes meet his cock that was just right there, a pretty droplet of pre-cum dribbling down the very side where a prodding vein remains. with a sly expression, he pries you open with a single finger. immediately, your mouth goes ajar and agape from the stretch.

“mhm, the audacity to compare me to that loser,” he snarls, and watches with crimson, red-shot eyes as your legs sprawl open. with just a single digit, he makes your sopping cunt lips spread apart and he leans his neck down to spit right on it. you whine, staring openly as he grabs ahold of one of his dicks that was stacked behind the first one. “brat ‘till the end ‘n y’r still this fuckin’ soaked. now open up for me.”

you gulp, leaning back against the mattress while feeling the sharp gaze of an unruly demon. he’s got a relaxed expression, but he rubs the tip of both dicks against your wet pussy. “wha—”

“lets use that brain today,” he grunts, and your back spontaneously arches forward the moment you feel both dampened tips glide its way down your inviting slit. “spread ‘em. since you wanna call me ‘toji’ i’ll have to remind this cunt how’s it feel to be stuffed by two fuckin’ cocks, whore.”

CHOSO KAMO ☆

with choso, he’d be having you in classic missionary, interlocking his tangled fingers with yours the entire time. your touch to him was a treasure he never wanted to lose. its warmth, he feels a sudden flutter school its way into his heart and he lets off a relaxed sigh. fevered skin presses against your body directly underneath him and he can’t help but gaze into your eyes. so so pretty, that natural doe-eyes look, pupils all irised and shimmering in the sunlight — you’re simply ethereal. his heart’s racing and racing, each beat gets quicker by the second. with a single tugging gnaw at his bottom lip he tugs the skin at his teeth. your grip has him lost in a gaze, and he can’t help but moan your name again and again.

he moans it continuously in such a sweet, swooning tune until he’s a broken record. he’s so in love. choso continues to moan it until each syllable of your name gets stuck on his tongue like gum. after a few moments, he’s now whining your name, continuing to tenderly grind his hips into you at such a passionate pace. babbles of broken whimpers make its way out of his lips as he’s sputtering nonsense, locking each finger with yours. his grip was tight because he never wanted to let you go.

he couldn’t.

choso was always gentle with you, he treated you like you were glass, glass preparing to crack and break. but he never wanted to break you.

warm, feverish breaths pant and collide against each other’s mouths as he’s taking turns from sucking on your collarbone or your neck. “ngh, my baby’s s- so pretty,” he huffs, gently swaying his hips roughly yet tenderly into you. choso had the rhythm and he had the pace— it was never a dull moment with him. you were about to cream down his cock again, nirvana surging through your veins as your legs wrap around his waist. his body height hovers over you and it’s so hypnotic.

choso’s hair - it’s usually in two ponytails but now, it’s all loose and unkempt. a few ravened strands even prod its way against your forehead.

it’s prickling your skin, tickling against you within each thrust. each sloppy stroke bucking into your sweet sweet core.

“no, p- please, look at me, please,” he mumbles in a soft tone, dark arched brows curling up into a needful furrow. a thumb strums against the outline of your jaw before he gives it a benign kiss. delicately, your chin gets pulled up gently with a big hand and he pouts until your eyes finally meets his.

finally,

your cunt greedily clings onto him tight, speaking of tight - that’s all you felt. for a while anyway,

your legs securely sling around his slim waist as if it was a snake. his thrusts were always so merciless and grim, no matter how tender he was with you, how gentle. choso was always gentle, yet he’s had the stamina of a horse. he always wanted to make sure you were feeling good at all costs. the moment his eyes meet yours, he feels a pang of love welt its way into his heart. “jus lookin’ at you ‘s gonna make me cum,” he whimpers, his body jittering just from the thought.

body against body, skin against skin,

choso leans in to kiss you, practically humping against your pussy. he’s so feral for you. he’s so feral and oh, he just can’t help it.

it was cute,

the half curse was trying his best to make you feel good because his pleasure was your pleasure at the end of the day.

his tongue ploddingly glides against yours before he starts to suck it, gasping once he feels your clit convulse against his thwacking tip. choso was forevermore weak from your tender kisses. “mhh,” you speak between sultry wet kisses, and his body remains to grind against yours. hovering over you completely, a thumb of his roams down the palm of your sweaty hand. pulling away, you moan out a shrilling whimper, “s- sukuna—”

yet, by coincidence you’re not the only person to blurt out the wrong name, because choso ends up finishing inside, a thick stringy load of cum pours its way into the inner depths of your searing warm cunt. tossing his head back in lewd rapture, choso grabs onto your thigh, only for his head to collapse into your chest. with a whiney mumble, he whines out a sweet. “y- yuki, mommy.”

“what?”

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freaktoru · 2 months ago

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ONLY GOOD GIRLS GET GOOD GRADES!

✰ pairing: professor!sylus x fem!reader ✰ summary: desperate to raise your failing grade, you meet professor sylus in his office where he gives you feedback that looks a little different from what you expected. wc; 4.9k (im so sorry) ✰ warnings: use of pet names, dirty talk, fingering, oral m!receiving, unprotected sex, degradation, praise, slight dom/sub dynamics, power play, pussy slapping (once), minor cum play, some thigh riding, size kink bcz sylus is huge, tummy bulge, choking, kinda pet play, sylus might be abit ooc (sorry i tired), 18+ MDNI ✰ note: first time writing for sylus, i hope i did him justice. guys those slutty fucking glasses get me everytime. likes and reblogs always appreciated <3

You exhale a shaky breath, looking down at your paper through blurry eyes. Thick, wet tears prick at the corners, threatening to fall onto the big, mocking red ink that displays your grade. A fucking fail.

Having been a straight A student throughout university—and really, for as long as you could remember—you couldn’t wrap your head around how things had spiraled to this point. Any grade below an A had always been unthinkable for you. But now, for the first time in your life, you were actually failing a class.

You thought that you might actually be losing it— that all the non-stop studying you’ve been doing must be finally getting to you. All those all-nighters and sleep deprived study days, all the long readings and writing until you can’t feel your hand— you might have finally achieved what they call ‘burnout’.

No, that just couldn’t be right. Every other prof handed you A’s without a fight, but professor Sylus? The bastard had you fighting a war you were never meant to win—just to leave you with failing grades and nothing to show for it.

Though despite his harsh grading style, he was a good professor—there was no doubt about that. Always so clear and concise with his assignment instructions, answering every single question he was asked during lecture, and always providing his students with the most thorough and meticulous feedback. Yes, he sure was a good and generous professor—to everyone but you.

If it weren’t for your disappointing grades, one might say you were actually his best student. Sitting in the very first row of his class, listening so attentively to every word he spoke with that deep, soothing voice of his, and always wearing a cute lil’ skirt, paired with thigh high socks. Perfect student? Your grades might suggest otherwise but at least you managed to look the part.

Professor Sylus however, didn’t see you that way. Sure, you always had interesting points to add to his lecture and great questions to ask him, but god, he couldn’t lie to himself— your too good, eager to learn attitude fucking pissed him off. Always raising your hand with that stupid excitement every time he asked a question, never forgetting to thank him after class like the good student you were, and looking like a little fucking whore — jesus, it drove him nuts.

And that’s exactly why he failed you— you were just too good. His gaze lingered on you anytime he returned a grade to you, watching your brows furrow and your face twist with confusion through his piercing red eyes. He didn’t mean to look—but fuck, he always did. Your frustration simply amused him.

This little game of his might be wrong— some might even call it unethical, but he couldn’t help it. Some fucked up part of him wanted to see just how far a perfect student like you would go for a passing grade—what kind of unspeakable lines you’d cross to get what you wanted.

You clutched the paper in your hand, crumpling it up, as the hours of painstaking writing—to meet his absurd instructions and demands— became absolutely meaningless. Looking up, you found him leaning with his arms crossed on the wooden lectern, looking at you through watchful eyes— lips pulled into an amused, lazy smirk. Fucking bastard.

The class was finally over and people were slowly pouring out of the room, everyone leaving with graded papers in hand. Throwing your own, now, crumpled paper in your bag, you stood up, walking up to the front of the class. Sylus looked like he’d been waiting ages for this moment.

“Sir, do you mind if I speak to you about my grade?” you ask, trying to keep your erratic emotions under control. You were fuming. Without a doubt, you deserved an A for that paper. But what really got to you was how effortlessly confident he looked, fully knowing he was failing you.

“What, not happy with your grade?” he drawled slowly, his tall frame towering over you, studying you intently through his thin, frameless glasses.

“To be honest sir, not at all. I was just wondering if you could give me some feedback” you replied, eyes fixed on your hands, nervously twiddling your thumbs, too afraid to meet his burning gaze.

“I'll be at the university charity event until later this evening, you can come by my office afterwards. Room 305” he said flatly, his eyes wandering over your body, scanning over your ridiculously slutty outfit. Looking up at him, you nodded, giving him a quick “thank you” before leaving the room. His self-assured demeanor had a way of making your confidence flawlessly melt away. It disgusted you.

The rest of your day was spent in nervous anticipation, drifting in and out of focus during every class. You spent too much time in your head, thinking and crafting the perfect things to say to your professor—desperately hoping that he would be reasonable enough to raise your grade.

Hours later, with the sun sinking low in the sky and your head weighed down by the stress of your day, you finally found yourself planted in front of the dark brown wood door that was labelled as room 305. Nervous sweat beaded at your forehead as you stood there, arms glued at your sides, fingernails digging into your palms. This was fucking nerve wracking. You lifted a trembling knuckle to the door, lightly knocking before hearing a faint “Come in.”

Walking into the office, you saw your professor sitting behind his desk, wearing just a half buttoned dress shirt, rolled up at the sleeves— holding that same, mocking red pen between his fingers.

“Sit” was all he said without looking up from his page, pointing to the red leather armchair that stood in front of his desk. Red eyes, red leather chair and ridiculous red ink. Sitting down, you pressed your thighs together, placing your hands nervously in your lap. Your stomach felt like it was running laps—fluttering and twisting from the anxiety.

His office was pristine and expensive, just like him—decorated throughout with rich red, gold, and black accents. Not a speck of dust could be found in sight—the only semblance of a mess being visible on his dark, wooden desk. Books and stacks of papers to grade were scattered across it, with a pack of those awful red pens on top—almost like they were placed there just to mock you.

“You wanted to see me?” he questioned, scribbling comments on the paper he was currently grading—clearly too occupied to meet your eyes. You shifted nervously in your seat, reaching down to retrieve your crumpled paper from your bag.

“Y-Yes, I was wondering what I could have done differently on my essay” you replied, noting how silly and small his pen looked in contrast to his big, slender hands. Sighing, he put it down, his red eyes finally shifting to meet your own. A warm rush made its way up your cheeks, turning them a light shade of pink. With a long finger, he adjusted his glasses higher up the bridge of his nose, then folded his arms across his broad chest.

Finally, your professor spoke up. “Fix your spelling” was all he said, leaning back in his chair, not sparing your paper a second glance. Your eyes widened. That was it? All he had to say was to fix your spelling?

“But sir, I don’t think I had any spelling mistakes, I read my paper over at least ten times before handing it in,” you countered. You weren’t one to argue about your grades—it wasn’t in your nature, but fuck, was this starting to piss you off.

“Fix your punctuation then” he said lazily, clearly putting little to no effort into the feedback he was giving you. What could he say to such a perfect student like yourself? There was nothing he could have asked you to improve.

“I also looked over that before submitting my paper” you protested, growing angry with his lazy attitude. This is not how you expected this to go.

“Then fix whatever else needs to be fixed” he stated plainly, still leaned back in his chair, watching the growing anger spread across your face with a calm, measured gaze.

“I don't understand” you huffed hopelessly. He was impossible. But fine, if he wanted to play this stupid game, you would play.

He hummed lightly, a playful smile pulling at his lips. Sylus was enjoying this—maybe a little too much. Standing up, he walked from behind his desk to the right side of the room, towards the big wall of bookshelves. Your eyes carefully followed him, watching his slender fingers trail slowly over the books.

“I’m sorry sir, I just don’t understand what I’m doing wrong. I’m frustrated because no matter what I do, my work never seems to please you” you admitted quietly, lowering your eyes back down to your fidgeting hands—a nervous habit of yours—that no matter what you did, you couldn’t seem to break.

Sylus chuckled a deep laugh. “Please me? Your work is always a pleasure to read.” he replies smoothly, his surprising compliment sending an unusual warm sliver of hope mixed with pleasure down your spine.

Sylus was testing you—playing with you. He’d become too invested in this little game of his and now he finally had you pinned down right where he wanted you—at his mercy.

“Then what can I do to get a better grade in your class?” you ask, muttering the question quietly. For the second time just today, tears were threatening to escape your eyes.

Gaze still locked on your nervous hands, you didn’t actually notice him walk across the room. Flinching slightly, you felt him place his hands on either side of the leather armchair behind you, bringing his lips close to your ear—his warm breath sending goosebumps racing over your trembling skin. Frozen in place, you anxiously awaited his next move.

“Don’t you get it? Only good girls get good grades.” you felt his soft whisper hit the shell of your ear. This was so wrong, he was too close to you—closer than a professor should ever get to his student. But if this was so wrong, why were your thighs pressed against each other, desperately trying to suppress your warm arousal from settling in your panties?

Speechless, you were unsure of what to say. His tone hovered just on the edge of seduction, and you felt his gaze on you—sharp and deliberate, as if he were studying you. Sylus was lingering on the brink of sweet and forbidden temptation, waiting to see if you’d step in with him.

He moved his head to the other side of yours, his warm, steady breath now tickling your other ear.

“Awww, has the kitten lost her claws?” he said, his taunt a mere whisper, ghosting over your skin. That you had. Your anger had begun to dissipate, slowly being overridden by an unfamiliar feeling of arousal. Every shift in his movements, every word he spoke, blurred the line between right and wrong a little more.

“S-Sir” was all you managed to utter. He was hovering over you, gently running his finger tips up and down the length of the arm chair. Your own hands were clutching onto the hem of your skirt, fidgeting nervously with the fabric.

“What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue?” he asked mockingly, raising an amused eyebrow at your stunned, silent state.

You were heavily debating the ethical implications of your current situation. On one hand, you were a fair student—one who’d never go as far as fuck her professor for a better grade. On the other hand, it couldn’t be a coincidence that you only dressed the way you did for professor Sylus’s class, only answered his questions with that stupid excitement, and only ever went as far as you currently found yourself—just for him. Fuck, this was already bordering on morally wrong, but you couldn’t deny the fluttering feeling you felt low in your core— the slick coating your panties. There was truly no denying the fact that you craved your disgustingly attractive professor's attention and praise.

Dropping your head down lower, you managed to mutter out the most pathetic question you’d probably ever asked, “Am I not good enough sir?”

Letting out a quiet laugh, he walked in front of where you were sitting, easily pushing your pressed thighs apart with just his leg. Warm fingers met with your chin, tilting your head up to look at him. Sylus was nearly twice your size and absurdly tall, forcing you to crane your neck just to meet his gaze.

“You’re arguably my best student”

“Sir, I—”

“But what kind of good student dresses like a little whore? What kind of good student comes begging her professor for better grades? Hm?” he cuts you off, lightly tugging on your bottom lip with the pad of his thumb. You try to stop your restless trembling, try to stop the arousal from running through your body—but it's no use, those red, hungry eyes can see right through you—can see how worked up he has you.

“Open up, kitten” he taps your chin and your mouth falls open, lips parting for him without question. Sylus has finally crossed that deliciously dangerous line—and you crossed it right with him.

He pushes his thumb into your mouth, smiling as you eagerly wrap your wet lips around it, playfully swirling it with your tongue. He chuckles at the drastic switch up in your attitude—going from angry to obedient within minutes.

Placing his other hand on the chair beside your head, he removes his finger from your mouth with a little ‘pop’. Sylus puts a knee on the chair between your legs, and brushes his fingertips down your skin, letting them travel to your thigh. His eyes are locked on yours, not wanting to miss a single flicker of emotion that crosses them.

You gasp at the feeling of his fingers meeting your inner thigh, gently squeezing and playing with its soft skin.

“Tell me something sweetie. Do you dress like this for every professor?” his voice a low, sultry whisper. Another wave of arousal courses through you, now passing through your soaked panties and settling in the armchair. Oops.

“N-No sir” you reply breathlessly, too busy relishing in his warm, electric touch. Sylus moves his hand further under your ridiculously short skirt, long fingers meeting with your lacy, drenched panties.

“Oh? She’s wet.” he purrs his surprise in your ear, and you think you might cum right then and there. His voice is so hot it’s fucking dangerous. You’d already crossed a line you swore you never would—but you hadn’t expected to get addicted so soon.

Your panties are pushed aside and two long fingers find their way into your dripping pussy. “Fuck” you moan at the intrusion, hand grabbing onto his strong arm that rests on the chair beside your head.

“Such filthy words, kitten” he clicks his tongue mockingly, gently using two fingers to push every smart, coherent thought out of your brain.

“Sorry s-sir” you mutter the apology, ready to do anything to please him—anything to get that A.

You whimper at a third finger being added into your tight cunt, your whole body already feeling overstimulated from all the attention. Sylus lets out a degrading laugh, enjoying watching you squirm from his fingers. So worked up already, how were you going to take his cock?

“Too much already?” he lowers his lips to yours, mumbling the mocking taunt against them. You whine, pathetically rutting your hips up against his hand. You’re desperate for it—desperate for his touch. You had spent so many classes dreaming about this moment, fantasizing about what it would be like—now that you finally had it, you didn’t want to let go.

Sylus is thoroughly enjoying this—watching your chest heavily rise and fall with every shallow breath, struggling to keep your eyes open and fighting against the pleasure—it was the only thing he ever wanted to see.

The pleasure pulses through your body as you feel your climax quickly approaching. Throwing your head back on the chair, you let out pleasurable mewls and moans as Sylus’s fingers speed up their pace inside you. You finally meet your blissful end when his thumb lands softly on your clit, rubbing and playing with it. The fucker knew all too well what he was doing— dangling your orgasm on the edge like that.

“Mmh—ah, fuck” you breathe out the moan, feeling the string of pleasure in your core finally snap. You arch your back off the chair, pulsing as you release your warm cum all over his fingers.

“That’s a good kitty” he pulls his fingers out, and you yelp when he lands a harsh slap on your swollen pussy. Amusement flickers in his eyes—did you really think he’d hand it all over to you without a fight? Stupid kitten.

Lifting his wet fingers to your neck, you feel him wiping them against the stretch of it, spreading your cum all over your bare skin.

Your head tilts easily to the side with two of his fingers, allowing him better access to the exposed, glistening skin of your neck. He begins licking your cum off of it, dragging his tongue up and down—quickly pushing you right back into a state of arousal. It’s just too much. His mouth reaches the base of your neck, grazing his teeth over it before unexpectedly biting down, making you cry out.

“Sir ah—”

A hand quickly clasps over your mouth, shutting you up. Sylus releases your pulsing skin from his sharp teeth, lightly nuzzling his face in your neck before moving his lips back to your ear.

“Shhh kitten, wouldn’t want anyone hearing your feedback would you?” he whispers, finishing off with a little nibble on your earlobe.

That’s right. If someone heard you, you would likely be expelled and Professor Sylus would be fired—never to see a classroom again. But somehow the thrill of getting caught made it all the more exciting for you.

“N-No sir” you answer, keeping your voice quiet and small.

Without another word, Sylus grabs your waist, scooping you up into his arms. Your breath hitches from the sudden motion as he switches your positions on his chair, sitting himself down in your place, and placing you in his lap. He’s so fucking big, your legs can’t quite straddle both of his—so you adjust, sliding onto one thick thigh instead.

Sylus groans at your shift, feeling his hard erection poking through his tight pants. You look down, devilishly smiling at it, suddenly sensing a flicker of control return to you. Looks like you’re not the only one who’s all worked up.

“Professor, is this the kind of feedback you give all your students?” you ask teasingly, purposely dragging out every word in the sentence.

His eyes darken, and you can almost feel his gaze burning right through you. “Just you” he replies rather possessively, tightening his grip on your waist. You make a mental note of this minor crack in his composure. Interesting.

Bringing your face closer to his, your lips hover over his—realizing you hadn’t even kissed him yet. Sylus had made you cum before even kissing you.

A big hand travels to the nape of your neck, pulling you down closer to him. Your lips crash onto his—the two of you quickly entering a fight for control. Naturally, Sylus wins, kissing you ravenously and passionately, claiming every inch of your mouth as his.

“You know sweetie, my job is in your hands” he pulls away momentarily, muttering the almost pleading words against your lips. Another fracture in that carefully built composure—he was finally grasping the gravity of the situation.

You press your forehead to his, closing in the space between you. “And my degree is in yours” you whisper before pressing your desperate lips back on his—mind too clouded with lust to discuss what stupid things the pair of you had done.

Desperate for his touch again, you start rubbing yourself on his thigh, urgently grinding—hips begging for more. Letting your hand travel to his bulge, you feel Sylus tense briefly, before melting into your touch, allowing you to paw at him like a kitten as much as you pleased.

Sylus never expected himself to go down this road—his favorite student grinding desperately on his lap, palming his cock and begging for his attention—it was ridiculous. By no means does Sylus consider himself a saint, but this certainly was a new step in his constant battle with morality. Now he had truly fucked up.

Long fingers tug at the hem of your shirt, letting him pull it over your head, leaving you in just your cute pink lacy bra. He easily unclasps it with one hand, exposing your bare chest to him. He groans at the sight of your hardening nipples, his eyes displaying quite possibly the hungriest expression you’d ever seen.

Fingers meet with your nipples, and he pinches, letting a painful whimper escape your lips. His hands begin squishing them softly, soothing the tingling pain. He wouldn’t be able to hold out much longer. With his composure slowly crumbling, and you getting hotter and more worked up by the minute—he just couldn’t do it.

“Fuck” he grunts, waiting no longer to pick you up and lay you down on the desk. You prop yourself up on your elbows, watching Sylus quickly push off all the papers and pens around you, creating as much room as he needs to do whatever he desires with you.

You swore you felt the air around you change—suddenly becoming overbearingly hot and thick with lust. Sylus had a raw, animalistic energy about him—an insatiable hunger that he desperately needed to fix.

He bunches your skirt up around your waist, pushing your panties aside with just his thumb. “Fuck, kitten you’re already fucking wet again” he growls, fisting his thick length through his pants. You moan, letting yourself surrender to the pleasure of his fingers yet again—surprised when it doesn't feel the same. Clearly, your desperate need has grown. Your pussy is soaked and swollen, begging for a much bigger form of attention.

As if reading your mind, he unbuttons his pants, letting his thick, hard, cock pop out before you. You audibly gasp at the sight, admiring his full length—practically drooling at the thought of all that being inside of you. He’s fucking huge.

“I-Is that going to fit?” you stutter stupidly, eyes glued on the sight of his cock.

“You’ll be a good girl and take it all won’t you?” he replies in a low, husky voice, looking at you through half-lidded, lust filled eyes. Your wide-eyed expression amuses him more than it should—and he can’t help but admire it.

“I-I’ll try my best” you reply, nervous, yet so desperately eager to please.

He grabs your thighs, pulling you closer to where he stands at the edge of the desk. Sylus lowers his mouth to your panties, biting down on them and slowly pulling them off using just his teeth. You shudder a little, feeling another flush of need ripple through your body.

He studies you intently, admiring every curve and inch of your exposed skin. Your cheeks flush, trying to close your legs out of embarrassment.

He doesn’t let you though, instead, he lifts your legs, placing one on each of his shoulders—essentially rendering you helpless under his touch. His cock head prods at your entrance— thick and leaking with precum.

“Ready, kitten?” he adds in a thick voice, leaning down closer to you, almost folding you in half. You nod quickly— practically reeling with impatience.

A long whine escapes your lips as he pushes just the tip in, pulse hammering as you struggle to handle the stretch. You bite down hard on your lip, feeling a metallic taste fill your mouth. There was no way it was going all in. No fucking way. But it would. Sylus would make it fit.

“So tight kitten, I’ve only put the tip in and you’re struggling already?” he asks in between ragged breaths, slowly pushing his cock further in.

“Sylus—sir p-please wait” you rasp out, overwhelmed by the stretch. He’s not even halfway in and tears are already beading at the corners of your rolled back eyes—and you couldn’t help feeling like you were being split in half.

“I didn’t know we were on a first name basis now, kitten. I have to say, I enjoy hearing my name on your lips” he drawls, wrapping a hand around your neck, squeezing it lightly.

“I-I’m sorry” comes out as a pathetic, breathy stutter as you ball your fists, desperately clutching on to the air around you. You’ve never felt so stretched out before, so blissfully full.

He slowly pushes the rest of his thick cock in, coating it in your slick. Your back arches off the desk and you moan, finally letting those tears escape your blurry eyes. You can’t form a single coherent sentence or thought anymore—he’s pushed that ability out of you entirely with his cock.

“Crying already?” he mocks, wiping a tear with his thumb. He’s so mean, mocking and teasing your every expression, fully aware of what he’s doing to you. Being at your professors mercy like this—it’s actually humiliating, but also so fucking arousing.

“Please d-don’t move” you inhale sharply, trying your best to adjust to both his length and his width. He removes his other hand from the desk, pushing down on your stomach, admiring the bulge visible through your skin. He has you filled so nicely, the curve of him pushing up beneath your skin, marking you from both inside and out.

Your pathetic please falls on deaf ears, and he starts slowly moving his hips in and out of you, hitting your sweet spot with the head of his cock over and over again. You choke out a sob between moans, barely keeping your eyes open.

“Eyes on me, kitten” his voice pulls you out of your trance. Your eyelids feel so heavy but you obey, noticing how every thrust makes his glasses slide a little further down the bridge of nose. The sight was erotic.

His pace was absolutely agonizing. The sheer stretch of him, paired with everything else, left you impossibly overstimulated— moaning and whimpering around his cock. The room was filled with lewd sounds, echoing and bouncing off the walls, every moan and groan reminding you of the forbidden moment the two of you found yourselves in.

“Nngh—Sylus, fuck” you whine, unable to take all the pleasure. It was too much all at once.

“What is it sweetie? You’re doing so well” he purrs, lifting his hand from your throat to brush a stray strand of hair from your face. How sweet.

You look so blissfully fucked out. Your forehead is glistening with sweat, eyes drooping low and voice slowly losing itself to the pleasure coursing through you. Of all the things Sylus had seen, this? This was truly unforgettable.

His pace was bordering on frantic—the feeling of his tip hitting your cervix was literally tearing you apart. “P-Please, I’m gonna come” you cry out in between harsh sobs—feeling like you were being held captive by the pleasure—unable to rip away.

“Go on” is all he says before your body releases, convulsing from pleasure, your sweet orgasm finally crashing over you. Toes curl in your shoes, and your hand grabs onto his, gripping him so tight your knuckles begin to turn white. Sylus only chuckles at your quivering body, and continues fucking into you until he reaches his own high.

“N-no more, please, no more” you whine, desperately trying to push him away when he doesn’t stop mercilessly pounding into you.

“You can take it, kitten” he replies with a grunt, slowing down his pace as he approaches his climax.

“Shit—” you barely hear him mutter under his breath, as his cock begins to throb inside of you, releasing thick strands of his own cum inside you warm walls. His breathing is shallow, glasses barely holding onto his nose, as he drops his head down, keeping himself buried deep inside you.

You both stay there a while longer, catching your breath and letting the last pulses of pleasure escape your shuddering bodies. Sylus finally pulls out of you, and you prop yourself up on trembling elbows.

“Aren’t you going to clean up your mess?” he asks—your eyes visibly widening as you instantly understand what he means.

Sylus takes a step back from the desk, sitting back down in that damn red armchair. You barely manage to slide off the desk, almost stepping on that mocking pack of red pens— which have now made their home on the ground after Sylus had pushed them off the desk. Fuck those red pens. Fuck the colour red.

He leans back lazily, a playful smirk pulled on his lips. You drop to your knees in front of him, wrapping two hands around his half-hard cock. Your tongue meets the tip and you begin to kitten lick every drop of cum, cleaning every inch of it like the good girl you were.

When you finish, Sylus zips himself back up, and tilts your head up with two fingers.

“Good kitty” he purrs, gently rubbing his thumb along your jaw.

“Sir?” you ask after a brief moment of silence, looking up into those burning red eyes.

“Hm?”

“A-About my grade” you trail off nervously. Kneeling before him like this, the weight of your own desperation burned bright on your cheeks—it was fucking humiliating.

He’d been waiting for you to ask him the burning question—seeing how far you went before you begged for a better grade.

“Didn’t I tell you? Only good girls get good grades” he echoes his earlier words, voice so sweet it was practically dripping with honey.

“I don’t understand?”

“Good girls don’t fuck their professors for A’s”

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lysaisland · 3 months ago

Text

Rivals!Kuroo who got so frustrated when he came in second place again in the recent exams. He was never the insecure type, he straight refused to be, but the way you smiled, no smirked, at him got his blood boiling. This was the fourth time you acted like this, so high and mighty.

Rivals!Kuroo who acted as suave as he could around you, because, if he didn’t at least pretend to be cool and collected, he would be branded as such a loser, for giving such a fuck about it. Was it really that deep? Perhaps not, but the way you rolled your pretty eyes at him, everytime he said something he knew was factually correct, annoyed him.

Rivals!Kuroo who was nothing but strained smiles and bit tongues, whenever your name came up in conversation. Because, as much as he disliked you, he would not ignore or downplay your stupidly impressive achievements. He knew how much effort you put in. He would know, he was there — in the college library, from 9am till 5pm, studying like it was a goddamn job.

Rivals!Kuroo who definitely did not like you. He always thought that there were simply not enough synonyms in the world for annoying, or stuck-up, or bitch, when it came to you. He also thought that it was stupid that if he were to describe you in three words, those words would not be the ones that would immediately come to mind.

Rivals!Kurro who thought that you were pretty under the library lamps, the lights giving you a sort of ethereal glow as you worked. He couldn’t help but think that you were so cool whenever you spoke your mind in your shared seminars. Each point was concise and so interesting, that he couldn’t refrain from joining in, giving ideas of his own. You were so impressive sometimes that Kuroo didn’t know what to do, but chase after you, with as much drive as you both could muster.

Rivals!Kurro who short-circuited, his brain coming to an uncanny halt, when you congratulated him on placing first. You had pulled him into an empty room to discuss some sort of paper with him. He wasn’t really listening to be honest, too focussed on your hand on his wrist and the high of being first. You had taken a step closer to him and he leaned in, unwilling to step down. A gentle hand ran across his jaw, which turned his face away from yours. His spine shivered as you whispered a soft well done and you did well into his ear. He was still stuck in the same position when he finally registered that you had left. God, the things you did to him…

was supposed to be a one shot called jump up, kick back but yeha here u go!! (i’m a sucker for the hc format 😔😔)

#big freaking laugh #thank u for reading <3 #seafloor script ❧#haikyuu x reader #hq x reader #kuroo x reader #kuroo tetsuro x reader #kuroo tetsurou #haikyu #haikyu x reader

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edenspoem · 6 months ago

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okay PLEASE, so chappell roan performed “the giver” on snl. all I could think about was cowgirl! ellie and abby. it’s literally THEEE stone top anthem! 👅

cowgirl ellie is the ultimate stone top: from sun up, 'till sun down, she is a pleasure-giving machine in all departments. ellie finds her schedule to be the least bit monotonous—rather, it's you who said so. startups at five in the morning, in the mucked-out lands, is a feat she wouldn't trade for the world. she finds it peaceful; the rough hours of sleep and the rough weight of a thousand chores; how sweet of a novelty is it, to be doing it all for you?

she is cruel-loving. she enforces her love. she is the girl that guides you back to bed if you stir from it simply too soon. she, with the good of all her heart, won't let you lift a finger. “shh—what are you doing up, babe? i know you gotta be tired.” the base of the pan—mottled in bits of scrambled eggs—would scrape against the stove as she set it. “go sleep a little longer, you mucked the paddock out all night.” she would then guide you right through the hall, pressing slow creaks in the wooden floor with her palms on your shoulders. the warmth of them is pleasant. humming with the heat of breakfast, pots and handles, the whole assortment of summer mornings in her romance-novel touch. she nudged you with love.

bedtime is a game of roulette—however. either, she is spooning with her obnoxious head filling the space on your shoulder, or she is filling the gap in your legs. once the sun is concealed and the romantic, golden light of lamps is washing over your limbs so delicate—often, to a point of delicateness, that she can't help herself.

“how many fingers baby?” the low thrum inside her rolled into your thigh, where her lips sit, patient and wet. the tone it rolled with made you want to compress your thighs shut; hide the reaction it gave you. but—those hands, illustrated straight from a novel and into your endless whim, press them down.

the room is quiet with the sound of her mouth, without your answer.

ellie props up. “can you say somethin, princess?” fingers brushing relentless circles around, above, but never on your cunt. it's not that she relies on direction; she relies on you being present, obedient, and most of all: confident. hearing you be open and honest about what you need, screams wife material to her; made you a keeper. the calloused pads of her fingers encourage along your stomach, spreading out with her thumb oh-so close to your clit, inching between your folds.

“ellie,” the name slipped from your lips so naturally. a whimper folded in without your trying.

she almost gave in because of it.

“t-three.”

“oh?” she cooed, soft and sweet. “bold choice, babe.” the comment, and the sensation of her thumb coming into light contact, jolted you. a bicep enclosed your thigh before it could shut.

she groans that signature curse when she enters you. so wetly, so easily.

“fuck babe.”

it held it there as long as her fingers were stuffed inside. shameful noises—the ones that escaped either end—spread throughout the room. she watched as she made you listen; dragging her fingers in hard, out slow—as you remember her hips doing. curling up into that spot that creates heaven inside and gets everything all over her fingers, to the base of her knuckles. swallowing her with incurable desperation. it felt like she was inside you, in each part of you; the thickness of three fingers fucking your pussy, as well as your mind, which thought thoughtless thoughts, and said thoughtless words. “f-fuck, ellie, i want fuckin' all of you,” you panted, clenching around the muscles and pumps of her fingers.

her smiling mouth said to you: “yeah?” with dimples that went deeper at the tip of her tone. she roped in a concise kiss, peppering your thigh that trembled against her cheek. she needed nothing more. nothing done, nothing said; your words riled her enough. the sounds of fabric brushed together as she slid up through your open legs, pulling up with her arms—which define with subtle veins and toning—pressing her crotch into you. she inhaled, and let your scent fill her. “you're so goddamn sweet. mhh, okay, i'll fuckin' give it to you.”

an: i haven't listened to the song too much, but i craved cowgirl!ellie either way and the domesticism she brings to the table 💙

#♱ | “footnotes.”#ellie williams #ellie williams x reader #ellie williams smut #cowgirl!ellie #ellie tlou #lesbian #sapphic #stonetop!ellie #dom!ellie #ellie x reader #ellie williams x fem!reader #ellie williams fic #ellie williams blurb

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hayatheauthor · 5 months ago

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Have u done a post on anatomy of swordfight? Or like weapons in general. I have a lot of different weapons planned out: bow, different types of swords, daggers, shields, spears, etc. I can't find a single proper guide explaining how to write fight scenes for these that make sense.

The Anatomy of Writing a Sword Fight

Thank you for the ask! I really love your ideas/reqs and will be making at least 2 more blogs as a reply to this ask (that will cover bows etc). For now I've gone with swordfights.

This guide dives into the technical aspects of sword fighting—from the types of swords and injuries to the medical realities of treating these wounds.

My long-form posts are usually filled with long detailed paras but this time I wanted to focus more on the 'facts' and had a lot of things to cover so I stuck to concise pointers for each area. That being said, feel free to ask follow-up questions if needed!

Understanding the Blades

Firstly, here's a quick breakdown on the types of swords and their impact on injuries

Longswords Longswords are double-edged, straight blades often used with two hands. They cause deep slashes capable of severing muscles and tendons, and thrusts that can puncture organs or arteries. Heavy blows can also break bones.

Rapiers Rapiers are thin, pointed blades designed for thrusting. They cause precise punctures targeting vital organs or arteries. Less effective for slashing but deadly in skilled hands.

Katanas Katanas are curved, single-edged blades optimized for slicing. Their shape allows for those gory slashes that can amputate limbs or expose bones. Thrusts can also be fatal.

Sabers A saber is a curved blade with one sharp edge, typically used on horseback. These blades are designed for slashing, often causing wide, shallow wounds.

Short Swords and Daggers Smaller blades that are used for close combat can sometimes fall under the sword umbrella based on their shape and length. A Jambiya for example is categorised as a 'short sword'. These work for deep puncture wounds in tight quarters. Can sever arteries or puncture the heart or lungs.

In short, the design influences the wounds. Remember:

Straight blades are versatile, causing both slashes and thrusts.

Curved blades focus on slicing, leaving gaping wounds.

Thin blades like rapiers target precision strikes to critical areas.

Types of Sword Injuries

As mentioned above I'm trying to cut to the chase with this blog so for each injury type, I've covered what I think are the key points. These are the appearance, severity, blood loss caused by this type of wound, and pain levels. I think these four basically cover everything a writer needs to know when picking their poison.

Slash Wounds

Appearance: Long, open cuts with jagged or clean edges depending on the blade.

Severity: Superficial slashes may damage only the skin and fat layers, but deeper cuts sever muscles, tendons, and even arteries.

Blood Loss: Significant, especially if major arteries like the femoral (thigh) or brachial (arm) are cut.

Pain: Immediate burning or stinging, with sharp increases if nerves are involved.

Thrust Wounds

Appearance: Small entry wounds but potentially deep and catastrophic internal damage.

Severity: Can puncture vital organs such as the heart, lungs, liver, or intestines.

Blood Loss: Often internal, leading to hidden dangers like haemorrhaging or collapsed lungs.

Pain: Stabbing pains that radiate outward, especially if organs are pierced.

Blunt Force Injuries

Appearance: Bruising, swelling, or fractures from strikes with the flat side or hilt.

Severity: Can lead to broken bones, ruptured vessels, or concussions.

Blood Loss: Minimal unless skin is broken.

Pain: Deep aches or sharp, localized pain from fractures.

Assessing the Severity of Wounds

When assessing the severity of a wound, there are a few important things to keep in mind. To make it easier, I've put together a quick checklist to help you out.

Location: Wounds to the head, neck, or chest are often life-threatening. Injuries to limbs are less fatal but can lead to significant blood loss.

Depth: Shallow cuts are often cosmetic but painful. Deep wounds risk severing arteries, damaging organs, or causing fractures.

Angle: Oblique cuts may glance off bones or armor. Direct thrusts to unprotected areas are far more dangerous.

What Happens When Each Area is Wounded

It's kind of a given that each area of the body is different and would thus cause different reactions when pierced. While many writers stick to the 'blood dripping from the mouth, hand desperately clutching the wound' look, I think it's a good idea to consider the medicinal side of your injuries.

Are there arteries in this area? Vital organs? Muscle and tissue? Here's a quick breakdown of those questions (no I haven’t mentioned every area or organ of the body):

Limbs

Forearms and Upper Arms: Severing the brachial artery results in rapid blood loss. Cuts to tendons disable grip strength or arm movement.

Thighs: The femoral artery is a critical target. Damage here leads to exsanguination within minutes if untreated.

Calves and Feet: While less life-threatening, injuries here severely limit mobility and can cause nerve damage leading to paralysis.

Abdomen

Liver: Heavy bleeding due to its vascularity. Potentially fatal without intervention.

Stomach: Leakage of acidic contents causes severe internal infections.

Intestines: Punctures lead to sepsis from spilled waste material.

Kidneys: Severe back pain and rapid blood loss from renal artery damage.

Chest

Lungs: Punctures cause pneumothorax (collapsed lung), leading to difficulty breathing and chest pain.

Heart: Even small cuts are often fatal due to rapid blood loss and cardiac tamponade (fluid pressure around the heart).

Ribs: Fractures can puncture lungs or other organs.

Neck

Jugular Vein or Carotid Artery: Severing either leads to death in under two minutes from blood loss.

Trachea: Obstruction causes immediate respiratory distress.

Spinal Cord: Severance leads to paralysis or death.

Back

Spinal Cord: Injuries vary from numbness to total paralysis depending on the location.

Kidneys: Vulnerable to back stabs; severe bleeding and pain radiating to the abdomen.

Face/Head

Cheeks: Slashes leave disfiguring scars but are rarely fatal.

Eyes: Punctures result in blindness and intense pain.

Skull: Blunt force may cause concussions or fractures; penetrating wounds can be fatal if they reach the brain.

Treating Sword Fight Injuries

In the chaos of a sword fight, providing immediate care can mean the difference between life and death. The first priority is to stop the bleeding. For deep cuts or arterial wounds, use a clean cloth or pressure bandage to compress the injury. If the bleeding doesn’t subside, especially in limb injuries, apply a tourniquet above the wound, ensuring it’s tight enough to restrict blood flow without causing further damage.

Once bleeding is controlled, stabilize the victim. Immobilize fractures with makeshift splints, and in cases of suspected spinal injuries, avoid moving the victim unnecessarily to prevent exacerbating the damage. Finally, cleaning the wound is critical to minimize infection risks. Remove debris carefully and irrigate the wound with clean water if possible. Though battlefield medicine is rudimentary, these steps provide a fighting chance for survival.

Also, one thing people forget to go over is temperature. Keeping the victim warm is essential, as blood loss can lead to hypovolemic shock, which compromises the body’s ability to circulate oxygen.

Historical vs. Modern Treatment

The approach to sword fight injuries varies dramatically between historical and modern contexts. While I can’t completely break down the differences, here’s (what I hope) is a quick overview that will aid in your research.

Historically, treating wounds was rudimentary at best. Herbal poultices were applied to reduce inflammation, and cauterization—burning the wound to seal it—was a common but agonizing method to prevent bleeding and infection. Stitching techniques were crude, and the lack of sterilization meant infections like sepsis or gangrene were often fatal.

Fret not, modern medicine offers a more hopeful prognosis. Sterile wound care, antibiotics, and surgical interventions allow for precise repairs to severed arteries, muscles, or organs. Advanced imaging technology can assess internal injuries, while blood transfusions and IV fluids combat shock effectively.

This just underscores how important it is for writers to consider what timeline their story is set in. Sorry but your medieval prince won’t just have a full recovery after suffering a brutal gash, especially not if his only source of medicine was love interest’s xyz solution. Infections are a very real issue. In fact, most deaths during that time were due to infection. Do your research.

The Psychological Aftermath

The aftermath of surviving a sword fight extends far beyond physical wounds, leaving lasting emotional and psychological scars. Many survivors experience trauma or PTSD, manifesting as flashbacks to the battle, vivid nightmares, or an overwhelming sense of anxiety, especially in situations that trigger memories of the fight. I would absolutely love to see people incorporate this in their writing! If your modern OCs can get flashbacks and nightmares after a single gun altercation what makes you think the medieval ones won’t experience something similar?

Survivor’s guilt is another common burden, particularly if the character witnessed comrades die or was forced to make life-and-death decisions during combat. These emotional struggles can deeply shape their personality, making them more cautious, resentful, or even vengeful. Villain arc here we come!

One thing to remember; physical limitations compound the psychological toll. Permanent injuries like chronic pain, reduced mobility, or disfigurement can remind a character daily of their ordeal, influencing how they interact with others and navigate the world.

As a writer it’s important to take recovery into account. Exploring these aspects adds depth to the character’s recovery arc, making their journey more relatable and human.

Remember folks; a sword fight isn’t just a moment of action—it’s a fight as brutal and dangerous as any knife or gun altercation you can think of (if not worse).

Crafting the Fight Scene

To end this blog, here are my (and various Google articles’) two cents on what you should be focusing on/keeping in mind during a swordfight.

Writing a compelling sword fight requires balancing technical accuracy with emotional resonance. Pacing is key: alternate between rapid exchanges of blows and brief pauses to allow tension to build. These pauses provide an opportunity to describe a character’s thoughts, pain, or strategic planning.

Sensory details bring the scene to life—capture the sharp clash of steel, the metallic tang of blood in the air, the searing pain of a wound, and the slickness of a sweat-soaked grip on a sword hilt.

Focus on the characters themselves to make the scene more engaging. Highlight their emotions, such as fear, determination, or desperation, alongside the physical toll of the fight. Show how fatigue sets in, how their breathing becomes labored, and how every swing of the blade drains their strength.

Injuries should be portrayed realistically; instead of dismissing wounds as minor setbacks, use them to heighten tension. A cut to the leg might slow a character’s movements, while a stab to the shoulder could make wielding their weapon excruciating.

Balancing these elements ensures your fight scenes are not only thrilling but also grounded in a visceral reality.

Resources for Writers

Books:

"The Book of the Sword" by Richard Francis Burton

"Medieval Swordsmanship" by John Clements

Videos:

YouTube channels like "Skallagrim" and "Scholagladiatoria" for sword reviews and techniques.They’re very helpful for all sorts of weapons actually so OP I think you should consider stalking their channels you’d find a TON of info (I get most of mine from them lol).

Articles:

I don’t have any precise ones but to boost your research consider medical journals on trauma and wound care. Oh and historical accounts of duels and battles.

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noosferik · 11 months ago

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Very interesting + concise article, pertinent with how much I've seen the joke about that "sadness in his eyes you only see in east european gay porn". Warning for pretty much everything you can expect.

Describing the wave of Eastern European gay pornography that flooded the US market following the dissolution of the USSR, Jones said: “They were products of a crude imperialist enterprise: cheap and nasty looking, with an atmosphere of coercion and cultural misunderstanding pervading them. Customers adored these videos, and expressed their breathless admiration whenever given the chance”

It gets pretty rough from here onward.

The Fall… opens with a short clip of a young man in profile, undressing. He looks uncomfortable, alternating between staring forward and glancing in the direction of the camera, his eyes showing a mix of discomfort and contempt. Jones’ voiceover states: “even in an unlikely place, it is possible to find traces of recent history” followed by b-roll taken from the aforementioned porn films including maps of the former USSR, market scenes, beggars and street footage. Their purpose in the aforementioned films appears to be part exoticism and part poverty fetishism, attempting to show the former glory of the Eastern nations as an emphasis on their subsequent fall. They’re an essential part of the set-up, speaking directly to what made this genre of pornography appealing to a western, primarily American, market. It’s easy to comprehend the mixture of exploitation and exoticism that made these videos popular in the US, but Jones goes further, aiming to establish a firm link between the booming Western economy and a more global, less visible form of exploitation.

The latter half of the film compounds the atmosphere of coercion, focusing specifically on the casting and screen tests of performers. The voice from behind the camera probes the subject on their sexual preferences, their motivations for being filmed: “I’m doing it for the money” “That’s a very good reason” Western audiences were turned on by the idea that the performers were under some form of duress—the ostensibly straight man either consuming their sexuality through the guise of pornography, or in the case of several scenes, the performer showing visible discomfort at either the sex or the presence of the camera. The films are low budget, low production value and low brow—by intention, rather than necessity. Jones speculates that the developing Eastern European sex industry, with the influx of Western producers and a Western market in mind, could be seen as an indicator of fertile ground for fascist ideologies—an aspersion confirmed by the global rise of far-right ideologies in tandem with the economic pressure of late-stage capitalism, a point at which more contemporary comparisons can be made.

The brief conclusion on the contemporary form of this exploitation aesthetic is also noteworthy:

In the same way that the fall of communism was exploited by the West, the financial and social insecurity of a generation living in recession, under permanent austerity, is exploited now. The aesthetics utilised in Jones’ film are still broadly present, albeit perhaps in a slightly altered form, now accompanied by a new visual language born from a culture numb to being told to “like, comment, share and subscribe”.

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vincentvangoghs · 5 days ago

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My BuckTommy shippers, I fear this may be one of the last times I try walking you off the ledge. Because, quite frankly, I've been over all the baseless doom and gloom going on in this fandom.

I'm going to try my best to keep this short and concise. Facts will be in bold, thoughts will be immediately after.

Tim Minear separated Buck and Tommy in 8x06. Which lost some trust from certain people in the fandom. Which... I both do and do not understand. I understand the break up causing confusion and anxiety because it was, to be blunt, amateurishly implemented, and I understand that because we all have a familiarity with partaking in fandom, this means we're used to ships falling apart at the seams out of nowhere. I also understand that the stupid ass "exit interview" by a Buddie journalist amplified the confusion. However, I also don't understand simply because... the break up was left extremely open-ended, suggesting more to come. I don't think Tim Minear could have made it any more obvious that the door was still very much open, if I'm being real here. Tommy literally says, "I'll see you around."

Even while Tommy was absent for a stretch of episodes, his presence was strongly included in just about every episode he himself was not featured in. The baking. The text bubble. Buck straight up admitting he missed Tommy, to the point where other characters were like, "Oh my GOD, go put his dick in your mouth and shut up." I need you guys to recognize that this was by design. The writers wanted us to know that the break up wasn't sticking and that it was but a mere obstacle in the way of their love. If you want even more proof of that...

When Tommy finally returned, it was promptly established by Tommy himself that he fought the impulse to reach out to Buck. To the point where he found himself driving by Buck's old loft, which he assumed was still Buck's current place of residence. This really speaks for itself, doesn't it? And it's so romantic comedy coded, Tommy mimicking some of the same behavior Buck did. I'm almost surprised they didn't toss a line in about Tommy working out whenever he had the urge to finally pull over outside Buck's during one of his drives.

Both Buck and Tommy blatantly wanted to reconcile after the 8x11 "hookup". I put hookup in quotations... because I don't subscribe to the idea that that was merely a hookup. That was them, on some level, thinking and hoping they might be reconciling. And when they realized they were "wrong" (they weren't, actually, but joy to the wonderful world of narrative miscommunications), both men were upset. Tommy had tears in his eyes.

Buck finally felt brave enough to unpack after his night with Tommy. If we can't acknowledge that this is a way for the writers to clue the audience into the fact that Tommy makes Buck feel at home, what the fuck are any of us even doing here? Why am I even wasting my time writing this?

"And for you." And for you.

Tommy looking at Buck through the monitor and crying was completely unscripted. This is HUGE, you guys. 1. It establishes that Tommy feels something deep for Buck (Lou has referred to Buck as the love of Tommy's life). 2. It establishes that the show itself is consciously trying to establish this to the audience. Why would they do that, especially so close to the finale, if the end result is to break them up for good? Think about that for a second, I beg of you.

Tommy is shown as saving Bobby in the past. I made a post about Invisible String Theory,.

Tommy is a pallbearer during Bobby's funeral ceremony. What an honor, right? I wonder why they made that decision, in addition to everything else I mentioned above, for that matter, if the end is right around the corner? What a waste of time lol.

"B-b-but he wasn't in 8x17!"

Okay, AND? You sound like Buddies do when it comes to Eddie. Do you see that?

"B-b-but Tim has a history of getting bored of storylines. And if Tommy is hardly in the finale, there won't be time for a reconciliation."

Okay, maybe, but I just think you're spiraling and jumping to the worst possible conclusions.

All evidence points to Minear really liking Tommy and Lou.

The show itself has gone out of its fucking way to include Tommy, even when he's literally absent.

I don't know what show you're all watching, but last I checked, I'm watching 9-1-1, a show that notoriously introduces conflict left and right, only to wrap all that shit up within two minutes completely out of the blue. Why should that suddenly not apply to Tommy's relationship woes with Buck? We could find out Lou is appearing for one literal minute in the finale, and that still wouldn't be sufficient proof against a reconciliation.

At the end of the day, maybe I'm applying logic to a show that doesn't deserve it. But, and I know this is a hot take with this fandom, I just don't believe Tim Minear and his team of writers are so terrible that they'll put in the amount of effort they have to keep Tommy in the spotlight and to make it clear he's great for Buck... only to pull back and shout, "Psych! You all thought!' at the last minute.

At worst, they'll subvert expectations and stretch the 'will they won't they' into season nine. At best, we'll get a nice treat in the finale. But they're not breaking up for good. If they do, I'll delete my tumblr, after giving you all a sufficient amount of time to spam my inbox and say you told me so.

#911 abc #bucktommy #i'm burning calories up in here trying to reason with some of you. my GOD.#in the wise words of edna mode - PULL YOURSELF TOGETHER.#and stop acting like buddies while we're at it. they're supposed to be the delusional ones!

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theladybrownstarot · 11 months ago

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Pick-A-Card: Describing Your Vibes according to people's pov also urs ~

𐙚˚ Here's my masterlist for more !

𐙚˚ Make sure you like/follow/Comment/reblogg for more pacs like these !

Pile 1. Pile 2. Pile 3.

˖⁺‧₊˚Pile 1 .

Namaste pile 1 ! Let's get with your reading :-

𐙚˚ okay , i see that your vibes are giving like as of rise of Phoenix or wake up or glow up or the rise of great !

𐙚˚ pile 1 . people think you as someone who is now rising or we say they think and feel that it's your time now to shine and do great ! People used to think that you won't show up or have something inside you so great but now you have realized that what you have got and what do you want and need to do ;) .

𐙚˚ People think that you are kinda someone who gifts themselves a lot like such things which are your requirements only ! You keep your plans to yourself but you are open to talk to people and guide them too . You don't show a lot of facial expression plus your face gives the vibe of someone mature also . you people are grounded too~ and must have big 3s in earth sign also.

𐙚˚ People get that clear ,concise , straight forward and to the point kind of person . People feel your vibes as of someone who is fast and knows what to do and how to do now like you aren't indecisive at all ; you know how to make clear decisions and give good judgements . You see more deep , you are curious and tries to know more . People wanna approach you and ask you that how did you do it ?

𐙚˚ They think of you who doesn't rush into things and work . you take things slowly and calmly for sure and try to maintain your consistency by making little-little steps also that you must be observant and someone who is cautious just to make sure you aren't taking risks at all in your work .

𐙚˚ You people vibe as a dry to green tree . You are a home person and travels less also . Might like village areas far from city . You people are workaholics but at times you get kind a away from your path maybe because of of health issues also .

𐙚˚ you people are mysterious and have high patience and endurance of things . You might day dream a lot also . People get the vibes from you as like this person is fated to be great now ! btw get an evil eye protection charm for yourself.

𐙚˚ You people have learnt to take control on your pessimistic thoughts and life too ~ you have the blessings from your god and if you are an indian don't worry take the name of lord ganesha🙏🏼🦋 to remove obstacles. people you are clear and strong minded -it's hard to defeat you but i sense some people are still in the progress to make themselves up ! just leave your past and face your fears ~!

˖⁺‧₊˚Pile 2 .

Namaste pile 2 ! Let's get with your reading :-

𐙚˚ Hi pile no. 2 ! hru ? enjoying your life or every moment of it ?! yess ! that's what i'm getting from you my sunshine, you shine like sun ,star and moon ~

𐙚˚ you know people get that vibe of you who is jovial in nature wise, likes to enjoy every second of life or trying to enjoy the present with gratitude and happiness rather than being sad oho people you know your shine sometimes makes people jealous of you too ~ but don't mind them because you are a good person who isn't interested to take hurt and take advantage of others 🫂 knowing that in this world of harshness and darkness people struggle to come as happy individual too ~ you are a beauty with with brain , someone who is motherly , caring or your face could be motherly , who is a marriage material , dream person , a lot feminine and romantic ♡ .

𐙚˚ I sense that you spread kindness , compassion to others rather than hate and grief alas i hope people may get the shine like you people do ! also that you are someone who is a lot recognized by higher people and authorities also that you could be authoritative and strong headed . You are transparent also someone who is ready to give their hand to people to come up . I love you pile 2 . you are humanitarian! you are selfless ♡.

𐙚˚ People vibe with you with rose and sun flowers and also that you like taking pics with flowers for sure . you love flowers and like to live around nature too ~

𐙚˚ People think of you also as a prankster , someone who is bit lazy TT to take responsibilities and someone who gets blamed also mostly. People are jealous and angry because they think you aren't serious but reality is something else pile 2 . isn't it ?;)

𐙚˚ You could be in a certain community , group or club that has people like you or in the community , place or work you are mostly loved and given attention to most as you could be a lot vocal and expressive too . You people must be into law of ♡♡ manifestations a lot i see and believe in universe so much that it has helped you to take your burden off also .

˖⁺‧₊˚Pile 3.

Namaste pile 3 ! Let's get with your reading :-

𐙚˚ People think of you as someone who isn't judgmental regarding anyone . They feel comfortable around you because you are those type of people who doesn't make people feel like outsiders . You like to share your happiness with others irrespective of age , color , gender or caste vice-versa ♡ . You believe in sharing of things . People might feel that you are the center of attention and you give attention to everyone equally ! you present yourself as a good and gentle being. You people and grounded and strong - which makes people think that they can't defeat you 💪🏼.

𐙚˚ You are a person who has a lot of achievements - not especially some awards or medals but achievements of your own that you made in your life by yourself ~ You people take life in a flow not in a hurry or mess 🌬🌊. You people can even enjoy alone like you can dance at any place , you can start speaking like a politician or a debater at any place without thinking much of people >< You give yourself chance first or keep yourself as a priority like you have your own voice and opinion in things.

𐙚˚ You people might me psychics like tarot card readers , astrologers, intuitive or you can a strong 6th sense 🔮 . People think that you have the answer for everything . Some people think and vibe with you as their random guide at any point of time . Your feelings and gut are strong for sure plus i can see that you are spiritual and read a lot of text and holy books and can practicse mindfulness for sure.

𐙚˚ People might feel that until and unless they don't approach you , you won't approach them. People might vibe you with a tree - mature , silent , helpful ,selfless , knowledgeable and someone with extras , you might keep a bunch of things with you in your bag let's say i carry medicine , face wash and cucumber water when i go outside ; people think me as someone who is full and got everything that they need and wish for so goes same for you 🫂.

𐙚˚ People think that you will be a great personality in coming time or in near future because you are developing and growing yourself by hiding from the world. I think you love peace and unity among everyone .

𐙚˚ You people are a warrior like you have experienced few major events in life and a great lover too ~ You will have great options in terms of love soon . You people are perceived as someone beautiful and graceful for sure . Don't be insecure regarding your looks because what matters is the personality and inner-self ♡

#theladybrownstarot #tarot community #free tarot #tarot reading #tarotblr #pac #tarotscope #pick a pile #pick a card #pick one #artists on tumblr #astro community #astro observations #tarot and astrology #tarot witch

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m1ckeyb3rry · 3 months ago

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Synopsis: Sunday is your mirror, as you are his — or, how meeting him spells your doom, just like losing you spells his.

HSR Masterlist

Pairing: Sunday x Reader

Word Count: 7.2k

Content Warnings: female reader, second person in some parts and third person sunday pov in others, religious themes because…it’s sunday…, not canon compliant because idk wtf happened in penacony and i don’t feel like figuring it out, not lore compliant either because i’m #toocool for that, ooc because i wanted to make sunday a freak, major character death but not really on screen just mentioned/implied, unreliable narrators, halovians are Very Different (both from their canon depictions and from humans in general), robin mentioned but she’s also probs ooc idfk i’ve never written for honkai star rail and i’ve played for like a month tops, sunday is a d1 piner, sunday loses it, sunday crashes out, weird narrative structure, very nonsensical, in terms of endings we have no endings (it’s like open to interpretation ig), m1ckeyb3rry’s monthly drop of MID

A/N: i wrote this really quickly for my beloved illu’s birthday!! unfortunately i didn’t get the idea until like two days after the date itself so it’s a bit late LMAOO also it sucks but. it has SUNDAY !! my first foray into the hsr verse…hehe…anyways illu i could go on about how much i appreciate you and how glad i am that we’re friends but for the sake of conciseness i shall leave it at HAPPY BIRTHDAY MY GOAT @milksnake-tea I LOOK FORWARD TO ANOTHER YEAR OF CRASHING OUT TOGETHER 🙂‍↕️💖 LOVE AND KISSES I HOPE YOU LIKE THIS A BIT!!!

There is a ghost waiting for him in the confessional booth. Velvet curtains cover the latticed wood, obscuring its contents from his view, but the effect comes to nothing. He knows she’s there, he always does, he can feel her presence. It’s a chill seeping into his bones as he kneels — he doesn’t need to kneel, of course he doesn’t need to, but it’s a habit he’s yet unwilling to break — and clasps his hands together. It’s a supplication for something, but it isn’t until his mouth is opening of its own volition, his wings fluttering in alarm and his eyes widening as the words are wrenched from his lips, that he realizes what he’s begging for.

“Please,” he whispers. His voice echoes in the empty room, mocking him, teasing him. Please. Please. What right does he have to ask her anything? He’s sure that’s what she’s thinking. He’s sure she’s laughing in that odd way of hers, and his throat constricts at the image. “Please—”

Forgive me? It reverberates in his mind, that fragment of a thought, jagged at the edges, sharp like a blade and twice as cruel. Isn’t that it? Forgive me. Forgive me. Please, forgive me.

“Condemn me,” he says instead, and then he’s struck by a burst of anger, hot and unyielding and entirely at odds with the weight of his tongue in his mouth, which is all leaden and unwieldy and clumsy and despicable. “Condemn me or forgive me or what have you!”

He waits, as he always does. One, two, three. He counts on his fingers, an invisible metronome ticking in his mind, mechanical and perfect in rhythm, keeping time for his vigil. Four, five, six. The curtain flutters in a phantom breeze, and for a second he can pretend that he sees a flash of bright in the darkness of the booth, a dancing shade like a glittering iris peering back at him. Seven, eight, nine. He doesn’t care what she says. He doesn’t care about any of it. As long as she says something, it’s fine. Condemn me. Forgive me. He’s not sure which he would prefer at this point.

Ten.

The ghost is silent.

The first time you met Sunday, it was raining. Everything about him was limp in the storm — his clothes, the fabric clinging to his slender frame; his hair, spilling onto his pale brow and trailing down his mannequin-straight back; even his wings, which drooped miserably towards his shoulders, the preened feathers translucent at the edges from dampness.

When he turned to glance at you, you expected his demeanor to shimmer with the famous benevolence of his family. Sunday Oak, the heir, the young lord; certainly there would be a kindness to him, a gentleness permeating throughout the very essence of his being. Certainly he had been born a saint, anointed in the waters of his mother’s womb before he could even draw breath, incapable of humanity’s many shortcomings and fallacies. Certainly these things were true, and that was why it frightened you all the more when, for one singular moment, his impassive mien crumpled into a glare, as baleful as it was captivating.

His eyes were a sharp, canny gold, feline in both shape and shrewdness, framed by lashes clumped together with wet. They were terrible in the way of a dying star, that peculiar brand of horror so beautiful that it was impossible to look away, and indeed you stood transfixed until he cleared his throat and arranged his face into a polite smile.

“I wasn’t aware we had visitors today,” he said. He spoke carefully, perfunctorily, reading from a script he must’ve memorized long ago. You stiffened, for although he had not given you any reason to think it, you were suddenly very certain that you were not supposed to see him like this, his fingers curling over the slick rail of his balcony, his dark abdominal wings folded tightly over his stomach and his halo dull in whatever light struggled through the clouded sky.

“I was just leaving,” you said. “I must have made a wrong turn. I apologize for disturbing you, sir.”

“You needn’t apologize,” he said, and there he was, the man who you had expected: Sunday, the scion of the Oak Family. Gracious Sunday; magnanimous Sunday; Sunday the prince and Sunday the saint. He was so finely constructed it made you wince, his blinding delicacy and keen refinement eerie, preternatural. A baser instinct of yours told you to run, reminding you of a time when those of his kind ruled over humanity with impunity, pleading with you to save yourself before it was too late.

You bit back your fear so hard that blood exploded over your palate, salty and sweet in turn, viscous as you swallowed it back and offered him a smile. He did not return it in full, but the corners of his mouth curled up slightly. That should’ve been soothing, but it only served to worsen the electric anxiety running through your veins.

“I shall call my sister and tell her to fetch you,” he said. “I would hate for you to find the Oaks remiss in our hospitality. I am sincerely sorry that you were not given an escort earlier.”

There were so many things you could say to him. I ran. Does that make me remiss? I’m the one who ran from them. You could reassure him, promise him that you would be alright on your own and there was no need for Robin to come. You could do any of these things, yet you were frozen like an insect in the amber of his stare, and so you did not.

“Thank you,” you said, bowing slightly, lowering your eyes to his leather shoes in a valiant attempt to free yourself, “for your generosity.”

“Do you think it’s possible for people to forgive themselves?” he asks his sister. They’re sitting in the parlor, porcelain teacups in their hands, pinkie fingers raised primly in the air. His sister’s cup is chipped at the base, but every time he tries to throw it away, she pitches a fit, which is so uncharacteristic of her that it renders him speechless. This one is special, she insists. There’s doves painted on it. See?

It isn’t special, there’s countless others exactly like it, but he caves to her whims far too easily, as he always does. He’s prone to it, after all; she wants for things so rarely as it is, which means denying her few requests when she makes them is nigh-impossible. So he allows her to keep the ruined cup, on the condition that in his presence, she holds it in her left hand, for he never wants to see the blemish again.

“I’m not sure,” she says. Her voice is always dreamy, but as of late there’s been a tangible sadness to it. He’s asked her what’s troubling her countless times, but his every attempt is met with a shake of her head and a solemn oath that it’s nothing. “Maybe.”

“I don’t think that it is,” he says. “At least not at first. You can’t forgive yourself before you’re forgiven by anyone else.”

“If you were already so sure of the answer, brother,” she says, cocking her head at him, “then why did you ask?”

“Hm?” he says, furrowing his brow. She takes a sip of her tea, and maybe it’s the angle or maybe it’s a trick of the light, but he swears that that dammed chip is taunting him, smarting like a peeled-off scab.

“It’s a strange practice of yours,” his sister says, batting her eyes at him in a way that makes him feel shrunken and tiny, as if she knows everything and he knows nothing, although by all rights it’s the other way around.

“What do you mean by that?” he presses, voice coming out harsher than he’d like. Cringing, he sets his teacup down and folds his hands in his lap. “My apologies, sister. I — I did not mean to speak to you in that way.”

She raises her drink to her lips, smiling at him over the dove-painted rim, and says nothing more.

Robin Oak was like nightshade, the most beautiful flower you had ever seen and, incidentally, the most poisonous. She was lilac where Sunday was silver and sapphire where he was gold, but although the edges of her halo and her face were rounder than her brother’s, as malleable as he was rigid, she was no softer than he. Perhaps she was even colder for it, all the more deadly, unassuming and quiet, poised to strike with a warbling song and a tittering giggle.

“Hello,” she said, and although the two of you were ostensibly having a normal conversation, she still talked like there was a song in her voice, her cadence lyrical and amused. “We’ve been looking for you for a while.”

“I didn’t go very far,” you said, following after her as she navigated the hallways without hesitation.

“Of course not,” she agreed. “But who would’ve thought you’d end up in Sunday’s room?”

“It wasn’t on purpose,” you said, cheeks heating up at the sly implication. “I sincerely thought I had happened upon some study or restroom where I might recuperate.”

“He does keep his surroundings austere,” she said. “I’ve tried to convince him to hang up paintings or photographs, but he refuses. He’s like that.”

“I see,” you said, as neutrally as possible. Robin must’ve sensed your disinterest, for with a soft, breathy, chuckle, she steered the conversation away from her brother and to another subject entirely.

“Ah, you mentioned recuperation? Do parties tire you, too?” she said, and maybe it was manipulation or maybe it was genuine kindness, but it disarmed you all the same. Bashfully, you nodded, your shoulders hunching in on themselves involuntarily as you continued down the corridor.

“They are exhausting. I can never handle them for more than a few minutes at a time,” you confessed. She wrapped an arm around your torso, a companionable vice of a grip, and although you shouldn’t have been, you were surprised to feel that her skin was blazing to the touch.

“Nor can I,” she said. “There’s a commonality. Let’s be friends.”

It was a command, not a request. You knew better than to believe that Robin Oak would request anything; the world was at her feet, the universe shifting so that her words became truth, so why would she bother with questions and hesitance the way the rest of you did? She was no more human than Sunday. She was even less, only just as good at pretending, at painting on a doll-like mask to disguise her lies.

“Well, then it is a pleasure to be your friend,” you said.

“Don’t talk like that,” she protested.

“Like what?” you said.

“Like I’m somebody important, or like I have a status worthy of only the highest respect,” she said.

“But you do,” you said. She nudged you in the side with some measure of eagerness.

“No, no, forget about that,” she said. “I’m just like you, okay?”

“Okay,” you said, even though that could not be further from the truth, even though she could not be further from you.

“I swear on truth,” he says to the congregation, the beige churchgoers in their beige robes with adoration sparkling in their devoted eyes. “I swear on the calendar. I swear on words. I swear on values. I swear on rules. I swear on meaning. I swear on—”

A chill rushes down his spine, icy fingers grabbing onto the roots of his wings and yanking. He hisses under his breath, prayers of rebuke and protection, nails digging into his palms as he chants furiously, lips moving too fast for the gatherers to understand what he is doing.

Anxious murmurs arise like the songs of a choir the longer and longer he is frozen. Somebody coughs. A child whines audibly. He continues his chanting.

Ena, the Order; Xipe, the Harmony; defend me in this tribulation. Curse this evil, bind its spirit and banish it to whence it came. I swear on truth, I swear on the calendar, I swear on words, I swear on values, I swear on rules, I swear on meaning, I swear on—

The hair by the nape of his neck is ruffled, and then the sensation vanishes and he is left alone once more. He is grateful for only a moment before he mourns her absence with a sudden savagery that takes even himself by surprise. It’s a contradiction, but she is a contradiction, so it’s fitting. He could never understand her before, so why should it be different now?

Clearing his throat and subtly adjusting his lapels, he raises his hands to silence the throngs of worshippers. They do his bidding at once, and he closes his eyes so that he does not have to see their naïveté at this final part, so that he is speaking to himself and the ghost alone — because nobody else matters in the end.

“I swear,” he says, his heart beating faster and faster until it is almost bursting from his chest and pounding in his skull, “on human dignity.”

What do Halovians know of human dignity?

“Nothing,” he says, responding to the unasked question as he turns away from the others, away from their applause and their grins. His wings cover his eyes and his hands cover his ears as he leaves the cavernous hall, the thunder of laudation fading and fading, replaced with nothing but a whistling, lonely emptiness. “They know nothing.”

He pauses, his eyes darting around surreptitiously. Then, when he is sure he is alone, he continues, under his breath so that no one can hear even if they try very hard to.

“I know nothing.”

He is sure of this much, at least.

On Halovians:

They abide by a so-called “divine creed” which they refuse to divulge to outsiders. However, they maintain that if they break these secretive laws, they are punished severely in what amounts to a foreshortened process of decay. Their holiness and altruism is, thus, not a choice but a compulsion; the one sin they are permitted is lying, and many will spin tall tales as a form of indulgence.

They are comparable in ability to the sirens from Lucyke — indeed, many researchers believe the species share a common ancestor and are one of many examples of divergent evolution found throughout the cosmos. They are nonthreatening when approached, capable of rational thought and intelligent speech, and have advanced societies with defined familial structures; hence, they are classified as a Level 0 Intelligent Species.

His halo is cracking. He doesn’t know when it began, or perhaps it’s more accurate to say he doesn’t want to know, but regardless it’s happening. The burnished gold, once a plain, gleaming expanse, is now marred by thin, unmistakeable fissures in the shape of spiderwebs. At first, he can only stare at his reflection in abject horror, but then he’s stuffing his fist in his mouth and screaming.

What will people think? When they see it, they will know what he has done. It’s tainting him. It’s above him and behind him and all around and he can’t escape, he can’t do anything, his halo is cracking and he’s screaming and she’s there again.

“Stop it,” he snaps. “Stop coming back. If you’re only here to torment me, then — then stop it!”

Is she laughing? She must be. She always laughs at him, always finds him so curious. An oddity. A Halovian. He’s not like her, she’s fond of reminding him, he’s different. He’s born for the Harmony and the sky. He’s born for a purpose greater than hers, with black wings and a bright halo and a tongue made to lie.

“Don’t leave,” he says when she begins to withdraw. “Hey. Hey. Don’t leave — don’t leave me — I can’t — don’t!”

Her absence is like a hole carved into his stomach daily anew, and if his wings weren’t losing their feathers so rapidly, he’d fold them over the gaping wound in an attempt to disguise it, to transform it, to hold himself together until he can once again become whole in earnest.

It’s pitiful. He’s pitiful. He longs for a ghost who he despises, a ghost of his own making, a ghost who is pulling apart his halo and his wings and his sanity alike. She is ruining him and he is powerless to stop her; somewhere deep inside of him, he’s not sure if he even wants to. This is what he’s owed. This is what he deserves. No matter how much he begs, she will not forgive him; no matter how much he prays, he will not forgive himself.

This time when he screams, he does not bother with muffling it.

You were certain that, in the pools of her mind, in places unknowable and unreachable, Robin believed that she loved you. She repeated that lie so often that she fooled everyone, even herself — everyone, of course, but you. You knew the truth. You knew that she never had, that she never would, that she never could.

“This is my very best friend in the entire universe,” she’d say, holding your palm against her heart. “I love her.”

She carried it like a trophy or a weapon, that meaningless phrase. I love her. Lilac instead of silver. Sapphire instead of gold. I am not a Halovian. That was what she really wanted to say. That was what you really meant to her. I am human, too. Treat me like I am human. Talk to me like I am human. Love me like I am human.

I am human.

His sister is worrying about him. He wishes he could allay her concerns like he always does, wishes he could promise that it’s nothing, that he’s fine, but whenever he tries, he can’t. It sticks in his throat, and he’s left to stare at her miserably, helplessly.

“If you need anything…” she murmurs, voice trailing off into nothingness as she pretends like she’s not looking at his halo, which is on the verge of collapse, or at his wings, which are approaching a skeletal state. “Maybe you should stay home today. Someone else can pray.”

“No,” he says. He has to do it. If he doesn’t, then he has nothing left — which is the truth, really, but he can’t accept it. Not yet. “No, I—”

He wants to say I can do it, but the words won’t come. She waits, but when he does not finish his sentence, she only sighs and nods.

“If you think that’s what’s best,” she says. If she’s expecting a response, she won’t get one, or at least not one that’ll satisfy them both. He can’t maintain his facade anymore. Those carefully constructed falsehoods which were once his birthright have abandoned him; now, he is left with nothing but the truth in its harshest form, his eyes sewn open to it and his wings tied back so he can no longer cower behind their trembling defense.

Unlike his sister, Sunday never pretended to love you. Indeed, he treated you no differently than he treated everyone else, keeping a polite, reserved distance between the two of you at all times. He was kind when you spoke, though he tended to avoid such occasions, and he took great pains to ensure that he appeared as harmless as possible, pulling his wings close to his body, averting his eyes from yours and shifting so that his halo was always partially obscured.

Robin told you that he was a proud man, so the fact that he shied away before you meant something. I’ve never seen him like this, she would ponder when he would sidle past, his feathers blending in with his pale hair, a coat thrown over his shoulders and his gaze trained directly ahead even when he greeted you. It’s unlike him.

It’s kind. That was all you ever said when she prodded at you for answers. He’s being kind to me.

Unlike her brother, Robin didn’t understand what that meant, so she would only embrace you, deceptively strong despite her frail figure, wings extending to skim along your skin in what she must’ve considered a sign of affection.

I’m glad you’re getting along, she’d say, and then you’d wonder, invariably, what it’d take to break the chords of her speech. Was she capable of producing dissonance? Or was it one of her many blessings, that avoidance of discord, of cacophony? I’m really glad. I hope one day he loves you, too.

She never asked you to love him back. She never dared to even hope for it.

“I can’t recall you ever laughing at me this much when you were alive,” he says, lying on his bed with his limbs splayed out. He’s looking up at the ceiling, which is bare, as are the walls, and the furniture — entirely by design, of course. Periodically, his wings will flap weakly, wracked with nervous tremors as he waits for her to quiet.

He doesn’t reprimand her anymore. The prospect of chasing her away is unbearable, even more unbearable than the sound of her mirth, which is as wrong to his ears as music from an untuned piano. So he ignores it, and when it is particularly agonizing, he speaks to the empty air, saying everything and nothing all at once in an attempt to silence her.

“You would ask me questions,” he remembers, drumming his fingers against the mattress. “But you wouldn’t laugh. I don’t think you found me amusing, unless I tried very hard to appear that way. I was better at it back then. At becoming what people expected of me.”

She’s not laughing anymore, but he knows she hasn’t vanished yet. She’s there in his periphery, poised to disappear as soon as he turns his head but there nonetheless. Taking advantage of the rare silence, he sits up, hugging his knees to his chest and closing his eyes.

“I didn’t pretend quite as much when it was you,” he says. “You know that, right? By the end, I couldn’t bring myself to at all.”

Does she believe him? He can’t tell. If he were her, he wouldn’t believe himself, so likely not. Exhaling heavily, he collapses backwards, tangling himself into a pile of blankets that he pulls over his shoulders.

“I should have lied to you more often,” he says, eyes drifting shut. “Maybe things would be different if I had.”

On Halovians:

Halovians are the only Level 0 Intelligent Species that do not choose long-term mates, although there is evidence to suggest that in the distant past, they remained with the same partner for life. According to legend, this is because they gave up fidelity for falsehood, trading their ability to love eternally for their freedom to lie at will.

Research disagrees with this old story, and many alternate theories have been proposed. The most common and widely-accepted is the claim that the Halovians once faced extinction and thus had to procreate at speed, leading to a permanent shift in their mating habits. The most substantial proof for this, of course, is the otherwise-inexplicable population boom…

You couldn’t say for certain when you began visiting Sunday in his room. It had happened so suddenly and yet so gradually that by the time you realized what you were doing, it was too late for you to stop. He never did anything untoward — you doubted he was capable of it — staying at his desk and scowling at his work while you wandered about, familiarizing yourself with the confines of the space.

“Why don’t you decorate?” you asked him one day.

“Decorations are only needless distractions,” he responded promptly, signing a paper with a flourish that, somehow, represented his name. Sunday Oak. You didn’t know how something so enormous and grand could be summed into two squiggles and a cross, but he seemed confident of it, so who were you to question the method? “I cannot fathom sleeping with such clutter surrounding me.”

“I see,” you said, and that was the end of it.

Your conversations with him typically went as such, endless games of question-and-answer, where you would ask whatever was on your mind and he would respond as truthfully as he was able. You often wondered when he would grow tired of it, of you, but he never did. You asked Robin why it was so, and she only shrugged enigmatically.

“Maybe he’s glad to be the one speaking for once,” she said.

“What do you mean?” you said.

“You ought to ask him,” she said. “He might not tell anyone else, but if it’s you…if it’s you, then he’ll definitely answer.”

His sister’s hands are frigid on his shoulders. She’s warm by anyone else’s standards, but for a Halovian, she’s always been cold. Even when she was born, half the size she should’ve been and with eyes as boundless as the sky, she was freezing, a shivering slip of a baby shoved into his arms by his bleeding mother.

“Your halo is breaking,” she says to him, but she’s angry, her melodic voice wavering as her fingers dig into his muscle, shaking him back and forth. “It’s breaking. Why is it breaking?”

She’s glaring at him, tears welling at her lash-line. He wants to reach out his hand and wipe them away, but more will replace them in an instant, so what is the point? She shakes him again, harder and harder, and he allows her, because he’ll always allow her impulses, and because he’s never seen her like this before.

“Why?” she says. “Why is it breaking? Tell me what you did, brother, tell me what you did!”

She isn’t asking because she wants him to give her the answer. She’s asking because she wants him to deny it, to tell her that she’s wrong, that the conclusion she’s arrived at is incorrect somehow. Once, he could’ve. He could’ve made up some story about tragedy and misfortune, and she would’ve believed him, as she always did.

That was their relationship. He lied and she believed him. She asked and he obliged her. But now that he can not lie and she has nothing to ask for, what is left?

“You know already,” he says. She gasps in the manner of an injured animal, berry-stained lips parting, indubitably to hurl accusations at him.

He doesn’t think he can handle hearing them, not from his sister of all people, so he leaves before he gets the chance.

“Does it feel strange when people touch your wings?” you said. Sunday was in his bed today, afflicted by some illness of the lungs, and you were rummaging through his bookshelf, pulling out volumes at random before putting them back where you had found them.

“Huh? Why do you ask?” he said, raising a porcelain cup to his lips. It was prescription, a medicine reeking of menthol but wearing the guise of peppermint tea — the only way, according to Robin, that he would drink it. A servant had brought it and presented it to him with a bow, walking out of the room with a look thrown at you over their shoulder, concern and envy blending into something razor-thin and cutting.

“I don’t have any,” you explained, taking out a book and tracing your fingers along the gold lettering of the title. “I can’t fathom what it’d be like.”

“Come here,” he said, and although it was mildly done, you obeyed immediately. You could never forget what he was, not completely, no matter how hard he tried to make it so that you did. You would always be human and he would always be Halovian; this fundamental disconnect was insurmountable, and anyways, you had no interest in surmounting it. It’d serve you well to remember these many little differences between yourself and the Oak siblings, between yourself and Sunday in particular.

He extended his hand, the palm facing up, and dipped his chin towards it. You tilted your head in confusion, for the act was all but inexplicable, and at this he smiled. He did not smile very frequently, and it transformed his face when he did, lighting it up, turning it into something close to human — not quite, but close. Closer than he ever was otherwise.

“Here,” he said, setting aside his teacup and using his other hand to place yours against his, wrapping his fingers around your wrist and then waiting. “Does that feel strange?”

“No,” you said.

“It’s the same for me,” he said. “To you, my wings are bizarre and outlandish, but to me and those of my kind, they are simply another body part. No more or less fantastical than an arm or an ankle.”

“Ah,” you said. He settled back against the cushions of his bed, allowing the wings by his ears to stretch out comfortably, closing his eyes and letting out an exhale that shook with the remnants of a cough.

“You want to touch them,” he said. He phrased it as a statement, not a question, and when you paused before answering, his smile grew imperceptibly larger. “I don’t mind it.”

“You don’t?” you said. He shrugged.

“It’s only fair,” he said, pressing down on the point where your veins nearly surfaced, tapping in time with your pulse before drawing his hands back and clasping them together in the cavity below his ribcage. “I wouldn’t have told you you could if I’d hold any resentment for it.”

“Aren’t Halovians known for lying?” you said. He snorted.

“Have you been doing your research?” he said.

“It’s common knowledge,” you said.

“We are,” he said. “But I swear I will always tell you the truth.”

“How can I believe that? What if that’s just another one of your lies?” you said. He cracked one eye open so that he could peek at you, and whatever he saw must’ve proven your seriousness, for he hummed in thought, carefully considering your words.

“I suppose you can’t,” he said. “It’s your prerogative. Do as you’d like, then.”

He closed his eyes again, which you supposed was his version of an invitation. Waiting until his breathing stilled and he was caught in some form of repose — whether he was truly unconscious or not escaped you, but either way he was certainly in some altered state of mind — you extended your arm and brushed your index finger against his feathers.

They were as soft as you had anticipated, cottony and shapeless compared to the firm flight-feathers of the pitch-dark wings jutting out at his sides. The bones were hollow and slight, as if you could break them only by taking them into your fist and squeezing. This was such a contradiction to the appearance he so carefully maintained that your heart softened to him despite your greatest efforts to guard it.

“Those ones are mostly down,” he said, startling you out of your daze. You had assumed he was asleep and had allowed your movements to become casual and complacent. Jerking your hand back as if he had burnt it — which he just as well might have, given the temperature of his body — you held it to your chest and took an involuntary step back while he adjusted himself in his nest of bedding. “In antiquity, back when we still ruled the skies and rarely touched the ground, it was considered a sign of friendship for Halovians to groom one another’s upper-wing feathers.”

“And now?” you said.

“And now it means nothing,” he said. “Fetch me a new cup of tea if you have the time. This one has grown cold, and I am yet unwell.”

The feathers he used to be so proud of are fraying at the edges. He hasn’t cared for them in so long, hasn’t carefully misted them or doused them in diluted soap in ages, and now they have come to this. Scraggly and broken and bent and wrong.

Sticking a finger in his mouth, he rubs it along his teeth and the bitten flesh of his inner cheeks. Decay. This is decay. He’s seen it so many other times, in so many other forms, but never did he think he’d experience it himself. And least of all so quickly! Yet it has come for him, as it comes for everyone in the end.

He finds it’s different this time. It’s different when he’s the one who’s dying.

“They say it haunts us,” Sunday said. His arm was heavy over your waist, his blankets pulled up over your chin and tucked tightly around your shoulders. Your forehead was flush with his collarbones, your eyes fluttering shut as he played with the hem of your shirt while he spoke. “The first time we kill something. It haunts us to death.”

“Is that why you’re vegetarian?” you joked.

“Yes,” he said, and although he sounded grave, you could tell he was joking, too. “Can you imagine being followed around by the ghost of a chicken and then dying while it watches?”

“A horrible way to go,” you said, laughing at the image of Sunday plugging his ears and running from the shadow of a bird as it chased him, his own wings flapping furiously as it squawked at him with no small amount of indignation.

“Indeed,” he said with a laugh of his own. Then, after a pause, he hummed thoughtfully. “You should laugh more often.”

“I’ve been told my laugh is grating,” you said.

“It’s not,” he said. “Not at all.”

“Then I shall endeavor to do as you ask,” you said. “I will laugh until you tell me to stop.”

“I’ll never tell you to stop,” he promised, and you should’ve known better than to trust him, because he was a Halovian and donning that impenetrable mask of his was a part of his nature, yet you couldn’t help yourself. You did, you trusted him more than anything or anyone, and didn’t that make you a fool? A happy, laughing one, maybe — but a fool nonetheless.

He is close to collapse when he drags himself to his bathroom. Leaning over the counter of his sink, he grips the marble edge, noticing in fascination that his knuckles are almost as white as the stone. He almost can’t endure the thought of looking in the mirror, but in a last burst of inspiration, he drags his gaze up to his haggard reflection.

His heart skips a beat when he realizes he’s not alone. Standing there, beside and behind him, is her. The ghost. His ghost.

Her face is placid — she’s not laughing, and neither is she frowning. He doesn’t know if this is a good thing or a bad thing, but he can’t change it, so who is he to complain? He waits for her to speak, but she is silent, and he considers calling out for his sister before deciding that this time, this once and never again, he will be selfish.

“It’s you,” he says, reaching out and placing his fingers against the mirror, where the image of her cheek is distorted by imperfections in the silver.

The metal is cold under the involuntary curve of his palm, which tries to follow the contours of her face but finds it to be impossible in the second dimension. Then again, to him, she was always cold, so there’s no difference, except that she is flat where once she was whole, empty where once she was everything.

“I killed you,” he says. It’s the first time he’s spoken it aloud, the first time he’s spit out the words that he’s been dancing around ever since she appeared to him, almost a year ago exactly. Somehow, it feels like a dagger driven into his heart and a weight lifted off of his shoulders simultaneously. If he had the strength, he’d run down the hallways of the mansion and scream it at everyone.

I killed her. I killed her and now I am dying for it. You bowed your heads in reverence to me, and all along I have had this blood on my hands. I killed her! How does it feel to have followed a sinner for so long? How does it feel to know that I am forsaken, and that one day, if you are so lucky, you will be, too?

Sunday’s mouth on yours was hot like a furnace, clumsy and demanding, with a lingering aftertaste like menthol. At first, it alarmed you, the overwhelming sensation, the much of it all, but before you could even pull away, something in the back of your mind twisted, and then you were grasping for anything you could. His hair, his wings, his shirt, it didn’t matter, nothing mattered, you only needed to hold onto him in some way. You could not breathe without him. You could not live without him.

That was your first indication that something was very, very wrong.

On Halovians:

Much like their presumed cousins, the sirens of Lucyke, Halovians are irresistible to their prey. Unlike the sirens, the Halovians no longer hunt; some assume that this must be one of the religious laws they abide by, while others argue that it is mere ecological responsibility.

Simply put, the Halovians were too efficient as hunters. Several lesser species have been driven to extinction by their efforts, and it is only due to the reduction in Halovian numbers, their vows of vegetarianism, and concentrated conservation efforts that the food webs on the Halovians’ native planets have stabilized in recent years.

“Sunday,” you said to him one day, when the sun had not yet risen in the sky. “I think that I will die soon.”

His mouth moved, but no sound came out. No, it seemed he was trying to say. You won’t. His lips formed the words, but they wouldn’t take shape in his throat, wouldn’t bloom into existence, and you watched as he struggled for a while before pressing the heels of his hands to his forehead.

“Yes,” he said.

“It will be your fault when I do,” you said. You weren’t accusing him; you said it simply and plainly. You were dying. It was his fault. He was the curse and the cure, if a mere prolonging of the inevitable could be considered as curing it.

He was quiet for so long that you assumed he had forgotten about the question entirely. You did not begrudge him for it — how would he answer, anyways? There was nothing that he could say which would change it. There was nothing that he could say which would reverse what he had, knowingly or unknowingly, done.

“Yes,” he said when you were halfway to dozing off.

“What?” you mumbled, the contents of the conversation already escaping you.

“Yes,” he said. “It will be my fault.”

The ghost doesn’t say anything, watching him as he turns on the sink and splashes the water onto his face in a futile effort to cool himself off. He’s feverish as he pushes himself back into a semblance of good posture, pacing back and forth along the length of the bathroom. He can only see her in the mirror, and he wonders if he somehow trapped her there or if that’s her way of teasing him; she must find him so absurd, storming away from her visage before crawling back to it like he is starved.

“I didn’t know,” he says. “You must understand that. I didn’t know! Not at first, anyways. I would’ve sent you away. If I had known, I would’ve sent you away…”

He can hear her feet against the tile, copying his own path, but he dares not turn around. What will he see if he does? What emotions will reflect in her eyes? The first time he saw her, it was fear, unadulterated and pure and choking him with its overwhelming intensity. Then, over time, it warmed into something resembling indifference, which in turn became fondness and then, finally, a sick sort of dependence, the former liveliness and curiosity glazed over with vacancy and fixation.

“I did this to you,” he admits. He’s read that accursed book on Halovians and their accursed vestigial organs and accursed archaic hunting methods so many times that he knows this for a fact. He killed her. “But I didn’t — it wasn’t my intention, please, it wasn’t, you must know that. Did you die knowing that?”

When he halts, she halts. When he takes a step forward, she does the same. It’s maddening. He doesn’t want her to echo him. Her steps sound like a prophecy, the drumbeat to a seer’s chant, and they clang in his head, the antithesis to everything he holds precious. Order. Harmony. And then there she is, discord, cacophony, waiting for him at every turn, inescapable and unavoidable.

“It’s the truth!” he snaps. The argument is entirely one-sided; the ghost never speaks to him, after all. She only laughs and sighs in turn, but no matter how hard he tries, he cannot convince her to say anything. “I can’t lie anymore. Although, that’s irrelevant; when it comes to you, I haven’t been able to lie in a long time.”

Ena, the Order; Xipe, the Harmony; defend me in this tribulation. Curse this evil, bind its spirit and banish it to whence it came.

I swear on truth. I swear on the calendar. I swear on words. I swear on values. I swear on rules. I swear on meaning. I swear on human dignity.

He’s murmuring every prayer he can think of. They play in an endless loop, springing to his lips at random, more like nonsensical jumbles of words than anything coherent. A prayer for salvation. A prayer for forgiveness. A prayer for protection. A prayer for order. A prayer for harmony. A prayer to banish her. A prayer to bring her back.

A prayer to bring her back. A prayer to bring her back. Bring her back. Bring her back. Bring her back.

“I won’t come back, you know,” she says. That’s the first time he’s heard her voice in so long, and he’s startled to find that it’s almost foreign, like he’s already begun to forget her, like she’s turned into something entirely beyond his understanding.

“Why not?” he says, his voice cracking as he scrambles for purchase against the wall. “I’ll do anything they ask. Anything you ask.”

“It doesn’t matter what you do or who you beg,” she says with a snicker. “You can’t bring someone back once you’ve killed them. You should’ve regretted it earlier; it’s meaningless now. Well, anyways, I have a question for you.”

He swallows but nods, his back to her, vision blurring out of focus as he squints at the plain wall in front of him.

“If you could meet me again, would you?” she says.

“Yes,” he says without thinking, because of course he would. How could he not?

“Knowing that it would kill me?” she adds, giggling.

Is this what it’s like for those who he interrogates? Now he is the one who cannot hide behind the comfort of fabrication, who must strip himself bare to an unsympathetic audience. He hates it, in truth. He hates it more than anything, but — but he doesn’t hate her, so clenching his jaw, he nods once more.

“Yes,” he says.

“Oh, my,” she says. “How romantic. Careful, or I’ll think you really do love me.”

He whirls around. “I do—!”

There’s nobody there. He wonders if there ever was.

#sunday x reader #sunday x y/n #sunday x you #sunday #sunday hsr #hsr x reader #hsr #honkai star rail #reader insert #canon au #hierophant #m1ckeyb3rry writes

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