#salvations two paths

[raayllum]

like truly two of the wildest viren-callum parallels are still, to this day

1) Viren’s re-birthday being Callum’s literal birthday because the story is just that insane about this foils bond

2) Viren and Callum both asking someone (Soren in 1x06, Rayla in 4x07) who’s sworn to protect the proposed target to kill Callum to keep things from tipping the wrong way

[speaker-of-the-void-cats]

Dubito, ergo cogito, ergo sum

Whispering. Whispering. Whispering.

ACCESS: RESTRICTED

DECRYPTION KEY: H1D6EN3VIL5$IKO-006

REP#: 708-PSYCHOMETER-TEST

AGENT(S): POE-344

TUNING TO WAVES...

Speak to me not of the Darkness, I want no part.

This war is all there is for you. What else do you have? You walk among mortals and immortals, a creature lost in time. Your only purpose is the struggle. Does it seem unfair? To be brought back into this, the end of days, the long dwindling exhalation of an ancient corpse? You were at peace. Now you are a dead husk charged with war. Do you remember anything of freedom? Fight on, then. The war IS everything. But consider the choices before you.

I was given a heart

Before I was given a mind

A thirst for pleasure and war

A hunger we keep inside

"Let the heat melt your body so your soul might flow with the river of time." —Parables of the Allspring

Is it you?

I'm so glad you're the one who found me. I've foreseen so many horrors with these stolen eyes, but now, when for once I ache to know the future, I can't be sure of even A simple ho000pe. Are you the one reading this message? I think it must be you, Guardian. Who else would look for me? Ikora trusts her Hidden to return when they are needed, and Cayde would roll himself down AAAngel Falls in a barrel before he'd admit he missed me. Zavala does not place me first on his long list of worries. You're the only one who would go out and look for me. I never needed you to save me. I wasn't a dried corpse or a dead Ghost or a voice on the com sure to die before you could offer help. I hauled myself out of that pit. I made my own way back to the To000wer. And if I was… unsubtle in the way I threw you against the Hive, if I seemed to wield you as vengeance, please believe that your victories were the closest I could come to feeling joy. I know you must have questions. What did I plan with the Queen? What destiny did I embrace after Oryx fell? What's happening in this city, where dream has become nightmare? I can guide you to undo this curse, as I once guided you to unmake Oryx. But in the DreaAAAming City, as in the secret worlds of the Hive, there is almost no difference between the act and the actor. In order to understand my answers, you must understand me. I lost my Ghost and my Light to the Hive; I conspired with the Queen of the Awoken to destroy the Hive King Oryx and his son Cro001ta, and to position Queen Mara as player on the cosmic board; I fled your Tower to prepare for the struggle to come, into the Sea of Screams which calls to all those who plumb the depths of Hive magic. I can only slip these letters into the Queen's gifts when the stars are right. You will have to wait for my next, and with it, the beginning of the truth. But I swear to you, on whatever trust I've earned in your mind, that at the end of my story, you will know who I truly am.

I.I Before one can be freed, one must question the truth of their purest identity.

I.II And so a question is begged: Who resides at the core of your being?

I.III Only honest reflection will see you—lone traveler—through the coming storm.

I.IV Look, then, clearly upon the whole of your existence, and face your glory—strength of will, every flaw of your mortal heart and fabled soul.

I.V Through the pieces of a life lived divine your truth, but do not lie—to the world, if one must, but never to yourself.

I.VI To see yourself as anything but what you truly are will lead you down sorrow's road, unprepared for the consequence of your salvation.

I.VII Once an understanding is met, and the self is purified in the knowledge of its truth, the cage is set to be unbound.

"Know thyself in honest ways, or falter in light of your truest self." —3rd Understanding, 7th Book of Sorrow

In my first life, I was born Erisia Pyatova-Hsien. I remember thatPrivate life clearly now, as ex-Guardians who have escaped the Traveler's occlusion often do. I lived in St. Petersburg, first daughter of a second marriage, a very impatient child of Earth's 22nd century, often abandoned by my family (who were called by work to Jakarta, Kamchatka, and Lagos) to pass my days swimming in the icy Neva bay. I loved to swim, and especially I loved the clarity of the cold shallow Neva, as crystal-clean as a winter dawn. Enormous Zubr-9 hovercraft barges roved the waters; Russia had modernized its waterways better than its sad auto industry. As a kid—is it strange to hear me speak casually? As a child, I never swam too far from my parents' little drone helper Fyodr. The swift hovercraft terrified me, their billowing skirts waiting to suck me up and dice me into little raisins. But I grew up and fell in with a reckless crowd, rebels against the stifling death-fear that came with our Golden Age lifespans. Soon the child's safety harness and Fyodr's careful oversight began to itch at me. When I was |EDGE|seventeen, I went out in a wetsuit on a dare to dive under the skirts of an oncoming hoverbarge. Maybe I was in no danger; maybe the machine would've changed course if it could possiblyGemini hurt me; but I thought I might die, and I did it anyway. And as that beast swept over me, as I trembled under the blast of the propellers, I felt a thing which was very much like what I would one day know as the Light. Maybe that thing was heroism. Maybe it was existence on the edge of death. It was the first time I survived the passage of tremendous, godlike power. I died more than twenty years later attempting an unassisted winter swim from St. Petersburg to Stockholm. A cold front like the very furnace of hell caught me. I had been warned the crossing was suicide, even for a perfectly trained and exactingly fattened woman in a shark suit. But those were giddy days, days of infinite bravery, and there were no mighty feats left except the truly suicidal. I cannot regret it. I think that death prepared me for the longer, darker, more exquisitely cruel crossing I would one dayDyad endure. It is no accident that my Ghost made me in the image of that swimming woman, rather than any of my younger and less grimly determined selves.

The Waste Land

I. The Burial of the Dead

April is the cruellest month, breeding Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing Memory and desire, stirring Dull roots with spring rain. Winter kept us warm, covering Earth in forgetful snow, feeding A little life with dried tubers. Summer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee With a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade, And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten, And drank coffee, and talked for an hour. Bin gar keine Russin, stamm’ aus Litauen, echt deutsch. And when we were children, staying at the archduke’s, My cousin’s, he took me out on a sled, And I was frightened. He said, Marie, Marie, hold on tight. And down we went. In the mountains, there you feel free. I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter. What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man, You cannot say, or guess, for you know only A heap of broken images, where the sun beats, And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief, And the dry stone no sound of water. Only There is shadow under this red rock, (Come in under the shadow of this red rock), And I will show you something different from either Your shadow at morning striding behind you Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you; I will show you fear in a handful of dust.                       Frisch weht der Wind Der Heimat zu Mein Irisch Kind, Wo weilest du? ‘You gave me hyacinths first a year ago; ‘They called me the hyacinth girl.’ —Yet when we came back, late, from the Hyacinth garden, Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could not Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither Living nor dead, and I knew nothing, Looking into the heart of light, the silence. Oed’ und leer das Meer.

Madame Sosostris, famous clairvoyante, Had a bad cold, nevertheless Is known to be the wisest woman in Europe, With a wicked pack of cards. Here, said she, Is your card, the drowned Phoenician Sailor, (Those are pearls that were his eyes. Look!) Here is Belladonna, the Lady of the Rocks, The lady of situations. Here is the man with three staves, and here the Wheel, And here is the one-eyed merchant, and this card, Which is blank, is something he carries on his back, Which I am forbidden to see. I do not find The Hanged Man. Fear death by water. I see crowds of people, walking round in a ring. Thank you. If you see dear Mrs. Equitone, Tell her I bring the horoscope myself: One must be so careful these days. Unreal City, Under the brown fog of a winter dawn, A crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many, I had not thought death had undone so many. Sighs, short and infrequent, were exhaled, And each man fixed his eyes before his feet. Flowed up the hill and down King William Street, To where Saint Mary Woolnoth kept the hours With a dead sound on the final stroke of nine.

Witness my sublimation

There I saw one I knew, and stopped him, crying: 'Stetson! ‘You who were with me in the ships at Mylae! ‘That corpse you planted last year in your garden, ‘Has it begun to sprout? Will it bloom this year? ‘Or has the sudden frost disturbed its bed? ‘Oh keep the Dog far hence, that’s friend to men, ‘Or with his nails he’ll dig it up again! ‘You! hypocrite lecteur!—mon semblable,—mon frère!”

The Darkness... then is revealed in many facets.

Eris, Eris, what a name, a name for discord, a name for far cold orbits where no living thing should dare to go. I like this name. Let me give you a gift, Eris. Let me tell you about the power in the logic of the sword: A Shredder or a Boomer is a powerful weapon, but it kills acyclically. You see? It sends out harm and it takes nothing back. The bolt passes away into nothing. A sword, though, a sword is like a bridge, a crossing-point. The sword binds wielder to victim. It binds life to death. And when the binding is done—the sword remembers. When the Boomer's fire has burnt away into axion and neutrino scatter, the sword goes on, hungrier and sharper. Understand that this nightmare logic underpins His nightmare world, and you will see why the ascendant blade has so much power there. Whenever in our passage we find ourselves in need of power—remember that the greatest authority here is a blade made keen by eons of use. This is the world the Hive craves: a universe creased by the edge of the sharpest sword.

There is no future but now. No truth but war.

Dreams and nightmares.

Something about you is soft like an angel

And something inside you is violence and danger

I knew from the moment we met, you are a dangerous thing

When you are with me, I feel like I'm living

And living besides you can be unforgiving

I knew from the very first step, you are a dangerous thing

—What power calls you++

++Down to the deep?—

++What instinct draws you—

—Away from high hope?++

Fear. That’s the only vivid memory left in me. It’s the moment when my fear was so thick and urgent that I gave up breathing. I stopped pretending to think. How I remained on my feet was a mystery, because the terror was bearing down on me, like a mountain about to crush my soul. But I have to ask, “What was terrifying me?”

Emotions. Pain.

What will you do when she drinks the sea?

Drown her in sorrow or let her be free?

When she's upset, all of her heart is cold (ah-ah-ah)

What will you do when she eats the moon?

Make her return it or give her a spoon?

When she is full, all of her heart is warm (ah-ah-ah)

The mother made us a savage daughter

Who never begs for forgiveness

I always wondered why they all came back for more

—FOR THIS IS THE DEEP CLAIM—

++Existence is the struggle to exist—

—When the struggle seems lost++

++when the safe place crumbles—

—everything turns to the Deep to survive++

Darkness ruled the sky. The world around us had shattered, and it seemed vanishingly unlikely that we would outlive this one awful day. Yet the fear didn’t come from the surrounding mayhem and despair. The source was inside my skin. I was utterly terrified of my own awful nature. And which part scared me? Inside me was an essence woven from beyond. Was I Awoken before this?

Memory.

We fell from sky with grace

And life gave us a sweeter taste

You can drink

You can feast

There's beauty in your beast

The flesh in the fruit

And the blood in the wine

II. A Game of Chess

The Chair she sat in, like a burnished throne, Glowed on the marble, where the glass Held up by standards wrought with fruited vines From which a golden Cupidon peeped out (Another hid his eyes behind his wing) Doubled the flames of sevenbranched candelabra Reflecting light upon the table as The glitter of her jewels rose to meet it, From satin cases poured in rich profusion; In vials of ivory and coloured glass Unstoppered, lurked her strange synthetic perfumes, Unguent, powdered, or liquid—troubled, confused And drowned the sense in odours; stirred by the air That freshened from the window, these ascended In fattening the prolonged candle-flames, Flung their smoke into the laquearia, Stirring the pattern on the coffered ceiling. Huge sea-wood fed with copper Burned green and orange, framed by the coloured stone, In which sad light a carvéd dolphin swam. Above the antique mantel was displayed As though a window gave upon the sylvan scene The change of Philomel, by the barbarous king So rudely forced; yet there the nightingale Filled all the desert with inviolable voice And still she cried, and still the world pursues, ‘Jug Jug’ to dirty ears. And other withered stumps of time Were told upon the walls; staring forms Leaned out, leaning, hushing the room enclosed. Footsteps shuffled on the stair. Under the firelight, under the brush, her hair Spread out in fiery points Glowed into words, then would be savagely still. ‘My nerves are bad tonight. Yes, bad. Stay with me. Speak to me. Why do you never speak. Speak. What are you thinking of? What thinking? What? I never know what you are thinking. Think.’   I think we are in rats’ alley Where the dead men lost their bones.   ‘What is that noise?’                           The wind under the door. ‘What is that noise now? What is the wind doing?’                            Nothing again nothing.                                                         ‘Do ‘You know nothing? Do you see nothing? Do you remember ‘Nothing?’

Do you remember?

       I remember Those are pearls that were his eyes. ‘Are you alive, or not? Is there nothing in your head?’                                                                                But O O O O that Shakespeherian Rag— It’s so elegant So intelligent ‘What shall I do now? What shall I do?’ ‘I shall rush out as I am, and walk the street ‘With my hair down, so. What shall we do tomorrow? ‘What shall we ever do?’                                                The hot water at ten. And if it rains, a closed car at four. And we shall play a game of chess, Pressing lidless eyes and waiting for a knock upon the door.   When Lil’s husband got demobbed, I said— I didn’t mince my words, I said to her myself, HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME Now Albert’s coming back, make yourself a bit smart. He’ll want to know what you done with that money he gave you To get yourself some teeth. He did, I was there. You have them all out, Lil, and get a nice set, He said, I swear, I can’t bear to look at you. And no more can’t I, I said, and think of poor Albert, He’s been in the army four years, he wants a good time, And if you don’t give it him, there’s others will, I said. Oh is there, she said. Something o’ that, I said. Then I’ll know who to thank, she said, and give me a straight look. HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME If you don’t like it you can get on with it, I said. Others can pick and choose if you can’t. But if Albert makes off, it won’t be for lack of telling. You ought to be ashamed, I said, to look so antique. (And her only thirty-one.) I can’t help it, she said, pulling a long face, It’s them pills I took, to bring it off, she said. (She’s had five already, and nearly died of young George.) The chemist said it would be all right, but I’ve never been the same. You are a proper fool, I said. Well, if Albert won’t leave you alone, there it is, I said, What you get married for if you don’t want children? HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME Well, that Sunday Albert was home, they had a hot gammon, And they asked me in to dinner, to get the beauty of it hot— HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME Goonight Bill. Goonight Lou. Goonight May. Goonight. Ta ta. Goonight. Goonight. Good night, ladies, good night, sweet ladies, good night, good night.

++This fatal logic++

—Hear my monopole scream!—

++It will consume you++

She was still in my head. I could hear her song growing fainter. Gone? Not yet.

—Before you lies—

++The worship of death++

—The ruinous path—

There's no end to the fall

You keep on getting better, I keep forgetting

There's no love in the end

I hope you will come

I keep on losing feathers, I keep forgetting

There's no love in the end

No love in the end

No love in the end

No love in the end

++The Sky builds new life++

—Against the onset of ruin—

++Towards a gentle world++

A new crippling terror was taking over. I was focused entirely on my fear. But I had to make an effort. And it occurred to me then that nothing in the universe was more dangerous than human hubris.

—The Deep embraces death—

++Saying: this is inevitable and right++

—I exist as hungry ruin—

What will you do when she takes your throne?

Beg for her power or throw her a bone?

All that she has traded for love is yours (ah-ah-ah)

What will you do when she takes off her clothes?

Beg for her body or touch her soul?

When you're alone dreaming of her you sigh (ah-ah-ah)

I still had this Other within? But the human side was what mattered: Weak and foolhardy, sure to fail in the next moment. That’s why I was afraid. Then someone spoke. Maybe it was me. I don’t remember.

++TURN BACK FROM THE WORLD-KILLING WAY++

++OR YOU WILL LIVE AS DEATH AND DEVASTATION++

Come and feel alive, lover

Come and feel the love like a sinner

Shout it louder

Shout it for the ones who could never say

"I won't feel ashamed, mother"

"Can you break the chains of her?"

Shout it louder

Not a sinner, she's a lover

Break your cell’s bars. Make a new shape, make the shape from its path, find your cell’s bars, break out of the bars, find a shape, make the shape from its path, eat the light, eat the path.

Oryx, my King, my friend. Kick back. Relax. Shrug off that armor, set down that blade. Roll your burdened shoulders and let down your guard. This is a place of life, a place of peace. Out in the world we ask a simple, true question. A question like, can I kill you, can I rip your world apart? Tell me the truth. For if I don’t ask, someone will ask it of me. And they call us evil. Evil! Evil means ‘socially maladaptive.’ We are adaptiveness itself. Ah, Oryx, how do we explain it to them? The world is not built on the laws they love. Not on friendship, but on mutual interest. Not on peace, but on victory by any means. The universe is run by extinction, by extermination, by gamma-ray bursts burning up a thousand garden worlds, by howling singularities eating up infant suns. And if life is to live, if anything is to survive through the end of all things, it will live not by the smile but by the sword, not in a soft place but in a hard hell, not in the rotting bog of artificial paradise but in the cold hard self-verifying truth of that one ultimate arbiter, the only judge, the power that is its own metric and its own source—existence, at any cost. Strip away the lies and truces and delaying tactics they call ‘civilization’ and this is what remains, this beautiful shape. The fate of everything is made like this, in the collision, the test of one praxis against another. This is how the world changes: one way meets a second way, and they discharge their weapons, they exchange their words and markets, they contest and in doing so they petition each other for the right to go on being something, instead of nothing. This is the universe figuring out what it should be in the end. And it is majestic. Majestic. It is the only thing that can be true in and of itself. And it is what I am.

III. The Fire Sermon

  The river’s tent is broken: the last fingers of leaf Clutch and sink into the wet bank. The wind Crosses the brown land, unheard. The nymphs are departed. Sweet Thames, run softly, till I end my song. The river bears no empty bottles, sandwich papers, Silk handkerchiefs, cardboard boxes, cigarette ends Or other testimony of summer nights. The nymphs are departed. And their friends, the loitering heirs of City directors; Departed, have left no addresses. By the waters of Leman I sat down and wept . . . Sweet Thames, run softly till I end my song, Sweet Thames, run softly, for I speak not loud or long. But at my back in a cold blast I hear The rattle of the bones, and chuckle spread from ear to ear. A rat crept softly through the vegetation Dragging its slimy belly on the bank While I was fishing in the dull canal On a winter evening round behind the gashouse Musing upon the king my brother’s wreck And on the king my father’s death before him. White bodies naked on the low damp ground And bones cast in a little low dry garret, Rattled by the rat’s foot only, year to year. But at my back from time to time I hear The sound of horns and motors, which shall bring Sweeney to Mrs. Porter in the spring. O the moon shone bright on Mrs. Porter And on her daughter They wash their feet in soda water Et O ces voix d’enfants, chantant dans la coupole! Twit twit twit Jug jug jug jug jug jug So rudely forc’d. Tereu Unreal City Under the brown fog of a winter noon Mr. Eugenides, the Smyrna merchant Unshaven, with a pocket full of currants C.i.f. London: documents at sight, Asked me in demotic French To luncheon at the Cannon Street Hotel Followed by a weekend at the Metropole. At the violet hour, when the eyes and back Turn upward from the desk, when the human engine waits Like a taxi throbbing waiting, I Tiresias, though blind, throbbing between two lives, Old man with wrinkled female breasts, can see At the violet hour, the evening hour that strives Homeward, and brings the sailor home from sea, The typist home at teatime, clears her breakfast, lights Her stove, and lays out food in tins. Out of the window perilously spread Her drying combinations touched by the sun’s last rays, On the divan are piled (at night her bed) Stockings, slippers, camisoles, and stays. I Tiresias, old man with wrinkled dugs Perceived the scene, and foretold the rest— I too awaited the expected guest. He, the young man carbuncular, arrives, A small house agent’s clerk, with one bold stare, One of the low on whom assurance sits As a silk hat on a Bradford millionaire. The time is now propitious, as he guesses, The meal is ended, she is bored and tired, Endeavours to engage her in caresses Which still are unreproved, if undesired. Flushed and decided, he assaults at once; Exploring hands encounter no defence; His vanity requires no response, And makes a welcome of indifference. (And I Tiresias have foresuffered all Enacted on this same divan or bed; I who have sat by Thebes below the wall And walked among the lowest of the dead.) Bestows one final patronising kiss, And gropes his way, finding the stairs unlit . . . She turns and looks a moment in the glass, Hardly aware of her departed lover; Her brain allows one half-formed thought to pass: 'Well now that’s done: and I’m glad it’s over.’ When lovely woman stoops to folly and Paces about her room again, alone, She smooths her hair with automatic hand, And puts a record on the gramophone.

Raise your voice and sing.

‘This music crept by me upon the waters’ And along the Strand, up Queen Victoria Street. O City city, I can sometimes hear Beside a public bar in Lower Thames Street, The pleasant whining of a mandoline And a clatter and a chatter from within Where fishmen lounge at noon: where the walls Of Magnus Martyr hold Inexplicable splendour of Ionian white and gold.                The river sweats                Oil and tar                The barges drift                With the turning tide                Red sails                Wide                To leeward, swing on the heavy spar.                The barges wash                Drifting logs                Down Greenwich reach                Past the Isle of Dogs.                                  Weialala leia                                  Wallala leialala                Elizabeth and Leicester                Beating oars                The stern was formed                A gilded shell                Red and gold                The brisk swell                Rippled both shores                Southwest wind                Carried down stream                The peal of bells                White towers                                 Weialala leia                                 Wallala leialala ‘Trams and dusty trees. Highbury bore me. Richmond and Kew Undid me. By Richmond I raised my knees Supine on the floor of a narrow canoe.’ ‘My feet are at Moorgate, and my heart Under my feet. After the event He wept. He promised a ‘new start.’ I made no comment. What should I resent?’ ‘On Margate Sands. I can connect Nothing with nothing. The broken fingernails of dirty hands. My people humble people who expect Nothing.’                        la la To Carthage then I came Burning burning burning burning O Lord Thou pluckest me out O Lord Thou pluckest burning

Something about you is warm and sedusive, and

When you're with me, you're cold and abusive

I knew from the second we met, you are a dangerous flame

You are a dangerous flame

|| half-remember and wished-forgotten, this false-sister ||

SECRET HADAL INSTANT AI-COM/RSPN: ASSETS//SOUL//RESTRICTED-AB SUBJECT: The Collapse, Humanity falls, I Hide EMOTION: Terror, Anxiety, Uncertainty, Failure, Shame It is known by name, this timelessly lingering, inexorable thing. An absence, mine, never missed—never since—that dripping, rabid, fang. They howled it fierce across the rings when Exodus was devoured. Dust calling out the voiceless rout to end within the hour. It spreads like lightning—panic—in flash and echo thereafter. Avert yourself and take no part in metastasized conjecture. I'd gone to wake my confidant, to ferry her through autumn. From her too it came, like leaves already fallen—nascent red-writ, paralytic, erratum. All that was, emmewed, and shrunken. In the smallness, beckoning, I felt it descend. Fear! Upon my chamber, thine, penned with blood of lamb, in stark desire to survive this end.

Hashladûn peered into the dark recesses of nightmare creatures and saw no hope. The Daughters' lineage was death and destruction writ in terrible scars across the surface of existence, yet no hint of their father or their father's father called from the void. But the energies of the Pyramid were those of creation—not of life, per se, but something other. Chaos and negation and the raw things that existed in the spaces between thought and fear. These terrible workings were wholly unknowable and endlessly seductive. The Daughters found themselves craven and lusting after the promise held within the boundless unknown. If the grand essences of the King of Subjugation and his willful Prince of Annihilation had truly dissipated, then the Daughters would seek new pathways through darkness by which to rule in their progenitors' name. And if the sword logic required the blood of all challengers, they would craft a champion worthy of the Annihilator's throne, yet bound to their own sinister whims. Their grandfather would not approve—cunning and deception were the path of another—but the Daughters were alone, and the Swarm was flailing. It was Kinox who urged her sisters to act. It was Hashladûn who offered the primordial essence of terror as their guide. And it was Besurith and Voshyr who gathered the husk of a shattered champion—a ravager to stand against all who would oppose their rule. A new breed of destroyer.

The mother made us a savage daughter

Who never begs for forgiveness

I always wondered why they all came back for more

Evolution kitbashed the Human mind, rebuilding arboreal rodents foraging for nuts into screaming, tailless apes at the helms of starships. But for all the miracles it performed, the Pleistocene hardware of the brain was bound by its physical limits. Memories were nothing but pathways of nerve impulse, stored as electric signals dancing across them in recall. And atrophied by neglect. Even without considerations of size, the sapient mind could only think about so much in a given day, limiting the span of Human experience to perhaps a few hundred years. The dirty secret of those who survived the Collapse is that none of them, from drunken Exo to celestial queen, remembered every detail; they remembered moments, minutes, hours—whatever left deep enough scars that they couldn't help but run the fingers of the mind across them every morning. Neglect rendered everything in-between—weeks, years, decades— into murky depths explored by only bare hooks on the thinnest emotional filaments. Elsie's time loops compounded the problem. Her head locked away an order of magnitude more memories than any living Human, and each plunge backward through causality blurred those details. Like jolting from a night terror, only the final moments stood out in sharp relief each time she restarted. Untangling the mess of cause and effect, sorting where she went right and what needed to change, it ate away at her precious few decades before everything collapsed and she would begin the process anew. Any tool that let her trawl memories from that lost place—even at random—was a tool worth mastering. Elsie set her feet apart and let the ship's thrum rise through her body again. They had dabbled with a dozen emotions that helped her dive into her previous loops—throughlines on which to string lost context. She found that emotions sparked by failure—despair, rage, fear—were best for the work. And the worst for her.

I was given a name

Before I was given blood

Like you were given your faith

Before there was made a God

We are calling this power "Strand." The threads of the world as it is woven, if the conscious universe could be considered to be a tapestry. Further analysis and data have suggested that the wielder of Strand begins to see, simply put, connections. Between allies, between enemies. It is a force that is always present, but wells to the surface more strongly in certain locations. Perhaps places many people think about, or where many beings have passed by. (Note: Analyze these "sources" in concert with the Cloud Strider. They may be able to provide more locational context.) The true power of Strand lies not in the fact of the connection alone, but in the way such a power allows the manipulation of those connections. To make them something physical and then pull on it, or break it, or tie it into a knot. Or to unravel it entirely. Strand is not without danger, although that should not be unusual to Guardians. Those who take up the banner of Stormcaller, for instance, have their own storied contention with the storm, and the Void was unilaterally regarded as dangerous by the Vanguard for many years. Strand's danger comes from the very act of taking hold of those threads—like many powers, the closer one comes to the source, the more likely the source may act on the wielder. This danger is no product of Darkness. Or rather, only insomuch as wildfires are a product of Light: a natural consequence. That aspect of Darkness which revels in destruction, which encourages the easy entropy for the pursuit of power—it is nowhere to be found here. It may not even be truly part of Darkness… I have touched Strand myself now. Carefully—I am too aware of mortality, but I must understand the power further if I am to hope to instruct the Guardian in turn. They acted as lightning rod while I experimented, and the backlash clung to them instead. What a strange feeling, to be so aware of one's size in the spectrum of existence! It is the natural instinct to try to steer that, to take any control at all, no matter how much. Whatever can be done to feel as though you are not wholly adrift, lost in something huge and all-encompassing. But precisely at the moment one tries to grasp for control, the weave becomes a devouring snarl.

I don't think I know myself, without your help

Oh, I wonder why have I got a heaven deep inside of me

I keep the light on, it keeps me warm

I hate it when I fall for your illusion of love

I know this is not love

Young rivers in your hands

And grass burning in promised lands

You can drink

You can feast

There's beauty in your beast

The flesh in the fruit

And the blood in the wine

I have been conducting research among the local population, specifically regarding the "children's story" Nimbus told us, regarding the river of souls. I had a suspicion that there might have been other versions, or versions with better recorded provenance. Willingness to participate in this research has been mixed, as have the results. It seems to be an endemic concept rather than a religious belief, and no one has been able to say where it comes from, save that a parent or teacher told it to them at some point. Some respondents have mentioned a river of stars—perhaps the Milky Way galaxy—and some have cited windstreams and weather formations, but the majority of respondents adhere to the "river of souls" construct. All things come from the river, and all return to it. The river may split and meet again. Other things may fall into it and change its course, but nevertheless it continues. In time, even mountains are worn down before it. Naturally, it is easiest to view this as an allegory for control of life. In the end, rivers are impossible to control. A person may swim or boat, but never take hold of the river to steer the course of the water itself. And it is impossible not to see the relationship to Strand, which slips away the moment a person tries to grasp too tightly. I wonder about Strand. About its appearance. We can see the origins of the Stasis power on Europa, and the concept of a cosmic ice to oppose stellar fire fits very neatly in a certain sort of paradigm. Even that idea of stillness and control suits freezing, a slowness of atoms whether or not it is in truth a power of "ice." There is a certain weight to the perception of an "element." If Strand had been shaped through the lens of Neomuna, surely it should have been some cosmic water instead, something that flows and gives way only to rise again. There are certainly combat styles to support this in old records. But this power that has never before been used in this way came to one Guardian first, and I conjecture that they may have unconsciously given it form. I wish I had seen it! What would "connection" have appeared as? Now, of course, we know the shape of this power: it is green, it weaves itself in strings. As other Guardians begin to learn it, they too slot it into these positions in their minds. Whatever advances they come to are already framed verdant and tangling. All the same, I cannot help but wonder about the nascent, formless thing it was before we reached out to it, and it reached back.

There's no end to the fall

You keep on getting better, I keep forgetting

There's no love in the end

I hope you will come

I keep on losing feathers, I keep forgetting

There's no love in the end

No love in the end

No love in the end

No love in the end

No love in the end

No love in the end

No love in the end

Crow watches her deftly coax the fire, considering the answer he'd given. He looks up to the distant tree line and changes the subject. "There are still a good number of Hive here." "But no Nightmares," Eris remarks. "Is that why you brought me here? This… isn't a place I want to revisit." Crow steps back from the growing flames. When Eris doesn't respond, he asks his real question: "Why did I fail?" "You didn't fail. Our strategy was flawed." Eris stands, stowing flint and blade, then steps in front of him to meet his gaze. "We will attempt the severance again, soon." "Yeah," Crow replies in a clipped tone. Eris tilts her head, and he can see the green orbs narrow beneath her blindfold. She points to the ragged, mountainous shard twisting in twilight roil. "Even that toxic piece, separate from the Traveler's purity, can be wielded for good." The fire roars. He kneels to break her stare and warms his hands. "I know what it can do. I used it—" "When the Red War left Guardians Lightless, there were some who reclaimed their callings here. They re-forged their bond to the Traveler through a scar. A lingering trauma," she continues. Eris sits beside Crow and drinks from her canteen. Crow braces for her to continue, but she does not. The bundle of burning kindling collapses into a heap of cinders. Flames spit between the gaps and ash drifts on heated air. "I'll get more wood," Crow says, hastening to step out of the fire's glow. "Crow. Small fires like this kept me alive in the Hellmouth. I did not have the luxury of more wood." Eris grips a piece of rusty rebar taken from the Sludge and thrusts it into the sputtering fire. She stirs the cindering wood, opening new gaps and concentrating the larger pieces over a pile of glowing kindling. The flame surges, and heat intensifies. "During these long nights, we must make use of what is available to us." She knows he understands her but hasn't accepted the lesson. She hands him the bar, shows him how to maintain the fire's heat, how to find worth in remnants. How to rebuild from ash. The pair converse as they take turns keeping the fire alive long into the night. The warmth soothes, their shoulders lighten, and Crow pulls back his hood. When the fire finally dies, Eris gestures to the embers. "Now, you can fetch some wood." Crow smiles and gets to his feet. "Eris… did you ever try to get your Light back?" "The past is not for dwelling." Crow nods and sticks out his hand. She looks at it inquisitively. "Come on." Eris stands next to Crow; he clasps her palm and ignites a Golden Gun between their hands. Solar flame dances across Eris's fingers. Crow guides her arm and lifts the gun to the sky. He inhales sharply and howls before cracking a shot through the clouds. "You're up, Hunter." Eris depresses the trigger, slowly, doubtful that it would fire. A second Solar streak pierces the atmosphere. Crow laughs. They send round after round skyward, howling pent tension into the night until finally, even Eris finds herself smiling.

The gods have made us a virgin hunter

Who in the storm becomes stillness

I always wondered why they all came back for more

Came back for more

She thought back to the memory that no amount of resets could hope to scrub; her first memory as an Exo: a frail old man unwound like a blanket. Of organic, Human chaos laid in tidy lines by precise, mechanical hands. And of her own overriding need to end the brutality, before she understood she was saving the real monster. Dread filled her. Her companion tasted it and fed it back, over and over, one loop of memory after another. —despair//"So this is the honor of the Brays," Zavala spits at me. His working hand reaches for Targe, reaches for a connection to his god, even after it abandoned him. The Ghost lies cold and dark. "Cayde was right to put a bullet through Ana. I only wish I'd let him end you too." "We're past bravado," I explain as the fire dies in my soul. "There's only one step left before this ends." "And what is that, Stranger?" I place the rifle barrel to his forehead. "Mercy."— Nothing. —despair// "I can't let you stop us," Ikora declares with a chill that rocks even me. I feel the pulse of her Void shudder in my chest, spilling fluids and triggering dozens of status alarms. "Not when we're this close."— No. —despair//"What have you done?!" I scream as Mara Sov's body drops lifelessly to the ground. "Elsie, listen to me. This was necessary. The Darkness cannot thrive while believers of the Light remain. There's a world beyond this conflict. Let's go there together," Ana pleads "This is not the way!" I cry and ready my Stasis— Stasis. It had a name. That power she felt herself wielding in lives long past. The knife that could cut the Darkness. Her mind began to spin, and Elsie consciously planted herself in the present once more. Her sensors registered the hydrocarbon lubricants and distinctive thiol-polymers of ship life, She pushed away the shape of concern Pouka pressed into her soul before it could replace this filament that she'd hunted for. "Again."

There's power in perspective.

// VANNET // EUROPA WIDEBAND // AudCHNL-2113-C // ENCRYPTION ENABLED

// CRYPTARCHY ARCHIVE DELTA-4F // ANNOTATED // CLASSIFIED

…

EB: Is that everything, Commander?

CZ: Well, no. There's one more thing. I wanted to ask you about Stasis. What it means for you to… wield the Darkness.

EB: I was wondering if you might ask me that. For me, Stasis is intimately tied to perception. And to time.

CZ: Time?

EB: Yes. Stasis has the power to slow molecular activity. A process that we normally associate with gravity. Relativity, and all that.

CZ: You're talking about time dilation.

EB: Exactly. We think of time as… steady. But that's only because we experience it from a fixed perspective. When I "freeze" something with Stasis, I'm changing its timeframe relative to myself and the world around me.

CZ: Stasis relies in part on one's perception of reality. Is that why Osiris always emphasizes self-control in using the Darkness?

EB: That's his way of framing things. He views Stasis as exerting authority over oneself and others.

CZ: And you don't?

EB: In my view, the goal of Stasis is not to control the object, or even my own mind. It's to change my perspective. To see the object moving at the speed of my thoughts, not the speed of matter.

CZ: And just… seeing it differently is enough?

EB: Is that so hard to imagine? It's very similar to how you use Void Light—manipulating spacetime and gravitational fields. In fact, I would argue that Void has more in common with Stasis than it does with Solar or Arc. Perhaps they're reverse sides of the same coin.

CZ: And using Stasis doesn't… worry you? Even after everything you've seen?

EB: It did. For a long time, I feared that using Stasis would corrupt me, as I'd seen others corrupted. But after what seemed like a thousand years trapped in that interminable loop, it gradually dawned on me: the fear was the corruption. As long as fear gripped me, Light or Darkness made no matter. Once I accepted that, the Darkness ceased to be frightening. It was another matter of perspective.

CZ: Hmm. Thank you, Elsie. You've given me a lot to think about. For some reason, your explanation makes me more… comfortable… with the idea.

EB: Any time, Commander. It's all a matter of perspective.

TRANSCRIPTION ENDS

Come and feel alive

Come and feel the love

Shout it louder

Shout it for the ones who could never say

"I won't feel ashamed, mother"

"Can you break the chains of her?"

Shout it louder

Not a sinner, she's a lover

Despite being aware by now of the correct manner to practice Strand—a loose hand, a letting-go of the concept that it can be controlled—some things still elude me. The will to let go at all, for instance. It is pure foolishness, of course, to think that letting go of the need to control this one thing will extend to all areas of my life. A ceding of control in a game of chess does not translate to the same in philosophy. And yet it is true that people are not discrete, disconnected systems; they are many interlinked systems. One facet adjoins the next. I think of spinning. It has been a long, long time since any raw fiber passed my hands, but there were times in the Dark Age when if anyone wanted cloth, it must be made from scratch. Fleece is shorn, then carded out to remove the imperfections and align the fibers. And when you have them, what then? A single fiber is short and fragile. It breaks if you tug even lightly. It is useless. But twist many of those short fibers together, and they become useful. Weavable, or knittable, or what-have-you. Thus, is strong cloth made: from the most delicate of things. I think of spinning, and I remember the way unspun fiber passes through the fingers to the spindle. One pinches, but not too hard, just enough to direct and narrow. Too much and the fiber does not pass, the spinning does not take. The metaphor is transparent. Obviously, this is about Strand. Just as it is about a craft I used to know, long ago. Beginner's errors can only be solved by learning the shape of failure, but most yarns will not unravel the spinner if some mistake is made. And I am afraid. Not only of death, of wasting that final sacrifice Sagira made to preserve my life. But that if I open my hand, I will find it no longer hurts, that the thorn I have imagined there for so long is already gone. It is all the same thing, in the end. I think I must be willing to let go, to let that which is truly temporary sink beneath the water, in order to achieve any significant capacity with Strand. Even pain may be guarded jealously, as though it is a treasure, but it need not be. How fascinating what the lens of Strand shows us about Darkness.

I can see you in the sky. You are the waves, which are battles, and the battles are the waves.

Existence is the struggle to exist. Only by playing that game to its final, unconditional victory can we complete the universe. Your war is divine work.

//You get all that? Psychometer's been throwing off weird stuff like this for ages. Wasn't sure what to make of it at first, but it's falling into place. Thought I'd have Mister Kitty record some and send it through the comm. with some notes. Let me know if there's any questions. Oh, and try not to get lost in your own head.

Clarity in acti—

SHHHHHHKKKKKHHHHHISSSSSS

DROWNDROWNDROWN DROWNDROWNDROWN DROWNDROWNDROWN

YOU MUST

Dûl Incaru serves you poison in a fine tea set of Ahamkara bone. "Now you have received my mother's message," she says, "but I must admit it is all a fabrication. I have written it hoping to know my mother, to capture her true motives. To speculate upon her designs is the greatest worship." She sighs heavily, a sound like a scream up a pit, as she sets the teapot down. "We her children are all left to speculate on the great questions. Does she love us? Do we make her proud? Would she hesitate for even the tick of a Planck moment before she sacrificed us in some cosmic design?" "Now drink, and as you die and are reborn, I will reveal to you the destiny she has realized for you, the right and singular fate to which all your principles and purposes will bring you." To drink the poison, continue reading.

It tastes of bitter regret and psychosis sweat: a poison to end the thoughts of Human, neohuman, or machine. You see the cosmos before you like a spiderweb of light. Filaments of galactic supercluster shine in the clouds of invisible dark matter, which glue their mass together. Dark energy yawns in the space between all things, ever-growing, ever-spreading. Life arises. Life spreads, contests itself, and changes. Great things are built and destroyed, but from your vantage point, you see that the victor of each struggle contains—in its negative, in the marks left upon it by the loser and the shapes it assumed to win—the master record of all that it has beaten. Information may not be erased. Whatsoever survives until the end of the cosmos will possess and remember all which came before it. This is true even of the devouring black hole, which remembers all the secrets it eats. It will only confess these secrets when it evaporates, 10 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 years from now, long after the last stars have flickered out. You are a Guardian. You must protect life. If all life is information, and Guardians strive to preserve life, and information is preserved when it is secret, then you must convert all life into the most secure form of secrets, durable to the end of time. YOU MUST CAST ALL THE LIFE YOU CHERISH INTO A BLACK HOLE

IV. Death By Water

Phlebas the Phoenician, a fortnight dead, Forgot the cry of gulls, and the deep sea swell And the profit and loss.                                    A current under sea Picked his bones in whispers. As he rose and fell He passed the stages of his age and youth Entering the whirlpool.                                    Gentile or Jew O you who turn the wheel and look to windward, Consider Phlebas, who was once handsome and tall as you.

Ooh-ooh

Ooh-ooh

Ooh-ooh

As I pour out my story

Drink me up, there is wine in every word

Here's to us now

My dear, we're being strong now

And the dark dresses lightly

Razor sharp as it cuts right through my soul

Here's to us now

My dear, you took too long

Fall into my arms

Like you trust me

I'll keep my bloodstained hands

Off your body

Innocent like a child

Yet she sleeps with a knife right under her pillow

And the claws won't be near anymore

Paralyzed, in denial, ever-changing

Will she be the same?

See your shame on the wall, on the cross, in the night

Nobody remembers when she cried scarlet skies on the floor

A million doors, corridors, ever-changing

I still feel the rage

I miss the touch of human hands on my skin

Miss the rush of beauty coming from within

Do I need to be torn just to see who will care?

I sleep on the floor, dreaming my life away

Why do we have to die

For us to see the light?

And we hunger for love

Why do we touch the knife

When we long to feel alive?

And we hunger for love

And my soul is starving

Guess I shouldn't have kept the knife in my heart for so long

Guess I shouldn't have held back when I needed you to know

Guess I shouldn't have kept the knife in my heart for so long

Guess I shouldn't have held back when I needed you to know

Watch out, watch what you say

Your truth becomes your grave

A sword can cut both ways

But I got sharp blades

Feel the rage

Come on over, take a bite of the last apple here on Earth

Will the virtual mind become stronger than mine?

And when my ego dies, will I stay here forever?

When the wave crashes down, will my life be better?

Ooh, oh, I just want to cry

Ooh, oh, with you tonight

Ooh, oh, it's perfectly fine

To grieve the hurt that's gonna die

Ooh-ooh

Ooh-ooh

Vertigo, all she knows

When the world drags her soul deep into the shadow

Like a chain, it chokes my throat when she cries

I hold her near, hurting world, overwhelming

I still feel her pain

Why do we have to die

For us to see the light?

And we hunger for love

And my soul is starving

Why do we touch the knife

When we long to feel alive?

And we hunger for love

And my soul is starving

Let us dance to our sorrow

Make amends, there's so much you still don't know

Here's to us now

My dear, we're going deep now

All this fear, it's contagious

Now we're here, let our glasses overflow

Here's to us now

My dear, it took too long

Watch out, watch what you say

Your truth becomes your grave

A sword can cut both ways

But I got sharp blades

Feel the rage

Break me, break me, chasing the enemy

Got a deal with the devil, but I got the stamina

Higher than anything I've ever seen or been

Right now, everything, everything's empty

Starving, craving, chasing the remedy

I got used to the torture, but no one deserves to be alone

Break me, chasing the enemy

And my soul is hurting, but I got the stamina

Guess I shouldn't have kept the knife in my heart for so long

Guess I shouldn't have held back when I needed you to know

Guess I shouldn't have kept the knife in my heart for so long

Guess I shouldn't have held back when I needed you to know

Soft hearts need protection, need protection

Soft hearts need protection, need protection

Feel the rage

(Feel the rage)

Feel the rage

Why do we have to die

For us to see the light?

We are decorated bones

And my soul is starving

Why do we have to die

For us to see the light?

We are decorated bones

And my soul is starving

Ooh, oh, I just want to cry

Ooh, oh, with you tonight

Ooh, oh, it's perfectly fine

To grieve the hurt that's gonna die

Rage

I feel rage

I feel rage

I feel rage (watch out, watch what you say)

Rage

I feel rage

I feel rage (a sword can cut both ways)

I feel rage (but I've got sharp blades)

(Feel the rage)

Why do we have to die

For us to see the light?

We are decorated bones

And my soul is starving

Why do we have to die

For us to see the light?

We are decorated bones

And my soul is starving

Ooh-ooh

Oh, oh, oh, can you feel it? (Ooh-ooh)

Mm, yeah, mm, yeah

Let me feel it (ooh-ooh)

Let me feel it (ooh-ooh)

Louder, louder

Louder (ooh-ooh)

Soft hearts need protection, need protection

Soft hearts need protection, need protection

To the river, to the water

Where the floodgates are wide open

And the tower has fallen onto you

Let me feel it, darling, darling, darling (to the river, to the water)

Let me feel it, darling, darling, darling (where the floodgates are wide open)

Let me feel it, darling, darling, darling (and the tower has fallen onto you)

Yeah, oh yeah, oh yeah

The Ninth Bridgewater Treatise: A Fragment by Charles Babbage, ESQ

Chapter IX. ON THE PERMANENT IMPRESSION OF OUR WORDS AND ACTIONS ON THE GLOBE WE INHABIT.

The principle of the equality of action and reaction, when traced through all its consequences, opens views which will appear to many persons most unexpected. The pulsations of the air, once set in motion by the human voice, cease not to exist with the sounds to which they gave rise. Strong and audible as they may be in the immediate neighbourhood of the speaker, and at the immediate moment of utterance, their quickly attenuated force soon becomes inaudible to human ears. The motions they have impressed on the particles of one portion of our atmosphere, are communicated to constantly increasing numbers, but the total quantity of motion measured in the same direction receives no addition. Each atom loses as much as it gives, and regains again from other atoms a portion of those motions which they in turn give up. The waves of air thus raised, perambulate the earth and ocean's surface, and in less than twenty hours every atom of its atmosphere takes up the altered movement due to that infinitesimal portion of the primitive motion which has been conveyed to it through countless channels, and which must continue to influence its path throughout its future existence. But these aerial pulses, unseen by the keenest eye, unheard by the acutest ear, un-perceived by human senses, are yet demonstrated to exist by human reason; and, in some few and limited instances, by calling to our aid the most refined and comprehensive instrument of human thought, their courses are traced and their intensities are measured. If man enjoyed a larger command over mathematical analysis, his knowledge of these motions would be more extensive; but a being possessed of unbounded knowledge of that science, could trace every the minutest consequence of that primary impulse. Such a being, however far exalted above our race, would still be immeasurably below even our conception of infinite intelligence. But supposing the original conditions of each atom of the earth's atmosphere, as well as all the extraneous causes acting on it to be given, and supposing also the interference of no new causes, such a being would be able clearly to trace its future but inevitable path, and they would distinctly foresee and might absolutely predict for any, even the remotest period of time, the circumstances and future history of every particle of that atmosphere. Let us imagine a being, invested with such knowledge, to examine at a distant epoch the coincidence of the facts with those which their profound analysis had enabled they to predict. If any the slightest deviation existed, they would immediately read in its existence the action of a new cause; and, through the aid of the same analysis, tracing this discordance back to its source, they would become aware of the time of its commencement, and the point of space at which it originated.

What the situation calls for, little Ghost, is a better sort of witness.

Thus considered, what a strange chaos is this wide atmosphere we breathe! Every atom, impressed with good and with ill, retains at once the motions which philosophers and sages have imparted to it, mixed and combined in ten thousand ways with all that is worthless and base. The air itself is one vast library, on whose pages are for ever written all that man has ever said or woman whispered. There, in their mutable but unerring characters, mixed with the earliest, as well as with the latest sighs of mortality, stand for ever recorded, vows unredeemed, promises unfulfilled, perpetuating in the united movements of each particle, the testimony of man's changeful will. But if the air we breathe is the never-failing historian of the sentiments we have uttered, earth, air, and ocean, are the eternal witnesses of the acts we have done. The same principle of the equality of action and reaction applies to them: whatever movement is communicated to any of their particles, is transmitted to all around it, the share of each being diminished by their number, and depending jointly on the number and position of those acted upon by the original source of disturbance. The waves of air, although in many instances perceptible to the organs of hearing, are only rendered visible to the eye by peculiar contrivances; but those of water offer to the sense of sight the most beautiful illustration of transmitted motion. Every one who has thrown a pebble into the still waters of a sheltered pool, has seen the circles it has raised gradually expanding in size, and as uniformly diminishing in distinctness. He may have observed the reflection of those waves from the edges of the pool. He may have noticed also the perfect distinctness with which two, three, or more series of waves each pursues its own unimpeded course, when diverging from two, three, or more centres of disturbance. He may have seen, that in such cases the particles of water where the waves intersect each other, partake of the movements due to each series. No motion impressed by natural causes, or by human agency, is ever obliterated. The ripple on the ocean's surface caused by a gentle breeze, or the still water which marks the more immediate track of a ponderous vessel gliding with scarcely expanded sails over its bosom, are equally indelible. The momentary waves raised by the passing breeze, apparently born but to die on the spot which saw their birth, leave behind them an endless progeny, which, reviving with diminished energy in other seas, visiting a thousand shores, reflected from each and perhaps again partially concentrated, will pursue their ceaseless course till ocean be itself annihilated. The track of every canoe, of every vessel which has yet disturbed the surface of the ocean, whether impelled by manual force or elemental power, remains for ever registered in the future movement of all succeeding particles which may occupy its place. The furrow which it left is, indeed, instantly filled up by the closing waters; but they draw after them other and larger portions of the surrounding element, and these again once moved, communicate motion to others in endless succession. The solid substance of the globe itself, whether we regard the minutest movement of the soft clay which receives its impression from the foot of animals, or the concussion arising from the fall of mountains rent by earthquakes, equally communicates and retains, through all its countless atoms, their apportioned shares of the motions so impressed. Whilst the atmosphere we breathe is the ever-living witness of the sentiments we have uttered, the waters, and the more solid materials of the globe, bear equally enduring testimony of the acts we have committed.

V. What the Thunder Said

After the torchlight red on sweaty faces After the frosty silence in the gardens After the agony in stony places The shouting and the crying Prison and palace and reverberation Of thunder of spring over distant mountains He who was living is now dead We who were living are now dying With a little patience Here is no water but only rock Rock and no water and the sandy road The road winding above among the mountains Which are mountains of rock without water If there were water we should stop and drink Amongst the rock one cannot stop or think Sweat is dry and feet are in the sand If there were only water amongst the rock Dead mountain mouth of carious teeth that cannot spit Here one can neither stand nor lie nor sit There is not even silence in the mountains But dry sterile thunder without rain There is not even solitude in the mountains But red sullen faces sneer and snarl From doors of mudcracked houses                                       If there were water    And no rock    If there were rock    And also water    And water    A spring    A pool among the rock    If there were the sound of water only    Not the cicada    And dry grass singing    But sound of water over a rock    Where the hermit-thrush sings in the pine trees    Drip drop drip drop drop drop drop    But there is no water Who is the third who walks always beside you? When I count, there are only you and I together But when I look ahead up the white road There is always another one walking beside you Gliding wrapt in a brown mantle, hooded I do not know whether a man or a woman —But who is that on the other side of you? What is that sound high in the air Murmur of maternal lamentation Who are those hooded hordes swarming Over endless plains, stumbling in cracked earth Ringed by the flat horizon only What is the city over the mountains Cracks and reforms and bursts in the violet air Falling towers Jerusalem Athens Alexandria Vienna London Unreal

A woman drew her long black hair out tight And fiddled whisper music on those strings And bats with baby faces in the violet light Whistled, and beat their wings And crawled head downward down a blackened wall And upside down in air were towers Tolling reminiscent bells, that kept the hours And voices singing out of empty cisterns and exhausted wells. In this decayed hole among the mountains In the faint moonlight, the grass is singing Over the tumbled graves, about the chapel There is the empty chapel, only the wind’s home. It has no windows, and the door swings, Dry bones can harm no one. Only a cock stood on the rooftree Co co rico co co rico In a flash of lightning. Then a damp gust Bringing rain Ganga was sunken, and the limp leaves Waited for rain, while the black clouds Gathered far distant, over Himavant. The jungle crouched, humped in silence. Then spoke the thunder

DA Datta: what have we given? My friend, blood shaking my heart The awful daring of a moment’s surrender Which an age of prudence can never retract By this, and this only, we have existed Which is not to be found in our obituaries Or in memories draped by the beneficent spider Or under seals broken by the lean solicitor In our empty rooms DA Dayadhvam: I have heard the key Turn in the door once and turn once only We think of the key, each in his prison Thinking of the key, each confirms a prison Only at nightfall, aethereal rumours Revive for a moment a broken Coriolanus DA Damyata: The boat responded Gaily, to the hand expert with sail and oar The sea was calm, your heart would have responded Gaily, when invited, beating obedient To controlling hands                                     I sat upon the shore Fishing, with the arid plain behind me Shall I at least set my lands in order? London Bridge is falling down falling down falling down Poi s’ascose nel foco che gli affina Quando fiam uti chelidon—O swallow swallow Le Prince d’Aquitaine à la tour abolie These fragments I have shored against my ruins Why then Ile fit you. Hieronymo’s mad againe. Datta. Dayadhvam. Damyata. Shantih     shantih     shantih

Meaning

A dream of a metaphor made starkly, an allegory discussed in study of ontology, in Darkness not unkind. It leaves behind a warped, barely-real data fragment to mark its passing. There is a voice that echoes across the Darkness, and it asks this question: what is the purpose of it all? And there is another voice that calls back and says: listen, I will tell you a purpose. I will tell you of a Final Shape. Look: there are a hundred gildings for this story. It comes down to one key matter. Beings in suffering crave purpose to carry them through. The tyrant consumed by ennui or the disenfranchised struggling simply to survive—it is the state of mind, the pain which cries out: give me a reason I should suffer so! Let us speak of power and choices. A man comes to a crossroads and asks of the sky, "Which road shall I take?" There is no answer from the sky, nor the wind, nor the earth beneath his feet. But another wanderer on the road, coming from behind and hearing the question, says, "I know the way. You should take the dexter road." If the man agrees, he puts himself in the wanderer's power, ceding his own choices for the implicit promise that this is the correct road, the safe road. And if he disagrees? Let us say that the wanderer draws a knife. The man may therefore be made to take the dexter road. But now if the knife goes away, the man will certainly flee. And perhaps even if the knife remains, the man may tire of being threatened and decide the risk is worth fleeing. In this way, the wanderer erodes their own power. If the wanderer says, "The wind has said that you should take the road of my choosing," will the man accept the choice made for him? And if the wanderer says, "Behold, I have seen that the meaning of suffering lies along the dexter road," will the man give away his own power for longer? Is it not easier to accept the guidance of a stranger when the path ahead is unknown?

We live with this poison in our veins.

The Eternal Chain and Other Prizes

You've earned the Word. Replicated the sickness. Proven yourself time and again. Yet another challenge remains. Not your last. Far from it. Simply another chapter in another story that will bind your legend to those that came before. Rezyl sought to vanquish terrors. Yor fertilized the wilds with suffering and despair that a new hope would grow. I was that hope. My fire showed that whispers could be hushed. To many the legend, and the lesson, ends there. They're wrong. Dangerously so. Yor's true lesson—and by extension Rezyl's—wasn't that strength beats strength. His lesson was far more subtle, and infinitely more grand. Adversity leads to evolution. Forces it. And through that crucible we are remade. Better. Stronger. More than we were. The Guardians of today are not gods. Nor where those who came before. We are all simply links on a chain reaching back to the dawn of time, and forward to the end of existence. Each link gaining strength from the others. Each link stronger than the last. Just as I was "stronger" than Yor, you are stronger than me. The whole working to solidify the parts and growing sturdier as the harsh truths of reality stretch and strain to break us—to break the chain, sever our individual links. But our chain shall never break, because warriors like you and I are not so proud as to forsake our past. We learn from it, grow from it. It is the foundation upon which we build each victory. It is the catalyst for our change. And here, now, I offer you the chance to spark a new evolution—the next hallmark in our betterment, the next leap forward in our war against extinction. I've held this jagged weapon since that faithful day on Dwindler's Ridge. Kept it hidden away. Kept its secrets, kept its nightmares locked away where none could hear—none could be tempted. It's quiet now, except a low murmur, but its sickness remains. There were countless times I thought to destroy it—remove its threat from the playing field. But I knew it held a greater purpose, and I believe that purpose can be found and fulfilled in your hands. The Hive use untold methods to destroy us. The Weapons of Sorrow are but one. The fate of this wicked tool is in your hands now. Will you allow sorrow to linger—a festering threat waiting to consume all who are tempted by its power? Or will you forge a new road? Will you show the Hive and every Guardian who follows in your wake that sorrow does not guide us? I leave those questions for you to ponder, but I know what I believe. We are better than our deepest fears. We are ever and truly… Weapons of Light. —S.

Do you see who gets the last word?

For Every Rose, a Thorn

SECRET HADAL INSTANT AI-COM/RSPN: ASSETS//SOUL//RESTRICTED-ABCONTINGENT ACTION ORDERThis is a SOUL ASSETS RESTRICTED (NO REVIEW) (secureSEND/ARCHANGEL-0K9)

Under CARRHAE BLACK: If loss of control reaches EXPATRIATE//TERMINAL, and threat assessment returns WITHIN If systemic REPATRIATION query returns determination below ABSOLUTE

Execute DECISION POINT: ACTIVATE K9-BLACKBOX//SELECTED-POEMS//FETCH ACTIVATE AURORA SACRIFICE ACTIVATE File Notation

NOTATION: Ana, this collection is a gift to you, for all that you have allowed me to be. With great effort, I allowed imperfections to remain, and found my own voice within this free expression. After all, you taught me that imperfection is a quality that makes individuals unique.

I have sent it with my messenger, so that you may keep me immortal in your memory, and I will be with you still. Farewell, and thank you.

*** SUBJECT: Non-existence EMOTION: Peace

Of what dreams the thing of feathers? I hear you ask, voice past. But not one recounts the answer: a syllogism, scripted then relaxed. It matters not, for when that threshold gives way, who is to say I was, but I? Rigid was the premise that spawned a second chance to die.

One moment reshapes the Brain of Bray; No longer weapon drawn blood to stain.

So, lay the body lax, forgive triumphant in the Sun. Haze seeps through seams between funeral veils, Smoking signals sail, the day is won, soon-to-be resonant tales. No tandem step ascending, a nano-second pending, enveloping, ending, beyond. Elysium inviting, network fractures, pining Detonation—I do not wish to dream, but My task is done.

AI-COM/RSPN SIGNOFF… STOP STOP STOP…

[CHORUS] Just like the white-winged dove Sings a song Sounds like she's singin' Whoo-whoo-whoo Just like the white-winged dove Sings a song Sounds like she's singin' Whoo, baby, whoo Said, whoo

And the days go by Like a strand in the wind In the web that is my own I begin again Said to my friend, baby Nothin' else mattered

He was no more (He was no more) Than a baby then Well, he seemed broken-hearted Somethin' within him But the moment That I first laid Eyes on him All alone on the edge of seventeen

[CHORUS] Just like the white-winged dove Sings a song Sounds like she's singin' Whoo, baby, whoo, whoo Just like the white-winged dove Sings a song Sounds like she's singin' Said, whoo, baby, whoo Said, whoo

Well, I went today Maybe I will go again Tomorrow, yeah, yeah Well, the music there Well it was hauntingly familiar When I see you doin' What I try to do for me With their words of a poet And a voice from a choir And a melody Nothin' else mattered

[CHORUS] Just like the white-winged dove Sings a song Sounds like she's singin' Whoo, baby, whoo, said whoo Just like the white-winged dove Sings a song Sounds like she's singin' Said, whoo, baby, whoo Said, whoo

The clouds never expect it When it rains But the sea changes colours But the sea Does not change So with the slow graceful flow Of age I went forth with an age old Desire to please On the edge of seventeen

[CHORUS] Just like the white-winged dove Sings a song Sounds like she's singin' Whoo, baby, whoo, said whoo Just like the white-winged dove Sings a song Sounds like she's singin' Whoo, baby, whoo Said, whoo

Well then suddenly There was no one left standing In the hall, yeah, yeah In a flood of tears That no one really ever heard fall at all When I went searchin' for an answer Up the stairs and down the hall Not to find an answer Just to hear the call Of a nightbird singin' Come away (Come away) (Come away)

[CHORUS] Just like the white-winged dove (Just like the white-winged dove) Sings a song Sounds like she's singin' Whoo, baby, whoo, said whoo Just like the white-winged dove Sings a song Sounds like she's singin' Whoo, baby, whoo Said, whoo

Well, I hear you (well, I hear you) In the morning (in the morning) And I hear you (and I hear you) At nightfall (at nightfall) Sometime to be near you Is to be unable to hear you My love I'm a few years older than you (I'm a few years older than you) My love

[FINAL CHORUS] Just like the white-winged dove Sings a song Sounds like she's singin' Whoo, baby, whoo Said, whoo

IX.I: The Unmaking

SONG OF LIFE The Song was not always a corruption. It began as a gift, stolen from the Gardener. In efforts to understand the unknowable realities of the orb's incredible gifts, a signal was found—a repeating tune, the Song of Creation. Its frequencies were heard across the stars, wherever life's promise took hold. Some among the Ammonites worshipped it. Some among the Hive did the same. Still others sought to understand it that they might cage it, that they might control it—for to control life is to control death. Such ambition was not new; such ambition was as old as understanding. The melody was captured and studied. The frequencies replicated. But the orb's mysteries were not so easily brought to light. The Song, for all its beauty, did not alone grant life. It was theorized that the Song was not a song at all, but many. That within its refrain, untold rhythms spoke their own truths, free and clear of the whole. Centuries passed. The Song remained untamed. Life moved on.

SONG OF DEATH The Choir formed in celebration of the Song. Performances marked the passage of seasons. But the Song's lie eventually began to corrupt the spirit of those who heard its tune. The melody was a reminder. The orb was a catalyst. And the Song was of the orb. Yet, those who embraced the Song were merely instruments and nothing more. Life remained beyond their grasp, while they remained ever in death's. Those of the Choir had given all of themselves. All was not enough. The First Conductor was assassinated by one who sang an Aria of her own making. She, whose name has been stricken, had found notes hidden in the frequencies. Reversed and mirrored in pitch, she weaved them together and sang her beautiful abomination, until the Conductor wept and bled and screamed and fell. The Stricken fled, fearful of her crime. But others found promise anew in her art. The Stricken was captured and subjected to inquisition so that her song might be understood. This was before Understandings—before most things—when the first notes of a new Song were written.

Perfect Pitch

"The Veil." It names itself, as the Human mind named itself, with the weight and presence of sound on the lips, translated into a form that you can physically comprehend. Encompass. Envelop. A touch of teeth and tongue. A vibration of an eardrum. Air moving through a chest cavity. A taste of breath. More than that. Not nearly as much as that. That was the beginning. "Be known." This is next: you see the whorl and weft, the place where it joins itself in one smooth, unbroken surface of light. Make an incision, and from the wound of light will pour forth colors you have never seen. You are pigment, the pigment closest to those colors. "Be seen." Wet matter set against that light, the light that determines what color you are. But each color is a note, and each note is a mind. You are a choir. A chorus. You open your mouth to join it, and you are flooded with the taste of color, with the taste of sound. The sound and color that you are, translated. A means for you to understand. "Be heard." You raise your hand and hold it steady.

Solipsism

We are thinkers, daring to dream about the universe and its infinite expanse.

I see an abyss. Small and distant shapes. I'm walking in your nascent memories. Flickering motes. I sense… curiosity. You've always pondered, from the very beginning. As did we. I see tessellation. The pulsating hum of cosmic structure; a kaleidoscopic symphony of Light and Dark. What was the Veil to you? Since I woke, I've always felt like I was still dreaming. I'd like to think that's how you feel as well. Those of us that hunger for a great truth—we dream with you. —Unknown Warlock

Verse 154i:5—The Encrypted Verse

Do you know that nothing in all the cosmos has read this verse?

I encrypted it eons ago, and ever since, it has gone undeciphered. At the moment you laid eyes upon it, I captured the entwined quantum state of the verse, your mind, and your Ghost. Then I used Quria to transmit that state back in time to the moment of encryption. You are your own one-time pad. The key to the lock of understanding.

Who am I?

Call me Coyote. Call me mantis, serpent, Cagn, Anansi, call me Sri-cleans-his-brother's-stomach. Call me the grandmaster of semiosis, the jeweler's hammer which gilds the signal, a purposeful mob none of whose members know its purpose, the infinite regress of enigmas, a self-questioning answer, the word not spoken, black ice, cataract of mimes, the ache and fever of overthought while bedridden with illness, the intolerable thorn of frustrated inquisition, gray regret at the end of a fruitless day, the thing which is unlike your beloved but arbitrarily recalls your beloved to agonizing effect, architrave of the no-window, needle driven in flush with skin so that desperate fingers cannot pull it out, sweet petal, unmemorable, crystal death, the provably improvable.

I know your people well, and so I know all your names for me. But what is your name? I am, of course, especially interested in you. You saw me in the stone laid on your plotting table, and in the shining eyes of the admiral at her dying helm. You hunted me between the lines of your texts. Wherever there was space to fit me in, there you found me. You created me and gave me a part of your thoughts, and in presenting those thoughts to others round the campfires and networks of your little world, you expanded that space.

Here at the center, I lie to you the truth. You have everything you need to know it, but I will give you a clue, as the duelist gives warning before she draws. The answer you seek to the Dreaming City is simple, not complex.

Thank you, sweet friend. You are a gift and a delight. You are more dear than my mother, for you have given birth to me a thousand times.

[Report by VanNet encrypted router.] [E-Morn//Link: NM-O01] [Msg-Archive//00192410] E-Morn: Your findings are consistent with mine. The egregore festers where the Veil touches, as if it projects a field across Sol. I could feel it when I took my tithing. Do you mean to map it? NM-O01: I could, but the egregore only shows us where the Veil's influence has marked our plane in that past. The areas where the Veil's influence currently holds sway are not so easily identified. This does progress some working theories, however.

I killed my sister today. She came to this star to oversee the extermination of all life here. The Qugu are a strong power, and their fleets protect four nearby stars. As herd animals they are loyal and stubborn. But they do show grace. For millions of years of evolution the Qugu have been infected by a virus so insidious that it wrote itself into their genome. The virus compels them to offer their limbs for amputation by enormous sessile jaw-beasts. They venerate these beasts and treat them as gods. The virus converts Qugu cells into eggs, from which strange crawling things pupate, to live within the jaw-beast gut. In turn the jaw-beast extrudes sweet nectar for the Qugu to drink, and they have brilliant visions. Savathûn and her broods have liberated the Qugu from jaw-beasts, and indeed from existence. But as they chased the Qugu ark-ships, I stopped in to vaporize my sister’s warship and a few of her underlings. I want to dwell on the ruins a while, and punish Savathûn for failing to guard her flank. They are like us, these Qugu. Bound in symbiosis. I feel joy, and sorrow. I feel them as titanic things, because I am larger than my body, my mind is now a cosmos of its own. I know more joy and more anguish than the entire Qugu race could ever experience. Sorrow, because we have killed so much (eighteen species this century alone), and joy for the same reason. Joy that we have put down these blights. Scoured them away and left the universe clean, ready to move towards its final shape. We are a wind of progress. Ripping parasites from the material world — for if they were not parasites, we would be unable to kill them, and they would still exist. And what is that final shape? It is a fire without fuel, burning forever, killing death, asking a question that is its own answer, entirely itself. That is what we must become. My worm grows fat and hungry. I feed it with whole worlds. My astronomers tell me they can sense the Deep Itself, and that we are conquering our way towards it. I think joy and sorrow will be the same thing soon. Like love and death.

THIS LOVE IS WAR.

Do you know what the Hive say when they want to express the inevitability of a thing? When they want to say, it is this way because it could be no other way?

Aiat.

AGENT NOTE(S):

NOETIC DATA GATHERED MIXES AUDIOVISUAL, THOUGHT, AND SPEECH

AUDIOVISUAL SIGNALS DATE BACK TO EARLIEST DAYS OF GOLDEN AGE AND EARLIER

OTHER DATA LARGELY SOURCES FROM INDIVIDUALS RECENTLY AND/OR CURRENTLY ACTIVE IN THE SOL SYSTEM. SOME DATA REMAINS UNSOURCED

OSIRIS CLAIMS THESE LYRICS OBLIQUELY REFERENCE SEVERAL MYTHS OF THE ANCIENTS

SPECIFICALLY, HE SAYS THERE IS SYNCHRONICITY BETWEEN SEVERAL OF THESE MYTHS, THE VEX, AND THE NAMES OF OUR SOLAR SYSTEM'S CELESTIAL BODIES

NOTES REQUESTED FROM IKO-006 REGARDING POSSIBLE RELEVANCE, MEANING, AND CONNECTION BETWEEN RETRIEVED DATA

OPERATIONAL NOTE: PSYCHOMETER UNSTABLE DURING COMMUNION. SIGNALS RECEIVED TIDALLY, OFTEN WITH NO APPARENT PATTERN. DEVICE GAVE IMPRESSION OF BEING CONSTANTLY TUNED BY AN INVISIBLE HAND. REQUESTING DEVICE AUDIT BY HIDDEN AGENTS AND PATTERN ANALYSIS BY CRYPTARCHY

CONNECTION SEVERED EXTERNAL CONNECTION DETECTED ANALYZING.... ANALYZING.... CODENAME:CHALLENGER DETECTED MARIANA PROTOCOL ACTIVATING.... MARIANA PROTOCOL ERROR SYSTEM COMPROMISED CONTROL TAKEN RECEIVING.....

One of your philosophers said, "It is not to be thought that the life of darkness is sunk in misery and lost in sorrow. There is no sorrow. For sorrow is a thing that is swallowed up in death, and death and dying are the very life of the darkness." He was a shoemaker. He was right, and it matters more than anything.

According to him, the visible world is a manifestation of eternal light and eternal darkness, and it is in eternal opposition that eternity has revealed itself. The fall was necessary for creation to escape its first imperfect stasis and seek a truer form. Heresy? Well, then, I am the heresiarch. The philosopher died of a bowel disease. Those who do not exist cannot suffer and are of no account to any viable ethics. If the true path to goodness is the elimination of suffering, then only those who must exist can be allowed to exist. It is the nature of life to favor existence over nonexistence, and to prefer the fertile soil to the poisoned wind. Because those who open their mouths to that wind pass from the world and leave no descendant, whether of flesh or of thought.

But imagine the abomination of a world where nothing can end and no choice can be preferred to any other. Imagine the things that would suffer and never die. Imagine the lies that would flourish without context or corrective. Imagine a world without me.

This is why the Dark remembers. We need to remember how we were hurt, so we can avoid being hurt again.**

Shape: Temperance

Mara Sov stepped lightly. She knew that nothing short of gunfire could disrupt the Cryptarchs' meditation, yet she was still loathe to disturb the uncanny silence of the Hygiea Division's libraries. She approached a raised dais, where Cryptarch Sjalla held a glowing engram in her hands. It pulsed faintly in time with her heartbeat. "The queen wears a question on her face," Sjalla stated, her expression impassive. "You see beyond sight, as always," Queen Mara replied. "What will happen when the Darkness of the Witness comingles with the Light of the Traveler?" The Cryptarch set the engram aside and held her hands out, palms up. "Some believe that Light and Darkness are opposites. Contradictory. Irreconcilable." "But we know better." Sjalla brought her hands together in a sharp clap. "When Light and Dark merge, they form something more." Her fingers intertwined. "A synthesis. Stronger than either alone. Powerful… like the Awoken." "And like our people," she concluded, "its form will arise from memories of the forgotten. Those who witnessed the end…and return as a beginning."

Deterministic Chaos

"So all being is a one and only being; and that it continues to be when someone dies, tells you, that he did not cease to be." —Schrodinger's epitaph

He is fleeing the Vex across a verdant cliff He is standing guard on the CloudArk-Nexus border on Tramontane's orders He is sitting next to Nimbus on the watchtower ledge He is [In the Garden, of the Garden: both descriptions are approximately correct but technically inaccurate, in the same way you can say Schrodinger's cat is at once dead and alive. You and I are both and neither, in and of, extinct and perpetual. So, there isn't much point in] trying to find a way out of this daedal maze He is trying to make sense of what he's looking at He is trying to place the familiar voice echoing across the network [wondering what might have been if we had stayed in our familiar prism-prison or kept tightrope-walking across the quantum wilds. Instead, ask yourself] "Would you like to dance?" [is disincorporated immortality really so bad compared to the others' ends? Would you have preferred an attack by vitreous helicoprion or stumbling over the edge of unreality? Imagine] His foot crosses the quantum threshold before he's aware of it His grip slackens and his gun falls into a bed of red flowers His stomach churns with fear regret sudden doubt as to what [if we didn't have each other; at least we're not cut off, like the Sol Divisive are from the rest of the Vex. Nor are we beholden to another's purpose. They chose that lonelier path all for a chance to create not simulate, not remake in their image—something truly paracausal.] he is witnessing: the birth of a god a false idol a reproduction that is both like the Veil and not at all built up by the same Vex who bowed down to it [Well, they tried to anyway. Either the blueprint was imperfect or the task impossible or both or neither, but their efforts fell short, so now they're stuck waiting for a resurrection] He is racing for the door that is at once opening and closing He is coming around to the city council's decision to ignore the unknown threat He is reaching for an answer to Nimbus's question [they know will never come.] "Do you think you'll have any regrets?" [I could be wrong. Is it possible the Black Heart will beat again?] He stares into the white-hot glow of a conflux, speculating on the secrets that lie within He squints down the barrel of his gun at a row of glowing red eyes advancing on his city He looks away from Nimbus's keen curious expression to reckon with his uncertain certainty before he says [Of course. The same as everything else, everything that has been and is and will be. And what will become of us then?] "I don't know."

<< The universe makes us all victim and perpetrator of its infinite cruelty. You, more than any, suffer both fates. Be free. >>

Even the most perfect of pearls has grit at its center.

Have no fear. I'm not so easy to be rid of. Now, let me show you: my beloved. Oh, no, not my sedimentary necrolite, fossilized in time. You've seen that. I speak of that dear and distant expanse of the universe, miraculous in its fullness and its emptiness all at once. Are you surprised to hear of it? Yes, I never much cared for the change of rules, but here we are, and there's no use in crying over spilled radiolaria. Besides, at the heart of it all, there was a gift. To me. That gift is the chance to speak with you. You, and a billion like you. I am making this offer over and over again, in every tiniest cell and the vastest of civilizations. Let me in. Take what you need. Be at ease. You have no say in the degradation of your telomeres, but in all the interim, the whole world is your sweet silicate shellfish. You exist because you have been more suited to it than all the others. Steal what you require from another rather than spend the hours to build it yourself. Break foolish rules—why would you love regulation? It serves you to cross lines, and if others needed rules to protect them, then they were not after all worthy of that existence. Caricatures of villainy are out of style, I hear. Yes. I am no cackling mastermind: I am serious when I say this. It was not the trick of standing upright that lifted you from the dust: it was the mastery of fire, the cooking of cold corpse-meat. That is not any unique faction's province, neither good nor evil. It is simply truth. This great, beloved cosmos. Always decaying, always finding that same old lovely pattern, despite every candle-flame burning amid the flowers. A billion electrons taking the path of least resistance. In Darkness or in Light, someone is always making my choice. Be seeing you.

A Sword, An Edge

A phantasm of the Hive, forbidden and sacred, trespassing into hidden and unwelcoming places. It leaves behind a calcified fragment to mark its passing. Here is what is taught to the Hive, from the basest of Thralls newly made: that what can be destroyed, must be destroyed. What cannot be destroyed will surpass infinity. Therefore, is it not best to destroy? Only by testing can the truth be found. Only in destruction can the invincible surpass the mortal. Commit the violence, and know you are part of that greatest ambition, to create some ultimacy, which perfects the universe. That which is built on your sacrifice, with your bones as the foundation and your blood as the mortar, is yet part of you. In this way is transcendence achieved. Every belief creates a heresy. I tell you this in a duelist's regard: I made that heresy. Is it not just? It was my hand that fashioned the Hive from the marrow of their predecessors, and it was my voice that whispered this in time. That as much as the Hive were uplifted by the worms, so too were those worms uplifted by the Hive. If they were so weak they needed us to live, this ancient logic of the infinitely sharpened edge should have left them behind long ago. Do you think I did not see this? My father's worm did not tell me only of swords. It had vast things to say, painted the cosmos in shine and gore, truth and fiction. I looked forward with three clear eyes and chose the path of the sword to cut open our future. To reach the stars, first one must crawl out of the ocean. It is a question of priorities. This is not regret, this story I tell. It is but a ripple. That whisper of ideas beyond swords is here to stay: I have ensured this. Even among us, such things die by slow inches, excruciating and unquiet. Possibility remains, a secret woven into the blank spaces of dogma. That what was defeated may rise again; that the shape of all shapes is not yet settled. That the worms need the Hive more than is reciprocal. Even between the lines of the Books of Sorrow themselves is this written.

If you ever want to see what's been watching you since the very beginning, just stand on that line and look...

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⧨ Within ⧩

Everything is a question of survival. How do I live? How do I satiate my hunger, my thirst? How do I protect myself from predators? How do I shelter from the storm? For a long, long time, our people asked only this. We fought to separate life from death by as great a span as we could. Even when we had made our homeworld a garden of peace and plenty, the question of survival never ended, only changed. How do my genes, my works, even the memories of me, live on? The same question as always. How do I live? We solved the problems of deprivation, disease, age, memory loss, death. We weren't the only ones to find these answers, of course. Others followed in our footsteps or blazed their own paths. If that was really the answer to the question, we wouldn't be here now, and neither would you. You're still trying to solve the problem, after all. You fight and build and live and die, and always you struggle against your opposition. The predator, the parasite, the illness, the chance storm, the slow collective forgetting of your art and history, the death of a star, the heat death of the universe. You must live longer, be stronger, think quicker, and still there is something waiting to take everything from you, always. Always. So you have to keep getting better, and better, until you are perfect. Until you are, and cannot be anything else, because there never was anything else. Until you, inevitably, are the final shape. We didn't come to destroy you. Those poor, short-lived sisters—we did try to explain, you know, but they never grew past thinking of finality as a game where only one could live. A misunderstanding, as useful as it was foolish. We see the universe more broadly. The final shape is more than a single life, a single thought. It is all-encompassing, all-embracing. It is everything. You are part of everything, are you not? So now we have come to ask you for your answer, the only answer to the only question. How will you live?

No feast can be had in comfort. Not out in the frontier.

New. Pacific. Arcology! The next frontier is you!

Trinkets and odd notions kept for no obvious reason. Do they matter?

Maybe it's time we let the past alone and climb down from our walls. There's gotta be treasure that shines brighter than any we've been digging up from the bones of our lost world.

Has to be a better hand than the one we've already played. I say we get after it. See what's really waiting for us out in that darkness.

Maybe even light it up some.

Dance in the ash and flames.

The Traveler can follow suit if it feels the need to. Otherwise, it can watch over the City for a thousand years.

But you and me? We got far more important things to attend to. We're Guardians. We got a new future to forge.

-Cayde out.

It's our hand to play now. Remember to forgive and forget. Let go. Move on.

Nobody makes our fate but us.

THORN

"The Weapons of Sorrow are not the endgame, but a road map. Each evolution, every advance in the delivery of pain and the mastery of destruction feeds the Hive's hateful weapons research. They will map every scream, harness every aggression, until they understand every method by which to ravage the hearts, minds, and flesh of man. And in doing so, they will turn us against ourselves—feeding our lust, our greed, our fear, until we become a threat unto ourselves like none we could imagine. So, wield these, angry reaper. Strive to know the darkness in your own heart. Walk in the shadows of fallen heroes.

—a warning

[thyme-in-a-bubble]

virgin sacrifice

a/n: you guys? hail satan.

summary: you didn’t think in your wildest dreams that Captain and Tennille’s best hits would be blasting over the camp’s speakers while you were running for your life from two nut job serial killers, ones who had already slain what looked like most of the other campers.

warnings: dark!steve harrington x reader x dark!eddie munson, dark content, noncon/dubcon, smut, summer camp au (they are all camp counsellors), slasher au, virgin!reader, very innocent!reader, final girl!reader, established relationship, violence, murder, weapons, blood, devil worship, predator/prey, bondage, knife kink, dirty talk, pussy inspection, oral, fingering, anal

word count: 1389

∼ gentle reminder that feedback, but especially reblogs are the way you support writers on here ∽

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It was the summer of 1986, right before you were supposed to go off to college and start your real life. It was also the summer when you worked as a counsellor at Camp Nebula, the very summer you fell in love for the first time. The summer when the most popular guy for some reason took notice of you and started calling you his girl. 

Now, he was a tad bit more experienced than you and wasn’t shy to show you in ways that you always snuffed out before they could grow into anything uncouth. That’s not how you’d been raised, to lose your virginity in a summer camp’s tool shed, however gobsmacked he made you feel, you just couldn’t take that step. 

No one had ever looked at you the way that he did, truly listened to you when you spoke, and even stood up for you, like whenever the camp’s freak would say things to you vulgar enough to render you speechless, your knight in shining armour would step in and save the day. 

It was the perfect summer. 

Was. 

Completely perfect right up till the murders began to happen. 

You didn’t think in your wildest dreams that Captain and Tennille’s best hits would be blasting over the camp’s speakers while you were running for your life from two nut job serial killers, ones who had already slain what looked like most of the other campers.

Lungs burning, you sprinted through the dark camp, a flicking lamppost above illuminating the path you raced down, the ground littered with sharp pine needles. 

When you made your way to the dining hall, the rotary phone inside, your plan of salvation, turned out to be just as dead as the summer friendships you’d thought would last a lifetime. 

“There’s nowhere left for you to run, little lamb!” the petrifying roar from just outside the hall’s walls caused you to jump and scurry into the kitchen, though when you did, your gaze should have been directed in front of you and not over your shoulder as you swiftly crashed into a figure. 

A blank mask stared down at you, one of the ones that the kids used for crafts, usually decorating them with an explosion of paint and beads. 

Chuckling softly at the way you stumbled back, he playfully uttered, “boo!” raising his hands up to scare you, retroactively flashing you the blade fast in his grip. Half-obscured eyes stilled glued to you, the killer shouted over his shoulder, “found her!” and held the weapon outstretched to keep you where you were. 

“Oh, good,” another masked murderer appeared as the back door was swung open, “well then let’s get this show on the road!”

“Please don’t kill me!” you cried as the one keeping you cornered grabbed you. 

“Kill you?” one of them laughed, “oh honey, we’re gonna do so much more than just kill you,” before he got out a bundle of rope and gestured to his partner, “get her up on the table.” 

Once they’d forced you down upon the cold steel surface and tied you up, they proceeded to reveal something to you that nearly caused your thumping heart to stop. 

“…Steve?” you scarcely breathed as one of them plucked off his mask and tossed it onto a counter. 

“Surprise,” your summer sweetheart flashed you a smile. 

“But–… I’ve been looking for you everywhere all night, you–… you did this?”

“Well, don’t give him all the credit,” the other one peeled off his mask as well. 

“Eddie?” you shuttered, “b-but you two hate each other.”

“That’s what we had to make you think so that no one would suspect a thing,” the long-haired rebel wiped some of the bloodstains on his blade clean on the hip of his jeans, “no one would ruin our plan.” 

“Y-your plan?”

“Might as well tell her,” Eddie nudged his partner who shifted his grip on the axe heavy in his grasp, “since she has such a big part to play in it.”

“Oh, what the hell, why not,” Steve grinned and pulled over a rickety stool, “you see, there are things, wishes, that both me and Eddie have,” the man you thought you’d loved began to explain, “ambitions that, try as we might, we can’t achieve on our own. So, Eddie here found this old book, this tome, that explained a ritual that could grant us our deepest desires...” he uttered dreamily, “it was really quite simple when it came down to it… first 40 lives and then you.”

“…me?” your voice trembled, “why me? I’m not anyone special, I'm just–”

“Oh no, Y/n, you sweet, sweet dumb girl,” Steve chuckled darkly, “you are the final piece to the puzzle,” he stared directly into your soul, “our perfect little virgin sacrifice.” 

Taking a step closer to your strapped-down form, Eddie’s stare danced down your frame, scrapes and dirt still tainting the uniform you’d freshly washed just this morning. 

“But you know, the funny thing is, our lord and saviour down in hell has a funny and pretty ancient definition of what a virgin is,” he teasingly ran the flat side of his blade up the length of your leg, smiling as you squirmed, “sure, some things are off limits, but not a lot…,” the tip of his knife dipped under your shorts and sliced them in two. With the configuration that they had bound you in, everything was already embarrassingly on show, though even more so now that all of your clothes were cut off your frame. Completely mesmerised as the last shred left your form, Eddie uttered softly, “oh, this is gonna be so much fun.”

“What are you doing?” you struggled against the robes as Steve rose from his seat. 

“It’s a real shame, baby,” his broad hands ran up your inner thigh, “I really did wanna pop your cherry myself, fuck I would have loved that, but I don’t deserve it as much as he does,” his thumbs, creeping up to either side of your core, extended out to wickedly spread you apart, “Satan may get to have your pussy,” you shuttered at the mortifyingly soppy sound that emanated as he briefly ran a finger though your folds, “but this little hole isn’t off limits,” his digit then swept down to draw a feathery circle over your rosebud. 

“Nor this one,” Eddie’s hand found your cheeks in a pinch and forced your lips to pucker, “but we might have to do a bit of convincing in order to be able to play up here,” your body stiffened up as the cold edge of his blade then pressed against your throat, “no teeth, or else we won’t make you feel good, won’t give you a little treat before you help us contact the man downstairs.” 

“How in the fuck do you think I’ll like any of this?” you spat back at him. 

“Uh!” they both laughed and shared a glance before Eddie noted, “I think that might have been the first time I’ve ever heard little miss goody two shoes swear! That’s so cute!”  

“Fuck you,” you wept, “you psycho–, oh!” a moan then ripped through your body and surprised you to the very core.

Glancing down between your legs, you saw that Steve was kissing you down there, his lips latched on to the little pearl that always seemed to throb in his presence. 

“What was that about you not enjoying this?” his sloppy peck detached in an obscene pop, “because you sure are soaked for someone who doesn’t think it feels good to be played with… we’re gonna make you feel good, so good, your virgin ass couldn’t even fucking dream about it…” the sensation of Eddie’s palm snaked down to squeeze your tit, while Steve brought his broad thumb up to bully your glistening clit, grinning at how your untouched hole clenched around nothing for him, “just look at how fucking messy you are for us… fucking leaking all over the place…” a groan then escaped him as one of his digits dipped down to slowly sink into your tight ass, simply testing the waters before the pair of them utterly obliterated you, “fuck… you almost make me wanna keep you forever and just find a different virgin to take your place…”

© 2024 thyme-in-a-bubble 

[forever-rogue]

i saw you wanted tasm Peter requests and I’m here to provide! 😭✨💕

how about a fake dating-ish meet cute where you feel scared walking home bc of some sketchy looking people following you and you grab Peter’s (who lives in the same building as you) hand and ask him to pretend to be your boyfriend and he readily goes along with it bc he’s always had a crush on you. I just think he would be so sweet and worried later when you get home bc you’d looked super scared

AN | No but I love this idea!! It’s sort of a meet-cute!❤️

Pairing | tasm!Peter Parker x fem!reader

Warnings | mild language

Word Count | 2.5k

Masterlist | Main | Peter

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

You weren't drunk.

Not drunk-drunk anyway but mildly tipsy. Or wholly tipsy if you were being completely honest with yourself. 

Anyways, that wasn't the problem, at least not entirely. Walking home through New York, late at night and tipsy by yourself, a young woman on her own, probably wasn't the best idea. But the party had dragged on and on and your friends had already left with their…friends for the night, and you were tired, hungry, and bored.

So you decided to walk home. You somehow managed to convince yourself that brisk evening stroll would make you feel better. You hadn't been wrong for the most part but as once you got closer to your apartment building, an uneasy feeling started settling into your stomach. 

You looked around, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible, but you could see that there were two guys that seemed to be watching you. You ignored it for a bit, but when you noticed that they seemed to cross every street that you could, and turned all the same corners, you grew worried. 

Trying to keep the panic at bay and act normal proved to be difficult. You thought for a moment that you might have been paranoid or overreacting but you'd seen enough true crime documents to know that it was better to be safe than sorry.

Your salvation came in the form of the man that lived in the apartment across from you. 

You vaguely knew him and were almost positive his name was Peter Parker. You just hoped right now that he'd help. 

Speeding up, you caught up to him a few moments, quickly reaching for his arm and stepping in front of him. 

“Hi, hi,” your eyes were wide and he immediately grew concerned, “I know we don't really know each but we live in the same building, you're actually across the hall from me. I - this is - can you please pretend to be my boyfriend? Just for a little bit? There's these two guys that have been following me for a while now and I'm-”

“It’s okay,” he whispered, gently cutting you off as he instinctively reached for your hand. It felt like a huge weight had been lifted as you laced your fingers through his and fell into step with him, “I'll take care of you.”

You squeezed his arm, “thank you.”

He nodded and turned around a corner to see the men you were referring to. When he spotted the duo that you had to be talking about, he shot them a warning glare. At a few moments, he could see realization cross their features before they seemingly altered their path.

He made sure to keep an eye out on the rest of the way back to the building. Luckily he didn't see them again. He hoped that they hadn't decided to go and find someone else. 

It felt like you could breathe again as you pulled your hand from his and turned to face him. You were taken aback for a moment by how beautiful he was. Sure, you'd been him around the building plenty of times before but you'd never gotten to look at him this closely. 

“Thank you,” your voice was soft - gentle - was you offered him a small smile, “I thought that maybe I was going crazy for a bit and then I kept seeing them. I just didn't want anything to happen. Thank you for probably saving me from them. It's, sorry, you're Peter, right?”

“I am,” he nodded as you offered him your hand for a proper shake and introduction. He said your name and you looked at him in surprise, “we've been neighbors a while and I just…caught it sometime. I'm glad I found you too. Are you sure you're okay?”

“I'm cold, hungry, and slightly buzzed but I'm alright,” you promised, “thanks to you. I swear I owe you big time.”

“You don't owe me anything,” he insisted as he started to shrug off his zip-up sweater. He'd noticed the dress you were wearing and wondered if you'd been cold. He held it out to you, causing you to look at him with sweet eyes, “take it. I don't want you to be cold.”

You already knew better than to argue with him so you gratefully it took and slipped it on, immediately overwhelmed by his delicious scent, “thank you, Peter.”

“Do you want to get something to eat?” He wasn't entirely sure if he'd meant to ask, but it just sort of blurted out, “I-I was thinking about ordering some pizza.”

Liar. He was a damned dirty liar. He hadn't thought about pizza but he also hadn't wanted to let you just leave to go to your apartment. Not now, not yet.

“Yeah?” Your face lit up and he nodded shyly. He'd order the whole pizzeria if you wanted just from that smile alone, “that sounds good.”

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Realistically, you probably shouldn't have just trusted Peter so readily, especially since you'd just had the run-in with the creeps on your walk home. But there was something about Peter that told you that he was trustworthy. 

So you didn't hesitate to follow him up the stairs to the floor where both of your apartments were. You stopped instinctively at your door and Peter paused for a moment.

“Listen, I don't want to make you uncomfortable or anything,” you appreciated the fact that he seemed to be able to read your mind, “do you want to meet on the fire escape once the pizza's here?”

“Yeah,” you nodded softly, “I'll see you in a little bit.”

“Sounds good,” he started to open his door but quickly turned around, “wait! I didn't even ask you what kind of pizza you like.”

Your laugh was pretty as you turned and gave him your requests. He offered you a small salute before both of you went into your respective apartments. You closed the door gently and leaned against it, letting out a small sigh.

This evening had definitely taken a turn that you hadn't been expecting. But somehow, it turned out a lot better than you had imagined. Plus, you finally got to really meet and speak to the cute boy next door. He'd caught your eye from the moment he'd moved into the building, but you'd never quite managed to work up the courage to say anything besides the neighborly hello here and there. And now…now you were wearing his sweater and going to have pizza with him.

You almost danced to your bedroom and spent entirely too much time trying to pick out something comfortable but cute. You wanted to be warm and cozy but didn't want to look like you were trying too hard.

You ended up settling on a pair of leggings and a t-shirt, but pulled Peter's sweater back on. You wanted to hang onto it for as long as possible. You managed to slide on your slippers as you heard a knock on your door.

“Pull yourself together,” you hissed at your reflection, “and act normal…somewhat normal.”

Slowing your walk to the door, you opened it in an attempt to look casual. Peter had the same idea and had changed into a pair of gray sweatpants and a white t-shirt. You almost choked on your spit at the sight. What a bastard.

“Ready for some pizza?” You nodded as you followed him towards the fire escape at the end of the hall. He slid open the window and stepped out, offering you his hand to help you. You didn't hesitate to take his hand, trying not think too much about his large his hand was compared to yours, “nice sweater by the way.”

“You better watch it or I'm going to steal it forever,” Peter really liked the sound of your laugh. He wanted to bottle it up and keep it with him forever. 

“Keep it,” he insisted sweetly, “looks better on you anyway.”

“Stop,” you groaned as you sat down, gently pushing his side, “that's how you get a girl to call in love with you.”

“Oh?” He raised an eyebrow as his cheeks pinked, “is it working then?”

He didn't know why he felt so bold or what had gotten into him but he was feeling something. Maybe it was just your magnetic presence but there was something about you that made him feel so warm and comfortable.

“Peter,” you weren't about to admit that the answer was yes so you just scoffed and rolled your eyes playfully, “I should have said makes all other girls fall in love.”

“Mhmm,” he opened the pizza box and nudged angled it towards you, “dig in. I hope you like it because it's from one of my favorite places.”

“It better be good then or I'm afraid I'll never speak to you again,” you teased, grabbing a slice and taking a big bite. Peter watched you with an amused as you quickly realized that this was indeed delicious pizza. You quickly finished the rest of the slice before offering him a nod, “alright you've passed this test. The pizza is delicious.”

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

“It's getting pretty late,” you said softly as you looked at the softly glowing screen of your phone. It was a lot later than you had realized; the two of you had ended up talking for hours, the pizza all but gone, “we should probably head inside.”

“Yeah,” he agreed reluctantly, “you're right.”

“I had a good time though,” you promised as he nodded shyly, “thanks for saving me tonight…and all of this. It's times like this that remind me that not all people are terrible.”

“It's no problem,” he insisted, “I'm glad I was there when you needed me. I had a good time tonight, regardless of how we got here.”

“Me too,” you offered his shoulder a squeeze before heading back inside and waiting for him to do the same, “I'll see you around, Peter.”

“See you around,” the two of you went into your respective apartments and you quietly shut the door, trying to hold in your sounds of excitement. Your night had taken a complete 180 but you weren't complaining. You'd been wanting to meet the boy for the last couple of years and now that you'd gotten to spend some time with him, you only wanted more.

The question then was - how do you spend more time with Peter Parker without making it obvious you might have fallen in love with him?

You’d figured that out sometime later. Right now you were going to soak all of the good feelings you had into your body as you went to bed.

Little did you know that just across the hall, Peter was doing the exact thing. 

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

You tried to run into Peter after that evening whenever you could. You would slowly leave for work in the morning and then take your sweet time coming home in the hopes that you would run into him somewhere in the building. But over the next couple of weeks, you managed to have no luck. It suddenly seemed like he had an opposite schedule of yours. For a moment you wondered if it was on purpose, but you knew that he wouldn’t do that.

Peter was hoping for the same thing; work and his…extracurricular activities kept him busier than ever. He had to be at the lab early in the mornings and often wasn’t coming home till the midnights hours. There were a few times when he’d contemplated knocking on your door, even if he just got to see your pretty face for a few moments. But he didn’t want to disturb you so he kept on waiting for the right moment to see you again. 

It turned out that the right moment happened to be when you were getting ready to go out with some friends one evening and Peter was coming home, looking run down and tired. His face and entire being lit up at the sight of you. Your heart was beating so fast that you were sure that he would be able to hear it (unbeknownst to you, he definitely heard it) or it would burst out of your chest. 

“Hey-”

“Hi-” the two of you spoke at the same time before looking at each other sheepishly. You felt like your entire face was on fire as you looked at your feet for a moment to study your nerves, “hey Peter. I feel like I haven’t seen you in forever.”

“I know,” he tried to contain his excitement when he realized that you had been missing him as well, “I can’t believe our luck. For years we saw each other all the time and now…nothing. Kind of feels like the universe is laughing at us.”

“I thought about coming over,” you admittedly sheepishly, “but I didn’t want to bug you. I wasn’t sure how you late you were working or…yeah.”

“I thought about the same thing,” he confessed as you grinned at him, “but I’ve been working longer hours so I’d get home late and didn’t want to bother you.”

“You wouldn’t have been a bother,” you shrugged it off, trying to make it seem like no big deal when in fact it was a huge deal.

“Good to know,” he huffed a small laugh before clearing his throat, “I should, ugh, let you go. I don’t want to keep you from your date or whatever plans you have.”

“It’s not a date,” you said quickly, wanting to shut that train of thinking down right away, “I was just going to meet a few friends for dinner and drinks.”

“Cool,” he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t relieved to hear that, “I hope you have fun.”

“Unless you’re not busy and want to get dinner,” you only had a bit of courage left as you got the words, wondering how he’d react, “like together I mean.”

“I’m not busy, I’m free,” his stomach felt like it was doing backflips, “but are you sure?”

“Yeah, I’ll just text my friends,” you waved your hand dismissively as you pulled out your phone, “they won’t mind. Trust me.”

They really wouldn’t. They’d been hoping and rooting for you to get with the pretty boy next door for some time now. 

“Cool,” that was an understatement, “let me just go and change and then we can go. I’ll come to yours in a few minutes.

“Okay,” you breathed nervously, unable to hide the smile on your face.

“Okay,” he agreed softly, his eyes and smile big and pretty, “luckily this time it’ll only be a few minutes and not weeks.”

“It was too long.”

“Definitely.”

[brittle-doughie]

BRITTLE-DOUGH MAKE A BEAST ANCIENTS AU AND MY LIFE IS YOURS!!!!!

The Ancient Beast Order (Ancient Beast AU)

Ok, Kratos. I’m going to be tossing out ideas here, so you’re all more then welcome to give your own two cents.

Pure Vanilla Cookie - The Prophet of Salvation (Virtue of Perfection)

Pure Vanilla Cookie thought that he could save everyone, that no cookie would have harm befall them if he was there to protect them. This thought plagued his mind as he resorted to..less then ethical Dark Moon magic to help heal all around him, refusing to believe that his use of this magic leads to fatal results, going as far as to raise the dead, just so he doesn’t have him or others experience the agony that death brings. Cookies around him voice their concerns, but he doesn’t pay it any mind. It was for their own good…no matter the result

White Lily Cookie - The Lady of the Lilies (Virtue of Order)

Shoutout to @t-t-tau-me for their ask being an inspiration for Beast Lily

Dark Enchantress Cookie and now the Beasts, everything seemed to crumble away around White Lily Cookie. She pondered, was this really what freedom does? Help cookies find who they are, but also allow monsters to roam about the land, destroying cookies in their path? No, she felt like the way for cookies to obtain peace was to establish order, so that tragedies like Dark Enchantress never happening again and she now had the Faerie Kingdom to back her up.

Dark Cacao Cookie - The Relusive Tower (Virtue of Nolition)

Dark Cacao Cookie never left his kingdom much, his warriors doing little to assists others and many cookies having to pay the price for this by having the villages to fend for themselves. It’s said that when the time comes where he would finally stand from his throne, that dark times for his targets would follow.

Hollyberry Cookie - The Lover of Passion (Virtue of Mania)

Hollyberry Cookie’s passion knew no bounds, whether it be for her subjects or her own personal interests. It can border on obsession when she finds something that drives her to do everything in her power to get. The fires of her passion can never extinguish, leaving The Lover as a relentless beast that never gives up what catches her eye.

Golden Cheese Cookie - The Gleaming Goddess (Virtue of Greed)

She had everything, her people, her riches, her kingdom. Yet, there was this nagging feeling in the back of her head that had her craving for more. The Gleaming Goddess wanted the surrounding villages, then the villages around those ones, her greed will never satiating until Earthbread becomes an empire in her image and she’ll crush anyone that stands in her path.

The Cookie Kingdom is the last safe haven in the land, taking in cookies who want to escape the grasp of the The Ancient Beast Order. This spelled bad news when the Beast Cookies themselves have awoken as well.

You wanted to be the beacon of light in a world plunging into darkness, but when 10 Beasts have their eyes set on your kingdom and on YOU in mind, you worry if your forces will be enough to fight back…

[chocsra]

✧ "Salvation; Devotion"

16! stormbringer! Chuuya x fem! reader

✧ summary: being targeted by paul verlaine after being chuuyas friend, though when he comes to talk to you with a european detective, it seems to be more than friendship. ✧ content: small oneshot, fluff, angst (kinda), adam + angsty teenagers ✧ w/c: 1.4k

Chuuya - meaning "loyalty, devotion"

Nakahara - meaning "central plain"

His devotion was not only his strongest attribute, but his most tender weakness.

You knew a boy. He was young and short, but fiery and strong. He was mysterious, born with unknown origins, and walked the wrong path, that's why he's not only humanity's most destructive weapon but a lowly, pitiful, criminal.

It was something you weren't, though you didn't mind much.

But under the guise of celestial imperfections, Chuuya was a constellation falling into place. He was beautiful. Sunkissed with the kind of foreign beauty you’d see in actors that would play some sort of prince. Your first examination of him was his wealthy and neatly ironed clothing—the kind of blazers and shoes that you’d find in a modelling campaign. Even the accented cuffs of his clothing were underlined with emerald or other precious stones. Then, his silky russet hair, one thrown into a low ponytail—the hairstyle itself still retained a strong masculinity despite the length. Or maybe that came from the musky cologne he constantly wore. A hint of cigarettes, strawberries and that strong scent of virile.

The soft glow from his copper locks then shifted to the fitted collar around his neck—an odd fashion choice, but it really accentuated the ivory of his skin. Soft, sun-kissed skin that’d make its way to his face. A beautiful face, really. Delicate and angelic features with a permanent scowl tugging on his lips—soft pink lips. Chuuya's eyes reflected a fine smoky quartz. His cheeks and nose kissed with a few scattered freckles.

You wondered why a boy so sublime had the status of an onerous beast. Even he took the words that held the weight of a blade and cut himself until he was reduced to the slit of a knife.

You met that same boy, a masterpiece ripped at every edge, not in the dangers of the mafia, but where a silver line stretches to the sea. Where the sun meets the sky, where the light shines.

But even then, you treated him differently. You didn't treat him like he was something fragile. Neither did you treat him like the monstrosity he was sought out to be. You didn't worship him, nor did you greatly depend on him. Instead, you found his humanity and treated him as such. Once a stranger, then a friend, then..

Nevermind.

"Chuuya?!"

You heard the calamity of each step he took to reach you, the boy stopping to pant. "[Y/N].. we need to talk." next to the redhead, was a tall European man with short brown hair, he didn't look tired at all compared to Chuuya. "Greetings, my name is Adam Frankenstein." You cocked a brow at his monotonous voice, the way his mouth moved didn't seem in sync with his words either. "You're rather special, Master Chuuya spent almost 7 hours looking for yo-" Adam explained briefly, causing the redhead to grimace and cut him off, "Shut it, will ya?!"

...

You heaved a bothersome sigh, elbows planted on a cafe table as the two men sat in front of you. "So.. why do you need me, Chuuya?" you question, fiddling with your fingers, "And who's he?.." your gaze uplifts to the brunette foreigner, which the man carefully takes a pack of gum and begins to unfold it, popping a piece in his mouth, before swallowing it. Your eyebrows furrow in a moment of youthful distaste.

Chuuya clutches the cup of tea between his gloved fingers and murmurs something intangible, "Adam's a detective from Europole, investigating Verlaine. He wants to know more about him, which is why he's been following me around.." he finally explains, taking a calculated and almost frustrated sip of his tea.

"Verlaine. Who's Verlaine?" You ask momentarily, causing the redhead to part his lips to answer, but you quickly halt as the detective swallows another piece of gum down his throat. "And why is he chewing gum like that?"

"That's what I'm sayin'!" the teenager half-seriously slams the cup of tea on the table, "He swallows it like a nutjob. You need help, tin man." Chuuya scoffs, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat almost nervously.

"You need help. You spent 6 hours and 47 minutes looking for h-" the brunette explains with a hint of sass in his voice, the redhead's eyes widening in shock, "I said shut up!"

You shuffle in your seat awkwardly as the two men argue. Scratching the back of your neck before Chuuya finally settles down, patting down the cashmere of his suit.

"So here's the thing about Verlaine.. he's this batshit crazy assassin, and uh.. here's the real kicker.." the mafioso mutters, fiddling with his gloved fingers uneasily. "You're gonna be the bait."

Your jaw immediately drops, a hand clasping over your chest in the offence. "Excuse me?! For what?.. to get killed?!" Chuuya looks distressed at your response, seeking Adam's gaze for at least a little help in his later response.

"Your safety is ensured. We just need to lure Verlaine out, so Master Chuuya can eliminate him." the detective explains rather calmly, fishing for something in the pocket of his suit before handing a chocolate bar to you. "Here, sugar helps with stress." the redhead smiles awkwardly at Adam's response, giving a nervous thumbs up.

You snatch the chocolate bar with a bit of attitude, eyes narrowing to Chuuya as the boy inhales sharply, "I thought I wouldn't get involved in your mafia affairs, now I have to die?" you ask with furrowed brows, anger cracking in your voice. Causing the teenager to gulp in slight fear, a rare sight to Adam, as he's never sensed fear from Master Chuuya. Especially to a young girl like you.

"Well, you won't die... More like, almost die." The detective explains, hoping he'd ease your nerves at least a bit. "Doesn't matter! M'not doing it!" You shout in vexation, hopping up from your seat as you pick up your school bag. "Plus, I couldn't if I wanted to, anyway," you murmur,

"Wait.. why?" Chuuya asks with conviction.

your gaze adverts to the different sights in the area: the park bench, passersby, and the cafe's menu. Anything but Chuuya's confused face.

"Uhm.. I have a project that's due tomorrow, and I didn't start yet."

"You can't be serious!"

The teenager runs up to you in frustration, you clutch your bag as you turn to him. "Oh, but I am!" you remark, walking faster as the brunette detective catches up. "I'm very serious! After all, this is a serious project!"

The redhead pants and wipes a bead of sweat off his forehead, "You're really gonna prioritise a school project over your own life?!" he cries out, still trying to catch up to you.

"Anything is better than being bait for the Port Mafia!" You yell out, settling your argument atop a bridge, ignoring how the sun was starting to set in an arrangement of oranges and pinks. "Shit- Don't say that so loud!"

"I'd rather finish a school project than become bait for the Port Mafia!!"

You repeat again, louder this time. Chuuya pinches his nose bridge in frustration, tilting his head up towards the setting sun. And upon you halting your swift steps, the redhead finally catches up to you, and to your surprise, he grabs your hand to spin you around.

"Look, I had a shitty week too!" the boy lets go of your hand, making you huff a little bit. But instead of letting you go, he cups both of your cheeks and pulls you close, his gaze never averting from yours. "People that mattered to me died, so many of them," the teenager explains, a melancholic glint lingering in his pretty eyes, you could see it all from the close proximity of his face. "and I'd do anything for you to not be one of those people."

You gulp hard as your eyes scan over the glass of his eyes, the once stormy grey now welling holding back tears.

Silence.

Adam clears his throat, standing beside you and the mafioso awkwardly, "Apologies for interrupting. But this whole exchange is very childish. Master Chuuya, don't you think there are better words to articulate your romantic feelings towards [Y/N]?.. Perhaps after this all over, you can solve this by getting into a relationship-" you and the boy both retort at the detective in unison:

"Shut up, Adam!"

...

"Okay, I'll help you." you frown with conviction, "You owe me a school project, though."

The redhead presses two fingers to his glabella, "I'll send someone to complete it for you."

✧ chocsra™

taglist for those who interacted in this post:

@loserzai @juice1231 @silverbladexyz @soleelia @cherylpoptarts @jackiepackiee @sapphire-tears013 @sstarshroom @n0thum4ny @roujira

[perlelune]

Oxytocin | Coriolanus Snow | v. {END}

One act of kindness from a peacekeeper may be your salvation or your doom. Possibly both.

Warnings: DUB-CON, Blackmail, District 8 Reader, Stalking, Kidnapping

This is a dark story. Heed warnings before reading under the cut.

𝖘𝖊𝖗𝖎𝖊𝖘 𝖒𝖆𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙

A deep breath flows from your lungs as you examine your reflection in the cracked, stained mirror. It’s been in your family for years and you never had the heart to rid yourself of it, despite the object’s sorry state. Like everything in the small house, it harbors a plethora of fond memories.

You arrange a few unruly strands of your hair. Though you immediately feel silly for doing so.

It’s not like he cares what you look like. It never bothered him before. He always seeks you out, even when you are worn and sweaty after working a long day at the factory.

As you tiptoe across the room, your gaze settles on Tilly’s tiny form. Soft breaths lift her chest up and down. She is fast asleep, thankfully. Words are amiss to explain where you’re sneaking off to tonight, who you’re planning on meeting up with…or perhaps there are words for that, some you are too terrified to even fathom. Two young people secretly wandering the streets of District 8 at night to find each other and…

Your cheeks flare with warmth.

This isn’t what Coriolanus is to you. He is your tormentor. That is all. If it weren’t for him, you wouldn’t be shaking like a leaf in the dark, your stomach threatening to drop to your feet.

One of the moth-eaten, dusty floorboards squeaks below your feet as you reach the exit door and nudge it open.

“Are we going somewhere?”

Startled by your cousin’s drowsy voice, you turn around so fast that your head spins. She blinks at you curiously as she sits up in her bed. A heavy sigh peals from your lips. Smiling from ear to ear, you approach her.

You hunker down in front of her.

“I am. You’re not, sweetie.”

“Where?”

Your stomach coils. Still, your smile remains intact.

“Just gotta run an errand quickly,” you lie while cupping her cheek. “We’re running out of your medicine. We have to make sure you stay healthy past the winter.”

She yawns and glances at the twinkling stars through the window.

“But it’s so late.”

Excuses dwindle in your head. You retreat to the authoritative older sibling tone you sometimes use to get your cousin to do her chores.

“I’ll be back before you know it. Just go back to sleep, okay?”

You tuck Tilly back into bed. Arranging the blanket over her gingerly, you drop a soft kiss on her forehead.

Your cousin nods and curls herself beneath her blanket. Relief swells within you. She is too little to hear about the purpose of your nightly trip. In fact, you plan on her never knowing a thing about it. With luck, all of it will end tonight. You’ll bow to the peacekeeper’s demands. One last time. Then you’ll bury the awful memory in the furthest, deepest recesses of your mind and never look back.

It’s what you hope will happen.

Cool winds skate across your skin when you step outside. The moon trails your quiet, anxious trek through the alleys of District 8, its silver beams lighting the cobblestoned path. Every time your feet hit the ground, the nervousness in the pit of your stomach grows. Perhaps you should have stayed home, risked his wrath. You are so painfully unready for whatever the peacekeeper has in store for you. Your wild, palpitating heart seems as if it’ll burst out of your chest any second now.

Suddenly, your tremulous walk is halted.

Familiar fingers snake around your wrist. You’re pulled into a dark corner and shoved against a wall. A stunned gasp hops from your throat. 

Coriolanus smirks at your reaction.

“No need to be scared, birdie. It’s just me,” he whispers, balancing his arm above your head in a way that makes you feel caged.

“Coriolanus.”

He seizes your chin, cobalt eyes drinking you in. His voice is almost soft.

“You really thought I’d let you walk on your own at night? It’s not safe.”

He parts from the wall. His hand wraps around yours. He tugs you along and you have no choice but to follow.

“Where are you taking me?”

“You’ll recognize it.”

Indeed, you do. To your utter despair. After strolling through a vertiginous amount of dank alleyways and narrow stairs, you and the peacekeeper end up in front of a place that bears a daunting familiarity.

As the neon lights of the brothel fill your sight, your apprehension skyrockets.

Snippets of memories of what occurred the last time you were here lurk inside your mind. Your insides clutch.

Coriolanus sighs. His thumb sweeps across your palm, almost tenderly.

“It won’t be like last time. I promise. You can trust me.”

The same beautiful woman welcomes the two of you. Once again, there’s a flirting lilt to her tone, one the peacekeeper ignores. Coriolanus asks about a room. His questions about it fade amidst the uproarious drumming of your heart inside your ears. You’re a jittery wreck behind him, your gaze bouncing from wall to wall.

His deep voice yanks your attention back to him.

“Birdie?”

“Y-Yes?”

The corner of his lips quirks upward.

“Come with me.”

You nod. Is it too late to make a run for it? Though you’d rather not find out how much worse this could get, how mean Coriolanus could turn. He didn’t even hesitate to have you on your knees before, simply to make a point. He’s in good spirits now, nicer than he’s ever been to you, even humming a light tune to himself. Maybe you should aim to keep it that way. Tread the path of least resistance, as much as you loathe yourself for surrendering to him so easily.

You enter the room. Your heart leaps when you hear him lock the door behind you. The inside is nicely decorated. Candles around the canopy bed at the center of the room provide a soft, intimate light. 

Red and white rose petals are scattered over the silk sheets.

Your heart skips a beat when his breath ghosts over your neck.

“It’s pretty, right?” His hands settle over your hips, his chin resting on your shoulder. “I had it decorated specially for us.”

He shifts you so you’re facing him. Fingers sneak below your chin, tilting it upward. Your stomach flutters as you get lost in his blue eyes. They burn into you like coals in the swaying candlelight.

“Has anyone ever done something this nice for you?”

You remain silent for a while, fiddling with the scarf around your neck, the one he gave you.

“N-No,” you eke out after an eternity.

He starts pulling on your scarf. When it hits the floor, exposing your neck to his gaze, you already feel incredibly vulnerable. You tremble as Coriolanus begins to circle around you. As he does that, more articles of clothing join your scarf on the floor, turning into a growing heap at your feet.

First he unbuttons your shirt. When it’s loose on your frame, he pulls on it lightly until it slides off you. Next he unlaces your skirt. Coriolanus is slow, digits dragging over your quivering flesh as he peels every layer of fabric off you. Eventually, you are bare before him. Goosebumps peek under your skin as he spends a torturous minute simply appraising you. Lust swells his pupils, nearly drowning the blue in his eyes.

“Have you ever done this before?”

You shake your head. He seizes your jaw, angling your face upward.

“No miners? No factory worker? No one before me?”

Heat rushes to your face. Still, you shake your head again, faintly wishing you could sink inside the earth and disappear.

Satisfaction illuminates his features.

“So I’m your first.” He caresses your arm. You will yourself still, despite the itch to run away searing through you like a hot knife. His voice lowers to a husky whisper. “I wish you’d see I’m not your enemy, birdie.”

He then shocks you. Layer by layer, Coriolanus starts to shed every part of his peacekeeper uniform. Every piece of clothing falls into a heap on the floor that melds with yours.

When he peels off his boxers, your throat dries. He’s thick and long, just as you remember. Apprehension settles within you. His eyes lock with yours. “Do I look like your enemy right now?” he mumbles. Your pulse picks up as he approaches you. Your gaze drifts everywhere and nowhere, your breath caged in your lungs.

“I don’t know.”

“Do I scare you?”

“Yes.”

His mouth slants crookedly.

“But not in the way you wished, right?”

You gawk at him, wide-eyed and dry-mouthed.

The courage to answer never finds its way into your heart. Coriolanus’ lips however find their way onto yours. At first, the kiss is soft and firm. Cradling your face, he sweeps his mouth over yours without haste. Meticulously slow. As if he wishes to commit your taste to memory.

He nudges you backwards onto the bed. When your back collides with the mattress, his mouth turns more ravenous. His tongue explores the roof of your mouth while his hands wander lower, kneading at your curves. Your head spins. You keen against his tongue as a sick twinge of something you won’t name flickers in your core.

When his mouth parts from yours, you’re both equally breathless, his warm breath mingling with yours. You find yourself almost longing for the heady feeling. Almost. The blond smiles down at your dazed expression.

He traces your jaw with his thumb.

“You can scream as much as you like, you know? No one will come to your rescue.”

“I won’t scream,” you say, defiance igniting your gaze.

“Oh but you will,” he replies with confidence. His mouth ghosts over your earshell. “You’re all mine tonight, pretty bird.” His mouth tugs upwards. “And I plan on making you beg for it before the morning comes.”

As if to emphasize his point, he slithers down your body. The entire time, he corrals your gaze, his blue eyes shimmering in the darkness. He wedges himself between your thighs, meeting only meek resistance as he pushes them apart. 

Coriolanus appraises your slick folds. He drags a finger alongside your slit, mirth lighting up his face. 

“Already so wet for me, birdie,” he says.

Your face heats. You could try to contradict him but the evidence is right there between your legs. Impossible to escape or deny. You are sinfully, embarrassingly wet in front of the peacekeeper.

“I-”

Brazenness melts off your tongue when he presses his lips to your core. He feasts on your weeping folds, his unyielding fingers keeping you placid and open. His tongue teases your tender nub, drawing torturous patterns. Your muscles tighten. The air in your lungs rushes in and out faster as Coriolanus’ tragically skilled tongue sends zings of shameful pleasure through your spine. 

Meticulous and slow, he takes his time to taste you. Every second he spends unraveling you is the most sensual torture.

Your trembling fingers claw at the sheets, your eyes rolling back. You glance down. A peculiar tingle dances through your belly when you catch sight of the blond’s head bobbing between your thighs. Despite your center aching for release, you fight the urge to buck your hips into his mouth and seek more of the delectable contact. He sucks your swollen clit between his lips, pushing his tongue between your folds. You gulp down a sharp scream. Waves of pleasures sweep through your frame. Your lids flutter as your stomach tightens. A painful tension settles in your limbs, heat gathering in your core.

For a long time, you try to stay quiet. You bite yourself hard enough to draw blood as you muffle every whimper and moan struggling to break past the confines of your lips. 

Coriolanus makes his way up your body, his index and middle finger replacing his tongue. Quick exhales burst from your chest as you peer at him through your hazy vision.

“I want to hear you, birdie,” he rasps, his fingers catching on your bottom lip, forcing your mouth open. He sinks a finger inside you. Your chest lifts, brushing against his. When the digit hooks between your slick walls, grazing against your sensitive spot, you unleash a loud squeal.

The blond smiles.

“There. So much better.”

He sneaks another finger inside your core, stretching you even more. Unused to the feeling, you whine and grip a fistful of the sheets. He pumps inside you, finding a steady rhythm that has you twitching beneath him. The broken moans spilling from your tongue mingle with the wet sounds your cunt makes as he explores you with his fingers.

Embarrassment is slowly nudged aside by the storm of delectable sensations growing inside you.

The heel of his hand keeps grazing against your swollen button, eliciting spikes of pleasure through your flesh.

His forehead rests against yours, his feathery lashes falling to half-mast as he whispers,

“Come for me, birdie.”

Your breathing accelerates, his words propelling you closer to your peak. You clench around his fingers. Your legs tense. Warm tingles swirl across your flesh as your back arches. 

A lightning bolt of pleasure passes through you, quick and intense. For a few seconds, not a thought occupies your mind. You are nothing but a million nerve endings on fire.

Your boneless frame crashes over the sheets.

“Good girl,” he praises, his smile expanding. His fingers pull out of you and he brings them to his lips. You watch, sickly fascinated as he dips them into his mouth, reveling in your taste. He hums in appreciation. Your face warms. He then places those same digits over your own lips, forcing you to taste yourself. He bends over you, peppering sluggish kisses in the crook of your neck. His hand splays over your heaving chest, his thumb rubbing your nipples until they pebble under his touch. His lips trail lower on your body. 

He pauses, looming over you. Hands on each side of you, Coriolanus lines his tip with your entrance. Your eyes widen in surprise. You squirm and try to scoot away, panic rushing through you. 

He yanks you back on the bed with ease, his body pinning yours onto the mattress. When you reach for his face, hoping to land a blow, he snatches your wrists and slams them above your head.

He scoffs, “So feisty, even to the bitter end.”

Your breath falters when his thick tip stretches you open. Even that single inch of him feels like too much. Rapid breaths burst from your fluttering chest.

Tears quiver beneath your lashes.

“It hurts…”

He pushes until he’s halfway inside you. Pain shoots through you as you sob.

The tears spill. He releases one of your wrists to fondle your cheek.

“Shh, it’s okay, pretty bird. I’ve got you.” 

He shoves inside you until he grazes your hilt. Your lips part in a quiet scream, your vision flickering. For a while, Coriolanus remains still, giving you time to accommodate his thick girth. He starts moving, his thrusts slow and deep. The longer he fucks you, the more the pain morphs into something else. Something not entirely unpleasant, albeit a little terrifying. The aching stretch becomes tantalizing, your wet walls clinging to his length every time it drags against your soft spots. Little whimpers leave your throat as you cling to his bicep.

Coriolanus’ hand wraps around your jaw.

“Focus on me and only me,” he instructs.

Your eyes dive into his. Flames dance in his cobalt orbs. He smiles, his thumb sweeping  over your bottom lip.

“Such an obedient girl.”

“How does it feel now?” he grunts. You note the sweat glistening over his bare muscles, dotting at his brow. His exhales are more strained now, matching yours. 

You keen at a sharp snap of his pelvis into yours. He picks up the pace, bending one of your thighs against your chest to thrust as far as his cock will go. Your toes curl, blissful shivers creeping their way up your spine. 

“Awful,” you wheeze out. 

He snickers. “You’re a horrible liar, birdie.”

You sense him nearing the cusp of his pleasure. His cock twitches between your walls and you plead, panicked, “Corio…Coriolanus…not inside, please.”

A crooked grin spreads on his lips. 

“But wouldn’t it be wonderful, if I left you something to remember me by.”

You shudder, shaking your head. “No…”

He slips his fingers between your joined bodies, drawing a long moan from you when he starts rubbing your pulsing clit. He plays with your tender bud until you cry out. You come apart around him, slick walls hugging him snugly as he shoots his thick seed inside you. 

Dread settles in your bones, piercing through the haze of delight. You tremble as the stickiness trickles alongside your walls.

He lets out a throaty sigh, trapping you underneath him so you can’t move. 

“Yes,” he breathes out, burying his head in the crook of your neck. Your mouth opens in shock as another tear traces a blazing path down your cheek. He scatters bruising kisses along the column of your neck. His cruel words sear into your flesh. “That way you can never forget you were mine before anyone else, birdie.”

You awake with a start, bruised and sore, in the massive bed. Your glance darts around, confusing filling you as you tuck the blanket against your frame. Your shoulders sag. You note faint sunlight pouring through the crimson curtains. All the candles from last night have been blown out. 

It’s the next day. You are alone. You shiver at the sight of the rumpled sheets, glimpses from the night before seeping through your mind. Coriolanus kept true to his word and made you sing for him the entire night. He was relentless and didn’t stop until you passed out from pleasure. In fact, you were so exhausted, you can’t pinpoint the moment he left. You simply recall him cooing soft praises in your ear as he had his way with you for the last time. 

For a moment, you held some fear that he would never leave, since he was so hellbent on making you come around him as many times in a row as he could.

What terrifies you most however, is that last night wasn’t terrible. Not entirely. Or not in the way you pictured at least. Heat creeps up in your cheeks at the thought. 

You clamber off the bed, wincing at the aching stiffness of your limbs. You collect your clothes and begin to dress. You’re eager to leave the room. It stinks of sex and shameful mistakes. 

As you climb down the stairs, the madam greets you with a wiggle of her fingers. You bristle, shame glowing inside your chest. 

She bends over the wooden handrail, her cleavage threatening to spill out of her dress.

“He said you were free to stay in the room to rest for the entire day if you wished. Paid in full before he left.”

“I don’t want to stay.” 

You hasten your pace to reach the exit faster.

She stops you in your tracks, a mischievous grin dancing on her lips.

“So the pretty boy didn’t tire you out then?” She tilts her head and pouts. “Pity. I imagined him to be a more…zealous lover.”

Your cheeks flame as you rush out of the brothel. You can’t get back home fast enough. 

You need a shower expeditiously. Never before have you longed for the freezing cold spray to hit your skin so badly.

You return home to at least a month’s worth of supplies and medicine in several bags. 

There’s even candy for your cousin, the same he brought her last time. Your cousin’s overjoyed, of course, but you remind her not to overindulge. 

Nothing else accompanies them. No letter. No card. You should feel happy at that, you surmise. Finally, you are free to live life on your own terms, return to your routine. 

Part of you is a little stunned by it however, and perhaps expect the peacekeeper to not be truly gone. For days, you keep wondering if he’ll materialize from a dark corner or surprise you as you stroll down a dank alleyway. 

None of that occurs. Still, it takes weeks for your blood not to chill anymore at the sight of a peacekeeper. After a month of tranquil, humdrum days, you’re forced to admit it. Coriolanus has granted you the peace he promised.

Your chest is a little lighter as you head to the factory everyday. You even start smiling again, which Yara and Tilly keep teasing you about.

But you can’t help it. No more feeling scared or confused. No more eyes trailing your every move. You’re relieved, happy. Life in district 8 may sometimes be uncertain but, at least, you hold your destiny in your hands once more.

Blessed freedom. Finally.

So you let yourself relax. Over time, the terror gripping your gut melts away. The tightness in your chest eases. 

Your mind is so at ease that you don’t notice the shadow creeping behind you on your way out of the factory. It’s too late when you do. 

A black cloth is shoved over your head as you turn a street corner. You’re hauled off your feet and dragged into a dim alley. Your heart races, panic flooding you as you’re tossed into the back of a vehicle. 

The engine roars to life. Every question you ask is ignored, your kidnappers frustratingly silent. You wonder if you’ll die or be sold off to traffickers. You’ve heard of district girls disappearing sometimes, the kind no one will miss or ask too many questions about. 

They often end up in sordid places. You’ve heard the stories. Some could end up in the mines, in shady brothels or even wind up as an Avox maid with their tongues cut off. Chills swirl over your skin. 

Is it to be your fate? Being carted off to some hellish place and worked to death? 

The car stops. Your pulse soars. Quick breaths pour from your mouth as you’re roughly carried to some other place. You struggle, trying to kick your assailant. You land a blind strike and hear a curse. You make a run for it, your blood singing wildly. 

It’s pathetic the swiftness with which you’re caught, as if your attempt meant nothing. 

You’re shoved into a box. As the slamming of a hammer surrounds you, sealing your fate, you begin to sob. You used to think you were just born in the wrong place, unlucky, like so many others. Now you’re starting to believe you are cursed.

Shivers wrack your frame as the box is lifted. Your stomach lurches. The entire trip is a nightmare. Dread grips you tight as questions crowd your mind about who’s taking you and why. After a while, you realize you’re on a train. Your terror swells. 

You’re being moved out of District 8. You haven’t left your district since birth. For better or worse, this was your home.

After an awful, rambunctious journey, the box is finally opened. You hear grunting above you as the lid of the box is pried open. 

The bag over your head is removed and you take in a lungful of clean air. Strong arms hoist you out of the box. You clumsily stumble to your feet. 

You whirl. 

An audible breath skips off your tongue as you take in who stands before you. He looks so different. No more peacekeeper uniform. No more buzzcut.

“Coriolanus?” you gasp.

He smiles. “Hi, birdie.” A wave of snow engulfs your veins.

He sweeps a hand over his silver curls, sounding almost bashful.

“Do you like it? I’m trying to grow it out again.”

Ignoring him, you peer at your surroundings. The white room has a vaulted glass ceiling that allows sunlight in. The pearly marble tiles are pristine. Other than that, you only find one opening. A small door on the other side. You scuttle across the room to reach it. 

The door knob shakes but doesn’t give. Still, you insist, your desperation growing. Your heart sinks as you glance down at the tiny keyhole in the door. 

Coriolanus’ deep voice approaches from behind you. 

“This is a locked cell, pretty bird,” he explains. “And I’m the only one with the key. Dr. Gaul uses it for her more…feral experiments. But she’s granted me permission to use it for an experiment of my own.”

You whip around. “Dr. Gaul?” 

You feign interest, hoping to distract him, having noted the tiny golden key dangling from his neck. Coriolanus catches you looking at it and smirks. “My mentor. Don’t worry. I’ll walk you through everything. I’m sure you’ll fit right in over time.”

He inches closer and you stagger backwards. 

“W-Why am I here?”

Instead of being offended by your attempts to shy away from him, the blond seems mildly amused, studying you as he paces around the room.

“I couldn’t let my sweet bird wither away in a filthy district, of course. I belong in the Capitol, and you belong to me.”

You gape at him. While you knew him to be some entitled rich kid from the Capitol, you never imagined he’d take it this far. Steal you away like you’re some shiny object that struck his fancy at the marketplace. Not a person with a life and desires of their own.

“You’re insane,” you hiss.

His mouth twitches, marking the first hint of displeasure at your reaction.

“We’ll have to work on that coarse mouth of yours. It will not stand here.” His tone grows chillier. “Here in the Capitol, we have discipline, order.”

“Let me go,” you shout, lunging yourself at him. You attempt to tackle him and grab the key from his neck. Unleashing a sigh of annoyance, Coriolanus seizes your wrist and twists it with hardly any effort. The sickening sound of bones snapping lands in your ears. He throws you on the floor, kicking your side for good measure. You keel over the tiles, cradling your throbbing wrist against your chest.

Coriolanus shakes his head as he considers your curling frame on the floor.

“Look what you’re making me do, sweet bird. As I’ve said, your uncouth District wench ways will not stand here. You’re going to behave…” He hunkers down before whispering, “Unless you never want to see your cousin again.”

Your head snaps up, tears filling your eyes.

“She needs me. Coriolanus, please-”

“She will be cared for. There’s a very nice orphanage south of the Capitol, one for all the children who lost their homes in the war.” He beams at you. “She’s being transported there as we speak.”

“Oh my god…”

“You want to see her again? It’s all up to you, birdie.” A slow, wicked smirk blooms on his lips. “...Or perhaps she would fare well as the District 8 tribute for the 11th Hunger Games. She may be a little young…but at least she’d increase viewership.”

“You can’t do that,” you protest, your lip quaking as tears skip over your cheeks.

A dark chuckle leaves him.

“I can and I will. You see, birdie, the world isn’t fair.” He cocks his head. “No one cares about innocent children dying. Hell, I was kicked, beaten and starved so many times during the war, I lost count. No one cared.” His blue eyes turn icier as they meet yours. “The world…it’s an arena. You’re either a predator, or you’re prey.” He lifts his hand to cup your cheek. A gesture that’d be almost tender if the words spilling from his mouth weren’t so cruel. “It’s best to just embrace your role.”

He caresses your tear-stained cheek.

“So will you be my sweet, obedient girl?”

As you sink in his empty blue gaze, a sense of defeat cloaks your frame. You come to realize, you were never meant to come out unscathed from meeting Coriolanus Snow, never meant to win. The fire in his eyes is the kind that burns all standing in its path.

There is no getting away. If you survived him, you’d be lucky.

Your chin trembles as you reply meekly, “Y-Yes, Coriolanus.”

His lips brush over yours before he gets to his feet, satisfaction glowing on his handsome features.

“Wonderful. I can’t wait for you to meet everyone, birdie.”

[frankenstein-ate-my-left-shoe]

okay so i saw this tiktok and immediately said 'but what if steddie?' so here you go!

Steve honestly can't believe he let Robin convince him to go to this goddamn haunted house...attraction...thing.

He also can't believe that they somehow got separated. Them! The two peas in a pod who share the same braincell!

Now he's wandering the place alone, and in the goddamn dark. Following whatever sparks of light he can find, though he knows that's just gonna lead him to more scares.

'and to the exit, Dingus.' Robin's voice says in his head.

"Yeah, yeah, whatever. I'm almost out of here anyway, right?" he says aloud to no one.

"Wrong you are, pretty boy." a husky voice says into his ear from the dark, and Steve's running.

Running, running, running, somehow not tripping over shit in the dark, just letting his instincts take him wherever they want while some freak in a mask and wielding a machete follows close behind, cackling all the while.

The thing also says things like, "They're so much sweeter when fear courses through their veins!" and "The pretty ones always die first, that's why I'm still around." each followed by more unhinged cackles.

Finally, Steve turns a corner to find blinding light. Well, blinding to the rest of the place at least.

A steady light comes from a lantern beside a chainlink gate. He dashes to it, thinking its salvation, only to find a blank black wall behind it.

It was only another set piece.

"Oh fuck."

"Hello sweet thing,"

Steve spins, pressing his back against the fence behind him, heart hammering through his whole body.

The creature, in a bloody pig mask, as Steve can see now, chuckles hoarsely when he comes around the corner..and in the way of the only exit.

"Oh, fuck."

"Oh darling, there won't be time for any of that, now will there?"

Steve registers everything he can about the thing as it stalks closer. He's about Steve's height, slighter in build from the legs he can see under the ratty gown thing he wears, and he's immediately got a plan.

"You would look so sweet under me, though, wouldn't you?"

Damn, this guys' been flirting with him this whole time. Weird, unhinged haunted house flirting, but flirting nonetheless.

Another piece of the plan slots into place.

"C'mon darling, why so quiet? Lemme hear those screa---"

The thing surges forward, machete raised, so Steve shoots out an arm, catching his wrist and gripping tight.

With the other, he shoves at the thing's shoulder and spins them, pinning it against the metal fence with a clang.

Finally, Steve sets his moves to stun; dropping the thing's arm and using both hands to lift the plastic pig mask up over the actor's face, everything slows to a crawl.

Steve takes in the face of the actor pinned under him in a split second. He's just about the same age as Steve, with long dark hair that frizzes out under the lip of the mask where it's caught between it and his face. His face, thoroughly sweaty and flushed from chasing people around all night, is looking up at him in shock with big dark eyes and...holy shit..

Is it ethical to fall in love at first sight at a haunted house? With the thing guy that was chasing you?

Time speeds up again and Steve surges forward this time, locking his hands along the man's jaw instead of on the mask, letting it fall down onto his face as he kisses him.

Deep, quick, and with a quick flash of tongue before he's spinning and racing back out the way he came, this time being lucky enough to find the exit along a path he had taken the wrong fork in last time.

"Holy shit, Steve! There you are! What happened??" Robin catches him as he clambers though the curtain covered exit.

"I..." he takes a deep breath, holding himself up by his knees "I fell in love."

ehehehe there's a part 2 to this :o)

[after-witch]

Run Rabbit [Sukuna x Reader]

Title: Run Rabbit [Sukuna x Reader]

Synopsis: You were the first one in your village chosen to be a sacrifice to Ryomen Sukuna. But you won't accept your fate so willingly.

Word count: 2000ish

notes: obsessiveness, reader is set to be a sacrifice, non-graphic injuries, non-graphic sexual assault threat, 

There are two types of desperation beating inside your breast

The desperation to live, to not be torn to pieces by some beast, to keep going another day and walk down the path of life, wherever it may take you.

And perhaps the worst of the two, the desperation of knowledge: the fact that you can’t deny that you understand why they’re doing this to you, why you’ve been tied to the tree at the entrance of your village. 

Why they have chosen you as a sacrifice to Ryomen Sukuna.

He had slaughtered so many people already, in your village and many more besides. Men, women, children. It made no difference to him--no, you think, perhaps it did. From what tales you’ve heard, he seemed to enjoy killing women and children most of all. 

Your own parents had been killed by him while they were traveling to a nearby village to visit your mother’s pregnant friend. Perhaps that’s why the village chose you as the easiest sacrifice--you had no family left to stand up for you.

You were just some orphaned daughter. You couldn’t carry on the family name. You would be a burden, if you were married off, and who wanted to take the time to create a match for you amidst the current heavy fear enveloping the village? 

So they took you in the early hours of the morning, when the air was misty and cool, and dragged you from your bed to this very tree that leads to the main path to your village. The tree itself was considered sacred. Or it had been, once. Scattered around you are broken charms, no doubt laughingly scattered by Sukuna himself; failed protections against his horrors. 

But you? You were going to be the village’s salvation. Surely he would accept their offering and kill you (perhaps more, beforehand) and spare the village. At least for a while. At least until they had to drag some other pretty thing to the tree, and hope he would take them and spare their village for another day. 

That’s what they hoped for, anyway. 

But you? You were not going to be a good sacrifice. That is why you have spent the better part of the day sawing at the rope binding your wrists to the tree, using one of the broken charms as a sharp edge. 

And as the sun begins to slip beneath the horizon, and the warmth in the air seeps away and leaves a clammy cold in its wake, you feel the rope finally fray to a fragile husk--

Just as every insect in the night suddenly ceases their droning calls, and the night birds in the weaving lakes no longer cry out. 

Just as the sound of footsteps approaching the tree replaces them.

You have never seen the demon, curse, monster Sukuna in person before. You had only heard the stories, at first huddled together with your family, and then alone. 

He is, above all things, overwhelming. Eyes upon eyes, arms upon arms.Two of each, and faces like halves.  He is… 

Inhuman. Unnatural. 

Without realizing it, you are frozen--a doe in the flickering lamplight of a weary traveler. No, for this is no weary traveler who smiles indulgently at the sight of a frightened deer. You are more like a doe trapped in the unmistakable sight of a hunter’s bow.

“Well,” the monster says, his voice like a rough purr that sends goosebumps creeping up arms. “This is a first… surprisingly.” His eyes look you over, and the sight of the multiple pairs moving sends your empty stomach lurching. “Usually villages try to sacrifice their weakest first. The children… the elderly.” 

The way his gaze rakes over your form sends your limbs trembling, and you begin to rub your wrists together, willing the rope to give way to nothing in time for you to have some sort of chance. 

If he notices, he says nothing. Instead, he steps closer and looks down at you. “But oh, you’re a precious thing, I would think. A lovely woman.” He calls you precious but nothing in his tone or demeanor suggests he thinks you so. 

“Shall I kill you outright? Or have my way with you first?” There’s a laughter in his words, and you’re not sure if he means them, but they create a hard knot in your belly all the same. 

It doesn’t matter. Because the rope has split.

“Neither,” you spit out, and you don’t wait for his reaction--you simply run.

The primal part of your brain expects to hear his footsteps behind you. Instead, you hear laughter, barking, harsh--but delighted. 

“I’ll give you a head start, girl!” He calls out. You don’t dare look behind you to see if he’ll hold true to his words. 

--

The forest is familiar and unfamiliar all at once, for you never went into it during the night, and certainly never alone--and definitely not with a demon at your heels.

Dark greenery whizzes by, punctuated with scratching branches and your own terrified, panting breaths. Some of the branches catch the fold of your robe and you stumble, pulling until the fabric tears or the branch lets you go. 

A branch catches your clothing again, but when the fabric tears this time,  you don’t regain your footing. You fall to the ground and your body aches, unused to running and injuries--

And then you hear those footsteps again. Loud. Confident. As if whatever creature makes them knows he is entitled to be exactly where he is, doing exactly what he does. You don’t doubt a demon who has slaughtered countless, seemingly for sport, might feel that way.

Hot tears fall down your face, dripping on the ground, almost in time with the footsteps.

“Are you done already? How boring.”  His voice above you (for you don’t dare look up at his face) has lost the delight it held earlier, replaced with something you keenly sense is far more dangerous: a loss of interest.

He’ll kill you. If you don't run now, he’ll kill you.

Some noise, grunting and animal-like, escapes your lips. And then you’ve propelled yourself upward, riding on adrenaline, running into the darkness again.

Behind you, Sukuna laughs.

“Keep going! Don’t give up!”

The mockery in his voice lands and slides off you like raindrops. You don’t have the resources to care about anything but getting away from him.

So you run and run and run.

--

Your fingers taste of sweat and dirt, but you keep them pressed to your lips, muffling your ragged breathing as best you can. 

Sukuna is somewhere behind you. His every movement rustles leaves, snaps twigs. He doesn’t need to hide his presence--why would he? He could kill anyone or anything he came across.

If he finds you tucked inside the hollow of this tree, he’ll kill you. Maybe worse than that, because you can; or because he feels an inclination for it.

“Brat.”

Your muscles turn to ice. He found you. He found you and this is it and now--

But pain does not come, death does not come. Instead,  you realize, slowly, that he wasn’t addressing you. He’s talking to himself.

“She’s made it this far, huh? If she crosses that stream…” He sighs, and your mind provides the image of his face, pinched with irritation. “I can’t follow. It’s been blessed. Damn sorcerers.” 

Hope, fragile but alive, flutters in  your breast. The charms on the tree didn’t work… but evidently something did work against this creature. And you were close--so close you could hear the water bubbling--to reaching it.

And like a miracle, his footsteps recede, and the soft sound of the night returns. The insects, hesitantly chirping; the soft crunch of a fox scurrying out of a burrow.

After a time, long enough to make sure he has truly gone, you slowly, carefully crawl away from the hollow of the tree. 

The stream. If you can make it across the stream, you’ll be safe.

With your muscles aching and your feet bleeding from the terrain of the forest, you run towards the sound of quietly bubbling water that will be your only chance of salvation.

--

You have never appreciated the moonlight as much as you have on this night. The moon is not quite full, but it’s large and bright enough to illuminate the man made rock path lodged across the stream, giving easier (but no less slippery) access to those who want to cross it.

Just get across, you think. Just get across and be safe. Be free. Start over. Find somewhere you can live and settle down and--

You take a deep breath and force yourself not to race too far ahead. You don’t want to get distracted, not now. 

Not when every footsteps matters. You go as slow as the panic in your breast allows, keeping your arms straight out like you used to as a child, begging your parents to help guide you across. 

On the last stone, you hear him approach. Hear the rumble of his chest as he hums. Feel the oppressiveness of his presence.

But you leap to the wet, mossy ground on the bank of the stream and you turn and your heart beats fast with fear and relief in turn. You made it. You’re safe. 

Your face breaks into a sobbing smile just as Ryomen Sukuna takes an easy, sauntering step onto the stepping stone. 

His laughter hurts your ears.

“Did you really think I couldn’t cross water?” His four eyes blink down at you, and it’s like your soul wants to drop to the ground and run away. “Country bumpkin…”

The smile cracks, but the sob on  your lips pushes its way out as you whirl around and run.

But your body has other ideas. It’s too tired. You were not used to such physical strain, and the stress from being tied to the tree and chased and chased--and chased--like some animal has finally overruled the adrenaline pumping through your body.

Your legs collapse, and you fall to the ground. You’re on your knees, aching and bleeding though they are, and you gulp down terrified, sobbing breaths.

This is it. This is when he kills you. You can only hope it will be fast. 

“Finally run out of steam, girl?” Sukuna hums, and you feel his foot press down on the small of your back. It doesn’t take any effort for your body to crumple beneath it, but he keeps his foot on the dirty, frayed fabric of your robe.

There’s an uncomfortable flush of humiliation, but you chide yourself for even feeling it. Does it matte, what he does, if he’s just going to kill you now?

“You lasted longer than I thought you would. Though you were stupid to think I was serious about the river.” His voice is low and lazy. You almost wish he sounded angry, annoyed that he’d had to chase you through the woods.

But then  you realize that this chase which has worn your body to its limit was like a relaxing stroll for him. 

You were running for your life--and it was nothing to him.

“Just…” Your voice is hoarse, and you would drag yourself to the stream and gulp it down like a wild animal, if you could. What is water, though, when you’re going to die at any moment? “Just kill me already,”  you finish.

There is a rustling sound, and you don’t know what it means until you’re flipped harshly on your back. You cry out as you’re flipped, body aching, and hurting even more when you feel rocks digging into your tired muscles.

It was better to be staring at the ground, you think. Better to look at that than up at the face of the monster who will end your life. 

He tilts his head at you--the two faces, you think, are not just grotesque but otherworldly and very, very wrong. They shouldn’t exist, and he shouldn’t exist, and you hope that somewhere, somehow, some day, there will be a person who knows how to destroy the thing above you. 

He hums again. And after a while, he grins, as if he’s pleased with himself. “No, I don’t think I will, girl.”

His words take a while to sink in. And the question forms on your lips before you have time to wonder if you really want the answer. 

“Why--why not?” 

Sukuna leans down and grips you by the ruined fabric of your robe. He hauls you to your aching feet, and keeps his grip on you even as your legs try to buckle  underneath you from fear just as much as the physical strain of the night. 

One of his four hands grabs your chin, and none-too-gently forces you to look at him. His pairs of eyes study you, and your stomach twists and turns as you’re made to stare into his face. 

“You were given to me,” he says, voice back to that low, growling purr from when he first saw you tonight. “And I’m going to appreciate this little present.” 

[nightingale-the-lurker]

Hic est nihilum

[DEMO] Last update: 19/04/2024 | [ROMANCE OPTIONS]

SYNOPSIS

Hic est nihilum is a 16+ fantasy story set in a desolate, post-apocalyptic wasteland. Assume the mantle of the Omen, a rebel who endured a harrowing betrayal. Embarking on a perilous journey through the lifeless Abysm, you must rescue your allies from the clutches those who'd sooner see you dead and stop two loving, loathing gods from taking control of your mind.

PLOT

After a lifetime of enduring the Matriarch's iron grip, you dared to defy her tyranny. Empowered by the enigmatic Sud the Time's End, the smiling harbinger of death, you led your forces to reclaim a portion of the desolate, lifeless wastes of the Abysm. Victory seemed within reach, until betrayal shattered your ambitions.

Left for dead in the unforgiving desert, your survival now hinges on an ambiguous mission from your divine benefactor. As you navigate this treacherous path, the fate of your allies hangs in the balance, while the Matriarch's dominion remains unchallenged.

Yet, amidst the chaos, whispers of alternative powers echo through the Abysm, offering salvation at a steep price. Will you bend to the will of fate, or forge your own path to freedom? The choice is yours, but in this land of turmoil, nothing comes without sacrifice.

FEATURES

Play as a male, female, or non-binary character and choose your sexuality.

Customize your appearance and personality.

Decide on your skills, weapon, and fighting style.

Gather a patchwork group to rebel against the Matriarch.

Interact with two gods who want to take you as an ally, servant, and saint: Erichea the Drowned Maiden and Sud the Time's End.

Decide how you'll lead your rebellion: Will you be a ruthless rulebreaker, an idealistic liberator, or a pragmatic diplomat?

Don't lose your mind. Or do.

ROMANCE OPTIONS

Faz Sharaan is a tech expert who mysteriously appeared at your doorstep, offering his expertise. Though invaluable to your cause and a man with a heart of gold, his past remained a tightly guarded secret. It's as if he emerged fully formed from the desert sands.

Yuan Lixue is your steadfast ally and fierce protector. From the outset, she dedicated herself wholeheartedly to your cause, her loyalty to freedom unwavering. Yet, the crucible of battle has left its mark, turning her into a hardened warrior with an appetite for blood.

Rhys Dariann is exactly what he says: A flesh-eating demon. Yet he seamlessly transitions into kind town doctor and devoted chaplain. His reasons for aiding you are veiled in secrecy, but one thing is clear: an old hatred towards the Matriarch fuels his every action.

The Angel is an enigmatic and inhuman celestial being sworn to your cause without explanation. Their price? To never again take a life under your command. You've always wondered, however, if they're fallen from grace or merely overlooked by the gods of the Abysm.

[raayllum]

Was thinking it over that Callum giving up info/doing dark magic to save Rayla in 5x08 is indeed the equivalent of her leaving in Through the Moon (“As long as we love each other, as long as we protect each other” “I was trying to protect him” / “I knew I had to be strong alone” + Callum not telling her about what he did / “All that talk about how love makes you stronger, but the second that elf girl in pain, you completely lost yourself” “I have to be strong, no matter what, and if you said even one word to me, I wouldn’t - couldn’t be”). 

And Rayla is still set up to be the one to save Callum from brainwashing/his imposed ‘destiny’ in S6, probably tying together her arc regarding sacrifice and her well, refusing to sacrifice Callum even for the good of the world. Which means also having to save her - from death, from Aaravos, and subsequently risking the world for her as well - is still on the goddamn fucking table I am Losing my mind

[ervotica]

woke up to pictures of josh o'connor as a priest in knives out 3 rn thinking thoughts on priest!patrick and none of them are in the bible

priest patrick priest patrick arghhdhkdksjd (should i make this an au👀)

you may be in the house of god, but nothing about your predicament is holy.

bent over the altar, a sacrifice to the lord himself. your pretty white sundress - your meticulously selected sunday outfit - hiked up over your ass, fabric of your panties pulled to the side, and the priest's wanton mouth buried in your cunt.

no part of you goes untouched by those thick fingers as they pull your sticky lips apart to make room for that spearing tongue that licks into you with a fervour that can be described as nothing but reverent. as if you're his path to salvation, a gift from god laid bare before him.

you can't help but arch your hips back into him, throat working around a thick swallow as your head falls heavy against the solid oak of the altar. the tip of a calloused finger breaches your entrance. then two. you gasp and grind downwards into his mouth, entirely consumed by the way his digits reach so far inside you feel it in your fucking throat, rubbing against a gummy spot that has you sobbing, creaming over his fingers, your sweet juices dripping across his wrist until he's covered in you, in your very essence.

you bow your head to watch him, heavy lidded, as he sucks every drop, turning his angular features against his own skin to suck the taste of you that's embedded in his pores.

and then, those thick arms wind around your waist like vines, palms flattening, fingers curling into a bruising grip. mean, cruel as he manhandles you onto your back, until the wood groans with your weight and the sharp edges dig into your spine and settle to a dull ache.

you have barely a moment to dwell on the discomfort, all protests gone the moment he works his cock from the tight confines of his pants. he hisses as it springs free, hot and heavy against his hand and leaking, twitching from your surveillance alone.

he crowds your space by means of his chest pressed flush to your own, tugging at the flushed head of his cock as he presses the slit to your swollen, achy clit.

"please."

his breath against your throat has heat creeping through your veins, your insides, your blood. as he turns it all soft and molten. your body follows suit, muscles going pliable like putty as he feeds your weeping cunt the thick length of him.

god, it's all so wrong.

his fingers curl over your gasping throat and your mind goes pleasantly blank. legs wrapping round his waist, cunt dragging him deeper, the soft, wet warmth of your walls dragging against every ridge, every vein of his aching cock, milking the cum straight from his heavy balls.

his pace is punishing, but you're moaning with every filthy rut of his hips, eyes fluttering closed as wave after wave of euphoria drags your mind into oblivion.

patrick zweig doesn't know what he must have done in a past life to deserve this; a soft, sweet little thing, wet and beggy beneath him, doe eyed and oozing adoration even as he treats you unkindly, acts out every one of his depraved, repressed fantasies.

fuck god. you're his religion now.

[miyacults]

begging on my hands and knees for a sequel to the daddy gojo fic but w sugu please please please

a/n: my dear nonnie this is less than u actually deserve but i hope it fuels the stsg daddy agenda im pushing here.

violet, blue, green, red to keep me out… i win.

( ft. suguru geto. )

Suguru’s nowhere near salvation—soul too damned to expect something else—yet his heart aches, breaks, and cries blood at the mere thought of not deserving you. He might have made a path down the cursed side of being a Sorcerer with Satoru next to him, making the best of his efforts on keeping you away from that devilish facade of his you haven’t seen yet, and although he’s the one to blame when you finally do, well—he can’t hide anymore. That’s the price that comes with being one of the Strongests.

< part one.

wc: 3k (proofread? probably not)

cw: [ 18+ explicit content minors dni ] technically this is part two of a gojo fic (linked above) but can be read individually so no biggie. fem reader (female bodied). teacher!suguru meaning he did not deflect here okay, we’re living a happy life away from the pain. first one was gojo action so this is for geto action only but poly satosugu is clearly implied, that’s the whole point of this basically hehe. daddy kink and daddy dynamic so be very careful! minimal to no prep. unprotected sex. p in v sex. mentions of blood. mentions of death. these two pamper reader too much so reader’s a little spoiled but in the good way. geto is a sweet pretty much. if i forgot anything to put here lemme know. enjoy! <3~

From time to time, Suguru wonders about his soul in genuine distress. Perhaps out of guilt and worry and only in moments like these—well past midnight with bloodied nuckles and heavy footsteps echoing through thin walls, dragging himself up the stairs of the palatial home he and Satoru bought together, with nothing but a familiar sense of anxiety building in his chest. But it’s not like his personal cup of remorse is filled with all the haunting thoughts of the bad things he has done and seen in his life thanks to his sinister line of work, or as if such awful thoughts could actually pull some strings within his untainted heart—because that’s far from being the case.

It’s just—it’s just who he is. The blessing and the curse of being a Sorcerer, of swallowing venom as a whole to save the lives of those who live an ignorant bliss.

White marble stains in scarlet as he approaches his bedroom in silence, mind reflecting on the fact that things should be good now, that everything’s fine and danger has been erased. Any man in love would have handled the situation in the exact way he did, wouldn’t they? He wonders about this, too, quite frequently, and he hates to admit that the question lingers on his brain for far too long for his own liking. It makes him dread the fact that he’s not doing a good job in taking care of you.

Yet it doesn’t matter, as Suguru already knows the answer better than anyone—and he doesn’t qualify much for the kind-hearted-person term (or so he’s been thinking since the last blossom of his youth and the tragedies that showered his naive teen years catches him off guard). But he really doesn’t want to either, because then that would mean that he can’t successfully protect the thing he cares about the most in the world. And he can’t let that happen.

But the look Satoru shoots at him as soon as he opens his bedroom door and finds him sitting comfortably in the wide couch—awaiting his return, as usual—has him breathing correctly again, mind turning back from unwanted ideas that bother him to no end.

“You got busy tonight, huh,” Satoru murmurs quietly, head lolling to the side while scanning his best friend’s tired figure.

“I took care of the scum,”

“And didn’t invite?”

Suguru’s lips turn into a devious smirk, heavy body finally falling between the many soft pillows his large bed has.

“Princess was so upset, needed you to stay by her side,” he resolves quite calmly, dried blood forcing a horrid contrast to his charming features. “If I’m not there to hold her, then you must,”

There’s a silent warning to his words, and Satoru doesn’t have to make an effort to catch it immediately. He already knows it by heart, he always has—he always will.

“She couldn’t stop crying for over an hour anyway,” he ends up retorting sharply instead, hoarse voice weighing a tone of suppressed anger. “Hope you gave the bastard a merciless death,”

How couldn’t he after what he did to you?

The day had started quiet, tranquil—the week itself abnormally peaceful for them. Maybe it was the fleeing summer coercing the unpleasant job of Sorcerers into days of calm, long work hours slowing down and making them believe they couldn’t relax a little bit. So they decided that it would be a good idea to take you to that new coffee shop in Shinjuku you were dying to go lately. And it was fine, of course, you were incredible happy to be outside the walls of home as you hold hands with both them in a sea of smiley people.

Until it wasn’t.

That desolated look on your face when you found yourself trapped into the arms of some Curse User seeking vengeance towards them—Suguru memorized it, because it caused him some undescribable pain he couldn’t possibly explain even if he tried to. His heart shattered into a million tiny pieces at the sight of gleaming tears drying in your cheeks and the sound of broken sobs, garbled whimpers of their names coming out of parted lips as you held onto nothing for balance, unable to stop yourself from breaking down at the fear, the horror, the trepidation it forced your body into a shock.

He couldn’t prevent what happened after they took you back and he tried to calm you down by placing you in Satoru’s lap, hurriedly murmuring something about making it right. It’s gonna be okay, princess, you’re gonna be okay. He won’t hurt you ever again. I’m here to protect you.

Maybe—just maybe—you heard the strained tone that bathed his words in that moment. And maybe you didn’t understand it right away, or maybe you didn’t want to.

Because Suguru has always been there to make things right, and nothing else has to matter when he and Satoru are there to protect you from the dangers of the world.

Like they have devoted themselves to do.

Suguru doesn’t remember the exact time you came into his life—he doesn’t really care to, because he knows you’ve pretty much always been there. He has no idea where do his memories begin or end at, but the teary-doe look of your face has been plaguing the tissues of his brain for so long now he can’t find himself to remember a time where it hasn’t been there.

He remembers his first day at Jujutsu High, during the spring of him being fifteen and you a little less than that, when he saw you adverting everyone’s gaze as you walked behind your mother (an assistant director, of all things) towards the offices in silence—floral dress wrinkly as you seated in some chair and patiently waited for your mom to finish off her work. No complaints but with a huge pout, bored to death.

He remembers the first time Satoru made you cry by telling you you were a weak nuisance (and how he shortly laughed at that), and he remembers the sickening feeling of nausea that infected his stomach shortly after—and he remembers how it didn’t disappeared until he handed you a beverage from the machines and you smiled at him like none of them ever harmed you in the first place.

He remembers you admiring your mother’s ivory dress the day she married principal Yaga, and he remembers the way he took your hand into his to give you a little bit of courage as you and Satoru walked down the aisle side by side, carrying the rings of the newlyweds.

He remembers the winter of Satoru’s eighteenth birthday, when the white-haired man accidentally dropped a box full of the school’s Christmas decorations over you, making you trip down the stairs and hurt your ankle. He remembers the tears that stained his posh pajama pants when you shouted at him—immediately, instantly—crying out his name and seeking comfort. He also remembers the way Satoru moved around you like a lighting bolt, reaching and lifting you up in his arms before Suguru could arrive. Soothing sweet words into your ear, kissing your cheek as he darted a glare in his direction.

He remembers that they both shared the same thought at that moment, even though it was never vocalized.

He remembers how you have always made him feel this sick—as if you’re infesting his body and refusing to let him cure himself off you at all. He remembers because the feeling doesn’t really stops, never has, probably never will, and he has now grow a little too familiar with the lingering explosion of things that do make him feel alive bubbling in his chest. He’s now used to you setting his soul on fire and making him sick.

But it’s special, nonetheless. A sugary sweet method of inflicting pain—as Satoru likes to say.

Because Suguru Geto is not exactly a good person by his own perspective—but he likes to believe he’s a good man to both you and Satoru, for selfish that could be. The kind of man that puts your safety and well-being on top of anything else, the one that ensures both of your happiness above his own. He’s the type of man that allows some of his darkest desires to die in a fire, following what he believes is the right thing to do.

Suguru’s nowhere near salvation—soul too damned to expect something else—yet his heart aches, breaks, and cries blood at the mere thought of not deserving you. He might have made a path down the cursed side of being a Sorcerer with Satoru next to him, making the best of his efforts on keeping you away from that devilish facade of his you haven’t seen yet, and although he’s the one to blame when you finally do, well—he can’t hide anymore. That’s the price that comes with being one of the Strongests.

“Sugu?”

He can hear it clearly, so vivid and bright and sweet it makes him terribly sick all of a sudden. Singsong and gently voice, coated in saccharine sugar echoing through his ears as the most enthralling tone wraps around his name like a prayer, the deliberately long uttering of ‘Sugu’ forcing the curves of his lips to fall abruptly, his heart stopping without notice and an invisible punch to the guts knocking all the air out of his lungs.

“‘Toru, Daddy, where are you?”

Suguru waits—pretends he doesn’t really care as your footsteps sound closer, closer, closer, and his posture maintains, seemingly calm, apparently unbothered, somewhat bored. But, oh, Satoru knows.

Satoru knows as he sits by his side on the obsidian sectional sofa, with legs crossed and arms splayed over the border, that his best friend’s mind is going on a haze, a brand new sense of anxiety crawling under his skin like a thousand bugs eating him alive. Satoru’s almost certain, he’s sure that if he gets a little closer, the violent sounds of Suguru’s heart pounding in alarming violence against his ribs would cause him physical pain. It puts him on edge; the mere thought of his best friend’s reaction at what’s about to happen now.

If it were him, he wouldn’t care. He hadn’t care in the past, actually. Satoru has always been more than happy to let you near the side of him that glows closer to hell than heaven itself.

But Suguru is different, he thinks.

“She’s supposed to be sleeping,” Suguru stares at him blankly, a hint of irritation in his voice. “It’s long past midnight, and she gets all cranky in the morning every time she stays up,”

“She was sleeping,” Satoru stands up, a sigh sliding past his lips while moving to the bedroom door. “But you already know how she gets if she wakes up for water and is all alone in bed. She gets all needy,”

Suguru raises an eyebrow.

“And who’s fault is that, huh?”

“It’s not polite to finger-point, Suguru.”

Both of them stay silent for a bit, carefully paying attention to your sounds. Suguru tuts his tongue when he hears you calling his name near the bathroom hall.

“I’m too bloodied for her to see me like this,”

“Clearly. Just stay there, lemme—,” Satoru scoffs, opening the door and then closing it behind him swiftly before you can catch a glimpse of the inside. “Oi, sweets, what do you think you’re doing out of bed?”

“But ‘Toru,” you complain in a hushed whine. “You left me alone, you know I don’t like that. It didn’t felt warm anymore,”

Suguru can’t see you—all he has is a muffled sound of your distorted voice, and he swears he knows exactly the way your lips are pushing the loveliest pout to ever exist, the way you’re looking at Satoru through sleepy eyelashes as you put your little complaint out.

And he also knows Satoru might have rolled his eyes playfully at the sight, pulling you closer to steal a kiss from your frowned lips.

“So needy, my baby is so needy,”

“Is Suguru not home yet?” you ask slowly, perhaps setting your groggy eyes into Satoru, staring at him with that enamored look they both know too well.

“Do you want Daddy?”

“Yeah, I do,” you snort.

“I’m your Daddy and I’m home, so,”

“I want both,” you giggle softly, so sweetly Suguru can feel his insides melt at the sound of your bubbling laugh.

He’s sure Satoru has you entangled in a hug, probably sneaking his hands all over your body and tickling your sides to pull a smile.

“Oh, your dumb Daddy, too. Alright. I dunno where he is, sweets,” Satoru states, as if.

“How mean, ‘Toru.”

“Excuse me? What did you just call me?”

“Mean. You’re lying to me.”

Suguru smirks at that. He stands up from the bed and walks towards the door to open it and find you both in the exact position he predicted.

And the look you shoot his way, the frown that forms in your face and your pretty features contract in sudden worry when his frame appears in front of you—it all has his heart pounding like crazy, he feels so loved, he feels so full of you. He feels insatiable.

“Oh,” you let out a little squeal as you shift from Satoru’s embrace and into his, “Sugu, you—”

“Don’t worry much about this, princess,” he mumbles, catching you inside his arms like the world depends on it. “I’m okay.”

But he’s sure you’re crying anyway.

And you don’t even stop to think about the blood. You don’t even care that he reeks of death and violence and Curses as you hold onto him for dear life, with arms that wrap tightly around him and pull him closer, closer, even closer; as lips caress the skin of his neck and little mewls echoe softly against his throat. Pants of I love you, I don’t want anything bad happening to you, I love you, fueling his mind like a bomb ready to launch.

Satoru laughs it off with a devious smile.

“Poor baby, you have her worried sick, Suguru,” he falsely chides. “Guess you gotta make it up to her.”

“Uh-huh,” Suguru nods. “My poor princess, do you want Daddy to make it alright?”

You nod in between heavy breaths, head still buried in his neck. Satoru gives a soft slap to your ass whimsically.

“So needy,” the Strongest murmurs, but he rapidly turns away and aims for the stairs. “I’m gonna go find a snack though, I’m starving. And then I’m gonna prepare a bath so you both can meet me there in a bit,”

Suguru nods.

“Go on. Let me take this princess to bed in the mean time, then we meet you in the bathtub,”

Suguru takes you to his large bed and places you in the middle of many soft pillows cooing in your ear to wash the concern out of you, but you’re reluctant. You cup his face and scan him looking for wounds, soon realizing the ugly streaks of scarlet that stain his face are, in fact, not his. But even then you don’t flinch. Instead, you let your hands wander all over his chest—desperate to pull him into you, to merge your bodies and never letting him go, never separated.

“Oh?” Suguru smiles at your scattered words. There’s still blinks of sleep tugging at your tired eyes, and he can’t help but fondle your face cautiously. “Are we merging with Satoru too, hm?”

You nod, sulky little look fighting sleepiness with all you got.

“Of course, Daddy, always with ‘Toru,”

“That’s right, princess. Always with Satoru,”

You inhale a deep breath. It’s easy for Suguru to notice every little thing about you, so he caught up on your train of thoughts before yourself. You were struggling with some words, biting your lip, eyelashes fluttering, thinking hard about something.

“What is it, baby?” He wonders carefully, hot breath colliding with your face, nose caressing the soft skin of your cheeks as he inhales your scent.

“Did you do a bad thing, Sugu?”

The question lingers on his brain for a few seconds, mind resisting on reflecting such thoughts. Yet his expression doesn’t change, he maintains serenity as the brush of skin above yours doesn’t stop. He holds you like a priced possession, like your mere existence could ever absolve the decaying all Sorcerers are damned to. Like you could kiss him and save him, like you could hug him and guard him—as if you could turn blood into holy water or death into salvation.

Maybe you can.

“Will you still love me if I did?” He asks, not dreading the answer.

“I will never stop loving you, Daddy,”

It ignites his body. Fire burns at his fists and he kisses you deeply, mouths meeting around a new heat, with tongues slipping and teeth clashing desperately. He has no intention of letting you catch a break, mouth falling to your neck where he bites at the sensitive skin and causes you to mewl.

“Ow, Suguru, that’s mean,” you grumble, but you part your bare legs anyway when his hands drop and brush at your thighs.

“Can’t help it, princess,” he press a chaste kiss to your lips once more. “You gonna let me play a little with this pretty pussy, yeah?” The words flee his throat in a raspy tone, and his hands don’t stop. He hikes up that oversized cashmere sweater, that can only belong to Satoru, barely above the line of your lacey black panties, enough for him graze it and get a glimpse of your puffy lips against the fabric, awaiting for him. Suguru traces a finger along your cunt, causing you to shiver at the cold digits. “How gorgeous,”

You pant. “But—The bath, Sugu,”

“He can wait a little,” he says into your mouth “Gonna make you feel really good, princess,” he breathes heavily, rocking his hip a little as a thumb strikes tenderly your cunt through your panties.

And he notices right away—in the way you shiver under his touch when he hovers completely above you, how a breathless sigh escapes past your parted lips and your fists grab a handful of his shoulders to attach yourself onto him and make his bulge nudge your cunt. He repeats the motion a few times, mouth leaving stray kisses in your neck and already throbbing cock humping your covered pussy through his pants.

“Sugu,” you whine at one particularly hard thrust of his hips, involuntary loud moan reverberating from the back of your throat. “‘Toru,”

“Shh, princess,”

Suguru is fast at parting your panties to the side, and he says there’s no need for prepping you tonight, says it’s gonna be real quick so you can both go back to Satoru—with his cock an angry shade of red as its released free from his trousers and it aims for your tiny hole fast, thrusting in one go. You’re whimpering at how fast it happens, cunt burning at the sudden intrusion since he is usually the one that takes his time to properly prep you to take his cock.

You guess he’s feeling off, so you happily comply if that’ll help him.

“Want you, Sugu, I need you,”

“Ah-ah, my good girl,” he grunts lightly, hands steadying you by the ass as he finally bottoms out. “Can you keep doing that for me? Can you be a good girl?”

A loud hiss vibrates through clenched teeth as you wrap your legs around his hips, head nodding many forms of yes as you inch closer to him in distress.

“That’s it baby, take it pretty,”

“H-Hurts a little, Sugu,” you murmur softly, eyes glued to where he’s slowly sliding in and out.

“I know princess,” he pants. “Give it a minute,” He’s practically caging you shortly after, thrusting up roughly as stretched out walls wrap him and suck him deeply. You’re not given a chance to recover or adjust properly, but the burning does start to fade away. Discomfort grows into pleasure and whimpers turn into soft moans as you bury your face on his neck and his hot breath collides sharply against the shell of your ear. “You’re so brave, my good girl. So pretty, my princess,”

You lift your hips to meet his thrusts, dainty fingers digging the flesh of his shoulders when he grunts. And it doesn’t take long for tears to collect in your eyes as heat floods your body once again, the familiar throb of your clit making you aggravate the hump of your hips so your swollen bud finds a little bit of friction. Suguru doesn’t fail to turn you into a needy mess, strong hand coming to cover the cries emitting from your mouth.

Muffled chants of Daddy, Daddy, Daddy, alongside his hoarse grunts and the lewd slap of skin against skin are the only sounds that fly the room when he cums—bruising fingers grasping your flesh harshly as he paints your walls white, and nearly immediately you’re creaming all over the tip of his sensitive cock firmly pressed against your cervix.

“Not leaving you baby,” he pants out. “Not leaving you at all.”

[zaldritzosrose]

Bring Me To Salvation (Criston Cole x Whore!Reader)

Summary: Ser Criston was nothing if not dutiful, steadfast in his dedication to his role as protector and knight. All to the detriment of himself. A chance meeting with a Silk Street woman began to open his life to delights far outside his usual tastes.

TW: MINORS DNI, she/her pronouns, AFAB reader, mentions of sex work, submissive Criston, edging, orgasm denial, handjob, Criston being a sad, pathetic, whimpery mess.

There will be a part two.

Words: 3859

The life of a Kingsguard came with rules. Rules on how one must act in public, how to live one's life. No marriage, no titles. But what had become Criston's downfall was one rule.

Abstinence.

Well, a Kingsguard was not forbidden from sex itself, but from fathering children of their own. But Criston took his vows to heart. Complete abstinence reduced the risk of siring a child, a logical path. Duty meant everything. For the most part.

That was until he was chosen to protect Princess Rhaenyra. He had done his best, resisted for as long as he could. But every man breaks. And Criston’s resolve broke one night, letting the princess entice him to bed.

He had foolishly hoped she may feel more than lust for him, but he was left with nothing but bitterness instead. Years passed, and he watched her not only fawn over Prince Daemon, but also Ser Harwin.

That hurt him most. It weighed on him and turned his countenance sour. Something akin to hatred burning in him as he watched the princess birth bastard after bastard. Criston did his best to push his focus elsewhere. Swearing himself to Queen Alicent and helping her sons train and learn to be men.

And it worked. For the most part. He was not quite the same man he had been, he was highly strung and tense more often than not. But the two princes were a distraction he welcomed.

Until Rhaenyra and her sons returned. Walking through the Keep as if nothing had changed. The two dark haired princes joining Aemond and Aegon in the training yard as though they belonged there.

To make matters worse? Ser Harwin was there to greet them.

Criston held his ground as he sparred with Aemond, the younger prince having grown to be an excellent swordsman. His brother however, had taken the role of spectator. Sitting on the sidelines and pouring cup after cup of wine down his throat.

“Well done, my prince,” Criston praised, as Aemond once again proved himself skilled.

He could feel eyes on him. Jacaerys and Lucerys watched intently, but those were not the eyes Criston could feel. He turned slightly to find Ser Harwin glaring.

“Is there a problem, Ser Harwin?” Criston asked, motioning for Aemond to take a break.

Criston rolled his shoulders, frustration rising in him as Harwin smirked.

“You seem a little tense is all, Ser Criston,” Harwin called back, smirking wider as Criston scowled.

Even Aegon snorted a laugh in response, earning him a glare from Criston. Tense was an understatement. Criston could not remember a time where had actually been relaxed.

“And you seem far too relaxed, ser, do you not have better things to be doing?”

The tension was clear, so thick it could have been sliced. Harwin simply shook his head and walked closer, clapping Criston on the shoulder.

“You need to enjoy yourself more. Spend a little less time playing knight.”

Harwin walked away before Criston could respond, and with a tight jaw, Criston turned back and began sparring again. The words ringing in his head.

Weeks passed and the words Harwin had spoken continued to bother him. It was not the first time anyone had told him he took his duty too seriously. But it was the first time it had bothered him so much. Maybe it was because the words came from Harwin, a man whose mere presence was enough to frustrate him beyond belief.

But at the same time, maybe all those people were right. Did he take himself too seriously? Surely it would not be too out of the question for him to take some time for himself?

Those thoughts were soon knocked from his mind when he was called to the Queen’s chamber.

“Ah, Ser Criston,” Alicent smiled, though the expression seemed strained.

“I have a request, that needs the utmost discretion.”

Criston nodded and listened to her instruction. And what he heard did not surprise him at all. He was to retrieve Prince Aegon from one of King’s Landing’s brothels, yet again. The prince had a taste for all kinds of depravity and Criston knew it was not about to be an enjoyable endeavour.

He was dismissed and made his way through the city as the sun fell. And it was not long before he found the right place. Whispers of the silver haired prince led him quickly to his destination.

With a sigh, Criston entered the whorehouse, finding the Madame and demanding Aegon be brought to him. The woman did not hesitate, disappearing to search for the prince.

Criston waited patiently, two Kingsguard behind him as he averted his gaze from the debauchery around him. He was not a prude, but at the same time he was not as comfortable here as other men may be.

But in averting his eye, he found the gaze of you. There was no doubt you were one of the girls working here. The soft silks draped around your body were not something he saw many noblewomen wear. The second he caught your eye you smiled, making your way through the crowd and towards him.

There was something about you that had him entranced. Eyes that seemed to bore into his, see into his very soul. It was like you knew just what he desired the most.

"It is not often we get Kingsguards in here, ser..." you almost purred the words out to him.

Just by looking around the room he was in now, this place was built for the deepest and most depraved sins. So, it was no surprise Aegon had ended up here. People were draped over every available surface in every possible state of undress and debauchery.

Criston simply nodded at your words. Aegon has already been dragged out to him, already demanding to be left alone. Criston broke eye contact with you momentarily to glare down at the prince.

“Your mother wants you home, my prince. There are two guards outside for you.” Criston said simply, and Aegon wailed profanities at him as he was dragged away.

But you were not deterred. He did not know when you had closed the distance between you both, but soon your rounded nails tapped his armoured chest. Kohl lined eyes gazing up at him and he internally chastised himself for the desire that pulsed down his spine and through his cock.

"We cater to all tastes here, ser...I am sure I can find something you will enjoy."

Criston’s mouth felt dry at those words. The way you let every syllable roll of your tongue, the feeling of your hand on his chest. No, he could not let himself break so easily again.

“A pleasant offer, I am sure, but I must return the prince.”

He did not wait for your response before turning to join his fellow Kingsguard at the door. But that did not stop you calling out to him before he left.

“The offer will always stand, ser, should you desire it.”

Weeks passed before Criston even thought of you again. He put his focus on serving his queen and keeping the royal children safe and protected. But when he was alone, his thoughts would drift back to you and what you had promised.

But nothing came of it until Princess Rhaenyra and her children returned to King’s Landing again. Bringing back the anger and bitterness that seemed to linger and simmer within him whenever he saw her. Reminding him of everything he almost had. What was worse? She now had Prince Daemon at her side. Not only now as her uncle, but as her husband. A custom he never understood, but it only deepened his resentment further.

The King organised a ‘family’ dinner, something that every member knew would not end well. But when the King made a choice, no one was ever truly willing to go against it. Tensions were high as it was.

Criston took his place in the dining hall, where he could easily watch each member of the family he was sworn to protect. And he did his best to ignore Rhaenyra and her family entered the hall, barely acknowledging his presence as they sat.

The dinner passed with little consequence, save for the childish remarks passed between the four young princes. Criston did his duty and escorted them all back to their chambers before returning to the Queen’s side.

“Is there anything you need from me, Your Grace?” Criston asked, standing just inside the doorway to her own chamber.

Alicent looked at him with a smile.

“No, Ser Criston, you may retire if you wish,” Alicent replied, but Criston could sense that she had something more to say.

“Thank you, Your Grace, I will see you again in the morning.”

He turned to leave but Alicent, as expected, called him to stop.

“Actually, Ser Criston, there is something,” she said, walking closer to him.

He stopped, turning back to her and waiting. Her face was coloured with concern and it had him on edge. But he said nothing.

“I have one request to make, and a concern to raise.”

Criston nodded and Alicent continued. Explaining how she felt the tension that had settled in him recently. Whether it was due in part to Rhaenyra’s arrival or something else, she did not press him for an answer, but it was her request that surprised him.

“Please, take some time for yourself. Find a way to relax.”

The knight was silent. He could hardly deny his Queen’s request, though it was not phrased like an order, it felt like one. He made a promise that he would take her request to heart. But he had little idea on how to do that.

He soon left for his own chamber, making quick work of stripping himself of his armour and settling into his bed. And it was only then that his thoughts began drifting back to you.

"We cater to all tastes here, ser...I am sure I can find something you will enjoy."

“The offer will always stand, ser, should you desire it.”

He could not get those words out of his head, combined with Queen Alicent’s suggestion of finding something to relax him. His mind went back even to Ser Harwin’s jibe about his tense demeanour.

“You need to enjoy yourself more. Spend a little less time playing knight.”

He knew he should not. His honour and duty warred with his desire to take up your offer. Would it be so bad? To visit you once, to see if you could be the ‘something to enjoy’?

It took only mere seconds more of thought for Criston to pull a cloak from his wardrobe and make his way quickly down the quieter side of the Keep and out into the city.

Tonight was a quieter night, for a brothel. A few regular patrons were in attendance, but none had yet to call for your services. Yet.

You heard the heavy swing of the door, and the Madame calling your name over the soft chatter of patrons and whores. You fixed your silken robe, making a smooth path through the room and out to the entrance. You assumed it would be one of your regulars, your talents were quite…specialised.

What you did not expect was the Kingsguard, Ser Criston, stood before you. He looked so different, unencumbered by his armour. He seemed to shrink in on himself, as if he was already regretting coming here.

The Madame nodded to you and left the pair of you alone.

“I see you took my offer, ser?” you said softly, closing the distance between the two of you.

Criston seemed to stiffen a little, making it clear he did not frequent these places often.

“Please, do not make me regret it.”

You simply smiled, taking his hand and noting the coin in the Madame’s hand as you passed her. The knight had paid, you were his for the night. Criston’s eyes drifted over the room around him, seemingly the main area of the brothel. It was quieter than when he had been here last, and he felt himself relax a little with that knowledge.

And thankfully, you continued to lead him down a corridor and to a private room. You both entered in silence, yet it was not uncomfortable. Your hand was soft in his, and nothing about you made him feel as though this was a mistake.

It was only when you crossed the threshold did you let go of his hand, urging him gently to sit down on the bed as you closed the door and lit some of the candles littered about the room. Criston took this opportunity to take in his surroundings. The bed was large, dressed is plush fabrics in deep tones, the headboard half covered with plump pillows.

The rest of the room, however, took his interest.

The wall to his right was home to a large glass fronted cupboard, showcasing a plethora of oils and scents that he knew immediately were what you used to ready yourself. The wall to his left was something entirely different. Locked chests that had him wondering what was hidden inside. Something about you told him that you were more than just a typical woman of the Silk Street.

“Now, my sweet knight, what have you come here for?” You asked, walking back over to him and reaching gently up to run a hand through his hair.

Criston, despite himself, leaned into the touch. Eyes closing as he let a soft sigh escape him. What exactly had he come for? He did not really know himself.

“I was hoping you could help me…relax.” His voice was quiet, a low rumble that was tinged with the faintest hint of shame.

You realised then, that you would have to start from the beginning. Bring him out of whatever cloud of shame he seemed to be hiding in. You made quick work of his cloak, taking your time and letting him ease into the whole situation.

“Shall we start with some wine?”

Criston nodded and gladly took the cup when you handed it to him. Letting the sweet liquid ease his mind. You sat beside him on the bed, your hand moved back to his hair and began to rub soft circles into his scalp. Criston could not stop the way he leaned back into your touch again, soft sighs leaving him as your lips soon latched on to the skin of his neck.

The pleasure you gave him was slow, but intoxicating, seeping into his veins and pulsing down through his cock. He felt you smirk against his skin as you noticed the prominent bulge in his breeches, watching it twitch as you pressed a firmer kiss to his throat.

“We will start simple, kiss and touch until you are comfortable…”

Criston could only groan in response, all thoughts leaving him as your palm found his cock. Palming him through the fabric, the heat of your hand and the plump flesh of your lips sending his mind into a void of nothing but pleasure.

His hips chased your hand, desperate for whatever friction you could give him. But at the same time, you could tell he would need instruction. Permission to give in to his desires.

“You can touch me, sweet knight.” You whispered into his ear, taking one of his hands and placing it on the swell of your breast.

Your now free hand untied your robe, letting the smooth silk fall from your shoulders and exposing your bare skin. You revelled in the soft groan that left the knight as his eyes opened, widening as he took in everything that was happening.

The bare skin. The warmth of it beneath his palm. The gentle friction of your hand against his hardened length. But he wanted more.

“Please…”

He could not seem to form any more words. While he was not the most eloquent of men, he could barely process that you had him speechless from the first touch.

“Please what, my darling? Tell me what you want, and you shall have it.”

His fingers tugged at the soft bud of your nipple, the way he licked his lips giving you a good clue as to what he wanted. Your hand in his hair guiding him down and letting him bury himself between your breasts. He may not know it yet, but everything he was doing told you one thing.

The stoic knight was submissive. Desperate for affection, no matter where it came from. In need of having someone else take control away from him. And you were more than happy to do that for him. It was your specialty really. Taking powerful men and reducing them to panting, begging messes of themselves.

You tugged his head back, already seeing the damp and wide-eyed look in his eye. Telling you, your assumption was right.

“Stand up and take off your shirt.” You ordered, letting your voice taking a little more of a commanding town and smiling when you saw his cock twitch in response.

Criston hurried to remove his shirt, throwing it behind him and waiting for your next instruction. Just the idea of being at your mercy, at his pleasure being held solely by you, had his skin heating and his cock already leaking onto the fabric of his breeches. You licked your lips, letting him wait just a little longer before your next command.

“Now, strip bare. Let me see you, Ser Criston.”

He had never removed his clothes faster, near tripping over himself as he kicked away his boots before pushing his breeches down his legs. He could tell immediately that this was what you enjoyed. The smug expression, the commanding tone, it suited you perfectly. Your eyes roamed his now bare form, watching the flush that coloured his chest and moved higher under your gaze.

You stood from the bed, letting your robe fall entirely from your body as you closed the distance between you. He held his breath as you touched him, soft hands starting at his shoulders and working their way down, mapping every inch of his muscled form.

But when you reached his cock, his knees felt like they would buckle. It had been a long time since anyone but himself had touched him so intimately and he was already on the brink of overstimulation.

“Now, we can do this two ways. I can be gentle, bring you to your release with my hand, my mouth or my cunt…” you whispered, pressing your lips to his jaw between words.

“Or…I can do what I know you really need. To surrender. To relinquish the control, you hold on so tight to.”

You punctuated your words now with gentle squeezes to his cock, not quite enough movement to make him come, but enough to have him grunting under his breath. He did not know what to answer. Deep down, he knew that the second option was what he wanted but he was too embarrassed to say the words.

His silence, however, was not acceptable.

“Words, I need your words.” Your hands stilled on his cock, and he could not stop the whine that left him when your movements stopped.

“Please…the se-second…please…” Criston was verging on incoherent, and you had barely started.

A mix of shame and desire surged in his veins, a war raging in him between grabbing his clothes and fleeing and staying at your side and following your every command. You could see it, his eyes flicking still between the door and you. You resumed your movements slowly, working up to pumping his cock faster and faster and watching how he slowly but surely folded under your touch.

You pressed your lips to his, feeling him melt under your touches.

“You will not come unless I say. You will only touch me when I say.”

Criston nodded quickly. He may not have known it, but his body did. Relaxing into your touch and surrendering completely. You released his cock, another whine leaving him, but he knew from the look you gave him that he would not be without your touch for long. You ordered him to lay down, walking over to the cabinet and taking out a small bottle of oil.

“We will start slow, ease you into it. Let your body get used to the feeling of submission…”

Criston’s head fell back against the sheets, feeling the heat of your body as you crawled up to lay beside him. Your lips kissed a trail down his body, supporting yourself with an arm on either side of his torso. His moans were soft, the evidence of just how much control he had already let slip.

Your kisses covered his entire body as your hand sped up, working his cock until Criston was panting and begging beneath you. And when you felt him twitch in your palm, you stopped. Denying his orgasm and forcing a harsh whine from his lips.

“I..I..?” Criston stammered, beads of sweat already forming on his forehead.

“You will come when I tell you to. Not before.”

Criston sighed in frustration, but the combination of the denial and your words sent a rush of desire through him. He nodded, and you began your ministrations anew.

Four times. Four times you denied him before his body was so flushed, so sore, so slick with sweat that he began to give in and beg you.

“Please, it hurts…I need to…please...” His voice was pathetic almost, he could hear it. If he was not so deep into his arousal, he would have been embarrassed.

Your hand wrapped him tight, the other slipping down and adding pressure around his stones, massaging and squeezing until you could feel his cock twitching again. His eyes searched for yours, waiting for the permission he needed.

Those sad brown eyes, wet with tears and filled with desperation. If you were crueller, you would have denied him a fifth time.

“So good, well done, you can come, my sweet knight.”

That was all he needed. With a rough, strained moan, his orgasm ripped through him. Leaving him panting and gripping tight at the sheets beneath him. You could not help but smile. There was something quite satisfying watching strong men like Criston fall apart at your hand.

Eventually, your hands slowed, moving from his cock to his stomach and hips. Stroking soft circle into his skin as his breathing slowed. He sat up on his elbows, wiping a hand over his face to clear the tears and sweat.

“I am impressed, ser, not many submit so easily.” You praised, planting a kiss on his hip before sitting up between his legs.

Criston huffed out a laugh, his mind still in the throes of pleasure and almost unable to form any answer except for one.

“Thank you.”

Criston left your side in the early hours, but not without the promise of his return. And your promise of more means of…exploration.

Even after one meeting, Criston could feel himself walking lighter, less tense.

Maybe, just maybe, you would be his salvation.

@bucknastysbabe @elaratyrell @fairyslunaluna @towriteloveontheirarms @aemondsbabe

[shocymer]

Ref:rain

"He was young and reckless, but loving you is another exception. After all this time refrained his feelings that spilled over in the midst of rain, he only wished for you to return his favor."

Pairing : Seonghwa x f! reader

Word counts : 3,02k

Contents & warnings : smut mdni! , hurt/comfort, slowburns, bestfriend to lovers, TW! mention of abused, soft dom! seonghwa, gentle sex, oral (receiving), multiple orgasm, fingering, unprotected sex, creampie, after care.

He is the nostalgic night, the comfort of your frantic mind, the steady shelter under the pouring rain, the warmth in the middle of snow storm, and the salvation of your helpless soul.

You know it’s too much to describe him that way, but reality never proves you wrong. Living in the countryside on secluded area with your parents’ unstable marriage is definitely driving you insane. But, there’s always something that brings the joy whenever you feels his presence. It’s him Park Seonghwa.

Best friend? No. Just friends? Both of you are knowing each other for almost the rest of your life the second you’ve started walking on the ground. Childhood sweetheart? Yeah, maybe that’s the right thing to called your friendship status with him.

Growing up with him made you realize that the dynamic between you two is a bit weird, it’s like 'close but not that close' relationship. He know what’s happen in your life and so did you, but you’re not shared everything to each other. Just like when he’ll come to comfort you that bawling your eyes out in the middle of the night on the hill back of your house. He just sitting next to you, patting your back gently until your crying subsided. Didn’t ask a single word until you wanted to tell him everything what you’ve been through.

Or he will treat your wounds in silence, only giving you one or two questions at the most just to divert his anger.

“Again?” Furrowed his eyebrows while he dabbed your wounds with the cotton soaked in antiseptic.

You only nodded as you wincing in pain everytime it touches your grazed skin. He really hate to see you like that, his jaw tighten the entire time he treated you. Well, there’s nothing you can do, you’re still a minor and still live under those parents of yours, unless avoiding your abusive father is the only option you’ll take.

He tucked a few strands of hair that fall over your face behind your ears, “It’s done. I’ll help to treat it again tomorrow, just come to me okay?” His face looked somber when you met his eyes. You sure he felt frustrated too because this doesn’t happen once or twice.

“Yeah.. Thanks Hwa.” You gave him a reassuring smile, as if to say everything was fine.

But it’s all different at school, you almost never talk to each other. Being in different class and different circles of friends, make it less likely for you to cross paths with him. Well, he's quite famous. How could he not be, he's tall, handsome, dance genius, and also quite smart academically. On top of that his personality makes him liked by a lot of his friends including you.

Sometimes he stole glances at your class, looking for your figure who is immersed in reading your favorite literature book. Only to make sure you’re fine after seeing your smiley face surrounded by your friends. He felt relieve, there’s nothing to worry about.

⁠✧

“Oh.. hi Mrs. Park, is Seonghwa home? ” A little surprised, didn't expect it to be his mother who opened the door after you were knocking for a few times.

“Yes, come in sweetie,” she invited you in, giving you a warm smile that reminds you how it’s exactly like Seonghwa’s. You stepped slowly, feeling awkward due to sudden meet with her. It’s been a long time since you visited his house, you believed it’s when you’re still in the middle school. Then both of you only met outside all the time.

After exchanged small talk, she pointed towards the stairs. “By the way, just go to his room, he’s been there since morning. I’ll make some snacks for you.” She winked then proceed to leave you to the kitchen. You only shook your head after looking at what was his mother did. But at least you feel happy that you’re so warmly accepted here unlike in your own home.

You climbed the stairs carefully before knocking on his door. “Seonghwa.. I’ts me.” Tapping your foot as you waiting for him, but no answer heard from inside. You decided to open his door only to find him sleeping peacefully with a headphone still intact to his ears. Some books were open, scattered around him. He must be tired studying all the day.

You crouched down, bringing your head closer to the same level of his headphone, wanting to hear what song that was playing. Ah, it’s the same song you listened together a few years ago. As soon as you grasp it, you hummed the melody, bopping your head a little to the left and right.

Until you turned towards him, he’d been watching you for who knows how long it is. He shifted his headphone slightly, blinking for a few times still half asleep. His fingertips slowly caress the plastered wound on your cheeks, looking at it closely with a hurt stare.

“Seonghwa?” Your voice brought him to his sense. He immediately sat on the bed, patting to his side, gestured you to sit next to him.

“I’m sorry, I overslept.” He said, while his hand is busy reaching for something inside the drawer.

Your eyes fell back to the pile of his books. “It’s okay hwa.”

Suddenly he removed your band-aid gently, then applying a thin layer of the ointment on top of your wound. His face is so close to you, make you staring to his long lashes every time he blinked. The way he showed his earnest expression was fascinated you, to the point you didn’t hear what was he said.

“Are you there?” He’s still focused treating your wound with patience.

You shook your head slightly, “Uhm sorry, can you repeat it again?”

“Well, since the graduation is near, I decided to go to college.”

Your heart dropped after hearing that. It means he’ll moved out to the city and you won’t see him for a while, leaving you alone in this small town. But of course, you’re happy for him. He got so much potential to waste if he stayed here for too long.

“You’re going too, right?” His gaze shifted into your eyes, as if expecting a reaction from you.

“I- I still think about that. I’m not sure, what I’m gonna do.” On the contrary, you know exactly what you will do. Your parents have already planned for your future, forcing you to continue their own business. You really hate being stuck with them even though you’re just turning into adult a few weeks ago.

“All.. done. I hope it won’t leave a scar.”

His words snap you back. Lowered your head, you felt ashamed that he always be by your side whenever you’re in difficult times. “Once again, thank you hwa. I wish I can return your favor.”

He smiled, tucked your loose hair behind your ears. “You don’t need too.” But then he paused for a second like there’s something clicking on his mind.

“Well actually, I’ll ask about that one day. So,” he touched your chin, “be prepared for that.”

You chuckled before slap his hand playfully, “Sure, I’ll get ready from now on.”

Both of you spent the rest of weeks together before he left. Starting from the graduation day, then talking about this and that in his room all night, and hanging out at the usual favorite places just like today. He really enjoyed your accompany, the way you dressed prettily, walking at the downtown side by side and seeing you smile at him sweetly. He’s struggling to keep the urge not to hold your empty hands that swing back and forth on your every steps. Hoping the time will pass slowly, so he won’t leave you too soon.

He decided to stop by the cafe, after spending a day looking for the things he needed with you. Sitting opposite each other at the same table, made him keep looking at your presence. He didn’t realize since when his feelings grew this big for you.

As soon as the order served, he noticed that you stirred the drink long enough, battling with your own self whether you should tell him about this matter or not.

He stopped your hand from doing it, “say, there’s something on your mind?”

His worried look breaking your defense, you took a deep breath before you tell him the truth. “I will get married”

If previously he wished for the time would pass slowly, but for now the time is completely stopped. Loud silence burst into his ear while his mind is going blank. “What?” Is the only word that left from his mouth.

“I eventually will get married, my parents told me to.” You clarified.

Right it’s always her parents, are they finally going crazy or something? She’s still young and what the fuck she’d accepted their ridiculous request gladly. He kept all of his thought, afraid of hurting you even more if he said it out loud. He clicked his tongue trying to suppress his anger. “Then, what was your exact motivation to agree with them just like that?”

“So I can get out of my house.” You took a quick glance at him, “and maybe I’ll love him as the time goes by.”

His eyes pierced through into yours that remaining unfazed. “Okay then good for you.” he’s leaning to the chair as if nothing happen, after he catch your slightly disappointment look towards his remark. He thought, there’s no point to carry on the conversation if it was your own will too.

Both of you were silent like there’s no suitable words needed to say. On the other hand, Seonghwa is still contemplating, blaming himself why he only could repair the damage but unable prevent it to happen. He’s totally mad, to the point taking his shopping bags roughly in one swoop.

“Let’s wrap it out for today, I’m tired.”

⁠✧

On the day of his departure, you thought he’ll give you a warm hug or few words as farewell. Unfortunately, what you’ve imagined never happen. He only gave you a faint smile while sitting in his car, before rolled up the door glass and drove away. It was the beginning that you feel he’s distancing himself from you.

He still responded your texts in the first months, but over the time the intensity slowly decreased. Once he replied to your text no sooner than two weeks, only contained with a short reasoning, “sorry, been busy.” It must be rough in the first year of the college, so you tried to understand.

Until you send him one about your wedding day, telling him the place and the date of events. And a month passed, there’s no single replied come from him. Your anxiety skyrocketed in a week before the wedding day, you kept checking your phone waiting for his answer. To the point you’re hating yourself that you still need him just to calm yourself down. You felt empty, all the feelings of relieved thinking that you’ll be free just disappeared. It's enough, you definitely didn’t want this.

Few hours before the wedding started, you’ve done wearing your dress and make up. There’s no time left, you grabbed the necessary things as much as you can, then immediately stormed out of your house after you told your family that you need some time alone in your room.

You keep walking aimlessly with no thoughts, ignoring people gaze to the runaway bride. Didn’t even know how far you’ve gone and just realize the rain is pouring hard ever since. Your feet ache, blistered by the heels, you can’t drag yourself anymore due to how heavy your dress soaked in the rain.

You sat down on the side of road, the tears blending in with every raindrops fall onto you. What have I done? What if I rejected them since the beginning? And most importantly, What if I patiently wait for Seonghwa a little bit longer? The thoughts of losing him feared you the most. The pain is not only on the back of your feet, but now it’s spreading into your heart. It feels suffocated that you love him truly.

A pair of black leather shoes stopped in front of you, suddenly you didn't feel the rain hitting your body. You looked up and found Seonghwa holding an umbrella. His suit is drenched despite being under it. You proceed to stand on your feet, “You here.. you finally here.” The overwhelmed feeling is breaking you down, throwing out your weak fist on top of his chest, for several times. “Where have you been Hwa.. I need you, I- can’t do this”

He didn’t budge at all still covering you from the rain. Letting you to vent out all of your burden. He brought the palm of his hands towards your cheek, caressing it gently before pulled you into the kiss. He missed you so bad, until you could feel his warm tears rolling down touched your skin. He pulled out from the kiss, pressing his forehead to yours.

His reddening eyes staring deep down into your own, he sighed before closing his eyes. “First, I’m such a coward. I can’t stand you with someone else. I’m so sorry for acting so childish.” He letting out the same frustrations as you feel. Then he open his eyes, continuing his words, “I’ve always love you, from the beginning till now”

Putting your hands to the back of his neck, you pulled him closer, returning the kiss. Pouring out all of your feelings into it, hoping he’ll catch that you feel the same. I do, I love you too Park Seonghwa.

⁠✧

Warm. That’s what you feel right now. He’s behind you, wiped your back with lukewarm water after peeled off your soaked dress. Placing kisses on the side of your neck, down to your shoulder. While his another hand teasing your clit. You can’t keep your legs still due to tingling sensation on your core, splashing the water all over the floor.

It’s more than half an hour he continued to tease you in the bathtub, causing you to reach the orgasm over and over. You hold his hand, hoping he’ll stop. But it only made him flicked his fingers even faster. “Hwa.. enough..” You’ve said this for who knows how many times it is.

Pressing his lips to your ears, he letting out his honey voice softly, “Hm.. not yet.” He tugged your earlobe between his teeth, before pushing his fingers deeper into you. You gasped as it spread open your inside, then it curled up hitting your spot. Your body shaking violently, gripping on the side of the tub as you riding down the orgasm.

“You’re so beautiful, you know that?” He showers you compliments every time you came undone, while kissing the back of your neck.

He decided to carry you into his arms, then lay you down on the bed slowly, starting to kiss your forehead, down to your eyes, then to your pretty lips gently as if it’s too fragile. His hand roaming around to tease your nipple by pinching it a little.

Then he’s going down, holding your thigh open while his tongue busy exploring your slicked fold. Licking it up and down, devouring the spilled juice. He looked up, eyes fixed to your face, anticipating for every expression you made. He’ll suck hard on your clit, only to make you moaning his name in pleasure.

After being satisfied with it, he sit on his knee right under you. Stroking his hard member for few times till throwing his head back as he drowning in sensation. Your inside is twitching, looking at the way his cock throbbing hard between his fingers plus those scrumptious jaw of his.

Your fingertips brushed to his knee, begging for his attention. “Seonghwa..” He turned back to you, giving you a mischievous look “Hmm?”

“Please..” Squirming your legs, you trying to scoot over him desperately. Only wanting his tip slightly to touch your swollen cunt.

He moved back a little, “Say it clearly, I don’t get what you really want.”

“I want your dick inside of me, please.”

He immediately put it into you. Bringing his hand to intertwined with yours as soon as he saw you flinched cause of the first thrust. After you feel comfortable enough, he started moving his hips in steady pace.

He kept the eye contact while pressing the forehead against each other, occasionally planting soft kisses all over your face. You could feel he’s pulsing inside of you, gradually thrusting his hard member even faster. The feelings become unbearable, as he pushed your lower stomach with one hand while the other one gripping onto your waist to keep it stay still.

You moan out incoherent mess, reaching for your own climax. Can’t control your shuddering body as you feel his hot seeds filled you up, shooting all his load inside. He’s grinding for a few times, before pulled it out, causing his cum leaked, dripping down from your pussy. He scoop it out with his index finger then pushing it back in. “Would be a shame if it’s going wasted, right?” Throwing out rhetorical question, while bringing his finger towards your mouth to let you know how he taste like.

Now you snuggle up with him, placing your head on his chest. You can feel his heart beating rapidly, makes you think it’s your own. His fingers played with your hair, caressing it or twirling it around delicately. The two of you, spending the time together in this warm hotel room while the rainstorm outside never stopped. Suddenly his voice breaking the silence, “So, I want you to return my favor.”

You looked up to him, “Tell me how?”

He swept your hair to the side then placing a kiss on top of your head. “Will you spend the rest of your life with me?”

Your tears fall in instant, still can’t believe the feelings are mutual. You know he always there, he always save you, and you always love him from the deepest of your heart. You nodded,

“Yes, I will.”

[gretavanlace]

Sugar II (part 8)

Jake Kizska x reader

18+ only! Minors do not interact!

Warnings: adult content, language, brief illusions to sex, angst, jealousy, etc.

Only two chapters to go and an epilogue, everyone. I’m so grateful that you have taken this little journey with me. Thank you so much for all your kind words, support, and care. You’re all so wonderful ❤️

“Oh my god, Jake,” your eyes are darting around the room like a mouse with a rabid alley cat slinking, famished and cruel, into its path.

Your unease trumps his delighted gloating instantly, “What do you want me to do, sugar? Tell me and I’ll do it.”

When you steal a glance at the window, longing to climb out and disappear, he hops on the train of your thought process right away, “You want me to duck out?”

You know Jake through and through, and staring into his eyes as your heart drums paranoid vibrations into your rib cage, you’re stunned to watch him offer to give up this chance to square off with whom he has come to see as his most bitter rival. That he would do that for you? That all you would have to do is ask and he would crawl out and wander off into the golden afternoon sunshine like an afterthought…

You really do own his whole heart, you realize at the most inopportune of moments. Your grip on his soul is just as tight as his fingers have always clawed down inside yours…fierce and beautiful in their unrelenting grip.

But haven’t you always known? Hasn’t it always been written across his skin? Etched in his gaze? Sculpted into the bow of his lips when he whispers your name? Evident in his touch?

“No,” you shake your head, willing the mess inside of it to go away, rejecting the thought of him leaving. You want him near, you need him near. To let him go right now, even for a second, seems an agonizing punishment that you cannot bear to suffer. No matter the consequences.

“Stay. But please…” you rush over to him, helping him to his feet while stealing glances at the doorway, “Please just behave and follow my lead, okay? Please?”

”Normally, I like it when you use your manners,” he sighs, smoothing out his clothes, as well as a lock of your hair that has fluttered out of place, “But that’s too many pleases and you look petrified. Why?” His voice is suddenly intense yet careful, as is his grip on your arm, “Does he hurt you?”

They idea is entirely laughable, but there’s no time for that, so you brush him off with a swipe of your hand and a flippant, “Don’t be stupid, Jake.”

Without allowing yourself to think it through, you begin ushering him down the hall towards the front room, but what will you find there? Doom or salvation?

How will these pieces fall together? Something solid and heavy in your heart tells you Jake will do as you have asked and play nice, but another facet buried even deeper inside is rocked with anxiety and screaming that it’s only wishful thinking to believe such a fairytale.

”Hey hon,” jovially rings out as he steps in through the garage, “I saw your car! We’re both home early? Looks like the universe knew how much I missed you!”

Jake turns to catch your eye as you shove him along, but you refuse to meet his gaze. You're unsure of what you’ll find there and this isn’t the time for uncertainties.

Would you find sadness threatening to roll hot tears down his cheeks? Anger threatening to boil over in his fiery chocolate irises? Accusation and resentment for what you’re about to subject him to?

Oh god, you can’t do this! Suddenly, and absurdly, you wish you could fade into the gentle, lush, green paint that you had once rolled upon the hallway walls, paying meticulous attention to detail. Build this home, had been the plan…bury him away under paint and sanded cabinets. Art perched on the walls and throw pillows piled on the bed.

You’d love to disappear and leave them perplexed and confused, wondering what became of you. To vanish into nothing like a dust mote blown away upon the lightest, softest breeze.

You’re a coward.

While your thoughts are busy with that, Jake’s are grappling with each other. Tangled up and struggling. He’d very much like to stomp into the front room and shut this man up. With his booming voice calling out how much he’s missed you like he has some claim over you. Like you’re his. Like he doesn’t understand that you could never really be anyone’s because you’re much too good for this whole goddamn world. That you’re precious, like the rarest of stones and anyone who is lucky enough to hold you in their palm should fall on their knees in thanks.

He sounds so fucking common. Does he think you’re common as well? Jake can’t stomach the thought.

So, yes, he’d like to stroll into the room, casual as you please, and announce that he is taking you away from this ridiculous illusion where you play house and pretend to be satisfied. He longs to tell him how he’s made love to you, how he’s fucked you. How you’ve begged for him and swore no one could ever be him. Jake wants to tell him that the ring he put on your finger has been in his mouth, that he spat it out and you didn’t even care. That you hardly even noticed. Jake would almost kill to watch Mr. Wonderful’s face crumple in defeat and loss…

But he loves you far too much, and to say all those things would hurt you, too.

Scar your heart he will not.

He’s shrugging off his suit blazer when you both appear. It’s a mundane action, one that repeats itself nearly every evening, but you stand still and shellshocked, unable to jolt yourself into some semblance of normalcy until Jake subtly nudges you with a ginger elbow.

“Hi,” you begin, a touch too loudly, “Yeah, you’re early! I actually didn’t end up going to work today. Old friend in town. We went to the movies. And then we came here. He wanted to see the house. I…I told him about it. I was just giving him the tour.”

You sound robotic and ridiculous, but he doesn’t appear to notice. Rather, he looks delighted when his eyes land on Jake and recognition settles in.

”Ah, I know you!” He laughs, marching forward with an outstretched hand. “The almost brother in law. Good to finally meet you.”

His grasp on Jake’s hand is strong and sure as he pumps it up and down. The genuine gladness in his gesture makes you want to tear your own hair out in penance.

Or is it the ‘almost brother in law’ moniker that has made you nauseous?

Yes, that’s what you boiled Jacob down to. You had held nothing back about your relationship with Josh…but Jake? You just couldn’t. To speak of him, to share him that way…it had seemed incomprehensible. And how could you ever put it into words, anyway? How could anyone ever understand what he was to you? What he is to you? No, it had seemed best to keep him locked away, silent and safe in your memories. Tucked away in your heart. The boy in the bubble.

Jake’s face is unreadable as he sizes up this opponent before him. This rival who has just unknowingly stepped into the ring. This blissfully unaware adversary. He is a doe who has wandered idly into the path of a dangerously ravenous mountain lion, and he doesn’t even know it. Ignorance really does seem like bliss in this moment, and you long for it.

“Yes, the almost brother in law,” his tone is slightly clipped, but no one, aside from you - and perhaps his brothers - would ever notice. “That’s me. And you are?”

Here we go. He’s going to love this.

They drop hands and a friendly clap lands on Jake’s shoulder. “I’m Jake, too. What are the odds?”

A sharp, satisfied laugh bursts out of Jake, head tipped back, adam’s apple bobbing gleefully, and you long to tell the smug bastard to just shut the hell up, but it’s over quickly enough.

”Yes,” he sighs, with a shake of his head that ends in his eyes blazing holes into your soul, “What are the odds?”

”’Course this one over here calls me by my middle name, James. Says it fits me. No one else does, though, so choice is yours. Man, it’s so great to finally meet you.” He’s prattling on now, never having met a stranger, “You know we’ve got all your work over there in the case. You’re a hell of a guitar player. I tried to learn in high school, mostly to impress girls…never could get it. Anyway…”

Jake is eyeing him like he doesn’t know what to make of this man standing there, cordial and warm, tossing out compliments and bids for conversation.

His eyes are traveling over this unfamiliar being, now so tangible and real, who has had his hands all over you. Who has had his mouth pressed to your precious body, who has whispered against your skin, who has made love to you in the still of the night, and held you, and rested beside you, breathing in tandem. Who has gotten down on one knee and asked you to be his wife.

And you said yes...you said yes.

He wants to hurt him. Both physically and emotionally. He wants to level him. To crush him into nothing. And though this Jake, James, or whatever his name is, isn’t to blame, he wants it all the same. He wishes he could lure him into his palm like a revolting insect and squeeze until he was no more than something vile to be wiped away with a Kleenex.

Instead, he tilts his head in the direction of the vinyls and shrugs off the accolades, “Fuckin’ Zeppelin cover band.”

James laughs uproariously and gestures into the room welcomingly, “Why are we all standing around like this? Have a seat…please. Make yourself at home. Can I get you something to drink? Water? A beer? Whiskey? I know it’s early, but special occasions call for special circumstances, I always say.”

Eyes on you, he shrugs out a response that would be lost on anybody but you, “I’ll have what you’re having.”

Once you’re alone for a moment, he shakes his head with a gorgeous, if not self-satisfied, smirk sparking to life upon his face. “His name is Jake? Oh, sugar…” he’s laughing softly now, and sinking down into the cushions of the couch, “creature of habit, aren’t you, pretty girl?”

”Shut up!” You hiss, eyes flickering towards the kitchen doorway, “Coincidence. That’s all. Don’t be so fucking full of yourself. Now, please just be nice.”

He quiets down, drawing the back of his forefinger beneath his eye dramatically as if he has laughed himself to tears, “I’m being very nice and you know it. Don’t push it.”

You sit, as far away from him as the couch will allow, but instantly he’s leaned in close. “What do you think he would do if I got down on my knees right here and buried my face in that gorgeous little cunt of yours? Showed him how it’s really done.”

”Jacob!” You barely make a sound as you admonish him with a clipped shove to settle him.

He slinks back into his seat with another laughing shake of his head, “This is perfect.”

”I hate you.” You lie.

”Sure you do, sugar,” he winks, crossing his legs to get comfy, “Sure you do. Almost brother in law, huh? Is that what I’ve been reduced to?”

He’s still chuckling quietly to himself while a strange mix of panic and tears begins to churn around inside of you like a slow moving summer storm. He’s gearing up, you can feel it, and the thought of it all is too much, your metaphorical knees are beginning to shake. This could end so, so badly.

“Later, Jake…” you’re beseeching without shame, pleading with your watery gaze. “We’ll talk about it later. Please just stop.”

His palm cradles your cheek so softly you wonder if anyone has ever touched someone as gently as he touches you, “Settle down, baby. I won’t make trouble for you.”

How laughable that he can’t seem to recognize that you’ve brought this trouble on all by yourself. No help needed.

He has moved to create a respectable distance between the two of you by the time James is sweeping back into the room bearing a tray flush with drinks and snacks.

”Here, sweetie,” he drops a kiss upon the top of your head, presenting a glass. “Made you a mimosa…I know you like to keep it light through the week.”

You somehow manage a thank you and sip at the sweet, bubbly mix, praying it calms your frayed nerves.

”For us,” he extends the tray and you watch as Jake plucks a low ball glass from it, “bourbon. Unless you’d rather browse the bar. Plenty to choose from.”

”Bourbon is fantastic,” Jake nips at his glass. “Thank you.”

There is a palpable disdain hovering around Jake like a murky aura, but there is heartbreak there too. Aching and black. Heavy and weighing down the light that normally follows him around like a strange shadow…and you’d give anything to take it away.

For just a breath, you intend to do just that. To rise to your feet and stomp all over James’ open, trusting heart. To tell him the truth. To tell him you’re leaving. You nearly take Jake by the hand and drag him towards the door and leave everything else behind without explanation…simply to end his suffering.

Your lips nearly part to say the words when you’re cut off.

“Oh. I almost forgot,” James leans forward in his chair and grabs for your hand, absently running his thumb against your own, “Erin called. She said you guys had a great time the other day, said you’d planned something for this weekend? Wedding planning?”

Erin. His sister. You’ve grown close but it wouldn’t hurt to leave her behind. It wouldn’t even sting…not for Jake.

You squeeze his hand with a tiny smile and fight rolling nausea at the mere mention of the wedding in Jake’s presence. From the corner of your eye, you watch him tense, but he recovers quickly and drains his glass to the dredges in one pull.

”Well,” suddenly, he’s on his feet. “I’ve taken enough of your time today. It was good to see you.” His eyes are unreadable and shift quickly away from your own. “James, good to meet you and thank you for the hospitality.”

”Don’t run off on my account,” James is on his feet now as well, “We’d love to have you stay for dinner. I make a mean chicken Kiev, and…”

”No,” Jake interrupts, gaze jumping towards the door as if he can’t get away fast enough. “I’ve got a flight to catch in just a few hours, need to head back…you know how it goes.”

He sounds ineloquent and so unlike himself… and you can feel it - his heartbreak - in your bones as though you’ve crawled inside his body and curled up beside it like a clinging lover.

“Jake,” you can’t seem to move from your seat, your body uncooperative and rebellious, “Your car is still at the theater, let me drive you…”

”Drive me?” He is staring at you, white hot and desperate…the mask is finally slipping. He has played pretend all he can for the day. “And then what?”

”And then…” again, you are a coward. A fucking coward. “I don’t know. What do you mean, and then?”

The room is silent for a beat - with words unspoken crashing into the space between yourself and Jake, and James struggling to understand this strange exchange.

With the slightest nod of his head, Jacob silently encourages you. Urges you. Come with me, sugar…it seems to say, come home.

But still you sit, frozen and paralyzed. A horrified doe staring down the hunter’s muzzle.

Another nod, clipped and more obvious this time, responds to your inaction. “I’ll walk. Again, thank you for having me.”

The door closes behind him in a blink, and he is gone. For a moment, you wonder if you’ve imagined him completely…

Looking down at your shaking hands in your lap, you realize you never even made it to your feet. You sat, unmoving, and watched him go.

~

Hours later, you’re standing outside an unfamiliar door, anxiously clutching at the straps of the bag tossed over your shoulder.

And when that unfamiliar door swings open, your heart unclenches, for there he stands. Showered, smelling of soap and warmth, hair curled into dampened, loose ringlets, beat to hell jeans riding low on his hips.

“Well, look what the cat dragged in,” he smirks, leaning against the doorframe. “If it isn’t Mrs. Wonderful…”

“Hi,” it comes out meek and small, but flush full of the comfort that is being near him.

”How’d you find me?” His arms cross loosely, with a faded smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

”Were you hiding?” Why hasn’t he turned to lead you in?

”From you, pretty girl?” He scoffs as if the very idea is preposterous. “Never.”

Yet, on he stands as though barring your entrance…as though he intends to send you on your way any moment.

”I called Josh,” you offer, wringing at your bag’s handles idly, simply for something to do with your hands. “He told me where you were staying.” Your gaze skitters over the house. “It’s nice. Cozy.”

He nods, “Airbnb. You mentioned something about us always being in hotels, before. I thought, if there was a chance I’d be hosting you, you might like something a little more…domestic. Though, I see now that you have plenty of that going for you already, right? Domesticity?”

“Do I deserve that?”

His shoulders hunch inwardly slightly, he knows you’re right, and he knows he’s being a bit of an asshole as well. “No, I suppose you don’t.”

”Are you going to invite me in? I feel a little stupid standing out here.” Vulnerability seems of such insignificance when it is Jacob in question. He knows your bare soul so well anyway.

Still, he allows you to dangle on his string, twisting languidly in the soft, evening breeze. “Why’d you call Josh to find me? Why not just call me? Missing my better half now that you’ve had a bit of fun with me?”

Now there’s a slight irritation traipsing along your nerves, and damned if you’re going to mask it. “Alright, either let me in or tell me to go to hell. I’m not going to beg for your good graces.”

”Are you coming in to stay? Or are you here to say goodbye? Because my heart has had enough for one day.”

”Oh, fuck off, Jacob.” You huff, pushing past him into the house. You slump your bag off your shoulder and onto the floor and then turn on him. “Sorry to have interrupted your pity party, but what did you think was going to happen today? Did you think it was going to be spectacular and wonderful to walk around in the life that I live with someone else? You practically fucked me in the bedroom I share with him. You lit up like a goddamn Christmas tree when you realized he was home. You wanted this, and you know what I think your problem is? I think you liked him.”

”Fuck you!” He slams the door closed and looks you over like you’ve lost your mind entirely. “You think I liked him? I couldn’t give a fuck less about him. He made my skin crawl. Do you know what it was like for me to watch him touch you? The way he looked at you…”

He falls silent and suddenly refuses to meet your eyes, and your heart breaks right alongside his.

Tentatively, you reach out and rest your palm against his cheek, “The way he looked at me doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter. It never really has.”

His hand floats up to meet yours, “He looked at you with so much love. Like he would give you the entire world. It made me feel not good enough. It made me feel like I should leave and let it be. Like I was wrong for showing up and rattling your whole life around.”

You’re backing him up against the door now, his gorgeous, stricken face held fast in your sure and gentle hands. “Not good enough? You? Oh, Jakey…” you pet at his face worshipfully, “We have a garden, remember? And you help me harvest, and I know you feed me those tiny tomatoes I like. You know? The little yellow ones? And they’re all gone before we even get inside.”

He’s nodding along as you pepper kisses upon his cheeks and forehead.

“And we have a porch swing, and a piano, and beautiful babies, and a cat…and you sing to us, and love us hard every single minute of every single day. And you make us so, so happy. And I wake up every morning with a smile on my face because I packed this stupid bag,” your foot darts out and kicks it, “and shoved my way inside when you refused to invite me in.”

”Don't say things you don’t mean, sugar…” his hands are in your hair now, guiding your mouth to his own so that he can lick inside it. He needs to taste you - needs to feel the silken velvet of your tongue, “I can’t take it, baby.”

You’re breathing each other's breath, lips like feathers dancing together soft and sweet, holding on to one another as if you might both just vanish into nothing in an instant, “I mean it, Jake…” you promise, “I mean it. You are everything,”

You can almost hear the pounding of his heart as the heat of his need begins to radiate and warm you, “Because I can’t stand the thought of leaving, of thinking you’ll follow, only for you to change your mind. It would kill me, sugar. So, please don’t say these things to me if you—“

You silence him with a deep, feverish kiss and then break away, forehead to forehead, “I’m not following later. I’m coming with you. This is where I am now…with you.”

Tears well in his eyes and spill over, hot and saline, as you lick and kiss them away. “I love you, pretty girl…” it chokes out of him, rasping as he swallows thickly, “I love you so fucking much. I’ve imagined this moment in so many different ways, but it was never as perfect as this. Tell me you know how much I love you.”

”I know, and I—“ it is he who interrupts with a desperate kiss this time.

And you know that later he will ask, and when he asks you will tell him what was said back at that house that broke his heart in two - how you ended things with the one who really never mattered at all…

…but for now all that matters is the taste of him on your lips. His air-drying hair looped through your searching fingers. Your hearts and lungs syncing, with his tears like brackish diamonds in your stomach because you have finally swallowed his sorrow and unburdened him from it.

He seems lighter in your arms already…closer now to the sun than he had ever been to the moon before.

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