#wild hazing rituals

[compacflt]

Speaking of book recommendations, I just finished reading "Annapolis Autumn: Life, Death, And Literature At The U.S. Naval Academy" by Bruce E. Fleming (he was/is a teacher at the Acedemy) and I thought it was interesting. It gives a glimpse at some workings of the academy but also what is like to be a civilian in a military environment specially when one doesn't exactly drink from the same kool aid (hope that's how the expression works, I'm not American)

i will look into it!! But now i get nervous reading about the usna because i don’t wanna know how inaccurate my portrayal of it is. Lmfao. Posting for the rec

[s0dium]

𝐂𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐁𝐑𝐀𝐓𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐈𝐍

Haikyuu men x Reader

A/n: This is part of my Olympic event, please click on the for more! If you would like to suggest something for this event don't hesitate!

Synopsis: What do Haikyuu men do after the Olympics? Well, they do you

Warnings: Spanking, fingering, praise, groping, squirting

The camera zooms in on the bustling Olympic stadium in Paris, its energy palpable even through the television screen. The crowd's roaring cheers reverberate, celebrating the electrifying victory of the Japanese volleyball team. Among the sea of jubilant teammates, the camera focuses on one player, your boyfriend, glistening with sweat and wearing an infectious smile: fresh from clinching the gold medal.

As he steps away from the celebratory huddle, a reporter, microphone in hand, intercepts him. The reporter's voice is enthusiastic, mirroring the atmosphere, "So, what are your plans to celebrate the big win?"

He chuckles, wiping a bead of sweat from his brow, his grin widening, "Well, after drinks with the guys," he pauses, "I have a little post-game ritual."

Intrigued, the reporter leans in, the crowd's cheers serving as a dramatic backdrop, "Oh yeah? What's that?"

He winks at the camera, "Secret."

Yes a secret it was, one that only you and him knew. One that started off with you being bent over his knee with his fingers deep in your creamy cunt.

"Been thinking about this all day," he murmurs, right hand caressing the fat of your ass while his left curls and massages the sweet part of your gummy walls that makes your eyes roll back. At this point you have given up resisting, letting your body hang limp over his muscular thighs.

As his fingers probe and massage your gspot, the wet sounds of your arousal fill the room, an intoxicating symphony that drowns out all other thoughts. Each movement, each touch, creates a chorus of slick, rhythmic noises that seem to echo in your mind, pushing you further into a state of pure, unadulterated pleasure.

"So good," you whine and you don't know it but the tips of his ears go red from the sound of your voice. Your brain begins to haze, the world around you blurring until all that exists is the sensation of his ministrations. His touch is both fast and demanding, knowing exactly how to tease and please, drawing you closer to the edge. He reaches a spot inside you that you can only dream about reaching with your own fingers.

"I know baby, I know you feel good. Shit, i cant feel you squeezing my fingers." he groans at the feeling of your cunt convulsing around his digits. He is already two fingers deep in you but at this point he's thinking about stretching you further and slipping in a third. So he does. Using your dripping arousal as lubricant he slips in a third finger making your thighs tremble from the sudden intrusion. The stretch is delicious, who knew a volleyball player's hands had other uses besides volleyball?

"I won for you princess, the whole time i was playing I was thinking about you."

You can feel your pussy tighten and convulse at his words, the clicking sound of your arousal a testament to your connection, your mutual need.

Time loses all meaning as you surrender to the overwhelming sensations. His fingers, his praises, every part of him is dedicated to driving you wild, and you find yourself unable to hold back the moans that escape your lips. The noises you make together are primal, raw, and they pull you deeper into the abyss of pleasure.

"M'feel weird," You choke. Your breath comes in short, sharp gasps as the sensations become almost overwhelming. You feel something press down on your core like there is a pressure building inside you, a sweet, urgent tension that demands release.

"Shhh its ok, let it go baby." He coos and before you can respond he delivers a sharp smack to your ass. "make a mess on my hands, come on~"

The pleasure is so intense, so all-consuming, that it creates an almost paradoxical sensation. The euphoria is so great it feels as though you might lose control, as if you need to pee. It's a raw, primal feeling that heightens the urgency and the pleasure, pushing you further toward the edge.

You squeeze your eyes shut, your senses overwhelmed by the sheer intensity. Your mind races, caught between the need to let go and the fear of losing control. Then, it hits you. with a curl of his fingers against your wall, you surrender to it, letting the sensation wash over you.

Your are too lost in the ecstasy to realize that you are squirting all over his hand. It's like an explosion, your body trembling, your mind going blank, consumed entirely by the pleasure he has given you.

"Just like that, let it go y/n let it go." His hands rubs circles on your ass as your body shakes and trembles from your orgasm.

"So perfect so perfect, the best prize I swear."

HINATA, KUROO, BOKUTO, OIKAWA, TSUKISHIMA, Kenma, Ushijima, IWAZUMI, AKASHI, ATSUMU

[revelisms]

It was never the performance itself that drew him in.

He'd aways been more moth than songbird; a winged thing that gravitated to light and life, to the beauty of souls reaching across the realm to become one with Those below.

He was the first, though, and so had laid his precedents: a patchwork legacy few could ignore;

That there is always a sleeve of myrrh hidden between the sticks of sandalwood and frankincense; the ashen coolness of cigarette smoke in their storerooms.

That there is greenery in the chapel windows and fresh-cut gardenias in the welcome hall, and songs of Olde sung lower than they were written, because the depth of such resonance was one he preferred.

That his brothers (the second, the third) and half-brother (the fourth) stand in off-kiltered lines, often, as though waiting for the loping strides of his pointed boots and velvet-crested shoulders.

That their congregation's siblings know his family's appointed title of Nonna more than the origin of his own name.

That Papa Emeritus the Second shuffled strangely when taking the pulpit, as though trying to fit into a misfitten pair of clothes—uncomfortable, now, after so many years spent in his brother's shadow.

That Papa Emeritus the Third often nosed into his office with coffee in hand, or chocolate-kissed biscotti, or tears hidden behind a painted smirk.

That Papa Emeritus the Fourth spoke of him kindly—of all of them kindly—no matter how they may have treated him, how they may have scorned him, their worldly forms now memorialized in stone.

Primo, in his living days, hadn't cared to worry over it.

He'd stepped down from a lifetime of rituals and tours with a joint behind his ear and a plait weaved through his silvered hair, his gnarled hands fitted with rings fit for a goddess—and he'd smiled, wry and wrinkled, lashlines creasing at the corners.

"You don't have to call me that, you know," he'd chided, when siblings bumbled over the formalities of Monsignor and Your Esteemed Grace and all else the Church had pompously chosen to title him with.

"You know what the little ones called me, mh?" he'd whisper on, winking a moon-white eye. "Rude shits. Peh! They could make the dictionary blush, my dear." And he'd lean closer, shoulder-to-shoulder, his words rumbled and silken. "Don't you worry about those other things. Just call me what you want, heh?"

So they did.

He treasured the ones who spoke his language of flowers; saw similar beauties in leaf-green eyes and petal-pink cheeks, in hair lovely as daffodils and soft as roses.

His brothers never shared the same admiration. But, then again—they did, in their own ways.

Secondo, in his nostalgia for the scent of gardenias.

Terzo, in his scuffed-heeled silence in a greenhouse sunlit but empty.

Copia, in the jewels sewn through his silks and the velvet gleaning off his suits.

Maybe from below, Primo had always kept his eye on them, with his laughter that hissed like snakes. Maybe it's where he'd always been meant to be: one again with the Aether below. A living giant, blossomed and brilliant and beautiful.

"He, eh...would have liked this, right?" Copia mumbles, wrist-deep in fresh soil, planting bulbs of bluebells in the cloister flowerbeds.

The question is meant for Sister Aris, kneeled and smiling beside him.

But in the corner of his eye, he sees a haze of shadow—a whisper of nothingness. The Bridge beyond, that he has always seen since his oath-taking; has always been.

It feels like Terzo, at first. Eyes piercing, and brow pinched, a stiffness in lips unpainted.

A soul that felt wild to him.

Wild, harsh, endless, like a cliffside gale swept over one's body. A viper-tongued beast with a fox's grin, and cleverness to match.

But the feeling warms, gradually. Not sunset-pink, the taste of incense—but violet, indigo, earthen.

A touch of soundless heels on damp earth.

"You don't have to ask, little one," Primo's voice utters over him, gentle as a prayer. And he smiles, like he'd always done. Wry, and wrinkled, and wondrous. "Of course I do." His bony hand, even if only in spirit, settles a cool touch on his shoulder. "Of course I do."

But that hand isn't there, not really. He knows it.

Just a moth-winged thing gravitated to the light.

What they all had always been.

Secondo, the pyre. Terzo, the star. Copia, the unearthed glow of Hell itself.

And Primo—

Primo had been the moonlight shining down on them. A guiding path through the night.

The hand on his shoulder pats him, softly, before it slides away.

"He would have," Sister Aris answers him.

Copia swallows, blinks, twitches a smile.

"I know," he whispers. Before him, bluebells gleam. "I know."

primo / on legacies

[hrizantemy]

SOMEWHERE ONLY WE KNOW

Nesta lay in bed, her body feeling heavier than ever, as though the weight of the world had pressed her into the mattress. Days had passed, blending together in a haze of muffled sounds and dim light filtering through the drawn curtains. The silence was her only companion, punctuated occasionally by the faint echoes of life happening beyond her door.

She turned her head slowly to the side, her eyes landing on the figure beside her. The girl, who had kept her company through these endless days, was tangled in the sheets, her body a mess of graceful disarray. Her wild hair fanned out across the pillow, an auburn halo that framed her sleeping face. There was a serene innocence to her features, softened by the gentle rise and fall of her breath. Half of the blanket had slipped to the floor, leaving her exposed to the cool air, yet she remained blissfully undisturbed.

Nesta’s gaze lingered on her for a moment, taking in the contrast between her own turmoil and the girl’s peaceful slumber. She marveled at how someone could sleep so soundly, so untroubled, when the world outside felt so relentlessly unforgiving. The girl had stayed with her, never once complaining, through every bleak hour and dark thought that threatened to consume Nesta entirely.

A sense of gratitude, rare and fleeting, flickered within Nesta. This girl, with her messy hair and calm presence, was a lifeline in the storm that raged inside her. Nesta reached out, a tentative movement, and gently pulled the blanket back over the girl’s shoulders, tucking it around her with a care that surprised even herself. She sighed softly, her hand lingering for a moment on the warmth of the girl’s arm, before retreating back to her own space.

With a measured breath, Nesta began to ease herself out of bed, careful not to disturb the girl sleeping beside her. She moved slowly, her limbs stiff from the days spent in stillness. Her movements were deliberate, as if she were performing a ritual she had repeated countless times before. She had, in fact, done this so many times that she had memorized the positions of every creaky floorboard in the room.

As she shifted her weight to her feet, the bed barely stirred, the girl’s breathing continuing undisturbed. Nesta glanced down at the tangle of sheets, ensuring they were arranged in a way that wouldn’t rouse the girl. The moonlight filtering through the curtains cast a silver glow on the scene, adding to the hushed tranquility of the moment.

Her bare feet met the floor with practiced precision. She stepped lightly, each move calculated to avoid the well-known creaks and groans of the old wooden boards. One step, then another, she navigated the room with the skill of someone who had lived within these confines for a lifetime. Her eyes remained fixed on the path ahead, her mind tracing the map of safe spots she had etched into her memory.

Nesta paused near the door, casting one last look back at the girl. Her companion lay undisturbed, the blanket now snugly covering her, rising and falling with her steady breaths. There was something almost sacred about the peacefulness that surrounded her, a stark contrast to the turbulence Nesta felt inside.

She let out a slow, silent exhale and turned back to the door, her hand hovering over the handle. The metal felt cool against her fingertips as she turned it with care, pulling the door open just enough to slip through without making a sound. Once in the hallway, she closed it just as gently, sealing the quiet sanctuary of the room behind her.

It was early morning, though the sky remained a deep, velvety black, with only the faintest hint of dawn on the horizon. The house was shrouded in silence, the world outside still asleep. Nesta moved quietly through the dimly lit kitchen, the familiarity of her surroundings providing a small measure of comfort. This had become her ritual, a semblance of routine amidst the chaos that plagued her mind.

She set a kettle on the stove, the soft hiss of gas igniting beneath it breaking the silence. As she waited for the water to boil, Nesta gathered her tea leaves with methodical precision, each motion deliberate and careful. The ritual of making tea was grounding, a series of small, manageable tasks that brought her a brief respite from the constant turmoil within her.

The kettle whistled softly, and she poured the steaming water over the leaves, watching as the rich, amber liquid swirled and settled in the cup. She wrapped her hands around the warm ceramic, savoring the heat against her cold fingers. The steam rose, carrying with it the faint, soothing scent of the tea, and Nesta breathed it in deeply, hoping to calm the storm inside her.

She carried her cup to the small table by the window, settling into a chair that had become her sanctuary in these quiet, solitary hours. She never really slept anymore. Instead, she remained awake, her mind too restless for the comfort of dreams. Occasionally, she would lose herself in a book, finding temporary escape within its pages. More often, though, she simply sat, sipping her tea and letting the silence envelop her.

In her darker moments, she had turned to stronger substances, seeking oblivion in a bottle. But she had been trying to do less of that, less of a lot of things. It was a struggle, a constant battle against the urge to numb herself, to escape the weight of her thoughts. Tonight, though, she had managed to resist, choosing tea over spirits, and for that, she felt a small measure of pride.

Nesta supposed she should have been more concerned about the girl currently occupying her space, but her mind had been too clouded to care when it all began. She had met the girl at a tavern, one of the many dimly lit, smoky places she frequented when the nights grew too long and the silence too suffocating. The memory of their meeting was hazy at best—admittedly, she had been blacked out for most of it.

Imagine Nesta's surprise when she came to, not in the tavern or some unfamiliar bed, but hunched over her own toilet, retching with a ferocity that left her trembling. And there, holding back her hair with a gentle but firm hand, was the girl. Nesta had been too busy expelling the contents of her stomach to question it, the whole scene surreal in her muddled state. When she finally managed to lift her head, weak and disoriented, the girl had assured her that nothing had happened while she had been drunk.

At first, Nesta had taken those words at face value, too exhausted to probe deeper. But the girl had stayed, even after the sickness had passed and the daylight had broken. She had stayed, helping Nesta to bed, bringing her water, and simply sitting with her through the worst of it. It was a strange thing, to have someone care without expecting anything in return. Strange, but not unwelcome.

Over time, the girl’s presence became a fixture in Nesta's life, and the initial surprise gave way to a reluctant acceptance. Perhaps Nesta needed something—someone—to fill the void that alcohol no longer could. The girl obliged, not just with her company, but with a quiet understanding that spoke volumes in the spaces between words. There were nights when Nesta couldn’t bear to be alone, and the girl was there, a silent companion in the darkness.

It wasn’t long before Nesta realized that she wasn’t the only one seeking solace. The girl, too, seemed to be using Nesta, perhaps for the same reason. They were both lost, two broken souls clinging to each other in the hopes of finding some semblance of meaning. There were no promises, no expectations, just a mutual understanding that sometimes, the presence of another was enough to stave off the darkness.

Nesta didn’t deny that she and the girl had been physical with each other. In those dark, quiet moments when the night seemed to stretch on forever, they had found solace in each other’s arms. It had started almost accidentally, a desperate, shared need for warmth and connection that transcended words. Nesta had never thought much about what it meant, and she didn’t think the girl did either.

Their encounters were not marked by grand declarations or promises. There were no whispered confessions or plans for the future. Instead, they simply fell into a rhythm, a natural progression of their shared existence. In the evenings, they would sit together, sometimes in silence, sometimes talking about nothing of consequence. When the nights grew too cold or the loneliness too sharp, they would find comfort in the closeness of their bodies.

Nesta found that she didn’t need to analyze it, to label what they were or what they were doing. It was a rare thing for her, to let something be without dissecting it, without trying to control or define it. But with this girl, it felt natural. They continued like normal, their days marked by an unspoken understanding that extended beyond the physical. They both needed this, and that was enough.

The girl never pressed for more, never asked for anything Nesta wasn’t willing to give. In return, Nesta offered her what she could—companionship, a shared space, and those moments of physical intimacy that kept the encroaching emptiness at bay. They didn’t talk about what it meant because it didn’t need to be talked about. It simply was.

And so they continued, falling into an easy, unhurried routine. The girl would wake before Nesta, making tea or sometimes breakfast, and Nesta would find her in the kitchen, a silent, steadfast presence. They would spend the days as they always did, each finding small ways to fill the hours. When night fell, they returned to each other, drawn by a mutual understanding that neither could put into words.

The quiet creaking of floorboards, certainly not as discreet as her own careful steps, pulled Nesta out of her thoughts. She glanced up, just in time to see the door opening slowly, revealing the girl. The sheets hung haphazardly around her, barely covering her as she made her way to the kitchen. Nesta watched silently, her gaze following the girl’s every movement.

The girl went about making herself a cup of tea, the clinking of the kettle and the rustle of tea leaves the only sounds in the stillness. She moved with a sleepy grace, as if the weight of sleep still clung to her. Nesta said nothing, and the girl, too, remained silent. Their unspoken understanding filled the space between them.

The girl joined Nesta at the table, sitting across from her with her tea. She seemed engrossed in the simple act of drinking, her eyes occasionally drifting to the window. The world outside was still dark, with only the faintest promise of dawn on the horizon. Nesta, book in hand, resumed her reading, though her attention was divided.

The girl’s presence was a quiet comfort, a steadying force amidst the turmoil of Nesta’s thoughts. She sipped her tea slowly, her fingers curled around the warm cup, her eyes reflecting the dim light. The sheets had slipped further, but she made no move to adjust them, seemingly content in her casual disarray.

Nesta turned a page, the soft rustle blending with the girl's occasional sips. There was no need for words between them; their silence was filled with understanding. The girl looked out the window again, her expression contemplative, and Nesta wondered what thoughts occupied her mind. But for Nesta, this was enough. She continued to read, letting the rhythm of their shared silence settle over her like a comforting blanket.

[popjunkie42]

The Thief and the Rake: Chapter 7

Chapter Seven: The Darkest Little Paradise

Read on AO3

Summary: Feyre can't seem to shake the Viscount at a weekend excursion as she tries out her new plan of befriending the Marquis DesRosiers. But making friends with her employer's enemy has unintended consequences.

Thanks to @witch-and-her-witcher for the beta!

Very excited 👀for the next few chapters👀for no reason👀

I am encouraging you to go join listening stars' patreon as her art is fueling me right now!

Beginning of the chapter after the cut...

Though it was only April, spring had decided to tumble headlong into summer. In the city, humidity hung thick in the air and the heat lay trapped in stone and brick, radiating out to torture its citizens through the day.

The sisters were used to the escape of the forests and green fields and creeks bubbling around the cottage. In this oppressive heat of the city, they spent more time than they should drooping on couches in the northern sitting room, even Nesta’s proper posture eventually melting away.

Of course, there was always a line, between comfort and misery, that money and class took care of.

When the air grew too stuffy in the drawing room, that was the perfect time for a suitor to invite Elain (and, with a tight smile, her sisters of course) for ices and cream at the sweets shop, or a picnic in the small copses of Kensington Park. They could sit with parasols and be ferried about small ponds in grand parks and on private manor grounds. And the one time they visited the Grand Duke, he had a legion of servants with enormous fans, there only to serve at their feet as they took lemonade and sandwiches on the grassy lawn.

But unfortunately for all the ton, a ball was a ball. If there were to be crowds and dancing, there would be bodies and heat no matter how much gold one had to throw at servants and ice cream.

Something tense and wild hung heavy in the air. Something all the fans and cold lemonades couldn’t cut through. Sleepless nights spent tossing and turning in beds, whether they were on fine woven sheets or scratchy cotton. A communal wilting, haunted further by the pesky haze of sleeplessness. An undercurrent of restlessness pulsing beneath every social call. The kind of heat that drove cracks and splinters into all their hardened etiquette, that made Feyre want to strip bare and run into the dark forest, stepping into the first cold pond she could find under the moonlight.

Sweat dripped down Feyre’s brow, her chest, and the dip of her spine.

The heat woke something in her - not quite anger, but boiling under the surface nonetheless. It made Feyre feel like an animal, rattling in a cage, snarling and pacing between lethargy and restlessness. Like the tiger she had seen just days ago at the zoo, powerful, rolling muscle, its eyes half closed, only an annoyed flick of its tail to even acknowledge their presence.

What had happened, she wondered idly, to humankind, that they had arrived here: her in petticoats stuck in a room heavy with the sweat of hundreds, while they piled on wool and linen and powder and pretended they weren’t all dying to wallow in the mud.

Wading through the humid air, Feyre performed her normal ritual in these grand ballrooms filled with people. She walked the edge slowly, softly, averting her eyes from any greetings or attention. Watching, assessing. The doors in and out, the secret rooms and pathways the servants used, the growingly familiar faces she knew to either avoid or to court.

The upper crust of the ton had been invited to a weekend excursion by the palace to Hampton Courts. The luminous, massive manor was decked in golden-yellow brick and boasted enough bedrooms to host a small army of the wealthy aristocracy.

The Archeron’s invitation was entirely thanks to the Grand Duke and his smiling generosity, all directed at blushing Elain.

Feyre had wondered all week what it would be like, sharing a manor with dukes and barons and lords. Would there be secret trysts in the hallways, scandalous stories of women caught in nothing but long nightgowns and dressing robes, rakes climbing into windows?

She imagined Nesta would be barring the door shut with iron.

“Feyre, there you are! I’ve been wanting to introduce you to Miss Smith. She’s been dying to make your acquaintance.”

In the warmth of the ballroom, growing by the moment, Feyre groaned inwardly as she turned to Elain. Elain who could only be described as dewey, flush with a soft pink blush high on her cheeks, a gentle sheen of sweat on her skin that made her positively glow.

Catching her reflection in the ballroom mirrors earlier, Feyre knew she herself looked ragged and rough as she had many a time coming home from hunting - red as a ripe apple, her hair flat and frizzy, beads of sweat on her brow which she mopped off with a handkerchief.

Unaware of her thoughts, Elain smiled up at her with a familiar lady in tow, her golden-blond hair in perfect ringlets, her striking blue eyes bold against her deep aquamarine dress with layers of shimmering beads.

“Ms. Ianthe Smith, this is my youngest sister, Feyre Archeron.” Feyre smiled and did her best to curtsy. She had been practicing since the dinner.

Ms. Smith smiled beautifully down on Feyre, towering over her by a few inches, exuding a clever, regal air. Feyre recognized her as Elain’s companion at the bloodbath of a dinner. “I’ve been so curious about all the Archeron sisters. I just know we’re going to be great friends, Miss Feyre.” Elain beamed as Feyre blinked, grinding her jaw. She didn’t have time, if she was working, to entertain friends.

Elain was quickly distracted by the Duke coming to grab her for a dance, and Feyre found herself alone with her new acquaintance.

The lady smiled, all confidence, her eyes glimmering with hidden wit. She stepped closer, familiar, to take Feyre’s arm. “I must admit, as curious as I’ve been to meet the sister of my new friends, I’ve been curious about your own acquaintances as well.” Feyre was half paying attention, scanning the room for the Marquis.

“Oh?”

“The Viscount Sterling seems to have chosen you as a particular friend.”

Feyre’s lips downturned. “We are not friends.”

“If you say so.” Feyre turned to see the laugh crinkle Ianthe’s glimmering eyes. “You know he usually never comes to these things. And when he does, he’s rarely seen dancing with anyone besides the Grand Duchess or his cousin.”

“Ms. Smith, I can assure you, I hardly know the man. I doubt he could even pick me out of a crowd.”

“Miss Feyre.” A deep voice split the air like two boulders crashing.

The women whipped around, arm in arm, to see the Viscount, looming in black velvet that rippled against the low light, not a hair out of place or hint of sweat on his brow.

“Oh. Hello.” Feyre blushed and only remembered to curtsy when Ianthe dipped low. “My lord.”

Rhysand didn’t glance at her companion. Instead he extended a hand. “A waltz is next. You’ll do me the honor?”

It was hardly a question. Feyre gave Ianthe a tight smile before taking Rhysand's hand and letting him lead her to the dance floor.

“Could you at least try to be polite to me in front of others?” Feyre hissed when they were out of earshot. “I know it pains you, but you did say I have to make a good impression.”

“Why, and avoid that little angry flush you get on your cheeks when you’re vexed? I do enjoy it so. You must allow me my small joys while I suffer through this ball.”

“Small joys at my expense?” He raised a brow at her, as they found their space in between couples and faced one another. He loomed large even in the midst of the crowd. In this baking room he was as cool as a winter night. “And who are you today, my lord? Should I brace myself to be picked apart on the dance floor?”

The vision of him sitting at the right hand of the Grand Duchess, sneering and vicious, had not left her mind. She was glad her voice came out as strong as it did. If that was his true, terrible self, she would have to be even more guarded, even more on edge as she was held under his employ.

He didn’t answer, simply watching her, as couples lined up around them and the first strains of the violin began to play. Instead he noticed her gentle curtsy, the careful placement of her hands.

“Have you been practicing? Or shall I need to drag you along through this one as well?” He emphasized his words by digging his hand into the flesh of her hip, a small smile on his face.

Feyre squirmed out of his grasp. “Always lessons and scoldings with you - don’t people usually come to balls to have fun?”

His smile was fully feline. “And how would we have fun together, Feyre?”

A drop of her cautious nervousness melted at that, turning into a swoop of her stomach. Before she could think on it, a high note rang out, and the quartet burst into song, laughter and conversation bustling around them as the couples began to spin and twirl in each other’s arms. She tried not to think about the corded muscle of his arms under her fingers, his warm, broad hand firm on her back. Violet eyes twinkled as he watched her.

Feyre ignored the new blush on her cheeks, assigning it to the heat and the closeness of the bodies on the dance floor. They whirled around the room, the Viscount pulling her effortlessly across the marble. She told herself she was only dizzy from the spinning.

“I’m not sure I’d enjoy whatever you call fun.”

Rhysand’s answering smile was wide, a crinkling of his eyes. “How interminably incurious of you. But Feyre, I thought you were starting to enjoy my company. Weren’t you desperately scanning the crowd for me just now?”

“I wasn’t looking for you. I was looking for the Marquis.” His hand splayed on her back, fingers pressing against her skin.

“Didn’t we agree it was better if he didn’t know you?”

“We didn’t agree. You told me not to pursue him, and I have ignored you. Besides, he is the one who sought out the introduction. He’s even promised to protect me against your wicked influence.”

“Is that so?” The smile was gone.

“Yes, he was exceedingly kind and gallant. Such a refreshing change from the other members of the aristocracy I’ve had the fortune to associate with.”

It gave her a small thrill, knowing she had the small power to aggravate him as he did to her.

Her head spun at the dance, all dizziness and heat held against the Viscount’s body. He was different from how he was sitting next to the Grand Duchess. Still arrogant, still too clever for his own good, but somehow more teasing, more…open.

“If you’re looking for a giggling companion to agree with your every word, Ms. Smith was asking me about you just now.”

Rhysand frowned. “You and your sisters should be cautious around Ms. Smith.”

Feyre scoffed. “Is there no one present who isn’t part of your web of schemes and betrayals?”

Even if he was lighter here, more flirtatious and roguish, she still knew so little about him. She could not fully trust him, could not let down her guard.

“You know I seek only to educate you, out of a great generosity of spirit.”

Feyre scoffed and he feigned offense. “Then tell me: what are my lessons for tonight? Let’s make the plans. If you tell me up front your expectations I can at least know when I’m failing them spectacularly.”

“You haven’t failed me yet.”

Feyre blinked at his words, her heart beating wildly, as she watched an annoyingly smug look of fondness enter his eyes.

He smirked at her and continued. “Perhaps I’m just engaging in polite conversation. I’ve been curious lately: what exactly do you want, Miss Feyre? What do you need all these ill-gotten funds for?”

She frowned. “Asking questions wasn’t part of our arrangement.”

“What if I wanted to add it?”

“For an extra price?”

“Must everything be a contract between us? Can we not be comrades who share a simple trust in one another from our shared mutual goals?”

“You told me that we weren’t friends.”

His face darkened as she threw his words back at him, his eyes leaving hers and falling to her mouth.

“Fine. What about an exchange? A thought for a thought.”

A dangerous bargain, but tempting, to be able to get him to stop hedging and dancing around their conversation with real answers.

“What is your question?”

The smirks and mirth were gone from his face, replaced by what felt uncomfortably like concern. “Why take such a dangerous job? What do you need the money for?”

Feyre frowned. No one in London could ever know of how her father, a Lord, had to stoop to merchant’s work in their last days in the city, of his debts that she hoped were long forgotten. “There is nothing untoward. I simply want to make sure my sisters have a good season in London.” True enough words for him.

He regarded her in silence.

“Please respect me enough not to lie to me, Feyre. And I won’t insult you by reminding you how dangerous this all is. All for a ‘good season’?”

Her eyes wandered from his face, studying the silver embroidery on his lapel, staying silent.

“You do everything for them. You’re willing to sacrifice much for your sisters.” He said it quietly, closer to her face so she could hear over the din of the dance.

Feyre gave a small shrug in his arms. “We all have our part to play.”

“And your part is to put yourself in the way of the Bow Street Runners and the aristocracy?”

He wasn’t sneering or teasing. There was a hooded look to him, and he searched her face, violet eyes burning. She didn’t understand why it mattered to him.

“Are you starting to regret our arrangement?” she asked with a bite. “I can decide for myself what I am capable of.”

“I’m not. You’re not getting rid of me that easily. I’m just trying to make sure you have the commitment, the right motivation to see this through to the end.”

A million thoughts flitted through her head, none of them seeming quite right.

“They’re my family.”

A small frown tugging at his lips. “And what will you do, if Miss Elain finds her grand match?”

Blue sky and water blurring into one on the horizon. To finally dangle her bare feet in the Mediterranean. Spend long nights in a studio filled with the smell of paints, not a single responsibility on her shoulders. To take a deep breath and feel free for the first time in her entire life.

“Take up needlepoint, I suppose.”

He laughed, warm and rich. His fingers skimmed over her gloved hand and she remembered their first dance, the feeling of his skin on hers. “With these rough, calloused hands? I’ve seen dock workers better suited for such a delicate craft.”

“You needn’t make fun.”

He took her right hand in his and kissed the back, lips grazing velvet, and her cheeks burned. “I wasn’t.”

Couples burst into applause and bows as the song ended. Feyre extracted her hand from his and curtsied, making to go find her sisters again. But Rhysand was at her elbow, guiding her away.

“Perhaps I should keep you close tonight,” he said into her ear.

Feyre scoffed. “Absolutely not. How am I supposed to wheedle information with you breathing down my neck? The Marquis seems to dislike you as much as you dislike him.”

“Hardly. And you haven’t yet grasped a core tenant of the aristocratic male psyche: possession and public acts of gallantry.”

“You mean snarling possessiveness?”

He kissed her hand again. “When the possession is this lovely.”

She scoffed again. “You’re a shameless flirt.”

He beamed, taking her hand upon his arm. “And you are my little spy tonight.” His voice went low. “Perhaps we should meet in the library, later, for updates on your progress?”

Feyre rolled her eyes. “Wouldn’t the two of us meeting alone together be terribly improper?”

His smile was small and wicked. “Terribly.”

Read on AO3

Tag list: @that-little-red-head @damedechance @rosanna-writer @fantasticalnonsense18 @dreamlandreader @captain-of-the-gwynriel-ship @annaskareninas @foundress0fnothing @areyoudreaminof @cauldronblssd @starfall-spirit

[dystopicjumpsuit]

Double, Double Boil and Trouble - Part 4

A/N: This is part 4 my fic for the @rare-clone-fic-exchange, which I wrote for @goblininawig. The story takes place in a shared continuity with Stars Beyond Number, Martyrs and Kings, and “Do It Again,” but it stands alone and can be read independently of those fics.

Pairing: Clone Trooper Boil x Reader (GN; reader practices tasseomancy/reads tea leaves) 

Rating: M (mature content intended for readers 18+; minors DNI)

Wordcount: 2.8k

Warnings and tags: mysticism; angst; fluff; SMUT; oral sex; unprotected penetrative sex (can be read as either PIV or PIA; either way, pls wrap it up IRL); GN smut is hard to write, but I did my best 🫡

Summary: Things heat up in the Entertainment District.

Suggested Listening:

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Masterlist | Sign up for my tag list

It was too hot to sleep. You tossed in bed, sweaty and exhausted, as your emotions swirled chaotically and your thoughts scattered like runestones cast across a cloth. In the two days since the news had broken about Sarrish, you had drifted in an aimless haze. You couldn’t meditate; you couldn’t eat. You had tried reaching out for Boil’s presence in the Force, but either you were too unbalanced to focus, or he was too far away to sense. 

You refused to consider the alternative.

After lying awake for hours, staring into the darkness, you gave up. You needed to get out of your stuffy flat and go somewhere with calmer energy. You rolled out of bed with a sigh and pulled on the lightest, coolest clothes you could find, then headed down the corridor to the shop. It was hotter in your reading room than your flat, but at least it was tranquil, and more importantly, you hadn’t spent the past week imbuing it with your anxiety.

Flicking on the dim lamp, you began to brew a cup of tea. The ritual of it was soothing: turning on the kettle; setting out your favorite cup; selecting a tea from your extensive collection; measuring out the leaves. Your body and mind fell into a familiar rhythm as you worked, your motions controlled and smooth. As the tea steeped, you practiced maintaining a smooth, even tempo of breath as you cleared your mind and focused your intention the way your grandmother had taught you.

I am present in this moment. I feel the heat of the water. I smell the scent of the tea. I feel the life within me, the planet beneath me, the galaxy around me. My mind is my own. I control my emotions. I control my thoughts. I am present in this moment.

I am one with the Force, and the Force is with me.

The storm within you began to calm, but the strange sensation of imbalance persisted, as though your soul itself suffered from vertigo. With a final, deep inhale and exhale, you opened your eyes. The room still looked the same, but it hummed with a restless energy—or perhaps it was just you.

 Keenly aware of the irony of drinking a cup of hot tea in the middle of the most sweltering weather you’d experienced since you emigrated from your home planet in Wild Space and moved to the Core, you took a sip. You’d selected a special blend that had been your grandmother’s favorite, and the taste of it instantly transported you to your childhood, the memories so vivid that it felt as though her spirit was with you in the room. 

“Oh, Gran,” you whispered. “What am I going to do?”

You finished your cup slowly, waiting for an answer that never came. When you were done, you swirled the last of the liquid a few times and dumped it, then examined the leaves that clung to the cup.

Nothing. Gibberish. What is wrong with me?

You stood with a sigh and began to tidy up, washing your cup and saucer, then wandering through the rest of the shop, straightening crooked art; organizing the mess of flimsi behind the reception counter; arranging the various crystals, incense, teas and other merchandise into more attractive displays; and generally setting the shop in order to smooth the inevitable reopening day. Once you finished, you headed toward your flat. 

Before you entered the corridor, though, you sensed a presence. Your spine prickled with awareness. You were being watched. Your heart began to pound as you came to a halt, turning slowly to face the transparisteel shop door. It was dark outside, but in the neon glow of the empty walkway, you saw a figure staring back at you, and suddenly, you knew.

You were at the door before you even realized you’d begun to move. You flipped the lock and wrenched the door open, and then he was on you, his arms wrapping you in a strong embrace as his lips crashed into yours. Boil’s kiss was all-consuming. Your fingers tangled in his hair as his tongue swept into your mouth, drawing a deep, ragged moan from your throat.

His mouth was sweeter than anything you’d ever tasted, and he smelled even better than you remembered. Beneath the coarse wool of his uniform, his body was firm and solid and real and there with you, in your shop, not just in your imagination or your dreams. With fumbling, desperate hands, you unbuttoned his jacket and shoved it back off his shoulders. You reached for his belt and managed to get it unbuckled as he walked you backward into the shop, never breaking away from the kiss, but that was as far as you made it before he picked you up by the waist and set you on the counter.

At last, his lips parted from yours, but only so he could kiss his way ravenously down your jaw and throat, and all the while you clutched his head close to your body, reveling in the feeling of his soft curls beneath your hands; the heat of his lips and tongue on your skin; the cool, glistening trail he left behind. His mouth roamed down your chest until he reached the neckline of your tank top, and he started to tug up the hem of the shirt until he abruptly changed his mind and dropped to his knees before you, yanking off your soft, loose pyjama shorts. 

He let out a hoarse groan as he saw the state of your heated arousal, already dripping with need. He paused, breathing hard as his eyes flicked up to yours in a silent entreaty.

“Yes,” you whispered, spreading your legs further apart to make room for his broad shoulders.

That single syllable was all he needed to hear before his mouth was on you, sucking, kissing, licking, teasing, taking you apart with agonizing precision. He shouldered his way under one of your legs as his hands gripped your thighs tightly enough that you knew there’d be marks the next day, but you didn’t care. 

The only thing that mattered—the only thing that existed in the galaxy—was him. The way his lips moved on your sex; the way his tongue swirled over you, hot and wet and so kriffing good, as though he had dedicated a lifetime to learning all the ways and places you liked to be touched; and when his hand slid up the inside of your thigh to tease your sensitive flesh, you didn’t think at all. You simply reacted. 

A wild cry wrenched from your lips as your fingers twisted in his hair, and your leg tightened around his shoulder, pressing him hard against you. He didn’t pull away, though; instead, his lovely, clever mouth went to work with even more enthusiasm, and within seconds, the pleasure burst through you in a powerful, uncontrollable orgasm.

He whimpered as you came apart in his mouth, eagerly swallowing everything you had to give him. He didn’t stop until your body finally stopped spasming, and you came down slowly from your high. With one final, soft kiss, he pulled away from you and stood, wrapping you securely in his arms as you rested your head against his chest, your uneven breath gradually returning to normal. You slid your hands around his waist and held him close.

 “Hi,” you whispered.

He kissed the top of your head gently. “Hi.”

Later, as the two of you lay tangled in your sheets, you traced your fingers lightly over his bare skin, admiring the way his nipples hardened and the hairs on his chest stood on end in the wake of your caress. His dark, heated eyes watched you from beneath heavy lids. 

“I’m glad you didn’t die,” you murmured, dragging your tongue over his nipple.

He laughed quietly. “Me, too. Would’ve been a shame to miss this.”

You kissed down his ribcage, and he flinched as you hit a ticklish spot.

“Don’t even think about it,” he warned as he saw the spark of mischief in your eyes.

“Or what?” you asked with a wicked smirk. 

Without warning, he flipped you over and pinned you to the mattress. “You think you’re the only one with tricks, darlin’?”

His hand stole down and dipped between your thighs. You were still slick with lube from your previous two rounds, and his finger slipped easily into your body.

“Maker, you’re insatiable,” you murmured. “Mmm, that’s nice.”

He worked you open slowly as he kissed a trail down your sternum, pausing briefly to detour to your nipples, and then continued down your abdomen. When he reached your navel, he flicked his tongue into it, and you nearly levitated off the bed with a shriek.

“Revenge,” he smirked.

“Evil,” you gasped.

“You started it.” He kissed a few more times until he reached your pelvis, and then he shifted to kneel between your thighs.

“I can’t believe you can still get hard after everything we’ve done,” you said, unable to keep the admiration completely out of your voice.

You reached down to stroke his cock languidly. He retrieved the bottle of lube and squeezed another dollop into your palm, shuddering a bit as you worked the cool fluid over him in smooth, twisting strokes.

“Kriff me, you’re good at that,” he groaned, then pulled your hand away. “Ease up, gorgeous, or I’m not gonna last.”

“That doesn’t seem to be a problem for you,” you purred. “Do all clone troopers have this stamina?”

He raised an eyebrow. “You tellin’ me you’ve never been with a clone before?”

You shrugged. 

“In that case,” he grinned. “Nope. I’m the only one. The others are all minute men, probably can’t even go more than three or four times in a night—”

“You know that’s still a lot, right?” you interrupted his patently spurious monologue.

“Is it?” he asked, intrigued. “Natborns really are different, aren’t you?”

You slid your gaze leisurely down his body as he loomed over you. “That a bad thing?”

He eyed you with blatant hunger. “Not at all.”

He lifted your hips off the bed and pressed into you slowly. You let out a shaky breath at the sensation as he stretched you deliciously. 

“Not even a little bit,” he whispered as he began to move. His pace was unhurried at first as he rocked into you, but gradually, he began to thrust harder, faster, as his hands wrapped around your hips and his fingers dug into your skin. “Hottest fuckin’ thing I’ve ever seen.”

Exhausted from the three orgasms he’d already wrung out of you, you didn’t think you’d be able to manage one more, but Boil knew exactly what he was doing, and before long, he had you panting and writhing as your body began to tense and tighten around him. 

“What do you think, love, will you give me one more?” his voice rumbled low in your ear. “I know you can do it.” He kissed your neck lightly, barely touching his tongue to your skin. “Just one more for me?”

“Yeah,” you gasped, your voice breathless and embarrassingly high pitched.

“Louder,” he growled.

“Fuck—Yeah,”  you said, managing to project a little more. “Yeah—YES! FUCK!”’

Your back arched off the bed and your vision splintered into a thousand tiny shards as your orgasm slammed into you. Boil was right behind you, thrusting frantically as your body pulsed around his cock until he spilled, hot and deep inside you. He collapsed on top of you, and as the jagged puffs of your combined breath began to quiet, you gradually became aware of a distant, familiar sound.

It was raining.

When you awoke the next morning, your flat was at a comfortable temperature for the first time in days. You opened your eyes slowly to see Boil gazing at you, his eyes softly illuminated by the sunshine that poured in through your curtains. 

“Good morning,” he murmured, brushing his thumb over your cheek. “You’re adorable when you sleep.”

Please, Maker, tell me he’s not a morning person.

“Only when I sleep?” you asked, your voice hoarse and raspy with disuse.

“Yes,” he replied.

“Rude.”

“You’re stunning when you’re awake.”

You blinked, then looked away quickly to hide your confusion under a veil of snark. “Nice recovery.”

He laughed silently, then rolled over until he was lying on top of you, his waist between your thighs, his head resting on your chest as he pressed a kiss to your sternum. You rested your hand on his head and toyed absently with his hair. He let out a small groan of pleasure, so you began to massage his scalp and neck, tunneling your fingers through his hair and working over him until he whimpered.

“Holy kriff, how does that feel so good?” he mumbled against your chest.

“Have you never had a head massage before?” you asked.

He shook his head. “Don’t stop.”

Obligingly, you continued, until his body lay heavily on yours as though he’d completely melted against you. By that point, you’d been awake long enough that your brain had begun to function, and you had questions.

“Boil?”

“Mmm.”

You swallowed. “What happened?”

He didn’t answer right away, but you could tell by the way tension returned to his body that whatever it was wasn’t good.

“It was a massacre,” he said quietly. “I’ve never seen anything like it. So many…”

He lapsed into silence, and you continued to drag your thumbs lightly up and down the back of his neck. After a moment, he continued.

“After the retreat, they disabled long-range comms. Security reasons, they said.” A bitter note sounded in his voice. “More like they didn’t want anyone to find out how bad they karked up.”

So that’s why he hadn’t commed.

“I—I came straight here,” he said. “As soon as we landed.”

“You did?” you asked softly.

He nodded. “I needed…”

He trailed off, and after a few seconds you suggested, “To cut loose?”

He shook his head. “You.”

Boil had two full weeks of shore leave—the GAR apparently having experienced a rare moment of compassion following the disastrous and brutal Sarrish campaign—and he spent it all in your flat. Unfortunately, with the repair of the weather control relay station came the return of crowds to the Entertainment District, which meant that the shop was busier than ever.

Still, you spent every available moment with him and only threatened to toss him off the landing platform twice. You took him to your favorite charity shop and watched as he poked through the aisles in search of hidden treasure, his eyes alight with wonder.

Despite his grumbling, you noticed that he used the mug you’d bought him every time he drank a cup of caf, and you’d never felt as vindicated in your life as you did the day that you took an early lunch break and caught him lounging in one of your spectacularly gaudy bathrobes. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d laughed so often, or stayed up talking so late, or felt such complete and utter satisfaction as he gave you night after night in the bed that should have been too small for two people and yet somehow felt like the perfect size to share with him.

Your sense of imbalance in the Force persisted, however. You were relieved to find that you were still able to read the leaves for your customers—er—guests, but when you tried to do the same for yourself or for Boil, you encountered the same strange gibberish you’d seen the night he came back to you. You also still had difficulty meditating, though that could have had something to do with Boil’s habit of taking advantage of the opportunity to explore your body with his lips and hands.

One evening, as you rifled through your pantry cabinet in search of something more substantial than pastry to eat for dinner, you found the small tin of tea he’d brought you all those months ago. You gazed at it for a moment, then set it aside, an idea forming in your mind.

Later that night, as  you lay in his arms, his fingertips drew patterns across your bare skin in the darkness, and you broached the subject tentatively. “Boil?”

“Hmm?” His voice was vague and sleepy.

“Do you remember that time when you told me you wished you could talk to Waxer one more time?”

His fingers froze, and the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek halted abruptly. 

“Yes,” he said quietly.

You took a deep breath. “What would you think if I told you there was a way?”

Ragu list:

@secondaryrealm @sev-on-kamino spicy-clones @wings-and-beskar @523rdrebel @merkitty49 @anxiouspineapple99 @sinfulsalutations @arcsimper5 @starrylothcat @clio3kantarella @cloneloverrrrr @goblininawig @ladytano420 @arctrooper69 @wolffegirlsunite @sunshinesdaydream @mandos-mind-trick @littlemissmanga @stunkbiggu @starqueensthings @clonemedickix @marierg @idontgetanysleep @moonlightwarriorqueen @dudewhynotthis @sleepycreativewriter @tcwmatchmakingau @littlemissbshine @multi-fan-dom-madness @heavenseed76 @wizardofrozz @bobaprint @sweetcream-coldfoam @banksys-rat @skellymom @pickleprickle @trixie2023 @mythical-illustrator @dickarchivist @cw80831 @kimiheartblade @meredithroseg @flyiingsly @lightwise @swcowgal @reader6898

[vodika-vibes]

"Do you want to see them suffer? Do you want to make them bleed?" Chi-Chi ft. LEECHY – "Sit and wait"

___

Guess it might be called mystic!au. Exploring the ancient cult of Brother Deities, which includes thousands of one-faced gods, the reader gets the jackpot – an instruction for summoning Sev – cruel bloody deity. According to the text, summoning him might be dangerous to the one who performs the ritual, but what can the reader do with her explorer interest? The ritual demands the cow skull, red silk cloth, any form of fire and the blood of the virgin, luckily, reader is one. She doesn't really believe it's about to work, but here she is – Sev is in front of her, tall, athletic, wearing only the given cloth and skull. He's quite excited because noone called for him for centuries as the cult went forgotten.

Overwhelmed reader finds nothing better than asking an ancient powerful deity to become her boyfriend and take her virginity.

And maybe to fix some world problems using the might of the Brother Deities, but this can wait.

Hard To Kill

Summary: You’re a low ranking member of the ExploraCorps, a group of adventurers whose job it is to wander far and wide while looking for mystical items to help the Empire thrive. As a low ranking member, you spend most of your time alone. Your current mission, investigate the legends of the millions of the same faced gods, and determine if there is any truth to the stories.

Pairing: Clone Commando Sev x F!Reader

Word Count: 2851

Warnings: Smut

Prompt: Mystic AU - Reader is essentially Lara Croft.

Tagging: @trixie2023 @n0vqni

A/N: So, I'm not sure if I got the vibe you were going for, but I kind of really like this one. The idea is so clever. Thanks for your request!

When you were first assigned the mission of the same faced gods, you thought that it was a hazing ritual. Every new person to the ExploraCorps is assigned this myth. And every new person returns several months later with nothing to show for it, save for new scars and new nightmares.

Still, when your boss tells you that the case is yours, you don’t really have the option to say anything other than, “yes sir, thank you sir.”

So here you are, deep in the middle of a forest, following a half translated map to the place where a temple is supposed to be. 

Honestly, you don’t expect to find anything.

Surely, if there’s any truth to this legend someone else would have found it by now.

You duck under a fallen tree and climb over a large rock, before you glance at the map, and turn towards the river that you can hear but not see. You swing the beam from your flashlight across the ground, making sure that you’re not going to step on anything that might kill you, and then you start walking again.

All you have to do is go to the location where the temple is supposed to be. When the temple isn’t there, then you can call back to ExploraCorps HQ and tell them that the mission was a bust, and that you’re coming home.

You turn around a tree and stop as the forest comes to an abrupt end.

A man-made clearing, nothing in nature is this perfectly created after all, and there, in the middle, a massive temple. You glance at your map, and then up at the stone building, and then back at the map.

This can’t be right. According to the map, you’re still at least an hour walk away from the actual temple.

You absently bite your fingernail, as you consider your options, before you slide the map into your pack, and walk through the clearing to the temple.

The stone is covered in soft moss, which explains why no one would have seen it, even from above, though, as you reach the door, you note that it slides to the side with ease. As if it’s been used recently.

Though, as you peer into the small room (there’s no way that this is a ritual chamber, it’s far, far too small-) you can’t help but notice the cobwebs and that wild animals seem to have made this room their home. 

You make sure that the door won’t slide shut, and then you step into the room. The walls are covered with shelves, and all of the shelves are filled with tightly bound scrolls. 

You don’t dare touch them, depending on their age, they might very well crumble to dust if you try to touch them. So instead you just sweep the light from your flashlight across them and keep your distance.

However, on a pedestal in the center of the room, is a scroll. It’s already open, and you note that the scroll itself is still legible. You squint at the writing, slowly translating it as best as you can.

And then your breath catches in your throat. 

If you’re translating this right, this is a summoning ritual to summon a war deity. It’s a very clear list too. No room for mistranslations.

A cow skull. Easy, there’s one sitting on the shelf over there. It’s old, but a quick scan tells you that it’s in one piece.

A red silk cloth. Also easy, mother gave you a red silk scarf when you were chosen for the ExploraCorps, that should work alright.

Fire. Easiest of them all, a lighter is part of your survival pack.

Blood of a virgin. Well, you’re still a virgin, and your blood has never been used in a ritual before, so you have that covered regardless of what it means. Though, it doesn’t say how much blood is needed.

Lastly, on the list is the time of day. The summoning needs to be completed at midnight on a new moon. Slightly more problematic, on account that the new moon is still two weeks away. But, even so, that will give you enough time to read over this, and some of the sturdier looking scrolls, to prepare yourself for the summoning.

Technically, the rules indicate that low ranking members of the corps are not supposed to perform rituals. But, well, you’ve always been a proponent of asking for forgiveness is better than asking for permission. 

You sweep your gaze around the small room one more time, and then turn to head back outside. Policy dictates that you’re not supposed to sleep inside any of these old places because it’s not safe.

You hesitate at the door and look around one more time. Surely there won’t be any issue with you camping inside, just for the couple of weeks it’ll take for the new moon to arrive? Better to have some shelter, especially in a place like this, where the weather can be unpredictable and violent.

The idea rolls around your mind for a moment as you step out of the small building to go and grab your pack. You seriously consider your options for a moment, and then you turn back to the temple. It’s not like anyone will know.

Decision made, you head back inside and unpack your camp. A small camping stove, your sleeping bag, and the sleeping mat that makes sleeping on stone slightly more tolerable. And then you pick up the scroll with the summoning ritual on it, and you start reading it properly.

That night, as you lay on  your back in your sleeping bag, hovering on the edge of slumber, though not quite there yet, your mind drifts.

Once upon a time, there were multiple governments on this planet. One for each nation. Sometimes more than one for each nation. There was so much conflict and so much war.

And then Palpatine came. 

Over the years, he took more and more power, consolidating all of it in himself. And then he toppled the local governments, and named himself Emperor. 

Your father claims that Palpatine is doing a good thing, everyone has a job, everyone has money and food and medicine they need to survive. Everyone gets an education. Your father claims that Palpatine is a fine leader.

You’re not so sure.

You’ve known since you were a child that you were slated for the ExploraCorps. It was decided when you were six years old and were finally old enough to take the placement test. Your education has been geared to that since that day.

You learned history, and mysticism, and myths and legends. You learned languages and archeology and paleontology. You learned wayfinding, and how to survive when alone, and how to fight. You learned everything you needed to learn to thrive as a member of the ExploraCorps.

But you’ve also been privy to things that other people haven’t been.

You’ve seen the prison work camps, where people who disagree with Palpatine’s rule spend their lives slaving away. You’ve seen evidence of what happened to Palpatine’s political prisoners, men and women who were whisked away and starved and tortured and, ultimately, murdered. 

And you’ve heard rumors of Palpatine’s Gladiators, criminals who are forced to fight and kill for the Emperor’s amusement. 

Not to mention, the reason the ExploraCorps exists at all is sickening. It’s an open secret that you’re all looking for the secret to immortality for Palpatine. Or, barring that, some kind of mystical weapon that he can wield against the people.

Palpatine would see you all dead and enslaved. 

Your eyes flutter closed as sleep finally grips you. And you’re last thought before you drift off to sleep is that it’s stupid that Palpatine thinks he needs more power to enslave the planet's population. After all, you’re all already slaves.

Two weeks later, it’s finally time.

Over the two weeks, you’ve managed to read a small number of the scrolls, and you’ve managed to find the ritual circle. It makes a fair amount of sense that it’s located under the room that you’ve been sleeping in. 

The stairs had just been completely overgrown with vines and briars, which is why you didn’t see it right away.

You’re a little nervous about the summoning. There are so many ways that this can go wrong. Especially since you’ve since learned that you’re going to summon a bloody war deity. 

But, even so, your excitement is shoving the anxiety to the side. 

The thrill of the unknown, of learning and experiencing things that other people never would, it’s why you were chosen for the ExploraCorps in the first place. For all of Palpatine’s faults, and he has many, the career assignments worked in your favor. 

You shove the thoughts out of your head and slowly go about setting up the ritual. A fire, lit in the middle of the circle. The red silk scarf and cow’s skull sitting on the opposite side of the fire from you, and several drops of blood in a stone bowl that you found in the ritual room, and then proceeded to sterilize to hell and back again. 

Then you take several steps back, so you’re outside of the circle, and you lower your lighter to the oil filled divet in the ground. Fire spreads quickly, jumping high and blocking your sight, as the room fills with controlled flame.

For a moment, nothing happens. And then there’s a presence, something large and heavy, like a boulder on your chest, and then the weight is gone as suddenly as it appeared, and all of the fire goes out. 

You blink at the sudden, all encompassing, darkness and blindly grab for your lantern, flipping the switch to give you some light. 

The ritual chamber fills with the soft, warm, glow of your lamp, and once more, your breath catches in your throat.

It worked.

There, standing in the middle of the circle, is a man. Tall and broad, with dark skin and dark hair. He’s totally naked, save for the red scarf wrapped around his waist to protect his modesty, and he’s holding the skull in his hands. 

He turns his gaze to you, and you can’t help but notice that his eyes flicker with the orange of the flame used to summon him, before it settles into a deep brown color. 

“It has been many years since someone has summoned me,” He says, his voice low and gravelly as he steps out of the circle and advances on you. His dark eyes scan you, and you find yourself at a loss for words.

You weren’t expecting him to be handsome.

He reaches out and takes some of your hair between his fingers, “You are not one of the priests who normally summon me. I have no priestesses.” He finally says.

“I…” You nervously lick your lips, and you heat as his gaze drops to your lips, “I’m not a priestess. I’m a researcher.”

“Is that right?” His hand moves to lightly grip your chin, his skin is warm, “You summoned me, which makes you a priestess now.” He adds, amusement clear in his voice. “Whose blood did you use to summon me?”

“My own.”

He chuckles, the noise a pleasant rumble that gives you goosebumps, “Then you are definitely my priestess now.”

“Oh. I didn’t know.” You admit, honestly, “The scrolls weren’t clear.”

“They rarely are.” He releases your chin and lightly presses his hand against the base of your throat. 

He’s massive, it would be so easy for him to hurt you, to kill you. But strangely, you feel safe. Safer than you’ve ever felt before. You should push him away, call your boss, tell them that you found definitive proof of the same faced deities. But, looking up at him, you don’t want to. You don’t want to share him. “What’s your name?” You ask.

“Sev. My name is Sev.” His thumb brushes against the pulse point on your neck, and you hope that he doesn’t notice how rapidly your heart is racing. “And what should I call you, my pretty little priestess.”

You offer him your name freely, and he repeats your name with a reverence that makes you shiver. A shiver that Sev notices, based on a small smirk that crosses his face. 

“So tell me, my priestess,” there’s something deeply possessive in the way he refers to you as his, and you probably shouldn’t find it half as attractive as you do, “Why have you summoned me?”

The truth sits on the tip of your tongue. You almost tell him about the standing orders from Palpatine, about the reason for the ExploraCorps…but it’s not actually the truth, is it?

Because the truth is, if you were actually following orders, you never would have summoned him. You would have called your boss, and this whole area would be an ExploraCorps dig site.

But you didn’t do any of that.

“I…I’m lonely.” You whisper.

Sev’s hand moves from your throat to press against your cheek, “Well, I can help with that.” His lips are against yours before you can question what he means.

You submit to him immediately, parting your lips for him as he slides his tongue against your lips. He maps out the inside of your mouth with his tongue, and you moan into the kiss. 

Sev breaks the kiss, and he effortlessly lifts you into his arms, as though you weigh nothing. You can’t help the startled squeak as you fling your arms around his neck and hook your legs around his waist for balance. And then you gasp as you feel his erection brush against you. 

He walks you out of the ritual room, up the stairs and into the room that you’ve been living in for the last couple of weeks. Sev roughly pushes everything off of the stone table, and sits you on the edge, before he releases you. 

His dark eyes are glimmering with orange flame again, as he presses his thumb against your lips. Your gaze locks with his as you lightly lick his thumb. Someone the flame in his eyes burns brighter, and he presses his thumb into your mouth, pressing down on your tongue.

“My Priestess,” He murmurs, and then a growl escapes from his throat as you suck on this thumb. Sev rips his hand away from your face, hunger written into every line on his body, and tugs the red scarf away from his body, revealing his rock hard erection. “Strip. Now.”

You’ve never been one for orders, but you’ve never wanted to follow an order so badly in your entire life. With shaking hands, you tug off all of your clothes, pausing only when Sev’s large hands move to your chest to cup your breasts as soon as they’re exposed.

“Keep going,” Sev orders as he pinches your nipples, lightly at first, and then applying more and more pressure until you release a mewling little moan. But you are able to finish tugging your clothes off, until you’re totally bare in front of him. 

Immediately, one of his hands dips between your legs, zeroing in on your clit and applying enough pressure that your hips jerk towards him without your permission. Your hands fly to his forearms, just to have something to hold onto, to ground you.

“Mine,” Sev growls as he plunges two fingers deep into your pussy, “All mine. Mine to use. Mine to protect.” You release a cry of pleasure as he scissors his fingers, rolling your hips to try and pull him deeper. “My priestess.”

Just as you’re on the edge of your orgasm, he pulls his fingers out of you, and you release a cry of dismay. “Sev-” You’re almost in tears, “Please-”

“Shhh,” He coos as he kisses the crest of your cheek, “You’ll get what you deserve, my priestess.” Sev trails his lips to catch yours in a heated kiss, “After you give me what I want. And I want your pretty lips around my cock.”

You blink at him, and Sev smirks.

“Worship me on your knees, my perfect priestess, and I’ll give you everything you want.” Sev promises.

With his help, you get to your feet and sink to your knees. You wrap your hand around the base of his cock, and press a light kiss to the head of his weeping cock. 

“Good girl,” Sev murmurs, his praise washing through you and making you whine softly. “Patience, my priestess. I won’t leave you wanting.”

And you believe him, so you part your lips and take the head of his cock between your lips and suck gently. You feel his hand fist in your hair, not directing you, but holding you, reminding you that he’s there. And you relax into your actions.

Later. Later you’ll tell Sev about the state of the world. He’ll pass word onto his brothers. Later, the same faced deities will save everyone.

But that’s later.

For now there’s you and there’s him, and nothing else matters.

[chdarling]

I love you for giving us that flashback to the moment Snape stole Lily's diary. You have such a talent, because stealing the diary was a truly rotten, odious thing for Snape to do, but you manage to articulate Snape's bitterness and jealousy and hurt so well that it makes sense that for a moment he would be spiteful enough to swish his wand, while still imagining he's a good friend. I particularly love that this was part of the plot, because it illustrates that the dissolution of Lily and Snape's friendship was so much deeper than that one "worst memory." His possessiveness and jealousy and need to prove James is horrible (at Lily's expense) was always going to corrode, whether or not Snape called her a slur in front of everyone.

Also A+ 13yo girl diary entries.

That hazing/initiation ritual was WILD. I'm enthralled. And terrified for what is going to go down at Hogsmeade.

In sum : it's your world, we're all just living in (and for) it.

Ahhhh, thank you ❤️

I’ve been looking forward to getting to that flashback scene ever since I first shared the Christmas chapters with the reveal of what Severus did. I thought it was important to show that memory not just from Snape’s POV but from the POV of the child who experienced it, because while of course what he did was a horrible, potentially-friendship-ending thing, it was driven by a very real and powerful hurt — a hurt that I don’t think adult Snape ever really healed from. Snape does a lot of awful things, both in canon and in this story, but I want to whenever I can extend some empathy to the child he once was, because that is a child who was failed by every adult and every institution he encountered. (Seriously, where is wizarding child protection services my god)

But at the same time, at every opportunity he was given a choice, he made the one informed by his bitterness and jealousy and hurt…and ruined the few good things he had in his life as a result (his friendship with Lily being the obvious one). He’s just a delicious muddle of contradictions and compassion and contempt and I’m obsessed with it lmao.

Anyway, all this self-indulgent rambling to say: thank you!! This chapter was hellish for me to write but after a few days’ distance from it, I’m actually quite pleased with it and it means a lot to me that you liked it too ❤️

(Also those diary entries were so much fun for me to write ahahaha. Coming soon: TLE 0.5: Lily’s Diary.)

((THAT WAS A JOKE NO ONE EXPECT THAT OF ME PLEASE 😂))

[pharawee]

Star Hunter's line-up for 2023 (and 2024) was exactly what they'd previously announced and tbh that made sitting through the whole thing actually quite enjoyable and to the point - even if I had to watch the livestream on facebook (apparently it's on youtube too but it's on madan.fun's channel so I didn't know until later).

Now Star Hunter is slowly uploading the pilots for the 5 new series and 2 movies they announced and I've had some time to make up my mind about them.

TRUE MOON | เดือนหลงเดือน 

Star Hunter wouldn't be Star Hunter without their uni BL and campus moons, so this is probably as straightforward as it gets: Poor boy hates rich boy but then they fall in love and have to overcome many obstacles. Personally, I'll never get tired of uni BL so I'm ok with this.

CITY OF STARS | เฟื่องนคร 

Star Hunter has unlocked a new trope: actor/manager BL - but this one comes with a twist: While one of them is an actor, the other guy has been tasked to... tbh I'm not even sure because the subs on the livestream were wonky and they're missing in the yt vid. The other one's a programmer for an app and apparently the actor's so famous that he breaks the app so the programmer gets sent to Thailand for few months (he's the only Thai dude in the whole company, you see) to somehow fix the problem. Oh, but also the actor is his neighbour? And then his manager gets sick so the programmer has to step in. Love ensues. Sounds good, I'm in.

SUNSET VIBES | เพียงชลาลัย

This is the new mosbank series we've been waiting for, and from the whole presentation it's clear that mosbank is now Star Hunter's new main attraction. The series itself is really intriguing. For one, it's beautifully filmed, with beautiful and almost traditional-sounding background music. It starts with a one-night-stand that quickly turns into "oops I got railed by my new boss the night before I started my internship" - but there's a mystery twist right at the end. According to what Mos said during the short presentation it's got something to do with Isan (Northeast Thailand) folklore and possibly past lives so this is going to be really good (I am completely unbiased of course).

BIG DRAGON THE MOVIE

I'm still not sure if this is replacing season 2 or a movie cut of the first season with extra scenes. My Thai is limited and all I know is that season 2 was mentioned (and Tao's actor was there). But anyway, the movie seems to expand on what happens in season 1, with a couple of extra scenes set in the past and the future, so even if we don't get a season 2 this is still going to be a treat.

FLIRT MILK | รักรสนมจืด

Ok so this one could be Star Hunter's wild card. It's a cute and chaotic BL set at (where else) university. Awkward boy meets another awkward boy and they're super different but obviously attracted to each other. But because they're so different they individually decide to change for their crush. Well, personally I hope they change back because they're really cute the way they are and also there's a severe lack of glasses in Thai BL.

ACADEX THE MOVIE

This is not a BL but it might have BL elements, I guess? Idk, the trailer didn't come with subs. From what I could gather the genre is young adult set in some kind of magical school with different houses and some sort of competition. ISBANKY is in this and tbh he's the main reason why I'm even interested in this.

LOVE SENIOR | พี่ว้ากคะ รักหนูได้มั้ย 

I was right! This is the GL version of GEN Y that you've been waiting for. It has cute engineering students! It has freshie contests! It has freshie week hazing rituals! It has cute girls in red engineering shirts that kiss! It has strict seniors falling in love with extremely cute freshies. And it probably has lots of unnecessary drama too, just for good measure.

[jedivoodoochile]

Let's activate the time machine and go back to June 18, 1967: we are in the United States, in California, in the town of Monterey. The third day of one of the first gatherings of hippie culture takes place: it is the long summer of love. Hendrix, who has just released his debut album with the Experience, is still little known, but with one gesture he enters history, setting his guitar on fire for the first time, like a sorcerer dealing with a voodoo ritual.

And to think that it was possible to perform on this stage thanks to the insistence of Paul McCartney, who strongly wanted the guitarist, considered "an absolute ace on the guitar". In fact, Paul had been blown away by his performance at the Saville Theater in London two weeks earlier (in which he also attempted a cover of Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band).

Introduced on stage by Brian Jones, Hendrix begins the concert by playing Killing Floor, followed by Hey Joe, and some covers such as Rock Me Baby and Like a Rolling Stone. Then it's the turn of Foxy Lady, Can You See Me, The Wind Cries Mary and Purple Haze. At this point comes the destruction, which will be considered by all to be the icing on the cake of his performance: when it is time to perform the last song in the setlist, Wild Thing, he decides to "sacrifice" his Fender.

[slashthrashandcrash]

OMG WAIT!!! The way there's hardly any info about your flasher and final girl ocs is driving me wild!!! (I stalked your account like three times) I gotta know how "The Stranger" and Ashley met when he was alive. Like, was it something cute and romantic? Like bumping into each other and her helping him up? Or something more simple like her complimenting his outfit one time and he stuck onto that? Sorry if this is a long ask but GRRRRR I GOTTA KNOW SO BADDDD

MY silly lil OCs?? :3c

They were freshmen at college together and ran in similar social circles, her being in a sorority and him being in a frat, so they saw glimpses of each other from time to time but never really interacted. They both had those fleeting thoughts of "oh, they're cute" when they'd cross paths, but neither one actually tried to pursue the other (although Stranger definitely was building up to it).

The first time they really got to know one another was at a campus party - Ashley was drunk by this point but she's always been friendly and sociable, so it was easy for her to just plop beside him on the back porch and strike up a conversation. She warned him to be careful at the frat house he was in because their hazing rituals are notoriously dangerous and she'd hate for anything bad to happen to him. Afterwards she went back to the party, but Stranger decided that the next time he saw her he'd gather up the courage to ask her out, since she's so nice and pretty and they genuinely did vibe.

Of course by the next day she sobered up and completely forgot that interaction with him and a few days later is when the Stranger disappeared and was wiped from existence at the school. She couldn't begin to remember his name or face if she tried.

[court-of-constellations]

i'm trapped in a car and unbelievably bored so have some vampire stuff for my original universe (got a little long so I'm adding a cut)

vampirism is, first and foremost, a curse. vampires can be turned by other vampires, but most are people who, for whatever reason, were unable to rest after their deaths. most commonly, their bodies were used in a ritual of sorts, but it could also simply be unfinished business or something like that- the reason doesn't particularly matter, all that matters is that they can't move on.

there is, however, some criteria to become a vampire:

at least half human

a mostly intact body

some degree of magic power

and, most importantly, no prior magic effecting their body/soul (so, curses, blessings, etc)

Vampires are kept alive through their own magic (twisted as its become after their deaths). However, every type of magic requires a sacrifice of some sort, and since this magic is keeping them alive, it requires a life force in turn- blood. Because of this, vampires must drink blood to survive. While any kind of blood will do in a pinch, the better in heath the creature, the better the blood.

Some creatures do have blood that's poisonous to vampires or would have negative effects (such as fairies, whose blood may only be drunk with permission, lest it bind you to them forever) so most vampires simply stick with creatures they know for a fact won't hurt them and are easily available. A vampire living in more rural areas, for example, might choose to feed off livestock, while vampires in more populated areas might have to resort to humans. Contrary to popular belief, vampires absolutely do not have to drink the blood of humans, but it just so happens that the most well-known ones fed off of humans and that's thus the image of vampires in popular imagination.

If a vampire goes too long without blood, their body will slowly begin to decay once more and they will eventually go into a haze, attacking anything that has blood in a desperate attempt to sustain themselves. This haze is commonly called "bloodlust," and any new vampires are practically guaranteed to be in it until they've fed themselves enough. For that reason, new vampires are frequently caught and killed- it's actually quite rare for a vampire to live very long. The select vampires that do frequently find each other, and they've formed a loose community of sorts.

The only way to kill a vampire is to get them in the heart. Vampires are, as a rule, generally very resilient, and if they're fed well their magic will heal pretty much any injury, so the only way to be sure they're really dead is to hurt their heart. Any kind of stake will do (though they're pretty weak to silver, and wild roses and hawthorn can also hurt them pretty badly if used as a weapon). Sunlight, despite popular assumptions, actually doesn't hurt them at all- most vampires are simply crepuscular and are more active in the twilight hours.

There's a few things that can help you recognize a vampire:

sharper canines (a given)

completely unchanging (their hair and nails don't grow, etc)

colder average temperature than usual (they're functionally cold-blooded and rely on outer factors to regulate their temperature)

no pulse or blush (their heart has stopped beating so their blood isn't moving. thus, they can't blush or anything like that)

yellowish eyes (depending on the state of decay when they came back, their eyes may or may not look like a corpse's)

And that's pretty much it! Vampires are generally pretty normal except for their need to drink blood- sure, they could learn some magic that lets them so cool creepy things, but that's really up to each individual vampire.

I hope you enjoyed! Let me know if I should post more about this universe-

[secretgamergirl]

I am so sick of poverty.

I am doubled over right now in my broken chair layering my clothes up because it's 20 degrees out and I can't afford heat. I haven't eaten anything tonight because I can't afford food. Things could be worse. I still have electricity. I still have a roof over my head, for now, in a bad neighborhood where I'm too terrified to ever set foot outside and I'm constantly having to deal with screaming, car alarms, and sirens. I have no real way of paying my rent, and haven't in some time. I just keep begging and getting one-off help from people and eventually that luck is going to run out. I genuinely did not expect to still be alive this month, I don't know if I'm going to be a month from now, and I genuinely cannot picture anything that can change my situation.

I'm just sitting here right now thinking to myself, "why is my life like this?" and I really hate how the answer really just is that I'm trans.

If you don't know what that means, and statistically you don't, that means I was born with a really quite boring fluke medical thing where my endocrine system makes certain chemicals in the wrong ratio which, if untreated, completely messes me up with really gross and disgusting physical symptoms and causing all sorts of awful brain issues that make it basically impossible to live... BUT, there's really cheap readily available supplements to get those where they should be and then you're fine. So in a halfway reasonable world, this would just be like how some people need glasses or a hearing aid or any other sort of medication people might need to take for something.

But, we don't. We live in this super messed up world where because being trans is such a rare and uninteresting thing, a tiny handful of weirdos, for reasons beyond my comprehension, have this all-consuming obsession with doing everything in their power to harm trans people, and have spent literally their entire lifetimes spreading utterly bonkers propaganda, lobbying lawmakers, getting onto medical boards, and just acting as traditional good old fashioned stalkers, with the net result being this swirling miasma of false information, stigmatization, mistrust, and of course, depriving people of necessary medical treatment.

One of the nastier specific effects there is that you can't just get the aforementioned medications you need to live a normal boring life as a trans person. There is this whole wild and wacky hazing ritual built into international medical standards where you're literally required to humiliate yourself in public for a good year and make damn sure everyone around you knows you're trans, and can properly make your life hell for it.

So back to my little story here. I'm trans, I decided I would in fact like to have some sort of bearable life with a functioning brain and a minimum of weird gross physical problems, and had to announce this to the world. IMMEDIATELY, I have stalkers out the wazoo. I'm getting death threats. Family isn't speaking to me. Friends aren't speaking to me. People I've worked with/for my whole life cut all ties with me. I just had to sort of start life over from nothing well into adulthood.

And you know, I managed that. I've worked as a journalist and a game designer my whole life, those skills aren't the worst for working on your own, things were starting to get off the ground. This despite/because the whole thing with neo-nazis coming out of the woodwork and attacking trans people both with life-ruining tactics and, you know, guns. But, you know, as fate would have it, some people who don't do proper research put too much stock in some cover stories suggesting that they're actually targeting journalists, and when it shakes out to the contrary, decide to absolutely crush the trans people whose lives are actually in danger and are reporting on this... while at the same time the worst TERF in America is literally getting trans journalists blacklisted, stalking people, teaming up with neo-nazis, all that good stuff.

Anyway, as it happens, basically all the people I've met in rebuilding my life care enough about staying on the good sides of some of the above people, and are all too happy to completely throw me under the bus, not only cutting all ties with me but also starting some horrible rumors and leaking my closely guarded personal details to some particularly frightening people, forcing me to flee my home with just what I can carry out in a day... multiple times. And of course, again, I've lost more or less all of my friends, my ability to find work, and I have the setbacks of sudden homelessness and someone skipping out on a joint charity project with all the donations people had made, burning down all the vital operating resources to boot.

And this of course is all before the whole bit where the site formally known as Twitter spontaneously kicked me off with no chance to exchange alternate contact info with anyone, because wouldn't you know it, the new owner has an irrational hatred of trans people and has neo-nazi stalkers of mine kissing up to him in a way he's weirdly protective of.

But wait, there's more! All these fascist stalkers monitor me at all times to make sure I can't get any work of any kind, and I'm forced to live purely off direct patreon donations and government programs. But that gets into some other fun problems. Stalking comes with identity theft, evading would-be murderers involves changes of legal name and address. These confuse a lot of government databases, so I lack a valid social security card in there somewhere. Also causes problems with paypal. And with medcab programs. And then there's good old fashioned medical discrimination. I haven't seen a dentist in years because the last couple I've been referred to outright discriminate against trans patients. I need some surgery performed, and my health plan keeps telling me I can only see surgeons who have almost no experience if I'm lucky, and a history of horribly botched procedures otherwise.

Oh, and the reason I have no food? I WAS on an assistance program, but in the yearly audit, someone noticed that my rent significantly exceeds my income. You would hope seeing that they'd realize I'm REALLY in trouble and if anything give me more money, but hey, one of those weird bits of propaganda about trans people is that we're all sex workers, so the people handling this case leaned into that bias and are insisting I must be withholding income information with some vague insinuations on what they're speculating, and denying me access to food, BECAUSE I'm losing access to shelter.

So yeah, if people could just be normal about trans people, I'd have no stalkers, still be able to work, see doctors when I need to, and if I had shortfalls still, at least be able to eat. As is... yeah I might just die in the next big cold snap while I try to beg money off people to cover my rent and buy a few cans of soup.

Sorry to be a downer. Patreon link if you want to try to help.

[gloryseized]

hc;; I don't see Wild!L.ink as a particularly religious figure. He would attend the festivals and go through the motions of the culture, but I don't think there was every any belief there. For Lin.k's practical minded self, he just doesn't see the purpose of a higher being in his life, and he's never seen the influence of one, so he just doesn't invest much into being religious.

But that changes after he draws the Sword that Seals the Darkness. It was such a flippant affair (in my hc), a happenstance where he pulled the sword on a dare/part of a hazing ritual as a young knight, that he might not have even done it at all--but he did. And then when he sees Zel.da praying so desperately to be acknowledged by Hy.lia, doing everything 'right' only to be met with nothing, he starts to grow more and more bitter. His resentment only grows with the fall of Hyr.ule during the Calamity and the destruction of the Castle and Castle Town in particular. If there is a goddess, she's an ineffective, fickle one at best, and complete disinterested and callous at worst.

if anything, Li.nk returns to his more non-religious take on things by the time tot.k rolls around. The goddess is a nonissue as far as he is concerned (what use have his prayers ever been?), and it's up to him to set things right

[nuagederose]

Dark Roots of Earth | Chapter Two: Wild Horses

ao3 link

The sand was warm underneath Eric and Christine’s feet as the two of them walked together along the water's edge. The winds fluttered their hair behind their heads like the manes nad tails of two horses walking side by side towards the pier closest to the main artery of the highway behind them. A slight chill hung in the air around them despite it being the beginning of June: the feeling of a cold winter's rain still lingered over the crescent of Monterey Bay. She moved in closer to him to better feel the side of his body.

“Are you cold?” he asked her as his long black hair streamed behind him against the wind.

“A little bit, yeah.”

“I am, too—”

They walked along the warm, pearly white sands towards a small ring of sandpipers on the sand arranged about as if they were creating a ritual. A few pelicans took to the oceanic winds over their heads. The sun was shining and the haze of the marine layer remained way out over the ocean.

“So, where do we wanna sit?” she asked him.

“Here's good by me,” he replied with a gesture to the posts that separated the trail from the beach.

“You brought the blanket with you, didn't you?” she asked him.

“Of course! Yeah, because I see sitting on these things hurting the rear end, too.” Nevertheless, they both took their spots atop the posts like a couple of seabirds; Eric was quick to hand her a black and white cookie, to which they both gave a cheers to one another with them before they took their first bites.

“Oh, man, these are delicious,” Christine remarked as she took a bite of both the chocolate and the white frosting. “Although nothing beats the bakery back in New York. But I wouldn't trade this for the world, though.”

“Me, neither,” he assured her with a shake of his head.

She glanced up the beach to see if anyone was there, and all she could see were the marbled sand dunes plus more pelicans and sandpipers. The waves rose and fell in choppy fashion, and she imagined hearing the eerie songs of the whales underneath the water's surface.

It was a brief thought but she imagined herself in the waves, her body merely afloat upon the dark cold waters just to drift out to sea. Though brief, it was followed by her remembering the wedding. The mere suggestion sent a shiver up her spine, even though there was no denying as to how she felt about it. To go out to the waters on the third of July, just so she wouldn't have to see Alex holding hands with Captain Howdy at the altar.

“I don't want him to get married,” she confessed to him, and it sounded as though her voice drifted in on the back of the wind.

“I don't, either,” Eric assured her once he took another bite of cookie. “I don't want him to go through that whole entire process.”

“That whole entire process just to be with someone who doesn't love him,” she added. “Just to be with someone who very obviously hurts him and makes him feel vulnerable. And not the good kind of vulnerable.”

“As in... he's alone in his apartment with three feet of snow on the ground and his boots are beat to hell,” he followed along.

“And the power's out and he's got no food in the kitchen, either. And the only other flesh and blood in there with him is down the hell, waiting to possess him and take him down to hell with her.”

They fell into silence as they indulged in another couple of those cookies.

“I should probably tell you the truth about something,” she started as he closed the box.

“Go ahead,” he coaxed her over the white noise from the ocean waves.

“Well... I don't really know as to how to put it,” she confessed, to which Eric inched closer to her.

“You know how things go between us,” he assured her as he ran his fingers through his hair. “Start from the top.”

She sighed through her nose and gazed back out to the vast stretch of waves. The marine layer, a thin veil of dark gray off the distance, stayed way out over the ocean, but a part of her wished that it would make its way over to the beach just so they could further be alone there.

“There was... this girl when I was in elementary school. It was when Chris was still alive. I thought for sure that it was the best time of my life because I had lots of friends and I had my crush on Chris. In fact, she encouraged me to tell him that I liked him if and when the time came. We were friends for a long time, actually, all the way into middle school. We did each other's hair. We had sleepovers. We played table tennis in her garage, and I remember Chris joining us a bunch of times, too. We also liked to hanging out in the park and going down to Coney Island with her parents, especially. And then, when I was about twelve, she just... stopped. She stopped talking to me, stopped calling me—she even stopped sitting next to me on the bus.”

“Just totally ended it without warning?” he asked her.

“Without warning. It was just one day she decided she wasn't going to talk to me anymore.” Christine gazed out to the ocean again, that time to a catamaran out on the waters. Despite the choppy waves and the rush of the winds all around them, the boat skirted along the horizon as if nothing fazed it. The sail fluttered in the winds and the boat remained steady all the way. It passed a couple of buoys as well as a pelican that swooped low to the waters before it, but it never lifted off the water's surface.

“She was my best friend,” Christine added. “At least I thought she was.” She turned her attention over to him. “I'm not going to be one of those people who's desparate to hang out with people, but when I was hanging out with Valentina that one time, it reminded me of the times I did just that with Ann and I thought for sure that was the case with us. I knew that it could all be an illusion once again.”

“And it sounds like—I'm guessing, anyway—you feel the same way about me,” he followed along, and she sighed through her nose as she picked up a handful of sand next to her right foot and she let the grains filter through her fingers. A few shells and smoothed out black rocks peeked through the sand, and she thought of picking out a few down by the water's edge.

“As a matter of fact, I do,” she confessed. “I feel the same with Alex, too. And Nelly, and Greg and Lou, and the Sundaes, and really, anyone who comes my way. I know for a fact that I can lose all of you without warning and without rhyme or reason, and I'll die left wondering.”

Even with the fact they sat on separate posts, Eric put his arm around her right then, and Christine sighed through her nose yet again. There was a break in the winds, and the ring of sandpipers lifted from the earth and fluttered off towards the left side of the crescent, towards the wharf and land's end.

“So she quit talking to you and then some time after that, you lost Chris,” he followed along, and his voice was low despite the steady, plucky waves before them. He then shook his head. “Damn. How'd you survive your teen years, that period of life?”

“I have no clue, to be honest,” she confessed. “But somehow I did. Somehow I managed and I pulled through all the way until my last day as a nineteen-year-old. Somehow I survived without tightening the noose around my neck or letting more blood out to the bathtub. Something kept me going, and I don't know if it was Chris or something else.”

Another bout of silence, and that time, Eric let go of her so he could reach into the grocery bag again for something.

“Sometimes I feel like I'm not worth Alex's love,” she confessed again. “And I feel like I can't ask him for anything.”

“Why is that?” he asked her with a quick glimpse over his shoulder.

“Because he's a teacher and he's about a thousand feet high in comparison to everyone else. People are always wanting something from someone like him. Look no further to the times I would try to get alone with him after class and I couldn't because someone asked him a question. Or we were being interrupted by something there at school...” Her voice trailed off for a moment. “I will say this, if Ann and I were still friends, I would tell her everything about Alex. In fact, she'd probably have a better idea on how to get him away from Captain Howdy.”

Eric took out a water bottle and handed it to her. He took one for himself and they both screwed off the lids in unison.

“Just out of curiosity, am I the first person to have learned about this with you?” he asked her.

“You want the truth?” she asked him back once she took a sip from her water.

“Of course,” he replied. “Nothing but the truth.”

Christine nudged her hair back from the side of her face and licked her lips.

“Yes, you are,” she replied, and her voice once again seemed to drift in on the back of the wind. “You are the very first person, Eric. I never told my mom this, or my dad for that matter. In fact, I don't know if I could ever tell my parents about it. I remember they asked me about Ann, why she and I stopped visiting each other, and I just told them that she was busy all the time thereafter. They know about Chris, but Ann is like a shadow in the back of my mind, though.”

She returned the lid to the water bottle, and she tucked the water bottle in between her legs.

“Ann, you said her name was?” he asked her.

“Yeah. 'Ann-tastic', as my dad used to call her. Her last name escapes me now, which is weird because I actually remember her full first name being Annalyn. She was another Queens girl and... I think—I think, if I recall correctly—she was half Czech, like her dad and his parents hailed from the former Czechoslovakia.”

He raised his eyebrows at that. “Wow! How often do you hear about that now?”

“Not often,” she replied with a shake of her head. She took another sip of water and gazed down to the white wet sands down below.

“Wanna walk down by the water?” she offered him.

“Barring we don't get splashed by the waves?”

“It's only windy,” she pointed out. “I don't know when the tide's supposed to come in but I reckon it's not any time soon, though.”

They climbed down from the posts and walked on down the trail towards the softer sands down below. They were greeted by the smell of the salt as well as the quickness of the sand underneath them. Christine kicked off her shoes first, and she handed them over to Eric; he took his off as well and he tucked them into the grocery bag.

“With our food, Eric?” she demanded.

“It's okay, I put the soles towards the side of the bag,” he assured her.

“But now our cookies and things are going to smell like our feet!”

“Hey, at least it's our feet, Chris!” he insisted, and she chuckled at that.

They walked together towards where the sandpipers were congregated, and then they doubled back towards the middle of the beach, and right within view of the street to the beach itself. The wind seemed to pick up as they walked further along, and Christine lingered closer to him as a result.

At one point, she bent over and picked up a bright pink seashell the size of a peach pit.

“There's a beach down the coastline called Glass Beach,” he told her over the noise of the winds. “It's covered in nothing but sea glass, or pieces of glass that have washed ashore and they've been tumbled by the ocean. That's a beautiful seashell.”

“Yeah, it is! It's like a classic seashell, what you think of when you hear the word 'seashell.'” She turned it over and brushed off the extraneous sand tucked inside. “I think I'll give this to Alex, unless I can find another one.”

He then stopped and crouched down for the white sliver in the sand.

“It's a sand dollar!” he declared, and he handed it to her.

“Wow. And I'll give this to Valentina when we get back home.”

They both shivered against the wind as they kept walking: a wave washed ashore and pulled right back out in a thick layer of foam. The break in the waves, the gap between the breakers, told her that the rip currents had come out to play, and thus, she only returned to that thought from before, to lay down on the water and be alone for a time. Through the distant marine layer, she spotted thin but dark wisps of clouds up above, and she knew that the layer was going to come back at some point, even as the catamaran finally disappeared behind the jetty on the other side of the beach before them. It was really just watching nature from thence forth, nature unfold right before their eyes.

“You want to go back to the room?” he offered her.

“Yeah, I'm getting cold,” she replied with a shiver.

[doomedandstoned]

UK’s FROGLORD Delivers Visual Spectacle for Kaleidoscopic New EP

~Doomed & Stoned Debuts~

By Billy Goate

Artwork by Shane Horror

All Hail the Mighty FROGLORD! We've covered previous releases by the band and featured them in our Doomed & Stoned in England Vol. II compilation. Suffice it to say, we're believers!

Now the mysterious UK project is back with a new EP, and today Doomed & Stoned is giving you a first look 'n' listen with the music video premiere. LBTF((((or))))DBTS (2024), e.g. Live By The Fuzz or Die By The Slime is a three-track work where ominous tones mesh with tongue-in-cheek humor.

So, the gods decree, spoken unto thee Play it low and slow don't rush, live by the fuzz!

Our trip to the swamp begins with psychedelic blues rising like vapors in the warming sunlight. Welcome to "Live By The Fuzz," where guitars pulse like ripples on the water and we hear the sound of the hurdy-gurdy with mysterious Near-Eastern groans. You might be reminded of OM or Zaum in the first two minutes (and that's a good thing), but no worries if you're seeking a headbaning moment because it's coming with the all crash of an alligator jumping out of the bog to snag a heedless crane (at 2:38). Later, a blast beat and ferocious throaty voices take us to the edge of sanity -- or, if you're ready for it, enlightenment.

Cleanse yourself from pain, numb away the fear Hiding from impermanent endings growing near

Middle track "((((or))))" ushers us into the haze of the sun as the day dawns, and this time we're in ancient desert places and there's the addition of enchanting female vocalizations, pedal effects, and what sounds like the didgeridoo. Acolytes of the Froglord recite their purpose in hushed, drugged tones. Then the power of this mysterious force bursts forth with wild drums and intimidating roars (at 10:35). The song at last returns to those chill opening moments, taking us all the way to sundown.

In the swamp where darkness dwells A figure emerges, casting spells Creature arise, a presence so grand Deity of doom of this cursed land

Closing doomer "Die By The Slime" begins by asking Why do the living disturb the sleep of the dead? Indeed, why would one awaken such a fearsome creature of Old? It's a slow 'n' low ride, with boisterous outbursts of percussion, guttural singing, stinging guitar licks, damning riffage, and a cultish chorus. Strange rituals are afoot, and one imagines this gathering turning into a very messy bacchanal before long.

Meanwhile, the visual accompaniment is at various junctures meditative and disturbing, with trippy mirror effects and a veritable collage of hypnotic imagery. Hints of frogs (or tadpoles) lie around every corner. Maybe don't watch it on LSD!.

Froglord's 'Live By The Fuzz or Die By The Slime' (2024) to release this weekend, March 9th, on CD and cassette (get it here), as well as digital format (here).

Give ear...

SOME BUZZ

Since the dawn of time, mystics have long prophesied the coming of an ancient amphibian bestowed with death ray vision and ectoplasmic slime. Emerging from deep within The Mystic Swamp, Froglord arise bringing their unique blend of stoner groove and psychedelic doom. With face melting fuzz and foot stomping grooves, Froglord’s reign of amphibious terror shall begin.

Having released four full length albums in the last three years, Froglord returns once more. This time with a shorter three track EP, 'Live By The Fuzz or Die By The Slime.' Adopting a distinctly more blackened-psychedelic-doom sound for this release, Froglord once again showcase their ability to blend genres across their already vast discography.

Previously, Froglord records have been entirely recorded and produced as a one-person operation, however this EP sees collaboration with other artists, to bring in haunting cello and vocal acapella arrangements. 'Live By The Fuzz or Die By The Slime' is the perfect record for fans of Om, Conan, and Batushka.

Formed during the pandemic as a one-man project, Froglord released their first EP in 2020, followed soon after by their debut album. To date Froglord has built up an extensive library of releases, including, 4 albums, 3 Eps, 1 split, 1 live album, and 2 singles. In 2021 just after the release of The Mystic Toad, Froglord developed into a 4-piece band as live venues began to reopen. Since then, Froglord has quickly gained a reputation for their commanding and theatrical stage performances.

Whilst Froglord's sound leans primarily toward stoner doom, they have been characterised for their genre-bending sound, with each album taking on its own distinct style, taking strong influences from psychedelia, prog, sludge, grunge, groove and blues; to deliver the tale of The Froglord through a concept-based discography.

Currently, Froglord are set to release a single in the spring of 2024, written for the upcoming found footage horror film Frogman (dir. Anthony Cousins). As well as this original, the film also contains several older Froglord tracks.

Rooted also in environmentalism, Froglord has worked closely with Save The Frogs, the world’s largest amphibian-based conservation charity, raising over £2500 through "Save The Frogs" EP sales and campaigning, as well as £300 for the Human Dignity Trust.

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