#[in which airi sacrifices someone to survive]

[airi-of-hearts]

♥️ The Monster Within ♥️

The worst thing Airi has done to survive in the Borderlands.

Hearts. It had to be a Hearts game, of course.

Airi hadn’t given much thought to any sort of moral code back in the real world. She obviously knew what was right, what was wrong, what was valued in polite society and what kind of behavior was discouraged. But it wasn’t as if her morals were put to the test in such an extreme way in her day-to-day life.

Don’t cheat on an exam, sure.

Don’t push the girl who ruined your audition down the stairs, fine.

On and on: Do no harm. Do unto others. The golden rule.

In general, she minded her own business, even when sometimes she couldn’t raise her voice to defend herself, something fierce awoke within her when it came to standing up for her friends. “Mistreat me, I might let it pass; mistreat my friends and I’ll kick your ass” could have been her motto.

The Borderlands were deadly. In more ways than one, for this was also a place where parts of you could die even if your body didn’t. Your kindness, your ability to care for others, your will to live even.

Hearts.

Eight players, divided in pairs assigned randomly. Each pair could pick their own game, the winner of that game would clear the game, the loser would be eliminated. Players could cheat or otherwise try to win their games to the best of their abilities. If they couldn’t decide on a game or if there wasn’t a clear winner by the end of the allotted time—thirty minutes—, then both players would die.

There was a table with a chess board, a deck of cards, even a gun in case anyone felt like playing Russian roulette.

The players looked at each other, assessing their possible rivals, weighing who they’d have the best chance to win against.

A second later the screen lit up announcing the first pair: two young men that had entered the arena together. Tough luck. They looked at each other, then at the table, then both shook their heads and went to a corner of the room to talk.

The second pair was more mismatched: an older lady and a middle-aged man. The man all but ran to the table to pick up the deck of cards. ‘Poker!’ he yelled. The older lady considered for a moment then shrugged and nodded. Both of them walked wordlessly to another corner of the room to play.

So that was the trust part, every player would try to convince the other to play what they wanted, and surely all of them would try to cheat somehow.

The burly man who got paired with a skinny girl immediately proposed arm wrestling. Airi didn’t pay attention to what the girl said because she was already analyzing the last player, the one she would have to beat to clear the game. He was a young man, perhaps her age, maybe even a few years younger. He seemed anxious, scared to death. With good reason. So it’s either you or me, she thought.

She looked around the room. The guys that had arrived together were still deep in conversation, surely trying to find a way to clear the game together. That was not possible, it was not in the rules. Whatever happened, the winners would have blood on their hands.

Of course, someone could take the high road, choose to sacrifice themselves. And for what?

The screen showed Airi’s face along with that of the young man. She smiled at him. He looked at the table and then at her, undecided. Good.

‘I don’t know about you, but I don’t feel like playing chess, come on, let’s talk for a bit,’ she said.

He followed her to the remaining corner of the room.

Airi was glad none of the people she knew were here. She had promised them, she had promised her friends she would return. Andro, Cass and Hérc, Yalina, Unmei, Caspian, her beloved Aki, she thought about them. What would Soma say? What would Chishiya do? Well, if she wanted to ask them, she would have to make sure she’d see them again.

She talked to the young man, trying to make it sound like she was as scared as he was, stalling for time.

‘Let’s just flip a coin for it,’ she suggested casually with three minutes until the time ran out, taking out a coin from the back pocket of her denim shorts. ‘Good luck,’ she added.

Airi threw the coin in the air and called ‘Heads!’

The coin fell flat on the floor. Heads.

The guy was terrified, but his fear was short-lived. A little over a minute later, four red lasers took out the four players who had lost their games.

Airi picked her coin from the floor before it got drenched in blood. Her lucky two-faced coin. She barely heard the voice announce: ‘Congratulations! Game cleared.’

The moment the young man trusted her, she knew she’d won.

[pleasantanathema]

Pray to Me

Pairing: Shinsou x Fem Reader

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: Gods!AU, Rough Sex, Too Many Norse Mythology References

Word Count: 8.5k

         The frigid waters were laden with blood and ice, the salty waves licking the bows of long boats as they accosted the shores. The dark waters of the bay looked black against the fresh snow, churning oars sending sprays onto the docks as warriors returned home.

           You stood among the crowds, whips of snow billowing past your reddened cheeks, your arms crossed in protection across your chest. Despite losing the men within your family to raids and battles long ago, you always came to welcome back those who were fortunate enough to receive homecoming. Upon the sails of the ships was the symbol of your earl, dancing proudly against the winds of winter as the men and women beneath them hailed their successes from summer and autumn.

           High upon the prow of the leading ship was a carved figurehead, meticulously crafted in the image of Skoll, the wolf who hunts the moon. The wolf’s jaws were wide and within his wooden tongue was an etching of a crescent moon; the wolf with his prey in his maw was a symbol of Ragnarok, a symbol of the return of chaos. And upon the prow was a man you had never seen before.

          The man was all shades of violet and violence. His hair was the color of crushed mulberries, the long strands pushed back and wet from the sea, so deeply purple that it looked as if you were to touch him, your palms would stain with color. Blood, russet and old, crimson and fresh, was splattered across his cheeks. A warrior’s tattoos stained the expanse of his chest and arms; the thick, blue lines were heavy and sprawling from the wood ash buried within in pale skin. And his eyes, they were purple and bright, painted with black kohl. The dark smears ran down his impressive cheek bones and curled up from his eyes, appearing catlike. The curious orbs resembled the farthest stars that lined night sky.

           You expected murmurs from around the docks, but it was as if the man belonged there, towering over all the rest, hands pulling at the mouth of the wolf within the wood. He was silent power within the snow, lean and muscular, body on display as if the storm did not touch him. You felt drawn to him, like he was looking for you high upon the prow. Your feet moved before you could think. You wanted to be closer, to have those violaceous eyes upon you.

           You moved in front of the crowd, standing by the edge of the water, sand and ice crunching underfoot, but when your eyes darted to find him, he was gone. There was no trace of slick purple hair within the throngs of people. Disappointment settled into your spirit and wearily you traveled home to rest.

           For weeks you dreamt of him, saw shadows of him within the corners of your vision; illusions of a dark cat in your windows, a tawny owl upon barren branches.

            Some nights you dreamed you were sinking into a vast violet sea, trying to swim upwards to break against the surface, to breathe air into your lungs and call to Odin to rescue you. But you were stuck, some unknown force pulling at your ankles and keeping you in a watery, nebulous purgatory just below the surface. You would always give up, allow yourself to float within the celestial unknown of the eerie, mauve waters, allow yourself to feel weightless and accept that you were no longer in control. The undercurrents would push you, bring you into strong, waiting arms, and you would awaken, breathing in and feeling like for a brief moment you were whole.

           No one you asked had seen the purple haired man, save those who returned from raiding in the East. One warrior told you that the man you saw upon the prow of the ship was a land spirit, brought with them from the Balkans after blessing them with the gift of fire and aiding their struggles to survive as the weather turned bleak. Another relayed that the man was a spirit of the Wild Hunt, a straggler from the ghostly procession that attached himself to the fleet and brought the callousness of winter with him. No matter what they believed him to be, they had all seen him, the man with violet hair and violent eyes.

           You knew that the sisters were calling to you from The Well of Fate, whispering the future that they had laid before you. Something about the purple haired man, whether he be man, vestige, or spirit, made you believe that you were fated to meet him again.

           Nearly a full moon cycle passed before your curiosity could take no more. In the dead of night, you wrapped yourself in your cloak, ignoring the shadows and wisps of eyes in the dark as you made your way through the sleeping village.

You found yourself before the Seer, ancient and decrypt, asking for him to translate the gods’ wishes and intentions for your life.

           “What questions do you have of me?” His voice was as rickety as the bones that adorned his hut, rattling from stray winds. He had lived hundreds of years and now dwelled between life and death, an interpreter between gods and man.

           “Wise one, I desire to know the gods’ plans for me. I have dreams.”

           “What dreams have come to you?”

           “I dream I am drowning within the bay, and that a man saves me, but only after I stop fighting the currents.”

           There was a pregnant pause between you. The Seer considered your words. Your thumbs fiddled within your lap, and you felt heavy, like you were under the gaze of more than just the ancient one.

           “A precarious quest awaits you, one that will take you between worlds, to the land of the gods.”

           “But I do not understand. I do not adventure, nor travel. I am only a simple healer. What kind of quest could await me?”

           Below hooded eyes you watched a black tongue escape his mouth, worrying across dry lips as he pondered your words. Only a few times in your life had you visited him, well aware that fate was already the master of all, even the gods, as even they were subject to fate just like any and all other beings.

           “You shall go past where the fence separates us from the place of self-willed beasts, finding refuge in that which is chaotic, anarchic, and wild.”

           “But, Seer, I do not—.”

           “Yes, child, I know you do not understand. But such is the way of prophecy, only to be understood when it has happened, and it is too late to change it.”

           You stood to leave, seeds of fear sprouting within your spirit.

           “But do not forget there is order within the chaos.” His voice crackled like fire, calling out to you as you left his home, forging a path through the snow to your own.

           The foresights of the Seer lingered within your disposition, the cryptic words reverberating through your mind and taking hold in your daily life. You started to fight the currents in your dreams, only to wake gasping for breath after monstrous beings pulled you into the abyss. The warm arms of your illusory savior felt farther away than ever before. The murky glooms in the crevices felt stronger, grimmer, the oppressive eyes of darkness following you from every corner, every winter shade.

           Your hands began to slip as you tended to the wounded, your thoughts becoming absent as you crafted medicine or supper, often burning yourself over fires or forgetting ingredients. You felt lost, abandoned by the gods, but still yet you prayed.

           Winter continued to rage on, with the moon living within the sky at all times of day and bathing the world in a constant dusk during the desolate midwinter. Every night before you made for bed, you trekked behind the village to the isolated temple to the gods. No one was ever there. The summer raids were over, the men safely returned with riches aplenty, which, along with the great harvest, had left many believing that the gods were in good spirits and were bestowing ample blessings upon their dedicated supplicants.

           But you, you felt no love from Asgard, felt no promise of Valhalla waiting for you.

           The temple was hardly a sanctuary at all, just a hut overrun by dormant vines and overgrown with dying grass, with an altar for blood sacrifices tucked away against the back wall. Despite being a devoted village, most saved their prayers for their pilgrimage to the great temple in Uppsala, but you had become desperate. You needed to feel closer to the gods, to find the place beyond the fence that was foretold to you.

           You knelt upon a broken stone, obedient hands upon your knees as you began to pray.

        “Odin, all-father and far-wanderer, may you grant me wisdom, and    courage,

         Thor, grant me your strength, wield your hammer to break the barriers that hold my mind,

         Baldr, the beautiful, beloved by all, please bestow upon me joy and light,

         And Freya, mother of beauty, the völva, help me to discern my fate—.”

           Your prayer faltered as you heard steps crunch upon the grass. But the sound wasn’t of footsteps coming towards you, more like someone shuffling, shifting their weight within the temple.

           You were not alone.

           All your instincts began to fight one another. Your mind wanted to flee, to spring your legs and send you running to safety, but your heart felt like you needed to stay, to speak into the twilight for answers. The conflict led to you staying still and being silent. Your hands fisted upon your thighs, your eyes closing tightly. Whatever was there would go away, whoever was there would leave. Maybe there was nothing there at all, only the spirits playing tricks on you again.

           “And why haven’t you called out for me, little one?”

           The voice sounded like vibrations from within the deepest ocean; deep, unfathomable, and a little wicked.

           He was there, before you, arms across his tattooed chest that was on display under emerald linen and violet head cocked to the side. He was grinning, like a cat would upon discovering new prey. His purple hair was arched into wild plumes, his skin rubbed clean but the kohl still upon his cheeks and around his eyes. He was handsome in the firelight, fiendishly so.

           “Who are you?” Your voice was a whisper, so light and airy it floated away into the darkness.

           “Who am I?” He laughed, leaning against the sacrificial altar, a blatant disrespect for the gods.

           “Who am I…” he repeated it, drawing circles in the dirt with his toe. He shifted his weight back and forth for a moment, eyes closing as he picked up an imaginary rhythm.

           “A creaking bow, a burning flame, tide on the ebb, new ice, a coiled snake…”

           Your breath caught in your throat, fingers twitching in your lap. You recognized the pattern and knew what words came next. It was an old saying your mother used to whisper under her breath, a chant for the old women and those who held superstitions. It was a warning, a rhythmic song to help children remember to stay safe, to avoid perils.

           Your mouth opened before you could stop it, finishing the proverb for him.

           “The sons of a king, an ailing calf, a witch’s flattery. No man should be such a fool as to trust these things. For they are the trickster in disguise.”

            “Aha, so you do know me, girl. Yet after all this time, I’ve never heard you pray to me. Why is that?”

              He crouched down to your level, his startling, devilish eyes gleaming like amethyst. He was too close and you felt yourself leaning away, back arching and neck aching as you tried to pull yourself from his gaze.

             “No one prays to you, trickster god.”

              He merely shrugged, a strong hand reaching for you. Rough fingers found your chin, pulling you closer as his eyes danced across the planes of your face. You began to shake, overwhelmed by being in the presence of perhaps the most dangerous god.

            “And how do you know I am he?” he laughed, thumb running over your lips, “I could be Heimdall, sent by Odin to watch over such a devout and…fascinating little creature.”

           “Because you’re so…” you paused as you looked for the words. You felt like you were drowning within his gaze, falling to the ground even though you hadn’t moved since he appeared.

           He stood quickly, turning on his heel and smirking.

           “Because I’m so what? Handsome? Charming? Surprisingly muscular for a god who uses wits and magic to seduce his subjects?”

            He pouted at your silence, wanting more of a reaction.

          “What if I told you I could be beautiful instead? Would that hex you?”

           This time he didn’t give you an opportunity to respond. Within a haze of smoke, he transformed.

           A languid, sensuous body appeared between the mists. Voluptuous breasts met your eyes, smooth thighs peeking from beneath an exquisite olive dress. Long, violet tresses fell down the woman’s back, curling so perfectly she looked to be unreal. But his eyes stared at you from the feminine face, dark lavender and sinister upon high cheekbones.

          “Hmm,” she sighed, holding her hand out for you to take.

          You took the soft hand outstretched to you, surprised at the strength behind the grip as she pulled you to your feet. The goddess was tall and slender, and she gazed at you while she pondered whatever was on her mind.

          “Still not as beautiful as you…” her voice was melodic as she looked over her own body, swaying within the graceful skin for a moment before catching your gaze and stopping. You stood still, heart pounding in your chest as you gazed at the hermaphrodite before you. Her lashes fluttered as a familiar smirk spread across her features.

          It was as if she was floating when she neared you again, purple hair uncontrollable and suspended within the air. Her tender hands came to your cheeks, pursing your mouth with her thumbs.

         “No…nothing is as beautiful as you, little servant.” Her supple lips overwhelmed your own. You gasped, hands flying to her chest to stop her, only to have your fingers sink into the luscious valley of her breasts. A chuckle fans across your face, more masculine than feminine, and the mixture of the voice had shivers of excitement and pleasure racing down to your toes. You were too shocked, too scared to kiss back, but she didn’t seem to mind. Her lips moved against yours gently, pleadingly, only becoming more active when the delicate hands upon your cheeks converted to thick fingers and rough calluses.

           Before your eyes the god shifted again, returning to the fetching masculine figure that he was before. You could smell him now, taste him, like smoke from smoldering coals and the residue of rain from within a summer’s forest. Your hands were still upon his chest, your fingers brushing against the skin that was on display between the open buttons of his tunic. His kiss was intoxicating, a hum of magic upon his lips as he drank you in.

           “You’re a greedy little thing, aren’t you?” He chuckled, licking your lips wantonly before pulling away.

           “Why have you been haunting me?” You demanded between heavy breaths, emboldened by his kiss.

            “Haunting you? No, no. I’ve been watching you. Observing you. You looked so…sinless among the throngs when I sailed in all those weeks ago. I must say I am very pleased by the things I have seen.”

            “And what have you seen?” Your voice snapped; tongue sharp.

            His hands caressed your upper arms, eyes glancing across your body as if he was admiring a pattern within runes that he had seen a thousand times before.

           “You serve…everyone. The gods, the people in this village, you tend to the weak spirited and the broken bodied, you serve everyone but yourself.”

            The god grew quiet, leaning forward to inhale the sweet scent of your hair. His lips pressed to your temple, thumbs stroking your arms through the thin fabric of your clothing. His breath fanned into your hair and you suddenly felt your heart begin to beat more slowly. It was as if his presence alone, his touch, could calm the raging turmoil within your mind.

            “Now, I want you to serve me.”

            “Yes,” you said too quickly, a knee buckling as you prepared to kneel, “of course, anything for a go—.”

           “Shinsou.” His hands held you in place, kept you from bowing to him. He watched as your head tilted and your brow furrowed, obviously wanting to please him. “Shinsou is the name my friends call me, and as shall you.”

          “Shinsou.” You tentatively said the name back to him. Your people knew him as Loki, but to know a more intimate name made tingles of warmth spread across your chest, like he was entrusting knowledge unknown by mortals into you.

           He became violet and beautiful as you said his name, a warm smile decorating his striking face. The safe feeling of your dreams washed over you. These arms, his arms, his hands and his body, were the safety you had been dreaming of that saved you from the tumultuous seas. You stared at him for a moment, hands feeling a heartbeat within his chest. He looked so human, felt so real, yet still an otherworldly air swirled so poignantly around him. Everything inside of you wanted to fall into him, to feel enveloped by his spirit.

        “I’m going to take you away,” he whispered it, hand trailing from your arm to your face, tucking hair behind your ear in a most affectionate way, “you’ll never have to come back here, unless you want to.”

        “Take me away? To Asgard?” Your breath hitched as you said the name of the haven of the gods.

          He laughed, the sound like honey dripping across your soul.

         “No, little one. I am of the giants; don’t you remember the ancient stories? To Jotunheim we will go.”

          Your brow lightened, remembering the words of the Seer. Jotunheim, your brain wracked over the word, letting it roll within your thoughts until it revealed what you were looking for. Útgarðr, you realized, the name of that same place given by your ancestors. It meant the world outside your own, the world of chaotic wilds that surrounded Midgard. The place beyond the fence.

         This Loki—this Shinsou—was indeed fated to you after all. You felt the connection from the moment you saw him sailing in the winter winds, felt it even more profoundly as he held you before him in the temple. For some reason, the trickster god had chosen you, or perhaps he was merely following fate, testing you for all this time to see if you were truly the human girl destined for him. He was a sign of change, his hands wrapped around the prow of the ship that was carved into a symbol of Ragnarok, the end of the cycle of this world. He was proving to be a carrier of the end times, at least the ending of your own mundane life. And just like Ragnarok, you had a feeling that with this end would come a new beginning, that Shinsou was taking you away but leading you to a new life, a new destiny, far beyond what you could ever imagine.

          “Take my hand,” it was a polite command, his words weighty but light enough to promise that you could decline.

            You felt something between his fingers, a quietness, a wickedness you could not quite name. It was like a dull thrum of lightening humming between your skin and his. Billows of smoke weaved between your bodies. Just as quickly as he transformed into a woman, Shinsou had you whisked away, transported so rapidly you felt dizzy. You clung to him, your godly refuge, light flashing as your feet found new purchase upon what felt like a floor.

            For a moment, you thought the room was a mirage. It was unlike anything had ever seen before, so lavishly decorated with lush furs, viridian curtains, polished stone and warm fires. Books lined every wall and the air smelled of perfumes and incense, even a fountain sprung from stones in the far corner. It was truly unearthly, but his arms around you felt like home.

           His head rested upon your shoulder from behind, his palms flattening on your chest to feel your heartbeat as you took in the sights around you.

           “This is…this is your home?” One of your hands gripped a muscular forearm.

            “Mhm, more like a home away from home, a safe haven.”

             He uncurled himself from you, a stout hand pushing at your lower back to urge you to explore. You padded around the room, fingers caressing the spines of books along the walls, finding many in languages unknown to you. Between many of the tomes were vases and trinkets, some glowing with mystic hues, humming with magic well beyond your comprehension.

           “What will you have me do here?” Your breath caught as you turned to find him. He seemed so large and ominous within the space, like was the commander of the room and the only ornament to be admired within the vast collection around you.

          “You haven’t figured it out? My, and I thought you were keener than most mortals.”

            He rolled his shoulders, sighing with content as he removed his tunic, tossing it into the air to only have it dissipate before your eyes in a bright flash of magic. His tattoos seemed darker in the dim light, like the blackest earth pressed into his skin. A serpent trailed down one of his impressive biceps, his other arm decorated in a swirl of runes and etchings of a wolf and a horse, his chest covered with a dark, ethereal depiction of Yggdrasil, the world tree, it’s branches spreading across strong pectorals and its roots weaving between the hard muscles of his stomach.

         “Come,” he motioned to you with his fingers, “come back and touch me.”

          You had no hesitation, coming to his call like a pet would their master. It felt safe to be back in his arms again, to have your fingers running over the indigo lines of art upon his handsome skin. He proudly showed you his arms, eyeing you with great interest as you admired him.

         “Your children,” you mused softly, tracing the pictures so marvelously stretched upon his musculature.

        “Yes,” he laughed softly, “my children. Call me sentimental, if you must.” The enormous snake was no doubt Jormungand, the serpentine dragon that encircled all the oceans, all of Midgard. Then there was Fenrir, the ferocious wolf that was chained away somewhere from all humanity and gods alike, in wait to break his binds and eat the world as the end began again. And then there was Sleipnir, the eight-legged horse that bore the weight of Odin in all of his battles. They were all wild creatures, the offspring of the unfathomably powerful god before you. They were all beasts of anarchy, yet they looked so beautiful upon his skin, so harmless within the ink.

       “Order within the chaos…” you whispered, echoing the words of the Seer.

       “I want you.”

       His powerful voice rumbled from within his chest. It startled you, caused your wandering hands to cease upon his arms and become still before him.

       “Why?” Breathless. You felt breathless.

        “I have traveled every inch of the nine worlds, regarded every corner for fascinations and enthrallments, yet it was in the homeland where I found what I wanted. You are the most beautiful, pliant little create I have ever beheld, and I want you within my bed.”

       “No, you can’t! I’m nothing, no one of importance, you…you can’t.”

        He left you then, smirk adorning his features as he sauntered to his bed, waiting for you to follow. And you did, an unspeakable urge to touch him, to follow him, to feel him, to be overwhelmed by him, drawing you to him like a fox to its den, to its safety.

        “Well, if you don’t want me, my brother Katsuki would give up his fates in order to have such an alluring woman within his sheets.”

       “Katsuki?”

        He paused, rolling his eyes and crossing his arms, that playful grin still upon his lips.

         “Thor, if you rather. We all have many names, but I only want mine to come from your tongue. So many nights I waited to hear you pray to me, call out to me within your dreams, but I tired of lingering. So now I will have you say it, scream it, for me, little servant.”

         He pulled you into his lap, hands greedy upon your flesh, pulling at your thighs and sinking between your ribs. He looked untamed upon the bed, hair almost purposely unruly and muscles rolling and ready to hunt what he wanted to take.

         “Do you think you can do that for me? Pray to me? Call out for me like you need me?”

           Thick fingers gripped at your cheeks; violet eyes hazy like storm clouds above the ocean. You were reminded that he was a devious deity, a shapeshifter, a trickster, the one thing that your elders warned you about as a child. A burning flame, tide on the ebb, new ice, a coiled snake, he was all those deceitful things and more. He was the epitome of chaos, yet he had chosen you, desired you, and you knew that deep within your spirit you wanted him as well. He was handsome beyond compare, but his physical splendor was not all that had you holding onto him. Behind those eyes was a promise of release from every woe, a chance to experience pleasure like you had never known before.

         “Yes, Shinsou, whatever you desire.”

          “So devoted to the gods,” he whispered, bringing you flush against his body, “now I’ll make you feel like one.”

          Slowly, he ran his hand downward, finding the intimate, remarkably soaked place between your legs. He could feel your wetness from beneath your wool coverings and a satisfied groan builds within his throat as his lips curl even more sharply, devilishly.

         “So wet for me already,” he chuckles, wrist flicking and sending your clothing away.

         You gasped, feeling the threads peel away from your body by what felt like imaginary hands. Just like his tunic before, your shirt and trousers were gone, whisked away to perhaps another dimension never to be seen again.

        “Look at you,” he boasts, keeping one hand tucked between your slick thighs as the other rakes across your curves, pinching, pulling, teasing at your flushed skin, “not even the goddesses compare to you. Mhm, thank the All Father for breathing life into you, I must thank him for creating such beauty.”

         Your mouth could barely stammer a thanks. You were beguiled, stunned within his lap, your legs stretched over gloriously muscled thighs. You almost felt shameful to be on such display for him, but the hunger in his eyes and the hardening cock underneath told you just how pleased he was to have you.

        A deft finger began to circle your most sensitive spot, making you bite your lip as a groan burned within your throat. He was slow and deliberate with his movements, gaze catching every breath you made, every shift and roll of your body. You felt hot, unbearably so, as his finger toyed with you so languidly.

       His other hand found your breast, cupping it and testing its weight within his giant palm. His thumb grazed your nipple, circling it at the same pace and movement as your clit. He grinned as he watched you slowly come undone, felt your walls and insecurities crumbling away at his touch.

        Shinsou then took your sensitive clit between two fingers, rolling it so perfectly that it sent sparks of pleasure racing across your nerves, surging from your thighs to your toes and back again. He kept going, stroking sensually, purposely, with such expert skill that you felt you could cum just from his slightest touches. Is this what being with a god felt like? Like you were constantly on the edge of euphoria, every touch and stroke like the gift of life within your body?

      Your head tipped back as you moan, giving in to the overwhelming pleasure. He watched with glee as the column of your throat was on display for him. He took a moment to press his hot mouth against your flesh, sucking roughly against the side of your neck like he was taking your pleasure for himself. You could only moan again, the sensations already drowning you in such bliss you were surprised your inner coil of pleasure hadn’t broken for him already. He was an expert in giving pleasure just like he was the art of manipulation and sorcery.

      All too easily he moved you below him on the bed, his impressive body now hovering over your own, mouth still biting at your neck, fingers still circling your nipple and caressing your pussy.

     “Tell me what you want,” it was a soft command against the slick skin of your neck.

       “You,” you breathed in deep, breasts pressing against his tattooed chest with your inhale, “please, more.”

       “More of what? Of this?” he pinched at your nipple, tugging it and twisting it so wantonly that you couldn’t help but to shriek in pleasure for him, “or this?” his two fingers danced along the lips of your pussy, sliding between the wet folds before returning to your aching clit, swirling against it so proficiently that you felt your inner muscles clenching and begging for release.

        “All of it, I want everything.”

       “My, my, you are a greedy little thing.”

        All at once, he ceased his motions, easing the pressure upon your body and leaving you wanting, burning, begging for more. But he is not gone from you. His fingers, coated in your slick, tauntingly trace over your clit once more, so light it’s like the kiss of life just barely brushing over your delicate flesh. You began to writhe in response, needing more friction, needing more of his touch, but he moved his weight upon your body to suppress you. He was teasing, purposely neglecting to give you the stimulation you so desired.

         “Any time you want more, you say my name, little one. Say my name and I can give you everything you desire.”

         “Shinsou, please.”

          He groaned, he himself coming undone at the sound of your voice. He couldn’t even begin to explain how gratifying it was to hear his name come from your lips. He was no fool of a god, he knew no one prayed to him, but he wanted you to pray to him more than anything he had ever desired before. Your songs of praise would fill him in ways a mere mortal could never fathom; your prayers, his name from your mouth, was more intoxicating than any substance Odin had ever created. To have you, a devoted child of the gods, calling his name while he stole your faith away from every other god and claimed it all for himself, fulfilled him beyond measure.

        His touch trailed lowered, finding your puckered pussy pulsing and waiting, ready for him. He entered a single finger, a heavy moan of approval ghosting against your neck as your inner walls contracted around him, pulling him deeper into you.

        “So fucking tight,” he lifted his head, finding your eyes closed and pretty mouth agape, “I can’t wait to have my cock in you.”

          Waves of pleasure rocked over your body as he moved his finger within you, curling it to massage the fleshy walls, quickly finding a sensitive spot to stroke against. His palm pressed against your clit as he buried another finger into you, the two digits working in tandem to spread you, spear you onto his thick fingers, pushing them far into your depths. Every plunge had you gasping, bursts of bliss spreading across your skin like flames.

         His mouth returned to yours as he fingered you, hot and heavy, but his kiss felt controlled, like he was holding back. You reacted quickly, pushing up into him with all your strength, arms circling his neck and pressing him for more. You wanted what he can give, all of it, and you showed him with your actions. Your hands fisted into those vivid purple plumes of hair, tugging as your hips began to match the speed of the hand working within you. You moaned, loud, desperately, your tongue prodding his lips. He graciously accepted your tongue, opening his mouth and wrestling against you. His tongue licked your own, slow and wet, tasting you and groaning at the sweetness.

        “Shinsou,” it was a murmur against his mouth, but he heard it, soaked it up and began to thrust and curl his fingers faster than before. You cried out at the pleasure, mouth falling from his.

         “You like it a little rough, hm? You’re so easy to read, my dear. I am going to make you cum so hard you’ll be begging for all that I have planned for you.”

            His words had your cheeks and ears burning with a blush. He only grinned, choosing to prop himself onto one arm so he could watch you. With every flick of his wrist, every move of his fingers inside of you, he watched your face. He watched how your lips curled, how your jaw clenched. He felt your hands twist in his hair; felt how you would pull on the violet strands in desperation when he touched the perfect spots. His eyes scanned your body as well, watching what made your breasts bounce, your stomach clench, your walls tighten around his fingers. It didn’t take the god long to discover exactly what made you tick.

          He rapidly increased his pace, using his newfound knowledge to make your body feel like it could explode at any moment. He touched you just right, plunged his fingers so perfectly as to keep you on the edge of your euphoria for as long as he could. Truthfully, he could’ve kept you in suspense forever, but Shinsou was not a god known for his patience. He wanted to watch you cum, wanted to see your face when you came around the fingers of perhaps the most reviled deity. One even you wouldn’t dare pray to.

        “You ready?” He called your name, making your eyes flutter open to see him. He saw the lust within your brilliant irises, your dilated pupils, and that sight alone had his cock harder than it ever had been before. He was no longer sure he could keep his composure as he watched you come undone.

        He leaned down closer, close enough to catch your breath within his mouth. He would’ve expected you to kiss him had you not been so far gone, so close to otherworldly release that your lips could no longer form words.

        “Cum for me,” that wicked tone of voice was back, his fingers now slamming into your body, “cum for a god, little mortal.”

         His thumb returned to your clit, showing it no mercy as he rubbed tight, fast circles against it. His words, his fingers, his body, his breath, it was all too much.

        “Sh-Shinsou!”

          You reached a high you had never felt before as you came for him. Your head felt dizzy, like you were back to drowning within your dreams, waves and waves of euphoria crashing over you so roughly you felt like you were sputtering for air amidst the onslaught of pleasure. Your walls clenched and unclenched around his unceasing fingers, your chest tightening, your core exploding, heat blooming from every patch of skin he had dared to touch. You screamed. Over and over, the bliss felt never ending, and he baited you for even more.

       “That’s right, cum all over my fingers, just like that, just how I want you.”

        It felt like he was drawing your orgasm from your body, pulling everything he could from you. His thumb still stroked your clit, fingers still buried deep within your body as you quivered around him. Your thighs clamped around his thick forearm as you finally began to descend from your high, body loosening and sinking into his bed.

         He finally stilled his movements. He merely smirked as he watched your chest heave with breaths as you basked in the afterglow of your pleasure.

         “Good girl,” he cooed. In the haze you realized how much you wanted to hear those words again, recognized how much you wanted to please him. You wanted more of those encouraging words, more of his admiration, wanted to know how much of a good girl you really were. Your spirit suddenly craved even more, despite the world-shattering orgasm still lingering within your muscles, your blood, your soul.

        You felt empty when his fingers left you, but watched in shocked delight as he brought the digits to his awaiting mouth. He sat up before you, sucking at his skin and cleaning your slick from his fingers with a very greedy tongue. He looked wild, uncaged, like the wolf Skoll had finally eaten the moon and brought the world to end.

       “Fuck,” you whispered in awe, scrambling for purchase against his sheets as you propped on your elbows to watch him.

       He quirked a brow as he slid his tongue between his fingers, relishing your slick as if it was the sweetest honey.

       “I’m sorry, did I make the pious girl curse?”

        “I’m not pious!” You countered, feeling flustered, shaking your head and pouting as he only laughed.

         He smirked as he finished cleaning his fingers, crawling up the bed and pulling you into his lap.

         “I dare not argue, not after those delicious sounds you just made for me.”

          Shinsou quelled any words that were forming in your mind with a kiss, his lips tasting of you. You moaned against him, feeling his arms snake around your back and hold you to him. His cock was hard and heavy, now prodding against your still pulsating pussy.

         “Mhm, how will I take you?”

          It was a pondering to himself, but the words still made you tremble. Your nails bit into his shoulders, your nipples hardening as they brushed against the downy hairs of his chest. His strong hands found the flesh of your ass, lifting you to hover over his large, throbbing erection. You held in a breath, waiting, expecting him to take you hard and fast and now, but he merely teased your entrance.

        “This way?”

          The head of his cock began to spread your lips apart, warm and silken and making you drip even more than before. He sat there for a moment, using the strength of his arms to lift and drop you just ever so slightly onto his cock, each little movement making you gasp.

          But then the anchors of his arms were gone, sliding down your thighs as he laid you back on the bed. So easily he moved on top of you again, one hand gripping your thigh, the other slithering up your body to wrap around your tender, kiss bruised throat.

        “Or perhaps like this?”

         He held you against the bed, cock still hard and waiting between your spread thighs, sliding ever so gently against your pussy. His fingers flexed against your throat and he watched how your eyes flashed with want, with need.

          “I could always take you as a woman. You fell so easily into my kiss when I transformed earlier, hm? Would you like that?”

           He could feel your gulp underneath his palm, shaky and deep.

          “No,” he was smirking, plotting. His deft fingers took your hip into his hand and flipped you over, both hands skimming down your body and pulling you up onto your knees. With a stern hand he kept your breasts pressed into the mattress by applying pressure to your shoulder blades, positioning you just how he wanted. You felt even more exposed than before, your pussy open and wanting and waiting, spread before his hungry eyes like a meal ready to be devoured.

          The head of his cock was back at your opening, prodding your lips apart and slowly sinking into you with agonizing slowness. You held your breath, hands fisting into the sheets. He continued to open you more and more, his cock thick and hot. His hand on your hip constrained you securely, keeping you locked into place. The hand on your back did the same, his hold strengthening as he felt you writhe before him.

        “Yes,” he purred, cock easing into you, “this is how I want my little servant.”

          But the rocking of his hips stopped, the head of his cock now barely pressing inside of you. You breathed heavily against the sheets, sweat trickling down the back of your neck in anticipation. Without being able to see him, face him, you could only feel him. You felt his fingertips press deeper into the curve of your ass, as if readying himself, or perhaps attempting to use restraint. The hand on your back was steady, keeping smooth pressure on your skin. His thighs were solid and strong against your own, his breaths even, his cock so fucking hard.

        You cried out in anguish, your aching pussy clenching around the head of his cock.

       “Please, Shinsou!”

       “Pray to me.”

         His tone was nefarious, teasing, almost inhuman in how deeply it reverberated from within that broad chest. You closed your eyes and imagined how the sound must have climbed the dark branches of the world tree upon his skin.

      “Pray to me like you did to the other gods in the temple. I want to hear that pretty voice beg for me to fuck you.”

        That breathless feeling returned. Your heart began to race, mind rolling around too many thoughts at once that couldn’t be comprehended within your lusty haze. You hastily mulled over words within your head.

         “Shinsou…” you began, feeling his fingers begin to mark crescent moons into your flesh, feeling the tip of his cock throb within your core, “wielder of cunning, god of mischief, I beg of you, please bestow upon me great joy and pleasure, take my body as this offering to you, so that I may serve you and grant you the indulges of the flesh—!”

         With your final praises tumbling from your lips, he slammed his cock deep inside of you, stretching and spreading you and making you feel like he had set your body alight with magic. Your body lurched forward, nearly toppling over from the power of his thrust, but his strong hands kept you in place, allowing him to begin a brutal speed. Your ass bounced forcefully against his hips, breasts jostling with every thrust. One of his hands curled around your waist to your lower stomach, and he groaned when he realized he could feel his cock bulge from inside of you. He became heedless then, impaling you with reckless abandon, eager to feel your belly swell from the onslaught of his cock.

        The forcefulness of his fucking left your muscles aching and your lungs breathless. You were now moaning with every plunge of his cock, as with each stroke he lit a fresh burst of pleasure that rippled across your entire body akin to the streams of enchantments you had seen him wield.

         You felt like you were slipping away, having to fight to keep your thoughts alive as he brought you up the mountain of euphoria with just the heavy strokes of his cock.

        “Don’t fight the currents. Let go for me.” He grunted the words between thrusts.

         You allowed ecstasy to fully wash over your body, allowed his hands to guide you, hold you, take you to far beyond what you once thought the limits of pleasure entailed.

          Shinsou moved the hand from your back to your shoulder, using the leverage to pound your body back against his. You could only moan at the feeling, of being so full of his cock, of hearing his groans join the chorus of your own. You clung to the bed with what strength you have left, allowing him to completely take the reins of control and have his way with you.

          With each and every thrust, he pulled you back at different angles, trying you, testing you, watching you, seeing which way he fucks you makes you react the most. He listened for sharp cries and deep moans. He felt for your walls to flutter, your abdominal muscles to tighten, learned your body and fucked you with a chaotic yet controlled force.

         He leaned over your back, hand moving to your neck, pulling your face up from the sheets. This position has him somehow deeper, head of his cock kissing where the curve of your cavern meets your cervix, farther than any had ever gone before. He filled you to the brim, stretched you so wide you felt you could burst, the intense pleasure of it all bringing tears to the corners of your lashes.

         He brought your face closer to his, so that he can kiss your cheek as he fucks you, feel your hair against his chin, watch your breasts bounce so unabashedly from his force.

         “You like this, hm? Serving me? Letting me fuck you like this?”

         “Yes, yes!”

          He squeezed the hand on your stomach, making you moan as you felt the massive cock from inside of you press against your belly.

        “You like being so full of my cock? No mortal could ever fuck you like I do!”

        “Yes—fuck—you feel so, so good, Shinsou!”

         You could feel sweat on his skin, feel his heart beating like a caged raven within his chest. He felt so human, felt so real, but the euphoria he brought you was transcendental.

        “You’re such a good girl, such a dirty girl, for me, only me.”

         His powerful words were becoming whispers within your hair, vestiges upon your skin. You could only nod, the plowing of his cock into your core now leaving you more breathless than before. You could feel your release nearing, the flames being fanned by every stroke of the head of his cock against your walls, every push of his hand against your belly.

        Your slick was dripping down your thighs, pussy so wet that every time his cock assailed your core your ears were met with the sinful sound of drenched bodies meeting one another in animalistic rut. You were climbing the orgasmic ladder again, aided by the sublime feel of his crushing hands upon your neck, your stomach, his vast chest against your back, rough lips pulling your face into him, and his thick, repetitive cock drumming into you.

      Your mind was on sensory overload, your body uncontrollably bucking against him, begging for another otherworldly release. You could feel your walls clenching around his cock, your body pleading on its own. Pleasure was singing down your body, bringing pure delight and bliss with every pulse, every push of his cock. You were so close, so fucking close, all you needed was for him to allow you to go over the edge. You had submitted to his currents and knew only he could bring the ebb and flow of release.

     You began to chant his name in prayer.

    “Fuck yes, little one, just like that. Oh you’re so good, aren’t you?”

    “Yes, yes,” you choked out, nearly sobbing for relief, “so, so good for you!”

     “Then cum, cum for me!”

      He roared the words against your cheek, his command overwhelming you and sending you spiraling as the waves of euphoria returned, crashing over your body like a tumultuous sea. Your body crumpled underneath his and he held you, the violent tightening of your body sending the god himself over the edge. Hot cum poured inside of you, making you cry out at the magnificent feeling of being completely filled by him. Your snug walls struggled to flutter around the girth of his cock, prolonging your orgasm and making you feel suspended within his arms, gasping for breath and reveling in every dull thump of his cock inside of you.

     He held you for a long moment, hand against your belly, hand around your neck. It was his turn to bask in the afterglow of sex, to feel wholly spent and satisfied with the girl he had handpicked for himself. You were perfect in his arms, hands fisted into his sheets, lips swollen, his seed dripping from where he was still lodged within your depths. You’d let go, allowed him to have you, to take you, and there was no way in the nine fucking realms he was ever letting you go.

     Shinsou kept you within his embrace as he collapsed to the bed, inked chest heaving and Jormungand curling around your back to hold you against him.

    “Mhm, all the scheming I had to do to get you here, in my bed, filled with my cum.”

    “Scheming?” You asked into his chest.

    “What, you didn’t think all those dreams were coincidence, no?”

     You sat up to look at him, all tussled violet hair, kohl on his cheeks smeared, grin upon his lips.

     “And the cats? The owls? All those eyes on you in the dark? All that time spent waiting for you, little one. I even had to whisper my indecent plans to the Seer. Can you imagine that conversation? At least he put it into fun little riddles for you to decipher.”

    “I—I can’t believe you would do all of that, for me. You could’ve just taken me.”

    He snorted at your remark.

     “I did. My hand was forced to interrupt your fucking daily prayer time and beguile you away.”

     You nestled back to him, sinking into his skin, his touch.

     “Well, I am gleefully bewitched.”

      “And to think,” he chuckled, curling a finger under your chin and bringing your eyes to his, “all you had to do was pray to me.”

      You were far too tired for rebuttal, choosing to instead settle with a kiss. He had chosen you. And for that you were filled with adoration, filled with a need to please far greater than you had ever desired to find the veneration of any other god. It was all for him, for a god who had no doubt tricked you into his bed.

__________________________________

This was written for the Citrus Dome writing collab.

[sassyhobbits]

Could you please write post Kingdom of Ash fic where Aelin has to go back to Doranelle with Rowan on important business or something and she deals with her trauma going back/ meets Rowans family/ Rowan repairs his relationship with his cousins? Pretty please 🥺

loved this idea and had so much fun writing it!! combined with the modified prompt of “living is so much harder than dying. are you sure youre fit for living?”

here’s day 5 everyone!!

~~~

It had been three years since Aelin Galathynius had stepped foot in the City of Rivers.

Her first two visits to Doranelle had been… less than pleasant, to say the least. Most sane people who had gone through what Aelin had would never get within a hundred miles of the city. But, Aelin had never been one to allow a shitty experience or two keep her away.

In the three years since the end of the war, Terrasen had slowly been rebuilt. Aelin had gotten used to her role as queen, had gotten used to peace. Although it had been hard and strenuous work, it was worth it. Every struggle and late night, argument with lords and advisors, had led to happiness for her people. Aelin would do just about anything for them.

Part of being queen, Aelin had quickly learned, was responding to correspondences from other kingdoms. Sometimes, they weren’t all that bad. She liked to write to Dorian, enjoyed the sporadic letters she received from Manon. But there were plenty of others that were less fun. Taxes, proposals, budgeting.

But, a few weeks ago, she received a letter from Rowan’s cousin, Sellene, the new Queen of Doranelle. She invited both Aelin and her husband for a diplomatic visit to her lands.

“Are you sure about this, Fireheart?” Rowan had murmured to her one night, curled up in his arms in bed. “You don’t have to go.”

Aelin understood his concern. The last time she had been to Doranelle, she had been beaten and bruised within an inch of her life, patched back together, only to go through the process again the next day. Maeve had certainly done a number on her. But Aelin would be damned if she let the bitch get the last laugh.

“I want to go, Ro,” Aelin assured him. “I want to see where you grew up, get to know your family better.”

I need to go, is what she didn’t have to say, but knew Rowan understood. Aelin had conquered many of her fears in the years since the war, but there were still nights she woke up screaming, still nights when it was impossible to tell the difference between the darkness of night and the darkness of the iron coffin.

She needed to go back to the place where she had been brought down to her lowest. Needed to prove that she was strong, and that she had triumphed.

And so it was decided. The queen and king consort would sail east.

They stayed a week in Wendlyn with Aelin’s cousin, Galan. Since he had sailed to her aid during the war, they had formed a closer friendship. It was good to see him, to see the kingdom from which her mother hailed.

From there, they traveled by carriage to Doranelle.

“Much nicer than the first time we made this journey,” Aelin remarked one afternoon from the comfort of their carriage, resting her head against Rowan’s shoulder.

“You certainly smell better.”

Rowan earned himself a slug on the shoulder for that little comment.

They passed into the City of Rivers discreetly, not truly wanting to deal with a huge welcoming party. Aelin convinced Rowan to take a day to themselves, for her husband to show her the city itself. The beautiful, simple lives of the citizens of Doranelle. How Rowan had grown up.

It was a perfect day. Aelin loved seeing Doranelle in all its glory. It was truly a work of art, unlike anything she had ever witnessed in her years traipsing the continent. They wore hoods despite the mild, spring weather, the both of them far too recognizable now to move freely without some sort of disguise. It brought her back to the days of being Adarlan’s Assassin.

Rowan brought her to some of his favorite places growing up, showed her a block that sold the traditional street foods of Doranelle for lunch. He bought her some sweets and took her to a lovely park, where they lounged under the shade, just talking and sharing kisses. He took her to a nice restaurant for dinner, snagging a private back room for just the two of them. It was all perfect.

And then the next day, they woke and readied themselves to head to the palace. Aelin managed to wrangle her husband into something nice, though he protested it on the basis of it just being his cousins. She wouldn’t hear of it.

That first day in Doranelle, exploring the streets as nothing more than another citizen, Aelin had been nothing but content and relaxed… but the first sight of that wide, curving bridge that would lead them to the palace had her heart beating just a little bit faster.

She remembered the last time she had crossed this bridge beside Rowan. She had still been going by Celaena then, freshly nineteen, just stepping into her power and her status. Terrified, though she never would have admitted it then. She had already been falling in love with Rowan, and her newly healed heart certainly wouldn’t have survived losing him.

She knew Rowan noticed the small change in her demeanor, feeling him squeeze her hand comfortingly.

They were greeted by Sellene, who was just as elegant and beautiful as Aelin remembered. It was clear she had stepped into her role as ruler with dignity and grace. She embraced Aelin like she was an old friend, making her feel truly welcome.

They were shown to their rooms, given time to settle in and refresh themselves before they would meet in court before dinner.

Their quarters were lovely: bright, open, and airy. The glassless windows allowed for the sweet spring breeze to blow into their room. There was a large bath that Aelin had full intentions of making use of that evening. Hopefully with Rowan. He wouldn’t need much convincing.

Some of Sellene’s ladies came in to help Aelin prepare, making sure her hair was thoroughly brushed and gleaming, twisted up in perfection before placing her crown on top. Her gown was a lovely piece of Terrasen green and intricate silver embroidery.

By the time they were both ready, they made quite a pair. Striking, indeed. Aelin made sure she complimented her husband thoroughly as they made the short trip from their chambers to the throne room.

It managed to distract both Rowan and herself. She barely took in the halls they walked through, some of it twinging deep recesses in her memory, like some sort of dream. But, she forced herself to focus on Rowan, the man she loved, lest the memories get the better of her.

The next thing she knew, they were being announced as they strolled leisurely through the crowded throne room. Fae nobility bowed and curtsied as they walked by, sending them wide, broad grins.

The throne room was so different than Aelin had remembered it. When it had been Maeve perched on that throne, it had been cold and quiet. It had somehow always felt like a trap. But, with Sellene as queen, it was bright and full of life. Music played, people laughed and smiled. It was… good.

A half hour passed by busily. Aelin was introduced to some of Sellene’s courtiers, reintroduced to Rowan’s other cousins. People gave her their thanks, commended her hard work and sacrifice during the war.

It was hectic enough at the beginning to keep her mind thoroughly occupied. Chatting and charming and laughing. It took a while before there was a lull in the conversation, when Aelin wasn’t listening to someone or speaking herself. But, it finally came.

Aelin took the rare moment of solitude to take in her surroundings. Rowan was across the room, talking with his uncle and cousin, Enda. He looked happy, relaxed. She loved it when he smiled.

She looked away from her husband, glancing around the room. Despite her better judgements, her gaze snagged on that throne.  It almost looked non-threatening in the late afternoon sunlight, but her gut still twisted. Images of a pale woman with dark hair and a spider’s smile flashed to her mind unwillingly. She flinched, eyes screwing shut and willing the memories of Maeve away. She was successful at first, but not for long. Images and snippets of voices, of screams that she didn’t know came from herself or others, assaulted her all at once.

Aelin’s breathing sped up, her heart hammering beneath her ribs. She felt the phantom bite of broken glass in her knees, heard Maeve’s cruel laughs. She saw Fenrys, heard his cry when Connall spilled his own blood right there by the throne. It was so clean now. Like none of it had ever happened.

But no. That had been real. The other images Maeve had sent her weren’t but…

Suddenly, the airy throne room was too small, too packed. Aelin felt ill. She ducked her head down, slipping out as discreetly as she could manage. The moment she was sure she was out of view, she bunched up her skirts and ran.

Her body remembered the way down into the depths of the palace, though she had never navigated herself. It had left a mark on her soul. She would never forget.

The dungeons below the palace were a stark difference from the open, bright architecture above. It could have been a different world. It was just as dark and cold as Aelin remembered, as it was in her nightmares.

She wasn’t sure how, exactly, she knew which of the near identical, dismal cells had been hers but… she knew. She hesitated outside the door, amazed by just how ordinary it looked. Who would have guessed that she had been held and tortured behind that door for two months?

Aelin pressed her palm against the door, the magic left in her recoiling at the iron she sensed. These dungeons had been built to keep people with magic contained. They had been well designed.

She pushed into the room slowly, using her magic to light the torches lining the walls. She wasn’t sure what she had been expecting to find: a coffin, blood stains, iron chains waiting just for her. But… it was empty. Even the stone table she had been chained to while Cairn carved her up was gone.

Just… nothing.

Aelin wasn’t sure how long she stood there before she sensed a familiar presence behind her. She was wrapped in the familiar scent of pine and snow, Rowan’s warm body standing just behind her. He placed a broad hand on her shoulder. “I thought I’d find you here.”

A tiny smile curved her lips, though she didn’t bother looking back at her mate. “You know me well, husband.”

There were a few beats of silence. Aelin didn't have to be looking at Rowan to know he was carefully considering his next words. So, she did him a favor, and spoke first.

“There’s nothing here,” Aelin said simply, stating the obvious.

“No, there isn’t. Is that a bad thing?”

A tiny shrug. “I don’t know. Yes? No?” Aelin hung her head in defeat, covering Rowan’s hand with her own. “Sometimes, it's hard to believe it all really happened. Without the scars, without the coffin… it just seems like something I dreamed up. I know I didn’t but…”

“But what, Fireheart?”

Her eyes burned with tears, throat tightening. “It would be… comforting, I suppose, to know that the experience left its mark somewhere else than in my head. It was terrifying and hopeless but I don’t want to forget it happened.”

Rowan stepped closer, her back pressed against his chest. He wrapped his strong arms around her securely, pressing a kiss to the back of her head. “I think you know that what happened doesn't only still affect you. I don’t think Lorcan will ever fully forgive himself for summoning Maeve to the beach that day, I don’t think Aedion will ever stop feeling guilty that he hadn’t been there for you when you needed him. And I…”

He trailed off, but Aelin knew Rowan better than she knew herself. She knew his fears, his regrets, his insecurities. Just as Aelin awoke some nights thinking she was back in that coffin, Rowan would wake thinking she was gone. Those nights, he would wrap her tightly in his arms and wouldn’t let go until the sunrise, as if she’d disappear with the morning dew.

She gave a meek nod. “You’re right.”

They stood in silence for a bit longer, stealing strength from one another. After a period of silence, Aelin spoke again.

“I thought it’d be easier by now,” she commented. “I spent most of my life struggling to survive, trying not to die in one way or another. It’s been three years of peace. I know three years is nothing to you and will eventually be nothing to me too but… when does life get easier?”

Rowan didn’t answer right away. “Living, Aelin, is so much harder than dying.”

She sighed and nodded. “You’re right. But when have I ever not stepped up to a challenge?” She looked up at Rowan and smiled cockily. He gave a breathy laugh and pressed a kiss to her temple.

“You’ve already conquered death, Aelin Galathynius,” he said. “I have no doubts you’ll conquer life just as easily.”

[morganaseren]

3, 5, 25. Sorry to hear about your allergies. I understand, as someone who's currently suffering from hay fever. Hey at least spring is in the air!

3) what order do you write in? front of book to back? chronological? favorite scenes first? something else?

I... would like to say that my writing style makes any type of sense, but that would be an unfortunate lie. :P

As OtSttCA’s written now, it’s chronological in terms of how I set up the chapters, but the various scenes I have within those chapters never occur chronologically. I could have something that could wind up in the next chapter or two, but then I’ll end up with another idea an hour later for a scene that probably won’t even take place until toward the very end of the story. I basically just cherry-pick which ones just seem to fit well together. Lol.

5) character you were most surprised to end up writing

That would probably be Sera. Lol.

For those whom don’t know, English is my second language, so the first time I encountered Sera, I found it difficult to properly understand her even with the subtitles on because her way of speaking is so distinct compared to any other companions we’ve had.

Truthfully, I let her join the Inquisition in my very first run, but I otherwise left her on the sidelines the entire time except to do her loyalty mission. When I was looking for a new party to accompany one of my other Inquisitors, I took her along, and I managed to really enjoy her company. Major kudos to Sera’s VA for bringing her to life and making her such a memorable character!

Honestly, when I first started writing OtSttCA, I wasn’t entirely certain that I could do Sera justice, but since she’s definitely one of Niamh’s friends, I felt I at least had to try. There’s a sort of chaotic playfulness to her, and I try to play to that sense whenever I focus on her perspective. Hopefully, I’ve done so convincingly. :P

25) copy/paste a few sentences or a short paragraph that you’re particularly proud of

How about I spoil you with a future OtSttCA scene instead? :) I quite like the dialogue I wrote here between Leliana and Morrigan.

---

“You assumed as much as that old woman did.”

“Wynne?” Leliana questioned, watching as Morrigan placed her tome on the bench next to her, likely realizing the conversation between them was one that required her complete attention.

“Yes. She mistook our relationship to be more than what it was. She said I...” A dark head canted somewhat, likely recalling an older memory. “...smiled more when it came to Niamh, and that was—is—true. I have always valued my friendship with her even when I told her that I would not always prove worthy of it. It became truth when I left you all to that final battle alone. While I was not as close to Saoirse as I was to Niamh, I grew to greatly respect her as a leader. I did not wish to see her die when something could be done to prevent it, but when she refused...”

Morrigan merely allowed her words to trail off with an almost soundless sigh, and Leliana found that she finally had an answer to an older mystery that had plagued her for years. Following Saoirse’s death, a bitter part of her had believed Morrigan had left to suit her own needs. A matter of survival. She hadn’t even considered the notion that Morrigan had played a part in trying to save Saoirse, only leaving when her offer had been rebuffed.

“Alas, I did not think Niamh would venture off alone after that,” Morrigan admitted, “and by the time I thought to look for her, she had already scattered every trace of herself to the winds. Yet, despite it all, she honors me more than I can say that she would allow our friendship to continue again when we were so long apart from one another.”

“And?” Leliana pressed, but the response she received was brief, airy laughter accompanied by amusement that tinged the deep violet of the other woman’s lips as they lifted up into an almost imperceptible smile.

“‘Tis truly just friendship, Leliana, but perhaps in another life, another time...” Slim shoulders shrugged themselves. “In this one, however, she has always wanted you. Niamh is in love with you to a degree that anyone would be envious of, but she lives in a world that constantly undervalues her, and ‘tis cruel enough to never let her forget that fact. Is it truly any wonder she feels so unworthy of you?”

Leliana’s brows rose. “Surely, she can’t believe that.”

“Are you so certain? Even from her late mentor, she was taught duty superseded all else; thus, she learned she had to sacrifice her personal desires for the sake of others. She is not like you and I, where we can freely commit misdeeds in the dark for the sake of the greater good. As powerful as she is, she is still as tied to her honor as Saoirse was. She will not consider stealing you away from even a memory of her sister, and so she will not ask you to ever consider this for her sake, Leliana. She would never be so selfish as to demand that you give up your ambitions for her. Thus, if a turning point is to be made, it must be initiated by you.”

[writings-from-unknown]

Princess And The Kraken

Pairing: Aloha/Skull

Notes: This is an AU Vanta and I came up with... A lot goes wrong here. Anything that isn’t opposite is evil and there’s suggestions of Stockholm Syndrome in this, soooo yeah...

It was ten years ago when everything went crashing down. Of course, there was a year before where the warning signs were there… But no one wanted to believe it or acknowledge it. When they did, it was far to late. Trying to stay would have been deadly… So Inkopolis was lost. Lost to a single monster. A single god. It was terrifying how powerful the creature was. Very few Inklings dared to go near Inkopolis as it was in the present day The few that made the journey often never returned… Well, beyond a lone cyan Inkling… But no one knew how he survived, or why he willingly went into such a hellish place.

No, hardly anyone went into that abandoned utopia on purpose… It’s long since ceased to be such a paradise. Now it’s more of an… Abyss. A dystopia?... No, a Labyrinth. A Labyrinth that houses a monstrosity. One that must be kept satisfied lest it should become enraged and hunt down the scattered attempts to re-establish society. Not like that would be easy with such a key part of society now outlawed in fear of the monster. Maybe that’s why crime has increased by so much, with criminals facing overly severe punishments such as being thrown into that hellscape. Perhaps that’s why there were now cults cropping up, hailing the beastly creature as a prophet of the end, preaching that only those who repent and were found worthy in the insane being’s eyes would be there for the dawn of the new world… Such ludicrous fantasies.

Yet, for as ludicrous as such stories were, it didn’t stop those figures in their dark imperial purple robes glittering with odd gems from collecting sacrifices for their god. It was always terrible to see the victims in their airy sacrificial robes. It was mocking how the colors mimicked a lighter version of their bearer’s ink... But it’s not as if anyone could really argue though. Whether this thing was a god or not, it’s best to keep it satisfied in is territory than tempt it to wander and claim more lives than was necessary. The toll it takes on the families of the victims was horrible… But it must be done.

It must be done. A mantra a pink Inkling hardly older than twenty, repeated to himself as he was taken away from his friends and family. Cries and calls of his name rang out... “Aloha”, an accidental, teasing name that he had ended up adopting... Its sound cut through the air as he was taken away, making such a grim mantra hard to follow… But eventually the voices could no longer be heard. Nothing but footsteps and the movement of the world around the group could be heard… Besides their own heartbeats drumming in their ears. It was ticking down the last of their moments alive.

This Labyrinth would be their final resting place. Bodies were unable to be retrieved as the collector would likely become part of the collection if they dared to try. There was really no escape once inside. Or no escape for groups. Not as if that cyan Inkling hasn’t tried. But it was a miracle how he kept escaping. Nevermind any others… No, as they were sent into such a bleak world, there just was no hope. Some of the victims seem to have accepted it early, curling up and waiting for death. Some try to run. It wouldn’t help. Twenty would enter, all would die.

The first scream eventually echoed through the Labyrinth, sobs erupted from the mouths of the petrified creatures. Eventually, more shouts of pain followed, a couple were even cut off as if they saw the creature before their lives were snuffed out… Seven, eight, nine, ten… The sun has hardly moved in the sky, yet already half of the sacrifices were dead… No wonder so many were needed to satisfy such a creature. The pink Inkling couldn’t stop his shaking as he wondered what his own death would entail. Not as if he’d invite it early or near anyone else… No, at the very least he wanted to be alone for his death… He didn’t want to see anyone die in front of him, or be tempted to use their lives to attempt to barter for his own when the time would come… He’d like to keep at least some of his morality in death…

… Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen… Only four left… Time was up… How long until he was taken care of? He certainly didn’t want to be the last one alive… That would be torturous… It’s pathetic to say that he’s tempted to find the beast himself to be spared of such horror… Not as if it would matter. If that monstrosity wanted him to die last, he would, there was no arguing with it… Though, perhaps that wasn’t the case when a searing pain suddenly shot through his body. Not even a yell escaped the pink being as the fear and pain threw him into a void… Twenty enter, twenty presumed dead…

Yet, this rule seemed to collapse in on itself when the fae’s eyes fluttered open. Even before the pink Inkling remembers his situation through his daze, a jolt of fear shoots through him when he’s unable to recognize the room he’s in. A shooting pain dances up and down his body when he suddenly throws himself into a sitting position once he remembers the hellscape he was thrown into. Looking down, the timid creature was confused to find a blanket draped over his legs. Lifting it up to try to find the source of his pain, a sense of unease washed over him as he noticed pink stained bandages around his leg, just under where the robe cuts off…

He was being kept alive… Only the beast could say what for… The thought was terrifying… But what could he do? Nothing. Nothing at all. Even if he had a weapon to fight with, it wouldn’t do him any good. He never learned how to fight. Turf wars were internationally outlawed not very long before his eleventh birthday. He couldn’t even hold a solid form at that point, so of course he never got to try his hand at turf. So he just had to wait and see what would be done with him.

Though, it appeared as if nothing would really be done with him as he laid on the bed… He was simply left there for what felt like an eternity… The silence was maddening… There was no distractions from what horrors could wait him… Why hadn’t he been killed too? Was anyone else alive? The pink angel hadn’t even noticed the tears starting to run down his face… He only noticed when the quiet sobbing started, growing louder and louder…

“... What’s wrong? Did something happen here…?”

The voice that cuts the silence startles the pink Inkling into quieting down… Only sniffles escaping the fearful creature… He couldn’t see the voice’s owner… But… It wasn’t too scary… The voice was almost relaxing oddly enough, and it was better than the silence… Besides, monsters can’t talk right…? So someone else was alive…? Perhaps a victim from another sacrifice? None of his companions sounded like that…

“Answer me. What’s wrong?”

The pink creature shivers slightly… The voice may be calming but that certainly didn’t hide the power and authority behind it… Perhaps it was that cyan Inkling then? Is that how he always got in and out of Inkopolis? Because he was almost as strong as the beast itself? Either way, best not to anger whatever is talking to him… Best to answer even if his voice was weak and timid… But not much was new there...

“I-It’s… It’s too… Quiet in here… I’m s-scared…”

“... Go back to bed. It’ll be better when you wake up.”

The pink angel can vaguely hear footsteps wondering off outside of his room… What did his companion mean? “It’ll be better when you wake up”... Were they going to get something? Why did they want him asleep for it?... Again, best not to anger whatever was talking to him… He could probably use the rest with the gash in his leg anyways… Magenta eyes fall shut as the creature lets himself sink back into the pillows and fade into the void once again…

When Aloha woke up next, the first thing he noticed was a soft melody bouncing around the room… Sitting up and looking around, he was stunned to find how much had been brought in. Several kinds of instruments… A few music boxes, one of which was open and carrying the current tune… A laptop, cds next to it from various artists… Why had they brought in so much for him? Why did they care?

However, something did catch the pink creature’s attention and drag it away from his thought… Something smelled delicious�� Looking around again, he notices the plate on the nightstand that he failed to acknowledge earlier… The pink creature can hear his own stomach growl… He must have not realized how hungry he was when he was scared… Thinking about it, the pink Inkling began to notice a lot. A day must have passed with how high the sun was in the sky. His hair was taken out of its hair tie at one point or another… Which was honestly good. It was a pain to sleep with his tentacles up anyways… Though he certainly looked much more like a maiden with his tentacles down and in this robe… How embarrassing… Or it would be if there was another soul alive in Inkopolis. With a sigh, he began to eat as his thoughts drifted again.

And such a cycle repeated on and on. Whenever he fell asleep, whatever that was taking care of him would come in, leave different offerings, leave whatever else would be needed for the day, take care of his wound and leave all before the princess woke up. When he woke up, Aloha would find the various offerings, such as clothes, games and consoles, jewelry, really just whatever happened to catch the eye of the being taking care of him… He’d eat after observing the changes, get lost in thought or play with whatever he had received from the other and fall back asleep. It was a cycle that continued long after his leg had been healed up. All that changed was the being guarding him no longer had to take care of the wound before they left and that the pink angel was up and wandering about… Not as if he could go far, the room was locked and he had no key to leave… But he did end up arranging the room how he liked it and found out that he was on one of the highest floors of one of Inkopolis’ old hotels, possibly the highest floor. Like a princess in a tower.

Occasionally there would be slight changes in the cycle. Such as the creature deciding it wanted to chat, being rather curious about the captive. Or sometimes it would ask to hear him sing. It was a bit of an embarrassing request, but it’s not as if he was willing to upset whatever was keeping him safe… So, regardless how he thought of his own voice, he’d let it flow out as he carried melodies from his childhood… Other days however, were a bit worse… Some days, the fear of where he was and the grim thoughts caught up with him and he’d be sobbing again. Sometimes the voice would ask why he was crying again. Sometimes there would be an answer that the being could help with and the pink creature would be told to fall asleep again, with everything fixed before he even woke up. Other days, the creature would just have to allow the pink angel to cry. Aloha vaguely noticed that whatever, whoever was on the other side of the door never left until he stopped crying. The footsteps would only begin and fade when he quieted down. Such an odd being to care so much for seemingly no reason…

One of those days started again as the magenta-eyed being began to sniffle… It was lonely here. He wanted to see his friends, he wanted to see his family… He wanted to see anyone… He wanted to go home… Unfortunately, just a voice wasn’t enough to keep him from being lonely, especially when the visits seemed so few and far between… Again the sobbing started, again it grew louder and louder, again a voice was on the other side of the door.

“Mm, what’s happened this time…?”

“I… I’m lo-lonely… I-I’m homesick… I-I wanna see s-someone…”

Silence greeted the answer. Not as if it wasn’t expected. How could the voice help with this? He wasn’t allowed to leave Inkopolis and it’s not as if there was a way for them to get anyone. Not to mention that Aloha wouldn’t want anyone he cared for trapped here… It was just going to have to be another day where he cried until he burnt himself out and got over it for a while…

“... Can I come in?”

What…? Why did they want to come in…? Why were they asking? It wasn’t as if he could stop them, especially in his current state… Though, vaguely Aloha realizes that whatever was talking to him certainly had to be an Inkling or at least something similar… Perhaps they were trying to help with the lonely part if they couldn’t help with the homesick part…?

“... I-I couldn’t st-stop you… Even if I-I wanted t-to… B-But yeah, s-sure...”

A slight click of a lock makes its way to the pink angel's ears as he tried to quiet himself down, wiping away tears on his sleeves… He didn’t even notice an Inkling in front of him until a gentle hand moved his arm and started wiping away the tears for him… In his touch starved state, the pink Inkling couldn’t help but lean into the touch. It was almost too jarring to have someone else with him for the angel to really notice the features of his companion…

A brilliant purple decorated their ink and jewels shined on their chest… A glance behind them shows an E-Liter with obvious modifications. Glancing up, the mark of death was on their face in the form of a bandana over their mouth… The monster of the Labyrinth, a creature said to be able to strike down any prey with a single shot of stunning purple from the heavens, was an Inkling. How odd that a lone Inkling could make themself fierce enough to be considered a dark god of sorts…

Perhaps the pink angel should be more afraid in the other’s presence… But it did own that reassuring voice that’s been taking care of him for so long… And in his desperation, perhaps he just wasn’t thinking straight… But in all honesty, just having someone in the room was calming him down… Nevermind the sudden awe distracting him from his lonely musings… However, that didn’t stop a surprised yelp from escaping him when he was suddenly picked up… Why was his first reaction to cling tightly to the beast that picked him up? Who knows, but it seemed to amuse the monster if the quiet chuckle was anything to go by… A light, embarrassed blush dances along the angel’s cheeks. Soon enough though, his grip on the sniper relaxes as they’re both back on the bed with the angel being held in the demon’s lap. The purple being gently nuzzles it’s captive as if it was trying to be reassuring… How odd…

That’s not to say it wasn’t working… The pink Inkling was slowly calming down, even snuggling up to the monster holding him. It may be a bad idea to be so relaxed and trusting around a creature that’s killed hundreds upon thousands of Inklings… But if it wanted him dead, he would have been dead long before now, especially with the hassles it’s caused the other to keep and take care of him. So it’s not as if there was any real danger right now… Hell, the god’s weapon was even just left in the corner, it certainly didn’t want him harmed…

That fact was more than enough to get the pink Inkling to calm himself… Eventually it became hard to keep his eyes open while he was curled up… Though, perhaps he shouldn’t be testing his luck by nuzzling the monstrosity back… But it didn’t seem to mind oddly enough… Surely if it minded, it would let him know in an obvious way… In fact the only thing that seemed to finally bother the godly creature was their position. It was no longer satisfactory. So the creature laid them both down, gently petting the princess until he fell asleep again…

And so the cycle changed. Rather than just a voice, the monster would keep checking in on their captive and much more often now. It was strange to think such a seemingly cold creature was touch starved, that such a cruel creature could be sweet. But it seemed to be the case as he kept coming to curl up with the princess with gifts and trinkets collected from who knows where. Not as if the angel minded however. It was much better than being dead or left alone in terror. He’d take the cuddling over that spike of loneliness any day… Though that may just be because he finally broke sometime during his stay in the Labyrinth but he really couldn’t care if that was the case. Eventually he was allowed to explore the dungeon under the premises that he didn’t leave and that he’d return to his tower if anyone else showed up… No issues with the second rule. Aloha really didn’t want to see the carnage that would follow such visits…

At night, he’d return to his room only to be greeted by the purple monstrosity soon after. By that point in the day, both of them were likely too tired and lonely not to just curl up. Just being in each other’s company was oddly nice for the pair… Really, the pink angel should hate every second of it… But he really couldn’t. He was being taken care of rather well, he was certainly safe from harm and it seemed as if the beast was more than willing to give him affection and anything else he could want in exchange for company… No, it wasn’t all that bad in this strange realm… And so, the princess will stay here until a knight whisks them away… Though who knows whether or not they’ll return to their tower of their own accord at this rate.

[hasansonsuzceliktas]

About Past Lives…

As far as I remember, I always had vivid and powerful dreams that woke me up screaming and sweating-cold-scared in the early hours of the morning. I can divide these dreams into four or so recurring cycles. The very first cycle of repeated dreams was seeing myself as a shining angel falling down from high in the heavens in a torch of raging darkening flames, ending deep in pain and anger. The second cycle of dreams is happening in the Warring States period in China, acting as an officer of the rising Qin Emperor, battling at the boundaries of the ever-growing empire. Scenes of sand, and bloody battles haunted me, leaving this bitter taste of death on the tongue. Striking flashes where I see my-self riding my faithful horse and making my way through my sword in ransacked palaces with burning curtains in the blind winds of the night. The last waves of powerful images came showing me riding down a mountain with my fellow warriors. I can see the ever-green trees and down the misty valley we were heading. My left hand gantlet was holding an eagle with a blindfold on its head and my right hand‘s gantlet holding the reins controlling my horse carefully descending the mountain slope. The last image is seeing an arrow hitting me in the throat and blood invading my vision, shutting down this cycle of dreams. A third cycle of dreams was always in the settings of a central Asian shrine surrounded with old tombs that had for some key shapes. I was always finding myself walking through towards a green mausoleum and entering the room that had beautiful calligraphy in its circular ceiling, seeing a black stone encrusted on the wall and touching it made me swallowed into a secret room, where an old bearded man in white or black regalia would welcome me and teach me until dawn where I find my-self waking up radiating a communicating joy. Lesser important recurring cycles often showed a small fishing town with a luna-park wheel at its outskirt, a stone manor house on a hill above the sea, an old school with its buildings and common dormitories houses, different family houses with their specific architecture, gigantic cities with endless stairs, buildings and suspended exotic gardens, all in which I was strolling, always searching for something or someone. There, in these places, I saw my-self flying and doing things impossible in the wake of reality but very common and natural in these lucid dreams. What fascinates me in these places I grew to know intimately is that they had buildings, houses, gardens, etc., non-existent in reality but very present, active and integrated in the buzzing of my dreams. I can still feel the cold wind and atmosphere in the attics of a family house, often other time wandering and opening secret passages or doors being revealed to me, finding complete furnished levels in areas and buildings that are not supposed to exist, according to its current familiar occupation plans, and discovering subtle and invisible presences, sharing with me their pain, anger or sorrow but also their joys and giggles. These vivid encounters left a strong impression in me, such as the very particular libraries and archives I keep dreaming of with subtle beings, with great care, either showing me illuminated books or leading me to caches, one could never guess they were there, where I find some hidden esoteric treasures. The crystal clarity of these lucid dreams with its amazing wealth of details leaves a striking impression of reality and truth difficult to brush away, once awaken. In my young adult age, I grew pretty much convinced of the reality of my dreams and that I had lived these very lives, as a fallen angel, as a Chinese warrior, and other dwelling avatars. All of these ‘personalities’ becoming an integral part in my layered growth into adulthood. Now that I am getting closer to my fifties, I wonder… When incarnate into a new life, our soul forgets all about the past one, not to say the previous one, so to give us the best chance to focus on this life’s assignment and challenges without having to also take into consideration discording foreign influences. Here is the amazing process:

The body we inherit at birth is composed of cells that the universe keep recycling since its creations (Elena, a dear friend of us, Nalan and Nico, would say that the universe has to be economic- nothing is wasted and everything is re-used-as there is, involved, always the same amount of matter created without addition since the big bang). Some of these cells we inherit may posses commonalities such as common origin in time places and behavioral occupations. These cells have memories of their past occurence and if awakened prematurely, they will influence us through the dynamic of the dark and white matter. These commonalities can be grouped into clusters with more or less important ‘egregore’ (an egregore is an energy pool created by a grouping of individuals bounded by a common aim), capable of independent manifestations influencing our functioning, reasoning and personality. So much influencing us, that we believe that they are indeed the result of our very own being, when they are only taking over, as the most influential cluster of a pack of many, fighting for control. Mister Gurdjieff, says that we have ‘many I’s competing as long as we do not have a more centered and permanent I, as true expression of our inner self. These I’s, of more or less clustered size, taking control over us make us do things and live actions and even-whole-lives that can be very different from what our very incarnations are designed for, making us miss the very purpose of our presence on earth. The Gurdjieffian ‘self observation’ exercise is an example of what to do, so to separate what is ours from what is not. ‘Give back to Cesar what is his’, etc…When we are discriminating and keeping only our very own, we grow a more permanent ‘I’, more focused into its goals and aims, that has the vision of the whole, thus offering a more coordinated and holistic approach to our lives. Then the next challenge is to balance the powerful forces of the elemental that also have a great negative inpact into our very actions and behaviors, when not understood and delt with accordingly, so to provide a balancing momentum. The 4 elements are the essential components of our bodies and each of us, receives a setting unique  and that needs to be understood, so to be responsive to its energetic dynamic. People have fire as a dominent element, are called coleric, as fiery beings. The people having water as a dominent element are called phlegmatic, as watery beings. The people that have air as a dominent element  are called sanguine, as airy beings and finally the people having earth as their dominent are called melancolic, as earthly beings. From cold and humid to hot and dry, our temperaments are the reflect of the dynamic balance of these elements. Any distortion, unbalance and immediate pathological effects can be observed. Any unbalance of the elements are immediately providing fuel-power to the never-ceasing appetite of the dark and white matter.

So what is so special with this matter? It also comes from the initial matter that is composing the cosmic egg, our universe made possible by the sacrifice of the closest angels second to God, and this matter has imprisoned sparkles of the divine light (the qliphots) and divided into two groups, the white matter that is of a negative polarity and tends to dissolve everything (the Thanatos of the ancient Greeks), and the dark matter that is of positive polarity and tends to coagulate everything (the Eros of the ancient Greeks). We find ourselves between two intimate opposites, one that ‘wants’ and one that ‘doesn’t want’, thus influencing also our likes and dislikes in very subtle ways that we even think they are our very own, when in reality they are not. How much is our very own, how much comes from both the buzzing of our leading clusters and the self-expressions of our dark and white matter? So to say simply: How much are we ‘our-selves’, to the core? If we now examine my dream cycles mentioned above to the light just shed, we can already draw some logical conclusions: The first cycle with the fallen angel and the rage, anger and pain is actually the older cluster of cells that is remembering the traumatism of non-matter coming into being, the original shock of existence (out of non-existence) that brought pain and longing due to the experience of duality, the separation from the source, the Tree of life. At birth, we are expected to see further than the obvious surrounding us and within us, we have to learn how to discriminate the useful from the useless and grow the quality of prediliction, that is keeping what is beneficial to our development and natural functioning to the expense of the many, divisive and damageable only seeking survival influences. In the setting of my incarnation, I have been given a lot, that is there to serve if, and only if, I understand its function.

The ‘dark angel falling’ dream cycle is there to help me remember that I need to reconnect to the source and for this I can use this very cluster, activating its nostalgy for the source. As the Qur’an says: ‘ Remember me, I will remember you’. We are initiating the communication, using some how the energy and the possibility of a line back to the source. As for the ‘Chinese warrior’ dream cycle , its gift is for me to taste and understand qualities such as Honor, Justice, Service and Devotion, being taught the dreadful consequences of Shame, Iniquity, Selfishness and Pride. We are taught, if we know how to make sense out of these messages we get through the lucid dreams and find a use for our very life. If we miss the point, we start to believe these stories from other people’s incarnation transmitted to us through the cells and their clusters and we do really start believing we had former lives and our ego (the many I’s competing for influence) jump on these opportunities to further disconnect us, so to keep the parasitical influence on us. It is very fortunate for us to discover ‘the inner teacher’ and unfold its wealth of experiences, so to learn enough and be free and ready to shine our very own self. The ‘mausoleum teacher’ dream cycle is exactly indicating this: We can access to a wealth of information, good and bad, so to help us grow into our real self and start participate into the maintenance of our planet and the vast universe we are blessed to be part of. ‘ When the student is ready, the master appears’ is a popular saying pointing at this phenomenon and the ‘Akashic archives’ are of the very same nature. The other dream experiences I have and still experience are more of an internal connectivity of the many layers of my consciousness and their inter-activity with the universe and its numerous realms, and participate less in this ‘everything we need is inside of us’ educational pattern. They are more fruits, sensitivities, towards other realms and dimensions our development makes us encounter through the interactive doors of the dream inter-state. So, to conclude, I doubt that these former lives were mine.  I doubt I was a fallen angel or a Chinese warrior or a murshid (pupil) of some secret central Asian sheik. But plainly admitting this doesn’t take away the amazing love and care provided to me since my birth by my family and the universe through the gifts manifested in each parts of my bodies by the buzzing of the cells and their many clusters, through the ever changing humors of the dark and white matter, all willing to share, so to give me the possibility to chose who I want to be. On the contrary, we are all of us vibrant and moving testimonies of such caring love. May we not waste this amazing opportunity, for us to learn from this shared pool of immemorial experience, that makes us living parts of a golden chain that leads us back to our most compassionate God ! Read the full article

[pocketseizure]

Claws and Lace

Princess Peach finds that love between different species sometimes creates problems... in bed.

This is 100% pure smutfic about a princess and her monster boyfriend. Please don't expect to find any plot in this mess.

Oneshot ☆ 5,200 words ☆ NSFW ☆ Also on AO3

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"Oh no, I have been kidnapped! Whatever will I do?" Peach cried out into the deserted hallway as Bowser carried her to his bedroom.

"Do you want me to put you down so I can open the door, or would you prefer a manly display of strength?" he asked her.

"Manly display, please," she answered, smiling.

"All right then, hold on tight," he responded before raising his leg and kicking in the door, which burst open with a crash.

"You should roar when you do that."

Bowser rolled his eyes. "Roar," he said, carrying her over the threshold.

"All right, tough guy, you can put me down now."

"Not a chance. That's not how this 'kidnapping' thing works. I'm taking you straight to bed, and there's nothing you can do about it."

"I appreciate the villainous sentiment, but you might want to close the door if you have evil deeds in mind."

"You got a point there," Bowser admitted as he set her down on her feet. "But don't get any fancy ideas about trying to escape."

"Oh, I've got some ideas," Peach murmured, taking the opportunity to look around the room, which was surprisingly clean and airy.

"Does it meet your standards, Princess?" Bowser asked, approaching her from behind and placing his hands on her shoulders.

"I was expecting it to be more of a lair."

"I don't spend much time here. I'm very busy, you know."

Peach turned to face him. "It must be tough, being so important. One wonders where you find the time to sneak off like this. Your people must be frantic, trying to survive without your leadership."

Bowser smirked. "I don't see anyone trying to find you, either."

Peach shrugged. "My kingdom will send someone. I'm sure he'll get here. Eventually."

"Let's not talk about that right now."

"What did you bring me here to talk about, then?"

"I, uh..." Bowser squeezed her shoulders, and she could feel the sharp points of his claws through the thin fabric of her dress. He glanced away awkwardly, refusing to meet her eyes.

Peach pressed her body against his. "Just kiss me, Bowser."

He ran the blunt edges of his claws across her face and tilted her chin up. "As Her Highness commands," he said, grinning.

He leaned down and touched his lips lightly against hers. She could smell the aftershave on his jaw, but there was another smell clinging faintly to his skin that she couldn't quite identify. It wasn't unpleasant, but it put her on edge. She pulled away, and he traced a line of kisses along the curve of her cheek. His lips were thin and dry.

"I've wanted this for a long time," he whispered in her ear.

The touch of his breath sent a thrill of desire straight down to the fork of her legs, and suddenly she could place the scent of his skin – it was the slow carbon release of glowing charcoal, the bright and pungent sulfur of a struck match. Bowser smelled as if something inside him were burning. Peach's first instinct was to draw away from him. She had made great sacrifices to insinuate herself into his arms, however, and so she resolved simply to ignore the voice in the back of her mind telling her that this was dangerous.

Peach stepped back and loosened Bowser's tie, slipping the silk through its knot and pulling it out of his collar. She looped it around her wrist and unbuttoned the top button of Bowser's shirt, which was pressed tightly against his neck. He held still while she struggled with the stiff fabric, and when it finally came free he exhaled and reached forward to stroke her shoulders. Peach continued unbuttoning his shirt until it fell open.

She placed her palm against the bare skin of his chest, which had an uncanny hardness to it. Like his lips, Bowser's skin was cold, and it had none of the suppleness of her own skin. It was like touching hardened leather. Peach frowned and stroked one of Bowser's nipples, which she circled with the pad of her thumb. To her relief, his breath caught in his throat as the tiny bit of flesh stiffened under her fingers. She flicked his nipple a bit harder, and he growled, a thin plume of smoke emerging from his nose.

She moved on to trail her index finger down the line running between his abs. It was odd and a bit unsettling that he had no hair on his chest or stomach.

"Like what you see?" Bowser raised his eyebrows. He posed to flex as he grinned down at her.

"With all the cake you eat, I didn't expect to see actual muscles," Peach remarked in a dry voice.

"I am the smartest of the koopas, and I am the strongest of the koopas, and I am the handsomest of the koopas, and that is why I AM KING."

Peach swatted him with the back of her hand. "Don't get cocky. I didn't come here to see you preen."

"Says the girl with the peacock hair." Bowser scowled.

"If you're so great..." Peach slid her hands under Bowser's open shirt and ran her palms down his sides before inserting her fingers into his belt loops. "....Why don't you show me what you can do?"

"With pleasure." He lowered his head and took her in a deep kiss, forcing her lips open with his tongue. Peach was immediately struck with a taste that, like the smell of his skin, she found difficult to identify. It was less of a flavor and more of a sensation, like the burn of alcohol, setting the inside of her mouth on fire and warming the back of her throat. After an initial moment of shock, she found that she quite enjoyed it. She pulled him in, pressing the stiffening length of his shaft against her.

He groaned into her mouth and broke the kiss. "I need you to – " he said in a guttural voice before stopping and licking his lips. "I'd like to get you undressed."

"That's funny," Peach responded, kissing his neck. "I was thinking the same thing."

"How do I, uh," Bowser mumbled as he pinched the fabric above her shoulders between his fingers.

"You keep your claws to yourself," she chided him, beginning to undo the hidden row of buttons along the side of the bodice of her dress. She felt Bowser's eyes on her as she shrugged her shoulders, allowing the fabric to slide down her arms to reveal the lace at the top of her bra.

"Help me step out of this," she ordered, crossing her hands above her head. Bowser stared at her, not moving at all, and she savored the hunger of his gaze for a moment before adding, "Now."

"I like it when you're demanding," he growled, taking the loose fabric at her waist in his hands and kneeling as he pulled it down. Peach stepped out of her dress, and Bowser gathered it into his arms and buried his face in its ruffles.

"God, Peach. You smell so good."

"Of course I do. And you know what? I look even better."

"Let me just... Hold on a second." Bowser walked away from her to fold her dress over the back of a nearby chair. Peach enjoyed watching the muscles of his shoulders move as he took off his jacket and shirt with his back to her.

She crossed her arms over her chest. "Are you seriously not going to look at me, Bowser? Don't tell me you're afraid."

He whipped around. "I'M NOT AFRAID, you infernal woman, I..." His words trailed off as his eyes grew round. Peach winked and blew him a kiss.

"You're beautiful," he said.

"I know," she smirked.

Bowser flashed his teeth as he approached her. "I'm gonna eat you. I hope you're ready."

"Don't keep me waiting." Peach reached out and pulled him to her. He kissed her and ran his hands lightly down her back, the points of his claws leaving trails of pleasure across her bare skin. He inserted one of his hands between their bodies and placed it on her chest.

At first he caressed her gently with his open palm, but soon he began touching and pinching her nipples, teasing the sensitive buds with his clever fingers. She felt herself responding to the lovely friction of his calloused fingertips against her skin, each brush against her tender peaks sending warm jolts of sensation through her body. He trailed hungry kisses along her neck and jawline, his rough breaths in her ear fanning the flame of her desire.

He teased her nipples and cupped her breasts before grabbing the flesh and twisting her peaks, causing her to moan. He began to handle her more roughly, grasping her flesh tighter. Suddenly there was a flash of pain. Peach gasped and pulled away, startled to see a thin line of red snaking across her breast.

"That hurt!" she exclaimed, smacking Bowser's chest.

"I'll be careful," he breathed, his eyes half-lidded with desire. He pulled her back to him and kissed her again, thrusting his tongue between her lips. The pain on her chest faded as she responded to his hunger. He kissed her relentlessly, as if his need for her could not be satiated. He grabbed her ass in his hands and forced her against the rigid line at his waist. Peach felt herself melt against him as she wondered what he would feel like inside her. She clutched his face and kissed him harder – but then there was another sharp slash of pain as she cut her tongue on his teeth.

Peach struggled to free herself from Bowser's arms as her mouth filled with blood, but he only held her tighter, his claws digging into her skin through the lace of her panties. He seemed to be excited by the taste of blood. When he bit her tongue again, Peach experienced a moment of panic. Realizing that he wouldn't stop, she grabbed his hair and twisted his face away from hers before kicking him in the shin.

Bowser grunted and let her go as he dropped to his knees.

"What the fuck, Peach?" He shot her an angry look.

"You bit me, you asshole," she snapped. "Who does that?" Holding his eyes in a fierce glare, she wiped the blood from her mouth.

"How am I in the wrong here? You're the one who said we should do this."

"That doesn't give you the right to hurt me!"

"I thought you wanted this!"

"You could be a bit more gentle."

Bowser glared up at her, breathing heavily. Smoke twisted from his nostrils. He seemed to expect Peach to back down and soothe his wounded pride, but she refused to give in to his ego.

"Fine," he finally said, rising to his feet. "I'll be more gentle. I've never done something like this with someone like you, and I don't know what you need from me. Just don't act like I'm some kind of monster for touching you."

"Then don't bite me, for fuck's sake."

"What do you mean, you don't want me to bite you?"

"I shouldn't be bleeding during foreplay!"

"It's not my fault you're so delicate!" Bowser raised his voice, small flames emerging from between his lips.

"I need you to not bite me. Don't scratch me either, and don't you dare breathe fire in my direction. If you hurt me again, you will regret it. Do I make myself clear?"

"All right, fine," Bowser grumbled. "But if you don't like the way I touch you, do you want to try explaining why it turns you on so much?"

"Excuse me?"

"I mean, you're getting off on this. I can smell it."

"You can what?"

"I can smell your arousal, you know, like..." Bowser furrowed his eyebrows and made a vague gesture with his hand. "As one does."

"That's extremely offensive, Bowser. I don't smell!" Peach stamped her heel against the floor to emphasize her point.

Bowser seemed taken aback. "You mean, you can't smell me? You can't smell what's going on between us?"

Peach shook her head. "I have no idea what you're talking about. You smell a little strange to me, but you don't have a strong body odor. All I can smell is your cologne."

"Yeah, I was told you humans like that stuff. I didn't know it was because you can't smell each other otherwise," Bowser said, rubbing his chin. "So listen, you have a distinct scent, especially now that you're, you know. Naked. And in my bedroom."

Peach couldn't believe what she was hearing. "Is this the same for all koopas? Can all of you smell me when I'm attracted to someone?"

"You in particular? Not really, not unless one of us got physically close to you. I'm just sensitive to you because I, uh..." Bowser rubbed the back of his neck.

"Because you what?" Peach demanded.

"Don't make me say it."

"You're not getting off the hook, Bowser. You need to explain to me exactly why you've been smelling me. That's more than a little gross."

Bowser snarled. "I can't exactly help it, especially not when you're broadcasting yourself so strongly. You're getting hot right now, just talking with me about this."

"That's ridiculous."

"It is?" he asked, pointing a claw at the bulge in his pants. "Because I'm getting turned on just watching you blush. You like this monster stuff, admit it."

Despite Bowser's crudeness, Peach had to admit that the way he'd attuned himself to her on such an intimate level was kind of sweet.

"What do I smell like?" she asked him.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "Like flowers blooming right before the sun rises, like the color of the dawn. I don't know," he said, flustered. "You smell like yourself."

"That's... actually quite lovely," Peach murmured, surprised.

"And you can't smell me at all?"

"A little, but to be honest you smell like someone set fire to a barrel of crude oil."

"Sounds about right." Bowser grinned. "Come here, let's start over."

He approached her again, and Peach allowed him to lift her into his arms.

"Kick your shoes off," he growled into her ear, and she did as he asked as he carried her to his bed and set her down on the quilt. After toeing off his own shoes, he lay down next to her and kissed the corner of her mouth. He tentatively placed his hand on her breast, carefully caressing her nipple with the flat edge of his thumb. She slipped her tongue into his mouth, and he let her explore him, gently responding to the movement of her body. The rough sensation of his fingers on her bare skin was delicious.

"Before we go any farther," she said, breaking the kiss, "is there anything else I need to know about you? If you have some sort of monster dick, you should probably go ahead and tell me."

"Damn, Peach," he breathed into her ear. "I never thought I'd hear the words 'monster dick' come out of your mouth." He kissed her earlobe, letting his tongue linger for an extra moment. "But yeah, I'm a big guy. What did you expect?"

Peach smiled and playfully batted him away. "No, I meant, does your dick have teeth or shoot fire or something ludicrous like that."

"Does my dick. Shoot. Fire." Bowser raised his eyebrows. "I guess there's only one way to find out."

"I guess so." Peach sat up, pushing Bowser down in the process. "Let's find out, then. I hope you don't mind sitting still while I investigate."

"Fine by me." Bowser propped himself up on his elbows and watched her as she undid the buckle of his belt. She slid it through its loops and dropped it beside the bed before unfastening the buttons at his waist and pushing his suit trousers down his hips and off his legs.

"Mmmm," she hummed, running her fingers along the stiff ridge that pushed up against the fabric of his shorts. "I think you're about... average."

"You must be joking," Bowser replied in a sour tone.

Peach grinned. "Of course I'm joking." She licked her lips and bent down to kiss the head of his cock as she trailed her fingers along its thick length. The fabric of his boxers was wet with his arousal. When she licked the small spot of moisture, she found that it tasted slightly spicy, but there was no caustic burn. It would be interesting to see how he felt in her mouth.

"I'm going to take these off," Peach informed him, pushing her thumbs under the waistband and allowing his cock to spring free.

"Fine by me." Bowser laughed as he kicked his shorts off. Peach pushed him back down and touched her tongue to his tip. Unlike the rest of his skin, it was as smooth as velvet. She set her lips against it and prodded its base with her tongue, enjoying the way that Bowser twitched. She joined her hand to her mouth, caressing the silky skin of his member with her fingertips. He made an inarticulate sound that was so full of need that she felt it directly between her legs.

Bowser always wore a hard shell of emotional armor, keeping people at a distance with his meanness and arrogance, but somehow she had convinced him to allow her to get close. How strange it was to be in his bed, and how fascinating it was to hold the most vulnerable part of him in her hand. She wanted to do terrible things to him, and she wanted to make him beg for more.

She circled his cock with her lips and gradually lowered her head. He was too large for her to take all of him in her mouth, so she clutched him in her fist at his root, sliding her palm over his tender flesh as she caressed him with her tongue. He made a guttural sound of satisfaction, and she began to move with more force, pleased to know that his body was at the mercy of her touch. She continued to lick and manipulate him with steady movements, and he began to stiffen with tension.

"Peach, you gotta stop," he groaned. "I'm gonna come."

Peach slowly circled the head of his cock with her tongue. "Isn't that the point?" she purred.

"No, I mean it," he said as he shifted away from her. "It's too soon."

"What are you talking about?" Peach asked, somewhat hurt. "I want you to come now so you last longer later. Doesn't this feel good to you? Or am I doing something wrong?"

Bowser sat up, moved toward her, and wrapped his arms around her. "I guess that's another thing about koopas," he said, kissing her hair. "If you don't come before I do, there's not a lot of pleasure in it for me."

"Wait, seriously?" Peach put her hands on his chest and pushed him away so that she could see his face. "You can't get off unless the girl does? But what about when you're, you know, alone?"

"I'm not gonna talk about that."

"Are you really going to tell me you haven't thought about me before? I'm insulted. You make it sound like I'm the only one who daydreams. Or do koopas not do that?"

"You've thought about me?"

The look on Bowser's face was so innocently hopeful that Peach couldn't help smiling. "Of course I have. Don't be naive."

"Yeah, okay, fine," Bowser grumbled. "I had fantasies, but doing it myself wasn't as nice as it could be. It’s just like sneezing, like releasing pressure. I needed to take care of it so that I didn't do something stupid."

"I hate to break it to you, Bowser, but it didn't help. Being stupid is one of your defining traits."

"Say what you want, but it took some serious self-restraint for me to wait for you to ask to be kidnapped. If I did what I wanted, I would've kidnapped you half a dozen times by now. At least."

"So you've finally got me in your clutches," Peach murmured, kissing his jaw. "What are you going to do now?"

"I'm going to touch you all I want," he growled and slid his hand between her legs. His claws grazed the inside of her thighs as his fingers came to rest along the curves of her valley.

"God, you're so wet, Peach," he breathed, beginning to stroke her. She was so sensitive that even the lightest brush of his fingers sent up bright sparks of pleasure. Her body responded on its own as she raised herself slightly to meet his hand. His fingers were strong, but he applied just the right amount of pressure to make her squirm. Even though he wasn't touching her directly, a slow heat was gathering deep inside her.

As he caressed her, his fingers tracing the outline of her folds, he leaned forward and kissed her. Peach welcomed him eagerly into her mouth and lightly bit his bottom lip. She reached up to stroke his sideburns before running her hands through his hair and wrapping her fingers around the base of his horn, using it as leverage as she removed the lace that separated her from him.

Bowser pressed himself against her, and the hard smoothness of his chest felt heavenly on the peaks of her breasts. Peach let her hand wander back down to the stiff length jutting from between his legs, which was still swollen with need. As his fingers continued to tease her wet folds, she gently circled the head of his cock with her thumb, demonstrating what she wanted from him.

In response he lifted the tips of his fingers to her apex and pressed his middle finger down on her clit, causing her to gasp with the sudden shock of pleasure. He curled his fingers around her sex, and suddenly Peach felt a tiny prick of pain. Surprised, she flinched.

"Peach? Are you okay?" Bowser asked, a concerned look on his face.

"I'm not sure it's a good idea for you to touch me there," she replied, drawing her legs together.

"Then give me what I really want, Peach," Bowser growled, licking his lips. "Give me what I fantasize about when I think about you. Let me taste you. You smell so goddamn good. I swear I'll be gentle. Please, Peach. I need this."

This soft rush of words surprised Peach. When had Bowser ever asked for anything? When had he ever admitted he wanted something? His breathing had grown heavier, and his eyes seemed to shine from the heat of some inner furnace. Gazing at the open need in his expression, Peach realized just how far inside his emotional walls she had gotten. Bowser would always go through the bombastic motions of attraction as they played their political games, but now he was allowing her to see the actual intensity of the base animal lust he felt for her. She was truly witnessing something secret, something much more intimate than his naked skin.

Peach gave him a lingering kiss and then gently pushed his head down. He began forging a path of kisses down her body, his tongue circling her nipples before he made his way to her stomach. He stopped just above the fork of her legs, and he repositioned himself so that he could ease her open with his hands. When he kissed her soft curls, she could no longer wait for him to lower his head. She reached down and took hold of one of his horns, guiding his face to where she needed it to be. He growled with contentment, and then his tongue was on her, licking and sucking and tasting her. The same sensation of heat that she had felt on her own tongue when she kissed him tantalized her as he slowly licked her cleft. She could feel the sharpness of his teeth under his lips, but she was starting to find the thought of him biting her arousing.

He dedicated himself fully to the task of pleasuring her, the points of his claws digging into her skin where he held her legs. His slow caresses soon turned more forceful, and she moaned as he began lashing her clit with his tongue.

Bright flares of sensation began pulsing through her swollen and tender bud. She knew she could climax if only he were a bit rougher with her. She wanted his teeth, and she wanted his claws, but more than anything, she wanted him to fill the growing sense of emptiness inside her.

"Oh, Bowser, please," she begged him shamelessly, grinding her hips against his mouth.

He pulled away and raised an eyebrow from between her legs. She could feel him grinning against her sex.

"Please? That's the first time you've ever said that to me," he whispered, his every word hot on her sensitive inner skin. "Tell me what you want, Peach."

She met his eyes. "Don't tease me," she said, breathing heavily. "It's rude."

"I'm being rude?" He licked her again, and she shivered. "Do you want to be rescued, then?"

"Don't be stupid." Peach grasped one of Bowser's horns in her hand and used it to pull his body up over hers. "I want you to show me just how much of a monster you can be."

He kissed her, the taste of his tongue burning her mouth as the smell of charcoal filled her nose. She felt his strange leathery skin press against her, and she slid her hands up his arms and around his shoulders to pull him closer. She thought about all the times they had fought, snapping at each other in petty arguments simply to have an excuse to spend time together. She thought of the moments they had stolen in hidden corners, and how they could not get enough of each other, never enough. And now, after endless goading and maneuvering, it had come to this. No space could be found for them, so she had to make it. There was no gentle way for this to happen, so he had to force it. There was no room for taking things slowly, no gentle and gradual courtship. This is what they had, and she would take it.

He positioned himself over her, the head of his shaft pressing against the petals of her lower lips, and she could feel his heartbeat between her legs. She whispered his name, and in one motion he was all the way inside her, filling her with warmth and fire. His cock was as hard as stone, and she could feel herself stretching to accommodate him. When he began moving, he brushed against a sensitive and secret spot inside of her, flooding her with sweetness. She held onto his shoulders as their bodies found a rhythm together, pushing and pulling and rising and falling. Each of his thrusts was a small wave in a surging tide of pleasure.

The thick club of his sex pounded an insistent beat through her softest skin, each grind and thrust pushing her closer to the edge. He growled deep in his throat as he attempted to restrain himself. Peach could feel his teeth clenched together against her neck. Clearly he was struggling to hold himself back. She noticed that his body had stiffened, every muscle taut with the anticipation of his release. His cock was like a steel rod inside of her. It was maddeningly hot, and he felt so good, but she needed something more.

Bowser seemed to sense this. He shifted his position above her, withdrawing himself almost fully as he reached down to place his thumb on the throbbing button of her clit. The tip of his claw pressed into her skin as he began to apply pressure to her most sensitive spot, caressing it in tight circles. Her muscles clutched the tip of his cock, which was angled to hit the perfect area just inside her. His breathing was ragged in her ear, and she moaned his name as her pleasure rose. And then she couldn't help herself – she begged him to fill her, grabbing the strong muscles of his back to anchor herself against the undertow that threatened to sweep her away.

He smiled against her skin, apparently taking pleasure in teasing her, but then he was overcome by his own lust. He pushed himself into her slick channel all the way to the hilt, and the sensation exploded like stars as she came. With a few more thrusts, he climaxed along with her, sending hot jets of his seed deep inside her as he shuddered above her. The moment of pure ecstasy seemed to last forever.

When Peach finally returned to herself, Bowser was gazing down at her, a hungry gleam still in his eyes.

"How was it?" he asked, still breathing heavily.

"Not bad." She smiled up at him. "I could get used to being kidnapped."

"How much time do you think it'll take your people to send someone to rescue you?"

"I wouldn't give them too much credit. We've got time."

"Yeah?" Bowser reached up and smoothed her hair back from her forehead. "Time for what?"

"You were a real beast in bed," Peach said, pushing him down and pulling herself up over him. "Someone needs to tame you."

Suddenly her phone rang from somewhere inside the discarded ruffles of her dress. It was the ringtone of the toad she'd assigned to handle anyone that her councilors might send after her.

"I should probably get that," Peach apologized. She stood up, retrieved her phone, and swiped the screen on. She was immediately hit with a barrage of babbling, but she only had to listen for a moment to catch the gist of it.

"Apparently Mario's here," she said to Bowser, holding the phone away from her face.

He scowled and made an impatient gesture. "Tell him we're busy," he grumbled.

"You know I can't say that."

"Do you want me to go outside and take care of him?" Bowser asked, making a show of cracking his knuckles.

"Don't be such a brute."

"I thought that's what you liked about me."

Peach rolled her eyes, knowing that she wouldn't get any help from Bowser. The toad still hadn't stopped talking.

"Tell Mario," she said, her voice cutting into his jabber like a knife made of sugar, "that his journey to rescue the princess has only just begun. Tell him that I'm in another castle."

The toad was silent for a moment but soon resumed his relentless soliloquy. Peach touched the screen to end the call without listening to him, her nail clicking against the glass.

"Get back over here, woman," Bowser called to her from the bed. "I'm not done kidnapping you yet."

Peach smiled to herself, wondering if she could keep Bowser going long enough for Mario to make it through all of his castles. Now that she thought about it, this had the potential to become an interesting game, and she was very much looking forward to playing it.

[ukdamo]

KZ Mauthausen

One of mine, November 19th, 2013

It’s no sort of a boast to say, ‘I’ve been to a few concentration camps’. Opera houses; perhaps: art galleries; perhaps: concentration camps, hardly. It’s true nonetheless, I have visited a few concentration camps.

 It’s not that that the camps hold a lurid fascination for me, or that I am impelled to visit and tick them off on a list. Concentration camps are not munros.

 When I try to analyse my reasons for visiting, they multiply, become elusive, and I struggle to apprehend and organise them. They are definitely manifold. There is an historian’s interest – longstanding now - perhaps an integral part of my make up, inescapable. There’s also muted sense of obligation on my part, a sense of ‘ought to’. That sense pervades other aspects of my travel, too – it takes me to battlefields and war cemeteries wherever I find myself: USA, Turkey, Tunisia, France, Belgium, Russia. The ought to is, I think, a way of grappling with, and trying to understand big questions – questions about war, about sacrifice, about the deepest human motivators. Standing on the ground where things happened helps me focus my mind, offers me a degree of clarity, helps me draw out the physical threads of place and time and interweave them with the cognitive threads of what I know. It’s invariably humbling.

 I have a sense, too, courtesy of those who deny the Holocaust (I think of David Irving, in particular), that the Shoah needs contemporary witnesses, people who have been, have seen, have been humbled and upset, and can testify to it.

 There’s one more reason, which is more deeply personal: recognition that it could have been me. More: that it could still be me. This sense of personal involvement stems from being homosexual. When I say, ‘It could have been me’ I recognise that I always cast myself as a victim – never a perpetrator. And I always think I wouldn’t have survived.

 In those camps where there is a book of visitors’ remarks, perhaps the most common entry is ‘Never again’. I think that an empty slogan. The Nazis didn’t invent genocide, though they industrialised and perfected it in ways that are so perverse that they call into question our shared humanity. But, if I speak of a shared humanity, I have always to pose the question – might I have been the one who slammed the Gaskammer door shut on someone else? I recall a German TV documentary where the teenage children of Holocaust survivors revisited the places their parents or grandparents had been so brutally treated. Sitting with them, sifting through photographs and documents, were German teenagers. One of the Jewish youngsters said, ‘I’m always scared that I will see the face of someone I recognise’. ‘So am I’, replied the German youngster. Yes. That captures it, perfectly. It is important to sift yourself. And some locations, because of their poignancy, or power, or pain, make that demand urgent and insistent.

 As I noted above, I don’t believe in Never Again. I’ve lived through the Srenbrenica and Rwanda. Never Again is a cheap shot. Conventional piety. Wishful thinking.

I have no truck with it.

 I believe in vigilance and respect…

   I crossed from Germany into Austria in the late evening of October 19th, at Passau, where the rivers Inn and Ilz combine with the Danube. The Hitler family lived in Passau from 1892-4, moving there when Adolf was three.

 My driving route took me along the right bank of the Danube, heading south east, towards Linz. A full moon was reflected in the river and, on the left bank, a sequence of picturesque villages with their churches and castles illuminated. I arrived in Linz a little before 9pm and headed straight to the hostel. It’s a purpose-built, post war edifice with clean 1950’s lines and interior spaces to match. The rooms, all en-suite, are impressively comfy and airy. It looked a very efficient set up. I slept well.

 The following morning, when I drew back the curtain, the window was misted with condensation. Wiping it aside, I could see autumnal leaves outlined crisply against a cornflower white sky. That boded well for the day. After a good breakfast (a typical Austrian affair of cold meats, cheese, fruit, yoghurt, breads and cakes), I organised myself and went into town.

 Linz is as lovely as you might expect a baroque town on the Danube to be. I spent the morning meandering, stopping off to admire churches and the architectural fancies that offered themselves up. The High Mass was drawing to a close when I got to the New Cathedral (a 19th CE Neo-Gothic build), so I sat quietly and waited for the dismissal, so I could then take a few photos without disturbing the service. There was a small choir – five or six voices – singing a glorious polyphonic mass setting.

 As midday approached, I returned to the car, crossed the river, and followed the left bank. The Danube was actually blue, for once: generally-speaking it’s a mucky brown. Following the river downstream, Mauthausen is a bare 12 miles from Linz.

I was there in 20 minutes.

 To get to the camp, you turn off the main road and drive through the village, climbing the valley side until you reach the ridge line.

 The first thing you note when you park and get out is the view. It’s a beautiful situation – to the south lies village, the river and the Danube valley – lots of woodland and rolling hills with isolated houses and farms.

 The camp looks like a granite-built fort. Its towers and retaining walls are imposing, not to say intimidating. It has permanence and power written all over it. Exactly as intended.

 Mauthausen was a Grade III camp, intended to be the toughest environment conceivable for the incorrigible political enemies of the Reich. The Nazis intended that the intelligentsia of Europe come to Mauthausen and be worked to death. Its nickname among the staff of the Reichssicherheitshauptamt (Reich Security Main Office) was the Knockenmühle – the Bone Grinder. It was founded immediately after the Anschluss (1938) and was one of the last camps to be liberated.

 The Bone Grinder… therein lies the key. Mauthausen was founded because of the adjacent granite quarry. Its stone had been used to pave the streets of Vienna: now it was used to build the camp itself (inmates transferred from Dachau) and then the grandiose Nazi monuments that glowered down on the subjects of the 1000 Year Reich. Some of its stone was used in the Congress Hall, and other buildings, of the Reichsparteitagsgelände (Nazi Party Rally Grounds), in Nuremburg, which I had left only the day before.

 As the war progressed, and Germany secured direct and indirect control over more and more of Europe, the inmates became more diverse in their origins – to the Germans and Austrians were added Poles, Czechs, Hungarians, Spaniards, French, Greeks. Teachers, doctors, lawyers, trade unionists, socialists, Jehovah’s witnesses, homosexuals, Sinti and Roma, Jews, Russian (and other) prisoners of war, partisans from Yugoslavia: in their hundreds of thousands, they came to Mauthausen and its sub-camps and were worked to death in the quarries, or gassed, shot, hung. Estimates vary – but it is reasonable to believe that 320,000 people came to Mauthausen and its sub-camps. 75% of them didn’t survive. But death was profitable: in 1944, the camp turned a profit of 144 million Euros (at 2013 exchange rate).

  When I came to Mauthausen I knew what to expect.

 The first camp I ever visited was KZ Sachsenhausen. It lies to the north of Berlin, in the village of Oranienburg. I went there in a bitterly cold February, in 1996, to stand before the memorial to the homosexuals done to death by the Nazis, and leave a poem and some rainbow ribbons. That same trip, I went to the Haus am Wannsee, which hosted the conference convened in January, 1942 at which the planned extermination of European Jewry was formalised, organised and rubber stamped.

 If Sachsenhausen brought tears, Wannsee brought an even icier chill – the hand of the perpetrators. Crunching up the drive towards that familiar building, sited on an idyllic lake (Heydrich intended it to be his home after the war), there was menace in the air.

 In January 2005, I went to Prague with Peter, and intended to make a side trip to Theresienstadt. Peter said he’d skip that but then changed his mind and came with me. I think he regretted it: it was grim. As I knew it would be.

 Almost exactly a year later, Gordon, Richard and I went to Krakow in Poland. Inevitably, we went to Auschwitz. It was a bitter winter, and the camp was a snow-covered expanse. It was easy, in the mind’s eye, to step back in time and imagine being there in the winter of 1944: the war lost but the exterminations more frantic than ever, the levels of degradation surpassing even the obscenities that preceded them.

  As I walked towards the camp entrance at Mauthausen, I brought these experiences with me. I had an idea of what lay behind that forbidding perimeter. I didn’t expect to be surprised. I did expect to be upset – as I had been before. I expected to be rattled. To be provoked. To be made to squirm and feel uneasy.

 The visit is self-directed, though an excellent audio-guide and a simple map make sure you don’t get lost.

 Some of the camp buildings are no longer there: the SS barracks are gone: the site is now the memorial garden. Some barrack blocks are demolished but others remain to suggest what they were like when the camp was in use, others are exhibition spaces.

The prison, the execution rooms, the crematoria, are all extant.

 The exhibition spaces are sensitively and comprehensively detailed, and give a genuine insight into the camp’s history. You are uncompromisingly confronted by the filthiness of Nazism. Each camp I have visited offers a unique experience, though each share common threads. Each has shown me something I hadn’t grasped until that point. At Mauthausen, it was the level of brutality dispensed to children. Looking at the youthful faces in inmate photographs was very disturbing.

  The barrack blocks are stark: the triple bunks, kapos’ day rooms, and the washrooms stood empty and silent. The washrooms rattle me: they were favoured suicide locations for prisoners in extremis. I’ve seen photos of emaciated victims, strangulated on taps, pipes and even toilet fixtures.

 I moved on. The triple bunks – top bunks were the most sought after – men topped and tailed – perhaps three per level, nine in all. The ones on the lower bunks were subject to the dysenteric effluvia of those on the upper ones.  When a transport arrived, overcrowding became endemic.

 In the prison block, you can see the ‘interrogation’ rooms, placed so the screams could be heard throughout the cell block. Below, in the basement, the exectution rooms. Prisoners were shot in the back of the neck (I saw such a set up at Sachsenhausen) or hung from a pulleyed hook, or gassed, or injected with petrol, or stripped, sprayed with water and left to freeze to death outside in the winter temperatures, or pushed off the quarry heights, or made to push others off the quarry heights and then shoved after them. Others were driven onto the electrified fence, or shot whilst penned into the garage courtyard. The bodies were cremated by prisoners who were themselves shot and subsequently cremated.

  Mauthausen has two double ovens in situ and complete. They stand open-mawed and stark. Topf and Sons Ltd, produced them. They were manufacturers of industrial malting ovens for breweries, and commercial incinerators. Their chief executive saw a brilliant opportunity to expand operations and submitted designs for ovens that could operate continually as crematoria: the Nazis were more than happy to sign the contracts. As Topf’s letterhead said on their Auschwitz correspondence: Always ready to serve you…

 This is what concentration camps are like.

 This is why it’s important for me to come, and stand, and be upset, and remember.

 At Sachsenhausen it was the crematorium that brought me close to dissolution.

At Auschwitz, the gas chamber.

At Theresienstadt, it was the sight of that vile slogan, glimpsed through a flurry of snow: ARBEIT MACHT FREI.

At Mauthausen, I felt more composed than I had expected. Reflective, quiet, brimful of thoughts and the clamour of the past but it was manageable and I felt able to ‘hold the ring’.

 Having paid my respects at the memorial plaques, I left the camp proper and walked slowly through the memorial garden, towards the quarry. I made a mental note to pay my respects at these formal monuments on the way back, and continued to make my way to the stone works.

 The well-made path gave out and I noted that I was now walking on the uneven setts and broken stones that led along the edge of the quarry, to the Death Steps.

 I was alone by now. Everything was quiet, save for the crunch of my footfalls on the stones. Their unevenness threatened to throw me off balance, and I found myself looking at my feet and paying close attention to the sensation of planting my foot, feeling my ankle adjust to keep me upright.

 As I type now, I can recall the sensations and sounds with absolute clarity.

 As I got nearer and nearer to the Steps I began to feel genuinely unsteady; there was an upwelling of panic, a constriction in the chest, a stomach-churning gripe: I was unable to proceed. I feared that I was going to crumple to the ground and cry uncontrollably.

 I stood stock still. I had to physically regain my balance. If there’d been something close at hand to grasp, I would have held on to it. But there wasn’t. I had to be still, gather my scattered self, recognise what was happening, compose myself, regain a measure of control.

 When I’d done so, the sudden realisation dawned that I couldn’t walk down the Steps. I knew it would be sacrilegious to trip down those stairs in my Fitflops. But I also knew I had to get down. I had to stand in the quarry. This was the place where remembrance meant most.

 To me, it felt an age, but it can only have been a few seconds: the solution was plain. I must go unshod. Bare-foot, I could do it.

 It all felt OK then. After a deep breath the urge to cry and the unsteadiness left me. There was still the hypersensitivity, as I placed my feet on the uneven stones, but I could make my way to the Steps.

 I had another lurch as I stood at the top. But I was able to quieten that, and sit down.

 I unlaced my shoes and slipped them and my socks off. A young family was coming up: the kids were counting the number of steps aloud: Ein hundert sechs und achtszig – 186.

 They passed by, making no remark.

 The stones were cold but supportive.

 Berries and twigs and clusters of fallen leaves were scattered on the granite steps, and I could feel their imprint as I descended. Down I went, where so many had gone before me, beaten and driven.

 In the quarry itself, the workings reared up before me: a cliff. Nature had softened and reclaimed some of it. There were two great water-filled pits that reflected the autumnal leaves and blue sky. It was strangely reaffirming.

 There were stone chips underfoot, as well as springy grass. I stooped to pick one up and carry away with me. Once home, I will put it alongside the brick-flake from Auschwitz, in plain view, where it will help me remember.

 I walked for some time, occupied with my thoughts, wondering at the strength and unexpected immediacy of my upset at the top of the quarry. I remembered seeing ‘Bent’ – firstly a play by Martin Sherman (1979), later a film by Sean Mathias. It dealt with two gay men sent to Dachau in 1934. A scene in it had them working moving heavy stone blocks. There was some clue there to my distress.

 And there was an incongruity: I remembered that beautiful polyohonic mass setting, 12 miles and 20 minutes away....

 And I had been bare-foot once before. 20 + years ago, in Lourdes. I had make my way around the massive, verdisgris’d Stations there, It was my leave-taking from the Friars Minor. The circumstance was very different, but the motivation shared some ground. Standing bare-foot on the bare earth and experiencing things for what they actually are; there is comfort in this discomfort.

  For me, Mauthausen had brought home again the reality. Not an issue of ‘there and then’ but ‘here and now’.

  And so it must remain, to me.

 Without vigilance and respect, I believe it will come again, and swallow our humanity.

[ukdamo]

KZ Mauthausen

One of mine...

KZ Mauthausen

It’s no sort of a boast to say, ‘I’ve been to a few concentration camps’. Opera houses; perhaps: art galleries; perhaps: concentration camps, hardly. It’s true nonetheless, I have visited a few concentration camps. It’s not that that the camps hold a lurid fascination for me, or that I am impelled to visit and tick them off on a list. Concentration camps are not munros. When I try to analyse my reasons for visiting, they multiply, become elusive, and I struggle to apprehend and organise them. They are definitely manifold. There is an historian’s interest – longstanding now - perhaps an integral part of my make up, inescapable. There’s also muted sense of obligation on my part, a sense of ‘ought to’. That sense pervades other aspects of my travel, too – it takes me to battlefields and war cemeteries wherever I find myself: USA, Turkey, Tunisia, France, Belgium, Russia. The ought to is, I think, a way of grappling with, and trying to understand big questions – questions about war, about sacrifice, about the deepest human motivators. Standing on the ground where things happened helps me focus my mind, offers me a degree of clarity, helps me draw out the physical threads of place and time and interweave them with the cognitive threads of what I know. It’s invariably humbling. I have a sense, too, courtesy of those who deny the Holocaust (I think of David Irving, in particular), that the Shoah needs contemporary witnesses, people who have been, have seen, have been humbled and upset, and can testify to it. There’s one more reason, which is more deeply personal: recognition that it could have been me. More: that it could still be me. This sense of personal involvement stems from being homosexual. When I say, ‘It could have been me’ I recognise that I always cast myself as a victim – never a perpetrator. And I always think I wouldn’t have survived. In those camps where there is a book of visitors’ remarks, perhaps the most common entry is ‘Never again’. I think that an empty slogan. The Nazis didn’t invent genocide, though they industrialised and perfected it in ways that are so perverse that they call into question our shared humanity. But, if I speak of a shared humanity, I have always to pose the question – might I have been the one who slammed the Gaskammer door shut on someone else? I recall a German TV documentary where the teenage children of Holocaust survivors revisited the places their parents or grandparents had been so brutally treated. Sitting with them, sifting through photographs and documents, were German teenagers. One of the Jewish youngsters said, ‘I’m always scared that I will see the face of someone I recognise’. ‘So am I’, replied the German youngster. Yes. That captures it, perfectly. It is important to sift yourself. And some locations, because of their poignancy, or power, or pain, make that demand urgent and insistent. As I noted above, I don’t believe in Never Again. I’ve lived through the Srenbrenica and Rwanda. Never Again is a cheap shot. Conventional piety. Wishful thinking. I have no truck with it. I believe in vigilance and respect… I crossed from Germany into Austria in the late evening of October 19th, at Passau, where the rivers Inn and Ilz combine with the Danube. The Hitler family lived in Passau from 1892-4, moving there when Adolf was three. My driving route took me along the right bank of the Danube, heading south east, towards Linz. A full moon was reflected in the river and, on the left bank, a sequence of picturesque villages with their churches and castles illuminated. I arrived in Linz a little before 9pm and headed straight to the hostel. It’s a purpose-built, post war edifice with clean 1950’s lines and interior spaces to match. The rooms, all en-suite, are impressively comfy and airy. It looked a very efficient set up. I slept well. The following morning, when I drew back the curtain, the window was misted with condensation. Wiping it aside, I could see autumnal leaves outlined crisply against a cornflower white sky. That boded well for the day. After a good breakfast (a typical Austrian affair of cold meats, cheese, fruit, yoghurt, breads and cakes), I organised myself and went into town. Linz is as lovely as you might expect a baroque town on the Danube to be. I spent the morning meandering, stopping off to admire churches and the architectural fancies that offered themselves up. The High Mass was drawing to a close when I got to the New Cathedral (a 19th CE Neo-Gothic build), so I sat quietly and waited for the dismissal, so I could then take a few photos without disturbing the service. There was a small choir – five or six voices – singing a glorious polyphonic mass setting. As midday approached, I returned to the car, crossed the river, and followed the left bank. The Danube was actually blue, for once: generally-speaking it’s a mucky brown. Following the river downstream, Mauthausen is a bare 12 miles from Linz. I was there in 20 minutes. To get to the camp, you turn off the main road and drive through the village, climbing the valley side until you reach the ridge line. The first thing you note when you park and get out is the view. It’s a beautiful situation – to the south lies village, the river and the Danube valley – lots of woodland and rolling hills with isolated houses and farms. The camp looks like a granite-built fort. Its towers and retaining walls are imposing, not to say intimidating. It has permanence and power written all over it. Exactly as intended. Mauthausen was a Grade III camp, intended to be the toughest environment conceivable for the incorrigible political enemies of the Reich. The Nazis intended that the intelligentsia of Europe come to Mauthausen and be worked to death. Its nickname among the staff of the Reichssicherheitshauptamt (Reich Security Main Office) was the Knockenmühle – the Bone Grinder. It was founded immediately after the Anschluss (1938) and was one of the last camps to be liberated. The Bone Grinder… therein lies the key. Mauthausen was founded because of the adjacent granite quarry. Its stone had been used to pave the streets of Vienna: now it was used to build the camp itself (inmates transferred from Dachau) and then the grandiose Nazi monuments that glowered down on the subjects of the 1000 Year Reich. Some of its stone was used in the Congress Hall, and other buildings, of the Reichsparteitagsgelände (Nazi Party Rally Grounds), in Nuremburg, which I had left only the day before. As the war progressed, and Germany secured direct and indirect control over more and more of Europe, the inmates became more diverse in their origins – to the Germans and Austrians were added Poles, Czechs, Hungarians, Spaniards, French, Greeks. Teachers, doctors, lawyers, trade unionists, socialists, Jehovah’s witnesses, homosexuals, Sinti and Roma, Jews, Russian (and other) prisoners of war, partisans from Yugoslavia: in their hundreds of thousands, they came to Mauthausen and its sub-camps and were worked to death in the quarries, or gassed, shot, hung. Estimates vary – but it is reasonable to believe that 320,000 people came to Mauthausen and its sub-camps. 75% of them didn’t survive. But death was profitable: in 1944, the camp turned a profit of 144 million Euros (at 2013 exchange rate). When I came to Mauthausen I knew what to expect. The first camp I ever visited was KZ Sachsenhausen. It lies to the north of Berlin, in the village of Oranienburg. I went there in a bitterly cold February, in 1996, to stand before the memorial to the homosexuals done to death by the Nazis, and leave a poem and some rainbow ribbons. That same trip, I went to the Haus am Wannsee, which hosted the conference convened in January, 1942 at which the planned extermination of European Jewry was formalised, organised and rubber stamped. If Sachsenhausen brought tears, Wannsee brought an even icier chill – the hand of the perpetrators. Crunching up the drive towards that familiar building, sited on an idyllic lake (Heydrich intended it to be his home after the war), there was menace in the air. In January 2005, I went to Prague with Peter, and intended to make a side trip to Theresienstadt. Peter said he’d skip that but then changed his mind and came with me. I think he regretted it: it was grim. As I knew it would be. Almost exactly a year later, Gordon, Richard and I went to Krakow in Poland. Inevitably, we went to Auschwitz. It was a bitter winter, and the camp was a snow-covered expanse. It was easy, in the mind’s eye, to step back in time and imagine being there in the winter of 1944: the war lost but the exterminations more frantic than ever, the levels of degradation surpassing even the obscenities that preceded them. As I walked towards the camp entrance at Mauthausen, I brought these experiences with me. I had an idea of what lay behind that forbidding perimeter. I didn’t expect to be surprised. I did expect to be upset – as I had been before. I expected to be rattled. To be provoked. To be made to squirm and feel uneasy. The visit is self-directed, though an excellent audio-guide and a simple map make sure you don’t get lost. Some of the camp buildings are no longer there: the SS barracks are gone: the site is now the memorial garden. Some barrack blocks are demolished but others remain to suggest what they were like when the camp was in use, others are exhibition spaces. The prison, the execution rooms, the crematoria, are all extant. The exhibition spaces are sensitively and comprehensively detailed, and give a genuine insight into the camp’s history. You are uncompromisingly confronted by the filthiness of Nazism. Each camp I have visited offers a unique experience, though each share common threads. Each has shown me something I hadn’t grasped until that point. At Mauthausen, it was the level of brutality dispensed to children. Looking at the youthful faces in inmate photographs was very disturbing. The barrack blocks are stark: the triple bunks, kapos’ day rooms, and the washrooms stood empty and silent. The washrooms rattle me: they were favoured suicide locations for prisoners in extremis. I’ve seen photos of emaciated victims, strangulated on taps, pipes and even toilet fixtures. I moved on. The triple bunks – top bunks were the most sought after – men topped and tailed – perhaps three per level, nine in all. The ones on the lower bunks were subject to the dysenteric effluvia of those on the upper ones.  When a transport arrived, overcrowding became endemic. In the prison block, you can see the ‘interrogation’ rooms, placed so the screams could be heard throughout the cell block. Below, in the basement, the exectution rooms. Prisoners were shot in the back of the neck (I saw such a set up at Sachsenhausen) or hung from a pulleyed hook, or gassed, or injected with petrol, or stripped, sprayed with water and left to freeze to death outside in the winter temperatures, or pushed off the quarry heights, or made to push others off the quarry heights and then shoved after them. Others were driven onto the electrified fence, or shot whilst penned into the garage courtyard. The bodies were cremated by prisoners who were themselves shot and subsequently cremated. Mauthausen has two double ovens in situ and complete. They stand open-mawed and stark. Topf and Sons Ltd, produced them. They were manufacturers of industrial malting ovens for breweries, and commercial incinerators. Their chief executive saw a brilliant opportunity to expand operations and submitted designs for ovens that could operate continually as crematoria: the Nazis were more than happy to sign the contracts. As Topf’s letterhead said on their Auschwitz correspondence: Always ready to serve you… This is what concentration camps are like. This is why it’s important for me to come, and stand, and be upset, and remember. At Sachsenhausen it was the crematorium that brought me close to dissolution. At Auschwitz, the gas chamber. At Theresienstadt, it was the sight of that vile slogan, glimpsed through a flurry of snow: ARBEIT MACHT FREI. At Mauthausen, I felt more composed than I had expected. Reflective, quiet, brimful of thoughts and the clamour of the past but it was manageable and I felt able to ‘hold the ring’. Having paid my respects at the memorial plaques, I left the camp proper and walked slowly through the memorial garden, towards the quarry. I made a mental note to pay my respects at these formal monuments on the way back, and continued to make my way to the stone works. The well-made path gave out and I noted that I was now walking on the uneven setts and broken stones that led along the edge of the quarry, to the Death Steps. I was alone by now. Everything was quiet, save for the crunch of my footfalls on the stones. Their unevenness threatened to throw me off balance, and I found myself looking at my feet and paying close attention to the sensation of planting my foot, feeling my ankle adjust to keep me upright. As I type now, I can recall the sensations and sounds with absolute clarity. As I got nearer and nearer to the Steps I began to feel genuinely unsteady; there was an upwelling of panic, a constriction in the chest, a stomach-churning gripe: I was unable to proceed. I feared that I was going to crumple to the ground and cry uncontrollably. I stood stock still. I had to physically regain my balance. If there’d been something close at hand to grasp, I would have held on to it. But there wasn’t. I had to be still, gather my scattered self, recognise what was happening, compose myself, regain a measure of control. When I’d done so, the sudden realisation dawned that I couldn’t walk down the Steps. I knew it would be sacrilegious to trip down those stairs in my Fitflops. But I also knew I had to get down. I had to stand in the quarry. This was the place where remembrance meant most. To me, it felt an age, but it can only have been a few seconds: the solution was plain. I must go unshod. Bare-foot, I could do it. It all felt OK then. After a deep breath the urge to cry and the unsteadiness left me. There was still the hypersensitivity, as I placed my feet on the uneven stones, but I could make my way to the Steps. I had another lurch as I stood at the top. But I was able to quieten that, and sit down. I unlaced my shoes and slipped them and my socks off. A young family was coming up: the kids were counting the number of steps aloud: Ein hundert sechs und achtszig – 186. They passed by, making no remark. The stones were cold but supportive. Berries and twigs and clusters of fallen leaves were scattered on the granite steps, and I could feel their imprint as I descended. Down I went, where so many had gone before me, beaten and driven. In the quarry itself, the workings reared up before me: a cliff. Nature had softened and reclaimed some of it. There were two great water-filled pits that reflected the autumnal leaves and blue sky. It was strangely reaffirming. There were stone chips underfoot, as well as springy grass. I stooped to pick one up and carry away with me. Once home, I will put it alongside the brick-flake from Auschwitz, in plain view, where it will help me remember. I walked for some time, occupied with my thoughts, wondering at the strength and unexpected immediacy of my upset at the top of the quarry. I remembered seeing ‘Bent’ – firstly a play by Martin Sherman (1979), later a film by Sean Mathias. It dealt with two gay men sent to Dachau in 1934. A scene in it had them working moving heavy stone blocks. There was some clue there to my distress. And there was an incongruity: I remembered that beautiful polyohonic mass setting, 12 miles and 20 minutes away.... And I had been bare-foot once before. 20 + years ago, in Lourdes. I had make my way around the massive, verdisgris’d Stations there, It was my leave-taking from the Friars Minor. The circumstance was very different, but the motivation shared some ground. Standing bare-foot on the bare earth and experiencing things for what they actually are; there is comfort in this discomfort. For me, Mauthausen had brought home again the reality. Not an issue of ‘there and then’ but ‘here and now’. And so it must remain, to me. Without vigilance and respect, I believe it will come again, and swallow our humanity. damian, november 19th, 2013

[ukdamo]

KZ Mauthausen

A reflection, written by me, written after a visit on 2013

KZ Mauthausen

It’s no sort of a boast to say, ‘I’ve been to a few concentration camps’. Opera houses; perhaps: art galleries; perhaps: concentration camps, hardly. It’s true nonetheless, I have visited a few concentration camps. It’s not that that the camps hold a lurid fascination for me, or that I am impelled to visit and tick them off on a list. Concentration camps are not munros. When I try to analyse my reasons for visiting, they multiply, become elusive, and I struggle to apprehend and organise them. They are definitely manifold. There is an historian’s interest – longstanding now - perhaps an integral part of my make up, inescapable. There’s also muted sense of obligation on my part, a sense of ‘ought to’. That sense pervades other aspects of my travel, too – it takes me to battlefields and war cemeteries wherever I find myself: USA, Turkey, Tunisia, France, Belgium, Russia. The ought to is, I think, a way of grappling with, and trying to understand big questions – questions about war, about sacrifice, about the deepest human motivators. Standing on the ground where things happened helps me focus my mind, offers me a degree of clarity, helps me draw out the physical threads of place and time and interweave them with the cognitive threads of what I know. It’s invariably humbling. I have a sense, too, courtesy of those who deny the Holocaust (I think of David Irving, in particular), that the Shoah needs contemporary witnesses, people who have been, have seen, have been humbled and upset, and can testify to it. There’s one more reason, which is more deeply personal: recognition that it could have been me. More: that it could still be me. This sense of personal involvement stems from being homosexual. When I say, ‘It could have been me’ I recognise that I always cast myself as a victim – never a perpetrator. And I always think I wouldn’t have survived. In those camps where there is a book of visitors’ remarks, perhaps the most common entry is ‘Never again’. I think that an empty slogan. The Nazis didn’t invent genocide, though they industrialised and perfected it in ways that are so perverse that they call into question our shared humanity. But, if I speak of a shared humanity, I have always to pose the question – might I have been the one who slammed the Gaskammer door shut on someone else? I recall a German TV documentary where the teenage children of Holocaust survivors revisited the places their parents or grandparents had been so brutally treated. Sitting with them, sifting through photographs and documents, were German teenagers. One of the Jewish youngsters said, ‘I’m always scared that I will see the face of someone I recognise’. ‘So am I’, replied the German youngster. Yes. That captures it, perfectly. It is important to sift yourself. And some locations, because of their poignancy, or power, or pain, make that demand urgent and insistent. As I noted above, I don’t believe in Never Again. I’ve lived through the Srenbrenica and Rwanda. Never Again is a cheap shot. Conventional piety. Wishful thinking. I have no truck with it. I believe in vigilance and respect… I crossed from Germany into Austria in the late evening of October 19th, at Passau, where the rivers Inn and Ilz combine with the Danube. The Hitler family lived in Passau from 1892-4, moving there when Adolf was three. My driving route took me along the right bank of the Danube, heading south east, towards Linz. A full moon was reflected in the river and, on the left bank, a sequence of picturesque villages with their churches and castles illuminated. I arrived in Linz a little before 9pm and headed straight to the hostel. It’s a purpose-built, post war edifice with clean 1950’s lines and interior spaces to match. The rooms, all en-suite, are impressively comfy and airy. It looked a very efficient set up. I slept well. The following morning, when I drew back the curtain, the window was misted with condensation. Wiping it aside, I could see autumnal leaves outlined crisply against a cornflower white sky. That boded well for the day. After a good breakfast (a typical Austrian affair of cold meats, cheese, fruit, yoghurt, breads and cakes), I organised myself and went into town. Linz is as lovely as you might expect a baroque town on the Danube to be. I spent the morning meandering, stopping off to admire churches and the architectural fancies that offered themselves up. The High Mass was drawing to a close when I got to the New Cathedral (a 19th CE Neo-Gothic build), so I sat quietly and waited for the dismissal, so I could then take a few photos without disturbing the service. There was a small choir – five or six voices – singing a glorious polyphonic mass setting. As midday approached, I returned to the car, crossed the river, and followed the left bank. The Danube was actually blue, for once: generally-speaking it’s a mucky brown. Following the river downstream, Mauthausen is a bare 12 miles from Linz. I was there in 20 minutes. To get to the camp, you turn off the main road and drive through the village, climbing the valley side until you reach the ridge line. The first thing you note when you park and get out is the view. It’s a beautiful situation – to the south lies village, the river and the Danube valley – lots of woodland and rolling hills with isolated houses and farms. The camp looks like a granite-built fort. Its towers and retaining walls are imposing, not to say intimidating. It has permanence and power written all over it. Exactly as intended. Mauthausen was a Grade III camp, intended to be the toughest environment conceivable for the incorrigible political enemies of the Reich. The Nazis intended that the intelligentsia of Europe come to Mauthausen and be worked to death. Its nickname among the staff of the Reichssicherheitshauptamt (Reich Security Main Office) was the Knockenmühle – the Bone Grinder. It was founded immediately after the Anschluss (1938) and was one of the last camps to be liberated. The Bone Grinder… therein lies the key. Mauthausen was founded because of the adjacent granite quarry. Its stone had been used to pave the streets of Vienna: now it was used to build the camp itself (inmates transferred from Dachau) and then the grandiose Nazi monuments that glowered down on the subjects of the 1000 Year Reich. Some of its stone was used in the Congress Hall, and other buildings, of the Reichsparteitagsgelände (Nazi Party Rally Grounds), in Nuremburg, which I had left only the day before. As the war progressed, and Germany secured direct and indirect control over more and more of Europe, the inmates became more diverse in their origins – to the Germans and Austrians were added Poles, Czechs, Hungarians, Spaniards, French, Greeks. Teachers, doctors, lawyers, trade unionists, socialists, Jehovah’s witnesses, homosexuals, Sinti and Roma, Jews, Russian (and other) prisoners of war, partisans from Yugoslavia: in their hundreds of thousands, they came to Mauthausen and its sub-camps and were worked to death in the quarries, or gassed, shot, hung. Estimates vary – but it is reasonable to believe that 320,000 people came to Mauthausen and its sub-camps. 75% of them didn’t survive. But death was profitable: in 1944, the camp turned a profit of 144 million Euros (at 2013 exchange rate). When I came to Mauthausen I knew what to expect. The first camp I ever visited was KZ Sachsenhausen. It lies to the north of Berlin, in the village of Oranienburg. I went there in a bitterly cold February, in 1996, to stand before the memorial to the homosexuals done to death by the Nazis, and leave a poem and some rainbow ribbons. That same trip, I went to the Haus am Wannsee, which hosted the conference convened in January, 1942 at which the planned extermination of European Jewry was formalised, organised and rubber stamped. If Sachsenhausen brought tears, Wannsee brought an even icier chill – the hand of the perpetrators. Crunching up the drive towards that familiar building, sited on an idyllic lake (Heydrich intended it to be his home after the war), there was menace in the air. In January 2005, I went to Prague with Peter, and intended to make a side trip to Theresienstadt. Peter said he’d skip that but then changed his mind and came with me. I think he regretted it: it was grim. As I knew it would be. Almost exactly a year later, Gordon, Richard and I went to Krakow in Poland. Inevitably, we went to Auschwitz. It was a bitter winter, and the camp was a snow-covered expanse. It was easy, in the mind’s eye, to step back in time and imagine being there in the winter of 1944: the war lost but the exterminations more frantic than ever, the levels of degradation surpassing even the obscenities that preceded them. As I walked towards the camp entrance at Mauthausen, I brought these experiences with me. I had an idea of what lay behind that forbidding perimeter. I didn’t expect to be surprised. I did expect to be upset – as I had been before. I expected to be rattled. To be provoked. To be made to squirm and feel uneasy. The visit is self-directed, though an excellent audio-guide and a simple map make sure you don’t get lost. Some of the camp buildings are no longer there: the SS barracks are gone: the site is now the memorial garden. Some barrack blocks are demolished but others remain to suggest what they were like when the camp was in use, others are exhibition spaces. The prison, the execution rooms, the crematoria, are all extant. The exhibition spaces are sensitively and comprehensively detailed, and give a genuine insight into the camp’s history. You are uncompromisingly confronted by the filthiness of Nazism. Each camp I have visited offers a unique experience, though each share common threads. Each has shown me something I hadn’t grasped until that point. At Mauthausen, it was the level of brutality dispensed to children. Looking at the youthful faces in inmate photographs was very disturbing. The barrack blocks are stark: the triple bunks, kapos’ day rooms, and the washrooms stood empty and silent. The washrooms rattle me: they were favoured suicide locations for prisoners in extremis. I’ve seen photos of emaciated victims, strangulated on taps, pipes and even toilet fixtures. I moved on. The triple bunks – top bunks were the most sought after – men topped and tailed – perhaps three per level, nine in all. The ones on the lower bunks were subject to the dysenteric effluvia of those on the upper ones.  When a transport arrived, overcrowding became endemic. In the prison block, you can see the ‘interrogation’ rooms, placed so the screams could be heard throughout the cell block. Below, in the basement, the exectution rooms. Prisoners were shot in the back of the neck (I saw such a set up at Sachsenhausen) or hung from a pulleyed hook, or gassed, or injected with petrol, or stripped, sprayed with water and left to freeze to death outside in the winter temperatures, or pushed off the quarry heights, or made to push others off the quarry heights and then shoved after them. Others were driven onto the electrified fence, or shot whilst penned into the garage courtyard. The bodies were cremated by prisoners who were themselves shot and subsequently cremated. Mauthausen has two double ovens in situ and complete. They stand open-mawed and stark. Topf and Sons Ltd, produced them. They were manufacturers of industrial malting ovens for breweries, and commercial incinerators. Their chief executive saw a brilliant opportunity to expand operations and submitted designs for ovens that could operate continually as crematoria: the Nazis were more than happy to sign the contracts. As Topf’s letterhead said on their Auschwitz correspondence: Always ready to serve you… This is what concentration camps are like. This is why it’s important for me to come, and stand, and be upset, and remember. At Sachsenhausen it was the crematorium that brought me close to dissolution. At Auschwitz, the gas chamber. At Theresienstadt, it was the sight of that vile slogan, glimpsed through a flurry of snow: ARBEIT MACHT FREI. At Mauthausen, I felt more composed than I had expected. Reflective, quiet, brimful of thoughts and the clamour of the past but it was manageable and I felt able to ‘hold the ring’. Having paid my respects at the memorial plaques, I left the camp proper and walked slowly through the memorial garden, towards the quarry. I made a mental note to pay my respects at these formal monuments on the way back, and continued to make my way to the stone works. The well-made path gave out and I noted that I was now walking on the uneven setts and broken stones that led along the edge of the quarry, to the Death Steps. I was alone by now. Everything was quiet, save for the crunch of my footfalls on the stones. Their unevenness threatened to throw me off balance, and I found myself looking at my feet and paying close attention to the sensation of planting my foot, feeling my ankle adjust to keep me upright. As I type now, I can recall the sensations and sounds with absolute clarity. As I got nearer and nearer to the Steps I began to feel genuinely unsteady; there was an upwelling of panic, a constriction in the chest, a stomach-churning gripe: I was unable to proceed. I feared that I was going to crumple to the ground and cry uncontrollably. I stood stock still. I had to physically regain my balance. If there’d been something close at hand to grasp, I would have held on to it. But there wasn’t. I had to be still, gather my scattered self, recognise what was happening, compose myself, regain a measure of control. When I’d done so, the sudden realisation dawned that I couldn’t walk down the Steps. I knew it would be sacrilegious to trip down those stairs in my Fitflops. But I also knew I had to get down. I had to stand in the quarry. This was the place where remembrance meant most. To me, it felt an age, but it can only have been a few seconds: the solution was plain. I must go unshod. Bare-foot, I could do it. It all felt OK then. After a deep breath the urge to cry and the unsteadiness left me. There was still the hypersensitivity, as I placed my feet on the uneven stones, but I could make my way to the Steps. I had another lurch as I stood at the top. But I was able to quieten that, and sit down. I unlaced my shoes and slipped them and my socks off. A young family was coming up: the kids were counting the number of steps aloud: Ein hundert sechs und achtszig – 186. They passed by, making no remark. The stones were cold but supportive. Berries and twigs and clusters of fallen leaves were scattered on the granite steps, and I could feel their imprint as I descended. Down I went, where so many had gone before me, beaten and driven. In the quarry itself, the workings reared up before me: a cliff. Nature had softened and reclaimed some of it. There were two great water-filled pits that reflected the autumnal leaves and blue sky. It was strangely reaffirming. There were stone chips underfoot, as well as springy grass. I stooped to pick one up and carry away with me. Once home, I will put it alongside the brick-flake from Auschwitz, in plain view, where it will help me remember. I walked for some time, occupied with my thoughts, wondering at the strength and unexpected immediacy of my upset at the top of the quarry. I remembered seeing ‘Bent’ – firstly a play by Martin Sherman (1979), later a film by Sean Mathias. It dealt with two gay men sent to Dachau in 1934. A scene in it had them working moving heavy stone blocks. There was some clue there to my distress. And there was an incongruity: I remembered that beautiful polyohonic mass setting, 12 miles and 20 minutes away.... And I had been bare-foot once before. 20 + years ago, in Lourdes. I had make my way around the massive, verdisgris’d Stations there, It was my leave-taking from the Friars Minor. The circumstance was very different, but the motivation shared some ground. Standing bare-foot on the bare earth and experiencing things for what they actually are; there is comfort in this discomfort. For me, Mauthausen had brought home again the reality. Not an issue of ‘there and then’ but ‘here and now’. And so it must remain, to me. Without vigilance and respect, I believe it will come again, and swallow our humanity. damian, november 19th, 2013