#( standing in the ashes of who i used to be

[flameblessed]

Tags. 2/?

[loveinhawkins]

picturing Dustin watching at the trailer park, right after Eddie says, “Hey, Steve? Make him pay.”

And for some reason Dustin’s reminded of ‘84, of his conversation with Steve on the railroad tracks, it’s like before it’s gonna storm, you know? You can’t see it, but you can feel it, like this, uh... electricity, you know?—although he’s grown enough to suspect that Steve might not know everything in that regard.

And it’s not electricity he senses, not exactly, but it’s definitely a storm of some kind: something fragile. Something—someone—that’s very scared.

Dustin’s running before he’s even registered his decision. “Steve!”

Steve turns around, and he already looks like he’s about to ask a question—something practical, like whether Dustin’s forgotten something—and Dustin feels a twist of regret, that that’s where Steve’s mind goes; yeah, they’re all ready for battle, so it makes sense, but…

Feeling suddenly very young, Dustin barrels into Steve and hugs him.

He hears Steve’s surprised inhale, his hesitancy, before he returns the hug in full force.

For a little while, it’s like the world narrows down to only this. No ash in the air, no nightmarish red in the sky. Just the two of them.

Dustin’s about to pull away when he feels Steve’s chin dig into the top of his head. Hears him sniff, very quietly, like he’s trying to hide it; and that makes Dustin think of the tunnels, or afterwards, really, when Steve held onto him with shaking hands, kept saying, “We’re okay, we’re okay.”

So he just keeps hugging back.

Steve’s the one to let go; he’s smiling, but he looks a little sad too, forehead creased with worry.

“I need a ride tomorrow,” Dustin says.

Steve huffs. “Oh, yeah? Where to?”

Dustin taps his nose obnoxiously. “That’s for me to know and you to find out.”

It’s bullshit, of course; Dustin doesn’t need a ride anywhere.

Steve rolls his eyes, but some tightness in his jaw finally eases. “God, you’re such a dick.”

“Bright and early, Steve!” Dustin adds smugly. “Five am!”

“Yeah, yeah,” Steve says, waving him off, and for a moment it’s like they’re just in the school parking lot. He looks as if he’s about to say something else, then thinks better of it—glances back to where Robin and Nancy are waiting. He pulls Dustin in with one arm, a brief but tight hold. Nods, as if to himself. “Go on, scram.”

Dustin runs back to the trailer with a stitch in his side but a smile on his face. He knows it’s naive to think he can fix everything, but in this moment at least some part of the universe has been righted, even while in The Upside Down.

Eddie’s standing right where he left him, like he’s been frozen the whole time.

“Hey,” he says quietly. “is he, uh… is he okay?”

Dustin’s reminded that of course, Steve isn’t the only one who’s scared.

“Yeah, he will be,” he says, which he thinks is a more accurate answer than a simple yes or no.

It’s funny how life works, he muses while gathering supplies for the trailer defences. There’s no way he’d have thought even a week ago that Eddie would be sincerely asking him about Steve’s well-being. Whenever he happened to bring Steve up at Hellfire, Eddie would imitate him in a comedic falsetto, “Oh, Steve this, Steve that.”

For a minute, Eddie remains rooted to the spot, still staring in the direction of where Steve went—like he’d watched helplessly as Steve walked into the eye of a storm or something.

“You just gonna stand there and gawk?” Dustin says.

Eddie snorts. “So rude, Henderson.”

And it’s not like Dustin really knows, not when Steve and Eddie are still barely dancing around it themselves. Still, he can pick up on some things.

Like when they’ve finished setting up everything, waiting for the go-ahead for Eddie to start playing his guitar—to pass the time, they recount the high points of the day, keep it light. It’s a practice Eddie used to implement after campaigns.

And look, Dustin’s damn good at picking up on patterns. Like, he loves Steve, but he’s pretty sure the reality of him driving the hotwired RV doesn’t quite match up to how Eddie’s currently waxing lyrical about it.

He’s making it sound like it was something outta James Bond, Dustin thinks, when he’s sure Steve drove right into several trash cans.

Suddenly he knows exactly what he should do.

“Steve this, Steve that,” he sing-songs.

Eddie flushes; Dustin cackles.

“Fuck off,” Eddie says, but he’s smiling as Dustin keeps laughing, like he knows there’s nothing mean-spirited in it. He keeps going, Steve this, Steve that, talking right over Dustin’s teasing—somehow finding even more moments where Steve truly shines.

And Dustin doesn’t know everything, not even close, but at the very least, he knows that this feels right.

[awritesthings1]

Good Taste

Pairing: Tommy Shelby / Wife reader

Summary: You get made fun of for wearing your sapphire necklace to the foundation dinner. Tommy always finds a way to make things better.

Warnings: swearing, implied smut.

ao3 link

“She was making fun of me!”

“Yeah? And when has that ever bothered you before, my darling?”

“Since all the bloody country wives started debating whether my jewelry was in fashion or not, Tommy,” you huffed at your husband, who was having no luck pinching away the creases between his eyebrows.

Tommy sighed deeply, not really bothered to continue the conversation but irked because the wives down the lane had gotten under your skin, and if you were unhappy, then he was unhappy. He fueled his throbbing head with a cigarette, chain-smoking them back-to-back while he hunched over on the settee.

You were sitting at the vanity, fingers tangled hopelessly at the stubborn latch of your necklace that just wouldn’t let, when you saw how Tommy was beginning to fold in on himself. Guilt consumed you immediately. It wasn’t that you actually cared all that much about what people said, but when you were around Tommy, your guard slipped, and all the things that made you tick during the day would come cluttering out of your mouth like an unwanted clash of symbols and noise. Tommy would sit there and listen, hum, nod, and completely detach himself from the world.

You ran each other around like clockwork. He leaned back, you forward. Lust swelled in his eyes, concern in yours, a tug at your hip, and a gasp from your throat. You smiled sympathetically, apologetically. He kept quiet, forgivingly holding your gaze, until a defeated sigh broke the tension, and you both understood how silly the whole ordeal was. Here was Thomas Shelby, a man of great power, slumped against the settee, utterly exhausted.

“Darling, this is fucking Birmingham. Good taste is for people that can’t afford sapphires.”

That brought a smirk to your lips.

“Oh?” You muse, watching him through your vanity mirror.

Tommy huffs, but it’s more out of amusement than agitation. The cigarette between his lips twitches as a smile graces his face. He hums in affirmation.

You give up on trying to unlatch the sapphire necklace around your neck. You’re far too distracted by the way Tommy leans back on the settee like he knows it’s his damn right, spreading his legs, chain-smoking cigarettes, and blowing the smoke towards the ceiling. He’s completely in the wrong if he thinks you are going to keep your hands tangled up in a necklace when they would be much more useful somewhere else…

When your chair screeches against the wood as you push it back to stand, his head snaps to attention. He has a faraway look to his eye, haunted even, but he swallows when you sink to your knees between his legs, and something else begins to swell other than his pupils.

You run your hands up his knees to his thighs and back again.

“I know it’s stupid. They just get under my skin sometimes,” you resign.

He clears his throat and reaches past your head to set his cigarette on the ash tray. He stays there, bent forward, a breath apart, and begins caressing your face with the back of his fingers. A faint smile softens his features and warms his skin.

You laugh because it really is ridiculous. For marrying someone who spends most of their life buried in their head, you sure have picked up on his tendencies.

“Do you think I’m becoming obsessed?”

He doesn’t even try to hide his amusement. “No.”

You were; he was just treading carefully. Because while he wandered off to speak to god knows who at the foundation dinner, your feathers were being ruffled by stuck-up old women who were too busy being stuck up to notice their husbands’ lingering eyes. However, being able to defend your vanity was another thing compared to dealing with Shelby Company Limited business. And if it came to surviving passive aggressive remarks from old women or being led into another room to talk with Mr. Thomas Shelby, head of the Peaky Blinders, you would sneer rudely at Margaret any day.

You voice the thought at Tommy, “I take it your night wasn’t as successful as mine?”

He exhales and raises his eyebrows playfully, more or less confirming your suspicions.

“And should I ask you about it like a good wife?”

He hums, “no.”

He’s so entranced in running his fingers up and down your jaw, around your chin, and thumbing your lips that you’ll just have to forgive him later.

You pull a face. You’re not mad at him. Far from it. Those fingers of his dancing across your face are your weakness.

“You’re not listening to me.” You lean in closer.

“Yes, I am,” he smiles.

You try to pull back in faux skepticism, but with his hand holding your face so close to his,

“Where are you going, eh?” Tommy leans forward to steal a kiss, and he feels your laughter against his lips, a pleasant sensation.

“Oh, Mr. Shelby,” you jest.

Together, you fall back onto the settee with you astride his lap. Your hair falls over his face like a curtain, keeping him safe from the outside world. He doesn’t want to move; no, he will stay here for the next couple of months, transfixed inside this moment. The gun tucked away in the holster beneath his arm feels less heavy, and the clock ticking above his head slows. He can breathe. He can gingerly stroke your jaw with his thumb in the way you adore. So he does, and the shuttering thoughts that occupy so much of his head stutter in fear because they know they come second to you.

Then there’s that pretty sapphire necklace hanging from your neck. The one that got you both in this position in the first place. Those fucking people, eh? Those fucking people with their fancy palaces and prim and proper manners judging you, his wife, refusing you, his wife? That got him going.

You can tell he is in his head by the way his eyes linger on your sapphire necklace. He looks irked.

“What’s wrong, Tommy?”

He shakes his head lazily.

“Speak to me, love,” you insist.

Fuck em. Fuck the bastards that made his wife feel unworthy. They wouldn’t know taste if it hit them like a fucking train. He won’t let them bring her down.

Tommy clears his throat. “I’m sorry for being in my head, Mrs. Shelby.”

His apology is soothed into your skin with a gentle brush of his thumb at the end of your chin. He tilts it down to lay a kiss on the corner of your mouth. He always knows how to make you smile.

You press more of your weight into him and deepen the kiss, to which he grunts. It stirs a honey warmth in your stomach.

As for Tommy, the need to be closer to you is suffocating; he’d rather just lock you both in this room and throw away the key. He’d rather the stifling walls close in on you both until he can’t even open his lungs, and even then, it wouldn’t be enough. He needs to be in your skin, in your thoughts, but most importantly, right now, in your underwear.

It’s your goddamn nails clawing at his scalp that do it for him. It winds him up like a fucking pocket watch, boils his blood like good whiskey, and fuels the fires.

He urges your name in warning because he’s so strung up he might just rip the seams of your pretty dress, and you make the mistake of swallowing his plea with a huff and a tangle of tongues.

“The necklace, Thomas,” you gasp.

It would really be a pity if he accidentally broke it in the rush to remove your dress. It slows him down momentarily removing it, and his fingers can’t quite function being away from your skin but he knows ever since he gifted it to you, there’s been nothing you loved more. When the latch finally unclasps, he parts from your lips to gently lower it to the coffee table where it remains unscathed for the rest of the night. The same couldn’t be said about your dress.

-

Taglist: (i was drunk when I posted this so I forgot to add it lol).

@maliceofwonderland @fairytale07 @goblinjnr @ilovepeoplesdads @multidimensionalslut @blogforficslol @elenavampire21

[alteredsilicone]

Reddit Post

"Glast is still Corpus, he still cares about profit, he's not going to turn down a trade when it doesn't directly conflict with his goals. His problem with the Corpus isn't that they are the bad guys, or too greedy...it's that they've become so directly obsessed with greed and ruthlessness that they've stopped being businessmen and have basically just turned into pirates.

For example, in the Glast Gambit, Nef Anyo almost destroys a long standing trade agreement between a colony and the Corpus because he only sees the value in what he can steal...not what the trade agreement itself is worth.

This is what Glast really hates...it's not about morals...it's about good business. Glast tries to push the system back towards stability and order, but it's not altruistic...it's because he believes that is the route to most profit and that Parvos is holding the whole of the Origin System's economy back by constantly sabotaging and stealing."

"Heh as a moral code. it's just one that directs him into believing in a sustainable ecosystem rather than a burn everything down and sell the ashes because after I'm gone fuck you approach"

Direct quote from the game (Nightwave Season 3, The Glassmaker):

Opportunity and Acuity, Protocols of The Perrin Sequence."'Create a problem then sell the solution!' No. To embrace Fraudulence is to embrace Idleness. Idleness creates dull minds. Dull minds fail. No. Opportunity is our watchlord. Opportunity and actuality."

"He is an entity that understands that war is often wasteful and force destroys the things you want."

Anyways, I am glad that once in a blue moon I see actual good analysis and understanding of what Ergo Glast and the Perrin Sequence stand for. He is Corpus, yes, but his whole shtick is that he sees creating artificial scarcity to exploit vulnerable people as a bad thing, unlike Corpus who are basically soft-Orokin in their desire to strip the world of every valuable it offers, consequences be damned. Corpus canonically sell materials to Grineer who then craft weapons to facilitate a never-ending war between the factions.

Ergo Glast believes that peace could be achieved through trade and negotiations, peaceful ones, where both parties benefit. The Perrin Sequence Railjack crewmate even muses that once you understand the language someone else speaks, it becomes much harder to plant an ax in their face. Thus - communication is key to peace.

You can dislike it because you dislike capitalism or whatever, but I still want people to at least try to understand his philosophy and not just dismiss it due to their own prejudices. It also doesn't have to be the Correct solution to the Origin System's problem, but it is a solution. Warframe's universe is the perfect opportunity to see what sort of ideologies might spring up after the fall of the Empire and what ways of life might eventually prosper.

As for his attitude towards Parvos: Glast might like Parvos and see the original Corpus doctrine as something the current era Corpus have strayed away, but I also like that OP writes that Parvos would see Glast as sentimental, which in his eyes is a moral failing. Though Glast stands his ground because he knows what he's about.

When we visit the Mycona colony, the first thing Glast urges us is to not cast judgement on the Myconians for living a lifestyle that might seem bizarre to us. So this sort of tolerance and open-mindedness is something that definitely would stem from a post-Orokin society that no longer values strict hierarchies.

Ps. the "how they would actually talk" is funny because both of these men are very sharp-tongued and quick-witted and they would definitely have some godly banter. I can imagine Ergo even bringing up Nef as a dig at Parvos.

[kaurwreck]

There's certainly Something about singularities in Bungou Stray Dogs presenting as massive, myth-derived creatures with more than passing resemblances to kaiju given the setting predates its analog to World War II.

Gojira and the kaiju genre were born in the aftermath of Hiroshima, Nagasaki, and the Lucky Dragon Incident (in which an American hydrogen bomb test rained radioactive ash on a Japanese fishing boat and much of the South Pacific). Life form singularities (like Chuuya and Verlaine), the Seven Traitors, the Transcendants, Mori's fixation on skill-based warfare, and everything else about the Great War all indicate that skills are akin to nuclear arms.

But unlike nuclear arms, skills are generally framed as intrinsic to their user. They're neurological; as much as part of skill users' wiring as the rest of their synapses. Even for Kyouka, whose skill was inherited but not fully integrated, her skill more resembles hereditary neurochemical wiring than it does nuclear proliferation.

Gojira (1954) ends with Dr. Serizawa's promise that hydrogen bombs would always assure nightmarish, monstrous manifestations of the horrors of war. You'd think Dazai's gift, then, would be the enigmatic focal skill of the series; he's capable of nullifying hydrogen bombs, after all.

But it's Atsushi and his celestial Byakko that Shibusawa calls the antithesis of all other abilities. And, as explained in 55 Minutes, Byakko doesn't heal or regenerate Atsushi, it negates his wounds. Atsushi isn't only a particularly tenacious shounen protagonist, Byakko compels him to stand when he's been cut down. When Atsushi is at the edge of death, Byakko consumes him completely, and Atsushi is lost within him, moreso than even Chuuya is in his Corruption state (Chuuya is fully conscious in Corruption— if Atsushi is conscious, he's either repressing or sluggishly recalling the memory of what occurred). Akutagawa also mentions during the Cannibalism arc that Atsushi's claws cut through skills themselves (even Rashoumon, which eats space). Akutagawa also becomes aware, in 55 Minutes, that Byakko can be triggered by Atsushi's peril, and Akutagawa does so to negate the manifestation of a seemingly transcendant skill that otherwise had utterly defanged them (although he seems sorry to have to do it).

Nevertheless, although Atsushi's Byakko seemingly negates the metaphorical horrors of the Great War illustrated by the others and their relationships with their skills, it's Atsushi who posits that perhaps skills aren't innate. He says to Kunikida, "Maybe they come from somewhere else and stick to us. Maybe they're something we can't understand... I don't really know how to put it into words, but that's how I feel."

Much of 55 Minutes is colored by Atsushi's fear of Byakko and his understanding that Byakko could devour him. His fear is seemingly validated by the antagonist, a manifestation of a skill that seemingly swallowed its human. But although textually consistent with his expressed fear, Atsushi's tone, demeanor, timing, and thought processes from when he speaks that line until the light novel ends aren't. His musings reflect his namesake's exploration of and uneasy relationship with the nature of existence, which he understood to be constructed by one's culture and environment better than most due to his somewhat rootless childhood.

I think it's interesting that someone with a skill capable of cutting through other skills, negating wounds, and antithesizing all skills challenges whether skills are innate at all. And if they're not, what does that imply about the parallels between skills, the horrors of war, and the fear of nuclear holocaust?

It's important to me that the scars of American imperialism and disregard for the sanctity of life are not erased from the narrative when discussing the world wars and nuclear proliferation. So I hesitate to posit anything about what skills may be in Bungou Stray Dogs that is too abstracted from trauma wrought by Western imperialism, Japanese imperialism, or the horrors of World Wars I & II. But perhaps that's it; when Atsushi speculates that skills are something that sticks to you, I'm reminded of how trauma has shaped and informed his own. He is certain that Byakko's negation and restless hunger are connected to his birth and subsequent suffering. At first, I thought we were being teased with his early background. But there's no need to tease; the reason so many characters in Bungou Stray Dogs are orphans directly relates to the Great War and the generational trauma still reverberating in its aftermath, and amid the threat of another, even more destructive war.

Perhaps Atsushi was implying that skills are constructs born not from any innate self, if there's such a thing, but from traumas, experiences, needs, cultures, and environments. Which is to say that skills aren't separable, exactly, from their users, but they're not innate either. They're like our personalities: immutable once shaped in the crucible of our most formative years, but nevertheless reflections of not only ourselves, but of what we need and who we become when confronted by others, in all of their beauty and horror.

Thus, perhaps it isn't Atsushi's skill that's so very antithetical to all others. It's his understanding of it, his ability to cut through to others, his compassion, his cowardice, his curiosity, and his separation from his sense of self that both inflicted him with Byakko and which will allow him to transcend it to become who he desires to be. It reminds me that, shortly before his death, his namesake decided to become a writer. And that although he wrote and lived only briefly, his sincerity, thoughtfulness, and introspective skepticism cut, and continue to cut, with a brilliance emblematic of life.

Anyway. Atsushi is both the main character and protagonist of Bungou Stray Dogs. Dazai knows this, too; even if he can nullify Byakko, he's just as impacted by Atsushi's brimming earnestness as everyone else Atsushi encounters. Atsushi liberates the narrative so that it's not a warning that the horrors of war will proliferate so long as we are capable of mass destruction, but instead it's a promise that hope needn't be intrinsic to persist all the same.

[audreyscahier]

Off the Record (Pedro Pascal x OFC)

Word count: 4,560 words

Rating: Explicit (18+ only)

Content warnings: Daddy kink (not ddlg; she just calls him daddy a lot), oral sex (m receiving), penetrative sex, fingering, (slightly) rough sex, sweet sex, Big Dick Pedro, Soft Dom Pedro, alcohol, lingerie, a little bit of slapping, dirty talk, a hint of sugar daddy vibes

Summary: Rae is an entertainment reporter who has developed a playfully flirtatious professional relationship with Pedro over the years. Totally professional. Until he invites her to hang out in his hotel room one night after an event—strictly off the record.

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction and written just for fun. If RPF makes you uncomfortable, please do not continue with this post.



The convention is so crowded that it feels like an act of fate when Rae steps out for some fresh air and happens upon Pedro, alone behind one of the side buildings. He’s smoking a cigarette and he gives her a playful, guilty grimace when he spots her, gesturing with a flick of ash.

“You caught me,” he says.

“You’re such a bad boy,” she teases.

He laughs.

“Aren’t you cold?” he asks. He’s looking her up and down and she sees his eyes linger on her bare legs before drifting their way up the rest of her body. The attention makes her stand a little straighter.

She’s used to California weather. This is a rare travel assignment and she hadn’t packed well for the climate.

“Fucking freezing. But that’s the cost of beauty,” she adds loftily, like she’s done it on purpose.

He raises an eyebrow, amused. “Well, it’s paying off,” he says. “You look gorgeous.”

She gives him an appreciative smile. “It’s too bad you didn’t put any effort in; we could’ve looked good together.”

It’s a joke. He’s wearing a cozy, well-fitted cashmere sweater and designer trousers, with a one-inch heeled suede boot. His dark hair is styled at the perfect in-between point of messy and coiffed, with well-defined curls that you could still run your fingers through.

Not that she’s fighting back the urge to touch him. That would be unprofessional.

He’s playing along with the joke, narrowing his eyes at her and shaking his head, ruefully. “You’re always fucking showing me up.”

Her phone vibrates and she glances at it. It’s a text from her producer, giving her a 15-minute warning for their next interview.

“Three more hours,” she sighs. “And then I’m going to go back to the Fairmont and climb under all the covers and stuff myself with room service.”

“I’m at the Fairmont, too,” he tells her. “Don’t order the crab cakes—they’re dry.”

“You should invite me over to hang out,” she says. “I can help you raid the minibar on Disney’s dime.”

He takes a drag on his cigarette and blows the smoke out of the corner of his mouth, away from her, considering it. “What’s your poison?”

“That depends,” she muses. “If you want me to stay good, I like vodka. Tequila? My clothes come right off.”

He barks out a laugh, slowly shaking his head. “Well, I’m in…” He digs in his pocket, pulling out a slim wallet and rifling for his hotel key card to find the room number. “Room 512, if you want to stop by. We can call down for salt and limes.”

It makes her heart beat a little faster, that he’s taken this past harmless flirtation and turned it into… This was an invitation, wasn’t it? Rae schools her expression, trying to remain playfully aloof.

“Maybe I’ll see you later, then,” she says, and gives him a wink as she turns to go back inside.

He opens the door on her second knock. The room is nicer than hers—it’s a king suite with a huge tub that she spots through the open bathroom door as she steps inside—and he hasn’t been in town long enough to make it very messy. The lighting is muted, just a couple of table lamps on in the corners and a golden sheen from the setting sun filtering through his open curtains. He’s kept on the nice sweater, but changed his trousers for a pair of dark, comfy-looking sweatpants, and abandoned the shoes in favor of bare feet.

Rae slips off her flats by the door, making herself at home.

“I thought you might stand me up,” he observes.

“Of course not,” she says. “It’s not like I can afford to break into my own minibar. I needed to get to yours.”

Pedro clicks his tongue, mock-hurt. “You’re using me. You know, Meryl Streep warned me about this. She said the more famous you get, the less you know who you can trust.”

He’s joking around, she knows, playing off of her comment and name-dropping the most absurd famous person he’s acquainted with just to make her laugh. But the sentiment still makes her feel a little sad, and it probably comes out too earnest when she tells him, “You can trust me.”

He looks at her and gives her a quiet smile. “Yeah, I know.”

There’s a plate of lime wedges and a shaker of salt already sitting on the counter with a bottle of tequila and two shot glasses. She raises an eyebrow, delighted he’s chosen her favorite vice.

“I warned you about the tequila,” she reminds him.

He makes a face, dismissive. “You don’t scare me.”

She waggles her eyebrows, like, maybe you should be scared, but he just shakes his head, amused, and pours them each a generous shot.

“Salud,” he says, clinking his glass to hers.

They don’t go overboard. A 7:00 AM wake-up in this time zone will be 4:00 AM as far as her west coast-attuned body is concerned, and she likes her job too much to sabotage it by getting seriously drunk the night before a long work day. But with two or three shots apiece, they make it through a few of the tiny, overpriced bottles, and they each have a pleasant, relaxed buzz going.

Pedro makes for good company. Off the press line and away from any cameras, inhibitions lowered by the tequila, his sense of humor comes out a little dirtier. Every time one of his jokes lands, sending her into a fit of laughter, he grins, looking pleased with himself. Not for the first time, she finds herself thinking that it’s almost maddening how charming and charismatic he is.

“You know,” Rae tells him, “A lot of fangirls out there would pay good money to take a shot with you. I’ll never be able to tell anyone about this because they’d rip me apart out of jealousy.”

“Oh please,” he teases. “Don’t pretend like you’re not right there with them, getting all hot over the Mandalorian every week.”

Her jaw drops, but she swiftly recovers. “Actually, I belong to the camp that believes Din Djarin is a virgin. I don’t think he’s probably even that good in bed.”

He’s offended. He goes from a lazy sprawl to sitting upright, just like that. “Excuse me?”

She raises an eyebrow. “Do you have a take on this? It’d be an amazing scoop if I could get a quote from you.”

“Hey,” he says warningly. “This evening is strictly off the record.”

“Of course,” she agrees. He holds up his hand, pinky extended, and she scoots closer on the couch and hooks her pinky around his, promising. “So?”

“Din Djarin is not a virgin,” he says decisively. His tone says he thinks the mere concept is ridiculous.

“Well, who has he had sex with?” she challenges him.

He counts off on his fingers. “He fucked that twi’lek girl with the knives—”

“Xi’an,” she supplies.

“Of course you remember her name,” he laughs, but not unkindly. They both know she’s nerdier about Star Wars lore than he is. He ticks off the next finger. “He fucked Omera. He obviously fucked Cobb Vanth, if you can’t see that you’re blind.”

He has to raise his voice to be heard over her laughter. He’s holding back his amusement, too.

“I can’t believe you’re questioning Mando’s sex life when you’re the one calling him a daddy all the time.”

“Uh uh,” she corrects him. “I think you’re a daddy.”

Over the course of the conversation she’d continued to unconsciously slide closer to him, and now as he watches her in amused contemplation, they suddenly feel very close. The realization of it, in the silence following her overtly flirtatious statement, makes her smile fall and her pulse pick up. She looks down, taking a breath, and when she glances up he’s still looking at her face. His voice has turned husky when he speaks again.

“Can I kiss you?”

She bites her lip, trying to stay cool, and nods. He leans in closer, lightly gripping her chin under his thumb.

“Yes?” he checks.

“Yes,” she says breathlessly.

His lips are soft, and dry, and a little tangy from the salt and lime they’ve both been consuming. He slips his tongue lightly over her bottom lip, adding a little glide to the kiss. She follows his lead, melting into him and feeling flushed. He’s cupping her face, and the firm press of his hand on her cheek is simultaneously grounding and makes her feel like she’s caught up in a dream.

“Can I—” she starts. She curls her fingers, closing around nothing. His eyes are dark, watching her patiently. “Can I touch you?”

“Yes,” he murmurs. He takes her hand in his and guides it to rest on his upper thigh, close enough the permission is clear—not so close that he’s making her move too fast.

He kisses her again, and she closes her eyes and lets herself follow her instincts. Her fingers inch higher on his lap until she feels his bulge, stiffening under the soft fabric. She runs her fingers along him and his breath hitches. She squeezes, lightly, and he grunts, shifting his hips up into her touch.

“Can I—” she starts again. He cuts her off, answering against her skin as he works his mouth down the length of her neck, telling her, “Yes,” before she can finish the question. “Yes.”

So she makes her way to the edge of the couch and sinks onto her knees on the floor, pushing his legs open to settle between them. He’s looking down at her there, looking turned on, looking like he likes what he sees—but when she reaches for him he stops her, grabbing her wrists in one hand.

“Wait,” he says. His voice is lust-rough. With his other hand, he picks at the fabric of her top. “Take these off first.”

She bites her lip, feeling a rush of arousal pulse through her to pool between her legs. She misses his grip when he lets go of her wrists, but she stands obediently and strips off her clothes, until she’s down to just her underwear. Pedro’s mouth falls open, taking her in. Focusing in on the matching bra and panties.

“You brought this for a work trip?” he asks, sounding awed.

Maybe she hadn’t done such a bad job of packing her suitcase, after all.

“I just… like lingerie. I like to wear it under my regular clothes,” she tells him. “It makes me feel sexy.”

She does a slow turn, letting him see the cheeky cut of her panties.

He looks a little dazed. “It’s very sexy.”

His gaze follows her breasts, perched filling out the lacy, balconette cups of her bra, as she kneels before him again. This time he doesn’t stop her when she reaches forward, brushing her hands over his growing bulge as she grasps his waistband and tugs it down to unveil him to her.

She was certain it would be big, but the sight of his cock still makes her mouth drop open and her eyes widen as she takes it in. Her hands look small, touching him, wrapping around his length. She feels that rush again, pussy going wet and her mouth watering for him. She licks her lips, purses them tight, and leans in to slide her mouth open around the tip of his cock.

He swears.

She sinks her hot mouth onto him, sucking him off and savoring it, her saliva mixing with the mild salt-tang spurts of his pre-come spilling onto her tongue. She slides her hands down to the base of his cock where she can’t reach her mouth, slicking him up and working over his length in firm strokes.

Rae pulls back for a moment, wanting to watch his face while she jerks him off. She has one hand wrapped around his shaft and she reaches the other down to massage over his balls. His eyes are heavy-lidded, watching her, and his breath is unsteady, hips twitching like he wants to thrust hard into her heat. He grabs the back of her head with one large hand, tugging her forward just gently, telling her without words that he wants her mouth back on him. When she doesn’t take him in immediately, he taps his cock lightly against her cheek, nudging at the corner of her mouth.

Her eyes flutter closed. “You can be rough with me,” she tells him. “I like it.”

“You like it?” he repeats. There’s a pause, as she meets his hot gaze and silently nods. “Then take it.”

Pedro’s grip is tight on the back of her neck as he forces his cock past the seam of her lips. He fills her mouth, hitting against her throat, and she moans, focusing on avoiding him with her teeth and distracted by the way her clit throbs from the rough treatment. Her body is rocking, legs pressed tight together, head bobbing on his dick, all her senses overwhelmed by the taste and smell and sound of him—by his soft stomach where she’s braced one hand, tucked under his shirt, and the ache in her jaw and her vision blurring with unshed tears from taking him too far and starting to choke.

He pulls her off, to let her get her breath back, and squeezes his fingers around the base of his dick, steadying himself as she runs the back of her hand over her wet mouth, wiping away the drool that’s gone running down her chin.

“Come here,” he says, gentle again. He pulls her into his lap, straddling his legs, and kisses her softly at the corners of her mouth, soothing over her swollen lips.

He runs his thumbs delicately along the tops of her bra cups, feeling the lace bordering her soft skin, then smooths his hands down her sides to her hips. He looks up, watching her face as he slides one hand over the thin fabric of her panties, but his controlled expression changes as much as hers does when he touches her and feels the arousal soaking through.

“You got that wet for me?” he rasps. “From sucking my cock?”

She nods slowly, feeling exposed and shivery under his gaze, turned on even more by hearing those words in his deep voice.

“I told you I liked it,” she whispers.

His jaw clenches. He slips his fingers under the fabric, teasing over her skin, feeling along her folds—watching her gasp when he finds her clit. Then he pinches it, hard enough to make her cry out and buck her hips in his lap, and her breath comes out unsteady when he lets go.

“Rae,” he says. “Go get in my bed.”

The command sends a wave of calm through her system. She takes a deep breath. “Yes, daddy,” she murmurs, and climbs carefully off of his lap.

In the bedroom, she follows his instruction, stripping off her lingerie and tossing it aside before climbing onto the plush bed. She leans back on her elbows, legs demurely crossed at the ankles, and watches him pull his sweater over his head, revealing his softly toned body and broad shoulders. Then he shoves the sweatpants off his hips, stepping out of them where they pool at his feet, and her gaze is drawn back to his cock, bobbing enticingly between his legs. Her eyes glaze over, hypnotized with want.

He kneels onto the bed, reaching to uncross her ankles and make space between her legs. His eyes rake over her, drinking her in, absently biting his bottom lip as he lingers on her pussy. Then he makes his way up, straddling her thigh, one knee by her hip and the other just below her cunt, not quite close enough for her to grind against his leg like she thinks she might like to try. He kneels over her like that, leaning forward to brace one hand next to her shoulder, and caresses her face with the other, running his fingers lightly over her cheekbone. She melts under him, meeting his dark eyes, taking in his handsome face and his lush lips and thinking maybe he’ll kiss her again.

Pedro slaps her face, just hard enough to send a jolt through her, making her gasp. Her eyes snap back to his, pulse racing.

“Tell me what you want,” he demands, voice gone husky.

“I—I want your cock,” she moans.

“Tell me,” he says. “Say it again.”

“Please,” she begs, “I want your big fucking fat cock, daddy.”

He laughs, a low, dirty chuckle. “Where do you want it, baby?”

Her face is flushed; her whole body is on fire, all hot and needy for him. “In my pussy.”

“Yeah?” He rubs his hand over her mound, warm on the smooth-shaven skin, then feels down into her slick folds where she’s soaking wet. “Your pretty little pussy? You think she can take it?”

“Yes,” she whines. He pushes three thick fingers inside her, making her cry out and tilt her hips up, greedy for it. His knees are spread wide to balance himself and hold her legs pushed open with his own. When she writhes under him he sets his weight down harder, pinning her.

With his free hand, he slaps her tit. The sting makes her yelp and her cunt clenches tight around his fingers. He twists and pulls them free, then thrusts inside her again, working in and out until she feels like she can’t form a full thought, head all empty but for the sound of her moans and his hot, heavy breath, and the fast, dirty squelching sound her pussy makes as he fucks her hard.

When he pulls his hand away she can see her slick coating his fingers, shining wet in the dim lamplight. He falls forward so that he’s hovering directly over her and feeds his fingers into her mouth, making her taste her own arousal. Her eyes flutter closed as she sucks them clean.

“Dirty girl,” he murmurs. He pulls his fingers gently out and lowers his face to hers instead, giving her a deep kiss to chase the taste of her with his tongue.

He grinds his hard cock into her hip and eventually pulls out of the kiss, murmuring against her mouth, “I have to grab a condom.” He brushes his thumb over her mouth as he pulls away, tender. “You still good?”

“Mmm,” she breathes. “So good.”

He rifles in his travel bag, unzipping a small pouch and retrieving a condom packet. When he returns to the bed, he runs his hand along her thigh and then slaps her flank. “Get on your knees.”

She rolls over, pushing up onto her knees, and braces her forearms on the bed, arching her back. It feels primal, presenting her cunt like this for him to take, and behind her he growls with want.

She feels the head of his cock press blunt and thick at her entrance, and he starts working his length into her in shallow, prodding thrusts, a little deeper each time. He starts slow—he has to, she’s so fucking tight around him, and it’s only because she’s so turned on that the stretch isn’t too much to take. Gradually, he pushes his cock into her hot, slick center, and it leaves her gasping for air, like he’s fucking all the way up into her lungs.

“Christ,” he groans. His voice has gone impossibly deeper. “You feel so fucking good, baby. How does that feel?”

She tries to speak and it comes out a strangled moan, incomprehensible.

He withdraws a little, fighting against the grip of her pussy trying to keep him inside. His hands are strong on her hips, holding her in place.

“Tell me,” he commands. He thrusts in again as she opens her mouth, and she cries out.

“Tell me, baby. Tell me how this cock feels in your sweet—little—pussy—” He emphasizes each word with a deep thrust. She feels lightheaded from it, but it’s like it breaks something inside her and her tongue finally works again, babbling needy words at him.

“It’s so good, fuck, it feels so good, daddy,” she moans. “Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me—” The friction is easier now, with her body opening up to take him, and he’s moving faster. She’s gripping desperately into the bedsheets above her head, moving with the push-pull rhythm of his sex, and she’s starting to feel almost high from it, a little spaced out on the sensation of his dick driving into her.

He leans forward, draping hot over her back, and it shifts the angle of his thrusts, so that he’s suddenly hitting a spot that makes her see stars.

“Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit—” He probably can’t make out the words; her voice is muffled in the sheets. Her body is trembling, on that pre-orgasmic high, pure pleasure running through her with every stroke of his huge dick. She wishes she could stay suspended like this forever, in this luxurious bed being fucked by this perfect cock, balancing right on the cusp of ecstasy.

When she comes, she collapses flat onto her belly, shattered, and he follows her down, pinning her to the bed and continuing to fuck her just as hard. She cries out, the sounds of her orgasm tearing out of her throat and ringing in her ears as her pussy pulses and flutters around him. Finally, he slows and pulls out of her, and the sudden emptiness feels too big, like he’s left her hollowed out in the tender space of her cunt. He turns her over, onto her back, and braces over her, eyes focused on her face when he slides his dick back inside and fills her in again. She whimpers, needy and overwhelmed, feeling every long, slow inch of his cock dragging through her.

He kisses her, languid tongue matching his steady thrusts. It’s intimate in a way Rae’s not sure she’s earned the right to be with him. But it doesn’t surprise her, learning he’s sweet like this. He’s always looked at her like he wants the eye contact, like he wants to be close, like he thrives on connection. She’s always seen him act kindly to everyone in the room, and it only follows that when you’re the only one in the room with him, he’d devote himself to you and take his time.

She wants to make him feel good. To see him lose control and let go. She squeezes her cunt around him, experimentally, and he breaks their kiss to exhale a gasping breath, rhythm faltering.

“Fuck,” he breathes, mouth on her chin. “Do that again.”

She clenches again, running her hands down his body, teasing at him with her long nails and feeling him tremble. “You feel so good, daddy,” she whispers. “Your cock is so big, I don’t—fuck!” she exclaims, when his pace picks up and he rams into her, harder. “I don’t know how you even fucking fit inside me, your big—fuck—fucking cock—shit—”

He’s panting, making ragged, desperate sounds, pushing up into her like he can bury himself even deeper. Teeth sharp, biting at her jaw. She’s not even thinking about the words spilling out of her, just lets every filthy thought slip free, riling him up. “Fuck me, daddy, fuck—you’re fucking splitting me in half—I want you to come inside me—fill me up—I want it, I want it, I want it—”

He groans, hiding his face in her neck, stiffening and releasing inside of her. She wishes, insanely, that he had fucked her bareback so she could feel it coating her pussy, dripping out after. She would have let him if he wanted to, she thinks, and it’s a terrible thing to realize about herself.

It doesn’t stop her from holding him in place before he can pull out, keeping him deep inside her cunt, and rubbing at her swollen clit until she comes on his dick one last time, savoring the orgasm and the rumbling sound of his groans in her ears.

He doesn’t try to kick her out after—in fact, he orders a slice of caramel cheesecake from the room service menu and asks if Rae wants something, too—but in the end, she reluctantly says that she should go.

“I have to be up early to interview that kid from the new Marvel movie,” she sighs.

Pedro laughs, unsympathetic. “Oh, your life is so hard.”

“Yeah, harder now,” she complains. “I’m gonna be walking funny on the press line tomorrow.”

He bites back a laugh, but then furrows his brow in concern. “Are you alright? Did I hurt you?”

She hums, giving her nude, exhausted body an experimental stretch. “That was the biggest dick I’ve ever taken,” she tells him. “And… it was the best.”

He relaxes again, looking like he’s not trying very hard to hide a satisfied smirk.

“Don’t let it go to your head or anything.”

“Oh,” he says, shaking his head dismissively, “Way too late for that, sweetheart.”

When she sees him again they’re back in LA, at a premiere for his new indie film. He greets her with a familiar, professional smile, but she can see the change in how he looks at her now, the new, interested sparkle in his eyes and how he lingers on her longer. He gives her a tight hug goodbye, murmuring, “Bye, baby,” too quiet for the mic to pick up, and she slips a folded note into his hand as she pulls away.

I had to buy a bigger toy—you’ve ruined me. Asshole.

She hears his dirty, delighted cackle and she fights to school her face, tamping down the light, giddy feeling in her chest as she turns her focus to the next guest on the press line.

She’s not sure how he got her home address. It probably wasn’t that hard, she supposes, to have his agent contact her company and sweet talk it out of them with the promise of exclusive promo material, or something of that kind. It’s probably not worth questioning how one of the biggest rising stars on the planet can get something he wants. In any event, she’s grateful he did, because she might have received this package in the middle of the office, otherwise, and that would have been more than a little embarrassing.

He’s got her size right. She wonders if he’d snuck a peek at the tags before she put her underwear back on—if he was already planning this even then. The thought of it makes her feel—something. She’s not sure what it makes her feel. She’s walking a tightrope between a dangerous mistake and total euphoria and it’s all she can do to keep her balance, because she can’t risk taking a misstep.

The set is from a luxury brand so expensive she would never buy it for herself. It’s an ethereal blend of ribbon and tulle, the thong nothing more than a scrap of beautiful fabric, and she knows it will have cost him several hundred dollars.

There’s a gift note, sitting on top of the tissue paper-wrapped goods.

A ‘sorry for ruining you’ gift. So you can feel sexy at the season 3 premiere. Show me after, if you want.

-P

Her stomach swoops, as she tries not to fall.

[asumofwords]

Smoke, Fire and Ash

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, violence, death, forced marriage, and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on.

This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: You are the eldest daughter of Rhaenyra and Daemon Targaryen. You are forced to navigate the difficult surroundings of your upbringing and the eventual disintegration between your family and the Hightower's relationship. What will happen when your older and estranged uncle suddenly takes a more sinister interest in you? (Dark!Aemond x Reader)

Masterlist

Characters: Aemond Targaryen X Reader, HOTD characters.

Note: Aemond listening to the reader? Testing her knowledge and conflict resolution skills? Testing her intelligence and ability to help ? OOF, pussy purring. Hehe, here's another chapter, Enjoy <3

Chapter 95: An Offering 

The intimate Dining Hall was full of the Small Council, but instead of the usual calm and relaxed chatter amongst each other, there was tension and unease that spread like wildfire across the table.

It was something you had not quite seen before.

“The rising rebellions can be seen as just an act of the small folk fighting amongst each other.” Ser Otto Hightower argued, looking at Lord Jasper Wylde across the table with something that couldn’t be described as anything else but exacerbation. 

They had been going at it for quite some time, back and forth, all the while, Aemond and yourself watched on silently with the King. 

“And what could be said for the tradesmen who travelled up the Red Fork, only to be commandeered by a small fleet of fishing boats ‘by order of the King’.” Lord Jasper Wylde snapped, cutlery crossed over his half eaten meal.

“Rhaenyra and her council will have to see reason, and know that there were no orders for such an attack.” Otto replied stiffly, eyes flitting over to you, then back to the Master of Law.

Jasper Wylde gave a mirthless laugh, “You expect her and her rabid husband to accept such a thing? They will see this as an act of war. There will be retaliation!”

You frowned, hands twisting against your cutlery at the insult thrown at your father.

“Then let us go to war.” Aegon said boredly, twirling the goblet of ale in his hand, “We have the largest dragon. It is not as if we aren’t waging a silent one with my half-sister and her bastards. We already have her prized daughter here as a bartering piece.”

The taste of copper filled your mouth as you bit your tongue.

“We cannot afford another war.” Otto sneered at his grandson, “To expect that we can would be a farce.”

Aegon sighed loudly, and leant back in his chair, “Then hang the men responsible.”

Lord Wylde all but spluttered into his cup, “And show our men that we see their loyalty as a crime? Your Grace, we must treat this with the utmost delicacy. We already stand on razors edge, one false dip could send us careening over a side that we cannot come back from. Rhaenyra has more support from noble Houses and the common folk than we do. And as it stands, they have the numbers.”

A throbbing headache began to bloom behind your eyes at the constant bickering of men who, for reasons unknown but the cock between their legs, had more power than you. You rested your elbows on the table and rubbed your face with you hands, sighing.

“And we have Aemond.” Aegon mused, sipping his ale, “Brother, I think it is time you see to the rebellions in Riverrun.”

“Your Grace-“ Aemond began, your eyes snapping up to him as your heart began to thump in your chest.

He was going to be sent away again.

“You will treat with the common people and the Lords of the noble Houses at Riverrun who are loyal to me. See to it that you ease their concerns and answer their questions.”

Aemond's jaw ticked.

Aegon smiled at the table, clapping his hands together, “Right, that settles it then. The Prince will go speak with the people.”

Lord Jasper leant forward on the table, “A great bloody war dragon seen flying atop Rhaenyra’s lands could be seen as a threat or act of defiance. Sending Aemond and having him be seen to be treating-“

“- Hasn't stopped him from flying to Harrenhal to fuck his whore. Dead whore, sorry.” Aegon turned to face Aemond, who was still beside you, “We have trade boats go up the Red Fork, do we not?”

“Yes.” Aemond spat.

“Then make it seem as though you are doing business. Talk about taxes or whatever you spoke to me of the other day.” The King's hand fluttered in the air in irritation and dismissal.

Arrogant Cunt.

Aemond’s jaw clicked audibly, and you did not move to console him with his hand as you usually would. You left him to sit in his anger whilst you sat with yours, hands pressed together in a tight ball atop the table.

“This could take some time to find the men responsible and speak with them.” Aemond began, tone clipped, “If they have travelled back down the Red Fork, who is to know where they may be.”

“Then you best hurry and find them.” Aegon snipped, patience dwindling, and cup of ale empty.

“It may take more than a moons time.” Aemond’s voice came out as a growl.

“Then make quick work of it so it is not.”

Aemond sucked in a sharp breath, adams apple bobbing with the heavy swallow he took, “Might I take my Lady Wife with me for the journey. It would be good for the people to see-“

“-No.” Aegon smiled sweetly, “She is to stay in the Keep.”

“Your Grace-“ Lord Jasper Wylde began, but Aegon’s quick snap of his head to the Master of Law soon silenced him completely.

Your breaths came in short and broken stutters, panic rising inside of you. 

Aegon had been quiet too long. 

Far too long. 

And now, he had shown his hand.

Your palms began to sweat, and so you dropped them into your lap, wiping them against the skirts of your gown nervously.

Aemond was going again.

Perhaps, for a long time.

And although there was no whore to greet him, his absence would come at a cost.

Your safety.

You blinked angrily at the King before standing slowly, holding your smiling uncle’s gaze for a beat more before you turned on your heel, and left the chambers without so much as a word of goodbye.

The walk back to your chambers was a daze, and you did not even register that Aemond was following after you with quick and angry steps.

You moved into the chambers, moving to slam the doors shut, which Aemond caught with his fist, closing it behind him. Your heart raced in your chest as you breathed.

Panic.

Anger.

Fear.

“Don’t go.” You turned to face him, watching as he moved across the chambers angrily, chest rising and falling shallowly.

“Don’t go.” You repeated, voice steady.

Aemond watched you.

“He’s going to have me again. You know this, don’t you?” You breathed, trying to keep your composure, and swallow down the fear that climbed up your throat.

Aemond didn’t respond.

“Don’t you?” You sneered.

Aemond blinked, “I won’t let him.”

You shook your head agitatedly, “And how will you do that? You are leaving for more than a moons time! How in the Seven Hells do you expect to be able to keep him from me.”

"Mother knows-"

"Fuck your mother." You sneered, "She let him have me in the first place. She knew and she let him. Just like she has let him with all the other girls before me. With Helaena. With the maids. The young girls in Flea Bottom. Like how you are to let him."

"You think I want to fucking leave you here with that cunt?"

"You do naught else but obey his command like a fucking dog! You are his pet that he throws a bone to, and you wag your tail and thank him. Will you do jumps for him next?"

Aemond shot across the room, hand grabbing your chin roughly as his fingers pinched your skin, breath fanning across your face, "Do you enjoy pushing me to this? Pushing me to anger? Do you have any idea of what I could do to you?" His voice lowered.

"I know all too well of what you are capable of, and I also know what you are incapable of. Namely, keeping your wife safe from your brother. Standing up to the King who doesn't even do his fucking job. You are a slave to your family, and the only thing of value you have to them is your anger."

Aemond jerked your head away roughly, pain striking in the back of your neck as he sneered in your face, "And what of you? Clever remarks and snarky words with no real power? Do you expect me to kill him?"

"Yes. For I would have for you." You snapped, and Aemond's eye twitched, anger simmering dangerously, "I expect you to fucking do something. Anything! If he comes to me, Aemond, my blood is on your hands."

The One-Eyed Prince stood in the centre of your shared chambers, staring at you with a look you could not decipher. 

"Do you hear me?" You spat.

"Do you realise if I refuse his command, he will lock me away as a traitor, and then you will be left to him. Alone. And no one will be there to help you, or tell him no, or keep his depravity away. You do not know him as I do. You have not seen what he has done to others. His attack on you was nothing in comparison to what Helaena had faced. Do you know he watches his bastards in the fighting pits? Watching as he is pleasured by others. I am doing all I can to protect you."

You swallowed thickly, feeling fear prickle across your skin and in the back of your skull.

"You are not doing enough!"

"It will never be enough."

“Take me with you.” You stepped towards him, knee knocking against his, desperation on your lips, “Take me with you. I will ride with you. Do not leave me here.”

Aemond looked away, jaw tensed, “You know I cannot.”

You moved swiftly, grasping his hand to bring his gaze back to you, “Then let us run away together.”

Aemond’s violet eye locked onto your face, the iris alight with fire.

Your hand gripped his tightly, “Give me Vermithor. We can go where we want. Anywhere. Be who we want to be. Fuck duty. Fuck the Crown. Fuck it all. I only need you. Just you and me. We could go anywhere. Dorne. Essos. We could explore the world that has not yet been discovered. Start a new life together.” 

The Prince looked shocked. 

Shocked by your desperation. 

Shocked by your proposition. 

And shocked that you wished to take him with you.

“What holds us here but pain and misery? We could go anywhere we wanted. We ride the largest dragons in the world. Who could stop us? We could start anew. Start a family that isn’t threatened at every moment. No more war. No more Aegon. Just us.” The words kept tumbling from your lips before you could hold them back, like sand slipping between the cracks of your fingers.

“I promise you, he will not touch you.”

Scoffing you stepped back and away from him, snatching your hands away from his, eyes searching his face.

Anger rose above the fear. 

“And what are you going to do? Lock me in these chambers so that no one can come in nor out? Are my days to be spent in the walls? There is no preventing him from getting me. He is the King! The only way for him to not have me is if he was dead. And he’s not. You’re leaving me to be raped by him once more.”

You spun on your heel, feeling the betrayal of tears begin to prick at your eyes, “What if I become pregnant with his child? I cannot go through that again. My heart feels as though it is going to burst forth from my ribs. I am at the end of my rope, kepus. My blood is already on your hands.” 

You walked towards the bed sensing finalisation of what was to come, the cruelty, the abandonment, all of it. And it was too much to bear. You needed to be away. You needed to feel safe. You needed to breathe, and the gown around your body restricted you from doing so.

You ripped at the laces of your gown, letting it fall to the floor at your feet before climbing into the sheets in a desperate attempt to cover yourself and hide.

"You are condemning me to his will." You whispered, memories of his body atop yours flickering behind your eyelids, the sound of his grunts, the smell of his wine laced breath.

The tide overflowed, and tears began to fall, small broken sobs being ripped from your chest. You curled onto your side, hugging your arms to yourself as you thought of what was to come. 

The inevitable. 

And there was nothing you could do. 

Nothing that he would do.

The bed dipped beneath Aemond’s weight as you cried, and the warmth of his arms surrounded you as he pulled you against him, tucking your head beneath his chin to let you cry. 

“This will be our undoing.” You cried, “It will ruin us.”

Aemond stayed quiet, and held you closer, the steady beat of his heart calming you only just.

Soon, you drifted to sleep, tears staining your cheeks in the arms of the man who would leave you to the cruelty of his brother come the morning.

And when the sun rose, and your eyes blinked open, you felt the grip around you tighten further, and the mumbling of your husbands voice atop your head. 

“…Se vīlībāzmio…Tepagon nyke kustikāne…Tepagon zirȳla… Kustikāne… Kepa… Dohaeragon…” The warrior... Give me strength.... Give her.... strength... Father... help...  

Aemond was praying.

“They won’t listen.” You murmured, “No matter how hard I pray, they won’t listen.”

Aemond’s chest rose beneath you, stilling, before he let out the rough breath.

You turned in his arms, face looking up to his, “Valzȳrys,” Husband, You whispered, “Kostilus.” Please.

Aemond’s lips twitched, the corners pulling down into a subtle frown. 

His answer.

I can't.

The lump you had swallowed in your sleep formed in the back of your throat again, and your eyes began to sting, "Jorrāelagon nyke istin tolī pār.” Love me once more then.

Once more before Aegon.

Once more before I die.

Once more before I throw myself from Maegor's Holdfast.

Once more to feel your love.

Aemond rolled you onto your back, climbing on top, not wasting a single moment after your request. It was rushed, it was raw, and he gripped your chemise and ripped it up and off your body to dive his fingers between your legs. 

And yet, you weren’t wet enough for him, fear and sorrow taking your mind elsewhere, so he took his fingers away and spat into his palm, rubbing his saliva over your cunt before pulling his cock out with the other hand.

You tilted your hips up to meet him, and Aemond slid inside of you in one quick movement. 

The stretch stung, but you revelled in the pain as he began to fuck into you quickly, frustration and anger wound tightly in the movement of his hips. You let the tip of his cock beat against the end of your walls and you clenched around him tightly, gasping in the sheets beneath.

His lips met your neck, kissing and sucking against the skin as he marked you, teeth nipping your throat as he continued to thrust against your walls. 

Aemond sped up, one hand snaking down your body to hike your leg up on his hip to piston himself deeper within you, low whines falling from your lips as you arched up into him, the familiar blooming of warmth settling in your gut.

The chambers were filled with the desperate slapping of his hips meeting yours, the soft slick sounds of your cunt squelching between you. 

“Fuck.” Aemond growled, pushing to the limit, his release coming on suddenly as he filled you up with his seed. 

You panted below him, your own release unattended to, and dwindling as he stilled within. You blinked up at the ceiling, Aemond’s head tucked into your shoulder as he breathed before he slowly slid out of your walls. 

You whimpered beneath him, feeling each ridge of his cock catch against the sensitive walls of your cunt. But instead of Aemond pulling out completely, he stilled, leaving the head of his cock within you before thrusting back inside, slower this time.

Your arms wrapped around his neck as he shuddered above you, pushing into your wet heat, his seed leaking down out of you and onto the bed below with each thrust.

His hips were pressed snug against you as he rolled, pelvis snagging your pearl with each roll, building your release inside.

“Avy jorrāelan.” I love you, He breathed into your neck, pressing wet kisses into the crux of your shoulder, “Shijetra nyke.” Forgive me.

You whined, tilting your hips to meet his with every thrust, feeling your release mount.

“Iksan vaoreznuni.” I’m sorry, "Shijetra nyke. Shijetra nyke.” Forgive me.

Forgive me.

Tears pricked at your eyes as you held him tightly against you, and soon the coil within you snapped, your body pressing up into him as you writhed beneath, his second peak being pulled from him by your fluttering walls.

You lay beneath him, quivering from your release, and feeling the warm glow seep from your body slowly, and coldness seep into your bones.

He was going.

The first tear fell, and then the next. 

They fell until you could not stop them, and they rolled down your cheeks fatly as you blinked up at the ceiling, chest heaving. 

Aemond pulled his neck and looked down at you from above, wiping the tears that fell from your eyes, “Nyke kivio.” I promise, The Prince cooed, letting you sob beneath him, still pressed inside of you,  “Nyke kivio, kesan sagon arlī aderī. Nyke kivio ao. Nyke kivigon naejot ao. Daorys kessa ōdrikagon ao hae bōsa hae iksā ñuhon.” 

I promise, I will be back soon. I promise you. I swear to you. No one shall harm you as long as you are mine.

You shifted beneath him, his softening cock sliding out from inside of you as you turned your head away from him, covering your face. His heat stayed above you for a moment, and then disappeared, the bed dipping as he moved out of it. 

This was it.

Aemond was leaving.

And Aegon would have you again. 

There was no escaping it. 

The sobs that fell from your lips were not hidden, or quiet, but filled the chambers loudly. It was the sorrow of being alone. The sorrow of what was to come. The inability to avoid it. The yearning for him to stay.

Shuffling moved about the chambers, and footsteps came to the side of the bed quickly. A hand pulled yours away from your face, and you blinked up at your husband who sat on the edge of the bed looking at you. 

He was dressed, and looked a blur of black leather from behind your tears. 

He was going to leave. 

He was leaving. 

Aemond whispered your name, twice, waiting for you to truly see him, and see what he was holding out to you. You blinked your eyes, clearing them of the tears as your vision cleared.

There, in the open palm of his wide and pale hand, skin raised beneath by the scar of your union, was a dagger.

Your eyebrows were drawn as you sat up in the bed, looking to your husbands impassive face and then back down to his palm.

“It's yours. Take it.” He whispered to you, “Please.”

The blade itself had the clear markings of Valyrian steel, its metal having its own distinct and cloud like pattern along the blade, a dark silver mottled with even darker flecks.

The handle however, was gold. 

Two dragons curled around each other on the hilt of the blade, their necks and tails almost chasing each other, never quite in reach. And in each claw was a stone.

One of onyx.

One of emerald.

The dragons mouths were opened, sharp pointed teeth bared to the world. 

You looked back up at Aemond.

“Perzys Ānogār.” He whispered.

Fire and Blood.

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[outofgloom]

VUATA

"The…the ship," the Vo-Matoran gasped, dragging herself up onto the rocks.

She collapsed, mask down. Waves crashed against the jagged shoreline. A few remnants of shattered debris drifted in and out with the foam.

"Are you injured?" a voice called. The Vo-Matoran looked up to see one of the Ga-Matoran standing over her. She stooped and pulled seaweed from the Vo-Matoran's mask.

"I am whole," the Vo replied slowly. "But the ship…"

"The ship is gone," the Ga said, helping the Vo to her feet. "Come further up, away from the water. The sea is still dangerous."

The other Matoran were gathered in a low flat place in the center of the island. Low thunder carried on the breeze.

"I have found another," the Ga called out as they approached.

"This is good," the Fe replied. "We are six now."

"A good number," said the Ko. "More fortunate, given our plight."

"We must make another search, on the next cycle," the other Ga said. "But now that we are six…"

"We must take council," said the Onu. "Yes, it is time."

They drew the Amaja Circle in the gravel, and each Matoran took up their place on its margin.

The Ko cast a pale stone into the center of the circle. "We must devise a plan to escape," he said. "We will be needed at our destination."

"How?" the Fe ventured, pushing forward his ruddy stone. "The ship is destroyed, and we cannot rebuild it now. We have no materials…"

"I believe," the Onu said, "that we must stay put, for now."

"Survive here?" the Ko asked. "For how long?"

"Until we are rescued," the Vo said, setting down a quartz stone.

"No–until we can create a new vessel," the Fe countered.

"It would be a great undertaking," the Onu said, musing. "The seas here are treacherous."

"Too great an undertaking for us," the Vo said. "Surely--we are only six, and we have no Turaga."

"Not too great," one of the Ga chimed in. "We are builders, after all–each of us, in our own way."

"But how--"

"--We must rely on the Rule in Absence," the Ga finished.

"It is true," said the second Ga, the one who had found the Vo by the shore. "We have all that we need here."

"Agreed," said the Onu.

"The island is desolate," said the Ko, "barely a mound of rocks. And see how the smoke of the eruption obscures the sky? The stars are closed to me."

"For now," the first Ga replied. "Until then, the Rule in Absence shall guide us."

The Ko did not reply. He removed his stone from the circle.

They cast the sixfold lot, as the Rule required. The first Ga who had spoken was chosen as Elder. Now she was no longer Ga, but Raga.

A light snow of ash began to fall.

======

They scavenged the margins of the island for the first few days, gathering the remnants of their wrecked ship. The Ga and Raga attempted to swim out to the reef, but found that the ocean was still too heated to endure. The horizon was a mass of steam, and the ash fell steadily, coating both land and sea in gray.

Three masks washed ashore--those of the two Ta and the Po. The Fe examined them and found them to be undamaged.

"It is likely," the Ko said, "that the bodies have gone unto Mata already. They have no need of these anymore."

The masks were stored in the makeshift Suva that the Onu had piled up--they were precious. A hut of driftwood was soon erected nearby, and the Matoran rested there in shifts, out of the wind and the falling ash.

One evening, they drew out the Amaja once more and assembled around it:

"The next task is for you," said the Elder, pointing to the Vo. "We have made shelter, and the Suva is finished for now. What remains is…the Vuata."

"I…I have not studied the formation of Vuata, Elder," the Vo said. "Only tended to it and its power-flow."

"You are Vo, are you not?"

"I am."

"And we are without Bo-Matoran here, who might be capable of the cultivation by proxy. So, the Duty falls to you."

"I see, yes. But…it is…I am--"

"--I have studied this knowledge, Elder," the other Ga said, putting her stone into the Amaja, alongside the Vo's quartz. "I have also studied much of the knowledge of flora. Perhaps I can--"

The Elder raised a hand, shaking her head.

"No, according to the Rule in Absence, each Matoran shall perform the Duty of their building and design. No other."

The Ga nodded slowly, removing her stone from the circle.

"You shall begin tomorrow."

The Vo stared off at the murky horizon.

"I will."

In the morning, the Vo, Ga, and Fe went down to the shoreline. The Fe carried a special vessel he had shaped from scrap metal. The upper portion of the vessel was filled with a layer of protodermic ash, and below that was a small opening covered in fine mesh.

They filled the vessel with seawater, letting the liquid protodermis filter through the ash into the lower container. After repeating the process many times over, the Ga judged that the water was sufficiently purified. She turned to the Vo, who sat a short distance away, meditating.

"It's ready," the Ga said. "Have you meditated on the process?"

"I…I have," said the Vo, opening her eyes. "I believe I am centered."

"Good, you most only remember: sharp and deep is the action. Once should be enough."

"And it will…will it…hurt?"

"I don't know. I'm sorry."

"I've heard that the mechanisms are quite complex, and, um, fascinating," the Fe said, fidgeting.

He offered the vessel, to which he had affixed a spigot.

"Thank you."

"It is time," said the Ga. "We will be right here with you."

The Vo took the vessel and exhaled slowly. Then, she raised it to the aperture of her mask, and inhaled.

Sharp and deep, she inhaled the purified liquid protodermis--did not swallow it, but aspirated it sharply into her Vo-Matoran lungs, which were made differently from other Matoran.

It hurt. She dropped the vessel, doubled over. The Ga moved to steady her. The pain burned deep in her chest, but she held on, did not exhale. It was her Duty. She focused, as the Ga had told her, and the burning centered itself down, down into her core. Her heartlight beat rapidly, more rapidly each minute. At last, she looked up. The Ga and Fe helped her to stand, and they made their way back to the encampment.

The Onu had cleared a space, turning up the rocky ground and plowing gray ash into it. The Elder came out of the hut, followed by the Ko, as the three Matoran approached. The Vo stepped forward, arms spread. Her heartlight glowed bright in her chest, and the Elder nodded approvingly.

"Come. Here is the place."

The Vo stepped forward into the empty space, and the Onu patted the tilled ground. She knelt in the earth.

A whining, whirring noise began to rise on the air--a mechanical sound, like that of an engine powering up. It hurt.

The Vo looked back over her shoulder, eyes wandering, until they fell on the Ga.

"I-I..." she stammered, jaw clenched, "I am...afraid."

"It is almost done," said the Elder.

The whining noise increased.

"We will be here with you," said the Ga, quietly.

"You will not be alone."

The noise reached a crescendo. The Vo doubled over once more, and heaved. A bright spark of something issued from her mouth and went down, down into the ground.

Her eyes and heartlight winked out. The body fell heavily to the earth.

=====

It was a red evening, as the stars burned into night over the sea. The fog and smoke on the horizon had cleared in recent months--enough now to glimpse the husk of the volcanic island which had been the cause of their shipwreck, a low smudge against the sky.

They could not reach it, of course. The waves broke sharply against submerged reefs all around, and the ocean still boiled angrily in some places. Somewhere out there was the wreck of the Fe's skiff, and the Fe along with it. Only his mask had returned to them, as with the others. That was how they had decided that long-term survival was their only option--even the Ko had agreed.

The Ga had descended to ground-level less than an hour ago, as was her habit before the night set in. She passed the Onu on her way down to the ladder; he was always more comfortable closer to the earth.

She made a brief search of the shoreline. Sometimes debris still washed in, although collecting driftwood was much less vital to them now. She checked for erosion on the eastern point of the shore, and made a note to tell the Onu that it had progressed a small amount. He probably already knew.

After that, she waded into the surf and hauled in one of the cage-traps, retrieving its catch of small Rahi crabs, endemic to the area and useful for their shells and sharp claws. She hung the catch upon a rack further up the rocky shore, noting also that the trap would needed to be mended. Good practice for the Ko, maybe, now that the stars had become visible consistently and he had calmed himself. She verified the tideline again, judging that the tide was near its lowest point by now, and replaced the marker stones. The tidal range was of the variable kind in this region of the world, and had to be monitored carefully. So many things to monitor, to keep track of. But they all did their part: it was a matter of survival.

Next, she turned her attention to the Tree.

The Tree rose from the center of the island, straight as a pillar. Its roots covered much of the ground now, burrowing deep into the earth, and its canopy now shaded nearly the entirety of the island's landmass. It had grown quickly in its early days, and its roots were mature enough now even to drink the unpurified seawater.

She made her way along the narrow pathway that ringed the Tree's base. The path was a natural formation, allowing access to the various apertures and ports that issued from the trunk. There were even natural handholds in the metalwood of the tree's surface where the roots emerged and one was obliged to climb over. This was the nature of Vuata. Like many other forms of plantlife across the world, it was made to serve a particular purpose. The Tree was their livelihood--the producer of all the things needed for the continuing of their labors.

At last, the Ga stood before the great aperture which led down into the Tree's Karda, the core which produced energy for the Tree's growth, and which provided vital sustenance to the Matoran, when needed, as well as power for whatever mechanisms they built.

The Karda was the heart of their island now. It glowed blue-green, pulsing gently. She made sure to keep the area free of debris, clean and orderly, as much as she could.

It was not technically her Duty, but it was right.

They had buried the body of the Vo there, in the same earth, after...afterward. The body would not go unto Mata, the Raga had said, for there was no fatal malfunction, only a...transferal. A change in life-functions. That was what the Raga had called it. Even so, she liked to come to this place when she could. She had made a promise, after all, that the Vo would not be alone.

Night had fallen. The Ga returned to the sturdy rope ladder which hung down the trunk of the Tree. Her tasks were done, and they would all be turning in the for the night soon. All except the Ko, who usually rested during the daylight so that he could star-gaze at night...

The great ripple that moved through the world almost didn't register to her senses as she climbed, except for a subtle pause in the movement of the waves below. It was accompanied by a noise: a slow distant rushing.

The Onu--sensitive to the slightest of world-movements--was already calling out a loud warning from the branches of the Tree above by the time she realized what was happening, and that the dull roar that had sprung up in her ears was not wind, but water.

The tsunami struck the island and washed over it with fury. Liquid fire sprouted along the horizon as the distant volcanic island was ripped apart by a second eruption. Flaming rock hissed into the sea, and the stars were once again blotted out by smoke.

Somehow, her grip on the rope-ladder did not fail. She twisted and whipped round in the surging water, and the heat made her cry out involuntarily. Then she struck hard and felt the yielding wood of the Tree against her body.

She heaved upward with a wrenched arm and grabbed another handhold on the ladder, then realized that she was moving upward. Her eyes cleared for a moment, and she saw the other Matoran hauling frantically on the ladder, dragging her up out of the raging maelstrom. The Tree swayed, and the Ko nearly fell from his perch. She was out of the water.

She looked down, and with a shock she realized that the island was gone, completely submerged.

"We almost have you!" the Raga said, heaving on the rope.

She bounced off the trunk again, and heard the Tree groan with the strain of the waters. Then hands were on her, dragging her up and into the safety of the lowest branches, which grew in the shape of a platform.

"Are you injured?" asked the Ko, "I see...Your shoulder is damaged. I shall endeavor to--"

"It is not finished!" said the Raga, pointing into the distance.

"Hold fast," said the Onu, gripping them both with his large hands.

Another vast wave bulged up from the horizon and smashed against the Tree. They all heard it, felt the pain of it. The world was all red and black now, as the volcano flared up.

The Ga struggled to her feet with an effort and looked downward toward the base of the Tree. The Karda. Through the rising steam she could see it: the core was still submerged. Its light flickered beneath the waves. The Karda shall drown, she thought.

If it died, so would they, soon enough, and it would all be for nothing.

"The Vuata!" the Ga cried, pointing. "It is in danger!"

The Tree shuddered again.

"Its roots are deep," said the Onu. "But I am unsure."

"I did not foresee this," said the Ko miserably. His precious stars had been wiped away once more.

The Raga stared for a moment, down at the heart of the Tree, which she had commanded to be planted.

"I shall do it," she said slowly. "It falls to me. The Rule in Absence states that--"

The Ga had already dived from the branches, straight down into the crashing waves, where the Karda glowed blue-green and beat, beat like a heartlight, down into the place where vast energies pulsed against the onslaught of the elements, down amongst the roots of the Tree, where the Vo had been buried with her mask. The Ga fell into that place, and swam strongly, despite her injury, and pushed through...

And in those final moments, before her own core reinforced the Karda of the Tree with new energy, there was a little fear, but not much.

===

A Nui-Kahu flew through the high atmosphere, wheeling above the ocean. Below, a mess of islands spread across the surface of the silver sea, and the Toa of Earth that clung nauseously to the bird's back noted that they were clearly the result of past volcanic activity.

At the center of the ragged archipelago, a low cone was still visible above the waves. According to the Toa's briefing, this volcano had been disrupting the marginal sea-routes for many years, but only now had the Lord of the Continent seen fit to dispatch someone. Unfortunately, that someone was him.

The Rahi bird descended mercifully to the blackened shoreline, and the Toa slid off with relief. He stamped his feet a few times in the dirt to reassure himself and calm his motion-sickness. The Kahu squawked and looked at him disdainfully, flicking mud from its wings.

"Stay put, please," he clicked in the bird's language. "This shouldn't take too long."

The crater itself was only a short hike and a scramble up the irregular slope, but even before he had reached the scorched rim and looked down, he'd begun to suspect that his intel was a bit outdated. Although it had clearly been a very lively firespout in the past, the volcano was now quite dead. Not even a wisp of smoke rose from the blasted core below. The wind was dry and ashy in his mouth. He scratched his mask. Had this trip been for nothing, after all?

Reaching out with his elemental powers, he scried downwards into the depths, feeling out the placement of the earth, its layers stacked one atop the other, sensing out the places where it was cold and hard...and where it was hot, made pliable by the magmatic flows that crisscrossed the underside of the world.

There was nothing here. No heat. No pressure. Strange.

He shrugged and turned to go back down the slope. It would be a short mission report for his superiors in Metru Prynak after all...

Something caught his eye, off to the right, where the distant shoreline curved into a small bay. A shape stood out against the gray stone. In his Matoran days, the Toa had been a historian of sorts, although nothing so grand as the Archivists of the City of Legends. It wasn't really on his list of directives, but surely it wouldn't hurt to investigate this place thoroughly...

Another short hike brought him to the remains of a camp, likely Matoran in origin based on its size. The firepit and remains of a small shelter were all covered in a healthy layer of ashen dust, just like everything else on the island. More notable, however, was the standing stone that had been erected just up the slope from the encampment. This is what he had seen from above.

It was a rounded pillar carved from the volcanic rock of the island itself, clearly having been shaped with some skill--probably by a Po- or Onu-Matoran. On the surface of the pillar, many words were carved. He stooped and gently blew away the accumulated ash from the surface, then began to read:

"Omokulo the Earth-Tiller carved the words on this stone. Tykto divined by the stars that it would be read in this place, one day, and Raga Peyra commissioned its writing to complete the cycle."

The signature was a practice of the northern chroniclers and record-keepers, although phrased a bit archaically. He read on:

"This is the bio-chronicle of our cell, isolated from the Great Whole by the wrath of nature. Nevertheless, we have kept to our Duty, and followed the Rule in Absence."

The Rule in Absence...How long ago had this been written? There was only the Rule of Order now, after the Barraki and their Wars of Order. He scuffed his fingers along the stone, tasted the dust. Perhaps a century old, maybe more...

"We were six at first, and by the sixfold lot we chose an Elder, as the Rule in Absence requires. We raised the Suva for safekeeping, and the Vewa for shelter. Then we made provision for continued survival and labor, as the Rule in Absence requires. Therefore, Ka'o the Channeler initiated the making of Vuata."

He paused for a moment, amused at the word. These Matoran must have been from the central environs--or even from Metru Nui itself--to call it that. On the continent, they still preferred the archaic form, Vo-Ata, the Source of Energy...

"In the time that was to come, Vuata grew and became the body of our world, which sheltered and protected us. By Ka'o we offer this memory, and by Idda who went unto the Karda when it was threatened, though it broke the Rule in Absence. We offer this memory unto the Great Spirit. West from this pillar it can be seen. It will be with us always. It shall not be forgotten."

There was so much written here. Interesting to be sure, but too much to sift through. He focused and scanned the stone with his Mask of Memory instead, storing the visuals so that they could be more closely examined back home.

West from this pillar it can be seen. The line stuck in his mind. He turned and squinted toward the horizon. The sky was still bright at midday, and he cursed that he'd forgotten to bring the tinted lenses for his mask. Earth Toa weren't exactly known for their keen eyesight.

He walked back into the encampment. There seemed to be nothing else of interest for him here, and the day was getting on. Putting a finger to his mouth, he let out a shrill whistle and soon after the Nui-Kahu landed by the water nearby. He was preparing to mount up and begin the long, unpleasantly high-altitude journey back, when he stopped again.

Something was nagging at him. Something down there...beneath his feet. Deep in the earth, he could feel it now, or was it just his imagination?

Closing his eyes, he searched deeper. Not here...not there...no. Wait--there! A small source of heat in the bedrock, very deep. He traced it like a thread. Westward, out to sea.

But that wasn't all. There was something else down there too--something not made of earth. He could sense it by the absence it created, coiling around, following along the vein of magmatic pressure. The Kahu gave an unhappy screech as he abruptly waded into the surf to get a better read. Up to his waist, the waves buffeted him as he pushed his seismic senses to their limit. At last, he got a glimpse, saw the bigger picture. Yes, it was familiar.

Clouds covered the brightness of the sky for a moment, and his eyes snapped open. He could see a shape on the horizon. From above, he had thought it was just another island, maybe another volcano. But now he knew he was mistaken.

He returned to his flying mount and coaxed it back into the air. The scattered islands around the area were a wreck, washed clean by the violence of nature more than once...but never again, it would seem.

Vuata grew and became the body of our world

which sheltered and protected us.

Deep beneath the earth he had felt the stirring of roots, tangled in the veins and rivers of underground heat and drawing from their energy.

By Ka'o we offer this memory, and by Idda

who went unto the Karda when it was threatened

though it broke the Rule in Absence.

Mighty roots, choking the errant volcano into extinction and returning peace to the islands and the sea.

We offer this memory unto the Great Spirit.

West from this pillar it can be seen.

On the edge of the horizon it loomed, huge and unshakable. Dark branches lifted upward and outward across the ocean.

It will be with us always.

It shall not be forgotten.

[another-lost-mc]

Tolerance | RAPHAEL x gn!Reader 1.4k Words | NSFW | Hurt/Comfort | Fluff Content Warnings: Brief mentions of arguing, descriptions of weapon/magic training, kissing, suggestive thoughts (nothing too explicit but marked NSFW just in case). [ Obey Me! Masterlist ]

The defunct armory near the Demon Lord’s castle is a relic of bloody, war torn days from a version of the Devildom that no longer exists. The cold stone walls and dusty floors are neglected from years of disuse, and it’s only your growing familiarity with the building that guides your steps through the dimly lit halls. There are sconces on the walls, but most of them aren’t lit. The ones that light your path glow with a flame no demon or human could conjure.

You asked Barbatos once why Diavolo didn’t have the armory torn down or repurposed. He smiled and gave you a vague answer about the young prince’s sentimental feelings about history, but you know that’s not the full truth. The building feels less like a memorial and more like a reminder - or a warning - of what’s to come should Diavolo’s vision of peace between the realms fail. There are many rooms and narrow hallways in the armory you haven’t had the courage to explore. Some of them still smell faintly of ash and blood as you rush past them.

Your destination is the large training area near the building’s center. There are rows of different weapons hung on the walls, but none of them have been used in centuries. They’re caked with grime and dirt and you doubt you could pull one down if you tried. The entrance to this section of the building doesn’t have any windows, but you can see light flickering underneath the door. The threatening sounds of metal slicing through the air and cracking wood grows louder as you approach, but you’re not afraid. You push the door open and slip inside, and you smile when you see who you came to find.

Raphael doesn’t hear your arrival over the sounds of his weapon striking the wooden training dummy over and over again in quick succession. You can barely track the movements of the spear as he lunges and slices with deadly accuracy. He jabs his spear forward into the target of his frustrations and twists his body at the waist. The wood seems to burst from within and it disintegrates onto the floor in a pile of splinters.

He looks down the row of dummies still standing, all of them completely intact having escaped his wrath until now. He holds his arm out and his fingertips glow with the power of his Grace. His magic summons a large number of spears that hover in suspension near the ceiling. He makes a downward slicing motion with his hand, and the spears whistle as they hurl towards the targets below. The volley of spears decimates everything in its path, and he disappears from view in a thick cloud of debris and sawdust.

When the dust settles, the room is silent except for his panting breaths. He realizes he’s not alone and finally turns to you when your muffled footsteps alert him to your presence. If you didn’t know him better, you might think he was annoyed by your interruption; the warmth that leaks into his gaze tells you otherwise.

He makes a subtle gesture with his hand and with a wordless bit of magic, the remaining spear in his hand vanishes. His magic and physical strength are amazing to witness and you're captivated by him.

“You must be exhausted if you’ve been doing this since classes ended.” When he comes here, there's an endless supply of targets for him to practice his skills on. The training dummies in the building are under a type of enchantment that rebuilds them so they can be used repeatedly no matter how they're battered or worn. The ones he destroyed moments ago are already starting to reform behind him.

His coat hangs from a hook on the wall nearby. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his D.D.D.; he looks surprised when he realizes the time. “I didn’t notice how late it had gotten,” he muses with a bashful tilt to his lips. When you’re this close to him, you can see the sheen of sweat on his skin and the dirt and bits of wood that stick to him.

“Do you want to talk about it?” You know why he comes here: a physical and spiritual release of pent up frustration. He told you that he has difficulty navigating Devildom life sometimes, and he struggles with the urge to deliver retribution when he feels a great offense has been made.

You don’t have all the details, but you know Mammon said something earlier that infuriated him so much that they nearly came to blows after class. When Satan and Beel pulled them apart, Mammon muttered reluctant, half-hearted apologies and went home. Raphael came here to unleash his frustrations instead, so he wouldn’t be tempted to take out his anger on someone else (especially you). 

“The more I think about it, the more foolish it seems,” he admits quietly, busying himself with his coat, draping it over his shoulders and fiddling with his arm cuffs. 

You place your hand on his so that he’ll look at you properly. “Your feelings are your own truth, and you’re entitled to them the same as anyone else.” You shrug. “Mammon can take his teasing a little too far sometimes. Is that what happened earlier?”

His hand hovers over your cheek. His fingertips are calloused from years of training with his weaponry, and they’re speckled with dirt now too. The desire to touch you always lingers within him, and he worries that the dirt and blood on his hands might stain you.

He breathes a gentle sigh when you bridge the gap for him and rub your cheek against his palm. “He likes to boast that he's your first, and no matter what sense he means, it irritates me. Sometimes I forget that it holds little relevance when it comes to my feelings for you.” His thumb sweeps across your cheek gently. “I should know better than to let him get the best of me.”

You didn’t expect such an honest answer, and his sincerity makes your cheeks grow warm beneath his hand. You lean forward and brush your lips against his. They’re dry and slightly chapped, but you can’t resist him anymore than he can resist you. 

He slides his hand to the back of your neck and pulls you in for another kiss. His other hand settles on your waist and he pushes against the small of your back so your hips are flush against his. His lips glide over yours lazily, and he tilts his head and slots your mouths together to deepen the kiss like he’s starved for you. He grows hard against your hip, and you moan quietly when his tongue licks into your mouth and teases yours. You clench your hands in his coat and only pull back when his kiss leaves you breathless.

He leans his forehead against yours and hums while you pant lightly. His eyes flicker between your lips and further down your bodies where he’s holding you tight against him. Part of him wants to push you against the wall and take you, and he fights the temptation to rut against you like a beast. He swallows thickly around the lump in his throat and stamps down the desire building within him like an inferno; you deserve so much better than that.

“Stay with me tonight,” he murmurs as he touches his nose to yours. “I won’t rush my affections for you in this filthy place.”

You chuckle and kiss his cheek. “I can help you make dinner after you wash up,” you offer, and you flash him a bright smile when he nods.

He steps back from you and laces your fingers together so he can lead you back to the exit, and you walk in comfortable silence together. He leads you through the corridors that lead out of the armory, extinguishing the flames he conjured along the way.

During the walk back to Purgatory Hall, he glances at you from the corner of his eye. Despite the evening darkness, the Devildom streets are better lit than the armory was. He examines your face and sees the smears of dirt and sweat his fingers left on your skin. You don’t seem to mind in the slightest; you always seem so happy just being in his company.

He’s distracted by the warmth of your body so close to his while he escorts you back to his dorm. His lips are slick now from your heated kiss, and his eyes darken when his gaze lingers on your lips. He wants so badly to kiss you again, but he reminds himself that his patience will be rewarded soon enough. Both of you could use a shower, and arousal churns in his belly when he wonders how he can persuade you to join him.

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

Dearest Rollo, if you meet the Righteous Judge himself in person, what would you do?

DISCLAIMER: Whatever I write here does NOT reflect my own opinions about Frollo or any of the beliefs he held. I strongly disagree with and condemn what he stands for. In this post, I am creating through the viewpoint of a character that has a warped understanding of what Frollo was truly like, and thus I am using this perspective to inform my creative writing.

Like Fire, Hellfire.

A spark lit in Rollo's dark, gloomy eyes. His thin lips curved into a semblance of a smile--too small to be considered in full, but enough to register as different from the null expression he typically showed the world.

"My, what a thoughtful inquiry," he mused softly, uncharacteristically enthralled. "How kind of you to ask."

Rollo ran a finger across the red jewel set in his ring. Contemplative. "Were I to be graced with the presence of such a venerable man... Fufufu. I would humbly confess my admiration, confide that I strive each day to live up to his ideals. More importantly, I would like to discuss a great many things with him. Someone of his stature and moral compass would no doubt have a great deal of wisdom to share."

His eyes shone fondly with a newfound fire. Warmth crept into his voice, kindling a controlled excitement.

"I would invite him to walk alongside me in the City of Flowers," Rollo continued. "Surely he would be proud to gaze upon the place he has spent so long protecting and what it has blossomed into. The people prosperous, businesses booming, the peaceful song of the bells every morning, afternoon, and night..."

It was odd, you thought to yourself, how the same person who was once cackling about destroying all mages and pulling trap door levers was now quietly fanboying. I guess we all that capacity in us.

"We would stop at a bakery I frequent, perhaps share a light meal there. Bread, cheese, and grape juice. It would be a golden opportunity to become acquainted with him on a more personal level. Men allow for their true selves to shine over shared food. Beyond history and law, what I wish to discuss with him most of all is..."

Rollo found himself hesitating.

In his imagination, he was seated before the famed figure, prostrating himself. The Righteous Judge silently stared down at him. Watching, listening.

The busy bakery faded away to nothingness, and the table assumed the form of a confessional booth. It was him and the Righteous Judge, parishioner and pastor.

"Sir, I implore you. Please advise me. Guide me. Grant me your insight," Rollo begged. "Truthfully, I am... lost. I thought what I was doing was correct. That it was just. In his name, I dedicated myself to this cause, the crusade against dastardly mages--but I was not able to recognize those ambitions to the fullest."

Tears pricked his vision then. The stony-faced judge said nothing, did nothing.

"Now I am left with only the ashes and cinders of that broken dream, questioning what is right and what is wrong. I fear that my faith is wavering, that those vile villains have somehow tainted my soul."

His voice cracked like delicate glass.

"Your judgment is always absolute yet fair. Tell me then. What must I do to attain salvation? To soothe the fire that crawls and burns under my skin? To finally be at peace...?"

Finally, the judge's mouth moved, Rollo couldn't make out the answer. He was forbidden from that knowledge.

It was all meaningless noise. Garbage sounds. Nonsense. An answer, obscured.

Rollo closed his eyes and held his tongue. A sharp intake of breath. Then--

"... Well, you needn't know the details."

"Whaaat?!" you cried, pouting. "You're seriously going to leave me off with a cliffhanger like that? You were just getting to the juiciest part!!"

"I've already said enough. No, perhaps I've said too much."

"Keep talking!! I wanted to hear the rest of it!!"

Rollo folded his arms. "You already received quite the sufficient response. To ask more of me would be to cave to your greed. Be grateful that I was in a good enough mood to entertain the question."

[seventhcallisto]

Prologue — "so overwhelmed"

Happy House. 2.7k wc.

Everything is so very overwhelming. Your clothes are overwhelming. Your hair is overwhelming. Your skin is overwhelming. Your makeup is overwhelming. The bustling makeup artist and the photographers and the light crew- everything really, is overwhelming. You've got hours of this left and you feel like you might pass out from the heat of the annoyingly cut up heavy jeans that are so inaccurate and so extremely 90s. But you have to power through or else you're making it everyone else's problem.

They're here to take photos of you for a concept you don't get told about. You are the muse and the artists are at work flashing lights and directing your movements. You've got to put your solid six hours of pose training to use, for some reason you don't think it's working like it should be. You feel awkward and weird in your own body. When you shuffle the press of the extremely tight denim skirt digs into your waist. Your feet feel heavy from the platform shoes. Your head is sweating from the amount of hairspray in it.

“Take five!”

You have to breathe. You can't breathe. But you're pushing through the feeling of needing to sob and wail at the overstimulation that's beating down on your senses. You're pushing through. You're always pushing through. Your temporary manager, a strict man- pulls at your arm as you stand so still in the middle of the set. Finally getting you to move after he called you many many times.

“Breathe” he whispers harshly and smiles to keep up the facade of happy-manager-man. Your face falls when you try to gulp back tears. “I'm trying” you hiss back, so tempted to just ruin your hair and stroke your hand over it. Your feet work against you as he continues his stomping rampage to the exit of the studio. The back alley is as close as you'll get to fresh air. You're somewhat grateful he noticed you struggling.

But facades are facades and you're supposed to not show how you're really feeling, and yet he noticed it. You bend, palm against your knees as you take harsh and panicked breaths into your painful lungs. Your makeup is expensive and you know the artists who did it will scold you like some child for getting tear streaks down your face. Cigarette smoke meets your nose. Harshly you cough and turn away from it. Hands on your hips as you pace away. “You'll get smoke on my clothes” you huff, five feet away at this point. It's true. Nic stains and leaves smell.

He takes one long drag, then stomps the ash out onto the sidewalk with a curse. He's got the decency, but you know he has been smoking the entire time you were getting poked and prodded like some doll. He reeks of it. You hate it, you hate how you work and how it's all so very uncomfortable. You hate having to walk on eggshells around him so he doesn't bark at you like an aggressive chihuahua. You hate this, you just became a trainee- like- a month ago. You hardly have any actual training under your belt.

Somehow you're already being thrown into the ring and given no clue how to fight. Panic is clawing your lungs and you think you might toss up the meal you had earlier in the day. You're already down to the smallest scale size you can manage without complete food restrictions and yet it was painfully hard to get there in the first place.

Everything is so very overwhelming.

“I can't do this,” you tell yourself, quiet compared to the city. “i can't.” you hiccup, heaving one hard breath out. Just breathe. The voice echos in your mind. Breathe. You take a shuddered breath in. One two three. Then out.

The day is long, but as long as you keep breathing and focus on why you're really there then you'll be okay. Soon night rolls around and you realize rent is a problem. Jiu can only pay so much for your side of it. Your hands slam down piles of paperwork and bills and written down studies that signal your last test is coming up so you can graduate. As soon as you're done you can put all your focus on training. One thing at a time. You've got to get hired part time somewhere. And luckily enough, a job that somewhat perfectly fits your schedule falls into your hands thanks to the orange haired woman who's your roommate.

“Your first paycheck has to go to rent”

“Who's going to feed me?”

“I'll feed you, just pay rent dammit”

Jiu has been feeding you for three weeks whilst you pay off your side of rent. You love her like a sister. She takes care of you like one. She's the only one you got close to when you came from your home country and began training. The only way you could communicate was through English. She was a trainee for a while. A solid 10 years. As soon as she turned 23 she quit being a trainee, moved out of the group house and began working. You felt anxious without her, she was the only one who bothered to help you the entire month you were there. So, like any younger sibling would do. You moved out and followed her. She convinced you to keep training, and took you in.

Now you're on the line of being an idol and being a trainee. You're in your most nerve-racking part of reaching your dream yet you still have so much more to train for.

It's weeks ago, you were standing in a line up of young women. Echoes of footsteps in the large practice room. Women the same as you, wishing to have their dream picked up so they can live their lives. A man dressed in all black, and a woman with a clipboard who stares through you like a ghost. They pace around you like predators stalking their prey. From the corner of your eyes, you can see each girl's expressions turning and twisting with anxiety. Some of them are younger, most of them older than you. A pair of the younger ones reach out to hold hands when the recruiters aren't looking. Attempting to ease each other's tension.

It's short- lived. Your attention is snapped back when fingers click right in front of your face. The clipboard holding woman looks you up and down with her emotions hiding behind a pair of heavy black bangs.

“Her” she says, as if you aren't there. Your eyes flicker back and forth. The man looks up from the paper he's holding. Staring you up and down. “Are you sure?” He asks, turning away from you to look the woman in her eyes. She continues to stare into your soul. You have to blink back to keep your eyes from watering. You are so very anxious.

The man doesn't ask a second time, nor does he look away from his companion. His hands clap together lightning quick. Whipping the paper back and forth. Half of the girls are startled, especially you. He joyously laughs under his black bucket hat. A false smile that pulls his aging cheeks. “You're going to debut kid, time to celebrate” he claps his hands against your shoulders. Evading your personal space and shaking you back and forth.

Since then, you've been told to go places, do things. Pretend you're happy and excited. And you are, you're debuting. Which is rare. You hardly have any training experience. It's a miracle. Plus- you haven't been told at all about what group you're being placed in. Or when. That's exactly where all of your anxiety comes from.

You fade back into existence. Trying to focus, you shake the sleepiness beating down on your eyelids. The car is silent, the radio turned down to the lowest it can go. Some indie song is playing smoothly. The highway is as quiet as it can get at 12 in the night. You're thankful for the music. If it was completely silent you'd have a hard time not succumbing to your worried thoughts. Your phone vibrates and pings in your pocket. Notifications that continuously pop up all day. You hadn't gotten your phone back until you left the jyp building. Too busy in a meeting, signing contracts and listening to legal discussions you hardly understood. You're still young. You're not very good with legal things. If you did, you're too tired to have anything registered in your brain.

“Stop here please sir” you tell the driver as soon as you realize he's passing the apartment complex you stay at with jiu. He nods his head in the rear view mirror, pulling off to the side. You thank him as you go. The door clicks behind you after you pull out your heavy duffle bag you use from practice. Your feet are sore. Your knees feel like they're cracking under your weight from the continuous strain on them. Heaviness settles along with the bag on your back. A plain white mask pulled over your mouth. Being a buzz in the media is crazy for you, ever since that photoshoot you took for your headshots as a trainee you've been on everyone's ‘will-she-debut’ list. The worst part is you're most recognizable now because your hair is pink. Yes, almost neon pink. It's not easy to hide pink hair.

And the woman in front of you on the led screen display has the same hair as you. Same baggy jeans. same strategic pose- its you. Oh god. Why are you on a display? Large letters above your head blink, ‘STRAY KIDS INTRODUCES..’ your name. An abbreviation of your name but it's your name nonetheless. Your new stage name.

Your hand fumbles, and sadly your phone slips right out and onto the rain covered sidewalk. Plop. It falls into a puddle and you're on your knees fishing it out as soon as it does. Shaking the water off and opening your camera to snap the quickest photo you can of the display. Your hands tremble and yes, it's a terribly shaky photo. But it's you. Shaky and blurry through your camera lense covered with sprinkles of water but it's you.

Ding, buzz. Your phone goes off as your picture shutters. The message popping onto the screen.

It's Jiu. A video message, you can see her face in the darkest angle as she jumps up the stairs to your shared apartment. Hair astray around her tan face. You pick up the video call immediately. Panic in your voice. “Jiu! My face” you flip the camera to showcase the led screen. Your phone adjusting to the light change. You must look crazy talking to yourself in public. Waving your arms frantically.

She's frantically pulling her keys out to twist open the door. Shadows follow in behind her. “I know, get back to the apartment as fast as you can. Don't stop for anything. There's press at the front. So take the back door-” “ji- what are you talking about!?” “what do you mean ‘what am I talking about’? You're on every news site that covers celebrities, kid! Don't you check the news! Ever!?” she raises her voice and it isn't as scary because she's just talking really loudly.

You don't. You're a trainee. Any news about kpop idols and such isn't allowed. Any social media isn't allowed. Anything of the sort isn't allowed. Your phone is regularly checked because of that fact. The only time you ever see the news is when jiu watches it early in the mornings before you leave for rehearsal. You never stick around for long because you feel guilty, as if you're breaking the rules.

“Get to the apartment! Get home!” the phone call ends abruptly.

Your run home is crazy, you've got your cardio in for the week. Your adrenaline pumped so much your heart doesn't beat normally even after you're taking a seat on the old rickety couch and drinking the oxygen in the room like a water bottle. Jiu has already sat you down. Told you as much as she knows.

She places two hands on you from behind your shoulder, squeezing them gently. ‘I'm here’ it tells you. You know it's hard for her to show affection, so you're thankful. She is there. Her phone is pressed between your fingers as you scroll on her timeline. Your name is everywhere, most popular tag above stray kids.

‘HERE'S EVERYTHING WE KNOW ABOUT STRAY KIDS’S NEWEST MEMBER SO FAR’ has already reached millions of likes and reports.

Your name, your trainee information. How long you've been training, most prominent. One month. Compared to the years stray kids has under their wings, you only have a month. Jiu snatches the phone before you get to the comments. You're a clammy and distraught mess. Crying to jiu as you scan through your hours and hours of written lyrics just to find that one paper you took from the meeting room about a week ago.

You're so overwhelmed.

The second the last few members —changbin and hyunjin specifically— step through their shared apartment, chan is calling a meeting. He assumes everyone must know because when he steps out of his shared room, minho is asking him “did you know?” And chan is shaking his head like a dog. Felix, jeongin, jisung, changbin, and even minho look completely put out and shocked by the news, all currently in their pajamas when they were supposed to be heading to sleep before they got the messages. The living room is a bustle of members, and complete shock hangs off everyone's words.

Chan has to rethink what he's going to say. And even though he's trying to figure it out. The living room is full of memories of all of them being together, something they haven't had in a while. Seungmin shoots up from his spot on couch, phone in hand. “She's a baby trainee!” He yells in shock, changbin stampeeds and practically leaps for the younger members phone. Staring down at the screen. Instead of crowding around bin jeongin is reaching for the remote. Flipping up youtube and searching up the most common topic on their minds.

And it's serious when changbins jaw drops. Lost for words. His eyes sparkling with different emotions. Gawking like a fish out of water. Hyunjin is a mimic. Whilst minhos face drop in some type of horror. Seungmin is thoroughly surprised and on the verge of a confused laugh.

Everyone's eyes flip to the wide-screen on the wall, music blaring loudly as some YouTube intro plays. Chan steps forward to grab the remote from a frozen jeongins hand. Just before he's about to turn it off. A new, fresh voice speaks through the speakers.

“hi! My name is __ . I'm currently auditioning for jyp. The song I'll be singing and rapping today is deja vu by beyoncé, I will be doing a freestyle dance aswell.” It's raw, and reminds chan of his audition video. You look just as young as chan was for his first audition, he has to advert his eyes just to ask changbin how old you are.

“She's 19” the black haired member says. Chans tense shoulder ease. “so she was nineteen when she did this audition-” chans jaw falls open and it feels as if its about to pop when your audition video ends. Your vocals keep playing as the next screen flickers lights across the living room. The list of things about you is displayed. Born in 2004. No. You're currently 19. You’re younger than jeongin! That can't be right. The eldest is chan, and he feels completely and utterly old. He's got seven years over you. It's a complete scandal as well because you're a girl pushed into an all male group. And as the youngest! Jeongin isn't the maknae anymore! It's like some type of fever-horror dream.

You did that video weeks ago, right before you got picked up as a trainee. Audible gasps resound in the room. Hyunjin speeding around minho. His finger raises to point at your headshot photos. “I remember her! One of my friends was telling me about her predebut photos, they're calling her the ace of trainees!” hyunjin yells and it's almost like a forced reaction as he spits out everything he knows about you. Pacing around the coffee table and bumping into jeongins shoulder.

You're a fresh new face to K-pop, and somehow unbeknownst to them, you're put in their company. In their group. How did that happen? Why did that happen?

Taglist: @sousydive @voicesinmyhead-rc @xerces00 @hanoobinie @ldysmfrst @skz-streamer @5starluvr

(If you wish to be tagged pls ask in the 'happy house' masterlist comment section! Also, if your tag isn't working, pls lmk- i'm still new to this and im crossing it out if it isn't popping up when i tag :C Mwuah. ♥︎ (p.s. happy thanksgiving if u celebrate.)

[terror-billie]

Glimmers in the Penumbra

I assembled this zine to collect drabbles written for my D&D group, and I'm sharing it with you all today.

This is for you, @tofucasserole , @varethinsilico , @nautilusopus , @rosemochi , and @fury-brand

Special thanks to @fury-brand for drawing the illustrations used in this zine and for buying my drabble commission slots on behalf of the group. She has made a lot of really cool art for our group and for her character Dia especially, so you should check it out if you like this!

This was a really fun project. It was great to play in the 100 word limit with different styles and character voices to make something tailored for each character.

I assembled this zine so that I could make a special and unique home for all of the pieces together. It was put together in Scribus, a free and open source layout tool.

If you enjoyed this zine, please consider a donation to Crips for eSims for Gaza or at Gaza Funds.

Full Text Transcript Below the Cut

Full Text Transcript

Glimmers in the Penumbra A Tabletop Roleplay OC Drabble Collection

--

Embodied

The snow feels wrong. It mushes against the strange pliant dough stretched across her soles, shoots her through with a kind of pain she's never felt before. It bites, metallic, as though she can feel the pinprick of each shard of each snow flake. The air, too, grips her. All of this, wrong. Never before had the winds caused her pain, nor had snow felt anything but pleasant on even her tenderest scales. Winter has abandoned her. It was in her very weft and now all she has is this naked pink putty. No way for a dragon to live.

Dia Istehar

[Includes an illustration of Dia holding herself in a gust of snow and wind.]

--

L’Enfer

Fire's heat. Warms, tickles, crisps. Pleasure becomes pain. Sears, destroys, consumes. Ashes to ashes.

Vous qui entrez, abandonnez toute espérance.

No way to snuff a forest fire once it's caught hot and tall, naught but to let the blaze run out. A heart is like that. A little fire you can throw water over, but the burn in him grows fast. All you can do is get out the way.

Watch for smoke.

What's a flame want? Nothing but to burn. Bright and hot, alive until it's out. Doesn't care what's burning, where or how. But a man's heart? Well.

L’Enfer - The Inferno Vous qui entrez, abandonnez toute espérance. - Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.

Ozias DeVir

[Includes an illustration of Ozias lighting a cigarette.]

--

Song of the Princess

She is come from a castle in a far away land, from a lineage ruling for generations.

Hath traveled the lands in great odyssey, and suffered many a hardship and poverty.

O Princess, Sweetest Briar with thorns sharp, stand strong against despair. Nobility is not in gold but in heart and deed and bearing. Retain thy grace and thy dignity. Fear not the dark and the wicked, for thou art puissant. Magic courseth through thy veins as fish in a stream.

Know that one day thou wilt reclaim thy birthright. So sayeth this poem, written in serenade of a princess.

Briar Allaire

[Includes an illustration of Briar, regal in a crown.]

--

Idle Musing

Life should be fun. Things would be far too boring without a bit of mischief to keep it interesting, ya know? Just a dash like spice in the stew. Nothing serious, maybe swipe a shiny here or snack there.

Things can change pretty fast out on the road though. It gets scary out there, with monsters and bad guys. Sometimes I think I should have just stayed home.

But hey, one minute you're strumming along up and down the strings of a bouzouki, tickling the melody to and fro, and bam! Out comes the zouka. Didn't expect that, didja spookies?

Kaapro

[Includes an illustration of Kaapro, a Kenku, smiling and playing a bouzouki.]

--

Sacrament

"Go and sin no more."

The other man, the one on the other side of the wooden screen, knows what a joke it is. He says it anyway, and manages not to laugh. It's procedure after all.

A rosary and an extra Our Father. A man's life snuffed out, his blood on the stone, and all Lucere needs to do is mumble some words.

Done in God's name, isn't it a Holy act?

And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil.

Deliverance won't come, but so too will he sin again. He always has and always will.

Lucere Crough

[Includes an illustration of Lucere holding a rosary in his hand, covering half of his face.]

--

Just World Fallacy

Let us consider the situation rationally. Which situation is more likely?

The first, that I was conceived by two emotionally stunted people unprepared for the maturity, care, and mundane sacrifices of parenthood? That I lived at the whims of a man who took out rage and fear on his vulnerable son? That my mother could bring me into the world but shrink my existence so small in her heart that she could ignore it? That suffering is largely beyond our control and the world is fundamentally unfair?

Or that I am unloveable and it's my fault?

The answer is obvious.

Pinion Andolus

[Includes an illustration of Pinion where you cannot see his face, gazing at unbalanced scales.]

--

Knight in Shining Armor

My face mirrored in a gleaming scale. I chased it like the glint of oasis after days walking parched sands. Was it a mirage? I follow its path and come no closer, but the image does not fade. Still there, out of reach, ever on the horizon.

What is she really like? I've imagined her on the highest pedestal, with every sublime virtue, and in the deepest depravity, with every foul cruelty. Perhaps she is simply a well-meaning fool, doing her best.

Do I truly want to know? Would the mirage dissolve, and would that be for good or ill?

Okaara Justa

[Includes an illustration of Okaara, a half-orc, gazing at her own reflection in a piece of plate armor.]

--

寝袋詰め 心の準備 と出かける

「一緒に」

romaji reading: shurafuzume kokoro no junbi to dekakeru

「issho ni」

The bedrolls are wrapped. Ready for what awaits them, the party sets forth.

[Together]

[No illustration]

[lipslikethegardensofbabylon]

#ttpd analysis day twelve - loml

when i first listened through TTPD this gave me such strong track 5 vibes so for that reason it’s an honorary track 5 in my mind

there are a couple of thoughts on the lowercase loml - i keep these longings locked in lowercase could be one, but one thing that sticks out to me throughought the whole album is we never see any muse directly saying to the narrator “I love you”. to say ‘you’re the love of my life’ is sort of a roundabout way of saying it, but it carrieds less weight, like saying “I got love for you” vs “I love you”. the latter means more. it’s also interesting to note given that the opening track says repeatedly “I love you, it’s ruining my life"

there are salient Dancing With Our Hands Tied parallels -

who’s gonna stop us from waltzing back into rekindled flames if we know the steps anyway/we were dancing, dancing with our hands tied

when your impressionist paintings of heaven turned out to be fakes/deep blue, but you painted me golden

stitching “we were just kids, babe”/25 years old, how were you to know?

our field of dreams engulfed in fire/swaying as the room burned down

what we thought was for all time was temporary/could’ve spent forever with your hands in my pockets

if you know it in one glimpse, it’s legendary/first sight, yeah we love without reason

I know that pulling parallels from DWOHT/rep may ruffle some feathers but she also says a conman sells a fool a get-love-quick scheme which directly pulls from Why She Disappeared - wary of phone calls and promises, charmers, dandies and get-love-quick-schemes.

the never quite buried line immediately made me think of the 1, in my defense, I have none for digging up the grave another time .basically that the narrator can't fully separate themselves from this destructive force, and it shows that they've tried, repeatedly, historically.

along with the 1, there are other lyrics from folkmore that are very reminiscent of loml -

I thought I was better safe than starry-eyed/eyes full of stars (cowboy like me)

I felt aglow like this/your touch brought forth an incandescent glow (ivy)

if you know it in one glimpse, it’s legendary/it’s born from just one single glance...you said I’m the love of your life about a million times/but it dies and it dies and it dies a million little times (illicit affairs)

when your impressionist paintings of Heaven turned out to be fakes/ you paint dreamscapes on the wall (peace)

our field of dreams, engulfed in fire/my barren land, I am ash from your fire (hoax)

talking rings and talking cradles/your mom's ring in your pocket… dancing phantoms on the terrace/left you out there standing crestfallen on the landing (champagne problems)

the other line that i love is and all at once, the ink bleeds. it makes me think of two things:

in that Directors interview she talked about how having something poignant happen to you is great for creative work but if you write about it too soon/without processing it fully, you can lose perspective. so it makes me think of that, but with the sharp pen, thin skin, and open heart.

[intertexts]

ROSXSSSSSSSSS can u talk abt muse. pls. muse is the part of nhw that drivrs me the most crazy insane. makes me feel GENUINELY ILL i was reading one of ur most recent muse posts earlier and was like. Oh. ohhhhhhhhh oucwch. ouchiees. had 2 put my phone down and just stare at my desk at work for a minute or so. oh my god. tell me abt nhw ashe a lil bit!!!! his brief lucid moments as muse. does he ever snap out of it while using his powers???? how horrifuying is that. what is he like when hes finally not under the trickster's control and is completely free??? whats it like when hes back with the wards???? im going 2 throw something ougbghh nhw ashe i love u

GODDDDDDD. HIIII WHISKEY HI <333 insane person questions 2 ask because thats literally exactly what i've been thinking about for hours. holy shit. ok. yeah. u get insane 1130pm thought trains!!!! <3333

>it is VERY RARE for him to snap out of it while he's actively in his breaker state [non-lucid state regardless of whether he's being controlled, he's just. going on autopilot & instinct + thats also the terrifying reality melting one that the trickster Likes and chose him for. so.] just bcos he's fucked up regardless-- it happens a couple times!! during a couple fights that mark & tide + the wards are there for!! mackerel also had some thoughts on this i need 2 fucking pick his brain more tomorrow....

>when the trickster is finally Gone (via mal). um. things are. i will be real with you!!!!!!! they are Not Great!!!! they are-- better!!! still fucking Bad!! first of all wibby & virion & dakota are. horrifically traumatized by seeing muse disembowel and tear apart william while still keeping him alive and with all his senses & pain receptors intact. like, he survives, mal puts him back together, but it is-- not. something that any of them easily come back from, especially wibby. they all have involuntary trauma responses towards just. seeing ashe, really-- it's been long enough that their first thought when they see him isn't "oh our awesome best friend ashe :]" it's "oh god oh fuck how did the trickster get here." which everyone hates!!!

ashe specifically... god. he is in a fucking horrific headspace immediately post-muse. the physical and mental strain of being forcibly kept in his breaker state (something that, like, historically, had triggered maybe.. twice. three times. in ten years or so.) as long and as often as he was took a fucking toll. being kept under almost 24/7 mind control for almost a year straight kind of put his head in the blender. for the first... god, whoever knows how long after that, he gets, like, almost daily pulsing headaches & migraines with the aura and confusion and nausea & shit. has a whole host of fucking brain issues-- debilitating anxiety & paranoia over being followed & watched, delusions related to. well. being fucking lobotomized by an insane sadistic superpowered murderer who controlled you and kept you as his favorite toy and had you commit horrific acts for over a year. frequently is terrified or convinced he's still being controlled. shit like that. severe derealization & disconnection frm his own body & such.

also ^ yeag. <3 he is. god. simultaneously insanely touch-repulsed & touch-starved because. the only person really touching him for a year was the trickster!!! yeah!!! his wires r so fucking crossed & he freaks the fuck out whenever anybody makes to touch him and he also misses it so badly, just wants a fucking hug from his dad but for a while he can't even do that without flashbacks and nausea and terror. the same except ten times worse for anyone touching his hair. freaks out when anybody tries to do Anything fucking... caretaking or comforting, really. which sucks because he also is in a ton of physical pain & damage from the insane amount of physical stress-- nothing permanent in a debilitating way, but. y'know. even after he's healed he aches and his joints hurt and he can't stand for too long without it being Bad and it takes a very long time for him to get his coordination and fine motor skills back-- anyway, it's a nasty feedback loop because he very much Cannot do some things on his own but anyone helping him almost always brings back trickster shit. can't help him into the shower can't drape a blanket over him or move him somewhere more comfy if he falls asleep on the couch can't hug him etc!!! & all this while the rest of the gang is also. incredibly fucked up & they're all accidentally hitting each other where they're already hurt and unintentionally triggering each other and like-- it's better!! god!! it's so much better! but it's still. u know. he has to have the worst most miserable excruciating long recovery arc. OH. YEAH. he also straight up fucking refuses to use his powers. is just. incredibly horrified and guilty and full of self-loathing and revulsion at everything that was done using him as a tool. is unspeakably terrified of it happening again, of him accidentally hurting anyone. etc. anyway. it gets better!!!!!!!!!! it gets worse before it gets better though. yeag. yeah.

[murfpersonalblog]

IWTV S2 Ep2 Musings - At the Chateau

More random musings; this time specifically about The Hunt at the Chateau.

I hate these two wenches specifically, but NGL, they look cool here.

Ohhhh, AMC knew what they were doing, going RIGHT for my ovaries! 😍 DADDY TUAN PHAM! 😍😍

Sincere is one thing. HONEST is another, though. Y'all knew those Americans were sus, Armand. They're not buying that "Bruce" BS, Louis, don't sleep on them!

I am SO BUMMED that we didn't get to SEE this scene; I was so excited!

Now I'll never get to see Louis so bored out of his skull by Santiago's thespian charms that he starts snoring in the middle of the play. U_U

Mr. I Could Not Prevent It, what were YOU doing to protect your man? You slaughter random innocent fledglings just for blinking, but you let your whole coven plot Louis & Claudia's demise right under your nose?

Bull frikkin crap!

Daciana been knew. U_U

Who is the coven LEADER, and the coven MASTER?

"COMPLICIT" finna be my favorite word this season, istg.

SO well said, Louis; as this beastly monstrous coven has TWO heads, these SNAKES, this immortal Hydra that only dies when Hercules cuts its head off and cauterizes the wound.

I am SO ready.

I loooove this transition frame; the Moulin Rouge as the most famous French theatre in pop culture, as Louis snaps his sad photos and Claudia whoops and the Theatre Louis sets on fire takes them hunting to a chateau they'll set on fire.

Reminds me of what Lestat said: "there is a veil between us; but it is a THIN veil." Louis will never be "one" with y'all. He's already bound by "a cord you cannot see, but it is real;" all your Mind Gift's mindscrewing can't un-screw Lestat out of Louis' blood! 😜 Louis drags that camera EVERYWHERE, ducking behind the lens, seeing the world thru a Glass Darkly; a warped perception of time & space. Cuz he's STRUGGLING; looking for God; looking for ("the wrong kind" of) love in all the wrong places.

Look at the things he takes pictures of! He's documenting DEATH; a MASS MURDER--"you are chronicling a suicide"--as the coven rides their bikes to the house they're gonna KILL everyone in. This isn't a mere road trip; this is a HUNT.

Equestrian statues & triumphal arches--monuments of blood-soaked imperialism & colonialism.

Hedonistic bacchic revelries. "I want food, I want sex, I want to go home."

Meanwhile, Claudia's high as a kite, on cloud 9.

EVERYBODY, Claudia? As they pan to Louis? "I hate you both!"

I wanna throw up when I remember Claudia's ashes got mixed with the coven's when the Theatre burned down. U_U No justice, and no peace. Claudia, I would've become the most notorious Parisian poltergeist in history--the Pope himself would've had to come up to perform the exorcism, on god I'd make my death everyone's problem.

But the LOOK on Louis' face, omg.

Whole 5 stages of grief in reverse:

Acceptance: he TRIES to "be one with us," taking on the "collective hunger;" smiling (fake AF) as he tries to soak in Claudia's ecstasy; riding in Armand's sidecar, flirting with the "Maitre," cozying up with his potential new beau

Depression: knowing full well he hates the rampant bloodlust & violence, the carnage in the chateau on fire behind him

Bargaining: Mr. I Only Eat Once Every Other Day, refusing to take part the the slaughter but still standing by--you are all COMPLICIT--while they were being killed; and agreeing to have Armand teach him how to be a better killer by honing the Mind Gift, etc.

Anger: The Fire Gift WHENNNNNNN? Foreshadowing AF! Claudia, you WILL be avenged!

Denial: Lestat WHO? Being told straight to his face that Armand knows he's lying, knows he's been collecting alimony & child support checks from Roget, knows Claudia wants to join the coven that set up a frikkin shrine to the dude, knows Santiago's a cheap imitation of Lestat, knows DreamStat's gonna keep haunting the narrative, I can't

An EFFED UP Gothic Romance.

The book stans who keep complaining about this show are just willfully ignoring what AMC's doing here. There is PLENTY we can complain about absolutely! But overall this adaptation is a slam dunk.

[the-dumpster-fire-of-life]

jinx x reader who's another adopted kid silco took in. The two are close sisters always looking out for each other. Then the day of the deal with jayce and silco comes and jinx overhears them offering to take full blame for everything take the fall if it means Jinx stays safe and their dad gets his dream.

(Hey! Sure I can, but I didn't really include the her overhearing part. There will be another part to this bc I had another idea! Enjoy!)

A Sisters Love

You had always been close to Jinx. You knew her since you and her were taken in.

You were both raised together through everything.

Without you there was no Jinx.

Without Jinx there was no you.

Jinx needed you to function and you needed her to live.

Silco knew this, so he didn't even have the heart to send either of you separate ways.

You were both his kids. 

You were more involved in decisions with him as you were more "sane" as people would say.

But everything slowly was burning to ash.

Vi was back. She wanted you and Jinx to come back to her but you couldn't.

The council knew of you and Jinx, hence why Talis wanted your father to meet up with him.

You knew you and Jinx were bad people but so what? 

You did your crimes together.

So that's how life was now, walking side by side to meet Wonder Boy Talis.

"Perfect place for an ambush." Silco mused as he and you smirked at Jayces expression.

"And you without your hammer." Silco hummed and almost laughed as you circled Jayce.

You weren't doing it to install fear, which you certainly did to Boy Wonder, but curious to what he wanted.

"Did you lose it?" You asked, Jayce backed up as you stood in front of him, almost in his face for laughs.

"(Name)." Silco beckoned, watching as you hid your laugh behind your hand.

"What? Have some fun, Dad." You shrugged, returning to his side.

Jayce looked between you and your father, horrified at the thought of this man having a daughter.

Jayce decided to mask his feeling, shaking his head and calming himself.

"I was reminded recently of what brought us together in the first place." Jayce finally spoke up. 

"And what was that, exactly?" You asked, not really wanting to hear him out.

"The threats beyond our wall." Jayce stated.

"This city has a short memory." Silco said simply.

"'Progress.'" Jayce put.

"Far be it from us to stand in the way." Silco said, holding out his hand as you placed a paper in it.

Silco put the paper to Jayces chest, the council member taking it before it fell.

Jayce opened it hesitantly, reading the words on the paper carefully.

"'Free trade routes, blanket amnesty, unrestricted access to the Hexgates, sovereignty.'" Jayce read from the paper in shock.

You yawned, was it really that hard for him to comprehend words on paper?

"Do you two really think you're in a position to demand all this?" Jayce asked in bewilderment.

"Your stunt was…okay, who knew the pretty boy of the Upper City could pull it off?" You shook your head with a smile 

"But your display followed by a request for parley, you're tipping your hand." You finished quickly.

Jayce finally looked away, his eyes meeting the floor.

"You're afraid." Silco stated, seeing the look on his face.

"I am afraid." Jayce stated quickly, no chance in hiding it.

"Today, I got a glimpse of what war between us might look like." Jayce said solemnly.

"Wasn't pretty, was it?" You asked, Topsiders didn't have to stomach what the aftermath of war was like.

"Your people wouldn't stand a chance." Jayce finally found confidence.

Silco tilted his head, lifting an eyebrow at his words of fake confidence.

"We have been through war before with your city. Your people didn't have the stomach to finish the job." You retorted.

"The council couldn't care less." Jayce tried. 

"They never have." You shrugged.

"I'm trying to save you and your people from annihilation." Jayce still tried to convince.

"Trying to play the hero, are we now?" You shrugged off. 

You couldn't care less.

"Not the fresh-faced Academy pledge, are you?" Silco asked in amusement of his and your argument.

"You want peace, this is the price." Silco stated, nodding at the paper.

Jayce seemed to sigh, but only out of anger.

"You'll discontinue the production of Shimmer?" Jayce finally asked.

"Half there already." Silco stated.

"Your little stunt made that happen." You shrugged.

"Return the Gemstone." Jayce demanded, then stunned as you pulled it out of your bag.

Jayce studied the Gemstone in your hand cautiously to make sure it was real.

Jayce then seemed to hesitate, conflicted on his next words.

"And I'll need Jinx and your surrender." Jayce finally spoke, halting you and Silco.

"You're pushing your luck, Talis." You glared at the man in front of you.

"You two have to pay for what you've done." Jayce shook off, trying to return your glare but faltering.

"They weren't their crimes. They were working for me." Silco stated.

"Believe me, if I had my way, it'd be you rotting in Stillwater," Jayce dismissed Silco.

"But we can't make a deal with a snake and cut off its head."

"No way is Jinx willingly going to surrender." You almost laughed at his attempt.

"Then we'll take her by force." Jayce tried.

"Good luck with that." You dropped the Gemstone back in your bag, seeing the way Jayce followed it.

"We all have our shitty parts to play." Jayce stated, placing the paper back to Silcos chest.

"You two surrender. And I'll give you your nation of Zaun." Jayce confirmed to you both.

Jayce began to walk away, halting as you grabbed his shoulder suddenly.

You knew it was a reach. And you knew it was risky.

But no fucking way were you letting your sister be taken.

"How about we meet you halfway?" You offered, Silco and Jayce looking at you curiously.

"You get your wishes, the Gemstone and the Shimmer discontinued," you spoke, Jayce listening intently.

"And my surrender, only mine. You tell the council Jinx is dead." You finished.

Silco looked at you shocked as Jayce didn't move at the offer.

"(Name)-" Silco tried, grabbing your shoulder but you shook him off.

"Only me. You tell them you saw Jinx die or she will give you a reason for war." You threatened, your face close to Boy Wonders.

"This is the best way. Or, your people will die."

Jayce looked between you and Silco slowly before he finally nodded.

"Fine." Jayce agreed. "(Name). You don't have to do this." Silco tried to convince you.

"It's all right, just tell Jinx goodbye for me." You told Silco with a knowing smile.

Your father tilted his head confused at you before he finally understood.

Jayce, surprisingly, had handcuffs on him.

You could only guess Incase you or Silco went too far.

You grabbed the Gemstone out of your bag, handing it to Jayce before holding out your hands.

Silco watched Jayce put the cuffs on you, Silco hesitated before he kissed your forehead goodbye.

He will see you again.

You couldn't say or do anything more before you were dragged away by Jayce by the cuffs.

When you looked back Silco was gone, causing a smirk to spread across your face.

You and Jayce walked in tense silence before he spoke up.

"You and Jinx. That was you two on the bride, wasn't it?" He asked, snapping his head to you as you laughed.

"Wow. Just putting two and two together?" You mocked his anger.

"Why?" Jayce asked, watching as you simply shrugged.

"Your sheriff shot an…old friend of mine. Plus, the guy was an asshole." You stated.

You then watched amused as Jayce realized you were talking about Marcus.

You weren't wrong. The guy was always an asshole. Ever since you were a kid.

You then looked as you saw a truck with enforcers surrounding it, holding up their guns as they saw you.

Guess Jayce did prepare Incase of an ambush was needed.

You were quickly put in the back of the truck with at least five enforcers.

Each one kept their eye on you, some even looked scared to be around you.

Guess that came with your crimes.

But you weren't there to stay.

So, you closed your eyes, tilting your head to rest against the wall behind you.

You then slowly fell asleep, might as well rest for what was to come.