#( standing strong when all bones are left. no flesh. no body. no soul )

[naitfall-hmm]

what are you the patron saint of?

patron saint of bones

patron saint of frameworks. of structures. of solidity. patron saint of things that break. patron saint of things that are left behind. the bones survive long after the body, the building: what is there left for them, when the rest has gone? what do bones do, with nothing to hold around them? who holds the bones?

tagged by: @viitlumi , @massensterben , @praesidi (thank you so damn much!!!)

tagging: @worldhell / @lausticzt , @gyofukuki , @eatenword , @centuricnis , @dutyworn and anyone who hasn't done this!

[tokeposts]

⁀➷ FALLEN | BAKUGOU

pairing. Bakugou Katsuki x GN!Reader

warnings. character death, violence, blood, greif, survivor's guilt, truama, hurt/no comfort

genre. angst, soulmates au, canon compliant

notes. ouchie this one kinda hurt 👎🏽

1K | Amid the chaos of war, your unspoken bond with Dynamight has always been enough— until the moment you see him fall.

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The battlefield stretches all around you while smoke twists in the air, thick and suffocating, coiling itself around your throat like a noose. The stench of burning flesh and debris settles into your skin, an imprint of death you’ll never trully be able wash away. Your body is screaming, muscles torn and bones grinding against each other with every move, but it’s nothing compared to the pain that’s carving its way into your chest.

The heroes, your friends (what’s left of them at least) are scattered across the ground battered and bruised too. If you listened closely you could hear the ragged breaths of those still clinging to life, their bodies curled up like paper crumpled under a careless hand. You are not any different— torn open, limbs heavy, every breath a jagged knife in your lungs, but none of that matters.

Not when you can’t tear your eyes away from him.

Bakugou stands amidst the chaos, a force of nature even now, even as the world collapses around him. His explosions light up the gray sky, a desperate blaze of light against the dreary rain. You've always admired that about him— the way he moves, as if he’s made of steel and pure determination, every blast a declaration of his existence.

But something’s wrong. Something horrible, gnawing at the edges of your mind.

He's still fighting, still charging forward like he can tear the war apart with his bare hands. But his moves—they're frantic, faster, too fast. He's pushing himself too hard, beyond his limits, like he's racing against the clock, against the inevitable. His explosions are growing stronger, more desperate— sparklingly devastating— but it comes with a cost, one you can feel in the hollows of your bones.

You scream his name, but your voice is swallowed by the storm of battle. It rips from your throat, raw and shredded, but he does not turn around.

He does not stop.

Despite the gaping wound in your side, the blood seeping through your clothes, painting the ground in your wake. Despite the universe screaming at you to rest, to lie down, to simply pause.

You can't. You won’t. You’re running— legs moving dragging in the dirt faster than your mind can keep up with. It’s like being caught in a dream where time moves too slowly. You can’t reach him, and every step makes you feel that much further away.

You’ve been tethered to him for as long as you can remember— an invisible red string stretching between you both, tangled in childish arguments when you were five, in unsaid words when you were 13, in the fire that intertwines your souls.

Soulmates.

You both knew it long before the words could be spoken, though you never dared to voice it. Maybe from fear? Pride? Who knows. But you’ve felt it deep in your core since the day you met, a pull so strong it made the world tilt around him.

And now, with each step you take, that string feels like it’s fraying.

Shigaraki's monstrous form surges from the smoke like a nightmare come to life, his limbs distorted and twisted, swinging toward Bakugou like a scythe cementing his fate. Time stretches thin, your breath freezing in your throat.

Your scream rips through the silence in your head, but it’s too late. You watch it happen— frame by frame, the universe mocking you with its cruelty. Shigaraki’s blow lands— dead center— and Bakugou’s body flies, the sound of impact thunders, tearing the sky apart.

Everything stops. He lands in the dirt, his eyes wide, the fierce determination flickering out like a candle’s flame.

The world crumbles around you, but it doesn't matter anymore. The war, the heroes, the villains— they all disappear, fading into white noise as you collapse beside him. You are too late, a mantra that replays in your head over and over and over. You hit your knees, pain shooting through your bones, but you don’t care. You’re shaking, hands trembling as they reach for his face, his chest— anything solid, anything real to anchor yourself to this moment, to make this stop.

"Katsuki," you whisper, your voice thorns against your throat.

He doesn’t move. His body lies still, too still, and there’s blood— so much fucking blood— pouring from his wounds, painting the ground in crimson. Your hands press against his chest, trying to hold it back like you can turn back time with your will alone, but he's slipping through your fingers like sand, like the life draining out of him.

“Katsuki, please,” you sob, weary and desperate.

His eyelids flutter, just for a moment, his crimson gaze locking with yours. And in that fleeting second, he’s still there. Your Bakugou, the one who burned too brightly, the one who never stopped fighting, never stopped living like he was invincible. His lips part, like he wants to say something, but no sound comes out. His hand twitches, just barely, and you grab it, holding on like it’s the only thing keeping you tethered to this world.

There was supposed to be more time. More moments. More chances to say the things you were both too scared to admit. To yell, to scream, to love him, to tell him you were soulmates in every damn sense of the word.

His eyes shake, and his grip weakens.

"Fuck, Katsuki, no," you plead with him, leaning down until your forehead presses against his, your breath ragged and hot against his cooling skin. "Don’t you fucking dare."

The words fall into the void, swallowed by the silence of the dying. There’s no answer, no spark left in him.

The weight of it crashes down, crushing your chest, your heart shattering into barbed pieces you’ll never be able to put back together.

He’s gone.

Your everything— ripped from you, stolen by this war.

And the world, the entire universe, your red string feels like it’s collapsing around you. The battle still rages on, distant explosions and screams filling the air, but it all feels so far away. All you can do is hold him, cradling his broken body in your arms, feeling the warmth slip away with every passing second. Everything has stopped, everything is ending, and all you’re left with is the hollow, unbearable ache in your chest where he used to be.

Just like that, the war takes more than it ever should have.

It takes him.

taglist: @beckixwsm @jkovlr

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[withoutyouimsaskia]

Sometimes It's Fated (Sandman Short Story Part 4)

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8

GIF: Originally posted by @teenwolf-theoriginals

Pairing: Morpheus/Dream of the Endless x AFAB reader

Summary: Reader Self-Insert. After restoring the Dreaming and locating the missing dreams and nightmares, Morpheus turns his attention to finding you, the human he believes fate has chosen for him. (Title inspired by Placebo's "This Picture".)

Warnings: Minors DNI. Dark!Morpheus. Soulmates. Angst. Obsessive and possessive behaviour. Tension. Threat. Dubious/non consent. Groping. Language. Kissing. Nudity. First time. AFAB receiving oral/manual sex. Fingering. Mentions of overstimulation.

Word Count: 3.3k

A/N: Hello there my lovelies! I come bearing a new chapter and this time it is pure smut. It's probably the darkest, filthiest thing I have ever written so brace yourselves. Any feedback would be greatly appreciated. In other news, I watched All of Us Strangers on Friday and it broke me in half. Hope you are all doing well. All my love, Saskia xx

Sandman Masterlist

---------------------------------------------

The first thing that registers upon returning to your physical body is the touch of Morpheus' hands and mouth.

Warmth blooms at every point of contact and counteracts the biting winter weather.

Both hands have gone under the hem of your shirt to explore the skin of your back. The top three buttons have been undone to give access to your throat. Morpheus nuzzles there, pressing possessive kisses to the sensitive skin.

Navigating through the lingering brain fog, you realise that this was the source of the ghostly grazes you had felt during your meeting with the Fates.

Even when your mind was disembodied from your physical form, he was still able to affect you.

The connection between your souls is strong.

His sense of curiosity is strong too as he creeps a hand round and upwards to cup the flesh of your left breast. Your mind fully snaps back into your body and you make a squeaking noise, overcome with the intimacy.

He removes the exploring hand and pulls back from the crook of your neck, speaking your name eagerly.

Gentle fingertips stroke from your temple to your jaw bone. The world undulates when you try to open your eyes, and you sway on the spot.

He takes the weight of your body until your strength returns. Your eyelids flutter as you try to blink away the excess moisture that has accumulated there.

"That's it, come back to me," he murmurs.

You see the ocean blue of his eyes first, and then pan out to take in his whole face. Once again, you are wonderstruck by his exquisite beauty. Have you ever seen a bone structure combination as exemplary? No. Absolutely not. No one ever has.

The angles are balanced perfectly with his pouty lips, all pink and swollen from use; the sight of them urge you to replicate the same activity with each passing second.

There is no chance allowed for Morpheus disrupts your objectification. "Did you gain some clarity on the situation?"

You pull your coat closer to protect your décolleté from the weather, and take time to thoroughly contemplate his inquiry. There was much to unpack and while you had no inclination to do so standing out in the winter-washed street, you believe that for now Morpheus at least deserves an abridged version.

"Yes. And no. I may have more questions than before I spoke to them..."

"I see." He swallows visibly, hinting at trepidation. "You need not tell me of the specifics of which you conversed. All I need to know is that they have not changed their minds. That you are still mine."

You are smiling reassuringly before he has even finished the sentence. Your intuition tells you it was agony for him the entire time you were gone and you cannot leave him lingering in that state any longer.

"I am yours," you say ardently as a blissful, expanding feeling blossoms in your chest. "My soulmate."

You brush your knuckles over his cheekbone and cup his face with the gentlest of touches. "My Morpheus."

Saying his name in front of him for the first time has a considerable effect on him. His pupils dilate, lending him a feline air and he groans lowly and quietly in the back of his throat. Hips then roll forwards to give further evidence to his arousal.

You reflect this lustfulness by putting both hands on the back of his neck to pull his face down to yours. He goes willingly, of course, laying claim to your lips like he is an addict and you his vice.

The previous kisses you had shared had been led by Morpheus. You had participated with enthusiasm but he was clearly the one conducting the order of events. Now it was a duet.

Your confidence is shown in your touches. The placement of your hands on his nape and the small of his back, gripping tightly to maintain his closeness. Peppering in open-mouthed kisses in an attempt to get him to open his mouth in return. You want to taste inside him with your own tongue.

He lets you.

You both moan as you trace the inside of his upper lip with your tongue. The taste is just like before; a heady and delicious mixture that blinkers and exposes you in equal parts. You open your mouth further, intending to go deeper when he suddenly delves into your mouth too.

You kiss and kiss and kiss, all the while becoming aware of a trembling heat just above your sternum that carves a path straight and true down to your core.

The hands that were at your sides disappear and the wind begins to pick up. There are gritty specks hitting your bare skin, but you are too overcome with pleasure to wonder why. Morpheus takes hold of your hands and squeezes tightly.

Your head begins to swirl. Is it due to a lack of oxygen? You breathe in through your nose. The adrift feeling persists. The grip Morpheus has on your hands is causing them to go numb.

There's a pressure in your ears similar to that created by the ascent of an aircraft. You feel it straining against your eardrums and spreading across your sinuses. All sound then disappears, as does the floor beneath your feet. Your heartbeat thuds frantically in the back of your throat, pulsating with red flashes behind your closed eyelids. You don't stop kissing him though. He is the only thing that has sense and stability in the disorientation.

The spinning ceases and the pressure fades as your feet find solid ground again. The chill factor has reduced to an ambient temperature. Morpheus extricates himself from your mouth slowly and unwillingly.

There's a sleepy dust-like substance in your eyelashes; you dislodge and wipe it away and open your eyes.

Your location has changed.

The puddle strewn pavements are now white marble. The stinging light emanating from the lamp post replaced by a peaceful mixture of moonlight and starlight through vast windows.

It is extremely familiar. You are trying to figure out why when your focus falls on the statues.

The niggling thought that you put on the back burner is suddenly set free from its cage.

The King of Dreams and Nightmares. That was what the Fates had called him.

You had visited this gallery as you slept and touched yourself in front of a ethereal man.

You vocalise the end of your train of thought as mortification clenches in your gut.

"You were in my dream last night."

"Yes." There's a tiny movement of his lips that suggests pride at your comprehension. "I've been in your dreams for many nights now."

"In the crowds, and that room?"

"Yes."

It all made sense now. It was him you had been waiting for in the blank room and after then, he was the one you had been able to feel watching you from afar. That was why he seemed so familiar. He'd been with you for weeks.

"I can't believe I did that in front of you."

The predatory gaze is back as he surveys your flustered form.

"Hmm," he purrs, "You were quite the spectacle."

"Did you make me do it?"

"I set up the parameters of the dream. Your actions within it were your own."

"I don't remember choosing," you comment in a small voice.

You feel his hands about your waist. "Perhaps you were guided by instinct, rather than conscious thought."

It sounds very plausible for instinct had undoubtedly been in the driver's seat since he touched you for the first time.

You decide to change the subject from your exhibitionism. "So this is your realm?"

"We are at the heart of it, within the palace. Few are able to come here when they sleep. Even fewer are permitted to see it with a cognisant mind."

You look down as a bashful blush stains your cheeks. It is truly moving that he let you into his inner most sanctum, even before he had divulged your connection.

A strong thumb and forefinger find purchase on your chin and tilt your head up so he can assess your countenance. "What are you thinking of?"

"I'm just... all of this. What's happened tonight, it's beyond anything I could -"

"Dream?" He offers with a quirked eyebrow.

You laugh. "I was going to say imagine, but dream works just as well."

He brings you in for another passionate kiss, one that goes from lips to earlobe to neck, designed to make your head loll back and knees go weak, and you do both with a sigh.

"I would like to take you to my chambers now," he whispers against your pulse point.

That delicious vibration in your sternum shifts up a gear and you let loose a faint groan in lieu of a reply.

He speaks your name.

The inflection of his voice as he says it is so beguiling that you would probably do anything he suggested.

You are nodding, hazily repeating the word yes a few times even though Morpheus hasn't technically asked you a question.

The pressure you felt before in your ears returns for the briefest of moments and in the time it takes for you to blink, your surroundings have changed once more.

The first thing you notice is the bed, the lone piece of furniture in the room. The frame is an ornately carved pale stone, it twists and turns with gorgeous fluidity. The silk sheets upon it are a stark contrast; black with an iridescent quality that looks like the wings of a corvid. Its presence carries a raft of expectations with it and sets forth a barrage of nervous energy. You ignore the bed for now and look to your soulmate who has moved a few steps away from you.

He looks correct here, you note with intrigue. It's not as if he was out of place outside the function hall, for he has a humanoid form, but the grandeur of this private place is casting him in a different light. Here, with the omniscient gaze, assured tilt of his chin, graceful poise; he looks like the King he is.

And through a funny quirk of fate, he is all yours.

Your chest begins to ache, you raise a hand to it and frown in confusion. It's like your soul is pining, calling out for help.

Morpheus is by your side in an instant.

"I need to touch your bare skin again."

You waste no time in permitting this, shrugging out of your coat and letting it fall onto the black marble floor. Next to be shed are your heeled boots and socks. The height difference between you is lengthened by a couple of inches as you relax the tendons in your feet. You're left in your underwear after you take off your button-up blouse and trousers.

Morpheus' lips part as he observes your body. His eyes dart up and down and you can see the hunger within the darkening irises. His long fingers skim liberally and indiscriminately across your skin, diligently taking away the pain and cataloguing the sensitivity of your body at the same time.

The fingers of his right hand then twitch and his all-black ensemble dissolves into nothing, leaving him completely naked.

Your flush must be fuchsia as you notice his size, and twitches that traverse the length. You look to your own pile of clothes that took you several minutes to remove, hoping that a change of focus will steady your stomach's ever burgeoning butterflies. "That was efficient."

"Once you are dressing in garments created in the Dreaming, I will be able to disrobe you just the same."

You're not entirely sure how you feel about that. It's risky yet also kind of sexy.

"As long as you don't ever do it in front of people by accident," you assert playfully.

"You need not worry, I would never do such a thing to taint your honour."

You nod and close the gap between you.

To say you are astounded by his nude form would be an understatement. Whispers of sinew cord through slender limbs and across his torso, and for each angular peak proffered by bone there is a counteracting swathe of soft, flawless skin that covers it.

You yearn to touch him.

Morpheus' stares are intense as you place your palm over his heart. He hums out a sound of pleasure at the warmth this new skin-on-skin contact has created.

He draws you closer and suddenly lifts you off the ground, knocking the breath out of your lungs. You feel safe in the strength he possesses yet you cling to him with all four limbs regardless, pressing against his bare chest. Having so much of his skin against yours is creating a heat that is close to burning in the most wonderful way.

He lays you onto the bed and watches you with unwavering focus.

"Are you going to perform for me again, or would you like me to take control?"

The notion of that kind of pleasure being administered by him causes your reply to be breathless, "Touch me again, please."

The mattress dips slowly as he gracefully joins you on the bed, straddling himself on top of you.

He starts with your face, caressing you with adoration. Next, pressing kisses to your neck and shoulders before reaching down your body. One hand fondles your breasts while the other cups between your legs. You sigh, relishing in the warmth and how slowly he is taking things.

Deft fingers then dip below the waistband of your underwear.

You jolt and moan, simultaneously thrilled and taken off guard.

"Good," he says with dark delight. "You respond well to me."

He teases at your entrance and you are all at once very overwhelmed.

"I look forward to seeing how you react when I push inside you."

It truly does sound like something you want him to do - you've longed for a physical relationship for years however there's a detail that you know your soulmate should be privy to before you try. How it will be received, you cannot begin to guess, but you need to be upfront.

"I've never been with anyone in that way," your words sounding even more vulnerable than you feel.

Morpheus stops his attentions immediately and for a handful of heartbeats, you are admonishing yourself for the bluntness of your admission.

He moves back up your body and his eyes find yours. His expression is gentle and devoid of judgement, the following sentence backing up what your optic nerves are perceiving.

"Then I will teach you."

He presses a single chaste kiss to your lips; an act that seals his promise. Your apprehension melts away. You run your hands through his hair as you bask in the sweetness of the moment. The Fates were right: Morpheus really is perfect for you.

"I am going to worship you now."

He's ridding you of your bra and underwear immediately after you consent. The second he sees you fully bared, his eyes turn black.

You wonder what you've just agreed to.

He kneels on the floor at the foot of the bed, grabs your ankles and pulls you towards him until your legs hang off the edge.

You've seen depictions of oral sex in media however you have always reasoned that they are likely to be unrealistic; fantasies created in controlled environments and you would be naïve to hope that it could be like that for you, when it happened. Until now. Morpheus is the expert in dreams after all. Maybe you are allowed to get your hopes up.

His lips tease your inner thighs as he settles himself closer and closer to your throbbing, wet core until you feel the tickling of his breath.

He observes you for a moment, parts your folds with a single finger, grasps your hips and then goes down on you like you are an enticing, delectable treat that must be devoured.

Your lips falls open as his own closes around your clit. The heat that is brought from this touch is an inferno. You moan, and look at him, at this otherworldly being smothering you so adeptly, and how his intense eyes dance with pleasure of their own. He is enjoying this. It makes you gush.

Morpheus, taking advantage of this, very quickly collects the slick on both his index fingers and reaches up to lubricate your hardened nipples with it.

You groan from this additional stimulation and throw your head back with abandon, getting a good view of the vaulted ceiling above you and the seemingly literal constellations that float glimmering and glowing in the rafters.

Soon you are writhing on the cool silk of the sheets and he is forced to resume holding your hips to keep you still.

He then switches to a two-fronted approach. Two fingers sink into your cunt, the thumb of the same hand curling up to press on your clit. It's quite the step - letting another person inside your most intimate place and his reverent groans at feeling your tightness envelop his digits shows that he acknowledges this too. All it takes is a few deep, well angled pumps and then you are granted a mind-shattering orgasm.

His hand presses into the softness of your lower abdomen and the ecstasy becomes ten fold. You repeatedly moan his name as vibrant colours explode behind your eyelids, like the green and purple phosphenes that form if you rub your eyes too hard.

"Was that to your satisfaction?" He asks once your body has gone limp.

You look at Morpheus through the pulsing haze of aftershocks; his cheek resting against your inner thigh as his skin gleams with the same divinely beautiful quality as the stars above you.

"It was more than that," you declare emotionally.

What he's just given you is beyond your highest hopes of what intimacy could be. You had let another person see you at your most vulnerable, and reaped the rewards of that trust. Now, you must show your devotion to him.

"Your turn."

He stands and shakes his head. "No."

You are crestfallen but catch on when he begins to spread pre-cum over the length of his erection.

"Oh, um, Morpheus, I'm sorry. I don't think I can take you right now."

The notion of any kind of touching so soon after climaxing would be the guarantor of pain.

He ignores you, his movements calculated as he adjusts your position; arranging you in the centre of the mattress and splaying your trembling legs.

"Morpheus. I appreciate that I'm inexperienced but I know my body. I can't -"

His tone is dangerous as he interrupts you, "You are my soulmate. You have been made for me and as such, you will be able to take me."

You sit up. "I want to do things for you too."

He climbs on top of you, takes your wrists in his long-fingered hands and leverages you back towards horizontal.

You still don't concede. "Morpheus, tell me what you want."

His voice rumbles with authority, "I want to fuck you without delay. Pour myself into you. Possess you. Merge with you and have us become one."

He ups the persuasive tactics, leaning in close so all you can see are dark eyelashes framing even darker eyes. The heat under your skin is stifling.

"This is the final stage in your awakening. Don't you want to know what will happen when it's done? Allow me to guide you there. Be your first and only, make you feel exquisite with my touch."

He places a palm onto your chest and smiles a twisted smile when a luscious shuddering in that spot above your sternum makes you whimper and squirm.

"Submit to fate," he whispers. "Let me tie our souls together."

He is so eloquent and compelling and he delivers the killer blow as he lines his thick, long cock up at your entrance.

"Will you surrender yourself to me, Y/N?"

-------------------------------------

Tag list: @herfantasyworldd @kpopgirlbtssvt @littleblackcatinwonderland @1950schick @lollipopsandlandmines

"In the middle of the night in my dreams, you should see the things we do. In the middle of the night in my dreams, I know I'm going to be with you so I take my time. Are you ready for it?"

[spidercookie18]

your heart was pounding. it felt like it was seconds from beating out of your chest. your legs instinctively moved forward. not willing to turn around. not willing to stop moving.

your breath was so loud in your ears. it only served to make the fear in your belly grow bigger. the fear of how loud you were being. you were sure he could hear you. the adrenaline made you nauseous. or maybe it was how hard you were running. what would happen when he caught you? you didn't want to know.

it was rare to say that the boys scared you. they were trusted souls that you spent much of your time around...but they were still wild animals at heart. beasts with an appetite that could not be satiated by mortal standards. they could eat, and devour, and gorge til their hearts content. they didn't always eat for sustenance, but they always ate their fill of flesh.

as you ran through the woods, the trees snagged your clothes. the rocks and thorns cut through your skin. the thin branches whipped across your cheeks as you pushed through a thicket. trying desperately to flee from what was hunting you down. you could feel the warm blood and tears trickle down your face. they chilled your skin as they cooled. it was a sickening feeling that drove you forward. there was little you could do to guide yourself through the night. the moonlight barely shone though the canopy of the forest. blinding you. trapping you. you were a mouse running in his labyrinth. he was toying with you. and you knew it.

if this brunet beast wanted to catch you, he could have easily done so by now. he was enjoying this. you couldn't have imagined your fling with Paul the other night would drive Dwayne to this. he was livid that him and the others had to stand off to the side while you had your way with Paul. you were having innocent fun. well, not so innocent. but you didn't think his jealousy would make him go absolutely mad.

he lured you to the woods in the night. with promises of passionate moonlit love making. soft, sweet, gentle love and the warm embrace that Dwayne was best at. you had pictured his big strong arms wrapped around you. keeping you safe, sweet nothings of hiding you away from his brothers and making you his.

but this was nothing like you'd imagined.

you waited for him, in the cold and the dark of night. you waited almost to the point where you thought of leaving. the sense of unease in your belly.

something was watching you

you had no idea it was the gentle giant you knew and loved. mad with envy. he finally appeared when you called him. his phone ringing in the tree nearby. he landed in front of you. the quiet sound of his shoes touching the ground was a reminder, in the back of your mind, that he was a hunter. you only knew he was there, because he wanted you to know. when he stood, and walked to you, it made the hair on your body stand on end. something was wrong. very wrong. you tried to call out to him, but your voice left you the second you noticed his gleaming eyes. they looked like they were glowing as he moved towards you in the night. you felt your body shiver. was it from the cold? or from fear? he chuckled. it was darker than you'd come to know. Dwayne was going to prove a point to you.

something to be feared, and not toyed with. he was a predator, a monster, a vampire. and he was going to have you, whenever he wanted you.

"It seems you've forgotten your place, rabbit." his voice boomed in his chest. you felt your heartbeat pick up. you moved a foot behind you. your body instinctively getting ready to flee from danger. "run, rabbit," that sickening laughter left the cavern of his sternum again. from the dim moonlight you could see Dwaynes fangs peak through his smile. "run."

that was all you needed. maybe it was his thrall, or how he acted. but you were afraid.

afraid didn't even begin to cover it. you felt a pure, primal fear etch its way through your veins. it settled into your bones and tore through your muscles. it screamed and shouted like a siren going off in your brain. and it told you, like Dwayne had, to run.

your next step took you by surprise. the ground was further down than you anticipated, and you tumbled to your knees. you hit the cold, wet dirt hard. your palms were scraped, and gravel and dirt stuck to your hands. you sucked in air through your teeth. your body ached. a thousand thoughts raced through your mind and you knew this was an opening Dwayne would not hesitate to take advantage of. you heard his deep laugh in your ears; like he was right behind you. and you flinched. there was no one there.

he was in your head.

you shut your eyes. trying to focus on what was happening. this was not a break you could afford to have. with a cry, you willed yourself to get up. your legs buckled as you tried to stand, and as you found your bearings, you were knocked back to the ground.

Dwayne blindsided you. he tackled you from your side, full speed, and you bent as he hurled you both across the air. when you finally hit the ground, you felt the wind be knocked from you. his weight was unbelievable. the dense muscle structure of him and his vampire brothers made them incredibly heavy. you kicked and screamed, but you knew it wouldn't help. you tried to push him off. you clawed at him and at the ground. anything you could think of.

his nails gripped into your sides, and Dwayne turned you onto your stomach. you tensed. waiting. preparing. for the pain of him. to tear your flesh like paper. like you'd seen them do to others. you could feel the vampire's breath on the back of your neck. the anticipation of Dwaynes fangs brought tears to your eyes. you tried to tense your shoulders to hide your neck from him, but he easily gripped the back of your head and moved it to make a space for his mouth. you could hear the wet of his mouth as he prepared to devour you. you felt a sob come from you. involuntary, and the last thing you did before Dwayne came down on your skin.

"Got you."

his voice was calm again. smooth, and warm like amber, with a hint of sadistic humor in it. instead of the sensation of his sharp fangs, it was a gentle kiss to your ear. the sound and feel of his lips against the shell of your ear was a shock to you. "w-what?" your voice came out meek and confused. "I got you, haha." Dwayne was amused. he shifted to the side and got off of you. he gently helped you up to sit on the ground in front of him. you were still in shock. your mind went blank. the adrenaline of fleeing for your life, and the unknown threat of Dwayne's foreign behavior, juxtaposed to his kind smile now was a shock. the way he looked over you. he was plucking the leaves and twigs from your hair. gently straightening out your clothes.

"you were really scared weren't you?" Dwayne laughed. "I can hear your heart beating sooo loud." he retracted his hands from your hair, and sat on his haunches in front of you. his large brown eyes bore into you. they looked over your form, and they finally settled on the cuts along your palms, and your cheeks. "oh, babydoll, let me fix that." he took your hands in his and turned your palms up towards him. he rubbed his thumbs over the dirt to wipe it off, and with the flat of his tongue he licked the blood off your skin. the sting of the abrasions in the meat of your hand slowly dissipated. his tongue was cool, and wet, it helped soothe the last of the pain.

"you-," your mind was ablaze with an array of emotions. Dwayne ignored you. he sat forward and his wide, slimy tongue licked across your cheeks to your ears. Covering the length of the thin cuts in your face in his saliva. getting the last of the blood off of you. "you fucking asshole!" You shoved your hands into Dwayne's chest. "you scared the crap out of me!" you punched his shoulder. angry that he did this just to mess with you.

you were pissed. and Dwayne was laughing again. "oh come on, I wasn't going to do anything," he snickered.

you huffed, "you hurt me!"

"no i didn't," he scoffed.

"I'm bleeding!"

"well, not anymore"

"you tackled me!"

"oh yeah, i forgot about that,"

he reached a hand out to you, apologetic in his nature; but you, still angry, pushed him away. "fuck this, I'm going home,"you wanted nothing to do with him anymore. he lied to you, and made you run though the woods. your nice outfit was cut up and filthy now. there was no point in sticking around for whatever he actually had planned.

Dwayne watched you stand and turn to leave, "if you do that, I'll just bring you right back here."

you flipped him off, still walking away from him. having no actual idea where you were in the forest you picked a direction and started off.

"Y/N, I'm warning you," Dwayne called after you.

"fuck you!" you tried to feel for your phone in your pocket. praying you didn't drop it somewhere under a log or something. luckily, you found it. you decided that you were just going to call one of the other boys to come and get you. that would really piss Dwayne off, but you wanted to get even with him. deliberately trying to get under his skin. as you were about to start dialing for one of the other vampires, you felt the ground leave from under you. Dwayne came up behind you. he simply picked you up around the waist, and walked you right back over to where he had tackled you. you flailed against his hold, and he placed you back on the ground. your feet felt the safety of the dirt below, and pushed him off. you grunted, and turned around to leave. He stepped in front of you. "Dwayne, knock it off," you turned again and started to leave. Dwayne scooped you up in his arms and walked you back. "Dwayne! I'm serious!" you shouted at him. He still had you cradled in his arms.

"I'm serious too. I'll just keep bringing you right back here." he gently squeezed you in his arms.

You pushed your hands to his chest, "put me down you jerk!"

"okay, fine" he opened his arms, and you fell five feet to the ground.

you hit the ground with an 'oomph'. your ass and back were hurting now. you hated imagining the way the mud looked on the back of your pants. you shifted to the side to rub the back of your hip where you fell. Dwayne was looking down at you. half sorry, and half irritated with you.

thats it. you were done fighting him. you grabbed your phone, and with your muddy fingertips you swiped at the screen.

"what are you doing?"

"I'm calling Paul to come get me," you crinkled your nose at the brunet.

Dwayne laughed. "What's Paul gonna do? He's not gonna take you away from me. He doesn't even answer his phone!"

"He does when I call him,"you stuck your tongue out at him. the phone was ringing. after a moment, Paul picked up. you both could clearly hear his jovial voice through the speaker. "Paul, I need you to come get me, Dwayne's being an- aah!," Dwayne scooped you up without letting you finish your sentence. the fast motion of him grabbing you almost made you drop your phone. you were fighting to get out of his hold, but after you realized how high up you were, you clung to him. "D-Dwayne put me down!" You tried to sound fierce, the faux threat of what could happen if he denied your request. "Poor choice of words, Y/N," you could feel Dwaynes hold on you slip. "WAIT!" you clung to the collar of his jacket. anywhere you could get your hands.

you both could hear Paul's worried voice through the phone.

'y/n? what happened?'

"You are being a fucking brat!" Dwayne snarled in your face. "You're being a bigger brat!" you wiggled and grunted against him. "

Will you stop?!" Dwayne held you easily by one arm around your waist, and with the other he gripped your chin; forcing you to look at him. "I'm sick of your attitude!" Dwayne's face was in a hard scowl. He looked down at you through his glistening eyes, but you tried your damndest to keep from looking at him. he dug his nails into your jaw, pulling your face closer to his. "Look at me!" he growled. there were tears of frustration threatening to break over your waterline. you stared defiantly up at him. the redness in the tip of your nose beginning to grow as you tried to hold back your tears. your breast heaving against his chest. the furrow in your brows. even with all the anger in your round, little face, Dwayne couldn't help but think you looked adorable. you, this small, angry creature, covered in mud and still vaguely smelling of blood and perfume. you hated him in this moment. with all the passion your body could hold, you hated him. but that passion turned into something else as Dwayne pushed his lips against yours. the hate and anger in you morphed into heat. heat in your face. in your chest. all though your body you felt hot. you kissed him back, still desperately clinging to him. his lips were so full and soft against yours, though he kissed you with feverish want. you couldn't help but moan into his mouth. a soft whimper left you as he moved to kiss down your throat. he snatched the phone from you and turned you around. you were disheartened to feel the absence of his kiss on your body. Dwayne still had his arm around your waist, and flew you both over to a nearby branch. your body was thrust into the branch. it hurt like hell. you could feel the wind be knocked from you. your legs dangled freely in the air. it was evident from the deep pain that there would be a harsh bruise across your abdomen when this was all over. Dwane slid the phone across the branch til it was just out of your reach. you tried to pull yourself up and across the branch, but a large hand was pressed against your back to hold you in place. Dwayne hooked a finger into the hem of your jeans, and ripped the seat of your pants open. the grating sound of the denim ripping was enough to make Paul start screaming worryingly into the phone again.

'y/n! are you okay? what's happening??'

"Paul ju-," you tried to reach for the phone to hang it up, but the vampire nearest you had no intention of letting you get it. Dwaynes fingertips dug into the plush of your hips. his claws leaving harsh red lines as he pulled your ass up towards him. your phone just out of reach on the branch. you didn't dare try for it again for fear of losing your grip on the tree. you could feel Dwayne's breath on you again. this time, it was lower, much lower. he gave a teasing lick across your bare slit and you yelped. poor Paul on the other end could only listen to your cries. he had no clue where you both were, and even if he did, Dwayne would just drag you away to a another hiding place. you could feel your brunet captor give another teasing lick across your cunt. this time, it dug lightly between your folds. he pressed his wriggling muscle further and further into your warm slit. his tongue was sitting fat in your cunt. it wiggled in and out of you. dragging across the ridges of your pretty pink pussy. you bit your lip, trying to keep your moaning to yourself. you didn't want poor Paul to have to listen to that. Dwayne knew you were trying to be quiet, but he wanted to punish you and Paul. he wanted his little 'brother' to be jealous. both that he was enjoying the taste of you, and that he wasn't part of the mix. Dwayne started twisting his tongue inside of you. He latched his lips around your sopping cunt and sucked on your needy little bud while his tongue worked you over. "Oh fuck! Dwayne!" your voice sounded so whiney. it was such a horny sound you were making, and you tried to burry your face in your forearms.

Dwayne was satisfied with your reaction, and slowly pulled his tongue out of you. He watched as your feet kicked desperately at the branch below, trying to find something to stand on to no avail. He rubbed himself through his jeans, and teasingly rubbed his thumb and forefinger across your slit. he undid his fly and button, he lazily massaged your aching nub. he heard your breath catch in your throat, and your desperate little dance of trying to find something to stand on only grew as you looked to find a way to get more pressure to your nub.

Dwayne licked his lips. the smell of your want in the air was enough to drag low growls from him. he wanted to take you then and there when he first caught you, but he was worried he overdid it. he wanted to get your hear racing, but he still wanted you to enjoy yourself.

your vampire lover was languidly stroking his cock. he lined himself up with your entrance and dragged his tip up and down your slit to collect some of your love. he bit his lip in anticipation. Dwayne looked over to the phone screen, that was still lit with the call screen and Paul's contact name. "Hey Paul," Dwayne called out. His deep voice echoing through the treetops. "I want you to listen. real closely," the brunet poorly stifled a chuckle. you gasped loudly as he pushed slowly into you. your breath hitching in your throat. the sharp cry of a wounded animal; being pierced by this beast. Dwayne watched as your should blades shifted under your clothes, watching you paw at the tree. not actually trying to get away as you wanted him more to devour you. he savored how you opened for him as he pushed further in. and you could feel your eyes cross as he continued to stretch you.

it was always a feat to take Dwayne.

it was a tight squeeze. you could feel your walls gripping the life out of Dwaynes member. even with the extra lubrication from Dwaynes slimy tongue, it was hard for him to move. your nails dug into the bark of the tree. you could feel the tears beginning to pick the sides of your eyes. Paul was on the other end, still listening to you gasp for air. the high pitched, broken whines in between your panting. Dwayne finally settled against your cervix. if you weren't pressed flush against the tree you were sure you'd be able to see the bulge of him through your skin. he gave a gentle push further in, wishing so horribly that you could take his last inch. you winced. it was almost painful, and he hadn't even started moving. Dwayne pulled back,

s l o w l y

dragging his heavy tip through the ridges of your tight cunt. it was agonizingly slow. you half wanted to turn around and beg him to hurry up and fuck you. his tip sat just on the inside of your entrance. almost all the way out of you. he tugged his hips backwards and with a loud POP, your cunt released him. "oohhh, fuck," he growled. he gripped himself around the base, and wiped his tip across your clit. he gathered more of your love that was beginning to drip down you, and eagerly shoved it back inside. "ooooh, Dwayne,"a breathy moan left your throat. he pressed through your walls again, and pressed himself against your ass. he was as flush against you as he could be, and he gripped the rest of your jeans and ripped them further apart. he half pulled himself back. his fingers laced themselves through the loops on your pants and slammed himself back in you. he pushed you forward against the branch. he started an eager speed. it wasn't overly fast, but it was firm. he fucked into you with a steady pace. all you could do was hold on for dear life as he fucked into you. the wet sounds coming from you two. the sloppy sucking sounds of your cunt as it enveloped Dwayne. "oohhh fuck that's good" he grunted. you were embarrassed that Paul had to hear that. why hadn't he hung up by now? you couldn't reach the phone to hang up, you just waited for Dwayne to finish having his way with you. "m'sorry Dwayne, I'm Sorry!" you tried to focus your vision on the dim light of your phone screen. anything to keep your mind off how good your lower-half felt. "I know you're sorry, babydoll" Dwayne laughed. his thrusts were painful. every push felt like he was trying to break through your cervix. and every pull felt like he was dragging your organs out. "you're sooo sorry, you just needed to be fucked, nice and good didn't cha?" he accentuated his thrusts on his words. he was grunting. trying to remember how mad he was with you and Paul. he'd almost forgotten about Paul.

he wasn't just fucking the brat out of you, he was putting on a performance.

Dwayne adjusted his hold on you. he wrapped an arm around your belly, still keeping you up while your legs were dangling freely in the air. and with his other, he spat on his fingers and reached around for your clit. you let out a wail when his wet fingertips started rubbing quick circles around your nub. "Dwayne!" you were mortified to be moaning his name so loudly.

"you hear that Paul?" Dwayne spat. "she's begging, for me!" he felt you clench tighter and tighter around him. it felt like you were sucking him in. when he pulled back, you only sucked him in further. "come for me babygirl," his skilled fingers easily brought you over the edge. and you felt the release come in waves. Dwayne felt your warm wet cunt pulse around his length, and you screamed. you screamed like it was the last sound you'd ever make. like it was your saving grace. your legs shook, and you continued to milk Dwayne's cock for everything it was worth. "mmhp, fuck," Dwayne grunted. he continued to piston his hips against you, riding you through your high. it was euphoric. you felt like you were on cloud 9 as your vampire lover continued to use you as a fuck toy. you fell limp against the tree. if Dwayne wasn't still holding you up, you'd have surely fallen. the brunet thrusted one more harsh move against you, and forced his extra inch down into your cunt. you cried out, and he spurted his cum deep inside you.

Dwayne was bent over you. his long hair coming across your face. his forehead was pressed against your back as he finished painting your insides white. he kissed your back gently, and listened to the soft breathing from your lungs. he pushed himself up and gently started to pull out of you. when he saw his come immediately start to drip out, he pressed himself fully back into you. he didn't want it dripping out of you on the way home. and he'd completely ripped your panties off along with your destroyed jeans. he chuckled when he realized he was going to have to take you home, fully sheathed in you. he leaned across you and picked up your phone and spoke into it, "we'll be home soon. see you then." he hung up on Paul and put your phone in his jacket pocket. "now... how the hell am i going to do this?"

[mangosrar]

Wake up.

chris sturniolo x fem reader.

warnings: mentions of death. sad.

an: this is basically like a journal thing that chris wrote after his girl died :/ i cried while writing this😍

its only been 5 days but i hate you and im so angry. how could you do this to me. you’re selfish. you’re a coward for leaving me. i could’ve helped you. we were in love we have been for years. how could you ever just leave me alone here without you by my side. you were weak you took the easy way out and left us to deal with the consequences.

today was your funeral. it was nice. exactly how you would’ve wanted it. the flowers the music. the casket. exactly how you would’ve liked. your mom asked me to give a speech but i had to go to the bathroom to throw up. i couldn’t do it. i couldn’t stand there and tell everyone how beautiful and funny and kind you were. not are. were. because you’re not here. your mom held me back when they were burring you, i couldn’t take it. i wanted to get in there and shake you and yell at you to wake you up. seeing your body get lowered into the ground was like the last goodbye. i know you’ve been dead for a couple of weeks but it was like you were still here in a way. i was waiting every day to wake up from this horrible dream and you would be there to hold me and tell me its all going to be okay. i couldn’t let you go. i couldn’t have the only thing i ever loved ripped away from me. i wish i could switch our place. i wish i could have you here. i need you here because i still haven’t woken up.

its been a month and it still don’t feel real. im not angry anymore though, just sad. i wish you would have told me, we could’ve worked this out together, that’s what we were supposed to do. i forget what your voice sound like and have to look back on videos to remind myself. how will i ever be okay again. this is like a sickness, a flesh eating bacteria that has gotten into my bloodstream and spread throughout my entire body. it would probably hurt less for you to die all over again. at least i would know what to expect. i think im dying. i could be. matt said i wasn’t but he don’t know what this feels like. he doesn’t know what it feels like to have the love of you’re life one day and to not have them the next. he doesn’t know what its like to have this hole inside of me that only you could fill. he doesn’t know what it feels like to know that that was the last time i ever saw you, last time i ever kissed you. last time you ever told me you loved me. i should have known. you held me extra tight that day. you knew i was never going to see you again. you knew and you let me leave your house. you let me look into your eyes for the last time ever. you allowed me to tell you i loved you for the final time. how could you. i just want to wake up from this fucking nightmare.

its been 2 months and things haven’t changed. its almost your birthday. last year we spent it together in the cape. this year ill probably bring flowers to your grave and cry, pleading for some sort of miracle to bring you back to me. its like you’ve taken a part of me with you. i can never get it back. i will never be the same again. i just wish i could have you, i still haven’t died yet but i think its a long process to die from this type of thing. its painful too, more than a mental pain. its a strong physical pain that i feel deep in my bones, or like i get this really dull ache in my chest whenever i think about you, witch is almost constantly. it hurts so bad honey. like my soul is calling for yours but its getting no reply. i would like death that way. to die at the hands of heartbreak. or maybe just to you. i would die and let you take my place if it meant i got to hold you one more time. i just want to have you back. why would you ever do this.

happy birthday. i wonder if you knew that last year was the last birthday you would ever had. maybe. but today isnt special. today is sad and painful. i went over to your house today, and for the fisrt time since i saw you for the last time i went into your bedroom and cried for hours while lying on your bed. the house still smells like you. it made me throw up. i need to have you back or i might die. i fell asleep after a while tho and woke up to matt. id been there for hours and he was worried but i thought it was you. i almost had a stroke. i was in your room, on your side of the bed, holding your pillow waking up to the smell of your perfume. how could you blame me. i hated it. i threw up again after that. but its still your birthday so i lit the candle that was on your coffee table, and i know you’re not supposed to tell your wishes but i wished for you back. like i do every day, morning and night, i wished for you to be mine again, i wished to wake up from this pandemonium of a terrible, terrible dream and to have you wrapped up in my arms where i know you’re safe, where i know you should be. but your not so now i have to remember you for longer than i have known you. happy birthday lovey.

SAD ASF RN

taglist: @christinarowie332 @soursturniolo @biimpanicking @azkabanstar @freshlovehacker @urmyslxt @kitaysworld @kvtie444 @mattenthusiast @flowerxbunnie @mattsd0ll @iheart2021chris @its-jennarose @hearttshapedkisses @lovingsturniolo

[master-kohga-dating-sim]

Return

I wrote some stuff for Sakiru because i can't stop thinking about him,,, my silly guy i love him

This is for @bugger-loz's dungeon boss AU :3

Word count: 626 Characters: Sakiru, Astor Warnings: Body horror (talk about someone's flesh rotting while they're still alive), talk about someone intentionally causing pain to themself

Click, click, click, click.

There wasn't really any way for Sakiru to describe the noise other than a click. When it started, he would've called it a drip. Each little drop of water hitting the ground, drip drip drip. But as time went on, the sound became less discernible. Somewhere between a drip and a click. Not a pat or tick or plip, it had to have that strong ck sound. As the white noise turned into words, words and letters lost their meaning as they melted to color and faded into the blackness.

Click, click, click, click.

When the drip of the water became nothing, the pain spoke up. All of Sakiru’s ugly organs were safe in their jars, leaving his remaining flesh to scream at him and beg not to be left behind. Of course, he ignored it, and of course, time ignored it. The rancid meat cried and wailed as it slowly died around him, but it left the zonaite and bones in their full purity. Once it was all gone, the pain would subside. Sakiru had no sense of days or weeks; he marked days by points of interest. Pain increasing, pain subsiding, the loss of feeling in his head, his body freeing itself from larger and larger swathes of meat. 

Click, click, click, click.

Sometimes the pain was to Sakiru’s advantage. The dying flesh was his only friend, its screams his only conversation. He found that by moving the zonaite, grinding the meat between the plates if need be, he could create more pain. Rhythmically, he did so between his brief periods of sleep. He made songs from it. At first simple patterns, but eventually he learned to create full orchestrations. Different kinds of pain- burns, stabs, stings, crushes, all in different intensities, the different instruments on the stage. A constant low hum of it, the bass. He made melodies from the movements of his body, masterpieces that would never be heard by a single soul.

Click, click, click, click.

He had no idea how long it had been. Ever since the Demon King had been sealed away and he had fled into the Spirit Temple down below, his world had been darkness; the depths of his mind. His life was the movements of his body, the songs of pain, his being slowly purifying. All up until that one day, when the stone doors scraped and pushed to the sides. Everything stopped, the music went quiet, as Sakiru was bathed in the light that he had forgotten the feeling of.

No more click.

A hylian man was standing there, obscured in black robes. All Sakiru could see was his face. His features were carved, blanketed with uncannily pale skin. Braids of straight, black hair decorated with gold rings hung at the sides of his head. What caught Sakiru’s attention about him was the gold circlet he wore, framing an eye similar to that of his old master.

Sakiru tilted his head. The liquid within the glass rushed by his face, making him realize that the bones were now bare. An apostle? Another disciple of the Demon King? Hadd the seal finally broken, had his master returned?”

The man spoke. His voice was thin, yet smoky. “Are you the alchemist?”

Sakiru rolled his jaw to try and get the movements back. Raw bones clicked and popped against each other. Though his vocal chords were missing, he still found words. It was as if his voice rumbled from the air itself. It was raspy, rusty. “My name is Sakiru, I… I am the Demon King’s alchemist.”

A smile pulled at the corners of the apostle’s thin lips. “Wonderful”, he said, beckoning outwards. “I have someone- many someones, in fact- to introduce you to.”

[leftistfeminista]

Poems from a Chilean Marxist woman political prisoner

In Pinochet's grasp, I'm forced to wear A garment not meant for daily wear Lingerie, they call it, meant to please But all it brings is shame and unease

The cold creeps in, my skin exposed No protection from the winds that blow I am not a toy, a thing to see I am a prisoner, can't they not see?

I have a voice, I have a mind Ideas that won't be left behind But all they see is my outer shell A form to ogle, a sight to dwell

This lingerie, it serves no purpose Other than to bring me to my knees It is not fit, it is not right To force me to wear day and night

Oh Pinochet, why do you do this? Why must you make my dignity miss? I am a Marxist, I'll never bend My spirit strong, until the end

But in this moment, I can't deny The sadness that creeps up inside For being forced to wear this shame It makes me wish I were not here, not this way.

I am a Marxist woman, political prisoner of war, Locked away in Pinochet's harem, behind closed doors. Once proud and bold, a fighter for the cause, Now reduced to this, a sight for them to gawk.

My clothes are gone, replaced with lingerie, A cruel joke by the guards, to mock and ridicule me. It leaves me exposed, to their leering taunts, My body, my soul, put on display for them to haunt.

They mock my beliefs, they gloat that they have won, That my socialist cause, has been defeated and undone. But in my heart, I know that I'm still free, For my spirit remains unbroken, and they cannot take that from me.

I sing the Internationale, with defiance in my voice, And in my mind, I see a brighter future, a world with more joys. So though I may be captive, they cannot take my soul, For in my heart and mind, I am still in control.

So let them mock, let them sneer, let them laugh and jeer, For I am a Marxist woman, and I will not disappear. For I am a soldier, in the fight for justice and peace, And I will keep fighting, until my struggles cease.

In Pinochet's prison, I am trapped and bound, A Communist leader, now reduced to mere flesh and bone. In lingerie I'm dressed, a sight to behold, Not for my comfort, but to make me look bold.

The guards they leer, their eyes full of lust, My body exposed, my dignity crushed. This outfit, it serves no practical need, A tool of humiliation, it's all they can conceive.

I once had a voice, I once had a fight, I once dreamed of a world that was just and right. But now I am weak, I can only lament, Trapped in this cell, where my dreams are spent.

The guards, they taunt me, with cruel words so mean, "You wanted to be powerful, now look at you, a sight so obscene." I am but a shadow, of what I once was, Reduced to mere flesh, my spirit now crushed.

Oh, how I long for my days of old, When I stood tall, and my voice was bold. But now I am captive, my fate in their hands, Left to wear lingerie, subjected to their demands.

In this cell of despair, I cry and I grieve, For the loss of my power, for the loss of my belief. But I will not be broken, my spirit will rise, For the revolution still lives, in my tear-filled eyes.

Oh cruel guards, with hearts of stone, You leave me here in lingerie alone. A symbol of my oppression and pain, A garment meant to bring me shame.

I was once a leader, strong and bold, A fighter for the working class, I was told. But now I'm here, a prisoner in this place, Subjected to your leering and disgrace.

The lingerie you make me wear, Is not for practicality, but only to ensnare. To leave my body exposed and bare, A target for your lustful leers and glare.

You taunt me, saying I was once so strong, A powerful leader, but now I'm wrong. Reduced to weakness, my dignity stripped away, As I stand here in this undergarment display.

But still I hold my head up high, For I know the truth and will not comply. This lingerie may cover my skin, But it cannot quell the fire within.

So go ahead and mock me all you may, But know that I will fight for freedom come what may. For I am a Marxist, a woman of the people, And I will not let your taunts bring me to my knees.

In Pinochet's dungeons dark and drear,

I'm but a mere political prisoner here.

A leader once, of the Communist Party, Fighting for justice, equality, and liberty.

But now I'm locked within these walls so grim, And the guards they taunt and mock at me within. They laugh and say that I once sought so much power, To radically change the world, to shake it to its core.

Yet now I stand before them, exposed and weak, Allowed to wear naught but lingerie, so fragile and meek. It offers no protection from their lustful gaze, No warmth to soothe my soul, nor solace for my days.

My body is on display, for all to see, A symbol of my defeat, a misery. I stand before my enemies, so humiliated and stripped, And with tears I lament, with each sob I'm gripped.

Oh how I longed to lead with strength and grace, To bring about change, to put an end to this disgrace. But now I'm here, in this desolate cell, A broken woman, with no hope of ever leaving this hell.

Defiant and fierce, I stand before them, soaked and bare, My clothes stolen, leaving me exposed and unaware, I demand more, with voice raised high and bold, But their laughter echoes, their cruelty never grows old.

They offer me lingerie, a garment meant for show, To cover my body, but nothing for the chill below, A mockery of my beliefs, my cause so pure, A reminder of their power, my struggles now obscure.

But I won't surrender, I won't give up the fight, Though they have taken everything, they can't steal my might, I'll put on this lingerie, but it won't break my spirit, For my beliefs and principles, I will always inherit.

I'll stand tall and proud, with fire in my eyes, And fight against the oppressors, until I see the skies, I may be imprisoned, but they cannot control my soul, For I am a warrior, and my cause will never grow old.

In my cell, I am a prisoner of war A fighter for equality, for justice, I implore I've fought with all my heart and soul, But my clothing was stolen, leaving me with a cold.

The guards appeared, with a mocking grin, And offered me lingerie, to hide my skin I raged, I shouted, I demanded more, But all that was given, was a cheap lingerie store.

I could not bear to stand naked and bare, So I reluctantly put it on, with a simmering glare. I may wear this lingerie, but they'll never break my spirit, For I am a fighter, a rebel, a revolutionary merit.

My ideals still burning, my spirit still strong, I'll fight till the end, to right this wrong. And though they may try to humiliate me so, I'll stand tall and proud, in my rage, don't you know.

So Pinochet's guards, hear me now, I'll never give up, I'll never bow. For my cause is just, my heart is true, And I'll fight for equality, for me, and for you.

In the heart of darkness, where freedom's light is dim, Where shackles bind me, where my soul is grim, I rise from the showers, drenched and cold, To find that my clothes have been taken, sold.

The guards, with cruel laughter, present me with a choice, A lingerie, they say, to hide my voice, To make me a spectacle, a sight to see, A plaything for their pleasure, a show for their glee.

But I am not a toy, nor a show to see, I am a revolutionary, a leader, a Communist Party. My body is not a tool to be used for their gain, And I will not be stripped of my dignity and my pain.

I demand more clothing, I demand my right, But my voice is but a whisper, lost in the night. For the guards, they hold the power, they hold the key, And I am left with nothing, but to bend my knee.

With reluctant anger, I put on the lingerie, A symbol of my oppression, a cloak of my misery, But my spirit remains unbroken, my heart remains true, And I vow to fight on, for the revolution that's due.

For I am a socialist, a fighter, a warrior, With the fire of justice in my heart, I will never surrender. And though I may be captive, I am not defeated, For the cause of equality, I will always be heated.

In the darkness of my cell, I sit and ponder The injustice that I suffer Once I stood proud, a leader of the masses But now I'm nothing but a prisoner, dressed in lace and glasses

The lingerie they give me, it's not what I desire It only serves to make me a source of lecherous desire It leaves my skin exposed, vulnerable to their gaze I feel so humbled, in this state of utter disgrace

I wanted to be powerful, a revolutionary voice To lead the people towards equality, to make a better choice But now I'm trapped, a prisoner in this place Reduced to nothing, but a body for them to debase

They taunt and mock me, these cruel prison guards Say that I'm weak, that my power is but a mirage But in my mind I'm strong, and my spirit will never die For the ideas I hold, they will never be denied

In the end, they'll see, they'll know that I was right That I was more than just a body, in their sight For I have a mind, a soul, and a heart that's true And these are the things, that will see me through.

In Pinochet's prison, I wear only lace, A garment meant for beauty, not for grace. My body exposed to leering eyes, A source of taunts from the guards so wise.

I once was a leader, bold and proud, With principles and beliefs that shouted loud. But now I'm here, a prisoner confined, My power taken, my spirit confined.

I long for clothes that give me warmth, That hide my body from their lustful swarm. But all they give me is this lingerie, A symbol of my weakness, my humility.

I feel so ashamed, so embarrassed, so small, As their taunts make me feel like I've lost it all. They mock my past, my beliefs, my might, Saying I'm nothing now, just a body in sight.

But in my heart I know I'm still me, A fighter, a believer, a woman free. Though they may take my clothes and my pride, They can't take away my soul, my will, my side.

So I wear this lingerie with my head held high, A symbol of their cruelty, their lies, their deny. For I am more than just a body, a form, I am a woman, a leader, a Communist, reborn.

[raptorstar]

The first document for the Hypno AU I'm working on (Pretty much what a polo is in the series)

   Spirit Type No. 81609

   Spirit type no. 18609, also known as a Polo. Is perhaps one of the most bizarre of paranormal entities. They are quite recognizable and unique compared to other spirits, Its cartoony and vibrant appearance making it stand out compared to other more well known spirits. Polos are quite tall and normally quite thin, with a height range ranging from 6 feet to 9 feet tall, though in some occasions they may appear shorter or taller depending on mutations. They’re normally male (Females do exist, though males are generally more common) with vibrantly white skin and exaggerated features (Especially on the face). They have four digit hands with paw pads of varying colors and retractable claws (The claws are always out, though when retracted they become much more like talons). We are unsure currently of why they have these, though with the fact that the paws seem to release a sticky substance they could be used for climbing. 

With the fact that polos are spirits, they can not die. Though we’ve researched that they can indeed still get hurt and knocked unconscious. This is perhaps due to the fact that they seem to be the soul and body combined and mutated instead of the soul having left the body, leaving them unable to phase through things and to be more sensitive to pain. They have a couple main weaknesses that are known to daze them to a point where for some of these weaknesses it knocks them out. And I shall list them here

The main weakness is cameras, specifically non digital and non phone cameras. Nobody is really sure why this is, we thought it was due to the flash of the camera, though even with the flash off it would still happen and only with these specific types of cameras. Our best theory is that It’s some sort of Cyberspace phenomenon that makes them become extremely dizzy (Most of the time to a point where it knocks them out) when a photo of them is taken with such cameras. Though there are polo safe cameras out there if you wish to take a photo of one without harming it.

The second weakness is quite simple, bad music. It irritates them heavily and sometimes even stuns them. The third weakness is being deafened, also quite simple. Polos rely heavily on sound and if that sense is removed they’ll become extremely weakened. And the fourth and last known weakness is rubbing alcohol, it can burn a polo (Not actually catch them on fire) and leave some scarring where it had touched the polo’s skin. It may also stun.

The origins of polos are mostly unknown, though we can trace it to the beginning of Cyberspace in somewhere during the 1920’s or so. Polos are also unique in the way they form, being connected to a curse we generally call Rythossome, The Incredifection, and It’s most known name, Melokilis’s Curse.

The curse has many effects on the victim before they die and become a polo and ways one could get it, though we can get into that in another document. For what we know, polos could also be formed via a ritual, in which we will also get to in another document.

Polos have the odd ability to take themselves apart and put themselves back together without a problem and easily attach lost limbs back onto their bodies. It’s speculated that this is due to the fact that they notably have no bones, organs, flesh, or anything a normal living being would have on the inside. The insides of a polo is just a black void of ink and nothing at all. Yet oddly enough, X-rays, MRI scans, scales, and any other medical machine show the wrong information (Ex. X-Rays still show bones and scales show the wrong weights). This is probably due to the fact that polos are digital beings and ghosts at the same time, causing the technology to become confused and malfunction.

This hollow body allows polos to be quite agile and flexible, especially in the jaw. A polo’s bite can be as strong as a hydraulic press since they can open their mouths extremely wide, though it’s rarely that strong. This is also perhaps how their heads can just easily float above their bodies on Its own with no neck to attach it. This also makes them oddly lightweight for their height and easily float in water, sometimes to a point where they struggle at swimming downwards.

Polos generally have either sharp teeth or vampire-like fangs, in which a polo’s bite has been researched to be highly venomous, even one of the main causes of the curse. Another main cause is a polo’s ink, in which when it enters the body of a human it curses them. And when ink is consumed it causes an overdose of it, which can be fatal.

We’ve done many research experiments on polos, the most notable one being when we gave one a blindfold and put a camera that can let one see through the eyes of the subject onto its head. We had noted that though the polo was completely blinded, it could see vibrations and soundwaves as lines and dots of glowing, blue light. This lets them Atleast know where things are and follow sound instead of light.

Polos can also of course appear as half animal or robotic, we’re not really sure how. But they can. Half animal polos have the ability to make their half animal parts disappear, which is also unknown how they can do this.

[manwalksintobar]

First Elegy: Rotten Lake // Muriel Rukeyser

As I went down to Rotten Lake I remembered the wrecked season, haunted by plans of salvage, snow, the closed door, footsteps and resurrections, machinery of sorrow.

The warm grass gave to the feet and the stilltide water was floor of evening and magnetic light and reflection of wish, the black-haired beast with my eyes walking beside me.

The green and yellow lights, the street of water standing point to the image of that house whose destruction I weep when I weep you. My door (no), poems, rest, (don’t say it!) untamable need.

*

When you have left the river you are a little way nearer the lake; but I leave many times. Parents parried my past;the present was poverty, the future depended on my unfinished spirit. There were no misgivings because there was no choice, only regret for waste, and the wild knowledge: growth and sorrow and discovery.

When you have left the river you proceed alone; all love is likely to be illicit; and few friends to command the soul;they are too feeble. Rejecting the subtle and contemplative minds as being too thin in the bone;and the gross thighs and unevocative hands fail also. But the poet and his wife, those who say Survive, remain; and those two who were with me on the ship leading me to the sum of the years, in Spain.

When you have left the river you will hear the war. In the mountains, with tourists, in the insanest groves the sound of kill, the precious face of peace. And the sad frightened child, continual minor, returns, nearer whole circle, O and nearer all that was loved, the lake, the naked river, what must be crossed and cut out of your heart, what must be stood beside and straightly seen.

*

As I went down to Rotten Lake I remembered how the one crime is need. The man lifting the loaf with hunger as motive can offer no alibi, is always condemned.

These are the lines at the employment bureau and the tense students at their examinations; needing makes clumsy and robs them of their wish, in one fast gesture

plants on them failure of the imagination; and lovers who lower their bodies into the chair gently and sternly as if the flesh had been wounded, never can conquer.

Their need is too great, their vulnerable bodies rigidly joined will snap, turn love away, fear parts them, they lose their hands and voices, never get used to the world.

Walking at night, they are asked Are you your best friend’s best friend? and must say No, not yet, they are love’s vulnerable, and they go down to Rotten Lake hoping for wonders.

Dare it arrive, the day when weakness ends? When the insistence is strong, the wish converted? I prophesy the meeting by the water of these desires.

I know what this is, I have known the waking when every night ended in one cliff-dream of faces drowned beneath the porous rock brushed by the sea;

suffered the change : deprived erotic dreams to images of that small house where peace walked room to room and always with one face telling her stories,

and needed that, past loss, past fever, and the attractive enemy who in my bed touches all night the body of my sleep, improves my summer

with madness, impossible loss, and the dead music of altered promise, a room torn up by the roots, the desert that crosses from the door to the wall, continual bleeding,

and all the time that will which cancels enmity, seeks its own Easter, arrives at the water-barrier; must face it now, biting the lakeside ground; looks for its double,

the twin that must be met again, changeling need, blazing in color somewhere, flying yellow into the forest with its lucid edict: take to the world,

this is the honor of your flesh, the offering of strangers, the faces of cities, honor of all your wish. I say in my own voice. These prophecies may all come true,

out of the beaten season. I look in Rotten Lake wait for the flame reflection, seeing only the free beast flickering black along my side animal of my need,

and cry I want! I want! rising among the world to gain my converted wish, the amazing desire that keeps me alive, though the face be still, be still, the slow dilated heart know nothing but lack, now I begin again the private rising, the ride to survival of that consuming bird beating, up from dead lakes, ascents of fire.

(from A Turning Wind, 1939)

[countlessrealities]

RELATIONSHIP BUILDING || No longer accepting.

@mcltiples sent: ✔️ for a daydream my muse has had about/involving yours. { To Evil Rick from Weird Rick !! }

There's something hypnotising in the way spilled blood catches the glow of a light source, be it a star or something artificial. The thickness distorts the rays, pushes them in different directions, causes them to underline its convex surface. What emerges is a kaleidoscope of potential sensations, past and present and futures.

The coldness of screaming agony in the ears. The rough surface of a metallic flavour on the tongue. The smell of warm slickness on the skin. And the colours that cover it all, touch and smell and taste and hearing.

The synesthesia he experiences when he takes the time to savour a kill is something he can find almost nowhere else. It's an immersive experience, so complex and nurturing, creative and logical at the same time. It gets his inhumanly slow heartbeat to spike a little bit.

It's even better when there more to it, when taking a life transcends the act in itself. When there's a purpose to it, an aim to be reached, a role to be filled, a hunger to be satiated, that very peculiar melody, made out of the cacophony of screams, bones being broken, insides spilling on the ground, is even more delicious.

The flesh under his palms is cold as ice, making a strong contrast with the heat of the blood flooding over his fingers. The pile of corpses is a slippery slope to climb, but he never falters. His gaze and will are locked on the top, on his one and only aim, desire, meaning.

Every time one of his limbs sinks into a new body, into a new piece of the death he has spread drunk on ravenous euphoria and bottomless devotion, he gets closer and it's like a shot of fresh oxygen and clean energy in his unnatural body.

And, finally, there he is, at the top, lounging in a throne made of stars and shiny metal. The ageless face of a deity, blue eyes deeper than the deepest ocean and sharper than the sharpest of RIck's blade. There's light glowing under his skin, making him look untouchable, invincible, untamable. Beautiful in ways that go well beyond the words and the physical form itself.

The God of every other god.

Rick comes to stand by his right side, hands and mouth and soul dripping with the blood he has endlessly spilling. This is where he belongs, this is what he has been looking for his whole life, even back when he still didn't know.

And it's where he will remain, forevermore, as they feast on the multiverse that lies at their feet, destroying and devouring and recreating at their leisure...

-----

Rick's eye snapped open, the images that had filled his mind instantly vanishing. The smell and the taste, however, lingered on his tongue, evoked by the intensity of the daydream he had allowed himself to indulge in, but especially caused by the absolute mess he had made of his test subject.

Grey-blue eyes surveyed the operating table where the corpse, or better what was left of it, was spread out. He had cut it open over and over, until the flesh of its twin torsos had been turned into thin, tight net. Some of the holes were larger, allowing the oily alien blood to ooze over, slicking up the mangled skin and dripping on the floor.

There were plenty of stains on his clothes too, together with pieces of the organs he had minced in his relentless cutting. The only parts that had been spared where the two brains, which he had removed before letting his mind wander elsewhere.

It wasn't the result he had been meaning to obtain when he had started, but it had left him feeling oddly satisfied.

Removing his gloves with practised ease, Rick turned on his heels, walking away from the dismembered body. He would need to clean it all up, but that could wait. Firstly, he would join his partner in the living room for a little while. He wanted to feast on the overlapping of his alternate's two faces: the bloodthirsty, invincible god of his fantasy and the sly, smart but flawed man he would find on the couch watching his TV shows.

[cursedfortune]

@fallesto​ reply to x.

...Did he think she couldn’t feel it? The shift within the air as he began closing the distance. Her senses locked onto him, always aware of how far away he was so that she could avoid being surprised. Her head snapped uncannily into his direction despite all the corridors that still separated them - because even here she could feel it. A strong intent. It felt like when they first met... but that hunger had been restrained, tempered. Now she felt it in full - felt him so clearly.

One moment she had been standing idly and the next she was hunting, intercepting - a hand as soft as hers one would never expect to be capable of puncturing a hole through another’s stomach. Let alone Upper Two. Yet his body yielded to her violence as easily as hers did his. Pinning him back against the wall the witch’s void gaze bore into him unflinching even as he vomited blood and meat. The gore something that came as natural to her as breathing. At this proximity she could taste the iron in the air and it only made her hand twist inside him, pushing harder back against his spine. Now this... this she could learn to adore.

Mortem could feel the way his flesh closed in around her limb, effectively trapping her in place on its own. But the weight of his hands upon her shoulders, the feeling of his claws digging into her, dragging her closer towards him. Immediately her body braced to defy his strength as much as she could while she focused upon the words that rolled off his tongue. Despite the look in her eyes the witch’s lips parted into a slight smile at his audacity.

“You think this matters, lovely Douma?” Her free hand cracked unnaturally, bones abruptly breaking as flesh was torn apart, until her hand forged itself back together again far from how she had it a second prior. Blood and bone formed nd hardened over the limb, creating fingers like knives that she used to slash her own imprisoned arm off with only a wince. “Even if you had the room in there to house my soul, you do no possess the will to contain it.” Her tongue clicked as her severed limb regenerated itself. There went the sleeve of her dress only to reveal the mural tattooed into her skin. If he wasn’t such an utter brat she would have given him her flesh freely, just to see what would happen. What it would do to him. To experiment since it seemed to be a common ground they possessed.

Alas, now she had to send a message - whether that was to Douma himself or his master had yet to be determined on if he’d survive her first. “You haven’t figured it out yet, have you?” That it didn’t matter what he did to this body of hers. She would always come back. Simply eating her wouldn’t keep her in there, it wouldn’t stop a new vessel from regenerating into existence to house herself within. He could devour her again and again, make a meal of her for thousands of years and she would always come back. The witch’s eyes gleamed in absolute delight. Here she was worried he may have realized it but really Douma had no idea he had to break her spell first if he wished to devour her properly. “What use was that pretty head upon your shoulders then if you’re not going to use it?” A delighted laugh left her lips only to turn into a cry of fury as she swiped those knife-like fingers for his throat - unafraid to touch him now that she knew what the game was.

[aishangotome]

Chapter 10-2 Buddhist Chants Gently, Soothing and Cleansing the Heart (梵音拂心)

Chapter 10-1

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The rain intensified. Feng Yuan and I hurried along the road without stopping.

Feng Yuan: Hyah!

Amidst the bumps of our journey, I looked down at Xiao Huang in my arms. It was still fast asleep, growing weaker along the way, and I couldn't figure out why.

Feng Yuan: Forgive my boldness, Princess.

Feng Yuan pulled the hood of the cloak over my head, wrapped his arms around me from behind, and shielded me from half of the rain.

Through the rain and fog, Huguo Temple was faintly visible in the distance.

-

Feng Yuan and I arrived at the foot of the mountain and saw a group of people blocking the mountain path, stopped by the yamen runners.

Refugee A: My family member passed away, and they were brought here before even three days had passed. They can't just be burned like this!

Refugee B: I won't leave until my parents are properly buried!

Feng Yuan: To prevent the spread of the plague, the bodies of the deceased must be cremated. It's indeed cruel to their loved ones, but it has to be done now.

Princess: The tradition in Dacheng has always been burial. You ask them to be understanding of the situation, but who can understand their feelings?

I walked to the front, and the agitated crowd gradually quieted down. Everyone looked at me, hoping for a decision.

Princess: The plague is severe in Lingzhou, and the bodies need special handling. I know it's difficult for everyone to accept, but now is the time when we need everyone's cooperation. The deceased have passed, and the living need to be strong!

Refugee A: Princess! We understand what you're saying, but I'm not afraid of death. If they must be burned, let me go with my parents!

Refugees: Me too!

More and more people in the crowd echoed, almost drowning out my voice.

Princess: If you die too, then who will pay respects to your loved ones, and who will remember them!

I raised my voice, and the crowd instantly fell silent again.

Princess: Only by living can we solve problems! If you die, there's nothing left. Are you willing to accept that? I won't!

Someone started crying, and more people stood in silence, but no one raised any further objections.

Princess: Feng Yuan.

Feng Yuan: Here.

Princess: Collect the names of all the deceased. In the future, we will erect a monument here for everyone to pay their respects.

Princess: In addition, allocate a sum of funeral expenses and compensate each household per person.

Feng Yuan: Yes.

The scent of incense drifted in the air. I looked towards the cave at the foot of the mountain. Hundreds of monks holding lanterns formed a circle, and a wisp of smoke rose from within.

Feng Yuan: The cremation has begun.

Refugee A: Run, run!

Screams suddenly erupted from the crowd. Someone pushed through the crowd, rushed to the front, and shouted towards the cave.

I didn't understand why he was shouting like that. More people squeezed past me, also shouting.

Feng Yuan: There's a belief that the flames burning the body cause intense pain, and only the soul of the deceased can escape.

Feng Yuan stood beside me, shielding me from the crowd surging forward.

Feng Yuan: They hope their loved ones can be liberated.

Princess: So that's what it is...

Amidst the curtain of rain, the scene before my eyes transformed into a raging inferno. The entire city of Shengning was ablaze, the wood crackling violently, everything collapsing, turning into scorched earth.

Princess: Run, brother! Run!

It was me standing in the scorching heat, the flames burning through my flesh and bone, consuming me.

Clang---

Ling Chi: Those who have reached the end of their lives, in the intermediate state, their bodies are like children, their sins and merits not yet determined. They should cultivate merit...

Light pierced through the thick clouds. The monk standing on the high platform raised his neck, the fine rain falling on his youthful face, transforming the world's suffering into tears for all beings.

Ling Chi: May the spirits of the deceased be reborn in the pure lands of the ten directions. By virtue of this merit, they will surely attain rebirth.

Sound shouldn't have a tangible form, but those Buddhist chants were like sunlight caressing the heart, dispelling the gloom. The white-robed monk seemed to be truly enveloped in a Buddha's light.

The originally restless crowd also seemed to be soothed, and everyone quieted down.

Princess: When a person dies, all thoughts vanish. The transcendence ceremony is not only for the deceased, but the Buddha can also relieve the suffering of the living.

I pressed my palms together, closed my eyes, and touched my forehead to my hands.

Xiao Huang: Chirp, chirp, chirp---

Xiao Huang suddenly perked up, flew out from my sleeve, looked towards the white-robed monk, and let out a loud cry.

As the transcendence ceremony neared its end, the white-robed monk stopped chanting and opened his eyes.

Despite the large crowd gathered, he looked directly at me, and I noticed that his left eye was red.

Princess: His eye color is so unique...

Feng Yuan: This master's Dharma name is Ling Chi. He is a direct disciple of the eminent monk Master Yuanzheng, and also the second-generation Dhyana Master of Dacheng, born with heterochromia.

Feng Yuan: The monks of Huguo Temple said that he originally came here to visit and give lectures, but when the plague broke out, the master stayed.

Princess: Ling Chi...

I repeated the name. The white-robed monk had already descended from the high platform, accompanied by a monk from Huguo Temple.

Person A: Master! Thank you, Master, for delivering all beings and relieving suffering!

Person B: We will never forget your great kindness, Master!

The people at the foot of the mountain rushed towards them, prostrating themselves in worship.

Ling Chi turned his prayer beads. His detachment and calmness were like an invisible hand, gently brushing the hearts of everyone present.

Monk: We have already changed your husband into the shroud you prepared.

Monk: We burned the child's favorite silk doll together.

Ling Chi didn't speak much, mostly letting the monk beside him speak on his behalf, but he bowed to every person who had asked him for help.

Princess: He remembers everyone.

After comforting the people, Ling Chi looked at me again. I pressed my palms together and bowed to him.

Ling Chi was taken aback, seemingly just remembering to return the gesture. He hurriedly clasped his hands and bowed his head, the beads in his hand colliding with a crisp sound.

Monk: Princess, Magistrate, today's transcendence ceremony is over. For the arrangements of future matters, please come to the main hall to discuss.

The monk gestured in invitation. I looked at Huguo Temple on the mountain path. The rain and fog in the mountains had dissipated, and Huguo Temple stood clearly on the mountaintop.

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Chapter 10-3

If you’d like to support my translations, feel free to buy me a coffee here! :)

[kaixfoxwood]

The man knew he couldn't convince her of the contrary point that yes, Gianna may still look like his sister and sound like his sister, but her soul was taken, locked away by a demon prince who would send it straight to hell when Gianna expired from the mortal plane. Kai found it almost ridiculous how she could not see the changes for herself clear as day. "You keep telling yourself that after you're caught up in his wet dream fantasies." Kai peeled his gaze from his sister and placed all attention on the long road ahead of them, not bothering to make any other comments if only to respect Gi's wishes to end the conversation where it stood. The drive took them on the back streets of Ivy Hollow, twisting and turning through a city that was no longer safe for the siblings, before the car set course down a dirt road lined with a mangled wire fence long disused. Azriel wasn't kidding, this place really was abandoned, almost as if the farm family who owned the land picked up their belongings and left without a trace. Kai trusted his foster brother's abilities weaving protection spells strong enough to hold off any demon no matter how powerful, and while the witch could feel the magic emanating from the area, he knew something was wrong.

Envy stood on the wooden porch's top landing, his shoulder leaning against the banister and looking as comfortable as ever holding a hunting knife with one hand while his other lovingly stroked the flat surface of the blade. He and Wrath tracked down the house too easily, utilizing Gianna's soul as a compass pointing their north star in the right direction that led the princes in the company of another brother He was shocked to realize existed. Azriel fought with everything he possessed as anticipated, their showdown smashing furniture, breaking windows, causing destruction in the house before the fight ended outside. Envy landed his hits pretty spectacularly, leaving various gashes along any flesh of the witch's body he could snag, even throwing in a bloody nose he was all too exhilarated hearing the bones crunch. The demon nevertheless subdued the man long enough to bind him, forcing the hand connected to the witch's bionic arm around his throat. At the ready for choking himself to death if Envy saw fit. He made Az stand at the bottom of the stairs in the grass as the car Kai was driving pulled up.

"Fuck." Kai spat the curse venomously as he switched off the ignition, gaze bouncing between the dark haired demon covered in dried blood down the front of his shirt and his brother looking as if he was nearly pummeled by a force greater than their understanding. "Stay your ass in the car." He demanded Gianna before throwing the door open and exiting the vehicle with rage set along his facial features. Az had his ass handed to him, from what Kai could see from the short distance. Of course they should have seen this coming. "Hey, demon fucker," He called out angrily, "You lay one more goddamn hand on my brother and that knife you're giving a handjob to is going through your skull." He watched Envy glance upwards beyond Kai and the car, focus zeroing in on something or someone in a short distance. The demon breathed a low chuckle and descended the steps casually, "I'm only here to meet my darling's family for the first time. It's a special occasion." Envy waved his hand in the air and immediately wrapped invisible binds around his pet's older brother, giving Kai no choice but to land hard on his knees as the weight from under him gave out. He struggled ferociously against it with a loud groan falling from the elder Foxwood's lips, a sight Envy grinned widely at. "Now, where is Gianna?" There was a pause, Kai remaining tight-lipped, causing the demon to nudge his head in Azriel's direction and making him tighten his grasp just a little. Envy's eyes fell on the passenger side of the car, almost piercing right through the glass at his pet. "You can come out now, Sugarplum. Look at what you've made me do."

She appreciated that her brother was doing what he could to relieve the heavy emotions that were layered between them, feeling it slowly ebb though not all the way. Gianna leaned her head against the window, allowing the cool glass to ground her. It was honestly an unbelievable turn of events and was honestly laughable, the absurdity of her situation causing a growing headache to appear behind her eyes. She tried to put herself in his shoes, knowing that she would have felt such a distaste if it were her witnessing the downfall of Kai or Azriel– but she would have liked to believe that she wouldn't go this far. Gianna's blue eyes snapped to her brother, her mouth agape at his words; hurt marring her features. "I am not, Kai– I haven't lost anything of myself nor have I changed except for the lack of soul. I'm still your sister, the same as I always have been," she bit out, turning in her seat so that more of her back was to her brother as he sped down the street. "I'm done with this conversation." Gianna could only stare out the window, nerves and simmering anger forcing her lips shut. She had a bad feeling about the situation, but her hands were tied. Her only hope was that maybe she could convince Azriel to release her, but she knew it was hopeless on that front, too. Az and Kai were always a united front when it came to her.

[rawring-rainbows]

So I'm working on a story about a paradox queen who's a God and her living island that travels world's and dimensions

The details are all very rough draft so bare with me and if you have questions I'll be happy to answer them hell it might even help me work on some details

Queen Oracion stands out to most gods who commonly just look over a planet or a solar system etc some gods come to be knowing their destiny like war gods but like her she came to be and had to learn from her mistakes and forge her own path

Okay so I thought of a big threat to my story

There's this curse right? It's extremely ancient they're called Death's wishes

No one knows where it came from usually if you ask someone about they say something like "The big bang might as well have written it"

The easiest way to make these things is to use let's say a prey animal putting extremely close to death then bringing it back basically you keep dipping it's soul in the river Styx over and over

And it becomes this rotting ghost like zombie like creature that if it cuts you and a part of it's bones splinter into your skin it spreads like a virus

Theres only one cure but the only way you can survive it till then is your will to live cause you'll be sitting there with your nerves on fire and your flesh rotting while your still alive your will helps prevent much damage from happening to your body

Depending on the character let's say if it's someone who doesn't want to live anymore they will either rot away in a matter of hours or turn into one of them

I can't think of a name for these parasite wolf creatures yet

If left unchecked they can kill EVERYTHING on a planet even plants and when nothing's left they basically make what my guy Duval is

who can absorb lives and use them to their advantage like those souls taken can help him heal from even his head getting cut off ya know?and if you don't get guys like him in check and kill him (which is extremely difficult if they get strong enough and let's say take billions of lives) he turns into not a hell beast but if a beast was hell

This form is much more horrifying in the naked eye

Those no way to really wipe these beast from exitance because they're basically death itself but our queen is going to try especially since she's forged the only known cure

Let's call them wolfsbane? I haven't decided on a name I'm happy with

Theyre attracted to weak/weak willed beings so those wolves start as lamb like beasts when sensing one nearby and the deaths wish will get an interest then like go after it and do something like attack it and break it's spine and through their steel wool like fur it can absorb the curse turning into those parasite like beasts they're covered in these procupine like quills all over them and more thick spines on their tails used for doing stuff like shooting them off and pinning them down by their flesh with great accuracy the curse doesn't work on them or beings who are let's say part skeleton (they're partially dead they can still harm them but not spread the curse)

Their colors are commonly pure black cause the spines are black and it helps when hunting more uncommonly they're spotted white and black dark brown or white and grey with markings resembling the moon

Their heads are usually extremely hard untill they have to cure u when the enemy isn't nearby their heads soften into these vortex like mouths and they slowly extract it into needles coming out of your flesh

Basically getting a reverse shot and depending on what you went through like if u didn't struggle too much before the cure you can experience some common symptoms like you wake up starving or thirsty you may feel like you lost a good bit of blood and have some extreme fatigue

If youve struggled and in time had even thoughts like you wanted to give up and die you can suffer symptoms such as a concerning amount of loss in muscle and fat rotted teeth and brittle bones

I've thought about maybe eventually starting this with an intro to her island in posts and giving paths to choose in the story

Cause a plot like this there's tons of unique story potential and people can go in my inbox and I may even insert some OC's from other bloggers if they want idk like I said lots of my ideas are in rough drafts and I'm nervous about posting this I've only told close friends most details I have about it

[madschiavelique]

A Crown Of Ink : Chapter 3 - Two of Cups (reversed)

masterlist : 1 — 2 — 3 — 4 word count : 5,2k

mentions of : wounds, bit of blood, twisted ankle, bruised hands, panic attack (if i missed anything please don't hesistate to tell me)

summary : You've always been an excellent in student in the Academy, getting the best results and always being first in every class. But it all changes as soon as you see your name in the second place, the first being occupied by a certain Viktor.

some extra information on this : she/her reader, academic rivals to lovers/enemies to lovers, reader is really competitive and wants to be first at everything, tarot themed fanfiction with guidelines, slow burn

author's note : heyyy third chapter !! i have not started working on the next one yet but hey been posting lotta stuff lately soooo yea :)) hope you'll enjoy (my native language is not English so you might find some grammar mistakes - sorry about that)

tag list : @wincestisasincest , @doctorho

Darkness, stale, earthy dust. The depths of Zaun are like a permanent gaze towards a sky as dark as a night covered with clouds of brown and purplish vapours. This is not a landscape that you forget, these are not rock walls that soften you. They harden you, metamorphose you into one of their kind. They rip you from your humanity, deprive you of your rights and send you back the echoes of screaming voices.

In a secluded corner, far below the Entresol Level, you enter a place worthy of nightmare descriptions. It's hidden near one of the few sections where Zaun's power generators are located, making a din which can drown out any sound that might be made by a human being. Screaming in this area would be like screaming ten metres deep in water.

To get there, you can take a lift that will bring you down to an almost deserted crossroads. You walk down a few urine-stinking corridors that will lead you to the first power station, only you have to pass it and get to the second. Near this one, you will find a filthy trap door on the ground reserved for customers which takes you down a small staircase. And there, it's another world.

The air smells of honeyed alcohol, tobacco and sweat, and you talk so much that you can only hear yourself speak if you raise your voice above laughter and screaming.

This entrance, you only took it twice in your life, when you entered and then when you left, when you escaped.

"Seven, Fourteen, up." growls Vome's greasy voice. "Next one will be Three and Five."

You stroke your left shoulder, no round for you tonight. Seven and Fourteen stand up, Fourteen limps, he was put against Six last night who gave him a violent blow to the ankle. The doctor just put a bandage on him and a strong smell of menthol, clove and eucalyptus.

They put it on your leg too, when Eight kicked your calf. The balm was fresh in the doctor's hand, but after applying it to you, it had been warm, very warm, a warmth that felt good and contrasted with the cool rocky ground.

You would have liked to coat yourself with this balm, to put it on your shoulder, to apply it to every tired limb of your body, to butter your heart and soul to bring back some warmth in this damp cold in which you lived.

The shouts start again, both encouraging and threatening.

"Go on, hit him!"

"Hit the jaw you idiot!"

"If you don't win this fight I'll personally take care of you!"

Flesh on young bones clashing, it's an uneven rhythm camouflaged by the screams of the gamblers. It's really ugly, to let one of the injured battle against a fit one.

But the profits that will come out of this match are strategic: one is injured, the other is not, one has an advantage, the other is bound to lose, from this information we already know what to expect for the bets.

The uproar and the shouting intensifies a great deal, until exploding in a climax and then subsiding little by little. The match is over, they have to exchange money, some swearing and others lining their pockets.

It is on a portable stretcher that Fourteen returns. His left eye is swollen, his lip is split and bloody. His ankle looks even worse than before the battle, he's passed out but seems to be in pain even into unconsciousness as he's laid down not too far from you.

You then approach Fourteen, taking his hand: the knuckles are bruised, red and studded with brown and cherry skin scabs. You hold and treat it like a candle about to go out, like a handful of sand that might disperse in the wind.

You've known Fourteen since you arrived, he's one of the older guys who's been in this for a while and you've made friends with him. Up close, he was looking more bruised than a month old apple.

"Pathetic." his voice is barely audible.

You look up, his eyelids are pressed with pain and his eyebrows are arched with pity.

"Don't move," you murmur simply, taking a rag of fabric that serves as a duvet and rolling it into a pillow-like shape.

With great care, you bring your hand below his knee to lift his leg and place the cushion under his aching ankle.

It is twisted, blue, red and swollen. A strange feeling runs down your legs, as if you've stepped in electric water up to your thighs.

"The doc will be here soon."

"If I keep going down, they'll end me."

"Don't say that. You have a fever. You're delirious," you say, bringing your hand to his sweaty forehead. Burning.

"Paint stripes on a toad, it'll never make it a tiger."

The dubious doc arrived, pulling you away and sending you back to your bed. You would never forget that sentence. You were probably like him, another toad thrown into a tiger arena.

Only they don't know the poison the toad possesses.

"Hey, you!"

You turn around, Vome is standing behind you. He looks like a bulldog, chin forward, small pig nose, brow and eyelids encroaching on his small, dark, squinty eyes.

"You're in next."

Your throat tightens.

"But I wasn't called."

"Oh, because you're answering now?"

"But it's not my turn !"

His heavy body and beer-rounded belly come towards you, grabbing your arm with a firm grip that hurts.

The sounds of the crowd are getting closer, you can hear them despite your heart pounding in your ears, the corridor is getting brighter and brighter with a dirty orange glow. You don't want to go, you don't want to, you never wanted to.

Your eyelids open wide as you take a huge breath. It's as if you've suddenly risen from deep water and finally reached the surface as your lungs burn, you missed the air and you never thought you'd have the strength to swim all the way.

You breathe hard until your inhales are so strong you can feel the air passing down the gummy wall in the upper back of your throat, your eyes are wet, it's still dark.

A nightmare, nothing but a nightmare, a ghost from the past haunting your being.

You sit up on your elbows, the sheets are soaked, your skin is beaded with sweat, as if your bathing in the worlds of dark dreams had accompanied you into reality. You bring your hands to your eyes, massaging them, caressing your cheeks and forehead to clear them of the film of sweat on your face.

You're not there any more, you remind yourself, and you're never going back.

Your shoulder burns, in fact, you feel as if your body is on fire, as if flames are licking at the underside of your skin, trying to melt your flesh and set fire to everything around you.

You quietly remove your blanket. You glance over at Sky's bed. She seems to be sleeping peacefully. Your breathing begins to settle, your deep gulps of air helping you to regain some semblance of calm.

And yet, with the committed fire with which your body burns, you tremble like a leaf in the wind. You feel like a dandelion tossed by the wind and afraid of losing its seeds. You feel so frail, as if you were made of crystal, of a very thin glass, and that you could break at any moment.

You need to centre yourself. Because you know that going back to sleep is not possible, you have experienced enough similar nights to understand that trying to go back to sleep is a waste of time.

You grab the handle of your bedside table drawer, fumbling in the dark before finding a torch. You didn't want to turn on your desk lamp and risk waking Sky.

As you turned it on, you noticed the time was approaching five in the morning. On other nights, you'd wake up much earlier, which wasn't very practical when you were working the next day.

In the quietest of ways, you grabbed one of the few bottles of essential oils given to you by Eris, applying them to your wrists and fingers to inhale the herbal scent. Blessed be peppermint and its benefits.

How to spend the time now?

Your eyes drift back to your bedside table, where your tarot card box sits.

Ah, that's right, the card to be pulled every morning.

So you take the box, its weight reassuring you, because everything you feel like you've been holding since you woke up seems to have the consistency of cotton candy. Between the smells of plants, you can make out the cardboard scent of the box.

You wedge your torch in your mouth so that you have both hands free, you remove the top part. The cards take up five sixths of the box while a small booklet is on the side.

In the centre of the back of the cards, a red flower with five petals fills a black square. Everything else forms a checkerboard of red flowers with green backgrounds and white flowers with black backgrounds.

You take the deck in your hands, wedging all the cards between your thumb, middle and ring fingers, preparing to shuffle them.

You do it as quietly as possible, so as not to wake your room-mate. At first, doing it silently is not very easy. The shuffling of the cards, the feeling of the smooth and varnished paper makes a sharp clap of air.

But miraculously, you manage to find an angle quiet enough to shuffle the cards discreetly. Once you consider the deck to be shuffled enough, this time you shuffle with an aim to get a card that will tell you more about your day.

A card comes out, flipping between the deck you're shuffling and the deck of cards in your right hand. You pick up the small booklet, looking for the card you had drawn: two of cups.

‘The card shows two people approaching one another, a young man and woman, exchanging cups and pledging their love for one another. A house involving domestic bliss and housework stands behind them, reflecting cohabitation. It is the card of the balance between the masculine and the feminine.’

Pledging their love huh ? Yet as you look at the card in your hand you get the distinct impression that the woman is frowning and displaying an emotion of displeasure rather than smiling like the bashful lover facing her.

However, this card had fallen in reverse, and you remembered that Eris marked a distinction in meaning when this happened in the readings. So you look at the next section of the booklet focusing on the meaning of the card in reverse.

'You feel lost and alone, you close yourself to others, you cannot share something of value to others.

At its essence, the reversed Two of Cups is about self-love. Love, in any form, starts with love for yourself. When you love yourself unconditionally, you accept and appreciate who you are, and you respect and honour the most authentic version of yourself. You welcome a life of happiness because you fundamentally believe you deserve it (and you're right!). When you come from this place of self-love, self-acceptance, and self-respect, you will have more fulfilling, loving relationships with others. It all starts with self-love.'

Well, that sounds like a lot of fun. 

Self Love, self love... You contemplate the card, wondering at first who represents whom on it. Maybe the next few days will bring you that answer.

A lovely start to the morning.

***

What. The. Fuck. Is. He. Doing. Here.

"What will be your order ?"

The sentence comes out of your mouth in a tense way.

When your alarm clock had finally gone off later that morning, Sky had woken up as well and after getting ready as you do almost every morning, you had told her your work schedule before leaving and wishing her a good day.

You helped to open the café as you do every other morning with the same routine. Washed your hands, turned on the lights, took the hibernation syrups out of the fridge, started the coffee brewing, restocked everything by filling up the hoppers, fixing the condiment stand, making sure you did not lack sugar syrups, sugar, straws and stir sticks. Your present colleagues had previously checked the quality of the beans while you had arranged the pastries and other sweets in the display cases.

Everything was impeccable, as usual, and your first customers had not been as unpleasant as you might have expected.

So why did Viktor have to show up as a customer with Jayce and Caitlyn sitting on a corner table.

"Do you work here?"

"No, I'm obviously a simple customer."

His sly smile raises the mole near his mouth. You clear your throat before reiterating:

"What will be your order?"

He lingers on the blackboard hanging behind you, carefully reading everything that was on display among the white chalk writings and the few nice little drawings of flowers and leaves made out of aesthetic choices to soften the customers.

"What would you recommend?"

"Bleach, or maybe hydrochloric acid will better suit your taste?

"I'll stick with a Mocha," his eyes drift to the pastry case, lingering on the jasmine tea scones. "I'll also have an Espresso and a Long Black." As you took down his order, he added, "And one of those scones."

“Will that be all ?”

“Yes.”

"To eat in or take away?"

"Eat in."

"I'll bring it to you soon."

"Thanks, and please don't spit in my drink."

"I wouldn't waste my saliva on such a low blow." You say before you get to work.

As you went about your duties, you cursed Jayce. You know for a fact that Jayce had insisted on coming to this particular café. Like any good engineering student, he was a coffee addict, and since he knew you worked at the Brown Bitt, he had become a regular since you secretly gave him discounts. And since he probably wanted you and Viktor to be on ‘good terms’, he brought him here.

You prepared the espresso, and then the Long Black, and then came the Mocha. You took a cup, scooping some cocoa powder in it. You poured hot water on it, just enough to make the mixture syrupy with a spoon. And while you were making the espresso and warming the milk, you thought of the lovely design you were going to make for him: a dick latte art.

But before you could achieve this magnificent plan, a colleague of yours came next to you. Not just any colleague either: Pearl.

Pearl was a vibrant woman, slightly older than you, and with whom you used to chat at lunchtime when she wasn't already chatting with a client about flowers and flower history.

She was a florist, and worked in this café to make ends meet. She created her own floral perfumes, and put on a different one every day. Each flower having a hidden meaning and carrying a particular message towards the one who receives it, she made sure that her emotions were correctly connected with her fragrance of the day.

" Well, your friend is bringing company," she said, leaning against the counter next to you, looking at Viktor and Caitlyn. " Would you introduce me? "

"I might disturb their conversation," you say, concentrating with your milk drawing.

"I'm a charming distraction though," she smiles. "Why do you always take the orders from the tall dark-haired guy, what's his name again? Jayce? Let me serve him next time."

"Because he's my friend I guess, and we'll see about you serving him, you'd be able to pour him a love filter, or spray him with a special perfume that would make you irresistible to him," you laugh, putting your little jug down before placing the orders on the tray, not forgetting of course the scone for the stick man.

"Anyway, you look tired today."

"Yeah, I didn't have a great night."

"Let me take two-thirds of your orders for this afternoon."

"No, that would almost be overtime for you."

"I'm sorry, but unfortunately that's not negotiable." she smiled. "Go and serve this delicious tray to your friends."

You loved Pearl, she was always bursting with life and joy and smiles that any sour customer would have dropped their bad mood on the spot. And with that overflowing energy, she was even willing to work double time just for the sake of working. She was rarely lazy, and when you came in with a more zombified face than wear and tear at the coffee shop, she'd make sure to take over for the afternoon so you could get some rest.

As you walk over to the table, you notice Caitlyn's charming smile. It was nice to see her, even if it was at your place of work, which didn't necessarily allow for long conversations.

"Ah, right when we needed you," said Jayce.

"Hello to you too," you breathed, "Hi Caitlyn, I wasn't sure how you liked your coffee so you can tell me what to fix for next time," you said apologetically as you served the long black.

Jayce usually had a single espresso, and since Viktor had taken the Mocha, the long black was probably for Caitlyn.

"Don't be too hard on yourself, I'm sure it will be fine."

Viktor looked at his cup, as if the design on his hot drink was absurd. Yet you had only drawn a simple classic tulip, not the phallic design originally intended for him.

Maybe he was just surprised that you didn't do any out-of-the-ordinary design at all.

"I didn't spit in it, put hydrochloric acid in it, nor rat poison in it, if that makes you feel any better," you mutter.

"What do you mean?" Jayce asks, but Viktor, with a simple wave of his hand, dismisses his thoughts. "Never mind, we just wanted to know what your options were for this year."

"Practice of Elemental Alloys, Cinetics and Practice of Machine Conceptions and Structures, Science of the Stars and Planets, and Stabilisation of Energies. You?"

"Great! We have two in common. "

"Let me guess, you took metallurgy?"

"How surprising that someone whose house is known for forging things and therefore touching metal," Viktor said as he blew on his cup, "your deductive skills leave me speechless."

"So I hope I don't have to listen to you talk again," you reply casually, the situation made Caitlyn smile and she was obviously amused by your exchange.

"Did you get the paperwork signed for the museum trip?" asks Jayce before taking a sip of his coffee, smiling to himself for the exact amount of ingredients he liked to be perfectly mixed.

Damn, the visit, you had completely forgotten. 

To start the year off on the right foot, the Academy had decided to organise a trip to the Museum of Great Inventions in Piltover during the second week of the school year. It was, in short, a strategy apparently designed to keep the students motivated, almost making them think that this kind of casual excursion would take place several times a year.

And although most of the students were of age and therefore the request for a parent's signature was not necessary, it was preferable that with the eternal tension between Zaun and Piltover the parents were warned of the places outside the Academy that the students were going to.

"No, I suppose I'll have to manage to take care of that by tomorrow night."

***

Her living room has always seemed as cold as it was warm. Burnt incense and jasmine perfume the air in the room, which is bathed in bluish darkness. Your gaze is drawn to the fire, its flames licking the wood in the grey stone fireplace.

These flames had always fascinated you deeply. Fire is usually enchanting, but this one added a dose of magic. Safphire, the fire with sapphire blue flames. Although the dried and salted wood found on the beaches was known to burn blue when lit, this wood was most common. Safphire was known for its famous violet smell that soothed those who were near it.

To your eyes, this fire looked like a real dying star, cold, yet burning and pale and beautiful.

Its icy, pale radiance shone on the bookcase walls, the armchairs and leather sofa in which you sit, the intricately patterned carpets and the curtains hanging wearily in front of the Academy's windows, effortlessly preventing the white glow of the moon from shining through the room.

You turn the thick biscuit in your hands, running your fingers over the dune-like waves of the almond pressed coarsely into the centre of the cracker. You took it from the flattened bowl on the coffee table in front of you.

Selene always had this kind of easy-to-eat sweet in her flat, bowls full of fruit and other biscuits. Blueberries, pine nuts, sunflower seeds, pistachios, almond and butter biscuits, and dried fruit she kept for herself or for special guests.

"We can thank Councillor Shoola for the delicious tea she offered me."

She comes into the room like a midnight cloud. Her dark auburn hair is tied back in a low wavy ponytail, her thin fringes almost falling into her green eyes. She wears a shawl that looks like a cut piece of a starry night: a thin, sparsely opaque indigo cloth randomly sprinkled with golden stones as big as kiwi seeds.

She had an aura as mystical, mysterious and wise as the room. She set down the varnished wooden tray on which lay two cups and a silver teapot.

Selene had been your tutor since you arrived at Piltover, and it had been a while since you'd actually visited her. It is the night before the first day of class.

"You always maintain your relationships with the council well, I wonder how you manage to put up with most of them."

Great astrologer, astronomer, magnetizer and lithotherapist, Selene was often asked by some members of the council. They would ask her for advice and she would give it to them by pulling cards like Eris did, reading the dregs of the tea leaves in their cups, sometimes in the first session she would read their palms.

But what they mostly asked for was their horoscopes, seeking guidance from the placements of the planets for their personal interests and so on.

You found it ironic, advisers taking advice themselves. The councillors were seen as all great and all wise, acting through voting, not imposition. It was mostly supposed to represent objective choices, and some were acting out of self-interest. But were these interests sincerely personal, or were they dictated by the stars for better and very little worse?

The question of choice seemed to be dressed in a different garb from her own, and whether the actions were really objective decisions or the influence of the stars was not easy to unravel.

"It's always useful to have a place on the council, even if you're not on it," she whispered, grabbing a rag and reaching for the teapot to start pouring the steaming tea into your cups. It smelled like summer: honey and white jasmine. "Anyway, it makes for some nice gifts."

"Speaking of gifts," you say before taking your cup next to you, "Eris gave me a Tarot deck."

She took her cup in turn once she had poured herself some tea, her eyebrows drawing in a 'tell me more' kind of way.

"She did a little reading for me a couple of days ago, I wanted more answers, so she gave me a deck."

"Which cards came out ?"

"The Wheel of Fortune, The Tower and The Emperor."

"Interesting."

"How so?"

"That I can't say, it's up to you to see how it resonates with you. Have you started to familiarise yourself with it?"

"Yes, I'm following the exercise she gave me which is to pull a card every morning and see how it relates to my day."

"Very good initiative, and what cards have you had so far?"

"Yesterday it was the Two of Cups, and this morning Five of Pentacles."

On the Five of Pentacles card, two people are walking in the snow with a church in the background with five pentacles in the centre of the stained glass window. The booklet stated:

'The disadvantages and difficulties of long-term relationships. The loss but not the end. Hope and salvation for those who see. The dark night of the soul.

A couple walk through a blinding snowstorm. They look weak and unhealthy. They seem oblivious to the warm glow of the church beside them. Salvation is there, if only they look.

You no longer feel safe because it has been all stripped away from you in one blow. Your ego may also be bruised, especially since success often correlates to financial wealth; losing either can be a humbling blow to your self-esteem and sense of self-worth. Similarly, the Five of Pentacles suggests that you fear you don't have 'enough' or you may lose something important to you - even if it hasn't happened yet or is unlikely.’

You had to admit to yourself that this description resonated with you. That security you no longer have is reflected in your results from the day before yesterday and your bruised ego.

"And you are able to draw conclusions from this?

"Getting to understand certain aspects is not yet evident."

"You will soon notice that there are certain redundant symbols in the tarot. By discarding the swords, wands, cups and pentacles, you can begin to associate other patterns on the cards with other features. I have an excellent book if you are interested.

"I am, please."

She blows on her cup gently, taking a sip before standing up and walking over to one of her bookshelves.

" The symbols are interesting." She begins, searching through the vastness of her books. "Wings represent speed, ascension, and inspiration, linked with the element of air and often found on intermediaries between humans and gods. Cloaks can be considered as transformation, protection and devotion, a garment often infused with the magical qualities of a magician or with the power to conceal a true identity. In the case of the Five of Pentacles, crutches mean support and healing, when snow on another hand for instance is the Crystalline form of water suggesting moments of intense transformation. "

All these elements touch you in some way. The wings that will allow you to move up in the rankings. The Cloak, the fabric that until now has allowed you to tirelessly hide all your secrets. The snow, glittering and endlessly forming new flakes melting on your thoughts and taking the lead for determination. And the crutches that brought you here, in this living room, to heal for a while...

"I've heard you have a roommate now, how is it ?"

"Oh yes, her name is Sky, she's very nice and sweet. I'm lucky to have found such a nice person."

"And... I heard that the results of the pre-exams are out?"

You take a deep breath, followed by a big sigh.

"You don't like the results...?" she said, continuing her search.

"I came second."

"And who is the unfortunate first?"

"His name is Viktor," you spit, biting your cheek before taking a sip of tea. "And I have a feeling that no matter where I go he'll be there, he's a real curse."

"What could be better than competition? Challenges sent by the universe are always the best to take, they are a change from the routine and bring movement to life."

"I don't want competition, I eradicate it like a weed. But I think I can expect this one to be tough and hard to uproot."

A silence took place, stretching into long seconds. You watched your tea, its amber colour glowing blue-green with the fire. Your thumb trailed lazily up and down the arm of the cup.

A distorted reflection, a moving mirror that showed you a different, deformed side of yourself with each movement. The tea was full of sincerity and reflected aspects of yourself that you didn't want to see anymore, but that persisted.

You wanted to break that cup, that malleable mirror that hurt you so much, to tear your hands to stuff the broken porcelain into your demons' mouths and make them swallow all the shards of your humiliation and shame.

"I had another nightmare."

These few words scraped your throat like a handful of gravel. Selene stopped her movements, turning to you.

"Which one?"

"Fourteen."

She picked up the textbook she had finally found, placing its brown leather cover on the coffee table. She came and sat next to you, patting her thighs, inviting you to rest your head on them. You comply, putting down your tea and gently laying your head on her lap.

Your eyes drift to the ceiling, which is usually navy blue, but in the darkness it is charcoal black. Painted with white shell paint, constellations stretch across its surface, some important names written in beautiful italic script.

After all these years, you can probably name all the stars or constellations. You have looked at them so much, traced them with your eyes, that you could draw this map again without a model.

The constellation of the butterfly pierced by the arrow of the warrior Arrok with its red star in the lower right wing, representing the scarlet hole of war that reaches the freedom and lightness of peace.

The eye of Fertelf, goddess of nature who had given her eye for Runeterra and allowed it to bloom forever. The star shone green.

Or the constellation of the mermaid, the compass of sailors and pirates who used to find it in the sky to navigate the ocean.

Selene brings her slender fingers to your temples.

"Loosen your jaw, you're all tense."

You follow her direction, trying to relax as she massages your face to loosen you up.

"Do you think you know why you had that nightmare?"

"Grade shock, probably."

She sighs.

"You don't have to worry about it, you'll be back on top in no time."

"That's the problem, what if I don't? What if that damn Viktor sinks me every time?"

"Don't keep that mindset, if you stay perpetually in doubt about your abilities, you'll never be able to afford to move on. Your shoulder is all rigid."

She had taught you early on, when the nightmares multiplied at certain times, that trauma tended to lodge in certain parts of the body. In your case, it was your left shoulder.

"And then keep in mind that you can still beat that Viktor in Astronomy."

"I'm not sure he's taken that option yet." You smile despite yourself.

"Whatever. It's a bit mean, but you can probably take comfort in the fact that you're probably better than him in it at least."

She had a position at the Academy as a teacher of Astronomy and all subjects revolving around stars and planets. She's the one who teaches one of the subjects you took : Science of the Stars and Planets.

"Anyway, tomorrow is another day. Who knows what the next week will bring?"

Selene was not wrong. The school year started tomorrow, who knows what the return to class would be like.

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[inkykeiji]

i have the warmth of the sun within me tonight

characters: takami keigo | hawks

genre: smut n fluff

notes: this piece was written with someone specific in mind, but i wanted to share it here, too!! this is, by far, the healthiest and most wholesome piece i’ve ever posted on my blog ehehe | title cred: the warmth of the sun by the beach boys

warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, reader is extremely scared of thunderstorms, v romantic, shower sex, minimal prep, slight size difference/size kink

words: 4.6k

synopsis:

“Make it stop, Kei, please, m-make it stop, make it go away,” the words are nearly inaudible, wept into his chest and muffled by his jacket, snarled, snared, snagged on the choked sobs and gagged sniffles that scrabble and tear at your throat with their razored talons.

And even drenched, clothes sopping with rainwater, he’s still so warm, like he has liquid sun flowing through his veins, scalding waves of heat radiating off of his body and seeping into yours, cozy and consoling as it douses you, as it sinks into your skin, your bones, your soul itself and marinates there, twisting and twirling into a small ball of sunshine, of him, that sends pulsing zaps of warmth circulating through your flesh.

It’s dark. It’s so dark it almost looks like night despite the fact that it’s only late afternoon, heavy bloated clouds—charcoal and fluffy and overstuffed with raindrops—obscuring the safety of comforting golden rays from the entire city.

The torrential downpour feels endless, and for a brief second you’re terrified it truly may never stop, streets below having flooded with the rain, cars slowly wading through them, tires spraying out streams of water as they do.

Magnificent strikes of lightning crack through the dreary sky like thick roots snaking through the foggy canopy of smoke and steel, momentarily tainting them in shades of periwinkle and lavender and casting flashes of brilliant silver light across the skyscrapers and condominiums.

Their sudden presence makes you jolt, a rapid shudder working its way through your entire body, skin pebbling with chills in its wake.

But it isn’t the lightning that bothers you—not really, anyway.

It’s what comes after.

Rumbles of thunder so loud, so violent they cause the glass windows of Keigo’s apartment to quiver and the hardwood beneath your feet to tremble, roll through the sky, and you swear you can see the clouds ripple from the force.

Arms squeezing tighter around your body, your fingers curl in the material of your—his—hoodie, desperately attempting to resist the urge to grab your phone, to frantically scroll through social media as worried eyes scan for any mention of his name, for shreds of dreadful news, for things you never want to hear.

You hate it when he has to work in storms such as these. And you know, you know you shouldn’t be watching the sky, shouldn’t be searching the splotches of gunmetal adorning the atmosphere for a glimmer of scarlet and gold, shouldn’t be standing so close to the pristine glass windows that your uneven puffs of nervous breath cloud them, tiny blankets of condensation left by the hot air you exhale fleetingly staining the surface, evaporating into nothing just as quickly as they appear.

But you can’t help it. It’s a compulsion, almost—like some sort of sick obsession, some sort of twisted addiction you can’t control. Because—Because you have to know, unable to stand that feeling of uncertainty that gnaws away at your insides, incapable of handling the ambiguity and vagueness that comes packaged with the not knowing. You have to at least try—try to do everything in your power to stay informed, and if that means facing a vicious thunderstorm head on, with your cheek pressed against the cold glass as your gaze searches the tumultuous sky, then so be it.

You can brave it for him. You swear you can.

“Baby,” he scolds gently, his sudden presence surprising you, causing you to throw a quick glance over your shoulder. Topaz eyes observe you, overflowing with concern, pretty bowed lips turning down, soaked strands of gold hair sticking to his forehead, cheeks and neck. “How many times have I told you not to do this?” And although he’s reprimanding you, his voice is sweet, smooth and syrupy like the finest honey. “You know how much thunder freaks you out,”

You scoff, stiffening almost defensively as you turn your nose up a little, still avoiding his eyes. “It doesn’t freak me out,”

“Oh?” he laughs a little as he kicks off his boots, tension easing from his shoulders with every step towards you, every step further into the warm sanctuary of your shared home, wet sock-clad feet slapping against the hardwood and leaving gleaming footprints.

“Kei,” you whine a little, gesturing his dripping body. “You’re getting water everywhere,”

“Hey now,” a playful smirk spreads across his lips, and a sudden, sharp whoosh slices through the air as his wings spread, spanning nearly half the living room. He gives them one good, thorough shake, crimson feathers trembling and sending tiny droplets of water flying. “I wasn’t done,” he speaks over your squeal of his name, smirk growing into that trademark mischievous grin. “You shouldn’t just stand at the window and stare up at the sky—it only scares you more,”

“I’m not scared,”

Vicious growls of thunder roil through the sky before you’re even finished speaking, almost as if it’s laughing at you, mocking you, your body flinching as the sounds crash over you, curling in on yourself a little, face puckered up in a wince as your words stutter, catching on a gasp in your throat.

Exhaling a soft sigh, Keigo holds his arms open wide, wings still stretched to span them. “Yeah, right. C’mere,” When you don’t begin moving immediately, he sighs again, strong hands gently pulling you towards him.

Your body melts into his touch—an automatic and involuntary reaction, almost instinctual at this point—and you slump against his damp chest, nuzzling your cheek against the firm muscles.

“I’ve got you,” he says softly, arms wrapping around your body as he holds you tightly to his, voice reverberating against your ear. “The Big Bad Scary Thunder can’t get you here,”

Eyes rolling, you scoff at his playful teasing, a tiny smile materializing on your face as you pull away a little to look up at him, greeted with the sight of brilliant eyes—made of sunshine and liquid gold, you’re absolutely sure of it—gazing down at you, lips quirked in a cute little smirk.

His beauty never fails to knock the breath from your chest—it seems you can never be prepared for it; no matter how many times you’ve seen him, how many times you’ve been close enough to count the individual eyelashes lining those orbs, how many times you’ve been close enough to feel the inviting tickle of the short golden hairs decorating his chin—and you’re not sure you’ll never get used to it, either.

A peculiar mix of adoration and concern swirl in his honey irises, though you can see the mirth and amusement dancing just beyond that, thinly veiled by the love and worry.

“Oh, shut up—” another bang of thunder fissures through the sky, so raucous it makes the thick clouds waver and swell, your words morphing into a fearful little squeak, quickly burying your head back against the safety of his chest.

Fingers curl in the wet suede and you hug yourself closer to him, tugging him closer to you, body beginning to shudder.

He’s hushing you now, arms and wings curled around you in a defensive embrace as words of comfort pry past his lips, tender voice sheathing the armor of crimson surrounding you.

“At least they aren’t as bad as the ones back home, yeah?”

“I guess so,” you mumble, unconvinced, eyebrows knitted and mouth sculpted into a deep pout. “I still don’t like them, though,”

“I know, I know,” a warm hand rubs soothing circles into your back, voice only marginally louder than the next bout of thunder as it vibrates against your face, another quiet yelp clawing its way up your throat. “Shh, you’re safe, you’re safe,”

“Kei,”

The nickname escapes in a mangled little whimper, and you can feel it—fright, terror, dread—building in your chest, a strangling type of panic that weaves and winds itself around your windpipe and crushes; because they’re getting worse, they’re getting closer, growls and grumbles following the flashes of lightning almost immediately, roaring loud enough to quake buildings, your heart thudding so violently it’s almost painful. Tears sting your eyes, and you shake your head against him, as if trying to burrow into his chest, to carve out a little space in his ribcage, right next to his steadily beating heart, and live there.

“I-I take it back, they are as bad as the ones back home,”

Or, at least, this one is

Keigo doesn’t argue, all traces of amusement evaporated from his face, replaced by trepidation that mixes with his worry and pinches his features, eyebrows furrowed and lips downturned as he cradles you against him. Ferocious tremors course through your form, chest beginning to hitch with swallowed sobs, and he squeezes you.

“Make it stop, Kei, please, m-make it stop, make it go away,” the words are nearly inaudible, wept into his chest and muffled by his jacket, snarled, snared, snagged on the choked sobs and gagged sniffles that scrabble and tear at your throat with their razored talons.

And even drenched, clothes sopping with rainwater, he’s still so warm, like he has liquid sun flowing through his veins, scalding waves of heat radiating off of his body and seeping into yours, cozy and consoling as it douses you, as it sinks into your skin, your bones, your soul itself and marinates there, twisting and twirling into a small ball of sunshine, of him, that sends pulsing zaps of warmth circulating through your flesh.

“Okay, alright,” he’s saying as he rocks you gently, crimson wings wrapped entirely around you both, shielding you from the storm. The scent of freshly mown grass and sticky vanilla ice cream is nearly overwhelming as it washes over your senses, invading your lungs and smothering you in its embrace. It’s a welcomed feeling, the beautiful suffocation it affords you with, vibrant bursts of heat rushing through your veins, whole body flooded and thrumming with a deep-seated comfort—a special type of solace, of reassurance, of contentment unique to him, unfathomable and mystifying on all accounts, that soothes your frayed nerves and calms your irregular heart—because he smells like home; not your home halfway across the world, your real home, your forever home.

“Come,” he instructs a moment later, stern yet tender, keeping an arm draped firmly around your shoulders, one of his wings curving around the limb as he leads you away from the window, scarlet feathers obstructing your vision.

—

The bathroom—comprised of gleaming marble and shining chrome—is enormous, housing a mammoth glass shower that spans the length of the furthest wall, large enough to more-than-comfortably accommodate his wings, and then some.

Steam fogs the glass, and a soft hiss slips from between your teeth as he cages you between his chiseled body and the freezing marble, cold rock stinging your already heated skin, his wings spreading to mimic his arms, providing another layer of protection and entirely immersing you in him.

It’s your favourite when he does this, when he engulfs you in his grasp and creates a tiny universe where it’s just the two of you, whole world having fallen away outside of the barricade his thick wings offer—and you’ve never felt safer.

And it’s amazing, you’re thinking to yourself—or maybe you’re murmuring it, lips moving in a daze—it’s amazing how even after all of the rainwater pouring from the sky, all of the zipping through those dense clouds, all of the vicious wind that whips against him as he soars; none of it could ever manage to wash away, to ever dull, his intoxicating scent, not even for a second.

You’re completely overcome by him, vanquished by his enamoring eyes and his saccharine smile—drunk and high off of it all, addicted to him in the sweetest way—and he hasn’t even done anything yet.

But you’re leaning into him, closer and closer and closer, lips parted as you inhale deeply, filling your lungs, your chest, your heart and veins and blood with his aura, his essence, him. He conquers you, intoxicates you, poisons you in such a beautiful way, and you’re enchanted by it, yearning for more, a greedy and insatiable craving that will never be fulfilled.

And he knows it. He knows the effect he has on you by merely existing near you—his cocky smirk and dazzling gaze tell you so.

But then his eyes soften, glazing over with something else, lidded as they slowly travel across your body bared to him, and his mouth falls open only for his tongue to suck his bottom lip between his teeth, and his fingers reach to trace your features, the curve of your cheek and line of your jaw, the most gentle caress.

“You…Are breathtaking,”

And he really does sound out of breath, as if he’s in awe from your beauty, as if this is his first time seeing you, as if you’re some sort of goddess, having descended right in front of him, and it forces chills to erupt across your bare skin—damp and splattered with tiny droplets of water that gleam like morning dew clinging to grass—despite how boiling it is between him and the steam from the shower.

It’s a feeling you can’t quite explain, a feeling you’ve never really been able to find the appropriate words for, something that makes you feel simultaneously powerful and weak, a swirling concoction of contradictions that invade your bloodstream and travel straight to your brain, infusing the tissues with the potent mix and sending tiny sparks buzzing through your veins, collecting to flutter together in the pit of your stomach.

He kisses you slowly, tonight. He kisses you like it’s his last day to live, kisses you like it’s his first time, unhurried tongue deliberately exploring the concavities of your mouth—every nook and ridge and crevice—as if committing them to memory, as if attempting to leave his stamp, his mark, his claim, on the real estate there.

He kisses you until neither of you can breathe, lungs shriveling as your chests heave, exhaling into each other’s mouths only to suck breath from each other’s mouths a moment later. He kisses you until you’re dizzy from the lack of air and he’s burning and hard and pressed up against your thigh, leaking head rubbing against the supple skin, leaving the prettiest gleaming trails of cream. He kisses you until you’ve gone stupid from his spit alone, fervent in the way you swallow it greedily, in the way you attempt to suck, slurp, steal more from him as it surges to your brain, tissues and nerves vaporizing into nothing more than a dazed mist, spiked with him.

The kiss breaks with a sharp whoosh of air, his lids lifting to reveal glassy pupils outlined with the thinnest ring of amber. Your tongue darts out from your mouth to lick and lap at the stringy, viscous remnants coating your chin; starved, ravenous, and forever unsated.

The chuckle huffed out from between swollen, saliva-soaked lips is nothing short of sinful, makes your vision blur and your stomach swoop, a murmured tease following it.

“Eager, aren’t you,”

And you want to point out that you weren’t the one practically humping someone’s hip, but the words tangle in your throat, catching on a gasp as nimble fingers slip between the apex of your thighs, an involuntary groan spilling from his throat.

“Fuck,” his head falls forward, face buried in your neck, and sucks an inhale through his teeth. “How are you already this wet?”

He’s nearly whining as he dips two fingers into you, soft little sounds that fall from his lips and sop into your skin, his breath scorching—sizzling more than the steam in the shower—against your neck.

And those fingers, now plunging into you, knuckles curling the moment they’re deep enough to press moans from your chest and cries from your throat, feel so familiar as they stretch you open—the same fingers that pet your hair and brush away your tears and feed you pieces of fried chicken; they feel like home.

Yet as comforting as that is, as much as it has your chest swelling with something so large, so dense you’re terrified your ribs may shatter and splinter under the strain, they aren’t enough. Not right now, not today.

Because even with the water hitting the tiles and the exquisite symphony of his pants and your mewls, you can still hear it, menacing blasts encroaching on you, deep and heavy and threatening to split the little world Keigo has created, the small haven his wings and arms provide.

“Please, please, Kei,” you’re nearly wailing out, forcing bleary eyes to open, belated in the way they find his gaze. “I-I want you, I need you,”

“Sweetheart,” he starts—and you know that tone, stitched together with hesitation and concern and embellished with thin ribbons of patronization. “You know you can’t take me without being opened up at least a lil’ first,”

Another clap of thunder rattles the apartment, sounding as if it’s just outside the bathroom door, ranting and raging to get in, and both of your hands claw at his wrist, trying to pull his hand away as words bubble past your lips, high and terrified and desperate.

“No, Kei, not tonight. Please, baby, please, I need you now, right now, Kei, right now, pl-please,” and you’re nearly choking on the pleads as they barrel up your throat and out your mouth, all garbled together and stuffed with spit. “I can handle it, promise,”

A hoarse whine hitches in his throat, the worried knitting of his eyebrows carving creases into his forehead. With pinched features and a scrunched face, it looks almost as if he’s in pain; like it’s pure agony to deny you. And you can see it, can see the internal struggle reflected in his eyes, stare wrought with the tug and pull between desire and care. But that need is growing, spreading, curling around your organs in a tight embrace, suffocating you with its urgency.

A final please, Keigo, croaked out in a broken whimper and thick with the threat of tears, is what breaks him, shatters his resolve to a fine dust and whisks it away in one breath.

“Alright,” he’s murmuring, though his voice is strained, tense and gruff under the combined paradoxical weight of lust and apprehension. “Alright, hush now, I’ve got you,”

Then he’s hoisting you up, and your legs are wrapping around his waist, one hand clutching the top of the glass door, the other digging bruises into his neck as he buries his cock inside of you in one swift movement, a set of relieved gasps escaping you both.

It stings a little, sharp pinpricks shooting through your gut as his thick cock stretches you open, but they’re chased promptly by thorns of pleasure that dissipate the pain.

Because he feels so good, and you feel so full, and everything feels so perfect like this—everything feels right again.

But a boom of thunder explodes through this moment, blowing it to bits and pieces, and you reflexively jump, whole body flinching in his arms.

“Shh,” he’s whispering to you as he pulls you closer, chest pressed flush against yours. “Don’t worry, songbird, I’m gonna make it better, alright? Just focus on me,”

And so you do, eyes slipping shut as his hips begin to pump—slow at first, almost languid in the way they roll forward, each thrust thorough, cock nearly entirely unsheathed before it plunges back in, the head nudging your cervix, and you revel in the delicious cracks rasps—of your name, of curses, and praises—that fall from his lips with each rut.

“S’deep,” you mumble, words already jumbled from the carnal bliss, from the hedonistic decadence that surrounds you, emanating off him and percolating into you, instantly diffusing the tension and panic knotted like thick vines in your chest—even though he’s barely fucking done anything. “S’deep, Kei,”

“Yeah?” the word fans across your face, sweet and fragrant, hazy eyes opening to be met with glittering gold, strands of honeysuckle hair stuck to his forehead and temples, framing the dark gaze watching you, pupils almost voracious in the way they soak up your expressions, almost greedy in the way they scan your face as his hips move, looking for more. His forehead knocks against yours, penetrating stare boring into your face. “Good? My baby like it?”

“So good,” your head nods in small movements with the whimpered affirmation, bumping against his. It’s already beginning to build, smoldering deep in the pit of your stomach, the spark that had been dulled when you had begged him to stop, begged him to give you more—to stretch and fill and form you like your insides were made for him—reigniting, bright and scalding.

“More, please,”

It just slips from your lips, brain already beginning to melt as you allow yourself to be submerged, swallowed and consumed by him; an innate desire that swamps your mind and floods your senses, and you want it all.

But he complies without complaint this time, void of the usual teasing remarks and requests that you beg for it, because he can see how depleted, how drained you are, utterly exhausted from the terror of the storm, his understanding evident in a gentle confirmation tumbling from his lips.

And his groans and grunts are so beautiful, vibrating deep in the recesses of his chest, louder than any thunder as they rumble in your ears. You find solace in them, gulping them in as he pushes them out, letting them vibrate down the column of your throat and collect deep in your belly, kindling with the flickering embers that burn and glow and multiply with each thrust, furling together in a tense ball of churning heat.

The canting of his hips increases, faster and faster and faster with each rock forward, the escalating force resulting in your body to rubbing against the marble and glass, tightly curled fingers readjusting themselves, slipping a little from the foggy condensation coating the surface.

You don’t even realize that your sensitive skin’s been rubbed raw from the action, too tangled up in his noises, his pleasure, his cock, to notice, too tangled up in him to care at all.

“Here,” Keigo pants out, hips suddenly stilling. A low whine catches in your throat, eyebrows furrowing as you attempt to fuck yourself on his cock, a breathless snicker escaping his parted lips. “I know, baby, I know,” he’s telling you as strong arms readjust you, folded wings suddenly spanning, a gentle gust of air bathing your slick body in little goosebumps, before they wrap around him—around you—sheltering you from the glass and marble as they swoop under your ass and thighs, aiding Keigo in supporting your weight. “Don’t worry, I’m gonna take care of you, I promise,”

And it’s so much hotter like this, so much more intimate like this, uneven puffs of breath mingling as his forehead rests against yours, florescent lights reflecting off of his thick feathers and tinting everything—his skin, his eyes, his hair—scarlet.

The sudden snap of his hips startles a moan out of you, and he laughs again, carmine-tinged topaz eyes positively glowing. And he looks so gorgeous like this, looks like a fucking god like this, those fine gold hairs that cover his body catching in the soft light and shimmering.

He’s kissing, licking, nipping anywhere he can reach, stamping your flesh with physical manifestations of his love, pace never faltering as skilled, powerful hips continue to pound into you, cockhead dragging against that spot with every buck.

Your legs flex around his waist, muscles coiling as the sphere roiling in your stomach blazes, curled into a concentrated ball of fire. The heat it exudes is nearly unbearable now, heavy as it sinks into your gut, glowing orb spiraling as it coils, tighter and tighter and tighter until—

“Want you to cum for me, baby,” Keigo nearly keens, almost as if he’s begging you instead of commanding, voice cutting through the dense haze your brain has evaporated into. “Can y’do that for me? Be good and cum all over my cock?”

Yes, yes, yes, your head is nodding, emitting affirmatives in the form of high little mewls with each jerk. And it only takes two more sharp pistons of his hips before the fire-filled ball bursts, half of his name escaping your throat in a fractured cry as your entire body stiffens, cunt clenching so vigorously it’s almost painful.

Words start to spill from his mouth, an endless stream of praises, sandwiched between dark groans and broken whines and hitched curses; Y’so good for me, y’know that? Ah, f-fuck—So gorgeous when you gush all over my—my cock, baby, y’feel so good, I love you, I love you, I love you.

Hot, thick cum fills you suddenly, coinciding with his last choked out declaration of love, cock throbbing as it spurts rope after rope, taut stuttering hips pressed flush against your skin.

—

Everything aches as you unwind your limbs from around him, muscles sore and legs trembling as Keigo forces you to stand, propping you up against the shower wall and returning with the fluffiest towel only a moment later. Large hands pull you towards him, dragging you from under the shower head and into his arms, swaddling your shivering body in Egyptian cotton and strong arms and soft feathers.

He leaves the shower running on purpose, steady flow of water hitting the tiled floor and marbled wall, efficiently drowning out any roars or claps of thunder.

And you’re so tired, so pliant and boneless in his arms, barely able to keep your weighted eyelids from fluttering shut. He keeps you in his lap as he sits on the closed toilet, cradling you to his chest as best he can as he gently rocks you back and forth, whispering out praises—you did so well, you always look so gorgeous taking my cock—and avowals of his love, constant words oozing from his lips, sentiments cascading over your body like a stream of thick syrup.

Unconsciousness has you in its clutches, nearly slipping into the familiar embrace that promises the numbing ecstasy that comes with such an intense orgasm, until your tummy growls, and Keigo laughs.

“No, sweetheart,” he chides softly as you nuzzle into his chest, an indignant noise sounding at the back of your throat. “You have to eat at least a little before you can fall asleep,”

“Don’wanna,”

“I know,” he’s saying sympathetically as he stands, placing your feet on the floor a moment later. You wobble a little, eyes still shut, and he chuckles again, murmuring to himself about how fucking cute you are as he begins to dress you, tugging soft fleece that reeks of him over your head.

—

The rain has slowed to a drizzle by the time you’ve been clothed and fed, constant and leaking from the clouds overhead as you snuggle against Keigo in the plush sanctuary of your shared bed, tummy full and happy with roasted chicken and sauteed veggies. A deep contentment settles itself in your bones, weaving itself around the ivory in a protective glaze and imbuing you with a sense of calm, a sense of relaxation, a sense of relief, and you hum, Keigo’s lithe fingers trailing up your spine absentmindedly.

If you’re being honest, you’re not quite sure how he did it, how he slipped, slithered, seeped through the few cracks in your defence without being violent, without being forceful—how he tore down all of the barricades and shields you had built around yourself, hardened and firm from several years of paranoia and distrust, from the perpetual fear of being hurt again. It should scare you, really, how quickly he did it, how easily and inconspicuously he did it. But it doesn’t.

It doesn’t, because he did it with love; stripping those protective walls with genuity and sincerity, dismantling every brick and stone with gentle touches and soft kisses and tender words. He did it with respect, with patience, with passion and affection and devotion.

So it doesn’t, because there’s nothing to fear—because you’ve never felt more safe in your life, here enveloped by his strong arms and cozy wings, resting on his chest, legs tangled in knots together.

And as you drift off to the gentle pat-pat-pat of the raindrops against the windowpane and the steady thumping of Keigo’s heart echoing in your ears, you realize he’s your very own ray of sunshine, forever present to keep those menacing clouds and malicious thunder away, even in the strongest, the harshest, and the scariest of storms.