#My Father Will Guide Me Up A Rope To The Sky

[uoirlocer]

I love you (I love you) I need you (I need you) Oh, show me (Oh, show me) How to shine (How to shine)

[velvette-creations]

Our Merge is Eternal

Grotequerie: Father Charlie Mayhew x fem!reader 

Rating: Explicit (Minors DNI)

WC: 2k 

Prompt: “Can’t you see that you’re lost without me?” -Cirice by Ghost for @sweetspicybingo (Lyrical Bingo Collection)

Warnings: Oral (f receiving), religious imagery, religious guilt, handjob, public sex, spanking, whipping, pain play, penance, verbal humiliation, manipulation, bondage and sacrilege

Summary: Penance can be a beautiful, wonderful release

“Bless me, Father, for have I sinned. It has been two weeks since my last confession.”

It always started the same way: with you in the confessional booth, the screen blurring Father Mayhew’s face, and you squirming on your knees as your sins poured from your lips. It always ended the same way: blistering pain delivered with the palm of his hand, the sharp crack of leather or sturdy wood (penance), on your knees with his cock in your mouth as tears dripped down your cheeks (guidance) and curled in his lap as he wiped your tears away (forgiveness). He was careful, allowing only your mouth and hands to pleasure him, as he did the same with you, always avoiding fucking. The sin of fornication will not consume us, he had whispered against your wet thigh with his mouth coated in your juices.

“I absolve you of your sins in the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit.”

Every two weeks, like clockwork. Repeat, Repeat, Repeat. It kept you going and gave you something to look forward to, even if something was twisted about it. You welcomed the dalliance, running headfirst into it and into the arms of Father Charlie Mayhew. Those brown eyes would be your undoing, but who better than to forgive you than a man of God?

The cycle came full circle once again as you entered the confessional, arousal pooling hot and thick between your thighs and causing you to press them together tightly to dull the ache. The partition whooshed open, and you began your confession. The vulgar words fell from your tongue as you admitted your sin of self-pleasure. You felt unnerved as you were met with silence. Perhaps this had run its course.

“I want you to meet me tonight in the church,” he whispered, his face obscured by the screen.

Your heart thrummed in your chest. You were used to it happening in his office after he had finished with confession. This was something new. A break in the usual routine. It thrilled you.

“Yes, Father, what time?” you asked, hands still folded before you.

“At midnight. I’ll see you then,” Charlie responded before slamming the partition close. You move your hand through the sign of the cross before hurrying away.

A storm rolled in that evening, making the air hot and heavy, and thick raindrops poured from the gray sky. Thunder cracked through the air as lightning lit up the dark sky with bright bursts. You shivered as you hurried through the heavy doors, rain soaking through your clothes and leaving your skin feeling clammy as you made your way into the chapel. You had attended midnight mass, but beautiful candles had illuminated the room, which remained eerily dark tonight. A loud clap of thunder made you jump, and a crack of lightning brought Father Mayhew into view.

He stood at the pulpit in his black cassock, his expression stern and a rope dangling from one hand. You swallowed, approaching him slowly, unsure of what would unfold this evening as hee stepped down to meet you.

“On your knees, sinful girl,” he instructed, and you obeyed without a second thought. 

Instinctively, you lifted your wrists toward him, your palms pressed together. He guided your arms straight up into the air, sliding your shirt overhead, and your cheeks burned hot as your bare breasts were exposed. He tutted, giving one of your nipples a chastising pinch. You watched with wide eyes and bated breath as he looped the rope around your wrist, securing them with an elegant knot. His hand gripped your chin, thumb pressing to your lower lip before tracing around the outline of your mouth. Your stomach twisted as heat palpated deeper. He tugged you to your feet with a firm grip on your roped wrists before circling you.

“You come to me repeatedly, confessing the same sin,” he stated, his dark eyes boring into you.

Your mouth felt dry. “I fear I need guidance, Father. I simply find myself giving into temptation.”

He stood behind you, his hand slapping down firmly against your ass and making you stumble over your feet.

“And if thy right hand offend thee, cut it off, and cast it from thee: for it is profitable for thee that one of thy members should perish, and not that thy whole body should be cast into hell,” he hissed into your ear, his hand crashing down against your backside over and over. Pain blossomed across your skin.

“Matthew 5:30, Father,” you sniffled as he pulled your body flush against his. Your back against his chest, and you could feel it heaving with every breath he took.

“Good girl,” he purred, one warm hand pressing against your stomach, fingers dipping into the waistband of your loose-fitting black joggers, “Is that what I should do? Cut off your hands to keep them from wandering between your thighs, to keep your fingers from dipping into your greedy little cunt?”

You let out a garbled cry, unsure of how to respond as his hand plunged into your pants and underwear, his fingers immediately seeking your drenched pussy.

“I fear for your soul, child,” he whispered as his fingertips skimmed over your folds. Your lower lip trembled. His hand squeezed your right hip, a comforting touch that kept you grounded and assured you that you were safe. All you had to do was utter a simple word, and he would stop, letting you go about your evening. Either of you could end this sinful dalliance at a moment’s notice, but it just felt so good.

“Don’t let me go astray, Father. Teach me, guide me,” you moaned, caught up in the moment and willing to explore whatever he had planned.

“I will do just that. Can’t you see that you’re lost without me?” Guide me, Father, for I am but a lamb lost among the wolves.

He pulled his hand away before pushing you onto your knees and then onto your stomach before removing your shoes and tugging the clothing away from your lower half. Your face felt like it was on fire as you were exposed in such a sacred, holy area. Your eyes flickered to the statue of Mother Mary, feeling her judgment upon you. Have mercy on me, Mother.

His hands roamed over your naked skin, squeezing your prickled flesh before resting on the swell of your ass. Tears burned your eyes as his hand smacked down, over and over, searing his burning mark into your skin. You squirmed against the carpet, feeling the rug burn, irritating your stomach. You choked on your tears as they rolled hotly down your cheeks, chasing this feeling and murmuring prayers of repentance. O loving and gracious God, have mercy. Have pity upon me and take away the awful stain of my sin.

Charlie’s body pressed ontop of yours, his teeth seeking out the soft curve of your throat. You felt the swell of his erection against your abused ass. His knee slipped between your legs, pressing against your dripping cunt.

“Even now, in the sanctity of the church, your penance doesn’t deter you from your sinful nature,” he hissed into your ear before sinking his teeth into your neck. Your eyes rolled back, relishing in the sweet pop of pain that throbs through your body, rutting against his knee. 

All you could do was mewl pathetically in response as he rolled you onto your back and then cupped your face in his hands. He took in the sight of your tear-stained face and swollen lips, a small pang thrummed through his heart.

“How can I judge you so? You are no more sinful than I,” he whispered, stroking his thumbs over your tear tracks. His lips pressed against your trembling ones before undoing the ropes and pulling away from you.

You sniffled, struggling to catch your breath as you watched him stand and stretch out his arms before peeling his clothing away. The lightning bathed his skin in an eerie glow as you drank in the sight of his muscular body. It seemed wrong for a priest to be so beautiful and tempting. But God tests us in mysterious ways.

“You are so gracious in guiding me onto a righteous path. Let me help you,” you offered, extending your hand toward him.

His gaze softened, and you were lost in those warm brown eyes for a moment—endless pools of amber that you would gladly drown in. He sank to his knees, pressing his hand into yours before pulling your naked body against his.

“Would you?” he asked in earnest.

“Yes,” you smiled, stroking your fingers through his dark hair.

He kissed you again before handing you his knotted white cincture, pure as the driven snow.

“Turn around,” you instructed, smoothing your hand over his bare chest before getting used to the feel of the item in your hands. The darkness consumed you both, and you knew exactly what he was asking for.

He presented his bare back, laced with scars and a few open wounds that must have been placed earlier today. You traced your fingers over his skin, memorizing the layout of the marks and making a map of the area to lay the blows. It will be less intense than the leather cat o’nine tails, but it will suffice for now. You brought down the knotted rope against his skin, delighting in the grunt that he emitted. It doesn’t draw blood, but even in the dark light of the church, you can see the bruises blooming-mottled and purple.

You tossed the cincture aside, dropping to your knees behind him. Your lips ghosted over the marks, tongue pressing against a fresh one, throbbing against his skin and tasting the tang of blood. Charlie shivered under your touch as your hand slipped down his taut stomach to grasp his cock. You gently stroked and tugged on his rigid flesh as he arched against your hand as you danced him to the edge of a blessed release.

“Come for me, Father,” you purred into his ear, drunk on the dark power flowing through your veins. 

He spilled into your palm, sticky and pearlescent, as the sweetess moan fell from his parted lips. His head lolled back, resting against the plush pillows of your breasts. He rested against you, gathering his strength, and your head spun as he lifted you into his arms, carrying you to the altar. He lowered you onto the draped table, and you squirmed as your bare, sore ass came in contact with the hard, unforgiving surface. Charlie looked almost devilish as he dropped between your thighs, splaying them wide for him before swiping his tongue over your quivering cunt.

“Recite the Act of Contrition,” he ordered before dipping his tongue inside you.

You gasped, threading your fingers through his hair and rocking against his mouth.

“Oh My God, I am sorry for my sins. In choosing to sin and failing to do good, I have sinned against you and your church.”

Charlie’s tongue pressed to your throbbing clit, tracing the delicate bud. It felt like wanton encouragement.

“I firmly intend, with the help of your Son, to make up for my sins.”

Your fingers tightened in his hair, needy whines spilling from your mouth as pressure built in your lower belly—unbearable heat, making you think of the hellfire burning your skin.

“And to love as I should. Amen.” The words fell, garbled, and strangled from your mouth before a loud moans bled through the hallowed alcove. An intense orgasm washed over you, the bands of pleasure snapping through your belly as Charlie’s warm mouth pleasured you.

“Amen,” he whispered against your warm, wet flesh before lifting his head. His mouth coated in your release, and his dark eyes seemed to glow. Sinners, both of you, fallible and susceptible to the temptations of the flesh. Tainted by the sin of lust.

Your eyes meet his, the realization that the two of you are forever intertwined in sin. Lost in the waves of immorality together.

The hot water scalded your skin as you stood under the pounding water pouring from the showerhead. You scrubbed at your skin, washing away the lingering transgressions clinging to your tainted flesh. The cycle repeats two weeks later.

[sagethegaywitch]

Our Child (Part I)

Yandere Mermaid Family x GN Reader

TW: yandere behavior

Genre: yandere

(Part II), (Part III)

Inspired by "Dark and Twisted Whisper" sea monster dad.

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

Y/N’s Pov

For as long as you remembered, you loved the ocean.  Living so close to a body of water allows you to take daily beach walks, either to watch the sunrise or the sunset.  You often felt drawn in by the endless blue waves and the subtle sea breeze, especially when the beach was void of any living being.

It was just like any other day, just strolling down the beach, a picnic basket in your hand and a plan to eat dinner at your favorite portion of the sandy expanse to watch the sun leave the sky.  Your plans are ruined as you hear desperate splashing from the rocky area beside the tidal pools.  You worry that it's a wild animal trapped in the tidal pools after the tide moved out, and you carefully put down your picnic blanket and basket before retrieving a pocket knife from your bag.  You hesitantly approach to see a mermaid, no merman, struggling to free himself from a fishing net.  You’re mesmerized by his light blue-green scales, watching the way they shimmered in the dying light.  But then you see the tough rope wrapped around his tail and the rocks, his harsh movement getting himself more tangled in the net and causing the rope to dig into his skin.  You climb over the rock blocking you from his body, and the merman instantly stops moving when he hears you splash next to him.  You hold your hands up to show that you mean no harm, but your pocket knife seems to be scaring him.  Shoving the pocket knife into your pants, you kneel down to the merman’s level.

“Shh, I’m not going to hurt you,” you say softly, reaching your hand out to grasp at the rope around his arm.

When your hand brushes against his arm, he flinches as if he were shocked.  You whisper some more soothing word until the merman visibly calms down and watches you curiously.

“I’m going to take my knife out again,” you prepare him as you reach for your knife again, “And I’m going to cut your free, okay?”

You didn’t expect an answer, and you didn’t get one as you slowly brought out the knife and began to cut through the ropes.  The merman was scared of the sharp object, but didn’t move once he realized you were helping him.  Once all the rope was cut off the poor merman’s body, he happily kicked his fin before rubbing his head against your arm.

“Alright, let's get you out of this tidal pool,” you say as you attempt to pick up the merman.

Unfortunately, he was a bit heavier than you expected, and you ended up dragging him through the rocks and back to the sandy beach.  You brought him to the water, where he quickly slipped out of your hands and into the water.  You dusted your hands off and smiled before returning to your picnic materials to finally eat.

Kano’s Pov

I never swam faster in my life before.  Both the adrenaline and the human’s soft touch excited me as I swam all the way home.

“Dad!  Aalto!” I yelled as I barreled through the seaweed grove that covered the entrance to our cave.  “You won’t believe what just happened!”

“It better be good.  You were supposed to be getting dinner, but I see you’re empty handed,” Aalto warns me as he crosses his arms, looking at me expectantly.

“Well, I got a bit too close to shore and got stuck in a tidal pool,” I start before I’m interrupted.

“Goodness, are you alright?” my father questions as he swims around me, looking for any wounds.

“I’m fine, but a human saved me.  He was so cute!” I squealed, clasping onto my brother and shaking him to get my excitement across.  “We need to have him!”

“Are you certain he’s the one?” my father asks, gently detaching my hand from my poor brother.

“Of course!  We need to grow the family!” I exclaim.  “Let me show you guys.”

I guided my family back to the surface and we hid behind a couple of rocks to see the human who helped me eat from a bowl, observing the sun as it dipped below the horizon.

“Aren’t they cute?” I ask, looking at my father and brother for a positive reaction.

“Yes, yes, they are,” my father murmurs, dazed.

Aalto doesn’t say anything, but the shine in his eyes spoke volumes.

“Since we can’t reproduce, it’s our duty to kidnap them and make them one of us,” I say, trying to sell the idea to my father.

My father looks at my happy attitude before looking at Aalto for approval.

“I don’t see why not,” Aalto responds, too busy looking at you.

“Alright, it’s settled then,” our father explains.  “Let’s observe them for a couple more days before we bring them home.

“I can’t wait to have a younger sibling!” I declare.

[valeria-garza-enjoyer]

I am, unfortunately, a Christian woman.

And I, unfortunately, am a lot like the type o-negative song, simply titled “Christian woman”. I will never be like the nuns at my church or the dedicated mother doting on her children, either.

I give into temptation. I lust and give into the sins of the flesh. I beg to serve and be served sexually. I want to be on my back or knees.

But, Christ, oh Corpus Christi. The purest lamb, son of god and carpenter.

I bow my head in shame when I see someone pray. I wonder what it’s like not to struggle with your religion. I sob violently when I pray, ashamed of who I’ve become. I know the child I used to be is wondering where I went wrong, why I no longer try to believe. I cry for her when I pray.

I am, unfortunately, a Christian woman. And I’ve failed to meet so many expectations put upon me.

I curse like a sailor. I steal alcohol occasionally. I’ve gotten high. I masturbate at least three times a week. I skip church. I refuse to kiss and venerate the cross or priest, not out of disrespect, but shame and loss of belief. I don’t venerate the icon and I refuse to go to confession. I can’t look at an icon without my eyes welling up with tears in shame. When I was forced to go to church I was told I had to take communion, even if i hadn’t prepared or fasted. I felt so ashamed that I took your body and blood, knowing I had in no way prepared for it.

I was once the lamb covered in mud because time and time again I ran away from the herd and got stuck in a bush of thorns. My once beautiful coat is muddied. My skin is bruised and cut. My soul is tainted.

I can only hope that my sins will be washed away at the pearly gates. My coat will sparkle a fresh white, my bruises and cuts gone, my soul pure.

Because as I am no lamb anymore. I am the goat. The devils creature. My eyes have turned into slits because I judge people. I have grown horns to defend myself. My coat is so matted it becomes thin and bristly. My tail is jagged and torn.

I am, unfortunately, a Christian woman. And I, unfortunately, pray for forgiveness every Sunday night. The same night I usually find my fingers knuckle deep in my virgin sex.

I beg to be saved, to be cleansed by the holiest of holy water. I grip my prayer rope tightly and beg for this round of Our Father’s to be the one I stick to. I weep every time I go to confession, so ashamed of the sins I’ve committed.

I am, unfortunately, a Christian woman. But Jesus would still wash my feet, right?

I still have a favorite set of Bible verses I say to myself when I’m scared. The small child in me repeats them when the sky lights up with thunder and lightning in the dead of night. Joshua 1:9 and Ephesians 2:8-10 repeat every time I have to do something I’m scared to do.

I am, unfortunately, a Christian woman. I feel weak when I can’t continue my fasts because I get light headed and nauseous on my period.

I feel so unclean and ashamed of my period, even though it is a miracle and a blessing to be so healthy. I cry when my cramps hit, not only because of pain, but shame, knowing our savior went through so much more to save us. I writhe in pain for hours, hoping my suffering will make up for my sins.

My suffering will never make up for my sins. It will never make up for the people I’ve hurt and driven away. It will never make up for all the times I pushed Lord Christ away.

My back aches. My head pounds. My throat is dry and my eyes strain. My feet are sore. I know that if I were to come back to the light, be the lamb once again, my pain and suffering would subside. I could once again bask in the healing light of the Lord. But I feel as if I’m too far gone. My body has contorted into that of a goat, devilish and angry. I must defend myself as I have no God to guide me anymore. I strayed too far from his light.

I am, unfortunately, a Christian woman. And I can barely look Father John in the eyes.

He’s been my priest since I was a kid, I love him dearly. But I can’t even fathom telling him these thoughts. Having a person I’ve known since I was a kid know my struggles. I’m scared he’d bash me for falling so far from the light.

I am, unfortunately, a Christian woman. I fear the day that lent starts. It’s marked on my calendar with a question mark. March 18, 2024: lent starts?

It’s not a question because I don’t know when it starts, I’ve been aware since the beginning of the year. It’s a question because Am I Gonna Participate This Year? Will I go to vespers, will I go to confession, will I read the gospels, will I attend the matins services, will I fast, will I? Will I?

I am, unfortunately, a Christian woman. And I know all my actions and words cast shame upon my family.

My dad’s side of the family is from Greece. My grandma, God rest her soul, was a devout Greek Orthodox Christian. I know the farther I fall from my faith the more shame I put upon her and all her family before her.

My mom converted to marry my dad in the Orthodox Church. I wonder if she struggled with her faith as much as I do.

I am, unfortunately, a Christian woman. And my church is unfortunately my second home.

And I am estranged from my second home.

It brings me so much guilt and pain to step into my church, but the second I smell the incense and the chanting hits my ears I know I am home. The incense is infused with rose, the chanting in soft Greek and Arabic. I used to be able to chant with them fluently as a kid. I used to ask my dad what certain geek words meant. He’d spend hours explaining it if he had the time back then.

Oh, and the theotokos, the bearer of god, mother of the savior. I was so infatuated with you. I’d draw your icon in my sketchbook. I’d talk to you like you were my own mom as I waited to confess alone. I can’t imagine the pain you went through when you saw your son get nailed to the cross.

I weep in front of your icon now. I look at you and oh holy Jesus the Christ and weep. I have fallen so far you look like tiny dots of light from where I lay in the darkness.

I used to walk around the church in circles, looking at each and every icon. The portraits of saints, the depictions of the holy gospels, the last supper, Christ raising from the dead, Lazarus raising from the dead. I used to ask Father John who a certain saint was if their icon was really unique and look them up later.

I miss Lazarus Saturday and eating Lazarakia with my brother. I miss eating dolmas and plain rice as potluck instead of the usual feast because it was lent. I miss breaking the fast at three in the morning because that’s when the service finally ended when it started at 10:30 PM. I miss playing tsougrisma with my family. I miss screaming “Alithos anesti!” With the congregation. I miss trying to respond “indeed he has risen!” in as many languages as possible on Easter Sunday.

Because I am no longer a fortunate Christian woman. I am an unfortunate Christian woman.

And I long to go to church and not question the teachings.

And I long to make palm crosses with my mom and her friends.

And I long to read at the matins services and chant in the choir.

And I long to breathe in the incense and leave smelling like it.

And I long to be held in the warm and loving embrace of our Lord and savior Jesus the Christ.

And I long to say, “forgive me a sinner”, to be met with a soft hug and the loving response, “God forgives and I forgive” at forgiveness Sunday.

Forgive me a sinner, for I am an unfortunate Christian woman. I have sinned against thee.

[ascendancy-echoes]

Chapter 14: Convenient Lies

Ismene had no idea how much time had passed since she had been locked up. There was no way to tell from the room she was in. A single lamp illuminated the room but there was no clock or windows. Finally, the door unlocked and opened. Oz entered and closed the door behind him.

“Where the fuck is Russ?” Ismene hissed. “You better not-“

“He’s fine,” Oz interjected. “You should be more concerned about yourself, honestly.”

“For years you acted like you were better than others, better than me… That damned furball shows up and you treat him with more compassion and empathy than you’ve ever shown anyone,” Oz said, his voice edging on anger. “My father should have punished you ages ago but he’s no longer with us so it’s up to me to set you straight.”

“Set me straight?!” Ismene snapped. “Your whole family throws around the fact your ancestor united all of Mystickind and look where it got us? Exiled to a single island and hated by stupid humans.”

Oz rose from his chair and levitated a few inches above the ground. “My ancestor did your kind a favor. Without the Demon King, you really think the Naga wouldn’t have been hunted to extinction by the humans?”

“Just because Yakra failed my father and it resulted in your parents getting killed by those ‘stupid humans’ as you put it doesn’t mean you get to treat me the way you do,” Oz growled. “I am the Elder and you will show loyalty and respect me… or I’ll have your apprentice thrown off the nearest cliff into the ocean. After all, I don’t need two apothecaries and you can always train someone else to do your job before you die.”

“Leave Russ alone,” shouted Ismene. “He’s done nothing wrong. You’re pissed at me.”

“He attacked two of my agents,” Oz replied. “For that, he’s going to have to stay with Noctis Arbitra until we can determine the proper consequences.”

“As for you… you may go home, so long as you show me the respect and loyalty that I deserve,” he concluded with a smug grin.

“Can I please see Russ before I go?” Ismene asked softly.

Oz snorted. “You’re in no position to be asking for favors.”

Before Ismene could say another word, Oz left and a masked agent entered, a black sack in hand. Ismene could tell they were a Kotengu like Nocturna but she couldn’t determine anything else about them.

The agent wordlessly forced the sack over her head. Ismene felt her arms being bound by rope before she heard the click of a lock and felt the shove of the agent for her to move forward. A part of Ismene wanted to lash out and escape, to find Russ but she was no fighter and she had seen the baton on the agent’s hip. They would just stun her and lock her back up. Russ would be hurt or killed if she acted out. Reluctantly, Ismene slithered forward, guided by the agent down the hall and out into the cold night air.

Again, she was shoved into a wagon and taken away. When the wagon eventually came to a stop, Ismene was shoved and forced out of it and onto damp grass.

“The Night witnesses all. We will know if you talk to anyone about what happened,” a gravelly voice uttered. “You are to remain on your property until the Elder decides otherwise.”

“How the hell am I supposed to get groceries or shit from the forest for medicine?” Ismene huffed.

“The Order will ensure you can still do your job and live,” the voice replied. “But do as you’ve been ordered or your friend will die. Do you understand?”

Ismene nodded. The sack was roughly pulled off her head and by the time she turned around, the wagon was being pulled away and she was alone in front of her house. The thin crescent moon hung in the sky, hidden partly by clouds.

Ismene cautiously slithered into the cottage. For a moment, Ismene hoped to find Russ safe and sound within their home but it was quiet. She was alone. Angry tears welled up. How could Oz do this to them? What was he going to do to Russ? She was just as surprised as everyone else when Russ created that shield of lightning. Closing the door behind her, Ismene went over and sat on the couch. She found herself staring at the window, sick with anger and worry. She couldn’t sleep, not knowing that Oz had Russ. Maybe… maybe they’d let Russ go and he’d come home soon.

~o~O~o~

Ismene must have nodded off at some point because she swore she had only blinked but suddenly it was sunrise. In a dazed, half-awake state, Ismene thought for a moment that the night before had been some sort of nightmare, but then she saw the books on the floor, knocked off the shelf by the agents that had been thrown back by Russ’s magic.

Now she was wide awake and angry. Mostly at Oz for sending Nocturna and her agents to arrest her and Russ but also at herself. She would never admit it to his face but Ismene knew Oz was right to hate her for the way she spoke to him. She couldn’t help but hate him. He, and to a greater extent his father, had been a constant reminder that her parents were gone, taken from her before she could really remember them.

Ismene sat there on the couch, staring out at the rising sun. She thought about the night before and recalled the crackling electric shield that had burst forth from Russ. Russ, the Mystic who could barely manage a simple light spell. How did he have such magic hidden inside him? What was going to happen to him? As she continued to worry, her thoughts were suddenly interrupted by the sound of her coffee grinder being used.

“I can’t believe you drink this stuff,” called out an unfamiliar feminine voice from the direction of the kitchen.

Ismene quickly looked in the direction of the voice and saw a Kotengu in silver-gray robes preparing some coffee. She stayed on the couch, stunned as the Kotengu moved about the kitchen as if she owned the place, getting out Ismene’s favorite mug, the one her grandmother had always used. Ismene remained speechless as the Kotengu poured the coffee into the mug.

“I heard that you don’t like cream or sugar which I suppose shouldn’t surprise me,” the Kotengu remarked casually, her back turned to Ismene.

It was then that Ismene found her voice. She shouted, “Who are you and what are you doing in my home?!”

The Kotengu turned around, revealing her masked face, indicating their status as a Noctis Arbitra agent. She tilted her head in curiosity and replied, “I’d like to think it’s obvious. I’m making you some coffee.”

“Why?!” Ismene asked incredulously. 

“To be nice?” the Kotengu remarked, sounding offended.  She walked over and placed the coffee in front of Ismene. “Besides, I was asked by Nocturna to assure you that Russ is in good hands with the Order.”

Ismene glanced down at the coffee in front of her before looking back at the Kotengu. “Where is he? What have you done with him?”

“I can’t discuss that.”

“You can’t keep him hidden away,” Ismene protested. “He has friends besides me. The rest of the town will notice if he’s not around.”

“Please, you’d be surprised how easily folks accept a convenient lie,” the Kotengu replied, crossing her arms.

“What will you do if I tell anyone the truth?” Ismene asked as she started to get up from the couch.

“You won’t… Not if you want Russ to live,” the Kotengu replied.

“You love him,” she added with cold indifference. “I’d hate for something to happen to Russ. He’s a sweet young Mystic and so many of us do like him.”

Ismene sat back down and the Kotengu's eyes shone with a poisonous gleam from behind the mask as she said, “There’s a smart gal. I always liked that about you. You know… you are very lucky that neither you nor your furry friend were killed for treason and assault of Noctis agents.”

“Now here’s what’s going to happen,” the Kotengu said. “You’re going to live your life as normal, albeit under house arrest for now. If anyone comes here and asks where Russ is, you simply say he’s out or he’s busy… I mean it’s not a complete lie. And remember, not a word about what happened last night.”

Ismene swallowed and nodded. She watched as the Kotengu walked over to the front door. The Kotengu paused and said, “Don’t forget to drink your coffee before it gets cold.”

The door slammed shut and Ismene was alone once more. She looked at the cup of coffee before her. The idea that it was drugged or poisoned crossed her mind. She picked it up and looked through the house and finally into her workshop. It didn’t look like anything else had been touched and nothing had been stolen. Even if she wasn’t worried that her coffee had been tampered with, she didn’t have the appetite for it now.

Ismene poured the coffee down the drain of the sink in the back of the workshop and sighed. She looked at the list of prescriptions she had to fill. There wasn't much but she didn’t feel like working for once. Would anyone blame her if she did nothing for a few days?

Going back into the main part of the house, Ismene closed the curtains and went down the hall to her room. Pausing by the closed door of Russ’s room, she thought about the agent’s words. She had never actually thought about it, even when Russ once brought up the subject, but now that he was gone, Ismene knew the Kotengu had been right. She did love Russ.

She loved him more than a friend. Who cared if they didn’t want to do the touchy-feely stuff? She loved the way he still had that odd accent of his. She loved how he always hummed a happy tune to a song he couldn’t remember the words to. She loved how he had his odd habit of folding pieces of paper into stars and butterflies for reasons unknown other than it felt comforting to do so. She loved how he always made her coffee even if he hated it himself. He was always thinking of her and did little things to make her happy.

Now he was being held captive by Noctis Arbitra and it was her fault.

Ismene sighed and continued to her room and laid down on her bed. She’d take care of things later. For now, she just wanted to sleep and pretend the whole ordeal was just a nightmare. ~o~O~o~

The next day in the late afternoon, Cephas came by the next day to see why she hadn’t come by to deliver his order. Ismene, unaccustomed to lying, simply told him that she didn’t feel well. That wasn’t too much of a lie. She did feel stressed and sick to her stomach. 

“Sorry to hear that,” Cephas replied. 

Ismene waved her hand weakly. “I’ll live. Let me get you that salve. It’s ready, I just felt like shit and forgot.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t send Russ into town,” Cephas remarked.

Ismene flinched, grateful that her back was to Cephas as she entered her workshop. She desperately wanted to tell Cephas the truth but the threats from Noctis Arbitra and Oz were fresh in her mind. She thought about her words carefully. Returning to the door with Cephas’s order, she explained Russ was busy helping her gather ingredients before the weather got too cold and wet.

Cephas nodded. “Well, you two take care and I’ll see you around.”

“Yeah.” Ismene breathed.

Half-truths and convenient lies were easy for others to accept, just like the agent said. Ismene had always known that, deep down, and now it was her life.

[rabbitechoes]

recently finished listening to the Swans studio albums so i decided to rank them!!! i plan on listening to all of the live albums (at this point i've only listened to the ones pre-hiatus) so when i listen through those i might add them to the ranking later!!

expand for detailed scores:

breakdown in order of release:

Filth (1983) - 7.5/10

Cop (1984) - 6/10

Greed (1986) - 6/10

Holy Money (1986) - 7/10

Children of God (1987) - 8/10

The Burning World (1989) - 6/10

White Light From the Mouth of Infinity (1991) - 9/10

Love of Life (1992) - 7/10

The Great Annihilator (1995) - 9.5/10

Soundtracks for the Blind (1996) - 10/10

My Father Will Guide Me Up a Rope to the Sky (2010) - 7/10

The Seer (2012) - 9.5/10

To Be Kind (2014) - 10/10

The Glowing Man (2016) - 9.5/10

leaving meaning. (2019) - 7/10

The Beggar (2023) - 8/10

[cryptidvagabond]

I love these dingdongs.

However, I have a story for you.

When I was about 9 years old, I went to stay with my father for a summer. My parents spent most of my life separated, so summers were some of the only times I lived with my father. That summer he was working as a caretaker on a historic ranch in the depths of the west Texas plains. It was the most empty place I’ve ever been. Gentle rolling hills of dry, golden grasses and scrub brush as far as the eyes could see. At least, during the day. At night, there was nothing but sky. A smothering blanket of dark velvet blue-black, dotted with silver, flickering stars, and the moon like a giant, unblinking eye. This will be important later.

My father told me as soon as I arrived that where we would be staying was an old building, a saloon that had been built sometime in the early 1900s, and that he was currently in charge of restoring. He told me that because it was so old, we would have to use an outhouse, as there was no indoor plumbing. The outhouse wasn’t too far off from the main building, and I was used to roughing it, even by that age, so it wasn’t a problem at first. We had flashlights in case we needed to go at night, and the path was clearly marked with a rope and metal stakes, similar to guide lines on some hiking trails. So I felt pretty confident that I’d be alright.

The first few days were fun, but pretty uneventful. I spent one following my father around and helping with any task he felt I could manage. And the rest of my time I spent running around exploring the property unsupervised, because I was considered old enough to have enough common sense to stay out of trouble. The ranch was separated into sections by barbed wire fences, and the closest of these held an entire herd of Cow/Buffalo crossbreeds known down here as “Beefalos”. One bull, a handful of cows, and their calves. I don’t remember the exact number, but there were enough to be intimidating to my child self. My father was firm about me not going near them, so I didn’t. But they seemed very uninterested in my presence either way. And I did spend a few hours one afternoon, sat in one of the few mesquite trees in the Saloon’s front yard, watching them graze and trying my best to sketch them in my book. This will also be important later.

The first few days, I hadn’t really needed to go out to the outhouse after dark. But there of course did come a time when I, eventually, felt “the call of nature” wake me from sleep, and I climbed out of my sleeping bag as quietly as I could, careful not to wake my father, and took my flashlight to brave the empty night.

The moon was not full. I know, most of these kinds of stories, it happens on a full moon night, but not this time. This time, it was a New moon, and the sky was terrifyingly dark. I never have to wonder how people came up with those horror stories of ghouls or ghosts in the night, how the legend of things like Skinwalkers were born. Because if you’ve ever been somewhere like that, somewhere empty and dark like that, you’ll understand how the human mind can generate so much fear over something that had looked so benign in the sun. There were no electric lights in the saloon, we had been using kerosene lamps, so we had to put them out when we went to sleep. But I didn’t want to use the flashlight inside, in case the light woke my father. So I waited until I stepped off the porch onto the dirt to turn it on, and I kept it on my feet, so I wouldn’t trip or accidentally step on a rattlesnake or some other unpleasantness while I made my way toward the outhouse.

I feel like I should add here that, I have always been afraid of the dark. When I was little, my eyes would play tricks on me with the shadows on my bedroom walls, and it instilled a deep sense of dread in me about the darkness. That fear is always heavier in the dark outside. Because out there, anything could be waiting for me. I spent my entire life in the wilderness, I grew up in a rural town, spent my free time deep in woods and creeks, I knew what could be out there. But knowing isn’t always enough to prepare you for seeing.

And when you are a small child, alone, on a dark, empty night, in the dark empty plains, and you are already afraid, and then you hear something...not that far away from you. Getting closer to you. One slow step after the other, slow, and low, and soft. And you know what it sounds like when an animal is stalking.

Let me tell you. That fear is a lead weight in your gut.

I froze, my flashlight still on my feet. And the animal in the dark became five, became ten, fifteen. There were so many paws in the dry grass that I lost count.

Now, coyotes are small, and people shy. But not if you’re a child. And not if you’re alone.

My father had warned me about the cattle, and the snakes, and the scorpions, and the tarantulas. But he had known that I was aware of the coyotes, and that I was already smart enough not to mess with any I saw. You never approach a coyote without a pack. Ever.

But now, I was surrounded by a full pack, and they were stalking me. And then. One. Barked.

And the howling began. 

I still get chills when I hear them crying at night, even now, almost twenty years later. I live in a city now, so when I hear them, it’s always way out in the distance, faint and honestly, pretty at times.

But that night, in the dark, alone, surrounded by a cacophony of shrieks and howls and barks and wailing like the dead come back to torment me. I’m not too proud to admit that I came very close to wetting myself, and I started to cry. I managed to raise the light, to shine it around, and all I could see were eyes, glinting green-yellow, and watching me. 

They quieted then. Something about being in the light, I suppose knowing that I could see them now, made them pause. And a long moment of silence passed as I stared at them, and they stared back at me.

And then, crashing.

And the pack scattered.

And I was surrounded by cattle, massive brown bodies hurtling past me out of the dark.

See, the reason why this particular rancher had invested in Beefalos instead of regular cows, is that he’d heard that the Beefalos were better at defending themselves against predators. Something about the Buffalo in them giving them just enough wild instinct to run off their attackers, instead of just giving in to fear. I don’t know if any of that is true, or if this was just honest coincidence.

But that night, I stood in wide eyed silence and watched that bull charge directly into the midst of that pack of coyotes like hell thundered down on them. Before my view was completely cut off by the cows driving their calves into a circle around me. By then my father was awake, and stood on the porch yelling for me, but my voice was still caught in my throat, and I couldn’t speak.

My father was a ranch man all his life, and he said he’d only seen that once before, when the herd had adopted a dog after losing a calf. When it was all over, he ran the cattle off and walked me to the outhouse. Then told me not to go out alone again for the rest of my stay. I suppose I should have had the common sense to know that from the start.

The next morning we found the fence trampled down, and my father told me that he knew the fence wasn’t enough to hold the cattle, and he’d told me to stay way from them because he worried they would get defensive of the calves and run it down. Instead, it seemed they’d done it for me.

I didn’t see any more coyotes that summer. And the Beefalos got extra apples.

Fucking animal time

[metalindex-hu]

Közel háromórás műsorral érkezik Budapestre a Swans

Közel háromórás műsorral érkezik Budapestre a Swans - https://metalindex.hu/2023/11/02/kozel-haromoras-musorral-erkezik-budapestre-a-swans/ -

November 4-én újra Budapesten lép fel a kísérleti / noise / industrial / poszt-rock stílusok úttörője, a Swans. A Fekete Zaj által szervezett koncert az Akvárium nagytermében lesz megtartva. Az 1982-ben New York Cityben alapított banda jelenleg az idén nyáron megjelent The Beggar című albumával turnézik, amit élőben egy maratoni hosszúságú, 2 óra 45 perces műsor keretében mutatnak be. Vendégük az egykori gitárosuk, Norman Westberg lesz, aki szólóban játszik korábbi zenekara előtt.

A Michael Gira által 1982-ben alapított Swans a kezdetekkor még könyörtelen, brutális, hangos zenei kitöréseiről, Gira mennydörgő énekéről és szövegeinek szélsőséges, lehangoló képeiről volt híres, ám a következő 15 évben elképesztő átalakuláson ment keresztül. A ’80-as években a Filth és Cop albumok után, a Greed korszakban a Swans az erősen mechanikus, ún. „proto-industrial” rock műfajában írt, majd az 1987-ben megjelent és azóta is mérföldkőnek számító Children of God dupla albumon kísérteties atmoszférájú idillekkel kísérletezett. A ’89-es The Burning World már egy gyengédebb, akusztikus alapú, meditatívabb zene volt, majd a zenekar Atlantába való költözködése utáni White Light from the Mouth of Infinity és a Love of Life már grandiózus, dallamokban bővelkedő anyagok voltak, melyek még disszonánsabbá és élesebbé váltak a The Great Annihilator esetében. A ’96-os Soundtracks for the Blind c. albumon végül mindezek az elemek egy végső nyilatkozattá forrtak össze, majd Gira ezen a ponton 15 év folyamatos stúdiózás és turnézás után feloszlatta a zenekart.

Az ezt követő 13 évben sem hagyott fel a zenéléssel; sorra készítette a kritikusok által is elismert albumokat és rengeteget koncertezett Angels of Light néven, elismert zenészekkel kiegészülve. Emellett a saját kiadója, a Young God Records égisze alatt olyan tehetségeket fedezett fel és készített velük lemezeket, mint Devendra Banhart és Akron/Family, a 2000-es évek avant-folk mozgalmának meghatározó alakjai.

Végül 2010-ben Gira újraalakította a Swanst és kiadták a My Father Will Guide Me Up a Rope to the Sky című albumot, ami hatalmas kritikai elismerének örvendett, majd az év nagy részében világkörüli turnéra indultak. A The Seer című háromlemezes stúdióanyag 2012-ben jelent meg, melyet egy újabb hosszú világkörüli turné követett, míg a lemez a Billboard Top 200-as listáján landolt. A következő kiadvány, a To Be Kind a Billboard Top 200-as eladási listáján a 36. helyen debütált, a független eladási listán pedig az 5. helyen szerepelt. Ezt követőn a Swans 47 teltházas koncertet adott, melyek között több dupla volt: például New Yorkban, Chicagóban, Los Angelesben, San Franciscóban és Párizsban. Az album hatalmas médiafigyelmet kapott és a 2 órás album stream az NPR-en debütált. A 2017-es, szintén tripla bakelit The Glowing Man a Swans addigi felállásának utolsó stúdiómunkája; 2019-ben Gira már ismét vendégzenészekkel dolgozott a Leaving Meaning c. 15. albumon. Jelenleg élőben Kristof Hahn, Larry Mullins, Phil Puelo, Dan Schechter és Christopher Pravdica zenél Girával.

A november 4-i lemezbemutatóra jegyek még kaphatók a Tixán.

//www.youtube.com/watch?v=HgtGHp2kfPQ

//www.youtube.com/watch?v=zPxWfYOf-Cg

//www.youtube.com/watch?v=iyVKM74yQ30

[mt-shahparan]

II. (Cont.)

Once there was a shore. Sweet mother hanged from a tree there, in the furthest right. Stand in the wet sands— where waterness of endlessness drank from starcrania. The sinks of your footsteps will not threaten anyone, the heels are in their place. On this side of earth there were none tending to see anyway. See footprints that meant to say, long legs walked from the bottom of the ocean, to here. Man out of time and its dilemma. Out not to gaze upon the water's recline; but a pint of light amidst the other side, of earthiness, buttered by rainwash daisies. And my eyes could see now, as far as the loneliest of stars scurried off to immemorial distances. But man from the bottombeach passed years. In his lapsed promenade. And only stopping at places. He stood. On fine granules. Hot asphalt and sojournful clay. Many else. His bizarre feet, like pompering sheets of musaceae, would shed their tired skins there. He stood for so long. Observe— forms of light disperse yet again. On this silent night you will not see any old man coming towards the beach in archaic steps; with worn but plumply kept hurricane. He never pleaded anyone. But there was no one here now to tell you of beach mother's wrath… Who you be? Steam of unnamed trenches? Glints of crushed ovary? Oh it is you. The remote viewing fiend! I still ask where you from in this vast stomata what are you? Your legs and your feet. I seen such thing in only you. But I must tell you. Livers off that village all caught up in their webs now. And the hermit? You stayed at his place once. Woodshedded. That porch could be where chickens loitered idly. But none, no wife even. Amiable thou no? And night descending on that isolarie came like legions. With crisp lemongrass tea and his amphibian gaze sternly. Night burst inside thee head in secret shades. I know that. I know of the tales he relayed. All but in one night. Only knowledge never grasped. Who are you? The recluse spoke not a word than necessary to villagers. Yet his creek croaked with sweats and flints on that night. Your magorial projection and your crude feet upon this land. Do you know what became of him? Fucktard. He is spousal of mushrooms. Lain on the water yes. Uphill; waterfreckles glow with a luminous intensity. Shaded by greeneries and shrooms burnt like polaroids on alcae. They will not disclose to you of his location. Nor will the fluttering gasbugs. Tried to open the pores I did! Like dried threshed pus in reverse exodus he has retreated back to pod. Sternum amphibious! You will not see him now starkly still by the banks when the moon was overhead and around cavernous foliage that oozed cicadous. Fishing. Under the forlorn tree you once seen that apparitionlike view and the stream and its vistas come let us go there oh Don't. Turn your head now you are hovering goddamned I am withering away these upscaled delevators turn them away! Turn.. I were a prisoner I were a prison I were a I were. I…..

For M. Gira #1 / My father will guide me up a rope to the sky (3 Jul 2023)

[guerrilla-operator]

Swans // Jim 

It's time, it's time, it's time to begin It's time, it's time, it's time to just leave

[mountmicrophone]

This isn't the Swans people were expecting on a Swans comeback album, it's not quite as experimental or as "out there" as a lot of their material, and it also lays some pretty straight forward foundations as opposed to the pushing of the envelope we have come to expect from Swans. The line-up taking a huge jump from where the band left off with Soundtracks for the blind, the absence of Jarboe being the biggest change. 

Michael Gira reactivating the seemingly never ending journey that is Swans

But what this album does, it does very well.

No Words/ No Thoughts is a great little opener. It really does help lay down the mood for what to expect on this album. It's a dusty trip across the desert under the beautiful stars seen on the artwork for this album. Unfortunately like the majority of the tracks here this entire piece feels like it is reaching for something higher, something more epic. Unfortunately this is something that they don’t quite grab here for the most part. Fortunately Swans manage to find that higher sound on their next trilogy of albums, a real sweet spot in music history if you ask me.

One of the most memorable songs on here is Reeling the Liars In. The melody ever so memorable, and the lyrics quite messed up

"We are removing their face, collecting their skin".

Sonically this carries on that dusty desert theme, riding horseback through the middle of the night, needing to get to your destination before sunrise.

Jim is a song I have had the pleasure of seeing live during a Michael Gira solo show, and boy seeing the swagger that we hear on this recorded version of the song in person is something quite fantastic. This is easily my favourite song that My Father has to offer, it's truly a menacing beast of a song.

"Let's piss on the city that's burning down there!" Gira belows,

"Take your mechanical beast to heaven, ride your beautiful bitch to the ultimate sin!" he snarls as you spectatein awe.

My Birth almost foreshadows what we can soon be expecting from Swans, the chainsaw like guitars roaring away as Gira recites his lyrics to us, really trying to make a more lasting impression within the listeners mind.

Eden Prison does not fuck around, it's menacing and its delivery is fierce. It's one of the big stand out tracks here. The rhythmic passing towards the end of this track just brays the listener over the head repeatedly as if the instrument is trying to relay a message or a feeling. For me every track to this point is building up to this moment that is so full of sound it's almost empty. It feels like a strong statement of being trapped, and is a very impressive moment here.

And the final track here is Little Mouth, it feels like a very traditional style of Swans almost reaching back to their White Light or Love of Life days. Gira's voice being the main centre piece here as he guides this track along.

This isn't Swans as we know it, but did we ever actually know Swans? This is the perfect bridge connecting the final version of Swans in the 90s, all the Gira solo projects in-between, and the trilogy of albums to come that people dote over so much. It isn't their best, but it's certainly a worthwhile addition to the Swans legacy.

[jgthirlwell]

I just received my copy of the beautiful Swans book, Sacrifice and Transcendence by Nick Soulsby, for which I was interviewed extensively. Swans are one of the most important groups of the last thirty years, and I have had a long friendship with the brilliant and driven Michael Gira. There has been a lot of cross-fertilization between the Swans and the Foetus live bands, with many musicians being members of both, including Norman Westberg, Algis Kizys, Ted Parsons and Vinnie Signorelli, In addition, I started the Wiseblood project with former Swans drummer Roli Mosimann and the Swans song “Jim” from the album My Father Will Guide Me Up A Rope To The Sky is about me. This book looks like a fascinating slice of musical history. You can buy it now at Amazon or wherever good books are sold, as they say!

[fresherbrine]

[dragonsoftheeast]

someone's gotta go now

The death of Hvitserk Ragnarsson

Written for @vikingsevents Autumn Equinox Challenge Day 7: Aurora Borealis

tw: character death, violence

read on Ao3

On the day before Hvitserk's death, the Bifrost lights up the northern skies.

There is not much else to do. Tied up to the stake, the only thing he can really move comfortably is his neck. And, by acknowledging his death, he has decided to be comfortable on his last day. Resigned to his fate, all he has left to do is think, and look up. 

The stars are the same, still, here in this foreign place. Enough to guide him across the land. Enough to guide him to his fate. He wonders if his mother ever saw this, in her visions of the future.

The rainbow lights wind their way across the sky, snaking between those stars and curving around the moon, ribbons of color, brilliant and pure. 

He wonders who might be traveling, and what is their purpose. Is it Thor, off to slay giants? Is it Loki, coming down to play tricks on mankind? Or perhaps it is Odin, coming down to walk among man, to gain knowledge and inspire wisdom. 

Well, for their sakes, he certainly hopes it isn’t here.

He had come here to conquer, and, well, he was never one to flee. It wasn't in his nature. Rus is a miserable place, by the simple fact that it is so like home and yet not like it. The cold and the snow is familiar, but the mountains are different, the trees are different, the water is different. Even the air feels different here.

At least the gods can reach him here.

As the lights have begun to fade, Hvitserk wishes whichever god has crossed the realms a safe journey. A safer journey than him, anyway.

But then again, he has never been one for safety. And the gods would not desire a safe journey either. They know that their fates have already been written. Odin would not run from Fenris, nor Thor from Jormungandr. All that is left to them is to embrace it.

When he was a child, he and his brother fell into a frozen lake. He does not remember anything from before, or after, but he remembers the moment of the plunge.

He remembers the feeling of the cold, like nothing he had felt before or since, punching through his body, so hard he was surprised not to see a hole through his chest afterwards. The serenity that followed, the blankness and overwhelming fog that smothered his every thought.

He has never desired serenity. It is too close to oblivion. If he is going to die, he wants to feel every moment, as he has done in life. And if he’s going to die, he might as well make his executioners pay for it.

"I have chosen the manner of my death!" He shouts out into the cold autumn air. “Hear me now!”

His captors are honorable enough to oblige him.

He only gets a brief moment of respite- the ropes around his wrists falling away, letting him stretch out his shoulders- before he gets tied up again, to yet another stake.

He looks up to the cloudless sky as they stack the firewood beneath him. He leans his head back as they splash oil on his pyre. He whistles as they pile the bodies of his warriors beneath him.

That is how it is, with him. He waits to make a decision, and then is impatient for others to catch up once he makes it.

He spares only a glance at the bodies below him, his brave men. Men who chose to die with him in glory rather than return home in shame.

“Finally,” He calls to the others, as the torch falls. “Let them freeze for lack of firewood!”

They chuckle, and then they guffaw, and there is no room for fear when they are laughing so hard, when The flames lick up their bodies, crisping their flesh. They begin to scream, and yet it still sounds like laughter.

The smell of them reaches him before the heat does. The smell of burnt skin, unforgettable, the acrid cloy of hair and the strange familiarity of so much meat.

It brings him back to a moment of his childhood- though his father had thought of him as a man then- their failure in Paris, the panic at their camp being attacked, Helga stepping in front of them, fire consuming her flesh, the smell-

It’s so strange how smell brings back memories, locked behind the barrier of time.

Fire brings about its own oblivion, he finds, as it crisps the skin, as it melts the fat and flesh off bone. But unlike the cold, he is aware, he knows every moment. In battle, he had always relied on the rush of blood to carry him through, but that cannot happen here, as the fire boils his blood away. He wanted to feel his death, and by the gods does he feel it. 

But he laughs, laughs until his lungs blacken with soot, laughs until his lungs are consumed. Because he is a son of Ragnar Lothbrok, and he knows now, knows for sure, that he is his father’s son. Not just in name, not just in body, but in soul, in spirit. And he shares his father’s fate.

He knows why the Bifrost came across the sky last night.

It was the Valkyries, come to take him home.

[sunfleurry]

I. 360˚

Hi there! I am reuploading this fic and this time I want to actually try because tbh I didn’t give af about pacing, editing, etc. as harrymoncheri

I’ve decided to scrap the original plot and make this a prompt-based project!

In the meantime, I hope you enjoy part 1 (the intro) of personal trainer!harry

Disclaimer: I write stories and use Harry Styles as a face claim. In no way shape or form does my writing reflect how I perceive the actual Harry to be. These are my characters, the face is just a bonus!

Warnings: This story will contain mature themes.

The parking lot itself was intimidating. Eden’s eyes remained wide in wonder as she took in the cars that couldn’t have been less than a couple hundred thousand dollars. When she won the year-long membership for a five-star gym through a raffle at her uni, she hadn’t thought about what to expect. From the outside, the gym looked quite small but as she walked in, the first thing that welcomed her was a set of gleaming black stairs leading to an underground facility.

Her shoes squeaked on each step down. She kept her gaze low to avoid tripping and embarrassing herself in front of the tycoons in gym gear and teenagers working out in custom name brand sneakers.

The receptionist smiled upon seeing her, his veneers a stark contrast against his brown skin. “You’re the one I just spoke with on the phone, right? Eden?”

She smiled and shook his hand. “That’s me.”

After having her sign a few papers, he led her to an office–a small room surrounded by glass walls with a view of the elevators. She soon learned that they led to lower levels housing the spa, pool and basketball courts.

While waiting for the manager to start the consultation, they sat and talked for a few minutes. Eden learned a lot about the receptionist. His name was Luca and his father owned the gym. He was a couple years older than her and studied at the same university. She was positive she’d never seen him; she would have remembered a man as beautiful as him.

“Sorry for keeping you waiting,” Luca said while checking the minimalist clock hung on the only wall not made of glass. “I don’t know what’s taking him so long.”

She waved a hand as if brushing him off. “Don’t apologize. I’m sure he’s somewhere around here doing what managers do best.”

“My manager isn’t in, actually. You’ll be speaking to one of our personal trainers today.”

She furrowed her eyebrows but nodded all the same. “Oh, okay.”

Luca’s face brightened as something caught his eye over Eden’s shoulder and he stood up. “Speak of the devil.”

Eden turned in her seat and her breath hitched as her eyes landed on a man whose looks, she imagined, would take over her dreams at night from that day forward. He was dangerously handsome in the simplest clothing– grey cotton joggers and a black t-shirt she noticed every personal trainer was wearing.

Her gaze trailed to his strong jaw, then up to where his chestnut hair curled around his ears in the most endearing way. When her eyes met his striking green ones, she felt heat creep up her neck at being caught blatantly ogling him.

“Eden? Did you hear what I said?”

She didn’t miss the smirk on the personal trainer’s lips as her head whipped towards Luca. “Sorry, what did you say?”

He gave her a knowing look. “I said I’m going to go back to the front. Did you need anything else?”

“Oh, um, no. Thank you for everything,” she bit her lip, fully aware of the trainer’s heavy gaze on her. It was hard concentrating on watching Luca exit the office only to pretend like the suffocating presence of the walking wet dream was fictitious.

The door closed on its own with a click that echoed in Eden’s head. The realization that she was in a closed room with the attractive man dawned on her.

“Nice to meet you, Eden. I’m Harry.” His voice was raspy and deep, the cells of her body vibrating to each syllable he uttered.

“Nice– “she cleared her throat as the word caught in her mouth. “Nice to meet you, too.”

Eden sat in front of the desk. The sky-blue cushion on the seat at first glance appeared uncomfortable, but as soon as her bum touched the fabric, she decided it was the most comfortable chair she’d ever had the pleasure of sitting on.

She started to get nervous when Harry did not say anything, only studied her face for a moment, before nodding to himself and opening one of the desk drawers to pull out a notepad and a Montblanc pen.

“First thing I’m going to ask you is: What are your fitness goals?”

Eden opened her mouth then closed it. “Umm. I guess to just get fit,” she said stupidly.

But he only nodded in encouragement. “Can you think of anything specific?”

“Build strength,” she leaned forward. “Endurance.”

He smiled, and she wanted to swoon at the dimple that appeared on his cheek. “Do you have a history with sports or fitness?”

“I used to dance,” she perked up. “Ballet.”

His face gave away that he was impressed, and she wanted to pat herself on the back. “You must be really flexible.”

She flushed. “Well, it’s been a while. I doubt it.”

“I guess we’ll have to work on your flexibility too, then.”

Her head snapped up, eyes locking with his. It was a fairly innocent statement and within context. But it was the tone he used. Subtle, but she didn’t miss it nor the mischievous glint in his eye. She gulped soundlessly and looked down at her leggings, pretending to pick at a loose thread.

He broke the silence. “Before I ask any more questions, are you okay with me training you? Or would you prefer a female?”

Eden’s lips rolled inward as she pondered his question. A part of her was dumbfounded at the fact that she even had to think about it. Of course she wanted to choose him. However, she promised herself no more distractions. She was there to get fit and take advantage of this free opportunity, not put herself out there for the second time only for it to crash and burn again.

“Female,” she said.

If she wasn’t watching him carefully, she would have missed the hint of disappointment on his face before it disappeared and was replaced by a look of understanding.

The rest of the consultation went by with Harry asking her a few more questions. She was getting much more comfortable and they both seemed to relax into conversation the more time went by. Harry finished off the meeting by taking her body measurements, BMI and fat percentage.

Eden later met Yaz, her personal trainer. She was a kind woman with long black hair just like hers, but it was straightened to perfection and didn’t seem to have a single split end. Harry had given his fellow trainer all the information he’d collected from Eden, and she did not waste time.

Eden was guided to an artificial turf where horizontal bars hung over their heads with different TRX ropes suspended from them. Yaz had her do basic exercises to assess what they needed to work on, but Eden could barely focus. While Yaz kept her eyes on Eden’s movements, Eden kept hers on the mirror reflection of the man who was walking around the weight area, greeting everyone. He seemed well-loved in this facility. The men greeted him like he was a future business partner, and the women tried maintaining his attention with flirty smiles. 

Yet, his attention was elsewhere. All he could think about was Eden’s thick waves and big brown eyes that gave away everything she was feeling. He wasn’t sure if she was aware of how easy it was to read her. The minute he walked into that office and laid eyes on her, he knew he was done for. Her red leggings and black sports bra left little to the imagination and he wasn’t complaining. He wanted to touch her, just to know what striking gold felt like.

Now, stopping in his tracks to watch her speak to Yaz, he caught her eye through the mirror and he couldn’t stop himself from smiling. His grin only widened when she offered a shy smile back before giving Yaz her full attention, cheeks blooming red.

He knew then that he was fucked.

***

Part 2