#NO CLEAVE YET THOUGH

[tottentz]

IN PRIVATE ── honkai star rail, nsfw, mdni ౨ৎ⠀⠀or little nasty things they do during sex ୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ gender neutral reader⠀/⠀ft. aventurine, dr. ratio, gepard, blade, sunday, dan heng, jing yuan, argenti. ♡ˎˊ˗

 — AVENTURINE ꩜.ᐟ ˗ˏˋwho guides your movements. aventurine becomes a gentle orchestrator, leading you through the delicate dance of intimacy. aventurine's presence becomes a steady anchor, guiding with a gentle yet confident touch a soft guidance that navigates the contours of desire with a tender assurance: his hands are soft, gentle, at your skin, at your hips, but his mouth is always brutal, suckling and nipping at any accessible skin. aventurine always busy himself by cleaving at every inch of your skin as if integrating every square inch of your withering figure into memory. each caress is a testament to his innate understanding, a silent acknowledgment of the deeper yearnings that he does not allow himself to express in words. and you just know he mean it when he holds your face with both hands, soft eyes smiling along with him when he succeeded; obtained your focus

— DR. RATIO ꩜.ᐟ ˗ˏˋwho has gentle but firm control. dr. ratio's touch is a blend of gentle guidance and confident assertion, navigating the dance of desire with a poised assurance. his touch, though restrained, carries a profound sense of understanding and expertise, navigating with precision and care even if he purposefully teased you to receive an earful of whiny whimpers that suggested he promptly exhort additional efforts or his cute, little lover would be compelled to execute empty threats. veritas presence exudes a calm authority, tempered by a keen intellect and a meticulous attention to detail. he struggles when conveying his harbored ardor, submitting to the intensity of heat that blossomed from the kindled fire of his heart, and so he claws the blunt tips of his fingers into your dough-like middle, eyelids fluttered to a gentle close as if he’d never receive another opportunity to hold you in his arms

— DAN HENG ꩜.ᐟ ˗ˏˋwho likes to mark your body. he doesn't even realize he has this thing until he finds himself immersed in fantasies where your body is adorned with the evidence of his fervent affection—subtle bites and tender marks, and then it became a tendency to leave something of him in you: whether a gentle bite or a lingering touch, it's his desire for connection and a need to leave a lasting impression. dan heng blames his counterpart for such a primal urge to claim and be claimed in return, but he had become so fascinated, bewitchingly enamored, by illustrated wonders of your body, yet he so quickly abandoned his previous enchantment to consume himself with your intoxicating touch. dan heng's gestures reveal a raw honesty, he fervently irons an abundance of disorderly suckles to your neck, bruising the heated skin with contortions molded as the shape of his lips. 

— ARGENTI ꩜.ᐟ ˗ˏˋwho pace is slow and deliberate. argenti's touch is deliberate and measured, his movements are methodical and precise, revealing a patient nature. in the quiet moments shared, you feel his presence as a steady anchor, guiding the rhythm of shared desire with a tranquil assurance. argenti's deliberate approach reflects a respect for the moment and a commitment to mutual pleasure, because he can’t find the resolve to peel his eyes away because you are a descendant from the heavens; a gift of abundant blessings to an unforgiving mortal who had deemed himself unworthy of your grace, but he were no saint. his calm and composed presence creates a sanctuary where time seems to slow, as he leisurely swallows your exhales of bliss as if previously deprived from the touch of intimacy. argenti always strives to leave your knees weak and buckled.

— BLADE ꩜.ᐟ ˗ˏˋwho makes intense eye contact. blade harbors an ability to easily strip away what provisional confidence you previously claimed to possess. his gaze is impish; dark, divulging an impending uprising of unruly mischief. his crystalline optics glimmer beneath a murky coating, heavy lids droopy and irises fixated onto your figure as if he were presently eating you whole. blade just love the way he hums softly, cupping your cheek, thumbing away the tears you didn't notice spring into your eyes when he rendered your brain to mush and melted his forefront conscious into a haze of red lining. splotches of white dotted his vision, the colorless patches occasionally fading to reveal roads of gravel that endlessly stretched for miles. blade refuses to blink away the lovely sight of your countenance and meticulously etches the mesmerizing taste of your lips into lasting memory.

— JING YUAN ꩜.ᐟ ˗ˏˋwho needs to breed you. his focus is singular, his touch deliberate yet gentle, as if every gesture carries the weight of unspoken promises. you always end up burning up, flesh flushed and eyes distant as if you were captivated by reminisce. he always apologizes with a "just one more, please?" and you just know he is not sorry at all, not with his breathy groans and hearty moans, eagerly asking if you'd let her try again. she convinces you that the last attempts were flukes; a warm up for the final challenge he kisses you so so sweet, makes you forgot about the ache in your thighs. he never fails to leave your puckered lips swollen and quivering by the conclusion of his endeavor, leaning away to observe your dazed state with a satisfactory hum of approval, drawing near as to rekindle the bruising force of his lips upon your own.

— SUNDAY ꩜.ᐟ ˗ˏˋwho loves to see you cry. i'ts nothing, really. he just loves when you are brainless, thoughts melted into pretty pink goo oozing out of your ears onto the sheets, not a single brain cell active enough to answer him; because you are always good for him, always so sweet and kind and willing to give him whatever he wanted. his heart always softens at your tears. how could he say no to you? how could he deny those pretty eyes, so full of adoration and desperation then? so sweet. so lovely. he presses his forehead to you, and promise him the world. he makes you cum all over you again, only so he can see your teary face. and you always do, whining pitifully as you milk his cock for what it’s worth. he’s exhausted and broken and covered in cum and spit and lube, eyes filled with adoration as he looks at you. sunday, who gives you the loveliest pain.

— GEPARD ꩜.ᐟ ˗ˏˋwho overstim you. he hushes you, pace not even slowing down as he chases his own high. but even when you’re gasping for air, for consciousness, fucked into another realm now, he’s still relentless, fucking deep and hard. he fucks you through his own orgasm, not even caring about how sensitive his cock’s gone. he doesn’t care, just wants to take you over and over and over. but you don’t tell him to stop, never tell him to stop. how could you, when you’re the only thing he can take so freel? you’d rather die than take it away from him, so you let him overstimulate you and himself as he murmurs, “one more, please" and then he's holding you so close to him. he’s burning hot, skin flushed and calloused but you find no greater heaven than in his arms, in his embrace, against him flaming skin to flaming skin.

. ࣪✦ ៸៸ tottentz ▐ © 2024 ､ ? 𓄹 ܵ ۪

[ewanmitchellcrumbs]

Unbidden

Pairing: Daemon Targaryen x f!reader x Aemond Targaryen Warnings: Cuckolding, voyeurism, smut. Word count: ~3k

Summary: Noticing his nephew's wife appears dissatisfied in her marriage, Daemon sets out to show them both that there is pleasure to be found within the marital bed...

Author's note: No tag list. Please follow @fics-by-ewanmitchellcrumbs and turn on post notifications. Community labels are for cops.

She has scarcely been able to take her eyes off of Daemon since he first arrived at the Red Keep. He possesses the classically handsome features bestowed upon those of Valyrian blood, carries himself with self assured confidence, and embodies an air of dangerous unpredictability which both frightens and excites her in equal measure. Though it is none of these qualities that keep her gaze fixated upon him.

Her interest is piqued by how utterly devoted he is to his wife. When she stood beside her husband, Aemond, in the Great Hall, as Vaemond Velaryon challenged the succession of Driftmark, her attention was focused solely on Daemon and Rhaenyra. He had been glued to her side, his gaze always seeking hers, and when Vaemond had dared to call her a whore and her children “bastards”, he had not hesitated in unsheathing his sword and slicing the man’s head in half. She wonders if her own husband would defend her so staunchly.

She is not blind to their starkly different situations; Daemon and Rhaenyra’s union is one of love, it is plain for all to see. Her and Aemond’s is one of political necessity. Although they have grown fond of each other over the last six months of their marriage, and he has never been unkind to her, she cannot help the jealousy that swirls, ugly and acrid, within her chest at the ease of which her husband’s half sister and his uncle interact with one another.

The two children they have together already, and the one that currently grows within the swell of Rhaenyra’s belly are proof enough of their passion for one another. However, the looks they exchange at the dinner table this evening are smoldering and filled with intent. Their fingers brush against each other as they pass dishes of food between them, and Daemon’s hand seems to find its way to her stomach, caressing her lovingly, unaware he is even doing it.

Her and Aemond’s intimacy is not so effortless, though it is not from a lack of trying on her part. He beds her frequently, and she greets his advances with enthusiasm, yet his stoicism renders him incapable of ever fully losing control. He is receptive to her pleas of “harder”, “faster”, but she is always left with the dissatisfaction of feeling he is holding something back, and outside of their shared bedchamber it is rare that he ever touches her. She has attempted to broach the subject with him before, framing it as a means for them to find greater satisfaction within their marital bed, but he always waves her away dismissively, clearly uncomfortable with the topic.

She can sense something dark and urgent bubbling beneath the surface of him, and longs to draw it out, to experience the full force of the fire of the dragon that runs through his veins, but she does not know how to entice it. 

It had appeared prominent in his seeing eye as Dark Sister had cleaved the Velaryon man’s skull in twain, a potent mixture of bloodlust and desire, as his pupil had dilated ever so slightly. It had sent a shiver up her spine, heat pooling between her thighs, causing her to squeeze them together to fend off the dull, throbbing ache.

She longs for that look to be cast upon her, for her to be the recipient of whatever wrath that follows, and now she is sure that it is Daemon that holds the key to coaxing the darker side of her husband out to play.

The dinner is a tense affair. Aemond sits beside her, so tightly wound she is sure the lightest of touches would cause him to shatter like glass. When he finally loses his cool, throwing barbed words towards his nephews, resulting in an exchange of blows, the evening draws to an abrupt close, with each of them being dismissed to their respective quarters. As they depart the dining hall, her husband and his uncle lock eyes, a smirk of amusement flashing briefly across Daemon’s features as Aemond’s nostrils flare in irritation.

She can feel the heat of his anger radiating from him as he strides through the corridors of Maegor’s Holdfast, scurrying alongside him in an attempt to match his pace. That look has returned and with it her desperate feeling of lust. If she doesn’t seize the opportunity now, then she is unsure of when it will present itself again.

Reaching out for her husband, she grasps his elbow, her fingers taut against the leather sleeve of his tunic. His steps falter and he turns to look at her quizzically, chest heaving with the laboured breaths of his barely concealed rage.

“What is it?” He snaps.

Instinctively, she shrinks back, second guessing her decision as she sees the way he glares down at her, lip curled into a snarl. Despite her fear, she reminds herself that this is the side of Aemond she had been seeking, and leans into him, placing her hands upon his chest.

“I want you,” she whispers, gazing up at him pleadingly.

“Not here,” he sighs, his expression softening, as he gently grasps her hands in his, moving them back to her sides.

Though she remains outwardly calm, in spite of her disappointment, internally she feels so frustrated she could scream. The look she craves is gone, he has rebuffed her advances and she knows that once more she is destined to an evening where he will treat her as though she is made of bone china.

“I believe you were told to return to your quarters.”

The intrusion of Daemon’s voice causes Aemond to take a quick step backwards, away from her, as she turns to look. He stands before them in the corridor, posture rigid and chin raised up ever so slightly, giving the impression that he is looking down his nose at them both.

“We are on our way,” Aemond responds icily, drawing himself to his full height and staring down his uncle.

The smallest of smiles tugs at the corners of Daemon’s mouth, clearly unphased by his nephew’s hostile demeanour. “I shall escort you both, to ensure there is no further delay.”

Before either one of them has the opportunity to protest, he steps forward, one hand reaching for Aemond’s shoulder, while he places the other at the small of her back. Aemond wrenches away, huffing irritably as he continues walking. She makes no such effort to struggle away from Daemon’s touch, his fingers feeling like a brand against her flesh through the fabric of her dress. 

The three of them walk in uncomfortable silence, the only sound is the echo of their footsteps against the flagstone floor. Her eyes widen in surprise when they reach her and Aemond’s shared chambers and, instead of bidding them goodnight, Daemon follows them inside, closing the doors behind them.

Aemond stares at him quizzically, eye narrowed. “What are you doing, Uncle? If you are here to reprimand me for what was said at dinner then–”

“I am here for your wife, actually,” he interrupts, turning his head towards her as his eyes move from her head to her feet and back up again.

She feels her skin grow hot under the intensity of his gaze, swallowing thickly as he regards her as a cat would a mouse.

“What do you want with my wife?” Aemond asks, his voice lowering in quiet threat.

It is the first time she has ever heard her husband speak of her so possessively and it makes her pulse race. She wants more of this, there is an intense thrill to having the attention of two Targaryen men placed solely upon her.

“Do not think I have not noticed,” Daemon says to her, ignoring Aemond as he continues to stare at her. “You have been ogling me all day. Why?”

Embarrassment prickles at her, and she lowers her gaze. Her voice is small and pitiful sounding to her ears as she answers. “Forgive me, My Prince. I did not mean to stare.”

“Look at me when you speak to me,” he commands, “and answer the question.”

She exhales shakily, lifting her eyes to meet his. His stare is piercing, his eyes darkened and predatory in the low lighting of her and Aemond’s apartments.

“I found myself…rather taken by how you engage with Princess Rhaenyra. You are quite affectionate with one another.”

Daemon’s brow furrows slightly as he cocks his head in curiosity. “Does your own husband not show you affection?”

A wave of sadness washes over her, causing her shoulders to sag at the reminder of the lack of intimacy between her and Aemond. She spares him a glance, noticing he has not moved from where he stands. His expression could be mistaken for neutral were it not for the fury that rages tempestuously within his seeing eye as he glares at his uncle.

Drawing in a deep breath, she looks back to Daemon, answering simply, honestly: “no.” Shame shrouds her, suffocating and dense, feeling the overwhelming urge to cry, her head dipping as she focuses on the spot where the hem of her skirts meets the stone floor. She cannot bear to look at either man, knowing she has spoken out of turn about her husband, not just in front of him, but to his uncle as well.

She gasps as Daemon steps forward, crowding her space, his finger crooking beneath her chin to lift her face up towards his. The touch of him makes her knees buckle slightly and she leans back against the table behind her for support, no longer trusting her legs to keep her upright. “What a brave little thing you are,” he whispers, an edge to his voice that twists her stomach into knots.

“I–I am sorry,” she stammers, eyes flitting nervously between her husband and his uncle. “I should not have–”

“There is nothing wrong with expressing your wants, your desires,” Daemon reassures her. “Perhaps my nephew just needs a little help in learning how best to please his wife?”

She squeals in surprise as he grasps the backs of her thighs, lifting her until she is seated upon the edge of the table she had been leaning against. Lips parted and eyes wide, she turns her head towards Aemond, and though his fists are clenched at his sides, his breathing accelerated in silent fury, he makes no move to stop what is happening. That look from earlier has returned, ravenous and half crazed, she interprets it as silent consent, wanting to do all she can to keep it fixed upon her.

“What of your wife? Will she not mind you…helping us?” She asks timidly, as Daemon’s hands make quick work of rucking her skirts up around her hips.

He chuckles drily in response, dragging her smallclothes down her legs, allowing them to dangle from a single ankle. “You and Aemond have much to learn, sweet girl. Fucking is a pleasure, and Rhaenyra does not mind how or with whom we seek it, as long as our loyalties do not falter.”

The very idea seems scandalous to her, yet wetness gathers between her legs all the same. Aemond has now taken up the seat beside the fireplace, watching them both intently, his stare unblinking and fiery. 

Daemon’s fingers travel up her legs, until they reach the insides of her thighs. His fingers are thicker than Aemond’s, his touch is calloused and rough, where Aemond’s is deft, yet hesitant. His fingertips dig into her soft flesh, hard enough to bruise as he pries her legs apart, a hum of approval rumbling in his throat at the arousal he finds glistening there.

“Does your husband make you this wet?” He asks with gentle curiosity.

She nods enthusiastically, looking over at Aemond and seeing a small, prideful smile ghost quickly across his lips before disappearing.

“Good,” Daemon tells her. “No problems there then.”

His fingertips swipe through her sodden folds, his middle finger quick to locate her pearl and circle it with precision. The movement makes her tense, a jolt of pleasure causing her hips to buck as she mewls helplessly.

“Does he touch you like this?”

“N–no…” she whimpers in response.

“Hmm,” Daemon glances over his shoulder, before looking back at her. “Well, ensure he does in future. I am sure he will; he is paying close attention.”

Looking back over at Aemond, she feels herself clench around nothing, her desire building with a steady, rhythmic ache as she sees the lacings of his trousers strain against his hardness. He is enjoying watching this, lips slightly parted and eye hooded. The sight of it rids her of the last of her inhibitions as Daemon moves his focus away from her bud and dares to push his two forefingers inside of her. She tilts her head back, gripping the edge of the table tightly as she feels her muscles stretch to accommodate him.

“You must be prepared, thoroughly, before you are fucked,” he murmurs against the shell of her ear.

Her mind is foggy, struggling to comprehend Daemon’s words as he presses the pads of his fingers upwards, dragging them against a spot inside of her that causes her toes to curl and moisture to trickle down onto the tabletop. Does he really mean to fuck her? Surely that would be a step too far? Yet she finds it difficult to care when he is pushing her towards the precipice of pleasure itself with simply his fingers. Her mind reels with the possibility of what it would feel like to be stretched out around his cock.

As his fingers pump faster, she moves her hips in tandem, chasing the urgently building pressure that is growing inside of her. He pulls them from her suddenly, causing her to whine in frustration at being robbed of her peak.

Daemon grins wolfishly as his hands move to unfasten his breeches. “I think we have learned enough in that regard, and are ready to move on.”

She averts her gaze as he frees himself, her eyes finding Aemond’s, another silent check in for consent. His throat bobs as he swallows, his knuckles almost white with the force of the grip he has on the armrests of where he sits, but he makes no move to stop what is happening.

Her hands grasp at Daemon’s shoulders as he sheathes himself inside of her, knocking the air from her lungs. Aemond and his uncle are similar in many respects, but this is a matter in which the pair of them could not be more different.

It is odd to her that, despite being between her thighs, he has not tried to kiss her. Whether it is a mark of respect for hers and Aemond’s marriage, or simply because he does not want to, she is unsure, but she is grateful for his abstinence. A kiss seems too intimate a gesture, there is nothing sweet about this.

Daemon sets a brutal pace, once she has had a moment to adjust, rocking into her with a force that causes the table legs to scrape loudly against the hard floor. He is so much more self assured than her husband, utterly unafraid to violate her, and it is freeing to be handled so roughly.

She moans wantonly as he moves a hand to wrap around her throat, applying gentle pressure at the sides. “Do not be afraid to be a little unrestrained,” Daemon grits out, a statement clearly not meant for her, even though his eyes bore into hers. “I have yet to bed a woman who does not enjoy it.”

He has the right of it. The hand around her throat, coupled with the almost violent manner in which he thrusts inside of her is dizzying and, as he slips a hand between them to stroke at her pearl once more, she knows she will not last long. It has never been this intense with Aemond before; a lack of experience, coupled with a fear of hurting her means he is always gentle, hesitant where he need not be. 

The grip on her throat tightens, the ministrations against her bud grow more insistent as she feels Daemon pulsate inside of her, his jaw clenching at the telltale sign that he is close. With a final, harsh thrust of his hips, she cries out in ecstasy as the warmth of his seed spills inside of her, triggering her own release as she tightens around him in rapid, successive pulses.

“Good girl,” he mutters quietly.

He is quick to pull out of her, as she leans back against her palms, pliant and breathless from the experience. She barely registers Daemon tucking himself away and slipping out of the chamber doors, as Aemond moves into view, standing before her.

Under ordinary circumstances, the wrathful insanity she sees reflected in his blue eye would frighten her, but tonight it has butterflies fluttering ceaselessly in her lower belly. His hand moves to the back of her head, gripping her hair tightly by the roots, tugging her head forcefully backwards. Her yelp of pain is stifled by him pressing his lips firmly against hers, his tongue licking against her own in a kiss that is more a desperate display of possession than a loving embrace.

“You are mine,” he breathes, letting go of her momentarily to tug at the lacings of his trousers.

“Yours,” she whispers back, satisfied excitement causing her pulse to thrum at the knowledge she has unleashed the side of Aemond she has always longed for.

Daemon’s spend has begun to dribble out of her, and as she watches the head of her husband’s cock push it forcefully back inside of her, she knows he will remind her every night from now on exactly which Targaryen Prince it is that she belongs to.

[almostfoxglove]

SIT BACK, BABY

written for @joelmillerisapunk's #PPCUBodyWorshipChallenge

RATING: Explicit (18+) | PAIRING: Frankie Morales x f!Reader BODY PART: Thighs | WORD COUNT: 4.1k CW: Smut (m!oral), pwp, drinking (not during smut), sorta sub!Frankie.

SUMMARY: You've got a crush on your neighbor across the hall and finally get the chance to show him you care.

read on ao3 | almostfoxglove masterlist

Your alarm clock reads 2:02 A.M. when you stir from a sweat-stained dream. 

Someone is breaking into your apartment.

Or sounds like they're trying to break in, at least. The awkward stabbing and metal scrape of disobedient picks and keys. A sudden fear cleaves through you, skull to stomach, and just like that you’re wide awake. Then you hear a familiar voice mutter, “Fucking please—”

And you sigh. You’re not in any danger.

Yellow light leaks into your apartment from the hall where you find your mountain of a neighbor slumped on his knees at your feet, one hand raised at the level of your lock, a silver key pinched between his forefinger and thumb.

He tilts his chin up, letting you glimpse beneath the brim of his navy ball cap the glassiness of his warm eyes, the flush of his cheeks. His lips part, bewildered or lost. The man looks hopelessly drunk. 

“Haanng on,” Frankie grins, squinting up at you. “You’re in my apartment?”

He drops his hand and his apartment key slips from his grasp onto the floor, unnoticed by him. You’ve lived across the hall from him for two years, steadfast in your belief that fucking anyone who lives in your building—or frankly, within a three block radius—is a hideous mistake. Has that made your hopeless crush on him any less… crushing?

Absolutely fucking not.

Now, seeing Frankie on his knees is doing something terrible to your brain. Giving it all sorts of ideas. You blame his jeans, the brawn of his thighs—how badly you’d like to sink your teeth into them surprises you.

“My apartment, actually,” you correct, lifting one finger to point over his shoulder, across the hall. Frankie turns and, sure enough, recognizes his apartment number gleaming on the door.

“Shit,” he says. You make a point of staring him dead in the eye even when you’d usually look away, just so you don’t look at his legs. The spread of his knees on the carpeted floor. 

Doe-eyed, Frankie blinks up at you—helpless as a pup—as need stirs in your stomach. The urge to hold him. To take care of him for a while.

“I’m a lil’ drunk,” he admits in a whisper, like it’s a secret, like you wouldn’t have known.

Scoffing, you shake your head. “You don’t say.”

He buries his face in his palms and groans quietly, embarrassed. “Hermosa,” he muffles, making your mouth go dry. When his hands drop, his gaze lands at your feet, rising slowly to your legs—he turns, you think, the color of a berry. Something that bursts red against your fingertips in summer.

“You’re not wearing pants,” Frankie says plainly, his eyebrows high on his head.

Shit.

You cross your arms over your chest as if that’ll hide your legs, bare beneath the t-shirt you sleep in. You can’t remember what underwear you have on, if it’s a cute pair or a laundry day pair, and pray quietly that he can’t glimpse them from where he’s sitting, though he probably can. What’s worse, though, is that you can tell Frankie’s not trying to peek. He’s looking you in the eye—respectful, it seems, even on the verge of a blackout.

“It’s the middle of the night,” you say, trying not to blush. “Y’woke me up.”

Poor, drunk Frankie’s face just folds. Devastated to have bothered you—he huffs softly, lets his eyes stutter closed, dark lashes shivering on his cheeks. It really isn’t fair, how cute he is like this. Grown, drunk men are idiots. Nuisances, at best. And yet here he is—this broad mass of a man, solid in his calm, easy way—managing to be both out of his mind and entirely endearing at the same time. It’s almost annoying, how not annoyed you are to be disturbed from a fit of slumber. You’re sort of glad.

“M’sorry,” Frankie mumbles, staring at the floor. He lifts one finger and with your breath held you watch it move slowly toward your foot until his fingertip meets your bare ankle. Softly, so softly. You hardly feel it, this small touch, his fragile apology. 

It’s like he’s trying to kill you. It’s like he knows you’ve had some stupid crush on him for two years.

“Come on,” you say, as you crouch down to retrieve his forgotten key, then his arm, warm and solid in your grasp. “Think you better get into bed.”

He giggles as he lurches to his feet, thankfully able to stand after you steady him and release the weight of his arm. Cheeks warm, you walk his key across the hall, unlock the door, and step aside for him to go in with a sweep of your hand.

“How embarrassed should I be tomorrow?” Frankie asks, coming to stand at your side to stare down the tunnel of darkness formed by his entryway.

You shrug. “Willing to bet you won’t remember this in the morning,” you say, smirk nagging at your lips as you nudge his key back into his hand.

At the contact, he turns, face shadowed by his hat and curls licking playfully beneath the brim, and though you expect him to laugh or smile there’s not a drop of humor in his expression—he looks, you think, disappointed. Like maybe he doesn’t want to forget. Squinting, you tilt your head in the direction of his apartment, but Frankie doesn’t move. He blinks drowsily at you, bottom lip pouting again.

This is probably the most you’ve ever spoken in one go.

The closest you’ve ever stood.

“Pope’s never gonna le’me live this down,” he mumbles.

You huff a short chuckle under your breath and set one hand on his back, between his shoulder blades, to urge him inside—clearly the man’s never going to go in on his own. 

“That one of your broad shouldered friends?” you tease.

Frankie only budges a step closer to the doorway, frowning as he rolls his shoulders, standing up a little straighter as if to make a point. “Yes,” he grumbles.

“Don’t worry, honey,” you tease, then drop your hand from his back. “You’re very broad, too.”

“I feel bad I woke you up,” Frankie says softly.

“It’s not your fault,” you whisper, and you feel it again—that impulse to hold him, make it better. Rub his shoulders or something, just to help him relax.

“It is,” Frankie mumbles sorrily.

“Did you mean to wake me up?”

He sighs. “No.”

“Were you trying to break in, or did you get mixed up?”

“Got mixed up,” he admits quietly.

You catch his gaze and offer him a small smile. “Then I forgive you,” you say. “No harm done, seriously. You’re not the worst person to find at my door.”

This seems to settle him, at least a little, because with one final, frowning huff Frankie surrenders his guilt and nods. “Okay,” he murmurs, and time stands briefly still as he moves toward you—leaning in to graze his lips against your cheek, his stubble brushing your skin. 

You stand, statued by your surprise, unable even to breathe.

“G’night, nena.”

“Goodnight,” you choke out, grateful that in his state he doesn’t seem to register your shock or the tremble in your voice. If he weren’t drunk, you’re pretty sure that would’ve snapped you. You’d have told him right now and right here that you’ll take care of him, help him unwind a little—that you’ve wanted to touch him for two years and it hasn’t gotten any easier, orbiting him without the guts to swing yourself closer to his gravity.

But he is drunk. Three quarters out of his mind, if you had to guess, based on the clumsy muddle of his footsteps as he at last sways into his apartment, shutting the door behind him. Leaving you breathless in the hallway, alone.

In the morning, you wake to a band of sunlight searing through your curtains. You’ve slept through your alarm all the way till ten, and lift your phone to find a text waiting on your lock screen, sent two hours ago.

Think I owe you an apology, neighbor.

Groggy, you frown at the string of digits you don’t recognize until the night comes back to you, piece by piece. Your heart stutters as you sit up in bed, letting your bedsheets pool in your lap as you type out a reply.

How did you get my number?

Also, you got up at 8am?? Are you even alive?

You get a reply only minutes later, while you’re brushing your teeth.

Told the building manager that I was getting your mail and wanted to return it. Little scary how few questions they asked.

You scoff, only to have your phone ding again immediately.

Sure hope I’m alive. I have a very thoughtful neighbor to thank for getting me home safe.

You spit into the sink, then rinse your mouth, unable to wipe the smile off your face.

Thoughtful, huh?

Pretty, too. Don’t know if I’ve mentioned that yet.

Still feel bad about last night. Let me make it up to you.

No more than six hours later, you’re pulled from whatever TV show’s been rotting your brain all afternoon by a steady knock on your front door. Your skin twinkles with nerves.

You’re fully clothed this time—showered too, thankfully—and when you open the door Frankie isn’t on his knees. He’s standing, curls squashed beneath his hat, t-shirt stretched across his chest, in black athletic shorts baring him below the knee, as he holds up two plastic bags that fill the hallway with a smell you know all too well: takeout from the Chinese place you love down the road. When your eyes round at the sight, Frankie grins, letting you glimpse the dimple that winks from his cheek. 

You see, too, his exhaustion. The navy shadows bruised beneath his glassy eyes. He may be alive, but it’s painfully obvious that he must, beneath that smile, be suffering a brutal hangover. And he’s bringing you food—too generous a gesture, you think, for such a small crime.

“Hoped you might like this place,” he says.

“You really didn’t have to—” you start to say, but Frankie shakes his head before squeezing past you in the doorway to come inside.

“Only fair,” he insists, and you shut the door while he toes out of his shoes, thoughtful enough not to drag dirt into your apartment as he breezes into your kitchen like he’s done this a hundred times before. Opening the bags, cracking each container, fishing through drawers until he finds your cutlery. Domestic and entirely alien: this man you’ve known for two years who’s never entered your space, making himself at home. Trying to serve you.

Dumbstruck, you watch him, unsure what to say and the longer you do, the more the ache of him seems to radiate. You swear you see him wince when a drawer slams too hard, when he looks up accidentally into the ceiling light. With one hand, you reach out and turn the dimmer switch to soften the lights over his head, and Frankie looks up from the styrofoam containers to catch your eye. 

The grin drops from his face. “Shit—is this too much? It’s too much, isn’t it?”

Frankie wipes his hands on his thighs as he rounds the kitchen island to stand before you, dark lashes batting worriedly over his freckled cheeks as he lowers his head to meet your eye. “If you want, I can just leave you with the food. Don't wanna be here if you don't want me to be.”

A soft scoff leaves your lips, the first breath of disbelief disguised as laughter. “Frankie,” you breathe, and his chest puffs at the way you say his name. “You look like you feel like shit. Your head must be killing you. And you brought me food.”

His jaw ticks, and you wonder if he’s been looking for an excuse to talk to you, too.

“No more fussing over me,” you say, lifting your hands slowly to rest on his shoulders. 

Frankie flinches but doesn’t pull away, his warm eyes flickering between yours like he’s trying to unpuzzle you. 

“Let me help,” you say.

“Hermosa,” he murmurs, sounding winded. Desperate. He shakes his head.

With a soft grin you slip your hands down his arms—firm and hot beneath your palms—to guide him toward your couch, warmed by a box of sunlight cast through the windows. Frankie sits with a gentle sigh, biceps tensing beneath your grasp, not yet sure what to make of you. You give his arms a light squeeze, flash him a grin you hope might ease his nerves, and sink to the carpet between his knees.

Frankie’s eyes go black.

The air simmers, woozy as the space above molten tarmac in the dead of summer. It’s a kind of spell, you think. His sharpened breath. Your hands slipping easily over his bare knees. And it’s obvious: the riot of guilt surging behind his lust-blown eyes, his instinct to politely turn you down as you rub his joints softly with your thumbs.

“Don’t have to,” you tell him, careful to hold his eye so he’ll see you mean them. “But I’d like to, if you want. Could take care of you for a while.”

Frankie lets out a ragged breath, and his eyes slam shut before he drops his head on the back of your couch. “Shit—are you—shit.” He grinds the heels of his palms into his eyes, groans quietly, and from the floor you watch the way his whole body shudders as he struggles for air.

“That a yes or a no, let’s eat Chinese food?” you ask softly, hands frozen on his knees until he answers. “Either is good.”

“Shit—yes, that’s a yes,” Frankie pants, still hiding behind his hands with his head tipped back.

You lift one hand from his knee to reach for him, curling your fingertips around his forearm, pulling it away from his eyes. “Mírame,” you say, and it’s possible Frankie comes undone right then and there—chest deflating, arms slumping limp into his lap, head lolling to look down at you in disbelief.

Lips parted, his tongue slips across his bottom lip, sending a thrill through your body and a sudden stutter to your heart. But this isn’t about you; it’s about him, so you squeeze your thighs together as Frankie shifts his hips on the couch and nods shakily.

Oh, this is dangerous. How he already looks ready to fall apart beneath your hands. You might never get enough of it.

Testing the waters, you slide your hands slowly up his thighs just far enough to brush your fingertips to the hem of his shorts, the roped muscles in his legs tensing beneath your caress. “If you want me to stop, just say, okay?”

Frankie shakes his head, licks his lip again, and your eyes follow the glide of his tongue. “Not gonna want you to stop,” he breathes, as his cheek dimples with the flash of a sheepish grin.

You hum softly, shuffle closer to the couch, encouraging him to spread his legs wider with a press of your hands. “Just sit back, baby,” you murmur.

So he does. Frankie grunts as you patiently knead the mesa of his thighs—the hills of muscle bound tight beneath golden skin, so hot to the touch—and lower your lips to lay a kiss on his knee, glancing up through your lashes to gauge his reaction.

He rewards you with a needy groan that goes straight to your cunt.

You smile against his skin, let your hands wander, thumbs digging into his thighs as you work loose their knotted web. Humming, your hands slipping beneath the black curtain of his shorts to stray higher as you work, you slide the flat of your tongue up his inner thigh and Frankie’s whole body trembles.

“Fuck—nena, shit,” he pants, just before one hand bolts out to cover the crown of your head, stilling your movements. 

You take your mouth off him and look up, basking in the abyss of his dark eyes and the red of his neck. “Want me to stop?” you ask.

Immediately, Frankie’s head shakes nonono as he gathers your hair in his fist, holding it back from your face. “Que cosa mas linda. So fuckin’ pretty.”

It’s easy, but you knew it would be, watching his body twitch and melt beneath your ministrations, the caress of your attentive hands. The wet suckle of your lips and tongue rising towards his hips. Slowly, you unwind him. Let him dissolve into your couch, always with some sweet nothing on his lips that could ruin you if you let it—mierda, feels so—so fucking good, perfect hands, holy shit, tan suave.

The taste of his skin is a balm in itself, heady, a little sweat-kissed, addictive. With his shorts shoved high on his hips, you latch at the supple flesh of his inner thigh and suck, drawing a tortured whimper from Frankie as he shivers, his chest rising faster with every breath.

“Shit—por favor, please,” he begs, as the hand in your hair gently scratches your scalp. It’s so gentle you almost believe he doesn’t know he’s doing it—that touching you like this, so tenderly, so ruinously, is to Frankie instinct alone.

“So sweet to me,” you murmur against his thigh, licking the pink mark you’ve left on his skin. “So strong, so warm. Just wanna take care of you, Frankie. Wanna make you feel good.”

“Hermosa,” he groans, desperate now, his cock twitching beneath the black of his shorts.

The square of sunlight glows over you both, warming you just as much as his body. Beyond the cracked window you can hear the chirp of birds finding their way to each other, the squeal of distant traffic, the churn of wind through the alley. All of it—all that raucous city noise that used to keep you up all night—feels tranquil now. A serene soundtrack whispering below the rasps of Frankie’s pleasure.

“Wanted to for a long time,” you tell him, before latching again at the top of his other thigh, marking satin skin with a matching brand. “Wanted to touch you so bad.”

He’s gasping now, lungs desperate for air like he’s been running, and his other hand grabs hold of your shoulder to pull you closer. “Would’a—” he wheezes, and lets his head drop back against the couch again like it’s too much to look right at you. “Would’ve let you if I’d—fuck—if I’d known.”

You hum against his leg, reach both hands high enough to dig your thumbs in the crevice of his hips, and Frankie jolts, hissing a strangled fuck before settling again, more liquid than before.

Higher, your mouth climbs, desperate for more of him. Electric with the feeling of his need, the way his hands keep you near to him—thumb sweet on your shoulder, fingertips drawing little circles on your scalp. It’s possible you’ve never liked pleasuring someone so much, and you’ve liked it before. But Frankie responds to your every movement and breath, every change in pressure or place, strung taut as a bow that’s fighting not to snap.

With a final glance up at Frankie, his head hung back to unveil the gold of his throat, the stubble scattered along his jaw, you nuzzle your nose gently against his crotch and feel his cock throb, hitting your cheek.

“Baby,” he whines, hand tightening in your hair.

“I’ve got you,” you coo, and draw your own out of his shorts to hook into the waistband. “Gonna take you out now, is that okay?”

“Fuck—yes—fucking yes it’s okay,” he begs, and the light sting of his hand pulling your hair tighter paints a smile on your face. 

Slowly, you peel down his shorts and find no boxers beneath them, only the heavy length of him which bobs up against his t-shirt, thick and swollen and aching. “No underwear? Frankie,” you tease, and he chuckles hoarsely as you cast his shorts aside.

“Laundry day,” he wheezes, and you click your tongue before scooting forward until your chest presses against the cushions, framed by his legs.

He’s beautiful like this, destroyed but in the good way—dragged out of his head for a while by your dutiful hands, your thumbs digging into the meat of his thighs. His cock leaking and twitching every time the warmth of your breath fans over his soft skin.

With one hand, you swipe your thumb over the head of his cock, and the whimper that leaves Frankie’s lips in reply might be the sweetest sound you’ve ever heard. You wet your tongue along his length, tasting the earth of him before wrapping your lips around his tip, trading off between suckling and licking.

The hand in your hair locks up suddenly, not moving your head but clamping down hard. You moan softly and he twitches on your tongue. Grows harder, somehow, when a moment ago you’d have thought it impossible.

“Ay,” he croaks. “Fuck—your fucking mouth, baby.”

Perhaps this is what emboldens you, makes you sloppy—just as needy as him. Drool slicking to his length as you bob, drinking in his every moan and babble. Your fist pumping what you can’t take, jaw aching around his girth. Frankie might come apart at the molecules, you think. Evanesce cell by cell, held in the heat of your mouth as you swallow around his length, forcing the head of his cock to the back of your throat.

When you gag, eyes watering, heart a hummingbird in your chest, he makes a desperate whine and his hand tenses on your shoulder. 

You’d stay here the rest of the night, if he’d let you, but he doesn’t.

Frankie thighs twitch, breaths coming faster now, shorter. Close. 

“Necesito sentirte,” he says as he squeezes your shoulder again. “Please—shit, gonna come if you don’t stop—fuck, nena, please let me feel you. Wanna feel you so fucking bad. Wanted you—fuckfuck—wanted you the day you moved in.”

Looking up at him through your lashes, you see his hat has tumbled off, leaving the crown of his head a mess of flattened down curls broken up by the occasional stray, and something about how he looks in this moment, fuckedout and gone and desperate, makes you want to stay right where you are. 

Still, you hollow your cheeks as you ease off him with a wet pop, one hand pumping his thick cock while the other rubs his muscled thigh. You shake your head, bottom lip bitten. “Next time,” you promise, with a smirk rich on your lips. Then you’re on him again, throat open and accepting as he teeters on the edge of falling apart. 

“Mmmph, shit—nena, so good, oh my god,” Frankie gasps, hands back in your hair to hold it out of your way. “Gonna make me—fuck, where do I—where do you—”

He doesn’t get the rest out; the moment you slip your hand beneath his balls and sink your lips to the base of his heavy length, taking him to the hilt, Frankie comes with a sudden cry. Warmth pumps down your aching throat as he pants, fingers tangled in your hair, and you swallow it all hungrily while you moan.

He whimpers when you lift off his spent cock to look up at him with a satisfied grin. If you thought he looked ruined before, you were wrong. This is what he looks like when you’ve wrecked him. 

“Come here,” he croaks, then with a grunt Frankie yanks you off the floor and onto his lap to envelope you in his arms. You settle on his thighs, try not to swoon at his strength, and when he kisses you it isn’t at all what you’re expecting—there’s no roar, no taking, not a drop of desperation left in him at all. No, Frankie kisses you wholly, gently, all lithe tongue and sweetness and gratitude, and the longer it goes on the more you both smile, struggling to kiss around laughter and teeth.

When he pulls back, his pupils are still blown but warm too, so warm. His face and beard gilded with late afternoon light. He strokes a thumb across your cheek, then bumps his nose against yours, and you sink against his chest to chase his mouth. Before you can, Frankie's arms lock around your waist; he throws you down onto the couch, pinning you beneath him with a smug little smile.

“This time I get to taste you, hermosa,” he promises, then seals it with a kiss.

dividers by @saradika-graphics - tag list & some mutuals <3

@spacelatinos4life @sweetpascal @leslie-lyman @biggetywitch @evolnoomym

@pastelpinkflowerlife @ak-vintage @rav3n-pascal22 @sixhours @jessthebaker

@thethirstwivesclub @la-vie-est-une-fleur29 @hediondoamor-blog @tuquoquebrute @thundermartini

@ozarkthedog @studioghibelli @la-eterna-enamorada29 @goodgirlwannabe @guiltyasdave

@littlemisspascal @perotovar @goodwithcheese @joelalorian

[incognito-lionbeast]

Time travel fix-it fic, but past!SQQ & present!SQQ swap places in the timeline (inevitably causing the timeline to split, dw about it).

Present day, post-marriage Shen Qingqiu "wakes up" in his past SQQ-self's body right at the moment of he & Luo Binghe's reunion in Jin Lan. Naturally, he assumes that this must be another dream-world reenactment. After all, it wouldn't be the first time. Though this memory isn't exactly a fond one. So, he ignores the Huan Hua disciples. Even if this Binghe can't really see him, even if it's a dream, suppose... Shen Qingqiu does what he wishes he'd done then. He steps forward to reach out and hold his heartbroken disciple. Apologise.

Binghe is solid.

Which means that it's the real Luo Binghe. Or at least that's how it worked before. This doesn't keep him from his task, but he does wonder if this is some sort of... role-play? Historical revisionism? But he's going to get a good grade in role-playing, because surely this is still a dream. Time travel doesn't exist and it frankly hasn't occurred to him as an option yet.

It will. Eventually. But not until he's successfully coaxed Luo Binghe into ditching the post-sower-roundup meeting to run away with him back to Qing Jing. He's not interested in reliving that part of this memory, thanks. And without the guest of honour, accusations have to wait (OPM is furious).

It occurs to Shen Qingqiu because he doesn't wake up; he dreams within his "dream" and, happy as he seems to be, Luo Binghe never stops role-playing. Shen Qingqiu has been doing everything in his power to dote on his disciple, but Luo Binghe doesn't beg to sleep in the same bed. Or cry at him. Or cave in the face of his insatiable libido, soliciting sex from him when presented with any reasonably flat surface.

But if he's in the past, then what?? Would it be taking advantage of his disciple to reciprocate his feelings now??? Did that count as cheating???? But what if he can't return to the present? Was he supposed to keep a light on for some future version of his husband that might not exist anymore?! All the while, Shen Qingqiu discovers rather quickly how difficult it is to sleep on his own all the time...

Though ultimately present!SQQ's stay in the past is rather short-lived. Long enough to apologise, take Binghe home, angst over the possibility of erasing his own future, and accidentally call his disciple "husband" once or twice. A few months, maybe more. He leaves Luo Binghe with something to think about-- and rejoins his husband impoverished from the distinct lack of fooling around and canoodling the past had to offer him.

--

While his future self is in the past, past!SQQ... well, he wakes up laying next to Luo Binghe. The man he'd been so sure hated him with his entire being and wanted him dead. In fact, he rather doesn't remember falling asleep. Or being in a room that looks suspiciously like his own on Qing Jing. As he debates how to extract himself from this... situation... Luo Binghe wakes up, surprised to see that his Shizun managed to beat him to it.

--and he's positively radiant, soft and glowing with affection. Before Shen Qingqiu can move or make a sound, Luo Binghe pounces, pins him to the bed--this is how he dies, goodbye!--pecking kisses down his face like it's the most normal thing in the world. Shen Qingqiu is so thrown off by this that he nearly misses when Luo Binghe, fully enabled by a good night's sleep and [ahem] certain nightly activities, calls him his wife.

But a near miss is still a hit. He'd like to look down at his body to make sure he hasn't somehow transmigrated a second time into a lovely young maiden, but someone is heavy. And laying on him. And hard. How could he be hard this early in the day?! Of course Luo Binghe is a stallion protagonist with a dick capable of cleaving the heavens, but a creeping pain in his backside told Shen Qingqiu that they-- they... they'd already done that. At least once.

Yet, how thin Shen Qingqiu's face must be that a murmured "Shizun?" brings him back to reality instantly. The reality that he isn't some fair damsel who's given her up her virtue; he's no Liu Mingyan. He's not even Ning Yingying. He's still himself.

And that's a lot to take in at once.

Whatever happened, however he got here (though he's determined to find out)... he is Luo Binghe's favoured wife. Seemingly. What is he supposed to do?! Play along? With someone who may or may not just be toying with him? But what else can he do? Gazing into the face of his "husband" all Shen Qingqiu can readily make out is love and concern, and though fear twists a knife in his stomach--

The only thing he can know for sure is how much he doesn't know, he decides. It would be rash to make any sudden judgments.... and he can't stand--he really can't!--how Luo Binghe deflates and wheedles and cries when he tries to push him off or hide.

It's through careful inquiry over the course of his stay that the Shen Qingqiu of the past realises where he is. Or, perhaps better-put, when he is. Though like his contemporary, he is returned to his own time within a matter of months--a time now splintered off from the version of the future he'd been sent to. Interfering with the past tends to do that.

And now he has to deal with the knowledge that Luo Binghe was-- is? Always will be. Totally in love with him. Not to mention everything else that has yet to transpire.

[rosieofcorona]

A Light To Break All Shadows

Just a fluffy little Halsin x Tav fic to keep the darkness at bay. Also on AO3, if you prefer. Thank you for reading! 💕

“How long has it been since you’ve slept?”

Tav is eyeing Halsin suspiciously from the opposite end of Art’s bedside, where he’s been keeping watch over the sick man for days. At least, Halsin thinks it’s been days– perhaps three (or maybe four?) at the most. It is difficult to keep track in the Shadowlands.

At any rate, he cannot answer her immediately, which means his answer is insufficient.

“If you have to think about it,” Tav continues, “It’s been too long.”

She has a point.

He is exhausted, as they all are, but cannot bring himself to rest. They are so close– he is so close– to finding the child that will save them, to ending the hundred-year darkness, to restoring light and balance to the land. 

And Art Cullagh, ill as he is, is the key that will unlock their victory, so Halsin feels as though he must protect him every moment, must stay by his side in case he should wake, or take a turn. 

For days, he has persisted, spurred on by his stamina and willpower. For days, he has waited and watched. Now the idea of sleep falls on him like a spell. 

“It is my duty.” He protests. “I will see this through.” “You will,” she agrees, “When you wake. These people will need you in the days to come. And they will need you to be rested.”

She is playing to his sense of responsibility, he knows, but he is too tired to argue. Reluctantly, he nods his agreement. 

When he rises from his chair, it seems that all his centuries of existence catch up to him at once, his joints and muscles burning. He feels old and sore and weary as he drags himself toward an empty bed.

“Go on,” Tav commands gently. She feels like a mother nudging a child off to sleep. “Even the greatest leaders need rest.”

“Then you ought to rest yourself.”

She laughs at that, though Halsin means it. He knows so few who are so capable, so resilient, so kind. She has already accomplished so many things that he could not, not in hundreds of years of practice.

“You flatter me,” Tav smiles, but Halsin shakes his head. 

“You are extraordinary.” 

His gaze is on her when he says it, on her eyes and mouth and hands, the way her armor cleaves to her, the way her weapon rests against her hip. In another place, another time, another life, he would have had her already, would have known her inside and out if she asked him to. 

And she had asked him to, once, before they came here. He remembers. At the time he had denied her as gently as he could, in the knowledge that what was growing between them, if cultivated, could later prove a distraction, a weakness. 

But gods, he had wanted her then. He wants her still. 

Yet such urges, much like sleep, must be suppressed. At least for now.

Tav stares back at him with wide eyes until she feels a flush come over her cheeks. She turns her face away, just slightly, so that Halsin will not see. 

“Well.” She clears her throat, and redirects. “I’ll rest before we go scouting tomorrow. And I’ll watch Art while you sleep.” 

“As you say.” 

**********

In his dreams, he is back in the Shadowfell, that sunless, cursed place. 

At his feet are bodies, Harper and druid and shade alike. He knows their faces, their names, their stories. Here is Atlan, a boy from his own grove, no more than eighteen years of age. Halsin had cured him once of pox, had later mentored him in the healing arts. 

And here, Jehan the Harper, who had just received word that his wife was expecting. Twins, he’d announced, over a round of drinks at Last Light. 

And Moranna, the Selunite priestess who had blessed them again and again on their journey, had prayed over them and shielded them to the best of her ability. 

All lost to the shadows, corrupted beyond recognition. All dead, cut down by his hand. 

Halsin does his best to avoid stepping on them as he presses onward, each step a battle of its own. The weight of darkness seems to crush him, seems to drain the very life out of his body. 

His god is nowhere here. 

There comes a voice through the black night, distant, disembodied. Halsin, the shadows whisper, and whisper again, closer. Halsin. 

Wildly he turns and swings his glaive, hitting nothing, the panic rising in his throat, and–

“Halsin!” Tav exclaims, blocking a swing of his fist with her forearm. 

She is sitting at the edge of his bed looking concerned, frightened even. His skin is slicked with sweat, his breathing heavy, his body tangled in the bed linens. 

Immediately, a white-hot shame rushes over him, that he should be the one to cause her fear. 

That he should strike at her, even unconsciously, his savior, his ally. His friend, though that is too weak a word for the feeling that grows within him, wraps around his heart like wild ivy. 

“Forgive me,” he pants, “I was–” 

I was lost in the darkness, he means to say, I was frightened and alone, but the words stick in his throat like flies in honey.

Yet Tav seems to know already, a tenderness softening the furrows of her brow. Not pity, he notes. Understanding. 

She has seen equivalent horrors, has seen friends fall and foes flourish and still, and still, keeps fighting toward goodness, toward light. He aches with the thought that she might have such nightmares, that she might know firsthand how he feels now. 

But she soothes him, reaches out to wipe the sweat from his brow, her touch as light and cool as an evening breeze. 

“It’s alright,” she promises. “You don’t have to explain. You are safe here.”

Halsin lets out a breath he’s been holding for too long. It has been many years since he was last comforted, truly comforted. He is so accustomed to doing the comforting that he has almost forgotten what it feels like to be on the receiving end. 

Tenderness is no stranger to him– many of his lovers have been gentle, have been sweet– but none have ever known his burdens, none have carried them, taken them on as their own. Here is one who has, who does, who will, if he will let her. 

He takes Tav’s hand in his and guides it, flattens her palm over the rabbit-fast beat of his heart, breathing deeply, willing it to slow. He wants to say, Thank you, then, I love you, but it’s too soon, he thinks, too desperate, no matter how true. 

“Thank you,” Halsin allows, and swallows the rest. 

Tav smiles at him then, a soft, bright thing, like a single star in the night sky. The true last light in the Shadowlands. 

“Shall I stay with you?”

“Art–,” Halsin starts, but she shakes her head calmly, knowingly. “He’s sleeping soundly. Seems his bad dreams have come to visit you.”

“I do not wish to burden you with something so trivial.”

“You could not burden me,” Tav says quietly. “But I will leave, if you prefer.” 

Her thumb strokes over his chest, her hand still pressed against him. His pulse quickens again at so intimate, so innocent a touch. Halsin wonders if she can feel it.

“I prefer your presence, always. But you need your own rest.” 

“Very well.” 

Her palm slips from him as she rises to her feet, and he thinks for a moment that he’s made a mistake, has waved off her kindness, dismissed her.

Rather, she motions for him to move over and climbs slowly, wordlessly into the bed next to him. He finds himself lifting the sheets for her, inviting her in without hesitation. 

She’s changed, he realizes as she comes close, her armor cast aside for the day. Her nightclothes make her look, make her feel smaller, softer. He wants so badly to slip his hands beneath the fabric, to see how soft she is beneath. 

“Is this alright?” Tav whispers, looking earnestly into his eyes. Her fingertips flit over his cheek, brushing a lock of his hair behind his ear. “Are you alright?”

The bed is small and Halsin is not, and she is pressed against him like a flower between the pages of a book. He can only nod. 

“I will rest here then, with you.”

In the gentlest act he can or will ever remember, she leans forward and kisses his eyes as if bestowing a blessing upon them, a ward against the darkness.

**********

Halsin wakes again in near-total silence, save the gentle inhale-exhale of Tav’s breathing beside him. He doesn’t know how much time has passed, and for the first time in a long time, doesn’t mind. 

Instead, he is aware of how peaceful he feels in this moment, sheltered from the dangers beyond the inn, aware that at one point or another he had let go of his worry and settled deep into dreaming. The earlier tension in his muscles has melted into a tired ache, as if he is returning from a very long walk in the Grove. 

And she is here, wrapped in his arms. A light to break all shadows.

He can’t be sure when it happened. The shift had been imperceptible, like the feeling of falling asleep, or falling in love.

[ninibeingdelulu]

His biggest fan ✧

Plot: You’re Michael’s girlfriend, cheering him at one of his games.

A/N: It’s so bad I hate it😓

The roar of thunderous cheers flooded the stadium as Michael unleashed another stupefying display of lethal precision and brute physicality that defied mortal comprehension.

You watched with breathless awe seated front row as that signature blue mohawk wove a hypnotic cyclone of calculated ferocity carving apart the helpless defense trailing hopelessly in his wake.

Each savage yet eerily choreographed burst from Michael's heavyweight strides reverberated across the pitch warping the boundaries of space and time itself directly proportional to his gravitational soccer supremacy.

Until the entire cosmos distilled into that infinite singularity split-second with just your striker boyfriend, the ball and the yawning maw of the goal awaiting its inevitable oblation.

You bit down hard stifling the visceral shudder trying to escape as Michael's rocket-powered thunderbolt smashed past the defenseless keeper and ignited the back of the net in a blaze of cosmic glory.

Celebrating with that bone-chilling sovereign roar staking his unchallengeable dominion once more before this mortal realm of sporting conquest still so far beneath his transcendent plane of greatness.

Even after the final whistle sounded you remained spellbound observing Michael bask in those rapturous post-coital moments savoring his ineffable feat.

Utterly transfixed upon the hyper-masculine sculpture of your man still slicked with the spoils of carnal supremacy while casting that chiseled nordic profile against the floodlit heavens he reigned sovereign over.

Until his peripheral laser focus abruptly snapped in your direction lancing directly through your aura with a telepathic tractor beam manifesting into actual physics-warping forces.

Almost like each molecule surrounding Michael compressed and bent inward before being shunted aside clearing his path towards you with terrifying inevitability.

You barely had a chance to brace yourself as the unstoppable tsunami slammed into your front row section without mercy or resistance.

The concussive shockwave blasting through your senses while those titanium bulwarks materialized around you scooping your diminutive frame against Michael's furnace-stoked musculature with crushing intensity.

"My sweet empress…I could only hear your voice back there. It motivated me, thank you.”

His rough-hewn bassline resonated against every nerve ending vibrating at some untapped primordial stratum while you strained to surface through the endless whitenoise overloading your synapses.

Only Michael's low gravitic pulses penetrating the oblivion flooding your faculties from that unholy cosmic union now peeling away every layer keeping you distinct individualities during submersion into this event horizon state of indistinguishable polarities collapsed together.

Until finally resurfacing from that singularity after an eternity compressed into nanoseconds - though still deliriously consumed by the aftershocks rippling across your intertwined vessels smoldering in the embers of rapturous conflagration yet still ravenous for more extreme escalations eternally rebirthing from the expended remains!

Only the roaring crescendos from those frenzied supporters still filling the stadium slowly penetrated the vacuous void reverberating between you both savoring that suspended infinitesimal post-orgasmic bliss together.

You felt Michael's stern facade gradually reassemble while withdrawing from your interiors just fractionally enough to restore individuation-yet sense his alpha dominion expanding throughout your reconstituted synaptic matrices cementing his reign over your fused polarities once more.

Then with a subtle shift his smokey granite stare cleaved directly through the veil drawing your reawakened senses under that spellbinding trance spellbinding instantly.

A hushed imperious rasp now caressing your essence from that primal domain where all worldly laws bent to his sovereign decrees:

"Why don’t I reward you tonight, huh, meine liebe ?”

Just experiencing the infinitesimal microcosm of his supreme essence bleeding into your rematerialized corporeal vessel already whiplashed your senses through multiple clinical deaths and resurrections beyond this plane's dimensional limits.

His seismic vibrational frequencies triggered endorphin avalanches detonating every neurotransmitter into frenzied paroxysms anticipating the ineffable escalations still awaiting together...

[alyrasturnz]

ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 MATTHEW STURNIOLO

✮ — writers choice

𖦹 — angst

౨ৎ — fluff

ఌ︎ — smut

﹒⌗﹒ SERIES

cowboy like me // incomplete -coming soon-

(1) ┊: dancing is a dangerous game.

(2) ┊: hey, california.

(3) ┊: let's turn your night around.

(4) ┊: you can't just run around with cowboys!

(5) ┊: as long as i'm with you.

(6) ┊: with your boots beneath my bed.

(7) ┊: you're the first.

(8) ┊: can't we stay like this forever?

(9) ┊: fuck, california

(10) ┊: fuck california

(11) ┊: you're a cowboy like me

folklore love triangle // complete

(1) ┊: august

(2) ┊: cardigan

(3) ┊: betty

﹒⌗﹒ ONESHOTS

| 𖦹 | peter ;; part 1 // part 2

— matt and the reader reach a poignant decision to part ways, with matt assuring her that he will return once the tumult of their lives subsides. despite his promise, the reader's hope wanes with each fleeting second, her heart heavy with the weight of uncertainty.

| ౨ৎ | its nice to have a friend

— in a world suffused with intricate and multifarious expressions of love, the bond between matt and the reader remains serene, intuitive, and profoundly fulfilling.

| 𖦹 | anything (concept)

— what transpires when the inexorable specter of death ultimately cleaves their bond, severing the threads of their shared existence and casting them into the unknown realms beyond mortal comprehension?

| 𖦹 | the other side of the door

— once again, matt remained ensnared at work, sidestepping their plans. this was not an isolated incident—he had done it innumerable times before, each occurrence eroding y/n's patience. at last, she reached her breaking point. overwhelmed by his neglect, she stormed out, ending things in a surge of frustration. deep down, she yearned for him to chase after her, to prove that she truly mattered to him.

| ఌ︎ | false god

— y/n and matt sustain the guise of friendship while clandestinely engaging in intimate encounters. they gratify their desires without the encumbrance of commitment, though beneath the veneer, they surreptitiously yearn to claim each other as their own.

| 𖦹 | illicit affairs

— In a secret love affair, matt, a famous figure, fears his fans' wrath. he hides y/n to protect her from potential scorn, but this secrecy leaves y/n feeling unwanted and ashamed, as if matt is embarrassed to acknowledge her as his girlfriend.

| ఌ︎ | guilty as sin

— when your thoughts begin to unfurl scandalous imaginings about your best friend, an inescapable and profound sense of guilt, as weighty and all-consuming as the burden of sin, inexorably envelops the soul.

| ✮ , ౨ৎ | there’s your answer

— you harbored some doubts about you and matt stepping into the roles of parents, but matt consistently demonstrates through his actions and unwavering dedication that he is not only prepared but deeply committed to embracing this new journey with you.

| ౨ৎ | the perfect pair

— their relationship is like a harmonious duet, each act of support and love blending perfectly to form an ideal pair. he is her steadfast audience, cheering her on from the sidelines, while she, with her enchanting voice, sings their shared dreams into existence.

| 𖦹 | i miss you, i'm sorry

— in the midst of a heated argument, matt and y/n recklessly cast aside their relationship as though it meant nothing. it was only through the silence of separation and the ache of missing each other that they realized the true worth of what they had abandoned.

| 𖦹 | sad beautiful tragic

— as the relentless hands of time weave their intricate tapestry and the miles stretch like an endless horizon, the bond between matt and y/n finds itself tested by the cruel dance of distance and destiny. the once vibrant threads of their connection now strain under the weight of separation, each moment apart a silent echo of longing. yet, within this vast expanse, their hearts continue to beat in unison, whispering promises of a reunion that defies the very fabric of time and space, a testament to a love that endures against all odds.

| ౨ৎ | our song

— in the twilight of their youth, a couple's journey down a serpentine country road becomes a reflective odyssey through the annals of their shared history. their romance, an intricate tapestry of clandestine meetings and whispered affections, unfolds like a symphony of enduring love. through vivid recollections and poignant vignettes, they come to understand that their bond is not ephemeral but an everlasting melody, resonating through the trials of time and the silence of unspoken words.

| 𖦹 , ౨ৎ | shadows of the past

— amidst the fervor of a heated argument, an ostensibly trivial gesture from matt catalyzes a dramatic and heartrending resurgence of y/n's deeply buried childhood trauma, unraveling layers of pain and vulnerability that lay dormant beneath the surface of her stoic facade.

| ౨ৎ | timeless

— loving each other within the confines of a single lifetime feels achingly brief, so they solemnly vow to seek one another in the tapestry of their future incarnations, pledging that their souls will recognize and reunite in every subsequent existence.

| ఌ︎ | teachers pet

— when y/n is teetering on the edge of failure, an overwhelming sense of urgency envelops her. this desperation propels her to seek assistance with such fervor and intensity that it borders on frantic, as she grasps for any means to secure her success.

| 𖦹 , ౨ৎ | the bolter

— y/n and matt had a whirlwind romance, the kind that sweeps you off your feet and leaves you breathless. their love was intense and passionate, burning bright and fast. but y/n, overwhelmed by the intensity and perhaps fearing the vulnerability that comes with such deep emotions, chose to leave. she left matt heartbroken, not because she didn't care, but because she was afraid of the depth of her feelings and what they might mean for her future. this fear drove her to run away, leaving matt to pick up the pieces of his shattered heart. their love, though powerful, was fleeting, like a comet that blazes across the sky and then disappears into the darkness.

| 𖦹 | tolerate it

— y/n finds the weight of motherhood unbearable in solitude. with matt perpetually absent, a profound loneliness engulfs her, leaving her feeling isolated and overwhelmed by the responsibilities that she must shoulder alone.

| ✮ , 𖦹 , ౨ৎ | all too well

— despite her strongest desires to forget, y/n was continually haunted by the vivid memories, each detail sharply imprinted in her mind. the echoes of past moments resonated through her thoughts, refusing to diminish and instead becoming clearer with each passing day. every look, every word, every feeling was remembered all too clearly, weaving an inescapable tapestry of recollections that tied her to the past.

| 𖦹 | 1 step forward, 3 steps back

— in the tumultuous world of matt and y/n, nothing is ever straightforward. matt is a storm, one moment calm and the next a whirlwind of emotions. his unpredictable nature turns their relationship into a relentless rollercoaster ride, where every step forward is met with three steps back. y/n finds herself in a constant state of uncertainty, never knowing which version of matt she'll encounter each day. their connection is a dance on the edge of a knife, both exhilarating and exhausting, filled with moments of intense passion and heartbreaking silence.

| ౨ৎ | you are in love

— how many dawns and dusks must y/n experience, how many exchanged smiles and hushed conversations must unfold, before she traverses the complex labyrinth of her heart and realizes that she is deeply and unconditionally in love with matt?

| ఌ︎ | playing dangerous

— y/n has to substantiate to matt that she's a good girl in one way… or another.

| 𖦹 | ꒰ bigger than the whole sky ꒱ ⌗headcannons ⌗oneshot

— in the maze of his sorrow, matt feels lost, unable to steer through the turbulent waters of grief without you as his guiding light. each day, he wanders through a haze of memories, where every part of his world is shadowed by your absence. the simplest tasks become monumental, as your presence once gave them meaning. without you, he is like a wanderer in a desert, longing for the oasis of your companionship, yet knowing it is an unreachable mirage.

| 𖦹 , ౨ৎ | stay stay stay

— matt and y/n became ensnared in a fervent dispute, prompting matt to exit in a tumultuous manner, leaving their emotions in a state of upheaval. as the hours gradually passed, y/n found herself in solitude, engrossed in profound contemplation. she discerned that, despite the altercation, her paramount desire was to remain united with matt, recognizing that their love was an enduring force, resilient enough to withstand any discord.

| ౨ৎ | cardigan

— in the moments when insecurity about your scars cast a shadow over your heart, matt revealed to you that your scars were not mere blemishes but the testament of a lifelong battle, each one a chapter in your story of resilience. he helped you see that these marks were not symbols of shame but emblems of your enduring strength and unyielding spirit.

| ౨ৎ | devotion in distress

— matt refused to let a mere sickness stand in the way of what was meant to be your special night. with a resolve as steadfast as the mountains, he cast aside any thoughts of weakness, determined that no ailment would tarnish the moments you had both eagerly anticipated.

| ✮ , 𖦹 | cherry waves

— in a chilling tale of obsession and regret, a small town is haunted by the legacy of ghost face, a masked figure whose reign of terror left scars both seen and unseen. amidst the shadows, y/n discovers the hidden wounds of those she thought she knew, unraveling a web of secrets and lies. as the past and present collide, the boundaries between victim and villain blur, leading to a final confrontation where the true face of fear is revealed.

| 𖦹 | too clingy?

— when matt falters and, in a moment of weakness, channels all his pent-up anger towards you, the weight of his mistake hangs heavy in the air. his frustration, like a storm, lashes out, leaving emotional wreckage in its wake. each harsh word and sharp glance becomes a painful reminder of the vulnerability that underlies human imperfection.

| 𖦹 , ౨ৎ | fractured echoes

— matt had an excruciatingly difficult day, plagued by stress and numerous setbacks. regrettably, upon returning home, he vented his accumulated frustration on y/n. his words were acerbic, and his demeanor was uncharacteristically aloof, leaving y/n feeling deeply wounded and bewildered.

| ౨ৎ | just a little longer

— y/n finds herself torn between her plans with friends and the irresistible allure of staying in with matt. as the morning sun filters through the curtains, matt's gentle pleas for a few more moments of cuddling create a tender conflict. y/n must navigate the delicate balance between her social commitments and the comforting embrace of her beloved, ultimately discovering that sometimes, the simplest moments hold the greatest significance.

| 𖦹 , ౨ৎ | this is me trying

— y/n struggles silently with a heavy heart. unable to open up to matt, y/n pens a poignant suicide note, a final cry for help. unbeknownst to y/n, matt stumbles upon the note, unraveling the depth of y/n's hidden pain. as the weight of the discovery settles, matt is determined to bridge the chasm of silence and offer the support y/n desperately needs.

| 𖦹 | shattered dreams

— the bond between a mother and her child is a force of nature, unyielding and profound. yet, the anguish that engulfs a mother upon losing her child is an abyss of sorrow, a pain that defies the very essence of strength.

| ౨ৎ , ఌ︎ | his princess

— y/n's delicate softness and effortless grace have an almost magical ability to draw out a tender, vulnerable side in matt, a side he keeps hidden from the rest of the world. he finds her femininity not just enchanting, but profoundly captivating, often going to great lengths to ensure she feels cherished and adored, as if her presence alone brings light into his life.

| ౨ৎ , 𖦹 | how can you love someone like me?

— two souls clash with raw emotion. y/n, weighed down by past scars and self-doubt, questions their worthiness of love. matt sees beyond the flaws, recognizing the true beauty within.

| 𖦹 | anything

— in a poignant tale of love and loss, matt cradles y/n in his arms during her final moments, his heart shattering as life slips away from her. consumed by grief, he attends her wake, where memories of their time together flood his mind, and he grapples with the profound emptiness left behind. this story delves into the depths of sorrow and the enduring bond of love, even in the face of death.

| 𖦹 , ౨ৎ | hits different

— y/n and matt have had a rollercoaster of a relationship, characterized by cyclical separations and reunions. after an extended period of y/n engaging in a series of dates, endeavoring to extricate herself from the lingering affections for matt, she realizes that no one compares to matt. despite the myriad of challenges and emotional vicissitudes, their bond remains indomitable.

| ౨ৎ | spare me the embarrassment

— when matt comes home stressed, you instinctively know just what he needs. you recognize the subtle tension in his shoulders and the weariness in his eyes, and you prepare to envelop him in a cocoon of understanding and care. or maybe something else..

| ౨ৎ | eighteen

— matt proposes to y/n at the very spot where he first confessed his love for her when they were both 18. the place holds a special significance in their hearts, making the moment even more poignant and memorable. as he slips the ring onto her finger, memories of their youthful love flood back, intertwining with the promise of their future together.

| ౨ৎ | did i wake you?

— in the quiet hours of the night, matt's voice breaks through the stillness, waking y/n from slumber. as y/n stirs, they realize that matt is deeply engrossed in an intense fortnite session with his brothers. seeking comfort, y/n gently coaxes matt away from the screen and into a warm embrace.

| ౨ৎ | matt, he's ten!

— matt and y/n settle in for their usual evening chat, sharing the highlights and lowlights of their day. as y/n recounts a charming encounter with a boy she met in the park, who, despite being just ten years old, had the wisdom and charm of someone much older, matt's curiosity quickly turns into jealousy. unable to mask his feelings, matt's expressions shift from interest to a stubborn mix of jealousy and embarrassment.

| ౨ৎ | baby fever

— matt's overwhelming desire to start a family becomes the central theme. his baby fever has been a constant, gentle pressure, a dream he's nurtured for what feels like forever.

| 𖦹 , ౨ৎ | i'm listening.

— as y/n screams and yells, pouring out her frustrations and fears, matt listens with a quiet strength. his calm presence contrasts sharply with y/n's fiery outburst, creating a dynamic tension. despite the chaos, matt's gentle words and unwavering patience begin to soothe the tempest within y/n, guiding her back to a place of understanding and connection.

| ౨ৎ | velvet ring

— matt harbors a deep love for y/n, a love that is both genuine and unwavering. yet, he is not alone in his affections; countless others vie for her attention, each trying to capture a piece of her heart.

| ౨ৎ | tired of your bullshit

— matt, blindfolded and immersed in a game of deaf, blind, and mute, mistakenly believes he's yelling at nick. in reality, y/n stands silently nearby, stifling laughter as she mischievously pushes his limits. each tease and silent provocation only fuels matt's frustration, making him even more mad.

| 𖦹 , ౨ৎ | but daddy i love him!

— in the heart of an opulent estate, y/n lives a life of privilege as the daughter of a revered pastor. her days are filled with the expectations and responsibilities that come with her family's wealth and reputation. however, her world takes a tumultuous turn when she crosses paths with matt, a rebellious soul with a penchant for danger. despite her father's vehement disapproval and stern warnings, y/n finds herself irresistibly drawn to matt.

| ఌ︎ | somethin' new

— when y/n thought they were going to make love, matt surprised her by gently guiding her into cockwarming instead. as he pulled her close, y/n felt a wave of unexpected intimacy wash over her.

﹒⌗﹒ HEADCANONS

| ౨ৎ | so highschool ⌗nerd!reader ⌗nerd!matt

— high school sweethearts, they embody the perfect equilibrium of intellect and physical prowess. their union seamlessly blends the sharpness of mind with the strength of body, creating a harmonious balance that is both enviable and rare.

| 𖦹 | ꒰ bigger than the whole sky ꒱ ⌗headcannons ⌗oneshot

— in the maze of his sorrow, matt feels lost, unable to steer through the turbulent waters of grief without you as his guiding light. each day, he wanders through a haze of memories, where every part of his world is shadowed by your absence. the simplest tasks become monumental, as your presence once gave them meaning. without you, he is like a wanderer in a desert, longing for the oasis of your companionship, yet knowing it is an unreachable mirage.

| ౨ৎ | in the wake of tempests

— after a stormy argument leaves y/n feeling adrift, matt steps in with a calming presence. in the wake of tempests, he becomes the anchor, offering solace and understanding as they navigate the turbulent waters of their emotions.

| ౨ৎ | i know places

— in the bustling, glamorous world of high society, matt and y/n's love affair is a carefully guarded secret. their relationship, hidden from the public eye, is filled with stolen moments and passionate encounters that set their hearts ablaze.

| ౨ৎ | reflections of a distorted mirror

— when matt gently reminds you that your true value extends far beyond the visage you see in the mirror, encompassing more than the digits displayed on the scale or the food you consume. he reassures you that your essence is woven from the threads of your kindness, intelligence, and the unique qualities that make you who you are, far surpassing any superficial measure

| ౨ৎ | swiftie?

— matt starts off indifferent to taylor swift, but soon finds himself embracing her music for the sake of his girlfriend

| ౨ৎ , ఌ︎ | his princess

— y/n's delicate softness and effortless grace have an almost magical ability to draw out a tender, vulnerable side in matt, a side he keeps hidden from the rest of the world. he finds her femininity not just enchanting, but profoundly captivating, often going to great lengths to ensure she feels cherished and adored, as if her presence alone brings light into his life.

| ౨ৎ | tangled in your bedsheets

— from the gentle way he plays with your hair to the firm yet loving embrace that makes you feel utterly safe, each scenario captures the essence of true affection. whether he's whispering sweet nothings, tracing patterns on your back, or pulling you back into bed for a few more minutes of warmth, matt's love is a comforting constant that you never want to let go of.

| ౨ৎ | silent affections

— matt is a man of few words but deep emotions. he finds solace in the quiet moments, the gentle rustling of leaves, and the soft glow of morning light. his world changes when he meets you, a lively soul whose voice brings color to his serene life. together, you navigate the delicate dance of love, where matt's silent gestures speak volumes, and your animated stories breathe life into his quiet existence.

| ౨ৎ | friends

— matt and y/n are best friends, their bond forged in the fires of shared laughter and silent understanding. they are both insanely in love with each other, though neither dares to voice their feelings. their hearts dance around the truth, each convinced that the other sees them only as a friend.

| ౨ৎ | my bookworm

— matt rarely finds solace in the written word, preferring the tangible world around him. y/n, on the other hand, is a dreamer, her heart and mind forever lost in the pages of books, where every story is a new adventure

[rayveneyed]

cw; violence, gore, angst with a tinge of hope, god!au, power imbalance

the reputation of the war god, sukuna, casts a monstrous shadow over the land.

four arms and two heads and a gaping, snarling maw carved into his stomach — a host of violent magic at his disposal. he is the boogey-man beneath the bed, the shadow lurking around the corner, the glinting edge of cold steel. he is the pang of hunger in the stomachs of marching soldiers; the cold sweat of fear in women and children, cowering low in their homes as their village is ransacked by enemies. he is pain and adrenaline and strength, cleaved in half and sewn shoddily together. he is all of this and more, and yet you serve him.

you have never seen your patron god. you have never hoped to see him. to devote yourself to the two-faced one is to fear him. thousands of years have passed without a single sighting of him, or any god, for that matter — you are poorly prepared to stand in his presence.

and so, when the war god sukuna looms above you in the crushed remains of your home — a temple once grand, once mighty — with his coiling muscles and gargantuan size, you repeat this to yourself. a comfort of sorts.

pain and adrenaline and strength. the glinting edge of cold steel. the boogey-man beneath the bed.

to have him stand above you is enough to have your breath curdling in your throat. he eclipses you completely, his size almost indescribable — in your fear, in your grief, you can only gape up at him, teary-eyed and shivering like a kitten in the cold. your vestments have all been torn, or burned, or bloodied. this is not how you should present yourself to your god.

you shouldn’t even dare to meet his eyes. you’re simply too shaken to right your wrong.

“my lord,” you manage to greet, though most syllables catch like treacle in your throat.

you are insignificant. you realise this, in his shadow. your life is minuscule, paltry, meagre in his presence. he is a god and you are a girl, bones and veins and flesh that gives, and he may as well be obsidian. diamond, perhaps. he has seen thousands of years pass — empires rise and fall. the follies and infightings of man are entertainment; the deaths of millions are nothing but numbers lost to time.

he hums, and it’s like your brain is snapped from its shackles. you feel the blood drying against your cheek. the smell of burning flesh dizzying your mind. viscera beneath your palms. the entrails that were once your sisters give a sickening squelch, and all at once bile rises in your throat. you try to temper it, to focus on anything except your life that is crumbling to pieces around you — but the only thing to ground you is the cracked marble underfoot, cool and hard where your skin presses against it.

sukuna regards you as if you’re nothing but a speck of dust; there’s that sort of bored amusement about him, a cat batting idly at a squirming, broken-winged bird. he tilts his head, and raises a sharp, dark brow.

“woman,” he speaks, and his voice is a thousand drums beat in unison, the roar of a moving war-front. echoing and sonorous and enough to have you shivering where you sit. “it seems you are the only survivor.”

you make a sound like the wind has been punched from you.

“pity,” continues sukuna, seemingly ignoring your squeak. his gaze rises to the shattered pillars and rubble of your home, the smoking piles of fabric, the fires that rage even now. “you were minutely more valuable than cockroaches, at least.”

again, those eyes — four of them, unerringly dark — drift down to you, his brow furrowed in what you suppose might be curiosity. his lips twitch upwards in the cruel imprint of a smile. “oh? you protected yourself. how quaint.”

as if to make a point — or perhaps just to startle you — he reaches one grand hand out, and moves to flick you with a razor-sharp nail — only it never makes contact with you. you watch, wide-eyed and sick-stomached, as the air around you shimmers with a blue reflection. his finger bounces right off, though the force he first hits it with is far more gentle than his limit — the next time he flicks, seemingly finished with his demonstration, the paper-thin barrier cracks and shatters into a thousand shards, all eventually carried off by the wind. it is all too easy for him. you are once again reminded that you are nothing in comparison.

one of those monstrously large hands lunges forward, grasping your chin roughly. those sharp nails prick painfully against your cheeks. your god clearly does not care much for the blood and tears that scar you.

“i still desire some modicum of worship,” declares sukuna, glaring down at you. “i have lost 59 priestesses, and i must cull those who worked against me. you will have to do.”

a tear tickles the side of your nose as it migrates further from your eye. “yes, my lord.”

“my mercy does not strike twice,” he warns — and though his voice is so amused you have no doubt he is being truthful. “a hair out of line will see you joining your sisters.”

another sudden burn of tears. his grip on your jaw is still quite painful. “y-yes, my lord.”

silence reigns once more. the crackle of fire reminds you of the snapping of tree branches. the flicker of flames reminds you of the dances you and your sisters once performed in devotion to him, intertwining and spiralling, ceremonial swords and daggers and spears. you never would have danced had you known this fate would once befall you. you would have left this temple as soon as your girlhood ended.

sukuna tilts your head side to side, suddenly, as if to inspect you. his eyes trail from your jaw, to the curve of your cheekbone, to the roundness of fat that forms your cheek. they finish at your eyes — teary, bloodshot eyes, squinting in pain and sorrow and discomfort.

“hm,” he says, releasing you to turn on his heel. the muscles in his back ripple with each step he takes away from you, and the ground seems to tremble in time. “yes. i suppose i’ll keep you.”

he disappears through the crumbled archway, and your lungs seem to collapse. you suddenly feel very frail.

the remaining priestess of a war-hungry god. you suppose that a purpose is exactly what you need, now that your home is destroyed. now that all you have loved has been reduced to ash.

death may have been a mercy for your sisters, but should this be your last task before you join them, you can only do what you have always done: worship.

you can only hope you survive long enough to do them proud.

[acapelladitty]

thinnest thread, sown together

Summary: After an accident, Cooper leaves Lucy to patch up his leather duster for him but when he returns he finds that she's used his absence as an opportunity for a private indulgence (AKA: Cooper walks in on Lucy masturbating). [3.2k words]

(tw: voyeurism, vague threats, teasing, masturbation, mentions of drug use, orgasm, coming in pants)

Fic Masterlist

Link to AO3

"Try not to fuck this up, vaultie. I'm fond of that coat, you hear me?"

"Heard you the first three times, boss."

An unfortunate and somewhat embarrassing accident involving wooden boards and a protruding scrap of sheet metal had proven too much for Cooper's coat, the leather duster having almost split in half due to the pressure of the metal cleaving its way through the material as he descended in a undignified heap.

Lucy was a smart enough girl to know not to laugh, but the noise which escaped the ghoul as he had fallen sat somewhere between a deflating balloon and a startled deathclaw so the effort it had taken for her to not bust out into a giggle was borderline heroic.

The fault was Cooper's own, his footing misstepping due to his attention being pulled away by the distant sound of gunfire - the origins of it unknown but never anything good. It had been enough to throw him off though, and Cooper had sworn up a storm as he tripped on a loose board and smashed through the rickety walkway with such an undignified noise.

Not the end of the world but the genuine distress which seemed to briefly touch at Cooper's face as he recovered from the fall and examined his tattered jacket before his eyes had moved Lucy to offer to fix it up, knowing that he already owned a rusted needle and thread among the various practical belongings he had strewn around his person.

Presumably, they were the same ones he'd previously used to sew the top of her finger onto his own to replace the missing digit she'd torn off with her teeth. She didn't regret it since he'd deserved that and worse for treating her more shittily than that dog that followed him around at times, but she was curious.

More than once her gaze had lowered to her displaced finger, the lightened tone of her smooth skin a stark contrast to his own, and she wondered how it must feel. To have her as a part of him. Did it feel any different? The sight of it made something odd roil in her chest; a stunning mixture of curiosity, vague disgust, and a pleasant warmth that no matter what he did or how their partnership ended, he would always carry that little part of her whether he liked it or not.

However, that was a discussion which she hadn't broached yet but it was always there ticking away in the back of her mind.

Despite knowing that he was perfectly capable, Lucy found her offer of her sewing skills being met with quick acceptance and Cooper had moved like hell itself as he sourced her a table and room to work, securing their accommodation for the night in an old storage unit which was little more than two rooms filled with old, empty crates and not much else.

She set to work as diligently as she had the rest of the miserable and shitty tasks he assigned to her, each designed to test her skills or teach her a valuable lesson in survival. This though, she had taken to with a small smile, the repetitive and willing task remindering her of a more simple time back in her vault. Sewing circle with the others had been a blast of fun and constant gossip and she did miss it at times.

A memory stirred as Cooper watched her from his standing position a few feet behind her turned back. He saw Barb, sitting at their kitchen table doing much the same as she mended the tears in his pants after he'd taken a tumble off one of the more unstable stallions. But, just as quickly as it arose, he banished the memory away as he often did with thoughts of his ex-wife - the hurt which accompanied them making him instantly sour and grow more volatile than he would like.

Since discovering his previous life as an actor, Lucy's attitude and actions around him had been different and, more than once, he had caught her staring at him with those big, doe eyes of hers. What was surprising more than anything was that the attention didn't irritate him as much as he thought it would and he wasn't ignorant to the slight blush that stained her cheeks when he caught her making a moon face at him.

Seemed that Lucy Maclean had developed herself quite the little liking to him and he had taken that discovery into his stride with a smug gleefullness. He had always been a proud man and to have such an attractive thing interested in him had cracked open a facet of his personality that had long since closed itself off to the world.

Cooper Howard had always been a flirt, incorrigible in his prime, and those mean little teases which he afforded Lucy punished him as much as her as he refused to follow up on them. He hadn't lied when he said Lucy Maclean wasn't ready for him and that same pride refused to allow him to take any real advantage of her, knowing that in the long run, she'd probably thank him for not poisoning her with his own bullshit.

But still, he lived for the game and this was just another way to play. A bit of fun to pass the time until they had dealt with her daddy and he had found the truth of his daughters' whereabouts.

If he were honest with himself, a feat in its own given his choices, something unfamiliar and warm tugged at his stomach every time he considered the fact that Lucy's fancies had taken root with him as he was now. Not Cooper Howard, famed movie star, but Cooper Howard, ghoul and scourge of the wastelands. It was a feeling locked away with the end of the world he had known and better left by the wayside.

Besides, it was much easier to channel that warmth into some playful teasing.

Pressing himself firmly against her as she leaned diligently over his coat, his stomach was flush against her back and he felt the shiver which rolled down her spine as he engulfed her senses. She hid it well, could have easily passed it off as a natural reaction to a monster forcing its way into her personal space, but Cooper knew better.

"Don't take an attitude with me, vaultie. Your damn fault it ripped in the first place. Lucky for you that I'm a kindly man and I ain't ripping your shirt off to keep us on that equal streak we've been enjoying these last few weeks."

Her head snapping up vertically to face him as he loomed over her, Lucy's expression was as open as ever to him as he took in the torrid mixture of irritation, focus, and mild arousal which his determined positioning was causing her.

And just like that, there was that little flush of colour, sitting high on her cheeks and making him hold back a smirk as he at played her like an old fiddle.

"My shirt wouldn't fit you." Was her impressive comeback after a few silent moments of intense consideration, her mouth set into a proud line as she made her point.

"Never said I'd be wearing it, sweetheart." Cooper answered, pushing her head even further back into his stomach with the pressure of a single finger on her forehead. "What I did say is that you would be losing it. I mean, that's your golden rule, after all. Do unto others what you'd have done unto you? Hrm?"

"I never took your jacket." Lucy defended hotly.

"Well it's between your hands, ain't it?"

"Only because-"

"Enough arguing, darling." Cutting her off to frustrate her evern further, Cooper dropped his hands to the pockets of his filthy slacks. "Now I'm gonna leave on a scouting trip for five, maybe six hours, so you get that jacket all patched up and looking pretty and I'll see about forgetting what I was talking about."

Silently seething but perking up at the thought of getting to enjoy some alone time as her back felt wickedly hot from Cooper standing flush against her skin, Lucy did everything in her power to not think about the slight bulge which pressed between her shoulder blades nor the infuriating man it belonged to.

"Whatever." Lucy announced after a pause, nodding her head forward once more as she went back to mending his coat with dexterous fingers. "Try to pick up something freshly killed on the way back because your latest batch of ass jerky tastes like shit."

Having taken to calling anything Cooper hunted and cooked 'ass jerky', Lucy had yet to actually try any of his cannibalistic delicacies and, even more surprising, Cooper had never actively offered her any; appearing to almost go out of his way to find excuses for her to be denied it.

Chuckling at the rare swear from her, a sign that she was truly annoyed with him, Cooper tutted his disapproval with a soft headshake.

"Sounds good to me, valutie. Maybe you should see about washing that filthy fucking mouth out with soap before I return, huh?"

x-x-x-x-x

Arriving back from his scouting trip a few hours earlier than he expected to, Cooper heard nothing as he silently entered the first room of the storage unit. A quick hunt had pulled up nothing too fresh so shit-tasting ass jerky was back on the menu for another night for the little food critic vaultie.

Cooper dropped his gun and holster to the top of a nearby storage box, the lock rusting and clearly having been opened through sheer brute force many years previously. Against all odds, he had found himself actively missing his coat as he traversed the vast dusted grounds which surrounded the storage unit.

So used to its presence, the absence of the familiar feel of the softened leather pressing against his shoulders had made him feel oddly vulnerable as his fingers flexed and twitched towards phantom pockets. He had been quick to the trigger, gun pulled and pointed at the slightest noise as his heightened senses refused to allow him to relax on the small trip.

And, as much as it irritated him, the thought of the little vaultie hunched over his coat and fixing it up like a kept housewife amused him in a way which he found hard to pin down.

Speaking of the little vaultie, her absence in the main room was odd; particularly since the table she had preciously occupied with his coat was abandoned. It was an absence which made him curious rather than worried as she would not have left without him or without having achieved their shared goal of knocking her daddies teeth down his smug throat.

No.

She was too smart to leave.

So that would mean...

Peering in through the rounded window which sat near the top of the door that led to the second room, Cooper had to press his lips together in an instant as his cock stiffened in his pants and his eyes widened at the filthy sight which awaited him.

Unaware that Cooper's scouting trip had been cut shorter than anticipated, Lucy Maclean had apparently taken his absence as a rare excuse for some self-pleasure and, god-fucking-damn, did she seem to be enjoying herself.

Her upper body reclined against the metallic wall, her ass resting on a wooden crate as one leg hung loosely down the side of it, the other pulled up so her foot also sat atop the crate. Her knees were spread wide, the angle enough to allow her easy access to her dripping cunt without having to bend. Head tipped back against the wall, her fingers moved quickly between her slickened folds and Cooper couldn't bring himself to turn away even as shame at his own voyeurism trickled down his spine.

Falling loosely around her shoulders, Lucy's hair was in a wild state of disarray as the constant roll of her head against the wall had messed up any sense of order in the dark strands.

The only sounds in the immediate vicinity came from her, muted gasps and whimpers slipping free of her lips as her other hand split its attention between pressing against her mouth to muffle anything louder than a whine and pinching at her breasts; slender fingers rolling across her darkened nipples as they remained peaked in the warm air.

She was fucking beautiful and, as much as filthy shame continued to creep across his skin at watching her like this, Cooper found he couldn't tear his eyes away as his gaze filtered over her creamy skin, imagining how soft it would feel under his calloused hand and blunted teeth.

He knew that she had quite the little sex drive, her crossed arms having more than once demanded time or space to indulge her needs. In those moments, where she was commanding and confident in her expectations, an aspect of her personality that she didn't indulge nearly enough, he found it maddeningly endearing and it drove him more wild than she ever needed to know.

Snatching her fingers away from her left nipple, her hand dropped to something by her side and Cooper almost gave the game away as a lustful growl was quickly caught by the back of his gloved hand as his cock jerked within his slacks.

There, clenched between Lucy's fingers was his goddamn jacket; the mended leather bunching up between her digits as she simultaneously rode the fingers on her other hand - the fingers there moving in tandem and they stroked and pinched and fucked into her cunt with a steady rhythm.

"Cooper." She muttered and a sensation, not unlike freezing cold water being shucked across his body, tensed Cooper's spine as he realised he'd been caught. However, the panicked feeling passed just as quickly as Lucy's soft voice followed up with a very breathy. "Please."

She was thinking about him and that revelation was almost enough to have him shooting off in his pants like a schoolboy. Her eyes remained closed, fingers moving even more quickly as they slipped from steadily pumping within her to circle around her clit, teasing herself as she imagined him.

Thought about him.

Pictured his fingers in place of her own.

Feeling very hot under the collar and fighting the urge to say 'to hell with it' and announce himself, Cooper dropped the heel of his gloved hand to his groin - rubbing at his trapped cock through the fabric as he watched her. Fresh shame, hot and heavy, swept across his irradiated skin as his tongue slipped free to lick as his dry lips.

There had been an old fling, a women he'd met on a hunt about a decade before the whole shitshow with Don Pedro had gone down. A ghoul like him, she was hellfire in a handbag and quicker with a gun than most of the slingers he'd met.

She'd caught him at a sloppier time in his past and he had taken full advantage of their whirlwind mess to indulge his own worst traits. The chem flowed easier in those times and the other drugs she scored made the hard days all the sweeter as they snorted and fucked and inhaled themselves into a proper mess.

However, even that didn't last and one day he had awoken from a stupor to find that she had disappeared and moved on without him.

Fuck, he couldn't even remember her name, but what he could remember was the feeling of her lips on his cock and the way she could perfectly balance a powdered line on his chest as she bit her way down his skin, occasionally drawing blood and making him gasp.

She had been as rotten as him, just two ghouls numbing themselves to the state of the world for a couple of weeks as they waited for the inevitable to take them.

Hell, some of the shit they got up to would probably blow the vaulties head clean off if he described them to her. But then, she was so different to the rest that he couldn't help but wonder how she liked it.

Would she grit her teeth and moan through the pain as he fucked himself inside her, stretching her out to accommodate his size? Or would she grin that little feral smile he'd seen playing on her lips when she achieved some bloodstained victory and push back at him to demand more?

His cock twitched against his palm, the length feeling more uncomfortably trapped as he rubbed himself through his slacks, not quite trusting himself to pull it free. It was torture but, lucky for him, he was used to that by now.

Goddamn Lucy Maclean and her wicked ways had him pawing at himself like a mindless beast. Like one of those mutated things that roamed the outskirts of the desert with nothing but base desire guiding its thoughts.

Rolling his tongue against his teeth, he could imagine how good she would feel under his mouth. Her soft skin, pillowy and firm between his teeth as he teased the strength of it; biting enough to threaten the unblemished creaminess as she arched her back and pressed harder into his mouth. The taste of her sweat, fresh and mounting, as he trailed his mouth lower, lips teasing their way along her hips and inner thighs until she was a trembling mess ready for him to consume her like she knew he wanted.

In her panicked babble as she had first offered him sex, she had tried to offer the use her mouth and he gazed at her lips now, plump and wettened by her own tongue, and he could almost feel the wicked softness of them wrapped around his cock; her greedy tongue pulling him deeper as he gripped her hair within his hand and met her eyes while he buried his cock deep within her clenching throat.

Lost in the fantasy, his thoughts boldened by his voyeurism as he watched her curl her fingers expertly within her cunt, Cooper came with a muted grunt - the disgrace of his release instantly trapping within his pants as the sticky mess quickly irritated him with how heated and uncomfortable it felt.

Lucy still wasnt finished, her casual edging of her own pleasure only making her move more slowly as she built herself back up to the point of release. Her grip on his coat flexed with each pump of her fingers as she enjoyed herself, still unaware of the struggling ghoul who observed her with heated eyes.

Backing away from the door with regret etched in the lines of his features, Cooper silently exited the storage unit once again as he recalled a nearby barrel of water - the stagnant liquid probably decent enough to allow him to clean off his mess and hide all evidence of his unexpected show.

Her innocent question rattled through his mind once more, the weeks old offer still as fresh as ever in its casualness.

Do you want to have sex?

And, after that little taste, Cooper felt a weight lift off his shoulders as he settled on the fact that, yes, if Lucy Maclean - with her big eyes and busy fingers - asked him again, then he would take her up on her very generous offer, consequences be fucking damned.

Links to the rest of the series:

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 5

Part 6

Part 7

[whywontyoucomeout]

The Warrior at Rest

Kaira stood at the window of her modest stone cottage, one hand resting on the swell of her enormous belly as she gazed out at the rolling hills beyond. At nearly nine months pregnant, her once lean warrior's physique had transformed dramatically. Her belly protruded like a great round shield, stretching the fabric of her tunic taut.

Despite her current state, Kaira's piercing green eyes remained as sharp as ever, scanning the horizon with the keen awareness of a seasoned fighter. Her long red hair was pulled back in a practical braid, revealing a thin white scar that ran from her left temple to her jaw - a reminder of battles past.

Kaira sighed, feeling the restlessness that had plagued her these past months. She was unaccustomed to this sedentary life, this waiting. Her hands, calloused from years of wielding sword and spear, itched for the familiar weight of a weapon.

As she watched the distant hills, her mind drifted back to her years as the most feared warrior in the Five Kingdoms. They had called her "The Crimson Whirlwind" for the way she moved on the battlefield - a blur of flashing steel and flowing red hair. Kaira had led armies to victory against impossible odds, her tactical genius as renowned as her combat prowess.

She remembered the Battle of Blackmire Pass, where she had single-handedly held the narrow mountain path against a horde of invaders, buying time for reinforcements to arrive. For three days and nights she had fought, her twin swords singing as they cleaved through enemy after enemy. When the dust settled, over two hundred foes lay dead at her feet.

Kaira's hand absently moved to her swollen belly as the baby within gave a strong kick. She smiled, imagining the child would be as fierce a fighter as its parents. Her husband Torin was nearly her equal in combat skill, though he preferred the great axe to her favored swords.

A pang of worry shot through her as she thought of Torin, out there now leading their forces against the Shadowmere invasion. This was the first campaign she had not fought by his side in over a decade. Part of her ached to be there with him, to feel the thrill of battle once more.

But Kaira knew her current battle was here - bringing new life into the world. She rubbed her aching back, feeling the weight of her enormous belly. The village midwife had remarked that she had never seen such a large pregnancy, joking that Kaira must be carrying twins or even triplets. Kaira wasn't so sure - she felt in her bones that it was one child, but a strong one.

As the sun began to set, painting the hills in shades of gold and crimson, Kaira's thoughts turned to the uncertain future. Would she be able to return to the battlefield once the child was born? Or would motherhood change her in ways she couldn't yet fathom?

One thing was certain - warrior or mother, Kaira would face whatever challenges lay ahead with the same courage and determination that had made her a legend. She took a deep breath, squaring her shoulders as she had done countless times before charging into battle. Whatever came next, she would be ready.

—————————-

As twilight descended, a frantic pounding at the door shattered Kaira's contemplative silence. Her heart clenched as she opened it to find a breathless messenger, his face etched with grim news.

"My lady," he gasped, "the battle goes ill. Lord Torin... he's been gravely wounded. The enemy advances."

Kaira's world tilted on its axis. Without a word, she strode to the back of the cottage where her armor hung. Custom-made to accommodate her pregnancy, the breastplate was a masterwork of overlapping plates and supple leather. Yet as she donned it, Kaira found even this ingenious design strained against her enormous belly.

Ignoring the discomfort, she cinched the straps as tight as she dared. The pressure was intense, but bearable. Kaira gritted her teeth, her warrior's discipline overriding the protests of her body. She seized her twin swords, their familiar weight a grim comfort.

"Prepare my horse," she commanded the stunned messenger.

The ride to the battlefield was a blur of pain and determination. Each gallop sent shockwaves through Kaira's distended abdomen, the baby within kicking furiously. But Kaira's focus was singular: reach Torin, turn the tide of battle.

As she crested the final hill, the scene before her stole the breath from her lungs. The field was a chaos of clashing steel and fallen bodies. And there, at the center of it all, lay a familiar figure in blood-stained armor.

"No!" The cry tore from Kaira's throat as she spurred her mount forward. But even as she fought her way through the melee, she knew she was too late. Torin's eyes, once so full of life and love, stared sightlessly at the darkening sky.

Something snapped within Kaira. The grief, the rage, the primal protective instinct of impending motherhood - it all coalesced into a berserker fury unlike anything she had ever experienced. She became the Crimson Whirlwind once more, but this time there was no grace, no artistry to her movements. Only raw, devastating power.

Her swords flashed like lightning, cutting bloody swathes through the enemy ranks. Soldiers fell before her like wheat before the scythe. Those who saw her coming - this impossibly pregnant warrior dealing death with inhuman speed and strength - fled in terror.

Hours passed in a red haze. Kaira fought until her arms burned and her lungs heaved. She fought until the ground grew slick with blood and the air thick with the stench of death. She fought until, at last, only one enemy remained standing.

The Shadowmere commander stood before her, his black armor splattered with gore. Even through his helm, Kaira could sense his disbelief at the carnage she had wrought.

"Demon," he hissed, raising his mace. "What manner of creature are you?"

Kaira said nothing. Words were beyond her now. There was only the pounding of her heart, the weight of her unborn child, and the burning need for vengeance. She raised her swords, their edges notched and dripping, and prepared for one final battle.

The commander charged with a roar, his mace whistling through the air. Kaira met his assault head-on, her twin blades a whirlwind of steel. They clashed in a furious exchange, neither giving ground.

But Kaira's rage was a bottomless well, fueling her beyond the limits of normal endurance. With a cry that seemed to shake the very heavens, she battered through the commander's guard. Her left sword knocked his mace aside; her right plunged deep into his chest.

————-

As her foe crumpled to his knees, Kaira stood over him, her sword point resting at his throat. The Shadowmere commander's eyes widened with fear as he stared up at her, his helm having been knocked away in their fierce duel.

"You took everything from me," Kaira growled, her voice raw with emotion. "My husband, my child's father, the future we were meant to share."

The commander swallowed hard, feeling the cold steel against his skin. "Please," he begged, his earlier bravado evaporating in the face of death. "Mercy! I have a family too—"

"As did every soldier you sent to their deaths," Kaira cut him off, her green eyes blazing with contempt. "As did my husband."

She drew back her sword, preparing for the final blow. But just as she tensed to strike, a searing pain ripped through her abdomen. Kaira gasped, nearly dropping her weapon as she realized what was happening. The baby was coming.

The commander, seeing her momentary weakness, lunged forward with desperate speed. His hand grasped for the dagger at his belt, a last attempt to turn the tables.

But even in the grips of labor, Kaira's warrior instincts didn't falter. With a cry of pain and rage, she brought her sword down in a swift, decisive arc. The blade met flesh and bone, and the commander's reaching hand fell limp to the blood-soaked earth, followed quickly by his lifeless body.

Kaira staggered back, her breath coming in ragged gasps. She dropped to her knees, one hand clutching her belly as another contraction seized her. The battle was won, her vengeance complete, but a new struggle was just beginning.

As she knelt there on the battlefield, surrounded by the aftermath of carnage, Kaira felt a fierce kick from within her womb. Even now, her child fought alongside her. She gritted her teeth, forcing herself to stand despite the pain.

"We'll face this world together, little one," she whispered, beginning the arduous journey back to her village. "Your father's spirit lives on in us both."

With each agonizing step, Kaira left behind the Crimson Whirlwind and moved toward her new role as the Warrior Mother. The legend of her final battle would be told for generations, but the true test of her strength was yet to come.

———————

Kaira stumbled through the twilight, one hand on her sword hilt, the other supporting her enormous belly. Each contraction brought her to her knees, the pain far surpassing any battlefield wound she'd ever endured. As darkness fell, she spotted a cave in a nearby hillside and made for it with grim determination.

Once inside, Kaira began the laborious process of removing her armor. As the custom breastplate came free, her belly seemed to expand even further, no longer constrained. She marveled at its size, her skin stretched taut over the massive dome.

"By the gods," she muttered, "no wonder the midwife thought there might be twins."

Another contraction hit, and Kaira braced herself against the cave wall. She knew the basics of childbirth from the village women, but experiencing it was another matter entirely. Gritting her teeth, she lowered herself to the ground and spread her legs as wide as she could manage.

Hours passed in a haze of pain and effort. Kaira pushed with all her might, feeling the baby's head begin to emerge, only to have it slip back when she paused to catch her breath. It was maddening – like siege warfare, gaining ground only to lose it again.

"Come on, little warrior," she growled, her voice echoing in the cave. "Fight your way out, as your father and I would do."

Kaira lost track of time, her world narrowing to the rhythm of contractions and the burning sensation between her legs. She'd faced down armies without flinching, but this battle tested her limits like no other.

Just when she felt she could endure no more, a final, explosive contraction seized her. Kaira bore down with every ounce of strength left in her body, unleashing a primal scream that seemed to shake the very walls of the cave.

And then, suddenly, it was over. The cave filled with a new sound – the lusty wail of a newborn taking its first breath.

Exhausted beyond measure, Kaira reached down and pulled the squirming, slippery infant to her chest. As she gazed upon her child's face, she felt a love fiercer than any she'd known before.

"Welcome to the world, my little fighter," she whispered, tears mixing with sweat on her cheeks. "Your father would be so proud."

As the newborn's cries softened to contented gurgles, Kaira allowed herself a moment of peace. The battle was won, a new life brought forth against impossible odds. Whatever challenges lay ahead, she would face them with the same courage and determination that had seen her through this day.

Outside the cave, the first light of dawn began to break over the horizon. For Kaira and her child, it was the dawning of a new era – one that promised both great hardship and profound love.

——————————

As Kaira cradled her newborn, a fresh wave of pain gripped her. Her eyes widened in shock and disbelief.

"By the gods," she gasped, "there's another!"

The realization hit her: the midwife's jest about twins had been prophetic. Kaira's relief at delivering her first child quickly gave way to apprehension. She was already exhausted, her strength nearly spent.

With trembling arms, she gently placed her firstborn on a bed of soft leaves before repositioning herself. Instinct told her to get on her hands and knees. She began to rock back and forth, trying to ease the second baby into position.

This labor seemed even more arduous than the first. Kaira pushed with all her might, but progress was agonizingly slow. The baby seemed stuck, refusing to budge despite her efforts.

In all her years as a warrior, through countless battles and wars, Kaira had never felt as vulnerable as she did now. She, who had faced down armies and monsters, found herself at the mercy of her own body and this stubborn child within.

"Please," she whispered, her voice hoarse and desperate. It was strange to hear herself beg, but pride had no place in this primal struggle. "Please, little one, come out. Fight your way through, as your father would."

Hours passed, marked only by Kaira's labored breathing and occasional cries of pain. She pushed until she thought she could push no more, then somehow found the strength to continue.

Just when she was on the verge of despair, she felt a shift. With a final, monumental effort, Kaira bore down. A scream tore from her throat, echoing through the cave and startling her firstborn into wailing.

And then, at last, it was over. The second twin slipped into the world, adding its cries to its sibling's.

Kaira collapsed onto her side, utterly spent. With shaking hands, she gathered both infants to her chest, marveling at their tiny, perfect forms.

"Welcome, my little warriors," she murmured, her voice thick with emotion. "You've proven yourselves fighters already."

As she lay there, her newborns nestled against her, Kaira felt a complex mix of emotions. Grief for Torin, who would never know his children. Pride in her own strength and that of her babies. And a fierce, protective love that overshadowed everything else.

The sun had fully risen now, its light reaching into the cave. Kaira knew the challenges ahead would be enormous – raising twins alone, rebuilding her life after the war. But as she looked at her children, she felt a renewed sense of purpose.

"We three are a family now," she told them softly. "And together, we can face anything."

[connorsui]

Right here, Always  

College yuuji x love interest! Reader (20+)

Genre/warnings: Fluff, small Comedy, Hurt/Comfort, small angst, breakups, friends to lovers Synopsis: Yuuji’s lighthearted charm and genuine kindness gradually turn your night of sorrow into something beautiful  note: ur ex decided to leave you ....but thats okay cuz yuuji is here! w.c: 3.087

It was supposed to be a simple night out, a rare evening where you could unwind from the stress of school and life. Instead, it turned into the night you found him—your boyfriend of a year—entangled with another girl, their laughter a cruel melody in the air. The sight of them, so carefree and unconcerned, sent a sharp, icy pain through your chest, as if your heart had been cleaved in two. You stood there, frozen in disbelief, as they exchanged knowing glances, the girl’s smirk widening as she noticed your presence.

The humiliation stung your cheeks as you turned and fled, the sounds of their laughter echoing in your ears, a cruel reminder of your shattered trust. Tears blurred your vision, the world around you fading as you focused only on escaping the pain that clung to you like a shadow. You wanted to disappear, to retreat into a corner of the world where no one could see your heartbreak.

That’s when Yuuji found you.

He saw you before you saw him, his heart aching at the sight of you crumpled on a park bench, your face buried in your hands as you sobbed quietly. Yuuji had always known you as strong, the kind of person who could handle anything life threw at you. But seeing you like this—so broken, so vulnerable—ignited a protectiveness in him that he hadn’t fully realized until now. Without a word, he approached you, his footsteps soft on the pavement as he sat down beside you.

For a moment, he didn’t speak, just allowed the silence to envelop you both. The cool night air brushed against your skin, but Yuuji’s presence was warm, a steady, comforting heat that made you feel less alone. It was only when your sobs began to subside that he reached out, his hand gentle as he wiped away the tears that stained your cheeks.

“He left you… He left you? …You!?” Yuuji’s voice was a mixture of disbelief and anger, his brow furrowing as if the very idea of someone hurting you was incomprehensible. He stared at you, his gaze tracing the curve of your face, the way your lips trembled as you tried to hold back more tears. His heart ached, a deep, resonant pain that mirrored your own. Yuuji felt a surge of emotions—anger at your ex, concern for your well-being, and something more that he was only beginning to understand. He struggled to find the right words, his mind racing to process the scene before him.

Yuuji took a deep breath, trying to steady his thoughts. Memories of the countless times you had confided in him, the late-night conversations, the shared laughter—all of it flashed through his mind. He realized how much you meant to him, how his feelings for you had quietly deepened over time. But seeing you like this, in so much pain, pushed those emotions to the surface.

“Yuuji, are you okay?” you managed to whisper, noticing the turmoil in his eyes.

He forced a small smile, though his own heart was in turmoil. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just... I hate seeing you like this.”

He wanted to say more, to express the depth of his feelings, but the right words eluded him. Instead, he focused on being there for you, offering silent support in your moment of need.

Yuuji's heart twisted as he saw the sadness etched across your face, your once bright eyes now dulled by tears. The weight of your emotions was palpable, and it hurt him to see you this way. He took a tentative step closer, his hand hovering near your cheek as if unsure whether to reach out.

“(Y/N), listen to me…” His voice was soft yet firm, drawing your attention. “I don't want to lay here like this ---"

Gently, he wiped away the tear that had escaped down your cheek, his touch warm and comforting.

“You don't have to waste another minute of your day thinking about somebody that never wanted you to begin with—tainting your beauty for someone like him ain't worth it.” His words were meant to soothe, but there was a fierce protectiveness behind them that made your heart ache in a different way.

“Obviously, he's gotta be blind, right? Dude doesn’t have any taste! I mean, just look at you! Who wouldn't want to bag you?”

His cheeks flushed a bright pink as the words tumbled out faster than he could think. Realizing what he’d just said, Yuuji’s eyes widened in horror. “I mean—wait! I didn't mean it like that! Not like having you as a prize —definitely not! No, wait a second…that’s even worse!”

A small, involuntary laugh escaped your lips, breaking through the sadness that had weighed you down. Yuuji’s flustered panic was almost endearing, and despite yourself, you couldn’t help but smile. He stopped his rambling, looking relieved to see the corners of your mouth twitch upwards.

“Yuuji…” you whispered, his name carrying all the gratitude you felt. His concern, his awkward attempts at making you feel better—it all touched your heart in a way you hadn’t expected.

He exhaled deeply, running a hand through his hair in embarrassment. “I'm sorry I just -- you - ” he confessed, his voice sincere. “--You deserve so much better.”

As you looked at him, your heart started to feel lighter. The pain was still there, but with Yuuji by your side, it didn’t seem as unbearable. For the first time since your world had crumbled, you felt like maybe, just maybe, everything would be okay.

Yuuji noticed the subtle shift in your demeanor, the way your shoulders began to relax and the tension in your body eased slightly. He felt a glimmer of hope, a sign that his words were starting to reach you. The night around you seemed to soften, the harsh edges of your pain blurring as you leaned into his support.

He thought about the countless times you had been there for him, your unwavering friendship, and how naturally his feelings had grown beyond that. Tonight felt different—perhaps it was the culmination of unspoken emotions finally finding their voice.

“You know,” Yuuji began, his voice taking on a lighter tone, “we’ve been friends for so long. I guess I just wanted to make sure you knew how much you mean to me.”

You looked up at him, your eyes meeting his with a newfound understanding. It was as if a veil had been lifted, revealing the depth of his care and the sincerity behind his actions.

—As the night grew deeper, Yuuji suggested taking a walk around the city to clear your mind. The streets were quieter now, the hustle and bustle of the day fading into the background as the two of you wandered aimlessly. The city lights cast a warm glow, illuminating the path ahead, and for a while, it was just the sound of your footsteps on the pavement and the soft murmur of Yuuji's voice as he tried to lift your spirits.

He kept the conversation light, throwing in jokes and playful comments, hoping to see a smile on your face. The night air was cool, but Yuuji’s presence was like a comforting blanket, wrapping you in warmth and familiarity.

"So," Yuuji began, a mischievous glint in his eyes, "if you had to pick one celebrity crush, who would it be? No second guesses allowed!"

You glanced at him, caught off guard by the sudden question. "I got too many to choose from, and besides you have been hanging out with Todo too much from the looks of that question?"

"C’mon, it’s just a fun one!" Yuuji nudged you lightly with his elbow, a grin spreading across his face. "I'll go first. Jennifer Lawrence! No second guesses there!" He laughed, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he looked at you expectantly. "Sooooo what's your type? C’mon, I know it’s gotta be good!"

Rolling your eyes, you answer "Henry Cavill"

Yuuji stopped in his tracks, his eyes widening as he processed your answer. "Henry… Cavill?" he repeated, a hint of disbelief in his voice. He paused for a moment, the wheels turning in his head. "I'm not Henry Cavill…" he mumbled under his breath, more to himself than to you.

You couldn’t help but giggle at his reaction, the sound lightening the mood between you. Yuuji’s expression was a mix of mock hurt and amusement, and you could tell he was trying to figure out how to compete with someone like that.

"And, I'm not Jennifer Lawrence!"

As you continued walking, Yuuji noticed you had relaxed a little, the tension in your shoulders easing up as you laughed at his antics. But just as things started to feel lighter, a familiar figure caught your eye in the distance. Your steps faltered, and Yuuji immediately noticed the change in your demeanor.

He followed your gaze and his stomach twisted when he saw him—your ex, walking hand in hand with the girl you had caught him with. They were smiling, their carefree laughter filling the air as they strolled down the street, oblivious to the world around them.

Yuuji’s heart clenched at the sight of your face falling, the pain and humiliation you had been trying so hard to push away resurfacing in an instant. He didn’t think—he just acted.

"(Y/N), I need you to trust me on this," Yuuji said quickly, his voice steady but urgent. He took a step closer to you, wrapping his arm around your waist with a firmness that was both protective and comforting. "Don’t read too much into it, and whatever you do, don’t look at em directly Just let me hold you… and pretend to lean in, okay?"

You looked up at him, confusion and hesitation in your eyes. "Yuuji? What are you doing?"

"Just—" He hesitated, his heart pounding in his chest. "I need you to laugh, or giggle, or something! Just play along with me, okay?" His eyes flicked briefly to your ex before returning to you, his expression softening. "Say how much you love me or something…" he added, his voice almost a whisper, as if the words were both a request and a silent hope.

You could see the seriousness in Yuuji's eyes, the determination to protect you from any more hurt, and despite the awkwardness of the situation, you trusted him. Taking a deep breath, you let out a small laugh, leaning into him as if you were sharing a private joke.

"I love you, Yuuji," you said softly, the words surprising even yourself with how easily they came out.

Yuuji’s heart skipped a beat, and for a moment, he forgot about your ex, about the reason he had pulled you close in the first place. All he could focus on was the warmth of your body against his, the way your words made his chest tighten with emotions he hadn’t fully come to terms with until now.

But then he caught sight of your ex glancing in your direction, his smile faltering as he saw you wrapped in Yuuji’s arms, looking happier than he had ever seen you. A smug satisfaction filled Yuuji as he met the guy’s gaze, his grip on you tightening slightly as if to say,

“She’s better off without you.”

Yuuji leaned down, pressing a kiss to the top of your head, and whispered so only you could hear, "You’re doing great. Just a little longer."

You nodded, resting your head against his chest, trying to block out the memory of your ex and the girl who had taken your place. With Yuuji holding you so close, it was easier to push those thoughts away, to focus on the moment instead of the past.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, your ex and his girlfriend disappeared down the street, leaving you and Yuuji alone once more. Yuuji let out a breath he didn’t realize he had been holding, his shoulders relaxing as the tension left his body.

"Are you okay?" he asked, his voice gentle as he looked down at you.

You nodded, pulling back just enough to meet his gaze. "Yeah… I think I am. Thank you, Yuuji."

Yuuji smiled, a soft, almost shy smile that made your heart flutter. "Anytime. I just… I wanted to make sure you didn’t have to go through that alone."

You couldn’t find the words to express what you felt in that moment, so instead, you reached up and placed a hand on his cheek, your thumb brushing lightly against his skin. Yuuji’s eyes softened, his breath hitching at the tender gesture.

"Yuuji…" you began, your voice filled with gratitude and something else, something deeper that you hadn’t fully acknowledged until now.

Before you could say anything more, Yuuji leaned in, capturing your lips in a kiss that was both gentle and full of unspoken feelings. It was a kiss that promised safety, affection, and a future where you could both be happy—together.

When you finally pulled away, the world around you felt a little brighter, a little less daunting, and with Yuuji by your side, you knew that you could face whatever came next.

“Honestly, Yuuji, why are you helping me? -- no, wait... thats.. not it.."

Yuuji hesitated, the words caught in his throat as he searched for the right way to express what he felt. He had always been carefree, the type of person who could easily brush things off with a smile and a joke. But when it came to you, things were different. You were different.

“Well—because…” Yuuji’s voice softened, his gaze never leaving yours as he continued, “You’re important to me. I want to treat you right… the way you deserve to be treated. He didn’t… so I want to show you what it feels like to be cared for, to be loved the way you should be.”

The sincerity in his voice, the way he said those words with such conviction, sent a warm flutter through your chest. You’d always known Yuuji was kind—his kindness was what drew you to him in the first place—but hearing him speak with such earnestness, seeing the way he looked at you, made your heart skip a beat. For a moment, you wondered if maybe, just maybe, Yuuji felt something more for you than friendship.

“Yuuji… do you think I’ll ever find somebody who cares about me like you do?” you asked quietly, the vulnerability in your voice catching even you by surprise.

Yuuji’s eyes widened slightly, taken aback by the question. He felt a surge of emotion welling up inside him, a mixture of longing and frustration. How could you not see it? How could you not see that the person who cared about you more than anyone else was right in front of you?

“I care about you!” The words burst out of him, raw and unfiltered. “Fucking hell, I like you! Just seeing how that piece of shit treated you pisses me off to no end! Fuck, I even thought about releasing Sukuna on him! You know how far you gotta push me to make me think like that!?”

His outburst shocked you, and for a moment, the world seemed to stand still. Yuuji’s chest heaved with emotion, his fists clenched at his sides as he struggled to calm himself down. He had never meant to raise his voice at you, never meant to let his feelings spill out so violently, but he couldn’t help it. The thought of anyone hurting you—of you not realizing how deeply he cared—was too much to bear.

“I’m sorry…” Yuuji’s voice trembled, his anger melting into regret as he took a deep breath. “I didn’t mean to yell like that. I -… I -…”

You placed a hand on his arm, the touch gentle and reassuring, and Yuuji’s breath caught in his throat. He looked at you, really looked at you, and in that moment, he realized that there was no going back. He couldn’t keep these feelings hidden any longer.

“I like you, (Y/N),” he confessed, his voice barely above a whisper. “I want to see you at your happiest, to be the one who takes care of you the way you deserve. That’s all I want. Just… to be with you.”

His words hung in the air between you, heavy with meaning, and for a long moment, you were both silent. Yuuji’s heart pounded in his chest, each beat echoing in his ears as he waited for your response. He had bared his soul to you, laid his feelings out in the open, and now all he could do was hope.

You stared at him, your mind racing, trying to process everything he had just said. The way Yuuji looked at you—with such raw, unguarded affection—made your heart ache in the best possible way. How could you have been so blind? How could you not have seen what was right in front of you all along?

Finally, you took a step closer to him, your hand sliding from his arm to his chest, where you could feel the rapid beat of his heart. “Yuuji… I—”

But before you could finish, Yuuji leaned in, his lips capturing yours in a kiss that was soft and sweet, yet filled with a desperate longing that made your knees weak. The world around you faded away, leaving only the warmth of Yuuji’s embrace, the taste of his lips on yours, and the overwhelming realization that this—he—was what you had been searching for all along.

When you finally pulled away, both of you were breathless, your foreheads resting against each other as you took a moment to just be—together.

“Yuuji,” you whispered, your voice thick with emotion. “I didn’t realize… I didn’t know…”

“I know,” Yuuji murmured, his thumb brushing gently against your cheek. “But you know now… and that’s all that matters.”

As you stood there in the quiet of the night, wrapped in Yuuji’s arms, you realized that the pain you had felt earlier—the heartbreak, the betrayal—was starting to fade. It wasn’t gone completely, but with Yuuji by your side, it didn’t feel as overwhelming, as insurmountable. Because with Yuuji, you knew you would be okay. You knew that, no matter what, he would always be there to pick you up, to make you laugh, to remind you of just how much you were worth.

And maybe, just maybe, that was enough.

[aniihera]

Ok. I’ve been compiling my thoughts on the pathologic 2 endings for a while now, and I’ve finally pinpointed my feelings on them (enough to share at least). I’m desperate to hear what others think about them too.

Lengthy Kin-themed rant oncoming? Perhaps.

More under the cut.

CW: Spoilers for Pathologic 2 (of course).

- - -

To preface: As I am Māori, not Buryat or of the other cultures I have heard the Kin to be based on, my perspective is more from *my* understanding of what it means to be Indigenous than anything else. There are probably many things I’m missing. But I’d like to throw in my two cents, however relevant they are.

Suffice to say, my feelings are complicated. Stylistically and narratively, there was a lot that I enjoyed. From a reconnecting/ mixed Indigenous perspective, however, I still feel unwillingly bisected, torn.

At the culmination of everything, Artemy Burakh and the player are roped into a cruel, two-pronged choice. Destroy the Polyhedron along with the miracles of the Steppe, or let the plague devour the town as you lead the Kin back to its heart. In these scenarios, you either assimilate the Kin into the town, which many of them will despise you for, or push out the nonindigenous townsfolk by force, letting nature run its course. Any third option has already been amputated, beyond your will. You cannot protect the Kin completely either way, some will likely die from the plague in the latter, and the more fantastical will in the first, by being cleaved from the earth’s dying magic.

Diurnal, or Nocturnal. No matter how you look at it, the kin cannot thrive in either. For it to be a choice at all, hurt, to say the least. After playing the bachelor’s route in the first game, I’m sure that was deliberate in an anti-utopian sense, perfection is impossible etc, etc. But the first lens I saw it through, stuck with me.

When I initially read Isidor say this after Artemy’s trial in the abattoir:

“Facing the Future is the way of Love. Facing the Past is the way of Love. But the two are incompatible, and it broke my heart.”

I was devastated. The hopeless dichotomisation of future and past… and I could only construe it as assimilation or death in some manner (but I could not see what role it took yet). That feeling festered for a while, but I wanted to see it from another angle. I think it's natural to be sensitive to the words “progress” (which is usually linked to “civilisation” and colonisation) when anchored against Indigenous culture, but I didn’t want that to blind me completely.

On its own, I do like this line. It’s weighty. And I think it articulates aspects of Indigenous struggle well, to some degree. Going back to the “past” is somewhat impossible for many reasons. Decolonisation is needed but I don’t believe it means restoring the “past” fully by any means. Culture is not stagnant, and neither is the future. To say they are incompatible though pains me. Especially when contextualised inside the divide between the kin and the town. It is an intentionally agonising line, and successfully so. Pitting the themes of Past/Future, against, Kin/Town, is something I find hard to reconcile with. Even just the first part irks me; personally the past walks with me at every step, the future is void and useless without it in full view. But I wouldn’t say a line from Isidor (or Artemy’s subconscious) necessarily defines the game more than it does his perspective. For me, it is the patterns that follow and precede it.

Aspity is a very obvious portrayal of what it looks like to “face the past” completely. Visiting her sanctuary, It becomes very evident that her opinions of the non-Kinfolk sway towards genocidal. They must “flood the town”, as she put it. Considering their treatment on the Bull Project and well… everything else, It’s not unfounded. During the night visits, we develop a growing understanding of what is at stake for the kin. Their language, legends, arts, and traditions, and too many Kin are dying from pest and persecution (Its a familiar story). Herb brides are forced to sell their cultural dance to get by (another familiar story for Māori, kapa haka and tourism, our culture has also become a commodity out of necessity). Legends like the shabnak adyr too are warped by the townsfolk (as it is used as an excuse to target Kin women). Assimilation means these things for them too.

There's also the case of how the Kin are depicted as more animalistic than the “more human” townsfolk. Oyun, Big Vlad, and even Artemy have a long history referring to them as such. To make the Kin less than human is inherently othering (as is any case where the empire views us as inherently more primitive or unevolved). The importance placed on Aurochs and being one with nature in Kin culture paints this in a less hostile light (Big Vlad’s view not so much). But I fear the effect this might have on player perceptions of the Kin will be negative regardless. I’ve seen a few statements about the Kin being a “hivemind”, I can't say I entirely agree. Many are divided on how they view Artemy, as well as what they desire for the future. I’ve also seen this in reference to when a few odonghe gift you organs for your tinctures, but at this point everyone in the town is desperate for a cure no matter the cost. Their more violent practices appear to weaken many fans' empathy for the Kin, painting the Nocturnal ending darker and darker. Getting rid of herb bride “marriages” would be a good thing at least right? Assimilation might be a good thing then? Nothing good comes without cost, and for the Kin this cost is too steep. Survival doesn't have to mean losing yourself piece by piece.

I will say that despite liking the non-Kin townsfolk, I do wish there was a larger Kin presence among the main roles. While we have Nara, Aspity, Oyun, and Taya, I understand how their presence does little to assuage the dread of seeing the rest of the cast wade out into the Steppe. For me, seeing Murky and Sticky in such a lost state during the Nocturnal ending, made me unable to see it as anything but a mistake.

Two other alternating themes are present through the endings. Childhood (miracles and dreams) and adulthood (waking up and walking forward). The dominant presence of children in Nocturnal, and the fact that walking through the near empty town really does feel like a nightmare, showcases this. The impossible has been made possible, the earth sleeps, sated. The endless cycle of responsibility, from father to son, from parent to child... Children rule the future here. In Diurnal, this cycle, at least, has some room to be broken. Responsibilities are weighed more evenly. Letting go of miracles and childhood dreams, that is the only future in this end. I’m not sure If i have to discuss how problematic it might be to place indigenous revival in the realm of childishness, and assimilation in the realm of growing up, but i thought i'd leave the notion there regardless.

Leaving how you view the two ends aside, it's obvious that Nocturnal has a heavier, gloomier tone.

Maybe having a third ending would’ve been reductive, to have one person so easily find a solution to unifying the town. But, it hurts so deeply to have that choice wrenched from your hands. The choice might have been severed by Isidor, but it felt like so much was possible for Artemy. With one foot in both worlds, the potential of true reconnection, i thought we could move past what was possible for his father. It felt like that was the direction Artemy was moving in, seeing the choices before him and bullheadedly trampling through the middle. Just like he did with the cure, finding the impossible connection.

As it stands, the endings are brutal. Survival for the kin is held by a thread, regardless of the direction you look. They either die a physical death, or a cultural and spiritual one (the two could very well be interpreted as present in both depending on how you look at it). By your conversations with Aspity, even if they survive, the Diurnal end is hinted to lead to an essential “dissolution” of the Kin as they know it. Wherein the differences between the Town and Kin will become so negligible that the two are no longer distinct. Which from my perspective is its own, however voiceless tragedy.

Ok, that was a lot of negativity but I’d like to be candid. Even despite all that, Pathologic is still one of my favourite games of all time. I saw someone say on here that Pathologic 2 is most interesting when allowing the player to decide where love takes them (even if they are led to extremes). Love being at the forefront, regardless of the choices you make, no wrong answers, that's what I appreciated most when playing as Artemy. Whether you chose to kill the three odonghe for Rubin, begged him to stay despite everything, killed Oyun, the Oglimskys, or the pest, it was for the love of something. The internal strife of having a mixed identity too, the rejection and affection from both sides, is something I related to even if the circumstances were miles apart from my own. I wish that Nocturnal aligned with that energy, that the nuances there were a little less stark. That opposing assimilation felt like less of a mistake.

There's a lot more I could delve into but this is pretty long already. This post could all read like nonsense/surface level, but I’m curious to see what other people think! Especially other indigenous folk, I’m dying to know how others interpreted the endings regarding the Kin.

[galaxiasgreen]

🎼🌙Moonlight

Fluffy Ominis x MC!Reader drabble [G-rated, 800 words]

"Fitting, isn't it?" he murmurs, so quiet his voice blends with the song's deeper notes. "The verse speaks of how we wear masks to pretend all is well, but only in moonlight do our true feelings arise." "Shall we promise, then, to leave the masks behind tonight?" "I’ll promise that," he says, offering a hand, “if you'll honour me with a dance.”

In search of distraction from Ranrok's rebellion, you dance with Ominis in the Undercroft.

[read on AO3]

A/N: I originally wrote this for @yoshitsuno's #Hogtober challenge last year, but I've since made some edits. Very short and sweet, no use of Y/N (just you/yours) and MC is gender neutral. Enjoy. <3

The music lilts up the lift shaft, reaching your ears long before it clunks to a juddering stop. When the grille slides up, you tiptoe into the Undercroft. It’s a classical tune you don’t recognise, a poignant operatic with a melody that evokes a sense of sadness and beauty – and you know immediately which Slytherin will be enjoying it.

Eyes shut, Ominis is reclined against the furthest pillar. He’s dressed down today, in an unbuttoned waistcoat and loosely knotted tie. You could almost believe he was asleep if not for his wand, gently mimicking a conductor’s baton against his thigh, tapping perfectly in time with each beat.

“It’s a lovely song.”

He doesn’t stop. “From Gabriel Fauré's Clair de lune. I particularly like its message, comparing the human experience to rays of the moon.”

He gets to his feet as you drift closer. The voice swells dramatically; he flicks his wand, and the gramophone quietens.

“No, no, don’t turn it down on my account,” you say; Ominis’ hand hangs in air. “I don’t want to interrupt.”

“Why did you come?”

“To find something to do. To… distract myself. All this business with Ranrok…”

You don’t need to say anything more. He knows.

The corners of his mouth tug upwards. “There’s always homework. I believe we have eight inches to write for Defence Against the Dark Arts.”

“Already finished it.”

“Naturally. Don’t tell Sebastian though, he might want to copy.”

“If he doesn’t I’ll assume someone hexed him.”

Ominis smiles more warmly and takes a tentative step closer; in the light of the braziers, shadows writhe and bend against him, sharply cleaving his features, and it makes him look like he could set fire to the world.

"Fitting, isn't it?" he murmurs, so quiet his voice blends with the song's deeper notes. "The verse speaks of how we wear masks to pretend all is well, but only in moonlight do our true feelings arise."

"Shall we promise, then, to leave the masks behind tonight?"

"I’ll promise that," he says, offering a hand, “if you'll honour me with a dance.”

“You can dance?”

“A little. And you?”

“No,” you admit, yet you breach his space, close enough to smell his cologne, “but it might be nice to learn.”

“It’s simple.” He guides your hand to his shoulder, and clasps the other gently in his own. “If a blind man can do it, you are more than capable.”

“Don’t put yourself down like that.”

“I’m only trying to make you feel comfortable.” His tone is lighter, laced with teasing. “Follow my lead.”

His free hand goes to your waist, and the touch dizzies you as he coaxes you back, to the left, forwards again and around. Ominis commands you so well you wouldn't believe he wasn’t born to play the role of the dutiful heir of Slytherin, born to lead his pure-blood family to its inherent greatness. Were it not for his virtuous beliefs, his unwavering loyalty and kind heart, perhaps it would be true. It was that compassion that drew you to him in the first place, so long ago – and it's the small ways he continues to prove his compassion that keeps you there, a stalwart presence at his side.

With him, leaving the mask behind is easier.

“Let the music show you the way,” he says, when you curse after a misstep. “Feet position doesn’t matter so much as the reason we're dancing.”

You step in again, basking in his scent. “What are we dancing for?”

“That depends on you.”

“To peace, then.” You smile at him though he cannot see. “We dance to carve out a moment of peace.”

“I like that.”

He leads, you follow. The Undercroft becomes your stage, Ominis the prince that sweeps you away. There is no rebellion, no school, no expectation of society, responsibility, or real life. All you see is him, all you feel is his compassion, the shadows that yield to him giving you room to breathe. He may have darkness at his beck and call, and you the tumult of an incoming storm, but together you make something brilliant and beautiful. Together you make the lone ray of the moon that lights the way through the everlasting night.

“You see?” he says, with that inexplicably captivating softness. “You're a natural.”

You squeeze his hand.

“I have a good teacher.”

A loud cough jerks Ominis back, out of your grip.

The grille closes, and Sebastian strolls inside, robe thrown over his shoulder, looking terribly smug.

“Interrupt something, did I?”

“No,” Ominis barks at once, that softness replaced by calloused edges and walls. He steps a polite distance away, but doesn’t turn his back. “You presume too much.”

“Or I don’t presume enough?”

You sweep down your robe, fixing Sebastian a glare. He only wiggles his brow at you. Ingrate.

“Either way, stop that racket. I need absolute silence to copy your Defence Against the Dark Arts essays.”

Moment dashed, masks on, Ominis makes a weary grunt and goes to turn the gramophone off… but you don’t miss the smile that lingers on his face.

Fin.

Please like and reblog if you enjoyed <3

[read on AO3] [Gabriel Fauré's Clair de lune on YouTube] [Divider credit]

[linkspooky]

You're boring. You don't thrill me at all.

I received a few asks about Sukuna's comments on Yuji and decided to make a post about it. To begin with one thing I have noticed about Sukuna is that despite being the embodiment of arrogance and selfishness he's sometimes gracious and even praises the opponents he's fighting.

The complexity of Sukuna is that he can rip the NanaMimiko twins into pieces for daring to ask too big a favor of him for only one finger, but he can also a few chapters later take time to praise Jogo before he dies. He can praise Gojo with touching words even when Gojo in his afterlife segment believes he failed tor each Sukuna. He can also slaughter thousand of people just to get Yuji's goat. He's capable of being somewhat honorable if you earn his respect, and yet there's nobody he respects less than Yuji.

In fact, the way he treats Jogo is a contrast to Gojo, Gojo just mocks him openly in his defeat. Sukuna gives Jogo advice that he should have fought for himself instead of teaming up with others, and then praises his efforts.

He slaughters both Hajime and Higuruma, but in their dying moments he also seems to grant them what they wanted. Hajime wanted an answer on whether or not it was possible for the strong to love other people, and Higuruma wanted to die fighting. Gojo was lonely at the top as the strongest and he lost all identity, Sukuna cuts him down and he dies as a human being and Sukuna praises him saying he'll remember his name forever.

Sukuna sees all humans as insects, but he seems to divide them into the ones that are tasty enough to eat, and the ones he wants to squash. If you're worthy in his eyes, he'll even entertain you and play with you for a little bit. That's not saying much, but Sukuna is known as the worst curse in existence. There are small moments though where he seems to have a sense of honor, at least to opponents who earn his respect or catch his interest.

All of this makes the way he treats Yuji stand out even more.

Sukuna says that basically all of humanity is his toy box and he can have endless fun playing with them until he dies, and yet Yuji is the one toy that Sukuna doesn't want to play with.

It's not because Yuji is weak, because Yuji has been shown to steadily grow in strength over the series. Yuji doesn't have the mental handicaps cutting off his true potential like Megumi does either, Gojo says right away that Yuji's crazy, that he swings for the fences, that he's obsessed with getting stronger. Yuji may not be on someone like Yuta's level, but he fights side by side with Maki perfectly in sync.

Yuji is even someone who will walk face first into Sukuna's cleave and then keep walking.

It's not because he's weak, it's not because he lacks potential or handicaps himself like Megumi, so why is Yuji the one opponent that Sukuna just cannot stand?

Much like Mahito who also sought to destroy Yuji, and felt like he couldn't be reborn or become himself until Yuji was out of the way it's most likely because they are ideological opposites. Down to the roles they play in their world, Yuji is someone who has completely repressed his own identity in order to become a true sorcerer, a cog in the machine, one among many fighting for a supposed greater good. Whereas, Sukuna alongside Mahito were what Yuji identified as "true curses". Mahito said as much in his monologue where he attempted to break Yuji, that he is a curse, and Yuji is a sorcerer. The point of curses is to kill humans, the point of sorcerers is to kill curses they don't need any deeper reason to fight and it's not a fight between heroes and villains it a cycle. Exorcise, consume. Exorcise consume. Curses are born, Sorcerers kill curses it goes on and on.

Looking at it that way, Mahito is Yuji and Yuji is Mahito. They're both cogs in the same endless cycle of curses vs humans. Yuji doesn't keep track of how many curses he's killed, and Mahito doesn't keep track of how many people he's killed.

Yuji is suppressing himself to become a sorcerer. Sorcerers are cogs and cogs have a function. He wants to carry the torch that Nanami gave him, because Nanami is basically the most ethical and model version of a sorcerer, and Yuji's only imagined role in things is to keep fighting until he dies and then ideally passes the torch to someone else. Sukuna was a strong sorcerer from 1,000 years ago who died and became a curse to linger on in this world. Yuji was a normal kid (or a science experiment from Kenjaku) who decided to eat Sukuna's finger and then become a sorcerer and die for a reason greater than himself.

Sukuna represents the ideology of curses, while Yuji represents the total collective ideology of sorcerers from the modern age.

Sukuna will ask his opponents their ideology, he'll even sometimes give advice and share his point of view. He questioned Jogo's beliefs on whether curses were the true humans. he shared with Hajime his thoughts on love to give him an answer to his question. However, he doesn't want even want to engage with Yuji, he just wants Yuji out of his sight.

He wants to invalidate and disprove Yuji's beliefs because they represent the opposite of him and everything he stands for, but he also knows he can't.

Sukuna does explain in this chapter that part of the reason he hates Yuji is that he's been forced to share a body with him for so long and was forced to endure his thoughts long enough to know that Yuji actually means what he says his selflessness is the real thing.

You could also argue that Yuji is a literal cage that Kenjaku constructed to contain Sukuna. Sukuna's entire character is built around the fact that he has so much strength he has the absolute freedom to do whatever he wants, and in a thousand years the only thing that's hindered his freedom is Yuji.

I think it goes a step beyond that though, one is selfishness incarnate, who is obsessed with freedom to Eren Jaeger extents and the other is selflessness incarnate, who deliberately chains himself to roles. Yuji is willing to give up his free will to be a cog in the machine, because cogs have a function, they have a role and meaning.

That's the extreme of selflessness though, you give up your very sense of self. Yuji builds his sense of self over the roles that others assign him, not anything he does himself. His function, his purpose, is given to him by others he doesn't define it for himself. Sukuna even mocks him for it in the latest chapter.

Yuji needs other people to give him meaning. Sukuna on the other hands rejects the notion of love because he's never needed and will never need anyone.

Sukuna is all about his overwhelming sense of self, whereas Yuji lacks a sense of self entirely. By Sukuna's logic where strength comes from asserting yourself and burning everything around you, Yuji is weak, Yuji should have been crushed like a bug by now, but Sukuna hasn't crushed him yet.

Sukuna is the ultimate ideal of strength in the story. The only way to be strong is to get rid of your attachments and become a human calamity like him. Yuji's selflessness on the other hand is something that he's continually punished for. Yuji even thinks of himself as weak he says as much to Higuruma, people died, Yuji was unable to stop Sukuna because he was weak.

Yet Sukuna cannot get rid of Yuji, which challenges Sukuna's black and white ideals that all that matters is strength and weakness and the strong always triumph over the weak and devour them.

To change the subject for a moment let's talk about Gege's inspirations. Can you guess who Gege's favorite Fate Character is? I bet you can't guess.

While Gilgamesh is the unequivocally strongest hero in the Fate franchise, there is one character who is the natural enemy and the perfect counter to Gilgamesh. That is Shirou Emiya, who actually defeats Gilgamesh in combat in one of the three routes, something both gilgamesh stans and Gilgamesh himself hates Shirou for.

Gee, I wonder what the inspiration is.

However, there's a particular reason why Shirou and Gilgamesh are opposites besides the fact that they have relatively the same ability, Shirou can copy swords and Gilgamesh has every weapon in existence in his armory.

Gilgamesh is the first and greatest of heroes who defined what it is to be a hero and the heroic legend. Shirou Emiya is a fake hero. That's even how Gilgamesh refers to him, "Faker." Shirou has completely destroyed his own sense of self in order to be of use to others, because he thinks he is not allowed to exist unless he is saving others in some way. This is a pretty brief summary of Shirou's character, but because of survivor's guilt Shirou forgot his past, and identity and thinks it's unfair he got saved while others didn't. At the same time, Shirou saw the happiness on the face of the man who admired him and then became obsessed with the idea of saving others. Shirou can only experience happiness when he saves someone, and feels pretty much nothing otherwise. Not only does he save people for entirely selfish reasons, because of his survivor's guilt and to give him a reason to exist, but it's also not his own dream of being a hero. He stole someone else's dream, that of his father Kiritsugu who wanted to be a hero and who saved him and looked happy saving him.

I read in an analysis a long time ago, too long for me to remember who's it was that Gilgamesh will respect those that have a dream. When he fights Iskander in Fate Zero, while he completely slaughters him he also gives him his props in his last moments and honors him by killing Iskander with his full strength, because he respected Alexander the Great's dream of conquering Europe from ocean to ocean.

Which is why he cannot tolerate someone like Shirou, who has no dream of his own, no reason for fighting, only saving others for the sake of saving them and asking nothing in return.

Shirou wants to repress himself entirely and become an ideal, the same way Yuji does, it's just Shirou wants to become the ideal superhero and Yuji wants to become the ideal sorcerer.

There's another video I want to reference to illustrate how little sense of self Yuji has, and how conversely reliant on others he is for that sense of self. The video is [here] I reccomend the whole thing but this quote summarizes it pretty perfectly.

Yuji is the main character of the story, but the series own villain, and even a vast majority of the fandom constantly insists that he is not the main character, because he is so lacking in a sense of self. That's not a knock against Yuji, that's the point of his character. Shirou Emiya is one of my favorite characters of all time, they're similiar it's just Shirou goes to greater lengths to show how hollowed out he is as a person, how deeply unhappy and even mentally ill he is to live for the sake of others the way that he does.

Yuji wants to crush his own sense of identiy and become an ideal like Shirou, that ideal being the ideal sorcerer. Whereas Sukuna is defined by his overwhelming sense of self and his lack of ideals.

It only makes sense that they'd be at odds with one another, but Sukuna takes things a step farther he cannot abide by Yuji's existence because he's against the idea of ideals themselves.

Sukuna wants to believe that he is right to reject idealism and love, that he is not missing out on anything as long as he has himself and is strong. So far in life he's been able to poke holes in the ideals of anyone who challenges him, but he's spent so long in Yuji's brain he knows that Yuji's ideals are not false.

Sukuna doesn't just want to crush Yuji's hopes he wants to prove himself right. This is probably the first time in a thousand years he's even paused to question himself or think over his own beliefs because he's been so unchallenged and right.

Yet, Sukuna can't be right, by the very nature of the manga.

Jujutsu Kaisen isn't about one person being right, it's about balance. The worst person you know in Jujutsu Kaisen can have a point. Kenjaku does everything for his own amusement, but both he and Tsukumo Yuki agree that things in the modern Jujutsu World can't stay the way they are. Geto is a genocidal maniac but he's right that it's unfair for Sorcerers, especially children to sacrifice themselves pointlessly over and over again and if Geto hadn't been a close friend of Gojo's and went off the deep end Gojo likely would have never seen the flaws present in his own society.

Jujutsu Kaisen isn't a story about binary opposites, but one of yin and yang, of complementary ideals. Even a character like Sukuna can't last forever with his binary thinking, and Yuji existing and disagreeing with him is clearly having an effect on him. Sukuna's been so thoroughly challenged by his inability to crush Yuji outright that he's changed his goals. A thousand years ago Sukuna laid waste to sorcerers yes, but he was fine just being worshipped and bribed and getting into fights in the country side. He didn't destroy the world or anything.

His frustration with Yuji has gotten him to the point that he's willing to go full omnicidal maniac in order to challenge Yuji's ideals. That is how out of balance Sukuna is currently.

The manga won't land on the side of Sukuna being right, it will land on the side of balance, which is exactly why Yuji needs to challenge Sukuna as his antithesis.

The true answer however, will probably not lie in Sukuna's utter selfishness, or Yuji's selflessness, but rather somewhere in between.

[hestiaswifey]

Protective

In the shadow of Mount Olympus, the sun dipped behind the jagged peaks, casting a warm golden light over the battlefield.

The air was thick with tension; the clash of swords rang like thunder, and the cries of warriors echoed as they fought for their lives against the Infernal armies.

Ares, the God of War, stood stationed at the forefront, his armor gleaming in the fading light, eyes aflame with determination.

Beside him fought you, a mortal warrior who had captured his attention and stirred emotions he rarely displayed.

With long hair pulled back and the heart of a lion, you wielded your sword with unmatched skill and bravery, determined to protect the land you called home.

Your laughter, even amid the chaos, reached Ares like a soothing balm, reminding him of why he joined the fray that day.

"You ready?" he called to you over the clamor of battle, his voice steady but with an undertone of concern.

You nodded, a fierce grin on your face. "Always."

But as the battle raged on, the tides began to turn. A wave of infernal creatures surged forward, larger and more grotesque than any your forces had faced before. You fought alongside Ares, avoiding danger with agility that would make even the most skilled gods envious. Still, the relentless onslaught was daunting, and now and then, Ares found himself forced to shift his focus, granting you fleeting glances.

“Stay close!” he warned, his stern demeanor commanding even in the heat of battle.

You laughed off his concerns. “I can fend for myself, Ares! You shouldn’t worry—”

But before you could finish, a massive beast lunged from the shadows, teeth bared and claws ready to tear you apart. Ares reacted in an instant, interposing himself between you and the creature, his sword cleaving the air with divine precision. The beast staggered back, but not before it landed a swift blow on your side, knocking you to the ground.

“Ares!” you gasped, clutching your side, blood seeping through your fingers. The pain radiated through your body like wildfire, your vision blurring as shock set in.

His heart raced at the sight of you falling, his stoic mask shattered. “NO!” Ares roared, a primal fear erupting from deep within him. In one fluid motion, he dispatched the beast with a brutal strike before kneeling by your side, cradling your head in his arms.

“Stay with me, please,” he whispered urgently, his usual calm replaced by desperation. “You’re going to be alright.”

You tried to reassure him with a smile, but the dizziness threatened to pull you under. “I’m…. I’m fine, Ares. Just a scratch…”

“A scratch?” He seethed, his trademark calm shattered. “This is not a scratch!” His fingers brushed delicately over the wound, then he summoned the divine energy within him, his aura pulsating with a fierce light.

You felt warmth radiate from his hands as he worked to mend your injury. “Don’t move!” he commanded, and you obeyed, despite the pain. Realizing that this wasn’t just about a wound anymore—it was about Ares’ torment over your state—it dawned on you just how intensely he cared.

As the divine energy pulsed through you, the world around faded, leaving only the two of you. “You mean everything to me,” he confessed softly, his voice a rare blend of vulnerability and strength. “I can’t lose you. Not like this.”

And for the first time, Ares allowed himself to reveal the depth of his feelings, the fierce protectiveness consuming him like a flame. With every pulse of energy, you could feel the wound knitting together, the pain ebbing away. Yet that heartache etched in his expression remained.

With a final burst of light, your injury healed, and you took a deep breath, feeling whole once more. “See? I told you I’m fine,” you teased weakly, though you could still see the tension in Ares’ muscles.

“A true warrior fights without fear,” he said, his tone returning to its usual sternness, but his eyes softened. “And a true warrior understands the cost of battle. I won’t allow you to be reckless. I refuse.”

His words struck a chord in you. You knew Ares was often the embodiment of both rage and honor, but this moment crystallized the myriad shades of his character—his fierce protectiveness, his gentle heart, and the sacred bond forming between a god and a mortal.

“Then let’s fight together,” you proposed, lifting your sword high once more. “As one.”

Ares met your gaze, and in that moment, the battlefield around you vanished, leaving only the bond you shared. “Together,” he agreed, his resolve hardening like steel, and with that, the two of you surged into battle side by side, hearts aligned and spirits unbreakable, prepared to face whatever came next.

[niqhtlord01]

Humans are weird: The one who returns

(A continuation of: Humans are weird: They sing going to war)

Though my comrades laughed I continued the human tradition, and to my relief I was rewarded by what gods of theirs were listening.

On my first drop after I started to sing an anti-air shell punctured straight through my dropship. It tore a hole the size of my torso through the hull, reducing the squad mate who had been sitting their laughing at me into a red mist, and then out through the other side before detonating. The craft rocked and lurched but it held together long enough for us to reach the surface.

In my first battle I was pinned down in the ruins of a structure trading fire with a squad of enemy soldiers on the opposite street. We’d been stuck in that firefight for almost an hour trading fire; neither side daring to race across the dead land between us. I had just ducked back to slap in a fresh clip when a shredder grenade was flung through the window and landed at my feet. I had seen what they could due and knew my time had come as there was no chance for me to escape the room before it detonated. Yet as I kept my voice strong in song a stray blaster bolt struck the ceiling above me loosening a chunk of masonry. The piece came loose and fell directly on to the grenade causing the ground beneath it to crumble and continue falling into the floor below before it detonated leaving me unharmed.

What truly astounded me though is when my squad was assigned to capture a metal recycling facility on the outskirts of the city. Reports had identified the complex as a rallying point for scattered enemy squads looking to regroup so we were sent in to neutralize the threat. We arrived in good order and began investigating the factory when the machinery suddenly came to life. A metallic sheering blade the size of my body swung at me from the gloom and would have nearly chopped my head off had I not noticed the red glow it began to emit as it powered up. My comrades were not as lucky and three of them were cleaved like bloody paper. From above I saw the operator of the machinery at what had once been a foreman control post and let loose a barrage of blaster fire. He fell quickly enough and in the confusion of battle between the enemy forces now flooding onto the facility floor I made my way up to the control post. It took a minute to unravel the nature of the controls but in short order I had redirected our would-be machine adversaries to turn on their former compatriots. The facility was ours within the hour with myself once more remaining the only one untouched from harm.

As my squad began shuffling off to wait for a medvac I found myself drawn to the machinery. The giant blades now stood silent and powered down and I ran a hand against them. Even powered off they were sharper than anything I had ever come across and when on had so easily cut through armor meant to deflect raw energy discharges. I’m not sure if it was from the shellshock of battle or from my recent time spent with the human warriors, but I felt something calling to me from the blade. It took some time to dismantle but by the time the medvac transport arrived I had freed it from its housing and dragged in onboard. If my squad had anything to say about it those that could still speak kept their own council.

Back in orbit I dragged the metallic blade to the human’s section of the ship. I had found myself in their company more and more when time permitted between deployments. Their talk of ancient gods and wards of protection were what interested me at first, but they were but the first steps into the depth of my fascination of their culture. I showed them the giant blade and told them of how it had slain my comrades. Some of them spoke how it reminded them of the blade of Surtr which heralded Ragnarök, while others insisted that it was more akin Skofnung, a king’s blade imbued with the spirts of his most loyal warriors.

The debate went on from friendly disagreements into an open brawl between the opposing factions, but their engineers remained focused on the material itself and asked what I wished to do with it. I had heard many of the legends of the humans by now and knew many of them carried great weapons, so I wished them to fashion me one from this blade as well. They were hesitant at first as the work alone would be immense and they had other duties to attend to, so I offered them whatever material of the giant blade would be theirs to do with as they pleased. With such an offer made their eyes went wide and they barely had time to agree to the terms as they snatched the giant factory tool and carried it off between the still brawling throngs.

Three days passed and I heard nothing from them. My next deployment was on the fourth and just before I was to embark on the transport the engineers came before me. With great glee they presented me with my new weapon.

Now a fraction of its former size, the blade could easily be wielded with one of my hands. I took several swings of it and I could feel the very air itself around it buzzing as it sliced through it. To add to the moment the human engineers directed my attention to a bright red button on the hilt of the weapon. No sooner had I pressed it did the blade coursing with power. A soft orange glow began to emit from the blade as it once more became as powerful as the first time I saw it in the facility. As if to emphasize its keenness they had me hold the blade up then swung one of their own rifles at it like a club. The blade sliced through the body of the rifle and it fell to the floor with a loud clutter.

Impressed by their work I nodded my thanks and joined my comrades on the dropship. It would be the last time anyone on the ship would call me by my name. When I returned I would be known by other names but the one that most stuck was Ne’ya Ruel, which in my people’s tongue translated to “The one who Returns”