#and god it brings back too many memories o

[mi-i-zori]

Lies of Apathy

CoD - Demon!AU - Demon!Ghost x F!Reader

SYNOPSIS : She should have started running a long time ago. But they’re one and the same. No matter how far she goes, she always comes back to him. And the demon knows how to find her.

WARNINGS : Heavy angst with very small comfort, allusions to self-harm, mentions of smut (with consent), blood, description of panic attacks. There are a lot of religious metaphors that come from many, many religions, but none of them is directly mentioned.

Author’s Note : This is something I originally wrote in my native language a while ago, but ended up getting lost in my files because I had no idea what to do with it. So I used it as both a translation and writing practice. Hope you like it !

I do not give anyone permission to re-publish, re-use and/or translate my work, be it here or on any other platform, including AI.

Word Count : 12k+

Run. Dodge. Strike. Kill.

Beyond the turquoise shine of the firmament, a mayhem hides.

Waiting to awaken.

It longs for destruction, wishing to make our world and its peace a crude copy of the original Pandemonium. Lost in the soft, spectral feathers of a Fallen, a crimson suffering leaks, drops and runs, engraving its cruel wails into the bones of those who dare hear them. Those who only see it as an incarnation of love.

Oh, how tragic it can be, that imitation of kindness forging those who are supposed to guide the lost souls to the other side of the river ! In the blood of an Angel dance the names of countless minor deities bathing in their corrupted altruism - something the Ghost knows too well.

Sometimes, he remembers how he’s not supposed to be, for the memories of his origins have been erased by a never-ending hatred and despair.

In front of him, the young Hunter falls to her knees, facing the ruins of her own happiness. A peculiar fear tears a whimper from her knotted throat, and the idea of praying before this dilapidated shrine, created by a merciless Divine, leaves a rotten taste on what’s left of her tastebuds. A nameless exhaustion claws at her face, tries to drag her down the abyss of her subconscious. Her heart crumbles upon a way too familiar weight, and her breath gallops erratically in her lungs, her chest threatening to cave in under the ever-growing despair tainting her tears.

Knowing said despair is akin to drowning in its breast, to familiarise yourself with its screeching song and bury your bloodied eardrums among its decaying notes. In this very moment, a monster holds her with a renewed form of frenesy, and something inside of her cannot seem to wriggle out of the thorns covering its arms.

Around her, a baritone voice echoes from the darkness.

- Beautiful sight, it says. Small, vulnerable ya, prostrated in a field o’ ruins. ‘Ow many statues of ‘ope did ya build ‘ere, only for ‘em to instantly be destroyed ?

A familiar silhouette emerges from the nothingness facing her. She doesn’t answer to its usual sarcasm - instead, she allows her heart to bleed one more drop on the cracks littering the ground.

- Wot are ya prayin’ for, this time ? The entity asks as he stops next to her, crossing his arms on his chest. Maybe I can ‘elp.

His words awaken a wave of uncontrollable shivers in her guts. An violent earthquake, cold and cackling. Its growls bounce around her vocal cords as her nails dig into her palms.

- I’m not praying, she says from in-between her clenched teeth, her eyes falling upon the remnants of something she can’t bring herself to recognize. The Gods will never lift a finger when it comes to listening to a Fallen Soul.

The Ghost kneels before her crumpled form, the skull covering his face glinting in the darkness. A long time ago, seeing him like this, lowered at her own level, would have satisfied her ; showered her in a grandeur a part of her has always wished to know, laced with a taste of Paradise. Now, it’s nothing more than sickening. His smile, given away by the obvious crinkling of his eyes, brings a storm of Chaos in her already fractured mind, and she wonders if she’ll ever be able to forget this feeling. Trembling hands rise to grip the short strands of blonde hair of the Fallen, dragging him down to properly face her snarl.

- You poor, pitiful bastard. Why do you keep laughing at me as if it’s all your life has been reduced to ?

She wants her voice to be sharp and cruel ; but it only sounds lifeless, washed away by her exhaustion. The rough edges of a laugh bark inside the abyss of her skull. Her muscles suddenly tense like bowstrings, tightening her grip on his hair.

- Ya think Beasts were once made to live the grandest o’ lives ?

Her jaw snaps shut. Before she even realises it, her arms fall abruptly to her side, their strength devoured by the demon’s words.

- Or do ya think your Destiny is only made o’ ruins ?

The smile dancing in his eyes is much softer now, and it’s as if he had lost the usual malice lingering in his heart. Her own heart skips a beat at the sight, so out of place among such devastating surroundings. It’s a terrifying thing to point out, she thinks, probably the most acrid of all.

Blood covered lips twist in uncertain disgust at the thought.

Run. Dodge. Strike. Kill.

She hates him. She hates him. She hates him.

A metallic flavour melts on her tongue, crude and molten, burning her senses through the gut-wrenching wish to fearlessly face his playful, mocking truths. She can barely feel her limbs ; but she feels the bruises blooming on her skin, born from the war and chaos she keeps tearing through on the daily. In the Ghost’s eyes, the mix of such somber colours, full of meaning and ache, holds a beauty he’s never been able to name.

Her clothes get heavier under the amount of blood pooling through their fibres ; but so do his, and neither of them could tell which crimson belongs to whom. The thought carves a smile behind his mask - doesn’it it make it all so much more interesting ?

- One day, she snarls, you’ll be judged.

An endless cacophony of whistles drills through her head. She knows nothing of the issue of their fight ; but it won’t stop her from clawing at both her freedom and her peace. She fishes her weapon out of the decaying puddles rippling around her knees, and holds it at his throat.

- And I’ll bury you a thousands times under the weight lining the Jackal’s scales.

The entity looks at the blade with mocking interest. A spark of danger dances in his lifeless eyes, only growing brighter as they lock onto hers. He notices the way her features are pulled tight by a bottomless rage. Disarming her is simple, done in the blink of an eye, and he wonders if she’s really going down the path that will lead her to surrender. If she’ll do it willingly, or if she’s still going to fight - if so, how long do they have left ? He knows this question has also crossed her mind, sees it in the tremble of her hands. Even like this, now laying under him like a mouse under a wolf, he finds the young woman to be more than a mesmerizing sight.

She could easily be mistaken for some kind of divinity, he thinks, and it almost makes him laugh. The sounds, unfamiliar and rough, mimics the memory of what used to be a beating heart in the depths of his chest.

How long ago was it ? The last time he ever felt alive ?

Did he ever ?

Now, he’s supposed to be close to death - or a vessel for it, even. A being of rage and torment, made for walking in a world of destruction and pain, for leaving a path of decay in his wake. He feels it all, yet he isn’t allowed to die. A part of him probably wishes he was ; but he forgot about it since the moment it was sent to lay dormant beyond his consciousness. He doesn’t even know if he’ll ever be able to find it again. If it still exists.

His attention zeroes back in on the desperate soul laying in front of him. The armor she keeps covering herself with is has once again been reduced to shreds by their never-ending fights. There isn’t an inch of her skin that hasn’t been covered in dirt. He takes in the sight before lowering his face next to hers, his rough whisper floating in her ear.

- Oh, lil’ Snowflake.

I can’t wait.

Run. Dodge. Strike. Fight.

Tonight, her favourite restaurant is filled to the brim.

The happiness of her family’s voice gets lost in the cacophony floating through the room. Everything around her is blurred with exhaustion ; but his presence is crystal clear. Behind her, sitting in the shadows of a decorative curtain, the Ghost is patiently waiting for an opportunity to strike. The more time passes, the more easily she can see him in her mind. It’s a stupid game - one they both keep playing, wondering who will break and speak first. Allow the other in.

Maybe the day will come when they finally become one - simultaneously taking a bite of the poisoned apple.

This cruel temptation may be the reason why she’s cursed, she thinks, an invisible wall slowly forming between her world and the one spreading in front of her, filled with the laughter of her loved ones. Her life is made of painful memories, witnesses of a will to live that never really was. The idea that her future could be the same, tainted with the kind of horrors nobody else can see, is terrifying - injects even more corruption in her veins, lungs and bones. A rusty sword dangles above her neck, ready to cut one half of her existence and leave the other to suffer through a ruthless agony, trapped under the weight of its metallic carcass.

She’s not yet ready to drown in her own damnation, but the somber waters never cease to rise. The black tide finds pleasure in torturing her, filling her trachea to the brim before throwing her back to the surface. It cackles madly as she drags her disjointed puppet of a body on the shore, proud of the violence it keeps subjecting her to.

When she thinks about it, the young woman often realises how far back in time this curse goes. It seems to plunge its roots in her very origins, as if vowing to forever haunt her dreams with visions of madness, horrifying and useless prophecies that could have made sense had she been born in humanity’s most ancient of times. But the old Oracles are no more. So she swallows the twisted sights piling in her soul, and fills her daily life with empty smiles. A normality that was never hers.

Her demons were born alongside her. And they will never meet their end unless she succumbs to her own fall.

She saw many strange things and fought an equal amount of nightmares ; she shouldn’t allow any of this to affect her so badly. But it’s in her nature to think and feel, way too much even, which makes her an easy prey to the eyes of Those Who Fell. One of them trails behind her, melts within her shadow. He wants to devour her life even more than any of the others will, and refuse to let her breathe. He knows which string to pinch in order to make her fall, which melody to play to stir up her rage. He forces her to run within his -her- darkness, to get lost in its endless expanse, to confuse herself until she doesn’t know which path she is following anymore ; abandon or redemption. Like an offspring of Eris, he finds pleasure in throwing the apple of discord between her and the world she desperately tries to belong to.

His very presence used to terrify her. But time decided to drop some hatred in the bottomless goblet of her fears, birthing a futile perseverance at the bottom of her guts.

A few seconds fly past her eyes before the vacant chair to her left silently creaks under the invisible weight of the entity. As always when he manifests himself in public, she barely spares him a glance. A part of her wonders if he would act the same, should the roles be reversed. She came to find a peculiar kind of comfort in his freezing presence and the familiar thoughts he brings.

In front of her, her uncle barks out a laugh at a waiter’s joke, tearing her away from her thoughts. Leaning forward to examine the enticing content of her newly-delivered plate, she feels the demon do the same against her back, reminding her of his presence through the cacophony of her thoughts. Usually, she would curse him without hesitation. But right now, this is not something she can afford to do ; not when she has to play pretend in front of her family’s peace.

An invisible hand settles on her wrist as her free hand rises a spoonful of rice to her mouth, allowing the Ghost to measure her tired heartbeat. It sometimes launches itself to a full gallop whenever she has to speak or a sudden crash emerges from the restaurant’s kitchen. Following the same rhythm as the drumming in her ears. The bloodied melody always takes its time to fall back to a steadier beat, and the thoughts that follows hold a suffering the Ghost likes to decipher.

A secret message. A call for help, written in the trickiest of codes.

What a beautiful song, he thinks, burning with chaos ; and the young woman barely restrains the twist of her features when his mockery echoes in her already overflowing mind, threatening to worsen the migraine lingering around her skull.

How good is it to fight anyway ? She sometimes murmurs to herself, shutting off the cackles echoing in the back of her mind. Is the darkness really that bad ?

Maybe her feelings are getting the best of her. Maybe the idea of surrendering to the enemy’s claws comes from the loneliness nesting behind her heart, the one pushing her to more or less willingly seek the Ghost’s company. Maybe she’s simply imagining the spark of sympathy that sometimes dances in his gaze. A part of her insists that there can’t be any light without darkness, and vice versa ; but maybe she’s just reading in-between lines that don’t even exist.

Maybe all these thoughts are the result of another manipulative ambush orchestrated by her demons.

To hell with all those beings made of impurity and fake divinity ! She exclaims silently while laughing at a story she didn’t really hear. Those monsters corrupting the innocents’ dreams, immolating them with waves upon waves of sinful flames, leaving a salty, rotten taste on the remnants of their tongues ! They find happiness in Their victims’ despair, cooing at the ruins of their broken hopes, recalling the misadventures of Icarus and the other mortals They disgraced with Their attention. Be careful to not burn yourself, they cackle and rasp. The phoenix went extinct eons ago ; it’s now impossible to come back from your ashes.

Lie, little dream, lie, the Divine laughs ceaselessly as she surrenders herself to a hopeless optimism. Why not hide yourself behind an illusion ?

Lie, little dream, lie. Why not become a nightmare ?

Run. Dodge. Strike. Fight.

Sometimes, she wonders if her throat isn’t laced with a red string - the kind that, one day, will inevitably be the end of her.

She often turns around to catch a glimpse of it, in an elusive reflection in the mirror, or in the corner of her vision. She read dozens of stories worshiping it as the proof that true love is far from being a myth, saying that seeing it means one’s soulmate is nearby. But only in dreams can such things really exist.

And, sometimes, even dreams can lie.

For the spectre of her destiny created the thread with a mix of love and hate, of strength and cowardice ; a foreign intimacy made to drown them as one. The kind of thing that, should she ever share it with the world, would only be the source of laughter and disdain. She would probably be punished for her lack of gratitude for the life she was given.

Each breath is constantly filled with a bloodcurdling fear of simply existing. Her body never ceases to quake, trapping air in the expanse of her lungs and struggling to let it out. A thousand bear-traps snap at her flesh as she tries to keep pursuing her future, this vision she never really manages to see clearly. She sometimes think about tightening the string around her throat, deepen its colour with the moisture of her own blood ; yet it seems content with just grazing her skin in a satire of love, constantly feeding the frustration nestled in her breast. She never knows if it will ever be merciful enough to slash her neck open.

The Ghost holding the other side of the crimson line is dangerous, murmurs a voice resembling her own. One wrong move would be enough for him to send her over the edge. A clumsy step to the side. A benevolent mistake.

She often notices the small knot clashing with the dull porcelain of his skin. He likes teasing her by wrapping the string around his palm, adding enough pressure to have it leave a rugged caress on her neck ; to remind her of its presence. She loathes the cruel smile that carves his face open when he catches her off-guard, causing her to lift her hand towards her own knot.

She despises them all : him, the world, her Destiny. And she hates her own inability to get rid of the miasma plaguing her mind ; the way her empathy whimpers whenever her eyes follow the never-ending scars mapping the body of the Ghost ; the whispers that make her realise how similar they are to one another.

They are nothing more than two sinners looking for a reason to live.

Looking for redemption.

- Ya know we’ll always be bound to each other, Snowflake, the entity says, cackling in her ear. Why do ya always try to ruin whot canno’ be destroyed ?

Her blood boils as she presses her frozen palms against his throat with a snarl, as if trying to force him into silence by imitating the thread caging her own pulse. She knows how futile it looks, knows the fruits born from this endeavour will hold the bitterness of her failure. Yet she refuses to crumble under the mocking weight of his words, for it would be surrendering to the way this rotten world keeps trying to send her into exile.

The gravel of his voice resonates against her palms.

- No’ tired of fightin’ a ghost ?

Her teeth sharpen into her mouth as he coils an arm around her waist, locking her body against his. She can’t stop a shiver from rolling down her spine ; and, unable to decide if she can really allow herself to savour the frozen warmth of his skin, her fingers tighten around his breath. His Adam’s apple makes a mould of its own shape in the crevices of her hands.

Yet he doesn’t even flinch.

- ‘Ow many times did you try to run away from me, darlin’ ? To make me fall, only to fail ?

- Shut up.

- Wouldn’t take much for us to bend this world to our will. Think abou’ it : we could face ‘em, ‘and in ‘and, laugh at ‘em until our voices break. Take the clay they used to create their dreams with and burn everythin’ with ours.

- Shut. The fuck. Up !

Yet no amount of resistance seems to tarnish his fantasies of despair. She barely has the time to blink before he slips behind her back, his breath burning incandescent holes against her ear. His hollow heart beats silently against her spine - and her arms fall limp against her sides, getting tangled with the crimson rope circling around them.

- We could make our own miracles, he whispers, never letting go of his decaying thoughts.

A broken cackle tears through her clenched teeth.

- So now you want to play like a God ?

One of his hands, torn open by countless cursed knots, comes to circle the neck of his prey. His smile drips into the passion lining his voice, and she can almost feel him against her cheek as his massive frame leans over her shoulders. Their spines could fuse with each other without her even realising it, she thinks, feeling her back crack under her demon’s weight. She wonder if they are now worthy of the crumbling statues haunting the temple of her mind.

- Why no’ ? He says, and her legs suddenly go numb.

The Ghost breaks her fall without any effort, taking advantage of her now lethargic state to hold her tight against his heart. He presses a kiss against her cheek, slowly savouring the taste of a frustrated tear.

- Why couldn’t we be our own Divine ?

Crimson now runs towards the very center of her soul, and she can’t do anything but dive into the motlen marble of the Ghost’s eyes.

Another fight is coming to an end.

Her human heart pumps with an overjoyed frenesy as its end nears once more, but the Hunter is far from glad as she realises said end is nothing more than an illusion coated in sulfur. The entity can see the suffering dancing in her eyes, now reddened by the tears she refuses to set free. The Fates could slice their mutual despair open with a laugh whenever they want ; but they have yet to do so, and he wonders if they enjoy watching the both of them struggle to stay afloat.

- Slowly now, he whispers, slightly loosening his grip to erase the dull ache throbbing in-between her ribs. Wouldn’t be wise to exhaust yourself withou’ me.

A part of him would probably qualify this role of his of Apathy, or Disinterest ; bury himself in a litany of lies to play the perfect villain, always finding a new excuse to justify the satisfaction he gets out of it all. Try to convince himself of how none of this, her, Them, deserve even a shred of his attention. But he knows that, somewhere in what’s left of his angelic heart, slumbers the reality of a longing, a thirst for love and touch he refuses to see. And she knows it too.

He silences the feeling again, covering it with words dripping with his own broken kind of sarcasm.

- This world doesn’t make any sense if you’re not ‘ere.

A sickening growl shakes her guts as she takes in what she refuses to hear. It dies before reaching her lips.

- What a liar, she grumbles, her voice and mind fading more and more with each syllable. You’re just a fucking liar.

The smile he offers her is nothing short of carnivorous, and through it, she could almost make out the virtuous remnants of what used to be his soul. He presses a searing kiss over the bloodied foundation covering her shoulder, incredibly soft despite the sharp, mesmerizing coldness haunting his each and every word.

- C’mon, lil’ Hunter. Give up.

And this time again, the taste of victory flows bitterly against his tongue.

Run. Dodge. Strike. Choke.

When she opens her eyes, her room is nothing but silence, and the chaos of her bed seems covered in a thin layer of ice.

Her entire body is being crushed by an invisible weight as countless shivering waves run along her skin. A choir of ghosts dance in the corner of her vision, their laughter echoing through the walls of her skull. A frozen, corrupted substance flows through her still slumbering veins.

Why is it so cold ?

Her breath quickens as she fights to keep a semblance of control over the ruins of her mind. A sea of urchins is tearing her trachea apart, and she would love to feel her hands smash their spikes through her throat - yet nothing seems to even think of taking pity on her. A river slowly starts running down her frozen cheeks, its flow carrying her thoughts away like a hurricane would a twig, as if trying to drown her in her own mind.

An earthquake suddenly takes over the marble of her hands, and she doesn’t know if it is caused by the ambiant cold or the thunder wreaking havoc inside her ribcage. The magma that was once slumbering in her chest is now trying to escape through her every pore ; and it burns, scorches her insides over and over again as the volcano bursts along with her tears, threatening to carve a new rift on the surface of her heart.

Crushed by her ribs, her lungs refuse to work properly. A pungent breath bites through her bones, as if trying to corrupt even the marrow hiding behind their calcified walls. Her own existence is hoping to tear the guts out of her humanity’s rotting corpse. The decline of a heart filled with despair is tragic enough to become the muse of countless poets and their sonnets ; yet there’s no glory in the mourning of what we once used to be, she thinks, especially when Life itself drinks our tears with a crooked smile painted on its mask of comedy.

Next to her, the mattress sinks. Her eyes, burned by the salt of her tears, can barely make out the dark silhouette leaning over her ; but she doesn’t need them to feel and know who it is. The Ghost lays a burning hand on her cheek, and something inside of her desperately tries to anchor itself to this touch she subconsciously learned to look for amidst the storm.

A somber look covers the entity’s features as his fingers meet the ice of her hands. She’s a warrior ; one he’s used to fight almost every single day. Seeing her in this state is almost disturbing, for he quickly realises there is nothing left of her usual hostility. The Flood swallowed it all.

For once, he’s not the source of her distress, and this train of thought leaves a strange feeling in its wake. Is it rage ? Jealousy ? A mix of both ? It doesn’t matter. The Divine is not allowed to toy with a prey that isn’t Its own.

She barely has the strength to utter a single sound as he takes hold of the fragility of her fingers to bring them to his own neck. The mocking spectres dancing around them suddenly cease all movement. They even seem to disappear the second she starts feeling the echo of a pulse under the scars littering his skin, the confusing proof of the decomposing existence of a life filled with darkness. Its rhythm is slow, silent, ghostly. It gently lulls her mind, offering a blessed shelter against the violent winds.

Her own demon tries to hold her head out of the water ; a situation that would have made her laugh had her throat not be so parched.

- What did it taste like, she finally croaks out as her hand ghosts over his skin, the despair that made you fall ?

Was it similar to the fear haunting the surface of my lips ? Will you end up smearing it on my tongue to break what might be left of my humanity ? Will you be seated on the Emperor’s throne on the highest part of the infernal Coliseum in the middle of which I will inevitably be forsaken ?

Or will I be the one to guide you towards the light ? Will I be able to let you taste the ambrosia of peace I keep looking for ? And if it indeed ends up touching your lips, will I even realise it ?

- Like my own blood, the Ghost says, and she notices the peculiar softness that has replaced the usual sarcasm tainting his voice. Wan’ to try it ?

The kiss he offers her is like a cruel salvation ; a source of comfort immediately shattered by waves of chaos blooming into her soul. It leaves a sour taste on her tongue, akin to a tragedy leaving a trail of weeping arteries and broken bones in its wake. Like the smoking remnants of a battlefield, she thinks, witnessing the horrors she went through ; the nightmares haunting her sleep. A series of erratic visions displayed on the dark screen of her eyelids.

It tastes like the beginning of the end, murmurs a voice lost in the torn expanse of her mind, and she finds herself submerged by the need for more.

The warmth of his skin slowly melts the ice imprisoning her. Yet the tension running between them still has the red thread tightening around their throats, and a part of her refuses to see how good it could be to let him drag her down into his own flames. Let them be hers.

She only now sees the strange pattern they created, made from both violence and peace, love and hatred, as well as a guilty freedom tightening around her guts.

The Ghost probably noticed it too. Even when they exchange words filled with mockery and blood, he always ends up savouring the harsh touch of her hands pulling his teeth back towards her neck. And slowly, surely, he unwinds the knots holding her spirit together, only to tie them up all over again as she wakes up from a familiar anesthesia. A predatory smile carves itself against her neck, sharp teeth threatening to break both her body and soul - progressively widening the rift in the facade she desperately tries to keep in place.

- Relax, luv, he whispers, his abyssal timbre sending shivers down her spine.

His hands clutch every single one of her curves with a desperation she has yet to understand. His fingers seem to reach for her very soul, claws moulding her body to his will. Their hearts dance with each other as he holds her to his chest, exploring the expanse of her back as if he was discovering it for the first time. His breath leaves a scorching ache on her shoulder, and she wonders how his touch keeps getting even more delicious each time.

She lets out a cry as his fingers find her core. Her teeth coax a vicious growl from his throat as they sink into his flesh, and the Ghost drinks up every trembling breath dripping past her lips. A rumble echoes deep within his chest as she loses herself against him, her nails leaving crimson rivers down his neck.

The cold haunting her is now long forgotten. The ice shatters under the Ghost’s fangs, and, for a second, he draws his eyes towards the darkness of the room. They mercilessly pierce the remnants of the now silent spectres that tried to steal his perfect prey. Their silhouettes finally vanish completely ; at the same time, a shuddering whimper shakes the body resting in the iron of his grasp.

- Let’s show ‘em who ya belong to.

Run. Dodge. Strike. Choke.

She feels more than she sees the way her palms turn white under the assault of her own nails. Her heart never slows its erratic rhythm, forcing the mud coating the surface of her lungs to pulse along its beat. A few centimeters away from hers, the Ghost’s chest rumbles with a laugh.

The world could crumble so easily in-between her hands, he thinks ; she’d just need to strengthen her will. She could take over this infernal game and make it eternal, let the Divine Creations burn and burn, turn into a lake of sterile ashes. Ring the final bell and have its sepulcral cries echo in the bones of the Gods. Create her own version of a happy ending.

The world could crumble so easily in-between her hands ; for her determination is a synonym of destruction. And They know it. They are the ones who sent him to her, trying to make her fall. Did They even think he’d try to make her his instead ? To turn her against Their pathetic idea of glory ?

But he has yet to win. An infuriating reality. You should already be dead, he wants to scream, why do you refuse to yield ?

She only looks up at him through the darkness lining her eyes, ignoring the nauseating feeling of her life bleeding along her skin - leaving a series of darkening trails along the porcelain of her bones.

- What about you ? She says, and it’s like she’s reading his thoughts. It’s not like you’re doing much.

And it’s true. He torments her, brings her down over and over through countless excruciating fights. Strikes her weakest spots, both in her body and soul. Yet he knows it’s far from being enough. He wants to see how long she’ll last, what will end up being his coup de grâce ; but maybe a part of him wants her to live, achieve what his distant, decaying memory tells him he was never able to even touch.

His fangs scrape painfully against each other. Under the mask, his jaw is covered with the blood of the lives he took. Hers soaks through his clothes, skin, muscles and bones - but it has yet to taint his teeth, coat the walls of his stomach. He is the reason why his ideas haven’t been brought to light. He knows it well, perhaps he has even acknowledged it.

- You could reign over this world and you know it, she adds weakly, her voice breaking over the words she doesn’t even really need to articulate.

She doesn’t know if she’s glad to still be alive despite the fact that her body should already be lost six feet under, or if she wishes it would be the case.

- You have the power to bring your every desire to life. Make it a perfect reality.

Her muscles weaken with every second that runs through their fibres. Her lungs, filled with a dark, freezing darkness, beg to breathe in even the slightest amount of oxygen as her chest crumbles with exhaustion. Despite all of this, the Hunter refuses to sway, ignoring the waves of pain crashing against her bones. She tries to stand proud in front of the Ghost, feeling him watch intently as she fights against herself. But her legs crack and stumble ; and his reflexes are a perfect proof of his inhumanity when he launches himself forward to catch her, preventing her from shattering her already broken self on the rubble at their feet. He holds her tight against him, letting out a deep, mocking laugh - yet refusing to let her go.

They both know why.

Run. Dodge. Strike. Cry.

A flash of silver.

A familiar sting.

A salty tear.

Another wave of crimson crashes against the porcelain of her skin, violently, beautifully. The puddle swirling around her knees reflects the pathetic face of a broken doll. Her limbs are numb, unable to feel the rain hitting them as if it was trying to avoid her, only aiming for the floor. For a second, she wonders if a Divinity is crying for her Destiny, but the thought quickly falls quiet, silenced by a muted laugh. The Gods never pity their mortals.

Her soul falls into pieces once more on the marbled concrete at her feet, and the faraway echo guides her eyes up towards the sky. The adrenaline born from the usual fighting is slowly starting to fade. On the edges of her blurry vision, the Ghost draws his familiar silhouette out of the fog. The misshaped sarcasm she throws his way doesn’t make him flinch the slightest, making her wonder if this nightmarish entity didn’t place much more faith in her than she ever will.

What a stupid thought, they both whisper, the only thing breaking them apart being the usual snarky smile she forgot to wear to hide her ever-dampening cheeks.

- Ya know you’ll have trouble hidin’ those blood stains, right ? The demon says, kneeling to her side.

A soft sound escapes her lips, scorching hot compared to the rain.

- It’d be useless anyway.

Run. Dodge. Strike. Cry.

She wakes up with a start and a silent scream as sweat runs coldly down her chest. There’s a dry, violent pounding in her skull, enhanced by a laughing tide of cramps tearing her bones apart, its echo bouncing around her sleeping muscles. Despite the confusion lingering in her brain after what is probably her third nightmare of the night, she registers a warmth laying next to her, one she’s surprised to see at this hour. A part of her expected him to come and go as he pleases like he always does - never taking the time to stop, even for a moment. But in the end, him being here isn’t that surprising. Just like her, he’s never been able to leave her side for too long.

Maybe they’ve become each other’s haven among the mayhem of this world.

She shivers violently has she buries her face under the covers once more, ignoring the sweat lingering on her skin. Her hands whiten with the strength she uses to scratch at her scalp, hoping to lose her thoughts among the apocalyptic landscape of her bed. Find an anchor outside of the dreamworld.

- It’s impossible to fully heal, isn’t it ? She whispers more to herself than anything, even though she knows how light of a sleeper the Ghost is. No one can really forget.

Almost immediately, she feels him move against her shoulder, silently turning around to meet her form ; small and trembling under a nameless terror. Pathetic, he would usually laugh, but his own scars burn so viciously that he can only clench his teeth as he faces her pain. Is that empathy twisting his guts ?

What he would do to forget that thought.

- If ya want to forget tha’ badly, I might ‘ave a solution or two.

The Silence is loud as she nods slowly, tiredly. Seeking refuge in the sulfur of his touch.

- Please, she says, quaking as his hand smears layers upon layers of charcoal upon her hips, don’t you wish for the same ?

His lips fall upon the curve of her neck, barely restraining the fangs hiding behind them from piercing the already bruised skin ; reveal the raw pulse hiding underneath.

- Yes, he answers, barely daring to break the erratic rhythm of his breath - and, once more, feeling her melt through the peculiar love of his hold.

When traitorous Morpheus finally takes control over her mind, the sun has already broken through the night, painting the firmament in blinding hues of blue, devoid of any cloud. It claws mercilessly at the Ghost’s eyes, tears a low growl from his chest. On the other side of the window, the world rises to a mix of car engines, footsteps and voices, involuntarily celebrating the light that is constantly trying to burn him to ashes.

The sky has no reason to be blue, he thinks as his forehead meets the window pane, just like his Snowflake has no reason to sigh so serenely in his presence. The atmosphere is soft, warm ; dragging a wave of shivers down his back. A frustrated growl escapes his throat, the night of his eyes sparkling at the taste of a familiar rage. That celestial blue is silently looking down on him, mocking his darkness.

He loathes it.

He loathes her.

A second is enough for his knee to dig into the covers once more, giving him enough support to guide his fingers towards her face. They slowly dance along her skin as the weight of his very existence makes the mattress whimper, before roughly circling her neck. Her blood pumps peacefully under his touch, and his own voice screams in the back of his mind, distorted and rough.

Do it. Take her. Rid us of this nuisance.

His tongue soothes the cracks covering his lips, and a twisted smile eventually slices them open once more as the words settle in his thoughts.

But in her sleep, the Hunter moves - and his excitement dies as quickly as it came to live. She breathes in deeply, her head lolling against the pillows. Instead of braving for a fight like she usually does, she lets her subconscious raise a hand to his wrist, as if she was trying to offer him her silent support.

But that’s not what he wants. That’s not what he is.

What happened to this poor human that fought mercilessly against him, fueled by an endless determination ; the one who bared her broken teeth in his face through a bloody sneer, ready to turn his words against him and burn his entire being to ashes ?

He loathes the way his own mind whispers those words in his ears, exchanging it’s usual coldness for a dry melody made of anger and fear that makes his hold tremble around his Snowflake’s throat. The peculiar understanding they both came to. The doubts this small, vulnerable thing keeps planting in his soul. The fact that he can’t make any sense of the abyss bubbling in his head anymore

So he staightens up, ignoring the way his spine crackles as he makes his way out of this way too-familiar room. He almost expects a knife to dig through his back, to whistle in retaliation for engaging in an unfair fight. Give him a taste of his own medicine, in a way. A painful warning. So he waits.

But nothing comes.

A glance over his shoulder shows that the Hunter hasn’t moved a single inch. She still lays there, swallowed by a capharnaüm of blankets, her sleep-laden breath so slow it barely disturbs the quiet of the room. Her favourite plushie is curled on top of her head, like a guardian trying to keep its treasure from the merciless claws of a nightmare. A fitting description, he thinks, realising it’s probably been months since she slept so soundly.

His teeth strain under the sudden pressure of his jaws. This is the exact kind of peace he is starting to see in the eyes of his prey - as if she was in the process of surrendering, giving up her life to his now familiar hands. He doesn’t understand how she can bring herself to look at something like him and feel so serene. It makes him want to keep her for himself even more, taint the corrupted purity of her soul. He knows she can feel it ; so why does she treat him with so much tenderness ? Even more so after the hell he’s been dragging her through while laughing at her tears ?

A sour smile loses itself to the her sleepy silence as he turns back to sit on the edge of the bed. Perhaps the only reason why he wants her to be his is to understand her better. And once he does, he might finally be able to grasp how similar the chaos brewing in their hearts is. Forging their souls from the same steel.

Or perhaps the roles will change, and he will become nothing than a frail and vulnerable lamb. An easy prey caught in the destructive jaws of the Hunter.

Run. Dodge. Strike. Think.

Above her, a string of neons blink.

The young woman has no idea of what pushed her to once again get lost in the smelly bathroom of this nightclub - the one her friends keep dragging her to. Her eardrums haven’t stopped ringing violently ever since she stepped foot through its doors - perhaps because of the music that’s way too loud for her senses, the multicolored lights tearing at her retinas, or the uncontrollable amount of blurry faces swinging way too close for her comfort.

She doesn’t belong here.

Despite the nauseating swaying of her vision, she notices a more-than-familiar silhouette lingering in a corner of the room. He seems way too big for fit comfortably in the small space, engulfing it completely with his darkness. A stark contrast to the colorful graffiti littering the walls.

- ‘Ow many times do ya plan on makin’ tha’ back an’ forth between the dancefloor and this shithole ?

If the mockery in his tone only serves to irritate her more than she already is, the young woman doesn’t have the strength to meet the Ghost’s eyes. Instead, she stares at her own reflection among the suspicious dirt covering the mirror dangling on the wall, akin to a failed portrait made by a drunk painter. She thinks about taking a picture and submit it to the first museum of contemporary arts she stumbles upon, to top it off with a ridiculous title. Who knows - with a little bit of luck, she could maybe earn a little bit of money. Make it easier to reach the end of the month.

As that thought runs sarcastically through her mind, she ignores the dry chuckle rasping from the corner behind her.

Somewhere beyond the door, the DJ makes a poor transition to another music she barely recognizes. All that’s left in the tired void of her mind is the struggle of her own existence and the calm breathing of the entity, wafting against her neck despite the small distance between them. Her eyes meet once again the cracked lights in the mirror, and she can almost see it pulsating against the wall along the beat coming from the next room. The music keeps screaming in the rancid air, and her blood almost crystallizes in her veins when it’s joined by a chorus of screeches and whistles.

- I need to get away from here, she says, knowing the Ghost heard her despite the ambiant chaos.

She can feel him shift behind her as she reaches towards the dilapidated door with a trembling hand, desperately trying to shut off the pain lingering in her marrow.

- Let’s fuck off then, he answers almost immediately, and she wonders if he, too, hopes to get rid of a loud ringing in his ears.

She barely has the time to step out of the bathroom that she’s assaulted by the sounds, the smells, the touches. The singing voices and bodies burnt by an impossible amount of toxic liquids and smokes, a violent choir telling her to get away, away, away - GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE ; and she has no idea of which is stronger between the screams of the nightclub or the cries of her heart. Almost instinctively, she reaches behind her, seeking a destructive yet familiar contact in the hand of the entity following her. But her pride is a powerful force, and her arm stays stuck to her side.

Yet the Ghost knows her well. He feels what she does as if he was the one living inside her head ; and he kind of is, in a way. Perhaps he is the one feeling all of this, and not her ? He quickly silences the thought, enveloping her hand with the charcoal covering his own, squeezing so tight it’s almost painful.

It soothes an ache in his own non-existent heart. He wonder if she knows, feels, everything about him too.

Another nightmare comes running down his back ; a memory, the laughing spectre of what used to be a majestic pair of wings, which he used to fight in the Divine’s name until It abandoned him to his own abyss, tore his feathers apart to burn them to ashes in the flames of Its arrogance.

He almost feels the need to throw his eyes into another mirror shining below the erratic lights, as if the crevices running along its surface could give him what he lost ; a new kind of feathers, way too sharp for the immaculate hands of the Gods. But the Hunter keeps walking, dragging him along.

And the Ghost follows. For she’s his only shelter in this bubble of suffering they both unvoluntarily insist on sharing.

Run. Dodge. Fight. Think.

How do you mourn a devastating loss when you’ve never had anything to lose ?

Tell an Angel a tale of love, and they will carry it in their dreams. Listen to the beating of their heart, akin to a bird’s song celebrating the rising sun. Watch the molten gold reflecting off the ink of their blood drop from the wounds their longing for such a feeling caused. Realise how beautiful the depths of their darkness is, abyssal and mesmerizing ; how empty it all is, devoid of any sense.

The Ghost isn’t too different, he who lives thanks to those who unknowingly need him, who convinced himself that he was made to serve their torment. His very existence is proof that, if he can’t find a soul to pull him forward, he is nothing ; which is why he looks for his redemption through countless paths made from wounds that aren’t his. He dips his feet in puddles tainted by the blood of mortals, the crimson life -and death- of those whose hatred and suffering only serve to fuel his own.

A long time ago, he forgot what it’s like to love.

Maybe he remembers the meaning of caring for someone. But does that mean his feelings were once given back to him ? The thought is both ridiculous and horrifying ; a description that fits him well, too. It has become impossible for him to get rid of the impression that, if he one day decides to let go of the his Snowflake, these shreds of memories would also slip through his fingers.

So he holds on, so strongly that his knuckles whiten and crack under the corrupted ink of his skin. He doesn’t know whether or not he could speak of love - if he should. Behind the deformed skull covering his face, the entity hides a terrified snarl.

Sometimes, alone in his own darkness, all of this makes him laugh. How lucky he is to have something to fear, something to drive him forward ! And how undeserving he is of it, Fallen that he is, he who fell so long ago in a bottomless well of which he will never get out !

During his most vulnerable moments, laying down next to the Hunter among the chaos of her bed, he lets his doubts break through his voice.

- You’re mine, aren’t ya ? He asks, and she murmurs something he can’t catch before clearing her throat.

- Yeah, she answers sleepily, I’m yours.

Her hands get lost in the gaping scars littering his back, and he allows himself to be lulled by such a light touch, devoid of the usually anxious trembling interrupting her days. Among his sighs, now peaceful thanks to this intimacy they barely think to share, his muscles tense periodically. She feels more than she sees the earthquake hidden behind the baritone notes of his voice ; and she knows his fears too well, these nightmares that keep trying to shatter the pieces of her heart. She can almost see his eyes look for an answer she might not really dare to give him, for she almost knows him better than she knows herself ; and vice versa. Or maybe not, whispers and echo that sounds eerily close to a mix of their voices, but she refuses to torment the already too twisted soul of the Ghost.

What made you like this ? She sometimes yearns to ask. Who made you into those ruins of a man, constantly trying to drown you in a bottomless abyss ?

But she knows she will never be brave enough to loudly articulate those questions, even if he might already know about them. So she settles for snuggling against his peculiar warmth, covering the tangle of their bodies with a toasty piece of her covers, not really knowing which one of them she is trying to bring comfort to. A yawn escapes her lips as she holds him against her chest like a damaged, oversized plushie - not unlike the one sleeping peacefully next to her head.

- And you’re mine.

Run. Dodge. Strike. Dream.

The era she lives in is made of corruption and greed, she thinks, its horrors rivalling with the ones found in the deepest pits of Hell itself. Or perhaps it’s a form of Paradise ? Maybe she’s nothing more than a demon hidden in a masquerade filled with pure, ancestral beings, her flaking skin gripping the velvet of her costume, threatening to tear it apart like the Gods did her soul. Maybe she’s one of the few who see the Truth hidden behind this never-ending show, this cacophony in the middle of which she’s forced to survive despite the fact she’s not meant to be there in the first place.

In a world covered in scorching waves and deadly shores, where is she supposed to find herself a halo ?

Sometimes, she wonders if the Angels of today pray when the sun rises, kneeling in front of the loud cries of their coffee machine. If the remnants of what were once sacred melodies dance in the ashes if their memory, disappearing behind the echo of the last drop falling into a cup they will never empty completely.

She wonders if their now blunt teeth break cigarette after cigarette, their ends piling up on the cold and dirty tiles of public restrooms, the walls around them covered in holy quotes they have long since forgotten. If their tongues happen to trip on the syllabes of a language they can no longer understand.

She wonders if their mouths are still filled with ambrosia, tainting every other food with a flavour they now know as forbidden. If they still remember lazing around in the middle of starry clouds, once upon a time when their glasses were never empty and their laughter ran along the skyline.

And she wonders if they would still be able to recognise their brothers and sisters behind the corrupted aura surrounding them, the foam born form the Lethe that lingers in their eyes. If they meet each other under the noses of the mortals species they now belong to, their sanded claws tearing the silky skin covering their bones, as if trying to find an illusion of peace in the ocean of confusion they are doomed to roam.

Are there even such beings, nowadays ? She murmurs. Remnants of sacred ruins destined to sway forever between their forgotten paradise and the hellish grounds they always feared ?

- You’re overthinkin’ again, a voice echoes at her side, and she can almost see two dots of dried blood light up at the edge of her field of vision.

She doesn’t even think about turning her head towards the sound, her own eyes focusing on the darkness of her ceiling.

- Would you be able to answer any of my questions ?

Her mattress suddenly caves in under a weight she now knows too well. The Ghost leans over her, a foreign expression carving his face behind the skull of his mask.

His silence is as somber as it is eloquent.

- Your fall, she insists, did it hurt ?

- ‘Course it did.

Of course it did, echoes a smiliar voice floating in the darkness. I felt my wings decompose as I tried to slow my fall down, the stars burning my fingertips over and over. My hands have been torn open by the lightning crawling around the atmosphere, and the clouds cried waves upon waves of salty tears upon my wounds. My scapulars tore the muscles of my shoulders apart, and my feathers burned among a sea of flames I once came to admire.

This nightmarish moment still haunts my entire being. I can still hear my own screams bounce around my skull, refusing to quiet down despite the passing of time and the crevices that line its walls.

Of course it hurt.

- Of course, she repeats once more with a pale voice, as if the memories twirling in her mind had always been hers.

Run. Dodge. Strike. Dream.

Angels are sacred beings, spells a voice lost in the young woman’s mind, whose wings have been carved in a block of purity, and whose feathers sway along the rhythm of a virtuous wind. It’s easy for them to lose it all. Remember this, for the next time you catch the eyes of a Fallen.

Inside the Ghost’s ribcage, a somber void sits where a heart once was. The cracks of the Genesis hide a bottomless abyss, cruel and bathed in despair. She never knows how to resist to its alluring call, the loving whispers twisting her soul and turning it into a palette of rotten watercolours.

She’s been standing in her bathroom for a long time now, watching her reflection in her foggy mirror. Her hair clings to her face, still wet from the heat of a way-too-long shower, yet she does nothing to move it. Truth be told, the reflective glass only shows her a vague, colorful shape ; but she knows herself well, so much that it has become impossible to ignore the marks lingering on her body. She’s the reason behind many of them, guided by the honeyed words of her nightmares, always so cold against the invisible flames licking at her skin.

She should run. She knows that too well. She should have started running eons ago, even, but something inside of her refuses to get rid of her chains. She could escape to the other side of the world - yet nothing could stop her from coming back to the entity that, despite their constant fighting, somehow keeps her head out of the water.

Migh’ be our Destiny, is what he always says, persuading her to stay by his side. And it could be true, for the Fates are vicious and cruel, always looking for a way to laugh at their pathetic efforts to stay afloat.

He used to be an Angel. Everyone is to meet at least one during their life, and another one after their death ; no matter its nature. The Divine no longer cares about the purity of the entities It sends to the mortal world, and might even find some pleasure in seeing the consequences of Its own failures, convincing Itself that none of them is Its fault. The Gods will always see Themselves as better than anything else, and the Ghost hopes she never forgets it.

- And there she is, he says as he steps closer to her exhausted form. Back again.

The echo of his footsteps sends shivers down her spine. A bitter taste haunts the dried walls of her throat, soon taken over by a nauseating sweetness - the kind that makes her want to hold even more of it between her teeth.

Run, the voice whispers once more. You poor little thing, it might not be too late to escape him. But she knows this regret will soon go silent, making it even more easier to stay. So she stays, unmoving as he gets closer and closer, until there’s barely an inch left between their chests.

- Tha’ was quick. Missed me tha’ much ?

His smile is impossible to describe. Her reflection is clear in the bloody lake of his eyes ; showing her the peculiar fascination that paints her features, sometimes broken by rays of doubt and desire. Their lips barely graze each other as he leans in, yet the touch is so vivid compared to everything else that the Hunter wonders if it wasn’t just her imagination.

- Your ego knows no bound, she mumbles, her voice lacking its usual sharpness.

The Ghost smiles, knowing too well how captivating his inhumainty is. She constantly tries to get rid of this malicious attraction that chains the both of them, dipping her finger in the spectral thoughts whispering how much better she is than all of this, than this Fallen who knows nothing about the depths of love. It’s all an illusion, a dream created by an infernal fever. A trap. She’s aware if this - so why does it all seem so real, sometimes ? Could it be that all these silent, vulnerable moments are nothing more than the sparks of futile hope she thought was real ?

She should run. But she wants to know if there isn’t even the smallest of truthful lights hidden behind this never-ending nightmare.

- You always say that Destiny’s the reason why we’re constantly brought together, she murmurs weakly, dropping her head against the Ghost’s torso as he holds her there, hands coated in a silent tenderness. But how could that be, since I always do my best to avoid you ? How do you keep finding me ?

For a moment, the entity feels his eyes widen with surprise. He quickly hides it behind a sly smile, cruel and warm. This time, he dives even deeper to really meet her lips, and she can taste the rust that seems to haunt his every touch.

She should run. But she doesn’t. She never will.

- I jus’ follow those who are waitin’ for me, Snowflake.

She sometimes wonder if she’ll ever be able to forgive their mutual sins ; and the voice in her head cackles. You’re bound to a being that lives for this, it says, don’t tell me you’ve forgotten ? The laughter refuses to stop as she realises again and again that she’s far from being Holy - something that the Ghost knows too.

- You always save me from my demons because you want to kill me yourself, don’t you ? She asks, her words bouncing strangely around her dried throat. You’re the only Death you’ll allow me to have.

He sucks in a breath, the darkness of his features twisting under his mask. Those questions -or statements ?- rouse an unknown feeling from the void ; new, complex, indecipherable. She can almost feel his usual arrogance quiver in her own heart, abruptly hidden by the melancholic sigh crossing his lips.

After a moment of silence, the entity places a kiss on her shoulder, light as a buttefly. Something loud echoes from his thoughts, a conflict lost eons ago to the abyss, while his own silence offers no denial or confirmation. So she keeps herself quiet, holding her certainty in a corner of her blurry mind.

And in her dreams, when Morpheus laughs as he asks her if she’s found herself to be seduced by his newfound vulnerability, the exhausted Hunter simply offers him a bitter smile, drinking her own tears from a golden cup.

She no longer has an answer.

Run. Dodge. Strike. Hope.

Among the universe in which she lives, the Hunter never knew a single end ; only strings of never ending realities and gargantuan burdens holding the cruel thoughts that keep laughing at her misery. Destiny has never been on her side. Which makes her laugh ; maybe she stopped believing in it too long ago to care.

She couldn’t say when exactly she lost the taste of happiness that came with the old memories of her youth. Instead, her tastebuds tremble whenever a tired and distressed breath invades her mouth in the hopes of being set free, twist under its sour flavour as she tries to swallow it. Some times are not made for sighing.

The Gods decided that she was made to wither in Chaos, but she’d rather see things differently. She doesn’t like the idea of the cruel, broken concepts They make, those that never hesitate to unleash waves of suffering on thousands and thousands of innocent souls. She tries to focus on the positive things they sometimes leave in their wake, no matter how difficult it is to find them, how easily they can crumble in her hands.

For now, she’s stopped fighting. But the cascades of her own blood are now weaved in her soul, constantly retelling tales of the wars she’s been through. She can do nothing more than to wait for the next storm. Which she does.

Among the uiverse in which she lives, comfort comes and goes however it pleases. More often than not, it goes down a path drastically different than hers, so far away that she loses sight of it. Those periods of time stretch out for so long that when this peace comes back, meeting its almost unknown silhouette triggers her reflex to fight - her soul screaming at the potential enemy standing in front of her.

Fight ! It pleads. Fight ! Fight ! Fight !

Survive !

Yet she silences it for now.

Outside of her window, the city still hides behind a thick veil of fog. As always, it should be too early for her to be awake ; but her eyes refuse to stay closed, and her mind focuses on the heavy feeling crushing her waist. The Ghost lays beside her, still fast asleep with an arm slung over her frame, his body easily engulfing hers. It’s a good opportunity for her to observe how his short, blond hair fades into the porcelain of his skin, shattered by countless scars of all colours. She dares run a hand through the blond calamity of his hair. How strange it can be, she thinks as he sighs against her breast, to sometimes boil with hatred and disdain for the other, yet still share those quiet moments of intimacy whenever the fight ends.

She used to wish for him to disappear. And yet now, she finds peace in his presence.

What happened ?

In her eyes, the entity did nothing to deserve even an ounce of kindness. He dragged her down over and over again, enjoyed building her back together only to break her again, drew tears and blood from her very soul to savour the taste. But so did she.

The Divine keeps laughing at their pain by offering them fake opportunities of redemption. But they both know they can only find their salvation in the other’s soul, walk side by side towards a new world of their own creation. If the thought leaves a bitter taste in her mouth, she still sees how attractive it can be to slowly burn out in the heart of the Ghost while cradling him in hers - free both of their souls of the miasma haunting them.

This is a fantasy based on nothing, cackles a distorted voice in her head. And it’s true. No matter how much they try to redeem themselves, how many times they tear their own knees apart while praying, and how many rebellions they go through in order to cut their own strings, the skies will never allow them to leave Their grasp. But they stopped caring a long time ago.

Raising a trembling arm to her eyes, the Hunter smiles. Exhaustion weighs heavy on her lips as she silently follows the too-many marks littering her skin - a familiar sight, with an ever-growing number. She realises how similar her scars are to the Ghost’s. The canvas of their bodies is covered in white lines, rugged burns and deep, purple bruises that never stop appearing, and her vision sways before she can finish counting.

Yet she can’t stop her eyes from following the crevices lining the entity’s back. They rise and hide among a valley of broad muscles, holding the memories he refuses to share. The visions he can’t forget. Her own back is probably the same. They are covered in the painful remnants of what used to be their wings, the spectres of their freedom weighing heavy against their bones.

- I know you’re awake, Ghost. Stop pretending.

She immediately feels him smile against her skin, his fangs threatening to catch on the red lines crossing her chest.

- No’ pretendin’, he answers with a low and cheeky voice. Admirin’ my work.

- Oh, fuck off.

That drives a cackle out of his throat. He could have followed up with one of his usual snarky comments, but he chooses to nuzzle the crook of her neck instead as she slowly rakes her nails along his scalp. The gesture is soft, tender - so different from the times she claws at him instead, either during their fights, or their rougher moments of intimacy. An empty glance to her face, one she tries to avoid, tells him that she probably had the same thought.

The atmosphere is strange during this morning, bathed in a shy light, but the Ghost doesn’t pay it any mind. The room is perfectly silent, and it would be a shame to ignore this opportunity to get a glimpse of her beautifully complex mind.

How many times did he see his Snowflake’s eyes hold the darker hues of a violent rage, an abyssal despair, or any other feelings she couldn’t decipher ? He reads her like an open book, so satisfyingly transparent. How beautiful it is to watch how her story writes itself to the rhythm of her thoughts, of the days they weave together ! For now, all he sees is a slow melancholy digging in-between the lines, akin to a storm brewing on the horizon. An infinite tiredness that has him silencing the teasing he was tempted to articulate.

- You miss it, don’t you ? She finally says, interrupting his observations.

She hesitates slightly, pausing in her train of thoughts. How could she summarize the entirety of their mutual struggle in one sentence ? Her own saliva becomes painful to swallow, dragging against the dry walls of her throat. It’s like a marble of lead is blocking her oesophagus, leaking the poison of doubt in her system.

- The Chaos, she continues, her voice sounding incredibly raw. You keep chasing it, but it’s getting away.

The Ghost rolls onto his back, grunting as the rust of his bones hinders his movement. She isn’t wrong. Just like Violence has tried to break her soul, his is tainted by a visceral need to ruin all order. All is boring when Peace settles in ; silent, clean. Unsufferable.

But when he looks at the Hunter and her milky scars highlighted by the rising sun, the entity thinks this moment of rest -which will obviously be too short for her tastes- isn’t that bad. He appreciates the calm floating in the air, and her presence too, even if their relationship might be far from ideal. To stay here, bathing in the misty morning glow without holding a blade to the other’s throat, is something he finds himself to enjoy quite well.

He slowly sits up, allowing his head to stretch lightly to the side. The smile he gives her is full of harmless malice.

- Ya’d miss me, eh ? If I left to pursue tha’ Chaos.

- Oh no ! Not at all !

- Always so shy, he sighs as if her reaction offended him. Neva’ sharin’ whot ya really think.

He leans above her, voice lowering, and his arm twisting in a way that can barely support his weight. It wouldn’t take much for him to fall into his previous position.

- Bu’ maybe we could create our own Chaos ?

- We already do that quite a lot, she quips back while rolling over to turn her back to him. It’s enough for me.

She feels more than she sees the way his smile now leaves his fangs on full display, showing how much he enjoys troubling the morning peace with his dark and honeyed words. He softly takes hold of her wrist, where his lips come to follow a path he now knows more than well.

- Bu’ didn’t I hold your hand ta guide ya towards peace, multiple times ?

Face halfway buried into the pillows, the Hunger grimaces. These words reflect a twisted truth, ensnare her throat like the red thread that runs along her skin.

- You hate Peace, she breathes.

- And ya know nothin’ o’ it.

Sometimes, she thinks, « dangerous » isn’t powerful enough to define the Ghost - especially when his thoughts get so close to hers. When she finally decides to meet his gaze, she finds the usual spark of arrogance dancing behind his pupils. Yet there’s also a hint of laziness and sincerity, one she seems to see more and more as time passes. Body still heavy with sleep, she raises herself towards him, and languishly runs her thumb across the traitorous curve of his lips.

- You know your offer is tempting.

Among the universe in which she lives, the Gods like to play like cowards, binding them together as one tormented soul. They both despise Them for giving them so many feelings they will never control. On one side of the coin, it’s freeing to be carried by the dangers they hold ; but on the other side, constantly standing in the eye of the storm is exhausting. Like fighting with bare hands against a raging fire.

- And I know you’re gonna refuse, Snowflake.

She simply cackles.

Run. Dodge. Strike. Hope.

She doesn’t remember much about the happy times of her childhood. The earliest memories she holds are already painful, filled with an almost visceral need to survive against the infernal obstacles that Life keeps throwing in her path. They keep repeating that it’s like this for everyone, forcing her to reduce her own armor in pieces and tear out the heart beating behind it, showing this corrupted world the gaping wounds it has to beat with ; the searing edges she had to cauterize herself in order to not bleed out on her own ; the cries she swallowed into silence to avoid being treated like a stranger to her own existence.

Maybe they’ll come to see how difficult it is for her to keep going, she thinks, to hold her head high when everything tried to drag her down.

Her eyes, circled by her tired pain, get lost in the phosphorescent stars haunting her ceiling. Their pale, green light has always been a guide, a sturdy anchor protecting her against the merciless currents of her thoughts whenever she feels like giving up. Being a Celestial must be tiring, she sometimes whispers while imagining said creatures flying among clouds and comets. She can’t imagine what it takes to bear the weight of the hopes and dreams of others when one’s has already left this world to wander in another.

She always thought she never believed in Fate ; yet when she lets herself be carried away by the abyssal timbre of her Ghost, that demon she now knows more than herself, she remembers that it’s impossible to escape its languid clutches. Sometimes, a part of her wonders if she wasn’t wrong to listen so much to her doubts.

Her body is covered in scars she is ashamed to wear. But her fight is still far from whatever ending it might follow, and something in her mind murmurs that they can’t be that bad, those white marks she shares with the Fallen she’s come to love.

Her bones crack as she turns her pillow over to meet the cool fabric of its unused side ; but it’s the touch of the entity laying on top of her that keeps making her shiver, and a light laugh escapes her when his charcoal-covered claws brush against her ribs. It’s a rare melody, and it convinces him that, somewhere, the firmament must be torn by the miraculous and silent dance of a shooting star.

His thoughts only quiet down when she slides a hand along his scalp to feel the softness of his hair, the clarity of her voice echoing through the silence.

- Don’t you want to see it from up close ? She asks, causing him to raise a curious brow.

- See whot.

- The shooting star.

The Ghost smiles, littering her skin with butterfly kisses filled with reverence. To see the one he gave his love to so eager to do the same is a beautiful feeling, and he realises how lucky they both are to have met each other while looking for a new kind of ataraxia.

- No need, he whispers, nuzzling in the crook of her neck.

I already have one.

Run. Dodge. Strike. Kill.

Run. Dodge. Strike. Live.

[maester-of-spreadsheets]

Aka; an Armand playlist that only has songs from Shah Rukh Khan movies

Season 1 Episode 1: Aaya Tere Dar Par // Veer-Zaara I have broken all bonds with the world For you have come, leaving the world behind On your doorstep, your lover has come He has come, your lover has come

[Sorry for qawwali rocking. It will happen again.]

Season 1 Episode 2: Aa Tayar Hoja // Asoka Once on board the evening ship, get yourself settled in Come on, let's go! The evening shall be ecstasy The lips shall be mine but the thoughts shall be yours

[Needed at least one item number because Rashid!Armand basically served the same function as "I'm not sure what's happening here but I think I like it!"]

Season 1 Episode 3: Jaadu Teri Nazar // Darr Whether you say yes or no Whether you say yes or no Kiran, you're mine Kiran, you're mine

[Might as well throw this banger at the episode where Armand doesn't do anything but get accused of lingering.]

Season 1 Episode 4: Chaiyya Chaiyya // Dil Se Those who’ve been blessed with The shadow of love over their head, Will have heaven under their feet one day

[This claim is a little less impressive when you can float and you're immune to mediocre stars.]

Season 1 Episode 5: Chalak Chalak // Devdas This wine, this wine, yes, this wine, this wine This wine brings with itself The rain of memories It splashes and overflows This wine all around the heart

[Just here because of how often wine and blood are used as metaphors for one another and this episode has really comedically sezualized blood drinking DON'T THINK TOO HARD ABOUT HOW THE END OF THE SONG SIGNALS DOOM...]

Season 1 Episode 6: Baazigar O Baazigar // Baazigar My heart was alone You played such a game I stay up all night in your memories

[And that's a threat by the way.]

Season 1 Episode 7: Aaj Ki Raat // Don

The crazy ones are still unaware of What's going to happen tonight, What will be gained, what will be lost

[Not only is it difficult to know what Armand is doing, it's-]

Season 2 Episode 1: Tumse Milke Dil Ka // Main Hoon Na Check that! Wiiiiicked

[Or, if you prefer: "You don't know what is inside of my heart/You will remember my story."]

Season 2 Episode 2: Where's the Party Tonight // Kabhi Alvida Naa Kehna The pleasant songs are playing All lovers are misled So dance all night Where's the party tonight?

[Somewhere down the road!!!... at the combination mansion and vampire all you can eat place.]

Season 2 Episode 3: Phir Milenge Chalte Chalte // Rab Ne Bana Di Jodi I wish someone would love me, even if it’s a lie Even if it’s a lie, yes even if it’s a lie In every lifetime, the colors will change We blossom behind the curtains of dreamland We are travelers on the path of love, We’ll meet again as time goes by

[There are so many bollywood songs that make me feel like I've lived through several lifetimes, especially this one.]

Season 2 Episode 4: Ishq Kameena // Shakti Love is rotten, it has broken every heart Every lover has lost out to love, love has struck me down I find no peace, love is horrible, it makes life miserable

[Good song for an episode with everyone trying and failing to be romantic.]

Season 2 Episode 5: Dard-E-Disco // Om Shanti Om Then the fountain of grief started flowing As the balloon of my dreams burst That's why I now wander London, Paris, New York, L.A. or San Fransisco In my heart is the pain of disco

[... /Mic drop]

Season 2 Episode 6: Marjaani // Billu In the presence of God, I've also made promises I've acted according to the customs of the world Still if the world doesn't understand, then punish it If it agrees with you, then reward it If this crazy world doesn't agree to it then Let the world go to hell and die

[When you are about to be unable to prevent it :(]

Season 2 Episode 7: Dastaan-E-Om Shanti Om // Om Shanti The story goes that the one who recognizes the murderer, That lad has come back. It’s life’s way of telling the murderer That the shadow of death has surrounded him

[Just play this one in reverse because instead of using the trappings of theater to reveal the truth about an ingenue who was burned to death, we are using theater to conceal the truth about an ingenue who was burned to death.]

Season 2 Episode 8: Let's Break Up // Dear Zindagi Let’s break up, oh my love Agree to this We’ll never be able to make it work so let it go Let's break up!

[Yes, let's.]

[fandomfluffandfuck]

So i reread your pussy steve ask and HOLY SHIT i didn’t realise what i was missing out on. i had so many ideas about what new experiences steve has to go through, not just fucking but can you imagine the desperation when bucky eats him out? poor boy would be in pieces

So that idea was from the 1940s with steve and bucky, steve in his new body and only just getting used to all the sensations and upgrades- what about in the modern era? Buckys gone and steve doesn’t have a partner, and pleasuring himself only brings back memories of the war which he’d rather avoid. So, presumably, by the time bucky gets back, steve is REPRESSED.

But bucky needs help, steve doesn’t even know how to navigate friendship let alone anything else, what can he do?

So he doesn’t mention anything, doesn’t initiate anything, until bucky, being bucky, corners him in the kitchen late one night in the floor they share.

Not speaking, just slowly crowding him into the corner between the sink and the coffee maker, slowly, slowly moving his hands to steve’s hips and his nose to steve’s throat.

“uhh… buck? you okay?” steve can already feel a blush, which means bucky, being buried in his neck, can feel it to, because we all know how steve has a full body blush.

“yeah, hon, just missed you”

steve tenses, bucky doesn’t move. he hasn’t used a nickname for him other than ‘stevie’ or ‘punk’

“yeah i… missed you too buck” still, bucky doesn’t move

“god, missed you so much y’dont even know. you always been in my mind, somewhere. always been thinking about you even if i didn’t know it”

“you… remember?” bucky seems to freeze slightly, gripping steve’s hips tighter and pulling his head back just enough to give steve a smirk

“how could anyone forget you, stevie”

*insert dirty talk about steve being so desperate and keeping himself occupied with someone else, sam or tony or nat, which steve obviously denies and only gets more flustered, leaving to Bucky fucking him over the kitchen counter and making sure the whole tower can hear what’s his* (maybe bucky invites sam up to get a taste)

This is incredible!!

I can viscerally feel how heartbreaking and how hot this would be--expanding on this idea, I mean, thinking deeper about how Steve has walled himself off from pleasure in this instance. It just hurt too fucking much to remember Bucky before he came back from the dead, walking through Hell to find him again, so... he's entirely forgotten. He couldn't think about Bucky without breaking down. There was nothing to do, but know a piece of himself died with Bucky and try to drag his bruised and bloodied body forward because death did not swallow him. It evaded him and did worse than destroy him, it tore him from his world and placed him in another.

So, of course, he knows, intellectually, that Bucky did that to him; he knows it feels good, but he's not let himself remember just how good it was. His body has become numb at the accordance of his mind being saturated with pain and panic and heart-splitting trauma. And with a crash-course in modernity with its overt sexualization of him as an "icon"... Steve's quietly divorced himself more of pleasure. The slang of new sexual aggression and desire intertwined is too confusing. He doesn't think he'll ever catch up. So. He doesn't try.

Until...

Exactly, Bucky plasters himself all over him, and Steve discovers--hips jerking uncontrollably, squeezing his thighs around Bucky's soaked face, locking him there where he's making him see God, it's fucking Heaven, holding onto his thick, dark hair between his legs with a trembling fist, Steve's hot, red mouth hanging open as he moans with guttural abandon, eyes rolling back into his head, feeling obscenely wet and puffy and swollen and achy set on Bucky's hot mouth--that the serum can't always keep up enough. He's moaning enough, his pussy suffocating Bucky's wicked, knowing mouth, that he can go hoarse.

Their poor neighbor's because Bucky isn't stopping until Steve is thoroughly reminded of how it feels to be eaten out until he can't see see any more because his head is spinning, until his chest is heaving, until his throat doesn't work, and until he can't fucking move, no longer propped up, quivering, over Bucky's face, riding it, but spread out on his back with his trembling legs thrown haphazardly over Bucky's broad shoulders as he keeps fucking going to town on him. Steve doesn't feel like he can cum anymore. Steve feels like he's stuck in perpetual orgasm. Steve, Steve--Steve doesn't know. He can't.

Itfeelssogood.

Yeahhhhh. I'm so fucking down for that thought 👀

[pearlywritings]

Behind the wall of falling snow we love

synopsis: Pierro is a mysterious man, the kind that guards his secrets well. One of them is being you, his lovely wife, his heart, his everlasting lover. And tonight he is finally stealing you from your duties and bringing you to his residence where you can drop the masks you wear for the people of Snezhnaya and be just a married couple.

pairing: Pierro x fem!reader

tw: smut, established relationship, immortal lovers (you and Pierro are Khaenri’ahns), religious themes, sliiiight a/b/o feature, oral, biting, unprotected sex, obviously size difference

word count: 8.1k+ words in total

author’s note: the words of prayer are actually a translated and altered from French song Ave Maria Païen from Notre Dame de Paris musical.

Ave Tsaritsa, please pardon me, if in your house I have come begging.

The Cathedral of Tsar the Saviour is a majestically built and decorated temple, having been honoring the previous Cryo Archon in the past, and now being full of prayers offered to the Tsaritsa. Today the official designation is the only reminder of in whose name it was founded, as every last piece inside and out was completely replaced with symbolism of the new deity, and Pierro personally made sure of it, solidifying her position and showing what a good and valuable asset he was.

And still is.

Ave Tsaritsa, no one ever taught me about kneeling.

Half-truth and half-lie. The people of Khaenri'ah had their ruler, to whom bowing heads and, on occasion, getting down on their knees was an etiquettish must. But they never had a god to humiliate themselves before. Even now, he doesn’t quite do so, always proudly standing akin to a frozen statue near the goddess, that is not his. Nor yours.

Ave Tsaritsa, please will you keep me from the misery, madness and fools, who rule this evil world?

That's what the purpose of the Harbingers is - enlightening the Snezhnayan people according to the wishes of Her Majesty Tsaritsa and ensuring that nothing can undermine their faith in her and push them off the intended path. Who knew that religion can be such a powerful instrument? Too bad it ended up in his and your hands. Of that he also made sure.

Ave Tsaritsa, I'm a stranger and you're my last recourse.

You were strangers to this snowy land; weakened and exhausted by the curse were your bodies the first time you ever saw your future salvation. Back then the kindness in her eyes wasn’t hidden behind a veil, and the heart, not yet frozen, tightened at the display of your tightly intertwined fingers, the stubborn desire not to let go of each other’s hand touched the deepest parts of her immortal soul. Nowadays Pierro may call it a memory that’ll never be proven existent, because the only person capable of telling it has locked herself in the Zapolyarny Palace, rarely appearing in front of anyone, and The Jester, despite the folly of his code name, is not an idiot to go and flaunt around about his dear one.

Ave Tsaritsa, please can't you hear me? Please take down all these walls between us. We all should be as one.

A wall between a follower and an Archon…foolish to try and break it. But the Cryo Archon heeds as she is fond of your singing, and you can hardly call yourself her follower, having willingly become an instrument in the silver-haired wise and cunning man’s hands. You became the holy wonder of Snezhnaya - a maiden, who hasn’t grown older a day over the centuries, and many generations came to witness your divine service and had your voice stuck in their minds, piercing their very souls. And the man could claim with certainty - you were loved by the people.

Ave Tsaritsa, please watch over my life night and day.

She really doesn’t, but Snezhnayans do, however it was by your wish and with your consent, that he put you before so many watchful eyes, and the Archon’s ones as well. But then again, if you want to hide something precious, you should put it right before the seeker’s nose. He made you adored, he secured your safety with the right deeds of yours - all Abyss would break loose if something happened to their cherished high priestess and no one would like to incur the wrath of the Tsaritsa and the Harbingers.

Ave Tsaritsa, oh please protect me. Please guard me and my love; now I pray.

His stone heart flutters for how softly, how tenderly have you sung of who your heart is beating for. Not for the deity, no - it’s pumping blood for the very man who is standing in the shadow of a wide pillar, gazing at you from behind a mask and holding a thick cape similar to his own, with his plans quite evident.

Tonight you are leaving with him.

Ave Tsaritsa. Amen.

You breathe the last words of the song against your hands, clasped together in front of you in a prayer, and the sound seems to infiltrate every corner of the grand catholicon. Your figure is ethereal, kneeling on the steps before the huge stained glass of the Cryo Archon your words were directed to. Basking in the light of the moon, pouring through the glass and painting you in the sacred blues of Her Majesty's robes, you look like a holy being, and had Pierro not known you were a sinner like him, he would've been tricked by your false chastity. Whiteness of the high priestess’s robes is pure, much purer than the snow outside, but now tainted by the colors of the Archon you both swore to serve.

Even if she doesn't, Pierro watches you, and his gaze will never waver.

Your archbishop’s crown reflects the light and diamonds gleam coldly, just like they are. The long veil hides your soft pretty hair he loves running his fingers through so much. It soothes him, reminds him of the times he used to witness you braiding them in the morning and unbraiding in the evening, sitting on the edge of your shared bed and talking about everything and nothing.

Now this became a privilege, one you are granted only once every couple of months. Sometimes separation is unbearable, but the different flight of time immortals experience makes it more tolerable. And you both know - it’s a small price for the power you managed to obtain.

Slowly you open your eyes - breathtaking cosmic crystals, that shine with pretensive innocence and have fooled and enchanted much more mortals you care to count. You are already doing so much for them, no need to try and remember every single one, it’s the clerics’ job and they fulfill it excellently under your guidance.

Pierro thinks this position suits you. You are not stupid, far from it, while leading others along the path he wants, you see right through it, never forgetting your homeland, never forgetting who you are, never forgetting the pain. You always were like this, even half a millenia ago your ingenious character intrigued him and pulled him to you like a magnet. Winning your affections and uniting your destinies by marriage is still one of his biggest personal achievements.

Despite being cursed, he is a blessed man and was one long before the doom was brought upon his nation. You are his eternal blessing.

You descend more gracefully than the deity behind you ever could in Pierro's eyes, because you were descending to him. Robes and the veil flow behind you magnificently - a sight he witnessed thousands of times, yet it still gets to steal his breath away, because you look like a lovely bride to be wed.

And I would marry you again, in every other world or timeline that is existent.

That’s what you told him when he admitted the reason for his awe-stricken expression during your first century of living in the land of snows. Even now, the cold and terrifying advisor of the Tsaritsa feels the same.

“Have you waited for long?” You start speaking not even halfway close to him. The question echoes in the majorly empty space, and prompts the man to step out of his hiding spot, becoming the victim of the moonlight as well.

“No, I have not,” his answer is short, but only because he doesn’t like getting personal before you two are back in his manor, where he knows no one can interfere. You simply nod at that.

“I’ll go and change. Will you wait for me, Lord Pierro?”

Always.

“Of course, Your Eminence,” he doesn’t ask you to take your time, and you know that while he is an embodiment of patience, you don’t have any second to waste.

Putting the crown on the pedestal and laying out your ceremonial clothes for the trusted deaconesses to take care of tomorrow, you can't stop the excitement pouring from your heart. Two months ago you couldn't meet due to the passing of the Eighth Harbinger - you were busy with the memorial service to commemorate La Signora and your beloved was stolen away by his duties and complications, caused by her death. While you did not hold anything against the fair lady, your thoughts were far from mourning, only thinking of the wasted time with an edge of bitterness. It happened before, and you learnt to bear with that, but even with all your practiced patience you'd never want the repeat of that three-year long occurrence when you haven't seen or heard from him at all due to your respective occupations.

You sigh in relief when the heavy fabric and furs are brought upon your shoulders, hiding the elegant, yet simple outfit, reserved for your outings. The weight of his big gloved palms is also welcomed and the deep sound of his voice washes like calming waves over you.

"Should we be on our way?" You don't see him, but you know the glow his eyes possess. Usually unreadable, they glint with emotion, the one - you can proudly declare - reserved only for you.

"Yes, we should, My Lord. We have quite a number of things to discuss and settle."

The staff of the Jester's manor know that their master and the head of the priesthood have business to discuss and under no circumstance should they be interrupted for the night and the next day. Fireplaces are lit and fresh wood is prepared. The room, that became your personal chambers in his estate, is cleaned and readied for your most comfortable stay, and the servants make sure to move as far away from the West wing, where it and the living room you use for your discussions are located. Eavesdropping is akin to a death sentence, but many would consider themselves imbeciles for trying to sneak on the two most respected and praised people in the whole country.

How fortunate it is that the Jester's personal chambers are in the same wing, just at the other end of the corridor? Servants have just one part of the building to avoid during those times, not worried about accidentally doing something wrong in regard to him and you.

Little do they know what exactly happens behind the closed door, since no one is allowed near them during these particular times. They can’t even fathom the sins your bodies bask in, perfect images crumbling down and revealing the real yous, wild and yearning, drinking up each other's touch like a life-saving water of the oasis, work talk replaced with sweet moans and low grunts and long-forgotten names occasionally slipping past your parted lips.

This is why the sheets get burnt after every stay of yours. Staff members know that's being done to prevent anyone from feeling tempted to steal and sell the fabric, touched by the skin of the Saint. In reality no one needs to know of the reasons behind torn holes and stains.

Pierro destroys them personally in the morning, as you calmly sip on your tea, seated in the armchair of his bedroom with nothing but the silk bathrobe covering your body (replaced by just his shirt occasionally). Only then you devote some of your time for actual discussions and planning, while having an amazing supper and regaining your strength for another couple of rounds, that do not even have to include the bed.

Sometimes, though, the discussion starts when servants leave you till the next evening - the time you inevitably shall depart.

"Anything notable on your side?"

You hum, plucking a pristine white petal from the water surface and twirling it between your fingers. The large floor-installed pool is enough to fit at least three people of your lover’s complexion, but there is only you, water up to your collarbones and pleasantly hot against your skin. Hundreds of petals float around you, covering your body from two piercing eyes and occasionally bumping against your bent knees, and you don’t even want to think how many flowers the servants wasted just to “please” you.

“Nothing much, and nothing of concerning importance” you admit with a huff. Church is actually a pretty good source of information; with Snezhnayan being such good believers and followers it is not hard to gather intel through confessions and later pass the concerning ones to Pierro for him to see if it actually can cause harm. But as of later it was very calm.

“Though I must admit, one young lady really caught my interest,” you throw the petal away and sink a bit deeper, water pooling around your neck now. You lift a leg, stretching a little, and from the corner of the eye watch the half-naked man, seated on the edge of the pool, following with his attentive gaze the path the droplets make down your smooth skin before they disappear somewhere at your thigh.

“And that is?” Oh, these eyes. If you were standing, you’d certainly sink onto the nearest piece of furniture, unable to fight its magic even hundreds of years later. His mostly bared body becomes the next victim of your fascination, and you bite the inside of your cheek, feeling that tingling sensation at the tips of your fingers.

“Well…” you hum again, holding his inquiring gaze and slowly, teasingly lowering your leg back into the water. “If you take all of your clothes off right now, I might tell you."

'All of his clothes' is an open shirt and a pair of pants, both made of a very light fabric. He probably abandoned the robe while walking through your bedroom, and the mask was most likely taken off there too.

"Oh?" His chest shakes with a deep chuckle, that has that specific dark edge to it, that makes you aware of why people submit to him. "It seems the information is really not of such a great importance, if you are asking me to undress in exchange."

"Mmm, you saw through my intentions. But can you really blame me? It's been so long…" Your voice trails off and you sigh, diverting your eyes elsewhere, sight quickly obscured with the images of your last encounters, making your heart clench. You must stay unbothered, but this is so excruciating, being trapped in the land of raging blizzards and frozen landscapes and the loving touch becoming not an everyday thing, but a seldom occurrence. The memories of what it used to be like are almost non-existent at this point, having been wiped out of your mind with the new reality. 

Gaze falls onto your wrist and a small smile tugs onto your lips. An intricate band of the metal one would never find again and the stones that lie deep down in the mines of the miasm-contaminated homeland, rests against your skin, gleaming beautifully in the light. The same is wrapped around Pierro's wrist, just a bit wider than yours - one Khaenri'ahn tradition you were allowed to preserve - the symbol of your marriage, which in the broad daylight stays hidden under your long sleeves.

The rustle of clothes doesn't register in your brain right away, but when it does your head whips to the side, just in time to see the silver-haired man sit back down, carelessly dumping his nightwear near the side of the tube.

"Happy now?" All sorrowful thoughts leave your mind instantly when all of his body is on display for your hungry gaze. With a soft splash you lift yourself slightly, enough to get on your knees and move closer to him. His braceleted hand immediately takes a hold of yours and you comfortably lean your chest on his thigh, using an elbow to create support for your head to look up at him. 

"Yes, I am. Thank you, my love."

My love. Sometimes Pierro thinks you are just a dream, a pretty, nostalgic dream, where love is not just a concept. Snezhnaya and the closeness to the Cryo Archon affected him far more than you. He toughened up, his gaze got heavier and frown deeper, lips are always drawn in a tight line and voice is even and cold, lack of emotion coming straight from his almost destroyed heart. Just one part is still alive, and warm, and capable of feelings. 

This part is loving you.

"Do I deserve to be told what caught your interest?"

You smile at that, happy that he is willing to engage in a chat that doesn't relate to your plans at all. It's one of the things that serves as a reminder that you are special to him, more special than anyone and anything else, be it the Tsaritsa or your scheming.

"Oh, that's a funny thing!" Beaming, you trace one of the scars on his abdomen with your finger, noting with a smirk how it tenses under the touch. "One of your colleagues gained a faithful admirer. Quite a hopeful one, if I am being honest."

Pierro hums, showing that he is actually listening, and reaches his hand to gently pat your hair. You are so pretty, leaning on him, breasts pushed against his leg, back arched and fingers caressing his stomach, which soon becomes an absentminded gesture as your unkissed mouth moves in speech.

"She's been coming every week for three months already, lightening candles for his safe return."

'Not Arlechino, not Columbina,' he notes, attempting to distract himself from the image before him, but still noticing every single detail about his perfect wife. Hand slides to graze the side of your face and put a stray lock behind your ear. You glance up at him and, holding his gaze, turn your head in the opposite direction to press a kiss to the inside of his wrist, just above the wedding band. Pierro sharply inhales.

"Either way, she's been confessing her affections and, as the priest described it, did so "in a dreamy voice a young girl would talk about upcoming marriage". You think I spoke to my parents the same way about you?"

Your gaze turns curious and the notion of your question finally manages to return his focus. It's not often that you voice the things from the past, but on particularly calm days like today it just slips.

"I don't know. Did you?"

"I don't remember…"

Yes, that is why. And sometimes it just hurts.

"But no matter. Honestly I am quite surprised that people like her are a rare occasion. I mean, all of the Harbingers have qualities that might make you fall in love with them."

"Do many live or get close enough to witness those?" Pierro raises a brow and you roll your eyes, poking his side.

"Fair point. That's probably why she chose to fall for Childe. Young, energetic and outgoing he seems to wear his heart on his sleeve."

"Tartaglia, huh?" Makes sense, if he thinks of it. "But a marriage? Already?"

"Of course not! All I said she sounded like that, the only way the wedding is happening is in her imagination!" You burst into giggles at your lover's silly assumption, not missing him huff and tighten a hold on your hand.

"You are quite talkative today."

"I haven't seen you for four months! I missed you! You can't seriously expect me to be silent just staring at you with wide lovesick eyes."

As the man watches you dig your elbow in his thigh to push yourself off of him to stand up with the most fake offended look on your face, he thinks that his life would've ended had you succumbed to the fall of Khaenri'ah. You are the one keeping the part of him alive, cradling his heart in your loving hands, passing your warmth and aligning his heartbeat with yours. 

Pierro loves you with everything left in him, and he himself can't measure if it's a lot or a little. He doesn't remember what it's like being humanly soft - but you tell him he is doing enough. And he chooses to believe you.

When a shadow is cast upon him his attention is stolen back by the present. Even with his huge complexion he has to crane his neck a bit to look at you, standing at your full height and staring down at him.

"But you are right," white lashes flutter when a warm palm cups a scarred side of his face, but he doesn't let himself succumb to the peaceful feeling, not yet, "it's time to finish with the conversations for today. Let's move to the bedroom."

Pierro is convinced that your body was created for worship. So soft, skin smooth despite all your hardships, locks thick and heavy, cascading down your shoulders, lips plump and sweet, lower one seductively caught between pearly teeth as you lead him back to your room, holding his wrist with both of your hands.

You are bared to each other, and can sense the space filling with the heat of arousal your bodies radiate. Every step closer to the bed ignites a small fire in the pit of your stomach, fueled by anticipation. Just a couple of meters and he'll push you down and pin with his weight, caging you with no thoughts of letting go for a long while, oh, you can already feel it with every cell.

With an abrupt stop you tug him closer so his body practically bumps into yours, and, releasing his wrist, cup his face instead.

"You are so handsome," you smile, standing on your tiptoes to reach and plant a kiss in the corner of his mouth. "And I bet you'd look even better on top of me."

Tempting, but he has other plans for now.

Your eyes grow wider, but a sparkle of excitement is clear in them, when the tall, broad man slowly, not breaking eye contact, gets down on his knees. Well, he did say your body was created for worshipping, so it makes Pierro your most devoted follower.

His lips are a relief against your heated skin and you sharply exhale, sliding palms to the back of his head. The kiss lingers against your stomach, the only 'ugly' part of your divine body. The place where the curse decided to bloom, circling your waist akin a wide belt, variations of dark splotches creating a bizarre picture on the canva of the skin. Still it is lesser than his is, but the price you paid for it was a devastating one.

"You are beautiful," he whispers, pressing another kiss, and then another, and then some more, leading a path down your pelvis. "So, so beautiful…"

"So now we are exchanging compliments?" Your fingers play with the longer strands of hair at the back of his neck as you are looking down at him, not missing a move, not missing the way his eyelids slide close, when he is almost there.

"Rather speaking truth," is his short answer, before his hands start prying your thighs apart. 

"One leg on my shoulder," the command sends shocks through your body and you immediately obey, almost too excitedly throwing your leg over his shoulder. A kiss to the inside of your thigh is your reward.

"Now stand still, and once I secure my arms, put the other one too."

The anticipated display of physical strength makes you lose your voice for a moment and all you can do is quickly nod.

"Words, my dear, I need your words."

"I-I understood."

"Good girl."

The praise makes you blush and is enough of a distraction from what he is in the process of. But not a minute later, both your legs are on his shoulders, their broadness giving you enough room to keep your thighs spread. The globes of your ass are literally resting in the crook of his elbows, arms reaching up your back and palms splaying against your shoulder blades, creating a perfect support to lean into.

Your breath hitches when his warm breath ghosts against your slicked folds and heart begins violently beating with your body realizing the sheer strength of its partner and future pleasure this man is going to provide. And oh Archons, centuries proved how masterful he is in both.

First shudder wrecks your body when his thick tongue traces along your slit, coating it with saliva and teasing you with flicks of the tip. You blissfully sigh, closing your eyes and enjoying the small shocks sent down your spine with every drag of his wet muscle, before he steals your breath away by dipping it inside.

Pierro hums, content with tasting you again after so long, and you are so pliant in his arms, putting an ultimate trust in him, that his own sex swells at the thought. The tip of his tongue catches against your clit, which makes you gasp and tighten your hold on the back of his head, involuntarily bucking hips forward. But he is not going to give you everything right away, no, he is going to show you his faith slowly, so you can understand every single notion behind his actions of praise and worship. 

That is why he is drawing his face away, smirking at your needy whine. Attention shifts on your thighs - the last time he thoroughly marked them, so harshly in fact, so you would’ve still had them aching for days to remember the time spent together. Now your flesh is so pristine clean, that he hardly suppresses the urge to bite you right away. Instead he wills himself to plant kisses, sucking the skin occasionally to leave the blooming spots to darken later in beautiful hickies, undeniably hidden by your long and many layered garment. The hairs of his beard tickles you, contrasting with the slight tingles of pain, when he decides to lightly catch the skin between his teeth and urge you to pant and squirm in his hold.

"Stop teasing me…" You try to turn his head back into the direction you most need him in, but yelp, when he digs his nails in your back and bites on your other thigh. "Pierro!"

He only groans, flexing his shoulders to shift you in a more comfortable position, licking the stinging spot he's just abused.

Biting your lip, you have half a mind to reach a hand and touch yourself since he doesn't, but the man knows you well. He glares up at you, the dangerous glint in his eyes doing not much to scare you, but that's not his intention. It's a warning.

"Don't look at me like this," you huff, still taking one of your hands from behind his head, but reaching to cup your breast instead, "I can take a little bit of teasing, but not when you give me a taste and then ignore my aching."

The way you roll the erected bud between your fingers ignites fire in the pit of his stomach, leaving his cock half hard. Who is the one talking about teasing?

A soft cry leaves your lips, when he finally dives back in. Your lover sucks on your clit like there is no tomorrow, pressing the tip of his tongue against it hard. It twitches in his mouth from stimulation and your back arches, fingers grabbing and messing his hair from the intensity he's attacked you with. 

Pretty moans and deep groans fill the room as he delves his tongue into the hole - rubbing against your walls deliciously. Slick gathers at his chin and slowly drips down, just a couple landing on his twitching length. You taste divine, in all the years of his life he's never drunk anything that would come close in comparison to your nectar. He grinds his face deeper into your pussy, beard tickling the insides of the thighs and nose nudging the swollen nub, as he savors you.

Your heels dig in his back, your own arches into his arms, and you feel so so heavenly. The palm pressing on his head is as secure as his own hold on you, not letting him back off this time, so unwilling to lose this building pressure in your belly, that'll soon explode, giving you the sweet release you've been yearning for.

Pierro relishes in your throaty whine when he drags the first orgasm out of you, gulping down whatever your spasming cunt has to offer. He feels your legs trembling, but he also knows that this tiny form of relief is nothing compared to how strongly he can actually make you cum on his fingers and cock, when you writhe and thrash under him, begging for no more, or when you are stuffed to the brink and unable to move, weakly clawing at his shoulders to stop. He wonders where tonight will lead you two to.

With an oof your back hits the bed, and his arms slide from under your body. Your hand drops to your side, as the one that was fondling with your chest rests on it, feeling your heart beating against the outstretched palm.

"See, was it so hard?" You smile at him, rising to his feet and wiping his glistening mouth and chin. "Maybe I should sit on your face more. It brings you to action faster."

Wordlessly Pierro grabs your waist and shifts you higher on the bed, climbing onto right after. He lets you wrap your arms around his neck and bring him closer, slotting your mouths together and sharing a kiss full of unspoken passion. He presses himself on you, pinching your hip and making you gasp, allowing him to push his tongue into your mouth. You taste yourself and moan, sliding your own appendage against his, licking at it playfully.

Only you make him feel like this - hot, bothered, desperate, thoughts reigned by you, - everything the Jester is not, but your husband is. Only your touches and your embraces can comfort and relax him, only your kisses steal his breath away and cloud his mind, only your softness against his sturdiness is a perfect match, one that makes so much sense. Only with your heart his agrees to synchronize, sharing one beat, one melody. Only because of you he still knows what love is and that this is the feeling you two share.

When he breaks apart, chest rising and falling in sync with yours, he can't help but focus on your neck - another canva begging to be painted and who is he to decline? Your head falls back as his teeth graze down your throat. Legs, having a mind of their own, spread, and Pierro doesn't miss a chance to use it.

Your cunt is still sensitive when he plunges a long finger inside. Walls flutter and tighten around sudden intrusion, and the skillful thumb starts drawing slow circles on your clit.

"So tight…" He growls into your skin, leaving a tenth hickey on your neck and collarbones. "In four months you must've forgotten the shape of me…"

"I'll be quick to remember, mmm," you bite your lip, when he starts moving and curling his digit, all the while switching his attention to your full breasts. Your moans grow louder than before as he teases your pebbled nipples with his tongue, enveloping them in his mouth, gently sucking and releasing with a wet pop, blowing cool air on them right after only to feel you squeeze his finger.

Pierro is working your open with one and then two digits, not forgetting to play with the bundle of nerves, making the slick gush that soon even you could hear the squelching noise your pussy is making. What would've made you shy and embarrassed on your first couple of nights with him, now turns you on more than anything, prompting you to roll your hips to meet his own movements. Sometimes you feel his hard dick brush against your thigh and you gaze at him in silent question. He shakes his head, declining your help, and adds the third finger.

Now that's a really tight fit and he has a hard time dragging three fingers against your gummy, but resisting walls. You attempt to relax, but there is little you can do with how big everything about him is. Your body grows restless and fingers dig into the pillow above your head, back lifting off the mattress in a sensual arch and feet planting to bend the knees. Once or twice his real name drips like honey from your swollen lips and the man's heart skips a beat or two, your own name whispered between your ribs as kisses are pressed against the skin of your stomach.

When his mouth envelopes your clit again your moans get louder and thighs twitch to close around his head, but he uses his now free hand to push them away and pin you by the lower stomach down. Your fingers reach in his hair again, tugging on silver strands when he sucks particularly hard or curls his digits and brushes that delicious spot inside, that makes you see stars bright enough to outshine the ones in the sky.

Pierro loves when you grab onto him, doesn't matter where or how, he just loves having your hands on his body: holding, caressing, palming, squeezing, cupping… Every single touch makes him aware of your mood and desire to have him, which makes bringing you to mind-blowing orgasm even more satisfying. You inevitably scratch him, leaving a mark of your own.

He softly hisses as you dig your nails in the back of his neck, almost breaking skin to draw blood, and with a trembling scream cum. Pierro fingers you through your high, feeling your walls spasming and slick running down his hand and your thighs, soon to ruin the sheets, and watches you shudder, mouth hanging open and sweet noises creating a pretty melody. Could anyone witness a scene more divine? He can swear he is the only one.

You bite your lip when he plants a kiss to your clit and slowly pulls his fingers out, leaving you so empty, and more yearning than before.

"I want you," is your breathless demand, hands reaching for him. The man quickly grabs them, bringing closer to his mouth to kiss every single knuckle.

"Patience, my dear," is his quiet murmur, which makes you grimace.

"What is here to wait for? I've been waiting for so long, I have patience of a saint!" Literally. "Tonight is the only time I can forget about it, please don't take it away from me, I know you want me too."

And you are right. After having your taste and getting to feel the welcoming softness of your pussy he wants nothing more to sink in and mold you back to the shape of his cock.

Then why wouldn't he do just that? Taking wife's lovely advice never hurts.

He places a large hand above your head to steady himself, preventing him from crushing you with his burly mass. You hold your breath in anticipation, when the big mushroom tip parts your lips and presses against your opening. With a deep inhale Pierro grits his teeth and pushes inside, stomach immediately flexing when your walls swallow an inch. His gaze is on your face, making sure you are alright as he is slowly working his massive dick into your cunt. He knows you can take him, even if sometimes after big breaks your body screams that it can't, but the habit of checking on you just never died.

As he finally fully settles inside, he understands that his ability to move is to be cruelly tested. Your walls have an almost vice grip on his girth and the man above you groans as you tighten even more with sweet moans falling from your lips. Hair disheveled, hands fisting the shits beside your head, legs desperately trying to wrap around his wide waist but to no avail. Your struggle - to embrace his body, to take in his girth, - amuses him, but he has some pity for his dear wife, as his big scarred palms slide down your hips, leaving a trail of fire igniting sensations on your skin, and up to your knees, grasping under them and securing your legs where you want them, where he wants them. You cannot escape, you are his.

"If you don't relax, I won't be able to move."

"But it's-" you mewl when he experimentally rolls his hips.

"Don't tell me it's too much. You've taken it for centuries, don't tell me you can't take your husband's cock now," the man smirks at the way your eyes light up, and the hand with a bracelet on it reaches out to him. He lets himself a moment of vulnerability, leaning forward and into your palm, eyes sliding close and hips stilling, pelvis pressed impossibly close to yours. You feel the hairs of his beard grazing your skin, and softly run the thumb over his lips, usually drawn in a tight line. Breath chokes when he opens his mouth and bites the tip of your finger, gently catching it between his teeth. Your heart skips a beat and you tighten again, eliciting another groan from him and prompting the jaws get a little bit tighter too.

"Relax," sounds more like an angry order, but you know it's just because the man is slowly but surely losing control because of your body.

"What, can't you take your wife's pussy?" You cheekily shoot his words back at him and instantly regret it.

Because Pierro lets go of your poor thumb and launches forward, crushing you a little with his weight, and closes his mouth on your neck. Your whole face goes red from how lewdly you moan when teeth bite hard on that special place that makes you go absolutely wild once stimulated. You still haven't figured out the cause of these, and making you a subject of Dottore's research is the last thing Pierro would do in his life. You discovered it after the curse settled in your bodies and just decided to embrace this new feature, since it proved not to be causing any harm. Quite contrary, it brings you unimaginable pleasure.

Your whole body heats when he tightens his jaws a little more and you claw at his back. You have no idea what you want - him to let go or stay like this, but the unbearable need for him to move gnaws at your insides.

The man smirks when you arch into him, breasts pressing to his chest and pelvises flush against each other. He rolls his hips again, and this time his cock slides smoothly between your walls. 

"Good job, love," you shudder and whimper when hot breath ghosts against your ear. Pierro murmurs quiet words of consolation, licking at the bruised place, where the dents of his teeth are already becoming pretty pronounced. He doesn't forget to thrust into you, setting a steady pace and trying some angles to find the perfect one to hit all your favorite spots.

It takes a bit of time, but he figures it out, grabbing you under one knee and pushing it forward to put you in a position that lets him reach deeper, tip kissing your cervix. From now on he grows relentless with only one thought in mind - to satiate you. He fills you over and over with his length, bulging veins caressing your walls, eliciting the sweetest noises your throat is capable of producing, each one sending shivers down his spine. 

"More… Please, more…"

You look truly debauched under him, so different from the serene and gentle expression everyone is used to. Only he can see you like this and it feeds his ego, eyes glinting with lust and thrusts growing even more relentless, each bursting pleasure. Skin slaps against skin, sound mixing in you joined noises of bliss. Pierro is grunting above you, pace hard and deep, driving you closer for the third orgasm. He releases your knee, but throws that leg on his shoulder instead, leaning on you even more, so you practically scream when thick hairs on his abdomen start rubbing against your neglected clit.

“Just like that…” he murmurs, both palms firmly planted on both sides of your head as he practically pistons his dick in your cunt. You can only wrap your hands around his arms to steady yourself at least somehow, but it all comes crashing when the tight knot in your stomach snaps.

Your eyes grow wide in the mind-numbing orgasm and your head falls back. It’s almost embarrassing how fast you reached your high this time, your stamina failing you, absolutely destroyed by your husband’s actions. He is still moving inside, helping you to ride it out, snug between your walls, where he belongs.

However you both know it’s far from the end. Suddenly he picks his speed, changing deep and hard pace to a fast one, driving himself into you almost wildly, chasing his own high this time. Your grip onto him only gets stronger, nails biting in his skin as your pussy tightens every time he pushes in. Pierro’s name flows from your lips like a mantra and he lets out a growl-like grunt of your own name. The loud squelches that your recently milked cunt make are clouding his mind and making his reddened cockhead leak with arousal.

Your gaze is hazy from overwhelming pleasure, but even in such a state you could see his tense jawline, blown pupils, drops of sweat sliding down the side of his face and flaring nostrils. The sight makes your pussy contract especially hard, forcing the man to choke and halt in his movements. He feels the telltale signs of his orgasm approaching, and knows, that you are hanging at the brink of yours as well.

“Cum with me,” you frantically nod at his request, heating up from the way he grunts, rutting into you, nudging your pulsing cervix as he fills you with his hot cum. It triggers you and with a loud moan of his name you let the orgasm wash over you again.

Your lover is gentle, grinding slowly, pushing out just a little and then all the way in to keep his load inside. He pants heavily, shoulders dropping and head lowering to press his forehead against your knee, eyes sliding close to catch a small break from the first long-awaited release he’s just experienced.

Moments like this - away from his duties, with you in his arms, filled with absolute bliss, - remind him happiness is possible, that he can rest in your embrace and be caressed by your love, be it in the form of emotional connection or the primal need to mate through sex. Sometimes one thought of you is enough to make his day brighter. Seeing each other is a blessing, since he doesn’t have time to hide in the shadows of the Cathedral to watch you speak to the Tsaritsa’s people, and you have no opportunity to slip out unnoticed and unquestioned to go and visit him. This is why every touch of your hands, every kiss, every thrust, every word exchanged in the privacy of his manor matters, and you try to go as long as your bodies are able to.

Only when you let go of his wrists and relax in his hold, does he stop his movements and carefully drop your leg back onto the bed. Then, ignoring your protests, he slowly slides out, mesmerized by your gaping hole, desperate to be stuffed again by his still hard cock, so wet with your juices it almost shines in the dim light of the bedroom.

You scowl at him for leaving you empty, but your gaze doesn't lose softness reserved for this man only. The amazed way his eyes are glued to you warms your heart and lessens the ache in your core from being ripped of the opportunity to cockwarm him.

"See something you like, my dear?" You flash him a knowing grin and run one of your hands sensually down your body. Star-shaped pupils dart at the movement and immediately sharpen, when two fingers reach and spread your folds. "Do you, perhaps, like the mess you made of me?"

"I do," he breathes out. "Always do."

With a sweet smile you reach to his shoulder, gently sliding an open palm over tense flesh. You are far from satisfied, desire igniting even brighter in you, so you use his moment of distraction, lure him in with your moves, only to gather your strength and roll your bodies, reversing the position. Galactic eyes widen slightly, when his back hits the mattress and your body hovers over his.

"My turn," you lunge forward and bite on his neck, pride stirring in your chest when your lover's self-control slips and he actually moans.

"You…" You hum at his low growl, lapping at the bitten place, knowing that the job to arise his hunger here is done.

"Yes?" With a cheeky grin you face him, closely watching his expression, loving the way his lips parted in silent pants.

"A wicked woman."

"Wicked? How rude and salacious calling a high priestess such names."

"Not her," a big scarred hand reaches forward and cups your cheek. So warm. "But the woman I married."

"Oh? So it's a good thing?" You lean happily in his hold, rubbing against wide palm. Pierro slowly lifts his upper body, steading yours on top of his with the hold on your hip, and takes the sitting position with you settled on his thighs. Hot breath brushes against your lips and you let your eyelids slide close.

"The best."

As he indulges you with a fervor-filled kiss, you reach between your bodies and graze just the tips of your fingers against his cock. Two sets of eyes fly open at the same time, but while he stares at you with yearning, your eyes crease in mischief. Simple caresses soon turn into your palm wrapping around his girth and slowly sliding up and down his semi-hard length. The bite you've granted him just moments ago does it work magnificently, turning him on the same way it was with you. Attempts to restrain his hips from jerking up to thrust into your hand don't go unnoticed by you and you tug on his cock roughly to elicit a groan out of him and bury your tongue in his mouth.

Palm which was resting on your cheek up to this moment abandons its place and drops to your other hip. Thumbs smooth over the night sky painted skin of your waist, soothingly rubbing. It makes you hum in content, caressing the cavern of his mouth languidly.

Palming and groping continues for a while, shift in pace obvious after the previous round (if you were to count by the times your lover came). His cock finally stands proudly against his toned stomach once again and you lift yourself with his help, lining the tip to your hole. 

Pierro feels how his own semen drips down onto his length as you position your body the most comfortable way possible given the challenging stretch your thighs have to endure because of the wideness of his figure, including the hips. Pussy inevitably releases thick white substance, coating him and surely ruining the sheets even more.

Your walls show no resistance when he slides back home. How fascinating this part of your body is - molding to his shape quickly no matter how much time has passed since the last time. He knows he is big, he's made you drool and cry and mindless plenty of times in the past (he still can, but it takes more rounds and much rougher behavior), yet your pussy always takes him.

As if to prove the statement, you press a palm against your stomach and feel an outline of him, nestled deep inside your heat, a prominent bulge appearing whenever he shifts.

"I missed this…" You admit with a smile, rubbing up and down, absolutely enjoying the view of his greeted teeth, heavily rising and falling chest. “Mmm, I can feel you twitch inside…” Your teasing voice is so beautiful and the man can’t help it but lean forward and kiss the column of your throat.

“I missed this too…”

“Then let’s take the most we can from this night, shall we?”

As your lips meet in another kiss and hips start rocking again, Pierro silently agrees, secretly, just like every time, praying to no one in particular for the night to never be over.

taglist: @we-wo-we-wo, @secretartisanclodhairdo​, @eiscoathanger​

[orngbanana]

ooo fengs ask you wanna talk about the fengs so bad oo

yes tumblr user possessable anything for you tumblr user possessable

these are so scrambled my god

the fengs, the fengs, i love the fengs an unhealthy amount, you give me any kind of codependent relationship in media and i'll gobble it up but codependent siblings just hit different esp twins

nuwa, nuwa, nuwa, poor, fucked up nuwa, as a younger sibling myself i relate to the feeling of not wanting to let go of your older sibling in any circumstance but MAN does she take it all the way

you could say that keeping your brother’s corpse “alive” and animated is an unhealthy way to deal with grief but omg who cares omg who careeersss?? (nuwa does)

as long as he's still with her nothing else matters, after all, he's still moving, even if it's wrong and his body isn't holding itself up right, he's still talking, even if it's barely discernible or hard for others to hear it; with those two things in mind he's basically all well and healthy! right?

i desperately want to know more about their life and thoughts before the main plot, we can get glimpses of it–the whole theater and opera love they had, nuwa has her feet binded so she cant walk at all, either hovering on that seat she has or sitting on fuxi’s lap; maybe he carried her most of the time before she got the former

we can assume nuwa’s a spoiled person, comes with being rich as all fuck, but with her feet being Like That i don't think she wasn't a victim of the beauty standards that we know of and whenever we see her in both of their memories she's not doing much but sitting and enjoying any moment she has with her brother, not doing any clan duties apart from organizing banquets so maybe she wasn't planned to have a busy future at all

she relies on fuxi for most of her decisions, she looks up to him a big amount, and in turn fuxi coddles her maybe a bit TOO much, telling her to not mind the diseased civilians they encounter–it's not their fault that they got sick and it's certainly not nuwa’s or his fault that it happened, so she can look away and not think about it, he'll make sure her worries are as minimal as possible

but wow what happens when he becomes one of the diseased? will she look away from that too? fuxi was basically as good as gone by the time they arrived in New Kunlun, so what was left for nuwa then? i don't think she was well versed in politics, so how would she lead without her brother? luckily she won't have to think about that either–eigong’s here to save the day!!

so her brother’s all well and dandy now and they can go back to their usual dynamic, yippee!!

i wonder if fuxi could actually form words even in his state, it's said he grunted out sounds but nuwa seemed to understand him just fine; that is if his talking isn't just one of her many delusions she leans onto so she doesn't have to acknowledge that he's rotting

with that said i have a lot of fuxi thoughts even if his actual self isn't seen much, he was raised to be his clan’s leader and loved theater, his profile said he was frivolous but responsible and i'm dying thinking about if his frivolous side is the one he showed nuwa the most, if he could be as relaxed as possible whenever he was with her and dutiful and stern when it came to his duties

obviously he was the more aware one of the situation with the virus and all and he still chose to shield her from that instead of bringing her attention to it so they could work on it together; it's clear that their relationship wasn't built on equality even if they loved e/o deeply–i could even self-indulgently compare it to an overprotective parent and their child who they think isn't qualified to deal with or think too much about the horrors around them so they simply drive their attention away from those things to keep their innocence in tact

and yet i still don't think he was as codependent with her as she was with him, maybe because he was so sure of her safety and well-being that he didn't feel like he had to crowd her with his presence, she has everything she could ever want in life, right? as long as she doesn't focus on the problems surrounding them and instead on the pleasures then he can be at ease

i will def ramble more later but im tired rn

[cels-not-so-secret-love-affair]

o mary of mine (marylily)

a/n: irish catholic lily evans! and playing about with a sapphic angle for her. i’m neither irish nor catholic, but i am gay as hell, so hopefully that pulls through for me. very slight implied nsfw near the end. lots of christianity.

The fact that this is not the Mary Lily wants to be kneeling before most right now is precisely why she’s doing it.

It’s quiet in the cathedral. An awful, echoey, hollow quiet that reflects its nothingness back onto itself into infinity like a great big hall of silent mirrors. The sort of quiet that makes your head scream and your muscles tense because it feels like nowhere should ever or could ever be so deathly empty. It’s cold too. The tips of Lily’s fingers are almost freezing off. She tries to warm them by clasping her hands together tighter in prayer, but to no avail. Maybe never quite being able to rid the prickly chill from her bones is just God’s will. She keeps her eyes firmly shut and attempts desperately to ignore the impending sense of nausea brewing stormily in her stomach.

Everything’s just right. She’s confident about this - she could do this in her sleep, in death, even if she were ninety odd with a memory threatening to fail her. It’s ingrained in her bones by now, whether she likes it or not. But everything is also wholly, wholly wrong. Her head is bowed like it ought to be, but it’s not really in reverence. More because she can’t seem to bring herself to look her Blessed Virgin in the eyes when she’s like this. It’s strange. She always used to feel comforted by Mary. When she was very little she used to call her mammy. Mother. Something about such a beautifully holy woman had always resonated with her, beyond the many boring hours spent kicking her feet in mass and yawning her way through the hymns. In hindsight, she supposes bitterly, that was probably just another fucking warning sign. The comfort she used to bring Lily is absent now though, here in the cold and the quiet. The statue in front of her is just that, a statue. Lifeless and unfeeling and dead in the way that only things that have never quite been alive can be.

Her mind wanders. She doesn’t mean it to. She means to be disciplined. She means to pray properly and perfectly like she always has and ask God to guide her, or else simply do away with the whole wretched business and let her just return to how everything was before, before she’d let herself become sullied by feelings of all fucking things. But the brain is a traitorous bastard. And it is cold, and it is quiet, and not for the first time since Lily met her the girl proves to be far greater than her eponym. Mary. She slips smirking into Lily’s thoughts with alarming ease, the ghost of her touch sending shivers down her spine and electrifying every cell in her body. Images of her shift and swirl. At first they are innocent and true, memories of her unaltered by fantasy. The softness of her skin, her glossy brown ringlets, the warmth and unapologetic vivacity of her laugh ringing out like church bells across the morning dew. One moment she is speaking animatedly and bright-eyed about something she’s read in a magazine, the next, applying lip gloss before her compact. It’s that one that tips it. Suddenly, Lily’s mind swoops viciously into the realm of imagination, and against her will Mary is looking directly at her, tilting her head, advancing towards her. Her lips are pretty and plump and perfect and Lily wants nothing more than to try, to taste, to touch, to take. It’s no time at all before figmental fingers are feeling their way down between her thighs, and she can practically hear Mary’s sweetly melodic voice low and breathy in her ear, and the sensations are all impossibly real, and magical, and heady and everything begins to edge terrifyingly into overwhelm and-

Lily counts three steps from the cathedral door before she is sick in the grass.

[cherubchoirs]

Dude i am so fucking insane about your art its genuinely the main reason i made a tumblr account. also. Do you think v1 will ever break down in gabriel’s lifetime? I keep considering the idea after reading this fic where gabriel came across him half-buried in the sands of greed

omggg thank you so much!!! it sincerely means a lot ;o;

in my idea of events with the fallen gabe au, gabriel would likely still be able to continue for a long, long time, though perhaps not indefinitely necessarily. no matter what, his lifespan is still long enough to see the breakdown of v1's parts, which can only be mitigated by blood for a time. the process starts to become less effective, its body not healing properly and beginning to give in to the passage of time besides - plus, its mind isn't protected from these things either, code becoming overgrown and the hardware itself so delicate that it would inevitably fail. everything on earth has an end point, flesh and machine bodies breaking down in the same way being made from elements just held together in natural processes and so eventually rent by them.

(some mentions of mental deterioration/death under the read more)

gabriel would do regular maintenance on it, but they would both see when it was becoming more and more frequent, how v1 is slowing down physically and mentally. the body can be repaired almost indefinitely, especially if gabriel delved into metalworking, plastics, robotics - becoming a one-man factory creating bespoke parts with v1's assistance is hardly out of the question for a fallen angel. the problem is truly its computer, which isn't so easily stabilized and replaced, especially when it comes to preserving v1's memories and personality. they could keep its body in perfect working order if they can custom create any piece it needs (especially again if we go with paradise lost's idea that hell is rich in a wealth of all earthly minerals), but increasingly catastrophic software failures are harder to deal with. they would plan for it of course, figuring out the solutions they can try ahead of time, but when the time comes...watching v1 flicker, seeing its movements falter with newly repaired parts, the absolute heartwrenching, ice-cold fear of it shutting down unexpectedly and not waking up for hours, days....how it forgets, how it can't store many new memories, gabriel feels the deep, aching horror an immortal must when they truly understand what they love cannot last. intellectually it was always there, but to see it unfold, to be there now...gabriel's eyes finally freeze over with tears, v1 has nowhere to go, no soul to find heaven or hell or be reborn the way he was. it will just go dark. gabriel will see it, its perfect body that they've made and remade over so many decades or centuries, that he put all his love into preserving, but with no will to move it.

and i just don't think he could take it.

PERSONALLY my favorite wild headcanon for this scenario is gabriel storming heaven or going to find wherever god left his dead body and using that blood to revive v1 (that blood stays fresh forever.... guess lol) i'm just too much of a baby to commit to character death, plus i just really love the idea of everyone being like "where did god go....nobody knows...." until gabriel loses his mind and breaks every single law of heaven and hell without any limits to bring back his itty bitty bot!!!!!

[speaker-of-the-void-cats]

"We are unique emanations of the same shared Light."

Collective unconscious refers to the unconscious mind and shared mental concepts. It is generally associated with idealism and was coined by Carl Jung. According to Jung, the human collective unconscious is populated by instincts, as well as by archetypes: ancient primal symbols such as

The Great Mother

The Shadow

"Shadows were cast here. History made.”

“Am I to cast a Shadow?”

“Yes. You were bred to be a sorrow-bearer. I seek a Hive commander, but those are not so readily available. So I made you.”

"The shadows, showing the truth by their casting."

The Tower

Water

"...wellsprings and rivers..."

The Tree of Life

Jung considered the collective unconscious to underpin and surround the unconscious mind, distinguishing it from the personal unconscious of Freudian psychoanalysis. He believed that the concept of the collective unconscious helps to explain why similar themes occur in mythologies around the world.

O: [sighs] I do not fully understand what I saw, and for a Human to understand a Hive mind... How many legends of katabasis do we have, Ikora?

I: We currently have dozens of stories about descending to the realms of the dead, though research has indicated many more must have existed, lost in the layers of Human history we will never lay eyes on. Mathematically, there were likely hundreds.

I: [pauses] Inanna and Dumuzid and Geshtinanna, Orpheus and Eurydice, Izanagi and Izanami, to name a few. Gods and goddesses, mortal and immortal lovers, always seeking to descend and return with the lost.

O: And neither the lost nor those who searched for them were ever returned the same.

He argued that the collective unconscious had a profound influence on the lives of individuals, who lived out its symbols and clothed them in meaning through their experiences.

"They evidently live and function in the deeper layers of the unconscious, especially in that phylogenetic substratum which I have called the collective unconscious. This localization explains a good deal of their strangeness: they bring into our ephemeral consciousness an unknown psychic life belonging to a remote past. It is the mind of our unknown ancestors, their way of thinking and feeling, their way of experiencing life and the world, gods, and men. The existence of these archaic strata is presumably the source of man's belief in reincarnations and in memories of 'previous experiences'. Just as the human body is a museum, so to speak, of its phylogenetic history, so too is the psyche."

Ego | Shadow

Sacred Progenitor | Tyrannical Progenitor

Old Wise Man | Trickster

Animus | Anima

Meaning | Absurdity

Centrality | Diffusion

Order | Chaos

Opposition | Conjunction

Time | Eternity

Sacred | Profane

Transformation | Fixity

Light | Darkness

"And the essential thing, psychologically, is that in dreams, fantasies, and other exceptional states of mind the most far-fetched mythological motifs and symbols can appear autochthonously at any time, often, apparently, as the result of particular influences, traditions, and excitations working on the individual, but more often without any sign of them. These "primordial images" or "archetypes," as I have called them, belong to the basic stock of the unconscious psyche and cannot be explained as personal acquisitions. Together they make up that psychic stratum which has been called the collective unconscious. The existence of the collective unconscious means that individual consciousness is anything but a tabula rasa and is not immune to predetermining influences. On the contrary, it is in the highest degree influenced by inherited presuppositions, quite apart from the unavoidable influences exerted upon it by the environment. The collective unconscious comprises in itself the psychic life of our ancestors right back to the earliest beginnings. It is the matrix of all conscious psychic occurrences, and hence it exerts an influence that compromises the freedom of consciousness in the highest degree, since it is continually striving to lead all conscious processes back into the old paths."

Every weapon wielded and scrap of armor worn, every place visited, person met, symbol seen and pondered, every thought formed and lost and formed again... each one has a place in this story. Haven't you ever wondered what it all means? Where the path leads? Many have followed it before, countless numbers. And soon, it will be your turn. To walk. To see.

To understand.

A dream of a metaphor made starkly, an allegory discussed in study of ontology, in Darkness not unkind. It leaves behind a warped, barely-real data fragment to mark its passing. There is a voice that echoes across the Darkness, and it asks this question: what is the purpose of it all? And there is another voice that calls back and says: listen, I will tell you a purpose. I will tell you of a Final Shape. Look: there are a hundred gildings for this story. It comes down to one key matter. Beings in suffering crave purpose to carry them through. The tyrant consumed by ennui or the disenfranchised struggling simply to survive—it is the state of mind, the pain which cries out: give me a reason I should suffer so! Let us speak of power and choices. A man comes to a crossroads and asks of the sky, "Which road shall I take?" There is no answer from the sky, nor the wind, nor the earth beneath his feet. But another wanderer on the road, coming from behind and hearing the question, says, "I know the way. You should take the dexter road." If the man agrees, he puts himself in the wanderer's power, ceding his own choices for the implicit promise that this is the correct road, the safe road. And if he disagrees? Let us say that the wanderer draws a knife. The man may therefore be made to take the dexter road. But now if the knife goes away, the man will certainly flee. And perhaps even if the knife remains, the man may tire of being threatened and decide the risk is worth fleeing. In this way, the wanderer erodes their own power. If the wanderer says, "The wind has said that you should take the road of my choosing," will the man accept the choice made for him? And if the wanderer says, "Behold, I have seen that the meaning of suffering lies along the dexter road," will the man give away his own power for longer? Is it not easier to accept the guidance of a stranger when the path ahead is unknown?

And day dissolves into gold Night beckons and calls Night turns white with grief I can’t sleep

Whispers of the past Memories of yesteryears The things that did not last I recollect the tears

My love hold me tight There’s a haunted moon tonight Withered flowers never lie In midnight hours and numb goodbyes

Whispers of the past Memories of yesteryears The things they did not last I recollect the tears

Whispers of the past Memories of yesteryears The things they did not last I recollect the tears, the tears

[alj4890]

The Getaway

(Tobias Carrick x F!MC) in a Choices Open Heart One Shot

Day One of Tobias Carrick Appreciation Week : travel/leisure

A/N In my HC for this, Tobias and Chris are secretly dating (well before the events of the attack in Book 2) and are still getting to know each other. This goes along with the timeline of fics I used for last year's appreciation week 😉

Rated G for fluff

Masterlist

Tobias's home...

"And this was when my brothers and I decided to do a final boys trip before Hugh got married." Tobias pointed out his older brother lounging in a hammock with his younger brother, Phillip, sneaking up to tip him out.

Chris's smile grew as she continued to study the photographs of his many vacations with friends and family through the years. Ever since she'd shared pictures of her wild escapades throughout Europe with her cousins and friends, he'd eagerly pulled out his own album of favorite memories.

"Which one's been your favorite place to vacation?' she asked, flipping through pictures of snow skiing excursions and tropical beaches.

"Hmm." He scratched at his chin as he studied the photographs. "I'm not sure. They've all been pretty great."

He pointed out a few from when he was still in college. "Recognize that guy?"

Chris's eyes widened. "Is that Ethan?!"

Tobias chuckled while showing her more of their disastrous trip to New York. "It sure is."

Chris couldn't believe the tall, skinny, clean-shaven man with a mass of wild chestnut hair was the same man she worked with. He looked way too casual to be the one who insisted on nights at the opera and top shelf scotch.

"We got lost a lot." Tobias admitted. "I swore I knew my way around and I was too proud to tell Ethan I had no clue where we were really going."

He turned the page to show her an average hotel room overlooking a wooded area. "We ended up in Tarrytown instead of Times Square."

"How?" Chris asked with a giggle. "Isn't it far away?"

"It definitely isn't close." He winked at her. "We got in Ethan's car to explore more of the surrounding area and ended up driving over an hour north from the city." He explained. "The car broke down as soon as we realized where we were. It was going to take close to a week to repair. Ethan was leery of hopping on the train to get back to the city and ending up, in his own words, God knows where. So, instead of our original plans of bar hopping, we ended up doing nothing but historical tours of the old homes around there.

Chris burst out laughing. The thought of a young Tobias and Ethan forced to forget their plans of debauchery for a slice of American history caused her to laugh even harder.

Tears of mirth sparkled in her eyes when she handed the album back to Tobias.

"Your vacations sound very memorable."

He grinned and set the album to the side. Sliding his arm along the back of the sofa, he scooted a little closer to Chris. The thought of making some memories with her filled his mind.

"Hey?"

"Hmm?" She replied.

"Why don't we go somewhere?" He suggested. "For a couple of days."

"Me and you?" Chris asked.

"Is there someone else you'd like to bring along?" He countered.

"No!" Chris quickly exclaimed.

With their conflicting schedules, it was difficult enough as it was to make time to be together. The last thing she wanted was anyone else along on what could be a romantic getaway.

"I'd like it if it was just us." She added.

"Good." Tobias urged her closer for a kiss. "Because l think I want you all to myself."

"You think?" Chris teased.

He chuckled, pressing a lingering kiss against her cheek.

"I know." He murmured.

"You better." Chris slid into his lap to continue kissing him. "Where do you think we should go?"

Their mouths met in a heated exchange.

Tobias ran his hands along Chris's back. It struck him how tense she was. He could feel the knots in her muscles from hours of stress each day.

He began to think of places he could take her that would allow her not only a chance to relax, but also one that could be romantic for the two of them.

"I know just the place for us." He muttered between kisses.

Chris snuggled closer within his embrace then placed her head upon his chest. Her kiss swollen lips curved. She never doubted for a moment that Tobias would think of the perfect place.

"It's less than two hours away." He explained.

"And what is this destination?" She prodded.

"Ocean House in Rhode Island." He began to try to work the knots out of her shoulders. "They have a spa I think you'd enjoy."

Chris's eyes lit up with interest.

"When are we going?" She asked.

"Whenever you'd like." He told her. "The sooner the better."

Chris cocked an eyebrow. "Anxious, are we?"

"Very." He murmured against her ear.

His lips traced the delicate shell then traveled down her neck. His hands moved her curves, lingering on the places which made Chris move restlessly against him.

She arched into his caress, causing him to smile against her sensitive skin.

"Imagine," his deep voice captured her attention, "you and me. Alone. No interruptions. No worries about anything other than enjoying each other.

It was exactly what she'd been yearning for ever since the pair became a couple. Not only did she need a break from the stresses at Edenbrook, she needed a chance to fully indulge in this new relationship she had with the man who made her want to grow closer to him.

Just as the two began to give in to the passion that always simmered between them, Chris's pager went off.

She softly moaned in frustration all while scooting off his lap. Tobias ran his hands over his face in an attempt to calm his racing heart. His attention remained riveted on the young woman who actually made him long for many vacations where he could have her all to himself.

His lips curved softly as he thought of the memories he wanted to make with her. He wanted to see her at all his favorite spots. He could picture her bikini clad body stretched out on a beach. He would rub the suntan lotion along those long legs of hers. He then thought of snow skiing. Winter was still a good five months away, and yet, he couldn't wait to see her curled up beside him in front of a roaring fire. Given Chris's playful competitive side, he knew they would have a lot of fun racing each other down the slopes.

He'd never been one to plan for the long term with a significant other, but when it came to Chris, he couldn't help doing that very thing.

"I have to go." She told him after calling Edenbrook. "One of my patients has taken a turn for the worse."

Tobias followed her to his door. "Want me to drive you to the hospital?"

"That's okay." She gathered her things, smiling at him. "Depending on how long this takes, maybe you could pick me up."

"I don't care how late it gets." He snagged her hand, pulling her close for a kiss. "I want you to call so I can bring you back here."

"You do?" She felt a thrill go through her to hear he wanted to be with her as much as she did him.

He nodded, smirking at her. "Even if our planned dinner turns into a three in the morning event," he laced his fingers with hers, "I want whatever time I can get with you."

"I'll call you." She promised, wrapping her arms around his neck for one last kiss.

He felt her smile against his lips before pulling away. He watched her hurry off, waiting in the doorway until she disappeared around the corner. Tobias then went back inside to begin planning their getaway.

**************

Ocean House...

Chris marveled at all Tobias had planned for them. She'd somehow been able to trade shifts and such to be able to have a rare three days off in a row to be able to go away with him. She'd also done her best to convince Tobias to split the cost of their accomodations.

He'd refused, making her melt at his explanation that he'd planned dates each day and night, so she would have to indulge his need to pay for these special moments.

The moment they stepped into the White Caps Suite, she was struck speechless. Everything about the peaceful beauty of the rooms combined with views of the ocean began to relax her.

Tobias watched her explore their bedroom, bathroom (which caused her to squeal over the soaking tub), living room, and kitchen, before she eagerly went out to their own private garden. He felt his own joy grow in seeing how excited she became with each new discovery.

"Where does that go?" She pointed towards a path leading out of the garden.

"To the beach." He sat down on one of the lounge chairs.

Without any urging on his part, Chris joined him. She nestled her head on his shoulder, draped one arm across his waist, and took a long deep breath. She slowly released it, feeling all her stress begin to melt away.

"Comfortable?" He asked, placing a kiss against the top of her head.

"Very." She snuggled closer when his fingers began to drift up and down her back in soothing motions.

"I might never move if you keep that up." Chris teased him.

"I think you will once I tell you all that we have planned." He countered.

She lifted her head. "You only told me what type of clothes to pack. What exactly do you have planned for us?"

"Just a few things." He grinned at her. "I have a feeling you are going to be very happy with our itinerary."

After a few more moments of enjoying the sound of the waves crashing and being near one another, the couple went back inside to unpack.

Chris eyed his neatly packed suitcase in amusement. He had each article of clothing carefully folded and placed in such a way that no space had been wasted. All his toiletries were labeled and placed in a special clear bag.

She then looked at her own hodgepodge way of packing. She might have over packed, mostly because she knew she'd want to choose what to wear on their nights out at the last second. She had multiple swimsuits and different lingerie to make their time alone all the more special.

Her own toiletries were tossed in a separate suitcase along with all the last minute items she thought she might want like her medical journals and a few novels to read late at night.

"Hmm." Tobias began to mumble to himself.

Chris glanced up to see him going through a checklist of all he'd packed. He was even counting his socks to make certain he'd packed the number he had written on his list.

Smothering a giggle, she quickly put her clothes and all away. She found it kinda adorable that he put in so much effort into packing for a short trip.

The significance of the moment hit her as she returned to the living room. Though she'd been with Tobias for a couple of months now, this was the first time they'd be stuck together for longer than a night.

The intimacy they would share would be new. She would actually have a chance to see if what they had was mere sexual attraction or something deeper, more lasting. With how much effort he was putting into this getaway, she had a feeling she'd leave this place having fallen even harder for Tobias.

He interrupted her thoughts when he joined her in the living room.

"I have our itinerary." Tobias handed a piece paper over to Chris.

Her smile grew over what he'd written down. Other than a couple of dinner reservations and an appointment at the spa, everything else was listed as, Whatever Chris wants to do.

"Do you approve of our activities?" He asked.

"Almost." She searched for a pen and added a couple of other plans to the list.

His eyebrows raised when she handed it back to him. A slow, wicked smile formed on his lips.

"I see that, Thoroughly thank Tobias, is scheduled at the end of each evening."

Chris nodded. "It is one of the things I insist on doing."

"I'll make sure we stick to the schedule." He set the list down. "Feel free to begin thanking me whenever the mood strikes you." He wiggled his eyebrows. "I won't complain about the time change."

Chris giggled, draping her arms along his shoulders. "Are you sure you wouldn't mind? After all, you planned this trip for us."

"I won't mind at all. In fact," he crumbled up their schedule, tossing it over his shoulder, "we can forget about everything else."

His smile grew with Chris's laughter.

"I wouldn't mind keeping those dinner reservations." She mumbled against his lips.

"And I want you to have that massage." He murmured, kissing her deeply.

She hummed her agreement.

When they broke apart, she made a show of checking the time.

"Oops." She shook her head in mock disappointment. "We're already behind schedule."

"We are?" He looked down at his watch, thinking she was talking about their dinner plans.

She pulled him along to the bedroom. "It's past time you were thoroughly thanked."

She let out a yelp that turned into laughter when he picked her up fireman style to hurry them on to keep their planned activity.

[roman-catholic-mass-readings]

6th November >> Mass Readings (Except USA)

Feats of All Saints of Ireland

And

Wednesday, Thirty First Week in Ordinary Time.

 

Feats of All Saints of Ireland

(Liturgical Colour: White. Year: B(II))

Either:

First Reading Hebrews 11:2,12:1-4,15,13:1 We should throw off everything that hinders us.

With so many witnesses in a great cloud on every side of us, we too, then, should throw off everything that hinders us, especially the sin that clings so easily, and keep running steadily in the race we have started. Let us not lose sight of Jesus, who leads us in our faith and brings it to perfection: for the sake of the joy which was still in the future, he endured the cross, disregarding the shamefulness of it, and from now on has taken his place at the right of God’s throne. Think of the way he stood such opposition from sinners and then you will not give up for want of courage. In the fight against sin, you have not yet had to keep fighting to the point of death.

The Word of the Lord

R/ Thanks be to God.

Or:

First Reading Ecclesiasticus 44:1-15 Their name lives on for all generations.

Let us praise illustrious men, our ancestors in their successive generations. The Lord has created an abundance of glory, and displayed his greatness from earliest times. Some wielded authority as kings and were renowned for their strength; others were intelligent advisers and uttered prophetic oracles. Others directed the people by their advice, by their understanding of the popular mind, and by the wise words of their teaching; others composed musical melodies, and set down ballads; others were rich and powerful, living peacefully in their homes. All these were honoured by their contemporaries, and were the glory of their day. Some of them left a name behind them, so that their praises are still sung. While others have left no memory, and disappeared as though they had not existed, they are now as though they had never been, and so too, their children after them.

But here is a list of generous men whose good works have not been forgotten. In their descendants there remains a rich inheritance born of them. Their descendants stand by the covenants and, thanks to them, so do their children’s children. Their offspring will last for ever, their glory will not fade. Their bodies have been buried in peace, and their name lives on for all generations. The peoples will proclaim their wisdom, the assembly will celebrate their praises.

The Word of the Lord

R/ Thanks be to God.

Responsorial Psalm Psalm 125(126)

R/ Those who are sowing in tears will sing when they reap.

When the Lord delivered Zion from bondage, it seemed like a dream. Then was our mouth filled with laughter, on our lips there were songs.

R/ Those who are sowing in tears will sing when they reap.

The heathens themselves said: ‘What marvels the Lord worked for them!’ What marvels the Lord worked for us! Indeed we were glad.

R/ Those who are sowing in tears will sing when they reap.

Deliver us, O Lord, from our bondage as streams in dry land. Those who are sowing in tears will sing when they reap.

R/ Those who are sowing in tears will sing when they reap.

They go out, they go out, full of tears, carrying seed for the sowing: they come back, they come back, full of song, carrying their sheaves.

R/ Those who are sowing in tears will sing when they reap.

Gospel Acclamation Matthew 5:3

Alleluia, alleluia! How happy are the poor in spirit: theirs is the kingdom of heaven. Alleluia!

Or: Matthew 5:6

Alleluia, alleluia! Happy those who hunger and thirst for what is right: they shall be satisfied. Alleluia!

Or: Matthew 5:8

Alleluia, alleluia! Happy the pure in heart: they shall see God. Alleluia!

Or: Matthew 11:25

Alleluia, alleluia! Blessed are you, Father, Lord of heaven and earth, for revealing the mysteries of the kingdom to mere children. Alleluia!

Or: Matthew 23:11,12

Alleluia, alleluia! The greatest among you must be your servant, says the Lord: the man who humbles himself will be exalted. Alleluia!

Or: Matthew 11:28

Alleluia, alleluia! Come to me, all you who labour and are overburdened and I will give you rest, says the Lord. Alleluia!

Or: Luke 21:36

Alleluia, alleluia! Stay awake, praying at all times for the strength to stand with confidence before the Son of Man. Alleluia!

Or: John 8:12

Alleluia, alleluia! I am the light of the world, says the Lord; anyone who follows me will have the light of life. Alleluia!

Or: John 8:31-32

Alleluia, alleluia! If you make my word your home you will indeed be my disciples, and you will learn the truth, says the Lord. Alleluia!

Or: John 13:34

Alleluia, alleluia! I give you a new commandment: love one another just as I have loved you, says the Lord. Alleluia!

Or: John 14:23

Alleluia, alleluia! If anyone loves me he will keep my word, and my Father will love him, and we shall come to him. Alleluia!

Or: John 15:4,5

Alleluia, alleluia! Make your home in me, as I make mine in you, says the Lord; whoever remains in me bears fruit in plenty. Alleluia!

Or: John 15:9,5

Alleluia, alleluia! Remain in my love, says the Lord; whoever remains in me, with me in him, bears fruit in plenty. Alleluia!

Gospel Luke 6:20-26 Happy are you who are poor, who are hungry, who weep.

Fixing his eyes on his disciples Jesus said:

‘How happy are you who are poor: yours is the kingdom of God. Happy you who are hungry now: you shall be satisfied. Happy you who weep now: you shall laugh.

Happy are you when people hate you, drive you out, abuse you, denounce your name as criminal, on account of the Son of Man. Rejoice when that day comes and dance for joy, for then your reward will be great in heaven. This was the way their ancestors treated the prophets.

‘But alas for you who are rich: you are having your consolation now. Alas for you who have your fill now: you shall go hungry. Alas for you who laugh now: you shall mourn and weep.

‘Alas for you when the world speaks well of you! This was the way their ancestors treated the false prophets.’

The Gospel of the Lord

R/ Praise to you, Lord Jesus Christ.

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

Wednesday, Thirty First Week in Ordinary Time 

(Liturgical Colour: Green. Year: B(II))

First Reading Philippians 2:12-18 Work for your salvation, for God is working in you.

My dear friends, continue to do as I tell you, as you always have; not only as you did when I was there with you, but even more now that I am no longer there; and work for your salvation ‘in fear and trembling.’ It is God, for his own loving purpose, who puts both the will and the action into you. Do all that has to be done without complaining or arguing and then you will be innocent and genuine, perfect children of God among a deceitful and underhand brood, and you will shine in the world like bright stars because you are offering it the word of life. This would give me something to be proud of for the Day of Christ, and would mean that I had not run in the race and exhausted myself for nothing. And then, if my blood has to be shed as part of your own sacrifice and offering – which is your faith – I shall still be happy and rejoice with all of you, and you must be just as happy and rejoice with me.

The Word of the Lord

R/ Thanks be to God.

Responsorial Psalm Psalm 26(27):1,4,13-14

R/ The Lord is my light and my help.

The Lord is my light and my help; whom shall I fear? The Lord is the stronghold of my life; before whom shall I shrink?

R/ The Lord is my light and my help.

There is one thing I ask of the Lord, for this I long, to live in the house of the Lord, all the days of my life, to savour the sweetness of the Lord, to behold his temple.

R/ The Lord is my light and my help.

I am sure I shall see the Lord’s goodness in the land of the living. Hope in him, hold firm and take heart. Hope in the Lord!

R/ The Lord is my light and my help.

Gospel Acclamation Psalm 118:88

Alleluia, alleluia! Because of your love give me life, and I will do your will. Alleluia!

Or: 1 Peter 4:14

Alleluia, alleluia! It is a blessing for you when they insult you for bearing the name of Christ, for the Spirit of God rests on you. Alleluia!

Gospel Luke 14:25-33 Anyone who does not carry his cross and follow me cannot be my disciple.

Great crowds accompanied Jesus on his way and he turned and spoke to them. ‘If any man comes to me without hating his father, mother, wife, children, brothers, sisters, yes and his own life too, he cannot be my disciple. Anyone who does not carry his cross and come after me cannot be my disciple. ‘And indeed, which of you here, intending to build a tower, would not first sit down and work out the cost to see if he had enough to complete it? Otherwise, if he laid the foundation and then found himself unable to finish the work, the onlookers would all start making fun of him and saying, “Here is a man who started to build and was unable to finish.” Or again, what king marching to war against another king would not first sit down and consider whether with ten thousand men he could stand up to the other who advanced against him with twenty thousand? If not, then while the other king was still a long way off, he would send envoys to sue for peace. So in the same way, none of you can be my disciple unless he gives up all his possessions.’

The Gospel of the Lord

R/ Praise to you, Lord Jesus Christ.

[kodachromantic]

wrote some braindump abt the hawthorne timeline last night cause when you think about it there are a lot of questions and ideas to put in. idek what happened but all of a sudden dahlia became a very interesting character to me (iris too but dahlia is just kinda surprising)

huge mega spoilers for aa3, also large and likely boring so uhh read more

thinking abt dahlia and how weird things are in the beginning of her timeline before things actually start happening and im trying to think of how to fill the gaps. what age were they taken away by their father? isn't it crazy how the family relation is kinda sorta glossed over for all of this?? mia and dahlia are COUSINS, BRO, FUCKING COUSINS AND PEARL IS HER SISTER LIKE!!!!! BITCH!!!!! there's a 4yr age gap between d/i and mia. were misty and morgan somewhat estranged maybe?? we know morgan lived in fey manor, but was that just bc she was maya's caretaker or would she have lived there regardless? did she leave once the master title was given to misty and then moved back in later? mia could be young enough with some leeway for them to have been taken when they were toddlers and have no memories (if they lived in different houses or something).

dahlia thought morgan abandoned them bc they had little/no power but that brings up a question of when can you tell of one's spiritual power? i feel like it makes sense to just say, you can't tell that young, thats just the reasoning dahlia came up with or maybe what her father told her. age here depends on how many memories you want them to have of kurain & morgan, if any--maybe 2-4 y/o so mia would be 8 at most.

how long did iris live with dahlia and their dad? how old were they when their father remarried? i'd kinda put this at around 8-10 years old just as a feeling. how long was iris around until she was taken away? did bikini know her origin? did she speak to morgan? oh god imagine bikini alerting morgan and morgan is either pregnant with pearl or just had her and rejects iris coming back in a cruel twist of fate (i think im using that right? lol) bc although morgan didn't abandon them bc of their lack of spiritual power, she now doesn't want iris back because of it

okay 14 years old now, post fake kidnapping. wiki says valerie found dahlia and took care of her. so dahlia was considered legally dead bc terry was arrested for her murder. i think i forgot valerie forged all the melissa foster documents and just assumed dahlia did those herself or even just didn't have documents?? i mean it says "unable to get her original papers" so i didnt think of valerie making any new ones. and then post/during fawles trial, she's just given her info back? i mean edgeworth knew who she was. nothing really happened?? it was just, yep that stuff was weird but here's ur id back. do u think her dad thought she was dead, did he believe in the story or knew it was fake? do u think he gave a shit??? does dahlia live with valerie afterwards? she was 18 at the time of the fake kidnapping, so 18-22 years old taking care of her (valerie died at 23, dahlia would be 18 when valerie turns 22)? or did she go back home to her dad like "whoopsies" and her dad just does not care i dont even know what happened to the diamond after. i guess the two were able to pawn it and get the money that way rather than from the dad and that's how valerie looked after dahlia?? either they lived together or valerie set up dahlia with a living space and sent her money or she just lived independently with valerie checking in. it feels vaguely like ema like "who took care of this child and where did they live"

the idea of valerie taking care of dahlia and somewhat being that parental figure for her but it's too late for dahlia for that sort of kindness to change her path. she was also probably too close in age so dahlia would be like "whatever bitch" as you can tell dahlia & iris have become very interesting characters to me over the past few days lmfao

wait thinking on it maybe dahlia did know they were cousins. she knew morgan was her mom, she saw the last name fey and mia's magatama, thats not hard to put together

------

thats the end of what i wrote lol, i've been trying to write a comic idea out for the past couple days in the evenings abt dahlia and iris and i kept getting into roadblocks, first just the idea of writing and how daunting/hard it is, but then later the timeline and how it'd work and if my ideas for it even fit. so i had an idea for them to talk about their father briefly but then remembered dahlia jumped off the damn bridge & melissa foster and it got me down a rabbit hole. so now i'm either going to rethink that section or just plow through like fuck it and maybe change my idea for the timeline at a later date. who knows if it'll even be made w the pace im going lmfao!!!

i do like that bikini/morgan interaction tho i think i'll try and make that. if anyone reads this at all first of all hi teehee second of all if you want to do that idea literally feel free i wouldnt be upset in the slightest. lil egotistical of me to assume someone would want to tho LOL

[rabbitenn]

I’ll ask for Tenn with an s/o with heart problems, as I do have heart problems myself, but she doesn’t tell him that since she has been suffering financially and couldn’t really get it checked out. So one day, he receives a call from her friend that she is taken to the hospital during her shift at work. This could be a scenario over HC, but it’s up to you whether you want to do it as scenario/HC. Just having it rough right now. But I’ll be okay! I’m doing my best to take care of myself. Take your time on everything, lots of love sent to you don’t rush yourself and do things in your pace, take care of yourself too my lovely.💙

YORUGAAKERU.

Yorugaakeru — jp. Meaning ‘Dawn will break.’

He did not expect to get that call, to see you in that hospital bed. But you’d be okay, and he will not leave your side.

ft. Kujo Tenn x fem! reader.

cw/genre: angst to fluff, comfort.

hello, dear. I hope this little scenario can bring some comfort to you. Please take care, okay? Sending you love too and many, many hugs. I hope you feel better soon <3

The moment his phone rang, Kujo Tenn didn’t expect his day off would take such a turn.

Today you were working, as usual, so you and Tenn had planned to have a date at home for the evening, the tranquility you both needed before the clock inevitably marked the start of the next busy day.

So perhaps the call from your phone number was an ominous premonition in itself.

You didn’t call during your shifts, texted, yes, but calls… that was rare.

However, he decides to think nothing of it at first, even if his heart is already picking up pace.

Perhaps you had forgotten something.

“Is this [Y/n]’s boyfriend?” A frantic voice asks from the other end of the line as soon as he picks up. A cacophony of hurried steps and blurred words can be made out in the background.

… ambulance!” “Start cpr…”

No, that can’t be for you, right?

“Yes, it’s me. Did anything happen?” The idol questions, despite not wanting to believe the inevitable truth of the matter.

“Yeah… [Y/n]… she collapsed… her heart rate is very low… We called an ambulance, she’s being taken to the hospital. [Y/n] made a comment about forgetting to take her medicines lately… Do you know anything about it?”

Medicines? What for? Since when did you take medicine for anything?

“Hello?” The voice impatiently prompts over the phone.

Beads of cold sweat are running down Tenn’s back.

You. At the hospital.

No, no, no, no. Not another one of his loved ones suffering without him being able to prevent it.

“I’m heading for the hospital right now.” Tenn cuts, ending the call.

Turning around, he levels gazes with Gaku.

“I… I need to go to the hospital. It’s [Y/n]… Can you drive me there, please?”

His friend nods, already picking up the keys.

Tenn has mere seconds to steel himself, holding in the tears that will inevitably taint his perfect face if he theorizes worst case scenarios.

—

You open your eyes.

Bright light causes you to squint, your vision a monochrome daze.

This place… You’ve been somewhere similar before.

The cold fluorescent light, white all around, the sheets, the walls, your pajamas… Wait, you were certain you were working and wearing different clothes… Did someone change them?

Whatever, thinking is hard right now…

And this smell… of disinfectant… Oh. A hospital.

Now memories come reeling back. You fainted at work. Your heart… You haven’t been getting regular checkups or taking your medicine… It was all so expensive, you couldn’t manage with your salary.

A figure hovers above you, they seem to be calling your name.

An angel?

One of your hands feels warm, a familiar weight around it.

You push back against the dizziness, swimming upwards, even if the current pulls you below.

You open your eyes, fully this time.

“Tenn?” Your voice comes more frail than you had expected it to.

“[Y/n]!” He calls you, his hold on your hand tightening. “Thank god you woke up.”

Dew drops cling to the moonlit roses in his gaze.

He’s crying.

Your boyfriend is crying and it’s your fault.

You know this isn’t the first time he’s waited by a hospital bed for someone dear to come back to him.

“Tenn… please… don’t cry, my angel…” You reach up to touch his face, but he takes your hand between his.

“Don’t cry? Do you have any idea how worried I was? You are lying in a hospital bed, because you have a heart disease and I’m finding out now! How long has it been since you last got treatment? [Y/n], please, you can’t- I can’t…”

Your hand weakly squeezes his, brushing strands of moondust threaded strands away from his eyes afterwards.

“Tenn… I just didn’t want you to worry… I’m usually okay, I’ve had my heart issues since I was a kid… It’s not like I can afford treatment either, so I didn’t want you to be upset because of me…”

“You silly!” He snaps, starlit tracks staining his pale cheeks. “And you thought that would magically fix the problem? I could have helped…” He clenches his fists around the bed railing, grip knuckle white, as he hangs his head low.

“Tenn… I can’t do that to you… You’ve been working your whole life for others… I can’t-“

He doesn’t let you finish the sentence.

“You’re my girlfriend, [Y/n]. How could I live with myself knowing you need medical attention and I just looked the other way?”

“But I’m working hard… One day I’ll be able to afford it…” You try to persuade him.

“You’ve been taking extra shifts lately, haven’t you?” He inquires, gaze saddened, softening, the gentle caress of fading rose petals melting into the shades of late spring sunsets.

Warmth rises to your cheeks.

“Well, yeah… But it will only be for a while…”

“No.” Your boyfriend finally sits down at the chair beside your bed. “Promise me, you will take better care from now on. No extra shifts, no hiding this from me. I want to help you, my love. Please…”

Your lover leans his forehead on yours, lashes of stardust resting against his flawless cheekbones.

Your eyes close too. You feel Tenn’s fingers slotted in between yours, his warm breath fanning your skin, the wetness falling over your interlaced hands, liquid moonshine begging you to lean on him.

“Are you sure, my Tenn? I don’t want to be a burden…”

“You’re never a burden. Never, my beloved.” He holds your stare now, serious.

“Okay.” You whisper.

“Good.” He gives you a half smile, still stained in worry.

“Tenn?”

“Yeah?” His thumb traces patterns over the back of your hand.

“Thank you.” You tell him, leaning against him.

“Don’t thank me.” The idol cups the back of your head delicately, pulling you closer to him, to his heart that will beat harder for the both of you. “Just take care and let me care for you too, my [Y/n].” His voice quivers again, as he heaves a sigh of relief.

In between sterile curtains and IV drips illuminated by faint sunlight, both of you feel extremely grateful.

At some point, you drifted off into sleep again, thoughts of all the dates you want to go on with Tenn once you’re discharged drawing a peaceful smile on your features.

In your dreams, your lover doesn’t let go of your hand.

Next to you, he doesn’t let go either.

[sylviazem]

FFXIV Write 2024- Prompt #30: Two Heads Are Better Than One

master list

"It's all very hazy still," Fjola walked around the ruined village with her mother. "I remember some things. I remember you, but...what happened here?"

"Resistance," Lilja sighed. "The Garleans found us, and turned to violence when we didn't bend the knee. We drove their soldiers out with ease, but..."

"...Gods," Fjola looked where her mother pointed. A huge wreck of a war machine lay against the trees, overgrown with vegetation. "I've never seen Magitek like that..."

"It was nearly unstoppable. We stopped it regardless," there was a hint of pride in Lilja's voice. "The forest recovered from its onslaught, but our village could not. Too many lost their lives, and the rest decided to leave. Now it's just me, and my partner, Aluette."

"Oh, of course," Fjola nodded in her direction. "I never asked your name, sorry! Nice to meet you."

"Hm," Aluette shook her head. "It's fine."

"...Ah! That's right," Fjola suddenly panicked. "D-did you bring the crystal?! From where you captured us?"

"Oh, that dark thing? I have it here," Fjola swiftly snatched it from her mother's hand. "Why was such an awful, misty thing with you and your male companion?"

"...Thank goodness, she seems to be unharmed," Fjola let out a sigh of relief when she inspected the crystal. "It's going to sound strange, but...she's my partner. I know what it must seem like, but she's a good person."

"O-oh! I see," Lilja smiled awkwardly. "Usually, we kill such whisperers from the dark on sight, but...If you say she's trustworthy..."

"She's saved my life countless times, and I can always count on her to have my back in battle."

"Ah, a trusty hunting partner is a good thing to have, indeed," Lilja smiled at Aluette. "Two heads are better than one, as they say."

"Uhh," Aluette looked away from Fjola, scratching her chin in embarrassment. "I'm sorry I shot your girlfriend."

"It's fine," Fjola laughed. "She's not one to hold grudges."

They completed their little tour of the village, and returned to where they started. Fjola hoped that something would have triggered the Echo, and shed more light on her forgotten past, but alas, the Blessing of Light remained as finicky as ever.

"I still don't understand, though," she sat down, and pondered. "What happened to my memory? Why was I in Eorzea?"

"...You still don't remember, then," Lilja sat next to her. "It's...my doing. My fault."

"...Huh?"

"When the metal beast came, I was scared. Unsure if we could defeat it," she held Fjola's hand against her cheek. "I couldn't bear the thought of you dying, so I...I elected to lose you, instead."

"What are you saying," Fjola was confused. "What did you do?"

"I invoked an ancient spell. I entrusted your soul to the star itself, to carry you somewhere safe, far, far away," tears started rolling down Lilja's face. "I knew there were risks, I knew it was forbidden for a reason..! Worse yet, I never asked for your consent...And look what I've done to you..."

"...Flow," Fjola's eyes widened. "You sent me to the Aetherial Sea..! That's why I can't remember...There's nothing left to remember."

"I'm sorry, oh," Lilja slumped against her daughter, and wept. "I'm so, so sorry..."

"No, mother, please," Fjola held her tightly. "Y-you saved me, you didn't do anything wrong..! And I'm here now...I'm here. I found you."

"(She's carried this weight for six long years,)" Aluette whispered to Fjola. "(It's kind of you to relieve her of it. You have my thanks, as well.)"

[sansacherie]

the gods in their madness

(What sin could Aemma have possibly committed, for the gods to subject her to this absurdity? If they did this to let her cheat death, she wanted no part of it.)

Aemma Arryn becomes 15 years old again, and marries Viserys Targaryen for the second time, wearing the colors of House Hightower.

I.

Aemma wondered how long it would take her to drown in this tub.

All she needed was for her ladies to leave.  With that, Aemma could slip under the water and wait.  In the warmth and silence.  No blood.  Nothing but a peaceful end, she hopes.

Even if she was wrong about it being painless, it did not matter.  Aemma was not frightened of the pain of dying. She was more frightened of what was to come, her wedding.   She’d done her level best within the past month to hide from her fear, but it was still here, nonetheless.

Aemma watched Lady Casella through the mirror as she intently combed Aemma’s hair.   She would give almost anything to be in her place instead.  To be the one looking forward to all the festivities that beckon.   The Red Keep had not hosted such a wedding in so long.   After all, none of them were alive to see the Conciliator wed.

A royal wedding, where Aemma will bring her family the greatest honor a woman can bring her family.

A way to the Iron Throne.

Last night, Aemma was told how proud her mother would be.   Aemma had never known her.  Princess Daella died in the birthing bed, as Viserys and Daemon’s own mother, Princess Alyssa.  It was Amanda,  Aemma’s older sister, who told her how their lord father had loved Daella Targaryen so much that he begged Queen Alysanne herself to bury her in the Vale.   But the queen had refused, bringing Daella’s ashes back to Dragonstone.

When Aemma was just a little girl, she resented her grandmother for it. Queen Alysanne already had memories of Princess Daella; did she truly need her bones as well?  At least Aemma could look at the painting of her mother in her father’s solar whenever she pleased.   Lord Rodrik commissioned it just after they wed.  In it, Father smiled lovingly at Mother.  Mother was seated, wearing a splendid gown that paid respect to both Arryn and Targaryen.  Her smile was shy and sweet.   They said she had smiled when she held Aemma, after bringing her forth.    And Aemma’s late mother had been so happy there in the Vale as well.  That is what her lord father said, and Amanda too.  Even Grandmother concurred, although her blue eyes were oft sad to say it.

But now Aemma understood her grandmother’s actions better.  Daella Targaryen was the blood of the dragon, even if being the blood of the dragon hadn’t done her much good in the end anyway.   Her ashes belonged on Dragonstone, the true seat of the Targaryens.   Her place was there, but not Aemma’s.  When the Stranger came for her, Aemma would be buried in the Vale.

That would never be, now.  No thanks to Viserys.

“There,” Lady Casella smiles in proud satisfaction.  Lady Talya and Lady Rosamund compliment her on how well she’s styled Aemma’s hair.

And she has, indeed.  Her auburn hair is styled in an intricate updo.  Aemma had something very similar, on her first wedding day.   The Vale and the Reach were quite similar when it came to bridal fashions.

“Come, Alicent.”  Lady Daena tells her, gently taking her by the hand.    Alicent’s ladies dress her.   Her gown is undeniably beautiful, even more so than Aemma’s had been, she will admit.   But that is not surprising.  Aemma was not marrying a king like Lady Alicent was.    And the Hightower's were as rich as their line was old and proud.  

When the ladies complete their work, they bow their heads, as if Alicent is queen already. 

II.

Aemma had kept to her bed during those first few days, pleading illness.  That was because she hoped she would find herself in her old life when she woke up.  Her old life, where she was Rhaenyra’s mother.

Oh, and gods help her, the life she had with Viserys.  Aemma and her cousin had wed for duty, as so many of them did.   As Aemma had grown up in the Vale and her Targaryen cousins had grown up at King Jaehaerys’ court,  Viserys and she had seen each other only at important events like the king’s name day, so Aemma had not known him well.   He was also five years her elder.

And twenty to Alicent Hightower’s. 

But they built something out of their duty.  Their marriage never burned with passion, but you did not need passion to have a good marriage. Of the two sons sired by Prince Baelon, Aemma knew she’d been fortunate to be wed to the elder.   While she did not think Daemon would dare treat her with such outrageous disrespect as he did the Lady Rhea,  Aemma had never felt true regard from him when wed to his brother.   Aemma could not help but think her being only a cousin, and a half-Valyrian one at that, was the fault of it.   Targaryen custom meant that Viserys’ ideal match would have been a sister.   Perhaps Daemon wished that Viserys was born a girl so they could marry.  

Well,  Viserys was Aemma’s husband, and he was a good one in some ways.  He was gentle and generous.  He did not dishonor her, by being careless about his relations.  Aemma knew it was happening, thanks to one of her ladies-in-waiting, but she knew nothing of the women he bedded, except they were of common birth.  Truthfully,  Aemma did not know whether she preferred these bedwarmers to be highborn or not.   A common girl would only have power in Viserys’ bed, and as open-handed as Viserys was, he would not hesitate to put them in their place when necessary.  He had dismissed one proud mistress once, after all.    As for someone highborn, well her power did not only come from the King needless to say.  But most houses would not suffer such an insult to their daughters, anyway.    At least nobody in the Vale did. There was no security, no honor in a noble lady being a man’s mistress and not his wife.   

What sin could Aemma have possibly committed, for the gods to subject her to this absurdity? If they did this to let her cheat death, she wanted no part of it.   Why could they not have saved her little boy?   When Aemma had first realized – and it had not taken her very long- what became of Prince Baelon,  she was torn between sorrow and resignation.  Sorrow, as she’d been wrong to doubt Viserys’ confidence about him being a boy.  Perhaps if Aemma had matched Viserys in this, perhaps Baelon would be in the nursery right now.  If Baelon lived, perhaps Rhaenyra would still have her dear friend and Alicent Hightower her freedom.

Resignation, because Aemma had been through this dance before.  Over the 15 years of her marriage to Viserys,  Aemma had eight children.   Of the eight, only Rhaenyra was spared.   That was why Aemma hated Rhaenyra flying Syrax, as much as she knew it was unfair to her daughter to discourage it.  But Aemma could not help it, sometimes inventing excuses such as her being heavy with child. 

She wondered how Alicent Hightower would feel about having dragon riders for children.  

Aemma thought Viserys cruel to not only be marrying Rhaenyra’s childhood companion but to have named her heir.   Aemma understood it, of course.  In fact, she and Ser Otto were of the same mind when they urged Viserys to appoint Rhaenyra and not his brother, his successor.    If Viserys died suddenly with a son, his closest male relative would be one who encouraged war and did nothing for the Faith, nothing for the people.  Daemon Targaryen would do nothing but what pleased him.   Worst of all, if he was king,  Aemma knew he would put aside his marriage to Lady Rhea.  That was to be expected, but Aemma did not like the thought of whom he would favor as his queen.    

But anyway, Viserys should never have named Rhaenyra his heir when he was going to remarry.   Aemma did not believe for a moment that Rhaenyra would remain first in line if Alicent Hightower had a son.   

Viserys would think nothing of the succession changing for a son, as he thought nothing of Aemma’s stomach being cut into for one. 

III.

Aemma had no memory of the pain, praise the Seven.

But she remembered well what Viserys had said to her before the end.  

I love you. 

As if that made what he commanded better.

IV.

Aemma wondered if the horror of what Viserys did drove her actions with Ser Theo. It must have.   The fear of being accused of a witch if she dared say she was in fact a dead queen, was greater than the fear of a discovered dishonor.

But they were not discovered.    Ser Theo slipped into her chambers, as he did Lady Elinor’s.  Aemma would have preferred someone her age or a little older, but she was not a woman of thirty- at least not in body.  But Ser Theo was no green boy at least, twenty-four and handsome.    

As Alicent or Aemma chased her pleasure on top of the knight she had never done the same with Viserys, their coupling always missionary, as the maesters said it was best for conception- she thought of the maidenhood that would never be Viserys.  Not now.    

Aemma could not bear the thought of Viserys taking her maidenhood again.  So, she took her pleasure. 

She fucked.

She would have fucked in front of Viserys if she could get away with it.  Fucked his pride. Fucked those stupid dreams.  Oh, you dreamt our son wearing a crown, you say.  That is what happens when your father is a king, you fool. 

V.

Aemma sat on the dais, tasting nothing of the food set before her.  Beside her, Viserys was in a high mood and toasted everyone from his new wife to the singers. 

Rhaenyra looked as lonely as Aemma felt.   It was agony, sitting so close to her dear girl.  The devil of it is that if there was anyone Rhaenyra would have confided as her father remarried, it was Alicent Hightower.   Viserys ruined that, with all this.  Gods, the girls were only 15.

Aemma’s mind fell upon the Velayrons then.   They were absent from the celebrations, even though Viserys was Rhaenys’ cousin. 

Laena of course.   The Velayrons would have been on the top of the list wanting their daughter to marry the king.  Undoubtedly, Rhaenys and Corlys would have considered themselves to be the only ones on that list.    They had never forgotten that council.

VI.

They were alone.   Viserys reached for her, and Aemma pulled away.

“Alicent?”  He asked with concern.

“I,”  Aemma began.   She could herself sweating.   She could not bear him touching her, just yet.

She smiled sweetly at him.  “I’m so tired, Your- Viserys. The celebrations, they- they were overwhelming.  Could we not sleep instead?”

Viserys looked half relieved, half dismayed.  “They will except a consummation,” he said.

Aemma drew herself to Alicent’s full height and looked him in the eye.   “They can wait.  It does not need to happen this very night.”   Thankfully,   Viserys nodded at this,  and that night they only shared a bed.

Aemma accepted that this was only a temporary refuge, just as she accepted there was no possibility of making Ser Theo her lover once she wed.   Whenever it was lust or expectation, Viserys would consummate the marriage.

VII.

That was the very topic three days later, as Alicent broke her fast with the Hand of the King.  Viserys preferred to sleep in, and Rhaenyra who had eaten with Aemma every morning, had her meals brought to her own apartments now.

“Is there something you wish to tell me, Your Grace?” Aemma wondered how long it would take for Ser Otto to grow used to calling his daughter by this title.  Aemma was already used to it.  She had already been queen once before.

Aemma shook her head.

“Alicent.”  Aemma hid a grimace.  She doubted she would get used to being called Alicent.   Ser Otto frowned.  “You cannot allow this to continue. You are a wife-,”

“I have not forgotten that.  You made me one.” Ser Otto looked taken aback, and Aemma realized that Lady Alicent would never challenge her father like Rhaenyra did Viserys.  Aemma’s own father had spoiled her, but Aemma’s daughter even more so.  Viserys indulged Rhaenyra.  But indulgence was not what Rhaenyra needed from her father.   That was why she encouraged Viserys to take Rhaenyra as his cupbearer when she turned ten.  “She might not ever rule from the Iron Throne, but she can learn much from listening to your meetings with the small council,”  Aemma had said.  “She can use that experience to guide her husband or sons, in time.”

Ser Otto cleared his throat.  “You must not forget your duty.   The kingdom holds its breath for a son-,”

“I have been married for three days!”  Alicent, or Aemma snapped.  “Let them hold their breath.”

VIII.

It was just shy of a fortnight when Viserys called her to his chambers.   He was tired of waiting.

She felt numb, as Viserys took his rights.  She wanted to refuse, but-

He lasted longer with Alicent than Aemma could remember he did with her.  Which is to say, not much.

She lay beside Viserys in the bed, listening to him catch his breath.

“Viserys?” Aemma said as they grew ragged.  She looked at him and felt cold all over.   He was clutching his chest, and the sweat- the sweat was not just from their marital duties.  

But it was his eyes that spoke the truth of it. 

Viserys had the eyes of a dying man.

Of course, Aemma had hers closed.    She had closed them, as if that would stop what was happening to her.

She knew that she needed to shout for help, to alert the maesters. 

Instead, she waited. 

Waited for him to die.

Aemma would offer him no comfort, nothing. 

IX.

Ser Harrold Westerling was on guard duty outside their door.  

She must be strong, Aemma knew.   

"The king is dead," she tells Ser Harrold, who freezes.  "His heart gave out." 

"He is truly gone?"

"Yes,"  Aemma nods.   "Long live the Queen."

[drowninginredink]

How did it take me until April 3, 2024 to realize that Lemony Snicket is absolutely a trans woman and someone needs to get her some E, stat?

- Lemony is always, always, always hiding her face. Well... okay they cut it from Netflix, but in the books and movie, the most iconic thing about Lemony is that in every photograph, she's managed to hide her face. And yes, allegedly that's to hide her identity, but like... Is it? Or is that an excuse and really Lemony just does not like her face because it's too masculine? God knows most pre-transition folks hate being photographed

- Have you seen the way she talks about Beatrice? Have you read that letter from The Beatrice Letters? "Summer without you is as cold as winter. Winter without you is even colder," "I cherished, you perished, the world's been nightmarished," "When we first met, you were pretty and I was lonely. Now I am pretty lonely." Straight men do not write about women like that. Lesbians do. Especially that letter. Do you think that a straight man wrote "I will love you if I never see you again, and I will love you if I see you next Tuesday" or "I will love you until the chances of us running into one another slip from skim to zero, and until your face is fogged by distant memory" or "I will love you if you don’t marry me. I will love you if you marry someone else – your co-star, perhaps, or Y., or even O., or anyone Z. through A., even R. although sadly I believe it will be quite some time before two women can be allowed to marry?" Absolutely not. Those are obviously the words of a lesbian.

- Pretty much everyone important in Lemony's life is a woman. All of the people closest to him: Beatrice, Kit, R, Moxie, and Ellington. Sure, he does interact with other people, but those are the 5 closest relationships indicated by the text. Obviously you can be a man with all female friends, but how many times has a "man" always gotten along better with women and ended up not being a man.

- The audiobooks are (mostly) read by Tim Curry, and we all know he plays a pretty famous transsexual

- Lemony strikes me as very self-sabotaging. Now, this is my own opinion. One could believe that all of the mess that Lemony is in is purely VFD's fault. Maybe VFD forced her to take the blame for Olaf's crimes and generally end up buried so deep in accusations that she had to fake her own death and go on the lam. However, I can see an absolutely self-hating Lemony who volunteered to take on the role that she did. Who chose to be the fall guy. And why would she hate herself so much? Dysphoria. A deeply dysphoric and closeted woman who figures that since she isn't happy with herself, she might as well be the one to have her life ruined by the schism. That way all the actually happy and good people don't need to have their potential ruined.

- Similarly, Lemony never actually jumps in to save the Baudelaires, merely writing about them from afar. She is, to put it bluntly, a coward. She tells herself she's doing something to help them, but won't intervene in the way they really need. Why not? Because she's so deep in self-loathing! Again, that could just be because of her failures in life, but like... What if she also hates herself because of repressed dysphoria?

- Lemony is just generally really, really, really, really sad. And look, I know I'm aromantic as hell, but do we really think that's *just* because she lost the love of his life? Or do we think maybe something else is making her that gloomy?

- Look I just really want Lemony to have a way to be happy. And there's no bringing Beatrice back. But. HRT? Sure. I bet there's HRT in the snicketverse. Why not? I take the reading that Beatrice and Bertrand had Violet at like 20, which makes Lemony only like 35. He's 35, and yet she's completely given up on life. She is just a shelll of a person. She doesn't actually interact with anyone and spends all her time researching terrible things that happen. She's too young to be resigned to misery. I want Lemony to have a way to be reborn and find some form of happiness again. Thus, I would like to blame some of her misery on living as a man, and propose that transition could save her.

- Again. Lemony hates pictures and doesn't like to show her face. Give her some FFS! Stat!

- Come on. Beatrice and Lemony are an iconic couple. You cannot tell me that if given the choice, you want them to be M/F when they could be F/F

Okay. I rest my case. Now to submit to @couldtransitionsaveher

[quills-of-freedom]

Eren Yeager relationship

Aesthetic, vibes & various

♈

👹

🔥

💥

🌲

🏞️

🌊

🌧️

🌑

🦅

🥖

🍣

🧭

🏚️

🎮

🎧

🚿

💣

🗝️

Right from the get go, I’m just gonna say this; Eren is extremely misunderstood.

Yeah he’s an asshole. Yeah he may be a genocidal, suicidal maniac. But he would never and I repeat, never treat his s/o like shit as often conveyed.

Still a hot ass trope though

Eren loves and cares for his friends with his entire being. Willing to sacrifice literally everything for them. I’m not saying it’s right or justified - but it’s how it is.

Eren in his later years is quiet, brooding and always up in his own head. The only person in this world who could bring back even a spark of that blazing determination behind his eyes, would be you.

Ideal dates

Eren’s ideal date is anything quiet and away from people. He’s pretty introverted post time skip and doesn’t like to be around too many people.

Loves to lavish you with affection in his own little ways while you’re tucked up away from the world.

Stargazing. It’s his favourite thing, lying there with you in a comfortable silence, now and again sharing a deep thought or idea while lacing his fingers within yours or drawing circles on your palm.

If you’re attentive enough; lie on his chest and you’ll hear his heart rate picking up promptly.

Likes to feed you. He adores taking care of you, even if the way he does it somehow seems distant and even huffy.

Very protective of you. Both territorially and for your safety. Will ward off any unwanted attention without a second thought.

Modern AU

Not denying the fact that in a modern AU, there’s a pretty high chance of him being a total fuck boy / pussy hound.

Gamer. Possibly a streamer. Always has music playing through headphones.

Loves ordering weird coffees with the fancy names. The longest to pronounce, the better.

Is a travel guru.

Fingers girls in bathrooms at parties.

Will humble brag about it to his friends too.

But once someone catches his heart it’s a total game changer. That’s where you come in.

Will be pretty fucking confused at first. Love? What the hell is that?

But it wouldn’t take him too long to come around.

Once he does he’s constantly talking about you, buying you things - he’s not used to these feelings and the only way he knows to show that you’re special is to spoil you.

After a while and you’ve both been steady for some time, he’ll see the errors in his last ways and begin to feel guilty before he grows.

NSFW

Is your pussy okay? Lmao.

Seriously though… Are you okay?

Eren is a beast in bed. Post time skip he’s brimming with confidence. Or maybe he just doesn’t care.

Possibly has memories of people having sex and picked up some stuff from them. God not his dad though. He blocks that out.

Eren is pure filth in bed. Spitting, light choking, hair pulling, spanking… You name it.

He can be tender though. If you ask it of him, letting him know you’re feeling soft today, he’ll respond well to that.

Will fuck you anywhere and everywhere. Walls, public places, the sofa, his car (modern au)

He’d even be down for eating you out in Titan form. (Hold on a minute while I readjust myself…)

Is competitive with himself. Oh he made you cum three times the other night? Well, tonight it’ll be four.

Loves to finger you. Just something about having you in the palm of his hand really gets him going. Not to mention he gets to taste you after.

Ride his face and he’ll be on his knees for you. Pull his hair? God the moan he’ll make is just… 👌

“Look at that pretty pussy stretching for me…”

“I love ruining you with my cum.”

“Good girl. That’s it…”

“mmm baby, fuck.”

“You fuck me so good”

“Ride me. There’s a good girl.”

“Lemme hear that pretty voice moan for me…”

“Does that feel good? Huh? Does my cock make you go crazy?!”

“Your cunt is so greedy… It’s trying to swallow me.”

“God you feel.so good…”

Are things you’ll usually hear during intimate times.

Kinks

The risk of getting caught. He likes having risky sex in semi public locations. Makes a game of how loud he can get you to moan, knowing someone would probably hear you.

Light Degradation. When he’s in a rough mood, he doesn’t mind calling you a few names. Nothing too extreme. And if it’s not your thing, he’ll respect that boundary.

Loves a good ol’ 69. Having you on his face with your ass in view is just… *Chef’s kiss*

Speaking of ass, he loves to bend you over too, allowing himself in nice and deep with a great view and something Juicy to grab.

Aftercare

Afterxare with Eren isn’t anything special unfortunately. He’s another who gets sleepy after sex.

Won’t ignore you though. Often lazy pillow talk is on the cards and telling you how much you mean to him and how beautiful you are.

Will run his fingers across your scalp to soothe you.

Also will kiss any bite marks or finger bruises he’s left behind and ask if you’re okay.

Dates 10/10

Thoughtfulness 5/10

Affection 6/10

Sex 10/10

Aftercare 8/10

TLDR; He’s an ass but nowhere near as bad as he’s usually made out to be. Still would make a pretty good boyfriend.