#and that's the line of heresy he was walking

[thiswaycomessomethingwicked]

Plato and Socrates as unordained high-priests - Ficino, I am once again asking how it is you were not done for heresy until the very end of your life. 

[muzansfangs]

His kink.

Starring: Satoru Gojo x f!reader; Suguru Geto x f!reader; Higuruma Hiromi x f!reader;

Format: short-imagines;

Warnings: nsfw, vaginal sex, unprotected sex, double penetration, anal sex, use of pet names, threesome (Satoru x f!reader x Suguru), slight degradation kink, blindfolds, sense deprivation (sight), use of alcohol but everything is consensual, use of cigarettes, overstimulation, dom!Satoru, dom!Suguru, sub!reader, dom!Hiromi, spanking, roleplay, clothed sex, teacher and student roleplay (fictional), small age gap between Hiromi and the reader, use of collar, oral sex (Hiromi!receiving), semi-public sex, implied exhibitionism;

Plot: You would do anything for your man. Even crossing some lines, allowing him to have the full control over your body. The moment you tell him to show you his kink, you watch in awe as his face lights up in delight and your body becomes a canvas for him to paint. Are you ready for him?

PART ONE | PART TWO.

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Satoru Gojo.

Threesome and sense deprivation.

It was supposed to be a simple date night with Satoru. Yet, the moment you saw Suguru, your boyfriend’s best friend, lighting up a cigarette on the balcony of Satoru’s flat, while the two men were allegedly involved in a convivial conversation, you knew it was time to explore that taboo in your relationship.

Your boyfriend’s ice-blue eyes locked with yours, a faint smile gracing his lips as he silently invited you to join them. Heart thumping hard into your chest, you did and accepted the flûte of champagne Satoru pressed in your hand. There was something different in the air that night, something electrifying in the way your boyfriend did not mind his best friend’s hand indulging on the small of your back, lips grazing the shell of your ear hazardously to whisper a silly joke to you. It was inevitable.

Hands curling around the edge of the railing, you arched your back as Satoru’s hands cupped your hips. His hot breath fanning your jawline, crotch pressing up against your ass, he eventually decided to speak out “Do you like him?” he whispered, nosing your cheek as you fluttered your eyes closed.

Suguru was a good-looking guy, hilarious as well, respectful towards you. Declaring you did not like him at all would have been a plain heresy, indeed. For someone like you, who valued honesty and trust above anything else in a relationship, lying about such things would have been the equivalent of defiling the pure bond you had with your boyfriend.

“Not as much as I like you. But I do” you admitted, head lolling back to rest onto his shoulder to peer up at a clearly excited Satoru.

The wolfish grin plastered over his face was enough to make your heart sink into your chest, the taste of the forbidden fruit only a step away from meeting your tastebuds. You had already talked about the possibility of involving Suguru into your sinful activities. Opening the door of your bedroom to him, your boyfriend’s best friend, someone you even liked and enjoyed the company of, did not sound that bad. Satoru wanted this. He was pretty clear about it, bringing up the topic whenever he had the chance to, going to the extent of not even restraining himself from whispering in your ear, balls deep into you, how much Suguru would have loved to feel your tight walls squeezing up his member. Or how much he would have loved to see you struggle to take his friend’s cock into you.

He had no shame, but who were you to chastise him?

“You know I am right here, right?” Suguru’s voice pierced your ears, making both of you crane your heads to glance at the raven-haired man putting out a cigarette on the ashtray settled on the coffee table.

“What a scandal. Are you offended, perhaps?” Satoru cooed, wriggling his eyebrows up as he gave you a gentle squeeze on your side to prompt you to walk back inside.

Suguru did not reply. You felt their gazes on you, boring holes on your backside and nape, almost stripping you of your clothes with their hungry eyes. Shivers ran down your spine, your feet leading you down the corridor and towards the bedroom, their footsteps echoing on the polished marble floor behind you. Stray dogs stalking a rabbit, Satoru and Suguru could barely restrain themselves from ripping your clothes off of your body and feast on you disrespectfully.

You knew exactly what to do. Satoru had made sure to instruct you ahead of time, seething with impatience for the day he could finally share you with Suguru.

Kicking your heels off of your feet, you stopped at the edge of the bed, eyes closed as a pair of strong hands engulfed your waist. That smell, that cologne were unmistakable. Peppermint and tobacco, definitely not Satoru. Your back leaned against the sculpted frame pressed against your spine, your neck craned as you peered up at a Suguru and his nihilistic smile.

“Ah, don’t look at me like that. I won’t be able to screw you up, if you give those eyes” Suguru chided you in the same exact moment that Satoru’s hand grasped your jaw and forced you to lock eyes with him.

His lips captured yours, sloppily, hungrily, his fingers skimming up your midriff before groaning softly against your mouth “Allow me to blindfold you, darling. I don’t want my friend here to feel remorse for having ruined a cute, little princess. He’s better at fucking whores. Won’t you be a whore for us, baby?” he crooned, earning a soft hum from you.

Before you knew it, your sight was gone. A silky black fabric pressed over your eyelids prevented you from seeing them. You were naked, scandalous moans erupting from your throat, as they thrusted into you aggressively. Your mouth kept on meeting Satoru’s one, sweet and tender exchanges of love and promises between you two, as he thrusted his hips upwards. He was hitting the perfect spot, making your thighs quiver as you held onto him for dear life.

But if your boyfriend whispered sweet nothings in your ear, the words coming out of Suguru’s mouth made your cheeks boil in embarrassment.

“Look at that. What a slutty bunny you got yourself. Two cocks inside and she still takes them as a champ” Suguru breathed out, groaning as he bottomed out.

Pleasure and pain mingled into you, as he abused your puckered hole. Arching your back, you could perfectly feel his rock hard abs brushing against your skin. His huge hands, calloused and strong, held you into place and prevented you from jolting forward more than it was necessary.

Unable to mutter something more than whimpers and whines, you let your orgasm wash over you, mouth agape as they dragged you down to join the haunts of Hell.

Suguru Geto.

Roleplay and clothed sex.

You had no idea your boyfriend was into roleplaying. Not until he saw you dressed up as a promiscuous nurse during the Halloween party Shoko had hosted last year and he had proceeded in rearranging your insides in her bathroom. From that day on, it was not unusual for him to ask you to dress up as various characters to feed his most depraved fantasies.

Cat woman and Batman, a mermaid and a pirate, the bunny and the wolf, the devoted nun and the devious priest. You had literally tried on every single costume you could think of. Or so you thought.

Pressing your thighs together, holding a chemistry book to your chest, you could not believe you had agreed to give a shot to the pornographic cliché everybody knew about. The checkered skirt you were wearing barely reached your buttocks, exalting your curves and revealing the virginal white thigh highs you loathed with every melocule of your body. Playing the part of the innocent student for the not-so-professional version of a professor, masterly played by Suguru, was turning out to be both intriguing and exhausting.

“You disappointed me, darling. — your boyfriend sauntered towards his desk, much to your dismay overlooking the balcony — Chatting with your friend during my class. That’s downright outrageous” he casually said, slender fingers gliding down the polished surface of the desk.

Hypnotized, your eyes drank in the way his fingers curled around the edge of the bureau, wanting nothing more than to feel them buried deep into you. He always had you in a chokehold, whatever he did or said. In the palm of his hand, you now proceeded to swallow your pride and portray your own part to please him.

“It won’t happen again, professor! I promise” you fretted, scurring towards him with doe pleading eyes begging him to be indulgent.

“You have been disrespectful, dear. Spare your breath, though. Even if I decided to accept your apology and desisted from putting you on detention, your indecorous way of dressing leaves me no choice but to send you home” he retorted, his tone authoritative albeit you could see the signs of his arousal showing up.

The prominent tent in his pants was the proof he could not keep this up for too long.

And, honestly, you could not neither. Darting your eyes back on his face, you pursed your lips and zeroed the distance between you two. Settling your book onto the desk at your right, you shook your head and made sure to get his attention by clutching the fabric of his shirt into your hands, consequently creasing it.

“Please, don’t! My parents will kick me out for real this time! Professor Geto, I beg you, I cannot afford another suspension. There must be something I can do to make amend!” you bewailed, flaunting a secret talent in acting exactly like that girl from back in high-school.

Having despicable classmates, apparently, had played in your favor.

Suguru grinned, his mask cracking under your own hungry eyes. He had to admit you were a talented actress, indeed. But more than your words, there were other details about you that he was particularly interested in at the moment. Your inviting eyes, the way you were pathetically clinging onto him, your bare legs. As much as he loved seeing you like that, he wanted nothing more than bending you over the desk and split your walls apart.

“Is that so? You poor thing, maybe I’ve been too strict towards you. — Suguru mused, tilting his head to the side thoughtfully, tapping steadily over the wooden surface with the pads of his fingers — You know, dear, I have just figured out a way to grant you the chance to make amend. Tell me, are you willing to do anything I ask of you?” he inquired, his almond brown eyes boring into yours as you eagerly nodded your head.

That was it. Before you could even blink your eyes, he had gripped your hips and spun you around. With your cheek pressed against the top of the desk, the edge sinking onto your hipbone rather painfully, you felt Suguru push a foot betwen yours and part your legs unceremoniously. You were mostly silent, except for the occasional gasps leaving your lips as he hiked your skirt up and gave generous squeezes to your ass.

He cussed, before his hand collided with your rear in a harsh spank, your body jolting forward for the impact. He knew you loved it, he knew the contrasting feeling of pain and pleasure meeting in a blurry line made you feral. Your cries only made him want to ruin you further and that is what he did, once he spotted the damp patch soaking your white panties.

“This will be our little secret, right, baby?” he huskily rasped out, the clinking sound of his belt unbuckled making you shudder.

“Yes, Suguru—” only for him to cut you off with another unforgiving spank, leaving you whimpering while his fingers tugged the fabric of your underwear to the side almost disrespectfully.

“Professor Geto” he hissed in your ear, one of his hand grasping the base of his cock to drag the tip up and down your slippery folds.

It was only the beginning of a rough session, your pussy clamping down onto him spasmodically, while your moans turned into notes to compose the perfect lewd melody you both loved to listen to. His thrusts were not gentle, but the way he made sure your hipbones did not get bruised by sliding his hands over them was affectionate.

“If only you put the same commitement I am seeing now into studying, you would not have to let your professor fuck you stupid now, is that not right?” he teased you, the hint of a laughter in his words as he went ahead. Apparently, he was still holding on tight into that roleplay shit.

The moment he reached his climax, his movements coming to an halt, he groaned through gritted teeth and bringing his lips close to your ear, he whispered a command he knew you would have followed unquestioningly “Go home and keep it all inside this slutty pussy. Keep it in your womb and I will give you more”.

And dear, how much you craved more of it.

Hiromi Higuruma.

Exhibitionism and use of collar.

Drool was running down your chin, the leather black collar fastened around your neck making you feel so vulnerable as you struggled to take all of him into your mouth. You did not have much space to move around too, hidden underneath the desk in a kneeling position. Your stressed out boyfriend had truly crossed the line this time and the worst part of it was that you always agreed in trying new experiences.

Under his lead, you helped him relax and release all of his pent up anger and frustration. Albeit there was a small power imbalance between you two, at least, in the bedsheets, you two worked together to bring out your worst and dark desires, reaching the apex of pleasure in such a delectable way that left you both satisfied in the end.

“A collar? Really? What am I to you, some kind of pet?” you had joked, quirking your eyebrow up as he was proceding in fastening the said accessory around your neck.

“You are far from being a pet, but I think you can use that tongue of yours to please me, instead of being sassy, my dear kitten” he replied in a casual tone, giving a playful tug to your collar. It suited you so perfectly. Honestly, he could not wait to ask you to wear it in the privacy of your bedroom.

As you shook your head and sighed, you pointed at the collar on your neck with a teasing expression on your face “Okay, I get it, but unless you want your colleagues to start gossiping about how indecent the best lawyer of the firm is, you have to unfasten it” you reminded him, winking at your boyfriend who was still contemplating the way the leather encircled your tender neck the same way his hand did during your rough session.

Yeah, those money he had spent on the collar had been definitely well-invested.

“Oh, please, I’m on my lunch break. No one’s going to annoy me for a while. Let me feel a perverse sense of power for ten minutes more, please” he implored you, dark coffee eyes boring into your landguidly, as he sat down onto his armchair.

You chuckled, standing between his spread legs tentalizingly, before sensually dropping to your knees “Well, in that case, let me purr for you” you suggested, hand reaching up for his belt and zip.

Skilful hands quickly getting rid of the clothes preventing your access to his dick, you finally pulled it out of his boxers. A few strokes and a deep grunt later, your mouth was wrapped around his cock, tongue teasing the tip to elicit those guttural and masculine moans Hiromi always let out around you.

His hand had fisted your hair, head lolling back on the head-rest, when someone knocked on the door. Your eyes went round, blood freezing in your veins as Hiromi’s grip on your hair almost made you wince out in pain. He glanced down at you, as you both realized it was too late to stop and you did your best to scoot more under the desk. He had to let that person in, there was no other choice but that.

“Come in” Hiromi said, after clearing his throat in discomfort.

As you heard his colleague walk in, you swallowed around him, causing Hiromi to let out a fake cough fit. It was not something you had done to tease him, you were actually paralyzed at the idea of being caught like that. But Hiromi was not having it. As you resumed your sucking and the man who had dared to interrupt his fellatio closed the door behind him on his way out, Hiromi hooked his fingers around the collar, pulling it tight against your neck.

You almost choked, as he groaned a tad louder “What was that? My pet has misbehaved, hasn’t she? Ah, I’ll gove this kitten something good to swallow for real this time” he sang out, the equivocal words sending chills down your spine as your little round played our smoothly.

At least, until Hiromi released down your throat without warning you. He had to admit you looked pretty like that, with drool and his sperm running down your chin as you coughed at his feet.

You were a good pet, after all.

AUTHOR NOTE.

Hello there! I have finally posted the part two of my project! I truly hope you are going to like this part as well and thank you so much for the love you are showing to my works! As per usual, likes, comments and re-posts are greatly appreciated!

Until next,

x o x o

TAGS: @pseudowho @brittscafe @doumadono @mrskokushibo @axesfordays @gyomeisfavoritespermcell

@marinnnnnnnnn @deegausserr

[moodymisty]

Just had a thought for a cute fic request. What if Lady Guilliman catches some nobles/inquisitors/clerics complaining about and insulting her husband behind his back, and just goes off on them. "How dare you! He's doing a fantastic job!" And what if Guilliman overhears his usually patient, even-tempered wife vehemently defending him? Just a sweet, supportive spouse moment. Because that man desperately needs it.

I know you're probably overwhelmed with requests right now, so I just want to encourage you to relax and take your time. No rush. We're grateful for whatever you give us, whenever you decide to give it.

Author’s note: Something short and sweet, and a bit funny XD

Relationship: Guilliman/Fem!Reader

Warnings: None really

You aren't entirely paying attention to the conversation at hand, drifting in and out of interest until there's a moment that catches you again.

"I just worry about his, lack of interest."

You can infer by the quieter tone- the way they emphasize he - that they're referring to Guilliman. It's then that you realize that while these deacons and pontifices know that you are under the banner of the Ultramarines for your duty, they do not know your close relation to Guilliman at all.

"He had the cherubs removed,"

Another deacon says, her voice a hushed whisper. Your eyes dart between them all to feign interest so they'll keep speaking grievances in your company.

"I heard from one of the priests that he doesn't even allow them to say the armoring rights when he dawns his armor!"

You will admit you found that odd, at first. Then over time Guilliman has explained to you the galaxy he came from wasn't like this, and you understand now that the vehement nature of the current Imperium's worship over the Emperor is not something he has wished for.

He would've hated this. This galaxy now spits on the ideas he created us for. This all would've disgusted him.

You wish you could understand what he meant, but, it's the Emperor. Even you struggle to think about him not being seen as a god.

"What is going to happen if we allow a man who borders the line of heresy like this to lead us?"

You clench your fists, and open your mouth to speak unable to hold your tongue any longer.

"Lord Guilliman?"

The primarch looks up at the Ultramarine who approaches. His face seems, apprehensive? He nods at the man to continue speaking.

"Your lady has gotten into a fight with some of the Ecclesiarchy's deacons. They have begun to issue accusations of heresy at her in return."

Guilliman finds himself walking towards the marine sooner than he'd expected. The surprise of this, let alone that you are involved- and possibly in no shortage of trouble - is not something that he had expected.

"Where is this happening?"

Guilliman had known you would probably come into contact with the deacons at some point, but a fight? He rushes behind the Ultramarine through the halls, and soon hears your voice.

"If you are so upset over his choices, how about you just tell him yourself!"

Guilliman steps into the room and sees you pointing down a pontifice, face twisted with anger. You are spouting insults, some of which he has never heard before; Though he's sure by the expressions of surprise and anger on each of the deacons and pontifices faces that they are not insults used by the faint of heart.

"You all seem quite eager to accuse him of heresy, but you do know you're accusing the Lord Regent, correct? What does that make you if you're wrong?"

The pontifice at your center attention purses his lips and recoils, as his own vehement faith is thrown back at him.

"I suggest you all shut your mouths and let the Primarch who walked beside The Emperor himself decide what is best for all of us."

The primarch stands back for a few moments longer than he thought he would, watching you. The way you have defended him so vehemently, most would simply allow them to spout their lies before skittering away; To avoid the hammer of a institution so powerful as the Ecclesiarchy.

While it is most important to prevent you from getting into trouble, he can't help but feel... Prideful. He is not used to being the one defended.

Guilliman approaches before anyone decides to escalate things any further. Once the deacons notice him they quickly shut up, and you turn to look up at him in surprise.

"My men told me you all had gotten into an argument," He looks down at you. "Your shouting has given me all the context I believe I need."

Your mouth stays firmly shut as Guilliman turns to the others, and you wonder what the consequences of your outburst will be.

"I suggest you all learn to keep your muckraking to yourself. Or bring it up with me, if you're so bold as to accuse me of heresy." Guilliman nods in the direction away from him.

"Leave."

They waste no time in doing so, not forgoing proper farewells before shuffling away with tails between their legs. Guilliman has had more than his fair share of issues with them as they skitter around the Macragge's Honour, so he's eager to shoo them back into their rat holes for a bit longer. Once gone, Guilliman turns to you.

"You, have an even bigger mouth than I thought."

You raise your eyebrows at him and try not to laugh; It takes Guilliman a second to understand why and his face warms and wrinkles.

"That is not what I meant."

He shakes his head and continues his earlier thought without your inappropriate interruption.

"You cannot be getting into such big fights with these men and women. They have significant power."

He takes a kneel, putting his hands to your jawline.

"I, appreciate you defending my honor. But I do not need it. Do not waste your effort on the likes of them." You smile and nod.

"I will try but, no promises."

Guilliman leans forward and kisses your forehead.

"In this modern day, that is good enough."

[solspina]

Where is a Line for Justice Drawn?

magnus the red ⋆˙⟡

a short little blurb i threw together while i was trying to lull myself to sleep last night! not heavily edited, so i apologize for any mistakes!

heresy is unforgivable, and magnus knows this better than anyone. psykers are heretics, and leman russ knows this better than anyone. the blood of the crimson lady and a young red skinned girl is the only way to pay the price.

warnings: major character death, child death, mentions of burning/heavy injury, angst and more angst, leman is very cruel

Pride will be the death of you.

Among his brothers, it was a common misconception that the pride of Magnus the Red lay solely in his power and knowledge of the unseen universe. They believed that he took the most pleasure from understanding things even the emperor didn’t, or took great joy in knowing more than the rest of them.

Their judgements were far from the truth, for it lay instead in the things they failed to see. His pride was a perfect two sided coin, one in which the sides belonged to different women respectively, none other than his wife and daughter. His brothers knew not of this, all of them besides Leman Russ.

Leman knew the truth. He knew where the sorcerer buried his deepest weakness, it was within that pathetic psyker of a wife and the vibrant red skin of his half divine daughter. He knew of the heresy that had been committed by Magnus upon prospero. He knew how to bring Magnus to his knees. He knew that Magnus feared him.

Perhaps that was how Magnus had gotten into the position he was in today.

His wife lay motionless on the floor, her pure white robes were bloodstained and dirty, an indication that she had tried to run away. An arrow was nestled carefully between her shoulder blades, penetrating her heart and pulling her away from life incredibly slowly.

Magnus knelt by his wife’s side, weeping ever so slightly as his heart shattered further with every passing second. He avoided the gaze of Leman who stood across the room. The crimson king’s infant daughter was still in the arms of the wolf, but her voice no longer cooed sweet nothings into her father’s ears or babbled at absolutely anything. Her skin, the same color as his, now paled in comparison to its once vibrant beauty. His child was lost, gone before she could ever say her first word or experience premonition.

Aside from the great king’s gentle sobs, the crackling of flames and the screaming of entire families could be heard outside. The noises, along with the suffocating smoke in the air, came from the streets of Prospero as it burned.

“One of them felt no pain, Magnus” Leman’s voice echoed across the room as he looked down upon the crimson skinned child, not a wound on her body. He didn’t want to know how she died. He wanted no knowledge of what the wolf did to his daughter. “The other, though…”

Bruises and small cuts had completely littered every inch of his wife’s perfect skin, a surface that Magnus used to caress with such gentleness and care. It was undeniable that she would put up a fight. Inevitable that she would try to run, only to be shot through her most vital organ of life the moment she made it into Magnus’ arms. Unavoidable that Leman would walk into the room immediately after the shot was fired, their daughter lifeless in his arms.

Even now, she clung to him with the last few moments of life she had within her. Her hands were placed upon the primarch’s shoulders as she shook in terror against him.

“Please” her voice trembled as tears spilled from her eyes. “I don’t want to die… I’m scared, Magnus…” Her expression was full of fear and her voice was barely above a whisper. He could tell from the way she looked at him that she was desperately seeking comfort, but he failed to grant her that wish. He wanted to reassure her, to tell that everything would be okay, but his words caught in his throat.

He was frozen, unable to process the gravity of the situation. He could not bear seeing her afraid like this, nor could he bring himself to lie to her. Helplessness washed over him like crashing waves, pulling him in and out of reality as he cradled her in his arms, one last time. “Magnus,” she spoke once more, her words weakened as she became tired, his own voice still failing him to speak. “I love you…”

In the blink of an eye, she was gone. An incredibly broken “I love you too” finally made it’s way out of his throat, but far too late for her to hear.

Leman laughed maniacally, sickeningly. “A death fit for a psyker.” He spat, venom and contempt dripped from his voice. He walked across the room with a chilling calmness, Magnus’ daughter cradled in his arms. With a grotesque mockery of calmness, Leman placed the lifeless baby gently in her cradle. He had covered the young girl with her blanket, creating a display as if she had merely been asleep. He was teasing the weeping crimson king with every action, the cruelty of the executioner in its most pure form.

“My work for father is done here” claimed the wolf, his teeth beared in a smile as he looked down upon the pathetic excuse for a sorcerer cradling his wife. “Heretics are to be executed, brother” Leman declared, his voice cold and unyielding. He before turned on his heels as he prepared to exit Magnus’ tower, his tattered cloak billowed behind him. “You should know better.” were his final, cutting words to the crimson king as he left him to drown in his grief. His beloved tower, once home to both his family and infinite pillars of knowledge, had come to feel like more of a tomb.

Magnus carefully removed his wife from the ground and placed her down on their bed, one they shared while she was alive, before making his way to the cradle his daughter lay in. He lifted her from her bed and away from the blankets that Leman had tainted with blood, the face of the babe was peaceful and serene despite all that had happened, despite her lack of life. He opted to lay the baby in the arms of his wife, allowing the only two things that mattered more than knowledge to appear together one final time. He looked upon them with sorrow, trying desperately to convince himself that the two of them were simply sleeping. It had just been a long day and they were tired, that’s all this was.

His hands trembled as he caressed the baby’s cheek, her face illuminated by the bright orange flames that raged outside. He lay his own body next to the two women, one arm over the both of them. He spoke to them, sharing with them stories and knowledge that even humanity had not yet touched, they never would. Prospero burned, and the unrelenting flames would not cease.

Perhaps it was not selfish for the primarch to allow himself the liberty of dying next to his wife and daughter. The flames that burned his skin could never match the warmth the girls used to provide when they lived, and he’d take every ounce of the fading heat until he emitted none of his own.

Would it be selfish to become the monster that Leman had suspected? Would it be selfish to wish for change?

[artyandink]

the art of heresy forged 2022

SUMMARY: Modern day, 2022, and you have no clue what’s going on. You knew what you went through. You knew it was real, but why were there people trying to convince you that everything that happened to you wasn’t real. Hell, you called bullshit. But you get your chance to fight back when you get a call at your door.

TW: psychological torture, trauma, angst, smut, drinking, consumption of drugs, smoking, mentions of sex, blood, murder, gore, Ben (cause he’s an individual warning), derogatory remarks, gunfire, murder, killing, lots of it, it’s The Boys so be careful guys, really creepy shit, crack, literal crack

STW: fingering, Ben being Ben, degradation, explicit spoken detail, practically manhandling

A/N - divider by @chachachannah

Song Inspo: Look What You Made Me Do by Taylor Swift

keep it quiet

NICARAGUA, 1983:

The sun hung low in the Nicaraguan sky, casting long shadows over the dense jungle. The air was thick with humidity, clinging to every leaf, every blade of grass, and every breath the small town's inhabitants took. A deep, unsettling quiet had settled over the place, punctuated only by the occasional call of distant birds or the rustle of leaves. The tranquility of the town was deceptive, however, masking the turmoil that had gripped the world beyond its borders.

In the heart of the town, a small news station buzzed with a rare energy. Reporters shuffled about, their voices tense, their faces drawn with concern. The camera lights were harsh against the evening gloom, casting sharp shadows on the walls of the makeshift studio. Outside, a handful of locals gathered, their curiosity piqued by the unusual activity. News had traveled fast, as it always did in small towns, and the disappearance of Soldier Boy was no exception. For the people of this remote corner of the world, the arrival of a famous superhero—however dire the circumstances—was an event worth witnessing.

Inside the studio, the main anchor, a seasoned reporter named Esteban Garcia, sat behind a worn wooden desk, straightening the stack of notes before him. His dark eyes were set with a determination that had been honed over years of covering stories that often blurred the lines between the ordinary and the extraordinary. But today, the story was unlike any other he had ever covered.

Esteban had been one of the first to receive the report that Soldier Boy, the legendary superhero and symbol of American might, had gone missing during a covert operation in Nicaragua. The details were still murky, shrouded in a haze of classified information and official denials. What was clear, however, was that the man who had once been invincible, the man who had been the living embodiment of strength and bravery, was now feared dead.

As Esteban shuffled his notes one last time, the door to the studio creaked open, and in walked a woman who seemed to carry the weight of the world on her shoulders. Crimson Countess was a striking figure; her red hair, usually fiery and untamed, was pulled back into a tight bun. Her crimson suit, once a beacon of power and confidence, seemed to have lost its luster, the fabric dull and wrinkled as if it, too, had been drained of life.

She moved with a heaviness that Esteban hadn't seen before, her every step measured, her every breath labored. As she approached the interview chair, he could see the dark circles under her eyes, the way her hands trembled ever so slightly. This was not the Crimson Countess the world had come to know—the fierce, unyielding force that had fought alongside Soldier Boy for years. This was a woman on the brink, teetering between despair and the desperate need to hold herself together.

"Thank you for coming, Countess," Esteban said, his voice gentle but firm. He gestured to the chair opposite him, and she lowered herself into it, her movements slow and deliberate. "I know this must be an incredibly difficult time for you."

Countess nodded, her lips pressed into a thin line. For a moment, she seemed unable to speak, her throat working to push down the grief that threatened to spill over. When she finally did find her voice, it was hoarse, raw with emotion.

"Difficult doesn’t even begin to cover it," she murmured, her eyes fixed on some point in the distance, far beyond the walls of the studio. "I’ve… I’ve been through a lot with Soldier Boy. We all have. But this… this is different."

Esteban nodded, giving her the space she needed to gather her thoughts. The silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken words, with the weight of shared history and the looming specter of loss. Outside, the gathering crowd pressed closer to the windows, straining to catch even the faintest whisper of what was being said inside.

"He was… he is," she corrected herself quickly, as if to banish the thought of his death from existence, "the strongest person I’ve ever known. Indestructible, or so we all thought. To think that he could be… gone… it’s like waking up in a nightmare you can’t escape from."

Her voice cracked on the last word, and she closed her eyes tightly, as if that could somehow block out the pain. Esteban felt a pang of sympathy. He had seen many interviews like this before—family members of the missing, the grieving, the lost. But this was different. This was Crimson Countess, a superhero, someone who was supposed to be beyond the reach of such ordinary, human emotions. And yet here she was, broken in a way that no enemy had ever managed to break her.

"Can you tell us what happened?" Esteban asked softly, careful not to push too hard, but knowing that the world was desperate for answers. "Anything at all that you know?"

Countess opened her eyes and looked at him. For a moment, she seemed to be weighing her words, deciding how much to reveal, how much to hold back. Then, with a deep breath, she began to speak.

"It was supposed to be a routine mission," she said, her voice trembling slightly. "We’ve done this kind of thing a hundred times before—go in, neutralize the threat, get out. But something went wrong. I… I wasn’t there when it happened, I was in a different part of the field, but I spoke to him on the comms. He was… he was confident, as always. He didn’t think anything could go wrong."

She paused, swallowing hard, as if the memory of that last conversation was too much to bear. "But then we lost contact. Just like that. One minute, everything was fine, and the next… nothing. No signal, no word. Just… silence."

Esteban leaned forward, his brow furrowing in concern. "And you haven’t heard anything since? No communication from Soldier Boy or anyone else on the mission?"

Countess shook her head, her expression one of helplessness, an emotion she was clearly unaccustomed to. "Nothing. It’s like they vanished into thin air. The government’s been tight-lipped, as always. They’re saying it’s classified, that they’re ‘looking into it,’ but I know what that means. They think he’s dead. They just don’t want to say it."

The words hung in the air, heavy and ominous. Esteban could feel the tension in the room rising, the weight of the world’s expectations pressing down on this woman who had spent her life fighting battles that most people couldn’t even imagine. And now she was fighting a battle of a different kind—one that she had no idea how to win.

"What does this mean for you, Countess?" he asked after a long moment, his voice soft with understanding. "For the team? For the world?"

Countess looked at him, her eyes filled with a deep, abiding sorrow. "I don’t know," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. "I really don’t know. Soldier Boy was… he was the heart of the team. The backbone. Without him… I don’t know how we go on."

The room fell silent again, the weight of her words sinking in. Outside, the crowd had grown larger, their faces pressed against the glass, their eyes wide with fear and fascination. They had come to see a superhero, but what they were witnessing was something far more profound—a woman laid bare, stripped of the armor that had always protected her, struggling to make sense of a world that no longer made sense.

Esteban knew that he had to tread carefully now. He could see how close she was to the edge, how fragile her composure had become. But he also knew that the world was watching, waiting for answers, for some kind of closure. He took a deep breath, choosing his next words with care.

"Countess," he began gently, "the world has always looked to people like you and Soldier Boy for strength, for hope. In times of crisis, you’ve been the ones to lead us, to show us that even the darkest times can be overcome. What would you say to those who are watching right now? To those who are afraid?"

Countess stared at him for a long moment, her eyes searching his face as if looking for something—perhaps a lifeline, perhaps an escape. When she spoke, her voice was stronger, more certain, as if she had found some small reserve of the strength that had always defined her.

"I’d say that fear is a natural response to the unknown," she said slowly, the words coming out measured and deliberate. "But fear can’t be the end of the story. Soldier Boy… he wouldn’t want us to give up, to let fear consume us. He’d want us to fight, to keep going, no matter how hopeless it seems."

Her voice grew steadier as she spoke, the words seemingly giving her strength. "I don’t know what’s going to happen next. I don’t know if Soldier Boy is… if he’s really gone. But I do know that he wouldn’t want us to stop fighting. He’d want us to keep pushing forward, to keep believing that there’s a way out of this, even if we can’t see it right now."

Esteban nodded, feeling a sense of respect for this woman who, despite everything, was still finding a way to inspire hope. "Thank you, Countess," he said quietly. "I know that wasn’t easy."

Countess managed a small, tight smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes. "Nothing about this is easy," she replied, her voice barely above a whisper. "But it’s what we have to do."

As the interview drew to a close, Esteban could see the exhaustion in her eyes, the way her body seemed to sag with the weight of it all. He knew that the moment the cameras stopped rolling, she would retreat back into the private hell she was living, the grief and uncertainty gnawing away at her resolve.

"Do you think he could still be out there?" Esteban asked, unable to resist the question that had been on his mind since the beginning of the interview. "Do you think Soldier Boy could still be alive?"

Countess looked at him, her eyes filled with a quiet desperation. "I have to believe he is," she said softly, the words laced with a fragile hope. "Because if he’s not… I don’t know how we move on from this."

The camera panned out, capturing the room in its entirety—the small, stark studio, the gathering crowd outside, and the lone figure of Crimson Countess, sitting in the harsh light, her face a mask of controlled despair. The broadcast would soon be over, but the impact of her words would linger long after the screen went dark.

NOW:

“Whatever you’re experiencing, it’s not real.” Your shrink - you still didn’t know whether her name was Emily or Earhart - assured you, but you knew better. “Vought only wants to help you get better.”

“They’ve been so called helping me for forty fucking years.” You gritted out, your fingers gripping the chair you were sitting on. The maroon chair, with some fugly beige cushions in this fugly beige room. You hated it.

Fuck all.

She sighed, leaning forward. “You exhibit signs of anger issues and PTSD. Vought is merely facilitating your recovery and return to glory.”

“They’re fucking with my head!” You burst out, standing up abruptly, surging forward and grabbing her throat, your eyes turning black, gleaming with wisps of purple. “Tell me the truth.”

Tell me the truth. It resonated through Eleanor’s head, and her eyes turned the same colour as yours, her jaw going slack as she stopped resisting.

“You’re not crazy.” She whispered, her eyes wide and unfocused. “You never were.”

You let her go, and her eyes returned back to normal, a shaky gasp escaping her lips. You bent forward, trapping her between yourself and the chair.

“You tell anyone what I just did, sweetie,” You warned lowly, “and I’ll snap your neck by the time I next come in here.”

“Of course.” She whispered, her voice cracking.

You sat back down on the armchair, cracking a smile as you examined the fear in her eyes. Good. “Shall we continue?”

They’d gotten into some weird shit.

“Is he always gonna be doing that?” Hughie whispered to Butcher, watching Ben crush some medicine and snort it like it was nothing. They’d broken him out of his cryogenic capsule, and it’s safe to say that he was an incredibly pissed off individual. Understandably so.

“Just let ‘im, it ain’t killing us.” Butcher replied under his breath, and then snapped into suave gent action when Ben cleared his throat and looked up. “Everythin’ alright, there, guv’nor?”

“Gotta add another name to my kill list.” He cleared his throat again, grunting distastefully.

“One more?” Hughie asked, eyes widening slightly, but he recovered. “Uh, w-who is that - the one you want to kill - who?”

Ben grunted again, snorting up more crushed pills. “Tricky bitch, she is. Superhero by the name of Psyke, she was my co-leader and fuck buddy. Real tricky to get past. She can create illusions that you’ll fall for if you’re a dumb piece’a shit, and if she gets her hands on you, game over.”

Butcher crossed his arms, raising an eyebrow. “And why’s that?”

“One, she’s hot as fuck. And a great fuck.” Ben chuckled, reminiscing the days. “Second, she’ll just whisper a command and you’ll do it no questions asked.”

“No problem, guv.” Butcher smirked confidently, but Hughie raised his hand. “Put your hand the fuck down, we ain’t in school.”

“Cocksucker.” Ben snorted - not recreational drugs this time - drinking his beer. “What is it?”

“Psyke, she… she’s impossible to get to.” Hughie revealed, scrolling on his phone. “Apparently she had a psychotic outbreak after you were put in the freezer in ‘83. Vought’s holding her for rehabilitation and therapy. Has been for forty years.

Ben saw the picture of the old newspaper, the title blaring in his face. ‘Psyke in Rehab for Violent Behaviour’, but no explanation. It told him one thing— that you must have known something was wrong.

And Vought imprisoned you for it, the bastards.

There wasn’t a world in which Vought would imprison their darling, their golden girl. Not unless she went rogue.

“That means she’s deep in a Vought facility.” Butcher smirked, glancing between the two others. “We get the team together, launch an attack on the cunts holdin’ her, we can get her out quick an’ easy.”

Ben’s protective instincts over you flared up when he thought of what Vought could’ve done to you. “She gets out unharmed, y’hear?”

“Loud and clear, guv. Not a scratch.”

Oh, fuck. You could go for one of those at the moment.

You were left on the ground, on your back, trembling. Your brain felt like it’d been stretched and then left to rebound against all four walls of your brain, close to turning into mush had you not been fighting the drug injected into your system with everything you had.

“She’s resisting.” You heard one doctor mutter to another, just as searing, white hot pain made the corners of your vision turn black.

And then they shaped into the nightmare land, taking over your vision until it was half reality half illusion, messing with your perception until you weren’t sure which was actually happening.

You could see Nicaragua.

The blood, being distracted by a legion only to find Ben being subdued by Novichok.

Fighting off every member of Payback, making them turn on one another with nothing but a hand on their shoulder and a persuasive whisper.

Getting hit with a cheap shot from behind, and both yours and Ben’s bodies were dragged across the dirt.

Only difference was that you were barely awake. Awake enough to see his unconscious face as they took him away and put him God knows where.

“Have we tried giving her a stronger dose?” A male doctor replied, the corners of your vision blinking from reality, back to nightmare, reality, nightmare, reality- nightmare—

Keys jangled. “We give her a stronger dose and she’ll go up in a stroke. Homelander wants her alive.”

“I don’t understand why, she’s a walking weapon.”

“Talking like I’m not there.” You rasped out, like you hadn’t spoken in a hundred years. A rough chuckle left your mouth as you shakily pushed yourself up, the pounding in your head still there but finding it easier to regain muscle control. “Ballsy move, especially for a couple of dickless scientists.”

You pointed at the lady. “You’re already dickless, so you don’t count.”

The two doctors looked between each other, getting more and more anxious as you found your feet, staggering towards them, almost shuffling, footsteps uneven.

“Uh, what are you-” They froze when you clapped your hands on their shoulders, leaning forward so you were speaking in their ears, your iris turning into gleaming purple mixed with black.

“Kill each other.” You whispered, and the command resonated. The urge to pick up their pens and go postal overtaking them.

Kill each other.

Kill each other.

It went through their mind, body, soul. Clipboards flattering to the floor as their irises turned black and swirled with purple, turning to each other slowly. Teeth gritting, veins popping as the two doctors looked into each other’s eyes with pure hatred and a chuckle left your lips as you watched them click their pens and go straight for the jugular.

Over and over again.

“Sleep tight, bitches.” You muttered in satisfaction just as armed Vought soldiers burst in, two forcing you to your knees while two others went to check the tangled, lifeless bodies of the two doctors running rampant.

And you did that.

It felt amazing.

1980:

Mmh, fuck.

“Bet you’re so wet for me, pretty thing.” Ben chuckled against your lips as you stumbled back into the his hotel room, the rapid undoing of clothes not privy to the two of you as the curtains were wide open. Everyone in the street below could see the filthy way yours and Ben’s lips joined together over and over again, eyes closed but hands familiar with where they needed to go to make the other moan.

Ben separated from you to go and close the curtains, leaving the taste of whiskey on your tongue, still in his slacks from the press conference while he’d ridden you of everything but that delicious fucking lace you’d worn under your dress.

He’d been eyeing you all day in that thing, and all he thought about was having it off.

“Didn’t have enough after coming like a faucet on my cock this morning, hm?” He added, toeing his shoes off and working on his belt, his lips descending to your neck and leaving hot trails of kisses and rough sucks. “Nah, you didn’t.”

Your hands slid up his chest, and then one went down to palm him over his slacks, which had the vein in his neck popping, jaw tensing as his head fell back for a quick second.

Then he took control of the situation, tearing your panties off and throwing you onto the bed, the bra going with it as he sank two thick fingers knuckle deep in your pussy.

“Shit-” You gasped, arching off the bed, your legs widening instinctively as he set a brutally delicious pace, leaning forward to lick and suck at your nipple, biting and tugging at it with his teeth at his fancy.

Ben only laughed, manoeuvring your body how he wanted, rocking your hips in time with his fingers, hearing your moans, seeing your eyes roll back, knowing you were close-

NOW:

“TMI.” Hughie groaned, putting his hand out and shaking his head. “Really, dude. Ew.”

Ben frowned. “TMI- the fuck does that mean?” He thought for a second, then waved Hughie off. “Eh, I don’t give two shits.” Then he chuckled at the memory, nodding and hitching his shield higher on his arm. “Psyke, man. Best fuck you could ask for. She’d ride me like a damn champ, knows how to suck you off too. Had a mouth like a goddamn vacuum-”

“As much as I want to hear about your old buddy’s jerkin’ off talents, guv,” Butcher cut in with a wave of his hands as they walked, “we have half an hour to get in an’ out.”

“We’ll get her.” Ben assured, finding a Vought guard and slamming his shield into their face, successfully breaking their nose and making them drop, crumpling like a wet sheet of paper.

“Fuck you.” He added, sneering at the unconscious guard before trudging further through the halls, Hughie and Butcher keeping up right as the alarms blared red.

The moment they did, you - in your cell - smirked, finding an opportunity. The guards were about to restrain you, but you used their grip on your arms to knock them into each other, rolling out of the way and grabbing their handgun, shooting them both once each in the head before anyone could react.

You barely dodged a bullet (literally), jumping and spinning, whipping your leg around so your heel could connect with the side of one’s head, snapping it sideways and sweeping another guard’s legs out from under them, grabbing their head and snapping their neck.

All the guards were down, so you got up, looking at the massacre - the art - you’d created with a small smile on your face and an approving nod.

“Cocksuckers.” You muttered under your breath before shaking your head, clearing the corners of your vision of Nicaragua, induced by whatever shit they put into your system. Wasn’t the good shit either, it was bad shit.

You really needed a smoke round about now.

But now wasn’t the time, so you picked up the guard’s assault rifle and pocketed a few rounds, making your way through the clinically white halls with it held up, popping a few rounds through the heads of the guards you met.

Eventually, of course, all your rounds were depleted soon enough, and you resorted to using your hands (and not in the sexy way), Nicaragua threatening to take over your vision

“You can check that way, guv, she might be there.” A voice with an accent said gruffly, and when you looked around the corner, you saw a boot disappearing down a side corridor, and two other guys. You stepped up behind the smaller one, your bare feet silent on the cold floor.

With a sharp movement, you grabbed the smaller one’s shoulders, yanking him against you as your powers activated again, ready to strike. “Move a muscle and I tell this one to dislocate his own shoulder. Maybe break a leg.”

“What the fuck- I don’t wanna break a leg!” The dude held to you squeaked to the taller guy, who turned around, taking one look at you and smirking.

“Guv, we found ‘er!” He yelled, and a large red and brown boot stepped out, connected to a much larger body that you knew all too well. Only difference was that his hair was darker and he had a trimmed beard. Oh, you’d have fun with that - you mused, right as a grin spread on your face.

“Son of a bitch.”

©️ 𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐲𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐤 / 𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐲’𝐬 𝐬𝐭𝐮𝐝𝐢𝐨

𝐈 𝐝𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐲 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤 𝐛𝐞𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐜𝐨𝐩𝐢𝐞𝐝/𝐫𝐞𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐝

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[aletterinthenameofsanity]

Ghostcrow & Palasaki (The Old Guard AU: Chapter 4)

“You saved us,” Edwin says, because it became very damn obvious from the moment that he realized just when Monty would have died for the first time, much less when Esther herself outright said it. Monty’s mouth snaps shut. “You said it yourself. You helped us get away. You helped us live.”

“I was just delaying it, I failed-”

“You succeeded, mate,” Charles insists, and Monty looks to him in disbelief, as if his every word is a prayer. “We never ended up under your mother’s hands, did we? You kept us out of there. And god, you’re a good person to do that for two strangers who you were forced to be with because your mother threatened you-”

Something in the line of Monty’s shoulders loosens. “You weren’t strangers,” Monty says, and it aches to hear it in the past tense. “I wasn't forced- god, I didn't save your lives because I was a good person. Trust me, being with you, that wasn't- that was the one part of it all that wasn't hell. God, it was-” Monty lets out a small, wretched laugh, and Edwin catches something wet shining in his eyes. “It's the closest I’ve come to heaven.”

Edwin grew up in the shadow of a grand cathedral in 14th-century England. He understands the power of confession. He understands the power of prayer.

And most importantly, he understands heresy. Laying with a man and immortality and every other sin bade him lay his faith in a new higher power a long, long time ago.

And what Monty is saying? It is a staggering confession to make.

-aletterinthenameofsanity, no grave can hold my body down (crawl home to them)

Oh, today I'm just a drop of water

And I'm running down a mountainside

Come tomorrow, I'll be in the ocean

I'll be rising with the morning tide

There's a ghost upon the moor tonight

Now it's in our house

When you walked into the room just then

It's like the sun came out

-Gabrielle Aplin, Start of Time

@pappelsiin @itsbitmxdinhere @rexrevri @sweet-like-h0ney-lavender @saffirez

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[ms--lobotomy]

Greek myth on the mind. Teehee. Also tagging @angronsjewelbeetle because he lets me go apeshit about Ferrus.

Summary: You've fought your way to the palace of Slaanesh. It's time to bring Ferrus home.

Word Count: 1979. oops

Content Warnings: Slaanesh should be his own content warning but things are only implied, a few headcanons happening here, short flashback to nsfw

Image Credit: @squishyowl

Entering the palace of Slaanesh was a grueling affair, to say the least. Countless times you had almost fallen to the Dark Prince, but every time, you remembered your fallen lover and soldiered on. You hadn't taken off your armor off for... days? Weeks? Months? You couldn't tell. The features of your face had hardened under your helm, and you only had one goal in mind. Bring him home.

You entered the palace with surprising ease, keeping your eyes upon the floor. Statues lined the halls, but you weren't going to look up and see what they were. Now more than ever, it was important to remember not to gaze upon the Dark Prince himself, lest you become another casualty of the Heresy.

You heard heavenly choirs singing the same song that you had sung with your lover years ago. Your hand clutched the pommel of your chainsword, something stolen from one of his sons. It was far too big for you, but you learned to live with it. As the chorus reached a crescendo, he strode out of the back of the palace, impossibly tall. You kept your eyes on the ground, finding patterns in the seemingly simplistic floor and admiring the viscera staining your shoe.

"Mortal," the Dark Prince said. His voice was that of a human man and human woman speaking at the same time. It reverberated through your body, and if you didn't know better, it would have been velvety and comforting. "What is your purpose here?" He inched closer to you, and you ducked your head further down.

"Give him back," you said in curt tones. You pulled the sword out of its scabbard, in case things were going to get ugly.

Slaanesh laughed. It was a contagious laugh, but you kept your face straight. "You won't even try to kill me, mortal?" he asked. His voice grew deeper and more monstrous. "You have the opportunity to rid the galaxy of one of its greatest threats, my dear. And you won't even try?"

"Give him back," you replied.

Slaanesh stooped down to get as close to your level as he could. "And why should I do that?" he asked, almost in a mocking tone.

Your mind moved faster than you could speak. "Think about it," you said. "Would you not have the pleasure of watching the Phoenician as he realizes his brother is back, for real, and that he has a second chance of making him fall?" You heard Slaanesh pause before he hummed something, and his robes rustled as he presumably turned around.

"Very well," he said, his voice morphing into something much more human. "You may lead your lover out of the Palace. On one condition."

You tensed up, ready for anything. "What would that be?"

"You will not, under any circumstances, turn around to look at him until you are out of my domain."

You exhaled. That was a lot better than you thought it was going to be. "Alright," you replied.

"His soul will be reunited with you once you turn around. After that, I want you out of my sight." Slaanesh stood up and turned around, walking back through the gigantic doors of the palace.

That was... easy enough. You turned to exit the palace, and you heard the sounds of none other than a Primarch breathing behind you. Ceramite creaked and shuffled over the impossibly shiny floor.

"...Ferrus?" you asked in disbelief. You undid your helm, and it made a light hiss.

He said your name, similarly bewildered. You heard his voice crack, and soon enough sobs wracked his body. "Is it over?" he asked, his voice choking up.

"It's over," you said. You wanted to turn around so badly, to hold him and tell him that Slaanesh's torture had ended. But you had to settle for words, for now. "You're going to be okay, Ferrus. It's over."

"Thank you..." he choked out, and you put one foot in front of another and began to walk forwards.

-6-

The Excess of Repose was gorgeous. It almost reminded you of the shores of your homeworld, where you would retire with him after a particularly strenuous campaign. The sun was slightly above the horizon, slowly but surely rising above the gentle waters. You looked to the violet clouds. You paused.

"Everything okay?" Ferrus asked.

"Yeah..." you said, fondly remembering the brush of his hand along your shoulder and back as he woke you up. Briefly, you felt a featherlight kiss at the crown of your head before you shook yourself back to reality.

"I'm alright. Let's keep going."

-5-

Soon enough, you reached the Excess of Achievement. It was a great forest, with faces in the trees. They wailed tales about great heroes that had went through the forest before, your name escaping their mouths. You felt your pace slow, the heat of your lover's body come closer behind you. Ferrus chuckled, and then sniffed.

"You're a hero," he said quietly.

"I..." you started. "If that's what this makes me, I'll take that label."

Ferrus chuckled. "It suits you very well, my diamond."

Your heart swelled again at the moniker. You'd missed him, you'd missed the feeling of his hands and his skin against yours. You missed when he would put his head against your chest and feel your heartbeat. You missed him. You missed feeling him, you missed his voice, you missed his face.

-4-

But you soldiered on. And soon you saw a swarm of people approaching you. Serfs and Iron Hands alike were running towards you, chanting your name and excitedly jostling one another. Ceramite and leather alike hit the ground, and they swarmed around you like a pack of wolves.

"That's... That's Ferrus Manus!" exclaimed one of the sons. A relieved laugh escaped his helm, and one of his brothers hit his back.

"Not just Ferrus!" he exclaimed. "The Savior of the Iron Hands is here too!"

You tensed up at the word "savior." Even if their genefather was back... there was no way that the Iron Hands would be so jovial in your presence. Back before Ferrus had passed, his sons were less than friendly towards you. They'd regarded you with a blank stare at the best, and hurl insults at the worst.

"Please," you started, edging your way through the crowd. "Be gone. I need to get your father back to the material realm."

The crowd started to protest, following you along. You broke into a run, listening to Ferrus's saunter speed up to a normal walk. As soon as you lost them, you laughed.

"I think that was the Excess of Adoration," you said, your pace slowing. You exhaled with a bit of a laugh. "I'm glad that's at least over."

"Yeah..." Ferrus trailed off. "Do hurry though, my dear. I am getting a little... anxious?" he said.

-3-

Soon enough, the scenery changed again. You could smell the air through your helm. It smelled like metal, dried vanilla. Beautiful forms entangled with each other, difficult to look at. One came up to you, a Daemonette with harsh features and built like a brick wall. You made easy work of it with your chainsword.

"Excess of Bodily Delights," you said.

Ferrus chuckled. "You don't have to worry about me leaving you here," he said.

"Me too," you said. "We're over halfway through now, my love. Just bear with me a little while longer?"

Ferrus shuddered. "I will," he said. You thought of when you lay together in bed, barely taking him while he whispered that he loved you, that he wasn't going anywhere. You shuddered. You couldn't get the expression on his face out of his head, that expression that was normally so cold but absolutely melted when he saw you taking him so well. Those kind words on his lips. The adoring look in his eyes.

-2-

Despite these thoughts, you made easy work of this realm, moving steadily towards the Excess of Sustenance. His face was on your mind, scarred and tough, and you couldn't even focus on any of the pleasures in front of you while you walked.

"I'm so glad you came for me," he said quietly after a moment of silence. "I cannot thank you enough."

"Of course," you said, stepping in a puddle of wine. "You only have to tell me as much as you're comfortable with."

"Thank you," he muttered.

You wanted so badly to turn around right then and there, and you tilted your head, but you'd stepped in a puddle and wine coated your shoe. You looked down. Your armor was silver and black, just like Ferrus's legion... long ago. Now, there were so many stains on it that you couldn't tell what color it was. But you would wash it when you got back into realspace.

You walked onto a bridge, and it creaked behind you. It seemed impossible for the rickety thing to support a man as large as Ferrus, but the Warp was full of surprises. You were hungry. So, so hungry. But thoughts of Ferrus consumed you, bleeding you dry. You thought of meals you'd prepared for each other, neither of you being the best of cooks but enjoying each other's food and company anyways. You'd thought of him taking care of you after you'd had too much wine, setting you on the bed and watching you like a dog as you went to sleep.

-1-

And soon enough, you made it to the land of the Riches. Gold surrounded you everywhere, but you hadn't any thoughts of riches on your mind. You were bringing a Primarch home, of course you'd be rewarded handsomely for it. Your thoughts were on Ferrus. His face, his arms, his everything. You took your helm off as you saw realspace on the horizon. Freedom.

But Ferrus. You wanted desperately to hold his face in your hands. You thought of him, idly talking to you about his latest project, you in his lap. You thought of sleepless nights where he'd stayed up with you, his diamond, grasping your hands in his. The tender look on his face that replaced the near constant scowl that adorned it. You wanted to see it again. You wanted him.

Without thinking, you turned around.

"Why do you turn?" he asked, reaching out for you. There was a scar along his neck, but he looked just like he did when you last saw him. There was a worried expression on his face. His form flickered in and out of the space he was occupying.

You felt your heart seize in your chest as you grabbed for him, interlocking your fingers with a large iron hand before his was all but intangible. You leaned towards him and he steadied you in a brief moment of bliss before he couldn't, and you fell to the ground. You felt a lump form in your throat, and you choked up.

"I missed you," you said, your breaths turning into sobs. "Ferrus, please. I need you like I need the air I breathe, the blood in my veins."

-0-

Slaanesh swirled a drink in his hands as Ferrus materialized in his palace. A look of pure terror adorned Ferrus's face, and Slaanesh did nothing but laugh.

"Your pretty little lover couldn't save you," he said in a mocking tone.

"They tried their damnedest." Ferrus's head was low, and his eyes were beginning to wet. Even if he wanted to look upon Slaanesh, he couldn't.

"Of course they did. It was only a matter of time before they looked at you," Slaanesh replied. He put the drink to his lips, lapping it up with that long tongue of his. "Do you think I would have allowed them this far in without knowing?"

Ferrus dropped to his knees, ceramite cracking against the ground. "Do not torture me further, daemon. Would you not have turned?"

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

Silver, Azul: Equal Parts Noble and Naive

... Why's he making a Malleus "r u lost bby ghorl" face while also copying Lilia's chin-in-hand pose/Malleus’s Dorm Uniform pose 🤡 There's another Malleus parallel in the vignettes; Silver comments on the same Philip-Aurora dancing painting (that is shown in Malleus's Groovy) and says that he took up dancing too since he admired the prince. Boy was ready for GloMasq/j Malleus glaring at the happy couple and Silver determined to stand firm against a fearsome foe... ;v;

I don’t know if I should be concerned or not given the Groovy and potential foreshadowing for book 7 😂 since there’s fan theories about how Silver could be the “sword” that slays the dragon… *rubs hands together* but it would be fun if it happened…

Fun fact about this Groovy: it had to be corrected because during the initial drop the devs forgot Silver's eyeshadow www The first time this mistake happened, I believe it was on Platinum Suit Vil's chibi.

A Tale as Old as Time.

There was a magic to two sets of parallel lines, bound together to form a quadrilateral. A great number of things could be contained within it. Upon a storybook's page or a painter's canvas, endless possibilities and mystical beings.

Silver gazed at one now.

A spindly dragon, horned and with massive spines protruding from its back, was poised in a platinum frame. Its belly was a violent shock of violet, its scales black as the night. Leathery wings splayed, gaping maw glowing green, trails of smoke exuding from its nostrils, the fearsome beast was prepared to strike down any warrior foolish enough to approach it.

"This is the Thorn Fairy in her dragon form," Silver murmured, his expression set in seriousness. "I'd always dreamed of seeing it for myself someday."

"How wonderful that your dream has now become a reality," a slick voice crooned. It belonged to Azul, who had sidled up to him like an all-too-eager used car salesman. "Ah, but you seem to be troubled. What ails you?"

“It's just... for the Thorn Fairy to have assumed this form, it means she felt as though she was in danger. Someone may have threatened her or put her in this situation."

“That’s true.” Azul nodded. “As I recall from our Magic History lectures, fae tend to be reclusive creatures with rather tumultuous relations with other races.

“In the days when magic was branded as heresy, fae were particularly ostracized due to their natural affinity for it. Humans far and away wide feared them. It's possible that this painting depicts a struggle of a similar nature."

“A struggle…” The corners of Silver’s mouth turned down. “Yes, humans and fae have historically been at odds with one another. We are fortunate to live during an era of relative peace."

“Quite! My own people—the merfolk—have also had a strained relationship with humans. It was through the union of a mermaid princess and a human prince that we were able to begin efforts to mend that bond. I am most gracious to them! It is because of the mermaid princess that I’m afforded the opportunity to study on land.”

“That’s great, Azul. I’m happy for you.” Silver gave a smile that was as softy and airy as dandelion fluff. “It’s nice that we’re able to meet and share ideas with people from different walks of life. It makes the world a richer place.”

He looked to the painting again, his eyes tracing the curved horns of the dragon and stopping at the sharp tips. His liege, too, had a pair like those.

“… As much as I hate to admit it, it will be a while before fae and humans can reach that level of understanding." Silver folded his arms. "Sebek says the differences are too numerous, but I… I want to believe that we are capable of bringing about that kind of a future.”

His vision, so clear, so pure. It sparkled like the face of a polished mirror.

Azul pushed his glasses up, his hand concealing a smirk.

"Fufufu. Perhaps it is possible to achieve with your endless optimism and empathy, Silver-san. After all, I don't believe I've witnessed you losing your cool even once with Malleus-san, Lilia-san, or Sebek-san. That kindness and patience is your strength, stronger than any sword you could wield."

He pretended to hesitate. "Though... I do wonder what should happen if--no, never mind. Please forget that I said anything."

"What is it? You can tell me," Silver reassured him. Dread surged up from his stomach--but the spike soon settled.

"Well--" Azul made a little show of choosing his words carefully, as though he were thoroughly coming through ingredients lined up on a shelf. "Consider: what happens if the day comes when you are forced to point your sword at your master?"

"At Malleus-sama?! I can't imagine..."

"If, if. This is entirely hypothetical," his peer tutted. "Let us say that Malleus-san were to make a decision--a decision which has dire consequences for you, for all of humankind. Silver-san, would you be able to salvage that precarious peace?"

Surprise lasted for a second before it vanished from the knight. Back was a quiet stoicism, steel sharpening the delicate colors to his gaze. A hand clenching his chest, as if to keep his heart still.

Finally, he spoke.

"I will do what has to be done. I will not back down. If there comes a time when my lord strays from his path and into the darkness, then it is my duty as his retainer to return him to the light."

“And you are not concerned for what awaits you in the aftermath?”

“No,” Silver replied matter-of-factly. The answer was simple. “I will offer my hand.”

“I beg your pardon?! Am I hearing this correctly? You plan to help the person you just opposed back up after you defeat them?”

“That’s the right thing to do. Everyone deserves a chance for their feelings to be heard. If we listen, then we can find a solution together and keep the same misunderstanding from happening again. That’s my hope.”

His wish was like the buoyant notes of a bell. Clear, crisp, resonant. It flitted up, rising above the boys’ heads, at last bursting like a bubble and letting the words rain down on them in thoughtful flecks.

"… I see,” Azul mused. “So that is the type of person you are."

How noble. How naive. It seems that Silver-san is a very bit like the prince from the story he so deeply cherishes. Neither will recoil from foes, no matter how formidable.

The valuable piece of information, he tucked away for a rainy day. With his probing settled, Azul brought his hands together and flashed a winsome grin.

Here was a hero in the making, and he, the sponsor to the champion.

“Your character is commendable!! I look forward to witnessing your many friendship-fueled triumphs.”

[silencedogood1969]

You stood beneath a stolen flag,

a coward’s grin behind your mask,

breaking glass like you broke your oath,

spilling blood, spilling truth, spilling both.

The Capitol stood like a sentinel of time,

until you tore it down, crime by fucking crime.

The floors ran red where history walked,

and democracy bled as your chants mocked.

You came as a mob, a tide of rage,

hands on riot shields, fists on the stage.

Tear gas kissed the marble halls,

while “patriots” desecrated sacred walls.

Tarrio, you fucking coward,

Rhodes, you spineless son of a bitch.

Barnett, who pissed on freedom

while democracy screamed in the ditch.

QAnon prophets in horned disguise,

Nazis and “militia” with vacant eyes.

You called it liberty, called it war,

but all you left were shattered doors.

Then the ink of the pen, the coward’s decree,

fifteen hundred pardons for your fucking heresy.

Trump stood tall on lies today,

“Unify!” he cried, while justice decayed.

The audacity of that son of a bitch,

to pardon the mob and their seditious itch.

“Merit-based justice,” he dared to say—

yet he handed treason a golden bouquet.

He spat in the face of every cop who stood,

every drop of blood spilled in those halls of wood.

He pardoned the wreckers, the rioters, the damned,

and gave democracy its final backhand.

Where were you, McConnell, when the blood dried?

Where were you, Thune, when democracy cried?

Greene, you cheered; your voice rang clear—

you gutless motherfuckers, complicit in fear.

Your silence, your nods, your partisan games,

have carved your legacy into the flames.

You are the ghosts of this dying nation,

mute accomplices to its damnation.

And to you who stayed silent, stayed home that day,

clutching your morals as the country frayed,

spare me your protests, your outrage, your blame—

this fire’s on you; you stoked the flame.

You fucking stood back, let them torch the house,

and now you want to cry about the ashes.

Don’t you dare whisper a single goddamn word—

you let others fight while the country burned.

The tear of glass, the battering ram,

the fists that struck, the shields that slammed.

The cries of fear, the clash of will,

the officers falling, the chambers still.

They stormed the gates with malice bright,

and made a coup of that January night.

Freedom fell with every cheer,

the sound of treason in the atmosphere.

And for those who fell defending the line,

we carry their memory through space and time.

But let me tell you something, loud and true:

You may pardon the guilty, but we’re coming for you.

Two years from now, we’ll clear the House;

we’ll take your seats and call you out.

We’ll vote, we’ll march, we’ll raise our fists,

we’ll break the chain of your accomplice list.

And four years from now, your reign will end,

this nightmare gone, this wound will mend.

You’ve made a coup the morning’s norm,

treason an acceptable form,

but you don’t get the final say—

we’ll take this country back one day.

Traitors, cowards, you hollowed the flag,

turned stars to scars, left stripes to sag.

You spat on the graves of those who fought,

and shredded the ideals they thought were taught.

Your pardons are nothing, your names will fade,

while the strength of the people sharpens its blade.

This isn’t your country—it never was.

It belongs to the dreamers, to the cause.

So hear this now, from sea to sea:

We are America, the land of the free.

You tore it down, but we’ll rebuild—

your names forgotten, your dreams killed.

This is the anthem of those betrayed,

a promise to history: you won’t evade.

For every flag, for every vote,

for every tear in the words we wrote.

True patriots rise, unbroken, free—

the soul of this nation will always be.

We are coming.

We are rising.

We are America.

[thedorkurge]

hey!! i absolutely adore your durgetash works, especially 'heresy'! i cannot wait for new chapters to drop <3 if you're taking prompts though.... can i get some gortash and the slayer form? particularly if we get feral slayer who still gives gortash special treatment (my guilty pleasure lol) either way thank you for sharing your works, they're absolutely lovely

Thank you so much! I hope I did the prompt justice<3 (And I'm working on Heresy, promise)

You can read it under the cut or on ao3

Morbid Fascination (2,5k)

There were many ways Enver liked to spend a nice summer evening. This wasn’t one of them. 

It was supposed to be a simple job, intercepting a shipment of crystals for his Motivators, stealing them from under the nose of an arrogant baldurian businessman who was unlikely to have decent security. 

He had miscalculated.

Now they were pinned down on the upper floor of a large warehouse, ducking behind crates with their stolen goods as guards sent arrows and spells their way.

And his bhaalist accomplice was frustratingly calm. 

“A little more urgency would be appreciated.” Enver’s tone was sharper than normal, the stress of the situation getting to him. Durge, on the other hand, seemed perfectly calm, flipping a dagger in his hands as he waited for their opponents to come closer. His keen eyes never left the guards, yet he didn’t seem to be in a rush.

“I’ve got it covered.”

“Really? Because I wouldn’t consider the situation covered in any sense of the word.” He ducked slightly as some manner of fire spell burned through the top of his improvised barricade. Durge hadn’t even bothered to counterspell it.

“Even after all this time, you still doubt me.” It would have sounded like an accusation, if not for the amused grin on Durge’s face.

The dragonborn peeked around the corner, finally tucking his dagger into his belt, apparently deciding that their foes were close enough.

Enver knew his companion was slightly mad, but seeing the sorcerer walk directly into the line of fire still startled him. “What the hells are you doing?” 

He cursed slightly under his breath as Durge ignored him, preparing to waste more expensive healing potions on the reckless bhaalist.

The bhaalist in question was standing in the center of the room, untouched by the barrage as a shielding spell shone around him. 

And yet, he doubled over as if in pain. 

Enver watched with morbid curiosity as Durge’s claws sank into the skin on his face and shoulder, splitting it to release what lurked beneath. Sharp spines pierced through skin, a painful sign of what was to follow.

In a flurry of blood and teeth, massive limbs unfolded from the dragonborn’s body, each adorned with a plethora of razor sharp spikes. Four jaws opened in a bone-chilling scream towards the sky, as if the beast was celebrating its momentary freedom. Or perhaps just the bloodbath it was about to create.

The Slayer. 

A creature he had read about, but never seen in the flesh. He had thought it a lost magic, destroyed by Bhaal’s fall.

He never suspected that Durge possessed that particular ability.

Enver was granted a reprieve from the assault as the terrified guards aimed their spells and weapons at the most prominent threat, allowing the banite to peek his head out enough to witness the carnage.

The Slayer moved with a speed that seemed almost unnatural for its size. Not that any part of it seemed natural- It was born from Bhaal’s darkest desires, after all. Enver barely had time to register anything but a flurry of claws and flesh, coupled with the last pathetic attempts at resistance from the guards. The creature showed no mercy, reducing the guards to piles of viscera in mere moments. Its limbs dug and tore through bodies with terrifying ease. 

And then, as suddenly as it started, the screaming stopped. 

The creature was covered in burns and shallow cuts by the time the dust settled, but it didn’t even seem to notice. Enver strongly doubted that there would be even a scratch on Durge when he transformed back- transmutations were handy like that. 

Silence permeated the room-turned-battlefield, only broken by the faint sound of the Slayer’s clicking and chittering. It showed no sign of turning back into the Dark Urge’s dragonborn form as it scanned the room for prey. 

And then Enver moved. 

The debris shifted slightly under his boot, making the Slayer’s attention shift to him in an instant.

He was the only living being trapped in a room with murder itself.

Enver wasn’t easily scared, but he felt a cold wave of fear climb up his spine as the Slayer moved closer.

To his surprise, the creature didn’t leap at him as it had done during its massacre. It approached slowly, like a predator sizing him up. Its massive arms weren’t brandished threateningly, instead padding on the ground as it crept closer, as if it was bringing itself closer to his height.

It was all points and sharp edges, none of it meant for anything but murder. And yet, it approached him gently. He couldn’t know for sure if it was genuine, or simply an attempt to get close enough to skewer him. It hardly mattered, if this thing wanted to kill him there was little he could do to stop it.

If not for the grounding weight of his coat, he was quite certain that his heart would be beating out of his chest.

His hand curled around the flash grenade in his pocket, but he couldn’t bring himself to use it. He had the distinct feeling that antagonizing the beast would destroy any chance he had of survival.

He did, however, question his own decision making as the Slayer finally got to him. It looked even bigger up close, towering over him. He hadn’t even noticed that he was moving until his back hit the wall. 

When a large hand came up to hold him in place, it almost knocked the wind out of his chest. It was big enough to almost span the width of his torso, and he was held firmly in place by a claw on either side of his neck. The tail was raised behind it, a dagger-like tip aimed at his head.

He wanted to speak, to try to bargain with the monster, but no words came out. 

His hands instinctively tried to pry the claws from his throat, but the Slayer merely lifted a second set of arms to pin his hands to the wall. The hold itself was surprisingly gentle, even as the spiked skin dug into his wrists. And when the horned head finally lowered, it seemed mindful to keep the tusk-like protrusions from piercing skin. He could feel its breath in his hair, irregular puffs that reeked of decay.

It was smelling him. 

Enver forced himself to relax, despite every bone in his body telling him to run. Adrenaline coursed through him, making his limbs restless. 

The fourth hand gripped his hip tightly, as if to stop him from moving. The Slayer’s movements were clearly carefully measured, subject to the iron grip that Durge had on his urges. Enver had to trust that the Slayer didn’t want him dead. He had to trust that Durge could control himself, even in this form. Moving would just make it harder for the bhaalspawn to keep his lethal limbs away from Enver’s fragile mortal form. 

It had never been clearer just how much Durge was able to push his father’s control to get what he wanted.

The thought sent a red hot shiver down his back. He could feel his body reacting, not with fear, but with arousal. Unexpected, but not entirely unwelcome. Enver had always known his preferences were fucked up. His time in the House of Hope had taught him that sex was all about pain and power, but even he had to admit this was a new low. 

The Slayer seemed to notice the change, a hollow screech echoing from its chest in a strange imitation of laughter.

When it finally let go, it carefully moved one limb at a time, seemingly all too aware that the slightest movement could spell death for the human. It seemed almost experimental, as if Durge was trying out something brand new. Enver had a suspicion that he didn’t typically hold the reins when the Slayer took over.

The smart thing would be to stay put, to wait for Durge to return to his regular form. But unfortunately, the behemoth presented a far too intriguing opportunity. 

Standing before Bhaal’s Slayer, one of the most feared monsters in baldurian history, and knowing it wouldn’t kill you? That was power. And Enver wasn’t ready to let go of that power just yet. 

As he moved closer, the creature’s head tilted slightly, as though it was confused by his lack of fear. It backed away further, shaking its head to warn him to stay back. 

But it was Enver’s turn to be in control.

“Hold still.”

The Slayer growled, but obeyed. A smug smile threatened to split Enver’s face in half.

His hand lightly traced the contours of the large clawed hand closest to him, examining it in great detail. The Slayer was pure bone and muscle, sinewy tissue with no protective layers. 

Deep set eyes followed his every move as his fingers moved to the spikes, and eventually the horns that adorned its head.

The efficiency of its form was fascinating. His mind was brimming with new ideas for his Steel Watch based on this alone.

The rapidly moving tail behind it reminded him that he was on very thin ice, even as the rest of the Slayer’s body was frozen. He wanted to keep pushing. He didn’t usually consider himself a reckless man, but this was intoxicating. 

When they had first initiated their alliance, Enver had thought the bhaalist little more than a knife-wielding maniac. And yet, he had managed to surprise him again and again with his brains, his skill and his power. Today was no exception.

“You are magnificent.”

Even the creature’s tail stilled at that, as if it was confused. He wasn’t sure how much Durge understood while in this form, but he was fairly certain that the Slayer had never been met with anything but fear. It sneered slightly, as if rejecting the positive sentiment. 

But then he grew too bold. His hand moved too fast, too close to the Slayer’s throat, and within seconds he was pinned to the floor. His ears rang and he tasted blood in his mouth from where the impact had made him bite his own tongue. His hands clawed at the foot placed on his chest, desperate to free his lungs from the crushing pressure. 

Strings of bloody saliva fell onto him as the Slayer’s jaws opened above him, ready to bite down. 

His arms flew up to shield his face, bracing for the pain.

And then the pressure suddenly let up, the Slayer’s form swept to the side as if yanked by a leash. 

Beside him, panting on the floor, was a blood-soaked dragonborn.

The Slayer’s teeth had left a faint scratch on Enver’s arm. 

It had been inches away from biting his head off. 

What a thrill.

A sharp laugh escaped Enver as his bruised head fell back to the floor once more, soon followed by a full blown belly laugh. Durge looked decidedly less amused. 

“That was stupid.” His voice was still raw. He wiped the remaining viscera off with sharp movements, clearly pissed off.

“Oh, but so very interesting, my dear.” He grimaced slightly as he sat up, the pain in his head blooming through his skull at the movement. Now that the adrenaline was wearing off, it hit him like a rampaging rothé. He didn’t even notice Durge approaching until a scaled hand seized his jaw and turned his head painfully to allow the bhaalist to inspect the wound. 

“You got lucky.”

Enver was left to stumble to his feet on his own, only to be met with a potion bottle to the chest. He barely managed to catch it.

It was one of the expensive ones too, pulled from Enver’s own pack. Usually he would have voiced his displeasure more openly, but he had pushed the bhaalspawn far enough for now. So instead he downed the healing potion, feeling the skin on the back of his head knitting itself back together. 

Durge could deny it all he wanted, but Enver had felt his hesitation, the way the Slayer had stilled under his touch. Luck had very little to do with it. Durge had kept murder itself from ripping out Enver’s throat.

Durge’s realization that he didn’t actually want Gortash dead was still fairly new, so for Enver to have this kind of influence over even his most feral form, with something as simple as a kind touch…It had to be unsettling. 

Not to mention, Enver had compromised Durge’s carefully crafted control, pushing beyond the already stretched boundaries. Durge had almost killed him, and not on purpose. And then he had stopped himself. 

Stopped the purest embodiment of his father’s will.

He didn’t envy the bhaalspawn the war that was undoubtedly happening in his head. It was probably best that Enver broke the ice sooner rather than later, lest he wanted his partner to be distracted by religious guilt for the rest of the night.

“That was quite a show. I had no idea you had it in you.”

His casual tone had the desired effect, as the bhaalspawn gave him a withering look. 

“I almost killed you.” There was no guilt in his voice, just a statement of fact.

“But you didn’t.”

Durge sneered slightly at his lack of fear. The Slayer was meant to be the ultimate weapon, murder incarnate. For the banite to treat it like any old polymorph was a blow to the bhaalspawn’s ego. Still, Enver preferred an annoyed bhaalspawn over a conflicted bhaalspawn. 

“Perhaps I should have.”

Enver’s movements grew bolder, moving closer to the bhaalist. “My dear, we both know you’ll want that privilege all to yourself. I have the utmost faith that you won’t allow anyone else to steal your kill, not even your god-given form.” The appeal to the bhaalist’s personal desires was blatant, hardly a subtle attempt at manipulation, but it was effective. His hands traced a path down Durge’s arm, a mirror of how he had examined the Slayer, until he held Durge’s hand in his own. “You’ll want these hands to kill me. You’ll want to make it last.” As he lifted their joint hands closer to his own throat, he felt Durge’s fingers twitch slightly. “Until it’s perfect, you won’t kill me.” 

He said it with such certainty, leaving no room for nuance. He needed Durge to believe it. To believe that the Slayer could be trusted around Gortash. He had sensed a hint of hesitation in the beast, something Enver could grab onto and turn to his advantage. A challenge he was all too willing to take. The thought of Bhaal’s Slayer obeying him as easily as the bhaalspawn himself did… It was intoxicating. 

How could he resist?

[albi-bumblebee]

Sirius knew where exactly that crown of messy black hair resided among the crowd of heads, but he still felt the need to compulsively search for it as if he’d disappear the moment Sirius stopped looking.

Sirius had just gotten done with passing around the collection plate. It was time to get James. His father, the pastor, had forced him to become an usher after he had refused to join choir with his younger brother.

He walked away from the other ushers, who were congregating around the door to the hall. He saw the occasional eye stare at him pointedly, but he tried to ignore it.

He arrived at the pew where James was sitting next to his mother. He tapped his shoulder, feeling the spark of electricity beneath his skin that always prickled when he touched James, always had.

They hadn’t physically seen each other since the school year ended, as the Potters had been visiting relatives in Liverpool for the whole of July. And they hadn’t been able to talk on the phone for ten days, his mother had found the cheap little flip-phone he used to secretly speak to his friends, and she had been more than a little bit pissed with him.

“OH—Jesus, Sirius you startled me!” James held his hand to his chest. Mrs. Potter’s eyes narrowed at him, and the woman behind them also looked at Sirius reproachfully.

“I need to borrow him for a few, sorry,” Sirius said with an apologetic smile.

He grabbed James arm and dragged James out of his seat. They left the nave arm-in-arm. Sirius felt the eyes of the other Ushers on them as they walked into the vestibule. There was a door on the side of the wall, Sirius knew that it led to the Church basement, where the restrooms were.

He unclasped his hand from James' arm—oh, how he hated not touching James—and turned the doorknob. James followed him down the creaky stairs.

The walls of the basement were a dull grey, the air stale. Sirius could swear he smelt a stray hint of cat piss, but he always smelt that down here.

“Hate this place,” said James. Sirius could hear them start playing hear us from Heaven upstairs. It was his least favourite Church song, which really wasn’t saying that much but still. “Well it is the closest thing to privacy we will be getting for a while,” replied Sirius.

“Tell me we’re not doing that…not in here!” “Then where else? Are you really saying we are so ugly that Christ himself will not want to sit back and enjoy the show? I don’t think you truly believe that, I think you think we’re young Gods.”

James cracked a small smile. The lighting was so dim they could barely see their own feet.

He could hear Regulus singing, his notes were too high, as if he were trying to show off. The insufferable prick.

“Maybe not Gods, but Demi-Gods surely. Capital G. Like Jesus’s little brothers,” said James after a moment. “If my brother heard you say that he’d want us hanged for heresy.” Sirius pushed open the bathroom door and they stepped inside. “I think your brother already wants us hanged, just for different reasons,” James said darkly. He reached across the small space between them, and pushed a stray lock of Sirius’ hair out of his face.

It was a cramped bathroom, with urinals lining the left wall and sinks lining the right, one singular stall at the back. The tiles were an ugly beige.

James grabbed Sirius’ hand, and led him into the stall. There was barely three inches between them. It thankfully wasn’t too dirty.

James pushed him against the wall. They were so close their noses were touching, though Sirius had to look down as James was shorter than him. He felt James’ hot breath on his chin. Heat sizzled underneath his skin

“Hi,” said James awkwardly.

“Shut it.” 

Sirius crashed his lips against James fervently, his hands cradling the other boy’s face. James let out a small moan, and kissed back. 

Sirius felt his body grow hot with pleasure as James deepened the kiss. They snogged like that for a while, so long that his lips were tingling. Sirius felt almost intoxicated, keenly aware of the blood flowing through his veins, as James teeth bit into his bottom lip.

His mouth formed an 'O,' and James slipped his tongue into his mouth while it was open.

James’ licked the back of Sirius teeth, his tongue curling. Sirius felt James’ hand sneak across his back and grab his arse. He felt a throbbing sensation in his pants. An odd, harsh noise crawled it’s way up his throat. He wanted more. 

He leaned further in, and James’ tongue moves from his teeth to Sirius’ tongue. It felt amazing, James tongue moving against Sirius’. He felt like he was drinking saccharine syrup. He snaked his arms around James’ neck. He felt sweat drip down his face.

They were almost as close as they could physically get, but Sirius needed to be closer, needed their skin to meld together, their blood to mix and combine into one.

The music had stopped upstairs, his father was preaching. Sirius could just about barely make out that he was speaking of Jesus and John.

Sirius’ and James’ mouths disconnected with a pop. James let out a whine. Sirius kissed the tip of his nose. James flustered, clearly a bit surprised by the sweetness.

Sirius trailed kisses down from his nose to the collar of his shirt. He drew his arms down from his neck, and shoved up James’ linen shirt. James’ breath hitched as Sirius licked his nipple. He rubbed and sucked it too, relishing in the moans spilling out of James’ mouth.

He felt James’ hands card through his hair. He let out something close to a purr as he pulled his hair. He stopped his administrations on James’ chest, and went further down, peppering kisses as he went.

The preaching had stopped upstairs, the only noise drifting down was the chatter of the congregation as they loitered in the building.

He stopped just at the hem of James’ trousers, and stared up at him, hoping for a wanton sort of look in his eyes.

James nodded, and pressed Sirius’ face into his trousers. He pulled his face away, and started unbuttoning them.

They’d have to be quick, then.

Sirius tugged down James’ trousers, revealing his too red pants. Sirius could easily see his stiffy now.

He dragged down his pants as speedily as he could, and James’ dick sprung out. It was crowned in curly, dark pubes, and bit of pre-cum had gathered at the tip.

Sirius took a tentative first lick. James hands grasped his hair more roughly.

Lightheaded feeling, he heard a thump from outside the bathroom. He decided it didn’t matter, it had to not matter.

His tongue grazed the underside of James’ dick. The door to the bathroom clicked open. He prayed to the God, whom he didn’t believe in, that the man was only here to use the urinal.

Sirius swirled his tongue on James’ slit, salty pre-cum getting in his mouth. James whined.

The footsteps were getting closer.

“James, I think we need to stop,” he whispered. James’ face screwed up.

Sirius saw the man’s feet right outside the stall.

He frantically stood up, as James hurriedly tried to tug his pants back up over his dick.

“Oi!”

The flimsy door lock came undone as the man wrenched it open.

Fuck. James’ trousers were only half up his thighs, and he clearly looked like he’d spent awhile snogging. Sirius didn’t even want to know how he looked.

He turned around.

The man was not a man at all, but his younger brother, Regulus.

He looked like he was about to scream.

Sirius did the first thing he could think of, amd kicked him in the balls. Regulus shouted out in pain, and flinched back. Sirius ran out of the stall, James trailing behind him, slowed down as he pulled the rest of his pants up.

They hurried out the door, and started piling heavy boxes up against it to slow Regulus down. Once they had a decent pile, they tried to fix themselves a but so they could go upstairs. Sirius grabbed his windcheater.

They were so fucked.

Sirius couldn’t go home after this, he knew it. He’d just have to hope that his parents wouldn’t see his face with his hood up, and that Mr. and Mrs. Potter would be okay with him staying for a few nights. He didn’t know what would happen after those few nights.

They heard Regulus knocking. They ignored him, and hastened upstairs.

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

Sirius and James only stopped running when they reached the Potter’s car.

He had a stitch in his side, and James was panting when they stopped. The grass was wet, it rained earlier that evening. He could make out the silhouettes of Mr. and Mrs. Potter in the front seats of the car.

The passenger side window rolled down.

“James, get in. Dati’s tired, no loitering in the parking lot tonight.” “I don’t care about that, Sirius is staying at our house until—uh—Friday.” “What?” “His parents finally said he could finally sleepover! That’s why we ran over, I’m so excited. You know how strict they are, it’s a miracle they’re letting him now..” Sirius winced. Quick on his feet, that’s what James was, but he wasn’t eager for the day they’d have to explain that they’d lied, and Sirius would be staying indefinite.

“Are you sure, chava?” She didn’t seem to believe him.

“You know I never lie to you.”

She signalled for James to come closer, and broke off in a language Sirius didn’t understand. She and James went back and forth for a few minutes, while Sirius stood next to the car awkwardly, unable to follow the conversation.

Mrs. Potter sighed, and spoke something to James so softly Sirius could barely hear the sound. James cracked a small smile, and gestured Sirius to the door.

“Come in!” Mrs. Potter called out.

James opened the door for him. He buckled his seat belt. His leg bounced with nervous energy. James scooted in next to him.

James nattered away at conversation with his parents. It was pleasant enough background noise. Sirius didn’t feel like talking. He watched the roadside lamps zip by, dark copses that sat in between sparse buildings. They were close enough to town that you could barely see three stars, though.

They drove deeper into town, flitting by stores and brick houses.

The green light of the neon corner store sign signalled that they were only a few blocks away, but not from the Potters’ house, a few blocks away from Grimmauld Place. Shops faded into mixed-residential, mixed residential faded into terraced houses.

Soon enough, they turned the curb and the dark, Victorian terrace was upon them. Sirius’ felt raw, uncomfortable emotion swell in his chest. James squeezed his hand as they passed by No. 12, which stood out immediately from the dull uniformity of the street because of the wooden cross affixed to the door.

Sirius leaned against the warm weight of James as they continued driving west.

[thiswaycomessomethingwicked]

fucking going mental over this man 

Church: ok you’re a priest now. Maybe stop being a doctor?

Ficino: how about no? how about i never stop?

Church: 

Ficino: how about I develop theological underpinnings for my continuing to be a doctor because I love being a doctor? I shall do this alongside creating new theological underpinnings to support my obsession with Plato and my deep, all consuming love for Cavalcanti, whom I call Hero because he is my hero and my most perfect friend. 

Church: 

Church: fine. i guess. ?

[quelios-dawnsinger]

Describe your relationship with your mother before and after her mysterious disappearance and reappearance.

"Playing therapist to the resident black sheep of House Dawnsinger, are we?" Quelios quipped, eyes narrowed on the new face apparently looking for a story. Lips curled halfway from teeth, brandishing a cold smile like a knife. "Definitely not the right line you'll want to use if you're aiming for my heart, darling, but I'll indulge you."

Eyes swept away as Lio would inhale, exhaling brief, ugly memory that lanced him with the sting it took to recall. "My mother was one of those lucky few with young ones on hand, trying to survive the collapse of society after the Dead nearly unraveled our little golden jewel of a city. She held strong, though my father's death changed her."

Quelios paused to give his father the silence of respect in mentioning. "A necessary change. She had to burn brighter to achieve what she did as a Sunreaver." A hand rose to graze the stubble of his jawline, glancing away once more. His eyes were hard when they returned with intent to finish the story.

"And then Proudmoore and her cohorts put that Light out some years ago for some rumor of betrayal. My mother died in Dalaran for it, and House Dawnsinger has long put her memory to rest." Disdain worked across his features as he continued. "It's rumored some ingrate similar to my Lady mother in appearance is walking about under a different name, given herself up to the all consuming Void, you know. Which is in itself a heresy and offense to our entire House. Goes against everything the Dawnsinger name is." Quelios paused, injecting dry sarcasm. "I mean, can you imagine: Voidsinger? What are we, brain-washed cultists? Please."

Another short exhale was given, swiping stray hair from his world-worn eyes. "I of course doubt the rumors, but my poor little sister was inspired by them for some inane reason. Do you want to know why I doubt them, this little farce happening? Of course you do."

Quelios leaned forward so slightly, fingers digging into the armrests of his seat. "You see, had Matron Dawnsinger actually survived? The mother I knew would not have abandoned her children flat for years to a world ready to eat them while she pranced around to build herself a new life. Better to know she died. Anything else is..."

The Sunreaver sneered into silence, unwilling to indulge the concept of possible betrayal. He dulled the ever-burning anger until it was coal in his belly, and offered another sharp smile under stoic bravado. "End of story, hope you were so very entertained. Now, if you'll excuse me, I think I'll have myself something fancy to wash out the bad taste in my mouth."

{ @sanguinesorceress - thank you for asking such a delicious question. Hope I fed you well ;) With reference to @safrona-shadowsun ! }

[pheedraws]

OC Lore Dump: Livea & The Inquisition

Livea's time in Leucan's retinue colours many of her early-game reactions to the Inquisition and, by extension, Heinrix. 

She is no stranger to the Holy Inquisition. Like any obedient citizen of the Imperium, her respect for the shadowy institution comes second only to fear. When Inquisitor Gereon Leucan's work first brought him to Korvos IV, some five years before the day her life had very nearly ended, Livea had treated him with the deference and hospitality any firstborn daughter of a planetary governor, groomed to inherit her father's title one day, was expected to. He was there to keep them safe. He was there to serve the sector. And for her, that had been enough to earn her respect, and her trust. 

Until the day her world had changed forever. 

Confessor Garrich Rath took accusations of heresy very seriously. Under the watchful eye of Inquisitor Leucan, the recently ostracised bastard of House Vahl was questioned extensively on her knowledge pertaining to the recent string of Chaos cults uncovered on Korvos IV. The questioning continued long into the night; hurt and alone, feeling at once the traitor and the betrayed, Livea had very nearly succumbed to the ordeal. 

In the end, it had been Leucan who had called off the interrogation. 

Under the cover of night, however, an unknown assailant had attempted to finish the job. 

Livea does not remember being pulled from the rocks of Korvos IV's shoreline. Perhaps it is the cranial implants holding her skull together; perhaps she simply does not want to. When she awoke days later aboard a Falchion-class frigate, three systems over from the home she had been cast from, her body aching with much more than the physical reminders of a scorned family's wrath upon her skin, Leucan had told her that her time was not yet up; that he had need of her still. 

She had no family name. No place to call her home. Nothing left to lose. 

And so, she had trusted him once more. 

She was not under his employ by choice. He had saved her life, and she had a debt to repay. Out of the hive world Kathax Delta, Livea worked alongside Leucan's retinue, using her pragmatism and business acumen to assist with his investigations in the sector— whenever and whatever he required. 

With each mission, more was asked of her. Leucan's radical approach became harder to deny, and heavier on her conscience. 

But still, she trusted him. 

And she owed him. 

Until, one day, a line was crossed. The price of victory was far too high. And Livea found that you cannot simply walk away from the Inquisition when it pleases you. 

The full extent of Leucan's radicalism was not known to her at the time; in fact, she does not know just how far his reach extends until after the events of the game. But she had seen enough in her life to know that if she did not leave then, there was a chance she never would. 

Her own efforts to build an existence on Kathax Delta had left her with invaluable connections within the Kasballica Mission. Hidden on a voidship set for the Koronus Expanse, Livea slipped from the clutches of a radical Inquisitor she had once called a friend. 

She was under no illusion; Livea knew Leucan would never stop hunting her. But she had foolishly hoped that, in a sector rife with lawlessness and uncharted worlds, she might evade the Inquisition's shadow a while longer... 

Until she finds Calcazar's letter on Theodora's desk. 

The trail of bodies leading to one Interrogator Heinrix van Calox is enough to set Livea on edge from the very start. She is courteous even while her blood runs cold— she may be a bastard, but she was still raised a noble lady, thank you very much— and hopes that whatever services he requires of her are straightforward and resolved as soon as possible. 

But then, she starts to notice him. 

His intelligence. His wry sense of humour. The kindness that lingers behind his eyes, even when he tries to hide it. 

And so, despite everything, Livea finds herself enjoying his presence on her ship more than she would ever care to admit.

[synthy-sizer]

??? YEARS AGO

………

The harsh light fades away and you're left with a small, cramped office. It's old and well-used, showing its age and character. Wooden shelves in varying sizes and grains line every wall. They're crammed with floppy disks. Against the back wall is an old, wooden desk. It's covered in messy stacks of paper, computer parts and more floppies. And there's a yellowing CRT with a keyboard and mouse. The office chair similarly looks like it's been in use for at least a decade.

“Hey, Jordan.” You turn around to see an assuming, shrew man standing in the doorframe, a white void cascading out. “If you don't mind, I need to get to my computer.” You stand aside and watch him walk over. You ask no questions, something that confuses you, but somehow you don't feel you need to ask. He sits down and swivels the chair to face you, then extends his hand. “Allow me to formally introduce myself. I'm God. Lovely to meet you.” You awkwardly shake his hand. “Now. You've done very well getting here. I know it's been difficult, and for that I apologize. And unfortunately, I also have to preemptively apologize, because your mission isn't done yet.” You finally feel the energy in you to speak. “I'm so tired…” He nods sympathetically. “I know you are. You've been a faithful agent. But you just need to get a little further now. If it's any consolation, I'll finally provide you with the answers you seek.” He gestures. “Sit down. It's ok.” You find a spot that's relatively clear of assorted papers and disks and sit on the wooden floor.

“When you return, 500 years will have passed. There will be people who are struggling to reclaim the world after the apocalypse. You need to guide them, so they can come to me. Their names are Violence and Lust. And you will be christened, ‘Heresy’. Do you understand?” You glance over at the bookshelves. There's a few books on them, on a small nook dedicated to literature rather than floppy disks. Your eyes land on one in particular; the first of the 3 books in Dante's Divine Comedy; Inferno. You look back at God and nod. “These people are important. You need to convince them of their path. There's also a girl named Sofia. Find her and bring her to you.” Your vision starts to go fuzzy. The words enter your mind but you barely register. Testaments, burned into your mind, unconscious directives for you to follow. “Now you can return to the world of the living. Go on.” You slowly rise and walk towards the void of white. “Oh, and Jordan…” You turn back to look at him one last time. “I know you grow your hair out and wear oversized hoodies. When you get back, do yourself a favor and bring those behaviors to their logical conclusions.”

…….

Well, here we are. Yet another novella complete. When I started Eden, it was something that I made up as I went along. I had recently watched Lost, Lain, and read Homestuck, and tried to mash elements from things I was passionate about into a project I would be forced to finish because it was being put out online. As the story progressed, it took shape, and I realized that if I wanted to keep actually making things out of my ideas I would have to keep writing. And so the overarching story began.

When I started Otherside, it looked different than it came out. I had an idea based loosely on a horror game, where someone was on a moon base, convinced the world was dead, and then a signal would convince them to escape and go to Earth. There they would find the escape to the moon was very justified. But I think Otherside marked the end of how different the premises of these stories start in my head and the actual end results are. I've had the ending to act 2 in my head since last year, when I was writing act 1. I hope the ending I have in mind for this series is as cool and exciting as I think it is.

As usual, I would like to thank @ice-fairy-chiruno for being the artist for the series. She brings to life things impossible to find online, and I both cannot thank her enough or apologize enough for my executive dysfunction leading to some rushed deadlines.

@technicolorxsn has been and remains my biggest fan, and honestly half the reason I write this stuff is for their reactions. It's so cool seeing your reactions to everything I write, and I honestly can't thank you enough for sticking with me and being excited for the stuff I make.

I also have to thank my friend @telltaletypist for offering writing advice and re-aligning me when I got too lost in the trap of chasing perfection. I feel much more refreshed and reinvigorated thanks to her.

See you next year!

-Synthy

PREVIOUS

[origami-butterfly]

Utterson Quotes

Because apparently the only way I'll revise english is by posting about it on tumblr. (If you know any more, PLEASE add them in replies or reblogs)

He is "austere with himself" (chapter 1) -> this contrasts him with Jekyll/Hyde who is hedonistic and indulges in his worst urges. It links to the theme of repression throughout the novel, with Utterson being an Ideal Victorian Gentleman™️ who doesn't participate in any disreputable activities. This also makes him trustworthy to the victorian readers because it establishes his strict moral code.

"I incline to Cain's heresy- I let my brother go to the devil his own way" (chapter 1) -> once again, portraying Utterson as an Ideal Victorian Gentleman- he doesn't interfere in his friends' lives, nor does he hold it against them. This quote is interesting when compared with "if he shall be Mr Hyde, I shall be Mr Seek" (Chapter 2- I love that quote it's so stupid) because here Utterson is in fact, interfering in his friend's life, by trying to find out the connection between Jekyll and Hyde, possibly suggesting Utterson's repression is beginning to wear thin.

"This document had long been the lawyer's eyesore" (Chapter 2) -> This quote refers to Jekyll's will, stating that if he died or disappeared for more than 3 months, his possessions should all go to Edward Hyde. It further establishes Utterson as a reasonable character, and presents any ideas of the supernatural as puzzling to Utterson, being a "lover of the sane and customary sides of life".

"You know me. I am a man to be trusted. Make a clean breast of this in confidence; and I make no doubt I can get you out of it." (Chapter 3) -> Here Utterson is directly opposing his own views- he is interfering with Jekyll's life, despite saying "I let my brother go to the devil his own way. " It demonstrates Utterson giving in to his urges, and is also an interesting contrast to earlier in the same chapter where he's described as "unobtrusive"- the mystery of Hyde has made him less repressed, because of his curiosity. This could also be Stevenson's way of highlighting hypocrisy in victorian society- which even Utterson, the Perfect Victorian Gent™️ is guilty of. Something to note here is that Utterson uses the phrase "clean breast" again, in chapter 8, when trying to get information from Poole- and both times, he's trying to save Jekyll. Definitely a parallel to be drawn there.

"We three are old friends, Lanyon; we shall not live to make others" (Chapter 6) -> Utterson is attempting to mend the rift between Lanyon and Jekyll, because to him, they represent normality- and after the events with Hyde, Utterson is seeking security. Later in the chapter, after corresponding with Jekyll and finding he is unable to reconcile with Lanyon, we get this quote- "in a moment, friendship, and peace of mind, and the whole tenor of his life were wrecked" which further reinforces Utterson's friendships being signs of security to him (there's also a quote in chapter 1 about his walks with Enfield that show this). There's also a sense that he's still trying to find logic in the puzzle that is Edward Hyde, trying to make sense of the irrational.

"God forgive us, God forgive us." (Chapter 7) -> This is after it is implied Utterson and Enfield saw Jekyll's transformation to Hyde. By not mentioning it, apart from this one line of dialogue, Utterson is continuing to repress his thoughts deemed "unacceptable" i.e. the idea that a supposedly reputable and kind man like Jekyll could hide (hehe) such violent cruelty, like that displayed by Hyde. Once again, this links to Victorian repression, and the hypocrisy of society at the time.

"Mr. Utterson's only answer was to rise and get his hat and great-coat" (Chapter 8) -> This is after Poole has asked him to go to Jekyll's, and here he's completely given up on inclining to Cain's heresy. His curiosity outweighs his moral code, and so he doesn't stop to question anything.

"It doesn't commend itself to reason" (Chapter 8) -> Bless his stupid heart, he's still trying to rationalise Hyde's existence, despite everything. He's still clinging to the last threads of logic, because he truly cannot accept the idea of Jekyll and Hyde being one and the same, even after seeing it himself in chapter 7. Once again, this can link to the hypocrisy of Victorian society, and a refusal to acknowledge the evil mankind is capable of- because that would mean accepting the evil within themselves- in a time where morality and purity was everything.

"I shall consider it my duty to break in that door." (Chapter 8) -> I think... this is the quote that concludes Utterson's arc. We never really see it concluded (which will forever gnaw at my mind) but this is the one that shows his development the most. The austere Utterson of chapter 1 would never even consider breaking down a door to save Jekyll. And yet here, he's releasing some of his repressed urges, and directly interfering with Jekyll's life- not only that, but he considers it his duty. As his friend, or his lawyer, or as a member of society, I'm not sure. This quote can link to the theme of repression once again, and humanity's inner evil- even the strictly repressed Utterson is not immune to his own desires, maybe Stevenson's way of showing no one in society is exempt from innate evil, even those that project a façade of respectability.

That's all the quotes I've got! But like I said at the start, if you can think of any others, and analysis for them, PLEASE let me know. You can tell I got more tired as this post goes on lmao.