#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. 

[inbabylontheywept]

Kartchner Caverns

The first time I traveled to Tucson I was in a car full of zooted children. I would've preferred being one of those children, but alas, any medication that makes me sleep also makes me sleepwalk. And after an incident where I tried to climb out of the car while it was still going sixty (thank God for seatbelts), I was condemned to a childhood of car trip sobriety: No more poor-man's time travel. No more ambien. One less morally ambiguawesome parenting decision from my crazy-ass dad.

I was talking with him when it happened.

I can't remember exactly what we were talking about - something to do with our final destination in Mexico. But at some point, we woke up my little brother. 

(Nothing good happens from waking the dreamer. Best case scenario, the dream ends. Worst case, it doesn't.)

I remember starting when I felt one of his small cold hands reach up to grab my shoulder. Our dad did the same, and it jerked the car a little bit - startling someone whose hands are on the steering wheel has its risks. Dad and I both turned to look at him, but he wasn't even looking at us. He was leaning over the console, staring into the red and purple sunset ahead, watching the rolling skyline of Tucson like it was drowning in dreams. Like he was drowning in dreams. 

We waited for him to speak. It took a while. Normal social conventions don't apply to people when they're unconscious. The fact that he could talk was just some broken line code in the fabric of the world. 

"Wow," he said at long last. 

"Beautiful, isn't it?" my dad replied. And my little brother shook his head like he just heard the silliest thing in the world. 

"It's terrible," he said. "Awful. Is Mexico always like this?" 

"We're still in America," my dad said back. 

My little brother squinted into the sunset, doubt and derision etched into his face. After a few seconds, both emotions softened, and he nodded in wonder. 

"Eagle feathers," he said, chuckling softly. Like he'd just solved some clever little riddle. Then he fell like an angel into something deeper than sleep. 

𓆙𓆙𓆙

(There is a word for angels that fall.)

𓆙𓆙𓆙

The second time I went to Tucson, I hid from the sun. 

You'd be surprised how easy it is to do down there. Society accommodates it in ways you just won't find anywhere else. When it's 109 outside with single digit humidity, of course you stay indoors. Of course the outdoor markets open at 6 pm, and of course they don't close until 11. Of course. You make the sun mean enough, and everyone becomes a vampire. 

So I roamed the streets at night, kicking up red gravel, watching coyotes wander in between the sea of strip malls. Strip malls are such an Arizonan atrocity. Nobody bothers to build up because there’s nothing to be gained from density. The city will never be walkable, because the problem isn’t infrastructure. It's the sun. And you can't solve the sun, so you might as well lean into driving. Mash the whole city flat and crawl through the dust like rattlers. 

(I met a man once, by the canals, that said the strip malls were some sort of American curse upon the inheritors of Johnny Appleseed. There's one God in this world, he said, and it's the god of don't-eat-apples. But then we invented apple pie and gave it to everyone. So this is our hell.)

Still. It made the days long down there. Lurking at night and hiding all day gives you something like cabin fever. I needed something to do outside. Something that was outside, but also, somehow, inside. What's inside and outside at the same time? What kind of klein-flask ouroboros nonsense fits that bill?

Kartchner caverns. 

𓆙𓆙𓆙

I wouldn't say the caves were like walking into Dante's hell - more like finishing the journey. At some point in my life, I'd blown past limbo, lust, gluttony, greed, and anger. I'd spent two decades plus change living in the fires of heresy. Every layer past would only get colder. 

And each step into that cave did. 

My tour guide and psychopomp was a friendly old man. Familiar in the way that all old people feel familiar to me. I view the world more as a pile of metaphors. He viewed it primarily as water-soluble minerals. 

It was a good work dynamic. 

"These here," he said, gesturing to a long, slender series of impossibly frail stalactites, "are called soda straws."

They were beautiful. I can wax poetic at the keyboard, but in real life, my exclamation of wonder is primarily Hot Damn.

"Hot damn," I said, and he nodded good naturedly. 

"They're pretty fun aren't they? Took a few eons to make 'em but I think it was worth the wait."

I was charmed by the way he talked. I knew it was just a fluke of tenses, but there was something funny about the way he described them - as if he personally oversaw each of the dainty little spires. We went further, and he pointed out more formations as we came across them. 

"Behold!" he said just a few feet further. "Fried eggs!" 

And I had to admit: There were fried eggs. 

"Behold!" he said further still. "A shield!"

And lo, there was a shield. It didn't look terribly shieldlike, but who knows - maybe he made the shields first and got better as he went along. The eggs were beautiful.

We kept walking, deeper, and deeper into the cave. At the surface, it had been hot enough for my sweat to dry into a stinging white powder. Down there it was cold enough to see my breath. The feeling of descending into hell was replaced with the feeling of being swallowed by some ancient, fossilized snake. 

"We call this serpent-stone," he said, gesturing to an expanse of wall. 

And then all I could see was the snake that was swallowing me. 

Now, I want to bring something up right about now. At this point, you might be tempted to write off the unease that I was feeling as claustrophobia. Which would make sense - caves unsettle a lot of people. But not me. I'm borderline claustrophilic. When I was a child, I didn't feel comfortable reading until I was wedged somewhere. Behind a shelf, or in a cabinet, or even underneath the beanbag my parents had intended for sitting. Those were my happy places. I liked being crammed into tight spaces. 

I did not like that cave. 

The section of serpent-stone narrowed the further we went. The room started off maybe six feet wide, but eventually it narrowed down. First to five, then four, then three. Two. And it didn’t stop at one. 

The old man put me in front at that point. Said that if I got stuck, he could just push me forward. Didn't occur to me until I'd gone another hundred feet forward, sideways, that maybe getting dragged out would be better. But I was strangely reluctant to bring it up. I’d already let myself get cornered. There was nothing to be gained from letting him know my thoughts. 

But the only way to keep them secret was by going forward. So I poured myself through the crack, slick as slip.  

There's a grain to the scales of serpent-stone, both in the shape of the formations and in the texture of the individual pieces. They're metamorphic, but there's enough sediment left to ‘em that they have a grain. They bite when you go one way, and slide when you go the other. It felt like I was ratcheting myself in. Even if I could slip forward more, I didn't think I could go back. Not without wearing myself down into something skinless and screaming. 

Water began to pool up in sections. It was cold enough to avoid the stink that still waters normally carry, but things stranger than algae festered in the waters beneath my feet. The puddles felt thick, almost slimy. A dozen steps later I saw little ropes of the stuff trickling down my feet. 

Eventually, it got so narrow I couldn't turn my head. I could still hear the old man behind me, but only through little things - the occasional sharp inhale, or steps just an eighth of a beat off from my own. But never words. I remember stopping at one point, just to get pushed, just to know he was there. And he refused. All I heard for fifteen minutes was his breathing behind me. 

He'd called my bluff. There was nowhere to go but forward. 

𓆙𓆙𓆙

I don't know why it took so long to get dark down there. I wasn't carrying a flashlight, and if the old man had been carrying one, I'd have seen it bob with his steps. There was a sort of soft glow to everything but that had faded hour by hour. Eventually it didn't matter that I couldn't turn my head sideways - I wouldn't have been able to see the man if he'd been two inches in front of me. I walked, and I walked, and I walked, and just when I was about to get stuck for real - stuck in a way where I wouldn't be able to step forward, where I'd have to be pushed (or dragged back along the sharpness of the scales) - I popped out of the serpent stone crevasse like a cork from a bottle. 

Plunk. 

I can't tell you the relief that I felt at that moment. It didn't matter that I didn't know where I was, or how I got there. I'd never been claustrophobic in my life, but at that moment, I couldn't stand even the proximity of the crevice. I scrambled forward, stumbling over the rough cave floor, desperate and eager to find the next wall. To get some sense of where I was. 

I never did. Even as I calmed down, even as the relief of being free of that infernal vice sat upon me like a crown, I never found another wall. Anywhere. I walked until fear made me crawl, as low and blind as any worm. I crawled until my pants tore and my knees bled and my spine ached. 

And I found nothing. 

When the vastness of the space truly sank in, when I realized that leaving that first wall had been a mistake, I turned back. But some choices can't be unmade. There were no walls. Not anymore. No matter how far I crawled, how hard I tried, there was no end. There was nothing but perfect darkness, broken stone, and endless snaking trickles of cold cavern water. 

I dipped a finger in one of the rivulets. Just to feel it. Just to ground myself in something. I felt the waters slither past, and I found something like sight in their motion. 

Water always goes down. Whatever else I lacked down here in the stone, in that moment, I knew up and down. And for the first time in hours, I had a choice. A real choice. No instinct or panic or too late realizations: Up or down. 

I went down. 

𓆙𓆙𓆙

I’d visited a rope factory once. Watched the threads dance and spin and weave into something mighty. I got a blind man’s sense of that from my trickle. I felt it meet more of its kind, braiding into them like thread. I liked pretending it was still my rivulet, but eventually, I had to admit it was lost in the mess. Picking out one thread from a rope would be easy, compared to picking out one trickle from a river. 

Funny how water can drown in itself. 

The first contaminant to the water was iron. I could smell it in the air -  strong as blood. It should have unsettled me, but I’d smelled water like that before. My grandpas well-water stained everything it touched rusty red. His sinks, his showers, his fields. Even his teeth. He was wealthy enough that he could've wiped the stains off decades back, but he told me once that he liked the way it made other people uncomfortable. The way it reminded everyone who saw him smile that by sacrament or soil, they too drank of god. 

The next contaminant was the thick water from before. Apparently, the stagnant pools weren’t as still as I’d thought. Somehow, over strange eons, they too could seep through the stone and make their way into this deep river. It was scentless, but I could feel it catch around my ankles on some steps. It seemed like a memory from a different life. I just didn’t feel like the same person that crawled through the serpent-stone crack. I was just some stranger wearing his shed skin. 

Then at long last came a smell of deep sulphur 🜏. It was an odd contrast with the sharply cold air, and the strangely warm waters. It was the least pleasant of the bunch, but I endured it well. I followed until the tears streaming down my cheeks felt as normal as breathing. Until the rush of the river was replaced by the pounding of waves. 

I’d arrived on a beach. I couldn’t see the ocean in front of me, but I could hear how vast it had to be. There was a terrible stench, worse than the sulphur - the smell of some vast death. Godly carrion. A wound in the world long left to fester. 

I sat there on the beach of that ocean. Afraid to let those dark waters touch me. Thinking and waiting and worrying about what would happen next. 

A voice spoke just twenty feet behind me. I recognized it. I never would’ve recognized it before, but there was a knack to the way this place wore me thin. Like a razor getting sharpened instead of a shirt going ratty. 

“You’re very close,” the old man said, and I remembered him from all those years ago - sitting cross-legged in the moonlight by the bank of the canal. Looking up at me, eyes dark, and calling me over to tell me a secret. 

There's one God in this world, he said then. One God. And it's the god of don't-eat-apples. But then we invented apple pie and gave it to everyone. 

So this is our hell.

𓆙𓆙𓆙

I turned around. I don’t know why. I shouldn’t have been able to see him. I shouldn’t have been able to see anything. But I could see the outline of where he was on that shoreline. Not as a  bright thing, but as a darker shade of absence. A little hole in the dark. 

I could have run. But that would’ve required taking my eyes off him, and at that moment I couldn’t bear the thought. He was the only thing to see down there. The only reason I had eyes. But somehow, more important than the joy of seeing was the feeling that as long as I kept my eyes on him, he was trapped. Pinned to this world like a butterfly on cork. 

There was a half second pause. The voice was a memory, but seeing through the gaps was new to me. The thing in front of me wasn’t an old man. It wasn’t even good at pretending. I was oddly embarrassed that I’d ever been fooled by it. What I was looking at was something older than this cave. Something trapped down here so long it could not bear the thought of light. The dream of something dead. The sloughed skin of a snake. 

The first apple eater. 

I could see shades of absence. More than the hole in the dark. I could look at the thing and feel the place where its wings should have been. Its first ones, at least. 

It lunged for me. 

I’d forgotten it could do that. 

It slammed into me like the water from the bottom of a dam. The power was nothing compared to the cold. I couldn’t see a thing, but what I could feel made bile climb up my throat. 

It was melting. Running down itself in little streams, like snow melting in the sun. Like the river I followed all the way down here. A hand ran over my face and I could feel it pouring into me, and in my fury I did the only thing I could think of: I reached up, and I wrapped my hands around its neck, and I clenched so hard that I could feel the tendons in my wrist sawing up through my skin, taut as piano wire. 

It was like squeezing wet clay. It deformed under my touch, stretching longer and thinner and smoother even as the muscular length of his impossibly long body wrapped around me. At some point the fists beating on my chest turned into wings. Stolen wings, to replace the ones that were stolen from it, and there was a scream in the cave it was so awful that I prayed it wasn’t mine. 

It was a terrible race. We were killing each other the same way. There was no question about someone dying here in front of the empty throne of god. I just didn’t want it to be me. 

Eventually, it could stretch no more, and my hands could crush more than just nightmare and shadow. The wings beat on me weaker, and weaker, until eventually some cartilage in its great neck snapped under the pressure of my thumbs.

It was like cracking a glow stick. There was a flash of light, brief as thunder, and I could see the waves in front of me. An ocean of rotting meat and bones. The outline of some great, dead serpent, fifty feet tall. And a tower of dead bodies, stretching back to ages that I could not recognize. The only corpses I could recognize were those at the top, with their strange helmets and iconic breastplates. 

Conquistadors. 

When the light went out, the body went with it. Most dreams don’t leave anything behind. Even when they’re made by gods. 

𓆙𓆙𓆙

I don’t know how I left the cave. 

I followed the river up. At some point, it stopped being the river I followed down. The tributaries feeding into it spread out like a fan, and fool that I am, I kept picking left. It shouldn’t have worked. Part of me wonders if I somehow bent the river to my will. Filled in for the dead thing bobbing in the lake, or the echo that I strangled on that starless shore. 

Or maybe I just got lucky. 

I can remember finally breaching the incline and seeing an exit into the desert. Not the one I stepped in through, but good enough. I can remember getting closer and closer, before stepping out into the burning sun. I thought it was finally over.

I thought wrong.  

I can remember looking into the bright blue sky and seeing exactly what my little brother saw on that drive all those years back. 

I don’t know what I killed down in the cave. Some dead thing in the dark, dreaming it was alive. An altar of blood and bone, designed to hold a fragment. 

But the real thing sat there in the sky. Curled up so tight and so smooth, you could mistake it for a ball. Waiting, and watching, and hating. Alive but dreaming death. The mould that stamped out the form of what lay in the cave. 

Quetzalcoatl, I learned later. The feathered serpent. 

I moved the month after that. Went somewhere north, somewhere cold, somewhere that a snake wouldn’t follow. Most days now, I look up, and I just see the sun. A flaming ball of gas. A little, red, star. 

But only most.

𓆙𓆙𓆙

𓆙𓆙𓆙

𓆙𓆙𓆙

𓆙𓆙𓆙

𓆙𓆙𓆙 𓇳

Thanks to @qsatisfaction and @foldingfittedsheets for being my editors on this piece. And thanks to @dr-robert-chase-apologist for providing the prompt.

[nightscythe]

crimson affliction [prologue]

→ sanguinius x reader (you, currently gn) → 1.2k, 18+ mdni, cw: psychological horror/obsession/sacrifical mentions. dead dove type thing → pre-heresy, sanguinius' thirst is different to that of his sons, but it's far more potent that anything they'd understand will be part of a longer series ◡̈

“And I love you, my little muse,” his words continue as he steps slowly towards the door, “but you know that. We always have.”

The air swelled with warmth, a trace of something sweet weaving its way through the emptiness. He stopped immediately, head snapping to his right. His eyes became unfocused as he listened. His wings shivered; his hands curled into fists. 

Then, a small, final smile. 

“I’m waiting.” He lets his eyes fall shut as the familiar bitter almond engulfs him. “You will want me, you will call for me, and you will run straight back to me.”

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

His fingertips felt cold as he ran his hand over the smooth, silk sheets lining the bed. 

The books that lay open on the nightstand to the side had been neglected any attention for weeks, gathering dust on the fresh, unbothered pages. A tass with water that had resonated a murky film on top was yet to be moved. He couldn’t touch it. Not yet. 

Silence had been his muse for these very weeks, but it was not born of grief or loss. The door had been locked, not a soul permitted to enter, not a word uttered from him until he knew he was alone, and he knew you could hear. 

“You’re quiet tonight, my love,” his voice crawling through the heavy air like a plague. His lips, cracked and dry, nothing like anyone could have imagined, curled into a smirk as he turned on his heels. “Has something happened?”

Without an answer to stop him, he picked up his feet and paced the room one more time. He slowed beside the last candle that burned, wax pooling around its base as it slowly succumbed to time. As the flame fought for its life, flickering, howling for redemption, he found himself staring, his steps coming to a pause.

Patience was something he had learned so well these weeks. 

He tilts his head to the side, his tangled and wavy hair falling over his face. Not that he minded. He barely felt a thing. The flame flickered one last time before the room finally fell to the darkness promised when his last light walked away. The candle hissed a column of grey smoke as it died. All he could find was the strength to laugh. 

It smelled like you. 

The familiar scent of ash had engulfed the undertones of vanilla and cherries that rushed to pass. He couldn’t miss it. He never would. 

His hands twitched at his side, gaze shifting to the foot of the door. He wouldn’t dare look properly, no. He was afraid. Pathetic. He believed if he looked, he dared fate to test him one last time. He wanted to trust that whatever universe had birthed him would take pity on someone like him and give him back what he deserved. 

Minutes pass before he hums, the door never opening. 

It was locked, of course, it wouldn’t open.  

His amusement doesn’t fade as he begins his path again, looping around to the silk sheets that lined the bed. Everything remained as it was, apart from the candles that would never withstand the test of time. If he could bring himself to look at where you once lay on the bed, he’d still notice the imprint of your body. 

He moves on. Doesn’t touch the sheets this time. Just walks another lap around the room as though it would change anything. 

As though you would be back in a moment’s time, only stepping out briefly, finding your way back to his arms so he could drink in every single part of you and promise you that he’d never, ever let you be without him for a single second. 

“Won’t you say something?” he asks, eyes still fixed on the floor. “I miss your voice.”

He stops again, this time beside the desk you would often write at whilst you waited for him to return. Where you’d leave him letters of your love for him. Where he’d found every piece of you and put you back together. Where you’d sat and told him you loved him, where he’d kissed you for the first time, where you’d told him you were going. 

He sighed, bringing his hands together behind his back as he turned to face the table. “You would always tell me the sweetest things. Always the things I needed to hear.”

He rests his palm flat on the table. He still felt your warmth. As he dragged his fingers across the wood, tracing the grain as though it would tell him where he would find you, his mind began to fray. 

“My love, please, talk to me again.” 

The silence that hung in the air stung more than before. 

He’d been able to conjure your voice in the depths of his own stirred mind for a few days, but then the façade started to shatter. He only heard his own voice speaking for you, a bitter reminder of what he was missing. 

He smiles again. 

Missing. Yes. Not lost. 

“Do you think distance is enough?” he questions. He removes his hand from the table, replacing it behind his back again. He steps away, eyes landing on the foot of the door once more. His chest thumps as his smile drops. “Do you think there is a place in this galaxy that I wouldn’t be able to find you? That you could exist without me?”

His wings shifted just slightly, the greying feathers rustling behind him as though they reminded him just who he was. For just a second, he felt the strength to bring his eyes to the door and confront his anxieties directly. 

“Do you feel me, too?” 

His stare intensified. The darkness of the room increased.

“Do you remember everything, my love?”

He did. 

There was not a memory that evaded his grasp. Not when he’d already let you slip away. 

“Did you expect me to have burned corners of the galaxy in search of you, demand you to return to me? Or did you believe I would just let you walk away and leave me forever?”

He exhales. Slow, indulgent, memories of you filling the cracks in his mind. Then, finally, a hum. 

“I know you will return, my love.”

And Sanguinius would wait for you to return until the very end of the universe.

He’d wait seconds. Hours. Years. Eternity. Whatever it would take. 

Because you always come back. Always.

His voice falls low, soft words inviting a sickening mix of despair and security. “You love me.”

He did not doubt that fact. He did not hope that it was real. He knew. 

“And I love you, my little muse,” his words continue as he steps slowly towards the door, “but you know that. We always have.”

The air swelled with warmth, a trace of something sweet weaving its way through the emptiness. He stopped immediately, head snapping to his right. His eyes became unfocused as he listened. His wings shivered; his hands curled into fists. 

Then, a small, final smile. 

“I’m waiting.” He lets his eyes fall shut as the familiar bitter almond engulfs him. “You will want me, you will call for me, and you will run straight back to me.”

He exhales again; words savoured on the tip of his tongue. When he opened his eyes, the golden hues had started to mix with the deep crimson replacement. 

“Come home to me, little lamb. Before my teeth remember what divinity tastes like, and I forget how to be gentle.”

His breaths grow heavy, his teeth pressing into his lips until he tastes a iron. His affliction coils beneath his skin. A whisper promising possession; obsession. A hunger that no prayer can starve.

Not blood. Not power. Just you.

“You always were sweetest when your voice trembled under me.”

Only you.  

“And when you do come back… 

I’ll remind you just how sweet you are.

I’ll carve your name into my skin, so you never forget.

And this time, I’ll make sure you stay.”

a/n: thank you for reading and i promise i still think he's submissive and cute...

[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.

﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏

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?

[mariswxts]

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

TAGLIST: @goldngguk

@sweetpeachbombshell

@slut-for-stiles @staple-your-mouth @daddyscrimsstuff

@dob-4-life @marcis-mixtapez @nonoreas0n @gabrielasilva1510

@lucyholmes13 @pandadork-blog1 @nicolstancu @malusinhaaaa @dybalabandolero

@a-cup-of-nightshade @tomatoessoup @sh0rtcakee @fall-06 @mckaykay-fandoms

@b3th13

@demonxangelomegaverse @deanwinchestersgirl87 @capailluiscedove @i723l-interrupted2323 @niyomiii

@all-the-fan-fic @eviekinevie8 @sunflowerlover57

@1-800-dean-winchester

@darichvep @idk-usernme @supernaturalmarvel3000 @ega2025 @deanbrainrotwritings

@targaryenluvs @bucky-hydra-hoe-barnes @leigh70 @aintnowayboi @ripoffsteveharrington

@gleefulleve @sacrosankta

@riteofpassage77 @eevvvaa @thedevilortheangel @thorsballhair @barbienotdoll

@4e1h3r @wolfieblue03 @kianaleani @vicky199625 @sassyslut2003

@impyrz

@didisull @miwp @lastcallatrockysbar @rizlowwritessortof

@zepskies @angelbabyyy99

@autisticgothic

@yourgoldengirls @deansobsessedgirl @mrsjenniferwinchester

@aylacavebear @lailawinchesterr @brightlilith @arcanaa @hobby27

@lyarr24 @ximm19

@a-girl-who-loves-disney @jeneelsworld @deans-spinster-witch @deanspinsterwitchs-readinglist @kayleighwinchester

@cheynovak @manicjk @riah1606

[acapelladitty]

if somebody hasn't already asked: may we please hear about your gotham rogues inferno placements? (sincerely, this sounds awesome)

Thank you! ❤️🥰 So i've been mulling it over in my head all day and here's what I have:

First Circle (Limbo) - Catwoman & Red Hood.

Placing both Selina and Jason in limbo is very representative of their duality in how they straddle the line between hero and villain. Both have a tendency to do the right thing where it counts but that shouldn't wipe out their other sins and the wrong they are willing to do to get ahead in their wants.

Second Circle (Lust) - Harley Quinn & Mad Hatter.

Both characters are driven by their desires. Harley is a victim of her own desires, her need for a strong figure to help shape and guide her actions and that has led her to her relationships with both Joker and Ivy and the carnage each have caused. Hatter is often guided by his delusional lust for an unobtainable ideal, his perfect Alice, and this goal has led to much of his evils.

Third Circle (Gluttony) - Penguin & Killer Croc.

Oswald is a man who values and enjoys the finer things in life. He has tasted hardship and he commits unspeakable acts to ensure that he never has to settle for the very best, be it his wine or his meals. Croc is being put here for his habit of human consumption. While it's not gluttony in the purest sense, I think it fits better than many of the other circles.

Fourth Circle (Greed) - Deadshot & Riddler.

Deadshot is an assassin for hire which makes his crimes a direct result of his greed and so this is most fitting for him. Riddler's greed comes more from his incessant desire to have everything which he feels is due to him. He craves attention, money, power, being the very best in what he does. His greed is relentless.

Fifth Circle (Anger) - Poison Ivy & Scarecrow.

Both Ivy and Crane are creatures fueled by rage. Ivy's rage towards mankind is unmistakable and leads her to cruelty towards her own people. Crane's hatred of mankind is more subtle but just as strong. He hates what the world has taken from him and punishes those who cross his path by forcing them to feel as miserable as he does.

Sixth Circle (Heresy) - Solomun Grundy & Mr Freeze.

The heresy of both men concerns their connections with death. Grundy is a walking zombie, an abomination which straddles the line of life and death with every step. Mr Freeze is a sadder figure but he also actively cheats death by forcing his wife to exist in a state of suspended animation and that's a mortal sin.

Seventh Circle (Violence) - Bane & Victor Zsasz.

Bane thrives in violence but possesses the mental capabilities to know exactly how to wield that violence to create the most devastation and pain to those he deems worthy of it. Zsasz is driven by his needs as a serial killer and he brings nothing to the world which houses him but pain and death.

Eighth Circle (Fraud) - Hugo Strange & Hush.

Hugo Strange is a fraud because he presents himself as a man with good intentions, one who wants to 'help' people but he is only interested in his own selfish gains. Hush is a more straight forward fraud because he claims the identity of another as his own with ill-intent and seeks to destroy it's original owner.

Ninth Circle (Treachery) - Two Face & Joker.

Harvey goes in treachery because his fate was to betray everything which he stood for as a man and as DA of Gotham and a betrayal of that magnitude cannot go unpunished. Joker, in a similar vein, is a traitor of all the good values of men and delights in making choices which cause the most suffering for the widest volume of people.

[thatnightlamp]

LORGAR. ANGST

Lorgar walked the burning plains of Sicarus, but in his mind, the sands were redder, the sky softer, the winds laden not with the taint of the Warp but with the incense of a thousand shrines. Colchis, in its death, had branded itself upon his soul more indelibly than when it lived.

She walked beside him.

She always did.

Barefoot, her robes fluttered in a wind only he could feel. Her smile was the same - warm, patient, maddening. Her voice, her voice, wove through his thoughts like a prayer he could never forget.

"You’re walking too fast again, my Lorgar. Slow down. The wind has tales to tell, if only you’d listen."

He turned his head slightly, just enough to show he heard her. His golden eyes softened.

“I must hurry,” he murmured aloud, though no one stood beside him in truth. “There is work yet unfinished. You know this.”

"You always say that. You never rest, not even now. Look at what it’s made you."

Her presence was a knife and a balm. For centuries, Lorgar had endured war, betrayal, daemonic revelation, and the murder of gods. But her, her loss, remained the only wound that had never scabbed, never scarred. The fire that consumed Colchis had not burned her body, it had consumed something deeper, something in him.

And so, she remained.

At the edge of his vision. In the flicker of every flame. In the echo of incense swinging from silver chains.

She is not real, said the rational mind. The daemon mind. The part of him that had been remade by the Eye.

But he silenced that thought.

Because she was real. She had to be.

The others noticed. They always did.

Erebus, ever the watchful vulture, dared not speak of it often. But Kor Phaeron… he had always been more blunt.

“She is gone,” the old priest hissed once, as Lorgar spoke to her during a war council, his voice gentle amid roars of blood and conquest. “You shame yourself before the Legion. Before the Pantheon.”

Lorgar’s gaze fell on Kor Phaeron like a titan’s shadow.

“She is here,” he said simply. “And she is listening. You would do well to speak with reverence.”

The silence that followed was colder than the void.

Even the Word Bearers who would tear stars asunder for their Primarch did not meet his eyes. Not then.

In private, Erebus whispered to his cabal. “He sees ghosts. He speaks with ash. How can he lead us into the Age of Truth if he cannot escape his past?”

But none dared confront him again. The last one who tried was a dark priest of Serrix, a proud zealot who declared Lorgar blinded by sentiment.

His body now lined the Basilica of Eternal Fire, twisted into a sculpture that wept blood.

In the solitude of his sanctum, surrounded by tomes of daemonology and relics of a thousand heresies, Lorgar found peace. Not in the knowledge, nor in the divine madness, but in her.

She sat beside the brazier, legs folded beneath her, eyes half-lidded.

"You remember what I told you when we were young?" she asked one evening, voice low.

“You told me many things.”

"That the fire cannot touch the soul, only the skin. That belief is a flame brighter than the sun. That even when the mountains fall, faith will remain."

Lorgar closed his eyes. He could hear the fire crackle, could smell the myrrh on her skin. He wanted to believe he only imagined her, but it was too complete. Too vivid. It was easier, kinder, to let himself drift in it.

“It’s not faith that remained,” he said at last. “Only the pain.”

"Then you’ve stopped believing."

He opened his eyes.

She looked at him, disappointed.

And he couldn’t bear that.

He saw her on the battlefield too.

Amid the firestorms of Atharax, she stood among the ruins, untouched. In the blood-drenched temples of the false Emperor’s lapdogs, she walked barefoot through the corpses, never flinching.

"Too far, Lorgar," she would whisper. "You were meant to bring light, not become the pyre."

And he would lower his mace, even as the daemon within snarled for slaughter.

His sons obeyed without question, though they did not understand.

They saw only the shadow of the man who once had stood on Khur’s steps and preached a unity forged in flame and verse. Now, they saw a haunted figure, speaking softly to someone who wasn’t there, pausing in sermons to gaze into corners empty of all but memory.

Years passed. Or centuries. Time was fluid within the Eye.

She aged. Not in body, but in presence. Sometimes she was the girl he had saved from the burning monastery. And sometimes, too rarely, she was what she might have become had Colchis not burned: a priestess, serene and wise, perhaps even Empress of a world that never was.

"You’re holding on to a ghost," she said once, her voice almost bitter.

“Then let me,” he said. “You are the last of my home. The last of my heart.”

"And what of your gods?"

“They speak too loudly. You whisper.”

"And you still hear me?"

He touched his temple, then his chest. “Always.”

Sometimes, she asked if he remembered the day the sky turned black.

How could he forget?

The orbitals fell first. Then the firestorms swept through Vharadesh like a second birth. The oceans boiled. The mountains cracked. And in the smoke of the apocalypse, her hand slipped from his, and he couldn’t find it again.

He had called her name then, not as a Primarch, not as a prophet, but as a lover.

And no one answered.

Until now.

Now, she answered always.

The daemons began to mock him.

They danced in her shape, wearing her face, twisting her words. He destroyed them with fire and fury, one after another, shouting her name in rage and devotion.

"You are not her," he spat, standing over a writhing horror wearing her eyes. "You do not speak as she speaks. You do not know me."

But the thing only smiled.

"Don’t we?" it whispered.

He burned it to ash.

And still… that whisper lingered.

One night, if time could still be called such, he broke.

He screamed into the void, tearing through the walls of his sanctum, tearing pages from holy books and hurling relics into the abyss.

“I know you’re real!” he roared. “Tell me I’m not insane! Tell me I’m not damned to see you forever while the rest of the galaxy forgets!”

The silence that followed was deeper than any Warp storm.

Then, from the shattered shadows, she stepped forth. Calm. Radiant. Real.

"Would it matter?" she asked. "If I was a dream, would you stop loving me?"

“No,” he said, voice cracking.

"If I was only in your mind, would you let me go?"

He fell to his knees.

“No.”

"Then what does it matter?"

He never asked again.

He never searched for truth, or for healing. He let her be whatever she was: spirit, memory, echo, illusion.

She was his. And he would not give her up.

Even as the galaxy burned, even as his brothers fell or ascended, even as gods rose and broke and screamed his name in vain-

He had her.

His last piece of Colchis.

His last shard of innocence.

And in the end, when the stars themselves wept blood, Lorgar Aurelian could still be found walking the quiet halls of a ruined temple, listening to a voice that no one else heard, smiling gently at someone no one else could see.

[the-most-humble-blog]

USED SERVITOR BLOWOUT SALE FESTIVAL🎈🥳🎉:

Remember: Serve the Emperor, or Serve as Parts. Either way, YOU SERVE.

EVERYTHING MUST GO (INCLUDING YOUR HUMANITY)

Welcome to the biggest clearance event in the Imperium, motherfuckers! Need cheap labor? Need a servitor with that "lightly used, only screamed for the first 40 days" kinda vibe? Well, step right up! We got everything from half-brainwashed factory workers to lobotomized aristocrats who forgot to pay their tithe.

Because in the grim darkness of the far future, one thing is certain: you can be a worker, you can be a soldier, or you can be stock.

💀 SHOP SMART, SHOP SERVITOR 💀

🔹 Genetic Mishaps? We got those! Crooked nobles who thought they were untouchable, now wired into conveyor belts, drooling coolant, shitting oil, and making sure your las-rifles come off the assembly line on time.

🔹 Failed Tech-Priest Acolytes? Fuck yeah! Ask too many questions, and you could end up as a walking soft-serve machine with a detachable cock-replaceable nozzle.

🔹 Battlefield Salvage? Some dumbass Guardsman who took one too many rounds to the brain and didn’t have the decency to fully die? Now he’s the designated ammo carrier. His eyes are gone, his soul is in whatever counts as an afterlife, but goddamn if he isn’t still loading shells into the Basilisk.

🔹 Discounted Heretics! That’s right, folks! Thought crime isn’t just punishable by death—it’s punishable by a lifetime of tireless, lobotomized, piss-and-rot servitude! Remember that loudmouth who started questioning the Ecclesiarchy? Yeah, she’s a self-powered fuckin’ janitor now. And she doesn’t even know it.

💀 INJUSTICE? NAH, THIS IS JUST HOW SHIT WORKS. 💀

Look, the Imperium doesn’t have time for due process, ethics, or your bitching. You get caught, you get sentenced, and if you’re lucky, you just get shot in the face. If not? Well…

You will be stripped. Of name, rank, and thought.

You will be wired. Into machines, into assembly lines, into grotesque walking infrastructure.

You will be useful. Until your body fucking quits.

And then? Your carcass gets recycled into another batch of "freshly mindwiped workforce," because wastefulness is heresy.

💀 TRAGEDY? MAYBE. COMEUPPANCE? ABSOLUTELY. 💀

🔹 That planetary governor who let a Hive World rot in famine? He’s a servitor now, shoveling the same shit his people had to eat.

🔹 That spoiled noble who thought she was above the law? Yeah, she’s bolted into an automated pleasure engine, servicing the same underhivers she once spat on.

🔹 That inquisitor who purged an entire city "just to be sure"? Hope he enjoys his new eternity as a fleshlight-dispensing bio-recycler.

🔹 That rich fuck who hoarded resources, letting a whole sector starve? Don’t worry. His nutrient paste tastes real good, because it’s made out of him.

Because in the glorious Imperium of Man, even the worst scum eventually finds a purpose. Even if that purpose is being a half-melting, piss-leaking, cybernetic flesh-husk on sale for 5 thrones.

🔥 EVERYTHING MUST GO (INCLUDING YOUR SOUL) 🔥

REBLOG if you’d rather be shot than end up in a servitor assembly line.

💬 COMMENT which Warhammer faction you think deserves to be on the clearance rack.

🚀 FOLLOW for more grimdark truths straight from the corpse-laden frontlines.

[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

@the-ipre @sunnylemonss @days-light @agentearthling @helltechnicality

@sethlost @catboy-cabin @secretlyafiveheadeddragon @vyther15

@anything-thats-rock-and-roll @queen-of-hobgobblers @every-moment-a-different-sound

@nix-nihili @mellxncollie @tumblerislovetumblerislife @lemurafraidofthunder

@likemmmcookies @wr0temyway0ut @thelakeswillbreakourfall

@sapphic-corgi @occasionaloneshots @troublegoblin

@cairngorm-ard @petesdragon @alittleemo @charswithbatsmybeloved

@bigtirednoodle @the-moons-jade-rabbit

@wikipediagreen @wooooooaaahhhhh-oooooops

@spacegirlsgang @cc-tinslebee

[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. ?

[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?"

[nightscythe]

no other life but ours

→ sevatar x reader (she/her) → 3.8k, nsfw 18+ → during...pre...heresy? before thramas, remembering his old friend that he definitely didn't love. key word devotion

“Don’t forget me,” he whispers onto your lips, swollen from his erratic movements earlier, dried out from his own touch. It feels pitiful as you squirm beneath him, enthralled by his movements, growing used to the pain and the stretch of his altered body. He almost growls as he feels you rock your body into his. “Don’t… forget this.” 

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

He felt nothing.

Or at least, that was the lie he told himself. 

The air inside the Nightfall is stale. Heavy. The scent of old blood and engine oil suffocates every sense. And yet, something else seeps through the cracks of reality. Memory drags him back—back to a time before war, before fate. 

He leans against the bulkhead, arms folded and held discarded at his feet. Through the smallest slit of void glass, he sees the abyss of the universe behind them, any light swallowed by the eventual darkness in its path. The only reason they shone still was that no one had destroyed them—yet. 

He hated looking at them, yet his eyes were fixed on them. They mocked him. Remind him of the home he once had. The life that he lost. The light he had destroyed. 

He thinks of you. For a moment his eyes become unfocused, the hum of the engine taking over as his mind drifts. Time had blessed him with enough of a pause for one memory to come back to him.  

“Another fight?” You had asked him, looking across to him with a frown. He had been too interested in the stars then, wondering what the vast expanse of the universe had to offer. He’d ignored how you were so fervent in your movements, rushing to his side when you realised his cheek was bleeding. He’d only looked down to you when you spoke again. “Do you not care?”

He'd laughed at you then. Asked you candidly, “why would I care?”

You’d traced your fingers over the cut, so soft he could barely feel it. His blood was cleaned up and you’d applied something to the wound that meant it stung a little less. He’d watched you, examined every movement you made, and still at that time he had lost to his own stubbornness and nihilism. 

“Because I care,” you’d answered. It wasn’t something he didn’t already know. Every time you’d say the same thing, and he’d look the other way and pretend to himself that his feelings were weakness. This time, you’d taken it further. “You fight like you have nothing to lose.”

He remembers the smog that covered the streets. How he’d almost choked on the dust and grease that lined the air as he’d fought with a man over something completely irrelevant. The rooftop he usually found you on was the smallest escape from that. No matter what he did, no matter how he felt, he had always found himself walking up the metal grated stairs to the side of the building, knowing you’d be at the top waiting. 

Yet, he had the audacity to tell you what he honestly thought, “maybe I don’t have anything to lose.”

“You do,” you had answered him. He should have known it then. He should have realised. He should have listened. 

Because the truth was, he hadn’t killed a man over something irrelevant. He’d killed a predator out of fear that you’d be a victim. He’d almost ran all the way back here in fear that he wouldn’t find you here. When he’d found you, he felt relief. He felt… weakness. 

Purpose. Peace. Devotion.

A conversation behind him distracts him momentarily. He looks back over his shoulder, but nothing catches his eye. He can’t bring himself away from the pointless memories flooding his mind. He tries, so desperately, to not think about the past. This had been bred out of him. He had been built to not feel. Yet he did, because he remembered everything he had felt before – but he only now understood it. The purpose of protecting you. The peace of knowing you were there. How he had once devoted himself to you. 

Beneath the plates of his armour, in the middle of his forearm, was an old, hidden scar that was barely visible without prior knowledge. He hadn’t seen it, or thought about it even, in years. It wasn’t one from his time in the legion, nor one from a fight on the streets of Nostramo. It was from you. 

He knew he was leaving, ready to begin his training as a scout in the legion. He was older than the others when selected for the process, so he had more time than expected. He wasn’t sure if you understood properly that he was leaving, that you were unlikely to see him again. You’d stayed with him, you’d never wanted to leave. 

He shuts his eyes for a moment. He revels in the brightness that comes back to him. The familiar scent of the smog replaces the blood and fuel. Your laugh, like a church bell in a village. 

He’s back on Nostramo in a second. The air, thick with smoke and burnt metal. The stars ever-present above. 

“I won’t return here to see you have fallen to one of those common street scum,” Jago says, picking a black handled and bladed knife from the canvas roll bag left on the edge of the rooftop. He holds in by the blade, careful in his movements as he passes it to you. “You will need to protect yourself.”

You raise an eyebrow, not yet taking the knife from him. “I already do that.”

“Perhaps.” He hadn’t yet revealed the true reason she was kept safe from the cruel world Nostramo had to offer. “I would… feel better knowing you had learned something from me, though.”

You nod, taking the knife from him and holding it loosely in your hand. The knife felt cool in your palm, the black handle worn smooth from use. The weight of it was foreign, but his eyes—watchful, measuring—urged you to hold it tighter. 

“A good start would be to hold it tight,” he says. You look from him, down to the knife, and back to him with a slight smile, adjusting your grip so it is somewhat tighter in your hand. He tries his best to hide his amusement in return. “That will have to work. Keep that one with you. When you go out at night, when you return from work or whatever keeps you busy, you hold that in your hands in your pocket and you prepare to pull it on anyone who comes within a foot of you. Understood?”

You nod once. 

“Aim for the lower arms, or their thighs, anywhere with a major artery or somewhere they hurts. You know what people are like down there. They care little for you, or even themselves.” He demonstrates the slashing of the knife with an empty hand, gesturing for you to copy. Though your actions seem feeble compared to his, he doesn’t comment. “Try it on me.”

“No,” you tell him, “I’ll be fine. I’m not going to end up harming you because of your irrational fears.”

He hums. “They are not irrational, and you wouldn’t be fine in any situation.”

“I will be fine,” you tell him again, reasserting your position. 

“You will be killed.” His words are the truth he knows. He moves towards you, stopping a couple of feet away, arms crossed over his chest. “You don’t need to harm me. Just try it.”

Though you don’t appear happy to oblige, there really isn’t another option for you. You haphazardly copy some of his actions, little effort behind his movement, making sure to keep your distance from him. Of course, that meant your movements were poorly timed and executed with little precision – something he noticed immediately. 

“At the very least, the birds and the cats will be scared of you,” he remarks, holding his hand up for you to stop. He grasps your wrists with both his hands and moves you to a better position, one much closer to him but appearing far stronger. “Again, but like I’m a human, not a small animal.”

You nod again this time, copying the motions with more precision. Feeling more confidence, you had move ever so closer to him, but as quickly as that feeling came it was gone. He had barely felt the slice of the knife across his forearm, breaking the skin but barely cutting him deeply. He wouldn’t have reacted, if not for you panicking and ushering him apologies over and over. 

He had tried to tell you it was fine, but you didn’t let him get a word out. You ripped the bottom of your top, which was the closest you had to any kind of bandage, rolling it into a ball and holding it against the wound as you told him sorry a few more times for good measure. He didn’t care. He was only glad to see you could protect yourself.

As you hold the ripped piece of your clothing against his arm, trying your best to save him from any unnecessary blood loss, he can’t help the quiet stare aimed down at you. He’d felt your fingers on him a thousand times before, rushing to help him with a wound he’d got on the streets. Yet he could feel something different building behind each movement. 

“I’m…” you look up to him with wide eyes, lips slightly gapped as words fail you. He offers you a small smile as he shakes his head, trying to pull his arm away. You don’t let him though. You never let him. “Let me help.”

“I’m fine,” he tells you, honestly, though doesn’t pull his arm back again this time. He lets you inspect the wound, small as it may be, and press the clothe into it some more. “When someone actually becomes a threat to you, do the same, but actually hurt them.”

“That didn’t hurt?”

He shakes his head. “No. You can’t hurt me.”

You look back to him, slower this time. Your hands stop working around his arm, the slight stinging from the cut ceasing as well. Though he hadn’t thought of it, the implied meaning of his words had caught you off guard. 

“Will you come back?” you ask. 

He pauses for a moment. “I don’t know.”

“Do you want to come back?”

“To Nostramo?” he asks, recalling the number of times he had told you how badly he wished to leave and explore what the galaxy had to offer. The answer was no – but that wasn’t what you wanted to hear. “Or, to you?”

You pause. Your gaze shifts down to the ground. For years, it had been a silent acknowledgement. He wasn’t sure if you had hidden your feelings because of him, or his future, or whether they only existed for him. The longer you waited to answer him, the more he felt like it was the latter, until you looked back up to him and placed your hand gently over his chest. 

“To me,” you affirm, “would you come back for me?”

For a moment, he doesn’t think. He lets his body, his heart, take over any action there was left in him. He leans down to you, stopping only millimetres away, as the sound of his heartbeat filling his ears. Any last sentiment of restraint disappears in seconds. 

He presses his lips to yours, heart throbbing, thoughts still leaving him. The hand on his chest is pressed a bit harder, the tips of your fingers pulling at the fabric which covers his skin. His hand, so much bigger than your own, reaches up to up your cheek, holding you tightly against him as though to tell you the answer to your question. Forgotten is his arm, the cut, what had happened – all the existed was you. 

He can barely feel you through his calloused fingers, but the warmth is unlike anything the world could otherwise offer him. After a moment, he pulls back from you, your breath hitting his skin as another reminder as to what you meant to him. He still holds you, too tight for someone who claimed not to care, but soft enough to show you his despair.  

There’s no other meaning behind his movements. The recklessness at his fingertips as he pulls you back to him and kisses you once more. This time, he holds you with both his hands. Forgotten is your apology, or the world around you both. He acts on impulse. Desperation. 

“Jago—”

“Don’t,” he tells you, lips ghostin your own. The sensation sends a shiver down his spine. Your hand still grips his top, almost willing it off his body. The other hovers over the waistband of his trousers. “Tell me to stop. Tell me.”

You shake your head. “No. Not now.”

“Good.”

His breath was warm against your skin, each exhale laced with a hesitation he refused to voice. His hands, calloused from years of combat, explored with surprising reverence—an unspoken prayer written in touch. The universe outside ceased to exist, the endless abyss forgotten in the feverish need between you both.

He wasn’t even sure how it had escalated. One moment, a breath shared between you. The next, hands roaming, cloth discarded, the heat of skin against skin branding itself into memory. The smaller moments had been wiped from his mind by time—but not the way you had looked at him, as though he had been something worth holding onto.

He’d run his hands over your body, feeling the curves of your bones beneath the tips of his fingers, watching as you shivered in anticipation from the way he hovered over your nipples. He’d seen women before. But you were different. H wanted to understand every inch of you. As time passed, he only remembered you for the statues held on terra of an old world that worshipped women as the most beautiful pieces of art. 

And then you were on the floor, and he was about to have his way with you. 

It didn’t seem to matter that the floor was covered in stones, ash, and chips of cement. You ignored it for him. 

Somewhere below, the streets of Nostramo carried on in their endless cycle of blood and ruin. The distant shouts, the clang of metal on metal—it all faded into nothing. Up here, on this rooftop, there was only him. Only you. Only the desperate press of bodies and the silent, wordless promise that neither of you could speak.

His fingers curl around the band of your own pants, underwear too, pulling them over your hips and dragged down your thighs with little care for the burn it leaves in its wake. He can feel you watching him, though he never looks up to you. He edges your legs apart, estranged movements catching you off guard. His frantic, primal movements were not typical of the man he had been trained to be. 

He can feel you wither beneath him. A stolen glance as he looks up to you reveals the most innocent eyes; the keenest of lips. He spares any pleasantries. Two fingers part your lips, already slick with need, before stopping on the nub. He flicks it once, twice, exulting in the whimper that leaves your lips. He feels a smirk rising on his lips, though it lasts only a matter of seconds – his hunger, desire, had taken over. 

“Shall I stop?” he says, moving closer to your core. You shake your head, softly telling him no as you practically hand yourself to him. He doesn’t need a second confirmation. 

He lays his rough, cracked lips on the inner of your thigh savouring the taste of flesh that remained untainted. He feels you move beneath him and brings his hand to your thigh to keep you still. Just a taste, he wanted. Just to know what it was like before everything changed. 

“Please,” he hears from above, faltering his concentration momentarily. He looks up once more. “Jago. Plea—.” 

He wouldn’t have made you beg. That wasn’t him. Not with you. 

His tongue feels so hot against you, so big. One lap is all it takes to have your back arching, his tongue flat against you, then pointed directly over your nerves. He wonders, he fucking wonders, why he hadn’t ever done this before. He was controlled, he was patient, but throne it was more than anything he had ever seen before to have you falling apart at his fingers. 

It wasn’t practice. There was nothing that prepared him for this. It was sheer instinct. Need. He wanted to hear you cry for him, whine, moan his name over and over. 

Nothing is skilful about what he does, nothing even makes sense. He treats it like a kiss, though eating you out is nothing more than savouring the taste of someone he… loved. 

He hears you whine as he pulls away, his lips glistening with your wetness. His sinful eyes meet yours, darker than before, and its like he had killed a man for this first time again. But now, it was not death, it was something far more meaningful. 

“I want to come back,” he says as he picks up your thighs. He pulls them over his shoulders, so your sex is right beneath his face. He leans down for another taste and feels his own hips twitch as you cry from the vibrations of his words. “I want to come back to you.”

He feels your hips tighten around his head, impatient to his touch. He felt sloppy. Imprecise. His tongue had lost any direction, he just wanted everything you could give him. He corrects his earlier words without missing a drop. “For you.”

He pulls away a moment later. He can hear the disappointment in the breath you take, eyes searching for his to discover why he had stopped. Why had he left this so long. Why had he waited until now.

“I need more,” he tells you, honestly. You rush to nod, allowing him to set you down on the ground with your legs still parted for him. He hastily unbuttons his trousers, not caring to remove them, only pushing them down far enough to not interfere. His yearning couldn’t be hidden. He kneels between your legs like its his god-given right. “More. I need…”

The words never come to him. You’d opened your legs just a bit wider, flashed him the eyes that had brought him here, and he had forgotten everything else he wanted to say. He doesn’t even think to prepare you. He forgets how much bigger he is now. He just wants. 

A choked whine leaves your lips with as he enters you. His cock pulses, begging for sensation, but he stops at just the tip. He cared, he didn’t want to hurt you. Yet he could only wait a second before the rest of him is shared.

He can feel your body seize beneath him, unable to move; not wanting to move. Your eyes are shut, embracing how all of him feels. Goosebumps travel down your skin, and though you suppress the shiver across your body, he feels you clench around him, and it makes him fall to his arms above you. 

He holds himself on one hand as the other finds your own. He almost pins you down, entwining his fingers with your own as he pulls his hips back and drives his cock into you again, quicker this time, more forceful. 

“Don’t forget me,” he whispers onto your lips, swollen from his erratic movements earlier, dried out from his own touch. It feels pitiful as you squirm beneath him, enthralled by his movements, growing used to the pain and the stretch of his altered body. He almost growls as he feels you rock your body into his. “Don’t… forget this.” 

It was never meant to be kind. Throne, he wishes he’d have taken the time to tell you just how much he loved you, but he never knew himself. In that moment, he just wanted to feel you, to not forget you, to hold onto a memory for the rest of his life. 

And he did. 

He felt the throbbing in the pit of his stomach. The way your breaths barely made it to the surface before another game. Just the galaxy surrounded you both. Just you, Jago, and the stars. 

He had felt your body clench onto him, hold onto him as you released every second of tension and feeling gathered over the years together. But it was the way you moaned. His name, or possibly just a sound – he had always told himself it was the final time he had heard you utter his name.  

A pathetic whimper leaves his lips as he feels his own cock twitch, spilling his own warmth into you. He didn’t move, keeping himself buried in your deepest parts, staring down at you with absent and longing eyes. 

Not another word was said. 

He’d considered it. Thought about telling you, revealing to you that this was more than just friendship. Protection. He didn’t just want to do this because it happened. It wasn’t natural course of events. 

But he had hesitated, and he’d thought about it for too long. There was no more talking. No more feelings. 

You both laid there, the stones, ash and chips of concrete grating both of your backs as you laid on the rooftop, looking at the stars above. The wide expansive universe that he wanted to explore so desperately. The light of the stars yet to be destroyed. The abyss of the darkness behind. 

He was meant to forget. You. The moment. He was never meant to think of it again. The morning had come and taken him to his new life. 

Yet, as he stared through the slit of void glass into the abyss, he remembered it all. 

“Daydreaming, First Captain?” a voice interrupts. It brings Sevatar back to reality, the cold edges of the voice ringing in his ears. He looks around at his brother, though pays little attention. “You’ve been requested at the bridge.”

He only nods in response. 

The thoughts are shaken from his head. He didn’t need to remember. He didn’t even need to care. Not about the moment, or about you. So many years had passed, death would have come for you by now, if not another citizen of the home you once shared. He’d asked you to not forget, him, the moment you had shared, but he did not doubt you had moved on. Found a new person to clean up, to cherish, to love. 

But he did not forget. 

He never moved on. Never found another. The Legion was his life, his father was his ruler, the Emperor his distant god. And as he stood there, staring into the abyss, he knew—he would never stop looking for you in the spaces between the stars.

He did not feel for them. He did not need to be mocked by the stars as a reminder of what could have been. A reminder of his hesitation, of his failure to acknowledge just what it meant. 

He felt everything. 

✧.✧

a/n: oh yes baby I wrote it!! i have been thinking about this man for days. i offered to buy my boyfriend night lords armour. think i'm a bit unhinged but ITS DONE BABY. hope you liked it!! I will post more x you instead of OCs as sometimes I get a bit lost in my dreams (promise) 🖤💙

[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.