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astonmartinii · 6 months ago

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other side of the moon: interlude - a tango in barcelona | formula one imagine

interlude: a tango in barcelona

pairing: fem retired formula one driver reader x ??? fem retired formula one driver reader x platonic!kimi antonelli

dancing around her teammate on and off track, y/n looks to boogie her troubles away.

MASTERLIST | TIP JAR | PART ONE | PART TWO | PART THREE

may 2020, spain.

life at mclaren hadn’t started the way y/n had hoped. the days were long and surprisingly quiet, the latter mostly due to her teammate and his aversion to acknowledging her existence. she was tired already this weekend and they hadn’t even raced yet.

the barcelona heat was making her race suit stick to her already just walking to the grid for the national anthem. “it’s hot as balls” y/n whined as she slipped between max and george while the choir set up ahead of them.

“oh my sweet summer child, we haven’t even gotten to singapore yet,” max said taking off his ice vest and fastening it to y/n.

“ugh don’t remind me,” y/n wiped more sweat off of her brow, “i think singapore might kill me.”

george laughed, moving his umbrella to the left so it covered y/n as well, “singapore is a baptism by fire, but you’ve done well so far this season so i don’t think you’ll have too hard a time.”

y/n smiled up at the taller brit, “thanks georgie, maybe if you’re such an expert in singapore you’ll be able to catch me.” she punctuated it with a wink, george nearly dropping the umbrella in response.

“do you mind? you nearly took my eye out with this thing!” max hissed at george, flicking the umbrella. george lifted the umbrella to get it out of eye range of the dutchman, who in turn saw it as an invitation to seek refuge in the shade.

“no way verstappen, this umbrella is for pretty people only,” george grabbed y/n’s hand and moved them a couple steps away.

“if that was so, only y/n would be allowed under it beanstalk.”

“if my height is the only thing you can think to insult me about, i can live.”

“oh believe me there’s a lot more stored up, i just wouldn’t want to give you any inspiration for when you take out a backmarker and blame everyone but yourself.”

y/n sighed dramatically, “already? i thought you two were going to cool it down this season. i don’t even understand how you have a rivalry, you’re nowhere near him on track george…” george let out a scandalised squeal, “oh my bad george, you know what i meant.”

“i think what y/n means is that she doesn’t rate you ‘mr saturday’”.

as george went to bite back but the loud horns of the national anthem cut their quarrel off early. y/n fought to keep her laugh in throughout the national anthem, seeing george seething in her peripheral vision. he was so easy to rattle it was practically a pastime of half the grid at this point.

before george could get a dig back in, y/n and max were back in deep conversation, discussing their approach to turn two with just minutes until the formation lap. he yearned to be the one that y/n spilled her tips, tricks and secrets to but like most of his life, the dutchman had beaten him to that honour. now he knew how lando felt.

lando, george and alex had bonded long before 2018, but their three-way title fight in formula two brought them closer rather than forcing them apart. george cherished that friendship, he found it invaluable to have two of his closest friends with him as they entered the cutthroat world of formula one - he just wished he could’ve been that person for y/n.

lando didn’t often articulate it well, but george understood his curly-haired friend’s struggles. lando had gushed all off season about having y/n as his teammate, chatting animatedly about potential roadtrips, shared flights and sleepovers before it was all snuffed out in a moment. george always suspected that lando felt more about their friend than he let on (or thought he let on). once he had thought it was a victim of circumstance, teenage boys discovering what these new hormones were doing to their body did tend to fixate on the one girl in their midst. but as they grew up, that puppy love crush didn’t seem to wain, not that anyone else around them seemed to notice.

a single comment from one max verstappen crushed that. a late night discord call between the rookie trio and max had naturally seen the topic of y/n arise. lando, as usual, started to wax lyrical about the season ahead, with his vision for their teammate relationship constructed in his head.

“mate, we’ve already started.”

“huh?” lando’s voice stuttered over the call, he cleared his throat, “what do you mean?”

“y/n and i,” max continued, “we’ve already started doing sim runs together, watching onboards and all that jazz.” the dutchman said it so casually, unaware of lando’s imminent heartbreak - george’s too, he just hid it better.

“but why? i’m going to be her teammate, not you? why would she even use your sim, she’s racing for mclaren next year not red bull.”

not noticing the path they were hurtling down, max dug his foot in, “no offence lando, but if y/n wants my tips, i’m going to give it to her. it’s noble for you to want to look out for her, but realistically what tips could you give her that are better than mine… i am the only one here who has actually won a race.”

alex loudly coughed, stopping max before he could continue. “it’s getting late, maybe we should call it a night?”

“it’s nine o’clock?” max questioned.

“no, i’m tired,” lando let out an undoubtedly fake yawn, “i think it’s time for bed.”

“okay suit yourselves,” max said, going back to his iracing, “lando, don’t take it too personally that she chose me. we’ve been friends for so long, we don’t know anything but each other.”

“i’ve known her just as long as you!”

it was starting to get a little heated and despite alex and george trying to interject, the two kept going.

“you may have known her just as long, but you don’t know her. we’ve been there for each other at our lowest and our highest. it’s not a competition. i honestly hope she comes to you next season, i don’t trust your team as far i can throw them. it will be good to have someone in her corner.”

“oh well if you’re that magnificent then why can’t you be her white knight all the way from red bull, huh?”

“you know what lando, we’ll talk about this again once you’ve shaken off this weird primal urge you have to ‘claim’ her. a piece of advice, she won’t like that.”

“oh you insufferable little shit-”

“goodbye everyone!” alex interjected, kicking max out of the call.

“what the fuck was that lando?”

“you heard him, posterising, peacocking and then having the gall to say that i’m being territorial over y/n.”

george sighed, his affection for the same girl was going to have to be buried even deeper after this. “max wasn’t peacocking about y/n, lando. if anything he was showing off his wins rather than her,” alex tried to reason.

“no! he can’t let us - can’t let me have anything. it’s always been this way and with y/n it’s like he knows deep down that i want her so he has to have her instead. he’s clinging on to her and shoving it in my face - it’s not my fault he has a shit dad and he attached himself to her because she was the only one not afraid of him - so why am i being punished for it?”

lando’s outburst rendered alex and george silent. the older one was horrified to say the least, the season hadn’t even started and lando’s jealousy was already out of hand.

“lando, that was too far…” alex said softly.

“no! he thinks that because he has a shitty sob story that he can just claim her? she’s her own person!”

“right. i’m going to stop you there before you say something that’ll make me hate you for real. you need to get over what ever the fuck this is so you can be a normal fucking human being next season,” alex tried to reason with lando.

“i am in love with her!”

“are you? or are you in love with the thought of what could happen? have you actually stopped and wondered whether y/n likes you or even likes men? for someone so protective over her, you haven’t considered her feelings too much.”

lando has the foresight to look a little guilty. george stayed silent, he knows alex is suspicious of him too, but that can of worms can wait until another day.

“you need to get a life and calm down. max is one of your best friends and i know deep down you didn’t mean a word you said tonight but you need to get a grip before you say any of that in front of him or y/n because i’m sorry but i won’t be stopping them if they try to hit you.”

lando doesn’t say anything, but the guilty look on his face says enough.

“goodnight.”

the call ended there and was never brought up again. george watched y/n waltz back towards the mclaren garage, a big gap between her and lando. there had been no more outbursts since that night but if what george overheard from daniel, lando had still managed to completely screw himself. was george that angry at that news? not really.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･

the race was pretty uneventful, barcelona usually was. y/n started in sixth and managed to pip charles to fifth after ferrari screwed up his pitstop once again. despite her deep love for sangria, y/n didn’t really feel like leaving her hotel room after she had scrubbed all of the sweat and grime off in the shower.

she was pleased with her points haul, smiling to herself in debrief as they analysed lando’s first lap incident with pierre gasly that lando just insisted was no fault of his own…

her ring tone invaded her peaceful evening, the name ‘albono’ flashing up on her phone. pressing accept,

“how can i help you on this fine evening, mr albon?”

“well i find myself in this fine dancing establishment, looked around and thought it was crying out for a little y/n y/ln action.”

“dancing you say?”

“i’m 100% serious, sebastian of all people has dragged also to a bar where they’re attempting to teach us the tango…”

“oh i love the tango! it’s my favourite dance on strictly…”

“so what i’m hearing is that i should get a tequila sunrise in preparation for your arrival?”

y/n sighed, “yes you may.”

“score! i’ll send you the address and an uber. see you soon.”

so there goes her quiet night in, but who wouldn’t love the chance to tango with your close friends in under the stars? and she had packed her little red number… maybe the y/n who packed that suitcase all those days knew something current y/n didn’t.

y/n elected to skip most of her makeup routine, her skin sensitive from all the sweat in her balaclava, swiping on some mascara, lip gloss and a healthy dose of blush. like alex said, the uber was waiting for her outside the lobby.

the outside of the bar looked closer to a college dive bar than somewhere you’d expect to find a group of formula one drivers, but she suspects that’s why sebastian chose it.

“buenes noches senorita,” fernando alonso gave her a spin on entry.

“gracias nando,” she curtsied in front of the spaniard, drawing a laugh out of the elder driver, “i am sorry to cut this short, but i am tired and i fear i have already promised my one dance to another.”

“how will i ever recover?”

“i think you’ll find a way old man.”

“you wound me, but alex is waiting for you by the bar.”

y/n made her way through the bar, spotting several drivers caught up in their dancing lessons from the locals. she tapped alex on the shoulder, with the tall driver turning, wielding her tequila sunrise.

“nice of you to turn up at last,” alex teased, handing her the drink.

“i’ll have you know i was snuggled up ready for some netflix action before you called.”

“you came all this way for a dance with little ol’ me?”

“of course, alex. i have missed you.”

“i have missed you too, the red bull stuff is piling up and i have been neglecting my big brother duties, i’m sorry. not that it seems to be effecting your rookie season too much.”

“don’t worry about me alex, i’m proud of you and what you’re doing at red bull, even if they’re being unreasonably hard on you.”

alex led her to the middle of the dance floor and put one hand on her hip, the other on her shoulder. they started to move to the music,

“i just miss when it was more laidback. i barely have time to stop between sim sessions and media duties and performance meetings. i miss sitting in your driver room laughing at your instagram private messages and watching stupid adam sandler movies.”

alex spun her and as she came back to him she said, “we can still do that alex! you don’t have to be alone, we can still watch adam sandler movies and ignore calls from helmut.”

alex smiled at her as the music slowed down.

“i wish i was here for you more in your rookie season,” alex laments but y/n interjects, “it’s only the fourth race. you’re focused on you and i wouldn’t want anything else. there’s time for us to find our way back to each other. you're a brother to me, like blood, there’s nothing that can destroy that bond.”

“i’m sorry lando is being a prick.”

“it is what it is.”

“no it’s not. we had each other last year, he should be there for you.”

“it’s whatever, i have max, i have you, i’ll survive.”

the music came to an end. the two embraced but when they broke apart y/n started heading for the exit, picking up max on the way through, the dutchman having already booked them an uber. y/n turned and waved to alex, she meant it when she said it was just one dance. she made a ‘call me sign’ and mouthed ‘adam sandler’ before rushing out of the bar with max.

alex turned and made his way to george who was still nursing his first drink at the bar. george didn’t respond when alex prompted him. the thai man nudged george laughing about how ‘y/n knows how to make a short and sweet appearance’ but still got nothing.

“you’re not seriously angry about a tango are you george?”

“no.”

“you’re a terrible liar,” alex whispered, “not as bad as lando but terrible nonetheless.”

“at least i’m not taking it out on her like lando.”

“no, you just use max as target pratice on your dart board for shits and giggles.”

“whatever.”

“fine, deal with it how you wanna big boy, but if you turn out like lando right now, i’ll be down two best friends and up two murder charges.”

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･

fin.

note: my first interlude! @deviltsunoda and i came up with these ideas so i could write shorter things while i have work and you guys still get fed! so enjoy this lil exploration into y/n and alex's friendship (they are so precious to me!) and why lando is being such an asshole... enjoy! the weekend should bring chapter four.

taglist: @folkloresreputation @hc-dutch @shimmermotorsport @96mcobo @eclipsedcherry @formulaal @czennieszn @gothicwidowsworld @emily-b @suns3treading @henna006 @kazgirl20 @anotherapollokid @littlegrapejuice @daemyratwst @annimausi @yawn-zi @lulu-1998 @xsilkesworld @justaf1girl @daddyslittlevillain @evans-dejong @abq654 @elizamoe133 @wierdflowerpower @t1nkerbel1 @okcurran @raizelchrysanderoctavius @skepvids @multilovebot @fernandoalonso14 @jules-kup-172 @m4xgirlie @rorabelle15 @minkyungseokie @formula1-motogpfan @peterholland04 @miureiz @freyathehuntress @lighttsoutlewis @aleatorio1234 @chaosandevelyn @blueberry648579 @dog-and-cat-person230 @fastandcurious16 @obxstiles @cosmicwintr @becca388510 @savagittariuspy

#f1 imagine #f1 x reader #f1 instagram au #f1 x you #f1 #f1 social media au #f1 fic #f1 fanfic #formula1 #formula one #astonmartinii

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formylovetodaryldixon · 28 days ago

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"Without you." Daryl Dixon Imagine.

Summary: As the two of you navigate the mysterious and sometimes turbulent waters of falling in love, a devil in angel's clothing threatens your life, managing to keep you quiet. Until Daryl finds out...

@gunnerblue21: So cool! I just found your content yesterday and so far im loving what im reading so youre amazing in my books lol so, for my request, i was wondering if you could write a story where back in the prison era, daryls girl best friend is secretly being harassed by one of the guys from woodbury, he knows that reader and daryl have a friends with benefits relationship secretly and threatens to out the reader to everyone about their secret if she tells anyone about about his harassment. When the dude from woodbury takes it too far one day and beats up the reader for trying to run from his abuse, daryl finds out and finds reader, he deals with the harassment his own daryl way lol im sorry if its long, i just really love protective daryl energy especially when its someone he really loves.

A/N: I felt some nice things with this imagine, hehe Promise it's not THAT boring, but I do hope the person who asked for this like it at least a little. Sorry for saying your name! I generally don't like the "she's mine" thing, but with Daryl I can break that rule. A warning about the sexual harassment theme in this story! although it's not very explicit. To everyone who has been harassed in any way, I'm so sorry. I still don't know why we keep silent, feeling guilty about our weakness to speak up and defend ourselves, ultimately feeling like we deserve that experience. I hope everyone can recover from that. There are surely mistakes, but it's 3 am and I have a baptism tomorrow, so I'll correct them as soon as possible. Thanks as always!

Your breathing is soft, but almost nonexistent in the void of the silent prison after the night swallows the sun, so silent that it forces Daryl to slide an arm around your waist, breaking the distance he promised himself to keep with you, searching for your warm skin beneath your short–sleeved shirt, fingers tickling your flesh with just a touch to elicit a slight movement from you, always accompanied by a sigh, a proof that you're still alive.

Sleeping together was not part of the deal, but a rule he broke long ago when, amid a world fractured by thunderous noises (guns, screams, curses), the gentle sound of your breathing helped him sleep.

Far from being a romance, the bittersweet story between the two of you began when you appeared that sweltering afternoon in the city alley next to Glenn, aimless walkers wandering the world, ruling it, and yet, his petulant, sarcastic, and judgmental, though always alert gaze, matched his condescension and hopeless and even somewhat dark comments that day—real, you couldn't deny it—but unnecessary, until it all ended in an argument between the two of you (the first of several along the way), with his true belief that he knew best shining brighter than the scorching sun.

Blue eyes like an ocean too dangerous to swim in stared at you relentlessly, a clear warning not to come closer, infested with trauma like sharks in the water.

“Ya wanna die, woman?”

That was his response to your desire to rescue Glenn when he was kidnapped, underestimating the only thing you had at hand and within you: a weapon you barely knew how to use, and an insatiable desire to live and help people. Daryl wasn't selfish, you could see it in his deep gaze—along with a somewhat terrifying intensity—it was just his own fervent wish not to die with that sharp pain under the hands and teeth of the undead, and yet, that didn't prevent the feeling inside you. You hated Daryl so deeply you could taste it on the tip of your tongue, an almost metallic taste.

“There are worse fates than death.”

Your words echoed in him the entire time it took you all to return to the camp outside Atlanta, everyone finally safe, momentarily.

Losing his brother made him withdraw from the back—and—forth conversations, sometimes empty, never deep because everyone wanted to leave the past in the back of their heads when the present and future felt like stepping into a minefield, but Daryl was always ready for the hunt and feed the people, bringing in small animals (after losing that deer and taking out his frustration on that already–finished walker) leaving them quietly near Carol or Lori, before retreating to the solitude of his tent.

Yet you always ran into each other in that small space, by chance or when Rick started to lead the camp in his endless attempt to keep everyone alive. Arguments between such different people became normal, something routine, but you were one of the few who let him go off the deep end, with the annoying and loud way Daryl used to snap at others, highlighting their lack of survival skills, with you ending the pointless conversation with a whatever, leaving him incredulous, with a frown so deep it hurt and the incandescent desire to throw a curse at you that he swallowed.

A new life had begun when that new world arose, stained with the blood of those who perished along the way, and although Daryl was always calm and ready to survive—amid his short temper that sometimes put him at risk as well—the annoyance that settled in his chest when he saw you, laughed in his face, turning the table where his cold apathy rested.

You were beautiful to look at, and the way you wrinkled your nose before smiling caught him like a poor rabbit in a trap, falling into his own trap, turning him into a prey, pathetic, vulnerable, and weak, and Daryl hated you even more for it. He hated you because you made that gesture especially with Glenn, as if you could destroy all your walls around yourself when you were with the Chinese boy (even though Daryl knew he was Korean) only to build them up again when you were with him. Daryl didn't recognize it as jealousy, even though it was, in all its splendor.

Daryl Dixon wasn't used to calling people with sweet names (they were a punch to his masculinity), but he found himself calling you lil' bunny, using that false sweetness that carried all his sarcasm in that moment. And those words were a mockery of your entire existence, you knew it, as if you were weak. But with what would happen later, you managed to convince yourself that you were.

But your sass almost matched his own, turning you into a dream Daryl dreamed at night and a nightmare during the day, and yet, he began to look for you with his eyes when the day began, always making sure you were somewhere safe, always making sure you were in his line of sight. And maybe it was staring at you too much that made him think of you differently, almost sinfully, thoughts so shameless and impure that they made him blush or feel the heat on the tips of his ears and inside his pants.

Sometimes, just seeing you exist there in the middle of the woods made him feel things that were warm, and unpleasant, and totally foreign to him. Life had been a bitch to Daryl, so unfair that it was hard to believe those things had happened to a kid (like something out of fiction, out of the most twisted mind), but they were real and they happened, and all the experiences he'd lived through built who he was—though he'd eventually put it all behind him. Daryl was hurt, both physically and emotionally, so battered and broken that he was unable to feel big, good things, keeping the wounds of war in the shadows after he'd barely escaped from that hostile place alive: his own home, ironically.

The iron blows of his parents' fists sank into his body and played cruel tricks on his mind until that little angel with blond hair and blue eyes had his tiny wings ripped off and he was convinced that heaven never existed, and that he deserved hell. So for Daryl, this new world was just a new kind of hell he knew how to live in.

Although he had also managed to chuckle a few times, a short, harsh sound, always accompanied by his usual sarcasm, like that day you two had to find a car to get back to camp when night fell, too dark and dangerous to walk.

The damned engine resisted, stubborner than a mule.

“Go ahead, give it some gas. Jus' a lil'.” You turned the key that was connected to the car, hearing a dry, harsh sound that Daryl tried to stop with a rap on the hood, his eyes finding yours between the slits. “Stop! I said a lil'!”

“That was a little.”

“No, that was too much.”

“How am I supposed to know when too much is too much, Daryl?”

“Ya listen, and if it sounds like too much, then s' too much.”

You frowned, confused and irritated.

“You're too much.”

“What?”

A moment later, the car decided to cooperate, but when Daryl got in, slamming the door with a little too much force than necessary, your body tensed in the seat as he drove back, opening his stupid mouth to just snarl at you like a child. And as always, you let him talk until he shut up.

“Bite me, asshole.”

Though with all the dirty thoughts about you piling up in his mind, a pile so high he could no longer see the end of it, Daryl didn't know if that was an insult or an invitation.

His temper was a roller coaster that went up and down so violently that a crash seemed imminent, with you always feeling like it would all be over in a second, catastrophic, making you feel unstable. But among the things that could be salvaged about Daryl, it was his undeniable, indelible desire to protect people—his people. Behind his apparent apathy, there was a need to make sure everyone was safe.

You had seen it, you had felt it. Between the unspoken words and the stares that trapped each other, even between the layers of his false hatred for you, he would often stand in front of you at any sign of danger, when things felt deadly, one arm extended in the air to guide you behind him while Daryl used his own body as a shield for you at the same time.

By the time you all arrived at the CDC, the fake place that seemed like a fairy tale (too perfect to be real) gave you a false sense of security, and beneath four walls that promised a safe and even promising future, Daryl dared to do what he never thought he'd be capable of.

That night, when there was no one left, not a soul wandering the world, there was only him and you, and his hand that closed around your waist in the kitchen. With your back to him, your body tensed, his heat invading your senses until you were drunker, even after all the wine at dinner, but when you felt his breath on your hair and recognized his full presence, the confusion of pulling away and pressing yourself against his body, which was already too close, was so great that the line between them blurred.

“Tell me to stop. Please.” You closed your eyes as his calloused fingers, the result of a lifetime of working with them, pressed against your stomach, and it contracted every muscle in your body, awakening a scorching heat inside, right where he was touching and a little lower. “Can I keep goin'?”

You nodded. And the rest was history.

Daryl just needed to get you out of his system, give his body the answers to that question in his head: what would it feel like to touch you, to feel you pressed against him, naked? Part of him hoped to feel in his own body that your time together would be a disaster so he could move on, but the problem was, it wasn't at all.

Shit, you were passionate even in intimacy, your hands pressing his body against yours the entire time that night lasted. And like becoming addicted to the most dangerous drug in the world, he and you started looking for each other again after that, even after the explosion of that place, during the time at the farm. Being between your legs, doing something other than thinking, blocked out the outside world and all the dangers and sadness it brought. Daryl always started there, especially when the whole dysfunctional but close–knit family arrived at the prison and that gave you two a kinda decent bed instead of the floor of a tent, when time gave you all a break.

Then you started to think that the more you cared for someone, the more vulnerable you were to a broken heart. But between the way you started wrinkling your nose when Daryl actually said something that might have been funny (sometimes unintentionally because he had no sense of humor) he started to let his interest in you show, though only one person outside of the original group seemed to notice.

Among the people of Woodbury, existed someone who hid his empty heart beneath the facade of being a good boy, always willing to lend a hand. Like new lives in a new environment, everyone struggled to adapt to that kind of normalcy, trying to collaborate to ensure the well–being of others. You among them, because you were kind or tried to be, eager to build a true future for the adults and especially the children, until that person mistook your good wishes for weakness.

One night, dressed again and breathing more calmly, Daryl and you existed in silence because life was simpler that way, less lonely, side by side in bed, but not touching, leaving a small space between you two, until he took a small rock from his pants that seemed even smaller in his large hands. It had no sharp corners, only smooth, smoothed edges.

It seemed polished, soft against your fingers, a reminder that not all that is hard is rough.

He handed it to you silently.

“Are you proposing to me penguin–style?” You joked with him, laughing when Daryl scoffed to mask the feelings he’d genuinely tried to keep from growing too much, but that were already spilling over the edge of his soul.

And as you inspected the stone under the dim light of the candle on a nearby table, Daryl took in the profile of your face, the tip of your nose, the edge of your lips, the ones he used to press against his, a demanding hand on the back of your head to keep you in place, and that sparkle in your eyes that seemed to glimmer with the power of a star.

“Thank you.” You meant it, but when you turned your head to look at him, Daryl looked away again, his eyes lost in the space between the cracks in the ceiling. “I’m truly grateful for this, so I apologize for all the times I cursed you too loud.”

Daryl frowned, his gaze searching yours, brave enough to do anything when it wasn't about feelings.

"Yer not loud, yer quiet as shit."

"In my head, I've cursed you in every way possible, very loudly. So I’m sorry.”

Again, a scoff, almost accompanied by a roll of his eyes as he settled back onto the uncomfortable mattress, closing his eyes as the weight of sleep began to overcome him, an arm draped over his face.

"Whatever. Now shut up, I wanna sleep."

Confused, and slightly offended by his sweet personality, your eyebrows tried to knit together.

"Are you going to sleep here?"

There was no annoyance in your voice—so you weren't chasing him away.

"I don' wanna walk back to ma cell."

And even with his eyes closed, you could see a new kind of ocean in his eyes, safe, peaceful.

You shrugged even though he wasn't looking at you, putting the rock in your pocket for safekeeping before closing your eyes as well. But when reason stumbled for an instant, you knew it was stupid to fall for Daryl—the person at your side who could be as much of a jerk as he was handsome—with his long hair now and those damned arms exposed, clearly hard to the eye even when he wasn't flexing them.

Daryl was intimidating, walking silently with his steely gaze that made people fear and respect him at the same time. His imposing figure was scary, but none of that mattered when everyone noticed that he genuinely cared for all and for you, in a selfless way.

And all of that made someone truly hate him.

Sean was charming, the opposite of Daryl's exterior: smiling, falsely warm, so kind at first glance that he offered to entertain the children in the library to distract them a little from the reality on the other side of the gates. And that's when it happened for the first time: his hand pressed against your backside in the solitude of that hellish place, empty after everyone left, so violent it froze you there, like a little rabbit that knows it will be devoured in the cruelest way possible.

“What are you—?”

Your stuttering made him smile, laughing at your fear, which crushed you cruelly, like a blow to the stomach that knocked all the wind out of your body. You knew there were still bad, unscrupulous people, but you didn't expect to find one in that place. A sick desire shone in his green eyes, a feline that played with the mouse's body even after it was dead, because deep down, he enjoyed that macabre and perverse pleasure of knowing he'd ended a life and could continue to amuse himself with the remains, of knowing he could do whatever he wanted with his victim.

You were never a victim, but he turned you into one in a single second, silently, taking away pieces of your will to live little by little.

And the harassment began that night, and not gradually, but escalated with such brutality that it made you vomit. Why didn't you say anything? Maybe you knew, maybe you didn't; maybe it was all the reasons, and because you couldn't find any that made sense. The fear of speaking up and made him being kicked out of security burned in your stomach, a new kind of hell that screamed at you with anger and mockery how stupid you were being. Telling Daryl would be like unleashing the lion from its cage, the beast that would end everything, though you knew Sean's expulsion would be a godsend considering what Daryl would do to him.

There were no labels between the two of you; you were nothing more than a piece of silence when the world became heartbreaking, but there was something about Daryl that everyone knew, a truth they spoke only with their eyes. The difference between Daryl and Rick, or Glenn, or the rest, was that Rick seemed to be guided in his decision–making by the shadow of his morals that still lingered within him, a memory of his past life, a compass to stay on track, while Daryl seemed willing to have no morals at all if it ensured the safety of his family.

And his anger could easily overcome his morals, or make them disappear in an instant.

Unbridled, such was his love and his anger. Daryl fought, hurt, and even killed, and you didn't want another body to fall lifeless because of you and become another scar on his mind, another reason to feel guilty about still being alive.

Sean's harassment was just words piercing your insides, calling you names others would call you if they found out you were Daryl's whore, words that were just that, nothing more: a terrifying touch that, like the wind, came and went, until one night, his hand pressed so hard into your flesh it almost felt like a bone of your ribs would break.

And when all that torture of a few minutes was over, you sat in the prison's backyard, asking for some kind of guidance from whoever or whatever was on the other end of the call. A sign, a hint of what to do, how to stop keeping quiet, how to stop suffering and fearing, but with no answer, just the devastating emptiness that seemed to swallow you alive—only shining to tell you that maybe the only way out was a bullet in the head, in his or yours.

But shit, the beast was dragging you down to hell with him, and you let him do it.

“Shit.” You cursed under your breath when someone sat behind you, but like the first time his body landed behind yours, it only took you a second to recognize him as you glanced over your shoulder. “You scared me.”

Daryl chuckled, his legs on either side of you.

“Whatcha doin' here? S' cold.”

Always hiding your feelings, you chuckled back.

“I was waiting for you.”

“Shut up.” He scoffed, wishing with all his might that it were true, that your feelings for him were as strong as his, but silently, always avoiding speaking about them, Daryl leaned forward until his chest was so close to your back that you could feel the warmth radiating from his body, even under his poncho. “Did ya have fun with the kids?”

He cared for everyone, without measure or any condition.

“Yeah. We read a lot today. I know it’s not your strong suit, so I won’t bore you with the details.”

“I can read, woman. I jus’ don’ like it.”

“Can you? Tell me the truth; I won’t tell anyone.”

It was an attack, but not an offense, and Daryl chuckled once more, that signature sound of his, before pressing himself against you, his hand cupping the spot where Sean had touched you without a hint of kindness, hand holding you with affection and a hint of teasing, his fingers almost cupping your breast.

"Hey." The tickle of his touch made you try to escape, but there was no way out when his other hand held you in place. "At least ask me out first."

He's screwed, always had been since that first afternoon together in the city, and now Daryl knew it clearly as he smiled softly against your hair, ignoring your fake protest as he tried to hide from his own feelings.

"Missed ya, bunny."

That same night, when he buried himself in you, you held him even closer, wanting to erase every touch Sean left on you, which still felt like fire burning your skin. But trauma, guilt, or shame—everything made you keep silent for the weeks that followed, which brought more damage, leaving you feeling more worn down every day, making your self–loathing grow, and even your desire to end it all.

And one day, it all turned into just pain, physical in every fiber of your being.

Sean had an unstable temper, quicker to anger and lose control than a little boy who didn't know how to manage his emotions, and hell, he did just that. In one moment, one of those distant moments now because you'd stopped going to the library alone, the devil disguised as an angel caught you in the emptiness of a hallway, his claws closing so tightly around your arm that it was easy for him to push you into an uninhabited room.

Don't cry, don't give him that pleasure. The only thing he won't be able to take away from you is that. Not one tear, not because of him. Fight, or at least die trying to be free, but he didn't give you the chance when his fist slammed into your belly, destabilizing your whole world, breaking something inside, just because in his eyes, as if you belonged to him, you dared not to listen to him, to try to run away from him. And when he felt he had nothing left to lose, Sean took advantage of every second of it. His anger was like those natural disasters that sweep away houses and people in their wake, leaving a stain of mud so big that covered the essence of your life and the hope to live that you always knew how to keep alive.

He didn't make a sound, and your body screamed without making the slightest sound either.

But life and pain became one when you were told it was your turn to go on a supply run, just you and Daryl because the chosen neighborhood was remote and small, enough territory for only two people to go. You were good, you were careful, meticulous about not letting walkers see you, but Sean had exposed you to so much pain that your vision blurred at the edges of your eyes, obscuring your gaze to the point where you didn't see the walker who pushed you against the wall of that kitchen in that abandoned house.

Maybe it was the sound of his fist in your ear that kept you from hearing death.

Life passed in a second, like the worst things that end quickly because they don't deserve to have freedom in the world, almost dying when you took too long to press the knife against his skull, the sharp edge finally sinking into what remained of his rotting flesh at the same time as an arrow.

The lifeless body fell to the ground, as heavy as your breath.

Every day that you had to leave the protection of the prison, it was like a blow to his chest, or so it felt to Daryl, with no air in his lungs until you finally returned, always worried that something would happen to you, that you wouldn't come back to wrinkle your nose in sarcasm or happiness, but in that moment, when death's hands truly almost closed around your body, Daryl could swear he saw life laughing at him as it played with yours.

You were there, but the next second you could not be.

And Daryl lost control.

"Are ya stupid?!"

Yes, you were, but not for the reasons he thought.

He shouted a few cruel words, and you listened silently, missing another chance to tell the truth, lowering your gaze for the first time in your life, but holding your head as high as you could, somewhat exhausted. For Daryl, the thought of you vanishing from his life was terrifying, but in that moment, that possibility became devastating and unbearable.

The drive back to the prison was so silent it stunned you.

The afternoon fell, heavy and lonely as you sank into your cell, lying on your side and face against the wall, wanting to disappear so far that not a trace of your existence would remain in the world. With your body aching, your muscles begging for mercy, and a mind screaming into the void to let it sleep until the end of days, you fell asleep. You had fought hard for the hope of living even in that world dictated by Sean's selfishness, always without conscience, eager to see blood, but not spilling it like the coward he was, enjoying sending you tumbling off the cliff only to catch you a second before hitting the ground, repeating the action over and over again.

Always on the verge, but never allowed to truly die.

That night, late when the icy wind chilled him to the bone and let him think, Daryl entered your cell, leaving dinner on a plastic plate on the only table.

“(Y/N)?” He sat on the edge of the bed, his heartbeat blocking his throat and any attempt at an apology Daryl was ready to utter. “Hey—”

“Leave me alone.”

“Bunny—”

“Don’t call me that.”

Your indifference hurt more than your anger, more than the blows he’d received in his childhood and in that life. So many years of abuse in the place that should have been the safest for him—his house, not a home—and yet, Daryl would much rather have to face that hell again, as a child, than have to feel the cold of your heart.

“M' sorry.”

“I don’t wanna hear you.”

Daryl swallowed, hard.

“Can I stay here at least?”

His voice was low, deep, but terrified, like the child silently begging his mother to love him, even after feeling her hatred.

“Do whatever you want.”

It felt like the entire prison was collapsing on his chest, crushing him underneath.

Daryl feigned courage, refusing to accept the idea that this was the end of both of you, and he lay down, on his side even though his view of you was your back, the space between you feeling wider than an abyss. And again, as the minutes or a couple of hours passed, your breathing slowed, hiding behind the silence of the place. You had forbidden him any access to your body, losing that right himself with his stupidity and his actions, with his outburst, with his fear of losing you that Daryl didn't know how to begin to explain, but the idea of feeling your lifeless body, in any sense, in the most brutal or the simplest way (like simply stopping breathing, an unnecessary fact that Hershel had dropped one afternoon long ago) made him cross the boundaries you silently drew, reaching out his nervous hand to tickle you as he had been doing so many times that he had lost count.

Just a touch, so light you wouldn't feel it. Yet when his fingers lifted a fraction of your long–sleeved shirt, a whimper of pain seeped between your closed lips. Daryl frowned, for you'd never done that in your life together, and then, a red bruise glowed almost imperceptibly in the light of the candle that was a few nights away from burning out.

His calloused fingers slid over your skin to expose you even more, just as the pain made you wake with a gasp.

"Stop."

"The fuck happened to ya?"

Your words and his collided, a mess scattering around the room as you turned, sitting up with a pain you held prisoner between your still closed lips as he sat up as well, and your confused, dazed, and anger–filled expressions met, face to face. There was no place to hide your surprise anymore.

“Daryl—”

“Who?” His voice grew thicker, more dangerous with the full weight of his rage. “Ain't gonna ask ya again, (Y/N). But m' gonna beat the shit outta every single person in this whole fuckin’ place 'til I find out who it was if ya don’ tell me who did that to ya.”

He was threatening you… not you, but there it was, the moment looming when he would lose control, reaching the point of no return. Your throat was so dry it hurt to swallow, feeling the fear in every corner of your being, as if you were made of nothing but that.

“Daryl—” His jaw was so tight it hurt, you could see it, every muscle that contracted, but he didn't ask again, true to his promise. “Please, no, it's not worth it.”

And then he saw it clearly, the pain in your eyes that hurt more than that bruise on your skin, the misguided idea that, somehow, you were the one who wasn't worth it, that the person who hurt you wasn't worth hurting. And that was more painful for him, for the man who took other people's pain as his own, especially if it came from the person he loved the most. And between the small spaces of his anger, Daryl felt his gaze water as he approached you as he could, pulling you close, until his demanding hand cupped the back of your head, once again to look you in the eyes.

“M'sorry, m' so sorry.” His deep voice cracked on the last word, but it was all or nothing, to love you completely or not to love you at all. “M'sorry I yelled at ya, m'sorry I was such a jerk. I swear I only did it 'cause m' terrified of losin' ya. I love ya so much that I know I can’t live in a world without ya. I’d die for ya, ya know that, but I hope I don’ have to 'cause I want a future with ya. An' to do that, I need to keep ya alive.”

Daryl pulled away, playing his part.

“Tell me the name. I’ll do the rest.”

Then, you said his name out loud, for the first time. And Daryl nodded, pressing his lips to yours in a hard, short kiss before he left, without another word. Unable to speak, you knew it was either you or Sean; you couldn’t save both of you: and he didn’t deserve to be saved either.

And it all made sense to Daryl in that moment, the way you stopped going to the library alone, the way you started jumping in fright whenever he touched you, an act that began when that boy came into his own home, daring to destroy it, not knowing how far someone like Daryl Dixon would go for you. Sanity faded into the shadows, terrified of fighting a nearly savage man, a man who lived so much in the wild that he adopted the instincts of an animal: fight to dead to live, to protect.

He clenched his fists, so tight the skin seemed to stretch to the point of breaking. Daryl needed nothing more than his own hands, hard and rough after using them to fight for his own life. And though his mind was clouded with only one murderous thought, his near–perfect memory led him seamlessly through the prison until he found Sean's cell.

The bars creaked slightly when he opened them, but the peacefully sleeping boy didn't feel it until Daryl's hand closed around his neck, with no trace of gentleness until he pushed Sean to the ground, though his fingers itched to break it right there. It was like forcing a dormant volcano to awaken, a force of nature that not human could stop.

Sean whined, scared, feeling the fear of being prey in his body. He looked so small compared to Daryl that Daryl felt a throb of pity, one that disappeared instantly.

"Out."

"What?"

“Get the fuck outta this prison 'fore I step on yer neck. An' if ya cry for help like the lil' bitch ya are, I'll break it 'fore ya say a word.”

He knew Daryl would do it, without any guilt. There was a blankness in his gaze, but somehow, all his composure was gathered there, and that was even more terrifying to Sean. Daryl wasn't completely blinded by his anger, but rather used it almost strategically, calculatingly. So he did it. Sean walked down death row in silence, feeling his heart pounding in his prickles, his mind so messed up that he couldn't even imagine how it would all end, but knowing it would.

The cold air hit him in the face, as hard as a punch.

"Listen, man, I don't know what's going on, but I swear you're wrong." Daryl's expression remained flat, emotionless, even though they were all over his body, noisy, buzzing in his ears, so loud that they blocked out the sound of the walkers' growling on the other side. And when Sean saw that his words didn't make even the slightest change on his face, he feigned dementia even more. "I don't know what (Y/N) told you, but she's crazy. She threw herself at me."

There it was, the typical excuse, absolving himself of all blame only to throw it at you.

Which only made his blood boil.

"Yeah, she kinda is. (Y/N) is wild, but she's good, one of the best people in this fuckin' place an' in this fuckin' world, an' ya dared to hurt what's mine even though ya knew I'd kill ya."

“I don’t—” Sean choked on his terror, so latent it made his body shake even more, like a tiny leaf. “I’m sorry, I swear. Please don’t kill me, I don’t want to die.”

And it was funny how Daryl remembered what you said to him that first day.

“There are worse fates than death, but by the time m' done with ya, yer gon' beg me to kill ya.”

Like fire on gunpowder, everything was strident even when there wasn’t a deafening sound. Time stretched each time Daryl gave him a break, a pause just to make him feel the pain of each blow more, for his body to register it even after his mind shut down when it could no longer take so much damage, his system shutting down as well, leaving Sean on the edge of the precipice until morning came.

The exact trace of time was lost long ago, but when Daryl returned to your cell, you were still there, sitting on the edge of the bed, one leg tucked beneath you, the other on the floor as if everything had frozen, until you looked up and your gaze regained a little life, a promise that everything would soon be all right.

“Lie down.”

You did, silently and painfully. Daryl lay down with you, closing the space between you for the first time, as if it had never existed.

#daryl dixon imagine #daryl dixon x reader #daryl dixon twd #daryl dixon x y/n #daryl dixon #daryl dixon x female reader #daryl dixon x you

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ihopeinevergetsoberr · 1 month ago

Text

playing with this bow (and arrow)

— chapter 5

author’s note: jayce is back (finally). so is porn (also finally). a wholesome little thing before i wreck your lives in the next chapter again. oh well. silly me

word count: 4,5k

p.s.

the smut part is to be read to libertango by piazolla.

—

Viktor had always liked emergency rooms.

He liked the way tangy dryness sprayed through his nose once he sucked in the acerbic air. How it popped the blood vessels in his whites so the iris became the feline color of sulphur. It was a cleansing, of sorts. A disinfectant baptism performed by the older nurse with kind, wrinkly hands and a frizzy perm. It reminded him of his babča’s first aid kit. Of bitter iodine crusting over a scraped knee and the ugly satisfaction of picking the wound to saccharine plasma.

His dislikes held no prose—just scarce variables, and watching you sob for him presided over the intolerable. That trifle threatened to rob him of the childish sanctity of being tended to: a single whimper of a devastated wife is what it takes to turn a mildly scathed kid back into a maimed man. And Viktor couldn’t afford it. Not with such horrific inflation.

Another proseless segment included spoon-feeding. But any marriage is grounded in bartering. He’d trade each slurp of soup for a flashy roll of his eyes. He’d strangle an irked sigh whenever you wiped chowder grease off his chin. And he’d hope, with all his meagre might, to make you strangle your apologies in return.

Dolorous, you had eyes like vitric film. Glassy retinas with bloodshot smears promptly lumping around the iris. A wept-out study in watercolor misery. Short in supply, its palette featured the following options:

The black of his suit, folded on the bruised puce of your knees—a dark merge of shared post-collapses;

The synesthetic nightmare of omnipresent white and its thousand medical flavors (each prescribed to a different disease, Viktor presumed);

The leathery brown of your coat and loafers, lovely if only for the haphazardness of their choice;

And, lastly, the chowder. Unapologetically yellow.

He opens his mouth for another spoonful and tuts when it bounces off his teeth with a pungent click.

“Když na to nemáš, tak to nedělej,” he sneers. If you can’t do it—don’t do it.

His hospital bracelet matches the soup. A stupid choice of warning, in your mind. Apparently, nothing screams this patient is a fall risk more than a cheesy shade of warm meals.

“The wristband’s ridiculous,” you announce. It is the first coherent thing to leave your mouth in an hour, and Viktor is stirred mid-slurp.

“How so?” he babbles, but the syllables come out of him all drooly, scorched consonants moving into labio-velar. Whwow wwo? Like he’s chewing a hot potato whilst high as a kite. And he is both. Incidentally so. It’s just that you are too high yourself to pick up on it. His kind nurse—bless her fried-off hair—might just be the local Diazepam dealer.

“It doesn’t work,” you say, leaning into your chair. It bends under your neck with a rusty squeak—has you flinching in a fleeting prospect of stumbling backward. But the angle is hardly tipping—merely dangerously acute. You open your eyes to the pupil-slicing blanch of the ceiling and close them again without ever trying to count the ripples. Today has been numb enough already. You shouldn’t squander your only intact sense.

Viktor remumbles his question.

“That’s just it,” you insist. “What does yellow have to do with fall risks?”

“Well, what would you use yellow for?”

That makes you think: hard, with leg-bouncing effort. Your forehead splices into upturned shrivels, taut skin pulling thick eyelids part-open. The view obscures, detached, its top half all lashes and murky veins. The bottom is slashed with Viktor’s head floating above the pillow. Mortifying, if not for the promise of a body uncoiling beneath.

Twenty ECG beeps and two kicked-off shoes later, you finally have your answer: “I don’t know. Jaundice patients?”

He rasps a blunt chuckle—unexpected, but not unwelcome. Spent and throaty, it comes out of him in a spitting cough, that artificial, creaky laughter hissing like a cartridge getting stuck in a scratched record.

His little spoon clinks at you: a disagreement to be acknowledged. Or, maybe, the sound’s culprit has simply finished his meal. Either way, you don’t flinch to check. If something actually happened, the pulse monitor would go crazy.

“Don’t you think it’s rather counterproductive, miláčku?”

The linen shuffling confirms it: his greasy feast is over. You can still hear the smile in his voice, possibly an ear-to-ear one.

“Whwow wwo?” You drawl, watching his floating head grow a tense, stringy neck when he sits up to sneer at you.

“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that. Now, to answer your question: a yellow wristband on a jaundice patient is a pointless trinket. It’s a—Er, I don’t know.” Viktor turns to stare at your knees. He swallows a candidate metaphor—once, twice. The final pick has him beaming, “A third wheel, if you will. Pun intended.”

“But why?”

His coughing chuckle spurts into a whistle. The ECG joins in on the mockery, hastening by a few digitized heartbeats. He could use them as a metronome if he wanted to. Something tender would be most fitting—like ‘Lieder ohne Worte’ or Debussy’s Arabesques.

“Let’s see.” He holds his wrist up, almost yanking the drop-counter out of a cobalt vein. “Yellow? Jaundice? It’s a dormitive principle.”

His delivery of that one is brutal, and you have to sigh like it finally dawned on you.

“Oh,” you feign.

But then it really dawns on you.

“Oh.”

Viktor sinks into his pillow, grinning. “It’s a good thing your doctorate wasn’t medical.”

“It is a very good thing indeed.”

“Besides, what do jaundice patients need wristbands for? Can’t one usually tell what is wrong with them, so to speak, at face value?”

“Was the pun intended again?”

“Evidently.”

“But what are they to do if they’re a jaundiced fall risk?”

“That, I couldn’t tell you. Ask someone who has jaundice. If those are still around, that is.”

You flay your eyes from beneath their veiny shield and leisurely roll them at him. The wonky graph of pulse on the little screen stutters a rigid skip when your chair ricochets with a squeal, sending you into a violent plunge towards his cot. Your mouth starts wriggling in a laugh—a wide open one, with saliva strings hanging off the pink palate. Viktor picks it up—a bit constrained, yet just as wry—and on you crack, spitting, wobbling, shrieking, so randomly compounded in this bout of homely, hyenic hysteria.

It lasts about sixty heartbeats, and then it’s over.

Breathless, you plow your elbows over his blanket. Raise your head and look at him from beneath spry lashes, as if beckoning to dip a long finger into the warm adhesive of pupils. To touch your perception of him—his angles, his sorrow, his smile-lines like semiquavers atop the fermata of wan lips.

The last peal of laughter bounces off his neck when you vault for it, swallowing a croak. “I don’t think I know what jaundice is anymore.”

“Lay off the sedatives,” Viktor whispers. The warning trickles between your hairs, fondling the very scalp.

“Why?”

“They make you conjure up funny things.”

“Big word. Sadly, I no longer know that one either.”

Suddenly, the door to the ward creaks ajar, and Viktor feels the draft of wind whistle inside, abetted by a cyan speck of light from the corridor. That upsets him—he is in no mood for visitors. He has only just let you throw an audacious leg onto his cot, fingers playing with the bloody concave under that funny round bone he likes—also a fermata, brutally engraved by a roughened loafer worn over a bare foot.

Hesitant, he taps you on the thigh—a stringent, sonorous warning. Which you concede, of course, albeit not without a tantrum. More rolling was in order: of eyes and voice boxes swallowing peevish curses as you slide back into your chair.

A crimped, citrine head clings to the door frame. Yellow is following Viktor around: you are sure of it, and the nurse’s mouth stretches agape to back up your suspicion. Her smile is ominous. Not inherently, merely by aesthetics—waxy, gaping teeth planted far too shallow, thus exposing wet, spindly roots and inflated gums.

Morbid aside, the omen proves good. “Your doctor will be with you shortly,” the woman promises in a sing-songy voice. “He is ready to get you discharged.” Then, she turns to address you, grinning reverently: “Honey, you look tense. Would you like another pill?”

“She’s had enough, thank you,” Viktor replies curtly. Your jaundice antics, however amusing, are wearing him out, and he wishes to hear no more of them.

He regrets the nerve right away. As soon as the nurse turns to leave, he breaks, snorting at the lovely violence in between his ribs—a cheeky knuckle, curved like a solid brass thing. Nudging him in the sternum with all its tender valor so he arches in an uncouth cackle, seizing you into a drooly kiss.

It excites him, that damp whack of lips over sweaty chins suddenly much too bulky. Numb taste buds cutting on crooked canines. His is a simple strategy: if he couldn’t talk the inhibition out of you, he shall kiss it away. Or, at the very least, push it to the side with his tongue—just the tip, just the flick, prying you laxer to make room for candor. He wishes you used your mouth with honesty. Wishes you said what you mean and meant what you say. But when he reaches for your throat, the words he’s digging for refuse to course. Instead, there’s just spit, tipping over and pouring out. Dribbling medicated froth onto his hospital gown.

“Why did you send her away? I could use more drugs,” you slur the last syllable so hard it serves an objection to your complaint. Viktor’s lungs sputter yet another hoarse laugh.

“That woman should get her license revoked,” he says. Licks a cautious smack against your brow and bows to your shoulder, sipping on a whiff. It rubs his nostrils—heady, provocative. Kindles a sneeze with that oxymoronic something. Sleepy sex, so clashingly cohesive. Dusty leather and dolent valerian, he detects. Dirty skin aquiver under his mouth.

You throw your head back for his gnawing. “I thought you liked her.”

“I did. Until she drugged you silly. I might need your wits for later tonight.” “Don’t you hate me?”

“Not exactly. Do you want me to hate you?”

“To an extent, yes. That would make things easier.”

“It’s not like you knocked me out. It’s an occupational hazard. Hunger and insomnia make one nasty cocktail when paired with panic.”

“You could’ve gotten a concussion. Or break your spine. Or—”

“Or a meteorite could’ve blasted into us to burn down the entire district. Where are you going with this?”

You reach for his chin, firm grip like that of a muzzle gently pushed in between bared teeth. God-like-dog-like sentiments, interchangeable. He inhales through his mouth and waits for you to proceed, leaning into the lead of your arms. The blinding bulb wags its tail of light from inside his pupils.

“I’m sorry,” you wheeze. The dog you’ve leashed regains his backward simile. God-like-dog-like. A pendulum of essentially identical euphemisms.

“What for?” Viktor asks. There’s a strange margin to his grin, one eager for the lack of admission so he can rub it in your face once you’re done blubbering.

But you strip him of the pleasure. “For intimidating you into unconsciousness, for a start. We can unpack my wifely failures later.”

He kisses you again. Attempts an abashed push-and-pull of unwieldy hair slickened to your forehead and shivers at the resigned endearment. Milova-čku. Like he failed to pick just one and chose to slam them together in his rush to deliver. It settles like a reproach. Of no one but himself, of course. He is but a libertine creature, taut vehemence dying, sibilant, at the clash of his teeth against yours. He knows that he’s opting semantics for saliva again. Aims for something he shouldn’t have been after in the first place. And his whim is anything but complex. So much so that it’s almost obscene and piteous, like the first delicious shock of a boyish orgasm. Because enmity is but a trinket against innocent passions, and Viktor’s might just be the simplest, truly invincible one. I missed you. No one will ever invent a remedy for that.

It ends just as abruptly as it has started. All impulses are triggered by commotion, and this one is no exception—something shiny strikes Viktor’s peripheral, goading a quick wince. Captious, he turns to assess the intruder, brushing your nose with his mid-pivot. You follow his eyes to their very destination, and when they reach it (the doorway, unalterably cyan), your lungs give a tapering hitch—something rather bronchitic, too stunned to pass for eupnea. Or maybe Viktor’s alarm was airborne. Marriage is grounded in bartering, he did say so himself, but sometimes these oaths dabble in unfair trades—such as bouts of panic in exchange for affection.

You draw your fingers back. There remains a fleeting phantom of Viktor’s hair under your nails, jagged as the debacle of his shoulder from when you gripped it, shouting into the mouthpiece. Everything feels lethargic now. Jayce’s voice on the other line, sincerely shouting back. His expensive suede shoes bumping your dirty loafers in the ambulance—a terrified, jittery high-five. The red and blue hues wailing in his thick lenses.

Now, Jayce is standing on the threshold, toying with his—how could you have missed it?—yellow tie.

The men regard one another with prudent caution, only Jayce’s is round-eyed—amicable. Viktor’s eyes dally in their morose little wince. He bites his tongue.

“I thought I was being treated by another doctor,” he says, stretching out in his cot. His gown slips, teasing a hollow clavicle.

Jayce gasps, preparing to dispel the confusion, but you snatch the honors out of his mouth.

“He is not a doctor. Well, not yours.”

“Pardon?”

“He’s mine,” you mumble. Viktor snorts at the wording.

“What on earth do you need a doctor for?”

“Everything,” Jayce cuts in. “Sadly, I am only able to provide counseling.”

At that, the men turn to face each other once again. Your eyes meander between the two, stumbling over their dissemblances.

It is strange to have both of them in one room. It weighs heavily on your throat, sticky sweat amass under your leather collar. You feel it percolate down your back like a gross little stream, large drops sagging down each sore vertebrae. Jayce extends a hand towards Viktor, and you are delighted by the coil of their fingers—a momentary shake of thick and sinew.

“Doctor Talis,” Jayce introduces himself. His yellow tie dangles before Viktor’s face, lighting a polite smile. “But you may call me Jayce. For how much shit I talk about you twice a week, it is only right that I become a family friend.”

Now that really cracks Viktor up. With a hurtled swing, he throws his head back and laughs, flashing both rows of slightly crooked teeth. You look at Jayce, mouthing a baffled thank you.

“Doctor Talis,” Viktor repeats. The last name bounces off his tongue in two lively rubatos. “You didn’t tell me you started counseling.”

“I didn’t get the chance,” you chide. “I was too busy screaming at you.”

“Which I don’t condone, by the way,” Jayce notes, throwing you a glare. You catch your tiny reflection in his glasses, mawkish as a child being scolded.

“Of course you don’t,” Viktor agrees. His hand bucks under your sleeve, grabbing mindless hold of one button. You notice that everyone is fidgeting with a trinket of some kind, and that endeavour finally pulls the strain to one last pre-intermission jerk—the pressure in the air snapping, the toothy smiles finally bubbly instead of gritting. And you want to keep them there. In the blinding white of the ward, bonded over your conic cries and inadequacies, with their clothes askew and kind, thin mouths agape. Two worn-out, agitated creatures. Two darlings, conditionally yours—one for the humble price of two hundred korunas an hour, the other billing in not-so-humble devotion.

“She hardly ever listens to me, you know,” Jayce complains, pulling up a chair beside you. The remark makes you elbow him in the pillowy side. Now that they’ve switched to third person, the guilty kid contrasts are inevitable.

“It seems we are constrained by the same misery,” Viktor bites back.

“Quit it.” You wrench your sleeve out of his grasp. “I’m still in the room and you’re being impolite.”

“That we are. Apologies, we should probably stop. Jayce, how come you’re not in the office?”

“Oh, Mrs.Knirsch gave me a distressed call. I came as quickly as I could.”

“I see. How very customer-centric.”

“I am very fond of your wife. And of you, in absentia. Speaking of which, how do you feel?”

“Why, much better, thank you. It was only a minor fluke. Something to do with hunger and exhaustion. I was fed and stuffed with pills—generously. They are sending me home as we speak.”

The familiar drowsiness seizes your eyelids. A flimsy thing, it comes upon you like an itchy counterpane, so different to your trite fits of queasy spasms. No, this one is anything but abject. It collates your thoughts into flimsy concepts. Stretches your mouth into a smile that matches Viktor’s lopsided snugness.

You hunch in that homely equilibrium, pushing Viktror’s fingers apart to make space for yours. But it’s not enough. You crave the closure of both husband and shrink. Sadly, your semantics are still out of reach, their placid urgency but a prickly lump on your tongue. So you simply drift toward Jayce’s shoulder. Permissive, it budges under your cheek. Round gentle muscle at your weary disposal. Such a far cry from Viktor’s twists and slants. And still, you claim it, and slide a little lower—to the stifling perfumed tinge of his chest, the inviting blur of soft, motley plaid. If you couldn’t ask to be fixed, you would take it as it comes. Slow, infusing, and placatory. Anything for the nostrum.

Because you know it: the instant Viktor steps into the apartment, you will be back at it again—to hell with fainting flurries and alert resentments. You’ll go at each other full-force—none of that half-cocked, glowering nonsense. No, this one will be meaty. Every entrail strewn inside-out to find out who made whom rot the most.

But for now, he just laughs, and you get to savor it. To blink, shutter-like, for the sake of taping a mental memo. And when Viktor’s doctor comes in with the last recommendations, you don’t listen to him much. You simply close your eyes and buzz into Jayce’s shirt—something loutish about feeling terrific, about your numb limbs, or sedatives, or the layer of sweat permeating under your coat.

“Who are you?” The doctor points to Jayce. “Only family members are allowed in the room.”

“He can stay,” Viktor answers. “He’s a family friend after all.”

The cataplexy pervades to the sound of their chuckles.

—

At home, you both become taciturn again. Not because you want to, but rather for the lack of drugged leverages. There’s no jaundice to pore over. No friendly shrinks telling you crude jokes. Just moderate insanity, back to cordoned-off square one.

The expected shouting turns out to be a death rattle. “It’s nice that you’re in therapy,” Viktor tells you. Crawls into the shower, just so. And you can only nod, helping him onto his stool. Turning the water on for him to pass for redundant, tranquil rectitude. One he doesn’t frown upon—not just yet, not while he’s too out on a limb to be picky with affections. Once the glass door is covered in vapor, you take your clumsy leave. Bare feet asmack on slippery tiles. He stares after you, sodden, with chlorine beads in his eyes.

The bedroom smells of wood and varnish, perhaps even more distinctly than in the morning. It’s almost like the instrument yearns for its owner, eager to lure you in with weird resin pheromones. And you’re so easy to entice, already hovering above the hip-dip-like slope of the cello and poking your fingers into the f-shaped holes.

The clock promises you three more hours of bow-slapping madness. It is plenty—for an amateur, that is. For you, it’s nearly not enough for the warm-up. And still, you falter—a taut, almost guilty sequence. Turn to the bathroom door in gobsmacked catatonia. Listen to the water running. Sit down and lay the cello on your shoulder, petting the fingerboard.

The pegbox greets you with a soft crunch, A-string snapping looser. But you don’t touch it. You simply stick the scroll where it fits into you most: always the nose bridge, your favorite concave to crush.

Fifteen ceaseless minutes later, he comes back with a towel around his hips, wet footprints soaking into the parquet. You watch the blood flow to his face in a faint, shy rouge—a momentary switch of tables, that very electric instance before his cheeks turn hollow again. “I’m only tuning it,” you slur. The word breaks in half, chopping off the gerund: tun-in. You swallow it, praying that Viktor misses this dimwit’s blunder.

There are clamp-shaped rosy dents in his skin from where his braces cling a tad too tight. One slices his collarbone into two wan dashes. The others are punctured, streaking up his right leg like tiny tick-bites. When he rubs a protruding rib, you notice just how glassy his skin has gotten. How visible have become the veins on his lanky arms, all stretchy weaves the seedy color of dusk.

He nods, turning to the mirror over a gaud shoulder. Swipes a wet strand out of his eyes and announces, “I need a haircut.”

You want to ask him about his diet. About the scary thing he’d mentioned about his lungs before falling senseless at your feet. But alas, the cowardice comes out ahead, and you settle for a flavorless: “I could cut your hair for you.”

“No,” he retorts. “Sorry, ah—Your tremor is too intense. I wouldn’t trust you with sharp tools any time soon. I might even ban you from cutting vegetables.”

You huff, looking at your hands. The bow almost slips out of your fingers, clattering against the bridge. “At least it’s good for vibratos.”

“I suppose.”

“So… How was England?”

“Do you truly wish to talk about England with me?”

“What else is there to talk about?”

“I don’t want to fight, is all.”

“What do you suggest that we do, then?”

Softly, he steps behind your back. Reaches for the partitures on his piano, flipping through them lazily. And just when you expect him to walk out, a soggy fingertip taps you on the neck, cueing you to scoot to the very edge of the seat. He props his cane on the keyboard and throws one leg over the chair, drawing up to lean into you from beyond. With a gasp, you watch his shins line up with your calves. Each prickly rib presses into your spine, buffing together like a bunch of wet gears. And not figuratively, either—his hair cries dampness onto your chemise. Leaves a dark, suffusing spot.

“Play me something,” he rasps. His chin fits into your shoulder, soaked temples brushing against your cheek.

“Like what?” You swallow, pinching the string.

“Dealer’s choice. I, er— I just want to stay with you like this. Please, let’s just play pretend tonight. This is for my sanity.”

He stills, unsure where to put his hands. As if boneless, they flay around like two tired appendages, still too skittish to be duly wrapped around you. But to his relief, you dig up the remnants of your mercy from where they sit dark and deep. Fingers twined, you lead him to the slope of your hip. Arch under his sternum to ease a wheezy gasp.

“How about Piazolla?”

He smiles against your ear. “Don’t you think it’s a bit early for a tango?”

“Dealer’s choice. Take it or leave it.”

“Of course. Tango it is.”

You place the bow on the D-string. Suck a breath. Feel your heart thump backward against Viktor’s chest in mezzo-forte. Quite fitting, considering the piece’s dynamics.

You take that slap of meshed pulses for a paragon and begin the slur of E to G—a bunch of jarring staccatos lordly smoothed into a single bow. Fascinating, if only such calculations came to you naturally. Every eighth proves a jab. Punches you in the fingers as the tango uncoils.

But Viktor is a puncher, too. A gentler one, perhaps, and his hands are after much softer swells—like breasts, or thighs, or stomachs. He hesitates between the three. Chews on his cheek mid-up-bow with committed violence. Sits through a few more slurs—G to the F, to the E, and again in a tilted loop.

“May I?” He stammers. Cups the delicious rise of your navel and squeezes it, tasting the flush of your ear with the very tip of his canines.

There comes a gasp at the strain of him along your lower back—his only smooth curve, snugly placed into its custom arc.

“I thought you wanted me to play for you—“

“And I do,” Viktor promises. “Play for me and I’ll play with you. A delightful transaction, no?”

“But what if I–“ your voice crumbles, “If I—“

He carves a sulky laugh into your hair. Twirls the peach fuzz running into your underwear. “If you cum? My, do you truly think me so rusty as to not regard me a when?”

“It’s not that,” you chuckle, glaring sideward to where the pegs are separating your face from his, “I can’t move after I cum. Your little concert will be over.”

“So be it. As long as I get to touch you,” he says, lining your bow with the strings. “Will you let me? Please.”

But you don’t answer him—not with your garbled words. You simply get back to the tango.

The next strikes lose their balanced accents. Instead, they turn forte, settling more like a link of stabs: D—rest—D—rest—D—rest. Getting filthier. Tachycardic. An audacious leap from foreplay straight to rigid thrusts. And Viktor matches it. Clusters your nightgown around the waist and crawls straight for the throat. Or, rather, straight for the lips—already swollen against the lace that he peels off you, choking on a whimper.

As lovely as it would be to rush inside, he keeps it steady for now. His index finds your clit in a downward tug, one almost identical to the dip of your bow. His left hand cradles your face, menacingly close to your teeth—too tempting not to suck in, spading into the phalanx. And when you weep, the cello weeps with you—E to F, finger to mouth, mouth to ear.

Erratic, you spread your legs wider—a filthy order to be obeyed. Which is exactly what Viktor does, gagging on some Czech counterpart of ‘fuck’. But you miss it, too full of his pliant fingers. Too fervently immersed in the altering strokes of your bow.

“Let go for me—“ He presses deeper; harder. “Please, milackú. Give me a good sforzando.”

The melody ceases, smothered.

#viktor arcane #viktor x reader #viktor fanfic #viktor x reader smut #playing with this bow (and arrow)#viktor x f!reader #arcane fic #viktor x reader angst #viktor x reader fluff

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heykaya · 8 months ago

Text

Ivory Wraith lines about Sydney

Extracted from the game’s code (30th October 2024)

Ivory Wraith mimicking Sydney dialogue:

He speaks. "Th-the temple will punish me for this... but I don't care anymore!”

He speaks. "This is worth any punishment the temple will do to me.”

He speaks. "We're both sinners now, aren't we?”

He speaks. "This... still feels so wrong... but..."

He speaks. "I love the feeling of you inside me."

He speaks. "We're still pure, right? This doesn't count?"

He speaks. "Are you sure this feels good for you?"

He speaks. "You look so cute down there."

He barely manages to speak. "If... if you... I'm going to..."

He speaks. "I love being this close together."

He speaks. "I'm getting used to this feeling."

He giggles. "G... go ahead. Just be gentle, please."

He moans. "Do it! Deflower me! Make me yours!"

He giggles nervously. "This is dangerous..."

He smiles gleefully. "We both have to stay pure, after all!"

He laughs. "I love it when you're rough!"

He lets out a clearly fake yawn. "Already bored of the foreplay."

He giggles. "I wouldn't want anyone else to touch me like this."

He speaks. "Just relax, and let me take care of this."

He giggles. "I didn't know this spot could make someone feel good!"

He speaks. "You're staring. At least let me look at yours, too..."

He speaks. "I was always taught that this was sinful, but..."

He takes a deep breath. "We... need to stay quiet..."

He giggles. "I've sinned... is this my punishment?"

He giggles. "W... we're doing this in the temple, and nothing is stopping us..."

He freezes. "Wh... who? Who is it?!"

If Ivory Wraith is mimicking Sydney and PC Love Interest is set to Sydney:

"I was his only friend, in that dark place beyond the trees.",

"You think you can trust him. That's hilarious, but no one's laughing."

"Close your eyes and sleep, and only then will you truly see. I learned that from him”

*his/him = referring to Sydney.

If the encounter with Ivory Wraith includes Sydney(?) - I’m not too sure. If you managed to get this pls comment below.

"Liar."

"Again."

"Sydney?"

"Alone at last."

"I've lost ourself."

"Let us sleep forever."

"Can the innocent repent?"

"You know why we're here."

"I'm sorry you put your trust in me."

"It's hilarious. Why aren't you laughing?"

"It's okay now, Sydney. I'm back to normal."

"Block me out all you like. I am still here."

"Do you remember your (sydneyOtherParent)?"

"They never stopped, because they never began."

"The light will consume you, slowly, painfully."

"We're glad to see you again. We missed you, you know."

"Do you remember? Of course you do. Of course you don't."

"What a terrible song, and you're not the one playing it."

“He was so sure of himself.” - (Referring to Harper)

"The pure and the corrupt are at ends, but the end itself remains the same."

"As Two will emerge from One will emerge from Two As One."

If PC is promised to Sydney:

"Calamity rings."

"And you are wedded to calamity."

If Sydney is Pure:

"You'll understand once you fly.",

"Baptisms with water of the womb."

"Every life has sin. Every sin has life."

If Sydney is Neutral:

"Tipped with a void.",

"And so long as that's true, it will never go away."

"Balance. Indecisiveness. Fear. There's a lot of words."

If Sydney is Corrupt:

"No one will answer.",

"What you fear, you have become."

"Was it worth it? Of course it was."

Degrees of Lewdity - Text Based Masterpost

#dol #sydney the faithful #dol sydney #degrees of lewdity #sydney the fallen #dol ivory wraith #ivory wraith #dol harper #harper the doctor

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cami040405 · 2 months ago

Text

Between Art and Silence - Vincent Sinclair x Reader

Chapter 9: Where the Wax Melts Slowly

Summary: You tend to Vincent's wounds. He allows himself to fall asleep next to you, vulnerable. When he wakes up, without his mask, you share a sincere and emotional kiss. You're both wounded, but united in a bond that goes beyond fear and death.

Chapter 8 here!

The sound of heavy footsteps echoed through the blood-stained corridors.

Bo appeared in the doorway, the dirt-stained rifle still resting on his shoulder, his breathing labored and his gaze sweeping the scene before him. He had gone after the runaway girl, but now, returning to the heart of the wax house, it was as if time had stopped for a moment.

You were kneeling on the floor, trembling, your arms covered in blood—someone else's blood. Vincent, motionless, his body still wounded, leaning against the wall like a broken statue. And between them, the corpse of the young woman, her face still contorted in a last moment of terror.

Bo didn't say anything right away. The tip of his boot lightly pushed the girl's body, as if to confirm that she was dead. The wet sound of inert flesh was the only answer.

He looked up at you. There was something new in them. Not contempt, nor sarcasm. But a mixture of respect, surprise... and something that almost bordered on admiration.

“Look,” he murmured, his voice low and hoarse. “The little princess has teeth, after all.”

You stared at him, your eyes wide and red. But you didn’t move. You didn’t cry. You didn’t beg. You just stood there, your body tense and your gaze fixed. Like someone who had already gone through a baptism of fire and couldn’t go back.

Bo walked slowly toward you, his eyes scanning Vincent with an indefinable expression. His brother was hurt. The marks of the blows spread across his visible skin—bruises on his neck, exposed cuts, an almost audible buzz of pain hanging in the air. And Vincent… even though he was hurt, he kept his body in front of you like a wall. Bo stopped two steps away from them.

“She saved you, did she?”

Vincent didn’t answer, but his hand moved slightly, as if confirming. Bo sighed. One of those heavy sighs, loaded with something he never said out loud.

“I went after the other one…” — he said, pointing with his chin in the direction of the entrance. “I took care of her before she went off the road. But this one here…” he pointed to the young woman’s body “…this one was a pain, huh?”

He crouched down, not to provoke you, but to take a closer look at the improvised weapon you used. A piece of rusty iron still stained with blood. Bo raised an eyebrow and let out a short whistle, as if seeing something rare.

“You know, I thought you were going to end up being a problem” he said without taking his eyes off yours. “But now… now I’m starting to think that maybe you’re the right kind of crazy person for this place.”

You didn’t answer.

You were still, as if trying to understand what it meant to receive that backhanded compliment. But inside you, there was an uncomfortable mix of relief, disgust and fear. Fear of Bo… and fear of yourself.

Bo stood up and faced her brother.

“She protected you.” The statement hung in the air, heavy. “She protected you like no one else did.”

He then looked at you again, this time with harder, more calculating, but strangely sincere eyes.

“And I… well, I won’t forget that.”

A strange silence hung over him. Bo turned around, walking a few steps. Then he stopped and looked over his shoulder.

“But be careful, girl. Saving us once is one thing. Surviving here… is quite another.”

And he disappeared into the darkness of the hallway, his footsteps echoing between the wax walls.

Vincent, who until then had barely breathed, lowered his head. His shoulders were still shaking. You glanced at him sideways. You knew the physical pain was immense, but there was something else weighing on him: what you did for him.

You saved his life.

And he knew that it would exact a price.

One that he might never be able to pay.

The silence that followed Bo’s departure was suffocating. As if the entire house held its breath along with you. You were still kneeling on the floor, your body covered in blood that was already beginning to dry, becoming an uncomfortable crust on your skin. The piece of iron still slipped between your fingers, too heavy, even though it was just metal.

Your gaze slowly shifted to Vincent.

He was leaning against the wall, his body slumped. His shoulders slumped, his breathing irregular and cut by involuntary groans. Blood trickled through his hair, mixing with sweat and dirt. The eyes behind the mask were half-closed, oscillating between lucidity and torpor.

"Vincent..." you whispered, finally moving.

You crawled towards him, your legs trembling, as if each movement cost more than you could manage. You touched his hand slowly, delicately, as if you were afraid of breaking him. He reacted, very little, but enough to show that he was conscious.

“I’ll take care of you, okay? Just… just stay with me.”

You helped him to his feet with effort. His body trembled beneath yours. He was strong, but at that moment he was vulnerable like a frightened child. You carried him with difficulty back to the Sinclair house, to his room—the only one you knew well enough to know that he would find water, clean clothes, and a firm bed.

You sat him down on the edge of the mattress and ran to the dressing table, grabbing an old basin, filling it with cold water from the jug, and quickly returning. Your heart was beating wildly, the fear being swallowed by a more powerful urgency: he needed you.

You wet a cloth and began to clean his face carefully, revealing the deep cuts beneath the mask. The blood had already mixed with the marked skin, forming dry trails. You stopped for a moment, staring at the mask. You touched the side lightly.

“Vincent… can I take it off?”

He hesitated.

The tension in his shoulders increased, his eyes widened behind the slit. But then, slowly, he nodded.

The moment you touched the mask’s clasps, Vincent felt the world spin imperceptibly. His muscles tensed instinctively—not out of fear of you, but because of everything it meant. The mask wasn’t just a shield. It was his skin, his protection, his denial of the cruel judgment that had shaped him since childhood. It was what separated him from the pain of being looked at as a freak.

And now, there, kneeling before him, was someone who wasn’t just asking to see his face—she was seeing him.

When the metal came free of the clasps and the cold air touched his exposed face, a chill ran down his spine. His eyes never left yours, even as his throat tightened and his stomach twisted with anticipated shame.

He expected the revulsion.

The averted gaze.

The awkward silence.

But none of it came.

Instead, his warm hands cupped Vincent’s face—not with pity, but with care. With reverence. As if he were touching something precious.

Vincent shivered. For the first time in a long, long time, he felt naked. Unarmed. Small. And yet, at the same time, a part of him was relieved by this exposure. As if, somehow, you had ripped away more than the mask: you were peeling away, inch by inch, the invisible chains that Trudy had bound around his mind and body since he was a child.

His face burned, not with fever or pain, but with pure vulnerability. The scars seemed to throb like open wounds. He wanted to hide—and he wanted to stay there at the same time. The conflict was suffocating.

When you whispered that he was safe, and ran your fingers tenderly down the sides of his disfigured face, something inside him gave way. An old knot, rooted in fear, rejection, loneliness. His eyes filled with tears before he could stop them.

She saw. She saw it all. And she stayed.

Vincent didn't know how to name this feeling. He only knew that it was being undone and rebuilt at the same moment. And as he allowed himself to rest his head on your shoulder, a silent whisper echoed in his mind:

Maybe I deserve to be loved.

The night advanced like a thick veil over Ambrose. The silence that took over the house seemed denser now, as if even the shadows waited, suspended, without the courage to break the moment that was born between them.

You still held Vincent's face between your hands, feeling the rough heat of his skin against your palms. He remained still, his intense eyes fixed on yours, full of astonishment and something that dangerously approached hope. A man broken inside, but who now saw himself through a different reflection — your reflection.

"You’re handsome, Vincent," you whispered, your voice choked with emotion and something deeper. "Even with the scars... maybe even because of them."

He shivered, as if those words had opened an even deeper breach in the wall he had spent his life building. His chest rose and fell with effort, and dry tears left trails in the grooves of his exposed face.

You felt your own heart beating fast, but not from fear. Not anymore. It was as if you were crossing a narrow bridge, about to jump to a place where nothing was certain anymore — but where everything, somehow, made sense.

You moved closer. Vincent didn't back away.

Your faces were close, so close that you could feel his warm breath touching your skin. He was shaking. Not from pain — but from emotion. From something new, frightening and sublime.

"Can I…?" You whispered, your eyes fixed on his.

Vincent didn't answer with words. He just nodded, with an almost imperceptible gesture, and tilted his face slightly.

It was you who closed your eyes first.

And then your lips met his.

It was a calm, reverent kiss, almost hesitant at first. But there was such an intense charge of emotion there that time seemed to fold over you. The taste of old wax, of dried blood in the corners of his mouth, of the saltiness of his tears — everything mixed with the subtle sweetness that emerged between two such different worlds colliding.

Vincent returned it gently, as if he was afraid of breaking you. He didn't know how to kiss. Not the way you saw in movies or read between the lines of old books. But he knew how to feel. And in that moment, he put everything he had into that touch: gratitude, pain, shame, adoration — and the timid beginnings of a love he didn't dare name.

When your lips parted, your eyes were still intertwined. You smiled tenderly. Vincent rested his forehead against yours, panting, as if the gesture had drained his strength — but had also left him lighter than ever. You ran your fingers through his dark hair, tangling it tenderly.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you said, in a low tone, like a promise. “You have me now. And you don’t have to hide anymore.”

Vincent closed his eyes, absorbing each word as if they were balm for the wounds of a lifetime. In that dark room, surrounded by horrors that neither of you dared to name out loud, something so pure that it seemed impossible was born: an instant of beauty amidst the ruin.

And for the first time, Vincent didn’t feel like a deformed creation of pain.

He felt human.

He felt loved.

The room was silent, shrouded in darkness and exhaustion. Vincent, his face now uncovered, was sleeping soundly on the sheets stained with dried blood. You felt your chest heave with everything you had been through, but you couldn't let that moment be broken by worries. You moved closer, pulled the blanket up to his shoulders and ran your fingers lightly through his hair.

Vincent let out a muffled sigh, and his face — so accustomed to tension and suffering — now seemed softer. Vulnerable. Human.

You stood up carefully, your muscles aching and your mind still boiling. Your feet touched the wooden floor lightly, and you grabbed a clean blouse from the dresser before leaving the room. The house seemed to breathe along with you, as if Ambrose were lurking. You descended the stairs slowly, the banister cold under your fingers. The silence of the night was broken only by small cracks from the old walls. When you reached the ground floor, the dim light in the kitchen was on.

And there, leaning over the sink, with his sleeves rolled up and an unlit cigarette in the corner of his mouth, was Bo.

You stopped, surprised to see him there. He didn't seem like the same gruff, explosive man who always made everything a power play. He was quieter. His gaze was lost, a glass of half-drunk whiskey in his hand.

Bo looked up when he saw you come in. And for a moment, you saw something different in them. Something almost... understanding.

"You're alive, then," he said in a hoarse tone, but without sarcasm.

You nodded with a small, tired smile. "Nearly."

Bo stared at the wall for a second, before dropping the glass into the sink with a slight thud.

"Vincent?"

"He's asleep. Injured, but... fine."

Bo grabbed a damp cloth, opened one of the cabinet doors, and took out a bucket of warm water. Then he pointed to the dried blood on your neck and hands.

“Sit down. Let’s get this out.”

You hesitated, surprised.

“Are you going to…?”

“Don’t get excited,” he huffed, grabbing a chair. “I just thought someone should take care of this before the smell attracts bugs.”

You sat down, still suspicious. Bo knelt in front of you, picked up the cloth, and began to scrub firmly but carefully. The warm water mixed with the soap began to remove the crimson traces from your skin.

For a while, they were silent.

“I never thought I would see this,” he commented quietly. “You… defending him. Killing for him.”

You looked down, your eyes heavy.

“I never thought I would be able to either. But she was going to kill him, Bo. She was already… almost killing him.”

Bo remained silent for a while, his eyes fixed on the red-dyed cloth.

“I knew he… that you were getting closer. I saw it. I’m not blind.”

You didn't answer, but the tension between the two of you dissolved a little in that moment. Bo continued cleaning the marks on your arms, without looking at you directly.

"My brother... he doesn't know how to deal with this. He doesn't even understand what you're doing to his head. But, for some reason, you're the only thing that managed to calm that beast down."

You took a deep breath.

"And you? What do you think about this?"

Bo paused for a moment. He stood up, threw the cloth in the sink and washed his hands. He kept his back to you for a few seconds, as if calculating the weight of each word.

"I think... you saved his life. And I'm not ungrateful." You frowned, observing his broad back and the old scars visible on his wrists.

"Isn't that what you wanted, Bo? For me to get away from him? For me to run away?"

He laughed, humorlessly.

"I still want to. But..." He turned slowly, his eyes fixed on yours. — Now I know he won't let me. And neither will you.

You stood up, facing him head on.

“Are you afraid I'll take him away from you?”

Bo stared at you for a long, dark moment, before saying, in a deep voice:

“I'm afraid you're more important to him than I am.”

You felt the pain hidden in that sentence, like a knife covered in cloth. Bo, despite all his brutality, was still a boy chained to the chair by his parents. And Vincent was the only blood bond he had left.

You approached, slowly.

“I don't want to take him away from you, Bo. But I'm not going to give up on him either.”

Bo looked at you for several seconds. Then he nodded, almost imperceptibly, and pointed to the stairs.

“Go back to him. He'll wake up and want you close by. We'll talk another time.”

You stopped at the kitchen threshold for a second.

“Thank you... for that.”

Bo grumbled, pouring himself another glass of whiskey.

“Don't get used to it, princess.”

But there was a trace of respect—or perhaps even relief—in his voice.

You walked up the stairs with your body cleaner and your heart more confused. That night would not let you forget it so soon… but for the first time, all the ties were moving in dangerously real directions.

The room was plunged into darkness when you entered again. The soft night breeze danced through a crack in the window, slowly moving the curtain. Vincent remained lying down, his chest rising and falling with effort under the blanket. His face, without the mask, revealed a mixture of tiredness and pain.

Even sleeping, his eyebrows were slightly furrowed, as if his body did not know how to relax completely.

You approached silently, sitting on the edge of the bed. Your eyes carefully traced the contours of his face. The strong jaw, the scar that crossed his lip, the symmetry interrupted by the brutality of life and surgery. But everything about him, now, seemed so fragile... so human.

You ran your fingers lightly along the side of his face, brushing away a strand of hair. His skin felt warm under your touch.

“I’m here…” you whispered, more to yourself than to him.

Vincent moved slightly. His eyelids fluttered before slowly opening. His blue eyes, still clouded with pain and confusion, searched for you in the darkness.

“Y/N…” his voice came out hoarse, almost a broken whisper.

You smiled, your eyes brimming with tears.

“Hey… calm down. You’re safe. I’m here.”

He tried to get up, but his body protested. You pressed your hand gently on his shoulder.

“Shhh. You need to rest. You’re hurt, remember?”

His eyes, heavy, met yours. And in that moment, everything was there: the memory of the pain, the sound of the screams, the heat of the blood running… and the kiss you shared before everything went silent.

“I…” — Vincent began, his voice caught between pride and despair. “I shouldn’t have let you see that.”

You shook your head, placing your hand on his chest, where his heart was beating fast and irregular.

“I chose to see. And I chose to stay. No matter how ugly it was. I… I killed for you, Vincent. That will never leave me again. But I’m not leaving either.”

His expression fell. He turned his face to the side, as if he wanted to hide his eyes. But you leaned in and held his face between your hands, bringing him back.

“Look at me.”

He obeyed, reluctantly.

“I saw you. All of you. And yet, Vincent… I choose you.”

His eyes filled with tears. A raw emotion, one that he seemed to have never learned to carry without guilt, without shame. You moved closer, resting your forehead against his. For a moment, only the sound of your breathing filled the room.

Then you kissed him again—more firmly now, with a desperate caress. Vincent responded slowly, his trembling fingers moving up to your face. It was a bittersweet kiss, like scars that hurt but can no longer be removed.

When you pulled away, you ran your fingers through his hair and said softly,

"Sleep a little longer. I'll stay here."

Vincent closed his eyes, tears running silently down his temples. He didn't say anything, but for the first time in a long time, sleep found him without fear. You lay down next to him, on your side, watching him sleep.

And although your heart was in pieces, you knew: there, among the blood and madness, you had found something real.

Something yours.

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hypnotiiize · 1 year ago

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𝐠𝐨𝐝𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬

𝘪𝘯 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘤𝘩 𝘯𝘦𝘸 𝘦𝘹𝘦𝘴 𝘮𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘴𝘦𝘦 𝘦𝘢𝘤𝘩 𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘨𝘰𝘥𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘥’𝘴 𝘣𝘢𝘱𝘵𝘪𝘴𝘮

𝐣𝐮𝐝𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐡𝐚𝐦 𝐱 𝐛𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐫’𝐬 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: this is real old and angsty like not for fake. it’s short though. also i grew up catholic so u gotta bear w the lil references and shit. trigger warning religious talk kinda

She couldn’t remember much of the year if she was being honest.

She could remember her best friends’ wedding.

She could remember Valentine’s day.

She could remember March and April breezing past her, a mixture of Easter and celebrating her friend’s birthday.

She could remember the drowsiness that overcame her in May. She could remember how it followed her well into June.

She could remember her friend’s baby being born, and she could remember smiling down at his tiny squished face.

And she was happy for them, she was. But, when she found herself in her newly quiet home at the end of the day, the reality remained that she was alone. Utterly alone. No one to turn to. No one to rely on. Alone. She felt that this was her fault.

When her friend called and cried to her about new motherhood delivering a swift kick to her backside, she accepted the opportunity to stay with her friends for a few days, maybe even weeks— however long it would take for her friend to get back on her feet with a new addition to the household.

The record was three weeks. July was almost over. Amelie, ever-grateful, had even told her that she could go back home if she wanted. The woman, not wanting to overstay her welcome, accepted that as well.

She had been accepting a lot of things, it seemed. She would leave the following week, after the event that was planned meticulously for the baby.

It was when she was getting ready to go to sleep early— the baby had a habit of scream-crying at the break of dawn and she liked being up with him— that she received a knock at the guest bedroom door. Curious, she tip-toed across the room and found herself opening the door to reveal her tired friend whose smile grew as she rocked her fast-asleep son. [y/n] invited them in and grabbed the baby at once, sitting on the bed with his little body cradled in her arms.

“Okay, I wanted to tell you so that you weren’t, like, bombarded with this,” Amelie began after a small chat about how the baby had just done something cute.

She involuntarily put pressure on her eyebrows, furrowing them together.

Amelie folded her hands in her lap. “You know his baptism is next week and you know you’re his Godmother, of course... I tried to talk Trent out of it, but he’s going to make you know who his Godfather.”

She could feel herself gasp at the mention of you know who. She definitely knew who.

“If it makes you uncomfortable, I get it. And I get it if you’re not ready to see him. I can have someone else step in as his Godmother for the ceremony if you can’t do it. You don’t have to go to the party. What are you feeling?” Amelie asked.

She bit the skin of her bottom lip. She looked down at the almost two-month-old who looked so much like her friends that it was crazy. He was blinking up at her with his bottom lip poked out, looking scandalized. She laughed and rubbed the pad of her finger over his dark waves.

“I’m feeling a little overwhelmed… But I can do it. I don’t care about him. This is for my Godbaby. Right? This is for my Godson,” she cooed to the baby who half-smiled.

“You’re sure?”

“Sure. Yes. Yeah.” She was trying to convince herself more than anything and she knew it. “No one cares about that man, anyway. It’s just Rayan’s day..” The baby smiled as if he knew what they were talking about, and the women fussed over him a bit more. When the familiar weight pressed itself against her shoulders, She sighed. “I need a drink.”

“Go raid Trent’s cabinet, girl. You know he’s not shy about Don Julio,” her friend joked about her husband.

There was a painful twang in her chest at once. Her husband. Her friend was joking about her husband. A man who she shared a child, a home, and a life with.

She could taste iron. She would later realize that she had bit the inside of her cheek open. For now, she chopped the stinging sensation up to the of moths fumbling about in her stomach.

Her friend took her Godson and she was left alone once more. She laid her head on the linen pillow and stared blankly at the room before her. Wistfully, she imagined Amelie and Trent embracing each other at the end of the very long day. She imagined them nuzzling against the other as they gazed down at their sleeping baby boy. Then, she imagined everything that could have been.

She fell into a slumber with remnants of saline tears on her cheeks, and she woke up days later wearing a crisp white blouse and her best earrings. Rayan’s baptism.

He barely left his mother’s arms that day. He was tiny and it was a big day for him and he was wearing a long, pristine white dress that used to be his grandfather’s when he was that small. So Rayan slept, and she tried not to kick open the church doors and run as far as her legs could take her.

She knew he was in the room. She could feel it. If she opened her mouth to speak, she could taste it. If she inhaled too deeply, she could smell it. His presence was the sustenance that her soul had been missing for far too long and she was being punished for it. Her hands were shaking. She slipped off to the bathroom three times before she realized that her issues could affect the day. Being unreliable or looking flaky was the last thing she’d wanted to do after making it so far through the day. When she sat back down in the pews, she crossed her hands extra tight in her lap and kept her neck arched high. She would shake it off. This was for Rayan.

After some time she stood with her friends and made her way to the front of the church. She could feel him behind her. Then beside her. She willed herself not to look at him and focused solely on swearing to remain a key figure in the baby’s life.

For you, I’ll do my best.

He made his pledges after her. She felt as if she couldn’t breathe. He was so close to her. She could feel the echo of his baritone in her feet. She could taste iron, far more pronounced this time.

The baby was placed in her arms, and the metallic flavor dissipated at once. She secured her arm around his head and tugged his gown down. He whined, only to stop a second later when his mother kissed his hand.

The priest asked the Godparents to move closer. She stepped forward and nodded when appropriate. The priest said something that she didn’t really catch. She had been too busy making sure Rayan was comfortable. Brown hands came forward and untied the loose strings around the baby’s neck. He pulled the baby’s hat off. She could hear the ocean in her head.

She leaned forward and lowered her elbow an inch. The priest placed his hands in the tub of water before him and her. He poured water on the baby’s dark tufts of hair. One hand, then two, then another for good measure. Rayan let out a short cry from the temperature of the water.

“It’s okay, honey, you did great,” she whispered to her Godson when it was all over. She held him tighter, closer to her face.

“Maybe he’s cold,” the familiar voice said. “Here, let me put his hat back on.” Brown hands came into view and she watched him make the loose loop-the-loop. Rayan calmed down.

Rayan’s parents came and uttered softly to their son. His mother fought tears. His father let them glide down his cheeks freely, rubbing the top of the baby’s bonnet with a thumb.

“Hey,” the Godfather’s low voice was saying. He was not whispering. Anyone could have heard him. Though, when she thinks back on the moment, she can remember the soft, whispering tickle of his breath hitting her ear. She wanted him to be whispering.

She greeted him back weakly and she did not try to hide it. With everyone focused on Rayan, the awkward encounter would just be their own and she could not muster the strength to make it anything but.

The corner of his mouth quirked up, weakly too, and he said, “You look really nice.”

All at once, she could hear the ocean. She could hear volcanoes erupting. She could feel the familiar sharp chill of ice, and she could smell the smoke of paper burning.

She could not remember what her response was, or if she even responded at all. She could only remember the pain of living without the only man she had loved for months after being together for so long.

Through the fog, a voice prompted, “Let’s get a pic with the Godparents.”

She craned her head and found herself staring at a man that she had gone to school with. Kareem was known for being tall, charismatic, and a photographer. Therefore, she was not surprised that her friend had invited him to the gathering. Though she wished that someone would have filled him in on the current situation before he suggested such things.

Rayan’s parents moved away. She took a half step closer to Rayan’s Godfather. Rayan’s Godfather took a half step closer to her.

For the first time in months, they were pressed against each other.

Her chest felt hollow. Icy. It burned to inhale. It took too much effort to exhale. She lifted the baby so that he was perfectly between them. A brown hand fixed the baby’s dress. Fingertips grazed fingertips. She could taste iron pooling just behind her teeth, and then she smiled.

Her first tear fell when the camera shuttered for the last time. The people were emotional, too. They spoke to the baby in whispers. The Godfather left her side to go gawk at his Godson.

It was only her in the center of that stage. She was alone. There was no one in her corner anymore.

She had no husband. No new baby to baptize. No boyfriend to envision her future with.

She felt as if she was going to drown. She sucked in a burning breath.

She tasted the iron.

#jude bellingham x black reader #jude bellingham angst #jude bellingham x oc #jude bellingham x you #x black fem reader #x black reader #trent alexander arnold x black reader #trent alexander arnold #jude bellingham one shot #jude bellingham x reader #jude bellingham imagine

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lichtluxx · 3 months ago

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About Demonolatry PT 2

Dukante Hierarchy

This second part focus more on the Dukante Hierarchy, which was allegedly one of the most famous, this includes also additional information about these demons including their descriptions ands enns. Though note that the Dukante hierarchy is admittedly incomplete. Mr. Dukante died before he finished his work.

Family 1

Satan - King: Tasa reme laris Satan - Ave Satanis - Direction: Center/All; Color: All; Months: All; Seasons All; Rituals- Any; Satan appears as a sage wise man with silver hair and black eyes. His eyes have been described as nothing and all.

Unsere - (Female) Fertility and Sorcery: Unsere tasa lirach on ca ayar -Direction: Northeast; Colors: Green and White; Month: February; Season: Late Winter; Ritual: Wisdom, patience, motherhood.; Unsere has deep green eyes like the fertile plains of Ireland. Her hair is brown with strands of spun silver. Her eyes smile and sparkle. Her energy is gentle and nurturing. She travels often in a cowl-hooded cloak. Most memorable are her thin, delicate, pale hands. She dissolves as a mist. She is said to often appear to women during or after childbirth to breath life into infants.

Satanchia - Grand General (War) : Furca na alle laris Satanchia.

Agaliarept - Assistant Grand General (War) : On ca Agaliarept agna

Lucifage - High Command (Control) : Eyen tasa valocur Lucifuge Rofocale. His twin brother is Lucifer.

Flereous - Fire Elemental : Ganic Tasa Fubin Flereous - Direction: South; Color: Red, Orange; Month: June; Season: Summer; Ritual: Baptism, action, love, solstice. Flereous appears as a tall man with long, red, course hair and red eyes. His voice is low and hissing. His expression is that of placidity.

Lucifer - Air Elemental : Renich Tasa Uberaca Biasa Icar Lucifer - Direction: East; Colors: White Yellow; Month: March; Season: Spring; Ritual: Enlightenment, spring equinox, initiations. Lucifer appears with long, black hair and blue eyes. His voice is considered average though he seems overly excited most of the time. He wears pendants of eagles.

Beelzebuth - Lord of insects. [Editor’s note - more recent translations of older texts say Beelzebuth was translated improperly and it should have been Lord of Lords. It is possible Dukante did not know this?] : Adey vocar avage Beelzebuth

Belphegore - Master of Weaponry-gain: Lyan Ramec Catya Ganen Belphegore

Mesphito - Keeper of the book of death: Mesphito ramec viasa on ca

Delepitoré- (Female) Demoness of magick. : Deyen pretore ramec Delepitore on ca - She is tall and slender with blue/gray eyes. She possesses all knowledge of sorcery and carries with her an oak wand with a tip made of glazed crystal. She appears most often in blue robes and cloaks. Patient and reserved. Heed well to not anger her for she knows well the Demoness' Tezrian and Sonnellion.

Belial - Earth Elemental: Lirach Tasa Vefa Wehlc Belial - Direction: North; Colors: Green, Brown, Black; Month: December; Season: Winter; Ritual: initiation, new beginnings, winter solstice. Belial appears with hair colored black and white like salt and pepper (some people report his hair to be blonde). His eyes shift from brown to green. His voice comes off as being quite normal, though he speaks with resolute confidence in everything he says. He often seems perplexed or confused by some great mystery. He is not as tall as some of the other elementals.

Family 2

Luithian - Advisor: Deyan anay tasa Luithian *Azlyn - (Female) Weaves the threads of things to come, future. [New addition stemming from ascension 4/8/01] Her Enn was also begotten through ascension.

Rean Par Tasa Azlyn Ayar Leviathan - Water Elemental: Jaden Tasa Hoet Naca Leviathan - Direction: West; Colors: Blue, Gray; Month: September; Season: Autumn; Ritual: emotions, initiation, equinox, healing, fertility. Leviathan appears with long black hair and blue/gray eyes so striking it is as if you are staring into the waters of your own soul. His voice is low, his speech reserved. He is also shorter than Lucifer and Flereous, but stands a hair taller than Belial. He wears an amulet of his own sigil.

Sonnelion - (Female) Demoness of hate: Ayer Serpente Sonnillion - Direction: Southwest; Colors: violet; Month: July; Season: Mid-summer; Ritual: dispersing anger, cursing, balancing, focus.

Family 3

Abbadon - Advisor: Es na ayer Abbadon avage

Ammon - Demon of domination: Avage Secore Ammon ninan Twin to Mammon.

Mammon - Demon of Avarice: Tasa Mammon on ca lirach Twin to Ammon.

Family 4

Rosier - Demon of love: Serena Alora Rosier Aken - He often remains reclusive from the human eye. Most of his work is done from afar. Rosier does, however, answer prayers and listens quite well. On the Demonic plane he will stay bathed in a shadowed corner when introduced. He is very shy.

Astarte - (Female) Demoness of love: Serena Alora Astarte Aken Ashtaroth - (Female) Priestess of friendship: Tasa Alora foren Ashtaroth -Twin to Astarot

Astarot - Matters concerning the heart: Serena Alora Astartot Aken - Twin to Ashtaroth

Amducious - The destroyer: Denyen valocur avage secore Amducious - Twin to Asmodeous. Direction: Southeast. Colors: Orange; Month: May; Season: Late Spring; Ritual: war, action, dispel old.

Asmodeus - Demon of Lust: Ayer avage Aloren Asmodeus aken - Twin to Amducious. Appears as an attractive and clean cut and articulate man. His eyes seduce all women mortal and otherwise. He will answer calls by Ouija boards if asked. He is very friendly. Be forewarned, he often turns conversation into some aspect of sexuality as it pleases him.

Family 5

Eurynomous - Demon of Death: Ayar Secore on ca Eurynomous Direction: Northwest. Colors: Black and White; Month: October; Season: Late Autumn; Ritual: New beginnings, death, rebirth, celebration of death, Halloween.

Eurynomous appears as a shadow or wraith. Or as a common man with white or translucent hair and pale or white eyes. His energy is calming and cool. He also holds the book of the dead. He often communicates vi baoith raimi Kairtey - or as invisible hands.

Balberith - Prince of dying: Avage Secoré on ca Baalberith - He guides the souls of the dead to the Demonic plane where they are reborn from the whole of the fifth element. He leads them to safe passage. He appears as someone the deceased remembers who has also passed on. His true form is a mystery.

Babeal - Keeper of Graves: Alan Secore on ca Babeal - He is a shadow amidst the graveyards tending souls and graves. Keeping them safe from desecration at their resting places.

Family 6

Verrine - Demon of Health: Elan Typan Verrine - Direction: Northwest; Colors: Blue, white; Month: November; Season: Late Autumn; Ritual: healing.

Verrier - (Female) Demoness of herbal knowledge: Elit Rayesta Verrier -Direction: Northwest; Colors: Light Green; Month: November; Season: Late Autumn.; Ritual: healing, earth, knowledge or herbalism.

Ronwe - Demon of Knowledge: Kaymen Vefa Ronwe - comes to those who seek him through dreams in settings befitting the Demon of knowledge such as bookstores, libraries, and cafes where many intellectual types gather. His form varies often as he is an adept at changing his appearance. However, his demeanor remains consistent with that of the sage wise man. His soul is very old and his eyes reflect great understanding.

Family 7

Svengali - Demon of Vengeance: Desa on Svengali ayer - White hair, red eyes

Tezrian - (Female) Priestess of battle: Ezyr ramec ganen Tezrian

Family 8

- Some speculation has arisen suggesting that family 8 should actually be coupled with family 3. As it has been suggested these are the females of that family.

Asafoetida - (Female) Demoness of feminine attributes: Asana nanay on ca Asafoetida

Rashoon - (Female) Priestess of seduction: Taran Rashoon nanay - Twin to Taroon.

Taroon - (Female) Priestess of Desire: Taroon an ca nanay - Twin to Rashoon.

Family 9

Consists of lesser hierarchy: These are the only Enns I currently have of lesser hierarchs, or hierarchy that does not appear in the Dukante hierarchy.

Berith: Hoath redar ganabal Berith

Agares: Rean ganen ayar da Agares

Abigor: Aylan Abigor tasa uan on ca

Lillith: Renich viasa avage lillith lirach

Who are the nine divinities?

I had already spoken briefly about them in the first part, but the nine divinities are the demons of the fundamental energy of the universe, of existence and balance, according to the Dukante hierarchy.

Fire – Flereous

Earth – Belial

Air – Lucifer

Water – Leviathan

Health – Verrine

Destruction – Amducious

Life – Unsere

Death – Euronymous

(Some people may disagree with this list, though. Or they may reorder the list with other elements.)

"Tasa Reme Laris Satan - Ave Satanis"

Satan, for the demonolators, is the all, the ether. Many New Agers call his energy “the source.” He is associated with everything: all seasons, months, directions — you get the idea.

He is the eternal spirit, the divine that we are all part of and to which we all have a connection. Satan is known to appear as a wise old man with silver hair and black eyes.

Honestly, it's hard to write about him without sounding like you're repeating yourself over and over again. "The All" is the perfect description for him. He is known for assisting in spiritual enlightenment and guidance.

Direction: Center/All;

Color: All;

Months: All;

Seasons All;

Rituals: any

Flereous

"Ganic Tasa Fubin Flereous"

Flereous is the elemental demon of fire! He is seen as destructive, but also creative. This is because although fire is a destructive force, it also provides us with life in the form of the sun. We cannot exist without fire.

Flereous is associated with warm things and ideas, including the direction of the south, warm colors (red, orange), June, and summer. He is commonly invoked in demonic baptism rituals, action rituals, love rituals, and at the summer solstice.

Flereous is seen as a demon with an excellent balance between the physical, mental and spiritual. He is also associated with the spark of life from which we all come, connecting his energy to that of Satan.

Working with Flereous is a transformative work. He helps demonolators become more confident in themselves and their practice. The best way to describe this transformation is to say that he molds the practitioner into a tiger.

Direction: South;

Color: Red, Orange;

Month: June;

Season: Summer;

Ritual: Baptism, action, love, solstice

Belial

"Lirach Tasa Vefa Wehlc Belial"

Belial is the elemental demon of the earth! He is a demon of the physical and mental, bringing awareness to the beauty in all things.

Belial has associations with colder, earthly elements, including the direction north, the colors brown, black, and green, December, and winter. He is commonly invoked in winter solstice rituals, rituals of new beginnings, and initiations.

Belial is a demon of independence and self-development. He assists in professional growth and the achievement of new titles. He reminds us to experience the world in whatever way we wish, without giving in to pressure from others.

In other beliefs, Belial is associated with fire. Do some research and find out which one resonates with you the most!

Direction: North;

Colors: Green, Brown, Black;

Month: December;

Season: Winter;

Ritual: initiation, new beginnings, winter solstice.

Lucifer

"Renich Tasa Uberaca Blasa Icar Lucifer"

Lucifer is an air elemental demon and possibly the most popular on this list. As an air elemental, he is a great advocate for freedom and one’s own path. He is a wise demon and often shares his knowledge with his devotees.

Lucifer is a symbol of divine masculinity. He is also a demon of the spiritual and mental, helping lost souls find their way. He is called the "bringer of light" because light represents the freedom he grants to all who seek it.

Lucifer has associations with spring, being linked to the colors white and yellow, the month of March and the rituals of enlightenment, initiation and the spring equinox.

When you come into contact with Lucifer, expect to be encouraged to think for yourself. He helps you connect and find your own path. Some see him as having feminine and androgynous aspects, though he traditionally represents the masculine. Do your research and decide for yourself what makes the most sense to you!

Direction: East;

Colors: White Yellow;

Month: March;

Season: Spring;

Ritual: Enlightenment, spring equinox, initiations.

Leviathan

"Jaden Tasa Hoet Naca Leviathan"

Leviathan is the elemental demon of water! Being an aquatic being, he is associated with emotions and judgment. He is an extremely androgynous demon, being referred to as both empress and emperor.

Leviathan rules over everything related to the mind, especially emotional and mental strength. He aids in the development of resistance against the currents of fate. Leviathan also rules over the abyss and the void, and is called the "abyssal serpent."

Its elements are autumnal, but it extends beyond that aesthetic. Its colors are blue and gray, its month is September, its season is fall, and its rituals include emotion, initiation, fertility, healing, and the autumn equinox.

When working with Leviathan, expect to confront your deepest emotions, especially those you’ve been hiding. He is a powerful draconian demon who demands respect, so be courteous when communicating with him.

Leviathan is also the demon of judgment. When invoked in destructive magic, it is said to strip away the target's defenses so that the magic can reach them.

Direction: West;

Colors: Blue, Gray;

Month: September;

Season: Autumn;

Ritual: emotions, initiation, equinox, healing, fertility.

Verrine

"Elan Typan Verrine"

Verrine is a creative demon, inspiring his followers to discover ways to heal and heal themselves and others. He is a great teacher when it comes to overcoming trauma and scars from the past.

Verrine is the health demon! There aren't many sources on him but he is associated with healing and well-being, most often invoked in these types of rituals. He is associated with the northwest direction and the colors blue and white. His month is November, at the end of autumn.

Direction: Northwest;

Colors: Blue, white;

Month: November;

Season: Late Autumn;

Ritual: healing.

Amducious

"Denyen Valocur Avage Secore Amducious"

Amducious is the destroyer within the Dukante hierarchy. While this title may suggest a dark demon, destruction on the Left Hand Path is seen as something positive and necessary for growth.

It is associated with the southeast direction, the color orange, the month of May, the end of spring, and rituals of war, action, and the removal of obstacles.

In the Complete Book of Demonolatry, S. Connolly writes that Amducious represents "the mastery of the will over the physical." While it may seem destructive, it teaches self-control and personal transformation.

He is not a demon who promotes war, but rather a mentor who helps overcome mental and emotional blocks.

Direction: Southeast.

Colors: Orange;

Month: May;

Season: Late Spring;

Ritual: war, action, dispel old.

Unsere

"Unsere Tasa Lirach On Ca Ayar"

Unsere is the demoness of life (and witchcraft)! Just as Lucifer symbolizes masculinity, Unsere represents femininity. She is the manifestation of life from birth through all its stages.

She is associated with the northeast direction, the colors green and white, the month of February, the end of winter and rituals of motherhood, wisdom and patience.

Unsere is said to appear to women at the time of childbirth to breathe life into their newborns. She wears a cow-hooded cloak, symbolically connecting her to these animals.

Not only does she rule birth, but she also reminds us to enjoy the little moments in life. As you work with her, expect to be encouraged to slow down and appreciate the present more.

Treat her with respect and avoid harsh language. Unsere may be serious, but she also has a gentle side. By the end of your work with her, you will find that you have learned to live more fully.

Direction: Northeast;

Colors: Green and White;

Month: February;

Season: Late Winter;

Ritual: Wisdom, patience, motherhood.

Euronymous

“Ayar secore on ca Euronymous”

Euronymous is the demon of death. While the energy of death can literally mean the end of life, it can also represent transformation. Within Left Hand Path practices: death, destruction, and similar concepts often symbolize change and renewal, and not necessarily literal harm. Thus, Euronymous is not only the demon of death but also of rebirth.

However, his essence is directly linked to the energy of death. He is often invoked by those preparing for necromancy practices or any work related to the world of the dead. Some people ask Euronymous to impregnate them with his energy before rituals involving spirits, so that they can better accustom themselves to this vibration. He is also called upon for funerals, guiding the souls of death for the place they'll rest.

Euronymous is associated with the transition from summer to winter, reflecting the passing of the seasons and the cyclical transformation from life to death.

He is described as a shadow, a specter, or an old man with translucent white hair and white eyes. He is said to carry with him the Book of the Dead.

Euronymous doesn't have much information independent of his Greek associations, so if you're interested, it's worth researching that side of him further.

Northwest. Colors:

Black and White;

Month: October;

Season: Late Autumn;

Ritual: New beginnings, death, rebirth, celebration of death, Halloween.

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Working with them

In Demonolatry, the magician does not use a triangle or a circle of protection, as contact with these energies will not be aggressive or hostile, and we will not need banishments and threats, here we work with partnership and mutual respect.

Here, evocation (the act of binding them as is done in goetia) is seen as disrespectful. The ideal is for the magician to magnetize the demon's energy to achieve what he wants by joining forces in an invocation, which is when the magician and the demon will interact by exchanging energies.

When calling the demons into your ritual circle, the traditional way to do it is to use the enn, or an invocation of your own devise, and use the ritual dagger or your hand to draw the following in the air in front of you, starting at the arrow and ending at the dot:

The invocation symbol above is often refered to as the ZD or DZ sigil. It is also used as a sigil representing Satan. Within the ZD are nine points representing the nine demonic divinities. The symbol is one fluid motion and is encircled as a sigil to represent the whole encircling all its parts.

It starts with the closest point of the arrow with Unsere, then it's Lucifer, then it's Flereous, then it's Verrine, then it's Belial, then Amducious, then Leviathan, Satan and finally it ends at the point with Eurynomous.

The ZD is also employed to invoke each Demon, no matter which one, with respect to the nine. Some common courtesies (to avoid disrespect toward the Demons) when invoking: Don't command or be aggressive with the demons!!!! Nor stab the ritual blade into the air!!

Ritual tools

This is, by no means, something you must really have. Demonolatry is your path and your own, those tools or working this way might not be for you, and that's ok because you can adapt yourself and your tools to do what you want.

Though, according to Paulo - Guia de Demonolatria, those are the tools every demonolater should have:

"The tools we will need are a temple, an altar covered with a black cloth, items that represent the four elements on the altar, and a dagger or athame or knife with a black handle.

The dagger is to draw in the air a symbol of opening and closing the pillars of each elemental demon. The color of the handle is black, because this color attracts and concentrates energies more easily. If you are in doubt, go out on a sunny day wearing black clothes. A black shirt will attract all the light wave frequencies, causing heat. Candles and incense according to the correspondence of the demon you are going to work with.

A metal bowl to burn the seal and the request. Burning the demon's seal with your blood, or sexual fluid, in Demonolatry is not seen as disrespectful to the demon, but rather signifies sending a small amount of your vital energy to the entity transmuted by the element of fire.

In the ritual, it is advisable to burn the seal and also another piece of paper with your requests."

#paganism #demonolatry #nine divines #nine divinities #demon work #demon worship #demons #witchblr #luciferian witch #witchcraft

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tojisun · 6 months ago

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you drink from his cup and come out of it drowning; submerged. pulled into his ether — a baptism of some sorts. the salt isn’t a balm to your cuts but you are swept away, so devoted to the devouring. to the taking.

you are at his mercy — that is how it is to love kyle.

to be with him; to live with him. to choose him, time and time again. because you exist in this singular moment, suspended. faith is a funny thing, isn’t it, but kyle is—

he is so much more than everything that you are.

he is the warmth filling up the chasm in your heart; the fire that burns from within. he is the kindness when no one is; the mercy and the grace that leads you back home because home is there, in him. with him. by him.

“shh,” he murmurs, cupping your cheek, his thumb swiping just underneath your eyes. you stare up at him, awed despite the hitches in your breaths.

he is so beautiful, almost godly as he stares back at you. he tips his head low as he does so, and the cut of his jaw is so much softer now that he is bathed in the light, casting shadows upon the stretches of his supple skin. scarred. inked. marked.

kyle isn’t perfect, gods no he isn’t. but he comes so close, you can feel it in the way your lips are throbbing, fever hot from his kiss. he is a mosaic of everyone he’s loved and of everything he’s lived through, and he pours all that he is in you, filling up your lungs and claiming you.

“i love you,” you whisper, your voice wet but full of your reverence, and kyle’s eyes crinkle in his delight.

he bows close and brushes his lips on your temple.

“i know, sweet girl,” he replies. “and i, you.”

he breathes you in. “so much, baby. i love you so much.”

kyle holds you like that for a long time.

#uhm wrote this with nothing but vibes because a song is stuck in my head hhhaha #kyle garrick x reader #kyle gaz garrick x reader #gaz x reader #kyle gaz garrick #x reader #suns

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belle--ofthebrawl · 8 months ago

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Hi. I don't know what this is. 2k of nonsense, mostly religious and Dew/Copia. Please take it and don't ask too many questions. We're sexualizing and spiritualizing Dew's transition and the trans experience in general. Or whatever. How many times can I rephrase the same basic idea is the real question.

@askingforthesun talking to you inspired me to finish it for better or for worse. Does this even make sense. I don't know.

There are fifteen votive candles burning in the chapel. Five on the left, five on the altar, five on the right. If he focuses he could tell exactly what temperature they burn at; from the base that gobbles up the soft cotton wick to the dancing and flickering tip. He could estimate what temperature the wax melted, what temperature the glass holders were. Anything to do with heat and flame, Dewdrop could pull from some unknown source and tell anyone who asked.

Nobody asks.

And he can't tell if there's water in the baptismal font.

He has his new uniform on, a triangle stitched on the inside of his collar. He had done it himself and when the needle slipped, stabbing the soft flesh of his unprotected thumb, he let the blood well out and soak into the thread. It seemed like the right thing to do. Even after everything, he didn't think the fire completely took hold of him until that one private moment.

Everything he was, given up for everything he could become. It had worked. When the others asked, eager for details and gossip, he had lied and said he couldn't remember the process. Only Delta had understood the trial of it all, a silent camaraderie shared with knowing looks and shared cigarettes. As much as he loves the others, they just…they weren't like him. They hadn't felt that strange, hallowed call coming from the very fibers of their being. Something must change, this is not right. He often wondered if Delta had an easier time of it— if his Quintessence soothed the anxiety in his blood of not being in the right form, or if it made things worse. Instinctively he knows it's not something he could ever ask. Dew might have taken himself down the path of elemental transition but the similarities ended there. The only footsteps here were his own.

“Dew?” Mist says softly, breaking him out of his reverie. “We'll be here when it's over.”

The same words spoken before the door to the ritual chamber shut behind him and his ordeal began. He'd given his pack a nod, straightened his spine and knocked. And when the doors shut behind him…

Change was never easy.

But it had been worth it, in the end.

“I know.” He replies, looking over his shoulder at them. At everyone. Zephyr and Mountain and Ifrit and Aether and Mist. Omega and Alpha. Delta, with his heavy, knowing gaze. The water ghoul holds his palm over his heart and gives the slightest of bows. There's a faint smile on his face when he comes and Dew…Dew smiles back. The worst is over and this is the blessing. The celebration and giving thanks to Lucifer. On the other side, Copia awaits to start this ritual and Dew straightens his spine, looks ahead and pushes the door open because he's already been accepted. There's no need to knock.

Fifteen candles and Copia at the altar. Tradition dictates that fire is welcomed best at the zenith of the sun's progress through the sky and the light that shines through the stained glass windows sends multicolored blocks of light kaleidoscoping across the floor of the chapel. The door closes silently behind Dew and Copia turns around. He's in his black robes and biretta, with a design of face paint Dew has never seen before and his heart stutters. This is not the Cardinal. This is his very first glimpse at the Papa Copia will someday become.

Copia holds his gloved hand out with a soft smile and Dew begins his slow walk down the aisle. Goosebumps break out in a ripple on his skin though the air is pleasantly warm, not stuffy in the slightest. The fire calls to him as he passes, welcoming him like it welcomes all kindling but he knows it will not devour him. It has accepted him as an extension of the flame. Copia's white eye burns far hotter than any flame as Dew crosses the final distance between them and takes his hand.

“My ghoul.” Copia starts. No nervousness to him, no anxiety and if Dew was capable of anything other than awe, he would laugh. This is the Copia that welcomes initiated Siblings into the fold, brings them into the flock with love and care. How many Sisters have swooned under these exact circumstances? “I welcome who you have chosen to become.”

He wonders if the words are scripted but does not dwell over them much. Besides, now Copia's giving him a sly little wink and murmuring, “Let's get this show on the road, eh?” and that's the Cardinal he's familiar with. Dew nods in silent resolution. With a sweeping gesture, Copia beckons towards the black idol of Baphomet just beyond the altar; shaggy and goatheaded, male and female. Baphomet is large, both the statue and in stature but his lord does not frighten Dewdrop. In the carven eyes, he sees the flicker of candlelight and then, something more than just candlelight. The stone itself seems to take on new life the longer Dew looks and as Copia bows to the idol, Dew breathes in and catches the faintest scent of sweet hay and fresh goat milk. Though Copia addresses Baphomet as the Unholy Father in his opening speech, the idol's face is as kind as a mother looking at her newborn for the first time.

Both and neither. Dew could fall to his knees at the love he feels emanating from the god. You have chosen and shaped yourself. Baphomet whispers into his mind. To do so is to truly follow in my footsteps.

“Thank you.” Dew breathes. Copia pays no notice. His job is direct and contain the energy of Lucifer in all three of his forms as Dew asks for the blessing going forward; Unholy Father, Fallen Son, and the Unknown Spirit. Each an aspect of their Lord and each equally important in their faith. With the three of them invoked, their presence filling the little chapel, a second is needed in the Ritual to channel their images. One alone ran the risk of losing themselves in the power.

Dew trusts Copia. He'd known the little man since his summoning; then, a nervous little bishop always in the background. Scurrying around with his folios and paperwork, always sitting in the back pew and praying long after Mass had ended. And his prayers were answered, as the machinations of the Clergy elevated him to the lead of the Ghost Project shortly after he became Cardinal. Not to discredit Copia's own hard work. Dew thinks the only ones he might trust to act as conduit are the previous Papa's and he only said yes to Copia because he'd been the first to ask.

“And now, we begin.” Copia states. To their left awaits the shrine to the Unknown Spirit. Dew follows close behind Copia as they proceed, searching in the shadows for something that shows Lucifer has heard his prayers. To depict the Unknown Spirit goes against the very nature of its being. It is the presence felt at the crossroads, it is the creak of the gallows and the sound of the fiddle. It is the space between stars and the darkness of the tomb and it is the red light from the stained glass reflecting off Copia's glove. It will grant any request if the asker can pay the price of its favor.

And Dew has paid.

His action here is nothing more than lighting the sixth candle sitting cold and unlit on the altar. Action itself, is highly valued by the Spirit. The first step down the long, dark, and twisting road. He calls the fire and it dances into being for him, a tug in his heart similar to one he felt upon making the choice to transition.

The shadows stir and for the briefest of moments, Dew sees a figure; clothed in black, a wide brimmed hat hiding eyes that burn like coal. The hat is tipped, a nod given. An understanding has been made. Nothing else is required here.

Across the nave, to the shrine to the Fallen Son of Heaven. Here, a statue is more appropriate– to show the lovely features of Heaven’s brightest twisting in righteous anger, his wings burning and halo disintegrating.

As Copia stands beseeching, Dew thinks about gratitude. He thinks about what would make a beloved son of heaven wrest power from an unfair god that didn't deserve his child's devotion. What stirred the first thought of rebellion in a perfect machine made only for worship? He thinks it might be odd to be grateful to his Lord for something he did entirely on his own. It was his own strength of mind that brought him through the ordeal of the change, his own desire to see the process through. How much did Lucifer really have to do with it, to the point where He needed thanks like the god He rebelled against?

We made our choice, you and I. The statue whispers to him. We fought to be what we are now. Feel the body you now wear. The fire has always loved you too much to let you burn away.

Lucifer, Morningstar. A streak of light across the darkness outside of heaven’s eternal purity. Burning as he fell, the blaze cloaking him, shielding him. Becoming his home once his descent was complete and there were eons between earth and heaven. Dew sees the wall of fire from his ritual, how walking through it took all his strength as it enveloped him, tested him, scorched away anything that might keep him from his destination. Any doubts he had, any worries lingering, all were taken by the flame. The water of his essence, steaming out of him, dripping and hissing on the hot tiles below his feet. The flame loved him. He would not burn.

The warmth comes back to him now as he stares at the depiction of Lucifer. Most beautiful among God’s angels. Beauty to inspire a host of angels to break away and fight, beauty that would never be passive and subservient. Fire was aligned with lust and passion for a reason and the eyes of the statue seem to burn with both the longer Dew looks. A hush seemed to fall about the chapel as Dew steps forward, past the praying figure of Copia. He knew, he just knew if he reached out and touched it, the marble would be warm like flesh and there would be firm muscle underneath.

No longer angry, Lucifer regards him with the sort of intensity that made Dew weak in the knees. But he stood. He stood and reached out towards his Lord and the hand reached back and the statue was alive, it wanted him, it longed for him to come close enough to snatch away and feast upon, for them to burn together in each other's flames and Dew opened his mouth, called to the fire like a lover, poised on his tiptoes ready to be taken and-

The sixth candle on the altar flares to life, jumping so high it licks his skin and the moment is gone. Lucifer, mere marble again. But the weight in his gaze remains, made more demanding by the denial of Dew’s touch.

He's not surprised to realize he's aroused. An aching thrum of sheer want coursed through his body and came to rest between his legs, where his cock was starting to swell up. There is no judgment and nothing is forbidden here, in this blessing. What he feels, he is to act on, and there's not an ounce of shame as Dew's hand almost absently goes to soothe his cock with a press of his palms against it. Was it a trick of the light, or was Lucifer gazing fondly at him?

Take what you want and feed me your desire.

His legs wobble. Dew spreads his stance, as if that will help but it only serves to pull the fabric of his pants tighter against his cock. He's warm all over, hyper aware of his own body, skin prickling as the statue devours him by looks alone. A pearl of pre well up at the top and melts into fabric. His shirt rasps over his chest as he breathes, just rough enough to brush over his nipples. The buttons, once a comforting tightness, now hug his waist, turn it waspishly thin and highlight how wrong it feels to not have hands there, nothing guiding him, grabbing him, doing whatever they wanted with him.

He moans and immediately covers his mouth in embarrassment. Copia doesn't react. Too absorbed in the ritual, his voice a comforting drone in the background. It's second nature to reach for him, a source of stability in the faith as Dew treads new ground. His robe is soft in Dew’s hand and he feels only a tiny bit of guilt when he realizes how sweaty he is.

Give it to me. The statue hisses and Dew damn near doubles over, clutching onto Copia like a lifeline as his cock surges, jumps and weeps pre. A swoop of arousal hits him so hard it brings tears to his eyes and it's with one shaking hand that Dew undoes his pants and falls to his knees, burying his face in Copia's robes as he cries out, frantically tugging at himself because if he doesn't cum now he thinks he might die, he really will. A hand, heavy and gloved comes to rest on his head, scratching just right between his horns and Dew sobs. He can't stop. He's so close, so fast and Copia is touching the sensitive skin right by the base of his horns-

His core flares, the flames jump higher and he cums faster and harder than he ever has in his entire existence. Thankfully with the presence of mind to catch most of it in his hand. Lucifer might forgive him for staining the red velvet of the kneeler, but he's not keen on a repeat of the ordeal when he inevitably is the one to scrub them out afterwards.

Now he collapses. Ash crumbling away, but Copia catches him. Breaks his prayers to murmurs words of comfort to Dew as he easily cradles him, lifts him up. Dew brings his soiled hand to his mouth and cleans himself with his tongue as Copia brings him to the center. Lays him on the black marble of the altar, under the gaze of Baphomet.

You have endured much. Baphomet says. A trial of your own doing.

And he would do it again and again and again if it meant feeling the presence of his Lord so close.

Oh, little one. Baphomet says warmly, so full of love Dew could cry. I am always with you. Fire was yours to call home from the start.

The dark waters of his home in Hell. Far below the churning surfaces, to vents spewing black and white plumes. Hiding Dew from predators, keeping him warm. The memory of scrabbling at the sharp black stones, trying to pry them apart to make the cracks bigger, to one day wriggle inside and be engulfed in the heat.

I am not all powerful. Baphomet says thoughtfully. Nor do I control every aspect of my realm. One is always encouraged to test the limits, push past boundaries. Discover what breaks them and what makes them whole. There is no sin in self discovery.

If Dew wasn't hanging on to every word the figure spoke, he would notice Copia’s silence. The way his eye took on a new light and the shift in his whole being.

And I applaud you for this journey, little one. Baphomet tells him. Be proud, for what you have done is worthy of pride. Change does not exist in heaven. An eternity of stagnation is a horrible thing.

Hands tenderly cup Dew’s face. Warm lips press against his, human and trembling with a want that has been there for so long, Dew doesn't know how he didn't see it earlier. But the fire has burned away what blocked his vision. His arms come up to hold Copia; his Papa. Hard against him as Dew is dragged to the edge of the altar, ripe Communion for a Black Mass. He tastes paint and wine and blood as his fangs cut Copia's lip in their kiss.

Do as all flames do. Baphomet speaks for the final time. Consume.

Dew opens his mouth and holds Copia tight.

The sixth and final candle lights as they move against each other; the ritual now complete.

#dew is going to have so many weird Feelings about that statue everytime he looks at it after this #copia and dew leaving the chapel with the waiting ghouls outside the door like 🧍🧍🧍🧍🧍🧍🧍🧍🧍🧍#“delta was yours Like That?”#delta: I don't kiss and tell 😌

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allthegothihopgirls · 1 year ago

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thoughts on jasons design in boy wonder being covered in scars as a way of saying he cannot remove himself from the violence that created him. he is solely red hood, there is no more jason todd— he is *just* red hood and red hood is made from violence and cannot be separated from that.

also white eyes as something just… a little off about him. not entirely human. a little zombie-esque.

also my mother was forced to listen to me yap and she mentioned that in that one panel of boy wonder he looks like frankenstein to which i got this stupid grin on my face and said “oh, you don’t even want me to START with that one” because you put those brainworms in my head.

—baptism anon

there was SO much in the boy wonder #2 that screamed of jason not being able to let his past self go. although there's definitely much psychoanalysis to be had about jason and his perception of himself, i'm more fascinated by the fact that this is how DAMIAN sees jason.

jason not taking his helmet off until right at the end of damian's story, making it seem as though he looks at him and only sees the red hood, not a brother.

the one notable thing in jason's apartment being the closed door, and there being a highlight on how that room holds every possession he has. the seperation between red hood and robin, and the acknowledgement that jason's managed to seemingly build nothing for himself post-mortem, and is still bound by who he used to be.

the white eyes definitely make him more zombie-like. i also see them as just completely devoid. like, you look at them and see nothing, just one more thing taken from him that stripped him of his humanity.

i definitely agree with jason not being able to separate from the violence his death was rooted in, and the events of utrh. the one thing i really enjoy about juni ba's design when it comes to jason is how as himself, he doesn't appear recklessly violent, or overly macho and angry, he's just hurt. i think that's why he leans into red hood so much, because that's the front that lets him appear that way. but when you strip him of the helmet, he's very much just vulnerable and there's no intimidation factor there at all. it's definitely the scars that play into that whole idea, but also just his posture, and overall figure.

he's not as strong and buffed as he's usually drawn, instead he looks very much like a prey animal. i think that just goes to further the distinction between the usual aggression he's portrayed to have with the whole intimidation and macho factor. and then this new perspective, where his anger doesn't seem to be amounting to much, just protecting his hurt.

i think damian also views the hood as a figurative mask as well as a legitimate one, he's aware of how vulnerable jason's been since the lazarus pit, and pinpoints the differences between him as a man and a concept. he definitely knows that the hood isn't just a protection of his own identity, it's an image. one that tip-toes the line between an extension of jason, and being jason.

don't even get me started with how this is all playing into my frankentodd brainrot.... so many thoughts and so many asks to answer abt him..

#okaaaayyyy we're going to ignore how late i am to this #on my knees and apologising profusely #asks #baptism anon #jason todd #the boy wonder #damian wayne #red hood #robin #dc comics #dcu #dc batman #dc #batboys #gothihop speaks

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artbyrewcana · 3 months ago

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the priestess tarot card | connection, divinity, receptivity, intuition

lottie embodies the priestess as she travels the hallowed tunnels of her mind to forge a connection with a force much older and deeper than herself. still wet with the water of her baptism, still bearing the scar upon her forehead of her first blood offering, she climbs the slick stairs. she places the warm heart of the bear she stabbed on the altar and lights the tall candle before her. the flame grows viciously, rising high; the heat pushes her down the dark stairs and head first into her destiny.

✨ the priestess print ✨ the fool card ✨ the magician card ✨ full tarot series

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crookedfivefingers · 1 month ago

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In the Days Still Left

A Ten x Martha smutfic I've been working on for over a year. 😅 And now finally posting.

What if, through her, he could just… check out for a bit? Engage in something all-encompassing — a quick baptism of the sensory? Martha reckoned the Doctor wasn’t the sort of bloke who would get himself wrapped up in such acts with a stranger, but what about with someone who cared for him? Someone who understood him?

Read on Ao3 💜

Rating: Explicit

Tags: Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Smut, Outdoor sex

Chapter One below the cut:

On a cool, cloudy day—near the highest point, it seemed, of a vast and sprawling landscape—the TARDIS materialized on a hillside.

Ruins of what was once either a grand house or a small castle loomed over Martha as she stepped into the springlike breeze, eyes tracing a path up a stone wall that must’ve been erected several centuries before. The rocks used were in their natural states; all flat, jagged, and asymmetrical—constructed by the archaically trained, but no less skilled hands of ancient tradesmen.

She felt that same shiver of reverence that always came with visiting old places, looking upon evidence of lives long forgotten by time, paths well-traversed in the very spot she stood.

Passing beneath an arch near the center wall (a fully intact doorway either leading into or out of a room that no longer existed), she was overtaken by a stunning sense of serenity, soothing worries she hadn’t even realized were present as she admired the lush alien world. Meadows of long, green, and golden grass sloped steadily downward, smattered at points with trees and shrubs and foothills, though it was almost entirely open air—all dipping towards a collection of stone-studded lakes as far as the eye could see.

“Now, this is just… gorgeous,” said Martha, a smile playing on her lips as a second presence arrived beside her. “I feel fantastic. Like, effortlessly... just calm. D’you feel that?”

Staring across the hills, the Doctor stood close, his hand wrapped around the strap of a large backpack as his coat whipped around in the wind. He drew a long, deep breath before suddenly clapping a hand on her shoulder, her faint disappointment in the paternal gesture almost immediately eclipsed by his dazzling Cheshire grin.

“Positive ions!” he declared cheerfully, giving a friendly squeeze before returning his hand to his pocket. “Planet’s loaded with them, like springtime pollen. One of the most tranquil places in the universe, the Eye of Orion—of course, provided you’ve got a nice breeze...”

Martha was still taking it in, the picture-perfect waves of nature reminding her of childhood holidays in the Cotswolds; just with fewer people around. Er, no people at all, actually... From where they stood, they could see for miles and miles—so much depth, yet no evidence that anyone had been there for a very long time.

“Lot like Earth, yeah?” she asked conversationally, a gust of wind blowing a piece of her fringe over her face. She caught it with the tips of three fingers and tucked it behind her ear, glancing over to see that the Doctor looked even more distant than before, appearing to be miles away.

“In some ways,” he said with a sniff. “Many years ago, Tegan—she’s, well. She was an old friend of mine—once compared it to the Earth after a thunderstorm.”

There was a swift, unpleasant spike in Martha’s gut as the weight of his words crept over her, so she shifted her gaze back towards the field, hoping (praying) that her insecurity wasn’t already shining through all of thirty seconds into their trip.

Hope wasn’t enough to keep it entirely at bay, however.

“Right,” she bobbed her head just once, lips pressed in a flat smile she knew likely didn’t reach her eyes—not that he was looking. Desperate to affect an air of ease, she glanced at his profile again, reaching out to give his arm a friendly shove. “Take all the girls here, then?”

Oh, bollocks.

She couldn’t just leave it? Really?

When the Doctor turned to look at her directly, she was expecting the same flippant dismissal he’d offered when confronted on New Earth (and she wouldn’t have blamed him this time), but instead found herself tensing when she was met with something else. The jovial facade of only seconds prior was superseded by something distant and entirely vacant: an expression seeming to convey more than any words ever could.

“I’ve not been here in some time,” he said softly, voice practically washing away in the wind.

Guilt welled, slow and sick, within Martha. Because she knew it, of course she did, that it wasn’t fair: alluding to something that’d happened so long ago with any degree of bitterness. Considering the circumstances, she should have also figured he’d not be up for that sort of banter — it was obvious from the moment he’d announced their destination that the planet meant a great deal to him.

And he’d taken her to see it this time. Not… whoever Tegan was.

Come to think of it, for all the months they’d been traveling together, she’d hardly seen him speak to another woman unless directly involved with assisting on a mission. It’d just been she and the Doctor from the get-go, both before and after she essentially had to put her foot down to revoke the ‘one more trip’ card (to which he’d shown not even a hint of resistance—almost as though he’d been hoping she would be the one to crack, eliminating the need to contrive any more excuses to keep her).

But just because he’d been alone before—just because he’d cherry-picked her, good old Martha Jones, to rollick about the universe with—that didn’t mean he’d been alone since ‘Tegan’.

There was a second spike; another flicker of jealousy as she was once again reminded that, up until recently, yet another woman had traveled at his side. Someone Martha was purportedly never meant to replace.

Someone he’d loved.

(Were she to fancy a wager.)

If it hadn’t been love, maybe he’d have an easier time talking about it. The wound was still raw enough that she could see it bleeding behind his eyes on his best day... And though he certainly never had any problem alluding to that former companion, he seemed to have an easier time discussing the death of his entire species than going into detail about whatever the hell happened between him and Rose.

Of course Martha had thought about it: What she and the Doctor might be if not for her; whether they could’ve had a shot if not for the presence of a ghost hanging thick in the air between them. After all, she and him had chemistry in spades; had since the first day they met—and since then, it’d only flourished. They had better bloody chemistry than she’d had with any bloke in her life, and they were brilliant mates.

Which only made it all the more frustrating.

She knew she was pretty, she was smart. ‘Brilliant’, the Time Lord had reminded her over and over—‘Better than good.’

She wasn’t conceited by any means, but she did have the confidence to know she was a catch.

The Doctor, he just… wasn’t interested. Not like that.

Giving Martha the benefit of the doubt, it was easy to misconstrue his behavior as being very much like that on occasion—particularly when she caught his eyes trailing down her body like fingertips—but another thing she knew about blokes, alien or not, was that ultimately, they didn’t even need to like a girl all that much to jump in the sack with them.

The absence of sack-jumping notwithstanding, the Doctor did like her. There was an air of affection between them, particularly as time had gone on and he finally started to see her… Taking her to such an important place from his past was proof enough of that.

And so Martha tried to remind herself to be grateful and cherish what they had. To be present with him; to enjoy the privilege of sharing even a fragment of his long life with him. He could be standing beside anyone in all of time and space, yet he was sharing that view with her. Spending months of his life with her.

If the trade-off for that privilege was to take a semi-brief sabbatical from romance, she reckoned she could handle it for just a little while longer.

(God help her if he began fancying some other girl, however. That’d do her in like a hammer to the teeth.)

“I’d like to show you something,” the Doctor said suddenly, still peering into the distance. At the same time, they looked towards one another, and he lifted his eyebrows in question. “Come with me?”

Martha smiled. “Of course.”

A bolt of pure warmth struck her chest as a cool hand slipped into hers, and he nodded somewhere off to the left—a path of broken stone that was half-grown over with reeds and foxtails.

“It's just this way.”

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