#brightest torch

[what-the-fuck-khr]

learning awfully the iPhone 14 has a fucking ugly ass dim as shit yellow as fuck flashlight/torch (and ultimately my flash for photos are yellow too) and I. clearly have a problem with that. I do not want that I hate warm lights they’re dim as fuck I think they’re awful and I prefer the brighter, white light. my SE was the brightest phone torch in the house and now my new 14 is the fucking dimmest. this is up against a well over 10+ year old Samsung of some kind.

anyways basically 1) would I be able to go somewhere and ask if this is a faulty issue and if there’s any room for a replacement 2) if not I’d there any physical way to take this to like. an Apple Store or some shit and physically ask them if they can change the god awful bulb in the flash. like. to a white one. this change bothers me so much I am so serious when I say I will try whatever I can to get this changed because I cannot stand warm lights let alone on a fucking torch or a phone flash for photos

[plsupreme]

Light up your adventure with Powerful Led Torch and embrace safety

In today's fast world, where outdoor adventures and unexpected emergencies are a part of our lives, a reliable and powerful LED torch is a dear-to-me tool. It is not just a device. It is a beacon of light that could help you go through the darkness to ensure safety and illuminate your path.

[sabrinasopposite]

star of the show; clark kent

even the brightest star

with the spotlight on her

felt like a sad girl

since the moon wasn’t there.

angst, drama, theater kid!

romeo and juliet, the tragedy of a love story. they were called star-crossed lovers for a reason—famous for it, hated for it, yet their tale became one of the most influential love stories in history. a love that barely began, but the heart had already been pierced by a dagger.

yet not every love story is a tragedy, or so y/n believed, because that’s how she felt. she was living in a romantic comedy, as she would describe her love life with clark kent—the golden retriever lead in her movie.

he was pure, the missing star in her orbit, yet now he was finally with her. clark was the kind of guy anyone could fall in love with. his charm lay not just in his smile, but in his heart—a heart full of goodness and care, the kind of heart you’d want to shield from any dagger.

y/n had always been in love with clark, ever since their middle school days together. he had always been a great friend to her, until one valentine's day, when she gently placed a soft kiss on his cheek, along with a love letter.

their love had always been there, growing with each love letter that became a confession of their feelings. then one day, clark stood in front of her, holding yellow flowers and his heart, ready to offer both to y/n.

that’s how their love story continued, until it began to crumble like stones falling apart. high school wasn’t the issue—it was that the rom-com paused at a moment when the lead character went missing.

clark often disappeared, acted strangely, or seemed to know too much. at first, y/n didn’t think it was a big deal, but it kept happening—and it never stopped.

she started to see him less and less. y/n was distracted with her theater group while clark was always gone. he’d say the torch magazine was keeping him busy, but the office was usually empty. sometimes chloe was there, but clark? he wasn’t.

one of those nights, y/n finally had him in her presence. it had been weeks since she’d seen him, but now he was there. they sat in his barn loft, one of their favorite places.

y/n sat in front of him, holding her script in hand, her eyes meeting his as she laughed softly, happily. clark read the lines of romeo, helping her prepare for tomorrow night. it was a school play—romeo & juliet—and y/n had the role of juliet.

it made her smile to have her own romeo in front of her.

clark burst into laughter. "how can you take this seriously? the words are so old, i can barely understand what they’re saying."

y/n chuckled, placing her hand gently over his. "sweetheart, you should pay more attention in english class. haven’t you read the book?" she teased him.

clark rolled his eyes but smiled. "no, maybe i should have, since my girl is juliet. i’m ashamed i won’t understand you tomorrow."

y/n chuckled, but a thought slipped out before she could stop it. "as if you’ll be there tomorrow."

clark’s smile faded, his brows furrowing in confusion. "what do you mean by that?"

"well... you’re never there," she said softly, her words tinged with hurt. "you always miss my school plays. there’s always an empty seat reserved for you." it pained y/n every time she didn’t see him in the crowd. she would wonder if he was just out of sight or waiting backstage for her, but he never was.

clark’s heart ached. he quickly grabbed her hands, holding them tightly, afraid her warmth might slip away like her heart. "love, i’m so sorry. i promise i’ll be there tomorrow, with a big bouquet of roses."

y/n chuckled, rubbing her thumb across his hands. "you know i like yellow flowers."

clark smiled softly, looking deeply into her eyes, which now held a shade of blue, reflecting his sadness and regret. "yellow it is, then."

the truth was, clark had never told y/n about his true self. it wasn’t fear that held him back, but his instinct to protect her. after everything he’d seen, all that had happened around him, and what his destiny would demand, his only thought was to keep y/n safe—safe from everyone and everything. she was his heart, and that was the part of him he couldn’t bear to risk.

she was the sun he needed.

yet, like in every romantic comedy, there’s a breaking point where the lovers reach a moment of hurt.

for y/n, that moment came as she stood on stage, the spotlight shining on her, but her eyes glistened with unshed tears. the seat reserved for him was empty again.

the star had missed her orbit once more.

the city was shining, but not for her.

it shone for superman.

pt. 2 is out!

much love!!!

ps: if u have watched romeo&juliet (1968) pls say it in unison that tom welling could be benvolio or romeo.

[say-al0e]

Anything

Rating: SMUT, Minors, DNI! No one under 18!

Summary: For as long as you could remember, you'd loved Aemond with a fierceness that earned his loyalty. Now, he needs to know - just how much do you really love him? | Ft. Request: "You love me, don't you?" "Too much, sometimes." Warnings: Targcest, oral (m!receiving), mentions of Aemond intentionally harming Aegon, mention of war and the toll of war. Pairing: Aemond x Targtower!Reader [implied twin - but sibling relationship not extensively referenced] Word Count: 3.4k HotD Taglist | HotD Masterlist

Silence was a rarity in the Red Keep, only ever descending upon the magnificent structure in times of turmoil - disease, death, war. Nothing good came of it, nothing good accompanied it, but there was little surprise it clung to every corner where life once bloomed.

The throne room itself was akin to a mausoleum, no longer the lively host of lords from far and wide. With Aegon lost in poppy-induced dreams, there were no guards lingering about to fill the room with laughter or squires rushing to fill cups, eager to drown in the knowledge of these men - of members of the Kingsguard, of the king himself. Instead, it sat still and empty and dark as the last of the torches smoldered in its holder.

Outside, a storm raged - thunder rolled, waves crashed, guards and servants clamored to protect themselves and their animals from the downpour - but inside the stone walls of the Keep, everything seemed frozen in time.

Lightning flashed, illuminating the inky sky with sharp bolts of brilliant white light, and filtered through the windows, casting sharp shadows around the room. The lone figure amidst the endless stretch of stone never flinched, didn’t even seem to notice the light, even as you used it to guide your steps deeper into the silence.

Aemond stood just a few feet from the base of the throne, shoulders straight and hands settled behind his back.

Though he cut a severe figure on the brightest, warmest of days, he looked every bit the being of nightmares he’d come to be recognized as in the occasional flash of lightning. 

In the dark, the green leather he wore looked black and the straight, silk strands of his silver hair gleamed white. His angular face only looked sharper, cast in shadow with any trace of the warmth he once displayed - if only for you - now gone entirely. He stood tall, proud, and you felt an odd flurry of emotion settle into the pit of your stomach.

There was something like dread, a fear for what was to come next, right alongside concern - for your brother, lying in his bed with injuries too severe to know if he might survive them; for your husband, who had lost his way enough to place him there; for your sister, who had lost her son and now might lose her husband. There was understanding, a knowledge of why Aemond had done everything, and a deep desire to rush forward to comfort your husband as you knew he was hurting. But above all, there was a profound sense of grief as you mourned the loss of whatever life you’d been clinging to.

The only thing left for you was the man that stood before you and while that once might’ve offered you some semblance of comfort, it now only brought you fear.

For a long few moments - seconds, minutes, perhaps even hours; the passage of time seemed to disappear with the world the moment the doors sealed you inside the throne room - you stood in unbroken silence. Though he knew you were there, was likely more attuned to your presence than anyone else, Aemond didn’t turn. He didn’t bother acknowledging your presence for what felt like an eternity until, finally, he shifted his head just enough to glance at you from the corner of his eye.

“It’s late,” you whispered, hesitant - almost afraid to break the silence - when he tipped his head, as if inviting you to speak. “Come to bed.”

Aemond hummed, acknowledging your whispered plea, as his gaze lingered on the throne for a moment longer. There was a moment of concern - a moment you feared he might refuse you; a moment you feared he might accept and follow you to your bed - before he turned to face you, violet eye shimmering.

“You love me, don’t you?”

The low voice, a quiet rasp you’d long found more comforting than any other, that filled the silence was broken. It cracked, was thin and brittle in a way you hadn’t heard since Lucerys’ death, and you felt your heart begin to shatter as you took a tentative step closer.

“Too much, sometimes,” you confessed - words escaping without thought, without malice. But if anyone were to understand, it was Aemond.

It was an affliction you shared, a love that ran far deeper than anyone else seemed to understand - the passion of dragons, bound together in fire and blood. Though you possessed two bodies, your souls had long been intertwined and, even when you wished it were not the case, you understood him. You loved him, despite the fear and the anger he carried, and he loved you even harder in return.

The answer you shared was acceptable, understandable, and Aemond hummed once more. “You would do anything for me?”

As children, you were both quiet - sullen, almost, as you navigated the world together; never far apart, never content to be apart for more than a few moments - but you shared an understanding. If there was something the other wanted, something the other needed, there was no length too great to ascertain it.

This moment was no different.

“Yes.” Though it terrified you, the lengths you would go if only Aemond asked, you knew there was little you would not do for him. And, now, you knew that the time had come for him to ask a favor that would end in your demise.

Still, there was never a choice for you to be anything other than by his side, right until the very end.

Though your answer should have pleased him, Aemond still looked stricken as he nodded. “Will you come with me to Harrenhal?”

There was an underlying understanding you both shared, one in which you knew that the end of your story awaited in the ruins of Harrenhal, but that did little to stop you from nodding. Like a lamb lead to the slaughter, you would follow him to your death. 

“I will.”

Aemond turned fully then, violet eye shimmering with a flurry of emotion that made your own heart race. There was pride, an overwhelming feeling that he’d finally settled into his rightful place; grief, an overwhelming sadness that his rise came at the demise of his eldest brother; guilt, an understanding that his crimes would not be permitted to go unpunished; and, finally, a desperate desire to be loved, to find a light in the midst of all the darkness.

“Vhagar and Vermithor,” he whispered, “you and I; there is none who will defeat us when we stand together.” The false bravado was easy to detect, even easier to understand. He did not want to lead you to your death, did not want to see your story end alongside his, but there was no other way; you were born together, you’d lived together, you would die together. “Come closer.”

The moment you stepped within his reach, Aemond’s hand gripped your wrist. Though he’d always been careful with you - reverential, in his own way - his touch was painful, nearly punishing as he pulled you against his chest. His free hand lifted to your cheek and you took great care to keep from flinching, despite your certainty he’d never purposely harm you, as his violet eye searched yours for reassurance.

“Tell me you love.” It was not as sharp as you knew him to be capable of, but it was clear that this was a demand, not a request to be refused.

“I do,” you assured him, voice still a whisper but conviction evident as the hand not held by his lifted to his cheek. “I love you. I have and will always love you.” It was a promise, reverent and desperate, meant to remain unbroken, and Aemond seemed calmed - if only minutely - by the warmth of your palm pressed to his cheek.

“Show me.”

While he spent little time reveling in the touch of others, even less allowing those he did not care for to reach for him, Aemond had always found great comfort in your touch. It soothed him, settled the unsteady beat of his heart and the ragged edge to his breathing, and you took the opportunity to indulge him as he released the grip on your wrist.

As desperately as Aemond needed your comfort, the soft touch of your hand or the warm press of your mouth to his skin, you needed him just as badly.

To feel him, standing tall and solid - still there, whole and unblemished from the skirmish that nearly claimed Aegon’s life - would assuage the fears that lingered. To hear the tremor in his voice as he spoke, whenever he deemed the moment worthy of his internal anguish, or the tension bleed from his tone as you allowed him to seek solace in the warmth of your body; you needed it nearly more than he did.

Aemond needed your reassurance that you still loved him, despite all he’d done - despite all he would do. You needed reassurance that there was still something to love.

Without wasting another moment, you leaned into him.

Whereas his skin usually ran warm, the blood of the dragon pumping through his veins, his smooth cheek was cool to the touch. He leaned into the gesture, seeking the heat from your own body, and you shared it gladly as you pressed yourself onto the tips of your toes to bring your mouth to his.

Much of Aemond’s life had been lived under the control of others, dictated by his place as a prince -  as the second son of a king who cared little for any of his children born after his first daughter. Decorum left him with little room for error, with little room to dictate his own future. And in the wake of Aegon’s own rebellion, there was less freedom and greater expectations.

Control was not something anyone had ever given Aemond willingly - with the exception of you.

With you, there’d never been any need for Aemond to extend any kind of force. He’d never needed to manipulate or coerce, never needed to make you fear him. Your life had been lived by his side, allowing him to give and take as he needed, and he rewarded you with a love so fierce you feared not for yourself but for anyone who crossed you, lest they invoke his wrath.

There were but a brief few moments where Aemond allowed you control - where he allowed anyone control, especially now that he could easily take it - but as you pressed your mouth to his, lips softened by sugared scrubs and herbs meeting familiar wind-chapped lips, he gave you leave to prove your love as you wished.

Large hands slipped beneath the open front of your robe, fingers digging into the soft flesh of your hips, as he pulled you closer. His head tipped, silver hair falling in a curtain around you, as you sought to deepen the kiss.

Outside the Keep, the wind howled and lightning flashed. Flickers of bright white light flashed behind your eyelids but you willed it all away; the only thing that existed was that which you could feel, that which you could hear. Aemond’s lithe frame, slight but athletic from years of training and riding; the warmth of his chapped lips, parting to allow your tongue to slip between them; the sharp inhale of breath, ushered as your hand brushed at the leather covering his chest, slowly descending.

The only thing that existed, the only thing that mattered, was Aemond.

A slow, simmering heat filled the air between you - a desperate, needful warmth that would have frightened you, had you experienced it with anyone else - as you broke the kiss. As he inhaled a shaking breath, you refused to part more than an inch from him as your mouth pressed to every available inch of skin.

Lips slick with spit and beginning to swell mapped the angular planes of Aemond’s face; over his cheeks, the bridge of his nose, the sharp line of his jaw.

Soft hands flitted over his chest, down his stomach, and came to rest at the belt looped around his waist. The sword and dagger were dropped without thought, both clamoring to the ground with a noise that might’ve drawn guards had they not all been too afraid to find themselves alone with the Prince Regent, and you made quick work of the ties and buttons and buckles that hid your husband from your view.

Covered as he was with leather - practical, always ready for flight - he tipped his head to allow you access to any sliver of skin left exposed. The crook of his neck, the hollow of his throat; every inch was warmed by the press of your mouth before you sank to your knees before him.

The stone of the floor bit into your knees through the thin fabric of your shift, doubtlessly leaving behind bruises that only he would see, but you found that you cared little as your hands fell to the fabric at his hips.

As he stood before you, the image was one that sent a shiver down your spine. Aemond, tall and lithe - a beautiful being seemingly carved by the hands of the most skilled artists - with his angular features and violet eye shimmering in radiant flashes of lightning, looked every bit the villain he was painted as. 

Against the backdrop of the Iron Throne, thousands of blades melted to form the seat he would die for, there was no more ethereal image.

Though he could be a man of immense patience - a strength he used to serve himself; a strength most often invoked in tormenting you - there seemed to be little at hand as he reached for you. Calloused fingers cradled the side of your head, sliding into hair left undone, as Aemond urged you closer.

With deft fingers - and considerable effort to hide the trembling therein - you tugged the fabric from his hips just low enough to free his cock. Above you, Aemond sighed. It was a quiet sound that might’ve been lost in another environment, but in the silence of the throne room, every noise was amplified.

Despite your better judgement - or, perhaps, because of it - you chanced another moment of reverential study.

Everything about Aemond was beautiful, breathtaking in a way you long since stopped trying to understand, and you couldn’t help but breathe the sentiment aloud. “So beautiful,” you whispered, as your gaze traveled from the top of his head to the tip of his cock. “My glorious dragon.”

Another sigh, this one less patient, escaped him. However, before he could offer any reproach for your drawn-out worship, you leaned into him.

Aemond’s cock was hard, Valyrian steel wrapped in the pale velvet of his skin, and you offered a sigh of your own as you wrapped a hand around the base. The tip weeped, pale droplets of pre-come glistened in the pale flashes of lightning, and you leaned in to lap at them.

Settled before him, knees aching and heart pounding in your chest - hammering at your ribcage in a way that hurt - you could almost pretend. 

As you closed your eyes to keep the traitorous tears at bay, tongue tracing the vein running along the underside of his cock, you could pretend that you were tucked away safely in your own chambers. As his fingers ghosted along the curve of your jaw, brushed an errant piece of hair behind your ear, you could pretend that the scent of dragon fire and blood lingering on his skin was nothing more than the remnants of a long day of training. And as he breathed your name, so reverent and desperate, you could almost pretend that the man above you was the one you’d loved your entire life.

In a desperate bid to forget, to lose yourself in the love you held for him - in the unending devotion that would lead you to your doom - you reached for his free hand and laced your fingers with his. You held it pressed to his thigh, used it to stabilize yourself, and took the rest of his cock into your mouth.

There was little about you that escaped his notice and no doubt he could see the tears beginning to line your lashes when you blinked up at him, desperate for a glimpse of his face. You could only hope he would attribute them to your relief that he remained unharmed, that he stood before you with one hand buried in your hair and the other tethering you to reality.

Anything that was not Aemond was of little concern as he allowed you to move at your own pace, taking as much or as little of him into your mouth as you wished.

With every bob of your head, every swirl of your tongue, every twist of your wrist, you held a power he rarely relinquished. And with every glance up at him, your own glassy eyes meeting his, you could feel the rigidity in his body begin to relax.

Moment by moment, each ministration you lavished him with seemed to settle him.

Above you, Aemond began to resemble himself once more. With every swipe of your tongue, with every inch you pressed forward, you proved the love he needed to feel so desperately. That you were willing to submit yourself to him so wholly, body and soul, was enough to earn you a broken moan and the release that saw rigid shoulders slumping as his head bowed.

A curtain of silver hair covered Aemond’s face as his eye fell shut. His brows furrowed, a look of near pain compressing his features, but you could feel the grateful squeeze of the hand holding yours as the other pressed you closer.

Though he rarely allowed you to remain on your knees long enough for him to spill in your mouth, he kept you there - nose pressed to the sharp bone of his pelvis - until you swallowed his spend.

The moment your lips parted and your lashes, wet with tears, fluttered, he pulled you to your feet.

Quiet settled for a long moment, broken only by the ragged sound of Aemond’s breathing and the clank of metal just outside the door - the guards still in place, still devout despite their fear; a mirror of your own life. That violet eye, dark and clouded with an anger, a sadness, a broken resolve, met yours. The hand cradling your jaw moved to grip your chin, fingers digging into the flesh almost hard enough to hurt, as he searched for a moment, looking for the answer to an unasked question, before he leaned closer.

“Avy jorrāela,” Aemond whispered, voice quiet - resolute - as he used the grip on your chin to lift your lips to his. 

As many times as he’d promised his love, you’d never once doubted him. Even in that moment, as the walls felt as if they might begin to crumble at any moment, you knew that he loved you. You felt it in your heart, deep within your soul, and offered him the most genuine smile you were able.

“I know, my love,” you returned, eyes fluttering shut for just a moment as his forehead pressed to yours. “You’ve had a long day. Come to bed,” you urged, squeezing his hand gently, “let’s get some rest.”

Though a small part of you feared he may resist, content to stand in the dark and ruminate over a future that you both knew could never exist, Aemond acquiesced. With deft fingers, he righted his clothing - and yours, closing the robe and hiding your satin nightgown from the eyes of any who might dare look - and settled his sword and dagger back in their rightful places before returning his hand to your own.

The future was as bleak and volatile as the storm that raged outside the walls of the Keep, as unpredictable and unrelenting, and there was an immense fear that settled in the pit of your stomach. The end was near, approaching with each moment that passed, but there was no escaping destiny.

From the moment you were born, you knew that your fate was intertwined with Aemond’s. 

So with interlaced fingers and a kiss pressed to your brow, you allowed him to lead you into the unknown - straight to your demise. After all, you promised that you would do anything he asked.

_________________________________________________________

Author's Note: I've been so productive lately, wow. Anyway. Enjoy this.

Taglist: @anaya-rhys, @holypeacecrown, @marvelously-flawed, @travelingmypassion, @letsgotothehop, @reynacrawford, @liannafae, @ffsg0jo, @targaryen-madness, @hangmanscoming, @barnes70stark, @mysticaltwoface, @biqueen20, @lolathebunny221, @nourangul, @darylandbethforever9, @liandav, @r-3dlips, @torchbearerkyle

[loggiepj]

To Love A Lannister

chapter 13 | chapter 14

"We'll arrive at Sunspear in a week's time," Oberyn announced, approaching you leaning against the railing on the quarterdeck, facing the vast ocean ahead.

Darkness had started to loom around the ship, waves almost as black as a squid's ink. The sun was almost a quarter visible as it was being consumed by the horizon, obliterating any light. The only thing shining across the distance was the red patch of sky encircling the edges of the sun. If it weren't for the torches surrounding the deck, you wouldn't be able to see the Dornishman standing beside you. "How do you feel about that? A lot has changed since we left home."

"Indeed," you said. "I thought I'd look forward to my warm bed and the fresh air of Dorne back home. Now, it seems like I'm terrified setting foot on some land I thought was my birthplace."

"You don't have to be," he assured you. "You're not alone, you know. And your sister is the Queen—"

"She doesn't even know who I am, does she?" You turned to look at him.

Oberyn shrugged. "She will. In time."

You sighed, avoiding his gaze. The sky had turned blood orange. "And I . . . I don't think I'm worthy to be a Targaryen as much as I'm a Martell."

"Don't be so hard on yourself-"

"I'm a bastard, if any, I'm just good at being a bastard. That's all I'll ever be. You know, I think I probably prefer being a bastard, with no one expecting me of anything—"

"The blood of Rhaella Targaryen runs through your veins," Oberyn interjected. "You don't know yet of its importance but you will in time."

"I—" You immediately stopped talking upon seeing Cersei walk around the deck, with a handmaiden following behind her, her eyes on the horizon beyond, witnessing what little of the sun left before it was devoured by the ocean.

"Because of her, right? You've grown fond of her," Oberyn said, sighing. "You're even wearing her damn necklace."

As if she knew you were looking, Cersei turned towards the quarterdeck, her eyes meeting yours in a tensed gaze. Your hand grabbed against the wooden railing a bit too hard. Oberyn was far from wrong. It was because of the Lannister woman.

This was all too easy and perfect if you were just you — a bastard from the Martell house. You would serve Cersei, even if your family would despise you. But sometimes, people fall in love with someone they can't have.

You missed the Queen Mother terribly, her striking green eyes piercing right through yours, observing what you two could possibly be talking about for making you frown that bad.

All you wanted to do at that moment was hold her, and tell her that you still wish to marry her if she also felt the same about you.

"I . . . I do," you confessed softly, avoiding Cersei's eyes. "She's . . . She's my weakness."

"It will pass, Y/n."

You then turned to glare at Oberyn. "What's that supposed to mean? When you fell in love with Ellaria, did it pass too?"

"That's different, Y/n. You think Cersei will feel the same about you if she only knew?" Oberyn scoffed. "The Lannisters were one of the houses that ended the line of Targaryens. They even paid mercenaries to assassinate Queen Daenaerys herself and she's in another continent. If Cersei knew you were Daenaerys' sister, bastard or not, she'd kill you herself. Did you forget what they did to Robert's bastards?"

Cersei had now walked towards the stern, staring into the darkness ahead. Her golden hair billowing against the wind was the only brightest thing in that ship.

"All I'm saying is," Oberyn went on. "You ought to be careful. End it while it's still early. Cersei is a woman of ruthless nature. She wouldn't see you through."

Oberyn then placed a hand on your shoulder before he left.

You sighed, right hand curling into a fist on your side, mind fighting between leaving and heading towards the woman down below. Yet, the heart wanted what it wants as you began to climb down the stairs leading to the stern.

"You said you'd always want to have your own ship one day," you started, approaching Cersei, her perfume infiltrating your nostrils. The wind gently blew the Queen's hair against all directions, and it was such a wonderful sight.

Cersei raised a hand towards the handmaiden, making the latter bow before leaving you both alone.

"You remember," she replied, her eyes still on the dark horizon.

"Of course." You smiled, walking closer. "How could I not? Did it meet your expectations then, Your Grace?"

"It's not my first time riding a ship, although a lot has changed. The waves are somewhat smaller than I remember years ago. And the sunset has never been that red before."

You were now standing side by side with the Lioness, your hand on the railing, at least an inch away from where Cersei's hand was.

"It hasn't for a long time. People in Dorne believe that red skies are often associated with warnings or change. That whenever a sky is as red as blood, any decision you put forth on that day should be carefully done, unless you don't regard any bad omen coming your way."

She chuckled softly. "And what do you say to these beliefs?"

Cersei turned her head to look at you, expecting your reply, a glint in her eye.

Your eyes never left hers, travelling from her mouth back to her eyes. "I . . . I just think that it's such a beautiful occurrence to see. And I don't care about the consequences."

Cersei stopped smiling, understanding you weren't talking about any Dornish myths or beliefs anymore. Both of your fingers were barely brushing, distance diminishing each second. It would seem apparent that you two were leaning forward to each other.

Until Ellaria coughed behind you, stopping you both. "Supper is ready."

~~~

Being a Martell, you thought travelling by water would have made you immune against seasickness, but maybe it was the remnants of The Mountain's strength that had weaken you.

The trip to Dorne would take almost a week, and it only took three days before you started feeling nauseated. Going back and forth to the head just to eradicate the upset churning in your stomach had drained your energy. Ellaria had took mercy, bringing you a bucket to use beside you.

Cersei's presence was the only thing that made it bearable. You would join her at the dining cabin at night time, talking for hours that even Oberyn had almost fallen asleep on the table.

On the fifth night, you had excused yourself from dinner and surrendered to the confines of your cabin. Maybe it was the way the ship was swaying against the huge tides from the forecasted storm or the stale food you ate during breakfast. Either way, you had secluded yourself to recover.

The Queen Mother was having none of it though, knocking against your door some time later that night and bringing you a steaming hot bowl of soup.

"It's Venison," Cersei said, as she sat on the side of your bed. "I had our cook made it. Hot liquids can help calm an upset stomach. Tommen would always have them when he's sick."

"Thank you, Your Grace," you replied, straightening yourself as you leaned your back against the headboard of your bed. "You shouldn't have troubled yourself."

But instead of giving you the bowl, she insisted to feed you with a spoonful, leaning closer to you. With cheeks flushed from the act of endearment, you let the woman coddle you.

"You never come to me as someone who gets sick travelling by sea," she teased, a smile on her face.

"Well, I normally don't," you argued, making the Queen laugh.

"Quit being cocky and let yourself be taken care of."

One of the Dornish servants suddenly barged through the door, eyes wide upon seeing you not alone. There was a crate of supplies for your wound on her arms.

"Leave it," Cersei ordered, making the servant drop the crate unto a table nearby.

After you have finished the bowl, Cersei brought her hands to the hem of your tunic, attempting to pull it off you. Heart skipping a beat when you felt her fingers brush against your skin, you immediately stopped her, wrapping your hand around her wrist. "What are you doing?"

The Lannister woman smirked as she stood and walked away instead, taking the crate of supplies from the doorway. "I'm changing the dressing of your wound."

After a few moments of hesitation, you finally let Cersei get rid of your tunic. Her eyes softened upon the sight of her necklace's golden lion pendant on your chest and the bruised skin, now had gone purple close to healing.

She then began delicately cleaning the wound on your chest, her thumb purposefully brushing your nipple, every touch bringing you shivers. You swallowed, cheeks red as you attempted to move away from her.

"Stop moving," Cersei said, giggling.

"Stop teasing me then," you countered back.

After she had managed to change your dressing, you noticed a tent growing under your breeches. Everything seemed to freeze at that moment as you quickly took one of your pillows to hide it when Cersei was looking away.

Yet, there was nothing the Queen could miss as her curious eyes began wondering why there was a pillow on your lap. She sat back on the side of your bed, leaning forward and closer to your body.

Her sultry voice near your face made you harder than you were before, your cock straining painfully from the weight of the pillow. "Do you also need help with something else, My Lady?"

"Your Grace, I don't think—"

"Stop thinking," she whispered into your ear, her hand slipping inside your breeches and stroking your hardening cock. "Just breathe, Y/n. Let yourself go. Take pleasure in my hand."

Letting out an embarrassingly loud groan, you threw your head back against the headboard, eyes rolling deep into the back, hands clutching against the sheets on both sides.

Cersei's eyes darted towards your cock when she managed to pull it out from your breeches, twitching against her touch. It had never looked this painfully hard before, you thought you wouldn't last a second longer.

"You have a pretty cock, you know," she cooed, her lips nipping the skin on your jaw and neck. Her hand moved expertly, squeezing you tight as if milking you, and she did manage, her thumb tracing over the small cum leaking from your head then spreading it on your entire length.

"Cersei. . ."

The sound of your whimpers made Cersei turn to stare at you, observing your every reaction, with your eyes shut close and mouth agape. "You looked so prettier under my control."

"Cersei, I'm close. . ."

"Good," she said.

You opened your eyes to see what she meant, but what you saw only made you lose it. The Queen took the entire length of your cock into her mouth, bobbing her head up and down in a fast pace. The sight itself, the wetness and warmth from her mouth and the moan she let out when she took you made you explode right into her.

And she took it all, swallowing everything there was to milk. You cursed profanities into the silent night, grunting your release, releasing a lot more when she took you deeper.

It seemed like eternity when you had finally come down from your high, watching Cersei clean your shaft before licking the side of her lips from any residue. She then tucked your cock back into your breeches and leaned forward back to you.

"I would have hated wasting a single drop," she finished with a smug smile on her face.

I truly appreciate your continued support in reading my stories. You can help me create more stories by supporting my writing thru this link. Thank you so much ❤🥰

[ponderingsoflife]

Considering Scar has been trapped in Secret Life for so long, do you ever think he had a Castaway moment?

Three wolves? What? No that’s Ren, Pearl, and Joel you silly goof! They’re right here, can’t you tell? A couple of parrots? No! That’s Jimmy and Grian obviously. That fox that is tied to a tree just outside his house that he can’t bring himself to look at? That’s his deadbeat father. That pufferfish in a bucket he refuses to let go of? That’s Martyn. That zombie that’s he’s saved from death multiple times now because he can’t for the life of him bear to just put it in a hole to keep it safe? That’s his mom! It’s okay if Cleo isn’t the brightest and she wanders into the sunlight a lot, her favorite son is there to help her, that’s what he’s there for! But those are the relatively normal ones. Those are the living creatures, as sad as it is, at least they can respond to anything he does.

But then it gets worse. That block of moss? Why that’s his dearest baby brother Bdubs. Why can’t he talk to him or participate in games and shenanigans like they used to? Well that’s because this ones just a baby! It’s okay though, Scar will carry him around everywhere if he has to. There was a cookie BigB once, but Scar smashed that into pieces when the Grian parrot got too close to it. That huddle of redstone torches in the corner? Why that’s Tango, Impulse, and Mumbo. The pumpkin in the front yard with a crudely carved axolotl on the front? That’s Lizzy! And when time does what time inevitably does and rots the pumpkin, he cries for days before pulling himself up by his bootstraps and making a new one, promptly joking with it about how she must have had a nice nap. Gem is his diamond sword of course, whom he thanks for getting dinner for them every time he kills something with it. Skizz is a cherry blossom tree on the old Heart Foundation island that he jokes that he never sees and he should visit more often. Scott is a small patch of flowers which Scar accidentally stepped on once and cried for several hours about.

[nb-hedgewolf]

The light is MINE.

Small story underneath Readmore. Please reblog instead of liking!

Robotnik's latest plan to try to get rid of Sonic, and take over the world, had involved the creation of space-time vortexes, using the a gemstone known as the "Warp Topaz". Reaching into other realities to gather resources for his plans, and to trap Sonic inside a dimension where he'd be unable to thwart his plans.

This idea backfired the moment it was put into motion. For, unbeknownst to him, in a different reality, a beast of famine and darkness could feel the ripples his machine left in time and space. In a last attempt to secure it's survival, the heinous beast tore a hole from it's home dimension and into Robotnik's machine.

Before the hedgehog Robotnik oh-so dreaded could do as little as drop a snarky comment, the machine's alarms blared out loud, sending constant distress signals to the scientist's control panel, as it detected an unknown entity crawling through it's insides.

The next thing anyone knew was that Sonic began to fight this mangled monstrosity made of crystal bones. A walking corpse of a higher being, desiring nothing but to sink it's fangs into the hedgehog. Each punch from this thing felt terrible, the pain this pitiful monster felt was being inflicted into Sonic.

The fight went on for hours on end, the beast attacked relentlessly, not allowing the hedgehog even a single second to catch his breath, and it didn't seem to have intentions to stop any time soon either. Friends and curious onlookers had came to his aid a long time ago, but neither Sonic nor the beast wanted anyone nearby.

A knot tied deep inside Sonic, the way it felt to be attacked by this monster, he didn't want his friends to be forced to deal with it. It reminded him so much of the cold, numbing, painful, scalding, overwhelming pain from cyber corruption. And yet, this felt so much worse, according to him.

The moment Tails tried to approach Sonic, holding his Miles Electric in the end, exclaiming he had found a way to deal with this unknown thing, was... the end. The monster locked it's "eyes" on the fox, and prepared to attack. Sonic wouldn't let any harm come to his closest friend, his sibling...

So he took the hit for the fox. And this time, the beast sank it's claws deep into the hedgehog's body. Finally, after hours of constant fighting, time seemed to move slowly, the hedgehog tumbled back, feeling warm liquid flow down from his chest, a buzzing ring sound echoed in his ears, he couldn't tell what everyone was saying anymore.

After hours of battle, the hedgehog tripped down into the arms of the beast, and was devoured. Light expanded outwards, like an explosion, the moment Sonic and the beast made contact, light that shone brighter than anything any of them had ever seen. Soon, where once two beings stood, now only one entity remained: Golden fur covered its body, golden as the brightest of suns; dark crystalline armor adorned its form, as black as the darkest of nights.

It took a single step forward before roaring in anger, crying out in pain, screaming in agony. Its hunger for light was not yet quenched.

On that day, the hero of this world, the beacon of hope in the heart of every mobian, was extinguished. The torch of the vessel of chaos was never passed down, instead, its never-yielding flame was devoured by the dark maws of the beast from beyond space and time.

On that night, in roars and cries, it pledged to subdue, and consume, all the light in this universe, to punish humanity for it's hubris, for the inhabitants of this world were not free of sin in its eyes. Desiring light, power, and energy. Playing god, they had drained another one like itself, and destroyed it, forgotten it, erased it.

Now they all would pay the ultimate price.

Travelers from the world this creature first emerge would name this new being fueled by revenge "UB-Chaos". Also known as...

Entropy Spine Necrozma.

[lesbianrobin]

funniest supreme court cases:

tanner v united states: if you're on trial and the jurors get wasted at lunch and snort coke in the courthouse bathroom and smoke weed during breaks and nap during the trial that's fine actually. their deliberations are still sacred and the verdict they return is final. they cannot give testimony about whether they or other jurors were high out of their minds while judging your case. according to the supreme court juries can be high as fuck and sentence you to life in prison or whatever they want it's fine it's fineeeee!

morse v frederick: if a high schooler cannot hold up a banner that reads "bong hits 4 jesus" on the sidelines of where they're passing the olympic torch, thereby displaying said banner on live television, without retaliation from his principal, then what is the point of the first amendment?? according to the supreme court educators can crack down on student speech which promotes drug use, even if said student is not on school property at the time of the speech. booooo supreme court we hate your pussy

illinois v caballes: i cannot even properly explain this one but imagine you are transporting like the Maximum amount of drugs possible to fit inside of your car and you are therefore trying to drive as normally as possible and speeding a little bit on the highway. you get pulled over for the speeding (bad luck) but the officer is just writing you a ticket he isn't searching the car or anything so you're gonna be fine! and then the cop's friend on the radio is like yooooo hold that dude there i got this sick new drug sniffing dog i wanna try out!!! so this guy's cop buddy shows up and uses his drug sniffing dog on you for no reason just for funsies and they find your $250,000 stash of marijuana. and you say um hey they did not have probable cause to search my car and the supreme court says drug dogs aren't searches actually so it's fine. your rights are not vindicated. you are roy caballes and you are the unluckiest man alive.

in re gault: fifteen-year-old gerald gault was sentenced to six years in a juvenile detention center for allegedly prank calling a neighbor. this is actually the one case on this list with a good ruling because the supreme court was like um. actually perhaps the fourteenth amendment should apply to children. but BEFORE they did that this poor kid got imprisoned for like a third of his LIFE for a prank call that he might not have even made it might have been his friend. this country is not serious.

berghuis v thompkins: which is not actually a funny case but the supreme court ruled that in order to invoke your right to remain silent, you must declare that you are invoking your right to remain silent. remaining silent does not count as invoking your right to remain silent. absolutely beautiful reasoning from the brightest legal minds of our nation.

[giuseppe-yuki]

when the clock strikes 12'

baker!yuki tsunoda x princess!reader

w.c.: 2.9k

warnings: a sprinkle of fluff, slight allusions to sex, curse words, angst, mentions of death

summary: every night, you flee to the baker's son to receive the love you never got from your own family.

picture credits from pinterest :)

every day was unchanging. wake up at six am, breakfast of exactly one apple and a cup of oatmeal with a sprinkle of cinnamon, then onto history, etiquette, dancing class, horse-riding, brief pause for lunch, embroidery, languages, government, military tactics, dinner, then finally music. as the next brightest queen on the throne, you had to be perfect. you couldn’t be your little brother, running carefree in the woods, playing with wooden bows and arrows, or your younger sister, who spent all her hours gossiping and playing cards with the ladies of the court. trapped in a gilded cage, you had no choice but to endure all the classes your parents put you through and to your credit, you seemed to be the best daughter and heiress they could ever ask for. 

however, when the clock hit 12, you would routinely slip on your black cloak, pull the torch lever in the corner of your room, and flee down the steps out of the palace. the second your foot touched the soil on the other side of the towering stone walls, you could shed your disguise of being the powerful, multi talented crown princess of your kingdom. when you flew through the beaten path in the woods, cloak flapping behind you, and past the empty cobblestone courtyard, feet echoing quietly on each brick, and up the leafy vines, hands easily grasping the familiar branches, and into the arms of the boy you loved the most, you finally felt at home. 

he would unclasp your black cloak, fold it neatly, and place it softly on the singular wooden chair next to his bed. then, like always, he would flourish a covered plate towards you, pretending he was a fancy chef in the castle, serving you the finest food in the kingdom- dishes that average village people could only dream about. you knew, of course, that underneath the piece of tattered cloth, there sat two slices of warm bread, topped with your favorite golden honey, and a cup of milk from his family cow in the shed behind the bakery. no matter how many times you scarfed down the handmade bread, it tasted way better than any of the food you had at home. perhaps it had tasted so delectable, because he had made it with his love, something that you never felt in the castle. you would whip off the cloth like you always did, gasp shockingly at the worn, hand-carved dish and its contents in front of you, and pepper the boy with kisses until he was a giggling mess. then, you would each share a slice of bread (he would always purposely slide you the bigger piece when he thought you weren’t looking) and talk about your day together, as if you were just another average couple who were most definitely not a princess and a simple baker’s son. 

he would then tell you about the day’s customers, about the mean old grandpa named mr. horner who would yell at him for ‘lazing around all day,’ or his best friend pierre who always would buy three baguettes, cut up into fourths, or the kind blacksmith’s wife, susie, who would buy loads of pumpernickel for her husband, and sometimes his classmates, like carlos and charles, who would beg him to give them a sliver of cake. you pretended you understood what he meant when he would describe searching for wild potatoes in the forest with his friends, when the day’s bread was sold out. 

in return, you would tell him about your day, like when one of the lord’s sons, ollie, stepped on your white wool socks and ruined them during your dancing lessons, or when your friend dorianne told your french teacher that she ate un mur (a wall) instead of une mûre (a blackberry) for lunch, or how you galloped across the field on your horse faster than max, a duke’s son. he nodded like he knew the feeling of how ridiculous it was when the chef gave you one whole roasted chicken when you had requested a lamb chop and asparagus. 

later, when the soft bread was reduced to crumbs on the wooden plate, and you both had nothing left to say, you would kiss the honey off his lips, and he would laugh and shove you into his wood-and-straw bed. he would then lean over to the singular tallow candle on the patchy floor next to his bed and blow the flame out. underneath the glow of the stars, with the wisp of candle smoke wafting in the air, he would tuck you into his sheets, ‘like a princess deserves,’ and shuffle himself in the slot next to you, one arm around your waist. 

sometimes, you would both fall asleep immediately, one of your soft hands laced in his rough calloused one, your face nuzzled in the crook of where his shoulder meets his neck, breaths syncing together, and blankets swirled around like the hazy night mist outside the window. other times, you would look up at his face, where he looked down at you with lovestruck eyes. your gaze would drift down to his pretty pink lips that seemed to always be slightly chapped and you would forcefully pull him down into a heated kiss. those nights always seemed to end with your sweaty bodies tangled in his linen sheets, with you falling asleep on his naked chest listening to how his racing heart slowed to a soft pitter-patter and him gently caressing the length of your back. 

whichever night it was, you would always be the first one up at exactly five am, smiling at the sight of the baker’s son still sprawled on the bed, a drop of drool running down the corner of his mouth. you would get dressed in your black cloak, leave two gold coins that was worth more than a typical villager’s weekly pay (the baker and his wife never did understand how their son constantly produced such massive sums of money when their business was in a tight spot), and press a chaste kiss to his cheek. he slept soundly, knowing that you would always be back, like you promised, near midnight every night. 

quietly, you snuck out of his window, down the leafy vines, past the empty cobblestone courtyard, though the woods, underneath the stone walls of the castle, and up the stairs into your room, half and hour before your maid was to fetch you for breakfast. by the time the birds outside chirped their tunes and the maid knocked on your gold-embossed door, you would be back in your silk pajamas, underneath your thick hand-weaved cotton blankets and sunken into your soft feathery mattress. she would gently nudge you awake, and you would pretend-yawn, as big as you could, to make it seem like you had the best sleep in the world. and you did, but just not in your bed- it was in the arms of the boy you loved all but a half an hour ago in his bedroom on the second floor of his family’s bakery. 

very rarely did you ever see that boy not under the glow of his tallow candle that threatened to die out way too often, compared to the smooth beeswax candles you had lined throughout the rooms and hallways of your castle. once a month though, the royal family would pay a visit to all the towns in their region of rule. his village would always be the twenty second that you visited, and he would put on a knowing smile when you walked through the woods, down the cobblestone courtyard, and towards the building with the leafy vines on the side in your regal gold and white skirts and petticoats, procession in tow. the rest of the village would be gathered around the cobblestone courtyard as well, each individual working sector presenting a gift of gratitude to you and your family for blessing their town with your presence. your father accepted from the blacksmith a fine-crafted iron sword (which he threw into a box that contained the twenty one other similar swords from past villages), your mother accepted from the dressmaker and carefully stitched dress (that she immediately made plans to be turned into washcloths- the material of the dress was too rough!), your little brother accepted a little toy music box from the sales merchant (he would probably accidentally ‘break’ it on the way to the next village just to see what it looked like on the inside), and your little sister accepted a pair of sparkly gold shoes from the shoemaker (shoes that she would give to her maid, because a princess would never wear something so atrocious as shoes with fake pieces of gold on it!). and to you, the baker’s son would flourish, like he did the night before under your watchful eyes, a weaved basket with a full loaf of soft wheat bread, a pot of honey, and a big jar of cold milk. you would thank him profusely, hand lingering on his a smidgen too long, and softly place the item in your carriage to enjoy later. before you left the village on your horse-drawn buggy, you would glance out the window to see the boy give you a wink and a wave, because he knew, when the moon came out and the clock struck twelve, you would be back in his arms once more with the basket of food, and you both would feast like kings. 

it was like clockwork, through spring, summer, fall and winter, that you journeyed to the village bakery. years passed, and your schedule never changed. you would always be there, a little bit after twelve, with your black cloak and a smile on your face, and he would welcome you with a kiss and honey bread. it was like that until it wasn’t.

your father had gotten suspicious with your actions one winter. his first clue was how you always seemed tired in your lessons- how you dozed off a little bit in history class, how you accidentally pricked your fingers way more than normal in embroidery class, how you would skip dinner more often than not, and then rush through music class as if you were in a hurry to go to bed. his second clue came more by accident, when one of his guards had caught one of the dukes, jos’, son sneaking off from a side exit to meet some random stableboy named charles in a nearby town. your father’s rather aggressive guards had caught them embracing in the shady corner of some cobblestone courtyard. they had nearly beaten charles to death right then and there, but was stopped by max at the last second when he tearfully pleaded to them he would do whatever they wanted him to do, even if that included adhering to his father’s jos’ lifelong wish of turning him into the best equine racer in the kingdom- even if he hated racing. trudging back to the castle with a sobbing max in tow and charles’ broken and feeble body left in the courtyard, they could have sworn they saw a figure in a black cloak that was too high-quality to be a villager’s dart by the leafy vines. his third and final clue was when he ordered the guards to check your room at precisely 1am to make sure you were still snuggled in your bed like you were supposed to be, snoring away.

alas, you weren’t. you were listening cautiously, with wide eyes, as the baker’s son described how a stable boy was found half-beaten to death and frozen in the courtyard a day ago, and all he cried was strings of ‘maxmaxmaxmax’ when the village doctor finally nursed him back into a barely-alive state. that night, when you whimpered the baker’s son’s name into the crook of his neck and he muffled his cries of ecstasy into his pillow, you made sure to hold him just that little bit tighter in the afterglow as if you never wanted to leave. when the sun peeked through the leafy vines at the edge of the window, you gathered your things, and gave the boy a kiss on the lips. this time he awoke, unlike normal, and sat up on the bed. he looked at you with his head cocked to the side and bleary eyes, then laughs when he sees you put not two, but six gold coins on the singular wooden chair next to his bed. he whispers a soft ‘i’ll see you tonight’ and blows you a kiss before collapsing dramatically back on the bed. you can’t help but giggle to yourself and lightly skip all the way back to your room. you fail to notice how the stems of the vines have been hacked slightly, or how the snow on the cobblestone road had one too many sets of footprints, or how the pathway through the forest had deep imprints way bigger than possible to be from your feet in the slushy watery brown sludge, and how the torch-lever-door was slightly ajar when you arrived in your room. 

when you are awaken by the maid, you brightly hop out of your soft bed, unaware of the pitying looks she gives you. 

you attend your history, etiquette, dancing class, horse-riding, scarf down your lunch, embroidery, languages, and government. you are in your military tactics class, learning how wheels could perhaps be attached to open boxes and go on a circular track to gain speed and agility when the son of a baker is dragged rather unceremoniously into the dungeons below. 

he stays mostly silent; he knows that no one will be saving him now. he waits for a bit in the dim holding cell, watching as the beeswax candle smoothly burns on the wick. it’s funny how even the dungeons of the castle was the teeniest bit more fancier than his bedroom in the room above his family’s bakery…oh yeah, the bakery. he just hopes that his family will survive with the gold coins he had piled on the wooden plate that he typically served the princess on. he had shoved the plate under his covers just as the guards came barging up the stairs and dragged him towards the castle, his parents wailing in confusion and despair. his mind can’t help but drift back to your body, laid out so prettily beneath him the late night before. it lingered on his mind when the executioner led him to a dirty, bloodstained, block and forced him to hold his head over it. and when the swoosh of the blade fell down, the last thought in his head was that if you’d miss the bread that he would make, drizzled with honey with a glass of milk on the side. 

when you sneakily tiptoe past the castle walls, through the forest, across the cobblestone courtyard, and up the vines, you expect to see your lover waiting on his wood-and-straw bed next to the tallow candle, a teasing smile on his pretty face and rumpled black hair all messy on his head. there should be the usual wooden plate on his bed, and his singular wooden chair ready for your folded cloak. but what meets you is a wailing couple, a woman that seemed to have the boy’s shade of hair, and nose shape, and the man that seemed to have his eyes and his chin. the candle is broken in half, unburning, a wooden plate overturned with gold coins spilt everywhere, and a singular wooden chair that has its back board splintered in two. 

ten years later, when your father and mother have passed on, leaving you queen regent, and the military generals look up to you for your orders, and when you are forced to be betrothed to a so-called prince who spends all his time in brothels, fucking women who aren’t you, and your talentless brother and sister have wasted away in the castle, only alive to spread gossip and eat your food, you still wonder what had happened the the baker’s son that wintery night a little past midnight. yuki, you remember his name was. a name that means snow- like the snow that was falling around you when you climbed down his window for the last time, never knowing you would never see him again. you hoped that yuki had a good life. maybe he ran away, and got with a some pretty little commoner that didn’t have the same responsibilities you did, someone who could be with him day and night, someone who didn’t have to arrive at midnight and leave at daylight. or maybe he ran away to become a famous cook or baker- you knew he always had that talent within him. maybe he was in a far-away kingdom, cooking up the most delicious meals that were made with love. you remember those honey bread slices and milk that yuki always made you. but when you requested it from the chef, it never tasted the same. she would always give you three slices instead of two, warm milk instead of cold, or drizzled way too much honey on the slices. wherever he was, you hoped that your paths would meet again. maybe then, he could fold your black cloak nice and neat, make you the honey bread exactly how you liked it with cold milk, and you could talk about your day, and you could kiss the honey off of his lips, and he would tuck you into bed, and lay there with you until your breaths synced up once more.

a/n: ummm so idk what happened it kind of just flowed out of me... it's my first attempt at angst though so lmk if y'all like it :)

[plsupreme]

A smart choice for Home with LED lighting solutions for Energy-efficient Lighting

In the current world, LED lighting solutions have become the smart choice. The rate of power consumption is extremely lower than the conventional one. When it comes to lighting solutions, now we have plenty of choices than ever before.

[thrashkink-coven]

“First of all, we have to be aware that the concept of “light” can be understood in many different ways. For the followers of the right-hand-path traditions, “light” is the domain of God, the superior being, the highest principle of spiritual enlightenment. The Tree of Life is the emanation of this divine force and it is permeated with God’s splendid brilliance that flows from above the whole Tree. This divine light is known as Ain Soph Aur (Ain: Without, Soph: End, Aur: Light) and believed to be the origin of all creation. Mystics and adepts of these systems seek to ascend to this infinite brilliance and unite with it, thus fulfilling the highest goal of the path. It is a process of many ordeals that requires absolute devotion and faith in the Absolute.

But the Tree of Life is imperfect and unbalanced, contaminated by the forces of the Qliphoth that continuously seek to destroy the cosmic balance. In many Qabalistic theories, the Tree of Death was not a part of the original picture at all. There was no material level of Malkuth, either. The Tree of Life consisted of ten Sephiroth with Daath as the central and balancing force behind the whole cosmic harmony. In the original Tree, Daath was the upper “sun” that cast the divine light upon the neighboring Sephiroth. While Tiphereth was the lower “sun,” casting its rays upon the lower regions, Daath illuminated the upper part of the Tree as the second, mystical “sun.” The lower sun was ruled by the archangel Michael, the upper by Lucifer: the Bringer of Light.

Residing close to the highest trinity (Binah, Chokmah, Kether), Lucifer was the mediator between the divine light and the lower spheres. There are many legends of his “fall” which is also the fall of Daath, referring to the sin of pride, the exile of angels from celestial regions, the disobedience of Lucifer against the God’s law, the forbidden union of angels with the daughters of man, etc. What is significant here, when Lucifer-Daath fell, the original cosmic harmony was lost. The divine triad was separated from the lower Sephiroth and Daath became the Abyss, the gate to the Qliphothic anti- worlds in which Lucifer established his Pandemonium.

For those who do not fear to follow Lucifer and separate themselves from the divine order, these anti-worlds are the alternative path of salvation—leading not upward, to the divine light, but downward, into the inner darkness—the very core of being. While the way to God strives to reconstruct the original cosmic order and reunite with the divine brilliance, the Initiate of the Left Hand Path seeks to deepen the fall, separate oneself from God’s emanations and ignite the spark of Godhood in the darkness of the inner Void. This inner spark of Godhood successively becomes the fiery pillar of Ascent on Lucifer’s path of Ascending Flame.

Therefore, the light of Lucifer is not the same “light” as the one recognized by the right-hand-path philosophies. It is not the “splendid brilliance” of a superior being that the Initiate seeks to unite with. This light shines from Within. It is found in the utmost darkness of the inner Void, powering up all evolution and growth on the Luciferian path of flames. It is the fire of the Dragon, the flame of self-salvation, the fiery essence of lust and fury, the driving force of self-creation. This light is represented by the torch of the Light Bearer, one of the most familiar Masks of Lucifer. On the one hand, this concept refers to Lucifer’s stellar and cosmic nature. He is the star that shines proudly as the brightest object in the sky after the sun and the moon. He is also the bringer of fire that is the origin of all things and the patron God of Illumination through knowledge and wisdom. In this sense, he is identified with Prometheus from the famous Greek myth, who brought the divine fire on earth and taught man how to use it. In other words, he endowed man with the soul, the divine fire, and taught mankind how to become equal to gods. The esoteric interpretation of the myth explains the gift of fire as the awakening of the inner spark in man, the source of spiritual power which corresponds to the Tantric concept of Kundalini. The Promethean fire is the inner potential, the spark of Divinity Within, the limitless source of individual power. As Prometheus teaches mankind how to become like gods, so Lucifer shows man the path of independence and the way to our own Godhood.

On the other hand, this is the forbidden light, knowledge denied to man. Prometheus is severely punished by the gods—they chain him to a rock and each day his liver is eaten by an eagle (or a vulture) while each night it grows back so that his pain may last forever. The first couple in the Garden of Eden is exiled and its gates become forever closed for them and their descendants. The angels who left heaven to fornicate with the daughters of man are imprisoned in the valleys of the earth until the day of their judgment, when they will be cast into the abyss of fire and confined to the end of all generations. These horrible fates of those who dared to act against the gods show that the gift of Lucifer holds great power but does not come without a price, and his path is only for those who are willing to accept all that it may bring, be it success or failure.

The Bringer of Light is the initiator of Illumination—in the intellectual and spiritual sense. To many practitioners he reveals himself as the Giver of the Flame, associated with the Egyptian God Set who endows man with the Gift of Consciousness, the potential of Godhood. It is the Flame of Self- Deification, the Light of Isolation that is different than the torch held by gods and spirits who act as guides and patrons on the path of devotion, or the “path of priesthood.” Lucifer’s Flame represents the path of isolation or the “path of sorcery.” These two concepts are connected with two antinomian ways rooted in the East and known as the way of jnana (“knowledge”) and the way of bhakti (“devotion”). In the former, the adept seeks illumination Within, following the guidance of an “internal guru,” in the latter, the adept maintains continuous devotion to an entity viewed as a being outside of the self. The Light Bearer teaches that the way of Luciferian Illumination is the way inward, the search for experience Within. Everyone may carry the Flame and everyone may become the Light Bearer in one’s own right—there is no single god, spirit, or man who can claim this title for oneself. His Light is the Flame of self-awareness, the active, solar aspect of Self-Deification.”

Light & Darkness in Luciferian Gnosis

Asenath Mason

[cambion-companion]

Possession

Caring at all is caring too much.

I've never written from Raphael's perspective...at least not for this long. The idea just came to me last night. He is a very possessive and proud creature. I had to wonder how he'd react if Tav yanked on that chain a little.

Raphael x Tav (female) | drabble | Raphael POV

Caring at all was caring too much. The twisting knife of jealously lodged in Raphael’s chest.

He lounged upon silken pillows, a cup of wine held idly in hand, surrounded by doe-eyed doting mortals all wanting something from him.

Not her. The nymph of his orisons who now swept in a dance some meters away, her vivid satin skirts swirling with each twirl only to come close and hug her body at the end of each enticing movement.

Raphael took a sip of wine, the bitter draught staining his lips maroon.  

She was taken up into the arms of a green dragonborn, the large clawed hands dipping too low upon her form, feeling the curve of her-

The pain of shattered glass piercing the palm of his hand registered in Raphael’s mind.  He was yet loathe to tear his gaze away from her, yet left little choice as the courtiers surrounding him began to make a fuss akin to a gaggle of hens upon seeing a fox.

Red blood was pooling in Raphael’s palm. “Hush.” Was all he said to the women and men attending him, the word commanding immediate silence.  He plucked the remnants of the ruined crystal from his hand idly, smirking slightly.  

Raphael pushed aside offered hands of help, magic lighting his fingertips as he healed himself.  His brow darkened and his eyes smoldered as he trapped her again within line of sight.

She had come to the end of her dance, in more ways than one Raphael mused, and was now leaning up to kiss the cheek of the scaled interloper.

Unacceptable.

Raphael stood, abruptly. His anger spread around him like a cloud of brimstone. The mortals surrounding him scattered.  

Raphael approached her slowly, as a stalking cat does its prey. Her attention was drawn, recognition flashed in her eyes.  Those lovely eyes in which Raphael desired to only ever see his own reflection.

Before she could speak, though those lush lips of hers did part, Raphael stroked his hand down her side to rest atop her hip. With a gentle movement belying his true intent he pulled her to him. “What is a little bird doing straying so far from her cage.”  He purred against her hair, feeling the change in her body, the tensing of her muscles beneath thin fabric.

“It is a gilded cage at best.”  Tav replied. Her eyes narrowing in challenge. Just the way which had first drawn him to her. “Besides, I am not beholden to you.”

“Then why do you not walk away?”  Raphael coaxed her to sway with him, in a dance more fitted to lovers. Their movements guided by the new music lilting from musicians atop the raised dais.

Tav hesitated. “We have a contract.”

“Which you are no closer to fulfilling.”  The glow from the many candles and torches flickered and shone off the polished floor. Raphael turned his face in, closing his eyes as he inhaled her scent. Allowing himself one moment to forget his turmoil. “Least of all in the arms of a potential paramour.”

“Then what are you?”

Raphael smiled, loathe to admire her bravery in quibbling with him. He looked down upon her upturned face, caught between the desire to take her in his hands and kiss the soul right from her mouth or rake his claws down the soft skin of her back.  

His deep eyes showed nothing of this conflict.  With care he replied. “I am your master.” He held her tighter as she began to revile. “You are the brightest of my treasures. You will tarnish from all this inaction, and no longer be my favorite.”

The muscles of her neck tightened, drawing his gaze to the mark her vampire companion had made there.  Raphael wanted to swoop down, as a fell eagle to a mouse, and replace the scar with one of his own design.

“I will go, then.”  Tav seemed to take his warning to heart. She was defiant yet not to the point of becoming a fool.

“Good girl.”  Raphael smiled, smugly aware of the effect such praise had upon her. “When you return, we will feast.”

“I’ll hold you to that.”

Raphael held her for a moment more, the moment fleeting as a crystalline flake of ice falling unguided from the sky.

Then he let her go. Grimacing only when she had turned away. His fingers still itching to bury themselves in her in myriad ways.

Raphael returned to his lounging, his little flock of admirers slowly trickling back. With effort, Raphael pulled his thoughts back into careful order.  He would not allow himself to submit to the chaos she stirred within him.  He had many deals being laid at his feet, and eager souls practically throwing themselves at him. It was business as usual.

[skulkiee]

Helloooo

Part six of the siren au, and no i do not know what happened to mutiny :D

no other animal will break our pride (break our pride) and my brother (my brother)

The sky had barely cleared, still covered in clouds like it was the night before, when Elpenor had come crashing into Eurylochus' room shouting about sirens and monsters.

Eurylochus sighs and walks towards Odysseus.

He can feel the gazes of the men he is meant to protect on him, waiting. They know something is wrong, it is blatantly obvious that something is going to happen, but only four souls on this ship know exactly what. Not knowing is worse than knowing ever could be.

Eurylochus sees red fins breach the water silently just next to the ship, and turns his eyes back to Odysseus swiftly. The siren is trailing them. (Not knowing is so much worse. He will continue to call him 'the siren' until he knows for sure. Eurylochus cannot allow himself to hope. Hope is what destroys men like him.)

He can hear a sing-song voice in the back of his mind, a voice trying to get him to tell Odysseus about the wind bag. Eurylochus shuts his eyes for a moment, blocking the voice out. That secret will stay between him and the wind.

When he opens his eyes, he can see two glowing dots through the dark fog around the ship. It takes a moment for the shape of a figure to draw closer, for him to realise that they are eyes.

"Eurylochus. Light up six torches." The siren was right.

Eurylochus frowns. He does not understand what lighting the torches would do, but he knows it cannot be good.

He hands the six most antagonistic and hostile men torches. If they are to die, Eurylochus (no offence to the six of course, they are good fighters, brutes, each and every one of them, but they signed up for a war, not delicate encounters with Gods and years in a small crew on an average sized boat) does not want them to be the kind, friendly, tolerable men that are still alive.

They stand alone, their torches glowing in the darkness around them, the brightest lights in this cursed place.

"Captain, something approaches." He says it loud enough for the whole crew to hear, walking to stand beside Odysseus again. The red fins disappear below the water.

"Hello." Six broken, disjointed voices speak at once. It sends a shiver down Eurylochus' spine.

•

Odysseus stares at the water.

The crew all hate him. They all hate him.

And rightfully so, they left Troy with all six hundred of them, and they lost good man after good man, until they were at a crew totalling a mere forty three, because Odysseus was too reckless, because Odysseus was too careless, because Odysseus was too brash, too arrogant. Forty three men, and what did he do?

He went and sacrificed six to a monster.

Thirty seven men. (Maybe thirty eight, the siren is still trailing their ship.) (Thirty six if it was not for the poor nymph that dragged Elpenor down from Circe's roof.)

"Captain."

"Eurylochus." Odysseus turns to face his second-in-command. The second-in-command who knew where they were going, the second-in-command who did not tell the crew what their fates would be, so Odysseus could enact his plan without a group of war veterans protesting his every move. The same second-in-command whose loyalty he does not deserve anymore, "Eurylochus why are you here?"

"What do you mean by that, Captain?" Eurylochus finally turns to look at him.

"I have failed this crew, have i not? There were six hundred men under my command, six hundred men-"

"Do not speak like that, Odysseus." Eurylochus cuts him off, "Sure, there are only thirty seven of us left, but we still have one goal in mind, to make it back alive to our homeland."

"But-"

"Say you will not give up now." Eurylochus cuts him off again, not wishing to hear his explanations, "Look me in the eyes and tell me Captain, that you really believe we would hate you after everything."

Odysseus looks up at his friend, "Ha." He says sarcastically, "I'd have expected you to have started a mutiny at least as soon as we left Scylla's lair."

Eurylochus blinks, and after a long moment of silence, says, "Tell me you do not believe you messed up so painfully bad that you'd expect us to do that?"

Odysseus opens his mouth to answer, but is stopped by someone throwing their arm around his shoulders.

"When we fought the cyclops, you were quick to make a plan!" Odysseus glares up at Perimedes.

"Yeah!" They all turn to Elpenor, "And when we fought with Circe it was you who left behind no man!"

"Yeahh!!" Perimedes high fives Elpenor, and Odysseus ducks out from under his arm. He can see Eurylochus trying not to laugh at the pairs' antics.

"But." Odysseus pauses slightly, his eyes catch on a figure in the water, staring up at them with familiar eyes, "How are you supposed to trust me now?" (The siren will probably never trust him again.) He turns back to Eurylochus, "I relied on wit and you died on it."

Eurylochus frowns and ushers Perimedes and Elpenor away, "Captain-" he starts, pausing slightly, "Odysseus, Ody."

"Hmm?" Odysseus glances back at the water, then at Eurylochus.

"Forgive me for what i am about to say, Odysseus, but our luck has not yet run out. The show has not yet gone too far south." He holds his hand out to Odysseus, "And you are the brother i cannot do without, you hear me?"

Odysseus smiles slightly, and takes his childhood friend's hand, "And suddenly you doubt that i believe you could figure this out?" Eurylochus finishes, "I know we are tired, we are fazed, but don't forget how much we've already faced."

Eurylochus grins down at him, "You took six hundred men to war, and not one of them died there, in case you needed a reminder."

He looks out over the water, and Odysseus follows his gaze, his eyes once again catching on red fins before they disappear below the waves. Odysseus wonders.

"Ody, we are so close to home this cannot be where we end."

"It will not be, Eury." Odysseus says quietly. He is glad that he did not lose Eurylochus to his own carelessness today.

So yeah. This thing happened while i was figuring this chapter out too

It will probably happen again :D

@acpola01 @ghosthazard @corvisclouds

[katyspersonal]

I thought it was really interesting how even though Darklurker is said to be the deepest darkness you faced within yourself, they look very... bright? Blue and purple are indeed the colors of Dark, but the creature is also white! Moreover, strangely uses not only Dark spells but also Fire!

Also, apparently the void face is not just a cool visual, but literally absent face/head, it is a dark void with some stars within! Again, strange, considering "deepest dark" angle?

It feels a lot like theme of "the light shines the brightest in the darkest place" thing, and I feel like despite diving into Abyss (or what remained of it), Darkdivers were not seeking the Dark itself, but what could be found IN it! It is not about killing the fire to return the Dark and Humanity, but rather to have fire/light exist in the state it doesn't banish the dark! We find Darklurker by lighting the big torches, too, that also feels in theme with the contrast!

In Dark Souls 3, the angels appear to be sort of involuntary "ascension", and people who fear to sprout the wings do so to not spread the darkness

But Angels in DS3 also use Light, and likewise seem to be too bright for the Dark! So why connotation with the Dark, and why Gertrude was declared heretical for envisioning the Angel and following it?

It feels to me like Angels are just yet another attempt of the world to heal itself when it got tortured by endless cycles of linking the fire 🤔 Much like resurrecting Lords of Cinder or calling Undeads into Drangleic during the time Lordran got paywalled or whatever! Nature in Dark Souls seems to have some sort of intelligence and struggle to not return into primordial state of complete stasis

Angels are attempt to spread the Dark not to kill the Light/Flame, but to keep Light/Flame in a more "tame" position where it just shines in a small way and only offers some guidance for those who live in Dark! Small specks of light in the dark like stars far away, fireflies, bioluminiscence of marine creatures etc; something that could not exterminate the darkness but shines in it to guide! Presumably what Gwyn should have allowed instead of banishing the Dark by linking the Flame, but you can't really blame him for lack of foresight as he was the first to even try the concept, and it worked well at first! Everything was full of life, warmth and colors. And Angels seem to be a very late "invention" of nature anyways.

So Angels would be yet another world to heal itself, maybe a twisted attempt to return the world in the state before Dark was banished but after there were people in it and Souls/Flames appeared. By spreading darkness in which light can just exist without being forced to eliminate it!

Darkdivers in Dark Souls 2 somehow got a hunch of the concept but probably didn't succeed, since in Dark Souls 3 the Angels appear on their own, without looking for them, and in fact are forced to sprout from Undeads! And we know some characters in Drangleic traveled in Lordran afterwards, so you'd think Darkdivers or others would be able to share the insights on how to heal the world if they did. But DS3 people mostly treat it as something scary and undesirable. I mean you can't blame them, who can tell that spreading the darkness with Angels could be just something you needed to "endure" for Light to reappear in it? What if this is just a lie to trick people into succumbing to Dark? Gertrude and her followers could understand the idea I guess, but that's it