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robboyblunder · 23 days ago

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As promised I went ahead and continued my "ghoul guide" with a part 2 (part one linked in replies)! This one covers stuff specifically with a made up lore guide of in-world ghoul stuff as if they were a sort of unique magic entity.

This one wound up way longer and had to be split so expect a third final one eventually lmao. for now though... I'm gonna take a break and yell. Bonus extra info plus the transcript under the cut!

ID in ALT text!

Bonus note: While not portrayed in the guide, it’s important to know a detail about ghouls’ origin called “memory echoes”. While ghouls are formed from humans past who lose all memory of their previous self while maintaining an assumed personality from before, at times certain instances of events, actions, items, and otherwise can trigger these “echoes”. Echoes are very rare, but a valued treasure to ghouls; they make them feel more connected to their past and more “human”. Upon triggering an echo, a ghoul will become completely listless, unable to respond or react until the echo has completed, usually within seconds.

“Memory echoes” are described as blurry faded memories that often show featureless shapes and colors, but a very strong “feeling” of a Deja-vu of the moment. They feel viscerally real and can have a mix of the senses i.e. touch and smell, but produce no recognizable faces or imagery of the self. No ghoul has ever reported fully remembering one, nor any semblance of their true past beyond the haunting leftovers.

Begin Transcript:

A Compendium of Hell’s Derivates

While there are many theories on the demonic nature of ghouls,

The true source is surprisingly Human.

Souls cannot be recreated; rather, they’re Recycled and Reborn

The cycle of ghoul creation started for unknown reasons…

But one thing is Certain:

Natural forces do not change easily.

Raw elements collide with the fuel of life itself until one connects

by His command

A violent injection of pure elemental magic

Rewrites and erases all memory and one’s past, drastically altering the soul…

These new powers lend to the powerful allies of the ministry,

However….

… new powers are a dangerous toy.

While coined as “Feral”, new ghouls would better be designated “Raw”, “Unbound”, and “Lawlessly Dangerous”

First formed, they are still elements;

Torrential, Aimless,

Incapable of coherent thought or rules

-but with time, coherence returns to the individual

Who grows much like a life cycle’s stages without necessarily aging.

The overall cycle is the same per ghoul, yet varied enough each rises differently…

First form: “Raw” – Second form (1): “Feral” – Second form (2) – Third form: “Stabilized”

Catalyst, violent, poor formation – Unaware, wild, chaotic – Conscious; can act like oneself; less raw – fully formed and recognizable

The first form, “Raw”, is notably so violent the devil himself does not release them until stage two.

The second form in stage one of a “Feral” ghoul is much like the forces of nature; free willed and wild, understanding minimal speech.

Take caution: they can be mischievous and cause decent damage.

In the second stage of a “Feral” ghoul, they behave like typical people; however, they’re still very free and may choose to never fully stabilize.

Note: you can tell they’ve reached this stage by presence of a tail and civil habits.

If desired, a ghoul reaches the final form: “Stabilized”. They’re transformed into a stable humanoid body, a form less powerful but safer.

Note: Talented ghouls can change form at will in this stage between secondary Feral and Stable.

When it comes to location, each form is most likely to be found:

Raw: Hell, contained

Feral (Stage 1): wilds/natural areas

Feral (Stage 2): wilds and civil areas

Stabilized: anywhere people go

Seeing feral ghouls is not uncommon, and can even be considered lucky!

They tend to provide free protection to keep their home

Ghouls can only stabilize via ministry ritual;

One can assume they’re ministry members if stable, even off duty.

Ghouls are uncommon, but found most places if looked for;

This seems especially true near ministry placements.

Ghouls only form from adults and don’t “age” traditionally, yet they’re still mortal

Deceased ghouls do not seem to return or recycle.

Summoning intentionally pulls only second stage feral ghouls or stable ghouls from anywhere,

They don’t always like this however (see other guide).

The cycle of ghouls serves a main purpose – as forces for the Dark One, in return for rebirth

However, there are two channels through which they serve.

1) Natural defense against corrupted holy magic

Non-stable ghouls defend at will naturally where they live

2) training to fight, protect, and uphold the ministry’s efforts in the name of the Devil.

Contrary to belief, summonings cannot grab from “nothing”;

Like the creation of a ghoul,

Their element, once developed, is what becomes pulled by nature

The force of such pull is incredible,

A disorientating test of will so great…

…it can render even the most sound minds rather violent.

This is why while some choose to stabilize, others may not;

But should a mind change, they can be freed or re-summoned.

Alternative to wild summoning, one can summon from trained ghouls over feral;

Many ghouls are trained for ministry positions all over, but any can be summoned if unassigned.

Though stabilized, unassigned ghouls are not contractually bound to anyone until assigned.

They’re great for extra work hands and being able to know what kind of team mates you’ll get without leaving it to chance.

Summoning any ghoul however reverts them to feral form, and the challenge to tame them remains the same.

Just because you know a ghoul does not mean an easy summon.

Finally, be warned: forcing unwanted breaking or upholding of a summoning contract

Will have dire consequences.

Aside from rarity of an element, there are “power classes” within each element.

Tiers:

Rarity of an element does not equal strength.

The break down is as follows:

Rare – extreme and dangerous power. These ghouls earn a specialized title.

Quite strong, stand out in their class and very sought after.

Most common tier; average and decent powers that are expectable.

Weak powers, but some uses are applicable.

Uncommon – ghouls who possess little to no powers. Ghouls in this tier may at times suddenly change power tier without warning to any other category.

S-Tier ghouls are quite rare and a sight to behold- truly, they embody nature’s power.

End transcript.

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wellwells · 3 months ago

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Dumber and Dumber

The ad from Obeycorps already burrowed it's way into your head. "You need to become dumber, slut!" was what it said. It's hold on you was temporary, but you want to change that. The ad was obviously right, right?

You know you only have a couple of hours until it wears off and you'll regain your normal, well-adjusted worldview again. You quickly make your way to the hypnotists office.

"I want to become dumber. Like, really really dumb. So dumb that men will Take advantage of me."

"You really want that? To be taken advantage of?"

"Yes. I want to be too stupid to be independent. I want to be used and abused by men who like me solely because i am really dumb."

"Well then, if that's what you want. Look into my eyes."

You can immediately feel it. Your concentration becomes harder to hold, heavy like it's a hundred tons. You drop it, which feels better.

"Excellent. You are getting dumber and dumber. Soon, you will be the perfect plaything for every man who wants you. They will use you and discard you, and you will be too stupid to care."

You moan softly as your mind crumbles

"Yes... Amy dumb... dumb Amy..."

Then it stops. Like a cold shower, your recurring intelligence makes you shiver. The effect of the ad ceases, and a little voice inside you wants you to be smarter again. But it is too late. It just feels so good to be dumb.

"I wanna become, like, even dumber. If i am as dumb as possible, i want to be even dumber than that."

"Of course you do. You want to be the dumbest girl in the world. So dumb that you can't even remember your own name. So dumb that you can't even form coherent thoughts."

"Yes..."

There is no turning back as you permanently lose thought after thought. There is nothing in your pretty little head anymore. You don't have family or friends, memories or a personality. All those words lose their meaning, drooling out of your mouth.

"Good girl. You are becoming the perfect plaything. So stupid that you can't even remember how to speak in full sentences. So stupid that you can't even remember your own name."

"Dumb... I'm so... dumb..."

"What is your name, my little plaything?"

Dumb slut... You are a dumb, dumb slut.

"I don't... know... slut?"

"That's right."

You smile at being correct, even though you already forgot your answer.

The hypnotist reaches out to your cleavage.

"Dumber... please... dumber..."

You can still think about wanting to become dumber, which is still way, way too much.

The hypnotist says words you cannot understand. The concept of language spills out of you like the boobs out of your top. You can No longer ask to become dumber, you lack the capability to do that. It's fine, though, the hypnotist seems to know what you want.

He slaps you and squeezes your face.

You smile, not really getting what is going on. Your body seems to get touched, which is enough to send a smile to your face. You don't know what a smile means. You don't know what touch means. You don't know what anything means.

You simply don't know. You drool.

He shoves his cock in your mouth. After a few thrusts, he pulls it out completely again, holding it in front of your face.

Your mouth tries to communicate to him about those jumbled sensations squirming about, somewhere behind your crossed eyes.

"mmmmm"

Truly the most eloquent piece of dialogue you could muster up. A masterwork of literacy. You are so proud for a second, before you completely lose grasp of what little ego you had left.

"You're still way to smart, i guess. Sorry about that. Become dumber, bitch."

That was it. All thoughts gone. You are an object. No internal voice anymore. You don't exist. He fucks your mouth.

#hypnosis #mind control #fsub #brainwashing #degrade kink #hypnotized #dumb wh0re #mdom #dumbification #covert hypnosis #drool kink

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lis-likes-fics · 6 months ago

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Perfection

Pairings: Spencer Reid x bau!adhd!Reader Word Count: 2.6k words Warnings: Mentions of rape, mentions of murder, dead body, crime scene, descriptions of gore, typical Criminals Minds stuff, character with ADHD, mentions of medication... A/N: This is a little more self-indulgent than I meant for it to be, but I do want to point out that this is some of my experience with ADHD, so I'm not just writing random stuff. It is slightly exaggerated, but I also say that about everything I do and it is pointed out that this is based off an off day.

The long alleyway makes for a nice crime scene, specifically because, despite the busy streets of this city, it's secluded and easy to overlook. It's not too small that the police team cannot fit, but it's small enough that you couldn't cram a really small building into the space. You don’t know how that’s relevant, but somehow it is.

The scene is relatively fresh, the latest of three that brought the BAU to the case. The police handling the scene had it cleared off for you, Spencer, and Derek to examine, via Hotch’s orders.

Spencer's watching you because he loves watching you, and because you're a little off today. There's something about the way you shuffle on your feet or the way you chew on the dead skin of your lip that he finds peculiar. To be fair, you're like this a lot, but today your symptoms are more obvious than usual.

Your eyes scan over the scene with a million different thoughts rushing through your head, less than fifty percent of them actually coherent and fit for conversation.

The three of you spitball ideas back and forth as you look at the man laying cold on the concrete. He's white, lean with light hair and a relatively thin frame. He's nothing like the other two victims, who's physical profiles were all over the place. The only thing they have in common with one another is a single occupation—male prostitution. While this and the first worked on the streets, the second’s job actually took place within a gay strip club a few blocks away from here.

He's got a starting blow to the back of the head, like the other two, and a number of bad bruising and heavy brutality to the rest with overkill to the chest, hands, and genitals. The message feels clear, but there's something a little off.

“Judging by the position of the body,” you speak, your hands restless, “and the way the weapon is discarded, I think our unsub snuck up on our victim in a blitz attack, hit him with the lead pipe, and ran that way.”

You don't point in any particular direction. Spencer glances up from his spot crouched next to the body. Your eyes are stuck on the bloody pipe several feet away from the body toward the secluded area around the back of the building that leads to more secluded walkways through more alleyways.

There is a long pause where they wait for you to explain, but you never do. Spencer thinks you look far off as he examines your face. Derek looks at you, his brow furrowed as he glances around. “Which way?”

“What?” you hum, looking up at him.

Derek elaborates, “Which way did the unsub go?”

It’s your turn to furrow your brow, turning the thin ring on your middle finger. “Did I say something about the unsub?”

Spencer stands, moving over to your side without spending too much time looking at your face. He doesn't want you to feel dumb or awkward, because he loves you and you're just a little forgetful sometimes.

“Yes,” he says in no particular way. “You said the unsub blitzed the victim and ran. Which way did he run?”

He achieves his goal, because you seem to make an “Oh, duh!” face before pointing in the direction of the street. “That way.”

He follows your finger, his brows knitting together. “That way toward the street?” He looks at the pipe, sitting in the exact opposite direction, like they ran and dropped it. “The pipe looks like he'd run the other way to avoid the street. Why do you think he ran toward?” It's a genuine question.

“To throw us off,” you shrug. “It's riskier to go toward the street, but it's also less suspicious than walking alone in the opposite direction where someone could see you and the victim and assume fault.”

He hums. You add on, speaking as quickly as Spencer usually does, “It also means he looks normal enough that he blends in with the crowd. Someone would see a strange figure coming out of a dark alley, no one would really notice a passerby turning a corner. And if this is a popular spot, it's too loud to hear anything going on all the way back here anyway, or no one thinks much of grunting noises when they do hear it.”

You trail off at the end, tight brows staring at the corpse. Derek shrugs, “But what was our victim doing all the way over here in the first pla–”

“There's something in his mouth,” you interrupt accidentally.

“What?”

You kneel down, taking the offered gloves from Spencer and putting them on. You open his mouth just a slight, spotting the white sticking out from under his tongue. Upon seeing it, both of the boys furrow their brows and tilt their heads. Spencer hands you some tweezers he'd borrowed from forensics for this reason.

Carefully, without disturbing the body as much as possible, you remove the strange object from under the tongue. It's a tiny slip of paper, folded up very small and still a little damp from saliva and any other bodily fluids it may have come in contact with. You unfold it.

“‘Unclean’,” Spencer reads from over your shoulder.

“That makes sense for the victimology mixed with the profile. He's a male prostitute,” Derek points out.

“Which explains the locale,” you say, rocking back and forth on your heels.

“What?”

“The locale,” you look up. “You asked why he was here. He must have been working, lured down here by the unsub, who waited for him to turn his back before he struck.”

Spencer agrees, taking a picture of the slip to send to Hotch. “He was killed at night. The streets are crowded, easy to slip into and not be seen. It's more risky to stray by yourself. What you said makes sense.”

You look up at him, standing to your full height again. “What did I say?” There you go again.

Morgan speaks up, “What you said about him runnin’ toward the street.”

Confusion passes your mind momentarily. “He ran toward the street.” You don't say it like a question, you say it like you're trying to back yourself up on it.

“That's what you said,” he insists.

You remember thinking that, but you don't remember saying that out loud.

Spencer swoops in like your hero, brushing his knuckles against the side of your arm. “Remember? You said,” he licks his lips, “ ‘it's riskier to go toward the street, but it's also less suspicious than walking alone in the opposite direction where someone could see you and the victim and assume fault.’ ”

You nod, remembering his word-by-word recitation as you watch him. “Yeah. I did say that.” You flag down one of the forensics workers to bag the evidence. She does so, taking your contaminated gloves with her as she leaves. You squirt a hefty amount of hand sanitizer on your hands from its place on your belt loop. “This is the first victim who's been left behind with a note, right?”

“Yes, autopsy results found nothing like this on the other victims.”

“If the victim was working when he was attacked, it’s possible that, paired with the brutality of the assault and the note left behind, our unsub may be experiencing some kind of internalized homophobia.” You trail off at the end.

Derek shrugs, looking down at the body. “There’s no evidence of sexual assault. Not on the other victims, at least.”

“How old do you think this building is?”

Spencer looks at you, your eyes scanning the wall of one of the buildings you’re between. Your bottom lip is pulled between your teeth, picking at the dead skin again. He thinks you’re cute.

“Focus, honeybun,” Derek reminds you, pulling your attention again.

“Sorry.”

“Judging by the faded color and uneven edges of the brick, and the decay in the mortar,” Spencer says, “I’d say this building is at least 50 years old. Well kept at one point and then let go not long after its production.”

You nod along slowly, taking in the information with a hum. “That’s cool…” Now that that’s out of your mind, you think for a moment. What were you saying again? Spencer watches your eyes light up. “Oh!” You turn to Derek. “He’s obviously confrontational, but he may still be very insecure in his ability and, thus, have to make up for his pent up energy with an excess of violence. Homophobia would explain the obliteration of the chest, hands, and especially the genitalia.”

Derek raises a brow. “What?”

“You asked about sexual assault,” you shrug. “If he continues to escalate above the note, we may see these words carved into the skin as a substitute for sexual violence, or even just blatant rape activity.”

Derek thinks about that, considering your analysis with a nodding head. He sighs and hums, “Alright, I’ll talk to Hotch.” He begins to turn away, grabbing his phone.

Spencer thinks you may have gotten distracted again because you ask, “Did I do something wrong?”

Derek looks back at you, shaking his head and flashing you one of his charming smiles. “No, honeybun, you’re perfect.”

“Oh.”

He leaves to take that call. You start to walk after him and Spencer gently takes your hand. You turn to face him, confused at first but giving him a sweet smile only a second later. “Are you okay?” he asks gently, his voice soft.

You tilt your head, “What do you mean?”

Spencer shrugs, taking your other hand just to rub his thumbs over your knuckles. “You’re hyper today, a little more distracted.”

As if proving his point, you begin shifting back and forth on your feet, shrugging and then shaking your head at the same time. “I’m okay,” you assure him, squeezing his hands gently. “I haven’t taken my medication in a couple days.”

He furrows his brow, suddenly a little worried. “Why not?”

“Didn’t feel like it. Also, I forgot it.” That makes sense. Spencer makes a mental note to remind you to take them as soon as you get back home. “But I’m okay, prommy.”

He smiles. “Prommy?”

“Promise,” you clarify, letting both your hands down so you can swing his from side to side. He lets you.

“I know what you mean,” he says. Though he knows he should probably be more professional because you’re both in public and leaving a crime scene (and Hotch might reprimand the both of you for it if he saw) he raises a hand to cradle your cheek because he doesn’t care. He just wants you to feel safe and loved. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

You nod definitely. “I’m good.”

“Okay,” The way he says it is soft, as soft as a kiss to your forehead or a brush of his knuckles on your skin. “You know, I love you, right?”

You nod, smiling at him like he’s the world—because he is. “Yeah. I love you, too, honey.” You kiss his cheek quickly and pat it. You probably shouldn’t have done it right then, but you did, and you don’t regret it for even a moment.

Spencer’s just happy you know he loves you. “Okay,” he says. “Let’s go before Morgan leaves us.” He takes your hand as you both begin walking. He swings your joined hands, just as he knows you like it.

“He wouldn’t leave me,” you shake your head. “He likes me too much.”

Spencer chuckles. “Everyone likes you.”

“Not everyone.”

He looks at you, furrowing his brow. “Who doesn’t like you?”

“I don’t know,” you shrug. And then immediately after, “Why does the sun look yellow? Isn’t it supposed to be white or something? I heard that somewhere.”

Spencer is happy to answer your questions as he opens the car door for you. Derek is already sitting in the front, his hands on the wheel. The passenger’s seat is empty, but Spencer sits in the back with you. You both speak gently so you’re not disturbing Derek. “The Earth’s atmosphere scatters blue light more efficiently than red light, so the slight deficit in blue light means the eye perceives the color of the sun as yellow. But, yes, the sun is actually white.”

“That’s cool,” you mumble. “I think sharks would look cool as hell with piercings. Do you?”

“I do,” Spencer chuckles. In the front seat, Derek shakes his head and smiles to himself, amused by your conversation.

“Did you know that sharks don’t have bones, so when they die, the saltwater dissolves their bodies so the only thing that’s left is their teeth?” You begin ranting, absent-mindedly picking at dirty under your nails. “And also, their bodies are primarily made of cartilage and connective tissue. It’s lighter than bone and keeps them flamboyant. Also, their skin has a similar feel to sandpaper.”

When you ramble, you sound like Spencer. You spend so much time with him and endorse his info dumps so much that you take on his speech style when you go on info dumps of your own. Spencer loves this because he knows that people tend to mimic the people they love as a sign of affection, and you mimic him a lot more than you think.

He also knew about all your shark facts, but he’s happy to listen. He smiles, “Is that what you were doing up late last night?”

You smile a little, turning away from him. “I got distracted.”

“What’s your thought process behind getting from the sun to sharks?” he wonders. “I’m curious.”

You shrug. “Well, you said your thing and I said it was cool. And then I remembered a post I saw that sharks would be cool with piercings. Then I remembered my shark things.” You glance down at your fingers, bringing them to your lips as you notice a tiny part at the very edge of the nail where it would probably tear off. “I just think sharks are cool,” you mumble around your finger.

“They are cool,” he says. He doesn’t want you to accidentally hurt yourself so he adds on, “Will you hold my hand? It’s a little cold.”

You look down at them, “Yeah.” With a nod, you take his hand between both of yours and let them warm his back up. They’re a bit chilly but they don’t feel that cold to you. You hold them anyway, because you love holding his hand. You intertwine your fingers with his and then cover what’s left.

“Thank you, sweetheart,” he says. He thinks for a moment. “Did you eat today?”

You nod, still watching his hand as you turn it to look at his palm. You gently trace the lines of it, forgetting for the moment that he’d wanted you to warm his hand up for him. But, as usual, he doesn’t mind. “I had a cereal bar this morning. One of those Coco Puff ones. They’re like Rice Krispy Treats.” He doesn’t think that’s sustainable. “And, before you ask, I did have water.”

He smiles. “I know. I told you to drink some before we left. You hungry?”

You shake your head, “Not really.”

“You want a snack?” he compromises, hoping—and knowing—you’ll say yes.

“Yes, please.”

“Okay,” he hums. “We’ll grab one on the way back.” Derek nods gently, remembering to do just that. It will only take a moment.

“Thank you.”

“Thank you,” Spencer says, his voice lowering to a whisper. He knows Derek can still hear him, but he always just wants to whisper to you.

You look up at him, “For what?”

“Being so perfect.”

You scoff, rolling your eyes but ultimately smiling at the warmth in your chest. “You’re so cheesy, Spencer Reid.”

He’ll gladly be cheesy for you.

Criminal Minds taglist: @queermaxwooo @mdanon027 @lilianhallee @hpstuff244444 @thegr8estpuff @niktwazny303 @bubbles2300 Tag yourself here...

#spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid fanfiction #female reader #reader insert #criminal minds #criminal minds fanfic #criminal minds fanfiction #fanfic #fanfiction

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adverbally · 2 months ago

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It’s Gonna Take You Over

———

Eddie thinks there are probably very few situations where he would object to having Steve Harrington in his lap. (Even fewer if their dicks are out, and even fewer than that if he’s actually inside Steve in some capacity.) But if there’s one thing Eddie has learned over the past year, it’s that some events simply cannot be planned for.

Take, for instance, his current predicament, which involves Steve sitting on Eddie’s cock for several minutes and not. moving.

“Baby, please,” he whimpers as Steve begins to suck another— fourth? fifth? Eddie can’t keep track— hickey into the thin skin beneath Eddie’s ear. The upholstered headboard propping him upright also cushions the blow when Eddie throws his head back with a dull thud.

“Shhh,” Steve hushes him, pulling back to look at Eddie. “Nice and slow, remember?” He holds Eddie’s face between his palms with an affection that almost seems out of place compared to the devious glint in Steve’s eye. “Just like you asked for.”

Eddie’s breath leaves him in a strangled groan when Steve clenches around him. His hands squeeze reflexively at Steve’s waist as his hips try to thrust deeper into the tight heat surrounding him, despite Steve’s weight holding him down. Through it all, Steve keeps Eddie’s face cradled in his hands, watching his brow crease and his mouth drop open.

“Fuck, Stevie,” Eddie moans.

Steve sticks his bottom lip out in an exaggerated pout. “Come on, you’ve been so good for me. Just a little longer.”

“Don’t know if I— Jesus Christ!” He wasn’t expecting one of Steve’s hands to slide just enough to press hard into one of the love bites littering Eddie’s neck. It hurts enough that it circles back around to feeling good, making him shudder from head to toe. He wonders if Steve can feel his cock throbbing insistently inside him.

Steve puts on his best innocent face, looking at Eddie through his lashes. “Too much?”

“Please, you’re killing me,” Eddie gasps dramatically, “actually, literally killing me.” He wants Steve so badly that he can hardly form a thought, let alone force it out of his mouth as coherent speech.

“Okay, sweetheart, it’s okay. I’ve got you.” Steve dips his head to kiss Eddie, to reassure him that he’ll be taken care of. He sets a slow rhythm with his tongue, licking the words right out of Eddie’s mouth before he can beg for more.

It’s good, like kissing Steve always is, hot and wet and overwhelming. Eddie gets so lost in the sensation that it catches him off guard when Steve’s hips start to move at the same pace.

This isn’t how Steve usually rides him. Instead of rising and falling, he‘s keeping Eddie’s dick buried to the hilt and grinding back and forth on him. Eddie can tell from his hitching breaths that each deliberate roll of Steve’s hips drags the head of Eddie’s cock across his prostate just right. He can’t see Steve’s face as long as he’s kissing him, but Eddie can imagine how he would look if he pulled away— eyes wide, almost shocked by how good it feels.

“Steve, oh my God,” Eddie mumbles into his mouth.

He’s already getting close. After so long being tormented by Steve‘s stillness, even the minimal friction of each soft movement is enough to drive Eddie toward his peak. Each time Steve rocks in that same slow cadence, lips moving languidly against Eddie’s, it’s almost like a wave building, ebbing and flowing with a predictability that only heightens Eddie’s pleasure every time it crashes into him.

“C’mon,” Steve encourages him, never changing his speed, “want you to come for me.”

”Yeah,” he agrees mindlessly. “Yeah, please, you too.” Steve can’t be far behind, not with how he’s grabbing for the headboard on either side of Eddie, his cock leaking all over their bellies as he runs up against Eddie, inside and out. It makes Eddie’s fingers itch to touch, so he does.

Steve tenses up as soon as Eddie takes his cock in his hand, writhing into Eddie’s touch like he can’t decide where to go. His hips stutter into stillness, pressed as close to Eddie as he can get, and he comes in spurts between them.

Eddie is close behind. He doesn’t know whether it’s the sight or the sound or the way Steve‘s hole flutters around him, but he doesn’t have the capacity to analyze the cause; he comes so hard it feels like someone just flipped the ‘off’ switch on his brain.

“Fuck, Ed,” Steve pants, pressing their foreheads together while they try to catch their breath.

“You’re an evil mastermind,” Eddie babbles. He’s a boneless heap, kept upright only by the pressure of Steve leaning against him and the headboard at his back. He can’t even keep his eyes open. “Thank god you choose to use your powers for good, we’d be doomed otherwise.”

“Shh.” Steve silences him with a kiss. His hands are back on Eddie’s face like he can’t stop touching him. Even with his eyes shut, Eddie’s sure that Steve is staring at him, cataloging every wrinkle and freckle and stray hair.

He feels the love without looking, and he sends it back with a smile.

#steddiesmuttyseptember #steddie #steddie fic #steve x eddie #steve/eddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #stranger things #mine #I don’t know where this week went ¯\_(ツ)_/¯#so the good news is you might see me posting smutty September fics well into October!

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blueparadis · 1 month ago

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HOTTEST SUMMER ON RECORD + NANAMI KENTO & HIGURUMA HIROMI.

cw - (afab + gn)!reader x nanami kento x higuruma hiromi, double penetration, use of strap-on, explicit sexual content, s/d dynamic, implied after care. | wc - 1K. | notes - in collaboration with ffg kinktober 2024.|

“Look at you.” You exclaim as you adjust the harness of your strap-on on your pelvis. “So full yet so hungry,” Kento chuckles at your remark as he adjusts Hiromi in his lap to push his cock inside him till the base hits his ass making Hiromi wince. As Hiromi opens his eyes, he tries his best to mask the thrill as he watches you wear the strap-on intently but alas! he can only do so much, unable to hide the goosebumps rising over his skin.

Nanami has occupied the couch while Hiromi? Nanami’s lap. Kento has been preparing Hiromi, getting him relaxed and stretched. While the former has not been able to cum, not even once he sure went easy on Hiromi even though you did not want him to be so doused for the latter. Hiromi was given the privilege to cum already. When you asked Nanami said, “It’ll get him in the mood,” while working his hand up and down Hiromi’s cock. Indeed, it was a sight to behold: Nanami writhing underneath as he jerked Hiromi off. Hiromi wanted more, and that too from you.

Hiromi’s eyes never swayed from you from the moment you left the couch, got undressed, and wore the strap-on taking your sweet time while you enjoyed basking in his scrutinizing stares. You walk towards them and stand bare-naked with just the strap-on. “Are you ready, Hiro?” You pose a question knowing full well that he would not be able to answer but rather drown in lust and want. Taking a glance at Kento, you give him a nod while Hiromi finds it hard to form proper coherent thoughts. He did demand that he wanted both of you but now that it is happening it is making his mind dizzy, muscles sublime to feel and skin igniting to touch. Kento aligns Hiromi a little as you get comfortable in your position, with one leg on the couch and the other on the ground. At first, you tease his hole by running the mouth of the dildo against his entrance. Hiromi’s teeth find their way over the bottom lip and it puts a smirk on your face.

“Think I’m missing something?” Nanami whispers against Hiromi’s ears making him coil away from him but Kento is quick to any aid of sorts, always. He runs the sharp tip of his tongue against the back of his ear making him moan audibly.

“Oh no. How can I ever forget you, Ken?” You quip as you push the tip of the dildo inside Hiromi. Both the men wince. Nanami’s hand grips the couch for support while Hiromi grabs Nanami’s thighs.

“Boys, are we fine?” You check with a short chuckle before you are about to push the rest of the dildo inside him. You get a firm, vocal answer from Hiromi this time but Kento just nods. Kento can feel the rubber skin of the dildo sliding against his cock. It makes him shut his eyes for a second and when you thrust the whole of it inside Hiromi a unified moan. You move your hips at a slow and even pace letting Hiromi get used to this feeling of having two cocks inside at once. Nanami fidgets for a bit before letting his arms clamp through the gap between Hiromi’s thighs and calf muscle. You can gauge what he is trying to do and honestly, you cannot thank him enough for that in words but you surely could show that in your actions.

Hiromi watches you, eyes so full of daze and lust that as you lean towards them and he thinks he is the one to be graced with a sprinkle of affection but he lets out a sharp inhaled moan when your lips dash on Kento’s, sucking both the lips in turns. Seeing both of you getting so comfortable so easily he flattens his tongue and runs up from the base of your collarbones almost to the back of your ear making you immediately pull away from showering any more affection on Kento.

“My my you’re one hungry fellow,” you exclaim with a hint of mischief laced underneath your tone moving at a pace faster than before.

“I agree,” Kento adds spreading his legs apart from each other so that both of you could move at ease. With Nanami’s hands busy holding Hiromi for you to fuck, one of your hands rests on Hiromi’s shoulders and the other on his knee. As both of you start to move, Hiromi’s vocal side is slowly getting exposed. He huffs and pants and sometimes mewls when Kento licks and nibbles his ears in between.

Peeling off your hand from his knee you clamp around his cock that has been begging for attention for a while now. Hiromi tries to swat your hand away but the unified constant thrust inside him makes it hard for him to bring his thoughts in motion. As you start to stroke his cock, Nanami protests, “Don’t.”

“You would if you were in my position.” You dismiss his plea with a single statement making him wince. Hiromi is feeling both of your emotions all at once, his hole being fucked by both of you with strong strokes and thrusts as you jack off his cock. His eyes go white for a few seconds feeling the wave of pleasure continuously so he tilts his head to kiss Nanami by pulling him by his nape. You can hear them kissing and groaning as you keep thrusting over and over again until something at the bottom of your stomach starts to tighten up.

Kento pulls away from Hiromi’s lips to watch how well the latter is taking both of you. You guide Hiromi’s hands over your chest feeling your orgasm building up as it takes a few more thrusts into his hole making Hiromi cum, reaching a bit over your face and lips. It is a sight to behold, Nanami thinks as both of you keep thrusting into Hiromi until both of you peak in orgasm.

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bestlilithian · 4 months ago

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Home is the first grave.

[ Moon-Pluto, Pluto in 4th house culture ]

tw for various mentions of abuse and death as well as mental problems, sh and su!cide, also needles (dont ask)

- may have experienced a lot of death in thr family or in the close neighborhood

- feel more connected to your dead relatives than your alive ones

- there mightve been a death in your family before you were born

- feeling peacful in graveyards

- may have fantasized about death/su!cide, might percieve death as something that brings peace (hence the fantasies, because really all you ever wanted was peace)

- wanting peace but knowing you cannot have it because of your nature; feeling like theres just something in your blood in your soul that is uncontrollable and overwhelming

- your household was always a house , never a home

- being raised by very old people, enjoying the presence of much older wiser people (like, literal elders not hot teachers 💀)

- enduring literal psychological warfare in your home (usual your mother waged war on you as soon as you were old enough to form a coherent critical thought)

- "I hate you, dont leave me" (might be the attitude of your mother towards you, or yours towards others you love)

- Your mother always knew when you were lying or hiding something. Especially if she had a scorpio moon or moon/pluto aspects herself. You grew up extremely fearful of her.

- moon pluto culture is hearing your mother talk lovingly about her own fucked up mother, she never accepted the severity of her own abuse, until of course she needs to use it in an argument against you "Im a great mother, my mother was so much worse"(basically Im good because I abuse you differently than I was abused 😍 same shit different package)

- not liking motherly women or women who try to be mother figures to you, feeling uncomofortable around them; youre uncomfortable with how much you crave motherly love and people who can provide you that become threats because of the power they could have over you if you opened up

- being betrayed by the women in your life, especially those who were much older and supposed to take care of you (teachers, tutors, family members, therapists, babysitters..)

- toxic female friends 😁🔫 bonus : really close but toxic female friendships in youth that feel like death when you end them even though you know it was necessary

- feeling pain so deeply you think you will drop dead or have a heart attack. (When I was little and depressed I wrote in a diary of mine "My body will kill me before I get to")

more on this : when you start crying because of immense emotional pain and suddenly your heart is burning and beating too fast and youre getting light headed and throwing up , and suddenly youre not crying because of the pain, youre crying because youre afraid youre about to have a heart attack and die

- fearing that your mother will k word herself or you if you try to leave her (harsh aspects mostly)

- learning what emotional violence is very early, how to wield it and defend against it

- turning your emotions off completely for a while and then having a nervous breakdown when it all rushes back

- reading up on psychology, psychiatry and works of psychotherapists so you can heal and never become your mother

- wanting to put a bullet in your head when you notice yourself thinking or behaving like your mother

- going home after you spent time somewhere where you felt good and safe is extremely dreadful

- your mother doesnt see you as a human being (harsh aspects especially), and may take you a while to figure this out

- extremely controlling behavior from your mother or other caretakers (for example my mother threatened to send people to stalk me when I moved to a diff city, to 'make sure Im not doing something bad')

- deeply grieving the loss of your childhood and your inner child

- almost choking while crying or passing out

- feeling like youre a horrible person and dont deserve your family [because youre in deep denial and are seeing the flaws of your family as your own and denying your own trauma]

- learning about sex early on, perhaps early sexual obsession but not like promiscuity more like craving for deep intimacy (also you were probably deeply ashamed of it)

- not telling your family (esp mother) anything because they will ruin it for you

- being accused of being a psychopath, uncaring, selfish for "not loving your family enough"

- not knowing how to feel about the members of your family that played a more passive role in your life because they didnt do anything wrong but they didnt do anything right either; surely they knew , why didnt they stop it? why didnt they save you? (Im talking about adults obviously)

- your parents mightve been much older when you were born, you might have siblings much older than you

- doing anything to avoid your intense emotions and then when you break down and feel everything you realize how freeing it is and how comfortable you actually are with the intensity

- gutteral reactions to songs you deeply relate to (I hear 10 seconds of 'Slipping through my fingers' and I am dead on the floor)

- being afraid of your mother or just of your family in general

- you could probably kill someone with your bare hands if you were angry and hurt enough

- scary as fuck when you actually show your anger

- if you cry in the midst of a fight (verbal or physical) ... someone tell that person to make peace w God . cause thats you crying because of what youre about to do, because thats you loosing the last crumb of humanity you had for them and that can only end one way.

- you would probably kill for your loved ones

- your friends feel like you would help them hide a body (and you probably would)

- recognizing people by footsteps and breathing patterns (especially family members)

- deep deep eyes, people can see war and death them, and they feel like you see their pain too (because you do)

- reading people easily

- enjoying? cruelty (to yourself or others), like getting impulses to do something that would cause you or someone else that ugly feeling of facing cruelty

- finding comfort in the cold and the dark

- insane nightmares since youth, growing to be used to them

- its very hard to shock you

- you know when someones lying

- you might dread certain types of pain yet feel pleasure from them (personally I hate having my blood taken for a test but then I end up immensely enjoying the feeling of a needle pricking my skin and going deep into my vein)

- feeling the need to "kill" some your habits; most likely to drop things cold turkey and be extremely strict in breaking bad habits

- might enjoy really dark, emotionally and morally complex media

- immediately recognizing other moon pluto people and trauma bonding

- extremely good pain endurance. not necessarily tolerance , but endurance. you feel the pain and do it anyway.

- might not react to physical pain at all from a young age

- fantasies about drowning or slipping away peacfully

- either loving deep waters or hating them

- randomly breaking down in the middle of the day because of some pain you buried 5 years ago

- might self harm a lot because of your complex relationship w pain, it genuinely helps sometimes

- home feels like literal prison

- seeing the value in suffering, you might reject the idea that suffering is bad and should be avoided and prevented at all costs

- you might become religious as you mature (but usually in your own way, not necessarily according to tradition)

- forced to eat or denied food in your home, this mightve fucked up your relationship with food

And lastly, I need you to engrave this in yourself :

Wrong love is not love.

#plutonian #pluto placements #moon square pluto #moon opposite pluto #moon conjunct pluto #moon trine pluto #moon sextile pluto #astro placements #horoscope #astrology #trauma #dysfunctional family #moon #moon placements #mommy issues #abuse awareness

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whitedarkmoonflower · 25 days ago

Text

Where the Heart Returns

Pairing: Sihtric x reader (female)

Authors note: it's just my attempt to cope with the hole in my heart, so I'm sorry if it's not coherent and smooth read. I have no idea whether it any good at all, just wanted to put my sadness onto the paper.

Warnings: feelings of guilt, fear of losing someone dear to you, selfdoubt, SMUT 18+

Word Count: 5,3K

Summary: after Rumcova setting. Sihtric plagued by guilt of leaving his family unprotected hurries to Winchester to make sure they are safe

Please remember that comments and reblogs are two things that make writers smile and keep us motivated.

Sihtric is almost running, his long, hurried strides carrying him swiftly toward the house, his heart pounding in his chest. He doesn’t know if it’s fear, anticipation, worry, or longing that grips him—it’s all mixed together, both propelling him forward and making him dread what awaits beyond the threshold.

The streets of Winchester are dark, but the moon has risen high, casting enough light for him to navigate the narrow paths. And then he’s there. Just outside. But the last few steps feel impossibly heavy, as if his feet are weighed down by invisible burdens, sandbags tied to his ankles.

He rests his palm against the door, listening to the deep silence within, the house still and steeped in sleep. With a careful push, the old wood creaks softly, and he pauses, mindful not to wake you or the children. His breath catches, his heart steadying as he steps inside. The air feels thick with reverence, as though he were a pilgrim crossing into hallowed ground.

Sihtric's gaze drifts over the room, landing on the large fireplace and the pot hanging over the embers. The soft glow of dying coals paints the scene with a warm, flickering light, and his stomach stirs as the subtle aroma of stew lingers in the air.

A quiet warmth blossoms in his chest as he imagines you moving about the kitchen, preparing the meal. He can almost see the children underfoot, half helping, half hindering, their small hands lifting bowls and mugs, setting them with clumsy pride upon the table. In his mind's eye, you smile at them, that soft, soothing smile that melted his heart from the very first time he saw you.

Sihtric steps further into the room, his movements slow and deliberate, not wanting to disturb the peace that lingers in the quiet of the house. The scent of home wraps around him—comforting, familiar—filling the empty spaces within him that have long craved something more than battle and blood.

He crouches by the fireplace, feeling the faint heat still rising from the embers. His fingers brush over the worn hearthstone, and he can almost hear the echoes of laughter, the lively chatter of the children, and your soft voice guiding them, a steady presence that grounds everything.

His gaze shifts to the table, where the last remnants of the evening linger—a bowl left unattended, a wooden spoon half-submerged in stew. It feels as though the room is holding its breath, a place caught between your bustling warmth and the deep sleep that now cradles the house.

Sihtric stands again, his eyes drawn to the soft flicker of candlelight spilling from the doorway of the bedroom. He hesitates, his heart fluttering at the thought of seeing you, resting in the quiet glow of the night. The image of you wrapped in sleep, peaceful, stirs something deep inside him—a longing he cannot put into words, a yearning that only grows the closer he gets to you.

He pads quietly toward the bedroom, pausing just outside the door, his hand lightly resting on the frame. He can see you now, tucked under the blankets, your hair a gentle cascade over the pillow. You look so serene, so beautiful in the dim light, and he feels his chest tighten around his frantically beating heart.

For a moment, Sihtric simply stands there, watching you, his heart full in a way that leaves him speechless. He never imagined this—this life, this quiet, this warmth. A home. A family. Yet here he is, standing at the threshold of a dream he once thought was beyond his reach.

Carefully, as though afraid to break the spell, he steps into the room and kneels beside the bed. His fingers find the edge of the blanket, and he leans forward, brushing a soft kiss against your temple. You stir, your lips curling into a sleepy smile as you murmur his name, half-aware of his presence.

“I’m home,” he whispers, his voice low and full of tenderness.

Your hand reaches out, finding his, and your fingers intertwine, your grip soft but sure and Sihtric releases the breath he didn’t know he was holding. You are here and you are safe. That’s all that matters.

And yet, he had come so close to losing it all. The thought clings to him like a shadow, darkening the warmth of the room. Sihtric runs a hand down his face, startled by the wetness that meets his fingers. He closes his eyes, steadying himself as his chest tightens again. How many times had he imagined this slipping through his fingers?

He takes a shaky breath and glances back at you, your hand still resting in his. The soft rise and fall of your chest soothes the storm inside him. What did he do to deserve this? What would he do if this were taken from him?

A broken, shivering sigh tears through him. He should have protected you. He should have been there when Aethelhelms men came to destroy your safe haven, your home. He wasn’t. Again. He had broken his promise.

The image of you alone amongst the chaos, the screams, the blood, the children clinging to you in terror, the way you must have fought to keep them safe–it gnaws at him, a relentless beast that refuses to be silenced. It was supposed to be him standing between you and the danger. He had sworn it. And yet he had failed.

He closes his eyes, trying to will those daunting thoughts away, but they cling to him, a shadow of shame that won’t let go. You deserve more. You deserve someone stronger, someone who can be there, always. Not someone bound to a lord haunted by battles that seem to follow him wherever he goes.

Sihtric leans down once more, pressing his forehead against your hand, the smell of you grounding him, pulling him from the depths of his thoughts.

“I don’t deserve you,” he whispers, his voice barely audible, hoarse with emotion.

The words hang heavy in the air, lingering between him and the stillness of the night. He’s never said it aloud before—not like this, not when you could hear it—but it’s a truth that has been buried inside him for so long.

“Sihtric,” your soft and sleepy whisper breaks the silence, drawing his gaze upward. He meets your eyes, and the tenderness he finds there shatters something deep within him.

“You’re back,” you murmur, your voice washing over him like cool water, soothing and bringing him back to the present. You reach out, your hand cupping his face with such gentle reverence that he feels unworthy of the touch. “Thank the gods you’re safe.”

He’s still on his knees beside the bed, frozen, unable to move, unable to speak. The words won’t come. He had expected everything: anger, reproaches, loathing, and scorn. He had braced himself for tears, fists pounding against his chest in rage. He would have accepted it—he deserved it. He had even prepared himself to be cast out, the door slamming shut in his face, sealing his fate.

The only thought that had kept him moving forward was the hope—just a glimmer—that he might be allowed to see the children. To see you. To be sure that you were alright, that you were safe.

But now, as he stares at you, his heart aching with disbelief, he’s overwhelmed by the simple truth that you’re here, that you want him here, even after everything. He doesn’t understand it. For a moment, he feels like he might break.

He’s searching your face for the anger he was so certain he would find. But it’s not there. Instead, your eyes hold nothing but quiet understanding, a tenderness that undoes him in ways no battle ever could.

“I… I don’t know how you can still look at me like that,” he murmurs, his voice rough with emotion, barely above a whisper. His hands shake as they rest on the edge of the bed, gripping the sheets like they’re the only thing anchoring him to this moment. “After everything…”

“Sihtric,” you say softly, your voice a balm to the raw edges of his soul. “I’m not angry with you.”

You reach out, your thumb brushes gently across his cheek, catching the lingering tears as they fall.

He closes his eyes at your touch, his body trembling with the force of his emotions. “But I failed you,” he chokes out, his head bowing under the weight of his guilt.

You gently lift his chin, forcing him to meet your gaze. “You came back. That’s all that matters,” you say firmly, your voice low and filled with a quiet strength that makes his heart ache. "You always find your way home."

Sihtric shakes his head, barely able to believe the forgiveness in your words, the unwavering trust that you still offer him. "But I wasn’t here… when you needed me most." His voice cracks, and he closes his eyes, ashamed of how raw his fear has made him. "I promised to protect you, and I wasn’t there. I failed you."

"Look at me," you whisper, your fingers lifting his chin so that his eyes meet yours again. "You didn’t fail me, Sihtric. You fought for us. You always fight for us."

He swallows hard, your words sinking in, offering him a lifeline he so desperately wants to grasp. He wants to believe them, wants to let go of the guilt and hold on to the hope of what you’re offering him, but something inside him won’t let go. The shame still clings to him, a weight he can’t seem to shed.

He shakes his head, his breath unsteady. “I thought I’d lost you. I thought…” His voice falters, the rawness of that fear still too close, still too real. “I thought I’d never be able to fix what I’d broken.”

“I’m not the man you deserve,” he murmurs, his voice heavy with self-doubt. Slowly, he begins to withdraw, as though trying to retreat into himself, to shield you from the burden of his failures.

But before he can pull away, you reach for him, your hands firm as they grasp his shoulders. You don’t let him go. Not this time.

“Sihtric,” you say, shifting closer and wrapping your arms around him, refusing to let the distance grow between you. He can feel the warmth of your body pressing against his, grounding him in the present, in you.

He tries to pull back, his movements slow, tentative, but you hold him tighter, your grip unyielding. “No,” you whisper, your forehead pressed against his. “I won’t let you do this. You’re not running from me—not tonight.”

Your hands slide to his face, cradling it gently but firmly, forcing him to meet your gaze. There’s no anger in your eyes, no accusation—just love, deep and unwavering, and it makes him want to crumble under the weight of it. How can you still look at him like that? How can you still want him, after everything?

“I don’t deserve you,” he repeats, the words barely audible.

But you shake your head, your fingers tracing the lines of his jaw, your touch soft but insistent. “That’s not for you to decide. You are the man I choose. I always have. I always will.”

His breath hitches, and he closes his eyes, trying to fight the flood of emotion welling up inside him. But you don’t let him retreat. You refuse to let him slip away into the dark corners of his mind where his doubts thrive.

“I don’t know if I can do this,” he admits, his voice trembling. “I don’t know how to let go of the fear.”

“You don’t have to do it alone,” you reply, your voice gentle but resolute. “I’m here. I’ll always be here.”

And with those words, something inside him finally cracks, the dam of guilt and fear he’s held onto for so long crumbling under the force of your unwavering love. A ragged breath slips from Sihtrics lips, the weight on his heart lifting just enough for him to breathe. He leans into you, his arms wrapping around you as though you’re the only thing keeping him tethered to the world. And in a way, you are.

And you hold him, offering him the safety of your embrace, the quiet reassurance that no matter how many times he falls, you’ll always be there to catch him.

For a long moment, the two of you stay like that—his face buried against your shoulder, your fingers gently running through his hair, grounding him, reminding him that he’s here, that he’s home.

The warmth of your body is more reassuring than any words. In this quiet embrace, Sihtric can feel the unspoken promise—no matter how far he drifts, no matter how many battles he fights, you will always be his safe haven. The sanctuary he will always come back to.

“I love you, Sihtric,” you murmur softly, your breath brushing against his temple. “I will always do.”

He says nothing, just tightens his arms around you, holding you like you’re his anchor in a world that constantly tries to pull him away. You’re the only thing keeping him grounded, the only light in the endless dark that sometimes surrounds him. He’s not sure he can find the words to say how much that means, how much you mean. But maybe he doesn’t have to. Maybe the way he clings to you, the way he presses a soft kiss to the side of your neck, will say everything he can’t.

For now, it’s enough to just be here, in your arms, safe in the knowledge that he hasn’t lost this—that he hasn’t lost you.

“I’ll protect you,” he whispers, more to himself than to you, as though repeating the vow will make it stronger, make it true. “I’ll keep you safe. I swear it.”

“You already do,” you reply, your voice filled with quiet conviction. “Every day, Sihtric.”

He closes his eyes, resting his forehead against yours, your breaths mingling in the quiet stillness. “Come here,” you whisper softly, your fingers threading through his thick hair, a gentle invitation.

With a deep, reluctant sigh, he withdraws, slowly and hesitantly. The warmth of your touch lingers as he moves, pulling himself back into the reality of the room. Quietly, almost reverently, he removes his boots, loosens his breeches, and slips off his leather armour. The soft glow of the moon bathes his bare skin in silver, making him appear almost otherworldly as he finally slips beneath the covers beside you.

Sihtric curls an arm around your waist, pulling you gently into him, his body warm and solid against yours, and you melt into his embrace. He’s yours—your husband, the only man who truly saw you, who heard the unspoken plea to save you from the misery that had once consumed your life. He had been the one to notice the tears you had held back, to sense the sadness you could barely express.

For him, it was as if your former life in the alehouse didn’t even exist. He never brought it up, never held it against you. His love wasn’t conditional, it was unwavering. His care, his understanding, his love had put you back together, piece by piece, making you whole again.

When you spoke your vows, you knew exactly who he was, just as he had known you. The acceptance had been mutual, as natural as breathing. And yet, even now, he kept doubting himself, as though he wasn’t worthy of the happiness you shared, but as strange as it might sound it only made you love him more, if that was even possible.

“I love you,” he breathes against your skin, his voice thick and slightly trembling as he places soft, lingering kisses along the curve of your neck. Each kiss feels like a silent promise, as though he’s trying to speak the words he can’t find, to reassure you of the love that runs deeper than he can express.

His lips move slowly, tracing a tender path from your neck to your collarbone, leaving a trail of warmth in their wake. Sihtric’s touch is unhurried, he’s savouring each moment, each breath between you. His fingers gently caress your waist, the warmth of his hand spreading across your skin like a comforting fire.

There’s a quiet reverence in the way he touches you, his movements deliberate, almost hesitant. He takes his time, his lips returning to the sensitive spot just beneath your ear, pressing gentle kisses that send shivers down your spine.

Your hands find their way to his hair, tangling in the soft strands as you pull him closer, encouraging him without words. You feel the way his breath hitches in response, the quiet tension that lingers in the air as he struggles to contain the depth of his need. But he doesn’t rush.

His lips graze your jawline, his breath warm against your skin as his hand continues its slow exploration, fingers tracing the curve of your waist and the softness of your belly. You can feel the gentleness in his touch, the way his fingertips linger, as if memorising the feel of you beneath his hands.

Sihtric pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes searching yours for something—reassurance, understanding, the silent affirmation that he’s enough for you, that you want him just as much. And in your gaze, he finds what he needs. The tension in his shoulders melts away, and a small, relieved smile tugs at the corner of his lips.

His hand moves up, brushing over your ribs and settling just below your chest, his thumb gently tracing the outline of your skin. His lips follow the path of his hand, each kiss slow and deliberate, worshipping every part of you. His love for you is palpable in the tenderness of his touch, in the way his fingers linger, as if you’re something sacred he’s afraid to lose.

“I’ll never stop loving you,” he whispers, his lips barely brushing against your skin. He presses a kiss to the centre of your chest, the warmth of his breath sending another shiver through you. Slowly, he makes his way back up, his lips grazing your shoulder, your collarbone, the curve of your neck, until finally, they find yours. The kiss is soft, unhurried, his lips moving against yours with a tenderness that speaks of all the love he’s been holding inside.

There’s no urgency, no rush—only the slow, steady rhythm of his lips and hands as he caresses you, as if trying to remind you with each touch that he’s here, that he’s yours, and that you are his.

His weight presses you deeper into the mattress, his warmth enveloping you completely as he slowly moves on top of you.

A soft moan escapes your lips when his mouth closes around your nipple, his touch igniting a familiar fire within you. His lips continue their descent, trailing over your skin, each kiss leaving a path of heat in its wake.

His movements are slow, unhurried, as though he has all the time in the world to explore every inch of you. His hands move with a practised tenderness, tracing the lines of your body.

“Sihtric…” His name falls from your lips, a breathless plea as his mouth travels lower, sending waves of pleasure coursing through you. His kisses are soft but purposeful, each one grounding you in this moment, in him. He’s your anchor, your safe harbour, the man who brought light into the darkest corners of your soul.

His hands grip your hips gently, holding you in place as his lips find the sensitive skin just below your navel, the sensation making you arch into him. You thread your fingers through his hair, pulling him closer, desperate for more of his touch, more of him.

Sihtric’s hot tongue finds your most sensitive spot, the sudden surge of pleasure forcing a loud moan from your lips. His large hands hold you down against the mattress, his grip firm but reverent, as if he’s claiming every part of you as his own. He growls low in his throat, the sound vibrating against your core as his tongue delves deeper, exploring, tasting, driving you to the edge.

Your head snaps back, pleasure surging through every nerve as his tongue continues its slow, torturous rhythm. You bury your fingers into the sheets, gripping them tightly as your body responds to him, every touch, every movement of his mouth sending you spiralling further into the pleasure he’s determined to push you through.

The sensation is overwhelming, his touch lighting a fire deep within you that grows with every passing second. The room fades away, the only thing that exists is the feel of his mouth on you, the raw intimacy of his devotion. His tongue moves with practised ease, teasing and tasting, alternating between slow, deliberate strokes and quick flicks that send shivers through your body.

“Sihtric…” His name tumbles from your lips again, this time more desperate, your voice thick with need. You tug at his hair, urging him on, wanting more of the pleasure that only he can give you. He growls in response, his grip tightening on your hips as he presses you harder against the bed, holding you in place as he devours you.

Your breathing becomes ragged, each gasp of air filled with his name, and you feel yourself beginning to lose control, teetering on the edge. Sihtric’s pace quickens, his tongue working you with relentless precision, driving you closer and closer to the breaking point.

And then, in one powerful surge of pleasure, everything shatters. Your body tenses, your back arches off the bed, and a cry escapes your lips as you fall over the edge, waves of ecstasy crashing over you. Sihtric doesn’t stop, his mouth coaxing every last tremor from you, his growl vibrating against your skin as he holds you through the intensity of your release.

Finally, as your body begins to relax, Sihtric lifts his head, his breath warm against your skin as he presses a gentle kiss to your thigh. His eyes meet yours, dark with desire but softened by something deeper—something unspoken but fully understood.

You want to move, to reach out for him, to pull him into your embrace, but he doesn’t let you. His hands still hold you firmly in place, and in the next moment, his mouth is on you again. You squirm beneath him, the pleasure from your previous high still coursing through your veins—it’s almost too much.

His lips close around your sensitive bundle of nerves, sucking gently, and the moan that escapes you is primal, raw. Sihtric chuckles against your skin, the sound low and filled with satisfaction. He knows exactly what he’s doing to you.

He hums softly, his mouth vibrating against you as his tongue resumes its slow, deliberate movements. Every flick, every stroke sends another wave of pleasure rippling through your already overstimulated body, making your legs tremble. It’s a sweet torment—the line between pleasure and too much blurring with each passing second.

Sihtric's hands remain firm on your hips, pinning you down as his tongue moves in lazy, measured circles. The warmth of his breath, the soft hum of his voice—it’s all too much, yet not enough. Your fingers twist into the sheets, pulling them tightly as another moan escapes your lips. The tension inside you builds again, even though you thought you had already reached your limit.

“Oh gods, Sihtric…” you gasp, your voice breathless, a plea that you’re not even sure you can fully form. He growls in response, a low, rumbling sound of approval, and it vibrates through you, making your entire body shudder. His tongue doesn’t stop, pushing you higher and higher, teasing you, making you fall apart all over again.

His lips close around you with more pressure this time, the pace of his tongue quickening. The sensation sends sparks shooting through your veins, your body helpless against the onslaught of pleasure. You can’t control the way your hips buck beneath him, trying to escape the intensity or begging for more–you don’t even know, but his hands hold you firmly in place, refusing to let you go.

Your breath comes in ragged gasps, your chest rising and falling rapidly as you teeter on the edge once more. He knows you’re close, and he doesn’t ease up—if anything, his tongue works you with even more precision, drawing out every ounce of pleasure from your trembling body.

When the release comes, it crashes over you in waves—stronger, deeper than before. Your entire body shakes with the force of it, your hands clutching the sheets so tightly your knuckles turn white. You cry out his name, unable to hold it back, your voice filled with raw, unfiltered ecstasy.

Sihtric groans in satisfaction, his mouth never leaving you as he rides out the storm with you, savouring every last tremor that pulses through you. It’s only when your body begins to relax again, completely spent, that he finally lifts his head, his lips and chin glistening with the evidence of your pleasure.

He kisses your inner thigh softly, tenderly, before slowly making his way up your body. His touch is gentle, savouring every inch of your skin beneath his lips. By the time he reaches your face, you’re already breathless, your body still tingling with the aftershocks.

His eyes meet yours, filled with a mixture of desire and something deeper—love, devotion, the quiet understanding that only the two of you share. He leans down, pressing a soft kiss to your lips, his hand cradling your cheek as though you’re the most precious thing in the world to him.

“You’re incredible,” he whispers against your lips, his breath warm and filled with reverence. His hard length presses against your entrance, and you let out a soft whine of anticipation, your body burning with the need for him. You ache to feel him inside you, to be filled by him, claimed by him, loved by him in the way only he can.

Sihtric pauses, his forehead resting against yours, his breath shaky as he holds himself there for a moment longer, as though savouring the tension that lingers between you. His hand slides down to your waist, holding you firmly but tenderly, grounding both of you in the moment.

Slowly, he begins to push inside you, his movements deliberate, unhurried, as though he’s savouring the feeling of every inch. You gasp softly, your hands gripping his shoulders as he fills you, the sensation overwhelming in its intensity, but so achingly perfect. He groans low in his throat, the sound sending a fresh wave of heat through you as he sinks deeper, claiming you fully.

There’s no rush, no urgency—just the slow, deliberate rhythm of his body moving against yours, each thrust a quiet testament to the love he feels for you. His lips brush against your temple, your cheek, your lips, as though he can’t stop kissing you, can’t stop showing you just how much you mean to him.

“Is this what you want?” he whispers, his voice thick with need. His hips move in a steady rhythm, his hand sliding up to tangle in your hair as he looks into your eyes, searching for your answer.

“Yes,” you breathe, your voice barely above a whisper as you arch into him, your body trembling with the weight of your desire. “I need you, Sihtric. Always.”

He exhales shakily, his gaze darkening with something raw and unspoken as he picks up the pace. The connection between you grows stronger with each passing moment, the pleasure building as your bodies move in perfect harmony, two halves of the same whole.

His hands slide down your sides, gripping your hips as he pulls you closer, driving himself deeper with each thrust, his breath quickening with every move. There’s something almost desperate in the way he fucks you now, as if there will be no other time, as if the world is ending here and tonight. Each movement is filled with urgency, with a raw intensity that takes your breath away.

Your body responds instinctively, rising to meet him with every thrust, your need for him growing with each breathless moan, each whispered plea that falls from your lips. The heat between you is undeniable, electric, and you can feel the tension building, the edge drawing nearer with every second.

Sihtric’s grip on your hips tightens, his movements becoming more forceful, more deliberate as he chases the overwhelming pleasure building between you. His breath is ragged, his voice low and thick. “Gods, I need you,” he groans, his forehead pressing against yours as he drives into you, the intensity of his words mirroring the passion in his touch. “I need you so much.”

You gasp, the rawness of his voice sending shivers down your spine. “I’m yours,” you breathe, your voice trembling with the weight of your own desire. “Always.”

He lets out a shuddering breath, his pace faltering for a moment as he absorbs your words, as though they’ve given him the strength to keep going, to keep loving you with everything he has. “I can’t lose you,” he murmurs, his voice hoarse with desperation as his hips move against yours, the rhythm quickening once more.

“You won’t,” you reply, your voice barely a whisper as you cup his face in your hands, forcing him to meet your gaze. “I’m here, Sihtric. I’m not going anywhere.”

He swallows hard, his eyes locking with yours. His lips crash against yours, the kiss rough, unrestrained, filled with a hunger that matches the rhythm of his hips. Your bodies move against each other in perfect rhythm, every thrust sending shockwaves of pleasure coursing through you, driving you closer and closer to the edge.

“I love you,” he groans against your lips. “I love you more than anything.”

“I love you too,” you gasp, your fingers tangling in his hair as your back arches off the bed, your body trembling with the force of your impending release. “I love you so much.”

“You feel so perfect,” he groans, his voice low and thick with desire as he buries his face in the crook of your neck, his breath hot against your skin. His lips find your pulse, and he presses soft kisses there, his movements never faltering as he drives you both toward the edge.

The tension builds, the pleasure cresting with every thrust, and soon, the world outside disappears entirely. There’s only him—his body, his touch, his love—and the way he makes you feel so complete, so whole, as though nothing else in the world matters but this moment between you.

His pace quickens, his movements becoming more erratic as he feels you tightening around him, your release drawing nearer. “Come for me,” he whispers, his voice a rough plea as his lips trail down your neck. “I want to feel you.”

Sihtric’s hand moves between your bodies, his fingers finding that sensitive spot that has you crying out his name again, your body trembling with the intensity of your release. His movements become more erratic, more desperate, as he fucks you through your climax, chasing his own release now, and within moments, he’s following you over the edge, as he spills deep inside you, groaning your name.

His body trembles against yours as he collapses onto you, both of you spent and breathless.

For a long moment, the only sound in the room is the quiet mingling of your breaths, your bodies still intertwined, holding onto each other as though letting go would mean losing everything.

Sihtric presses a soft kiss to your shoulder, his voice a low murmur against your skin. “I’m never letting you go,” he whispers, his words filled with quiet reverence. “Not now, not ever.”

You smile softly, your fingers tracing lazy patterns on his back. “I don’t want you to. Welcome home, my love.”

#sihtric #sihtric x reader #sihtric x you #the last kingdom #the last kingdom fic #sihtric fic #the last kingdom fanfiction #sihtric kjartansson #sihtric smut #sihtric kjartansson x reader

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levemetal · 1 month ago

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Hi hello, I rushed this and I cannot be arsed to properly render this. I have other things to draw, many of them. But also. I really put too much effort into the flat of this that I kinda burned myself out LMAO

ANYWAY CALAMITY/GHOST KING SHEN JIU DESIGN. Take it, cherish him like I would. I wanted to dress him up like the pretty princess he is <3 Plus, ghost kings a la tgcf gotta slay in all categories so here we go. I'll ramble more about the more coherent thoughts I have but you can tear ghost king SJ from my cold dead hands. ٩( ᐛ )و

His motivations more becoming a ghost king/calamity are fairly straightforward if you're familiar with Shen Jiu and all the funky workings of his mind. It is to be stronger than everybody else and attaining a place that cannot be taken from him cause he has the power for it. So that no one else can have any power over him either.

However this also means that he does not necessarily have any grand plans of what to do with that power. I imagine he'd be a recluse, living off and alone somewhere hardly getting involved in the affairs of the living and gods etc.

If he does, I imagine it might more be in the style of killing slavers and otherwise bad men. Maybe a sort of brothel workers protector, getting rid of the most problematic and horrible clients? Let your imagination wander!

For a title? I have no clue man, I am not good enough at words for this. Something with green or teal as the color and leaves. That's how far I got.

Now the juicy stuff, POWERS. Leaves. Leaves and fans is the tldr version. I imagine he'd use the qi-infused leaves as in canon, just far more deadlier (probably) and conjured rather than just reliant on leaves off trees in the vicinity. For a weapon, if available (read: SY is not possessing SJ's OG body, or Xiu Ya was not obtained) I think he should get to keep Xiu Ya, or otherwise a blood weapon shaped after it. Tho if I had to give him a blood weapon a la Hua Cheng's E'ming, it would be a fan. The blades on it would likely be shift on, both an edge to cut with and places for darts to fly out. Otherwise in terms of weapons I could see daggers very well too for SJ. They'd suit him, as he could get in and get a quick stab or just throw them from afar. With his fighting style that likely has a lot of the ruthless tactics of his youth incorporated, I think it would fit just like a battle fan.

Otherwise, I do see him being a capable shapeshifter, or some sort of abilities to stay in the shadows undetected. If he needs some sort of animal or communication/surveillance skill associated with him, I personally would pick ravens. Spiritually created ravens as a sort of spying network and surveillance method.

Another juicy detail could be cultivation method. Tgcf does mention that the ghosts still have their own form of cultivating their power. For example, He Xuan eats and absorbs the abilities of other ghosts, whereas Hua Cheng is mentioned to cultivate via slaughtering. The xianxia in tgcf is rather vague now that I have a few more danmei under my belt, and specifically Devil Venerable also wants to know has given me a looot of thoughts about some interesting ways to detail this if it is so desired for a setting. Do please keep in mind tho I haven't really researched cultivation and the wuxia/xianxia 101 worldbuilding yet so this may not make sense. Anywho:

For Shen Jiu in particular I'd find it interesting to give him his own form rather than just copying either Hua Cheng (most fitting imo) or He Xuan (bonus eating disorder included, hooray!). So here are some ideas I had in no particular order:

- Take the core melting aspect from mdzs and applying it to ghosts (sorta): dissolving and absorbing the cores/qi of cultivators and ghosts alike, thus claiming the power for his own.

- Blood. Think less vampire and more slaughter. The messier the kill essentially, bleed the victims dry and absorb the blood to transform it into qi. (Thank you returning Dragon Age brainrot)

- dvawtk's Path of Slaughter. It doesn't really fit SJ as it relies on constantly finding stronger opponents to fight and challenge, especially ones stronger than oneself and persevering against the odds. Not his personal choice but it would poetically fit him and his entire life pretty well.

That's all for now. If you made it till here.... have a gold star: ⭐️

#svsss #shen jiu #original shen qingqiu #ghostSJ #No I will not shut up about calamity!SJ #I have finally accepted that this is my terminal brainrot and I am willing to die on this hill #anyway feel free to use the design <3 Enjoy!

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ready-to-obeyme · 6 months ago

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look my way

Sometimes, Lucifer wishes you weren't so popular as you are. You would think it's the other way around.

Lucifer x Reader, gender-neutral, pre-relationship, fluff

Word Count: <1k

Diavolo would be rather pleased to know you are making friends outside of the seven demon brothers. His vision of peace among the three realms seems more of a reality when a human can play among common angels and lesser demons without fear of retribution or danger. Lucifer would commend you as well, for Diavolo's goals are his own and you are technically under his care-- but he finds you a tad too trusting for your own good, even if it is one of the redeeming qualities that make you popular in the Devildom.

And you are-- popular, despite your modest denials and deflections of "you're much more popular, Lucifer."

Lucifer sees you the way others do. Your friendliness is what makes you well-liked, your indiscriminatory manner of treating others endearing. But it is that soul of yours and a heart that does not falter that makes you popular. Desireable-- though he doubts any demon would dare present themselves in that way to you, not with how closely you stay next to him.

Lucifer can't say he isn't pleased with this, both with your evident affection for him and the wide berth other demons give you when they see him approach. He has no qualms in fighting to get what he wants, but it feeds on his pride that no one would dare challenge him.

But still... it is only a testament on how much he has grown attached to you that he sees you-- eyes fond, smile wide in the direction of others-- and feels a hot flare of jealousy despite himself. Though, if he were truly being honest with himself, he had never been one to share, even when he was an angel.

"You're quite the popular one," Lucifer tells you as he walks you home, and he wants to bite his cheek for voicing his feelings outloud to you, the only source of his bittersweet uncertainty.

"There's no one else," you say, and you turn your head quickly away, eyes determinedly forward even though you spot Lucifer look at you curiously.

"Pardon?" He asks, amusement in his tone.

"You're the popular one between the two of us," you blurt out. "I haven't been with anyone for the past few years or so, some years from choice but others... it just hadn't worked out."

You look down at your feet, wondering if there exists a plane below even the Devildom to swallow you whole. But still, it seemed important now to tell Lucifer in the moment, so you speak; it does well for you most of the time. "So you're the only one. The only one that matters."

Lucifer scoffs. "You are popular." You hear his tone soften, and it makes the tendrils of your heart curl in pleasure. "They'd be a fool not to notice how sweetly you treat others."

"I guess when you compare me to a demon, of course," you tease. "And even then, it isn't romantic."

And then you begin to wonder: how many lovers must Lucifer have taken? For how long? Any history of yours would pale in comparison, but especially so, because it is Lucifer. You are certain that even pride and arrogance cannot be strong enough of a deterrent for others to pursue someone as beautiful and talented as Lucifer.

"I see," Lucifer says, and you look at him, confused. You see the tell-tale smirk on his face before you hear his teasing comment. "So you wish to be fawned over as a romantic interest? Coveted as a lover by many?" He takes your hand into his, and before you can instinctively pull away, Lucifer presses a kiss onto your hand.

Your face prickles with how quickly it warms.

"Well," you mumble, looking away, "maybe just by one demon." You let your hand be manipulated until his palm is flat against yours. His fingers are much longer than yours-- his entire hand is, really-- that they envelope yours in its entirety. It's the only coherent thought at the moment; you can only think about how Lucifer is the one holding your hand.

"Good," he tells you, and his smile is pleased, a little smug if you know him well enough. "No other demon could compare, so there is no use in trying."

You let out a laugh, the comment so representative of the Avatar of Pride. It should be off-putting, his arrogance, but you can only admire it, and even at the worst of times, agree with it. And at the best of times, you adore it, especially when you know how little pride matters when it comes to his brothers.

"You're right," you say before Lucifer thinks your laughter means you believe otherwise. "Even if there was, you're still the only one that matters to me, Lucifer."

"Naturally," he says, but you see his ears pink at your words. He grips your hand tighter when you pass by a triad of demons, pulling you subtly closer to him. You hear a titter of laughter trailing after the two of you, and you wonder if they are talking about the two of you-- demon of pride and human-- walking hand in hand. You wonder if Lucifer is proud to have you at his side.

(Perhaps one day he will tell you himself.)

#obey me lucifer x reader #obey me lucifer #om lucifer #obey me x reader #may change format when i get home #but i banged this out and needed it outta my hands #CUZ I LOVE HIM. EVEN IF HE DIDNT COME HOME 😭😭😭

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toms-cherry-trees · 7 months ago

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"Look After You" || Tommy Shelby x Reader

Summary: Time and distance cannot break certain promises

Word count: 4.2k

Tags: Mentions of war, mental asylums, unjust imprisonment, mentions of controversial mental health treatments, cross dressing (?), implications of violence against women, illness, no betareading we go in raw

Author's note: You might have seen this post where I mention the life of Dorothy Lawrence. Well this is very loosely based on her life mixed with Tommy's story. Left it very open to a part 2 if people like the premise.

(Yes my people watch me put together moodboards instead of choosing gifs)

Requested tag (hope not to disappoint) @brummiereader @emotionalcadaver

The asylum stood tall and imponent before Tommy’s gaze, its towering central dome and flanking turrets framed by the bright sun rays of a cheerful spring afternoon. The radiant gardens contrasted dramatically with the derelict state of the building itself; rusty and broken drainpipes hanging from the roof, rotten wood frames and shattered window panes, missing chunks of brick on the walls, revealing the inner framing and plaster. Nothing about that place inspired trust to those who crossed its threshold, let alone hopes of betterment. The lamentable exterior stood like the perfect match of the decadence within.

The smell of rot assaulted him the second he entered. The paint had started to peel off, and moisture stains crawled across walls and ceiling. Most windows in the main hall were shuttered, and the incandescent light bulbs did little to cut through the darkness, casting a sickly shadow over the room. The orderly that welcomed him in the entrance had an embittered face, and he questioned Tommy on his name, whom he was visiting and his reasons to. He patted him down and overturned his pockets, making him leave behind anything that could be used to harm or be harmed. Cap, cigar case, lighter, sleeve garters and shoelaces stayed behind while another orderly led him through long hallways and endless locked doors towards the morning hall where he’d meet the purpose of his visit.

Finally, they stopped before a wide set of oaken double doors with panels of rubbed glass, which allowed him a faint peek of what happened on the other side. The orderly barely opened the door enough to enter himself and told Tommy to wait outside, as if he feared something may escape from within given the chance. After a few minutes he returned, leaving the gap open for Tommy to pass through.

“Sister Janice will take you to her. Don’t look at other patients. Don’t talk to other patients. If they come to you, ignore them. Don’t take anything they give you”

Perplexed, curious and mostly annoyed by all the delays, Tommy ducked under the orderly’s arm while he held the door open. As soon as he stepped inside the orderly let go, and the door closed behind him with a heavy click.

The sudden brightness hurt his eyes after the unceasing darkness, and Tommy had to squint briefly as his pupils grew accustomed to his surroundings. An ample hall stretched before him, arch windows spanning from floor to ceiling lining the west and north walls. Moth eaten draperies of blue velvet had been drawn back to allow sunlight in, in hopes of insufflating some life into the gelid heart of the asylum.

The room had surely once been a magnificent ballroom, but had now been reduced to the sad, dirty, abandoned alcove where the non-aggressive patients spent most of their waking hours, some engaged in the very few activities offered to them, others dragging their feet and mumbling to themselves like lost souls, their gazes absent and their appearance unkempt. Not one person appeared to have a coherent thought there, and Tommy wondered if it was due to their own ailments, or due to the medicines the nurses forced down their throats to keep them tame and peaceful, albeit stupid.

As Tommy walked past, he couldn't help but notice the way his presence drew attention from them. The patients stopped in their tracks to stare at him as if he were the most marvellous wonder they had ever seen. They pointed at him, uttering incoherences and laughing at jokes no one else heard. Some tried to get close but were forced back with a sharp gesture by the nun accompanying him, whom only now Tommy noticed, carried a mean looking leather strap, hanging side by side with a rosary from her cord belt.

At long last, she came into view. Slouched on a rocking chair facing the windows, a ragged purple cardigan thrown over a white, floor length dress, resembling more a nightgown than any sort of decent clothing. A white linen cap covered her hair, and Tommy noticed that the ties had been removed, as had been from the rest of her garments. She looked thinner, thinner even than she did in France. She gave no indication that she had noticed their presence, her dulled eyes fixated on the gardens outside.

“I have it from here, sister” Tommy dismissed the nun with a wave of his hand, dragging a nearby stool to sit next to the woman.

“I’m sorry Mr. Shelby, but I cannot allow you to be unsupervised with a patient. She seems tame now, but who knows what atrocities a woman of sin like her might commit”

Tommy wanted to snort. She barely looked strong enough to hold herself in the chair, how could she harm anyone?

“She won’t attack me sister” Tommy insisted “Now step back, and I will make sure the asylum is handsomely rewarded for your troubles.”

The nun opened her mouth, ready to argue, but then chose against it. The asylum could do with some extra coin, after all. She straightened up and smoothed her habit, perhaps a way to reinstate her authority that Tommy had so brazenly challenged.

“You have half an hour” She stated at last before walking away towards a group of patients who were seemingly arguing over a doll.

Tommy’s gaze returned to the woman in front of him, who continued to be absent from the world around her, and who gave no sign of life other than the steady rising and falling of her shoulders with each breath. Thomas allowed the pause to linger between them a few seconds longer, but he didn’t want to waste his allotted time. He wouldn’t put it past these people to drag him out like that; the laws of men did not apply in these sorts of places.

He called her name softly, in a nearly soothing whisper. Once, twice, thrice, yet it did not do to her more than the drafts howling through the broken panes or the maniac laughs of the patients around them. He didn’t want to touch her and risk startling her, but he didn’t want to spend his visit staring at her left cheek. He took his last chance, using this time a different name, a name he had not pronounced since 1915.

“Private Anders”

The name stirred something in her mind. Her back straightened a bit and her features quivered in recognition. Slowly, stiffly, she turned towards Tommy, her eyebrows first furrowing in confusion then rising in surprise.

“Sergeant Major?” Her shock could not be disguised, and she readied to rise and salute, but Tommy motioned for her to remain seated.

“At ease, private”

Tommy recalled perfectly the first day he saw her. They were stationed near Albert, digging up a new front line as they tried to gain terrain from the Germans. The troops from the British Expeditionary Force and the 179th tunnelling company consisted mostly of coal miners, all turned sappers whose task was to ready up the land for battle. The clay rich soil basically melted between their fingers when it rained, making the digging of trenches and shelters a never-ending battle. The dampness crept up their legs and seeped into their bones, and Tommy had seen one too many soldiers whose feet rotted inside their boots. Even the strongest men, used to work from sun to sun in the depths of the coal mines breathing dust and methane, would sometimes succumb to the elements.

Tommy worked paired with Tom Dunn, a man as thick of back as he was of skull. He could easily lift an adult man and throw him across the field like a sack of potatoes, and legend has it he pulled the coal carts in the mine when the horses couldn’t. If left to it, he could probably dig out the trench with only his hands and his helmet.

He had been the one to introduce Tommy to her. Dunn had hidden that little lunatic in an abandoned cottage, not too far from where the troops were stationed. Somehow, she had obtained a uniform, which she had padded with cotton wool to flatten her curves and broaden her shoulders. Her hair had been cut in a military style, scrapes on her cheeks simulated a shaving rash, and potassium permanganate attempted to sharpen her jaw and cheekbones with dark shadows.

She slept in a damp mattress, with little more than a threadbare blanket to keep her warm; she had no means of acquiring something better, nor could she light a fire in the dusty hearth for fear of being discovered. Dunn had been feeding her with whatever he could spare from his own rations or snatch from others, which meant she had been eating the minimum for survival, since the woods offered nothing but naked branches at that time of year.

Tommy had been left thunderstruck, far too much to react properly. A million questions came to his lips, and a million died there as his mind couldn’t exactly put into words what he wanted to know. His gaze flickered between them both, who looked at him pleadingly like a couple of children asking their parents to stay up late. His first instinct was to call up their superior and hand her over to them, for her own safety, but then he thought about it better. The things that could happen to her if he handed her over to the war office…and that’s it, if they handed her over in the first place, or chose to make justice themselves.

No, for the sake of her safety and his conscience, he would play along with them for now.

“What is your name?” He inquired, a simple question to cut through the gelid silence that had befallen them.

For an answer, she handed Tommy papers and a matching dog tag. Forgeries, most likely, and very good ones, which meant she spent money on those. Paying from her own pocket to go to war

They held each other's gaze for endless seconds. At long last, Tommy offered a handshake.

“Welcome to the 179th tunnelling company, Private John Anders. I’ll look after you”

Tommy hadn’t been able to stop thinking about the meeting. The person who sat before him, hunched and dirty and completely lost to the world, bore no resemblance to the fiery, and perhaps a little unhinged, woman that had gone through every length to infiltrate herself in the front line. Years of memory seemed to have been erased from her mind, but she recalled vividly everything she went through in her time in France. She did not know the day and year she lived in but could easily recite the names of every man she met from the 179th, as well as every technique they implemented to dig out the clay.

Tommy was sure that, if he were to put a shovel in her hands, she would unconsciously start digging.

He had partly placated his worries by placing a nurse in the asylum, one handpicked by Polly and paid out of his own pocket, to look after her. But that solution felt like not enough. Not by a mile. What that place did to her, what they were turning her into…Killing her bit by bit, stripping away her sanity to erase from her any memory she held of those weeks in the front. He still recalled the tunnel collapse, when the rain-soaked clay began to crumble over them like cold tar, obscuring their vision and sticking their feet to the ground. How the men dragged out each other, coated from head to toe in the reddish paste. She had tripped, her foot had gotten stuck, he couldn’t tell anymore. All he knew was that she had been left behind, and he had re-entered the tunnel for her. Feeling his way through the darkness, keeping an eye on the entrance, calling her name out; her fake name, for even in the face of danger he had the mental fortitude to remember the importance of her cover up. How she dropped her own facade, her fearful voice calling him as she stretched her arm towards him.

Tommy, Tommy, Tommy

“Tommy!” Billowed an angered female voice, dragging his thoughts back to the present time.

Tommy squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, attempting to dissipate the fogs of the past that laid over them. Because he was not in the tunnels, nor in the Western front. He was sitting in his office, behind his desk, nursing a whiskey in his hands and with Polly sitting across him, equally angered and perplexed at her nephew’s inattention.

“You know I don’t appreciate my words being wasted”. It sounded like a threat, but half of the things Polly said usually did “If you had no interest in this briefing, you could have rescheduled our meeting”.

“You hate your time being wasted” Tommy pointed out.

“Which is exactly what you’re doing now” She remarked.

Silence lingered in the office while Polly lit a new cigarette and Tommy downed his drink, which had already begun to warm in his hands. He stood to pour another, which he finished almost immediately.

“So” Polly began, exhaling the smoke in an elegant blow “Will you tell me what’s on your mind?” As usual, Polly could see through him as easily as one would do through a clean glass. It unnerved him sometimes, to be laid open so vulnerably under her watchful gaze.

“It’s nothing” Tommy sat before the fire; hands laced behind his head in an attempt to seem relaxed.

“There’s been many things on your mind, Tommy, and nothing has never been one of them”. Polly’s slender fingers ran across the glass bottles on the bar cart before settling on gin, pouring herself a more than generous serving.

“You’re thinking of her”.

Tommy immediately thought of denying it, but what was the point? When Polly knew, no one could tell her otherwise. And as much as he hated others meddling in his business, the words came tumbling before he could hold them back.

“I’m just worried. She’s not the same she used to be. I don’t know what they do to her in that place, but she’s changed. Those medicines they give her, and who knows what else they’ve done. You know the treatments” He shook his head, as if to dismiss everything he said “Just worried”

“It’s been many years since you last saw her. Everyone changed after the war. God knows you did”.

“This is not the same. They’re killing her there” Tommy stared up at the ceiling, as if hoping to find a solution to his problems in the plaster. Polly only watched him, pondering over her next words carefully. She only hoped she would not regret whatever her nephew chose to do next.

“If her wellbeing worries you so, you have to do the right thing”

He frowned, turning to look at her with confusion clear in his eyes. Polly sipped the gin, swirling it around her mouth as she gave it a last thought. This was one of the far and few times in which Tommy proved he had a heart, and that softened her as well.

“If you are worried, you act. If they’re killing her in there, you get her out”

The sun had finally shone upon the soldiers after nearly a week of bad weather, when rain and fog had turned the living conditions in the trenches into nearly inhumane. The soldiers were happy, for they would no longer shiver until their bones ached, and they would at last be able to put their clothes and themselves to dry. The tunnellers were less than pleased, for the sun had dried the clay into a solid wall, forcing them to exhaust their muscles to dig out chunks the size of their heads while the sweat ran down their temples and backs. Their comrades kept them supplied with water, but it felt like pouring water on a bottomless bucket.

Tommy worked side by side with her. Him. Her. Her identity still got tied in his mind, and he had to think through every word addressed in her direction for fear of blowing her cover. He watched her out of the corner of the eye as she swung the pickaxe with a strength and determination he never expected to see in a woman. Despite her resilience, Tommy worried about her, and kept a watchful gaze for any sign of exhaustion. She could not afford to be taken ill or injured, for a trip to the medical tent would be enough to unravel all her carefully crafted lies. He had to take care of her.

They both worked in the very end of the trench, and the sounds around them would conceal any hushed conversation. Tommy’s curiosity was stronger than his willpower

“Why?”

She didn’t react at first, and Tommy thought she either didn’t listen to him, or chose to ignore him, both of which were valid. But before he could ask again, she whispered back, keeping her manly tone

“Why what?”

“Why come here? What sane person would come here, on her own free will, to be forced into coldness and starvation? Risk your life, and for what purpose? Couldn’t find good places to dig back in England?”

She snorted, the sound quite lighter than any man’s laugh, so she concealed it by clearing her throat

“I wanted to serve my country, same as you. Is there any sin on that?”

“Is that what you tell yourself at night to sleep?”

She stopped digging for a moment, leaving the pickaxe embedded in the clay. She sat in the upturned bucket they used as stool, wiping the sweat from her brow with her sleeve. She couldn’t work shirtless, and their uniforms had been made to shield from the cold only. Tommy offered her water; she drank a sip and poured the rest on her head. He noticed her hair had grown again, and curled behind her ears. He made a mental note to give her a trim after nightfall.

“I just wanted to see what it was like. What it really was. They don’t tell us the truth back home. The newspapers make it sound as if the front is almost peaceful and the men are just laying back eating turkey while the Germans fall a hundred a day. I wanted the truth, and I want to write about it. Make a book of all the lies they fed us home.”

Her reasoning didn’t sit well with him. All that effort, that trouble, that risk, just to figure out if war was as bad as she thought? Mad, mad in the head this one.

“And what does your family think you’re doing away from home?”

She scratched her chin, in the same way Tommy did when he got a shaving rash from his blunt razors. She had picked up male mannerisms quite fast, particularly his own

“Not much family left to care what I do or stop doing. I said I’d come to France to volunteer as a nurse, but they most likely think I came as a camp follower. If they knew what I’m up to, they would have me committed to the closest madhouse”

“The madhouse is where you belong” Tommy replied, albeit jokingly, as he stopped his work to pull out a cigarette from his pocket. But he was interrupted by a ball of clay being tossed at his face with masterful precision, dampened for maximum effect.

“Shut up, Sergeant Major”

Blue skies and a pleasant breeze welcomed them at the gates of Arrow House. Tommy chose to drive this time, taking the advice from the doctor who would oversee her care, who suggested she be exposed to the least amount of people possible during the first days as she adjusted to life outside. Only Tommy, Frances and the nurse who would be her primary caretaker.

She stared at the world around her with such wonder, like a blind whose sight had been restored. Every tree, every bird, the very landscape that surrounded his manor brought such wonder onto her face, like a child with a Christmas tree. Her happiness almost managed to convince him that this was, in fact, a good idea.

When Polly told him to get her out, he knew she meant to put her in a home of her own, with a caretaker, and allow her to have a life of her own. And Tommy considered the idea, for a while. To place her in a nice neighbourhood, in a house with a garden and a balcony where she could enjoy the sun, with a nurse and maids and a car. But it didn’t sit right with him. She had been alone ever since they took her. Imprisoned until the war ended, and then released only to be taken to the madhouse at first chance. Not one familiar face around her for nearly a decade. No, Tommy wouldn’t take her out of a cage just to put her back in a smaller, prettier one. She needed someone to protect her. And for better or worse, that one could only be Tommy.

When the car came to a halt, she was the first one out, gaping at the imponent state which Tommy owned.

“Is this where you live, Sergeant Major?” The wonder was palpable in her voice. But the only thing Tommy noticed was that after everything she still couldn’t find it in her to call him by his name.

“2000 acres of land, of which 12 are just garden, and 750 acres of farming land”

She cocked an eyebrow, and in the amused twinkle of her eyes Tommy saw a glimpse of the one she used to be.

“Are you a farmer now, sir?” She disguised her laugh behind the handkerchief she insisted on carrying, looking down like a bashful schoolgirl.

Tommy pulled out a cigarette; he felt the corner of his lips pulled into the shadow of a smile, pleased to see her spirits lifted.

“My business is more focused on progress and modernity, but I wouldn’t reject the idea. Perhaps one day it’ll come in hand to have crops and cows”

“That would be the bloody day” She didn’t even try to hide her laughter this time “Our mighty Sergeant Major, dressed in overalls and with mud up to his knees shovelling cow shit”

“I find myself more interested in horse shit these days. Come on, I’ll show you around”

Tommy gave her a complete tour of the house and adjacent grounds, both to show her everything that would be at her complete disposal, and also as a way to show off how far he had come since they were both in the trenches, hunched over a meagre fire lit inside an empty can and sharing a homemade cigarette made from tobacco leftovers. Her eyes were wide with wonder, her fingers running over tapestries, leathers and carved wood with childlike wonder

He saved her room for last. A wide bedroom at the very back of the house, situated in a corner with plenty of windows. It had a view of the back of the state, so she could enjoy the gardens, the horses and the surrounding woods. In the corner with the most sunlight Tommy had placed a writing desk, supplied with paper, pens, ink and a brand new typewriter. Amidst everything sat a bunch of old and worn pages, all of different sizes and materials, kept together nicely with leather cord. She picked it up gingerly, running her thumb over the first page. Even though the paper was stained and dusty, the words could be read as easily as the first day she wrote them.

Tears flooded her eyes, and she hugged the improvised diary to her chest like it was a most prized possession. And perhaps it was. She turned towards Tommy, a mixture of bewilderment and eternal gratitude plastered on her features

“Where did you get it? I thought they would have had it destroyed when they locked me up”

Tommy only smirked, pulling out a cigarette from the golden case he carried “Remember what I told you? Always make sure someone owes you something”

That gesture, so small yet so meaningful, shifted something inside her. Her eyes brimmed with tears she attempted to fight, but they won in the end. She practically jumped into Tommy’s arms, hugging him with the eagerness of a person who has been denied a caring touch for far too long.

“How will I ever be able to thank you enough, Sergeant Major?”

His free arm circled her frame, returning the gesture

“You can start by calling me Tommy”

Worry crept up Tommy’s spine as the higher ups did their rounds to inspect the work on the freshly dug trenches. It had been three days since she last showed up, and he would soon run out of lies to cover up for “Private Anders’” absence.

As much as she tried to deny it, finally the harsh conditions had caught up to her. Her health had gone down a slippery slope with the arrival of winter. First it had been just a fretless dry cough, easily softened with pine tea. But then came the bone pains, the headaches, the constant fatigue. The dampness of her safe haven had seeped into her bones and caused some sort of rheumatism. Tommy noticed the swelling of her hands as they struggled to grip the pickaxe. Her hair began to fall out in clumps.

The shivers and the fever had finally knocked her off her feet. She had been unable to leave her cottage, which in turn worsened her condition even further. Tommy had tried to bring her something more substantial to eat, but she seemed unable to eat more than a few bites of stale bread dipped in some coffee the Americans had given them. Dry, suffocating coughs racked her body until she had to gasp for air, her teeth and lips speckled with blood.

“This is the end line” She had mumbled weakly during the third night, while Tommy tried to desperately convince her to light a fire to warm and dry the place

“No. You are not going to die. I won’t allow it. I told you I’d take care of you” He stated firmly, sitting on the floor by her side with her hand in his, his other one cupping her feverish cheek. He had been in a similar spot, not too long ago. Watching life fade away from a young woman’s eyes. He refused to let her die, not like that, not there where he would have to dump her body in the river.

“I am not going to die” She stated with a conviction her current condition didn’t match “But to survive, I have to turn myself in”

The idea of handing her over to the war office filled Tommy with panic

“No, no you cannot do that. Do you have any idea what they could do to you? Your best prospect would be to be thrown in jail, to be given 10 years for impersonating a soldier. And that’s if the higher ups are feeling compassionate” He shuddered at thinking what those wolves would do to her “Listen, I get leave tomorrow night. I’ll go to the nearest town, get some medicine, maybe I can pawn some things and get you a new blanket. You-”

“No” With great effort, she propped herself up in one elbow. Tommy couldn’t help but notice the strands of hair left in the pillow “I’ve implicated you long enough. The excuses and lies you have made for me are enough to have you dishonourably discharged and tried. You have done everything you could for me, and for that I am forever indebted to you, Sergeant Major. This next chapter in my life, I have to write it alone”

She sounded dejected and disappointed, as if she had failed some unwritten expectation of her adventure. But Tommy thought quite the opposite. He only felt admiration for the things she had put herself through in order to tell her story. He still thought she was mad in the head, but in a completely different way

“Will you mention my name when you write your book?” He asked jokingly, helping her lay back down slowly, pulling the ragged blanket up to her chin

“Only if you want to be jailed next to me for helping an intruder” She laughed, but the sound was cut short by another fit of coughing “I’ll dedicate it to you, Sergeant Major. Everything I write and do will be because of you”

Tommy awoke with a startle. His eyes were wide open, darting around the room as he tried to locate the source of the disturbance. Everything seemed to be calm in his room. And then it happened again. A dry thud in the wall, followed by a muffled scream.

In a heartbeat he was out of bed, gun in hand. He followed the noises, which seemed to grow louder the closer he got to her bedroom. The door was ajar, allowing a sliver of moonlight to project in the floor, in which Tommy could see two shadows moving.

He stormed inside, gun ready to fire. But he didn’t find an intruder, no. Just her, on her knees, banging her fists against the wall as she screamed. Her nurse stood by her side, amidst a disaster of clothes and books and other objects, unsuccessfully trying to coax her back to bed

“Miss, please. The hour is quite late. You need sleep”

“No, no. The walls are coming down. We have to get out, the roof’s collapsing!” She yelled desperately, clawing at the wall trying to dig herself out of some dark place that only existed in her head. He saw her nails tear the wallpaper with ferocity. And then he noticed the nurse unlocking a cabinet and pulling out a syringe

“No” He said almost immediately as he put a firm hand on the nurse’s arm “Go to bed. I have this”

“But Mr. Shelby!”

“I said go. Leave me with her”

The nurse doubted, holding his gaze, but chose to exit the room, closing the door behind her.

Tommy walked towards her slowly, afraid he would startle her. He gingerly touched her arm, but his presence went as unnoticed as a speck of dust. He called out her name, again and again, without success. The mud had seeped deep in her brain, as it had done his, and blocked her senses from the outside world. In order to get through, Tommy had to get into the mud with her

He stood tall, in martial position, hands behind his back

“Private Anders!”

Quick like a lightning bolt, she stood up and saluted in a firm position. Tears streaked her face and her entire body quivered like an autumn leaf

“Sergeant Major sir!”

“At ease, private. You are relieved of your duties. Time to go back home”

Like the lifting of a spell, her eyes glossed over as she blinked slowly, looking around her from the bed, to the things she had thrown around in haste, and finally towards Tommy. Her lower lip quivered

“What is happening to me?”

Her knees faltered. Tommy lunged forward before she could hit herself, coming down to the floor with her held in his arms. She burrowed herself in his chest, her fingers clinging to his shirt as she wept, her body racked by sobs. Tommy shushed her quietly, his fingers carding through her hair

“Don’t cry. I’ll take care of you”

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