#garden of forking paths and whatever | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

selfless-solipsist · 21 days ago

Text

°˖✧ The Tea ✧˖° [Planet Janet]

「 ✦ “You ever think about therapy, Janet?”✦ 」

╰┈➤ Planet Janet x Female Reader ⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆ (Yes really)

> I tried, okay? > Also, I used the gif with Wander because I couldn't find one with ONLY Janet. Besides, it's cute.

You and Janet—what a pair. Who knew that galactic conquerors and sentient planets could bond over tea, pancakes, and a shared love of spilling the cosmic tea about everyone else? Your weekly visits to Janet's surface had become a ritual, a bizarre yet oddly soothing routine in the whirlwind of your chaotic life. Every Sunday, you would make the trek to her, perched atop your sleek starship like a villainess on a throne. As you landed, Janet would practically roll out the green carpet—literally. Vines would snake toward your feet, forming a path of flowers that seemed to sigh at your approach. The air would fill with the scent of syrup and fresh pancakes as if the universe itself conspired to make you stay.

Janet always greeted you with that same excited giggle, which you imagined was her equivalent of screaming into a pillow out of pure joy like an excited teenage girl. You were her best friend, after all, and she made sure you knew it. The cottage she had "grown" on her surface just for your visits was ridiculously cozy—almost too cozy. The walls were covered in alien floral wallpaper that changed patterns depending on her mood, and the place always smelled faintly of whatever celestial garden she had conjured that week.

“I made pancakes!” her voice would echo through the cottage as you stepped in, your heels clicking against the impossibly pristine floor. “Sit, sit! I added extra stardust sprinkles this time!” You would settle into a chair crafted from her vines—comfortable in a way that was almost unsettling—and take your plate, deadpan as ever.

“You know,” you would start, taking a bite, “if this whole ‘planet’ thing doesn’t work out, you could really rake it in as a cosmic brunch spot. These pancakes could end wars.”

Janet’s delighted giggle would practically cause earthquakes.

The two of you always got to gossiping. Janet had her opinions on everything—Maurice (her ex-moon, as she bitterly referred to him), the state of galactic politics, and especially the sheer audacity of some planets thinking they could pull off rings when they clearly didn’t have the gravity for it. And as for you? Well, you had plenty to share about the overly dramatic exploits of the so-called “villains” you occasionally crushed in your spare time. Your dry delivery always sent Janet into adorable fits of hysterics.

Today, though, the gossip session had taken a bizarre turn.

As you casually recounted the ridiculous antics of a wannabe overlord whose “evil laugh” sounded more like a goat in distress, her vines had slowly but surely wrapped around your arms, legs, and waist. By the time you noticed, you were cocooned like a fly in a spider’s web.

“Janet,” you said flatly, raising an unimpressed eyebrow. “Is this about me leaving again?”

Her voice came out soft and wheedling, like a child caught stealing snacks. “I just don’t want you to go... I mean, don’t you like it here? You’re my best friend!”

You sighed, leaning your head back against the vines as if they were a hammock. “We’ve talked about this. You can’t just kidnap your friends. It’s... weird.”

“I’m not kidnapping you!” she protested, vines tightening just a smidge. “I’m... giving you a hug!”

“Uh-huh. And I suppose you’ll be serving pancakes directly to my face next?” The sound of plates clinking made you glance down. Sure enough, a vine was extending a forkful of syrup-soaked pancake toward your mouth. Unfazed, you took the bite. “Okay, points for effort.”

Janet squealed in delight, the entire surface of her planet rumbling like she had just won an award. “See? You’re so happy here! Why don’t you just stay forever?”

“Because I have planets to conquer and people to terrify,” you said, deadpan. “I can’t do that from your cozy vine-chair.”

Her voice turned playful but with an edge. “Oh, I don’t know... I think you could terrify quite a lot of people just by calling this place your new home base. Imagine the fear! ‘The villainess who lives on a sentient planet!’”

You snorted. “Janet, you’re starting to sound like Maurice.”

One whine snapped like a whip.

“Don’t you dare compare me to him!” she snapped, vines twitching in a way that suggested she might fling you into the stratosphere.

“Touchy,” you said, completely unbothered. “What happened this time? Did he park in your orbit without permission again?”

“He said my volcanoes were overkill! Can you believe that? Overkill!”

“Well, Janet... you did incinerate that asteroid last week because it ‘looked smug.’”

“It was smug!” she huffed. “Just floating there, acting like it was too good to get caught in my gravity!”

...

“You’re... definitely over him,” you deadpanned.

Janet went suspiciously quiet for a moment, her vines loosening just enough for you to stretch a leg. You knew better than to press further, but the little smile tugging at your lips said it all. If nothing else, the pancakes would keep you distracted from her possessive streak—or so you thought. She huffed, and the vines holding your arms tightened, almost like a passive-aggressive hug. “Why do you always bring him up? Maurice this, Maurice that. I’ve moved on!”

You arched an eyebrow. “Oh, totally. That’s why you have a crater on your northern hemisphere shaped like a frowny face. Real subtle, Janet.”

“That’s not a frown!” she shrieked, her voice reverberating through the air like a scorned diva at a karaoke night. “It’s modern art! You wouldn’t understand—it’s planet feelings!”

“Sure," You smirked. “Just like it wasn’t weird last week when you redirected a meteor to crash into him for ‘accidentally’ calling your oceans lukewarm.”

“He deserved it!” she snapped, vines flailing dramatically in sync with her voice. “I’m not lukewarm! My oceans are a perfect 78 degrees, with a light saline breeze!”

“And yet,” you said, as calm as a supernova before it explodes, “here we are. You, a sentient planet, and me, a mildly kidnapped villainess, discussing your volcanic breakup like we’re on some galactic talk show.”

Janet let out a melodramatic sigh, the ground rumbling beneath you. Flowers popped out of the soil, as if her emotions manifested as floral overcompensation. “I just want to be appreciated, you know? I put so much effort into everything! My waterfalls, my sunsets, my pancakes—”

“Your pancakes are phenomenal,” you said, mostly to stop her rant. A vine fed you another syrup-drenched bite before you could refuse.

“I know, right?” She preened. “Do you think Maurice ever complimented my pancakes? No! He always said things like, ‘Too much syrup, Janet,’ or ‘You can’t serve pancakes to a comet—it doesn’t have a mouth!’ He didn’t get me.”

“Yeah, Maurice is a real jerk,” you agreed around a mouthful of pancake. “But, y’know, he was your moon. Kind of literally made for you.”

Janet gasped in exaggerated offense. “Made for me? MADE FOR ME?! I’m a planet! I have billions of options! BILLIONS! You’re lucky I even let you visit—” She cut herself off, her vines quickly shifting to a far-too-gentle cradle around you. “I mean, not that I’d ever let you leave. But it’s totally not weird, right?”

“Oh, no,” you said flatly, sipping from a vine that somehow held a dainty teacup. “It’s perfectly normal to be smothered by your bestie every time you try to leave. I’m sure everyone would love being planet-wrapped. So cozy.”

Janet giggled, missing the sarcasm entirely. “See? You get me. That’s why you’re my favorite.”

“Favorite... what? Human? Friend? Pancake-eater?”

“Everything,” She replied, a suspicious amount of sincerity in her tone. Her surface glimmered in what could only be described as a planetary blush, soft hues of pink and green rippling across her landscapes.

You raised a single eyebrow, unimpressed. “You’re not trying to butter me up so I’ll stay longer, are you?”

“Me? Never!” She said, giggling nervously as her vines tightened again—just slightly. “But, uh... since we’re talking about it, you could just stay. You’re way too good for all those other boring planets.”

“Janet.” You tilted your head, voice dripping with deadpan calm. “I’m not moving in.”

“I didn’t say move in,” she shot back, clearly flustered. “I just meant, y’know... permanent visits!”

“Mm-hmm.” You looked at the vines still wrapped around you. “Because you’re so good at letting people leave.” Janet opened her metaphorical mouth to protest, but you cut her off with a pointed glance. “Look. I’ll always stay a bit for the pancakes. I’ll even stay to listen to you vent about Maurice and how he ‘never appreciated your tectonic activity.’ But at some point, I do have to get back to my evil empire.”

“But I’m lonely!” She wailed, her voice echoing through the atmosphere like a soap opera star delivering a tragic monologue. “Do you know how hard it is being a planet? The endless void of space, the silence, the meteor showers that no one even compliments me on? And then Maurice—”

“Okay, okay!” You rolled your eyes, unable to stop the smirk tugging at your lips. “You can keep me wrapped up in vines for, like, five more minutes. But after that, I am leaving. Probably.”

Janet sniffled dramatically, flowers blooming at your feet in response. “You mean it? Five whole minutes?”

“Yeah,” you deadpanned. “Just don’t forget to feed me pancakes while you monologue. Kidnapping always works better with snacks.”

She squealed in delight, her vines pulling you into an overly enthusiastic embrace. “You’re the best! I’ll make more syrup right now! Oh, oh, do you want a blueberry topping this time? Maybe some whipped nebula cream?”

“Surprise me,” you said with a sigh, leaning back into the cushy vines. “I’m already wrapped up in this mess, anyway.”

Her vines loosened just enough for you to adjust your position, which now felt less like a hostage situation and more like a bizarre spa treatment. One particularly enthusiastic vine fluffed your hair like a cosmic hairstylist who had overcaffeinated, while another twirled a napkin around your neck in preparation for what could only be described as round two of the Pancake Situation. “Whipped nebula cream and blueberry topping it is!” She declared, her voice a bubbly mix of excitement and the faintly unhinged energy you had come to expect. The ground beneath you shifted, a small geyser of syrup bubbling up from nowhere. “I’ll make this stack extra special. Only the best for my bestie!”

“You mean your only bestie,” you corrected, expressionless as ever. “Unless you’ve started taking applications.”

She let out an exaggerated gasp, the kind that made the whole atmosphere shiver. “You wound me! Like I’d let anyone else steal my best friend!” The vines squeezed you slightly—just enough to feel the weight of her emotional gravity, pun fully intended.

You groaned, though the corner of your mouth twitched upward. “Janet, if you keep acting like this, people are going to start calling you that planet. The clingy one.”

“I am NOT clingy!” she shot back, her tone defensive as wildflowers erupted around your chair.

“I’m... selective.”

“Right. Because wrapping me up in vines like a burrito is totally normal behavior.”

“It’s called affection!” she huffed. “Maybe if you weren’t so busy conquering every galaxy with your scary villain smirk, you’d get more of it.”

Your sly smile widened even more, because of course it did. “Oh, Janet, sweetie. I don’t get affection. I command it.”

Her laugh rumbled across the surface like rolling thunder. “And yet here you are, letting me feed you pancakes and braid your hair like a galactic princess.”

“Braid my—” You froze, finally noticing the intricate, alien floral pattern her vines had been weaving into your hair. “Janet!”

“What? It’s cute! You look like royalty.” She paused, a vine plucking a mirror from somewhere (where did she even store these things?) and holding it in front of you. “See? You’re glowing!”

You stared at your reflection, the deadpan expression on your face now juxtaposed with what could only be described as the most elaborate cosmic updo in the history of villainy. There were glowing flowers, swirling patterns, and even a little ribbon made of stardust. “Well,” you said after a long pause, “if I’m going to be an unwilling planet prisoner, I might as well look fabulous.”

“That’s the spirit!” Janet squealed, the landscape shimmering with excitement. “You always know how to make me laugh!”

“Yeah, I’m a real riot,” you said dryly, reaching for another pancake. “Hey, speaking of laughter, let’s talk about Maurice again. Remember the time he—”

Janet’s entire surface trembled, vines waving like an exasperated drama queen shooing away bad memories. “Ugh! Must we bring him up again? He’s so... so lunar!”

“Lunar?” you repeated, arching an eyebrow. “That’s an insult now?”

“Yes!” she snapped, voice tinged with melodrama. “He’s cold, distant, and always orbiting other things. Do you know how many asteroids he’s been hanging out with lately? Asteroids! They don’t even have atmospheres!”

You snorted. “Sounds like he’s rebounding pretty hard.”

Janet made a sound that was somewhere between a scoff and an actual volcanic eruption. “Good riddance. Let him chase his dumb little space rocks while I—while we—live our best lives.”

“Uh-huh.” You leaned back, letting her vines drape over you like a weighted blanket. “And by ‘best lives,’ you mean trapping your bestie every time she tries to leave?”

“It’s not trapping,” she insisted, although the vines around your ankles said otherwise. “It’s quality time!”

“Sure it is,” you muttered, eyeing the syrup geyser that was now accompanied by a fountain of nebula cream. “You ever think about therapy, Janet?”

“Therapy?!” She recoiled like you had suggested she downsize her volcanoes. “I don’t need therapy! I’m perfectly well-adjusted for a sentient celestial body! Besides, I have you!”

“And there it is,” You raised a fork as a vine elegantly served you another pancake. “Just promise me you won’t sprout another ‘Welcome ___ Forever!’ topiary when I leave.”

She giggled nervously, a suspicious patch of vines shuffling as though trying to hide something.

...

You narrowed your eyes. “Janet...”

“It’s tasteful!” she defended quickly, sounding every bit like someone caught decorating their crush’s locker with glittery hearts. “And besides, you’ll be back next week for pancakes anyway, so what’s the harm?”

You sighed, unable to argue with that logic. After all, who could resist a planet with gourmet pancake skills, top-notch hair braiding, and just the right amount of possessive insanity to keep things interesting? Not you, apparently. “Fine,” you said, a smirk tugging at your lips. “But if you start naming craters after me, we’re gonna have a talk.”

Her vines tightened briefly in what you assumed was her version of a mischievous hug.

As the pancakes dwindled and the conversation mellowed into a comfortable rhythm, you leaned back into her vine-crafted throne, your eyes half-lidded in a syrup-induced haze. Despite her dramatic tendencies and occasional bouts of mildly possessive planetary behavior, Janet had a charm that was impossible to deny. Maybe it was her optimism. Maybe it was the way her laugh echoed like wind through a meadow. Or maybe it was the fact that she could whip up five-star brunch in the middle of nowhere. Either way, you were… fond of her. Not that you would ever admit it aloud in a way that wasn’t laced with your signature sarcasm.

“You know,” She began, her voice soft and thoughtful, “I don’t really say it enough, but… having you here makes everything better. Like, I used to think stars were the best thing about space, but now… I think it’s you.”

You blinked, stunned into a rare moment of silence. The only sound was the gentle rustling of her vines as they rearranged themselves into a cozy blanket over your shoulders. “Janet,” you said slowly, “if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re flirting with me.”

“Flirting? Me?!” she gasped, vines wriggling like a schoolgirl caught passing notes. “I—okay, maybe a little! But can you blame me? You’re brilliant, you’re confident, and you eat my pancakes like they’re the only thing keeping you alive.”

“Well,” you said, smirking, “they kind of are. Your cooking’s the only thing keeping me from taking over the universe twice as fast.”

Janet giggled, her surface glowing faintly with soft greens and pinks. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted, really. To be… important to someone.”

“You’re more than important,” you said, surprising even yourself with the sincerity in your voice. “I mean, who else would braid my hair, feed me pancakes, and try to keep me as their personal space prisoner all in one day?”

“I knew you got me,” Janet said, her voice dripping with affection. “You always do.”

You looked down, spotting one of her roses growing near your armrest. Its petals opened wide, its soft pink glow shimmering like it was daring you to make a move. You reached out and gently cupped the bloom, tilting it toward you like a hand to kiss. “If this is your equivalent of a cheek,” you muttered, more to yourself than anything, “then… yeah, why not?” Before you could second-guess yourself, you leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to the petal. The rose immediately sparkled, its glow intensifying until it bathed you both in light. The vines around you trembled like Janet had just been told the juiciest gossip in the universe.

“Y-you kissed me!” she stammered, her voice rising an octave. “You actually kissed me!”

“Don’t get used to it,” you said, though the flush creeping up your neck betrayed your nonchalant delivery. “I don’t go around kissing planets every day.”

Janet squealed—an actual, full-on squeal of pure joy. Flowers burst into bloom across her surface, their petals opening like a cosmic fireworks display. “Oh, my molten core, you’re so cute when you’re flustered! Do it again! No, wait—don’t! I mean, do if you want to, but only if you feel like it—”

“Janet,” you interrupted, amused. “Calm down. I’m not going anywhere.”

“You promise?” Her voice was soft, almost vulnerable.

You sighed, leaning back and letting her vines settle around you like a warm hug. “I promise. For now, anyway. But only because you’re bribing me with pancakes.”

She giggled again, her glow softening into a gentle shimmer. “I’ll take it. For now.”

And as you sat there, wrapped in vines, sipping tea made of stardust and stealing glances at her glowing surface, you couldn’t help but think: maybe being a planet’s favorite wasn’t so bad after all.

18 notes · View notes

journey-to-balance · 5 days ago

Text

This web of time - the strands of which approach one another, bifurcate, intersect or ignore each other through the centuries - embraces every possibility. We do not exist in most of them. In some you exist and not I, while in others I do, and you do not, and yet in others both of us exist. In this one, in which chance has favored me, you have come to my gate. In another, you, crossing the garden, have found me dead. In yet another, I say these very same words but am in error, a phantom. Time is forever dividing itself toward innumerable futures. - “Garden of Forking Paths”

So you plant your own garden and decorate your own soul, instead of waiting for someone to bring you flowers. - "After a While"

I am a mirror, an echo. The epitaph. - "Yesterdays"

You are also what you have lost. - "Selected Poems"

“A writer - and, I believe, generally all persons - must think that whatever happens to him or her is a resource. All things have been given to us for a purpose, and an artist must feel this more intensely. All that happens to us, including our humiliations, our misfortunes, our embarrassments, all is given to us as raw material, as clay, so that we may shape our art.”

Jorge Luis Borges, (August 24, 1899 – June 14, 1986) Argentine Writer known as founder, and principal practitioner of postmodernist literature. Best known for his short stories, essays, and poetry, Borges who was born with a chronic visual impermeant, eventually like the rest of the men in his family, went fully blind. He is credited with bringing Latin American Literature out of academia, and to a global audience.

#jorge luis borges #literature #literary quotes #quote of the day #classic literature #light academia #dark academia #classic academia #writing #inspiring quotes #inspiring words #inspiring quotations #fantasy genre #magic realism #philosophical literature

15 notes · View notes

fourthwifematerial · 6 months ago

Text

garden of forking paths | 四 | part ii. body

yandere lord tengen x fourth wife, eiji. word count: 7,086. explicit content. 18+ MDNI

with the worst of their trials behind them, the wives are the latest to impress.

[ previous ] [ next ]

please be mindful of the ample warnings as we're all responsible for curating our own fandom experience✌️ this chapter contains cockwarming, nonconsensual somnophilia, force feeding, hierarchical bullying, face & breast slapping, exhibitionism, nonconsensual breast fucking & deepthroating, neuro spice, identity porn, nonconsensual oral, degradation, spanking, & anal

Eiji wakes to a trickling sound. Water in a basin, perhaps. She isn’t eager to open her eyes just yet, content enough to live in the mystery a little while longer.

The torrid events behind them seem to have dulled her senses. Her body has never been so spent.

Every inch of her screams out in a unilateral cry for relief. There’s not a silent muscle or limb on her. He put her through the wringer last night, made damn sure she was worthy of her station.

She can’t have been asleep for more than a few hours. The sun had barely breached the horizon when he locked her in his arms and bid her sweet dreams.

What a crock…

Uzui pressed his lips to her temple and crown.

“Get some rest. You’ve earned it.”

limbs akimbo in the sheets. sunrise bleeding on the horizon.

Her eyes were heavy on the window. He traced her face with such a fondness, as if he meant to memorize her every feature to the letter. He’s half hard, still fully sheathed inside her tight warmth.

She heaved a breathy sigh. For as much of a bastard Eiji considered him, Lord Tengen was a generous lover. He was considerate, in his way. If she’d been anyone else, she could see the appeal.

“Is that an order or a suggestion?” She’d hardly been able to recognize her voice as she spoke. It came out deep and used… raspy, even. “You plan on making me if I refuse?”

“It’s whatever you need it to be to see it done.”

“Are you going to…”

He rewards her impertinence with a pinch to her waist.

“Shut your eyes. Shut your mouth. Let me take what I need.”

Deflated from the high she’d just found herself riding, she sinks back into the sheets. Eiji did as she was told, as she’d done her whole life.

she shut her eyes. she shut her mouth. she let him take what he needed.

Face buried in her neck, his fingers lazily danced on her clit. When she began to cry softly, he buried her face in the pillow to silence her.

“Just go… - fuck - Go to sleep!”

He went from warming his cock on her side to fucking her for the umpteenth time this night.

The man was relentless. A fiend.

She took back every kindness she’d ever thought about him.

Her vision began to haze. When he thrust, just so… she saw stars. She stilled beneath him as their juices spill out of her, pooling between them.

She let herself be lulled by the push and the pull, just like that night… His pace was impossible to keep up with, even as the man was nearing his end.

His labored breath in her ears brought her right back to the roar of the waters.

It wasn’t long before she found herself on that very beach.

There was nothing for miles, only craggy rocks and shells sharp enough to make her feet bleed.

Step by painful step and this is where it’s led her.

Wrapped in the customary linens, with the zukin preserving her modesty as Sister of faith, she came upon herself in the shallows. She watched the Virgin Eiji fall to her knees.

The waves crashed all around as she raged at the sea. She screamed and screamed until there was nothing left.

Her habit flew off into the wind, just as before.

The waters ran red, too.

But when Sister Eiji turned to face her, she saw herself hauling her own corpse from the bloodied water.

A cold compress lays upon her resting head. Proves her suspicions, at least. Feels nice.

It’s ages before her mind catches up with her vision—she could’ve sworn an angel was tending to the worst of it… wringing a fresh cloth, presumably for the rest.

When the morning light hits her legs, a horrified gasp hits her ears.

“What did he do to you…”

The walls have ears. She knows it’s time to slip away; that razor thin place between herself and her sister.

“Nothing I haven’t already been paid for.” Words ground with mortar and pestle, it’s a desperate plea on her tongue. “Please don’t linger, sister.”

Slow to start, Emiko’s touch ghosts across the most aching of places. The ones that won’t kill them to think about.

her neck… her lips. her cheeks. her eyes.

Just before she can tell her sister off, a pained hiss fills the room. Eiji tracks the source under a now bloodied compress, passing a trail of bites over the scars that coil around her leg. Imprinted canines and incisors drag across her skin.

still tender. still bleeding.

What did he do to you?

Her question lingers between them… unspoken, unacknowledged.

The silence looms, composure falling under the dual scrutiny of her marred flesh.

“The customers would never have marked you up like this,” she snaps.

“Because I had you to keep me safe.”

“I know you’re angry—”

With the roll of her eyes, Eiji snatches the cloth from her forehead and quickly cleans her bruise kissed thighs.

“I’m not angry. I’m tired… I’m sore.”

“You need to eat so you can heal.”

Would that Eiji had want of the marriage, of him… If she were here of her own volition, one might mistake her for pouting.

“Should probably go out there,” she laments.

“Can I help you dress?”

She pushes herself up off the futon, face falling at the question. “Why would you help me dress?”

Eiji is already across the room before Emiko can think to answer. She opens a cabinet armed to the teeth with yukata and the like… Bringing out a fresh juban, she sets upon dressing herself.

The late spring air hits her wounds, fresh and healed, leaving the slip she went to bed in a mere pile on the floor.

Broken from her daze, Emiko joins her in the fray. Once the yukata was on fully, she wrapped the obiage around Eiji before either sibling could kick up a fuss.

The cotton she wears is mint green. The obi, a blush piece with patterns of liquid smoke, golden brushstrokes with notes of amethyst.

With the belt sufficiently manhandled around her protesting sister, Emiko wipes her brow with a wry smile. She combs the wisping hairs atop her head with her fingers, now curly from more fresh growth Eiji’s permitted herself in years.

“Stay still,” she pants. “I’m nearly finished.”

Eiji does as she’s told. She worries at her lips, all teeth and tongue. “Sissy—”

“Hmm.”

“How much did you hear?”

And with no less than five syllables between them, the oppressive silence returns. Emiko can barely stomach looking at her.

She could only sigh, disgust and remorse pooling in her gut.

for what she’s done…

…for what she couldn’t do.

She takes her sister by the arm, gently leading her to that very mirror from the night before. The sole voyeur to their utter destruction.

“The sounds he was making…” Emiko smoothes the last of the finger curls with some beeswax she’d pocketed back at the Butterfly Mansion. “He sounded like he was eating you alive.”

No testimony is given to the contrary. They don’t have to say a word between each other.

“We should go before you’re missed.”

A nod from Eiji, who says nothing in return.

Arm in arm, the twins leave the strange creature comforts of the bedroom for the hall. It’s a long stretch, made all the more so by their mutual reluctance to join the wives for breakfast. Neither sister could have known before leaving the sanctity of the room whether Lord Tengen would be at the head of the table.

too much, too soon.

The bedroom was practically sacred ground with all the noise coming from the others…

“Suma, she hasn’t even been out yet,” scolds an angry voice. “Show some restraint, why don’t you.”

“I can’t help it,” wails a second. “The newlywed spread is too good to pass up. I’m sure Emiko won’t mind! We’re a part of this marriage, aren’t we? We’ve been here longer anyways, it’s only right we get priority serving!”

“That’s enough… Not to pry in the affairs of a fellow wife, but the poor girl deserves to try whatever food suits her tastes. An option impeded by your avarice, dear heart.”

The third, Eiji properly recognizes. Collected and cool, level headed even as the sky falls all around her.

It’s a kiss that ends the infighting between them.

Suma, apparently, sighs in surrender. “If one of us ought to practice restraining himself—”

“I’ve never had any complaints,” he cuts her off before she can continue her lascivious train of thought.

So. He is there to join them.

“You kept her up all night,” the first voice notes wryly. “Probably not much in the way of grievances if she’s sleeping right through it. I’d be shocked if she stayed awake for all of that…”

“Quiet,” he demands of them all.

Once they turn the corner, Emiko maintains a featherlight hold on her. She makes quick work of guiding her to the open seat at Lord Tengen’s side before taking her place by the wall. A silent observer. Ornamental. Disregarded and underestimated. Eiji’s fingers twitch in longing. She misses that life desperately, craves it like a drunk to a tokkuri of saké.

Even after such a short time apart, she still feels naked and far too exposed without a zukin.

Now seated, all eyes bear into her with no one speaking a word. Her cheeks flush under the withering attention.

The level headed bride in purple seems to take pity on her as she is the first to break the silence.

“Emiko, it’s wonderful to meet you properly. My name is Hinatsuru.” With a sweeping hand from her heart to the first and second wife, she smiles softly as introductions are made.

“These two could wake the dead with all their banter… Suma, Makio. Let’s show our sister wife we can be civil, yes?”

The others grumble their apologies, still eating and half listening.

Eiji bows her head in reverence. “Thank you, Hinatsuru. That’s very kind of you.”

Hinatsuru brightens, taking initiative to fill an empty plate. She turns away from the table, still loading up on fish and rice.

“Sister Eiji, is there anything you can’t tolerate?”

From her place on the wall, Emiko stiffens at the direct address.

She still isn’t used to it. Not her name. Not her role.

She can’t trust herself with the words just yet. Her eyes flit to the table before they lock on her sister’s, all the while, holding her tongue.

“There’s nothing that makes her sick,” Eiji proper says in reply. “She’s always been the stronger between us. Personally, I can’t handle buckwheat.”

The smallest of the three, with blunt bangs cut straight above her brow, can barely contain herself in the seat parallel to her own. Suma’s cheeks flush from exertion, locked in a silent battle of wills all unto herself; her fists are raised, arms nearly shaking, not unlike a toddler.

“See?” The girl’s voice is shrill as it is smug. She’s already back to seconds on the soba before her, eyes brimming with a shine of righteous indignation. “I told you she’d be fine with it!”

Before Eiji can think to reply, she’s stunned into silence tracking her sister’s plate; Hinatsuru passes it off to Makio who wordlessly hands the food to her sister.

Not quite an olive branch. More so how one might tend to a dog. Cursory. Habitual… It lacks the warmth of human interaction, from the goodness of her heart, almost like she’s looking down on her.

The disdain radiates from her like a child to a chore. There’s a bitter note to it. Hosting not one, but two additional mouths to feed was hardly her call to make, nor was it her place to refute.

Watching her sister eat appeases her some… but it does little to temper the burn of resentment she holds for the woman.

“You’re not eating,” Lord Tengen comments.

It’s the first he’s spoken to her since the sun rose against them.

Eiji’s knuckles go white as she wrings her hands. She flexes her hands in a futile reach for composure..

“Well?” he questions, already impatient with her daze. “Starving yourself isn’t going to do you any favors, you know.”

His words do even less to assure her. If anything, her hackles rise like the damn dog they all make her sister out to be.

“No… My eyes are bigger than my stomach, I’m afraid.”

She couldn’t eat if she wanted to. She feels sick. She is sick.

She wants nothing more than to crawl back into bed and sleep for a week. The bruises will still be there, yes. Probably darkened and green. But maybe her nerves will finally stop twisting in her gut.

The answer does little to impress Uzui. He watches her, expectant that she’d change her mind with the narrow of his eyes…

She averts his gaze, looking to her sister. A relieved sigh escapes her at the sight of the half consumed fish.

Good, she thinks. At least she’s eating.

Calloused fingers grab at her jaw, forcing her hand. He watches her, thoroughly unamused.

“I don’t like damage inflicted on what’s mine.”

Before she can even cry out in pain, he’s swiping several pickled radishes from the table before popping them in his mouth. He chews them thoughtfully, eyes unyielding as he keeps her in his sights. Just as she believes he’s due to swallow, he pulls their lips flush together—

Her eyes widen in panic. There’s a weak drag of her arm that preludes the palm pushing his chest, still desperately spent from her unwitting consummation.

The food was fed from his mouth into her own. His tongue lapped at the offering, forcing the sour crawl further down her throat to ensure a proper start to the feeding.

She fights against him, the promise of bile burning the back of her throat as she fights off her mounting gag reflex.

He restrains her with his corded muscles. Locks her in place with an arm snug around her middle, fingers of his free hand coaxing the swallow down her throat.

Uzui barely allows her breath to scream. Keeps her like that until there’s nothing left. He only relents to fill his own mouth.

again and again and again until he could call her fed.

the fish. the tamago. the rice. the ginger.

He forces her mouth open to drink. It’s only when the warm broth hits her lips and she’s half choking on tofu that she realizes it’s soup.

spittle runs down her chin as the miso spills from her mouth.

When he’s finally done with her, Uzui takes hold of her scalp. Her finger curls are tainted by his touch.

Garnet. Like the seeds of a pomegranate.

His gaze bears down on her. He’s dragging her by the hair, pulling her in his white knuckle grip.

“Apologize,” he demands.

in for a penny, in for a pound and all that.

The words fall from her lips like the vomit that won’t seem to come, all before she can think better of it. “Drop dead.”

She hears the strike land before registering the pain blossoming across her cheek… and now she’s on the floor, a spread almost comparable to the breakfast laid out for them all.

The other wives are cavalier in his abuse, eating their fill while he pins her to the ground.

Emiko watches the scene in abject horror. Stuck-still, powerless to intervene. She slides down her place on the wall in shame and defeat.

unable to stop herself…

She can’t look away.

…unable to stop him.

He nearly tears the obi off her, leaving her yukata hanging exposed. Her nipples pebble under the thin barrier of the juban, and he takes merciless notice.

Off the slip goes, joining the belt beside them.

Nails rake a path over her bust. He pinches the hardened peaks, twisting and kneading them until she’s crying out beneath him.

He gives them a slap. Then another. And a third for good measure.

Uzui lets his mouth water at the skin darkening under his touch. He gets in close to suckle on them. Bite them. Slobber all over them like a damn animal.

No preamble. No notice. Just the cursed sight of him smearing his beading precome over her abused chest.

He gives himself a cursory pump or two before laying his heavy cock between her breasts. Fucking into her, he pushes her tits closer, manhandling her to suit his needy pace.

The wives make idle conversation as he fucks her like this. No one acknowledges the debauchery and no one comes to her aid.

It’s unclear to Eiji if vindication over this indignity is worth Emiko’s poor eyes bearing witness. They both know she heard him fucking her for hours last night. She didn’t have to see to know.

Lord Tengen’s forceful grunts echo through the room. She’s seen enough of him in action to know he’s close.

With as much speed as the realization that dawned on her, he’s off her just as quickly. Drags her hair, forces her on her knees. His thumb ghosts along the soft pout of her lips, eyes blown with fury and lust as he works her mouth open for him.

“You’re not to spill a drop, do you understand me?” he warns, a light tap to her cheek before tracing the neckline of her yukata with his knuckle.

Fist buried in her hair, he rolls his hips in a shallow snap to start. She sputters and gags as he takes himself deeper, her hands beating against his clothed thighs in wordless protest.

Uzui only meets her violence with violence—he takes the offending touch and holds her splayed hands at either side of her head, fucking her mouth with reckless abandon until the only sound remaining was the merciless score of her choking on his shaft.

“Nothing more to say,” he panted, voice strained in weary concentration. “Interesting how that works with a cock down your throat, isn’t it.”

Eiji watches him with so much vitriol in her gaze. He catches her, holds her in that moment… and then he loses the plot.

His hips stutter in pace as he comes. He groans over her, pulling her flush against him.

She milks his cock, swallowing all he gives her with a grimace. When he pulls out, she whines under his further scrutiny—one hand with an iron grip on her chin, the other forcing her back open to see if she’d followed his order to the letter.

She’s rewarded with sweet degradation and a pat on her head. “That’s a good whore,” he praises roughly.

It takes all her will not to flinch from his touch.

“Anything you care to say?” His eyes are pointed in challenge as he asks, “Emiko. Two little words and we can put this to bed.”

Her eyes burn. Her jaw aches.

“I’m… I’m sorry,” she chokes out.

He pulls her close, punctuating his pleasure with a kiss to her temple. Rising to his feet, Lord Tengen towers over her with his cock barely tucked back into his hakama.

As if nothing had even happened, he returns to the head of the table. His eyes survey the remains of the spread.

“Well done, you three. I see you’ve dug in with no shortage of gusto. You ladies do me proud.” Flashing a smile, he kisses each wife on the cheek.

“Lord Tengen,” squawks a voice from the window.

In flies Nijimaru, the lord and master’s kasugai crow. His eyes flit towards the crow, having taken his perch on the sill of the window.

“Lower Moon Five has been defeated! Slain on the Mugen Train by Kyojuro Rengoku! Flame Hashira, Lord Rengoku has defeated Lower Moon Five with no human casualties—neither civilian nor Slayer!”

The wives look amongst themselves, seemingly elated by the news.

“Lord Tengen, Report to Master Ubuyashiki’s Headquarters for further mission instructions.”

The twins lock eyes. With all these names and dynamics floating around, they could only ground themselves in quiet concert. As ever, barricaded inside themselves.

“Understood,” Uzui affirms.

They all watch the kasugai fly back out the window.

He looks at his disheveled wife over his shoulder.

“Sister Eiji,” he calls. “Would you be so kind as to take Emiko to the onsen? It seems she’s made a mess of herself.”

Emiko proper bows, silently ushering Eiji from the room. She wraps an arm around her shoulders to help support her weight.

she’s shaking…

her arms.

they’re shaking.

The twins are all but wordless as they make for the bath.

Neither allow themselves the further indignity of falling apart, not within earshot.

Eiji clutches her yukata closed, holding it like a lifeline until they’re past the door.

The sisters break from each other. Emiko walks on before realizing she’s alone on the path to the onsen.

She turns. “Sister…”

Free from the burdens of decorum, of maintaining her role, Eiji falls to her knees and beats at the earth beneath her fingertips.

She presses her forehead against the dew kissed ground. Buries the incident like everything else.

the consummation. renouncing her vows. scars, old and new.

Even as she cries, she forces herself to swallow the rage and shame. Bitter as his come. But she chokes it down all the same.

Time was a construct among the sweet dirt and moss.

knees tucked into her aching breasts. arms outstretched over the greenery.

Eiji startles when a warm hand descends over her back, smooth and splayed. The touch is gentle and patient, she’s quick to settle.

‘hush, hush, baby rabbit… up on the hill…’

The words thrum in her blood as her mother sang them.

‘why are your eyes so red?’

She curls in closer, dirtied fingers twisting in her lap.

‘when i was small… mother are the fruit of the red tree’

🪞

Emiko hadn’t wanted to do it. But she couldn’t just leave her like that.

She returns through the door where she came and makes quick work of tracking down someone… anyone.

Following the voices gathered in the lounge, Suma sits on Lord Tengen’s lap while the other two drink tea.

As soon as she enters the room, a cold hush descends upon the marriage, rendering them all speechless before her.

Uzui looks at her with those piercing eyes of his.

sizing her up. gauging her intent.

The others simply pout at the disruption.

“That was fast for a bath,” he quips. “Where’s your sister? She drown herself already?”

She still doesn’t trust her words.

Raising a hand, she points to the long stretch of hall leading to the back door.

Lord Tengen follows her wordless dictation, tracking with his eyes, already bored with her play of charades.

“Hinatsuru, my dear.” He waves Sister Eiji off with the swipe of his manicured hands. “See what the little voyeur needs. It’s like drawing pus from a damn wound, I swear.”

His ravenette bride rises from her seat and presses a kiss on her husband’s cheek before following after the good Sister.

By the time they reach her in the yard, she’s on her back with her breasts fully exposed to the elements. One palm weakly raised to the sky to block out the sun while the other remains twisted in the earth.

They carry either side of her into the onsen. Inside, they place Eiji on the stool so as to give her a thorough cleaning before the bath.

“My husband is not a cruel man… but what he did was callous,” she murmurs, all remorse.

She doesn’t dignify her with a response, instead focusing on the task at hand.

“If this is how you prefer it, we don’t have to talk…”

“Prefer it,” she scoffs.

It’s the first words she’s spoken in her new life. She suddenly feels inspired by her sister’s natural indignation.

“So you can speak.”

She ignores her question, filling the bucket with water and soaping the wetted towel.

“You say your husband isn’t cruel… To you , perhaps. Hasn’t my dear sister been through enough?”

They scour her flesh with a sudsy cloth, scrubbing her raw, watching the dirt and debris fall with little difficulty.

her neck. her arms. each individual finger.

A shudder tears through Eiji as they erase all traces of the meadow.

“Mother—”

“That’s enough now.” Emiko lulls her softly, drying her eyes and holding her close, “I’m not leaving you again.”

Hinatsuru kept a steady pace with the regimen. She took her time with her sister wife’s breasts. Her legs. There wasn’t an inch of her she hadn’t cleansed and polished.

Every so often she’d graze a bruise. Most fresh, the most faded were from that night.

It was hardly a wonder why their was no love lost between the nun and their family.

When her face was washed properly along with her hair, Emiko does kakeyu, dousing her sister with water when Hinatsuru prompts her into doing so.

The bucket was hot, flowing over her skin. It would never be enough for her, not to wash away the sin…

Being led to the bath, Eiji fights through the pain. There’s so much she could cry for, if she turned to the well, she’d never be able to stop.

Once she’s in the water, the utter lack of recollection dawns on her.

how long…

…how long…

…how long.

“Oh… I’m in the bath,” she realizes.

Eiji forgets herself having lost everything after breakfast, if one could deign to call that fucking travesty breakfast.

Just thinking of his tongue in her mouth shoveling dish after dish…

She sinks under the water, if only for a moment. Curls her arms around her knees and screams.

🪞

It’s the first time she can feel herself breathe in this place.

Emiko is left totally alone in the receiving room. She rolls her shoulders, eyes falling shut.

When Hinatsuru returns with tea for them both, she straightens, but gives her sincere appreciation.

“Thank you.”

She takes her cup eagerly, beyond grateful for it. Her body even relaxed a touch.

“You know. Lord Tengen bet everyone you’d slap him before the end of the meal.”

“Did he, now…” Emiko asks softly. “Who won the wager?”

Hinatsuru glances over the porcelain rim of her cup.

“A betting woman never tells.”

“So it was you,” she surmises.

A shrug. “Just because I bet on losing dogs doesn’t mean I know why.”

One sip leads to another. Before long, her cup is nearly empty. She can’t ignore the unspoken question any longer.

“I figure things will go better for her if I don’t act on impulse.”

“Look at who you’re living with,” Hinatsuru holds the rim with her slender fingers. “No one else is holding back.”

“Freedom of choice doesn’t equate to freedom from consequence,” she deadpans.

“Such wise words, Sister.”

She shakes her head. “No need for formalities…”

“Eiji, then.”

Slow to start, the chilly reception was beginning to thaw.

“Awfully forward, but so be it.”

She’d find a place here, yet.

The pair finish their tea in due course, slowly making their way back to the onsen. On the other side of the door, they’re greeted by the uncanny sight of her other half.

lying in the water. gaze fixed on the ceiling. breath steady with her countless bruises and scars on full display.

“E…Emiko?” The good Sister corrects herself before she can do something stupid like say her actual name.

“I saw myself in the water. The waves were thrashing against the shore…”

“The shore? From when we were children?”

She doesn’t even nod. “Yes.” Just agrees, voice dull.

No one speaks. Neither sister, nor wife.

“I heard our mother singing to me. Could’ve been you for all I know…”

Emiko scoffs. “In your dreams.”

It’s the first Eiji’s smiled… truly smiled. “Right,” she says softly, her voice tinged with remorse.

Rising from the bath and without any prompting, Emiko turns to gather her towel. She’s quick to shroud her sister and preserve her modesty.

“Let’s get you dried off.”

Watching the scene play out in front of her, Hinatsuru turns with a laugh. Natural moments like this. Intimate and deft… they were a precious thing. Especially in a world so perilous as the one they’d inherited.

They leave the onsen one after the next with Suma and Makio still unaccounted for.

It was a different atmosphere having Hina here in place of their husband. She was softer, kinder.

more patient. more mindful.

There were half a dozen yukata strewn across the floor, waiting for their judgment. Just three obi belts to choose between.

Swatch after swatch with a voice nearly so soft as her touch, Hinatsuru praises Eiji for matters entirely out of her control.

“I quite like the coral,” she offers, still unsure.

Emiko nods in wordless agreement, quick to dress her sister before she could say no.

It was quiet work between them with Hinatsuru’s fingers grazing her scalp. Layer by layer, careful around any lingering trace of injury.

“You really do have the most lovely hair,” she muses thoughtfully. “It’s so soft, I could lose myself like this.”

Eiji’s cheeks heat. She can’t lie… any longer under this deft touch of hers, she’d lose herself just the same.

It’s the sudden slide of the door that spoils their fun.

“What’s she doing in here?”

Suma and Makio enter the marriage bed without ceremony or warning, casting disdainful glances toward the nun in question.

“This isn’t where you should be,” Makio scolds her. The wife in red had a hand on her hip, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Do you have any decency? Lord Tengen told us you were up half the night listening to them on the veranda.”

She gives chase with a raised fist. Emiko flees the scene.

The last sight before the door’s shut: Eiji’s eyes locking on her own.

Her whole body tenses with the snap of the door. Emiko’s fingers ghost across her face, twin frowns burning in mind and memory.

She takes her leave for the night and brushes off the rebuff.

“Nothing to be done for it,” she shrugs.

Emiko returns to the common area for her tea. With no one home to stop her, she pockets an orange from the picked over dining table. Swipes the saké, too.

She takes the orange to the kitchen and runs it under some water. She peels the skin with a knife in one uninterrupted pile of citrus before halving the fruit. She drains it for all it’s worth, setting the juice aside.

It takes her a minute to finagle a lemon, draining the citron in one fell swoop.

Tiny cuts lap at her skin, hands stinging until she can pat her hands down with the damp kitchen cloth.

She gathers up the lemon juice, the orange juice, and her green tea. Along with some honey, they all join the pot. She turns the heat on, preferring her tea hot.

She eyeballs the saké, giving absolutely no fucks.

She stirs the pot until it’s nearly boiling over. Reducing the heat, she relishes in the steam, eyes shut as she breathes it in.

“Hope you made enough for two.”

Lord Tengen was already inside before she even realized he was back. His silhouette towers over her, even from this far, just standing in the frame of the entrance.

Should Emiko have been on her guard, she’d have taken note of the state of the door, open as it was. Of the fresh air and mild breeze on the setting sun. Pity that observation was never her strong suit.

she doesn’t turn, nor does she face him.

“I mean, it hardly feels like an inappropriate request… it is my booze you’ve absconded with, right?”

He’s locking her in place, caging her with little mercy from his rippling arms.

her body tenses under his scrutinizing eye and touch.

Time stops between them. One palm rests flush against her chest, he pulls her to him. He draws his massive fingers before her, making for the ladle in the pot.

Uzui tests the toddy. She can’t see his face or else he’d have given the game away.

His hand comes down, firmly on her backside. “Two cups. Sit with me.”

She doesn’t dare refuse him.

drinks are poured,

garnish laid to perfection.

When she sees him again, it’s past the dining room table. He sits on the floor of the drawing room, still dressed from his assignment.

Placing a cup in front of him, Emiko keeps the other for herself.

He nods in silent thanks before indulging. The beads on his headdress swish gloriously with the motion.

“It’s a damn good drink,” he commends her.

She says nothing to his praise. She just takes her small, measured sips.

The girls can be heard tittering from the other end of the home. She stiffens at the sound, to which his eyes narrow.

“Tell me true, Sister.” Swirling the drink in his cup, he’s relentless in his teasing. “I bet you want to kill me for defiling your precious Emiko.”

“Lord Uzui… if I took it upon myself to lay to rest every man to spill his seed inside my sister, I’d scarcely have a moment for anything else.”

It’s good. The burn of the saké down her throat. Keeps her grounded. Makes her bold.

He appreciates it all the same, if not more. Slapping his thigh, Tengen lets out a thunderous roar of approval.

“And what would you do? All that time, letting the rest of us live… There must be something you’d rather be doing.”

She downs her drink and his nearly weary eyes lock on the scene before him, incredulous and more than a little turned on.

“Booze and a bed. If you’re telling me to stand down, that she’s safe in your care, I can oblige that… I’ll take up embroidery or something.”

“Do you expect me to trust you around a needle?”

Her gaze narrows, voice nearly so frosty as the cold of her shoulder. “As if I’m meant to trust you at all.”

Lord Uzui swallows the remains of his cup, teeth flashing from the bitterness.

“You’re going to wash me.”

“Oh?”

“Then I’m going to ravage my wives.”

“As you say.”

She almost looks bored by the order. Her voice betrays her true nature. His fingers curl dangerously around her arm…

He tempers his rage. A breath follows.

…wordless dare in the air as he ever craves them both.

“You don’t believe me?” He cocks a silver brow, nearly daring her push him one step more. “I’m hurt. I assumed we reached an understanding.”

His touch snakes around her, boxing her in against the table’s sharp edge. He eyes her as though he’s looking for something.

the suspicion and intrigue of men never bodes well.

“You have a smart mouth. What do you say to making better use of it.”

He leans in closer, near stealing her breath. Drags her frozen fist over his hardening cock. A low groan teases his throat as he rocks into her reluctant touch.

“Better hop to, little rabbit. Else I might be tempted to fuck that virgin asshole instead.”

Emiko’s face blanches as the threat washes over her. Weak and shaking, she palms at the corded outline of his massive length. Her eyes glaze over when muscle memory takes over.

Resigned. Devastated. She sinks to the floor on shaky ground while he wastes no time freeing himself.

She laps at the column of his cock, spreading precome over the furious tip weeping in her face.

He throws his head back with a guttural sigh.

“You really picked up a trick or two from that whore sister of yours,” he praises her roughly. “May have to fuck your ass anyways. Show you what you missed last night.”

Her cheeks burn in shame, desperate to ignore the words that cut her so deep.

The price is modest enough considering she sold her sister to this brute. A cock in her mouth for room and board…

Maybe this was her inevitable penance for selling her own sister, forcing her to wife and bed this beast.

Hollowing her cheeks, she takes him in her mouth but by bit. He’s thick on her tongue. Heavy.

She feels his growing impatience as he grunts over her.

“Never send a nun to do a whore’s job,” he laments.

There’s no time to process his words before he’s fisting her habit and forcing himself down her throat.

She beats against his thighs in protest. He ignores her completely, hands locked on either side of her head as he sets a raging pace.

On her knees like this, she can hear herself dying. She can hear him getting off on it. Feels like an age choking on the indignity of her own glucks and spittle.

There’s no end for her… No end in sight.

Uzui abruptly throws her from him until she’s spilling over the floor. He leaves her clamoring for air as he drags her past the doors.

She follows after him, no real choice in the matter. Her throat is raw… Her arm, now bruising.

He leads her outside and she shudders under the sun’s sudden assault. Uzui ignores her, ushering her inside the onsen.

Emiko nearly trips in the dimly lit space, paying no heed to the Hashira already stripping for his bath.

His eyes dance with mirth and derision. “Wash your face. And take care of that look, I don’t want to hear a word. Not when I told you what would happen.”

She wordlessly makes for the bucket. Fills it up and swipes her cupped hands over her face.

still hot. still listless. still breaking.

She manages to steady her breathing. One after the other, slowly returning to herself.

Only when her face is being pushed into the ground does it dawn on her that he never came.

no time to think–

He knocked the wind out of her. The shove came so fast… so strong. She tastes the blood in her mouth, ears nearly bleeding the same with the tinnitus that rages.

When she tries to stand, she’s met with a firm smack on the thigh and a white knuckle grip on her bad leg.

–no room to breathe.

He draws her to her knees and arches her ass in the air. Her eyes widen in panic and it’s all too simple for the Sound Pillar to block and counter the attack when she thrashes in response.

“You’re really making me work for it, Sister.”

Flush against her back, she feels him. Every ridge. Every vein.

“Hold still,” he warns. “Don’t fight me unless you want this to hurt.”

He makes quick work gathering the fabric pooled at her calves, tossing her skirts over her head so cavalier.

Her breaths start coming in short bursts under the oppressive weight of linen slowly suffocating her.

The bastard’s made a cornered meal of her and there’s not a damn thing to be done for it. There’s nothing. No leg to sever and escape the trap. No Eiji to intervene.

He sounded like he was eating you alive.

Tears burn her eyes as her earlier words come for her throat.

She hears his debasement before feeling his cooling pool of drool run down the curvature of her ass.

“Thinking on that first night we met,” he starts. “Gotta say, you surprised me.”

He spreads her cheeks in appraisal, thumb working his spit in and out of her tight hole.

A less experienced prostitute would relax when Uzui withdrew his fingers. But Emiko was no mere oiran. She knew better.

He strikes her again…

and again…

and again.

She feels the fresh coat of saliva glide in and out of her, another two to join the first.

“Just look at you now…”

She shuts her eyes, biting her lip just to keep herself under lock and key

If she plays possum, she’s as good as dead. If she’s dead, this is over and done with.

Her heart aches with every strained sigh that bleeds from her lips. The hard floor is hell on her tits, his quickening pace beating her further into the ground.

“…reckon I could fry an egg on that fucking face.”

The rapid thrusts of his hips leave her gasping and shuddering beneath the caul of her skirts. She remains blind to his abuse but can feel every stroke… hear every groan…

It’s all she can do to will her body to brace for the storm and pray he finishes quick enough.

anything to quiet her mind. anything to stay still and small.

She steadies her breath to the best of her abilities. His wandering touch takes a bite of the meat of her ass in a callous bid for purchase, dipping his thick head in and out of her waiting hole.

Uzui doubles down on his efforts where her body sees fit to reject him. It’s several tries before he can so much as thread the needle.

Lurching forward with the force of his thrusts, she takes him… inch by tortuous inch until he’s fully sheathed inside of her. Too much, too soon, until Emiko’s left wailing into the floor.

A perpetual echo sounds inside the hollow onsen with the staccato of his balls beating against her exposed cunt. He props her ass higher, cock pistoning at a vicious rate.

“Where’s your God now?”

Only when she felt the breath on her face did she realize it was Lord Uzui himself. He offers no respite pulling out, merely walks back to do kakeyu as she trembles in his wake.

She listens to his feet pad across the floor. She can hear the slow of her own heart. Her whimpers, curling in on herself. The fill of his bucket. The splash across his body. The blood in her ears. His groans as he works his fingers over his points of tension.

Emiko’s blood runs cold when the steady flow of water is shut off. The last remaining drops sound off like heavy artillery in the spanse of the bathhouse. Practically holds her breath as he passes without a word.

He dips into the onsen, arms outstretched as he luxuriates in his soak. His eyes fall shut, head falling back. She’s so sure Uzui had no further use for her.

how wrong could one woman be…

“Sister Eiji.”

#yandere tengen uzui #tengen x oc #tengen x wives x oc #can be read as #yandere tengen x reader #tengen x wives x reader #for my brown eyed girlies #.garden of forking paths #.shi

37 notes · View notes

citrusai · 2 months ago

Text

i'm still writing this dog-gone wip with solas & gan'freya's baby brother bullying him in the fade but i remembered that @solasisms wanted me to post a list of gan'freya-isms i.e behaviours and such. pics are just. there bc theyre so fucking cool i love her in the cutscene. anyway her deranged behaviours underneath the cut

as a tweenager she would disappear for hours at a time to study the behaviours of predator animals. she had a huge affinity for anything wild and feral and she's brought back a bear cub more than once. don't worry about it.

her father gifted her with her first dagger when she was six. she's adept at throwing knives. never stop supporting your babygirls guys.

has forsaken utensils. in skyhold and haven she obviously uses them as is on par for someone of her status, but she often has dinner alone in skyhold in her room bc she eats like a sloppy beast. she also does not like to share food. one time sera jokingly tried to steal a potato off her plate and almost got a fork through her palm...

hates dried fruit. hates the texture, hates the smell. "it's a delicacy" she has spat it out into a napkin on more than one occassion.

expert pickpocket! her favourite thing in haven was stealing. no one suspects her and also strangely no one misses their items either. she kinda worried for a minute that these people were a lost cause.

knows how to play the piano, the lyre, and the flute. she once stayed with a bard on her travels (before the enclave disaster) and they had taught her so much. unfortunately she's a bit rusty by trespasser bc of the whole y'know trying to save the world bit.

collects bones and teeth. used to have an entire wooden box filled to the brim with pieces of animal bone. left that behind when she left the clan.

knows how to expertly skin an animal! actually after trespasser she hunts wolves for sport. who needs therapy when you can make a pelt.

she's a great cook but a horrible baker. she can make a mean stew but do not let this person near the thedas equivalent of a stand mixer... her cookies are inedible. literally both hard and wet. like cement.

loves dirt. no genuinely she loves digging and planting things. when her mother got sick she used to plant the medicinal herbs for her and so all of her fondest memories are of her gardening for her mommy.

piggybacking off of that, hates roads. hates paved things. she believes everyone should walk whatever path they desire. it's why she hates cities. zero dirt. zero nature. grotesque ass pavement. hu-ptuh.

wanted a knife for a hand when solas took her arm. everyone thought she was joking as is on par for the course when she's about to burst emotionally. but no, she genuinely wanted a knife for a hand. would've made sense from a battle perspective. cassandra talked her out of it unfortunately.

hates the texture of scales. can't touch it. it ain't right.

has bitten people in non combat situations before, will do so again.

used to scare the other kids in the clan by staking out in the bushes and waiting until nightfall by the fire just to stare at them intensely and frighten them by making rabid animal noises.

#gan'freya lore

4 notes · View notes

mountain-in-springtime · 2 years ago

Text

mama you been on my mind

pairing: sam x reader | word count: 965 | warnings: one curse word, one super duper slight implication of nsfw | my masterlist

summary: this one's more about the vibes if i'm being honest, but it's about sam and the reader spending time together at a botanical garden.

author's note: i'm not sure how i feel about this one, but i couldn't get the idea out of my head, so i figured i'd share it with y'all. i feel like the idea could've been a bit more fleshed out, so i might come back and edit this later. we'll just see how it goes. also sorry that this one isn't quite as happy as my other fics/blurbs. also it was inspired by and named after the song "mama you been on my mind", specifically the jeff buckley cover, which i'll link below.

Laughter rang through Sam’s ears as you ran ahead of him, giggling and ushering him to follow you. As he caught up, he saw you pointing to a bush of tiny pink flowers. They smelled like heaven and were probably the prettiest plant in the whole garden. Sam watched you as you stared at them, unable to stop the smile that spread across his features.

You eventually turned to look back at him, asking “What’s got you all smiley?” as a quizzical look overcame your face.

“Nothing,” he replied, giving his head a small shake, “It’s just a really nice day.”

You looked at the sky above you and let a slight grin take hold, “Yeah, it really is. I’ve been hoping for weather like this.”

“Me too,” he agreed, “Just enough sun to not be cold, but enough clouds to not sweat our asses off.”

You let out a small giggle. “Yep. Couldn’t have said it better myself, Sammy.” He smiled in return, and you let a moment of silence fall between you, happy to just be in each other’s company. You looked at the different plants and flowers as you wandered down the garden’s path, occasionally pointing one out to Sam. A butterfly flew by at one point, landing on your head just long enough for him to snap a few pictures.

"How'd they look?" you asked eagerly.

"I think they're gonna come out beautiful," he replied, "Your pictures always do."

A small blush formed across your cheeks. "Thank you, Sammy," you giggled, "You're always so sweet."

He quickly shushed you, placing a finger over his lips. "Don't say that so loud," he said in a joking whisper, "I have a rock star reputation to uphold."

You rolled your eyes. "Whatever you say, Mr. Rockstar. I still think you're sweet"

A small chuckle left his lips, and then the comfortable silence returned as you two strolled along. You went back to looking at the foliage in quiet wonder while Sam could barely keep his eyes off of you. He focused on every excited breath you took and every plant that you seemed to take special note of. He finally broke the silence when your path forked into three directions, asking “So, where to next?”

After a brief moment of consideration, you replied, “That way,” pointing to the rightmost path, “i think we’ve already gone down the other two, and this one should come out by the cafe.”

“Oh, thank god,” Sam said, moving his hand over his stomach, “I’m starved.”

“Sammy, you should’ve said you were hungry! I wouldn’t have taken so much time stopping along the way,” you answered, a small wave of guilt painting your features.

“No, doll, it’s fine,” he assured you, “I want you to have fun without feeling rushed.”

You gave a reluctant nod. “Okay, but next time say something.”

“I promise,” he replied, “Now let’s finish up this trail.” He watched you excitedly walk ahead, taking in the wonder of your surroundings, glancing back occasionally to make sure he was following along. Seeing you so effortlessly happy made his heart swell. Joy radiated from you, and it made you all the more beautiful.

These were the moments that Sam treasured most. The times when you were so overcome with the world around you that everything else seemed to fade away. They were the moments when you were most yourself, and they were the moments that would stay in Sam’s mind for long after. It was times like these that made Sam remember why he was so in love with you.

He eventually caught up to you in the trail, and you excitedly grabbed his hand, pulling him to the latest plant you had seen. Soft laughter fell from his lips as you continued to point out flower after flower, elation pouring from every inch of you.

The two of you neared the end of the trail when your phone began to buzz. You quickly retrieved it from your bag and answered the call.

“Hey!” you began, happiness still coloring your voice. “No, I’m at the gardens with Sam. We’re about to have lunch,” you said, nudging Sam and gesturing to the cafe ahead. “Oh yeah, I’d love that! At six thirty?” you paused for a moment, “Okay, I’ll see you then, babe. Love you!” You placed your phone back in your bag and turned to Sam.

“Who was that?” he asked with genuine curiosity.

“Chris. He wants to take me to see that new movie I was talking about the other day,” you explained.

“Ooooh a date night, huh?” Sam teased, wiggling his eyebrows.

You gave him a small shove, “Yes, Samuel, my boyfriend wants to have a date night.”

He let a small giggle fall from his lips, “Well that sounds fun. You want me to drop you at home after lunch so you can get ready?”

“Yeah, that’d be really nice of you, Sam,” you replied, “Thanks.”

“It’s the least I can do,” he answered, “Now let’s go get some lunch.”

“Alright,” you laughed, walking ahead to the small cafe. Sam stayed behind, watching as the sun painted your hair and reflected off the small bracelets on your wrist with a small smile on his face.

He knew that you would probably never love him in the exact way he loved you, but in this moment, that was okay. He didn’t need a lifetime of sacred “I love you”s or secret touches. He was grateful for the love he had and the time he got to spend with you, and really, that was all he needed. It was enough to bask in your light and feel its warmth. And with that thought in mind, Sam moved forward, content to spend an afternoon in your glow.

taglist: @westernwoods (anybody who wants to be tagged in future stuff let me know!!)

#sam kiszka x reader #sam x reader #sam kiszka x y/n #sam kiszka x you #sam kiszka #sam gvf #sammy gvf #gvf fic #greta van fleet #mal writes #Spotify

79 notes · View notes

azzydoesstuff · 1 year ago

Text

Okay, okay, okay. SO. The new ultrakill teaser.

first of all, i want to point out that in dante's inferno, the violence layer... is actually split up into three different circles. and the description of the video on twitter said something about after the garden of forking paths, we enter the first circle...

HMM.

something tells me that the violence layer's gonna be one of the most diverse with its theming, considering the massive jump between 7-1's calm, yet creepy liminal white marble, and 7-2's warzone of a landscape.

also, speaking of violence's circles, in dante's inferno, the first circle of the violence layer has centaurs patrolling it. don't get excited, but... CENTAUR ENEMY MAYBE POSSIBLY!?!?!?!?

ahem, anyways... next thing to talk about: WAR. 7-2 seems to be very related to WAR. i mean, come on. wrecked buildings, big machines looming in the background, bombs falling from the sky?? what is this, world war 3?

well... it might just be so.

Think about it for a second. War. The war. The big war.

THE GREAT WAR.

THE ONE THAT THE TERMINALS TALK ABOUT!!

7-2 has to do with the great war that the terminal entries mention!! how do i know? well, maybe because of the BIG SCARY MACHINES IN THE BACKGROUND.

you can't tell me that's not obviously "great war"-related. as far as we know, the great war was a very robot-centric one, hence the v models being created. well... i think that there was more than just v models and sentries at that war.

Enter the big fellas in the background, and probably a couple more other machines!

Come on. There's no way that the ONLY troops they sent to the GREAT war were sentries (the v models never made it, so they don't even count). There must've been SOMETHING else there, and I'm not talking about just the big background boys, I'm also talking about the things that came outta the bombs at the end of the video.

Oh, yeah, speaking of: The bombs. they landed in front of v1 at the end of the video, but they didn't explode. instead, it seemed like a door opened from them.

i think we can all agree that they're not explosives, but rather drop-pods from the war, which they used to plop machines right into the battlefield.

and if they have enemies in them, surely those enemies will pop out.

well, we don't get to see the enemies that come out of the bombs though. ...or do we? because we DO see something for, like, three frames.

it kinda looked like a train. i don't know if i'm correct, but it looked sort of like the front of a steam train. or maybe it's a shield! what if it's a shield enemy!? it's probably a shield enemy. it was a big rectangle with some grates on them, i think it's a shield enemy probably. it'll probably block your shots like hideous mass does with it's stone shell.

Agh, i don't know. i'm probably just schizophrenic or something and looking way too far into three frames of a video. but whatever.

i think that we can all agree on ONE thing:

whatever hakita could possibly have in store for us, it's DEFINITELY gonna absolutely kick ass.

#ultrakill #ultrakill act 3 #ultrakill violence #ultrakill layer 7 #ultrakill violence layer #oh yeah i forgot to talk about the big fellas.#damn. i really don't have anything to call them other than “big fellas”. i've been calling them that the whole post. do they have a name??#whatever. yeah they're cool. i like 'em.#they're gonna be the violence layer boss methinks

27 notes · View notes

likehandlingroses · 1 year ago

Text

OUAT Rewatch 7x03 - The Garden of Forking Paths

Whatever you decide to do, you make sure it's your wish...not someone else's.

#ouat #once upon a time #ouatedit #onceuponatimeedit #jacinda #cinderella #regina mills #tiana #lucy mills #victoria belfrey #lady tremaine #sabine #mother gothel #henry mills #killian jones #ouat rewatch 2022

33 notes · View notes

p-taryn-dactyl · 2 years ago

Note

Would love to see Jean Grey (Famke Janssen) comforting the reader after the reader is injured.

a/n: hii!! Thank you so much for this request! Also, i know i haven’t been gone too long from writing but this felt like an accomplishment to me and i am so proud i wrote it! Enjoy! word count: 908 warning(s): mentions of blood and injury

a simple disagreement

The cold metal walls of the secret passageways supported you as you dragged yourself through the halls, desperate to reach Jean, who was in the med bay. Your side pinched with every step and you had to grit your teeth in an attempt to not yell out. Stray drops of blood marked the path you had taken, your hands only doing so much to keep pressure on your wound. Finally, you reached the doors of the lab, using what little strength you had left to push them open. The red head spun around at the sudden intrusion, expecting Logan - therefore wearing a stern expression. But once she saw you, her face melted into one of worry and something darker.

“Y/N? What the hell?” She rushed towards you, arms outward as you collapsed against her, her white shirt stained red.

“I had a disagreement.” You murmured out quietly as you drifted into sleep, your body exhausted from the pain and exertion you had put it through.

—————————————————————————————————

When you woke up, you were in bed, warm covers tucked tightly around you. You sat up, wincing at the dull pain in your abdomen. A light brush of your fingers told you that you had received stitches and proper bandages. You also noticed you had been changed into soft pajamas, the dirty cloth of your uniform no longer sticking to your skin.

“Oh good, you’re awake,” the gruff voice of Logan threw you off as your head snapped to the corner of the room, where Wolverine sat, arms crossed over his chest as a cigar hung out of his lips, “Jean asked me to watch over you while she took care of something. She’ll be back soon, hopefully.”

You nodded awkwardly at the man, who scratched at his sideburns before letting out a cloud of smoke. You were close friends with Logan but you definitely didn’t expect for him to be the first thing you saw when you woke up. Soft footsteps echoed outside the door and soon Jean was gently looking in, her eyes softening when she saw you were awake. Logan grunted, standing up and nodding at the telepath before he walked away, sending you a look before he walked away. Jean came to sit on the edge of the bed, placing her hand on your forehead, checking your temperature. You noticed she was wearing her mission suit, her hair pulled back and small scratches just above her eyebrow.

“Whatever disagreement you had, you have a small infection, which is causing your slight fever. I gave you a few stitches but you’ll need to stay in bed for the following weeks.”

Protesting, you leaned forward, trying to reason with your girlfriend when an icy tendril of pain licked up your spine, causing you to fall backwards. Tears welled up in your eyes as the adrenaline from before finally wore off, the pain of having something impale you wracking your body. Jean noticed your distressed state and was quick to run into the bathroom to change out of her suit, donning a tank top and some sweat pants. She curled up next to you in bed, careful of your side, maneuvering your head so it rested on her shoulder. She pressed a kiss into your hair as you carefully snuggled against her, leaning her cheek against the top of your head.

“Do you want to tell me what happened?” Her voice was soft yet held a darker, more protective tone. You brushed it off, shrugging before giving Jean the short version of the mission’s events.

“I was supposed to rescue a young mutant boy who was being exploited by his family for money, a simple farmer family shouldn’t of caused me so much trouble but,” you gestured to your stomach, “obviously they did. The uncle didn’t like that I was taking his nephew and before I could get out of the way, he shanked me with a goddamn gardening fork. Thankfully, I got Samuel out of the way but…” you sighed, remembering the hateful look on the man’s face as he stalked closer to you, gardening tool in hand, prepared to finish the job. Samuel, the mutant boy, thankfully had the ability to speak to animals, and kindly asked one of their prized hogs to run his uncle into the ground. You didn’t remember much after that, cornfields and flying, cold metal walls and collapsing into Jean’s arms. And by how Jean’s arms were tightening around you now, you knew she had seen the painful montage in your mind. She nuzzled your temple with her nose, making you giggle. Jean’s nose was always freezing, just like her hands.

“I’m proud of you for saving that boy, Y/N, I’m sorry that imbecile hurt you.”

You smiled appreciatively, resting your chin on Jean as you shuffled to practically sit on her lap.

“He’ll do great here, Y/N, I mean come on, he’s already made a hoard of pigs go NASCAR on his uncle.”

Jean’s attempt to make you laugh worked, and soon you were wheezing in pain, shrugging off Jean’s concerned look.

“Dr. Grey, you’re supposed to be overseeing my recovery, not making it your mission to pop my stitches!” you grumbled out, your girlfriend’s chest rumbling behind you as she laughed. Silence stretched between you as your eyelids grew heavy once more. Jean smiled when she felt your body relax, your breaths evening as you fell into a peaceful slumber.

a/n: i hope this was okay?? It’s my first time writing for Jean and since ive loved her since the very first X-men movie (that i saw) i hope i did alright. Thank you for reading 💕

#jean grey #jean grey x reader #x men #xmen x reader #logan howlett #logan howlett x reader #logan howlett x y/n #james logan howlett #wolverine x reader #phoenix #xmen Phoenix #phoenix x reader #dark phoenix x reader

252 notes · View notes

pedros-mustache · 3 years ago

Text

nighthawks (15)

series masterlist || previous chapter

word count: ~3.9k+

warnings: graphic depiction of violence. also: suspense, language, x fem!reader

a/n: releasing this stubborn one into the void. apologies (as always) for the delay, babes!

beta: @againstacecilia & @pleasedin

DAY ONE-HUNDRED-THREE—LOCATION: INORA

Home—a curious word. Four letters, a single syllable, and yet it carries much weight. Too much weight.

You have made your home in many places: the wheatfields of Inora; the hard-scrabble ethen rock mines of Haceon; the hot and sticky wasteland of Nevarro. You have made your bed on a cushioned pallet shared with your sister; on a plush mattress in the arms of a bloated spice runner; on the steel floor of a Mandalorian’s galley. The good, the bad, the ugly—it has all been home at one point or another. And yet—the good, the bad, the ugly—each has collapsed beneath the cruel hand of Fate.

The one thing you know to be true of home: it never lasts.

So when Din informs you that the Sunder has arrived “home”, you fight the urge to correct him. Inora hasn’t been home for years.

Standing at the edge of his bed, you sift through your meager possessions. All your worldly possessions, strewn across the freshly made sheets like garbage on the side of the road. Embarrassment wells in your chest. Maker, you don’t have much, and what you do have is tattered by age and memory alike.

What is clean? What is dirty? What is ruined beyond repair? What will your parents think when they see who—what—you have become?

You lift the cross-body top from the market on Daos-Seven (Gods, Din had fucked you well when he saw you lounging against the wall in this getup) and steady your voice as you fold the clothing in half. “I don’t have the energy for lies, Mando,” you say.

There is a pause, a beat of confusion, then a question: “What?”

You drop the shirt and turn. Din stands in the doorway of his cabin, filling the narrow space with the gleam of his armor. You cannot read his face—not beneath that helmet, not in the dark of night—nor can you read the flat tone of his voice. You’re home, he’d said, and that was all. Though his left hand flexes at his side, there is no other movement, no stray glitch in his programming, that might otherwise reveal the man beneath the beskar. And after an evening reveling in his humanity, the return of his armor tenses a nerve in your jaw.

“Why are we here?” You sharpen your voice to match the steel wall encasing him. “Do you plan on leaving me with my parents now that I’ve fucked up again? Are you done with me that quick?”

Din’s head rears back in apparent shock. He makes a sound, something low and gravely and similar to noise he makes when he cums. You don’t blame him; it’s a strong accusation. Still, in your mind’s eye, he stands at a crossroads; a path that forks around a boulder covered in rotting undergrowth. Fate has presented him with two choices: He could drop your sorry ass on the crumbling doorstep of your parent’s hovel and leave you behind to rot like the undergrowth. Or—after last night and his name and the shadow of his face—he could nurture whatever blossom has sprouted from the cold muck between you. He could… keep you…

You hope some part of him is a gardener, willing to tend the seed.

No sooner does the accusation of abandonment leave your lips does Din stomp into the room. He crosses the floor in three long strides. Grabbing your bicep, he squeezes the muscle tight, pulling your breasts flush to his chest plate. “Look at me, Scout,” he says, and his voice is no longer toneless. He is urgent, and it quickens the beat of your heart. “Listen to me: I’m not leaving you.”

You frown. “Then why bring me here?”

Easing his hold on your arm, he smooths his gloved hand over the stray hairs at the side of your face. The touch eases a strain in your chest, but you hold fast to your suspicion. One-hundred-and-three days you’ve known the Mandalorian. You imagine he’s lied to or mistreated you far more than he has fucked you silly or called you sweet names.

“You need to rest. You’re a strong bounty hunter, but after Breeth, you need a break. We all need a break.”

“You’ve lied to me before…”

“Yes—but not now. Not again. If it takes me until my dying day to prove that to you, I’ll do it.”

You suck in a sharp breath. Heat rushes to your cheeks, and when you speak, you sound like a breathless ditz. With a giddy chuckle, you grip his forearm, holding his hand close to your face. “That’s some promise, Metal Man.”

“I keep my promises. This is—”

“—the Way.”

Your voices mingle in the austere cabin, one blending effortlessly with another. His creed falls from your lips with ease because you know now. You get it. Honor, sacrifice, family, and tradition. In four words, four stark syllables, the entire weight of a people rests on your tongue. You saw it in his commitment to Grogu, and you feel it in his vow to you now. What Din Djarin says, Din Djarin means. And today, moments before returning to the people you hurt the most, he promises you loyalty until the end. No questions asked.

Tears sting your eyes, but you smile through the discomfort. A confession deep inside your gut fights to break free. You tamp it down, uncertain yourself of its true meaning; so you say what you know you can. What you know he will understand. “This is the Way,” you whisper.

Din rests the cool metal of his helm against your forehead. You swear you can see him smile. “This is the Way.”

You stand on the precipice of ultimate ruin. You can feel it bubbling up, up, up. The sensation of doom clogs your throat like dirt. Like the dirt that surrounds your dead sister somewhere on this Maker-forsaken planet.

Holy shit. Holy shit. How many years since you stood on this soil? How many times did you swear to yourself you would never return? And yet—here you are, standing on fallow Inoran farmlands, freezing your tits off in the mid-spring chill because Din thinks you need to rest. You can’t rest. You won’t rest. Not here. Not when your parents will likely plunge a dagger through your heart on sight.

Dread consumes you. It mingles with the dirt in your throat and chokes like a vine. You scan your surroundings, spiders crawling through your head with worry. What if? What if? What if?

An atonal voice breaks through your internal panic. “The climate of Inora is mild. Average temperatures range between twenty to twenty-five degrees Standard. The typical seasons go from rainy in the beginning of the year to—”

“H-Ten.” Din makes his way down the Sunder’s loading dock to join you, back laden with packed clothes and perishable food. In the hazy light of a dreary morning, pale shadows dance off his pauldrons. He appears taller and wider than he is, but you welcome the sight. It helps knowing you can hide behind him at the first sign of tension with your parents. “Shut up,” he says, voice clipped. It makes you smile.

But that smile soon fades.

Gods, your parents… You don’t like to think about what lies ahead.

Standing at the bottom of the ramp, you glare at the droid flanking the Mandalorian. From the top of H-Ten’s oblong head to the points of his wide feet, the machine radiates poise and reserve. A protocol droid no doubt. Probably some assistant Din picked up while you were gone. It’s hard not to roll your eyes at the thought. Just when you broke through the emotional blockade of one robot, you get another emotionally constipated ass. Figures.

You twist at the waist to angle your stare at Ka’ered. “Who invited this guy?” You jerk your thumb in the droid’s direction, but Ka’ered doesn’t bite at the playful jibe. Instead, the physician stands to the side, arms folded across his chest.

You did not know Ka’ered fled Breeth’s mansion alongside you. You did not know Din acquired a personal droid in the time you were away. Since returning to the Sunder, you’ve spent all waking moments in Din’s company, shut away from the outside world. To see your friend now, you wonder if you appear as haunted as him. He is a shadow of himself, skin gone sallow and gaunt, eyes sunken. A living ghost, slain by what he had to do to survive. You can relate.

You touch your cheeks, brow pinching in concern. Do you look the same? You would at least like to look passable for your parents. Show them you aren’t completely lost without their guidance…

Din presses a hand between your shoulder blades, and you tilt your head back to meet his visor. “You look fine.”

As paltry a complement as ever, but you’ll take it. What Din Djarin says, Din Djarin means.

“How far of a hike is it to your parents’?”

You point to twin hills in the far distance. “There. In that valley.”

“Can you make it?”

You nod and hoist your small bag of belongings over your shoulder. You can make it. Even if it kills you, even if spite alone is what drives your every step, you can make it.

“You know me, Mando.” Gently nudging your shoulder against Din’s arm, you sidestep him, setting course for the Bélon Valley. “I’m always up for a challenge.”

The Mandalorian snorts, and the sound of amusement only serves to drive you to a quicker pace. The sooner you get this farce of rest over with, the sooner you can return to the stars with Din. Just you and him. The way it should be. The way it was meant to be from the start.

Your band of malcontents falls into step behind your hurried gait. With over twenty-five klicks to go, there’s barely any time to waste before night falls. The one thing H-Ten forgot to mention in his verbal essay on your home world: Ashwigs.

You shiver just thinking about them. Ashwigs—ancient, monstrous beasts; taller than Wookies and built like muscle-chorded fortresses. The nocturnal animals slink from their nested dwellings at sundown to feast on unwitting prey. When the sun begins to dip below the horizon, any Inoran with half a brain knows to hide behind shuttered windows and bolted doors. To risk otherwise is to tempt Fate.

Glancing sidelong at Ka’ered, you decide not to mention the Ashwigs for now. Your own nerves mixed with the doctor’s apathy and Din’s persistent annoyance simmers too close to the surface. Best leave the issue of rabid, flesh-eating monsters for a moment when the information seems more necessary.

“So…” You grip your backpack’s straps a little tighter, fingers gone taut with tension. “Ka’ered, I—didn’t know Di—er—Mando brought you along.”

Fuck—awkward at its finest. First you nearly oust Din’s name. Next you question Ka’ered’s presence after his colossal sacrifice. You try—you do—but the shift in him is hard for you to grasp. Ka’ered was your confidant, your intercessor in a time of crisis. Before, he seemed to you a titan of power. He was unstoppable. David who slayed Goliath before your very eyes. Now, he seems a shell of the man before. He is spindly, arms and legs like dying tree limbs, skin like peeling bark. A mere exhale would send him falling to the ground. You know you tread on shaky, unstable ground, but you try all the same.

“I’m glad he invited you.”

“Are you?” Ka’ered looks up from the hard-packed earth and pins you with a beady stare. “You have your Mandalorian back, but now you’re saddled with me and that hunk of junk he calls a droid. Are you really so happy he brought our sorry asses along?”

Your steps falter at the ire in Ka’ered’s voice. You gape, uncertain of how to respond. “I—Yes! Yes, I’m happy. With Breeth dead, there was no—”

Ka’ered stops walking, spinning you to a halt with a hand to your bicep. “I killed him! I killed Breeth! I did! With my own two hands and with you and your Mandalorian laying by—”

“Hey!” Din shoulders his way into the fray. He shields your body with his breadth, and for once, you are thankful for the possessive gesture. “What’s going on?”

A juvenile instinct to defend yourself, to pin the blame on the other, rises in your throat, but you tamp it down. Enough emotion plagues Ka’ered’s face as it is. You don’t need to add to the swell of grief and misery engulfing him.

“I did what you needed me to, Mandalorian.” Ka’ered positions himself a stride away from Din. He puffs his chest, but his narrow and broken body does not cut the imposing figure he might hope. “I killed your quarry for you, and you took me from my home of the last ten years. You took me from the family I made my own. As fucked as it was.” He tosses his arms outward, palms turned toward the sky, gesture ambivalent and crushed at the same time. “So what’s your plan for me now? Now that I’ve done your dirty work for you and there’s nothing more you need me for… What are you going to do with me?”

It strikes you that Din—that the Mandalorian—holds an inordinate amount of power. Whether he means to or not, he juggles the futures of those closest to him, even by mere proximity, in the palms of his hands. Grogu, you, Ka’ered, and H-Ten. He is a magnet, and those who stray into his path are pulled within his flux.

Pushing around Din’s back, you interrupt that flux. You knew Ka’ered first; he helped you first. Perhaps reassuring him will soothe both your wounded heart and his.

“You can start over,” you tell him. “Do whatever you want. Be whatever you want.”

Like water draining from a leaking basin, the emotion drains from Ka’ered’s face. He turns to you with sad, swollen eyes. “I… don’t know what I want. I don’t know what I am…”

You reach out to graze his wrist with your fingers. “Then… maybe Mando is right. Maybe we should rest here for a while. Figure things out.”

It takes a moment more of convincing and bating the ragged physician with promises of your mother’s famous cream buns to get him walking again. You offer him the chance to lead the way until the way becomes more precise, and he takes it, back a little straighter than before.

You fall into step beside Mando. Stars, the cool breeze feels good. It was nippy at first, biting like the memories that swirl around your ankles, but you relish the kiss of air. You won’t take it for granted anymore. After days without true freedom, simply standing beneath the vast expanse of the sky is a gift, a healing token from the Maker.

“Did good.”

At first, you don’t register that Din is talking to you. His gruff compliment comes and goes like a leaf on the breeze. But then you hear it again, a whisper through rustled branches. Did good. You did good.

You shake your head. “Didn’t do anything.”

“That’s not true.” Din shortens his strides to match yours. “He needed talked down. What you said helped. Give yourself more credit.”

“It’s not that I don’t want the credit. I’m vain as fuck.” He huffs, and you smile at your shoes, kicking a loose clump of dirt forward. “I guess… I feel like it’s the least I can do. He helped me from the start but I never thought—never wanted—him to go as far as murder. I feel like I’ve corrupted him or something.”

“You get used to it.”

“What if—What if I don’t want to get used to it?” The question weighs heavily enough and Din is quiet enough that you hurry to fill in the empty space. “I’m sorry,” you say, dragging your hand across the back of your neck. “This place—it just makes me feel different.”

“Different? How?”

“I dunno.” You narrow your eyes toward the sky and inspect the beginnings of sunset bleeding crimson over pale blue. How many years has it been since you watched a sunset here? “Just… different…”

Conversation ceases. Momentum takes precedence. Maybe Din knows about the Ashwigs or maybe he doesn’t, but he overtakes Ka’ered’s lead. Ushering the group forward with a stern command, the pace quickens. One step and then another. One stride and then another. A punishing, unrelenting pace to be sure, but you doubt the burn in your thighs hurts as badly as the chomp of an Ashwig’s teeth.

The ground lifts, angling upward, the beginning of the Bélon Valley’s bowled surroundings. With each labored breath, the sun sinks lower on the horizon. You glance over your shoulder. Though tall trees, arms hanging heavy with lush leaves, obscure your view, you know—time is wasting. The Ashwigs will be out soon.

“Hey, Mando.” You jog forward, catching his elbow. “Not sure if you know this but—”

“Shh.”

You stop. Frown. Put your hands on your hips. “I’m sorry. Did you just shush me?”

A foot ahead of you, Din turns at the waist. He lays a finger to his lips and cocks his head.

Indignation is a hearty snack after a hard trek, but it disappears in an instant, scared away, as you follow Din’s line of sight. Just ahead—illuminated by a glowing beam of moonlight—an Ashwig. The first hunter of the night.

“Ah yes.” H-Ten catches up with you. His limbs clank and groan after hours of steady use. “It appears we have come across an Ashwig.” His mechanical voice echoes in the thick forest. “They are native—”

A gun clicks. Din grabs the juncture between H-Ten’s shoulder and neck. Angling the muzzle of his blaster upwards, he taps the droid’s pointed chin with his weapon. “Say another word,” he whispers. “And your head rolls down that hill.”

You don’t know whether to be thankful—or extremely turned on.

Any burst of relief or arousal turns to dread when Ka’ered, behind several paces, falls. He falls, twisting his ankle, and he cries out.

The sound splits the air like glass breaking. The tenuous moment of safety evaporates.

The Ashwig turns. You hold your breath.

It sniffs. Your eyes slide to Din, still gripping H-Ten, though his helm now faces the stinking beast.

You motion to Ka’ered. Slicing your hand near your neck, you beg him to quiet his cries. Damn, did he break his ankle? Or is he releasing the entirety of his bottled emotions? He howls, clutching his injury, rocking back on his spine. He is blind to the Ashwig, blind to you. But the Ashwig is blind too; as they all are, their one fatal flaw. The beast is blind, and if Ka’ered can shut up for long enough, maybe the thing will go away and terrorize someone else.

“Ka’ered!” you hiss. “Please!”

But he will not be moved from his wound, internal or external.

The Ashwig hears Ka’ered’s cry and slinks out of the moonbeam. It stands on its hind legs, talons reaching down to its knobby knees. Two long tusk-like fangs protrude from its mouth and drip with saliva. It’s hungry.

Lunging with exponential speed and agility, the Ashwig makes for Ka’ered. You scream and drop to your ass as it whizzes past you. Its scent—rotten leaves and shit—invades your nose. Wiry hair glistens in the paleness of night.

Clumps of damp earth beneath your palms, the slip and slide of your heels on tilted earth, hard and gasping breaths—none of it compares to the sound of Ka’ered’s flesh being torn from his body.

Din is on you—fast. He yells something unintelligible and throws his body over yours before the Ashwig is done with Ka’ered. You cannot see—cannot breathe—cannot think. You’ve done this. Ka’ered’s demise is your fault. His agonized screams and his leg being torn from his body and eaten before his very eyes is your fault. You brought him further into the plan to take down Breeth; you filled his head with ideas about winning and power. He wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for—

A rough shake to your shoulder. “Scout!”

Life—the forest and the black sky beyond the trees—comes clear. You shake your head of its ringing. “What?”

“At my hip.” Din nods to his waist. “Take out the weapon at my waist.”

His position as a human shield rendering him motionless, you don’t ask questions. You simply do. With scrabbling fingers, you find the hilt of something at his waist. The weapon is heavy. It vibrates with something untold, and you wonder where he’s been hiding this from you. Whatever it is.

“Put it in my palm.”

You reach up, slide the ribbed hilt into his hand.

“I’m going to move,” he says, and you can feel his wide eyes on yours. “When I count to three, I’m going to get up and kill that thing and I want you to roll beneath the bush. Do you understand me? Nod if you—”

“Yes! I understand you.”

“Okay. One—two—” He moves as he speaks three.

As Din instructed, you roll to your right, slipping beneath the underbrush of a nearby berry bush. Jagged twigs snag your hair and the flesh of your cheeks, but here, beneath the overgrowth, you feel moderately safe. You can watch as Din rises to his full height beneath the Ashwig. You can see as he pushes a button and some dark, glowing thing extends from the weapon at his hand. It is demonic and angelic at once. You do not understand it.

Din lifts the weapon over his head. He makes as though to impale the Ashwig through its back, but an angry, war-like scream gives him pause. He looks to his left. You squint. No thanks to the bush branches and Din’s absurdly wide back, it’s hard to see clearly. A scuffle of feet and the clang of metal, shouted words and hurried movements. A yelp—doglike—and then a thud.

The Ashwig is dead.

You scramble out from beneath the bush, stumbling to your feet. The weapon at Din’s side dematerializes before you can get a good look at it; he hides it on his person once again.

“Ka’ered!” You drop to your knees beside your friend. He is mangled, but breathing. Somehow—either by a blessing or oversight of the Maker—he is breathing. Unconscious, missing a leg, and perhaps a part of his right cheek, but breathing.

You find Din through watery eyes. “He’s alive.” A tear carves a path down your split cheek. “He’s alive.”

Din looks down at your crumbled and tired form, and you take in his current standing. He holds the outer forearm of a man. A man somewhere between squat and average-height. A man with a barrel chest and long, braided hair. A man who says your name—your true name—with wonder.

“Faeir?” On shaking legs, you stand. “Father?”

The man says your name again, dropping Din’s forearm. He angles his body toward yours and opens his arms. “Bundeet.”

My child.

At last, the prodigal daughter has returned.

NEXT CHAPTER

#din djarin x reader #din djarin smut #the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian smut #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal smut

289 notes · View notes

jcryptid · 2 years ago

Text

The Magnus (fic rec) Archives

This one has been literally years in the making and a true testiment to the power of hyperfixation and what I could maybe do if my brain decided something like graduating highschool was actually really interesting.

I'm sure my fic preferences will be made very much clear as you read this, so do keep in mind said preferences might not allign with yours. I have included a lot of Whump, H/C and angst in my list, so if you're not into that sort of thing, that's fine, have a nice day. I've also got some content warnings in my descriptions as well for the more... intense....whump?... yeah let's go with that.

(Most are all Jmart, but there's some JonTim, some LonelyEyes on the side, and the occassional OG archivist squad polyamory, anything tagged as Jon/Elias is 100% in some kind of whump scenario)

Rec list and key under the cut (^o^)/

Key:

Bold = 11/10 fic, very much had me thinking about if for way longer than I should have, recommending it way too many times than is necessary and pretty regularly rereading it

Purple italics = didn't quite have the same earth shattering effect as the bold fics, but very much worth a read all the same

Plain text = it's up there fam, but not quite on the same level as the purple italics or bold fics

The garden of forking paths - by bibliocratic

After killing Elias and presumably setting the world back the way it was Jon and Martin find themselves falling through the doors of the distortion, holding each other tight and doing everything they can to not let go. It's only when Jon wakes up later to an archivist named Sasha and the Tim he used to know waving an axe in his face that he realizes that wherever somewhere else was, he came through alone.

First fic I ever read for TMA that I connected with really, written midway through season 5 so we pretty much ignore any canon ending, but I don’t think any of us are particularly complaining about that one considering the sheer amount of fix its. (Completed)

Out There, Somewhere - Artyphex

Jon wakes up, blind and alone and bleeding out having been spat out of the crack between realities after the end of the world and now finds himself alone, alone and in pain, entirely alone in a way he's never felt before, in a world that is not his with no one he knows and loves beside him. And he is left to search, with unseeing eyes and shaking words for the one person he needs to know is okay. (Completed)

They keep trying to row away (series) - by assigned_Jon_Kin_Again (sparrow0), blackwood (transjon), radula (stickpenalties), screechfox, skvadern

Body horror mermaid fic that breaks my heart in the best way, feat. Archivist Sasha and maybe a polyamory between the 4 main archivist crew? Either way a hurt/comfort mermaid fic that I can't stop coming back to. If you're a big fan of Whump and excessive angst with the sweat relief of comfort this is the fic for you, but please for the love of god pay attention to the Trigger Warnings. (Series complete)

Family, Found - Dribblescribbles

Basira was there for the unknowing, she was there when Elias told them all to their faces that he was a bastard who was using them for something none of them could understand, and ever since the unknowing she's been doing whatever she could, taking whatever scraps of investigations she could to find the answers. And of all the people it had to be Helen who helped her figure it out. Because Jon is not a monster, but the Web and the Eye are doing their damn best to make him one, and she's going to make sure that the others working for the archives aren't doing the same. (One Shot)

My witness brings me Into existence - by driflew

A take on Not!Jon au with an exploration on what happens if he comes back and the experiences he has to deal with as someone who cannot be physically remembered but still wants to help out Sasha and the others, even if Elias, the one person who seems to know him, won't let him.

This one has me feeling a lot of things, currently existing as just a One shot but I'm still crossing my fingers from some extra additions to the series, and boy does this one have me coming back on the regular. (Completed fic, Series ongoing)

Not a Second Thought - by i_can_do_fics

An alternate take on Not!Jon, specifically involving the web instead of the stranger. Where people aren't replaced, but thin unseeable strings of spider silk force his hand and his tongue and his body in no way he can resist. And after everything that'd happened since this all started, he's not quite sure it's a bad thing. (One shot)

Miles to Go before I sleep - by AuralQueer

Sleep Dep. Hurt Comfort Set S4, feat. A Jon who is putting himself through way too much crap but honestly that's just par for the course. (One shot)

Beastly Behavior - by Prim_the_Amazing

Martin is a man struck by a curse, a curse that is vindictive and cruel and cast by someone he will always love despite everything she's done to him. Jon is a man on the run from a monster of his own, a man with all the power in the world to take everything he has left of himself for his own entertainment. Two men with two tasks, a mother and a grandmother, both dying in their beds and both losing a part of their freedom and themselves trying to save them. Both terrified of the world they live in, of the person they grow to love, of the people they may be becoming.

A Beauty and the Beast au with a bit of a twist, and a happy ending well worth the wait. (Completed)

The Sea Calls Me Home - mothjons

Martin Blackwood takes a job at Peter Lukas's estate in exchange for his mother's care and

their housing for his service. It's not a pretty job, it's not anything Martin would have picked for himself but nothing he'd had ever would be and he's resigned himself to that fact, no matter how much it hurts. And then he meets a strange man by the sea, and god knows all the secrets and the pain of loving someone is the one choice he knows for certain he'd never give up.

Not going to lie this one had by ugly crying by the end. A great and honestly very angsty take on Mer Jon x Martin but also set during the height of WWI and I promise you there is of course a happy ending they both deserve. (Complete)

Head in the Lion's Mouth - by renwhit

Au where Danny is alive, damaged goods but alive. So when a certain archivist, possibly delirious and in pain, narrows his eyes and tells him he looks familiar in a way the other uncanny circus members don't, it sparks something in him he can't explain and for the first time in over a decade the ringmaster has a name. (Series is ongoing)

Maybe they'll leave you alone, but not me - by ghostfrog

A cute ongoing fic where Jon becomes a teacher after Martin singlehandedly stops the apocalypse at the end of S4, and because they're both trying to move on with their lives Jon becomes an English teacher for a local school, where he has a class that are a bit too observant, and maybe just a bit too into cryptids.

There Are Monsters In These Woods - by DoilySpider

Once upon a time there was a prince of a kingdom named blackwood, with a wicked stepfather who wanted him dead. One day the prince asked his stepfather what he could do to claim the crown that they both knew was rightfully his, and the stepfather told him that a king must be brave, and to prove it he must then slay the beast of eyes.

Once upon a time there was a man named Jonathan Sims, a man who sought whatever knowledge and magic it would take to be able to protect those he loved from the monsters that took everything from him; and so he went to see the Mage Magnus, who would only be making him just one more.

Dark Fairytale au? Well that's what you get I suppose when the fandom is based around a horror podcast. All I can say really is that I love the world-building on this one, and the writing, featuring a happily ever after we all know they all deserve and some Jon/Martin/Tim/Gerry Polyamory. (Complete)

A Weather In The Flesh - by cuttooth

An emotionally devastating one shot about touch starvation that may or may not have made me feel a lot of things (One shot)

One of these birds, is not my bird - by updownandsideways

Just a good ol' Not Jon fic, a bit predictable in places but the gist is Jon is taken by the Not Them and Martin's feeling a bit different about Jon since he got back from the Prentiss incident, it's only when he re-reads some of his old poetry that he finds out why. (Complete)

Thresholds (series) - by bubonickitten

At the precipice of finding out he's changing into something inhuman, Elias decides to give Jon a push, with the perfect bit of information to leave him a wreck, and makes him know the story of a young man he remembers all too clearly being taken by dear old Mr. Spider. (Complete)

Chamomile - Dribbledscribbles

Chamomile is a mischievous little creature who finds its delight in seeing how many times they can give the people in this safe house a heart attack. It's attempts on Martin have been successful to a fault, pushing him as far as it can to scare the living daylights out of him before he comes at him with a broom and scuttling away before he can come close. It's a fun game they have, but when they try it on Jon it just doesn't work. It's not fun, because Jon lets it win, Jon names it, Jon gives him cuddles and lets it rest on his shoulder, and this little creature is rather determined not to give up.

Aka a cute fluff fic where Jon and Martin are living in their cottage in Scotland and end up adopting a few of the spookier residents. (Completed)

Go softly - by doomcountry

Martin brings home a jug of bleach, sets it on the counter with an eyedropper for when Jon is ready, and even if both of them know it will hurt, that is has to be done, but no matter what they are going to get through this together.

TW for eye mutilation (Oneshot)

Terror Management Theory - by prismatical

Jonathan sims was eaten by a spider when he was eight, he died, but then he came back. Since then Jon has a very interesting relationship with death, one that terrifies him more than anything else, more than any other fear, and it's going to take a hell of a lot to earn his right to death back. (Completed)

Nature has taught her creatures to hate - thepolysyndetonaddictsupportgroup

Many times Jon has tried to run, sometimes it even worked, sometimes he got barely made it out alive at the end of the day, but it never worked when he was running from the Magnus institute, from James Wright or Elias Bouchard, or from the horrors that have never let him go since he was eight and stupid enough to pick up that damn book. The powers that be had taken him as a child, wrapped him in tight cobwebs of contracts and kidnappings and under a bruising hand on his shoulder that guided him down the path of inhumanity no matter how hard he tried to run. And even now, when he's failed again and facing losing another of a short line of close connections to the curse that is the Magnus institute, he can't back out.

NGL this one is depressing at times, but it kept my eyes glued to the screen it was so thrilling. Featuring a Jon who was chased to the Magnus institute by a book and a boy overflowing with spiders, and then claimed by something even worse, lots of child abuse and Elias being a manipulative bastard. (Ongoing)

Reflection - by LazuliQuetzal

There's something haunting Jonathan sims, something that looks just like him, but different all the same. Something inhuman that he cannot allow himself to trust, no matter what it says or claims to know about him. Something that keeps telling him with every moment they have to stay away from the archives, no matter what.

Meanwhile, Jonathan Sims, the monster and remnant of a ruined world, is rapidly forced to reconcile with living in the past as something no one is able to see or even notice as anything out of the ordinary, not even with the power of the eye behind them, and as fun as getting some small sense gratification from being petty and messing with Jonah as much as he can, the only person he can really talk to is quite literally himself.

And he's a fucking idiot.

This fic is great if you just want a little giggle and some catharsis. Pending alternate title is currently tied between "Two Jons in an archive, what will he do?" and "Jon would be the first person to tell you that he is absolutely insufferable". (complete)

See the Line where the Sky meets the Sea - by The_Floating_World

Jon has always had a fascination with things vastly incomprehensible, staring out from a dock out at the ocean and marveling at the infinity of everything before him. How the sky can be perfectly reflected in the ocean, how everything is endless and so vast in such a beautiful way, and I need not tell you that fears have never been loved in the way Jon loves infinity. After a probably not so chance encounter with Simon Fairchild, Jonathan Sims begins his slow evolution to becoming as an avatar of the vast, but he's different in a way the others aren't. Asking questions with no answer and living on that threshold between the vast and unknowable and madness in a way the other's haven't seen before, and by virtue of his own strangeness, even in the face of the other avatars, he is known as the philosopher, a man who isn't a man that seems content to hide just how powerful he really is.

At least until he makes some friends of his own and they come under threat. (Complete)

Starving Gods - by sevansa

Jon is in a really, really bad place when he decides to go through with it, knowing with a certainty his future doesn't have that if he were to follow in the footsteps of Eric Delano, he wasn't going to allow himself the luxury of a chance to back out, not with so many victims at stake.

Needless to say the shock of finding Jon in his office like that, unconscious and mutilated is something none of them will ever forget.

TW eye mutilation but you already knew that, first fic i the series is complete, but the sequel is still ongoing.

The Unknown Watcher - by authureameslove

Martin knows the rules as well as anyone else. You do not stay out past dark, not for anything, lest you fall prey to monsters and madness more potent than any ghost story or relentless creature cooked up by gods bigger than anyone could have imagined. So on a dark night, chased by monsters a plenty and his own stupid decision to chance it Martin Blackwood stumbles upon an estate filled with its own monstrosities. Two killers stalking the woods that weren't there before, a stranger in the night, two who cannot leave lest they be unmade with wooden splinters where there should be skin, and a man with two glowing green eyes and a face that no one can see. Each with their own stories to tell, each bound to this place by powers out of their control and choices they have made and each playing their own part in the end of both themselves and the world.

And of all things, they seem to think that Martin just might be the only one who can save them.

Inspired loosely on Beauty and the Beast with its own unique and captivating TMA Spin, this fic had be glued to my seat in anticipation, and I highly recommend it to anyone who enjoys tales of vengeance, Jmartin and that classic ghost story style mystery. (Complete)

Déjà Vu - CirrusGrey

What do you even do with yourself when you are given a second chance? What does it mean to truly feel your death, being unmade or destroyed or unwound or stabbed through the heart by the man you love, and waking up alone long before you would have come to know any of it. Remembering everything, every pain, every choice that led to it and everything that you can't bring yourself to believe hasn't happened yet, and to do so all alone?

Sasha James was unmade, Tim Stoker was destroyed, Martin was unwound, and Jon was stabbed through the heart by his love. They all woke up alone on a day long before even the thought of Prentiss would touch them, and they all think they're the only one.

The Watcher's Bargain - arthureameslove

Fae au says what?

Martin hadn't known freedom since he was a child, when the witch Mary Blackwood took him in and bound him with silver threads and promises. So when she lays sick and dying in their house he makes a bargain with her. The Death's book of names and her life in return for his freedom. He should have known stealing from the Fae would have consequences beyond death, should have known the witch would have been vindictive enough to only allow him to leave her if it meant trading one prison for another, and this time, surrounded by the high court of the Panopticon, with Fae and tortured humans in chains, bound to one who speaks in half-truths and secrets, hope has never been so far from his eyes.

At least that is, until the fae proposes a bargain of his own. (Ongoing)

This Lonely Knight - arthureameslove

Martin doesn't remember why or how he came to join the knights of the Lonely, nor does he remember any of a life before that point. Like the many other heartless knights he cast away his memories and the pain they carried with them with his choice and that was just the way it was. It's not until he's sent to escort a strange man from the beholding to be the Watcher's betrothed that he begins to find what he'd been missing, what being of the Lonely had kept him from, and more importantly that he can't go through with his suicidal mission to see the death of his charge.

Honestly, this is classic fairytale knight and royal in an arranged marriage romance but with another perfect Magnus Archives twist from arthureameslove. (Complete)

What Belongs to the Sea - TwoDrunkenCelestials, WhyNotFly

When Jon first meets Elias he's dry as a bone and still smelling of thick salt with wild hair, knocking on his door with fury in his eyes and blood roaring in his veins as he demands back his stolen skin. For all his grandmother's warnings though, he still ends up in a gilded cage of his own making. Soon Jon, against his better judgement and consent is swept up into the path of the unblinking, newlywed and bound by powerful magic and paraded around in ceremony and unfeeling shows of affection and control. It's only after an admittedly prickly encounter with Martin, that he begins to hope.

TW there is abuse here, and alot of iron burns (Complete)

The Path of Least Resistance - chermit

Martin, Sasha and Tim go into what they think will be a normal day of work in 2016, and it is anything but. They arrive to find a crime scene, swamped with police officers there to inform them plainly that everyone in the institute is dead, except for them. Elias in his office clutching his head as if in pain, Jon shot three times in the chest with an empty look in his eyes and the rest of them from apparent cardiac arrest. Needless to say they want answers, they want justice, and if it means involving themselves in a world of monsters and fear a mysterious someone had tried so hard to keep them safe from, then so be it. (Ongoing)

The Sweetest Thing - JoyHeart

Martin has always been warned away from humans, his mother took great pains to plant that fear firmly within long before she and all of Selkie kind seemed to turn their backs on him. It isn't until he's rescued from some particularly nasty flesh worms by the Magnus Institute for Oceanic Research and Rescue that he finds an alternate perspective. Unfortunately, even if he doesn't yield his form, Martin's about to find that humans have more than one way of keeping a selkie under their grasp, even if completely unintentionally.

A martin selkie au that had me cackling, in suspense and squealing with just the right amount of fluff (for my tastes at least) featuring Marine Biologist Jon who's just as insufferable when it comes to his skepticism as he is incredibly sweet. (complete)

Heavy angst and whump warning for the sequel (which is ongoing)

A deeply annoying child - ajkal2

A oneshot (that I will defend until my dying breath) where Jon reads a Leitner that turns him into his 8 year old self right after his encounter with Mr Spider and Tim is there to help him pick of the pieces. (Oneshot)

Antigonish - softlyblue

Martin inherits an the Blackwood house from a woman he's never heard of sharing his last name and very quickly finds it inhabited by something trying to kill him, something that is not the four friendlier ghosts that inhabit the place, and something that goes a hell of a lot deeper than cold spots and whispers in the night. It's not so much a choice then to call in the cavalry when a portion of the very well-built roof tries to crush him for the third time in a row, so he sends a reluctant email to three ghost hunters under Basira's recommendation, with one of which being a man reportedly most adept of seeing and reaching out to things that are not there. (Complete)

The Reverb in These Holy Halls - Wolftraps (AlwaysBoth)

After a distinctly unwell day at work Jonathan Sims comes to awareness and marches in to the archives without so much as a word and declares himself to Elias and Martin both as the new head archivist. A lot of people are confused by this, a lot of people suspect Jon of murdering Gertrude and a lot of people want to know what the hell is going on with him. With a bargain made, and an eye and a Spider in his heart Jonathan Sims is going to save the world, and this time he's going to do it right.

Very generic premise of a Timetravel TMA fix it but it comes with some added flavor thanks to some clever writing from the author/s.

Two Graves - SupposedToBeWriting

In saving the world singlehandedly Jonathan Sims honestly thought he was going to die, so it was more than a surprise when he didn't, and even more than his plan actually worked. Now, with nothing but the remnants of fear and a broken heart he flees London, along with everything and everyone to do with the Magnus institute, but quickly finds himself a new purpose with a garden and connection to some avatars who need some help finding themselves after their patron's disappearance.

And then his world shatters when Martin and Basira finally manage to track him down.

This one got me through a particularly rough patch, a fic about reconciliation after the end of the world was... well, ended, and about reconnecting and forgiving the ones you love. TW for some implied sucidal thoughts and ideation. (completed)

The Archivist and the Adventurer (series) - paperdream

There are few things for a human that is worse than to be considered lovely by the Fae, and that is a lesson Jon, like so many things, had to learn the hard way. Ensnared by the wild hunt and bound to the high fae Elias and forcibly changed by the Mother of Spiders, all Jon has left to hold on to is his name, spending his days confined to the Archives to serve and be subject to the whims of the fae, whatever they may be. At least that is, until he finds his solace in helping an adventurer escape the cruelty of the fae unscathed, no matter how foolish he may be. (Ongoing)

Auspex (Series) - faridsgwi

(Victorian AU) The year is 1841, and Jonah Magnus is ready to begin building his archive in London. Now it's just a manner of going to the workhouse to find a child that won't be missed to serve as his repository.

Highly recommended au for you guys, as of now it's still ongoing but my god is it keeping my rapt attention in hopes for updates to the series. Featuring our good old Victorian asshole and resident child abuser Jonah Magnus, as he builds up his new archive and apprentice Jonathan Sims in preparation for his uses. Assistants will be traumatized, friends will be made along the way, and as always remember the apocalypse is always much closer than you think. (Ongoing)

The Kindness of Strangers - theOestofOCs

What's that saying? That Hindsight is 20/20? After a rather delicately arranged meeting in eye neutral terf (read as not in the institute) on Tim's request, Jon is finally able to get the chance to really talk to Tim since… well everything. So when the two find themselves snagged by Breekon and Hope and handed over to Nikola Orsinov, let's just say Tim being in the wrong place at the wrong time was the least of their worries.

Content warning for disassociation, forced nudity and non-consensual touching (not sexual), this one is heavy on the angst, but if you, like me, really wanted Jon and Tim to get the chance to actually reconcile before the unknowing, and love seeing Tim's protective older brother side, then this is the fic for you. (Completed)

Stag Story - With_the_Wolves

Stag's are notoriously hard to capture in the wild, using magic to flee and disappear before any bullet comes close to touching them. As a results hunts are often drawn out and tedious in search of trophies, and notoriously difficult to pull of successfully, at least until one of the most respected of the Hunter's alliance, Elias, comes up with something of a solution.

A solution he keeps under lock and key and threat of iron burns and torture should he disobey. His precious bait stag, cowed and shaped to his will, and he's going to use him to finally kill the Beast of the Northern Forest. (Oneshot)

The Fates Design - theOestofOCs

Kept hidden, starving and without any memory of a time before Elias saved him, the Archive had resigned himself to a life under his care and in his service. He was the Archive after all, a danger to himself and the world, this was what he was for.

So when a thief climbs in through the window of his tower, and gives him a story to ease the pain of hunger and asks him to come with him, at least until Elias's return, he accepts. The want for the pain to end winning out over the safety of his tower and unfortunately, the knowledge that this is where he should be for the safety of the realm.

And then he meets a ginger haired man he couldn't be sure he'd only ever seen in his dreams, and things change.

Alternately titled by the author as the Tmagled au (which I absolutely love), this one puts a really intriguing TMA twist on the classic Rapunzel set up, with some added mystery that had me desperate for more.

As it stands it is still ongoing, and pretty new, but as of posting this has actually been updated fairly recently.

The Lives We've Shared - The OestofOCs

Jon finds something he shouldn't have, something someone took great lengths to keep hidden, and something Elias Bouchard doesn't want him listening to. A tape from Gertrude, hidden below a loose floorboard in his office, speaking with certainty of death and leaving a warning for her successor.

Needless to say Elias will do anything to make sure a secret like that doesn't come to light, so after a short flick of a blade across his throat, all he needs to do is clean up as much of the blood from the office as he can and start again with one of his assistants.

What no one accounted for though, was Jon coming back.

Completed fic where Jon dies and comes back as a ghost, with the single goal to protect his people as much as he can from Elias and others like him.

Fold, Fallow and Plough - theOestofOCs

Jon is a marine conservationist researcher, so when he sees the net squirming and rolling on the beach with something impossible inside, he does what he always has and cuts it free, regardless of any praise or recognition he might have gotten from the discovery.

So when the head of the Magnus institute of Marine discovery arrives moments later, fuming and demanding to know what happened to his catch, Jon certainly isn't going to apologize for doing the right thing. No matter what earning the man's ire might bring upon himself.

He just… he didn't expect this.

Have I mentioned I'm a big fan of Mermaid Body Horror? TW for abuse, non-consensual body modification and a lot of whump, featuring Mer Tim, Danny and Sasha as they try to walk their unexpected charge through a new life under the waves, as others above continue to search for the missing researcher. (Ongoing)

Darkling I listen (half in love) - theOestofOCs

Jon had never had a good feeling about their newest client Jonah Magnus, but it's not until he sees him one night crawling down the side of his castle with spiderlike grace that he truly comes to realize he's not human, and Martin needs to survive this. So, throwing caution to the wind and what he knows has to be all sense with it, he makes a deal with Magnus. Martin will be sent back to London under the guise that Jon will be continuing their work here, and Jon's life is forfeit.

But Magnus has far greater plans for his new pet, and no intention of letting him go that easily.

If you're me and you've read the original Dracula by Bram Stoker this is one hell of a treat. Just the right amount of TMA and Dracula plot points with some very well written body horror as Jonathan finds himself slowly turning into a creature of the night. (Ongoing)

The Archivist's Moving Castle - Hallali

In a world full of magic and monsters a plenty, Martin's life on its own has thus far been profoundly uninteresting. But dreaming of adventure in the hills was never a way to stay safe, and Martin has always been quietly content, if a fair bit lonely, tending to the town's library under the employ of one Peter Lukas. At least, that is, until a strange man full of magic of his own seeks his sanctuary and promises to help him escape, a hope Martin can at least hold onto for now even as his world twists beyond the limits of what he thought possible and he is cursed and forced to flee before Jon could even have the chance to return. Which is all well and good he could suppose, he needed to get out anyway, he just wished there were less monsters trying to kill him involved. (Ongoing)

104 notes · View notes

auntie-browning · 5 months ago

Text

Ragged breath met the keen ire Browning held underneath as she watched her former friendly host go on about the dirty truth. She felt cheated in a way, cheated from an endearing relationship with someone she could at least relate to. Yet, that wasn’t entirely true either. She had lied to her about the truth as well, holding back on what she was and why exactly she was traveling around. In a sick sense, it was justice for both parties. But now, with the doll underneath that…inhuman creature…only one thought passed through her mind:

What was her deal with her? She couldn’t be the only machine she had interacted with if the horrifying fleeting memories were correct. If so, why her? Why torment her in this way? What’s another wayward soul in a sea of thousands she felt in her mind? Why couldn’t she be satiated with what she had? Of course, once she asked that again, the feeling of that deep unsatiated hunger crept back into her mind…gnawing away at her thoughts the entire time they were connected. She could only imagine just how utterly decimating it feels right now? Constantly desiring more just to satiate something that can never be full. A Sisyphean task for the damned.

This all only culminated to one single question running wildly in her mind: Why didn’t she feel absolutely revolted by all this? Threats, murder, consumption, and the maddening realization that she is nothing but a monster to her core. Yet, despite all this, Browning felt herself in those shoes of hers more than she would care to admit. Two souls damned to wonder the vast gardens of forking paths without rest: One by the whims of unseen entities and the other by the demands of their hunger. Both were not born of natural birth but created to serve a purpose. Both could be considered less than the beings that created them…

She didn’t want her empathy to give her the benefit of the doubt. She tried so hard to reject the notion from her neural cloud…the idea they could be of some kind of kin. But the more she rejected the more her own mind projected her needs onto that…monster. It did help stop her from moving on to god knows where…yet that power terrified her to no end. A staunch reminder that…for all intents and purposes…she’s still its prisoner. And if she wanted to continue living, she would need to appease it in some way.

“…Fine…I’ll follow you where ever you go…but I want you to promise me, right here and right now…you won’t consume others while I’m with you…Take whatever piece of my being you want, leave anyone else alone…”

The doll replied after much silent deliberation, giving her some terms she would hopefully play into for the time being that she would have to be together with each other. Maybe it was a vein attempt to have her marked death at least mean something in the grand scheme of things. After all, Browning isn’t new to the idea of being a dead doll walking. In fact, Ziatrix would perfectly know that given her new found…intimacy with her history.

The doll could barely understand what was happens to her when she normally drifts into these dreams of travel. Seeing what happened to her this time around was beyond mortifying.

Despite her actions in the material world, she didn’t really have a concrete connection with her body once the visions in her dreams occur. Instead, her mind drifted to a plane of consciousness beyond the normal confides of normal space…finding herself once again at that accursed plane. That singing…those voices…the visions of mirrors in a constant cascading crescendo of reflecting the same hyperdimensional geometry which all culminates into a singular fixed point in space. The sheer process of even perceiving what she could made her neural cloud want to rend itself asunder.

Her cries of mental anguish didn’t seem to appease whatever entity resided in this realm above realms. She had almost given up on struggling anymore when it came to protesting her involuntary travel. So many times has she begged to be let go, to return home once again. So many times did it all fall on deaf ears. This didn’t seem like any difference at all. And as she dropped to her knees in that realm, all she could do was weep solemn tears for the maiden she had just gotten to know. However, she would soon attain her wish…and grow to regret it far more than she could know now.

A sharp pain started to materialize itself in the back of her upper spine, growing intensely with every passing second. It pained her to no end as she didn’t understand what was now happening to her. Begged for answers from those voices she could not understand…but even they fell silent as the pain grew further and further. Soon, that pain began receive a face…or more aptly a visage of horror beyond what she had ever seen. A shambling figure of pure unfiltered fleshly agony had connected itself with her, pressing its probe deep within her. Terror ran deep in the mind of the doll as it was paralyzed from what it saw. The pain of the unknown subsiding to the agony of all those souls trapped within a single body, screaming in unison within her mind. She felt them all at once, crying in perpetual unbridled agony…as the being’s hunger crept in her own psyche.

An unquenching hunger so powerful that it threated to break her own sanity right then and there…or at least whatever sanity there was left anymore.

Browning awoke from the visions, looking over at Zia her vision slowly crept back into frame. Something was different and she knew. The masquerade they were both playing at had finally been broken…and now the two truly saw what the other was. There didn’t seem to be any avoiding it any further.

“…What do you want from me..."

Her tone shifted from her lighter personality into the more on edge sharpness she was more used to dealing out. A false bravado tried to hide the true sensation of fear she had developed from seeing that which should not have been seen...and rueing minute she even stepped foot in this camp.

#;> that old gal ( m1918 )#;> the last long mile ( undefined )#soulstagger

32 notes · View notes

house-of-galathynius · 2 years ago

Text

The Long Road Home

Chapter Nine

Chapter Eight - Chapter Ten

Word Count: 2.5k

Cornwall, Early Spring 1779

Aelin had been in Cornwall two months now. Winter had given way to spring and she welcomed the new season warmly— basking in the early spring sunshine, letting it’s rays soak into her skin, rejuvenating her.

Arobynn had not let her go back to London. Not even to collect her belongings in their townhouse, nor to say goodbye to anyone she knew there. He had herded her into the carriage and despite the late hour, he had ordered the driver to take them straight to his house in Cornwall. Aelin had wanted to fight, had wanted to scream and shout at Arobynn to let her go, to let her make sure Rowan was fine; but she knew that it would be no use and that whatever wonderful thing had been happening between the two of them was over— she would likely never see him again.

The estate where Arobynn had sent her was settled just outside of a small fishing village, it’s grounds surrounded by rolling green hills and forests. The house itself was a large stone building with tall pillars and large windows that overlooked the perfectly kept gardens. Inside Arobynn had clearly spent a lot of money on decorating it with the finest furniture and fabrics that he could get his hands on. Although it occurred to Aelin that it may have been one of his ex-wives that had done the decorating. She shook that thought off pretty quickly.

She had slowly become accustomed to the way of life down here. It was vastly different to that of London or even Hampshire. There were no bustling streets full of people shouting, there weren’t constant parties to attend or dinners to be had. It was quiet in a way Aelin had never really experienced before. Though the quietness should have been soothing, not even the sound of the birds chirping, or the soft rush of water from the nearby river, or the long undisturbed walks she would go on, could dull the aching in her chest. None of it could quiet the torment inside her.

There had been no word on Rowan— no one knew what had happened to him and it was slowly killing her. Arobynn had only told her that he would remain alive for the time being— but it was never enough to contain her anxiousness about him. She desperately wanted news, but she could not ask anyone in the house. Phillipa had not been allowed to join her in Cornwall and her parents could certainly never know what had transpired either.

So Aelin spent the days that weren’t too cold or rainy, walking in the hills surrounding the house and village. Sometimes she would take a book with her and find a spot under a tree or by some rocks and sit there until the wind had frozen her fingers and she could barely turn the pages anymore. Sometimes she would just watch the waves as they crashed against the shore, she would focus on the seabirds that would glide and swoop in the breeze, disappearing into caves or perching on ledges. Aelin wished she could join them; she wished she could soar amongst them and feel the freedom in flying. But the best she could do was let the wind whip around her as she stood at the edge of the cliffs.

This morning was no different from her usual routine. She had risen with the sun and had bathed and dressed quickly before eating her breakfast alone in the dining room and then left through the back entrance, finding the worn path up to the hills.

The sun was shining today— the first proper warmth of spring was starting to appear and she welcomed it gladly. Crocus’ and the green shoots of daffodils were peeking through the grass and soil, bringing colour back into the countryside after what had felt like such a long winter. She breathed in the fresh air and let the sun warm her skin as she walked, stopping occasionally to pick a flower.

She halted when she came to a fork in the trail. She had usually taken the path to the right, it led down to her favourite spot; but today for some reason she felt the left calling her. It was strange, the pull she felt towards it. But the weather was good and she was happy to wander further. So she took the first step and began her climb.

The trail took her higher than before, fields of dirt or grass were the only things that she would pass by. Sometimes she would spot a sheep or horse and stop to try and stroke them; but mostly she just walked. She stopped to rest on a stone, her hand cradling her slightly swollen belly and she caught her breath slightly before continuing on.

The trail meandered the outskirts of a small woods and when Aelin finally reached the top she paused. There in front of her stood a small stone cottage, the stone was crumbling in places and the chimney was leaning to one side. Veins of ivy trailed up the sides of the walls and a large vegetable patch sat just in front. Aelin could see the flickering of a fire through the front window and then movement. She darted out of sight and watched on as an elderly woman crept out of her front door and surveyed the space around her.

“Come out, child. I know you’re there.” Her voice was gravelly and deep. But it held a soft element to it, a kindness that Aelin could not explain. She hesitated a moment behind the trees. She did not know this woman— and she had been essentially banned from talking to people other than those who lived or worked in the house— but still, that warm hand from before seemed to offer gentle encouragement. So Aelin stepped forward and smiled tentatively.

“Come child. It is cold outside, I have warm soup and fresh bread.”

“Thank you for the kind offer, but I must be going.” Aelin bowed her head respectively and started to walk away.

“We have much to talk about Aelin.”

She twirled around. “How do you know my name?”

“I know the names of everyone in this village. Even those long dead.” The woman smiled, beckoning Aelin inside.

If it wasn’t for that strange warmth Aelin could feel, she would have turned right around and walked back to her house as quickly as possible. But she couldn’t feel a threat here, and her curiosity was stronger than her will to leave.

She eventually took the steps towards the woman and the enticing smell of soup. The cottage was simple inside. Consisting of only one room; there was a bed tucked into one corner and then a large fireplace which had black soot covering it from years of use. On the other side of the room was a large worn wooden table, on top of it a simple cloth and an array of fabrics and books. The woman pulled out a chair for Aelin and she took it gratefully, her hands resting on her stomach again.

“A pregnant woman should not be out alone.”

Aelin shrugged, “I enjoy walking. The fresh air is nice.”

The old woman huffed and then placed a steaming mug of tea down beside Aelin. She took a sip and almost groaned at the delicious flavour. The woman gave her a knowing smirk and took a seat opposite Aelin.

“You look tired, child.”

“I suppose I am.” She studied the woman, noticing the lines across her forehead and the scars on her hands from what must have been years of hard work. “I did not realise being pregnant would drain me so much.”

The woman smiled, “the tea will help.”

Aelin took another sip and let the liquid warm her. The old woman sipped her own and they comfortably sat for a few minutes before Aelin set her cup on the table. “I never got your name.”

There was a slight hesitation before it seemed she could answer. “I have had many names, but you may call me Elena.”

Aelin thought it suited her.

“How did you really know my name?” Aelin asked. The village was small, but she found it hard to believe that one woman would know every single person. Especially with the constant comings and goings of seamen and businessmen from faraway lands.

Elena shook her head and took a sip of her drink before placing it back on the table. “I told you, I know everyone in this village. It is also hard to ignore the fact that someone had moved into that gigantic house again,” Elena glanced out the window, “it has been a long time since anyone has been there.”

Aelin followed Elena’s gaze, then looked to the woman. “So you know the man who owns it?”

Elena shook her head. “I know of him. I do not really converse with the townspeople… not anymore at least.”

Aelin was intrigued. The woman lived up here all by herself and she clearly didn’t have visitors often— if the state of the cottage was anything to go by.

“More tea?” Elena offered.

Aelin shook her head. “Why do you not talk with the people in the village?” She couldn’t help but ask it. Her mother would be outraged at the questioning, and would probably have scolded Aelin later. But her mother wasn’t here to scold her, so she asked anyway.

“They think I am a witch.” Elena cackled.

Aelin sat up straighter in her chair, her eyes widening. She had never heard of anyone being so blasé about being accused of being a witch. She had only heard rumours of witches— of women who had peculiar senses, who’s husbands would die mysterious deaths, children being cured of sicknesses. But Aelin had never encountered one… until now she supposed. Despite the revelation, she did not feel afraid. Unlike the stories that circulated in the cities; where the women were ugly and terrifying to look at, their eyes devoid of emotion and humanity— Elena did not look like that, her features were softer and kind.

“You do not have to worry, child.”

Aelin managed a half smile, pushing her tea away regardless of Elena’s kind nature. But there was that warmth again; as if it was telling Aelin it was fine, that Elena was good. So she sat there, letting any fear she might have had simmer away until she was relaxing back into the chair.

“I chose to leave the village after my husband died. I was not welcome anymore and I found that the isolation here was beneficial. I liked to be with the animals and wind.” Elena mused.

“How did your husband…” Aelin trailed off.

“He was lost at sea. He was a fisherman, you see. He would spend weeks out on the ocean, only coming back long enough to sell his catch and then he would be off again. It was a cold autumn day when he left and I could sense the storm brewing, but none listened to me. They never returned.”

Aelin shuddered. “But why did they think you were a witch?”

Elena mulled over her answer. “I had a way about me apparently. I was able to predict a famine, I cured a child of their sickness and I was fascinated with growing things and making concoctions from whatever I could grow. People did not like that I had no explanations for things, only trust in the earth and the elements around us.”

“You cured a child?”

Elena nodded. “It is not the miracle you may think it is, though. The child was living in squalor with his mother and all he truly needed was a hot meal and a good nights rest. I offered them my home as I had too much space for just me. After a few weeks the boy recovered.”

Aelin didn’t think it was witchcraft. She believed that Elena was just good at using what she was given from the earth to provide solutions to problems. Aelin said as much.

“There are two things the Gods provide us with Aelin,” Elena gestured to the dried herbs and flowers hanging on the wall, “they provide us with the means to create, to nurture and heal. They give us trees and plants so that we can use them for good, for our health, to live long lives and survive.”

“And the second thing?”

Elena smiled. “Love.”

Aelin’s heart skipped a beat. She thought of Rowan, then. Of the man who had so easily taken her heart; the man who had cherished her and cared for her even though it was wrong and they could both be killed for it. She ached for him— longed for his sweet kisses and tender touches.

“Love is nothing if not strong. It perseveres. Hate can only survive so long, but love will continue until the end of time— even then it shall remain. It is what brings us together, it is what keeps our hearts beating and our souls pure. Love is more than just feeling, it is power.”

Aelin swallowed. “But love cannot always overcome.”

“How do you know?” Elena replied coyly.

Aelin glanced at her belly and thought of the moment Arobynn found them. She thought of Rowan kneeling on the floor beside her, protecting her even though he knew the cost would be his life. She remembered his figure getting further and further away, the sounds of his pain as Tern beat him.

“Because if it did I would not be here.”

Elena’s face softened. “Love will never give up on you, Aelin. Your story with him is not finished.”

Aelin wiped the stray tear from her cheek, “you don’t know what happened, Elena. There is no hope left in me, our love may have been true… but it was forbidden. Rowan is gone and I shall never see him again.”

Elena rose from her chair and came to kneel before Aelin. “The moment you give up, darkness has won. There is no universe, no world or place where your love with him will be gone. You breathe and live his love everyday. The words from your mouth, the tears from your eyes, the thoughts in your mind are all pieces of it and you will have those forever. The truest love will prosper even in the darkest of times and will survive even the harshest storms.” Elena put a hand on Aelin’s knee, “your story has not finished, I can feel it.”

Aelin cried. Hot tears streamed down her cheeks as she let the words settle in her. She could feel it too, could feel the love that she had shared with Rowan. And even if death separated them, she would find him.

“I can help you.’ Elena whispered.

Aelin sniffed and looked at Elena confused. “Help me? Get back to Rowan?” She asked hopefully.

Elena nodded. “In a manner of speaking, yes.”

“How?”

“You will see, Aelin. In time.”

Tag List:

@morganofthewildfire @tomtenadia @fredweasleyhasadhd @luckyrunawaycheesecake @live-the-fangirl-life @fireheart-violet @charlizeed @scarblx @xo-fangirl-xo @wordsafterhours @jesstargaryenqueen @sailorsassley @sjmships @endlessdaydream @aflickeringsoul @tillyrubes10 @rowaelin-cressworth @cookiemonsterwholovesbooks @rowaelinismyotp @rosegoldannie @maryberry @viajandosinalas @becarefuloflove @allthebooksunderthemoon @sheharahu @swankii-art-teacher @superspiritfestival @becarefuloflove @tanvee1231 @viajandosinalas @backtobl4ck @emily-gsh @whispers-in-the-darkest-heart @becarefuloflove @goddess-aelin @thegreyj @leiawritesstories @nerdperson524 @rowanaelinn

#rowaelin #rowaelin fanfic #rowaelin fic #rowan #aelin #rowan x aelin #aelin x rowan #rowan whitethorn #aelin galathynius #aelin ashryver #aelin ashryver galathynius #tog au #rowaelin au #the long road home #the long road home fic #house of galathynius #house of galathynius fic

29 notes · View notes

livvyofthelake · 2 years ago

Text

list of my favorite once upon a time episodes in each season so tee knows what to look forward to <3 excluding season one and the beginning of 2 because they already watched those duh…

2: child of the moon, idk if you already watched that one or not but i LOVE that episode. slay red!! the miller’s daughter literally slay rose mcgowan. the outsider (belle!!!!). and lacey (again. belle!!!). manhattan (iconic episode. big. huge.). also i personally love the finale although there a pieces of it i don’t vibe with (FLOP villains)

3: the heart of the truest believer (i love you henry….). quite a common fairy slay tinker bell slay soulmates slay regina. good form (i love you killian). going home, episodes that are quite literally burned into my memory forever they affected me so greatly i love you midseason finales i love you memory of frantically rushing home from that goddamn youth group meeting to put this on 20 minutes late i love you season three. witch hunt literally a slay. a curious thing i love you regina. TIME TRAVEL ADVENTURE FINALE I LOVE YOU.

4: white out (a jane classic. she writes all the biggest slays). fall (episodes that make you soooooo excited to see the next one you go crazy insane). shattered sight (episodes that are SO funny and dumb and dramatic and camp). poor unfortunate soul (i love you ursula…). lily (um what if i was the darkness to your light or whatever lol…). operation mongoose is like if a finale was bad but also fantastic and fun and also still kind of bad in a way. its complex

5: siege perilous!!!! (another jane espenson CLASSIC. this it THE episode!). the broken kingdom (slay ouat king arthur i love your well meaning corruption arc swag i love your cuck realness i love how you studied the blade <3 hugeee surprise tumblr user arthurgirl is an apologist for ouat evil king arthur who could ever have seen this coming). NIMUE!! (episodes of all time, also what i always bring up in arguments about the greek mythology stuff coming out of nowhere. she literally reforges excalibur with the flame of prometheus). the bear king (my beloved little filler episode that’s also not filler it’s deathly important). swan song (don’t even talk to me about this one). labor of love (i love you hercules). OUR DECAY. ruby slippers (i love you gay people). firebird (i love you emma). two part finale only you/an untold story is like if a finale was awful and aired on your mom’s birthday which was also mother’s day which was also a sunday and your family went to a marching band related event for your sister and you stayed home because you like hate marching band events and you’re 14 and then you celebrate your mom’s birthday but you’re bummed because this finale was bad but then like six years later you realize it was actually good except it’s also bad

6: the other shoe (what if an episode was bad but it was about your beloved cinderella and also it’s camp actually! another hit from jane!). street rats (what if an episode was good and it was about your friend aladdin…). heartless (i love you snow and charming). ill boding patterns (gideon! what if daddy issues made you insane.) page 23 (i love you regina). mother’s little helper (gideon!! what if mommy issues made you a psychopath). awake (i LOVE you snow and charming!). the song in your heart (musical episode!!). the final battle!!! what if a season finale was the best thing you’d ever seen in your life!!

7: garden of forking paths (what if an episode was kind of bad but your friend cinderella was in it). beauty (slayyy alice!!). wake up call (“sorry i missed your little… avengers assembly” said with sooo much contempt). the eighth witch (it’s like if an episode was a midseason finale but it wasn’t very good but it also slayed). the girl in the tower (i love gay people). breadcrumbs!!! (my episode!!! he doesn’t need a great story he just wants a great life!!!). the guardian (i love gay people!) is this henry mills? (what if an episode did weird time travel and nothing really made sense but it slayed). and then obviously leaving storybrooke is THE finale. what if a series finale was a little bad but it was your favorite show and it aired on your birthday and it made you cry three times.

#post brought to you by procrastination of my homework and laundry!!!#beth.txt #🍎

13 notes · View notes

tenthgrove · 3 years ago

Text

The Laboratory

P2 of 3, Sorbet and Gelato (Yandere) x Reader

Content Warnings: Non-descript domestic abuse (not by SorLato), non-descript discussions of violence

The weather is more erratic tonight than last. Each alternating glance upwards brings clear sky then cloud. One thing for certain however, is that you’re more conscious of the cold even though the thermometer reads the same. Perhaps, the promise of the calmer haven of a person’s home as your destination permits you to be more conscious of your external sensations, even if the people you are seeking out are exactly the same pair of criminals as the night before.

Lost in this thought you glide past a fork in the path on your little bike, noticing the lights of town over the hill. You stop, placing your foot on the tarmac. From your pocket, you pull out the tightly folded note, squinting in the low light at the instructions written out for you.

As you thought, wrong turn. You need to go left at that crossroad.

Getting back on that bike and back on track, you switch on your bike’s headlamp. It was understandable back on the road away from your house, but this far away keeping it off for stealth’s sake is just paranoia. The others can’t find out you’re missing. Won’tfind out.

The sight ahead is not promising. A vast, swirling mass of deep, evergreen woods. You really hope Sorbet and Gelato’s place isn’t in there, but unfortunately enough your instructions do prescribe a straight journey from here. Perhaps the house is on the other side of the woods. Perhaps there are other houses nearby. God, you really hope it isn’t all by itself.

As you enter the shade of the dark trees you start to regret not bringing your headphones. You can hear every little rustle of birds and bats up above, as well as whatever it is lurking in the bushes around you. You try to picture in your mind what this place might look like during day, peaceful and serene, but this isn’t day.

A street-light shines up ahead and you find yourself in brief relief, before you realise up ahead. The instructions were clear. First house you see.

Your concern is confirmed as you pull ahead of the large conifer blocking your view. Guarded by the streetlamp is a sizeable, two-floor cottage painted white, yellow light peeking through the gaps in the closed curtains. There is a silver car sheltered in the driveway, dare you say, a car reminiscent of quite a few sour memories looking over your back as you walked down the street.

Well, for better or worse, you’re here.

You wedge your bike between the low branches of the tree, out of view of the house. If tonight ends with you needing to run, it’s best they don’t know where your means of escape is.

You keep your wits about you as you walk over to the front door. First to your notice is the gate to the side of the garage, leading into the closed back garden. That probably means there’s a back door. Good to know. As for the front garden, it’s well kept enough to show it’s habitation, yet still dark and drab enough to give the unreasonable suggestion of an abandoned house. Maybe not abandoned. Haunted.

You step up to be standing directly in front of the door. It’s matte black, very stark against the rest of the house, and with a dramatic figurine of some mythical creature on the knocker that looks straight out of some gothic horror novel. You get the feeling it was installed by its current inhabitants and did not come with the house, the age of which is very much showing in its peeling paint. It looks like something they would choose at least.

A small camera, directly centred above the door looks down at you intrusively. You wonder if it’s always on or just a dud. No matter, it’s not like you’re sneaking in or anything… you need to stop procrastinating and just knock.

You raise your hand to the knocker.

The door swings over and you jolt a little in shock. You squint at the light flooding your eyes, not quite registering the man in front of you for a couple of seconds.

“’Evening sweetheart,” Gelato says to you. His voice is so smooth and tranquil you have to blink to make sure it isn’t actually Sorbet. Gelato, for certain, is wearing a silky white shirt clearly too big for him. You’re guessing he borrowed it from his husband, which is sweeter than you should probably admit.

“Hi-” you respond. Your attention is focused behind him, eager to gather as much as possible about the home you’re about to enter. Compared to the slightly-disrepaired state of the exterior, it’s beautifully kept, incredibly organised and sweetly decorated. The walls are painted a pale green, and there is an oak cabinet in the hallway topped with vases and plant pots. There’s an open door to the left with light and music coming from within, so you’d wager that’s where Sorbet is.

“What’s wrong? You’re shaking, dear,” Gelato observes. Your eyes snap back to him.

“Cold,” you excuse yourself. Gelato smiles and extends his hand.

“Come into the warm then, sweetheart.”

You step inside, without taking his hand. The door is shut behind you.

If nothing else, this house is warm. It smells nice too, something pleasing wafting in from what must be the kitchen ahead of you. Do Sorbet or Gelato cook? That’s an odd thought, far too domestic. But with a house this quaintly kept, you suppose it isn’t too far out the realm of possibility.

“Sorbet!” Gelato calls with a clap. “They’re here!”

The music in the next room stops, and Sorbet enters the hallway, carrying a book. He puts it down on the cabinet and smiles.

“Hello angel, did you get here alright?” he asks.

“Yeah, I don’t think they saw,” you answer.

“Good,” Sorbet responds, stepping subtly too close for comfort. You recoil back.

“Alright,” he remarks ambiguously, stepping away from you. Your nerves start to spike again, unsure what to make off his reaction. You shift anxiously on your feet.

“May we start? I brought the map you wanted,” you suggest, trying to get the interaction back in your control.

“Of course, and thank you,” Sorbet nods, taking it from your hands. “Follow us sweetheart.”

He opens a door at the end of the hall, a cold draft blowing in. He walks down a flight of stairs with Gelato right behind, who gives you a sly, suggestive glance as he disappears from view. Into the basement. You really don’t like where this is going.

Should you say something? Should you just go? Securing their help is important to you, but if this is a trick and you fall for it, it’s entirely on you. You look between the two doors, the basement and the exit, repeatedly.

“Earth to (Y/N)?” Gelato calls. “Are you coming?”

Deep breath. You walk over to the edge of the steep, wooden steps and look down on the couple smiling up at you from the bottom.

“I don’t want to,” you admit.

Gelato sighs theatrically, stepping up towards you with his arms open.

“Aww come on sweetie, surely you’re not gonna say you don’t trust us now?”

“Please tell me that’s a joke,” you say, looking away.

“You wound me darling,” he cajoles you. “But very well.” He clicks open his flip knife and before you have time to panic, hands it over to you.

“If it helps, you can look after this for me until we’re done.”

You look at the knife in your hand. It’s the real deal alright, and could certainly lend you a hand if in a pinch, but that doesn’t change the fact Sorbet is probably armed as well.

Fuck it, if this goes south it goes south.

You march ahead of Gelato down the stairs, hoping if you can at least see the basement, it won’t be as bad as you’re imagining.

It is.

The walls are lined tightly with rack after rack of weapon, some of which you’ve never even heard of before. In the corner of the room is a chair, the varnish chiselled away with what looks like rope marks, and absolutely spattered in blood.

The smell is, needless to say, less comforting than the rest of the house. You look back at them with worried confusion.

“Oh, that?” Sorbet asks, gesturing to the chair. “You can ignore that, my dear. Let’s just say we like to keep all our work-matters confined to one room,” he directs you, smiling uncontrollably as he admires the blood like he’s remembering something he’s proud of. “But what you need to concern yourself with, is this.”

He points to an unassuming table in the other corner, on top of which sits a rack of boiling tubes, one of which is filled with a bubbling liquid. “I hope you don’t mind, but we got ahead on planning for tomorrow’s big event.”

“No worries at all,” you stammer, tension falling at this apparently innocent explanation for bringing you down here. You’re also kind of glad they’re opting for poison to get rid of your abusers. It’s somehow easier on your conscience then more violent forms of death. “I have to say though,” you sigh. “I’m kinda surprised that assassins like you would opt for poison.”

“For the hit itself? No, no,” Gelato refutes you jovially. “This is just so they don’t cause trouble for the journey back here!”

Your stomach drops.

“...So you can leave less evidence?” you suggest hopefully.

“No you innocent thing,” Sorbet chuckles. “So we can have fun making them suffer,” he informs you.

“Does that surprise you?” Gelato asks, holding you from behind. “You know we can’t help our natures, and it’s not like we’re getting any other payment for this, is it?” he reminds you.

You breathe in sharply. It suddenly occurs to you how out of your control all of this is. You are silent as the pair step away from you towards the rack of weapons.

“Now my love,” Sorbet says to Gelato, “I think this is a matter where your creativity will come into use.”

You shut your mind quickly, not wanting to hear whatever horrors they have to discuss. It only half works, your insides twisting at every new mention of gore and viscera. All you wanted was your freedom, not for anyone to suffer. But all that’s out of your hands now, as is potentially, what happens to you…

No… you’re being dishonest to yourself. You don’t care if the people who wronged you are made to suffer. God knows you long passed that point of morality. What you care about is that the situation you’re in is at Sorbet and Gelato’s mercy. This is no longer your revenge.

Silently, you drift over to the table, sitting down besides the bubbling liquids. Your legs were starting to feel weak.

“Darling?” Gelato asks. It’s only after a moment you realise which darling he means. You look at him tiredly. “What do you think about all this? You came over for a reason after all.”

“I- I think you know what you’re doing better than me,” you digress.

“Suit yourself,” he shrugs.

“What’s the matter? You look faint.” Sorbet notes.

“Yeah I just… little sick…” you murmur.

“Want to go upstairs?” he offers.

Upstairs. Now that sounds nice. But your so deep in your spiral of thought you don’t actually feel like moving.

“If you aren’t feeling well, maybe we should drive you back to your place,” Gelato adds. Suddenly a wicked smile forms on his face. “Better yet, you could stay with us.”

“No,” you refute him firmly. Dark shapes are starting to form in your vision and your head feels cold. Every breath only makes it worse.

You fall forward, to the floor, vision failing.

Did they drug you?

You suppose after the idiot you’ve been.

It’s what you.

Deserve.

::::::::::::

“Stay with them in the back seat, let me know if they start choking.”

“They’re fine for now, but I’ll keep my eye out.”

“I’m such an idiot.”

…

“Are we here?”

“Think so.”

“Right, you lift their front. This is going to be difficult.”

“Should we just, you know, do it now? Everyone’s probably inside.”

“No, a deal’s a deal. Let’s not get violent unless we’re caught.”

“Hang on, I think they’re trying to open their eyes!”

“(Y/N)?”

“No, I don’t think they can hear us.”

…

“So this is where they sleep? Christ.”

“One day Baby, then we’re getting them out.”

“I don’t want to leave them here.”

“They’ll be fine, nobody noticed a thing.”

“But the drug…”

“They’re past the point of danger, they’ve been doing alright this far.”

“Please, just a little longer?”

…

“Sleep tight my love.”

::::::::::::

Christ, you don’t think you’ve ever had a headache this bad. What the hell were you even doing last night? … Oh fuck.

You blink rapidly, forcing yourself to take stock of your surroundings. The hell-scape you’ve woken up to is… your bed? They drugged you to take you back to your bed?

This… doesn’t feel right.

You throw off the covers and realise there’s something clutched in your hand. It’s a small note, damaged by your sweat but just about easily legible. You read it silently.

(Y/N),

Good news, the poison works!

It was not our intention to knock you out like that, but it was probably a mix of how close you were sitting to the vials and the fact you’re less used to it than us. Deepest apologies for not realising the risk sooner.

We made sure to get you back quickly without being seen, so you shouldn’t fear any punishment from your housemates. Look in the bottom drawer of your nightstand and we left you some painkillers.

We’ll be coming over tonight at 10pm. We would like to talk to you afterwards, so please don’t go anywhere. If possible, it’s probably safest for you to stay in your room until we find you.

One more day Sweetheart, then it will be over.

S + G

The message is adorned with three love hearts scribbled onto the bottom of the page. A touch from Gelato, probably. You open the drawer and find, as promised, a box of painkillers together with your favourite soft drink. You sink back into your sheets, listening to the sounds of your housemates as unaware as before of the fate that awaits them.

One more day.

#la squadra #la squadra x reader #sorbet and gelato #sorbet and gelato x reader #yandere cw #The Laboratory Fic #this chapter actually mildly ties into the source material are you proud of me?

68 notes · View notes