#look upon that which i have wrought

[multiversal-pudding]

Hey! Who Dinosaur’d my V?!

(A V design for an AU that turned out really cool but also doesn’t really feel like it clicks with the Overall Stuff as much as I wanted??- Ah well, I guess now she’s just a general cool Sentinel-V instead of a specific one- (also a more rendered one vs the piece I originally made fleshing out the design bc. Tbh I really like rendering??))

[korkorali]

Hey does anyone else like, when their old art starts suddenly getting notes again, just kinda get this silly sinking feeling in their gut?

Like 'no please don't, ignore it, I beg you, I'm better than this now! I promise! You're supposed to pretend that doesn't exist, please! Don't do this to me! This doesn't reflect my skills at all, I promise, I've gotten so much better! I could draw this so much better these days! You don't have to like it, I'm begging you!'

It really does display the difference between a creator and consumer tbh- the creator looks at their old works and goes 'with what I know now, I cannot see anything but the flaws in this work. Nobody could ever like this.' And meanwhile, the people actually looking at it go 'yoo, that's sick! I like it!'

[slytherintrikru]

— || Revenge is Sweet || —

Pairing: Lucius Malfoy x gryffindor!muggleborn!reader (SHE’S OF AGE) 

Word count: 6224

Warnings: SMUT, NSFW, 16+, fingering, clit rubbing, cock in Vigina, male and female, adult content, adult language, cuss words, clit licking, degrading, fluff if you squint, pet names, anguish, cheating, heartbreak, revenge, crying, Lucius comforting Y/N?, aftercare, praise, daddy kink, cum swallowing, fluff, out of character Lucius, 2 almost 3 years after the 2nd wizarding war, younger woman with older man, first time together, heated make out session, kissing, hickeys, love bites, SFW if you squint. (SHE IS OF AGE) 

Summary: Y/N wanted to surprise Draco by visiting him at the Malfoy Manor but ended up catching him cheating instead. While leaving she bumps into Lucius Malfoy and things get kinda heated. (SHE’S OF AGE)

Requested: by no one this is my idea 

A/N: Hello, my fellow Dreamers, hope you like this. Please give me your feedback. BTW I also already posted this on my AO3 account @ slytherintrikru.

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Y/N navigated her way up the meandering, earthy path that led to the formidable gates of the Malfoy Manor. These gates, a grand testament to the opulence within, were adorned with wrought-iron craftsmanship that gleamed even in the muted light of dusk. Beyond the gates, a long, majestic driveway, flanked by a procession of ancient trees, guided her toward the mansion's imposing facade. Standing before her, the Malfoy Manor exuded an aura of architectural splendor. Its stately stone walls rose gracefully, adorned with intricate details that whispered of centuries past. Tall, narrow windows punctuated the facade, their panes seeming to conceal secrets within, bestowing upon the house an air of sinister allure.

The estate on which the manor resided was vast and mysterious. A dark forest encroached upon the edges of the property, casting eerie shadows that played hide-and-seek with the waning daylight. In stark contrast to this enigmatic woodland, a lush and meticulously cultivated garden graced the manor's rear, a testament to the Malfoy family's penchant for grandeur and elegance.

With each deliberate step, Y/N's heartbeat quickened. Her trembling hand reached out to rap upon the massive, wooden double doors that guarded the entrance. She couldn't have fathomed that she would ever find herself returning to this nightmarish place, where the echoes of her torment at the hands of Voldemort and his fanatical followers still reverberated in the depths of her memory. It had been two agonizing years since that fateful day when Fenrir Greyback had dragged her through those very doors, her hair pulled viciously as she struggled to match the monstrous pace set by her captor. The same mansion had borne witness to her harrowing encounter with the Dark Lord himself, the malevolent figure who had imprinted the dreaded Death Eater mark upon her left arm—a mark she had desperately sought to eradicate for almost three long years.

The reason for her presence here, despite the haunting memories, was her enduring love for Draco. Three years had passed since the inception of their clandestine relationship, but their bond remained unshaken. Draco's parents, however, were a formidable obstacle in their path. They looked down upon her as a 'filthy Mudblood,' a fact that had never deterred her resolve, so long as Draco stood by her side. Narcissa and Lucius Malfoy had resorted to devious tactics, attempting to buy her loyalty, attempting to pry her away from their son. Their efforts had met with stubborn resistance, leaving them fuming with frustration. On countless occasions, they subjected her to scathing tirades, especially Narcissa, whose cruelty knew no bounds. After a week, Lucius resigned to a sullen silence, but Narcissa's venomous words and occasionally physical aggression persisted as a daily ordeal that Y/N endured with steely determination.

Y/N flinched as the manor door creaked open, her reaction akin to that of someone stumbling into a jinx. Her startled gaze dropped to the floor, where a familiar figure stood. It was Rue, the endearing house elf, a cherished presence in Y/N's life.

"What can Rue do for Draco's lovely girlfriend?" Rue inquired, her lips curving into a warm, welcoming smile.

Y/N couldn't help but smile in return; Rue had always held a special place in her heart. With her bright blue eyes and those endearing pointy ears, Rue exuded an unmistakable charm. Not only did she anticipate Y/N's every need, but she also prepared food and drinks precisely to Y/N's liking. Since the law against elf brutality had been enacted, Y/N had taken it upon herself to ensure Rue's comfort, providing her with clothing. Over the months, Rue had transformed, shedding the weight of servitude to become a happier, more carefree presence.

"I'd like to see Draco, please, Rue," Y/N replied, her voice gentle and careful not to startle the petite house elf.

Rue's smile widened, and with a tiny, reassuring grip on Y/N's hand, she led her inside. As the door closed softly behind them, Rue spoke again, her voice filled with an eagerness to assist. "Master Draco is in his room. Rue will take you."

Y/N hesitated for a moment, a playful idea forming in her mind. "No, no, it's fine. I can go myself. I want to surprise him."

The adorable house elf nodded, her eyes filled with understanding. With a snap of her fingers, she vanished from sight, leaving Y/N to navigate the winding corridors of the Malfoy Manor alone.

Y/N couldn't help but grin at the thought of Rue experiencing a moment of personal indulgence, wondering if the house elf was trying to savor the pleasures she had missed in her life of servitude. With that pleasant thought, Y/N embarked on her ascent up the many flights of wooden stairs that led to the upper reaches of the manor. Her footsteps echoed softly through the hallway as she made her way toward Draco's room.

As she arrived at her destination, Y/N came to an abrupt halt, her senses keenly attuned to an unexpected sound emanating from behind Draco's door. She strained her ears, desperately hoping it wasn't a case of accidentally stumbling upon an intimate moment between Lucius and Narcissa. A glance at the door's label confirmed it was indeed Draco's room, and then she heard it again.

Moans.

Specifically, the unmistakable sounds of male and female moans. Y/N's heart pounded in her chest as she leaned closer to the door, attempting to confirm what she dreaded most. She heard his name, Draco's name, whimpered from a female voice within, a voice that sent shockwaves through her.

Her blood ran cold, her heart rate spiked, and tears welled up in her eyes. Y/N prayed it wasn't true, that Draco wasn't betraying her. She cautiously pushed the door open, her movements silent as she observed the heart-wrenching scene before her. Draco, lost in passion, buried his face in Astoria Greengrass's neck, his vigorous thrusts filling the room.

Their eyes met, Y/N's and Astoria's, in a moment of cruel recognition. Astoria's smirk seemed to taunt Y/N, as if declaring, 'He's mine now, you filthy Mudblood.' With a heavy heart, Y/N gently closed the door, tears streaming down her face. She turned and fled down the hallway, down the stairs, without a care for her surroundings or the possibility of colliding with someone.

Tears flowed freely as Y/N reached the bottom of the stairs, her heart shattering into a million pieces. Her cries escaped in a heartbreaking crescendo, echoing through the manor's grandeur. In her distraught state, she collided with an unexpected presence, teetering dangerously on the brink of falling backward. However, strong arms enveloped her, steadying her in her moment of despair.

"What in Merlin's name are you doing, girl?" The voice, dripping with disdain, hissed through the tense air. Y/N's heart lurched at the sound, her gut telling her it was all too familiar. As her tear-blurred gaze lifted, she was met with the sight of a thoroughly baffled and irate Lucius Malfoy, his aristocratic features etched with a mix of anger and confusion. Her own expressive eyes, a mesmerizing shade of E/C, locked onto his cold, steely gray ones.

Blinking away the tears that blurred her vision, she stared at the formidable pureblood wizard who stood before her. Their eye contact held an unspoken tension, a connection fraught with history and complex emotions. It was in that moment that Y/N noticed something she hadn't expected in Lucius – concern. The realization was like a jolt, sending a shiver down her spine.

Concern?

It couldn't be right, could it? Why on earth would Lucius Malfoy, of all people, be concerned about her well-being? Y/N hesitated, her hand instinctively rising to wipe her eyes once more, as if questioning her own senses, wondering if her eyes were playing tricks on her. But the look in Lucius's eyes remained, a glimmer of unexpected humanity in the formidable man who had long been an enigma to her.

"Are you going to speak, or just stand there like a dumb-witted Mudblood?" Lucius's words, laced with venom, cut through the heavy silence. Y/N turned away from him, hurt etched in her eyes, his cruel words piercing her heart. In that moment, the gap between them seemed insurmountable.

Lucius, however, couldn't ignore the pain he had inadvertently caused, and for a fleeting second, remorse tugged at his conscience. Yet, his pride prevailed, and instead of apologizing, he pressed further, his tone demanding answers. "What's wrong with you, girl?"

Y/N pulled herself away from him, a mixture of emotions welling up inside her. She hesitated for a moment, then her voice trembled as she questioned him, "W-Why do y-you care?"

The unexpected vulnerability in her voice caught Lucius off guard, and a flicker of something uncharacteristic passed through his stormy gray eyes. He blocked her path as she attempted to move past him, their proximity intensifying the tension between them. "Just because we got off to the wrong foot when we first met doesn't mean I'm the same person I was before," he hissed, a rare hint of vulnerability seeping into his words. "Now tell me what's wrong, or I'll use Legilimency on you."

Her defenses crumbling, Y/N couldn't hold back the flood of emotion any longer. The words tumbled out of her, her voice wavering as she confessed, "Your son cheated on me with Astoria, that's what happened." She glanced away, bracing herself for the judgment she anticipated. "You're probably happy that he's not with a filthy Mudblood like me anymore. I'll just—"

"He did what?!" Lucius's voice reverberated through the manor, his anger palpable as it resounded against the walls. Y/N glanced at him, a puzzled expression on her face. She couldn't comprehend why he would be so furious that his son, Draco, had cheated on her—a Mudblood—with a pureblood. Lucius Malfoy had never harbored any warmth toward Y/N, so this sudden outburst was baffling. She had always assumed that Draco's parents would be delighted if something like this were to happen.

Lucius's voice, filled with indignation, interrupted her thoughts once more. "How dare that boy break someone's heart instead of just telling you that he wants to end the relationship. I raised him to treat women with respect. Even if the girl is a filthy Mudblood!"

Y/N frowned, her gaze drifting downward to her feet, unable to meet Lucius's eyes. His words were laden with a complex mixture of anger, disappointment, and something she couldn't quite fathom.

"Why would you care anyway? You should be happy that he cheated on me. Now he can go marry a pureblood who's more beautiful than me," she muttered bitterly, her self-esteem shattered.

In an unexpected turn of events, the cold metal of the snake handle of Lucius's cane lifted her chin. She blinked in surprise as he swiftly pulled his cane away and grasped her chin roughly with his hand, forcing her to hold eye contact with him.

"Don't ever say those words again. Am. I. Understand, Y/N?" Lucius's voice, though stern, held a strange mixture of concern. She nodded in response, but it seemed that wasn't sufficient for him. He demanded more. "I expect you to answer when I ask you something!"

"Y-Yes, Sir!" she squeaked, her gaze locked onto his features. She couldn't help but notice the commanding presence he exuded, the sharp lines of his jaw, the strength evident in his angular face. His long, platinum blonde hair cascaded gracefully past his shoulders, framing his striking countenance. The blueish-gray eyes that held an air of authority seemed to peer directly into her soul. Y/N's cheeks flushed inexplicably as she found herself momentarily entranced by his striking appearance. ‘He's handsome’, she thought, a realization that seemed to take her by surprise.

Y/N's unspoken admiration for Lucius had been a well-guarded secret, a silent confession her heart made each time she crossed the threshold of the Malfoy Manor. Her heart would do a subtle dance of anticipation whenever she knew she'd encounter him, and a flush would steal across her cheeks, like a clandestine tribute to his striking presence. It was an irrational reaction, one she couldn't quite understand, given that Lucius had never hidden his disdain for her—well, at least, he hadn't before.

Lucius's trademark smirk played on his lips, but there was a curious shift in his demeanor. Gone was the initial cockiness, replaced by genuine amusement as he surveyed Y/N's puzzled expression. Her blush intensified, a shade that rivaled the crimson and gold of the Gryffindor house colors.

"You really think I'm handsome?" he probed, his tone now laced with curiosity. He leaned in closer, the proximity between them causing a subtle flutter in Y/N's heart. Lucius's eyes sparkled with a newfound charm as he awaited her response.

"I—what? I didn't—" she stammered, but her words were abruptly silenced.

"Legilimens, my darling girl," Lucius smoothly interrupted. His smirk remained, but it was tinged with a magnetic confidence that left her feeling exposed. He leaned even closer, his lips brushing against her ear, and he whispered softly, his voice a provocative caress, "Ah, yes. It appears you've conveniently forgotten that I possess the ability to delve into your mind. You see, I heard every thought you've had about me. Like your secret desire for me to pin you down on my bed, to make you forget how to walk."

Y/N's eyes widened, her cheeks aflame with embarrassment. Her heart raced, and she felt a shiver of vulnerability wash over her. Lucius's audacious revelation had unraveled a new layer of intrigue and desire, transforming their dynamic into something far more intricate and captivating.

She gasped, disbelief coursing through her. Could he truly have been privy to her every innermost thought? It felt surreal, like a dream she was unable to awaken from. In an attempt to regain her composure, she instinctively retreated a step, allowing her gaze to lock with his. His eyes held the same intense emotion she had noticed earlier – a smoldering, undeniable lust that sent a tingle down her spine. He leaned closer, his body almost brushing against hers, and she could feel the heat radiating from him.

"That's the very reason I've maintained my distance from you all these months," he admitted, his voice betraying a hint of vulnerability beneath its low, seductive tone. "After my ex-wife and I discovered the truth about you and my son's relationship, I tried to keep my demeanor cold. Yet every night, unable to control my desires, I found myself lost in fantasies of you," he confessed, his words a hushed, intimate secret shared between them.

A blush painted her cheeks once more as his voice whispered sensually into her ear, sending shivers coursing down her spine. His hands found their way to her sides, exerting a gentle, yet possessive squeeze. She couldn't help but shudder at his touch.

"My son is a fool for betraying such a beautiful, enchanting nymph like you," he purred, his lips grazing the tender skin just below her earlobe. His kisses left a fiery trail down her neck, only to ascend slowly back towards her lips. When their mouths met, it was as though a swarm of butterflies took flight in her stomach, fluttering wildly. She didn't respond immediately, her brain struggling to catch up with the whirlwind of sensations. Gradually, she inhaled his intoxicating scent, responding to his kisses with a growing hunger of her own.

Y/N's moans of desire seemed to echo within the cavernous expanse of Lucius's opulent mansion. Every step she took away from the memory of Draco's betrayal and closer to Lucius felt like a transgressive leap into the unknown. The kiss, fueled by a volatile mix of guilt and longing, deepened with each passing second. It was a magnetic force pulling them closer together, their lips becoming the epicenter of their shared need.

Her fingers wove themselves deeper into Lucius's long, platinum blonde hair, the strands silky and cool to the touch. He couldn't help but groan in response, the sound a testament to the intensity of their connection. His powerful hands, previously residing at her sides, ventured boldly downward, reaching her shapely derrière. With a delicate yet firm touch, he squeezed, sending exhilarating waves of sensation through her body.

With a sudden surge of passion, Lucius lifted Y/N off her feet, her legs instinctively wrapping around his waist to maintain their electrifying kiss. The sensation of being carried by him, the firmness of his grip, and the heat of his body against hers were intoxicating. They ascended the grand staircase, their rhythmic ascent echoing through the mansion's ornate halls.

As they turned down the dimly lit hallway, the portraits of stern-faced ancestors bore witness to their clandestine rendezvous. The anticipation was palpable, each step a deliberate stride toward the unknown. The soft glow of moonlight spilled through heavy, brocade curtains, casting intricate patterns on the Persian rugs that lined the floor.

With an audacious display of strength and desire, Lucius kicked open the door to his lavishly appointed bedroom. The door swung wide with a creak, revealing a chamber bathed in shadows. The grandeur of the room was nothing short of breathtaking, with its sumptuous canopy bed, antique furnishings, and gilded accents. The room exuded an air of timeless elegance, a stark contrast to the illicit passion that had led them there. Yet, with another commanding kick, he shut the door behind them, sealing their secret within the confines of the room's opulent embrace.

In the opulent chamber, bathed in the soft glow of moonlight filtered through heavy curtains, he guided her towards his bed with a gentleness that belied the intense desire simmering between them. The sumptuous sheets, adorned with intricate patterns, awaited their embrace, a testament to the luxury that surrounded them. With a feather-light touch, he laid her down, the mattress conforming to the curves of her body like a lover's caress.

Desire surged between them, an irresistible force pulling them closer together. She eagerly wound her legs around him, her longing palpable. A deep, resonant chuckle rumbled from his chest, a seductive reverberation that filled the room. It was a sound that resonated with promise, the promise of what was to come.

His lips embarked on a slow descent down the delicate curve of her neck, leaving a trail of searing kisses in their wake. His teeth grazed her skin, eliciting sharp gasps and urgent moans from her trembling lips. Y/N's moans danced in harmony with the hushed symphony of their passion, their clandestine desires woven into every sound.

With a masterful touch, his hands began their sensual exploration, fingers tracing the contours of her body. He reached for the fabric of her shirt, the anticipation of their impending intimacy electrifying the air. But as he made to unveil her, he paused, gazing into her eyes with a mixture of tenderness and raw desire. His voice, a sultry whisper, hung in the air like an unspoken invitation, "Do you want to continue this?"

Her heart swelled with a heady blend of love and desire at his considerate question. It wasn't just about the act itself; it was about the connection they shared, the intimacy that extended beyond the physical. Her eyes met his, and she nodded in fervent agreement, but his gaze turned insistent, demanding more than a mere gesture.

She acquiesced, her voice a soft, breathless confession. "Yes, I want to continue."

With the patience of a man intoxicated by her presence, he lifted her shirt, revealing her in all her vulnerability and desire. Each moment was a deliberate act of unveiling, an exploration of the secrets they had kept hidden for too long. Her whimpers of longing grew more pronounced, a sweet symphony of passion that ignited the room.

Their discarded shirts lay scattered, forgotten remnants of the world they had left behind. Their lips collided once more, a fervent clash of desires. His hands, strong and gentle, cradled her face, deepening the kiss into a consuming blaze of longing. In this stolen moment, their connection transcended the physical, binding them together in a fiery embrace that defied the boundaries of reason and restraint.

In the cocoon of their desires, time seemed to slow, allowing them to savor every tantalizing moment. The room, adorned with rich, heavy curtains that filtered the moon's soft glow, bathed them in an otherworldly ambiance. They paused briefly to remove the remaining garments that clung to their heated bodies, leaving a trail of discarded clothing scattered haphazardly across the floor.

With a profound longing etched upon their faces, they surrendered to the pull of their desires. He took the initiative, his lips blazing a path of fiery kisses down her form. Every inch of her skin he touched seemed to ignite with desire, his teeth delicately grazing, and his mouth fervently claiming her.

One of his hands, large and commanding, found its place on her breast, the fingers expertly working her sensitive flesh. The other sought solace on her hip, the grip possessive yet tender. Y/N's response was immediate, her back arching sensually as she pressed herself closer to him. The room bore witness to her unrestrained passion, shadows playing tricks on their entangled figures.

The dimly lit room provided an intimate backdrop to their stolen moment, amplifying the intensity of their connection. She gasped, unable to stifle the whirlwind of sensations coursing through her body. Her longing and need reached a fevered pitch as his lips moved relentlessly over her skin.

This sensation was unlike anything she had ever encountered, not even with Draco. It was a heady concoction of raw desire and an emotional connection that left her feeling utterly exposed and vulnerable, yet simultaneously empowered and alive.

His lips reluctantly abandoned her chest, tracing a searing path downward, inching closer to the epicenter of her desire. Her hips reacted instinctively, a silent plea for more, a plea for him to satiate the burgeoning hunger that consumed her. In response, he chuckled darkly, a knowing grin playing upon his lips.

"So, so greedy for me, aren't you?" he purred, his voice a sultry whisper that sent shivers down her spine. "I've barely even started, my little nymph, and you're already squirming."

Her moans grew in volume, punctuating the charged atmosphere. Her hips continued their rhythmic dance, a wordless invitation for him to delve deeper into her desires. Just as hope began to wane, he boldly ventured between her legs. His thumb found her eager clit, tracing slow, electrifying circles that sent shockwaves of pleasure coursing through her body. She couldn't help but gasp loudly, her moans intensifying as her body surrendered to his skillful touch.

“L-Lucius!” Y/N's fervent whimper hung in the air, a plea for more that only fueled Lucius's desire to push her further into the depths of pleasure. He reveled in the sound, a wicked grin playing upon his lips as he continued to work his magic. His fingers, slick with her arousal, glided effortlessly inside her, seeking out her g-spot with uncanny precision. The sensation of his touch sent electric jolts of pleasure coursing through her, her moans becoming a chorus of surrender.

The room seemed to close in around them, the ambiance heavy with the heady scent of their desire. Shadows danced seductively across the walls, an intimate audience to their clandestine tryst. Every subtle movement, every trembling breath, was magnified in the dim light, intensifying the eroticism of the moment.

Lucius's voice, a velvet caress of dominance, lured her deeper into submission. "That's right, my little slut," he whispered huskily, his words both an affirmation and a command. "Feel how good I'm making you. Did he ever make you feel like this? Did he know all the right spots to please you?"

She struggled to form coherent words, the pleasure he evoked rendering her speechless. Her response was a breathless admission of truth, punctuated by her moans of ecstasy. "N-No... aahh-"

Lucius's eyes bore into her with an intensity that left her feeling exposed and vulnerable, yet utterly consumed by desire. His fingers continued their relentless assault on her g-spot, her body quivering in response. Her pussy clenched around him, a physical manifestation of her escalating pleasure, and he couldn't help but grunt with satisfaction.

"My little slut," he growled, his voice dripping with unrestrained lust, "you've never felt this kind of pleasure before, have you? Well, let's make sure you're fully satisfied, my dear."

With each word, he propelled her further into the abyss of desire, his fingers dancing with a masterful touch that promised to fulfill her every longing. In the dimly lit room, their forbidden encounter continued, a symphony of passion and submission that echoed through the night.

Lucius's descent towards her quivering core was an agonizingly slow and tantalizing journey. His head moved lower, inch by tantalizing inch, until his mouth hovered just above her dripping wet pussy. The room, bathed in the soft, dim light of concealed passion, seemed to hold its breath in anticipation of the forbidden act about to unfold.

Y/N's body was a live wire, tingling with desire as his warm breath caressed her sensitive flesh. Her back arched in a primal response, a silent plea for him to continue, to grant her the pleasure she craved. The air was thick with tension, the electrifying atmosphere heightened by the palpable anticipation of what was to come.

With a deliberate, torturous slowness, his tongue made its first sensuous contact with her throbbing clit. Y/N's response was immediate and intense; she arched her back, a breathless gasp escaping her lips. Waves of desire surged through her, her hips rising to meet his mouth in a fervent demand for more. His tongue traced lazy circles around her clit, each pass a teasing caress that left her trembling with need.

Her hips moved in rhythmic desperation, bucking into his mouth as she sought to intensify the pleasure. Lucius, the master of seduction, had her in a hypnotic trance, his tongue shifting tactics to move from side to side, skillfully exploring every sensitive inch of her. He returned to her clit, sucking with a purposeful hunger that sent shivers coursing through her body. Her moans grew in intensity, a symphony of ecstasy that filled the room.

As if orchestrating a symphony of pleasure, his fingers joined the sensual dance, slick with her arousal. They thrust in and out with a relentless rhythm, each penetration hitting her g-spot with pinpoint accuracy. Y/N's body was a trembling instrument of desire, her moans and whimpers filling the room like a seductive melody.

A familiar sensation began to coil within her abdomen, growing in intensity with each tantalizing moment. Her pussy clenched around his fingers as the waves of pleasure overtook her. With a gasp that shattered the air, she climaxed, her body trembling in the throes of ecstasy.

Lucius's voice, thick with desire and dominance, broke through her post-orgasmic haze. "Good girl, my good girl," he murmured, his words both a praise and a command. Her cheeks flushed with a mixture of embarrassment and satisfaction. He withdrew his hand from her quivering pussy, his fingers glistening with her essence. With forceful insistence, he grasped her jaw, parting her lips and presenting his cum-covered fingers to her mouth. "Taste yourself, whore!" he demanded, his voice a potent blend of authority and lust, igniting a primal hunger within her.

The room, cloaked in shadows, seemed to hold its breath as Y/N's lips encircled Lucius's fingers, moving with an almost hypnotic rhythm as she licked and sucked them clean. Her tongue, eager and tantalizing, left no trace of her essence behind, and Lucius watched her with a predatory hunger that mirrored her own desire. With an excruciating slowness, he withdrew his fingers from her mouth, his grip shifting to encircle her delicate throat, a possessive hold that sent a jolt of excitement through her.

A deep, throaty chuckle resonated from Lucius, a dark sound that underscored his mastery over her. It was a symphony of submission, her whimper in response to his control weaving through the charged air. His other hand, which had been on her jaw, descended with purposeful intent to his throbbing cock. With tantalizing deliberation, he began to stroke himself, each languid movement of his hand a seductive overture to the impending climax of their desires.

Y/N grappled with a myriad of emotions. She knew she should be overwhelmed with guilt, entangled in an illicit affair with her ex-boyfriend's father. Yet, beneath the layers of her moral reservations, a burning desire and a thirst for revenge surged within her. She yearned to make her ex-boyfriend pay for his betrayal, to mend her shattered heart by indulging in the very act that had caused her so much pain.

Her internal turmoil was momentarily eclipsed as she felt the firm tip of his cock teasing her wet, throbbing pussy. The exquisite friction sent a shiver of anticipation coursing through her, and her moans and whimpers filled the room like a seductive aria. Her body was a symphony of need, the sultry dance of his cock against her clit driving her to the brink of ecstasy.

Lucius's voice, dripping with dominance and desire, anchored her in the present moment. "My little mudblood," he taunted, his words laden with a derogatory term that should have stung. Instead, the sultry timbre of his voice rendered her helpless, a willing captive to his seduction. "Is this what you've desired all this time? For a real man to fuck you, to slide his cock deep inside you and make you feel good?"

Despite the term, her moans and whimpers betrayed her true desires, her voice trembling with need. "Y-Yes, Daddy," she whimpered, her plea echoing through the room, a fervent entreaty for the fulfillment of her deepest, most forbidden fantasies. “ Please, fuck me!”

"Daddy? Hmm?" Lucius questioned, his voice dripping with irresistible seduction that hung in the air like a sultry promise. A low, dark chuckle followed, resonating with a wicked allure as his eyes sparkled with mischief and a hint of malevolence. It was a look that promised a thrilling journey into forbidden desires, an intoxicating blend of pleasure and danger.

The room, cloaked in shadows and secrecy, bore witness to their clandestine rendezvous—a sensual dance of dominance and submission that unfolded in hushed gasps and fervent touches. Lucius reveled in her surrender, delighting in the way the derogatory term slipped off his tongue, and, to his surprise, she seemed to share in that twisted pleasure. "My little mudblood is filthy, isn't she?" he continued, his words dripping with desire and a touch of cruelty. In their intimate connection, the term had evolved into an oddly cherished secret, symbolizing her eager willingness to plunge into the irresistible depths of their forbidden passions. "I like that."

With deliberate intent, Lucius poised himself at the edge of her ecstasy, the air thick with anticipation. He surged into her abruptly, a powerful thrust that drew an electrified whimper from Y/N. Her body responded instinctively, arching in response to the sudden intrusion, a wordless plea for more. Lucius groaned in satisfaction, luxuriating in the exquisite sensation of her tight, wet heat enveloping him.

"Daddy!" Y/N's moan, fervent and desperate, reverberated through the room, echoing the intensity of her longing and submission.

Lucius wasted no time in unleashing the primal depths of his desire, setting a relentless pace that sent tremors through the bed beneath them. Pleasure and pain intertwined as Y/N's body stretched to accommodate him, her moans and gasps forming a seductive symphony that filled the room. Each powerful thrust propelled her closer to the precipice of ecstasy, the headboard bearing witness to the fervor of their illicit union.

"F-Fuck," Lucius hissed, his voice a symphony of unquenchable desire as he intensified his rhythm. His hips surged against her with unrestrained lust, each collision sending waves of pleasure coursing through her. The room resounded with their shared passion, an intoxicating rhythm that reverberated through the air and ignited an inferno of sensations. “You’re so tight and wet, aaah- I’m going to have so much fun destroying this tight little hole of yours.”

The hand that encircled her throat tightened incrementally, a gesture of dominance that sent a thrill of arousal coursing through Y/N. Her fingers tangled in Lucius's long, platinum blonde hair, tugging gently as she sought to draw him closer. His primal groans and moans in response only served to deepen her desire, each intoxicating sound forging an unbreakable connection between them in the hidden world they had created.

Their moans, like an intricate duet, melded into an intoxicating symphony of desire, echoing through the dimly lit room. With each primal thrust, he plunged deeper and faster into her, igniting a passionate crescendo that left them both gasping for breath. Her heart raced in response to the electrifying pleasure coursing through her veins.

"Lucius—Lucius! Aaaahhh—fuck! Daddy!" Her words, a fervent chant of need and submission, spilled from her lips in breathless abandon. Her hips responded in kind, moving in a seductive rhythm that matched his powerful thrusts, a dance of desire that transcended the bounds of their forbidden liaison.

"So damn good! Aahh—yes! Oh fuck, my little mudblood knows how to please me," he growled with unapologetic desire, his voice a seductive purr that sent shivers cascading down her spine. His hips quickened their relentless pace, pounding into her with an unyielding urgency that caused the bed to groan and creak beneath them, a testament to the fierce intensity of their union. “Tell me how good I’m making you feel, slut!

Her moans swelled, a wild symphony of ecstasy and surrender that reverberated through the room like a siren's call. She clawed at the sheets beneath her, her fingers desperately seeking purchase in the soft fabric as waves of pleasure crashed over her. It was an exquisite torment, a tantalizing whirlwind of sensations that threatened to consume her entirely.

"Daddy, you—ahh—feel so good," she gasped, her voice trembling with a potent mix of longing and desperation. Her nails traced feverish patterns over his heated skin, leaving trails of tingling sensation in their wake. Her silent entreaty was clear: she yearned for him to take her harder, to claim her completely in the tempest of their shared passion. “You make me feel so good! You’re fucking me so much better than him.”

Amid the dimly lit room, their passionate entwining continued, each feverish moment adding a new layer to their shared desire. Lucius, a commanding figure, maintained his relentless thrusts, his dominance evident in every movement. Her fervent responses wove a tapestry of longing and ecstasy, their chemistry igniting the air around them.

"I know, my little nymph," he purred, his voice an intoxicating blend of pleasure and command. His grip on her tightened possessively, fingers leaving tantalizing imprints on her heated skin. "Cum for me, slut. Show me how good I make you feel." His words hung in the air like a seductive spell, sending electrifying shivers throughout her body.

With each powerful thrust, the tip of his cock skillfully teased her cervix, intensifying the delicious ache in the pit of her stomach. Their bodies moved in perfect unison, a dance that seemed to transcend the boundaries of time and reason, an intricate symphony of passion that left them breathless.

Lucius, releasing his hold on her throat, replaced it with his mouth, his lips and teeth marking her skin as he continued to slam into her with primal urgency. Love bites and passionate kisses adorned her flesh, evidence of their unrestrained fervor. They moved together, bodies melding into one, a force of nature that defied control. In a rapturous climax, they reached the pinnacle of their desire, their voices rising in unison, filling the room with their unrestrained passion.

As Lucius withdrew from her, a plaintive whimper escaped her lips, a testament to the aching desire that still clung to her. His triumphant smirk hinted at the pleasure he derived from her desperate longing. As he made his way to the bathroom to cleanse himself, her eyes remained fixed on the vacant space he had occupied, her body still tingling with the fading echoes of their intense union.

Upon his return, a damp cloth in hand, he approached her with eyes that held both tenderness and desire. Every stroke of the cloth was a gentle caress, an unspoken declaration of their strange intimacy. The discarded rag landed carelessly beside them, a forgotten relic of their fervent encounter.

"Go to sleep, my little nymph," he whispered, his arms enveloping her in a protective embrace. "I'll be here when you wake." His words were a soothing promise, lulling her into a cocoon of security and contentment that belied the complexity of their relationship.

She nestled against him, her heart aflutter with emotions that defied easy categorization. Despite the impending repercussions of their actions, she couldn't deny the profound satisfaction she felt. As her eyes fluttered closed, the only thought that remained was that revenge, in its twisted and tumultuous way, could be intoxicatingly sweet.

[aetherrx]

Kim gitae with reader who ran away maybe?(strangers to lovers basically) Anything you like as long it has smut 🙏😔

Gitae x Reader | That Strange Man

Disclaimer |fem!reader | Oral | P in V | Choking wc|3.4k Note: Sorry this took so long. I struggle when it comes to writing about Gitae as we don't really know much about him yet. Hope you Enjoy! •─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────••─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────••─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

18+ MDNI | ✦ . 　⁺ 　. ✦ . 　⁺ 　. ✦✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Mexico.

Fucking Mexico.

You’d have slit the throat of any person who’d simply indicated that you would run away, to another country, with your tail tucked between your legs. You were a beast; you were the villain. You weren’t the one that ran, the imbecilic human parasites that surrounded you, were the ones that ran.

They ran from you.

But not anymore.

You were a wounded animal, a dethroned tyrant running from death. That black eyed bastard would get his comeuppance, you’d make sure of it. But, for now, you were stuck licking your wounds in the scorching heat of Mexico, dodging the creepy, slimy looks from rogue cartel members.

To think that the black-eyed bastard had been on your level made you fume with unquenched, fiery rage. You weren’t the only injured rat scurrying away; no, no, no, before that fight ended, you made damn sure to damage the fucker beyond repair, just like he’d done to you, and that jagged scar running down your back.

You sighed, running a hand through your unruly strands as the wind fluttered through, smashing its warm touch against your cheeks. Your legs ached; your temples throbbed with an impeding headache.

You simply wanted this day to end already.

Peeking around, you finally noticed your unfamiliar surroundings, now realising why you were receiving so many weird, slimy looks. The streets in this area all looked very similar, weaving and crossing into one-another, as if they all led to the same centre.

You cursed silently, the sudden realisation that you may have just wondered into the nest of one of the most dangerous cartels in Mexico, which was said to have had its main base in this city.

It was just your luck, to run into the most infamous cartel in Mexico, all because you were stuck in your own head.

This is why you take care to survey your surroundings, dipshit, you scolded yourself, letting out a quiet, scattered sigh as your turned to leave. You could feel holes lasering into your back but chose to ignore it. Better to flee now before more attention is wrought upon you.

Your legs swept rapidly across the cracking pavements, determined to reach the shopping centre and the better side of town, as soon as possible. You may be able to fight, but you cannot fight against a gun.

You could certainly try, but more often than not, gun fights ended with a trip to the hospital or a trip down under. You did not want to be going down under anytime soon.

You sighed with relief as the light churned and burst in front of the last alleyway, your form stepping out into the heavenly light, its beams caressing gently at your cheeks.

You turned to the right, your body colliding into a large, solid wall. You frowned, wincing as your still-injured shoulder smashed into the hard material.

A frown furrowed your brows as you noticed the very warm skin, and very real leather jacket on this supposed ‘wall’. Of-fucking-course. You’re so smart, a wall, she said. You scoffed internally, eyes peeking upwards and clashing with dead, tired eyes.

He’s kind of… handsome. And Korean?

“Oh, sorry,” You apologised in Korean, bowing before you turned to leave. A harsh grip wrapped itself around your wrist before you could leave, causing your eyes to narrow with annoyance. Why do I always have to beat fuckers up in every country I go to?

“Korean?” his timbre was low and grumbly, like a quiet tiger creeping through the night, deadly but silent. His tone brushed over you deliciously, sending a shockwave of shivers down your spine. You could feel that jagged scar running up your back tingling, filling with heat and itching at the sides.

Your head tilted slightly, eyes clashing to meet his again, your eyebrows furrowing at the sudden light twinkling in his dark irises. “Yes?” you answered his question, eyes lowering to his still too-tight grip on your wrist. “Can I help you?” you asked robotically, eyes void and face mostly blank, like always. He watched you with something akin to curiosity across his features, his grip loosening only slightly. You still couldn’t ignore the intimidating aura surrounding this mysterious man, the cold, detached look behind his eyes.

He was a bit like you, really, just harsher, darker and more serious, which you assumed came with age. He looked at least five years older than yourself, with tired bags beneath his eyelids. It made him seem more… enigmatic, in a way.

“Be careful down there,” he stated simply, as if words of protection were foreign to his own lips. You nodded, though filled with confusion, tugging your hand from his completely loosened grip with quite a bit of force.  He looked down at your free hand, eyebrow raised and a hint of curiosity in his gaze, as he stared you down.

You felt almost shy behind the towering walls surrounding your mind, the single place you locked away all and any type of feeling, hiding and cowering in the dark as you put on an emotionless front.

“Thankyou…?” you frowned, tilting away from the strange, towering male. “I’ll… see you around,” you stated simply, finally taking the initiative to walk away, ignoring the continued warm touch against your back, his eyes a never leaving presence until your form disappeared into the far distance, where his eyes could no longer brush with their detached look.

¬

¬

You hadn’t been able to get that strange man’s presence out of your life for the past two months. You’d sworn you’d felt the heavy impact of his gaze over the first few weeks, your eyes peeking at every corner in attempt to find the strangely alluring man.

During the second month, you’d bumped into him again, though you were sure he’d planned it accordingly. “You again?” you murmured, head tilting upwards to peer into his eyes. He’d looked almost proud, as if nobody somewhat normal had ever looked him in the eye without trembling with fear.

You knew who he was now, having searched up Mexican cartels once you’d reached your shabby apartment on the other side of town. There wasn’t a single full-face shot of the mysterious man, only a single snap of the side of his head, his usual slicked back hair brushing against the sliver of skin shown to the side of the shot.

You’d thought of him as dangerous, but you hadn’t realised he’d been the leader, the drug lord, of one of the most notorious cartels in the entirety of Mexico.

“Me again,” he’d stated, eyes peering into yours, almost as if he’d had invisible hands reaching into your Scalera and into your brain, trying to pry it open and reveal all your secrets to him. However, you were no sissy, and you certainly weren’t a weakling.

Not many could say they’d been up against Gun Park at full strength and injured him. Though, he did injure you beyond repair, too.

You brushed thoughts of that man behind, there was no use dwelling on the death threats that made you scurry away to Mexico in the first place.

“You know who I am, don’t you?” He said as he slung you towards the corner of the alley, just away from the shopping centre.

Away from prying eyes.

You nodded mutely. If he put an end to you, then so be it. You’d lived your life, though not much of it, and it’d been pretty ass so far. You’d been scarred and hurt and broken, but you would not let your mind break. It was one of the only things you had left to yourself, and if you had to get murdered to keep your mind your own, unbroken and untouched, then so be it.

“Yet, you aren’t running,” he mused, tapping a finger against your temple as you looked on emotionlessly. “I don’t care for the horror or fear of death. I have lived, and I have died in many ways already. Kill me or don’t, I don’t have the capacity to care or think of it,” you told him stiffly, eyes narrowed, and tone agitated. He smirked, a teasing, out of this world smirk.

You’d felt like you’d been stabbed into a secret, one you and only you’d be able to hold and nurture and protect.

“Come with me,” he ordered, his hand wrapping around your forearm as he dragged you behind him. “Why? Where are you taking me?” you demanded, feet tapping rapidly as you tried to keep up with his pace.

“There is no one in this world I care for, respect or love. But you,” he let out a cackling laugh, a laugh so beautiful, you’d found it hard to continue breathing. Breathtaking. “You, my angel, have somehow earned a slither of my emotion; emotion I do not usually feel.”

He came to an abrupt halt, turning on you as he crowded you against another stray wall. “But that’s the thing about emotion, angel. I’m the monster of your story, and you are the light that smothers me. I’ll ruin you; I’ll ruin you so beautiful, and you’ll simply adore me for it,” he crooned into your ear, warm lips touching and suckling at your lobe and the large expanse of skin beneath.

I’ll ruin you.

You couldn’t help but let out a stray moan as his hand lowers to squeeze against your clothed breast, cheeks heating at the feel of his lips tipping upwards against your neck, an array of goosebumps lighting up across your skin.

His hand lowered beneath your shirt, shoving up inside your bra as his fingers tweaked your nipple. Bursts of pain and pleasure slithered through your charged veins, the throb between your legs growing more and more.

Your cheeks heated even more as you felt the wetness between your thighs start to gather, his fingers reaching down from your breasts to the waistband of your shorts, fingers dipping beneath your underwear as his index finger dipped into your tight cunt.

“Look at you, so wet for me. After all you know about me, what I’ve done and what I do. Your pussy’s weeping for my fingers, for my cock,” he breathed against your ear, his erection pressing against your side, and you could already tell he was big.

“I’m not going to fuck you today, my angel,” he said as his fingers thrust in and out of your soaping pussy, squelching noises filling and echoing your surroundings, proof of your wetness and absolute need for this psychotic man. He added another finger, stretching your tight channel further, his thumb circling your clit, and you couldn’t help but grind against his hand. “I’m going to fuck you dumb with my fingers, make you shake and tremble with pleasure, before I leave you here as if I was just your ghost,” he murmured, his third finger sliding into your pussy, adding and stretching and exploding your pleasure, reaching you to heights you never thought, with just a simple finger fucking.

For all evil this man was, he knew how to get a girl off really good. You found it harder and harder to reign your moans in, eyes rolling to the back of your head as his fingers thrusted deeper and deeper into your tight channel, pleasure coiling and burning in your stomach.

His hands were so big, his fingers stretched you so wide and strong, you were just so full. The heat across your cheeks darkened as your eyes fully rolled back, spine arching into him as you came all over his fingers, a quiet scream escaping your lips at the ecstasy firing through your blood.

“You come so prettily, too,” he hummed, finger beneath your chin as he tiped your head up, forcing your embarrassed gaze to his. “Next time I want you to scream my name as you come all over me. I’ll see you again soon, my angel,” he whispered, his body disappearing from your dishevelled state in a fraction of a second, a single name carrying across the wind.

Gitae Kim.

Your eyebrows furrow, suspicion arising at his rapid speed.

Is he like Gun Park? And that last name…

¬

¬

It had only been a week since then, a total of almost three months since you’d met the man at all. Gitae Kim was a total enigma, one you knew came from the first generation. You’d not a doubt in your mind, that he’d somehow been involved with James Lee, who was only a couple of years older than yourself.

You hadn’t known what to think of the man. You either thought wary or lusty thoughts, neither deterring you from wanting to seek him out, to just see him. It had been as if he’d planted his very own obsession inside of you, your thoughts consumed with him and only him. He was never one to stray from your thoughts, and you needed to see him again.

At least until you left to go back to Korea. You’d felt like you’d recovered enough from your injury and felt it time you go back home. But, before you went back, you just wanted to gaze upon Gitae Kim one last time.

That was how you found yourself wondering down the dingy, shadowed alleyway under the ghastly gloom of the moon. Peeks of light filtered through the small gaps in the building as your feet patted quietly against the concrete pavement.

Your hood masked your hair and disguised your feminine form from any creepers, your stature looking like that of a mans as you traversed through the multiple alleyways, face set into a determined expression as you stalked forward.

“What do we have here,” a slimy male voice crooned from the side of you, his gaze clicking with the other man opposite you. “A little boy’s gotten lost,” The other males voice snickered, just as you felt shivers track down your spine.

Fuck, I didn’t want to be noticed.

In your hurry to get to Gitae, you’d completely forgone your usual masked presence, feet patting loudly and obviously, which had obviously wrought you unwanted attention.

You really didn’t feel like fighting two massive, fully-grown adult males right now. Though they weren’t as menacing as Gitae, you couldn’t help but think they were strong, and that you weren’t at your best. No, you were probably at your worst, even after mostly recovering. Now that you’d reflected, you’d probably barely recovered at all.

Maybe they’ll take me to Gitae. If not, I’ll have to use what’s left of my recovered energy, to take them out.

“You should know better than to come to this side of the city, boy,” one of the goons snickered, their hand wrenching the back of your neck in a tight grip, before dragging you forwards, deeper into the nest of the Cartel.

What felt like eons, but was likely only minutes, finally passed, and you found yourself bang in the middle of the cartel gang. Men of all sizes surrounded the space in a funny-looking circle, and a single man- Gitae – sat on a metal, rectangular box, at the front of the space.

“Sir, we found this boy lurking on the outskirts of our den,” the goon holding you explain, head bowed in respect, as the other goons grip tightened harshly on your upper arm. You could see Gitae’s eyes narrowing on you menacingly, but you couldn’t find it in you to be scared.

You knew this was what he was really like, he was an infamous cartel drug-lord, for one, and the menacing aura that had always followed him like a shadow should have made that fact even more obvious.

Gitae stops in front of you, his hand tugging down your hood. A flash of recognition flies through his eyes, his lip lifting into a rare smirk at the mutters echoing around the space.

“A little Birdy got lost,” He crooned, before his face fell flat and his expression became one of stone. “However, this little birdy is here for me.” His gaze narrows on his followers. “Get to work,” he barked, before grabbing your arm and stalking towards a single door to the right of the space.

He leads you into what you assume is quarters, leading you deep into the home, then tugging open a door hidden in an enclosed corner. “My angel came to find me,” He murmured, his hand holding your cheek as he towered over you.

“I wanted to see you before I left,” You blurted out, cheeks heating at your lack of brain around this one man. “Left?” He asked, tone stoney, while his eyes dragged you into his storm. “I’m going back to Korea,” you said, not breaking eye contact with the menace.

Gitae smirked, “And you wanted to see me one last time?” Despite yourself, and despite his mocking smile, you couldn’t help but nod at his question.

That was before you found yourself flat against soft satin sheets, a red hue flushed across your cheeks, eyes hazed with lust and lips parted into a tiny pout as Gitaes large cocked rammed in and out of your opening.

“Ngh~ slow down,” you whimpered, the sound of obscene squelching filling the room as Gitae rutted in and out of your wet cunt, your eyes rolling to the back of your head, at the delicious stretch of your pussy around his thick cock.

He smirked, lifting one of your legs to rest on his shoulder as he angled his hips, hitting you deeper and deeper with each thrust, until you could almost feel him at the bottom of your stomach. “We all know you’re a slut for my cock, my angel. Shut up and take me like a good girl.”

You could see the haze of lust blurring his vision as his thrust became quicker and sloppier, your vision blacking out for a second, as his hand wrapped around your throat squeezed with an almost gentle pressure.

His pelvis brushed and slid against your weeping clitoris with every single thrust into your squelching cunt, pleasure soring through your veins as your mouth parted with a partially loud moan. The tightness in your stomach exploded, your pussy clenching down onto Gitae’s cock as you came, nails digging into his shoulders and drawing blood as you rode out your orgasm.

Still sensitive, you were overloaded with aftershocks of pleasure as Gitae carried on ploughing into your tight channel, thrusts becoming harder and harder as he chased his own high. A small, gravely groan escaped his lips as he came, the feel of cold matter entering you causing you to explode around his cock one last time.

His still semi-hard cock left your tight cunt, his lips locking with yours as you battled tongues. A trail of saliva connected you before he broke off and moved down your body, head burrowing to peek at your swollen, pink cunt, still flowing with your juices and his cum.

His wet appendage sprung out, licking and sucking at your tender clit. You moaned out in protest, pussy clenching and eyes rolling back at the overstimulation. “Don’t try and protest, my angel. I can see your needy cunt clenching right in front of my eyes,” He crooned into your cunt, his voice vibrating against your sensitive channel as he slipped his tongue into your cunt, his thumb rubbing your clit in slow circles.

That swirling ball of pleasure grew again in your stomach, tightening and tightening as his tongue thrust in and out of your wet cunt, squelching and obscene sounds becoming louder and louder as you moaned and screamed on is tongue.

Your orgasm rushed through you at the added pressure against your clit, your hands reaching to clutch at Gitae’s raven locks as you came on his tongue. “Delicious.” You watched with flushed cheeks as he loomed over you, the residual of your juices marring his mouth and chin.

He leaned over you, lips licking at your juices left on his mouth before his breath hit your ear. “I think I’ve become particularly addicted to the taste of your pussy, my angel. I’ll be coming with you to Korea.”

You had a feeling he’d already been set on returning to Korea before you came into the picture, he’d just decided to take you with him on his menacing mission of destruction.

You couldn’t say you weren’t looking forward to it.

[corvidfeathers]

Mordred’s monologue - Grail Knight

This is from my thesis play, a grail quest story where Galahad is a trans girl and the world of Logres is slowly dying as a mirror of climate crisis. Me and a theater collective adapted into an immersive play in the summer of 2022, which is still one of the most amazing experiences I’ve ever had the privilege to have. This is one of my favorite pieces of the play, and one that I think can stand on its own.

Image transcript:

MORDRED

I travel three days with Sir Lancelot, which is time enough to remember why I seldom do that. Brave Sir Lancelot, honorable Sir Lancelot, obedient Sir Lancelot; the flower of chivalry, the king’s favorite knight. Arthur and Gwynefer may see no flaw in him, but I know otherwise. He keeps his mask of courtly courtesy, but I feel his eyes on me when he thinks I’m not looking. Waiting for me to show some sign of treachery. Maybe this is why he stayed at my side; every mile we go from Camelot is a mile between me and the king he so loves.

Or maybe he considers it some sort of kindness, to his former squire. Sir Lancelot thinks he will find the Grail with all haste, and return in all glory, and if I remain at his side, a little of it may be left for me.

Or maybe he was just trying to escape Sir Galahad.

On the fourth morning, I wake with a strange certainty ringing in my ears. It calls me to rise and dress as the mist creeps from up the grass and the night bleeds away; there’s something in the mist waiting for me. Lancelot tries to call me back, to warn me from leaving, but why should I pay him mind? We’re all equal on the quest, Sir Galahad said, and it’s not as if the flower of chivalry knows where he’s going. Let him chase after me for once.

Maybe this is the certainty Sir Galahad felt; maybe this is the Grail. The mist thickens as I go onward, until I reach a wide black river.

My mother always told me to mind my wits when I cross water; cross a river without heed, and you may find yourself farther than the other bank. Unlike some, she knew of what she spoke; she knew all the old magics of the land; she whispered of them to me every night, and when I left home she wove spells into my cloak, to keep her youngest son from harm. But that cloak is as tattered as my vows, so I don’t think of her advice when I am knee-deep in the black water, the rush of it all around me.

It sounds like a battle, like a cataclysm, like the crash of the sea against the isle of Orkney, it sounds like death and fate, a cold force that drives onward like the tide that sweeps a ship to the rocks, closer and closer and closer. The current pulls at my feet, at my chest, at my chin until I am like to drown.

Any death but this. Any death but this. A coward’s prayer.

I drag myself out onto the far bank, spitting water, and lie there and let my foolish certainty die. Let Sir Galahad have her quest. Let Sir Lancelot find the Grail- I’m fitted for one fate only, and it isn’t going to be found in this misty forest.

Cross a river without heed, my mother said, and you may find yourself in a kingdom of shadows and lies, a land of ghosts and fae. I don’t think of her advice when I lift my head, and for a moment I think I am back in Camelot; here is the round table, and here the king. A bone-white table, laid out beneath the mist-strung trees, and a king that is monstrous to look upon, a desiccated creature sitting alone at an empty table, with wounds that weep bubbling seafoam and eyes that burn like the bleeding sky, and a crown wrought of stone and oak.

His head hangs with the weight of it. I cannot tear my eyes away, and I know that it is this, this is the tide that pulled me here, not the grail, not the pull of glory or duty but the fate I cannot escape.

Cross a river without heed, my mother said, and you may find that you, yourself, are a shade. I don’t think of her advice when I draw my sword, and drive it into the creature’s chest.

[vi-is-badass]

Arcane Season 2 - The Base Violence Necessary for Change

I think this shot is the most interesting part of the trailer. We see a shot of Jinx as a painting on a wall. A symbol. A leader. Her actions stand for revolution in Zaun and I think this could be an interesting expansion of Arcane’s exploration of violence and the idea that there is a base violence necessary for change.

Silco is framed as an antagonist in season 1 because of his actions against the undercity people specifically.

In act 3 he’s not the revolutionary he positioned himself as and is instead hurting the people of Zaun through his leadership. He’s doing as much to hurt topside as Vander was in act 1 (meaning nothing at all). He’s even got the sheriff working with him just like Vander, but, unlike Vander, Silco is hurting his own people to facilitate power and he’s not even fighting for that freedom he claimed to want so much.

We see the damage his actions have wrought. We see the shimmer addicts, forgotten and exploited. We see that he's created a hierarchy rather than a community.

And it’s contrasted with the firelights. People considered terrorists to Piltover, who do use violence to fight back against Silco and topside, and yet offer the biggest glimmer of hope. They aren’t villainized. The act of fighting back isn’t villainized and it shouldn’t be.

Because it’s not the violence in and of itself that’s the issue. It’s what that violence is used for.

The series hammers this idea home through Vander. 

Vander’s staunch stance against violence is flawed as well. It comes from a good place. A desire to protect what he loves rather than destroy what he hates and it did create a time free of the death revolution brings, but it’s made it so no ground could be made to free Zaun and create a better world for the people in it. It created stagnation. 

The people of the undercity are still stuck in a cycle of crushing poverty, growing up without parents, dying young due to pollution or violence wrought by desperate people or oppressive enforcers.

It didn’t move the needle because Piltover and the system in place wasn’t going to change just because the people of the undercity were playing nice.

The unrest and anger felt towards Vander for his ideal was understandable. His views on the cyclical nature of violence and the fact that if you fight you will lose people (“What are you willing to lose”) is correct, but that doesn’t make this option the ideal one.

Which brings me back to that shot in the trailer of that painting of Jinx.

Season 2 looks like it’s going to be a season of opposites and rediscovery where it flips what we expect of Jinx and Vi on its head and further explores these ideas of violence, oppression, and revolution.

And I think this season might possibly do that by reversing how Vi and Jinx reflect Vander and Silco.

In the first season the siblings were direct reflections of their respective father figures, but now they’re inversions. Jinx can become the good to be found in Silco’s ideals and Vi the pitfalls of Vander’s.

Jinx’s actions in season 1 weren’t those of a revolutionary. Her actions weren’t meant to free the people of the undercity or improve their lives. She didn’t steal the hexcrystal to bring hextech to the undercity and improve their lives and she didn’t kill the enforcers on the bridge to get rid of dirty cops. She didn’t kidnap Caitlyn for a greater cause.

But we know that Jinx isn’t only the violence she enacted. That she is “the monster they (the system and people around her) created”. Her actions weren’t heroic in the first season, but they were driven by the life that was forced upon her. Her hurt and anger are justified.

Now that she’s away from Silco, no longer a part of his machine and actively participating in his actions that were hurting the undercity, her actions and anger can take on a new light. She can rediscover herself away from his manipulations (this isn’t to say he didn’t love her but what he did and said isolated her and allowed her issues to fester) and become that symbol we see on the wall.

Jinx could be in a way what Silco could have been if he didn’t let his own self interest get in the way of his ideals. Not quite as forward thinking as Ekko or as idealistic, but still a symbol for resistance that fights for Zaun.

Whereas Vi is sort of on a path to becoming a darker reflection of Vander’s ideals.

Vi becomes a part of the system she used to rage against.

 Based on the season 2 teaser that was released in 2021– 

“Nobody else needs to get hurt.”

–I think it’s likely that Vi believes she can prevent more death or can stop Piltover’s violence against the undercity if she takes Jinx in.

Vi sees herself as a protector who has failed at every turn to protect those she cares about. She lost her parents, Powder, Vander, Mylo, Claggor, etc. and she is constantly desperate to try and save what she loves and that will likely drive her decision to become an enforcer.

Vi, like Vander, wants to save what she loves and as a result isn’t going to fight back against topside. This is a much more extreme version of Vander’s ideals. Where she “compromises” in an attempt to prevent bloodshed but as a result enables (or in her case helps) the system in place.

This decision will have negative consequences (and deservedly so!) because no matter what thoughts or feelings are the driving factor in it she is still siding with her oppressors and ultimately helping the system that is the root cause of that loss and pain in the first place. 

Based on the clip released at Annecy and what people have said the writers explained about Vi’s arc in season 2 it seems like Vi will be ostracized for this decision and deservedly so. She won’t belong anywhere. To the undercity she’s a traitor and to Piltover she’s nothing more than an undercity rat.

She will have lost everything. She will have no one to protect. And who is Vi if she’s not a protector?

Vi will be forced to re-evaluate who she is and what she wants. Just like Jinx, Vi will have to redefine herself when she loses everything.

I can’t wait for season 2 and what the team at Fortiche has in store for us. The way the show tackles complex themes and ideas is incredible and Vi and Jinx are some of the most compelling and complicated characters I’ve seen on tv. I’m looking forward to November.

[mandowifey]

Porogue.

Father Paul/John Pruitt x Fem!Reader

Warnings: NSFW, P in V sex, unprotected sex, dry humping, mutual masturbation, lots of priest play, biting, pining, dom!Paul, semi established relationship, cum play, mentions of cervix, mentions of bite wounds.

◇ ◇ ◇ ◇ ◇ ◇ ◇ ◇ ◇

It's a storm to end all storms.

That was what Beverly Keane proclaimed at yesterday's service. The woman had a penchant for dramatics and often spoke with puritanical judgment. Folks were accustomed to the devout woman's manic ramblings, which meant she was never taken literally. However, when the Coast Guard reached out to warn the town to evacuate not but four hours before the storm was due to impact, Bev Keane stood, smug and proud.

"I had warned you, all of you."

Towns folk rushed towards the docks with their families, arms full of the few precious belongings they had. Sturge was helping them up the ramp and into the ferry, trying to explain that there was no need to panic. Dark waves sloshed and rolled under the boats. People were gasping and crying out below the blackening sky. Hysteria at its finest.

"You lot wrought this upon yourselves," sighed Keane, who stood on the dock, hands linked together. "Those of us who remained loyal to our faith, who filled the church every day and lived our lives devout and holy have no reason to fear. The Lord recognizes his own and will shephard us unto his raft to guide us through the storm."

Over half the population fled Crockett that dreary afternoon. Those who remained boarded their windows and hunkered down to ride it out. While the last ferry departed, Bev Keane smiled and turned to head back up the trail. Confident in the hopes that God would sort things out in the end.

° ☆ ° ☆ °

Candles warmed the room around you, while flashes of lighting illuminated the windows and caught your eye. When thunder clapped and shook the wooden frame of the rectory, you would suck in a sharp gasp and tense, which drew a low chuckle from the man above you. Rain impacts noisily against the glass windows, causing a steady hum.

"Relax."

A hand closes under your jaw and tips your head back, exposing the curve of your throat. Lips press against your skin, making you rumble and start to smile. "You are so strange," the words leave your mouth in a breathless sigh. "How can you not be at least a little afraid?"

He chuckles again, and you feel teeth graze your flesh. "I have much more important things on my mind." There was a pull to his words that brought moisture between your legs. Heat consumed you, twisting through your limbs and fogging your thoughts.

"Looks like you do too." His palm cups your mound. Embarrassment overtakes you as you realize you had soaked through your underwear. "Messy little lamb." Lips slotting together, the man kisses you with intensity. He parts your mouth with his own and scoops his tongue between your teeth. You can feel the way his nose pushes to your cheek and taste the remnants of the tea he had earlier.

Words fail you as you cave below him. The bed moves under you as he shifts your bodies and lays himself between your legs. Another flash of lightning, another gasp, this time it's for him. He presses the aching bulge against your core and leans his weight into you. You feel so small with his body caging yours, and the contact makes you simper.

"O-oh, P-paul,"

"I'm sorry?"

Paul's voice was lile velvet in your ears. Candlelight flickers in those obsidian eyes of his, and you watch his angular brows start to vex. Heat burned in your stomach, and you paw at the blankets beneath you.

"F-father, p-please."

A smile breaks the tension, and he drops his head down to gently kiss the middle of your forehead. He rumbles his praise against your skin, balancing himself on his knees and one hand while the other pulls your leg around his hip. You tilt and groan unabashedly as Paul starts to grind into you. The friction of his clothed cock pressing and sliding over your crease had your clit engoring with blood.

Head tilting back, your mouth hangs open as soft groans waft out. Paul was watching you, admiring every line in your face as he began bucking into you. Your body bounces, your cries coming out louder as he thrusts as though he were fucking you. The impact had you soaking more than before, leaking a spot on the blankets.

"U-uhn, hnn, p-please-" You felt frantic, desperately craving the Priest to bury inside and claim you as his. To carve through your insides and nestle himself in the furthest reaches of your cunt. The ache within your body called to him, your scent nearly driving the starving man mad.

"Patience is a virtue." Paul sat back against his legs before placing both large hands on your hips. Fingers gripped bruisingly tight as he hoisted you upwards against him, locking your pelvis to his so he could continue rutting. The man sighed, his eyes closing as he grunted and panted softly. Both of you mutually wind your bodies together in a frenetic desire.

Panting fills the empty space, and you're using the massive bulge between his legs to chase your release. Paul used you, too. His hands greedily squeezed and pulled you while his hips bucked to yours. "T-that's it." He gasps, his large thumbs pressing down into the front of your pelvis, causing a pleasant pressure inside of you that made you mewl.

Ravenous, the holy man watches as you fall apart. Chest heaving, skin flushed, and nipples showing through your tank top. "Look at you, little lamb," His voice purrs. "So beautiful, a spectacle to watch unfurl." Rolling his hips forward, Paul grinds his cock into your core and makes you whine. You are gradually rising now, the friction pushing you higher and higher. Smiling, he smoothed one large palm over your stomach as he moved it onto your breast. "Let me hear you." He pinches your pert nipple between his thumb and index finger, causing you to arch and cry.

"That's it, good girl."

Your face burns. Sweat builds in a thin layer on your skin as the sensation of bursting swells inside of you. Paul lifts off his legs to get a better angle and alternates slow grinds with firm, steady rocks of his hips. Each impact jostles your smaller frame, bouncing you under him and pushing cry after cry from your parted lips. "I-im g-gonna-" It was hurtling towards you full speed. You knew there was no use in trying to fight it. You could feel the burn of his eyes on your face, watching you as you fell apart.

"It's alright, my angel, let me see you."

Paul leaned over you, bucking himself against you just right. Your clit throbs, slick soaking through your panties and onto him as you gasp and jerk. Fireworks spark in your belly as the rush hits you. Your cunt clenches sporadically, your body shaking as you cum. Reaching your hands up, you curl your fingers into his arms, thighs shaking as he continues to grind against you. Paul coos, mesmerized by your face. When you rest back and relax, he leans and opens his pants to spring himself out.

With your head still spinning, you hardly notice him fist his cock. Eyes transfixed on your soaked underwear, the Monsignor inches closer and strokes himself against you. "S-such a messy lamb," his voice shudders with pleasure as his palm slicks across his length. "S-so beautiful." He sounds like he may cry, his dark eyes heavy with lids and lips parted. You look up at him, feeling your heart race at the sight. "P-please father, I need you to cum." Paul jerks, startled by your words and breath stopping in his throat.

That undid him. He bucked against his fist while you pulled your panties to the side. Whimpering and looking down, he groans as he cums. Hot, thick ropes spraying across your folds and fingers. You feel the heat as he drips inside your crease. "O-oh." He bucks one last time, a final spurt landing on your clit and dribbling downwards. Paul looks disheveled, breathless, as he settles down from his own high.

You were ready to speak when he dropped over you, impacting your lips with his own. Paul slips his large hand between your legs, using his nimble fingers to collect his cum and push it into you. You gasp, groaning into his starving mouth as he sinks inside your cunt to the knuckle. "Mh, p-paul-" He kisses your words and swallows them whole, adding a second digit which causes you to shriek into him. He pumps them inside of you, trying as hard as he can to reach your end with his seed.

Mouths and tongues lashing together, Paul slows his fingers right as you begin to buck against him. "So needy tonight," remarked the holy man as he licked over your kiss swollen lips. "I suppose you have been good enough to earn a little more. What do you say, my lamb?" His fingers curled inside of you, applying pressure to your gspot and bladder. Sparks flash behind your eyes, and your back lifts off the blankets. "Y-yes, p-please father Hill." You gasp, struggling to bring your eyes to his. The man flashes his teeth, and his eyes crinkle along the edges. His digits squelch inside of you as he begins to pump them faster.

"Since you asked so nicely." Paul nods, drawing his fingers out while you whine.

The loss of him makes your cuntache. Feeling no need to rush, Paul takes his time removing your sodden underwear and his pants. Carefully, he lays beside you and shifts you on your side, facing away from him. As he closes the distance between your bodies, you feel the cold press of his skin behind you. Paul lifts your leg and kisses behind your ear. "Keep this up for me, please." The delicate tone in his voice makes you throb, and you obey.

You feel the familiar prod of his cock and angle your hips back to make it easier for him. Paul guides his tip to your sopping opening and grunts with you as he presses inside. With a sudden snap of his hips, he submerges inside your heat and bottoms out. The stretch is immense, and you can already feel the tip nudging at your end. "G-god!" Your lip quivers and leg shakes, the muscle burning now.

As if he knew, Paul curls his frigid hand under your knee and holds your leg. Lips kiss at your shoulder as he starts liesurely rocking inside of you. The drag burning your cunt and making you whine. Eagerly, you shove yourself back against him, nearly sobbing each time he pushes fully inside and reaches your furthest depths. You're keening, whining, noisily falling apart for him as he rocks. Paul smiles against your skin, peppering you in soft kisses as he takes his time.

Thunder rattles the wooden frame of the rectory, but you hardly notice. Paul drives himself inside you faster now, spearing every inch of his aching cock deep inside your heat. More sparks are flying now, he's brushing everything right within you. You can hear him grunting and gasping behind you, his breath fanning your skin as he bucks his hips. His fingers dig into your skin as he plaps noisily against your ass. Paul grunts, his movements stuttering and becoming uneven.

It spurs something in you, and you fuck yourself back against him. "P-please, please!" You cry as he desperately stuffs himself inside you. Paul bites your shoulder, muffling his groan as he sinks to the hilt. You flutter around him, your abrupt orgasm taking you by surprise as you clench on his throbbing cock. Groaning louder, he bruises your skin as he empties directly against your cervix, the hot flood of his cum making you whimper and grind into him.

As he calms, he lowers your leg and pulls you into him further by wrapping his arms around you. Paul enjoys the rapid patter of your heartbeat, and he licks over the bitemark he left. You were melting, sinking back into him and closing your eyes as you smiled. "Thanks," you giggle, feeling him pause in licking you. "For distracting me from the storm. I think it helped quite a lot." His chest rattles with a soft chuckle. The two of you remained embraced while it continued to pour outside, safe and warm together from the storm.

[apoloadonisandnarcissus]

Full article: here.

This connects with the Elrond = Sauron theory, here and here.

Melian of the Valar and Anger Issues:

In his interview to Decider, explaining the kiss, Robert Aramayo also talks about this:

Specifically, Adar namedrops Melian, one of Elrond’s most important ancestors. Aramayo explained how hearing this father of the orcs talk so intimately about Melian was meant to perfectly unsettle the young(er) elf. “It shows a real deep understanding for the history of Middle-Earth. You know, there’s something about Melian, isn’t there? The ‘Girdle of Melian,’ the sort of the protective sphere that she [creates], the power of her, and what she sort of represents in the lore and stuff,” Aramayo said. “So it’s impressive that he would bring it up in that moment.”

Why is this strange? Firstly, Elrond and his future daughter Arwen never get compared to Melian herself in the lore, but rather to her Half-Maia daughter, Lúthien (Arwen is pretty much described as “Lúthien 2.0.”, and even her love story with Aragorn is Lúthien x Beren, part 2).

According to Rob, the mention of Melian by Adar is what triggers his anger, and what causes Elrond to act OOC in that scene. Which doesn't make any sense, because Elrond would be proud and honored by such a comparison, actually (and it has nothing to do with his beauty).

The only character who would get this triggered by the mention of Melian is Sauron himself, because:

1) His fellow Maia was a thorn in his side (and Morgoth's) for pretty much the entire First Age and the War of Wrath;

Beyond lay the wilderness of Dungortheb, where the sorcery of Sauron and the power of Melian came together, and horror and madness walked. Of Beren and Lúthien, Part I

2) Melian's daughter (Lúthien) was responsible for Sauron's most humiliating and spectacular defeat by bringing Huan (the Hound of Valinor), with her to Tol-in-Gaurhoth (Isle of Werewolves, where Finrod, Galadriel's brother, died protecting Beren from the werewolves). This is when Sauron shapeshifts into a giant werewolf to fight Huan, and gets defeated.

Halbrand/Mairon: Whose dagger was it, Galadriel? Who is it you lost? Galadriel: My brother. Halbrand/Mairon: What happened to him? Galadriel: He was killed. In a place of darkness and despair [Tol-in-Gaurhoth]. By servants of Sauron [werewolves]. Is that enough for you? Galadriel tells Halbrand about her brother’s, Finrod, death, 1x05 

(Sorry not sorry, I had to). 

In the lore, Sauron disappears for a very long time after this defeat, and “Rings of Power” already mentioned how he was tortured beyond belief by Morgoth (this implies that, after losing a strategic stronghold to “a girl and her dog”, Sauron most likely was imprisoned and tortured by Morgoth somewhere). 

Lúthien/Beren parallel:

The "tent/kiss scene" itself, in 2x07, is a parallel to Beren and Lúthien, and the quest to retrieve one Silmaril from Morgoth’s crown, which would lead to their fight with Sauron (and Finrod’s death later on):

But Thingol looked in silence upon Lúthien; and he thought in his heart: 'Unhappy Men, children of little lords and brief kings, shall such as these lay hands on you, and yet live?' Then breaking the silence he said: 'I see the ring, son of Barahir, and I perceive that you are proud, and deem yourself mighty. But a father's deeds, even had his service been rendered to me, avail not to win the the daughter of Thingol and Melian. See now! I too desire a treasure that is withheld. For rock and steel and the fires of Morgoth keep the jewel that I would possess against all the powers of the Elf-kingdoms. Yet I hear you say that bonds such as these do not daunt you. Go your way therefore! Bring to me in your hand a Silmaril from Morgoth's crown; and then, if she will, Lúthien may set her hand in yours. Then you shall have my jewel; and though the fate of Arda lie within the Silmarils, yet you shall hold me generous.' Thus he wrought the doom of Doriath, and was ensnared within the curse of Mandos. And those that heard these words perceived that Thingol would save his oath, and yet send Beren to his death; for they know that not all the power of the Noldor, before the Siege was broken, had availed even to see from afar the shining Silmarils of Fëanor. For they were set in the Iron Crown, and treasured in Angband above all wealth; and Balrogs were about them, and countless swords, and strong bars, and unassailable walls, and the dark majesty of Morgoth. But Beren laughed. 'For little price,' he said, 'do Elven-kings sell their daughters: for gems, and things made by craft. But if this be your will, Thingol, I will perform it. And when we meet again my hand shall hold a Silmaril from the Iron Crown; for you have not looked the last upon Beren son of Barahir.' Then he looked in the eyes of Melian, who spoke not; and he bade farewell to Lúthien Tinuviel, and bowing before Thingol and Melian he put aside the guards about him, and departed from Menegroth alone. Of Beren and Lúthien, Part I

Here, "Thingol" is Adar, who presents "Elrond" (Beren) with the choice of handing over the Silmaril (Nenya) in exchange for Lúthien (Galadriel): "The Ring for Galadriel's life. What is it to be?"

Which means, the comparison with Melian is odd ("You [Elrond] have the beauty of your foremother, Melian of the Valar"), because there is no direct parallel between Elrond/Melian happening here.

Then, why is Elrond parallelling Beren in this scene? He’s a Half-Elf who decided to retain his immortality (Half-Elves get to do that, and that’s why Arwen chooses mortality to be with Aragorn). He’s not a mortal man like Beren, nor is he in love with an she-Elf of legendary beauty and power.

There is another character who can make sense in this context, and that’s Halbrand (Sauron’s human form). Mostly now that the executive producers of the show, Charlotte Brändström, revealed that Galadriel was in love with Halbrand (direct parallel with Lúthien x Beren).  

Morgoth’s crown is also nearby (we know that Adar not only has it, but actually show it to Galadriel in this very tent, in 2x06), and the Balrog is also there (at the mines of Moria, in Khazad-dûm).

Interestingly enough, Sauron is the one who mentions Beren in Season 2 of “Rings of Power” (and he must have been dying inside talking about it): 

Yes. You are right. Of course. Men are capable of great frailty. But when the darkness falls, there are always some who rise forth and shine. Eärendil, Tuor, Beren, son of Barahir. Sauron/Annatar tries to persuade Celebrimbor to forge the Nine rings of power, 2x05

And the plot thickens because Eärendil is Elrond’s father, and son of Tuor (Elrond’s grandfather who married Elwing, Lúthien and Beren’s granddaughter). “Rings of Power” Season 2 pretty much went through all of Elrond’s genealogy, in scenes with Sauron and Adar.

After Beren and Lúthien rescued a Silmaril from Morgoth's Iron Crown, this was later given to their descendant Elwing, wife of Eärendil. Both took it to Aman, and the Valar decided to rise it as a new star. In a vessel appointed by Elbereth, Eärendil rose in the horizon as a sign of hope for Elves and Men. And this is the light that shines in both Galadriel’s mirror and the Phial of Galadriel (which she gives to Frodo to help him in his quest to destroy the One Ring = Sauron).

And to further strength the parallel between Nenya/Silmaril in the “tent scene” of 2x07, the fate of Fëanor’s Silmarils is also connected to the Three Elven rings of power: 

“Fire” = Maedhros threw himself into a fissure of fire in the earth, carrying his Silmaril with him. “Narya” is the “Ring of Fire”, and its current ring-bearer is Círdan (but it will pass onto Gandalf, later). 

“Air”: connects to Eärendil becoming a star in the skies. “Vilya” is the “Ring of Air”, and even though, his current ring-bearer is Gil-galad, it will belong to Eärendil’s heir: Elrond.

“Water”. Maglor casted his Silmaril into the sea, and wandered along the shores of the world singing laments over the loss of the Silmaril. “Nenya” is the “Ring of Water”, and will be forever held by Galadriel, herself. In time, she’ll, too, suffer with “sea longing” (which many assume it’s only the desire to return to Valinor, but there might be more to it). Like Maglor, she’s also known for singing laments (“Namárië”, also called “Galadriel's Lament”).

In “Rings of Power”, Galadriel met Halbrand (the “mortal man” she fell in love with) in the middle of the sea.

[lyculuscaelus]

So, for all who’re interested in Teiresias’s prophecy concerning Odysseus’s death, here’re some interpretations based on the meanings of certain words:

(Odyssey, book 11, line 134–137) … θάνατος δέ τοι ἐξ ἁλὸς αὐτῷ ἀβληχρὸς μάλα τοῖος ἐλεύσεται, ὅς κέ σε πέφνῃ γήραι ὕπο λιπαρῷ ἀρημένον: ἀμφὶ δὲ λαοὶ ὄλβιοι ἔσσονται …

First, let’s talk about “ἐξ ἁλός”.

The most direct meaning of the phrase is the physical motion to come “out of/from the sea”. It’s also logical to assume that the ἐξ ἁλός” here is the same as the one in “ἔνδιος δ᾽ ὁ γέρων ἦλθ᾽ ἐξ ἁλός” (from the Odyssey, book 4, line 450: “at midday that old man came out from the sea”, which is describing how Proteus emerged from the sea) so we’d have “θάνατος δέ τοι ἐξ ἁλὸς αὐτῷ … ἐλεύσεται” translated as “death will come to you out from the sea”. As for how it can be depicted—man, we’re now in AU territory.

Sometimes ἐκ (ἐξ) means “far from” as in distance. In this case the line could be translated as “death will come to you, far from the sea”. Maybe this indicates that Odysseus would die in a land far from Ithaca—or, hear me out: he died where the people he should seek on his oar quest lived (although unlikely during the first time he got there). If they knew nothing of the sea and salt, it’s only natural to suspect that they were themselves far from it. Which could be poetic to think abt—“you have found yourself a place to die, and when you’ve finished your life’s journey, when old age devours your health and your family, you shall head for that land again, to find your peace at last”.

ἅλς (ἁλός being its genitive singular) does not only mean “sea”—as a feminine noun, sure; but as a masculine noun it means “salt”. Meanwhile, there is another meaning of ἐκ (ἐξ), “because of” as in reason. Combining these two, we shall have: “death will come to you because of salt”, which is pretty funny to think about: what if he ate too much salt in a banquet and died of overconsumption? OR it could be…✨hypernatremia✨, since there’s a high chance that all these shipwrecks of his might result in the high concentration of salt in his blood. And this is quite angsty to think abt

Now, for “ἀβληχρός”.

People tend to separate the meaning of this word into two sets: “gentle, easy” (in contrast with a violent death) and then “feeble, weak” (as in description of Aphrodite’s hand). Personally, I’d use “tender” to translate the word since it sorta combined both meanings, being as vague as Homer himself cuz why not.

Specifically, “gentle”? What death could be so gentle, non-violent? Well, diseases, or organ failure, for one (bringing back the hypernatremia), which rather fits his old age as well.

As for “feeble”—I do believe this is a word too strong for this meaning as you’ll see why. “Weak, vulnerable” is fine imo, as long as it’s describing the potential of getting wounded, instead of the condition of being puny. But what’s a “weak death” anyway? I do think it makes more sense if the text goes like “a death will come to you when you’re weak/vulnerable” instead (say, using ἀβληχρῷ…but that doesn’t fit in the hexameter).

Now, here’s an idea I just think of, which is not necessarily the case, but the connection is still interesting. First of all let’s look at the description of Aphrodite’s hand: “ἔνθ᾽ ἐπορεξάμενος μεγαθύμου Τυδέος υἱὸς/ἄκρην οὔτασε χεῖρα μετάλμενος ὀξέϊ δουρὶ/ἀβληχρήν: …”, from the Iliad, book 5, line 337: “thereupon the great-hearted son of Tydeus, reaching forward and leaping upon her, wounded her tender hand on the surface with his sharp spear…”). Now connect this feature of Aphrodite’s hand to the nature of the death Teiresias was prophesying—“the tenderness of your death, just like the palm of love, shall touch you when your heart is old”. But furthermore—could it be that this is how it ends? Could it be that the hand which wrought his death was actually from Aphrodite herself? I’m getting a bit derailed but anyways

The translation of “ὅς κέ σε πέφνῃ/γήραι ὕπο λιπαρῷ ἀρημένον” is quite commonly agreed—“which shall strike you in your old age, ripe and worn out”. Although I’d like to point out that the word “ἀρημένον” (distressed, worn out) here is actually modifying the pronoun σε (you) since they’re both in accusative form, meaning “when you’re worn out”.

The word “ἀμφί” without case here is just an adverb, “around”. The case of λαοί here is interesting, since it’s not followed by any pronoun, which means it doesn’t necessarily refer to “your people”.

What kind of people then? Well, with “ὄλβιος” it often comes with material happiness, and divine blessings on good fortune. “Happy, blest, fortunate, prosperous” might be the closest meaning to the word. Could they be those people in Elysium though…🤔

So there’re three possibilities:

λαοί refers to “your people” indeed: in this case it’s talking about the Ithacans being prosperous and rich for all time.

λαοί refers to “a people”, a random one: this is for those who interpret Odysseus to be “not in Ithaca when he died”, say, when he went “far from the sea”.

It’s just “people will be around you and they’re happy”: he wasn’t alone when he died. Good to know :,)

So…yeah. I suppose this entire prophecy thing is for you to decide which version you like best? There isn’t really a fixed translation of this and you can either 1) ask Odysseus himself; 2) wait till Homer updates his fanfic which is pretty unlikely at this point :(

[mononijikayu]

ashes — geto suguru.

The way Suguru’s purple haze echoed wide at what was left of your body. The body that had once been human. Nothing but flesh torn and bones broken. You could feel the way he gripped your face, as though trying to wake you. 

genre: post-defection, 2008;

warning/s: angst, unrequited love, childhood friends, grief/mourning, emotional, hurt/comfort, alternate universe - canon divergence, tragic romance, ghosts/spirits, character death, mention of death, mention of blood, unexplicit mention of unhappy childhood, depiction of corpses, depiction of harm and injuries, depiction of ghost/spirits, depiction of grief, depiction of afterlife;

word count: 2.7k words;

note: this was a draft from long ago, but i ended up writing it. this is probably one of my shortest works. this is the first time i've shared the word count explicitly and not below the facts for the chapter. but anyway, i listened to osts again and it made me think of suguru. i hope you like this little thing!!! i love you all!!! <3

song: ashes by bear mccreary ft eivor

masterlist

There was no reason why you should stand here.

But my heart couldn’t refuse Geto Suguru.

Perhaps it was why you stood there, waiting.

Hoping that this was not what became of him.

Yet no matter the denial, this was what was left.

You stood there, frozen as if the air in your lungs was losing air. Oxygen has become wrought with toxic waste, poisoning every breath of life in you. Yet there was no such toxic waste, there was only air and your resistance to the breath that should keep what was left of these lungs pumping and which in turn makes your heart race.

And still, your heart races hard against your sturdy chest.

You  leaned slightly as the large assembly doors opened. You could feel the strength leaving you as the smell of incense echoed through. It was easy to be enraptured by the austere surroundings of this ancient hall built on the back of people you perhaps would never know. In some other day, that would intrigue the historian in you— but today, it did not matter. Nothing mattered to a ghost, whose body is ash.

The love of your life stood there, shining upon the heavens like the son of gods, dressed in the most beautiful gojo-kesa elaborate with the finest details and the most extravagant pieces of silk kimono underneath adoring his body. A crown of white roses adorned his long lustrous charcoal-like locks, tied with the most intricate of ribbon silks. 

Trinkets made of fine silver gathered from all across the empire, lined with precious gemstones found deep in faraway mountains and pearls that could only be found in far away deep shores beyond the known world. And before him, a rotting corpse limps before him. The pouring sleek of blood on his face, the blood of a non–sorcerer he had slain.

Just as he had wanted, he had all the riches of the world on him, around him. It had been his fantasy when you both had been younger, to have a say in life. You both had grown up powerless, without any life to live. Dictated by the people, by the world about what you should be.  

Both of you had been left to wander the prowling fields of endless golden wheat and those endless blue skies trailing along for the journey, hoping for something better.  Hoping to have power, control over your lives. 

You were seven when you first met Suguru. It was a warm summer evening, and the golden sunlight filtered through the trees as you played in the park near your home. You had been running too fast, chasing after a butterfly, when you tripped over a tree root and scraped your knee. The pain was sharp and immediate, and tears welled up in your eyes.

"I'm fine," you sniffled, trying to be brave. "I just scraped my knee."

You sat there, clutching your knee, trying to will the tears away when you heard a gentle voice. "Hey, are you okay?"

Looking up, you saw a boy, slightly older than you, with kind eyes and a warm smile. He knelt beside you, examining your injury with a concerned expression.

Suguru smiled softly and pulled a handkerchief from his pocket. "Here, let me help." He carefully cleaned the wound, his touch gentle and soothing. "There, all better."

You smiled at him, feeling a warmth spread through you that had nothing to do with the summer sun. "Thank you." you whispered. "You're so kind."

"You're welcome," he replied, his smile widening. "Do you want me to walk you home?"

You hesitated, fear flickering in your eyes. "I... I don't want to go home yet. My mom will be mad at me for getting hurt."

Suguru's expression softened even more. "It's okay. I’ll stay with you until you're ready to go home. How about that?"

You nodded, feeling a sense of comfort and safety in his presence. You didn't know it then, but this small act of kindness was just the beginning of something much deeper.

Years later, you would learn that Suguru had broken his curfew that night. His father was furious and punished him without waiting for an explanation. Suguru never told you about it. He never complained or blamed you. He just kept breaking the rules to be with you, to make you smile. To be your friend.

As you both grew older, Suguru continued to be there for you. He would sneak out to meet you, bringing you small gifts or simply spending time with you. His presence became a constant in your life, a source of comfort and joy. Little by little, your childhood friendship blossomed into something more.

By the time you realized you had fallen in love with him, it felt like the most natural thing in the world. Suguru had always been there, a steady presence in your life, supporting you, caring for you, and loving you in his quiet, steadfast way. And you loved him for it, more than words could ever express.

As you looked back on that summer evening when you first met, you knew that your scraped knee had been a small price to pay for the lifelong bond you shared with Suguru. He had been your first friend, your protector, and now, your love.

But you could look at Geto Suguru now, the majesty upon him, the riches that make him even more beautiful than ever. You could only wonder what was stored for him now that he was enthroned a god among men.

You think he looked the happiest on this day, on founding an empire.

An empire that was built to destroy the world that had ruined him in the first place.

A resistance that would destroy the Jujutsu world as a whole.

Yet as you looked at him, you could feel your heart longing for him. 

Your own heart was grieving such loss, of words not answered. 

Of feelings that would never be known. Of a life that could never be.

And yet, you basked in what is in front of you— on what still is.

And yet, you can only wonder what will become of you, now that you were nothing but ash in this world. You had nothing left, nothing perhaps but this opened void that could never be whole again….mayhaps this is all that could be, that is all your purpose in life. That is all your purpose you have in his. To be nothing. 

Your eyes dilated, blinking breathlessly at the sight of him, of what became of your forlorn beloved. You could only look at the details of his bloody, beautiful features. Everything comes flooding back to you, like someone whose brain is seeing the last moments of their life like a movie scene.

Especially that smile.

The smile that you thought would only be yours.

But in the first place, you knew it never did belong to you.

That was never going to be, with you being the ash in the wind.

The moment he walked through, her magnificent kimono trailed across the windless room and from side to side, he smiled like life had just begun. All those in front of him, serving him to create the world he wants to usher into the world of ashes.

As you watched him, kick the corpse away, you could only think to yourself — if you had said anything, if you had told him how much you loved him. If you had haunted him, if you had turned into a curse, if you had not gone and responded to Nanami’s distress call — maybe, he would not be here. Maybe he would not be a murderer. Maybe he would not be an enemy.

Yet all you had left was ashes and the guilt. And the grief of a love that had perhaps never been love, a love that would never be known at all to this radiant sun of life. Perhaps you were never intended to be loved. And yet when you had smiled back at him. You always have. He told you he loved it. And so you smiled. Only for him.

But this time, you knew it was the last time.

You had seen the light that welcomes you home.

And so, you mouthed those words that you could never say.

Those words that will never see the sun again.

“I love you. I love you. Only you.”

“I’m never letting go of you, Suguru.”

“I hope that we may never meet again.”

You bit your lip soon after with all your might. You could only force the pain to numb you, to keep all those grieving tears from falling. Bitterly, with that pain gasping your entire being — you could only release your lips, now red from the pain, and smiled back at your beloved. You knew that this was the last time. 

Everything came rushing back.

Tears poured down your eyes as you watched Suguru’s purple eyes gleam with pleasure as all that defied him, prostrate in subjugation. Perhaps these tears pour for shame, for what he had become. Perhaps these tears pour because he was alone again, more than ever before. Perhaps it was the blood that dripped down his chin. The blood he so easily wiped away. You did not know. 

But you know that your tears poured painfully warm, as warm as they did in happiness when he made you the happiest person in the world. Yet no one seemed to be watching you and you were glad for it. 

Everything around you was a haze, the entire thing was. Memories came in flashes again. The way Suguru’s purple haze echoed wide at what was left of your body. The body that had once been human. Nothing but flesh torn and bones broken. You could feel the way he gripped your face, as though trying to wake you. 

Satoru’s voice drifts and drowns away, as he tells Suguru you’d gone. Shoko’s tender voice telling them that it was enough, that there was nothing else left to say, that there was nothing to be done. The disbelief in Suguru’s tone. And then it was the anger. Then there was brutal madness. Over and over, it echoes like drum hitting.

Suguru’s grip tightened, his fingers trembling against the remnants of your face. His eyes, once filled with warmth and camaraderie, now burned with a mix of sorrow and fury. He refused to accept it, refused to believe that you were gone. Satoru’s usually confident and reassuring presence was a shadow of itself, his voice cracked and hollow. 

"Suguru, please," Gojo Satoru’s voice wavered, desperation lacing his words. "There’s nothing more we can do."

Shoko’s gentle hands tried to pull Suguru away, her own eyes glistening with unshed tears. "Suguru, it’s over. We need to let go."

But Geto Suguru couldn’t let go. He couldn’t accept the reality that you, his friend, his comrade, someone that could have been something more than those words —were no more, gone for forever. 

The disbelief gave way to a seething rage that consumed him, a brutal madness that twisted his features and clouded his judgment. He could not believe it. He would never believe it. It didn’t make sense. How could you—how could you be gone? How could you be dead? How could you no longer smile at him, live for him?

"NO!" Suguru's voice was a raw scream, echoing through the empty space. "It can’t be over! It can’t end like this! Not when…”

You do not know what he was going to say. You probably would never know. But his face, the utter devastation on his face. That one look that you will truly never know or understand. One that will forever be lost in translation. You could feel it. You could feel him fall apart as he slumped over your corpse with tears on his face. His sorrowful screams reverberating in the room over and over.

The haze around you thickened, and the world became a blur of muted colors and muffled sounds. Geto Suguru’s anger was palpable, a raging storm that refused to subside. Over and over, his fury echoed like a relentless drumbeat, each beat a painful reminder of what was lost. The memories of your final moments haunted him, a torment that seemed never-ending.

In the midst of the chaos, there was a fleeting sense of peace, a whisper of acceptance that lingered on the edge of your consciousness. You wanted to reach out, to reassure them that it was okay, that you were at peace. But the words wouldn’t come, and the haze only grew thicker, swallowing you whole.

You shook as each wave of memory came sharply, brutally.

Yet, as quickly as they come, they too also disappear fast.

There was no longer any room for such memories in a ghost.

For memories never truly belongs to the dead.

No, it only ever belongs to the living that breathes.

And you? You were nothing but the ashes in the wind.

Soon enough, you could not hear those words of domination, of anger, of grief, of horror passed through in waves of echoes, ripples of the vast seas.  There was nothing that came, nothing that was left to a ghost waiting to die a final death.  You blink and blink, waiting as the final tear falls.

There was only the whisper of ghosts, of ghosts that came in the form of silent rumblings. They did not make sense to you. Not the warm touches of the hands, nor the warm touches exchanged as the body fell from the steps of the stage. As Suguru made such vows that could never be broken by anyone’s foolish resolve. 

You were not content with this end.

But this is all there will ever be.

He was alive, and you were not.

If Satoru could not stop it, neither can you.

Your pained tears continued as you walked through the lonesome streets, where the mist dragged on through the air. You did not stop the pace of your feet, you only continued and walked. There was no pain left to feel. Nothing in those legs, though marked with endless cuts, it did not hurt. Nothing hurt.

Nothing but your heavy heart.

But you no longer had a heart.

It was nothing but ashes in the wind.

Soon enough, you could feel your feet touch the cold lake, adulterated with the snow. Yet there was no cold, you did not feel it. You finally looked up and saw the long dark robe flowing through the water, untainted with the freezing sodden ground.

You met the face.

“You are here.”

You could only nod.

You could not speak.

After what had happened, you could no longer do so.

Words are no longer important to the dead.

Words only belong to the living that had breath.

“Then, are you prepared?”

You nodded once more, eyes watering with such pained tears.

“Follow me.”

And that you did.

The water did not stain you.

It could only allow mercy upon you.

For a moment, you thought to look back.

“If you look back,” They spoke to you, without turning their back. “Then you are not allowed to leave. You cannot leave. You will be a curse that lives among the world. A curse upon those you love.”

For a moment, you thought about it.

You tried to resist the temptation.

But you knew that it was time.

Nothing was left of you but ashes.

You would not burden Suguru with this.

Ashes shouldn’t cause harm upon the living.

Not even when they long to live for more time.

They did not say a word again and continued to walk.

You looked down, your eyes gazing at the snow-filled lake.

And all you could do was come and follow them.

And then, in the mist,  there was nothing.

There was nothing left for you or Suguru.

For he was alive, breathing life to an empire.

And you? What could be left for you in this world?

‘Nothing.’ You think softly. ‘Nothing but ashes no one mourns.’

[yuurei20]

Malleus Facts Part 59: Gargoyles (pt1)

Malleus seems to appreciate architecture in general and gargoyles in particular.

In his first conversation with the prefect he says, “sometimes, what you see with your eyes is the complete opposite of the truth," using gargoyles as an example of things that are frightful-looking and yet “devoted to the preservation of their home."

Malleus explains his love of statues to Deuce in his fourth birthday vignettes, saying that he enjoys what others may call “deterioration,” as the transformations wrought upon them by wind and rain give them more depth, and the appearance of things that have lived for a long time.

When Malleus offers to lecture Deuce on gargoyles in detail, Deuce runs away.

We have many comments from Malleus concerning gargoyles: he says he intends to observe the gargoyles of NBC to his heart’s content, as he finds them truly fascinating, and tells Epel that they are completely different from those at NRC.

For his birthday present from the prefect Malleus asks for them to take part in his Gargoyle Studies Club activities, also inviting Silver to do so in a vignette and explaining that he is the club’s founder and sole member.

Malleus says that features inspired by ravens are rare, and the raven gargoyle above the eastern entrance of NRC is the only one he has ever seen.

When Silver asks if gargoyles are not typically modeled after “demons and such” Malleus says that he is mistaken “to an odious degree” and that it “is dreadfully narrow-minded” to assume all are monsters.

Silver points out another supposed raven gargoyle and Malleus corrects him; what Silver found was a grotesque, which is merely a statue that serves no purpose: “Gargoyles benefit their castle and are a far cry from being simple ornaments. To compare the two is tantamount to an insult.”

Malleus says most of the school's gargoyles are new, being added one by one, year after year, which may be hinting at the popular time-loop theory.Silver says that he feels that he has managed to grow closer to Malleus through the Gargoyle Study Club and asks permission to gift him a gargoyle for his room, and Malleus points out that, if it were not to act as a spout, it would not be a gargoyle at all.

(Malleus does seem to have a stone sculpture of some kind in his room, but I am not sure that it has ever been acknowledged in dialogue.)

[multiversal-pudding]

Y’all ever just kill and usurp the lovecraftian force (or at least the personality currently controlling it) tormenting you only to end up retaining your mind and personality after despite being Permanently Changed?

Haha- Crazy, right? Anyways-

[hannahssimblr]

Pretending to be good at driving isn’t as easy as I assumed. It’s not like pretending to be into wine, or classical music, or other such things that allow you to nod along and smile, and make statements bland enough to seem vaguely knowledgeable. Italians drive on the right, and I’m terrified, yet one of my hands is nonchalantly out the open window of the rental car, resting against warm metal, while the other white knuckles the wheel. Tyres toss dust into the air behind us, and I feel like we’re starring in a film about Americans in southern Italy, where the sky is colour graded cyan blue, and the greens bleached out, dulled to bone dry ochre so that you know it is hot and poor. 

I don’t think I have ever been much of a driver, despite the belief of my classmates back at school who assumed I must be, simply because I owned a car. Yes, I could drive it. I could control the clutch, shift the gears and manoeuvre myself into a parking space with semi-accuracy, but the traffic in Dublin was so diabolical that I spent most of my driving career crawling by, metre by metre, bumper to bumper until I’d give up, pull into the train station and get the DART the rest of the way. The other times, I was having disappointing sex in the passenger seat, or eating ice creams from McDonalds, a dead eyed stare over the bay on Fridays after school, just to have a way to unwind. 

The road to Amalfi is a narrow twist of hairpin turns carved from a mountain, climbing above little towns and a verdant landscape which I picture dried to brush by the time July’s heat comes, a landscape in sepia tones.

Warm, dry air kisses my sweat dampened skin as I climb out of the car to the smell of the sea. Salt and seaweed, and fish, from a seafood restaurant by the water. Waves lap against the shore in a gentle symphony as seagulls circle above the vibrant hum of a busy tourist town. 

The first thing Astrid wants to do is take photographs. And so, she perches on a low wall, against a backdrop of azure waters and green capped mountains, and poses for the camera. I take several, in a variety of positions, and indulge her whims by digging her straw hat out from the car boot so that she can pose with it, one hand on the brim as she looks out over the Tyrrhenian sea like it is her kingdom. 

I get her to take some with me, too, using the front facing camera on my phone, then choose one to send to my mother. 

We’re in Italy. Wonderful. Enjoy. 

I suspect it will be weeks before we communicate again. 

“It looks like it did on the website, anyway,” I say, as I unload our cases outside our villa. It is loaded with picturesque, old-world charm, the brick exterior crumbling slightly from salt and age. We decided that a villa with a pool would suit us best when I booked it, surmising we would appreciate a swim before breakfast under the morning sun. I gaze at my reflection now, a ripple of dark hair against the cloudless sky and take a moment to relax my shoulders, and thank God it will be ten days before I have to drive those perilous roads again.

 Our footsteps echo against the hallway tile. Astrid gazes around her as I haul our bags upstairs. 

“It’s quite nice,” she says, an understatement that incites a chuckle from me. This is the nicest place I’ve ever stayed at, including a family member’s desert guest house in Palm Springs. It is perfect. From behind the wrought iron banisters I spy a small living room, white linen couches and a bowl of fresh oranges on the table, and suspect they are from the tree outside. 

“It’s a marvellous view from here,” Astrid says at the bedroom window while I roll the last of our cases across the floor towards the wardrobe. I won’t want to unpack them. I usually live out of my bags while I’m travelling, but I suspect Astrid will like things hung up and put away. With the heat and the exhaustion from travelling, I cannot face the thought. I join her at the window, where we look out upon a small dock, little coloured boats floating in water so serene, so clear that we can see their shadows at the bottom of the sea.

“Woah, yeah. It’s pretty here, huh?”

“I told you that,” she says, leaning into my chest. “I think this is the best place in the world.” 

“Touristy, though, don’t you think?” Across the little bay, the coastal road is traffic jammed, holidaymakers weaving between the cars. A tour yacht glides by, its linen clad passengers pointing their cameras toward the charming little houses that cling to the mountainside, including ours. I raise my hand to wave at them, though I’m certain they cannot see us. 

“We are tourists too,” she points out. “It’s good for the economy. If we weren’t here, the restaurants and craft shops would have to close.”

I hum in vague agreement, caught in between two ways of thinking. Jonas paced my room as I packed my bags for the airport, giving me a spirited, if not slightly manic, lecture about the perils of tourism, from environmental degradation, cultural disruption, exploitation and overcrowding. 

“Shut up,” I said. “You and I are going to Thailand in June.” And he argued it was different, because he had intentions of learning about the cultures and traditions, and being respectful, unlike all the other tourists, trying to take pictures in the temples with their shoes still on and eating in Subway instead of trying a new cuisine. 

Still, the conversation has left me with a vague feeling of nuisance I’ve never experienced while travelling abroad. I look around this bedroom, the voile curtains fluttering in the breeze that floats through the open balcony door, and fear I am gentrifying the town just by standing here. What if they hate me, the locals, and the chino trousers in my suitcase, the way my hair is pushed back, my trendy little sunglasses? I couldn’t even ask for water in Italian if I wanted to.

But Astrid can. Perfect, clever Astrid. She gazes at her appearance in the mirror, and smooths out her dress, which shows no signs of having been travelled in. She combs her fingers through her pin straight hair, and a strand comes loose, floating through the sun rays like a strand of white silk. 

I wrap my arms around her waist and kiss her neck. “This is a great room, hm?”

“Yes, it’s spacious.”

“We could spend a lot of time in here.” I slide my hand over her ribs and cup her breasts. She sighs and lifts them away. “Don’t. Not now. We’ll put creases in the fabric.”

“You can change into another outfit.” God knows, she has packed enough clothes. 

She twists out of my arms and opens her suitcase on the bed, retrieving her toothbrush. “I don’t feel clean after travelling. I’d need time to have a shower and freshen myself up first.”

To this, I laugh. “I don’t really care about that, to be honest. Like, I’ll go down on you no matter–”

“Well, I do.” She pushes through to the adjacent bathroom. The tap squeaks, and water splashes into the sink. “I want to see the town, anyway. I don’t want to waste the day in bed together.”

“I never think a day is wasted like that.”

“Well, we can do it later. Perhaps after dinner.”

“Very organised,” I say, and she doesn’t respond. She’s brushing her teeth. 

Beginning // Prev // Next

[rey-jake-therapist]

I really need to know what happened to Elrond at the end of season 2. He spent almost the entirety of season 2 pestering about the rings of power being corrupted by Sauron. He jumped off a cliff at the risk of killing himself, just so the Elves wouldn't have them. This scene was even paralleled in the finals, with Galadriel doing the exact same thing but to escape no other than Sauron !

This should raise some eyebrows regarding his sudden change of heart, at the very least.

This was Elrond's stance at the beginning of season 2, and for most of the season, really. For him, there were no doubts that Sauron had corrupted the Elven rings in a way or another, and guess what ? He was right. Sauron had not only touched the mithril, but he had also touched Galadriel's dagger, which was used by Celebrimbor. His imprint was all over the Elven rings, which is the reason why the Elves took off their rings after Sauron forged the One Ring :

"But the Elves were not so lightly to be caught. As soon as Sauron set the One Ring upon his finger they were aware of him; and they knew him, and perceived that he would be master of them, and of all that they wrought. Then in anger and fear they took off their rings." [The Silmarillion].

Elrond was so sure that the rings were no good news, that he would have rather see the Elves abandon Middle-Earth forever, than them wearing these rings. And it wasn't because he wanted to leave, far from it ! he's actually the one who pushed Gil-Galad into giving Celebrimbor a delay, so he could find a way to save the Great Tree. He wanted the Elves to stay in Middle-Earth as much as Gil-Galad did.

While they were travelling to Eregion, Elrond refused to follow any direction that would come "from this trinket". It turned out he was wrong, because they indeed fell into a trap.*

But it didn't change Elrond's mind, nor did the healing of Camnir's wound; it is proven by his resentment towards Galadriel, as Camnir says that she sacrificed herself to save them all.

"No, you are mistaken, Camnir. She didnt do it to save us. She did it to save the ring."

He was impressed by Nenya's power of healing (and the fact that it heals doesn't indicate that it's free of Sauron's influence, mind you, as his purpose is to heal Middle-Earth), but it didn't change his heart at all. When he pronounced these words, he seemed disgusted, as if for him his friend was already a slave to the ring, which to her (in his opinion) mattered more than her friends.

So, "tell it to me like I'm a six year-year-old" : what happened between this scene, and the finals of season 2 where he's all of a sudden all giddy when he announces Galadriel that they're "in a sanctuary, protected by the Elven rings" ? We know that in the future, Elrond will become a ring-bearer himself as he will get Viliya from Gil-Galad. So he's converted for good.

He even puts the ring on Galadriel's finger, a knee on the ground, as if he was asking her in marriage. I mean, wot ?

I can understand that faced with the imminent death of Galadriel, he realized ("told" by Nenya, probably) that the only way to save her was to put on the ring. He didn't look especially happy to do it, if you notice.

His face said, "fu*ing hell, I have to do this" to me. Did he have a sort of epiphany while wearing it, like it happened to Adar when he put on Nenya and healed himself ? It would be my guess : as soon as he put on the ring, his opinion about the rings drastically changed.

But is it necessarily a good sign ? Are the Elves deceived by Sauron through these rings, or are these rings really good for them ? And if they are good, then why all it took of Sauron was to forge the One Ring to master the Elves, forcing them to take the rings off to be free of his influence ?

Food for thought.

*Sauron wanted Galadriel in Eregion, as Elrond predicted. And he probably wanted her safe and sound, since he still wanted her to be his queen (Charlie said so). So I don't think that Sauron wanted the company to take the bad path Elrond chose.

[docholligay]

after episodes 110 and 111

Okay so four things might have been aiming for the stars, given my output this year, but if I get a little over a thousand words more it'll be 3,000, which is more than I've written in a day in....more than a year. Maybe two.

SO HERE is this one. More canon-complaint, or at least canon-friendly than usual (boo), it's about 1900 words.

You are special. There is something inside you, that makes you different. Important. 

She’d left the light on in her room, bright as day. Her mother wouldn’t bother coming in and telling her to shut it off, to go to sleep, to take her book and tell her she had school in the morning, and what was she thinking, reading this stupid thing at midnight? 

Haruka wished she would. 

The young boy on the page, a dragon at his side, sword in his hand, destiny in his blood--it was always boys who were brave, who were special, who did things, and did not need to be rescued--was the culmination of Haruka’s desires. He was upright and noble, even in his momentary sadness. It was true, what the wizard said. He was different. He was important. So important that it had been necessary for the beautiful sorceress, Aralith Starfall, to die to save him, her undying love on her lips to her last breath. 

Haruka wiped the tear, that was most certainly only from holding her eyes open too long, from her cheek. 

To be loved so deeply that someone would die for you, Haruka could not imagine, at 14. To have been born to a higher cause, every struggle and difficulty imbued with meaning. To carry a promise inside you. She closed her eyes, and wished into the starless sky. 

She should have realized that if there are no stars, you pray to the dark. 

Haruka had everything she dreamed of that night. A destiny. An importance. A woman willing to die for her. A sword, even. 

But Griffin Steelblade didn’t seem so bothered by it. His carefully-drawn face had betrayed no confusion, no uncertainty. Haruka, on the other hand, suddenly didn’t like any of it. 

It was true that they both had died, and the apartment was silent as the graveyard they both should have been in, but it wasn’t the same. They were fated warriors, chosen by God and Destiny, doing what they needed to for the princess yet to be revealed. It wasn’t a Steelblade story, and Haruka wasn’t supposed to be Griffin. They were both soldiers. It was a different story.

But Michiru lied. 

------

Michiru was, to put it mildly, unaccustomed to explaining herself, and she had no intention of starting now. 

What was done was done, and it had all worked out in the end anyhow, in a manner of speaking, and the princess was revealed, talismans obtained, so what Michiru had done or not done was immaterial at best. Pluto had said not a word to her on the subject, Usagi had been dismissed with a quick bow and a hissed, ‘at your leave, Majesty,’ and Mina had merely tossed her hands in the air while walking away. 

Michiru would do it again. 

The overwhelming burden of being chosen, of being special, was already Michiru’s at a tender age. Rich, pedigreed, almost certainly likely to marry within the circle of latter-day global debutantes, her head had felt the weight of a crown long before it had fallen to others. Not even the crown of a queen, but the crown of a princess, born only to be groomed and sacrificed as a perfect lamb in spring. 

When Sailor Neptune was draped upon her, Michiru was hardly surprised. Another requirement Michiru was born to, another kingdom or family pyre to burn herself upon. To fight a monster was not so different as to speak to some failing Duke looking for a dollar princess. Over more quickly, at the least. Michiru was quick and decisive in her work. 

She had not saved Haruka out of love. A creature like her could not feel it, the blade and the crown wrought in iron and gold. But Haruka was hers. Haruka was the only thing she had ever wanted for herself, in recent memory. Oh, perhaps a lovely dress, or a fashionable handbag, but that wanting was not like this. Desire. It curled in her mind, red and hot like the end of a cigarette. 

Michiru had been affronted that Eudial thought she could take what was rightfully Michiru’s. Everything else was merely detail. The only rules she had broken were self-imposed. 

Now the worst of it: Haruka was no longer sweet and amusing. She looked at Michiru as if the apartment were a boxing ring, and she was looking for a clear space, somewhere she could insert herself and claim victory. It was silly, of course. No one yet born could feint and jibe as Michiru could. They could circle each other until the end of time, round for round, and Haruka would never be the victor. 

Time would pass. Haruka would forget whatever silly little promise they had made to one another, and they would return to festivals and other amusements. Michiru would fight and curtsy and whatever else they wanted her to do, but this moment would pass without comment. 

Michiru did not explain herself. 

---

She lied. 

“If one of us should fall, the other will go on. It is a matter of duty. You understand duty, do you not, my gallant knight?” 

Michiru had tilted her head in the way Haruka loved, where the light would gently catch the edge of her eyelashes, the curl resting next to her cheek. 

“Yeah.” 

“So if I should be captured?” 

Haruka nodded. “I keep going. We gotta get the talismans.” 

Michiru smiled her closed-mouth smile. “Yes. Very well. Let’s begin.” 

But she lied. Haruka wasn’t stupid, she knew what Michiru said, even if she said it all flowery. Just like in the Steelblade comics, sometimes. Like Aralith used to talk. She said they both had to keep going, if one of them got caught. That was the rule. That was what they promised. 

Then Michiru came after her. Then Michiru died. 

Then they weren’t dead, which made bringing up harder. Easier, also, because you can’t bring something up when you’re dead. But harder. Michiru’d walked away from the cathedral that day saying there was no harm done, and was that cafe still open by their apartment? 

There was a dull ache behind Haruka’s breastbone, and she wasn’t sure it was from the gun. 

Michiru lied. 

The other reason it was hard to bring up was that Haruka had killed herself. Well, it was to get the talisman. So not killed herself, more like, ‘nobly sacrificed herself for the cause.’ But it didn’t sound as good as dying for someone. And Michiru died for her. But she wouldn’t say that, either. 

Did Michiru love her? She’d never said so. She let Haruka live in her apartment, but that was smart, because they were looking for the talismans together. Haruka went a lot of places with her, but it seemed Michiru was kind of lonely, so that made sense too. Sometimes, the way she touched her…but it was all silly. Michiru wasn’t going to fall in love with someone like Haruka. It was all business. 

But then she died. And she lied about it. And Haruka couldn’t stop thinking about those comics from when she was a kid. 

“Haruka, I won’t let you die.” 

It wasn’t “I love you.” It wasn’t. Besides, Michiru liked things her way. She was kind of spoiled, honestly, though Haruka thought it was a little cute. So, it could just be that Michiru didn’t like Eudial thinking she could do what she wanted. 

Every time she tried to say something, Michiru would dodge it, like they were kids fighting in the backyard, and she was too quick and too clever for Haruka. And she wasn’t Griffin. She was special, sure, but she was a side character. She did the dying. She wasn’t worth dying for. 

But Michiru did die. And she died for Haruka. She didn’t die for the talismans, even Haruka saw that. 

It had been easy to die. It was like she’d been holding her breath her whole life, waiting to die for something. To be a hero. 

There’s something inside you that makes you different. 

Maybe the hero got to live. Maybe true love conquered all. 

That was the end of it. From the moment Haruka said it to herself, she realized that whatever Michiru herself thought, and however broken and scuffed and worthless Haruka was, Haruka was in love with Michiru Kaioh. This had been true for months. Every time she looked at her, there had been a soft wash, like a watercolor painting, as if Michiru were too beautiful to be a real thing. Every time Michiru spoke, there was a light breeze, music, she could smell roses in the air. There was a perfect love, hidden by Haruka’s own fear. 

But if Michiru were brave enough to die, Haruka must be her knight gallant. Must be brave enough to live. 

If Michiru could lie for love, Haruka could tell the truth for it. 

---

Like a dark shadow in the sea, Michiru saw the moment approach. It lingered, and waited, peering up at her from beneath. Surely Haruka would say something, had been trying to say something since the whole incident. She opened her mouth, gaping like a big mouth bass, and when Michiru looked at her with whatever seemed most offputting: coyness, indifference, even laughter, she would close it. She would not speak on what she had done. 

Truly, the saving grace of the matter was that Haruka was not burdened by emotional eloquence. 

But the point was coming, whether Michiru liked it or not. Eventually, one’s opponent does attempt to land a blow. But no matter. Haruka was unaware that Michiru had more than heard of Haruka’s asinine little dalliance with martyrdom. The invocation of that, and all the waste of Michiru’s own sacrifice that it implied, would be enough to close the book on the matter for ever. Haruka would never be quick enough to catch her. Whatever had happened in the cathedral meant nothing. Might not even have happened quite as Haruka remembered it, over time and retelling. 

Michiru was the undefeated champion in this game, and Haruka would have nothing against her. She would not explain herself. She would not reveal the game. They would continue in their little play, and she would continue to have Haruka, and nothing would ever change. If she was to be Saillor Neptune, she would take this as her prize. 

It was true, that Michiru was sculpted and twisted into the thing that she was, and that Haruka could never understand that, but an inability to be a real thing did not--apparently--disclude her from wanting. And like a lovely dress, she would have Haruka, and she would take the thing she desired, and it would be hers. Haruka would stay because Michiru had everything, and would give it to her, and Michiru would never admit what she was afraid might be true. 

Haruka rose from her spot by the window and sat at the end of the couch where Michiru read. She drummed her fingers on the edge of her knee, licked her lips, and looked over Michiru, two short slow breaths coming as she let it rush out of her mouth. 

“Michiru, do you love me?” 

MIchiru sat up straight, closing the obsolete book in her hand, and tossed her back, ready to speak. 

“Because I think I love you.” 

It was the sort of think only Haruka could say to her: open and true and utterly artless. Devoid of artifice or poetry or anything but the raw bleeding edge of the moment. Her hands dropped, book in her lap, overwhelmed by that horrible leviathan of truth. The great punch, with no respect at all for rules or footwork or anything but what she felt, full on her face. 

K.O.

[angelynmoon]

More eldritch monster Steve, because I have no self control

Part 3

--

They ask him what he is, well, Erica asks, loudly and quite rudely, but she is his favorite, after El.

El, who looks at him in confusion, with a little blood leaking from her nose, she, Jonathan, Will, Mike, and a man named Argyle arrived sometime early in the morning.

"Why can't I tell?" El asked, head tilting as she frowned.

Steve looked at her, "I'm a very good mimic."

"But what are you?" Will asked, "Even I don't feel the connection."

"You wouldn't." Steve tells him, "You can feel the connection Henry had to the Down Below, everything you and El feel can trace back to him and Dr. Brenner. I have a connection to the Down Below, something deeper than either of them have, because I was born there or because of how long I lived there before leaving, who knows." Steve explained, "As for what I am, I can't tell you that. I never needed a word for what I am before."

"Are there others?" Jonathan asked, which was a good question considering what Steve could do.

Steve looked away, towards the pool, "No. I am the only one like me."

Which had always been true, Steve was unique, but there had been others of his kind once.

Now, however, he was the only one left, but the children didn't need to know that, they didn't need to know that the Down Below was like it was because it was a grave yard of his kind, the vines that ran through it had once been the veins of Steve's race, that the residule life that had once ran through them allowed Henry to control them, though Steve doubted that Henry was the one really in control.

His race was dangerous, he'd always know that, ever since the moment of his first memory, but Steve was dangerous too, he was afterall the one that had killed the rest of his kin.

They'd deserved it, parasitic and destructive, they fed on others of their race if they were strong enough and ate the other creatures in the Down Below if they weren't.

Steve had been the smallest, the one that wasn't a threat, that prefered to chase Demobats and hunt Demogorgans, he had been the one least likely to be a threat.

But all things that live have a breaking point.

Steve's had been his spawn. His kind didn't need partners to spawn, just enough energy and want, and Steve had wanted so much that all he needed was a few good hunts and he had his spawn.

But his kind, like most predators, went after the weak and the young, and Steve's spawn had only him to protect them, while partners were unneeded they usually still paired to spawn, if only to make protection detail easier.

His spawn had been killed and raveged before they even really existed, and Steve, who'd only wanted a family to raise, though he hadn't had the words to understand that, had gone after those who'd taken that from him.

And small, unassuming Steve had quickly become something to fear, laying waste to his own race and leaving them to rot instead of feasting, the worst of the slaughter Steve wrought, the thing that made him more dangerous than all of his race.

Because his anger and destruction didn't come from those he kileed, but from himself, and if that was his own feeling then what would he become if he feasted on the ones he killed, who thrived on the destruction and death that his race was built upon.

No, Steve had always been different, soft, his kind had said, an easy target for an easy meal. And then Steve had proved them wrong, but it hadn't mattered, because by the time Steve's anger had faded into grief and sorrow he'd been alone, the last of his kind, surrounded by the rotting corpses of his kin, the vines left behind too frightened to reach for him, the Demogorgans too wary of the war Steve raged to come out of hiding.

And then a tiny crack had appeared, not much more than a sliver, but enough for Steve to slip through, for him to leave the Down Below and the destruction he'd done, a chance to start over in a world where he could raise his spawn to adulthood, hiding amidst the creatures of the Upper World.

But the children didn't need to know any of that, didn't need to know that their jokes of Steve being their second mom fell a little too close to home on some occasions, because they were his, weren't they, not his blood but they were his spawn just as much as the ones he'd lost because he'd fought for them, got hurt for them, fed them, protected them like a parent should, he'd threatened government officials to keep them from removing Will from Joyce's home, threatened Owens to give Hopper Jane, he'd made sure that the kids got compensated, even Susie, in the form of college funds for each and every time they saved the world from the Down Below, the knowledge he'd picked up from Mr. Harrington finally useful, he'd even gotten Murry something, a few secret conspiracies confirmed, for his assistance.

This was his family, his to protect and Steve wasn't sure what would happen if he failed, truely failed and had to bury any one of his kids, or Robin, or Eddie, who was surprisingly easy to care for, or even Eddie's uncle, who was Steve's merely because that uncle was Eddie's and Eddie was Steve's.

Eddie was Steve's, Steve frowned and looked over to where the kids and Eddie were arguing about what his Dustpans and Dinosaurs name should be. When had Eddie become his, his to protect and keep, and care for.

Steve blinked as he realize it was the moment that Eddie risked his life to protect Dustin.

Spawning was easier in pairs, afterall.

--

Um... hi.

I'm attempting a tag list, sorry if I forgot you, sorry I didn't tag on the second part, but I posted that before people asked to be tagged, well, I think I did.

Sorry, if I tagged you and you didn't want to be tagged.

Also, I know nothing about dustpans and dinosaurs, sorry, dungeons and dragons

@merricatty @lesbiabrobin @apuckishwit @starlight-archer @0o-mushroom-o0 @cats-ate-all-of-my-pasta