#meat paradox

[undextrois]

Meat Paradox

It's the psychological dissonance between caring about animals and consuming them. Here's a breakdown of the psychology involved:

1. Cognitive Dissonance:

* We want to maintain a positive self-image. We generally view ourselves as kind and compassionate.

* Eating meat, especially when we know the process, can conflict with this self-image.

* To reduce this conflict, we engage in mental gymnastics:

* Denial: We minimize the chicken's sentience or ability to suffer.

* Dissociation: We separate the chicken from the meat product.

* Rationalization: We justify our consumption based on societal norms or personal needs.

2. Moral Licensing:

* We may feel that our "good deeds" (e.g., recycling, charity) offset our "bad deeds" (eating meat).

* This allows us to maintain a positive self-image while still engaging in behaviors that might otherwise contradict it.

3. Cultural and Societal Influences:

* Our upbringing and culture shape our views on meat consumption.

* Societal norms often normalize meat-eating, making it easier to ignore the ethical implications.

4. Lack of Direct Connection:

* Most people don't witness the slaughter of animals firsthand. This distance can make it easier to consume meat without facing the reality of the process.

5. Personal Beliefs and Values:

* Some individuals may have strong ethical or environmental beliefs that conflict with meat consumption.

* However, they may still eat meat due to habit, social pressure, or a lack of alternatives.

It's important to note that this is a complex issue with no easy answers. The psychology behind it is multifaceted and varies from person to person. Understanding these underlying factors can help us navigate our own relationship with food and make more informed choices.

[l-in-the-light]

"I'm sure he's got nothing to do with me!" says Luffy and I was waiting for him to say it. For him to hear all of this Nika lore and declare that, nope, I don't care, I'm not Nika, I'm not a liberator. It's just such a Luffy thing to do. But I know many fans actually will be shocked with Luffy's answer here or will just dismiss it. I have seen many opinions before that Luffy was always a liberator by choice, so becoming Nika is just natural course of events for him and he will have no problem embracing his role in the bigger scheme of things. Some even complained they hate that Luffy is Nika because they don't want Luffy to be the "fated hero" but instead a "from nobody to the king of the world" trope. But nope! Luffy just noped all of this himself.

Luffy is not a liberator and he's not an altruistic hero, he doesn't go from island to island aiming to save people, and if you think he wanted to, then please remember Fishmen Island and how unhappy he was with the idea of being a hero:

And now if you think Luffy changed since then because Dressrosa happened, then please remember what he asked of Momonosuke in Wano:

Yep, that's right. Luffy still *doesn't have any interest* in becoming a hero. If you think he's alright with that and changed his mind, then you're just not paying attention to him, sorry to say that. Luffy has been pretty consistent about this too and now he declared it yet again in Elbaf. It's the third time already.

You just think it's not a big deal because he so easily changed his mind in Fishmen Island, but it happened only because he had an actual reason to do that. Jimbei promised Luffy all the meat he wants. He gave him a *personal reason* to act like a hero, which is why Luffy agreed. And he did the same in Dressrosa. He wouldn't liberate that country if he didn't get attached first to Law and Rebecca (yes, in this order), and his crew to tontattas. They always do it for someone particular, for their friends. It's the same in Wano too, Luffy's constant motivation is Tama, Momo and Kinemon. He wants them to be happy, most of all, and he even says as much when he defeats Kaido: "I want a world where all of my friends can eat as much as they like".

There, he doesn't do it altruistically because he hates oppresion and villains who thrive on pain of common people and he can't stand seeing it. Yes, he probably thinks it's unfair, but he also grew up in Goa Kingdom, the very definition of unfair regime. He saves oppressed people only when they are his friends or has some other personal interest involved. He defeats the Marine base in Shells Town for Koby (and Zoro, later). He defeats Don Krieg so he can repay his food debt to Baratie. He defeats Arlong for Nami. He fights Wapol for Chopper (who saved Nami) and who he already considers his friend because of that. He fights for the Giants (Little Garden) and Vivi (Alabasta), Conis (Skypiea), Robin (Water 7 and Enies Lobby), Brook (Thriller Bark), Hachi (Sabaody) etc. Though, he does make friends rather easily, so usually it's not that big of a deal. But he isn't going out of his way to places he reads about in the newspapers that need to be liberated, he instead cares more for his own dream. He doesn't enter a certain island with the idea in mind that goes like "if I see some injustice here, I'm gonna bring this shit down". It's the other way around. He makes friends and realizes they're unhappy.

He wants them to be happy again and to live without regrets, and that's why he brings the shit down, whatever it is that makes people he cares about feel so unhappy. Because he thinks this is at least something he can do for his friends. Luffy doesn't think he can do a lot of things, he can't do much at all, but he can do one thing: beat up a guy when needed.

He knows how regret feels like ever since he believed Sabo died, he's not gonna sit there and do nothing next time something like this happens. That's why it's so important for him, to make sure his friends are happy. And that's why he beats up people and liberates countries. It's not for justice, he simply wants his friends to be happy.

But wait a moment, Luffy also wants freedom. Yes, he does. He wants to be the King of the Pirates, because for him it means to be free. And that's how he actually speaks about Nika as well:

He wants the freedom for himself. Isn't it funny that he thinks he already achieved it though?

And before you're disgusted by how selfish Luffy actually is, hear me out: Luffy is simply not a martyr. He won't die or sacrfice himself for the world to liberate it. He will instead die for the world if he thinks that will make his friends happy. Preferably though, he would want to survive and eat that meat with them, and be happy together.

Still, if you want him to be a liberator of a whole world it is actually possible, you just need to make it personal for Luffy, like I suggested. For example, put a person or multpile people who want to save/destroy the world (whichever option you fancy) on Luffy's crew. Luffy always cares for dreams of his crewmates and will always support them (because fullfilling their dreams will make them happy), so he would become a liberator if that helps them. But he would do it for them, not for the world.

Luffy is not a hero because he has a golden heart and a strong sense of justice. He's a hero when his friends are in danger instead, because instead of a golden heart, he simply has a big heart and makes friends wherever he goes. A martyr-like hero who sacrfices himself for people without caring for his own wellbeing is noble, but it's also not a healthy mentality, believe it or not. For starters, if you never care enough for yourself and are ready to throw your life away for a concept, what will happen with people who love you and care for you? Is it fair towards them to throw your life away without caring who you're leaving behind and how they will feel about it? Do you even care then for their feelings if your pursuit of greater good is more important to you? You can save the world and make people you love sad and unhappy, and like they don't even care anymore to live, because you were the one who made them happy and now you're gone. Did you save the world for them or destroyed it for them instead, as the result?

Luffy has his own interest in saving his friends too: so he's not alone again. Humans aren't selfless beings, but it doesn't automatically make us bad people either. And sometimes, while pursuing selfish things, we do something that appear to be extremely selfless. But at the bottom of it: we also do it for themselves, even if it kills us.

Tokyo Babylon taught me that every act is selfish, even if it appears like we do it for someone else: we simply want to feel better about ourselves then. There's nothing wrong with that, as long as we don't lose the sight of other people's feelings on our way. We can always share, after all, and that sharing is the bridge between the lone islands that people are.

Luffy, if he dies, will also say, just like Seishiro: "I didn't do it for you. I did everything by my own choice". For myself. Despite the fact it is also true he does it to make his friends happy. Being selfish and being selfless is like two sides of the same coin and both choices can end up actually hurting people. In the first case, because you care too much about yourself and too little about feelings of others, and in second case because you care too little about yourself and still too little about feelings of people that love and care for you. Can you spot the thing in common here?

[frithuritaks]

i had a dream about paradox bronzong and it was a carnivore

it was awesome

[jalapenobee]

is it just me or does visty have like. arguably the worst written plotline bc it feels like they're just there to give kei another tragic backstory and 1nm8 more drama. i know they were with cozmez in rage but they'd be a better group if they weren't centered around kei..........

[web-novel-polls]

Web Novel Quotes Tournament, Round 1B

Quote A: 

"What was he going to do in the future? He also did not know that he felt like he was a moth and NanGong Si the flame. He always wanted to follow the light, even if it would only cause him to break apart."  - The Husky and His White Cat Shizun, Chapter 154

Quote B: 

“We are two ships of Theseus sailing the sea. We met by accident and were afraid to separate, so you gave me your parts, and I gave you mine. We’re not what we used to be. We have become each other.”  - Fanservice Paradox (Tumblr)

*Might be different from the English translation since I just translated a Spanish post because the English translation site scares me, but holy shit. What a quote

[arolesbianism]

Sigh. Nikola why must you be one of the more interesting oni characters. I don't wanna think abt you with your stupid spiky blond hair and your unethical science that mostly just serves to make Jackie more shitty by proxy. But I do. Because you're kind of orbo blorbo. Fuck you Nikola I hope you explode again

[dagasinfilo]

oh i never liked ifls much but dude. this is low 

[angel---eater]

now how does a tgirl's egg as thick as jegbert's crack in isolation you ask? june has appeared in hsbc and john STILL hasnt gotten a clue (though i think hes about to), but TO BE HONEST i think isolation is what jegbert would need in this instance. if jade was the one who died on the yellow yard ship alongside davesprite, then john would fall into a deep depression like the one we keep seeing him fall into in the epilogues. its very easy for me to imagine him getting bad enough that his hair starts growing out and (s)he starts looking more and more reminiscent of jade, except that at the same time, puberty is making their face and body change in ways that juxtipose that. staying quiet and still and looking in the mirror makes them look like jade, which is comforting, but opening their mouth to talk is now.... bad. cant explain what kinda bad, its just bad

Things Happen in june's session, wow spoilers for fic under the cut

they meet up with dave and rose, karkat and kanaya and terezi, and the alpha kids, but things get worse. aranea wrecks their shit a-la game over. the condess arrives. jade isnt around to even the condess' spread, so all the psychic pressure is on jane and her brain just CANNOT handle it. tiaratop aneurysm. dave and karkat fall in battle, terezi gets brutalized by gamzee and doesnt get up. kanaya gets evaporated after killing gamzee in revenge. rose is there to see everything and, with nothing else to lose, sacrifices herself for roxy. dirk hasnt been teleported away by jade, so jake wont let go of dirk during a massive hopesplosion that happens thru aranea meddling with his brain and watching jane drop dead out of no where, and not gonna lie, he vaporizes them both. which makes arquius explode because the AR just starts screaming and equius cant keep up. june and roxy are the last ones standing to try to take the condess down but roxy is fatally wounded at the same time he delivers his own fatal blow to the condess. and june is alone again. perfect set up to have her scramble around through paradox space to grab anyone she can find

[edenspoem]

𝐧𝐨 𝐯𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐞𝐝𝐞𝐧.

summary. ★ ┆ in this numbing winter wood guarded by her hunting-adroit family, ellie believes she is safe. but her tracking methods are not so familiar with the intelligence and vigilance of sadistic creatures—of invisible kinds. reader discretion heavily advised. ★ ┆ dark content (not dubcon/noncon, think of murder, manipulation and abuse), smut, angst, horror, major character death, prey!hunter!ellie x predator!vampire!reader (prey and predator dynamic, the kink is sort of involved), enemies to lovers to enemies again, apocalypse au, lore-centered, flashbacks from centuries ago, ellie is almost a dead-ringer lover, religious references, biting, blood sucking, reader is a bit of a stalker (vampire behavior), reader is an undeniable evil, gunshot wounds (she thought guns would work), bites don't turn people here, forbidden romance with a touch of corruption; starts out sweet, ends up ugly, one instance of physical abuse (that is not endorsed. it is shamed), arguments occur, relationships with wayward and delusional vampires are not for those who fall easy—and deeply. ellie for sure isn't thinking when it comes to you; reader is the first to touch her (she has freaked other girls but never received freak reciprocation, if you catch my drift), sub!leaning!ellie, fingering (e!r!receiving), oral(e!receiving), tribbing, masturbation, subtle overtones of masochism, drugging (with herbal tea, and for reasons that aren't violation), neck and hand fixations, slashing, victim blaming, ellie tends to sub here but energies do match. memo. ★ ┆ here comes a very long-awaited fic (circa five months ago). tried to make this one as long as i could to percolate the tension. expect bittersweetness. actual blood sweat and tears went into this thing i think. info. ★ ┆ wc: 10.9k proofreaders: @baptismbaby, @elstattoo, @meganegatari, @vifilms (thanks to each one of you for ur commentary!) masterlist. discord. palestine masterpost.

𝐇𝐔𝐍𝐓

Guns will not save you, sweetheart.

There she is. Sweet opalescent girl, woolen in gear from head to toe, scrunching her nose and squinting her eyes out in the winter clearing, the girl you have long pursued. You are watching her. Chasing her, silently. 

The grove is dense where snow slipped down to die.

She sticks close to her mechanical savior: a coal black rifle up in her arms like a swaddled babe. It befits her act tremendously. She, a human solely, would not want to penetrate this forest every sacred Sunday without her guns. They have provided her plenty. Pelts, savory meats, skulls above the fireplace, fabricated potential. Some guns even go as far as scoring her family the thinning rations of a sorry trespasser.

But they will not save her.

She knows somebody—or something, is out there. Lurking in alder, hounding in spectacularly painted shade. You can tell her treading is expectant, and alert. Even the way in which she points her gun is inviting. But, on the other side, a paradox invites you.

She is paranoid. Paranoid people are alert, but easy targets. Vampires feed on easy. She hears everything in paranoia; she hears her muscles shift. Bones scrape. Eyes wake. Heart race.

But, of course, never you.

Lastingly, a forever has passed; the Millers have bid no farewell to their scriptural, woodland acreage, and never plan to. So, graciously, your recent years have been ones of watching. After all, you do have all the time in the world, so you spent some learning about this girl in the blind spots she's oblivious to. The romanticism of her not knowing you, or your presence, is that you know nearly everything about her. Much about that is to be smiled over. Even the memorable, quaint little name she has.

Ellie.

And, for a lasting time, she has been your unrequited wife of obsession.

Gorgeous girl. Thin, smart, a labyrinth of limbs and sunspots and reclused words. Hibernates in her room, as far as you can tell. She always has these interludes of solitude, cried on by sunlight, and you linger by the window whenever so. Invisible, of course, but there. Observing how long it takes a human of artistic design to perfect a mere stroke. Once on the canvas, twice, and thrice over. And sure, she ceases seclusion some days to help in pastoral tendings, hunting and patrol; but she always crawls back inside her little paintings, and shuts the hinges on relatives. She is a protagonist of silence.

No lovers, little friendships, a small existence in a small room. Alone, as of late. Never too fond of wayfaring strangers that trickle in like maple seeds. And yet today you have herded her, silenceless, to the throat of this thick forest. Confused by the sounds it produces. 

“Where the fuck am I?” she grumbles to herself, voice husky under her snared lip. The intricacies of her gun creak as she points in restless circles, aiming the long spire everywhere. She is inclined to kill the next noise. “Swear to god, if that bunny ran off already..” For a second, she looked like she wanted to bail and forget about it. But a heavy sigh falls, and the reluctance in her body goes cold. “Too deep now, Ellie. Gotta come back with somethin'.”

She is desirably late; the bunny in question is already disposed in a berry bush off the white avenue. You had to be quick, as she is too. It's almost impressive. Rather than her invigilance in sleep, or solstices of the day, you prefer her now.

Running.

Yes, a strange fixation—you are wary. However, where is the thrill in feeding if not in the chase? This is tradition.

Wonder how sweet she is.

“Shit.” Her startled whisper blurts at a spitting distance, not that far. Careful footsteps crunch in your ear. “Who got you?” You left a ribbon of blood on the ground for her to find, which she did, and now she is investigating it. This opens her up.

From your place, you could lunge and snare her now. Bite her, even. Nothing inhibits you, and her flesh is singing to you, but you want to wait. My, that invigorating sound of her blood rushing and her heart thumping. You often listened in by her windows, speculating what occurred based upon the volume; a healthy and vicious rhythm was rage, and you fucking loved the sound of her rage. It gulps the mind. Pounds the somnolent heart.

Even inches away, you can hear it.

Scent is markedly a distant world, though. All these hardships at home; you can smell the regret outside her window sill. Alcohol, sweat, wounds. Those are the main ones you use to track her, and heed the elusive, perfect moments to leave trinkets for her.

Flora, odd bones and bits—guns off the usual unsuspecting victim. You often killed things with your own two hands, and dragged them over for her, too. Makes her the lesser hunter, huh?

There is a revolver stashed in her waistband, one you left for her. 

“Not seein' anything out here,” she rasps.

Pocket knife, too. She came prepared, just not for you. With her focus swallowed, and mind inside of her gun, you stroll up from behind. Your hand plants on her shoulder before she can brace herself.

“Looking for something?” The question makes her snap around, but you behave like light.

Shoving her into the crisp ground goes smoothly, but not without a first impression. A gunshot is cracked from her rifle before you can disarm her of it. When you manage to, she flits into flight mode. Violent protests writhe under you.

Her pale face is screaming red. “Fuck! Get the hell off me!” Milk and roses, like the rest of her. She pounds her fists into your chest.

She is not easy. She is a rainstorm under your control. You have to put the weight of the world on her to chastise and limit the struggle, pinning her wrists into the snow and straddling. This subdues her, given your vampiric stamina, and your nose has never been closer. Her neck—a secodont temptation in human flesh. The scent filling you makes you laugh delightedly.

Her soft pink mouth is slightly agape, and filtering cold breath in your face. It envelops your eyes, fogs up her features, yet watching it enter, and leave her lips, fascinates you. Love is a rooting thing; you look once, and you never want to stop looking.

“Hey pretty eyes,” you allure, honey escaping your throat instead of venom. You never sound this sweet. “What are you doing so far from home?”

Ellie appears clueless to your nature. Rather, what things lie inside your mouth—sharp, and starving things. She flickers her eyes like a violent womb over your face, your blinkless eyes, and mentions nothing of it. Therefore, besides this being an obvious first encounter with a vampire, she won't expect it. Not like she can combat it, really; your strength precedes you.

Her chords tremble quietly, angrily, brows anchored low. “Fuck are you doing?”

Experiencing her voice so close and so personal makes you visceral. Lust enshrouds. “Hunting.. gathering..” you fade into a seductive coo, lips rolling over her neck. “Same as you.” Muscles in it flinch when you steal a short stroke with your tongue. Every part of her flinches.

Disgust then crosses her expression, and she blurts, “Are you a fucking cannibal?” Turning her head away. This only exposes her ripe neck more.

Either your tone, or the fact that you might be a flesh-eating killer, lifts her heart into her throat; pulses thump against your lips, so intoxicatingly. You want them in your mouth, in your memory. Somewhere they can exist and nurture you forever. “Mhh, so close.” You try to give her a hint by scraping your fangs along her sensitive carotid. 

It seems to work.

She whimpers.

This was it, in her shallow mind. Eternal rest is calling, and she has nothing but her paintings and thoughts alone to rot without her. Ellie would die and have to bear the winter sun as her witness—her only witness. God, her heart breaks just thinking: Joel will be confused. Tess will send a rescue team for a corpse, and Joel will be lost when he has nobody to give the ol' regulation lecture to. Nobody to be a worried, old man for. Simply because of something she thought only existed in fiction and fairytales. How fucking rich!

“Fuck you!”

The night has a thousand eyes, and the day has but one.

You comb three attentive fingers into her hairline, and tip her head back. The gesture is too gentle for how ugly, mangled and sanguinolent the bole of her breaths is to be made. You are too gentle doing this. Scraping your teeth, wetting her skin; you have the social grace of a sycophant, and the conduct of a lover. Eat her whole, why don't you? She is your apple to keep. Eat, eat, eat.

You crumple the sage collar of her jacket, whispering, “Hold still for me, huh?” Quiet, and cold as the forest she relies on. As your opening lips.

And that is just what she does. Tighten as your teeth sink, motionless as these very trees. When you take her blood inside, you find her absolutely celestial. And you carve your teeth into her like she is a pietistical mural to make impure. Dying as a falling angel, she squirms. The penetralia of her throat is the main thing moving: tensing muscles, swallows pushing out a river of subtle, pained sounds. Crimson breaks, and draws in lithe lines down the base. Stains the crossroads of your sucking lips.

You make a soft-spoken voice crawl out of her. “Fuck,” she curses. Her teeth leap from her plush lip, and stay open. You imagine the pain is a gentle torture for your inexperienced victim. You are feeding on a sensitive silhouette, and she is staring up, quietly at the thistle drapings above. Misty-eyed, probably. Fingers tugging on your clothes just the way you need them to.

Blood thickens as your composure thins. She tastes sickeningly sweet. There is a pure hideosity reaching under your chin and down to your collarbones, because your hunger is beginning to precede you. Some ancient, voracious and cacodaemoniacal thing is wanting, and wanting hard. From your throat, from the cavity of your torso; somewhere desperate. Wherever it is, it wants a deep mouthful of Ellie, and you aren’t morally-deposed to take her to that dark there quite yet.

Your hungry grunt stifles. She has gone soft and pliant now and is holding your arm. As a grounding measure, you think, but it sends a pricking through your spine. 

“Mhh,” you hum, slowly extricating from the side of her neck. Stronger gushing flows from the holes left behind as if the wound was crying in ease. Heaven, crying.

The cracked partings of her mouth shudder around a soundless gasp, and she reaches for the intrusion you left. Something was given and something was lost; she feels the raised punctures. Gets blood on the precious tips of her fingers. Lets her still-alive pulse hit against her palm. You took from her lifeline, and left a cruel epilogue. 

Are you truly this savoring with it?

Maria said that something was out there—something uglier than infected. Creatures lie dead rampantly, and in cryptic, clean ways that denote sentient procedure. Nothing a brainless, living dead would have the capacity to do. So now that she has drawn you, a secret world exposed, snapped like bone, she has to say something. Do something. Joel drilled that incentive.

It knocks her into fleeing like fucking hell.

As in any exciting, horrific prologue, it begins in a scatter. Ellie clambers with milk knuckles in the self-same snow, grappling to slide out from under you, and manages a slim much. Her countenance is kneeled eyes and a gaping mouth, puffing clouds every which way. The face of escape; as if she had woken in a surrounding of her own blood, which is an embroidered, but hovering truth.

You watch with an empty one. She stands up and wrestles the approaching mist for her disposed handgun, flecking up snow with her footsteps as she dashes.

Adrenaline flees with her. If she is wise, a search team will be enlisted after your whereabouts. Carnage will break in these white woods an evening hence, under vacant cover of night, and she will no doubt be a curious murderer; searching for you under a false sense of safety, in the grove here.

But if you are wise, you will be there. Waiting for her.

𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐅𝐀𝐋𝐋

Evening begins in a whimper.

Or in sequences of them.

Troops shall not be drawn out, she decided. It grates her to sift this weight of knowing, this imperative information. But she is a waking potential, who has slipped her head under a crossroad and found a world of gnashing. She does not want to be the girl who cried vampire.

Well, winter is tired now. Snowfall has whirled, died, and crepuscule has crept in through the window sill. Everyone succumbed to it, except for her; still awake, still remembering. Hunched on her bed, she wads an alcohol-dredged cotton ball to the sickly white punctures on her neck, sipping harshly through her teeth. Stings like a fucking bitch. “Shit.”

But why is she still alive?

Ellie still feels the shape of your teeth in her neck. Skin flushing and pumping around them, or engraving some sort of scriptural curse. It was not painful, so much as it pained like death to think she would die. But she is here, and she feels misplaced. Watched, her faith in safety loosening.

The cotton ball is agitatedly discarded into a drawn-out trash bin, littered by all the cotton fumbled before. She pushes up at the knees and drags her ankles into the bathroom, fingers already reaching for the sink. 

“Just gotta sleep this off, Ellie.” The faucet cries, its gentle stream pouring right into her asking palms. She uses it to splash her eyes, fingers rubbing around them to wipe the water away. Rinse, and unlearn the memory.

Try, at least.

She needs solacing rest. Forest duties will call her name in the youngest morning, and without a shroud of doubt, will be the warm, shepherding drawl of her father. She is fortunate enough to hang from him, his good name, who is the least bit hard on her. But others—such as her in-a-sense, patrolaholic aunt—would reproach him for his tender loving. 

So, to cut the bullshit, she tries to lead a responsible life. Before, it was imprudence plentiful. But taking the inebriation, the heartbreakers, and the snuck-in cannabis out of her grasp has led her somewhere good. Somewhere she can feel like a worthwhile girl in one fucked up socket of the world. It seems to be valuable; she holds the highest count of infected shot in a single patrol.

Her concentration is immeasurable.

But she begins to doubt her resilience as she stares into the center of her sullen eyes.

She snags her lip to the left, contemplating. Ellie is alive for a reason. She fucked up; forgone each principle of the forest, of the hunt, omitting the signs and senses that beheld her in the stout snow. Yet, here she is, flesh in the mirror. And something else clicks: the inescapable leaving of unusual objects on her window sill face trial too. All that clattering and scratching at walls she thought was a rodent seems to align with it pretty well. Not to mention the disembodied touchings of her head and hair in deep-sleep dreamings, and awoken to in chapel-cold sweats to find nothing there.

It distressed her mind: how long should a human wonder, until it is lethal?

She concludes with the idea of a stalker.

Fucking vampire stalker.

It introduces a shiver. “Okay.” One she has to pursue genuine warmth for; she crosses her arms and kills the bathroom light, the ends of her fingers lingering up her sleeves as she crosses the threshold. Between a introspective bathroom, and an infiltrated bedroom. 

Neither are soft with the home; its safe wood walls, weeping willow scents, and inborn temperatures. She is open to the outside. She is the centerpiece for the thousand eyes of night. Cold, bare. The bed welcomes her weight in a billowing hollow for her body—yet, is the most unsettling thing she has slipped against her skin. The question of whether you manifest on this meaningful night, or let your eluding presence delude her into searching for it, begs for sleep before it can transfigure into an answer.

Her quiet, petal-soft lids droop closed. Trying to sleep conceives like death; it’s as if the air seeping her bedroom is a miasma, each breath in getting her drowsier and drowsier. Soon, all sound fades, and the inhibition whether or not hunger will find you at this crescent of night, and on her pale neck, is forgotten. 

Time is forgotten.

𝐎𝐏𝐄𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐖𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐃

This is where she nestles—dreams. Pretty, isn’t she?

She is water and the way it settles. She is poetry scribed in the summer month of June, feeding on its younger, more innocent, springtime chassis in which it longs to return to. Gentle petrichor, plush skin, and lashes of an auburn fire. She is beautiful; but much harrowing is to be combed inside, underneath.

Dreams and pain lulled you. But after you first sought her, watching over her in the deepest sleep on the most painful of nights, it became ritual for a farther reason: 

You fell in love. Again; love is a rooting thing; you look once, and you never want to stop looking.

Never.

Seams adore and finish the girl with eliciting interest. Low-cuts under the arms, in between the legs; it leaves less frou-frou and forest to the imagination than raised with. She really is auburn all over. She really, really is. You could not desire it any different. Peek-ins to temporal changes���when she strips plaid from pale and peels rough, woven blue and button from her muscled hips—excited you before, and they excite you now. Flesh has never been dangled in front of you as it’s in this time.

An arm is slackly risen above her pillow, and she clads a sleeveless. You can see it; the autumn forest.

But the instinct to protect, and nurture from her is worse now. And with the precedes of last afternoon—yesterday, the first of her blood taken into your vitals—you feel evermore lustful for it, leading you here at the foot of her bed. She looks peaceful now: unlatched lips, ribs that swell and wane, moon-shine on her neck. Your eyes land, in particular, on the sleeping shape of her fingers, curling slightly into her palm, which is against lilac-colored sheets.

Gods, she has the sweetest, speechless gesture of telling you where to bite.

You sidle upon the edge, tucking both legs and straightening both arms into a slow crawl until you reach that hand. It, limp at the wrist, delicately fits in yours, and you take it to your teeth.

Before you intruded her somnolent skin and trickling veins with your lust, you admired the feel of her freckled flesh against your lips. The hairs there tickled. The scent made you feen; a heavenly sigh stretching through your throat. And that sigh led your mouth open. 

You bite the apple.

She slowly creaks awake—the hinges of her eyes fluttering with a slow, white surprise. “Uhn—what the?” And when she notices, they blow wide with an olive ring. “Fuck!”

She stumbles up on her bottom. The wrist in your mouth supplied you a sip of blood before it was ripped from you and fled in excretions of that crimson nectar—wasted. It stains her sheets. Writes the event in blood. Crucifies the affrighted face of the auburn girl who grips her leaking wrist with a pressure you can hear tighten.

And she bleeds, and she bleeds—and you watch.

Like a lover.

You fawn, pouting all sick-and-sweet. “You know you could injure yourself more. Doing that.” It contorted a sicker-looking sharpness in her glare; staring from under her pricked brows. You unwind, and reach for her, “Here, let me.” But she flinches, a fitting punishment for a monster.

“Who are you?” She sounds instinctive, grit in her tone. “And what the fuck do you want with me?” The old, frightened-lamb act of her afternoon self seems to have diminished, painting her a volatile violence. She weaponizes her eyes; lacerates your red ribbon secrets into a bleed. Tries to, at least.

You never made it simple.

Well then, resilience it is. Quite stunning when she stomachs it up from her throat—a pretense swollen from hiding. Perhaps, this relenting will entertain you more. “Mmm, a secret admirer,” you intone, limning circles on the bed with your pointer. Then, you remember the situation, and chuckle. “Not so secret anymore though, I suppose.”

She looks the least bit impressed.

You still your finger, sighing. “Right.” And you plummet sights upon the silent, clothing-riddled carpet in spontaneous thought. 

Her stare wanted to carve an entire confession out of you, and unfortunately—your truth is ancient, and incomprehensible. Not the safest knowledge for humans. But seeing as she said a precise ‘who’ are you, and not a ‘what’ are you, implies she knows enough not to require too much more. Eager to soften her, though, the portion she carves is a thimbleful of sugar; a sweet, harmless idea. 

It starts with breath filling your windpipes. “Infected make life impossible, but you already understand that perfectly fine. At least on your end of things.” You squint, contorting the somethings of a musing expression.  

She gulps, and it pulls her lids with it into a pensive blink.

“We vampires, on the other hand, have it so desolate.” Your voice is softly crawling inside of her. “It makes us desperate.”

Her brows narrow. “So, you still feed on unsuspecting victims?”

“Well, is that not just the naturalistic nature of vampires?”

“Tch,” she scoffs, kneeling up from the bed. “Fucking pathetic.” Her footpath to the window is sharp. The latch clangs under her finger, and the panes are palmed open, swallowing inside the cold airs of the forest. “Now, if you don't mind—could you get the fuck out?”

You cock your head and immerse. To her, you are a thorn in the flesh; some creature she did not invite into the home of her body, and certainly not her life. You staring at her makes her want to rip out of her skin.

“What, am I supposed to empathize with you or some shit?” Her hand casts out, shrugging at you with a disinclination she conjectures as obvious. “No fuckin’ way.” It drops to her thigh.

Thus, you relapse. The mind bends into itself and what it sees is springtime—her most earning months, and you, victorious to have earned her heart that is caged. Being aware of her nature made it easier done than said, but you have your secret stash of lilies; your thornless guise. You want it to be real. You would utter anything for it to be real. 

“You're lonely,” you blurt, smooth and seductive, evocative of the moonlit shadow you sit sedentary in. Tension is born in a confounded gulp from her you hear so clearly. “You starve for some sort of company, right?”

She tuts, stares off. “Not with you.”

“Who else?”

You prick a nerve.

And her countenance seems eager to linger: lips tugging over her teeth in such a simmering fashion—so you begin again.“See—Ellie, I myself am quite alone too—”

“‘Course you know my fuckin’ name.”

“I know you watch the stars every night. For a reason, too.”

She softens at the mouth. What you said gets her skin raised; it has nothing to do with the original conversation, yet makes an eerie sense. Of course you know.

Bring up space, and she is all ears.

“Did you ever wonder how alone they are, too? Big, blindingly bright things in the sky that yet have an eternal cling to the empty, cold nothingness?” Your voice reflects the poignant contents. And in that poignant, in-between silence, your stares are battling each other. “I know it well. It drives you to rather deplorable things.”

She still says nothing. Her eyes are shifting with a million things she could, but she casts them aside and settles her lids.

“You know too.”

The sound creases her brows.

Hopeful creatures prance in the night. It is night; you are a creature. The bed rustles with your hopeful movement—legs pouring from the edge to the floor, and drifting your way over with so much as a quiet prance. You intend not to scare her, or harm her, but to persuade her of your good—in other words, ambivalent—will and soul. “Think of my feedings as a special little hello. I don't regularly interact with the human world as much as I fend from it.”

Ellie repositions herself along the sill when you join her, a chastened flinch.“Huh.” She crosses her arms. “Okay. But, like—what do you want outta’ this?” she questions, and her brows have a stronger downpour when she espies you; clenched, cautious things.

“Sanctuary.”

Her breath groans. “English, please?”

“I speak as you do.”

“Wh—okay well,” Her tongue stumbles. Articulation is never her strong suit, unless it is an articulation of rage. She pinches the bridge of her nose, crumpling her inner-eyes and pitches herself to the window, leaning on it. “Forgot you're like fuckin’ ancient, probably.” 

You thought you forgot how to laugh—but there it springs, the age-old sound. And you expect her to be offended because of it, but she eyes you in her hung position without a crack in her expression. Nothing-faced. Throat cold and tongue soft; this must be what compliance looks like. If it is, then it’s all you need.

Self-indulgence steals you. You enclose the warmth of her hand in your palm, and shape it like an alcove. Her rough skin made for a captivating texture.“Smart girl.”

You expected her to scoff—least of all, to blush, and conceal it by turning to the paned, outside world—scoffing.

Tingles run down your spine.

“So, am I granted?”

Ellie blankly snaps her head from the window. She blinks for a couple beats. “Huh?”

“To stay here—it’s what I was asking of you before.” You take a step forward, prudent and slow. Her soundless mind made you preclude; you cannot read it, but you understand where her heart is and its sensibilities. She is logical, she wants reasons. Chances are, her response will be apprehensive, and you intend to reel it out without it snagging on the gentle inside. You need to be on her level. “Housing is scarce and less sustainable than it ever has been. Surprise, surprise.”

She also loves sarcasm.

“Tch—” She straightens her spine, slipping in a fleeting smile. “What’s wrong with where you live now?”

“The others are all heartsores,” you deplore, tone elongating. “Groaning on and on about tradition and ethics.”

“By others, I’m going to assume you mean.. other vampires?”

“Indeed.”

The conversation interludes with a sigh, deep in her chest. She covers it with her arms crossed. The question then seems to fester; her lips rub together without an answer—but more thinking, and then her eyes thread up through another inhale. “Fine,” she says. With a heart softened. “Guess an invisible roommate wouldn’t be so bad.” Loneliness has convinced her. The window locks shut with a clack, a flick of her fingers. “My blood is one-hundred percent off-limits, though.” She shoots you a half-serious, half-sarcastic face—intending one over the other.

“Ah,” you wince, bending at the knees to accentuate your comment. “But it’s so sweet.”

And she cringes at it, but with faux mirth; a guarded, disgusted chuckle. “Don’t say that, either.”

You heed her wish with a small sound, “Hm.” and a mirrored smile. The sentence itself feels as though it will become repertoire. Several things do. The events here today are a stain, a crimson, violent-smelling one that cannot be washed out.

You hear the sound of fabric shifting. “Take the couch.” An indigo, plaid wool blanket is stripped from her bed, and chucked onto the quaint window-seat across, which is satin-like with moonlight; an edgeless, dull gleam reaching for it. It drapes with erratic procedure. “Don’t leave my room, don’t leave the house during the day, and don’t drag in any dead animals..”

“Do you think me uncouth?”

“Well—ugh.”  She pinches her eyes together. Then, she rolls her head around.“You know what I mean. Just act like a human and don’t get fucking caught.”

“Oh, I won’t.”

She huffs. “Good.”

𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐅𝐋𝐈𝐂𝐓

She promised you it was off-limits.

But still it persisted. The ancient hunger, the memories of her inside. 

Humanity can be a limiting thing.

There, a conflict was born. You could eat from any tree you wanted. Tear it apart, watch it foam at the mouth for mercifulness. Nothing—not a thing that is tangible—is stopping you, or stopped you in the past. So, what meaning does that conviction hold when you spot the most beautiful, available, and abundant tree; beautiful with her freckles, available in her sleep, and abundant with the thing she lives on to survive and you drink to survive?

The indolent sound would not leave. It would not soften, it would not climb.

It would flow, and flow mercilessly.

It was upon her bed the night she resigned. “Fine,” she sighed, and it was said so softly in spite of the original promise. Time around you had softened her. “Just a little, right?” 

But even as it left her lips, her fingers were reluctant in folding up the hem of her sleeve. You noticed the careful pace. The second thoughts in her eyes, whispering to her fingers that this would be a potential regret, and soon a routine. The implications in her features scrunched as she watched you come closer.

“Just a little,” you reaffirmed. You kissed that node in her wrist with it, too. “Nothing more.”

The moon hung a little past three in the morning when she was up, and you were hungry. Slightly hungry. Soft urges are enough a reason.

Sensations were high that night. Teeth buried into her leather-cushion skin and it felt like a velvet drug; Ellie loathed and loved, whined and writhed for you. It fed you and silenced her. That is a sanctioned schedule. You would drink it in a this-or-nothing, soft-fondling manner and she would give it past midnight—all nights. Most times, sleep would befall, and she would need your voice to guide her awake before you decided to feed. As long as you are in accordance with time, place, health and spectation—she never minds.

Weeks flowed, and it persisted.

“You have a strange-ass routine. ‘M still not used to this,” she laughed, bolstering fatigue in her tired eyes that fluttered. Down, and down.

Perhaps you loved opportunities.

Her skin fits tight and warm in your mouth; alive and pulsing and ever so whistling blood. It was no longer massacres under your lip, it was clean, and she made little sound—besides when she had something dull to weigh in. 

Your lips sutured together, imbibing that last stria of delicate red. “Me?” you pitched, and secondly smiled as her laugh riled it in you. “You wake at this hour regardless for inessential nothings. You are strange.” 

She scoffed with character. “What?” And had it in her to laugh a little louder—praying it didn’t bleed outside the room: that and the beheaded nonsense. “The only reason I get up this early is because I have.. shit to do, people to feed..” She crinkled her nostrils and sniffled.

“Taking care of yourself for me?”

“Uh, what makes you think that?”

“Your skin tastes of honey,” you declared this alongside your caressing fingers, rolling over the fresh wound, the honey skin in question. It met like silk. “Do you want to impress the impressed?”

Either it was your question muddling her—or your statement and its ring of truth, that made her features crinkle up.“No?” Such a failured liar. She conserved not a clue about the accumulating chaos in her bathroom, whom she had no mind other than hers to blame: herbs all around, sweet liquids, ingredients you find in self-made soaps but nonetheless in heaps and scattered. She thought you were clueless to it. She tip-toed around it. “Fuck, is this just you wracking my brain again with your weird phrases and your.. old—”

“Don’t play dumb with me, darling.”

Her cheeks seemed to redden on the spot.

This unadulterated sweetening to her flesh was a decision. Raw, home-harvested honey that she lathers to sanctity herself—or satisfy you. It added up to this this little, unspoken—but traceable—secret she had slipped into, though exposed; she hadn’t treaded the feeling in years. You saw her, heard it beat in attempts to catch up with her running thoughts.

She likes you. 

Her behavior reminded you of your darling years abounding the Enlightened Age: in love with a pair of frilly, fern eyes that often wandered, and robin-bellied hair: a girl who roamed the court with gut and courage, but could not pave it through the same.

You loved her.

But she was taken from you.

Ellie mumbled,“Not dumb,” with her mouth under her fingers and pupils disengaged. She wiped at the corner with the crook of her thumb until she thought of something else. The tone was written on her face beforehand. “Just being.. considerate?” She knew it wasn’t the right one. So, she laughed and spared you her timid stare, shrugging. “Dunno’. You tell me.”

You laughed too, scornful. But not harsh. “Bit of a brat today, huh?”

Staying acclimated this other hunger. This pure, gentle, moan of a hunger. It is simple to say you believed in love; wished it upon others, witnessed it, longed a little for it. But it isn’t your function. Isn’t your toy to play with. You denied it. 

There reached a strange night: your spine was against the black-wood headboard and sacrum further down, blooming with an old sensation, and your hands were on her. Groping, guiding. Admiring the naked skin of her hips, which twitched, and writhed with sounds and sights you prefer to have faith in no one else seeing. Not in a while, at least. These lines of midnight-light wavered over her movement, her teardrop breasts, even catching the mess in between her thighs she tried to hide rubbing in between the spreading of yours. Wet and wanting and abandoned and—you remember all too much. 

She is beautiful down there.

Tears form in your heart.

Ellie was close to the edge. You could hear it in her voice. “Fuck—if you'd just stop playing hard to get, coulda’—uhn, had this way sooner.” 

The phrase confounded you. “Hard to get?” Lots of her speech confounds you; there was a love-hate relationship to be had with that. On her side, though. You found it cute.

“Just—shut up, please.” She climbed a partial note, turning grunts into whines. As soon as she said that, her fists crumpled and her tension released. You, in your long life, have never seen such an overwhelmed girl. Her cheeks were smitten-red. Cum was trickling down the stretch of her shaking, muscled thighs, and she could not help it; she was lead with it. Ellie was wobbling once you were finished.

But she loved it.

Then, there it was in the derelict chapel. The strangeness again. Down her panties was your hand, training back the seam, and in the air her cries. Angelic ones. Pushing you into substantiation; you did love her.

And you felt selfish.

“You are too paced for yourself. Go slow, like this.”

You had pushed her own hand out prior. She was palming herself in a book-sprinkled office a short couple minutes after initial arrival. You aren’t even supposed to be here with her, in this house of God, scavenging for supplies—let alone outside. She should be paired with someone Joel trusts, someone Maria has seen kill. Human, good-hearted. 

The quick, and snagging circles she performed with her fingers never compared to the attention and care you made with her. Like she was in a rush, and you had a blade to stab into the axis of the world. It did constitute sense: she was blushing with shame when you walked in on her—jeans almost off her hips—giving you the idea that she meant to finish in a dreamlike minute. But she didn’t slap her own hand for its perversion. She wore the helpless look.

“How long before you decided to tell me?”

“When we left.” The heart of her thighs compressed your hand. She was getting restless under your touch, twitching into your hand to earn more friction, biting down on her lip. Ellie can only do so much as huff when you rearrange the twining of her legs again. “It was aching s’fuckin’ bad, babe.”

You are certain that she lied. She had the velvetiness, drip and need of someone who hasn’t handled their problem since morning; it was pooling in her underwear. “Before a house of God?” you whispered, your voice a small softness in the mush of her mind. “You really are a strange one, my girl.” She couldn’t care less. You were tugging her just right and that was all she attended to. Numb-locked.

She mouthed a curse. Breath hitched in her throat. “Bite me,” she breathed out.

“Oh, you want it?”

Her face was pinching with pleasure. “Mhm.” Lips rolling over each other.

The once isolated and responsible Ellie you coerced for blood, was now tilting her chin up like a sunflower in bloom. Sometimes, she rolled her shirt up or pulled her pants down, letting you feed in clandestine places; her open thighs became a fast favorite, and dipping in between to that slickened parting made you want to write a poem with your teeth. An introduction to the core. For the thrill, for the devotion—it set the belting green in her eyes thin no matter the bite. 

It made her feel loved. 

But should it; being a strange thing to love?

Cracked moans curled out her neck. You noticed their swell, their added breath when your tongue caught her clit and wrote with it in circles, pulling her wound-ridden thigh over your shoulder. Lips, pinker than her vestal love, dropped open. You trained her voice to not be so swallowed, hidden, and conscious of being heard. You would not stop without hearing it. “Come on, Ellie,” you would coax. “Let me hear you.” And she would use it. Splutter it. Choke it.

“Fuck!”

“There, there..”

She is no virgin. She was no virgin. But, her mind made by the girls of Jackson she poured eyes—or poured lips—over, most in for casuals, or nighttime flings, neglected itself. She gave, and never seemed to receive. Ellie didn’t know if she was ever going to; then, there you were. Her heartbeat was running centuries ahead, and it gave you life.

You assumed, with an assuming inherence, to protect her from that loneliness. The loneliness you get from other people—not from the lack of them. You have her in that sort of catching grasp that feels suffocating, but ends up a pleasant surprise.

She thought you must be magic for that reason.

And the Devil for another.

“Jesus—are you listening to me?” Her voice wanted to break. It wanted to flood, it wanted to sting, it was a rough invocation that you never heard before, and her hands pranced the air. In anger. “You dragged a dead animal in here. You did exactly what I fucking told you not to!” Then, they crossed into her warmth, and the thrash song of her heart went muffled. “You fuckin’ kidding me?.” 

Everything in the world went silent to listen in. The birds, the trees, the surrounding matter. But your guilt was just as quiet when, for a change, it should have been sobbing loud. 

You caressed the words strolling from your mouth, a complacent gesture. “I was careful,” you tempted, tracing circles around that facetious hole in your face. “So careful.”

Her fingers turned to fists. “You..” Her mouth, in contrast, was a pert snag. But it soon had to face a laugh for coping. “You don’t get it, do you?.”

“I do.”

“Right.” She flinched into the light. Moved into the cold.

You get it when blood in droves leaves distasteful secrets, clinging to hardwood floors. You get it when others are involved and get dragged into it. What you do not get is the desire to see it happen. The stomachs that turn at you for not fitting into their forgivable frame. What should one expect?

Is she really this soft?

Oh, how your poor heart aches watching her not watching you.

Ellie continues at the mouth. Irritated fingers drag her under-eyes from their sockets. “Shoulda’ known this was a fucking mistake, Ellie.”  Though your oral worship was stunted; you couldn’t see her whisper these things, you knew they were real. You knew she meant them.

You knew it would ring in her head. 

That night, an attempt to instill a different idea ends in a laceration, and a throb in your nail beds. Because you thought she had done the one thing you would bleed her for:

Stopped loving you. 

You rhymed her with reasons. You extorted your very own, amended morals for relief, with palms cupping her cheeks—and she cut a statement too deep: “Huh. Doesn’t fuckin’ seem like you’re any different than those bastards you ran with until—”

Her hair was the last thing you felt before the tear.

No, no, no. You are different.

Crouching, you clutched her chin with sharpened, hidden fingers, and a controlling thumb. You stole her tears from the wardrobe panel they wept to. “My darling,” you coaxed—as sickening as the dull blade. She twisted you inside herself; staring up at you through her soaking, shining lashes, made for internal conflict she could not put a finger on. “Does it hurt?” She is right, under the condition that you are gospel. What was she thinking?

She wiped her fingers in the openings of her blood, and examined them. A sniffle cut between looking at them, and looking toward you. “Y-Yeah.” It was a painfully awkward, and docile croak. Her irises were thin with shock, breathing laboured.  

Ellie was bleeding from her cheek, to the tip of her philtrum, and to the edge of her apologies. Yet, you only cared how it..

Tasted.

“Shh, shh..” You swept her stained fingers from her face. “Let me take care of it,” whispers scattered. In her head, she was packed in litanies of heavy cotton; woolgathering. Paid the littlest bit of attention to your tongue, it lapping up her septum, furling back with blood, and how it should feel strange. But, it did not. She felt nothing. She felt the same. She still wore that lost, dreaming-eyed stare.

Why?

It is vile.

All is forgotten in time.

𝐑𝐀𝐆𝐄

“Ah, shit! Fuckin’ knife.”

Ellie hasn’t been her usual.

And neither have you.

You have been feeding less this cycle, and it’s put her into this stir. Divine, enigmatic stir. Questions upon worries upon interventions—headstrong hands and kitchen knives—curdle up in her gut. Are you bored of her? Has her nectar gone sour? Have you found another source? The silence in the room is louder than usual. Whether it was your intention, or its own result, Ellie has gotten used to this agriculture of give and pleasure; she inclines her wrist without your word. She opens her neck without your teeth.

The cabin, for once, is empty this day. So is her head.

You’re stood off to the side. 

Ellie—who loves getting called stupid by her girl—pricked her finger for you. She was handling delicate produce on the counter, and her far more delicate fingers stood stockstill in their position, meeting the sharp tip of that knife in that headstrong hand. Her brows rucked, or already were; she had something on her mind. Some enchanting idea.

She sidles up against you. “Hey, babe.. mind cleanin’ this up?” Ellie wiggles her finger in an awkward and sultry manner, signature to she and she alone. There is a small, shining, seed of blood forming on the wound. 

You consider it. For a second, or more, you consider feeding into her sweet little game. And she continues to pitch that finger east and west like a last chance, but it comes into question first. “Should you be handling that knife?” you answer—and she lets a disgruntled sound slip. 

Also, you have seen your guaranteed share of slit fingers. That girl in the court had a graceless aptitude.

Ellie finds a smile to laugh at you with: insulted, asymmetrically dotted, with all the crinkles of someone who thinks so different of themselves—but it’s pretend. A softened wire in her brain molds into the warmth of your perception. She did it for Joel, once. “Guess not,” Ellie mumbles, bringing her finger down to stare at it. It almost bugged her that it wasn’t immediately in your mouth. The blood long-reaching.

Instead, you enamored yourself with the syrup-orange tea in front of you. Stirring, stirring. 

Her throat clears. “What’s that?”

You turn, at last, with knuckles bending around the base of the porcelain cup seeping with heat. It feels cold in your hands. “For you.” You press it to the middle of her chest. 

Her fingers come up to palm it, glancing at your face for a sign that another word would leave your throat. Eyeing up, and then down; she hopes you will make sense. You just hand it off to her. “Well, that answers my question halfway,” she sighs, cocking her hip against the counter. “Thanks.”

You lop a smile as nothing else seems to spring to mind. Turn away, turn away.

How should you begin—to a girl you met at the pulse of a throat—explaining that the contents in that cup can and will send her to sleep? Should you distress concern and mention how she has been missing it? Should the room go silent, and she as well? 

A confession has been smothering your thirst for weeks.

You are bored.

Vampirical instincts have sat restless and upset in the sockets of your fangs. You feel tired, you get cravings that seem to climb and climb each hour, and at the crest of night, you prowl the short corridors in this house with suffocated footsteps, listening to the heartbeats of others with a small, specking guilt. You can quench it however you please, but the one thing that will not change is that you are a winter-blooded predator. You should be hunting; you are not. It nags at you. Months with her in your hands, in your mouth—and it isn’t enough. It was never going to be. 

Last night went as usual. You rush to fill the bed before she finds it empty. Then, as you are shifting the sheets, her sleeping tosses and turns find you, and on your waist, her slender hand finds a spot made for her to fill. Her lips find something in her dream to grin about.

You brushed it under your thumb. “My sweet dove.”

Beside her, she assumes you sleep well. Then, in the morning, she mistakenly traces her mind for a memory recording her forgetfulness, tapping the unshut window, contemplating. The animal blood isn’t in her palms— you somnambulist. 

Tomorrow, you would let instinct feel hunger again. Hunting is a desideratum. A deep-in, desired ultimatum.

Then, tomorrow came.

On the couch, you give in and draw her cut fingertip into your mouth. Sucking, silent and sensual. Ellie had the tea swirling around her limbs: weighing down her arms, slumping her legs, and her nose twitched with each escape from nodding off—and yet, she was still stubborn to lie down. Though you, twirling and twirling two fingers on her arm, inspired no help for her either. Perhaps, the swirling affect is a dreaming cling to you; your touch is a sleeping reverie.

Ellie jabs, with her free thumb, into her waterlines and digs around the stiffness. She can hardly lift them. Then, a low grunt follows. “Ugh, so tired.”  She is the softest thing in this room. Nothing could compare, not you—not ever. “How did I get this tired?”

Your stained lips peel from her finger. “Abandon at night?” Clasping the tip as you talk. “You avoid sleeping.” Sucking blood from its tip feels more pretentious than it used to. Your tongue is climbing out, wasting time to be sure she watches you do it with your eyes shut in concentration, and she does.

Her eyelids droop imperceptibly watching you; a gait that out-performs centuries; your cold-fleshed lips wrapping around her warm finger, hands cupping hers, and suctioned as if it were your mortal first. The careless sanction is gone. The inaction to eating her whole—is gone. You deepen the length her finger reaches, and it hits near the back of your throat, but she doesn’t seem to mind. Licking each ridge of it, quietly cannibalistic.

Loving left and swept with you, greed.

“Babe..”

Ellie has moonshine eyes when you open yours. Green irises that no longer hold their color. Eyelids that are dog-eared, deepened and—brown-lashed, saddening. Not the eternal same. Spring is coming; why is there nothing?

After a silent pause, she answers. “I can’t sleep.” Rasp in her chords.

You dislodge her finger from your mouth once more. Sigh in the warmth fleeing you.

She ruffles her hair. “But it’s never this bad. Jesus, I just can’t fight this.”

The innocence, and lack of detection present in her springtime-longing attitude feels wrong—and is perfectly your fault. So, that conflict scars. You tighten your throat. Cause a hesitant strangle. Forever has passed; you believe you are tasting your own blood.

You flinch into partial shadows. Drop her arm. “Just—get some rest.” 

Ellie frowns at your abrupt resistance. You can hear it when she tries to plead you backwards. “Hey,” her voice cracks in that special, air-pitched tune that stops your feet against hardwood: a tired Ellie, and the couch shifts with the sounds of her sitting up. “What are you doing? Don’t go.” 

You imagine that arm is reaching out to you now.

“Cleaning up.” Stifled breath leaves you with a drop of your shoulders. “You will see me, first thing when you wake.”

She giggles. “Hm, okay.” So willing to trust.

For the first time, it sickens you. And for the last time, it make sense in your head full of heart what you can be. In her world—painted and threaded and canvas-white underneath—you can be her secret. But in yours, you are her open wound; latching condition. With no color but red. Everyplace, in every opening, red. She sees so much more than that. But she, afraid to blotch outside the lines, and you, bleeding throughout and into others, made for a conflicting pact. Messes, everywhere. And then, you understand it seems right that you feel sick.

She just assumed you were faithful to take care of them. “Love you, babe.” Even if you never pled for her faith, and her warm voice doesn’t stop you now.

You need to eat.

𝐌𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆

The mourning sun wept, for what you hoped, was the first and final time.

In your Georgian years, you were introduced with transubstantiation; you often tripped on your own flounces as a little girl, but carried into bridalhood with the pearl-blue poise a faith-wielding-mother-to-be should have. No longer did you intimidate crowds with ill etiquette, but rather, with what you became—and who you turned to in fawning innocence.

Wise men. Innovators, practitioners, maestros of trade. All of them had futures under their belt, and you had a single, untouched one. God, did men feed on that.

It was temporal. Men later found your intelligence to be intimidating, and in personal accords, offensive—for a woman. Your heart was a church on fire; knowledge crept in and you crawled out of your own mouth, spreading those words. Disgusting, secular truths. The court censured you for it. Kept you from attending banquets, beat you with threats of asylum, and rose torches to your beloved solace for it. It was a quiet hatred hailed, and yet performed so loud: your ears throbbed in pain each night.

But it never stopped you.

“Why do they cast you out here?” A voice—curious and delicate—whipped your intrigue out of your head, for a change. You peeked, with wide eyes, from under your brow and quivered over the silhouette leaning against the quaint terrace opening. It nudged off, and only then did its fern and fox-orange features become apparent, small pockets of light raining across. “With the dogs?”

Then, you knew it; it was her. Smiles creased in your throat. “And why do you wear pants?” But you showed just one, a subtle one. “And come to banquets smothered in coal?”

Albeit, she was clean; the wares of her straining day in the mines clung to noses. She pinched her coat open, and sniffed out either a truth, or a lie. The flinching of her nostrils proved one. “Ah—damn, guess I made a pitiful attempt at washing my own coat, huh?”

Her self-blaming quip pushed those smiles right up. Even, in your eyes. “Mhm,” you hummed, and it seemed to peel her lips back even more, off-centered teeth shining.

You tried to get her to simper, always. Seeing the slight gap in her teeth, all while inappreciable, pounded your unsettled heart.

Spring came in droves. It came with the bushels, it tore with the rain, and it ended with lips against your ear that promised you the period inbound was helpless. The summer was going to be helpless to your happiness.

“You don’t care for their thoughts,” she told you. “You grant yourself everything. It’s beautiful.” 

Her white-hot breath burned through skin. Where did your sense of abandon go—you wonder? She was telling you to be free, but with lissome arms around you, you wanted a limit. You would rage without a hand to settle you where it wanted. And when you got too quiet, it moved; your invisibleness to being a lover menaced her to bits, but it was just that—invisible. There, buried. Low in the meadow.

Your arm leapt from rest. It wrapped with care. “No,” you whispered, a scared tremor in her hold. “Don’t go.”

Refusing her romances for little whiles, she never expected it—but expected you.

She laughed. “See?” Because you do get what you want.

You do lose your freedom.

Rain clung to blades of grass. Your phrase was foreseeable, but you had your ears folded and feet bare in the garden. The meadow before, beheld by two, and now yourself alone. At least, you assumed you were alone. If loneliness—and happiness, medlied together—felt as pasture and moisture did free under the pallets of your toes, the wet blades between, then it was fine. You would be fine with it, with this. The latchet heels you refused to wear, as a girl and then, hung from your fingertips.

But staring at that puncture of light high up made your concepts swell. Fine is not fine enough, if her being there made your days even finer. Love couldn’t abide longer; you tossed your heels in the vendure, lifted your drapings, searched for her through the atrium openings and contended with a stride that made it to the exits.

And out of them again.

Sharp fingers clutched you from behind, and it sent you a shrill. Your throat grated with it. “Let me go!” But as soon as the world rolled upside and around your throat, it collapsed being pounded into the ground tandem with insertion of pain. You constricted with prayers left inside.

Strange, pitched siphons of a dead kiss; a pair of coldnesses attached there—faceless as it lies too close—and drained the blood. You went silent. You were terrified feeling drips of blood escape your carotid and the mouth of the thing, ending up in that green grass. Pitiful, the tears. Vision gone wet and dull, this was it. In your mind, gentle for some end: this was it.

And then, you became again.

The creature replaced loss with a new fiber. While you were drifting into numbness at a glacial pace, no longer staring beyond your eyes, sudden flows of cold liquid were pushed and bursted. The pain waned, then it abated. Warping into a strange, something-else phenomenon. For a second, all the sound in the world emptied and nothing replaced it. Even in the hollows, where air is invited and dismissed, it was hauntingly quiet; you weren’t sure if you were breathing at all. Then, as a whip is lashed, it pops.

The first sound of this life, was a gasp. “Oh, god!” you choked from the air present inside you. It almost hurt to breathe, and your windpipes suffered a severe whiplash, strangling you to cough, cough, and cough until whatever pearl-shaped bane that was in there—was out. But as you clutch the flesh upon your chest, your heart drops. You are sitting up—free, without a thing to hold you in place. 

Was it a dream?

For mornings you relapsed to the same conjecture; waking up felt no different than falling asleep. Cotton breathed, winter continued, and sunshine eclipsed in real life as it does in a dream. In the prologue of summer, you could never fall asleep. You were never tired enough. Wanted less of light and more of night, and you could not put a finger on it.

It became an ode to transient living—which you could sing no more.

But, something ached. From your throat, to the seedless pit of your stomach, something was wanting for you—wanting hard. 

Conniption. That was all you needed. Tangled ligatures of conniption, a communion, and the weapons to do it. You went prepared: a knife was laced tight into your undergarment, accessible from the breach of your pressed breasts, but not once did you evince it. You did not need it.

You figured that out with your first victim. The blood—oh, it poured from the base of his voice into his shirt and it wrote your name in the stone tiling. In red, it whispered to you. Luring, convincing. You imagined claiming the possessions on his person, and returning your stolen virtue to its place in-heart was his result, but then you began to precede yourself. 

Thoughts from another age trickled in. His skin, pulsing inside your teeth before you made the bite. It was meant to be.

Inside chapel doors, it was quiet and cold. To you, it was; the temperature perceived has a scattered origin. Summer heat coagulates against the windows, pulses inside the stone and almost boils the pool of blood under his head, but you are what you have changed into. Sucking, with hunger and without a stomach, it warms your lips before it chills and dissipates. Weird—love often operates as so.

Those doors groaned open. Behind your attention. 

A relieved sigh starts. “God, I was searching all about for you,” that familiar voice said. Her knowledge was perfect, but on a peripheral edge; she had figured you were inside because your equine presence was outside, but she did not see you as soon as she entered. Blood left a curious trail. “What in.. God..” Into a forest of devotional pews.

God abandoned centuries ago.

“Joel!” Ellie reaches for him with a scream. “Get the fuck off him!”

With a mouthful of blood, her pale lips are focused on. You rise, teeth crimson, and she is standing there in the melting numb with nothing to protect her but flannel, wide-eyed with this waking world. Had the tea not kept her? “Ellie,” you rasp. The hole in your throat left with the fear of your failure—factured to her being here, and not on that couch. She hates. She hates your guts. She is staring at you, watching, and it is a shifted stare you hope upon none. Your throat goes swollen: understanding it.

You wanted to protect her.

Her fingers writhe in careful spasms. Lips fold in. “Joel?” She wants to be confused. But her guts sinks considering if she were to have slept, she would have missed this. Missed Joel, in confusion.

The swollen sounds that so much as struggle, and die in the windpipe. “I couldn’t do it, Ellie.” You draw the last breath you feen to kiss her with. You scrape toward that chance; step in a careful line.

Ellie regresses—she denies your approach. Her flinch is all too familiar. “You..” she trembles, and deprives you of beholding the one thing that fascinates you from reason: her unprecedented eyes, a green gift from the mother underneath. Tears dilate in the corners. Lumps in the throat toughen her swallows. “Couldn’t do it?” Her mind is hers, again. “You fucking killed him!” 

Him?

When she wails, is when she trades you her look again. Brighter, sharper, raging and horrible. Space between your bodies diminishes as she closes it, but it is a meant punishment; to reach the man behind you. She comes near, and not near enough. “Joel..” Sobs will her mouth unhinged. “Joel, please..” Heaven cries.

Is he more special than you?

Both knees thud into the ground. She bare-hands the blooded snow, clenching it into a fist. Screaming, mouth wanting to curl into itself—louder, louder. “You killed him.. You killed him!” Ellie chants, and snow crumbles from her grip as she replaces it with the fabric over her blue heart, hysterical. Her own throat chokes her. “He’s fucking dead.. Look, he’s fucking d—d..” Icicles could form on her philtrum if it were a month earlier. Hunger admits; it could have been.

Really, you never learned who he was to her. Father, saviour, a nevermind-stranger. To you, or for you, everything about this home was a secret. The doors, not to touch. The floorboards, given to screeching. Other humans—she made sure your eyes kept her way. His firewood scent lit the halls at night, pulse calm; your judgement relied on the stories you felt throughout the house.

The smell of estrangement.

God, it reeked. Alcohol settled on his windowsill for nights along months. It seemed foreign. Not meant to be. Misplaced, you attempt to recall. You wipe at the blood that won’t go away.

Curious thing: you don’t recall his name being a craving.

Winter fills you again, and when you decide to sidle up against her in the snow waning to spring, she does nothing. For a moment, she is still curled—deadened—to his chest. That stubborn auburn strand has shifted from its tuck, adhering to the snot on her lip. You touch her to return her some life.

It works, to your disbelief.

She sniffles.

You breathe out, “Ellie?” close to her nape exposed, gentle enough not to shatter silence. “My girl?” But it gets fabric to shift under you. Attention to be given.

She turns slowly, and without a word. Stares without a drought in her waterlines. Your reflection consumes you in them, as both hands consume her at the sides, cupping her delicate, mourning-blue face. You could eat her. Sweet as an apple: round, shining, blooding whooshing to the surface. But you would begin with her lips. From her lips, to her love, as you did your girl before.

Yes, see? You are different.

You are different, and she loves you. “I love you.” You kiss her. Unrequited and soft. Though, the gesture snags curls into her lips. Yes, yes—please keep smiling.

Her lips part to utter something. Throat moves with the shape of a word. But, it does not dislodge. She swallows it, her lips snaring with it, pushing into this frown of undelight you could never have foreseen; doll-wide eyes and knife-point brows cutting into her own flesh. And then, puncture.

Your chest opens up.

It burns. It slides in. What is this sensation?

Out of that sudden choke-up, you drop your interests to the foreign parting. Seeing it, you stop living; silver protrudes from your chest, ribs holding it in place, and her hands are the guide. Fingers wrapped with love and promise, whitened from the pressure, around this blade and its hilt. No, not the blade you left for her; this one is a stranger, intrusion. The sacred invitation.

Its embrace is warm, not cold.

The dense snow is not when you plummet spine-first into it. It is warmest thing soothing your body ever since her last touch. You’re staring up at your freckled angel, high up—hopeless, but not confused. She has nothing more on her mind that you need to hear.

Revenge is her concept.

You cannot intimidate her to return. There is none. There is no return. This is not a punishment.

Your happiness is helpless; it is spring.

perm taglist: @whore4abby @tlougrl @mina-281 @beabeebrie @fleshunger @elliewilliamsisactuallymygf @nicolicht @cosmikoo @xinyaya @sawaagyapong @reinersbigolboobies @brunettedolls-blog @syrenada @p4ison1vy @nil-eena @hi2647 @rarestdoll @narieater @hrtmal @eudaemoniaaaa @ellie-07063 @luvfaeri @carleenaelaine @kissyslut @beemillss @elsmissingfingers @maleelee @seraphicsentences @ravyaryn @sunnsh1ne @kaykeryyy

fic taglist: @vanillachic @bartshart @666killz @lianxian33

[let me know if you'd like to get on that perm taglist]

[theonion]

Acknowledging the profound and deeply bittersweet paradox, local man Gary Lanetti reported Tuesday that “grief is the price we pay for love” as he clutched an empty package of salami close to his chest. “Opening yourself up to true love unfortunately means leaving yourself vulnerable to experiencing the deep, sorrowful pain of having eaten it,” said the visibly distraught Lanetti, tearfully reckoning with the now-empty plastic that once contained his beloved Columbus Craft Meats Italian Dry Salami. Full Story

[whoreforsexymen]

anything with jayce. I am a slut for jayce. this feels like a confessional.

Time Is A Thief | Jayce Talis

Pairings: Ruined!Jayce x Fem!Reader

Pronouns: She/Her, Female Anatomical Descriptions. Mainly written in 3rd person, no use of "you".

Rating: NSFW, 18+, MDNI! I am NOT responsible for your media consumption.

Word Count: 5.7k

Tags: Minor angst, desperation, reuniting with a lost love, smut, penetrative sex, impatient sex, riding. (MINIMAL DIALOGUE)

Summary: Jayce has been lost to the inevitable future. Driven mad by solitude, when he finally returns home, he's set on tracking down and killing Viktor. Although, he has a personal mission to find the love he lost along the way.

Notes: EEEEEEEEEKKKk! This isn't the greatest smut I've ever written, but I couldn't tarnish the romanticism of the reunion. The smut isn't super good, but I did my best to match the rest of the vibe. Hope yall enjoy <3!! More to come soon!

also, side note, there is a CRITICAL LACK of Ruined!Jayce fics. Okay?! (In Thanos Voice: Fine. I'll do it myself.)

Light.

That was all.

A brilliance so fierce it consumed all thought, leaving nothing to the imagination.

He saw everything, yet nothing at all— no trace of form or substance, only the infinite expanse of void surrounding him.

No shadow, no contour, no shape. Just emptiness. An emptiness that somehow felt full.

A paradox of being— broken, yet whole; whole, yet hollow; dead, yet alive.

Nothing made sense. Only the pulse of the moment, the light’s unyielding blaze. 

The pulse of time, space, and life itself thrummed through his soul, weaving their rhythm into the very essence of his being.

Until, without warning, the vast illumination crumbled, and the world, in all its painful clarity, returned.

The light had vanished, leaving him adrift in the emptiness, only to be reclaimed by the stark hues of ordinary life. Colors surged around him—muted greys, whispers of teal, and pale pinks flooding his vision. It was almost more than he could bear. 

Amidst the radiance that pierced his very essence, he was lifted—suspended in a weightless embrace, held aloft by the luminous threads of the light that had so utterly captivated him.

But reality struck like a tempest, a sudden jolt searing through him. A sharp pang tore into his senses as he plummeted, his knee barely finding time to thrust forward, instinctively breaking his fall.

He collided with the cold metal floor, the impact swift and steadfast. His knee bore the brunt of the descent, while his staff—his once-revered hammer—absorbed the weight of his shifting reality, grounding him in the unforgiving present.

The weight of the world bore down upon him, relentless and unyielding, its merciless humility a torment that carved into his flesh, stripping meat from bone. It gnawed at the core of his being, unraveling even the grey matter of his mind, piece by excruciating piece.

He could not cry out, for to do so would be in vain—a hollow echo swallowed by the abyss, silenced before it could ever bloom into sound. 

He felt fragile, yet a fire smoldered deep within, winding through the quiet valleys of life that endured, unfazed. He held fast to a personal code, a mission etched in the essence of all that is veiled and sacred, shaped by the silent will of esoteric truths, runes, and the like.

There were no gods, no masters to answer to. Only his own will, and his own duties to uphold. 

He couldn’t afford to fail.

He wouldn’t fail. 

Not when the weight of existence itself teetered on the fragile edge between destiny and the mark he left upon it, shaping the very course of life’s unfolding.

A mission of great magnitude. Yet a plague lingered within him.

A plague of thought—relentless and gnawing. Thoughts that haunted him throughout the endless stretches of time, as he wandered the desolate wastelands of mankind’s “evolution”. They had once been his salvation, a lifeline entwined with his thirst for reckoning, feeding his drive with a dark, bloodied purpose. Yet a purpose of passion—all the same.

A passion that had once burned with fierce strength. The strength he had once known now seemed but a feeble echo, a mere shadow of the deeper meaning he had since uncovered in every word, every breath, every fleeting moment.

Images of the past, which, candidly, were the present once more, often danced in his mind, tangled in the waves of anguish that blurred the boundaries of time—and the futility of man’s existence.

Images of a certain face.

The face of a woman he had once known. Once loved. Once yearned for.

A woman who may very well have faded from existence in the time he had been lost, cast adrift in realms where he had borne the hammer of atonement for his actions in this present-day "past life."

Gods, how long had he been gone? 

He had atoned for his sins enough, pleading to return to the very moment he had been torn from—plucked away from the threads of life as though he were no more than a fruiting blossom on a tree, ripe for harvest.

If he had learned anything in his time cast away, it was that mages were as unpredictable as they were dangerous—venomous, cruel, and unafraid. All-knowing, they played with the fabric of time and space, indifferent to the chaos they wrought. 

He was certain he had been atomized, deconstructed, and reconstructed within the timeline he once called his own. But how far into the present, past, or future he had been thrust into remained the looming unknown.

His mission—-to reap the soul of a man he once knew. 

A man that had unlocked a potential known only to him—an unlimited power that defied understanding. The two of them may very well have transcended the boundaries of time, simultaneously outliving all those they had once known, leaving only echoes of ghosts behind.

That was a question that could not remain unanswered: who—-or what—-remained of the life he once knew? What remained in the space between all that was known, and what was yet to be discovered?

Despite the vengeful conquest  that fueled every pulse of his lifeblood, he carried a personal objective—one that took precedence above all else, overshadowing every other need and duty.

He must find her. 

With a body and soul that ached, cried, and surged with pain at the slightest movement, Jayce clutched his faithful hammer, the staff his only anchor in this fractured moment. He grasped it with a ferocity born of desperation, driven by an insatiable need to find the one who held his heart.

He dragged himself from the earth, his bones threatening to crumble beneath the weight of every strained muscle. In the depths of his agony, he found the strength to cry out—anguish, pain, and longing intertwining in a sound that tore through the stillness.

There was no time to waste. Time was as fleeting as the many fragile faces of morality he had been shown. He pressed on, choosing to ignore the pain that gnawed at his body, for the agony in his heart burned far fiercer, driving him forward with a greater urgency.

As he forced one foot in front of the other, a faint clarity began to seep through the fog of his pain. He recognized this place—what felt like a lifetime ago, perhaps it truly was.

It was the very place he had been banished from on that fateful day, the boundaries of reality itself stripped away, peeling from his existence like old paint from a forgotten wall.

The base of the Hexgate. Miles upon miles beneath the surface, deep within the heart of the underground. So close to The Fissures that the scent of The Grey seeped through, oozing like sludge, despite the sanctity of the Hextech walls.

Yes, he knew exactly where he was—and where he had to go. Where he needed to go.

After what seemed like hours of agony, though only mere minutes in the grand scope of reality, he emerged.

The raw sunlight of the outside world felt foreign, a pale imitation of the light he’d known within the anomaly that had consumed him. It didn’t faze him in the slightest. Yet, he clung to the shadows, weighed down by the urgency of his mission, unwilling to risk crossing paths with anyone but the council he sought.

He tried to summon her face in his mind, though it danced just beyond his reach, a fading wisp of memory. The delicate details slipped like grains of sand through his fingers, leaving behind only fragments, delicate shards of a once-vivid whole. Longing was a poor name for the ache that ate away at his very being. 

It wasn’t just the endless minutes, hours, or even years spent alone, adrift in the quiet expanse of time. It was the storm within his mind, the weight of the universe’s secrets pressing upon him, unraveling his memories until her face—so familiar, so beloved—was little more than a whisper, lost to the void.

How could he ever forget her face? 

His grip on the hammer tightened, the weight of it suspended in the air, but he refused to rely on it. His impatience burned, driving him forward without its support.

This was his final reckoning. To bear the strain of his body, the pain of his journey, as penance for allowing his mind to forsake the thought of her.

He trudged through the shadows, a silent specter unnoticed by the lurking eyes around him, his resolve unwavering as he pressed forward, determined to reach the only place where he could search for her presence.

Every so often, ripples of time—glitches in the fabric of his mind—tore through him, sending his thoughts into chaos. They were like jolts of electricity, moments when his current self clashed with the future he had lived, battling with the past in a present that no longer belonged to him. It was no wonder such disruptions occurred, for he was living a time that had already become the past, thrown back into the present, where time itself seemed to be an elusive spectacle.

Deeming the horrors he endured—atrocious—barely scratched the surface of what he had encountered in his time away. Physically, he had survived—scraping by in the darkness of caverns, feeding on small creatures that crossed his path, and lighting fires from their bones to keep the cold at bay. It was a hell no mortal could comprehend. Physically surviving, yet endlessly lost in the mental labyrinth of unanswered questions, shattered dreams, and sudden epiphanies. 

Tampering with the very energy that shaped rock from stardust, and blood from matter—the vital core of life itself. He was beyond foolish to have once believed he could wield such power in the name of humankind’s technological progress. How naïve he had been, to think that a mere mortal could control forces unknown to their kind, and expect no consequence.

This was his consequence. To have forgotten the blissfully ignorant construct of time. To have forgotten what joyfulness truly was. To have forgotten love in its entirety—who to love, how to love, and who had once loved him.

To know nothing but pain. Nothing but sorrow. Nothing but the lingering ache of ignorance lost, the fleeting happiness once found in the mere desire to uncover the answers he now possessed. He sought answers, and answers were what he got. But within those answers lay a terror unlike any other—a terror born of witnessing what could have been, what did happen, and what will inevitably unfold from his actions. 

Jayce felt the weight of this burden crashing down around him, tightening around his throat like an enraged serpent. Breathing itself had become as foreign as the sunlight. He choked out, unable to cry out in pain as another ripple in the fabric of time surged through him, seemingly splitting his head in two. He screamed, yet no sound escaped him once more.

He had no time for this. No time for anything. Time was both nonexistent and forever slipping away—a paradox in its purest form.

He pressed on, driven by an iron will to reach his destination before his earthly body could endure another ounce of pain or suffering. Minutes passed, though they felt more like hours—an eternity in the spaces between each breath.

He could feel the coiled serpent around his neck loosening as the sight of a still, all-too-familiar building came into view. Jayce was breathing heavily now—panting, gasping, his shoulders rising and falling with the weight of exhaustion, a feeling he had come to know too well.

Jayce gripped his trusted hammer tightly, positioning the handle and aiming it at the solid door ahead. With a swift pull of the long metal release bar, the hum of his hextech beam sliced through the air, the door offering no resistance as it imploded. 

Jayce pushed through without hesitation or abandon, stumbling through the opening he had created, breathing hard all the while. His gaze settled on the familiar surroundings. He remembered this place. Her home. His home. Their home.

He hurled his hammer aside, the hefty weapon crashing into a nearby coffee table. The sharp crack of the wood splintering beneath the weight of the metal rang through the space, a loud echo sure to stir anyone in the house—if the blast of the door hadn’t already.

Jayce didn’t pause. He doubled down, picking up speed as he raced through the lower level of the house, frantic, desperate to find her. Room to room he searched, the pain in his leg screaming in protest, but he didn’t stop.

Yet, she was nowhere to be found. Jayce cursed loudly, slamming his fist into a nearby wall, the house shaking under the force of his strike.

She wasn’t here. Where else could she be?

His anger grew as he moved, a hurricane of frustration until he reached the base of the staircase. Once more, his fist collided with the wall, a primal curse escaping his lips—anger, guilt, and confusion tumbling out in the heat of the moment.

"FUCK!" he shouted, pounding his fist repeatedly into the wall, leaving a substantial dent in its wake.

His rage was all-consuming, blinding, and relentless as he acknowledged the thick layers of dust that caked the railing of the staircase before him. 

Has he really been gone that long?

He could feel the weight of his grief, the tears gathering in his eyes, threatening to fall, tracing the sharp curve of his cheekbones.

Yet another grim reality came crashing down upon him—the unbearable truth that he had, indeed, outlived the one radiant beacon of his desires, the singular flame that had given his life meaning. The knife of guilt plunged itself deeper into his chest as he realized he could no longer even summon her name, lost amid the swarm of revelations and horrors that had become his affliction.

But then, a faint sound—something delicate, breathy, and quiet—caught his attention.

Jayce had been the loudest force in the house, but his ears were tuned to the silence that followed him, alert to anything out of place.

A gasp. A small one. Almost imperceptible. 

His head snapped up, his gaze sharp, seeking the source of the sound. His eyes scanned each step, weaving between the banisters of the staircase until they found the outline of a face—half of it, barely visible from behind the uppermost curve of the staircase. The spaces between the columns made it difficult to catch a clear view, but he could see just enough.

Jayce stood rooted to the spot, the air thick with disbelief. He couldn’t trust his eyes—not after all he’d endured, not after the nightmares that had taunted him for so long. But there she was, standing at the top of the staircase. Her outline blurred and shimmering, as if she were a mirage conjured from his aching, fragmented mind.

She didn’t move. She couldn’t. Her fingers gripped the banister, knuckles white, as if it was the only thing keeping her tethered to this moment. Her eyes locked on his, wide and unblinking, and the emotion within them struck him like a blow. Shock. Pain. Recognition. A mirror of his own soul laid bare.

Slowly, cautiously, she began to descend, each step hesitant as though the floor beneath her might give way.

Jayce couldn’t breathe. The sight of her stole whatever remnants of air remained in his lungs. He wanted to call out to her, to say her name, but the word escaped him, lost somewhere deep in the fractures of his memory. His hands trembled at his sides, and his knees threatened to buckle.

When she reached the bottom, she paused, so close he could feel the faint warmth of her presence. Her lips parted as though to speak, but no words came. Instead, her hand rose, trembling, hovering near his face. Her fingers grazed the roughness of his beard—unfamiliar, foreign to the Jayce she had once known. Her gaze searched his, desperate for something familiar beneath the layers of torment etched into his features. Her touch was a question, a plea, a prayer.

“Is it really you?” she whispered, her voice barely audible, trembling far worse than her hand.

Her words, her cadence, the very sound of the way she construed her syllables together stirred something deep within him. 

It started faint, a flicker in the void of his memory. A flash of light in the darkness, a melody half-remembered. Her laughter, her smile, her voice—it came rushing back, filling the empty, aching spaces in his mind. He remembered the way her eyes sparkled when she teased him, the warmth of her hand in his, the softness of her lips when they whispered promises meant to last forever. He remembered late nights in their home, her humming a tune he could never place, and the way she fit perfectly against his side, as though they had been made for each other.

And then her name emerged, clear and resounding, breaking through the haze like sunlight piercing storm clouds. It struck him with staggering force, his breath hitching in his chest.

“____...” he whispered, her name trembling on his lips. It felt strange and familiar all at once, like a language he had known in another life. The syllables tasted of longing, regret, and an aching love that had never truly left him. Her name wasn’t just a word; it was an invocation, a tether to everything he had been and everything he had lost.

She gasped, her hand freezing on his face as the sound of her name from his lips shattered something inside her. Her tears fell faster, her face crumbling under the weight of his voice, the voice she had feared she might never hear again.

“It’s me,” she choked out, her voice breaking, thick with disbelief and raw emotion. “It’s me, baby. It’s me.”

Jayce said nothing more. He couldn’t. The dam within him had broken, and there was no holding back the flood of emotions that consumed him. He reached for her, his hands trembling as they gripped her shoulders, desperate to anchor himself to her presence. The sound of her name reverberated in his mind, in his heart, and in his very soul. 

Like clockwork, instinct overcame him, and he pulled her into his arms. His hand slid up, fingers weaving into the familiar softness of her hair, cradling the back of her head as though afraid she might disappear if he let go. The other wrapped firmly around her waist, his trembling grip binding her to him, locking her in place against his chest as if he could shield her from every cruel force in the universe.

They stood there, unmoving, a living sculpture of sorrow and relief intertwined. Their shared sobs filled the air, broken and uneven, their abdomens convulsing in an imperfect rhythm, a pattern dictated by the sheer weight of their emotions.

Her arms shot up, wrapping tightly around his neck, clinging to him with a fierceness that rivaled the serpent from earlier. But this was no constriction of malice—this was desperation, a refusal to let go, an embrace steeped in the agony of their time apart and the fragile hope of this reunion.

She buried her face into the curve of his shoulder, her tears soaking into the rough fabric of his battered coat. Jayce pressed his face into her hair, inhaling the faint trace of a scent he thought he’d never experience again. It was real—she was real. And so was he. Together, they formed an unyielding testament to survival, to love found again in the wreckage of time and pain.

The world around them faded into silence, the echoes of shattered furniture and crumbling walls irrelevant. There was nothing else—just the two of them, locked in a moment that transcended everything else. 

In that embrace, time ceased to exist. There was no past, no future, only the moment—the aching, beautiful reunion of two souls who had endured the unendurable, and somehow found their way back to each other.

For the first time in what didn’t merely feel like an eternity—but what, for him, truly was an eternity—Jayce allowed himself to breathe. The unrelenting grip of despair that had clung to him for so long loosened its hold, and he surrendered to the fragile, radiant possibility of solace.

He melted into her touch, the warmth of her embrace dissolving the armor of anguish he had worn for so long. The waves of hope, love, and longing coursed through him like a rising tide, washing over his battered soul, cleansing him of every hardship and sin that had clung to him. 

Each tear that fell from his eyes felt like a release, a quiet surrender to the overwhelming truth that she was here, alive, and within his grasp. For the first time in a recent lifetime of torment, Jayce felt the faint glimmer of what it meant to be whole again. In her arms, he rediscovered the segments of himself he thought had been lost forever. He pulled his face from the crook of her neck, craning up ever so slightly to meet her gaze from the step above him.

In the raw, aching silence of the eye contact, he kissed her.

It was not a kiss of restraint, not the gentle touch of lovers reunited after a brief absence. No, this was a kiss of desperate need, of a hunger so deep it could never be satisfied with mere words. His lips crashed against hers with an intensity borne of years of pain, the searing heat of their touch shattering any trace of distance that had ever existed between them. The world spun around them, time itself seemed to hesitate, unsure if it dared to move forward while these two souls collided, intertwining in a dance they had been separated from for far too long.

His hands cradled her face, as if he could memorize every curve, every contour of her like the final piece of a shattered puzzle. His thumb traced the delicate line of her jaw, brushing away tears that mingled with his own, but the salt of them only added to the kiss. Her hands clung to his shoulders, pulling him in, urging him closer, as if she, too, feared he might disappear into the ether if she didn't hold him tight enough.

Her lips were as soft as he remembered, and yet, they were so much more now. They spoke a language only the broken could understand—tender, yearning, seeking. His own lips moved over hers with an urgency that spoke of things unspoken, of years lost and never returned, of the agony of not knowing if the person before him had ever truly existed outside of memory. But here she was, warm in his arms, and the kiss deepened, no longer a question but an answer—a promise, a return to everything they had lost, and everything they could still become.

His hands roamed over her back, as if trying to remember every inch of her, as if the very touch of her skin reminded him more of everything he had witnessed than the sheer fact that it was something he had only just been through. It reminded him of everything he had suffered—just to be here, in this moment. He kissed her with the weight of all that and more, as if their love had never left him, even in the darkest hours. He kissed her like she was the last obstacle in the way of sanity in a world that had spun too far out of control. And when they finally pulled apart, breathless and trembling, the air between them was thick with the unspoken realization that the past—no matter how broken—was never truly lost.

And for the first time in forever, Jayce allowed himself to believe in miracles.

“I thought I’d lost you,” he whispered, his voice raw and shaky against her lips, his fingers tightening in her hair, though never enough to hurt.

“I thought you’d never come back,” she replied, her voice trembling with an aching yearning. She pulled her arms from around his neck, her hands grabbing the collar of his shirt, pulling him even closer, as if their bodies could merge into one.

Jayce huffed against her lips, their breaths tangled together, hearts racing. Their lips met again, moving together with an urgency, a desperate rhythm of grinding, sliding—like they were both trying to consume the other, as if time itself could be stolen through every kiss.

There were no more words to be spoken, no explanations needed at this time. Everything that needed to be said would happen outside of this moment, beyond the confines of the here and now. In this space, within the familiar walls of their home, the only thing left to do was to cherish, savor, and surrender to the love that had been lost and now found.

They moved as if guided by an unspoken understanding, her legs instinctively wrapping around his waist as his hands rose to cradle the curve of her body. His fingers traced the soft, bare skin of her thighs, caressing gently before gripping her firmly, as if to reassure himself she was truly there.

With a quiet, unrelenting need, he pressed her back into the wall—the same one he had pummeled with his fist mere moments ago. The contrast of his previous rage and the tender, consuming embrace was stark, as the heat between them grew, their bodies aligning in need.

Neither of them had the patience for anything more than the raw, burning need to be together again. Clothes were discarded in hurried motions, a belt undone with an urgency that mirrored the storm raging between them.

As if their bodies had always been the missing pieces of a puzzle, they came together without thought, fitting perfectly in a way only years of passion and love could understand. It was a reunion, not just of flesh, but of something deeper—an unspoken connection that had always waited beneath the surface, now finally able to breach it. 

Jayce groaned out, sinking his cock down to the hilt inside her. His belt hung loosely, the buckle clinking faintly, like a soft chime in the quiet chaos of their reunion. His hips shifted with a subtle sway, his body still aching, but driven by the shared overwhelming need. 

One hand braced against the wall, fingers tracing the jagged divot he had created earlier, finding an oddly fitting purchase there. The other hand cupped the side of her face, pulling her closer, his lips leaving a trail of fiery kisses across her cheek, down the curve of her neck, and grazing the exposed sliver of skin on her collarbone just beneath the neckline of her shirt. Every touch was a silent gospel, a desperate reaffirmation that she was truly there.

He grunted, huffing out as his cock twitched amongst the walls of her cunt, her slick coating every shred of skin he buried between them. 

She cried out, the tears of her passion and devastation still streaming down her face as she moaned against his shoulder, hands still gripping for dear life at his shirt. 

Jayce couldn’t do anything but move—move against her, move within her, as if each shift and press was an unspoken promise. He needed her to feel the weight of everything that had passed between them, the years apart, the torment, the longing. His body spoke in the language of devotion, an unyielding motion that expressed what words could not. He wanted her to feel everything—the regret, the pain, the aching desire to make her understand that he had never meant to leave her. Every movement was a plea for redemption, an effort to show her that his absence had never been by choice, and that now, with her in his arms, he would never leave again.

Not until every moment with her had been relived in full, paid in full—a debt he had accumulated, whether or not it had ever been his intention. 

Furthermore, not until the day he was laid to rest. 

With the very weight of his intended unspoken purpose, he did as he needed. He began moving against her, driving his cock further into her before pulling his hips back with great resistance. Oh, how he had dreamed of staying there, deep within her, until their bodies became one. A dream he could fulfill one day, but not this day. No.

He had to do what he must. The new mission that called to him. Repentance for his guilt.

He bore down, removing the hand from her face, exchanging a greeting with her hip as he used both it and the anchor on the wall to aid the snapping of his hips into hers. Her legs coiled ever stronger around his waist as he moved, hazy spots clouding her vision as he drove the head of his cock deep into a spot she knew he remembered just where to find. 

He continued, the duet of their sounds merging into a symphony that reverberated through the hollow structure of the house.

He knew he couldn’t stop, couldn't dare break his stride, but the weight of his earthly injury proved too great a challenge. His knee, the very one that had borne the brunt of the fall into the caverns that had held him captive for so long, began to give way.

A hiss escaped him as his knee buckled, sending him crashing into the wall, taking her down with him. He fumbled in frustration, angry that this obstacle had to arise now. She cupped his face gently, pulling him out of the haze of passion for a moment. Her eyes were full of forgiveness, understanding, and love.

With a soft kiss—chaste yet filled with tenderness—she slowly pushed him away. Breathless, her chest rising and falling in rhythm with his, she guided him gently toward the staircase. She eased him down to the step she had just occupied, his rear meeting the step with an awkward thud as he struggled to use his knee. She almost laughed at the flustered look on his face.

There he sat, cock out, needy as ever, glistening with the physical proof of her desires, gazing up at her like a man who had been lost in a storm for years—and in her presence, found the calm, the shelter, the promise of everything he had ever longed for.

She was never able, in all the years spent with him, to deny the way he looked at her—with nothing more than pure adoration, as if his gaze alone could encompass the depth of every sweltering emotion he had ever felt, each one overflowing like a tide too vast to hold back. 

It sent lightning bolting through her veins as she lifted the hem of her dress by the waistline, clearing it from her shins as she moved them on either side of his thighs. In a quick movement, she descended into his lap, sinking back down onto his cock like a glass slipper to a foot–the kind you read about in fairytales. 

Jayce’s eyes refused to close, despite the overwhelming pleasure that urged them to surrender. He couldn’t bear to look away—not when he had once forgotten her face, a face he could never fathom losing from his memory again. He would spend an eternity gazing at it, tracing every curve, every expression, if it meant he’d never risk forgetting again.

She cooed softly, a hum deep in her chest as she stilled atop him. Without warning, she braced herself with her hands on his shoulders and began to move. Her knees ground harshly against the wooden step beneath them, the sting sharp but dismissed as something fleeting, unworthy of attention in this sacred moment.

Jayce’s hands found their way to her hips, guiding and assisting her as she moved, his good knee pressing up into her, adding to the rhythm as she rolled her hips down into his lap.

He stared up at her, almost in awe, desperate to say something—anything—that might amplify the intensity of the moment. She could see the storm of thoughts behind his eyes, and with a gentle shake of her head, she silenced him, her gesture a tender "not now."

Jayce nodded, his mouth sealing shut once more as he pulled her down, their lips reconnecting in a fierce kiss. Their tongues danced together, reacquainting themselves, as the tension they both craved began to stir deep within them, rising like a wave that would soon crash.

She could tell by the way his breath quickened, and the way he gripped at her hips—attempting to pull her harder and faster against him, that he was close. 

She could feel her own impending orgasm approaching faster than she cared to admit. After several more seconds, she came undone, the walls of her cunt spasming and twitching against his cock as they tightened around him. 

Jayce groaned out with the unholiest of moans as he could no longer stifle his own orgasm. He came hard, slamming her hips into his lap one final time as the streams and strokes of his cum lathered her internal walls. 

And just like that, as if the very fabric of time were being stitched back together, the rift felt whole again. The weight of everything that had been forced upon him, every choice he had made, and the heavy burden of his mission’s fate, all dissipated into nothingness. In that fleeting moment, the past and future aligned, and the crushing pressure of it all faded into serenity. 

The two people, united by more than sweat and tears, felt a deep harmony between them, as if everything in the world had realigned. In that moment, it was as though the universe itself had whispered that all was right. Together, they could face the trials of the new day, conquer every obstacle that came their way, and overcome every hardship as one. 

With the shifting weight of time that had passed, and the uncertain future that lay ahead—yet one that felt equally decided—there remained an essence of calm, unburdened by fear. In that moment, both past and future were held in a quiet certainty, as if all things had already been set in motion, and nothing could sway them from their course.

There was no challenge too great, no burden too heavy, for they were stronger together than they could ever be apart.

[ozzgin]

Ozz please, accept any of these 🥿🥿 🩴🩴 see you in those heels is killing me. Your monsters and followers love your ass without them, I promise you.

Don't try to Adam Sandler me, anon. I appreciate your care and I shall keep those slippers in my heart, but my heels are a statement of raw power. They have fused with my feet a long time ago as a testament to my unbreakable will and veiny, throbbing soul. You may wonder, how do such frail shoes even carry my gargantuan frame of sheer muscle? Surely any physical object of this universe would crumble under the weight of my meat monolith, yet it is this very paradox that maintains the balance. Do they hurt to walk in? Absolutely. Do they make my ass fatter? Perhaps. It is but a small price to pay.

You needn't worry about me, I am resigned to my fate of mild discomfort and blisters. My bald scalp shines towards hope, nonetheless. I hope you will continue to walk with me.

[yumeboshi]

congrats on 100 omg !!!! may i please order a sickly sweet sprinkle sundae? <3 your vibe is simply incredible

❝ THANK YOU FOR YOUR ORDER、 @bunn3333s .ᐟ ⟡ HERE IS YOUR RECEIPT FROM CAFÉ YUME ⟡

𐙚SICKLY SWEET SPRINKLE SUNDAE：sickly sweet it makes you throw up!

𐙚 dish desc。．a not so romantic dinner sunday made for you after you tried running away.

．。𝜗𝜚 labels。 general yandere themes, manipulation, filthy, mentions of aphrodisiacs, no i promise i write for other characters too, heavy brainrot, MINORS DNI

．。𝜗𝜚 ingredients。sunday

WAS HE ANGRY?

it was hard to tell by the way SUNDAY smiles at you with eyes hollow like shells, gesturing for you to take a seat at the lavish dinner table. your fiancé, although more of a forced engagement, was undoubtedly a good cook. the dishes set across the spacious wooden table cloaked with heavenly silk were straight from a 5-star course meal at the Reverie, each one tingling your nostrils with an exquisitely savory smell.

the situation might have been very flattering if you haven’t tried to run away from him moments ago.

“please, take a seat. i made it just for you, you know.” he laughs shortly at your hesitance, but his eyes pierce through you, like a predator waiting for its prey.

you feel your heart thud against your chest as you sit down tentatively- the scrape of the chair only scratching your nerves even more. although the scent around you tempted your stomach, your mouth felt paradoxically dry and you felt like throwing up. you felt uncomfortable, as if a thousand ants were crawling over your skin by his stare that never once leaves you.

“you deserve to eat,” he breaks your discomfort with a gentle hand that guides your own to the silver utensils that are far too expensive for you. “you’ve been such a good girl.”

the way he says it tells you he doesn’t think that at all. but how can you possibly deny him, when you’ve already done it once? you should be grateful he’s even allowing you to eat.

but as the steak reaches your lips, you feel a sudden churn in your throat that tells you you really shouldn’t eat it. sunday taps you with the other hand on your shoulder- a subtle warning, but when you don’t do as he says, he sighs in condescension and pries your mouth open to force it in, caring little about the way your saliva stains his pristine gloves.

the meat surprisingly melts on your tongue like heaven- it’s juicy and just so right. it’s the most perfect bite of meat you’ve ever tasted, which shows on your surprised expression which makes your fiancé scold you—

“what did i tell you, dear? I didn’t put anything in there. this indeed says something about how little you trust me.”

and when he removes his and from yours, telling you that he’s not going to cook anymore- you beg him that you’re sorry for mistrusting him. oh, what a sin you’ve committed— how dare you even doubt sunday, who always showers you with such love you don’t deserve after your attempt to run?

he pretends to give in to your pretty pleas when you hug him while sobbing about how delicious it is, all the while telling you that you’re such a stupid little dove he has to teach constantly until she learns he manners.

little do you know, the meat you’re chewing has an oddly sweet aftertaste. the more sunday feeds you with his hand over your own, subtly coaxing you to eat the entire thing, all the while making you think it’s your own choice to eat it, the more your brain fuzzes, your vision blurry, slowly drowning your own coherent thoughts with such a primal need that builds itself to the surface, a desire that morphs into a cacophony in your head that chants that you need him so badly.

and he’ll drag out the drugged thoughts of yours, acting as if you’re the one who badly wants him to bury in his thick cock inside you- when in reality, sunday is the one who desires it so bad. he’s wanted to stuff you full with his own cum- make you his, trapping you with his children since the day he’s laid eyes on you, but a true manipulator always plays the longer game, and he was willing to wait.

now, his long-awaited fantasies are fulfilled as he watches your hole gushing around his cock, whimpering his name as you clutch the sheets- pretty bite marks decorating every nook and cranny. and fuck, oh it makes him feel like he’s finally flown to his desired heaven. he feels complete.

he feels like his twisted paradise is near.

[spiced-apple]

Lost Signal — Redhaired Pirates

Strawhats

Things had gotten quiet. Too quiet. The familiar boisterous laughter that usually filled the Red Force was eerily subdued. Each hearty guffaw from Lucky Roux felt a little hollow, each clinking of Tank's tankards sounded less celebratory. Even Rockstar's usual swagger seemed to carry a subtle limp, a phantom weight dragging him down. And Benn Beckman, ever the calm observer, found his gaze drifting, not across the vast, welcoming sea, but into an empty space on the deck, a space that felt profoundly, unnervingly vacant.

"Something's missing," Yasopp finally voiced, his keen sniper's eyes narrowed, not at a distant target, but at the indefinable. His words hung in the air, a bell tolling the truth they'd all been subconsciously avoiding.

Shanks, usually the embodiment of carefree joy, sat on the railing. His eyes, usually sparkling with mirth, were clouded with a quiet, aching longing. "Yeah," he murmured, his voice softer than usual. "It's like… like a piece of the world just got ripped out."

The feeling was a persistent hum beneath their skin, a low-level static in their minds. It was the absence of a particular laugh that used to mingle with their own, a unique cadence that now only echoed in the silence. It was the lack of a specific comfort during their moments of sorrow, a gentle hand, a quiet understanding that was now just… gone. They felt the phantom ache of shared adventures, of battles won and stories told, that now felt incomplete, like a song missing its crucial melody.

What was worse, infinitely worse, was the impossible truth that gnawed at them: they couldn't remember. No matter how hard they strained, no matter how desperately they tried to grasp the fleeting wisp, they couldn't recall a face. No name surfaced, no specific memory clicked into place. It was like trying to discern the features of a shadow, a presence so intimately known yet utterly unidentifiable. They knew, deep in their bones, that someone vital was gone—the one who had laughed with them, cried with them, understood them perhaps better than anyone else. But they were gone as if they had never even been there to begin with.

The Red Force, once a beacon of freedom and adventure, now felt like a ship adrift, searching for a star that had vanished from the sky. Every shared glance among the crew spoke volumes: a silent, desperate question.

What could they do to find someone they couldn't even remember? How do you call out to a ghost of a memory that nonetheless left such an undeniable void?

The unsettling hum in the Red Force intensified, morphing from a low static into a constant, nagging throb. It wasn't just a missing person; it was a missing truth. The more they tried to pinpoint the source of their pervasive unease, the more they realized the horrifying nature of the void.

"It's like... like they were never even here," Lucky Roux finally articulated, his usual jovial tone replaced by a rare, troubled frown. He took a bite of meat, but the usual pleasure seemed to elude him. "But... they were here, weren't they?" He looked around, a silent plea in his eyes for someone to confirm what he couldn't remember.

Benn Beckman looked towards them, his gaze piercing, not just at the crew, but through the very fabric of their reality. "It's a paradox," he stated, his voice a low, gravelly rumble. "We feel their absence profoundly, yet we can't define their presence. It's as if their very existence was erased, rewritten from our memories, but the space they occupied remains an open wound."

Shanks slammed his fist on the railing, the wood groaning under the impact. His usual easygoing demeanor was gone, replaced by a fierce, almost desperate intensity. "No!" he roared, startling even the seasoned crew. "They were here! I know it! And I can feel it, they’re gone now." He clawed at his chest, as if trying to hold onto a fleeting phantom. "The laughter... the conversations... the understanding... it's all still here, in my heart, but I can't see their face! I can't say their name!"

Yasopp lowered his rifle, his sharpshooter's instincts failing him in this intangible hunt. "It's like trying to hit a target you can't see, but you know is there," he muttered, shaking his head in disbelief. "Our memories... they're like a scratched logbook. The stories are there, but the main character's page is blank."

This wasn't just about finding a lost crewmate; it was about reclaiming their own reality. The shared history they cherished felt fundamentally compromised, a grand adventure missing its most crucial witness. The Red Force, once a vessel of pure, unadulterated freedom, now felt like a prison of forgotten truths. Their laughter, their tears, their triumphs—they were all tainted by this impossible void, this phantom limb of their collective consciousness. They were searching for someone no one remembered, but simultaneously, everyone did. It was a maddening, soul-crushing paradox.

The only thing clear was the unwavering conviction that they had to bring back what was lost, even if they couldn't remember what it was. Their very sanity, their very existence, depended on it.

Your TV broke about a week ago. Not just a simple malfunction, but something truly bizarre. Trying to explain it to the repair people—hell, even trying to get ahold of a person instead of a robot was a nightmare. It kept freezing whenever you tried to watch anything besides One Piece. How do you even begin to explain that to some dude on the customer service end? "Yeah, so my TV only works for one specific anime, and then it freaks out for everything else." It was even more embarrassing when he called over his supervisor, who sounded even more confused than he was.

The old TV finally went black when you managed to force it onto another title. You figured it was toast and bought a new one that weekend. The new TV was smaller, thankfully, like the size of a computer monitor. Hopefully the reduced size would make it less prone to… whatever the last one had. But when you plugged it in, all the things that had previously been swept under the rug became stranger. The only icon available on it was for One Piece. None of the other streaming services, no settings, no other apps. Just a giant One Piece logo. The skull with the Strawhat stared back almost mockingly.

"How is that even possible?" You muttered, reaching for the power cord. You unplugged it, but the screen didn't change. It was still on—still bright and on actually changed to the show's title screen, like it hadn't just lost power. In fact, it started to get brighter, and hotter. Lighting up the dim room with the faint smell of ozone filling the air. Then smoke began to rise off the top of it.

"What…" You stumbled back, eyes wide. The light intensified, filling the small room with an almost blinding glow. You squeezed your eyes shut, but the brightness still shone behind your eyelids, a searing white flash that seemed to almost burn into the retinas. It got brighter, and brighter, until finally, overwhelmed, everything simply shut off.

The sky was beginning to turn to dusk, a soft, light purple with no cloud in sight. You felt a cool breeze on your skin, and the scent of salt and something vaguely woody filled your senses. When did you get outside? Your eyes snapped open, and you jolted upwards, your already racing heart seizing at the sight in front of you.

They were there. All of them. And they looked… real.

Benn Beckman stood closest, a lit cigarette dangling from his lips, his gaze unwavering. "Good to have you back," he said, his voice a low rumble that somehow cut through the roaring in your ears. He reached out a hand, surprisingly gentle, and placed it on your shoulder. His fingers were solid, warm through your shirt. This wasn't a dream.

Shanks, his eyes shone with an emotion you couldn't quite place, strode forward, a wide, relieved smile spreading across his face. "Took you long enough, partner!" he laughed, his voice boisterous, yet edged with a profound earnestness. Before you could react, he wrapped an arm around your shoulders, pulling you into a surprisingly firm hug. The smell of sake and the faint musk of the sea clung to him, undeniably real. "We were worried you weren't coming back."

"Coming back?" You managed to croak, voice hoarse. Your mind was a whirlwind of confusion. Was this a hallucination? Some elaborate dream? "W-where am I?"

Yasopp, his long rifle casually slung over his back, stepped forward, his eyes, usually so sharp, now held a deep, knowing warmth. "You're home," he said, his voice soft. He reached out and gently ruffled your hair, the sensation startlingly real and strangely... nostalgic. "You always were, you just... stepped out for a bit."

Lucky Roux chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound that seemed to vibrate through the deck beneath your feet. "We knew you'd find your way. We just had to... make the path a little clearer." He offered you a piece of what looked like freshly cooked meat, the aroma making your stomach growl despite the surreal situation.

"But... I don't..." You tried to protest, to explain the impossible reality of your television, the static, the blackouts. How could you possibly be here? None of this was supposed to be real. None of this was supposed to be familiar…

Shanks pulled back from the hug, but kept a hand firmly on your arm. His expression, usually so carefree, was now serious, his gaze piercing. "You're more real than you think," he stated, his voice quiet but firm. "We remembered you, even when you were somewhere none of us could reach. And now you’re here, you’re back where you belong."

The feeling was overwhelming: the cool air, the scent of the sea, the undeniable warmth of Shanks's hand on your arm, the solid deck beneath your feet, the distinct scent of Lucky Roux's cooking, Yasopp's touch, and Benn Beckman's steady presence. They weren't just images on a screen. They were here. And you were here too. Something told you that wouldn’t change.

[typhlonectes]

The Paradox of the Radioactive Boars

Scientists solve a long-standing mystery in Bavaria.

Deep in the Bavarian woods of Southeast Germany roam scores of wild boars—prized game in a country where hunting is akin to a national tradition. But most hunters would think twice before venturing into the woods to chase these fat and fleshy pigs. Even if they track one and take it down, chances are they won’t be able to enjoy the meat. The boars are too dangerous to eat. In some cases, the Bavarian boars are several hundred times more radioactive than what’s considered safe for human consumption. The hunters are well aware of this phenomenon, typically attributed to the 1986 Chornobyl accident, during which radioactive fallout drifted over to Europe. (Chornobyl is the preferred spelling in Ukraine.) “Europe is pretty much a mess in terms of radioactive contamination,” says Georg Steinhauser, professor of physical radioecology at the Vienna University of Technology...

Read more:

https://nautil.us/the-paradox-of-the-radioactive-boars-376225

[charliedawn]

A SERVANT’S DUTY Part VI Emperor Geta x Reader

The next night:

The night air was cool, crisp, and filled with the distant sounds of the city—a hum of life that never really quieted, even in the dead of night. You had slipped away quietly from the palace, careful to avoid any guards or servants that might be awake and on watch. The walls surrounding the palace were tall, imposing, yet somehow serene at this hour, offering a perfect view of the city below.

You climbed up onto the stone, sitting with your legs dangling over the side. The city stretched out before you like an intricate tapestry—lights flickering from distant homes and marketplaces, the occasional sound of a cart rolling through the streets, and the low murmur of the people’s lives unfolding. It felt both vast and intimate, as if you were an outsider looking in, a witness to everything and nothing all at once.

The stars above were clear, the moon a faint crescent casting a soft glow over everything. You could smell the faint scent of incense and cooking food in the breeze, a mix of simple things that somehow made the city feel alive.

You sighed deeply, feeling the weight of the day settle in your chest. It had been a whirlwind since you had found yourself in the position you were now. And yet, sitting alone on top of the palace walls, everything felt distant. Who were you to change the course of history ? What did you truly know about the politics, the games being played behind those gilded doors ? You had never been one of them. You had always been just a servant, a background figure in the grand scheme of things.

But now, for the first time, you were someone who could make a difference. You could feel the weight of the apple that Geta had handed you at the beginning of this adventure, the metaphorical responsibility resting in your hand.

You looked down at the city below, the lights of the streets flickering like a sea of stars. The air was warm and crisp, carrying the scent of burning oil and roasted meat from the city's late-night markets.

And then, from somewhere behind you, you heard the sound of footsteps approaching—soft and measured, but growing louder. You knew that sound. You turned just in time to see a figure emerging from the shadows, a familiar silhouette against the dim light.

Emperor Geta. He had found you.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. He stood a few paces away, his hands clasped behind his back, his eyes on the city below, just like yours had been moments before.

He rested his arms on the edge of the wall, his gaze still on the city below. But even in this moment of shared solitude, it was clear that he was still wary, still aware of the world around him. Then, he spoke again, his voice soft, hesitant.

"Are you not afraid of heights ?"

You gave a soft snort, your expression softening. "I think I'm more afraid of being caught up here than I am of the height," you replied, meeting his gaze with a hint of a smile on your lips.

He chuckled softly, his eyes sparkling with a hint of humor. "I won't tell if you won't."

For a moment, a comfortable silence settled between you, and you found yourself stealing glances at him in the dim light, taking in the sharp lines of his face, the subtle tension in his shoulders, the restless energy that seemed coiled within him. He was a complex person, a paradox of ruthless calculation and rare vulnerability, and you found yourself wondering about the mind that lay behind those sharp eyes.

Then, as if sensing your gaze on him, he looked over, catching you in a moment of quiet observation. His brow furrowed slightly, and for a moment, he seemed like the emperor again—the one who had always carried the weight of a kingdom on his shoulders. But in this space, under the quiet moonlight, he seemed like just any man—someone looking for a little peace in a world that demanded so much of him.

"When I was young, I used to imagine a life without all of this," he suddenly disclosed, gesturing at the palace, the city, everything that came with being emperor. "I dreamt of wandering the countryside, of living off the land, of being free."

He turned his gaze to you, and for a second, his eyes looked far away. Then, with a quiet sigh, he spoke again.

"But then I remember…I cannot." His voice was low, filled with something that could have been regret or acceptance, but you couldn’t quite tell.

You nodded, He couldn’t escape. He was bound to this life, just as you had once been bound to the floors of this palace. The night was quiet, the city below silent, save for the faint sounds of life far in the distance. The sky was dark, only the slightest hint of light on the horizon.

Suddenly, Geta chuckled softly.

"You know, if someone had told me a month ago that I would be sitting on this wall, having a heart-to-heart with a servant…" He shook his head, a crooked smile on his face. "I would have called them insane."

You laughed softly, a ripple of genuine amusement. "And if someone had told me a month ago that I’d be sitting here with an emperor, I would’ve told them they needed to get a knock on the head."

For a moment, Geta didn’t answer. He just sat silently, lost in thought, seeming to be miles away. You could almost see the gears turning in his mind as he pondered something, some private thought that he was struggling to articulate.

Then, finally, he spoke again.

"Do you believe in fate, my friend ?"

You paused, surprised by the unexpected question. It was heavy, philosophical. Not the kind of thing you usually talked about.

"I…don’t know," you replied honestly before adding. "I think there are forces at work that we can’t understand. Maybe that’s fate, maybe it’s just chance. I don’t know."

Geta nodded, his expression thoughtful. "Ever since I was a child, I have been told I was destined for greatness," he explained. "That I was born to be emperor, that everything in my life was leading me to this moment. And now, here I am. Ruler of the world."

He looked at you, and there was a hint of uncertainty in his eyes now, like a boy who had finally realized the weight of the crown on his head.

"…That burden seems heavy for one person." You replied him truthfully.

There was a flicker of surprise in his gaze, as if he hadn’t expected such a response. Then, the corner of his mouth quirked up in a rueful smile.

"You’re the first person who’s ever said that to me," he confessed. "Everyone else either bows before me, or tell me how great I am."

You hummed. "There is a reason Emperor Commodus gave his Empire to you and your brother."

Geta’s eyes flickered at the mention of his father and brother—a sore subject, especially in private. But he kept his expression calm, his gaze steady.

"And what is that reason ?" he asked.

"…He must have felt lonely." You answered with a shrug.

This time, Geta was genuinely surprised. His gaze flickered as he considered your words. He let out a soft laugh, as if he was both amused and surprised by your response.

"Lonely," he repeated, the sound of the word catching in his throat. "I guess most emperors are."

You looked at him. "Maybe he knew that ruling over an empire took more than one man ?"

"Maybe he did, maybe he didn't," he replied quietly, his gaze drifting back to the city. "It doesn't matter now anyway."

You sighed. "I guess you are right…"

The wind picked up a little, rustling your hair. You looked back out at the city again, the lights below still twinkling like distant stars.

"We should get back," you spoke up, standing up slowly, brushing off the dirt from your skirt.

Geta nodded. You went down the wall’s stairs and, without looking back, began making your way back toward the palace. As you walked away, you heard his footsteps behind you for a moment, then a soft sigh carried on the wind. But you didn’t look back. The city, the palace, and your role within it—those things would still be there tomorrow.

The rest of the night was a quiet blur as you walked back to your chambers in the palace. The halls were eerily silent, the only sound the soft creak of the floorboards beneath your feet. You settled into a fitful sleep, images from the night flashed through your mind—the moonlit city below you, the soft look in Geta's eyes as you stood on the wall until sleep finally arrived…

…

The next day dawned slowly, sunlight dripping in through the high palace windows like honey. It painted long golden lines across the marble floors as you stirred from sleep, still feeling the lingering coolness of last night’s breeze in your bones. A servant had already laid out your attire for the Senate meeting of the day—another finely tailored robe in imperial colors, subtly embroidered, meant to reflect dignity and influence without appearing boastful. You stared at it for a moment before dressing, still unused to the silk that clung softly to your skin, the weight of jewelry that now belonged to you.

By the time you reached the corridor outside the Senate chamber, the halls were buzzing. Slaves moved quickly between doors, officials were already talking in low, urgent voices, and guards stood at full attention with polished armor gleaming under the morning light.

As you stepped through the archway, the murmuring quieted.

The senators—stoic, skeptical, mostly old men in their stiff togas—glanced toward you. Some nodded politely. Others frowned, disapproving of your presence in a space they considered sacred to their tradition. One or two even looked fearful—perhaps remembering just how close their own fates had been tied to Caracalla or Macrinus.

And then, Emperor Geta arrived.

He swept into the chamber in a silver robe, not the glistening gold his brother had favored. His hair was neatly combed, his expression neutral, but his eyes searched the room immediately—until they found you. He offered a small, almost imperceptible nod, a silent reassurance that yes, you were exactly where you were supposed to be.

The meeting began, its opening rituals and formalities passing in a blur as Senator after Senator made his case on tax reforms, military defense, foreign relations and more. You stood to the side, trying to fade into the background as much as possible in the rich, silk robes. But every once in a while, you could feel Geta’s gaze on you, just for a few seconds.

Geta spoke with clarity and poise. He did not raise his voice. He didn’t have to. The room quieted when he did, and even those who once questioned him sat straighter now, as if reminded that power had changed hands for good.

But you could see it. Behind the calm exterior, behind the imperial mask—he was tired.

After it ended, he didn’t go back to the private chambers. Instead, he sought you out directly, walking beside you down one of the quieter corridors that overlooked the gardens.

You walked in silence until he finally spoke, "You didn’t say anything during the session."

You blinked at him. "I had nothing to say, besides I am not the Emperor."

He frowned.

"Yes. But you are not a servant anymore," he stated plainly. "You are a part of the household now. You eat where I eat. You drink where I drink. And you are allowed to speak just as I do. I thought you understood ?"

You tilted your head. "Nobody told me that. And enough of the senators see me as a conniving manipulator as it is—no need to feed the rumors."

"That is because nobody understands our…relationship," he said, the corner of his mouth quirking up in a brief smirk. "I guess it never occurred to the others that I’d bring a former servant up to sit in the Senate. But now that I did—I expect to hear you, Senator."

You kept walking and looked up as the sun was high up in the sky.

"But, I think you are right. You are making them nervous," he confirmed, following your gaze up to the sun. "You are something unexpected. You say unexpected things. And this Senate isn’t used to unexpected things."

You smiled. "Is that a good or bad thing ?"

"Depends on who you ask," he replied, with a hint of a smile. "For some, they see you as an outsider, a wild card. They do not understand why you are here, and they are already beginning to whisper among themselves—plotting."

You huffed a mocking laugh. "To be scared of a servant…Such tragedy."

"They are not scared of a servant," Geta replied lightly, his eyes gleaming. "They are scared of the power the servant has. For all they know…you are just a pretty face that makes the emperor happy."

You smiled and looked at him with a cheeky grin. "I make you happy ?"

Geta faltered for just a second.

His steps slowed, and he looked over at you, the sunlight catching in his deep brown of his eyes. His mouth opened slightly, as if to deflect with a clever quip. But then he stopped. And instead of dodging the question, he answered it—quietly, honestly.

"Yes," he admitted. "You do."

The breeze shifted gently through the corridor, rustling the leaves in the garden beyond. Time felt like it stilled for a breath—just long enough for those words to settle between you. You didn’t speak right away. Maybe you weren’t ready. Maybe you didn’t trust what might come out if you tried. But your silence didn’t seem to frighten him. He just walked beside you, slow and steady, his hands clasped behind his back.

"You make things…easier," he added after a pause, as if that small word didn’t quite capture the scope of what he meant.

You looked ahead, watching a pair of doves flutter down into the edge of the fountain below.

"And what happens," you asked carefully, "when the Senate decides that the emperor being happy is a threat to the Republic ?"

Geta was quiet for a long moment. Then:

"Then the emperor reminds them why he’s the one wearing the crown."

You stopped walking.

And when he noticed, he stopped too, turning to face you fully. The air between you suddenly buzzed with something unspoken…And then, slowly, deliberately, he reached out—not to take your hand, not to command or insist, but to gently brush a stray strand of hair from your face.

"They’ll try to find your weakness, you know," he warned you. "To figure out why I let you get so close to me, to have any power at all. And then they’ll try to use it against both of us."

You tilted your head. "Saving your life isn’t enough an answer as to why you keep me around ?"

He chuckled softly. "Oh, they do not care about that. They just see me as an idiot, who is too soft to see a threat when it is right in front of him."

He leaned in a little closer, the warmth of his breath brushing casually across your cheek. "But we both know that’s not true…don’t we ? You are no threat, are you ?"

You smirked. "A threat ? Me ?"

He was so close you could smell the faint scent of citrus on his skin. He chuckled softly, his gaze flickering over your face.

"Oh, you do understand what I mean, don’t you ?" he suggested, his tone teasing but you knew he was serious when he added. "You are as dangerous as a knife in the shadows. You might not have a title or any power on paper. But you have something even better."

You arched a quizzical eyebrow at him.

"Which is ?"

Geta leaned in even closer, his voice dropping to a near-whisper.

"You have power over me…" he murmured. "That is your greatest weapon. You know how to get through my guard. You make me laugh, you make me curious, you make me…care about life."

He stopped for a moment.

"You make me want to…make smart decisions," he continued, his eyes on you. "You make me want to be better, to…do the right thing, even when it is the hardest thing. Because I do not want to disappoint you."

Your eyes widened in surprise at his admission.

"…Disappoint me ? Emperor. I could never be disappointed in you. I am unworthy."

His fingers found yours, lacing through the spaces between your own.

"Do not say that," he told you firmly. "I believe that…the gods sent me a guide when I thought all was lost and desperate. They sent you to me."

He paused for a moment. Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, he said:

"I do not believe in fate. I do not believe in destiny. But I…I cannot ignore the coincidence that brought you to me. That you were there, in that moment. When I needed…" he trailed off, unable to finish the thought.

Your eyes softened and you hesitated before slowly closing your fingers over his.

He sucked in a sharp intake of breath. You could feel his pulse quickening in his wrist, like a race-horse’s heart. His fingers gently tightened over yours, the heat of his skin almost warm. Then, he spoke again, the words falling out in a rush, as if he was worried he wouldn’t be able to say them if he didn’t say them quickly enough.

"It frightens me. To need someone this deeply. To…to care about someone so much, despite every rational thought telling me not to. I care about you more than I should. I care…so much more than any emperor ever cared about a servant."

Your breath caught. For a moment, the entire world seemed to still—no birdsong, no rustle of leaves, just the raw, aching silence between two hearts standing too close, too bare. And yet, even in that stillness, something inside you stirred. A part of you that had learned to survive in shadows, that had mastered silence and stillness, that had never once dared to hope.

You looked up at him, into those eyes that had once felt so far above your world. Now, they looked back at you not with superiority, but with a sort of reverence—as if you were human.

You smiled faintly, voice soft as silk.

"I do not think emperors are supposed to care like that," you whispered.

"I know," he replied, a ghost of a smile on his lips. "And yet I do."

There was a kind of quiet desperation to his honesty, the way he still held your hand like it was an anchor. You wondered how long it had been since anyone had touched him with gentleness rather than expectation. Since anyone had spoken to him, and not his crown.

"But you are right," you murmured, your eyes never leaving his. "They’ll come for me. They’ll look for ways to pull me apart. They’ll try to make me a weakness."

Geta didn’t flinch. "Then I will make sure they know what happens to men who mistake my strength for a flaw."

You exhaled a shaky laugh. He was a fool. "And if I’m the one who brings your ruin ?"

His hand moved, gently resting against the side of your face now, his thumb brushing your cheek like a prayer.

"Then let my ruin be as beautiful as you."

You stared at him. And in the sunlight, with the scent of citrus and iron and some distant bloom wafting in from the garden, you felt something inside you shift. A tether pulling taut. A moment both fragile and unbreakable.

He leaned in, just slightly—just enough to give you the choice. However, before either of you could speak again—before the breath between you could become a kiss—a sound echoed from down the corridor.

Footsteps. Formal, urgent.

Geta pulled back slightly, straightening as a young messenger appeared at the end of the hall, red-faced from running but trying to look composed.

"Emperor," the boy said breathlessly, bowing. "A letter. Sealed in gold. From Egypt."

Geta’s brows rose slightly, the spell broken for now. He took the scroll the boy offered, breaking the lotus seal with a quiet snap. His eyes scanned the parchment, and for a moment, a flicker of surprise—then interest—crossed his face.

"Well," he mumbled, mostly to himself. "It seems Egypt hasn’t forgotten its manners."

You tilted your head, watching him. "Good news ?"

He passed the letter into your hands, letting you read for yourself. The script was elegant, curved like river reeds, and the words clear:

To His Imperial Majesty,

From the hand of Pharaoh Ahkmenrah, ruler of the Black Land, son of the sun god Ra, guardian of the Nile—

I write to inform you of my forthcoming arrival in Rome. The purpose: to renew our sacred bonds of trade, alliance, and peace.

I bring gifts, scribes, and peace offerings, as is customary.

Expect my arrival within twelve days’ time. May the gods of your house and mine bless our accord.

—Ahkmenrah

You looked up at Geta, who was already walking away slowly, thoughtful.

"A Pharaoh," you said quietly. "Coming here ?"

He nodded. "Yes. A young one, but brilliant—or so the rumors say. Scholar. Warrior. Beloved by his people."

You handed the scroll back. "Trustworthy ?"

Geta tucked the letter under his arm. "Perhaps," he replied. "But I respect him."

He glanced toward you.

"And I will want you nearby when we meet."

"Me ?" you blinked—surprised.

"I trust your instincts more than half the men in that chamber," he assured you. Then, his voice dipped again, more personal. "And I would rather have someone beside me who sees more than just what is being said."

You gave a slow nod in response.

"Yes, my Emperor."

…

Whispers filled the palace halls, gathering in corners and clinging to columns like ivy. Servants hurried with polished urns and new linens, golden banners were unfurled from balconies, and senators whispered behind closed doors, their voices rising like the tide. The city itself seemed to hold its breath. Rome had seen emperors rise and fall, but rarely did it play host to a Pharaoh.

You had watched Geta closely in those days. Though his movements remained calm, his mind was always elsewhere—calculating, watching the stars, consulting old scrolls, walking alone through the gardens at night as if trying to hear omens on the breeze.

He spoke with you less in public now, though not coldly. When he passed, his fingers sometimes brushed yours in quiet moments. In private, he still allowed his thoughts to unfold with you like parchment, unguarded and honest. But there was something gathering in his eyes—a shadow of caution. Or fear. You couldn’t tell which.

Then, on the twelfth morning, the trumpets sounded.

You were already dressed in your robe when a servant came rushing into your quarters. "He’s here. The Egyptian. The Pharaoh."

You stepped out into the sun just as the procession began to wind through the palace gates.

It was a vision from another world.

Servants draped in indigo silk. Dancers in gold. Musicians with reed flutes and silver bells. But at the center of it all, under a palanquin of carved obsidian and lapis, was the Pharaoh himself.

Ahkmenrah.

He stepped down with grace sharpened by centuries of breeding—youthful, yes, but with a gaze that seemed to cut through time. His skin was bronzed by desert sun, his dark hair covered by a majestic Egyptian crown, and around his neck hung a broad collar of turquoise and ruby. He looked at the palace with the easy confidence of someone used to being worshipped.

But it wasn’t the grandeur that held your attention.

It was the moment his eyes met Geta’s.

Two rulers—young, powerful, and so very alone in their crowns—measuring each other like chessmasters across a polished board.

And then Ahkmenrah’s gaze flickered—to you.

He smiled.

Not mockingly. Not arrogantly.

Curious.

As though he already knew you were more than just another ornament in silk. You smiled back and nodded in acknowledgment.

"Welcome, Pharaoh Ahkmenrah." Emperor Geta finally said and Ahkmenrah smiled back at the Emperor.

"It is an honour to be here, Emperor Geta." He then raised his hand to his forehead and extended it towards him in a thankful gesture.

Emperor Geta smiled and returned it before you all stepped inside.

…

A few hours later

Emperor Geta stood tall at the entrance of the grand hall, his gaze steady as the grand doors slowly swung open. The atmosphere shifted immediately—the regal sense of anticipation that permeated the air. Word had already spread about Pharaoh Ahkmenrah’s imminent arrival, and the entire palace seemed to hum with a kind of nervous excitement. Geta’s posture straightened just a fraction as he made his way forward to greet the visitor.

As the Pharaoh entered, the guards bowed low, their faces hidden beneath their ceremonial headgear, but Geta remained standing, his demeanor calm and composed. His eyes met the Pharaoh’s, their intensity matching the weight of the moment. Ahkmenrah was a striking figure—tall and regal, his dark eyes gleaming with both power and wisdom. He wore the traditional attire of his people, golden jewelry and linen as fine as the finest silk, his elaborate headpiece glittering beneath the torchlight.

"Ahkmenrah," Geta greeted him, his voice low yet resonant, full of authority but without arrogance. "Welcome to this feast. I hope you will enjoy it after your long journey."

Ahkmenrah’s lips curved into a small but respectful smile. "Emperor Geta," he replied, his voice smooth and melodic, like honey slipping over the edges of a sharp stone. "It is an honor to finally meet you face-to-face. And to discover your beautiful country that my late father has only ever spoken highly about."

"I am glad to hear it. Please," Geta motioned towards the long, golden dining table that had been set in preparation for the feast. "We will discuss the terms of our agreement over wine and food. I am sure we both prefer a setting more suited to this."

The grand feast hall was rich with opulence, chandeliers of crystal casting their soft glow over the gathering. Rows of tables were laid with linen, the surfaces gleaming like pearls beneath the heavy weight of silver platters and goblets. Fresh fruits, roasted meats, golden loaves of bread, and platters of intricate delicacies from all corners of the empire filled the air with their scent—a combination of rich spices, citrus, and the sweet tang of honeyed desserts.

As the two of them took their seats at the head of the table, the conversation began slowly, the senators and dignitaries sitting at various points along the grand table. A parade of attendants brought forth wine, which flowed in abundance, red and golden, filling crystal chalices that sparkled like jewels in the candlelight.

"May this evening be one of many prosperous agreements between our peoples," Emperor Geta toasted, his voice ringing clearly. The room was silent for just a moment before all present raised their glasses.

Ahkmenrah’s eyes met his once more as he took a sip of his wine. "To prosperity," he agreed, his voice silky smooth.

The feast began in earnest, the sounds of clinking glasses and plates blending with the soft conversations between the attendees. The mood was lighter now, the formality of the meeting having given way to the relaxed enjoyment of fine food and drink.

Yet through all the laughter and chatter, Geta’s mind remained sharp, focused on the task ahead. The discussions about trade routes, alliances, and shared wealth would come soon. But for now, he allowed himself a moment of respite—enjoying the presence of Pharaoh Ahkmenrah and his company. As the warmth of the wine settled over him, Geta couldn’t help but wonder how this evening would shape the future of both empires.

Meanwhile, you had decided to stay in retreat and let the two powerful men discuss. You looked at Geta and smiled. He seemed to have found a friend in the Pharaoh. You were glad for it. But then…Lucilla—the aunt of Emperor Geta and Emperor Callacala stepped up next to you and whispered:

"It seems the emperor is enjoying his time with the Pharaoh."

You immediately froze and looked back at her.

"Domina Lucilla…"

Lucilla’s eyes gleamed with a knowing glint as she regarded you, her lips curling into a slight smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. Her presence was always imposing, a mix of grace and hidden menace, a woman who had mastered the subtleties of power in ways that even the most seasoned of politicians could admire—or fear.

"The emperor seems quite…taken with his new friend the Pharaoh. They make a rather charming pair, don’t they ?"

You stiffened, uncertain whether her words were meant as casual observation or something more. Lucilla had always been a woman of intrigue, one whose every remark carried weight, even when it appeared to be nothing more than a passing comment.

"Is that why you’ve come to speak with me ?" you asked, your tone carefully neutral, though inside you couldn’t help but feel a wave of unease. Lucilla never spoke without a reason.

Her lips twitched as she regarded you for a moment, as if contemplating how much to reveal. "Perhaps," she said at last, her eyes flicking toward the two rulers, who were now deep in conversation, the laughter from the feast still echoing faintly in the background. "Or perhaps I simply wanted to remind you of something important."

"Important ?" you repeated, your brow furrowing slightly. "What do you mean ?"

She tilted her head slightly, her eyes sharp as they studied your face. "It seems you’ve grown quite…fond of the emperor, haven’t you ?" The subtle emphasis on the word fond sent a chill down your spine. "Careful, my dear. The games of the powerful are not always so simple. Especially when emotions are involved."

You swallowed hard, trying to keep your composure as she continued, her voice dropping to a near-whisper.

"Remember, you are not the only one with influence over him. And you are certainly not the only one who could find themselves… displaced, should the winds shift in unexpected directions."

You frowned. What was she plotting ?

"I have no intention of playing games tonight," you denied, your voice steady, though it was becoming harder to keep the edge of tension from creeping in.

Lucilla’s smile deepened, but there was no warmth in it, only the cold glint of someone who had seen too many fall for their ambitions, who had mastered the art of keeping her cards close to her chest.

"Of course not," she chuckled, her voice sweet but dangerous. "But perhaps you should be aware of the game that’s already been set in motion."

With that, she turned away, her long silken robes trailing behind her as she moved toward the other end of the hall, leaving you sitting there with the weight of her words pressing against your chest. You couldn’t shake the feeling that something was shifting in the shadows, something beneath the surface that was more than just the political discussions at hand. And Lucilla…she was always a reminder that in a world where power was everything, there were no guarantees.

You looked back towards Geta and Ahkmenrah, now speaking more animatedly, their voices rising above the ambient sounds of the feast. Geta appeared to be genuinely enjoying himself, a rare smile playing on his lips as he leaned closer to the Pharaoh, clearly engaged in the moment. For a fleeting second, you felt a pang of guilt. You’d always been there for him, offering your support, your presence. But could you truly offer him the safety and peace he needed ? Or were you only feeding his dependency towards you ?

Your gaze lingered on Geta for a moment longer before you slowly exhaled, trying to push the unease away. You weren’t about to let anyone—least of all Lucilla—control the narrative. Not now. Not ever. With that thought firm in your mind, you turned and began walking back towards the far corner of the hall, away from the growing tension at the feast and toward a quieter place where you could think.

But as you moved, a voice—one that belonged to someone far too familiar—stopped you in your tracks.

"Leaving so soon ?" Geta caught you as you were walking by his seat. You froze and forced a smile to your lips, smoothing your expression before turning back around. The hall was bright with laughter, torchlight flickering along golden walls, but his voice cut through it all—clear, commanding, and unmistakably warm.

Emperor Geta was still seated beside Pharaoh Ahkmenrah, but his dark eyes were fixed entirely on you. He raised his ornate cup slowly, a half-smile curling on his lips.

"Come," he said, his tone rich with something that hovered between mischief and tenderness. "Join us, Senator Y/N. My dear friend."

The room seemed to hush—if not in sound, then in spirit. Ahkmenrah turned his head to look at you too, curiosity dancing in his expression, the faint trace of a smile gracing his features. There were a hundred reasons to decline. Lucilla’s words still echoed in your ear like a warning bell.

Your lips parted in answer.

"If it pleases the emperor…" you indulged with a subtle bow of your head, "I would be honored."

Geta shifted slightly to make room beside him. He gestured toward the empty seat with a casual, fluid motion that belied the intensity of his gaze.

"You have missed the best part," he lamented as you sat. "Ahkmenrah has just described a festival in Alexandria so lavish, it made even my finest banquets sound like meals in a soldier’s tent."

Ahkmenrah laughed softly at that, his accent as smooth as a Nile breeze. "I exaggerate, perhaps," he said, looking at you now and leaning towards you conspiratorially. "But only a little."

You met his gaze and offered a small smile, your voice even. "I would like to hear more, if you’re willing."

Both men watched you as you settled into the seat between them, the scent of spices, wine, and heat wrapping around the moment like silk. You talked to both men and managed to have fun at the party by learning more about this long partnership between both nations. A few minutes later, the great bronze doors at the far end of the hall opened with a low groan, and a hush fell over the crowd as music began to rise—flutes, soft drums, the gentle chime of small bronze bells.

The dancers entered like a living painting—adorned in sheer silks of crimson and gold, their bodies glittering with oils and powdered gems. They moved with practiced elegance, each step in rhythm, each motion deliberate and fluid, like ripples across still water. Their anklets jingled faintly with every turn.

You watched them intently.

Something about their movements—so precise, so graceful, so powerful in their subtlety—held your eyes. The way their hands told stories, the way their hips swayed like a tide in time with the music, the way their eyes remained lowered but never weak…it was mesmerizing. Like watching a language you didn’t speak but somehow understood.

You were dimly aware of the world around you—of the flicker of candlelight in polished goblets, of the shifting of silk garments, the murmur of nobles pretending not to stare. You felt Geta glance at you out of the corner of his eye, but he said nothing. Neither did Pharaoh Ahkmenrah.The dancers were not simply performing. They were commanding. And for a moment, watching them, you forgot where you sat. You forgot Lucilla’s quiet threats, the whispers in the hall, the weight of the empire’s gaze. There was only movement, rhythm, and something deeper—something ancient that stirred quietly in your chest, unspoken but known.

You leaned forward slightly, unable to look away. One of the dancers met your eyes as she turned, a knowing glimmer in her gaze. Then she smiled—just a flicker—and turned away with the swirl of her veil.

You smiled, and as the music swirled around you, the grin that spread across your face was one of pure delight—unfiltered, unguarded. For a brief, wonderful moment, you forgot the weight of the palace, the expectations, the roles. The dancers, so free and fluid, brought you back to a time before all of this—the time when you were just you, a child with no titles, no shackles of rank or purpose.

Your fingers moved in slow, fluid waves alongside the beat, as if you too could slip into the dance, your body swept along in rhythm with the music. You closed your eyes for a second, losing yourself in the flow of it all. The air seemed lighter. It was like being swept back in time, to a place before you were a slave, before you became a servant, before even your rise to the Senate. The freedom—the possibility—of those days felt so close, almost within reach again.

To the world however, your dance made absolutely no sense. You had never actually learned how to dance so it was just a succession of movements with no real rhythm or grace. You were just having fun.

Pharaoh Ahkmenrah, observant and amused, noticed your movements. A small, knowing smile crept onto his face as he, too, let his fingers mimic your gestures. It was strangely liberating for him, something childlike in his gesture as he imitated you, his movements graceless and effortless.

He liked it. It made no sense, but it made him feel like a child again. It was different from the ceremonial dances he always saw in his home country or the important meetings his father usually sent him when he was yet the Pharaoh. It made him laugh.

You barely noticed, so lost in the music, the rhythm, the air of freedom.

But Geta was watching. He always watched. His gaze rested on you from across the table, observing the strange, almost whimsical sight before him. Pharaoh Ahkmenrah, mimicking your dance, was an oddity—yet, it wasn’t one he judged. Instead, it was a fleeting moment of lightness in the otherwise serious, political affairs of the night. Geta’s lips quirked into a restrained smile, his fingers tapping lightly on his cup. For now, he said nothing. He would leave you this moment—this rare, unguarded piece of you, without interruption. In a place like this, with the weight of history hanging over you all, such moments were rare.

Once the dance over, you didn’t wait to clap enthusiastically at the wonderful performance. However, you blinked, the sound of your clapping echoing faintly in the stillness of the room. Your hands paused mid-applause when you noticed the silence that had fallen over the chamber. The dancers, now still, stood waiting, their expressions poised but uncertain. The music had ended, but the air was thick with expectation.

You glanced around the room, confused, only to realize that all eyes were on one person—Emperor Geta. The senators, the nobles, the servants…even Pharaoh Ahkmenrah, who had seemed so carefree a moment ago, were now staring at him, waiting for some kind of acknowledgment or reaction. You felt a wave of self-consciousness wash over you as you understood the subtle but powerful silence.

Oh…

It suddenly came to you. In this world, with its rigid protocols and long-established customs, reactions weren’t just reactions—they were signals, they were statements. The emperor’s approval, or lack thereof, would control the reaction of all the people in the room. The rest of the room was waiting for him. Waiting for Geta to decide if the performance was worthy of praise, or if it had simply passed without comment.

You swallowed your embarrassment, your hand falling slowly to your lap as you realized the rules of the game. Of course, you thought, I was supposed to wait for him first.

You tried to act natural, even though your cheeks warmed with the weight of the moment. The emperor remained silent, his eyes flickering briefly over to you before his gaze turned back to the dancers. A slight movement of his lips—the faintest of smiles, though it was quickly replaced with a more neutral expression.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Geta gave a subtle nod of approval, his voice cutting through the stillness.

"Well done," he praised and started clapping.

The silence lifted immediately. The dancers straightened, their faces softening with relief as they turned towards him, their graceful expressions now mixed with gratitude. The others around the table, sensing the shift, began to clap in unison, their hands resounding throughout the hall.

You joined in, a bit late but eager, though still aware of the ripple you had caused. You could feel the gaze of the room on you again, some with curiosity, some with veiled amusement at your apparent lack of awareness. You could almost feel Lucilla judging you from across the room. Emperor Geta didn’t acknowledge you further, but his quiet glance in your direction lingered just a second longer than the others—perhaps just enough to reassure you that, in this moment, you hadn’t made any lasting missteps.

You rose quietly, careful not to draw attention as you slipped your fingers away from the edge of the table. The music and chatter buzzed around you like a warm haze, but your body was growing heavy, thoughts turning sluggish. You needed a moment. Just a moment. A place to rest your eyes. Somewhere away from the gold and silk and gazes that never quite stopped watching.

You had barely taken two steps when a hand caught yours—warm and firm, fingers wrapping around your wrist with surprising strength. You blinked and turned. Emperor Geta, seated still, though clearly a little drunk, was staring up at you. His expression was relaxed, but something about his eyes glinted with playful stubbornness.

"Where do you think you’re going ?" he asked, his voice thick with wine and low amusement.

Before you could answer, he pulled you back with one sharp tug.

You stumbled, breath catching, and fell with a startled noise—straight into his lap. One of his arms instinctively came around your waist to steady you, the other still holding your hand, the scent of wine and citrus filling your senses.

You blinked at him in shock, face inches from his, heart pounding.

"Stay," he murmured with a smile that was more boy than emperor. "You are warm. And I have missed your private company all day."

You looked down and whispered—bashful and uncertain as you felt all eyes on you again.

"Emperor Geta…You are drunk and a lot of eyes are on us. Would you please release me ?"

He leaned his forehead gently against yours, just for a breath, his voice quiet enough that only you could hear.

"I may be drunk, but I am not blind," he murmured, his words slurring only slightly. "Let them watch."

But then, as if realizing something—perhaps the way your body remained tense in his arms, or the way your voice had trembled—he exhaled and slowly loosened his grip. A pause. And then, very softly:

"…Forgive me."

His hand lingered for just a moment longer before falling away completely, allowing you to rise if you chose. His gaze dropped to the floor, shoulders subtly drawing in, as though bracing for a distance he had not intended to create. You would talk, but not here—not in front of all those inquisitive eyes…You stood up and quickly stepped out of the banquet hall.

The moment the grand doors closed behind you, the music and laughter from the banquet hall dulled into a muffled hum. You stood still for a moment in the corridor, your heart racing, unsure whether from embarrassment or something else entirely.

The stone beneath your feet was cool, and the corridor ahead—lined with flickering torches—felt impossibly vast. You pulled your robe closer around you and began walking, not quite sure where you were going. Only that you needed to breathe. To think. The further you got from the hall, the quieter everything became. Until it was just you and the echo of your own footsteps.

You weren’t sure how long you walked before you reached one of the small side courtyards. The moon had risen fully now, bathing the marble and ivy in silver light. You sat on the edge of the fountain, dipping your fingers into the cold water, watching the ripples dance.

Behind you, somewhere deep in the palace, music played on. But here, at least, you were alone with the night. And your thoughts.

But then…you heard it. A soft rustle behind you���too deliberate to be the wind. You turned, instincts flaring—just in time to see the glint of a dagger raised high above you.

Your eyes widened and instinct took over.

The blade came down fast, slicing through the air with a whisper. You barely managed to lift your arm in time. Pain burst through your senses as the dagger plunged into your forearm. You screamed—a sharp, raw sound that tore through the stillness of the courtyard.

Adrenaline surged. You staggered back, clutching your bleeding arm, your vision swimming with shock. The attacker moved to strike again, but you turned and bolted—your sandals slipping against the stone as you ran, blood trailing behind you. The halls stretched long and silent ahead, but the music from the banquet hall was growing louder now—closer. You had to get back. You had to reach them—to reach HIM.

You could only pray someone would see you before the shadow behind you caught up.

Just as you reached the tall doors of the banquet hall, you felt it—another sting of sharp, searing pain. The dagger had grazed your shoulder, slicing through fabric and skin as you stumbled forward. You burst into the hall in a blur of movement and blood, the laughter and music crashing into your senses as the heavy doors slammed behind you.

For a moment, the room froze. Goblets paused mid-air. Dancers halted. Conversation died.

You stood in the center, breathing hard, one arm bleeding freely, the other clutching your shoulder. Your hair was askew, eyes wild from the chase. You opened your mouth to speak but the words caught in your throat.

And then—

"Y/N !" Geta’s voice rang out, sharp and panicked, scraping the calm from the room. He stood so quickly his chair fell behind him with a loud crack. His face drained of color as he rushed toward you, pushing past guests, knocking over a startled noble.

Blood was running down your arm now, staining the marble like spilled wine.

Pharaoh Ahkmenrah rose from his seat behind him, his expression grave also. You nearly collapsed but pushed forward, grabbing Geta’s robes for balance.

"Someone tried to kill me—" you breathed out, "a man…a dagger…"

His expression shattered. Blood drained from his face, replaced with a rage so sharp it could’ve split marble.

"Guards !" he bellowed, pointing. "Seal the palace. Find him. I want him alive—I want to look him in the eye before I crush his throat !"

The soldiers scattered, his command slicing the air like a blade.

Geta turned back to you, gripping your unharmed shoulder, frantic now. "Where are you hurt ? Gods, you’re bleeding so much—"

He was panicking as his hands were now wet with your blood and he looked up at the door as he screamed at the remaining guards still standing before him.

"DO NOT JUST STAND THERE ! GO SEARCH FOR A HEALER ! NOW !"

You winced as the pain in your arm was almost unbearable, but you forced yourself to focus on his words, on the urgency in his voice.

"I’m fine," you murmured, though the words felt hollow, as if they were meant to reassure him more than yourself. "Just…my arm—"

Pharaoh Ahkmenrah’s gaze flickered over you, then back to Geta, assessing the situation with a sharpness that only a ruler could have.

"She will be okay, Geta," he said, his voice low but firm. "I will have my very own healer sent to help her and lend you my soldiers for the night. The assassin will not escape."

He then lifted his arm and his own soldiers went out to pursue the attacker. The sound of hurried footsteps filled the hall as guards from both sides began to search. You shook your head weakly, glancing up at Geta, whose hands hovered over you as if afraid to touch you again. His expression was torn between fury and fear, the same emotions swirling in his eyes as he looked between you and the door where the assassin had disappeared.

But before he could say another word, the sound of hurried footsteps approached, the Pharaoh’s healer arrived, a tall, serene figure with hands that seemed to glide over the wound with an almost unnatural gentleness.

The Egyptian healer gave you a brief, reassuring glance before focusing on your arm, his movements practiced and quick. You were carefully lifted onto a sort of stretcher and carried towards your room, Geta close behind, his face pale, eyes never leaving you.

The hallways blurred in your vision, the pain beginning to intensify as the adrenaline wore off. But through it all, you felt a strange sense of calmness settle over you. Perhaps it was the quiet strength of Geta’s presence, or the steady hands of the Pharaoh’s healer, but despite the sharp sting in your arm, you knew you were not alone.

As they entered your room, the soft golden light from the oil lamps flickered, casting shadows on the stone walls. The Pharaoh’s healer worked with skill and precision, cleaning the wound and applying a poultice that seemed to ease the sharp pain almost immediately. But Geta’s restless pacing never ceased, his eyes flickering between the healer and you. The air was thick with his unspoken thoughts.

"How long until she is fully healed ?" Geta finally asked once he was sure you were out of danger.

The healer didn’t look up from his work as he finished wrapping your arm with bandages. "It will take time, Your Excellency. The wound is deep, but nothing too severe. She will need rest."

You swallowed hard, trying to sit up, but the dull throb in your arm reminded you that you weren’t yet ready.

"I’m fine," you insisted.

Geta didn’t respond, but you saw the subtle tension in his shoulders, the way his hands clenched at his sides. His gaze was a storm now—fury, fear, and something else you couldn’t quite place, all tangled up inside him.

"You were almost killed," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "I…I can’t—" He broke off, stepping closer, his fingers hovering over the bed as if afraid to touch you again.

You met his eyes, trying to offer him a reassuring smile despite the exhaustion pulling at your body. "I’m still here, Your Highness," you replied softly, your voice steadier than you felt as you tried to reassure him. For a moment, he didn’t move, his gaze locked on yours. Then, with a heavy sigh, he sank into the chair beside the bed, running a hand through his hair in frustration.

"We’ll find the one who did this," he vowed, his tone fierce. "And when we do, when I do…"

He didn’t need to tell you what he was going to do with him—you knew it would be horrifying and bloody. You simply nodded, closing your eyes for a moment, letting the silence settle between you before sleep finally took over you.

…

A few hours later, a servant came and whispered in Emperor Geta’s ear:

"Your Highness. We found the culprit."