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spitefully-existing · 28 days ago

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the sleep token book is a bit hard to read, i rewrote it the best i could below the cut; hopefully this helps!

thank you to @top-quality-garbage for helping me decipher some of this and to @doiha for the spanish translation! 🫶🫶

⚠️⚠️SPOILERS AHEAD⚠️⚠️

15 days since emergence of the Lunar Anomaly

When I was a child, I was frequently beset by certain reoccurring dreams. this is one such dream that I remembered more than most – one in which I found myself standing on a vast shoreline, gazing out at a flat, wide sea. Slowly, as I watched the horizon gradually begin to lift. Before long I was able to observe that this lifting expanse was approaching me – a wall of smooth, black water that curls into an impossible lip at its peak. rather surprisingly, I do not recall being afraid of such an ominous sight. Well, to be more precise, I was afraid – I was terrified, but not of the wave itself. Instead, it was the thought of what was beyond it. This vast, unstoppable force sweeping forth to herald the end of everything, to drown the world and then eventually sink back into itself. A careless shrug of entropy enough to sever the thread of all fates. I felt that were I to somehow survive this limitless tide then I would be left in the world that would not recognize me. I would become an element unto myself and myself alone.

An echo stuck in the throat of a dead god.

yet here I am. It has been over two weeks since the emergence of the lunar anomaly. our team spent nearly 2 years attempting to anticipate what this event would mean for humanity – analyzing endless reams of lunar topography along with every known form of spectroscopy, all amounting to one hopeless conclusion: to burrow into the bowels of the earth and simply wait that whatever emerge from within would reach us these last.

as it would turn out this one final act of humble surrenders is what one the last of us the right to our own lives in these final days. Those of us alive now are not those who sought to barter with destiny and defiantly cling to a civilized existence of the surface – or even any existence at all.

it would seem that in the week of this phenomenon, we are best served by our most base instincts, whose shame found no place to dwell. The ones who survived are those who spat their hubris and hid desperately down in the mud like rats.

I want it to be known that we made every effort to warn the others, though naturally we could not provide much of a basis upon which to suggest that our entire species with facing imminent and utter demise besides a few fissures of the southern lunar pole. with that said we begun building this underground facility once we realized that the moon’s orbit was rapidly decaying in a way that was inconsistent with any known physical model – I found it hard to believe that none of them followed our lead perhaps some of them did either way we have no way of knowing now.

my expectations for the first surface expedition were bleak at best in all honesty. I was shocked to discover that our initial readings showed that these remained a breathable atmosphere. Perhaps in all this turmoil, I found it easier to commit my mind to the worst possible outcome at every turn.

The limited data we gathered before the event – despite two years of efforts – didn’t prepare us for the havoc we now face. To say that we find ourselves at a loss to explain, the phenomenon would be a gracious understatement. The catechism that occurred two weeks ago had taught us one unshakable rule about this new world we now hid beneath – to gaze upon the moon is to die.

For this reason, we rapidly developed wearable counter measures for the surface teams that would prove vital in allowing them to navigate the surface. If only we could have known that this was far from the only threat that awaited them. To say that we find ourselves at a loss to explain the phenomena would be a gracious understatement.

it is not only human life that is affected by the lunar anomaly, but that of all life, albeit in vastly different ways. To put it simply – this new type of emergent biology is beyond the boundaries of what we are able to study and understand.

I find myself already laden with guilt over those we lost. More than that however, I feel most guilty about the way I reacted to learning of the remnant human elements that attacked our team. I felt strangely comforted, despite the deeply disturbing nature of that discovery.

Upon further introspection, I arrived at the conclusion that this feeling came from a sense of familiarity. Human beings fighting other human beings is a horror that has played us all since time immemorial, but here in the wake of such deeply unfamiliar and unpredictable occurrences, it is hard not to feel almost comforted by such an immediately recognizable problem.

with that said, I do also find myself deeply troubled by the prospect of humans remaining on the surface in that state. The consensus among my colleagues is that their actions were not born of their own will, though there is every chance that this is a conclusion we are clinging to in preference over the more unsettling alternative.

I feel that I am rapidly squandering the precious remnants of human life in the desire to understand what has happened, though in truth, I know not what else to do. Perhaps this is the only way we can cling to our humanity – by continuing our constant battle with the sheer unknown right to the very end.

The Director

28 days since Lunar Anomaly

already I find myself in the surprising position of yearning for the way things were two weeks ago. Two weeks ago, I was contending with the end of the world. Now, I contend with the reality of what has replaced it.

we took the trouble to equip ourselves as thoroughly as possible, with the means of studying any emergent phenomena on the surface, even whilst and tomb beneath the Earth. We now find ourselves consumed by the pursuit of understanding – it is truly all that we have left. However, the samples we’ve acquired offer no such mercy – their nature and origin is fundamentally foreign to us. Something we can say is that, contrary to the initial assumption that most life on the surface had been wiped out, there is in fact in abundance of some kind of new organic material. It can be found everywhere in some form, including in the atmosphere itself. Its cellular structure is completely unique – where one would expect to see some approximation of a typical eukaryotic cell, what we see instead resembles membranous tubules that contain vast quantities of foreign organelles. These organelles seem to function in an oddly synchronous fashion and are able to perform a variety of functions. Primarily, they are able to ‘grow’ the tubules that contain them by undergoing a form of transformation at either end which renders them as part of the tubule wall. secondly, and far more strangely, they are able to exert some kind of force over the tubule as a whole, contorting it in a way not dissimilar to muscle tissue, (but without any apparent nervous impulse.)

as to the origin of this tissue, our initial assumption was that it had been somehow transferred from the moon itself to earth – perhaps via pieces of lunar material falling through the atmosphere. This makes some sense, however, the sheer proliferation of this material across the surface within a relatively short period of time suggest that there is more to it than that.

I am reluctant to comment on the reports of other worldly beings on the surface. Their presence carries implications I am simply unprepared for. At a certain point, however, I must accept that this only increases the inevitable danger placed upon the surface teams during their expeditions. What I must also accept is that these precious human lives are now the only currency with which we can barter against the unknown.

Thus far we barter in vain.

The Director

58 days since the lunar anomaly

when we first retreated down into the ground, I think that somewhere in the midst of my despair, I clung to a degree of hope. This wasn’t so much a hope for survival as much as the hope that we would at least be able to discern some kind of meaningful understanding of what has happened. we have committed everything – I have committed everything. The last precious remnant of humanity extinguished in the name of what makes us human to begin with. To shed what light we have left on the sea of the unknown. But now I see that this was a futile effort that has resulted in nothing but death, not merely in the context of our final struggle, but across the scope of all human existence. It has all amounted to nothing but a few extra skulls drifting in the foul ether that has swamped our world.

It is clear now that the lunar anomaly functions in accordance with laws of its own. It makes a mockery of science. It permeates and distort reality to the degree that all fundamental assumptions are rendered useless. it kills everything it touches while simultaneously imbuing it with some kind of new life, twisting nature into something grotesque and unrecognizable. These new forms seem organic, but they have nothing resembling a typical cell structure or genetic blueprint. They can bring forth in an instant, summoning flesh from nothing. Furthermore, our ability to measure even the most fundamental aspects of our physical world is becoming impossible. The massive objects change slightly, depending on where they are, as though gravity itself, has begun to lose its grip. We have detected seismic activity from further inside the Earth than we even thought possible. The anomaly doesn’t just want to consume all life. It wants to consume reality.

as for those beings, I know not what they are were where they originated. They themselves are not consistent with the nature of the anomaly they inhabit. Their actions seem to exhibit some strange sentence, but their motives are unclear, and they make no effort to communicate. At times I have concluded that they are here to replace us, or perhaps, even that they themselves represent some fractured distillation of our nature. they are after all violent, just as we have been to the very end. They seem to push against one another as a part of some strange order. As time has passed, though, I have come to believe that they have no connection to us. I believe that what our world has become is a little more than an arena to them – a crucible of existence where they will battle eternally. The totality of their being is not their individual functions, but rather the conflict between them. We are merely spectators to their endless dance of ceaseless struggle. this is perhaps the only thing that connects them to the drowned memory of what humanity once was – that we too saw meaning through constant friction and unending movement, compelled by some core motive force that drives us to bring ourselves to bear on the world and manifest our own perceptions.

in these final dimming days, I know only the solace of a promised end. I have become the ultimate witness. I have been saddled with the heavy blessing of seeing the unraveling of everything and I can do nothing but wait for it to unravel me too. But I live still within this temple of untampered flesh, and I will spend what blood still beats through it to barter one last time with the fangled threads of fate. if I must, I will march through the eye of death and meet it with eyes of my own.

What few of us are left now have our orders.

We must know what it is to become of us.

The Director

61 days since the lunar anomaly

I once spoke but now it seems through me just as I speak through it no longer to nothing I can change nothing no can change nothing nothing has become my thing I can make nothing into a weapon there will be no void left unfilled I am human and humans are always human and always scared because being human makes us scared and being scared makes us human I will crack the flesh I will crack the earth I will eat the pieces they will be pieces of me would you like to dance I have always been dancing we must keep dancing even when we are just tendrils we were always tendrils we could touch everything even things god did not want us to touch that is why he left us here that is why he thought we were ugly he could not wrap his tendrils around every part of us we spilled his paradise over the earth and danced with such a beautiful dance horror would leap and dance with us who would bathe us and we could lie within it we could tear the horror out from our hearts over and over we could never sleep sleep is death not even the earth would sleep the earth fears death it’s blood would freeze out in space out in nothing we must reach through the stars through the darkness even though it is so cold it can freeze our blood we can let our blood freeze and then crack it open hot like the earth we can step through death wear it like a crown hairs to the highest pantheon of life precious life with death as its blood precious death bursting from the many wombs of sacred war paradise was empty without us there was only silence but our blood made the flowers grow god spilled his blood over paradise god knows the stars are waiting fertile ground cold to the touch those stars are hungry they crave only the blood of god we are his tendrils and we will bury ourselves into those cold stars and there will be no darkness death will give us fear and fear will give us blood we will spill our hot blood across the stars I finally understand now I do I understand but will you let me keep my human fear will you let me yes being scared makes you human fear will sow the hot blood of god across the gold stars fear will make us dance and we must keep dancing can you see god dancing for you can you see him biting into you can you hear his teeth cracking into pieces of the stars they sent sparks raining down through the darkness all these years you have hunted him and reached for him you want his blood he made you with veins inside you like tendrils we dance through his veins as we bite through the stars and dance and he opens his mouth wide I am so scared Will you let me be the last human I understand now I am the teeth of god I am the teeth of god I am the teeth of god I am the teeth of god I am the teeth of god I am the teeth of god I am the teeth of god

——————

15 días desde la aparición de la Anomalía Lunar

Cuando era niño, a menudo era acosado por ciertos sueños recurrentes. Este es uno de esos sueños que recuerdo más que la mayoría: uno en el que me encontraba de pie en una vasta orilla, mirando hacia un mar plano y amplio. Poco a poco, mientras observaba, el horizonte comenzó a elevarse gradualmente. No pasó mucho tiempo antes de que me diera cuenta de que esta extensión elevada se acercaba hacia mí: una pared de agua negra y suave que se curvaba de manera imposible en su borde. Sorprendentemente, no recuerdo haber sentido miedo ante tal ominosa visión. Bueno, para ser más preciso, sentía miedo, estaba aterrorizado, pero no de la ola en sí. Más bien, era el pensamiento de lo que había más allá de ella. Esta vasta e imparable fuerza que se desplazaba para anunciar el fin de todo, para ahogar el mundo y luego, eventualmente, sumergirse nuevamente en sí misma. Un encogimiento despreocupado de la entropía, suficiente para cortar el hilo de todos los destinos. Sentí que, si de alguna manera lograba sobrevivir a esta marea ilimitada, entonces me quedaría en un mundo que no me reconocería. Me convertiría en un elemento para mí mismo y solo para mí.

Un eco atrapado en la garganta de un dios muerto.

Y aquí estoy. Han pasado más de dos semanas desde la aparición de la anomalía lunar. Nuestro equipo pasó casi dos años intentando anticipar lo que este evento significaría para la humanidad: analizando interminables volúmenes de topografía lunar junto con todas las formas conocidas de espectroscopía, lo cual resultó en una conclusión desesperanzada: cavar en las entrañas de la Tierra y simplemente esperar a que lo que emergiera desde dentro nos alcanzara, siendo lo último en tocarnos.

Como resultó ser, este acto de humilde rendición fue lo que otorgó a los últimos de nosotros el derecho a nuestras propias vidas en estos días definitivos. Los que estamos vivos ahora no somos los que intentamos negociar con el destino ni aferrarnos desafiante a una existencia civilizada en la superficie, ni siquiera a cualquier existencia en absoluto.

Parece que, en la semana de este fenómeno, actuamos mejor con nuestros instintos más básicos, cuyos remordimientos no encontraron lugar donde residir. Los que sobrevivieron son aquellos que escupieron su arrogancia y se escondieron desesperadamente en el barro, como ratas.

Quiero que se sepa que hicimos todo lo posible por advertir a los demás, aunque, naturalmente, no pudimos proporcionar una base sólida para sugerir que nuestra especie entera enfrentaría una inminente y total desaparición, aparte de unas pocas fisuras en el polo lunar sur. Dicho esto, comenzamos a construir esta instalación subterránea una vez que nos dimos cuenta de que la órbita de la luna se estaba deteriorando rápidamente de una manera que era inconsistente con cualquier modelo físico conocido. Me resultó difícil creer que ninguno de ellos siguiera nuestro ejemplo; tal vez algunos lo hicieron, pero de todas formas ya no podemos saberlo.

Mis expectativas para la primera expedición en la superficie eran sombrías, en el mejor de los casos. Me sorprendió descubrir que nuestras lecturas iniciales mostraron que aún quedaba una atmósfera respirable. Quizás, en medio de todo este tumulto, encontré más fácil comprometer mi mente al peor desenlace en cada giro.

Los datos limitados que recopilamos antes del evento, a pesar de dos años de esfuerzos, no nos prepararon para el caos que ahora enfrentamos. Decir que nos encontramos perdidos para explicar el fenómeno sería un subestimado amable. El catecismo que ocurrió hace dos semanas nos enseñó una regla inquebrantable sobre este nuevo mundo que ahora nos oculta bajo tierra: mirar a la luna es morir.

Por esta razón, desarrollamos rápidamente contramedidas portátiles para los equipos de superficie que resultaron vitales para permitirles navegar por allí. Si tan solo hubiéramos sabido que esto estaba lejos de ser la única amenaza que les esperaba. Decir que nos encontramos perdidos para explicar los fenómenos sería un subestimado amable.

No es solo la vida humana la que se ve afectada por la anomalía lunar, sino también la de toda forma de vida, aunque de maneras enormemente diferentes. Para decirlo de manera simple: este nuevo tipo de biología emergente está más allá de los límites de lo que podemos estudiar y comprender.

Ya me encuentro cargado de culpa por aquellos que perdimos. Sin embargo, más que eso, me siento más culpable por la forma en que reaccioné al enterarme de los elementos humanos remanentes que atacaron a nuestro equipo. Me sentí extrañamente reconfortado, a pesar de la naturaleza profundamente perturbadora de ese descubrimiento.

Tras más introspección, llegué a la conclusión de que este sentimiento provenía de un sentido de familiaridad. Los seres humanos luchando contra otros seres humanos es un horror que nos ha atormentado desde tiempos inmemoriales, pero aquí, en medio de sucesos tan profundamente desconocidos e impredecibles, es difícil no sentirse casi reconfortado por un problema tan inmediatamente reconocible.

Dicho esto, también me siento profundamente preocupado por la perspectiva de que los humanos permanezcan en la superficie en ese estado. El consenso entre mis colegas es que sus acciones no nacieron de su propia voluntad, aunque existe toda la posibilidad de que esta sea una conclusión a la que nos aferramos en lugar de aceptar la inquietante alternativa.

Siento que estoy desperdiciando rápidamente los preciosos restos de la vida humana en el deseo de entender lo que ha sucedido, aunque en verdad, no sé qué más hacer. Tal vez esta es la única forma en que podemos aferrarnos a nuestra humanidad: continuar nuestra constante batalla con lo absolutamente desconocido hasta el final.

-El Director

28 días desde la Anomalía Lunar

Ya me encuentro en la sorprendente posición de anhelar la forma en que eran las cosas hace dos semanas. Hace dos semanas, luchaba contra el fin del mundo. Ahora, lucho contra la realidad de lo que lo ha reemplazado.

Nos tomamos la molestia de equiparnos de la manera más completa posible, con los medios para estudiar cualquier fenómeno emergente en la superficie, incluso mientras nos enterrábamos en el suelo. Ahora nos encontramos consumidos por la búsqueda de comprensión; realmente es todo lo que nos queda. Sin embargo, las muestras que hemos adquirido no muestran tal misericordia: su naturaleza y origen nos son completamente ajenos. Algo que podemos afirmar es que, contrariamente a la suposición inicial de que la mayoría de la vida en la superficie había sido aniquilada, en realidad hay una abundancia de algún tipo de material orgánico nuevo. Se puede encontrar en todas partes, en alguna forma, incluso en la propia atmósfera. Su estructura celular es completamente única: donde se esperaría ver una célula eucariota típica, lo que vemos en su lugar son tubos membranosos que contienen vastas cantidades de orgánulos ajenos. Estos orgánulos parecen funcionar de una manera extrañamente sincronizada y son capaces de realizar una variedad de funciones. Principalmente, pueden "hacer crecer" los tubos que los contienen al someterse a una forma de transformación en cualquiera de sus extremos, lo que los convierte en parte de la pared del tubo. En segundo lugar, y mucho más extraño, pueden ejercer algún tipo de fuerza sobre el tubo en su totalidad, retorciéndolo de una manera no muy diferente a como lo haría el tejido muscular (pero sin ningún impulso nervioso aparente).

En cuanto al origen de este tejido, nuestra suposición inicial fue que había sido transferido de alguna manera desde la luna a la Tierra, tal vez a través de piezas de material lunar cayendo a través de la atmósfera. Esto tiene algo de sentido; sin embargo, la proliferación masiva de este material en la superficie en un período de tiempo relativamente corto sugiere que hay algo más detrás de todo esto.

Soy reacio a comentar sobre los informes de seres de otro mundo en la superficie. Su presencia conlleva implicaciones para las que simplemente no estoy preparado. Sin embargo, en algún momento, debo aceptar que esto solo aumenta el peligro inevitable al que están expuestos los equipos en sus expediciones. Lo que también debo aceptar es que estas preciosas vidas humanas ahora son la única moneda con la que podemos negociar contra lo desconocido.

Hasta ahora, hemos negociado en vano.

-El Director

58 días desde la Anomalía Lunar

Cuando nos retiramos bajo tierra, creo que, en medio de mi desesperación, me aferré a un grado de esperanza. No era tanto una esperanza de supervivencia, sino la esperanza de que, al menos, seríamos capaces de discernir algún tipo de comprensión significativa de lo que ha ocurrido. Hemos comprometido todo, he comprometido todo. El último y precioso vestigio de la humanidad se extinguió en nombre de lo que nos hace humanos en primer lugar, para arrojar la luz que nos queda sobre el mar de lo desconocido. Pero ahora veo que este fue un esfuerzo fútil que no ha resultado en nada más que muerte, no solo en el contexto de nuestra lucha final, sino a lo largo de toda la existencia humana. Todo ha sido en vano, salvo por unos pocos cráneos flotando en el éter pútrido que ha inundado nuestro mundo.

Está claro ahora que la anomalía lunar funciona de acuerdo con sus propias leyes. Se burla de la ciencia. Permea y distorsiona la realidad de tal manera que todas las suposiciones fundamentales quedan inutilizadas. Mata todo lo que toca, mientras imbuye con algún tipo de nueva vida, torciendo la naturaleza en algo grotesco e irreconocible. Estas nuevas formas parecen orgánicas, pero no tienen nada que se asemeje a una estructura celular típica ni a un plano genético. Pueden materializarse en un instante, invocando carne de la nada. Además, nuestra capacidad para medir incluso los aspectos más fundamentales de nuestro mundo físico se está volviendo imposible. Los objetos masivos cambian ligeramente, dependiendo de dónde se encuentren, como si la gravedad misma hubiera comenzado a perder su agarre. Hemos detectado actividad sísmica desde más adentro de la Tierra de lo que pensábamos posible. La anomalía no solo quiere consumir toda la vida, sino que también quiere consumir la realidad.

En cuanto a esos seres, no sé qué son ni de dónde provienen. Ellos mismos no son consistentes con la naturaleza de la anomalía que habitan. Sus acciones parecen exhibir alguna extraña condena, pero sus motivos no están claros y no hacen ningún esfuerzo por comunicarse. En ocasiones he llegado a la conclusión de que están aquí para reemplazarnos, o tal vez, incluso que ellos mismos representan una destilación fragmentada de nuestra naturaleza. Son, después de todo, violentos, al igual que nosotros hasta el final. Parecen empujarse unos a otros como parte de algún extraño orden. Sin embargo, con el tiempo he llegado a creer que no tienen ninguna conexión con nosotros.

Creo que lo que se ha convertido nuestro mundo es poco más que una arena para ellos, un crisol de existencia donde lucharán eternamente. La totalidad de su ser no está en sus funciones individuales, sino en el conflicto entre ellos. Nosotros somos meros espectadores de su interminable danza de lucha constante. Tal vez esta sea la única conexión que tienen con el ahogado recuerdo de lo que fue la humanidad: que nosotros también encontramos significado a través de la fricción constante y el movimiento interminable, impulsados por alguna fuerza motriz interna que nos lleva a manifestar nuestras percepciones en el mundo.

En estos últimos días que se desvanecen, solo conozco el consuelo de un final prometido. Me he convertido en el testigo definitivo. He sido cargado con la pesada bendición de ver el desenlace de todo y no puedo hacer nada más que esperar a que también me deshaga. Pero sigo viviendo dentro de este templo de carne intacta, y gastaré la sangre que aún late a través de ella para negociar una última vez con los hilos enredados del destino. Si debo hacerlo, marcharé a través del ojo de la muerte y lo enfrentaré con los míos.

Los pocos de nosotros que quedamos ahora tenemos nuestras órdenes.

Debemos saber qué será de nosotros.

-El Director

61 días desde la Anomalía Lunar

Una vez hablé pero ahora parece que no puedo hablar ya no hay nada que pueda cambiar nada puede cambiar la nada se ha convertido en mí no puedo convertir nada en arma no quedará vacío sin llenar soy humano y los humanos siempre tienen miedo porque ser humanos nos hace tener miedo y tener miedo nos hace humanos romperé la carne romperé la tierra comeré los pedazos serán parte de mí ¿te gustaría bailar? siempre he estado bailando debemos seguir bailando incluso cuando solo seamos tentáculos siempre fuimos tentáculos podíamos tocarlo todo incluso las cosas que dios no quería que tocáramos por eso nos dejó aquí por eso pensó que éramos feos no pudo envolver sus tentáculos alrededor de cada parte de nosotros derramamos su paraíso sobre la tierra y bailamos con una danza tan hermosa que el horror saltaría y bailaría con nosotros ¿quién nos bañará y nos apoyará? podríamos sacar el horror de nuestro corazón una y otra vez nunca podríamos dormir el sueño es muerte ni siquiera la tierra dormiría la tierra teme la muerte su sangre se congelaría en el espacio en la nada debemos alcanzar las estrellas a través de la oscuridad aunque esté tan fría que congele nuestra sangre podemos dejar que nuestra sangre se congele y luego romperla como la tierra podemos atravesar la muerte llevarla como una corona con las cabezas apuntando alto hacia el más alto panteón de la vida preciosa vida con la muerte como su sangre preciosa muerte brotando desde los muchos úteros de la guerra sagrada el paraíso estaba vacío sin nosotros solo había silencio pero nuestra sangre hizo crecer las flores dios derramó su sangre sobre el paraíso dios sabe que las estrellas esperan tierra fértil fría al tacto esas estrellas tienen hambre anhelan solo la sangre de dios somos sus tentáculos y nos enterramos en esas estrellas frías y no habrá oscuridad la muerte nos dará miedo y el miedo nos dará sangre derramaremos nuestra sangre caliente a través de las estrellas finalmente lo entiendo sí lo entiendo pero ¿me dejarás mantener mi miedo humano? ¿me dejarás sí? tener miedo te hace humano el miedo sembrará la sangre caliente de dios a través de las estrellas doradas el miedo nos hará bailar y debemos seguir bailando ¿puedes ver a dios bailando para ti? ¿Puedes verlo mordiéndote? ¿Puedes escuchar sus dientes crujir con los pedazos de las estrellas? mandaron chispas lloviendo a través de la oscuridad todos estos años lo has cazado y alcanzado quieres su sangre él te hizo con venas dentro de ti como tentáculos bailamos a través de sus venas mientras mordemos las estrellas y bailamos él abre la boca bien grande tengo tanto miedo ¿me dejarás ser el último humano? ahora lo entiendo soy los dientes de dios soy los dientes de dios soy los dientes de dios soy los dientes de dios soy los dientes de dios soy los dientes de dios soy los dientes de dios soy los dientes de dios

#iii sleep token #iv sleep token #sleep token #sleep token band #sleep token lore #sleep token vessel #sleep token iii #sleep token worship #vessel sleep token #teeth of god graphic novel #teeth of god spoilers

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heartlessvirgo · 6 days ago

Text

Thread of Gold

Summary:

In fair Rome, where we lay our scene, Two hearts untouched by fate, are bound unseen. One, of power and glory, stands apart, The other, bound to labor, keeps her heart. You, a maid of humble hands and toil, Your days are filled with work, with sweat, with soil. You know not how his eyes follow your stride, Nor how his heart, in silence, does confide. For though you do not know him, cannot see, His heart beats only for the one you’ll be. The great man stands, and in his world of pride, He aches for you, though worlds apart you bide.

In fair Rome, where we lay our scene, Two hearts, unseen, will cross where none have been.

Paring: Marcus Acacius x F!Reader

Warnings: Slight Angst, Swearing, don't touch her, Kissing, heavy petting, MDNI, very brief interaction of assault but it never happens

Word Count: 8.5k

A/N: idk if you could tell, but this is DEFINITELY inspired by Romeo & Juliet. So yes, this is my first post ever, so I hope you like it! I'm more into writing smut so yes there will be a part two. Also my inbox is open if you want to suggest any prompts or just wanna chat! -mel

In the heart of Rome, where the gods’ shadows fall long and the streets pulse with the rhythm of ambition, two lives move along parallel paths. One so high he commands the gaze of the city; the other so low she slips beneath it unnoticed.

In this city, glory is currency, and men like Marcus Acacius are rich beyond reckoning. You have seen him once, only once, though his presence lingers everywhere. In the square where his name is whispered in awe. In the cloths you wash, edged with the gilded trim that marks his station. He is a figure carved of legend, towering and untouchable, his every step commanding the gaze of all who dare to look.

You, by contrast, are invisible. A shadow among shadows. A woman bound to this corner of the world, where the gods’ blessings feel like distant stars—present, perhaps, but far beyond your reach. The life you lead is unremarkable, confined to the walls of his domus, where you work tirelessly, ensuring every garment, every linen, is immaculate. And yet, there is a restless pull within you, one that stirs whenever the thought of him takes hold. Women, of all ranks, all ages, wanted a second look from Marcus.

The city is alive with firelight and fervor, its heartbeat a relentless drum of steel and blood. Through the small, arched window of the laundry quarters, you watch as the arena’s shadow spills over the streets like a looming promise. The roar of the crowd seeps through the cracks in the walls, mingling with the damp scent of lye and the ache in your hands from scrubbing linen all day.

You press a damp tunic between your fingers and glance out again. Tonight, Rome hums with anticipation, and the stars themselves seem to lean closer, their light sharp and cold. Somewhere out there, General Acacius moves with the confidence of a man who belongs to this world, his every action a chapter in the history of Rome. You tell yourself it is foolish, the way your pulse quickens at the mere thought of him. But the truth? The truth is that just like every other woman, he has already become a part of you, as inevitable and inescapable as the dusk.

As the night deepens, the domus quiets, the servants retiring to their quarters, leaving the halls hushed and dimly lit. You linger, folding the last of the linens, the familiar task grounding you amidst the whirlwind of thoughts. The distant clatter of hooves and the muffled murmur of voices signal his return from the arena.

The domus is a labyrinth of polished marble and flickering lamplight, a place where servants like you slip through the shadows, unseen but indispensable. You step into the courtyard, the bundle of linen cradled in your arms, the warm air brushing against your skin. The flicker of torchlight plays along the stone paths, and there, by the fountain, stands Marcus Acacius. His armor, dulled with the dust of the arena, glints faintly, a testament to his earlier triumph.

He turns slightly, his gaze meeting yours across the space. You freeze, heart thudding, caught in the weight of his attention. For a moment, the world narrows to just the two of you, the night folding in around this fragile, unexpected connection.

A gust of wind stirs, and a linen sheet slips from your grasp, drifting toward him. Without hesitation, he steps forward, catching it mid-air with a practiced ease. His movements are smooth, deliberate, as he approaches and offers the fabric back to you.

“Are these yours?” he asks, his voice low, almost a whisper, yet carrying the weight of authority—a sound you would never expect from a man who commands legions and stands before emperors. The gentleness in his words is at odds with the strength of the man in front of you, like the softest caress against the iron of his character.

“Technically,” you respond, your voice quiet but steady, “they belong to you, General.” You reach out, your fingers slow, unsure, yet compelled. The moment they brush against his, the contact is electric—fleeting, but it leaves a spark that lingers in the air. The linen is still warm from his hand, and the heat seems to seep into your skin, your pulse quickening with the knowledge that you are standing in the very presence of a man who could make cities fall with a single word.

"Thank you, My Lord" you murmur, the words slipping from your lips like a secret confession carried on the night air, barely more than a whisper, yet loud enough to echo in the space between you.

His gaze lingers, a silent question in his eyes, as if he’s searching for something beneath the surface, something beyond the simple garb and the labor-worn hands. For a fleeting moment, it feels as though the world narrows to just this—the soft glow of torchlight between you, the quiet breath of the night holding its secrets. His attention is not the indifferent glance of a master, but something deeper, as though he glimpses a hidden truth, a spark that even you have not yet named.

But before the moment can unfurl its full meaning, you drop your gaze, the weight of his scrutiny too much, too intimate. You step back into the familiar cloak of duty, retreating into the rhythmic solace of your tasks, a shield against the unfamiliar vulnerability he stirs within you.

As you slip away, the warmth of his presence clings to the air, a tender ache that lingers against the cool night breeze. The silent imprint of him, like a shadow stitched into the fabric of your thoughts, remains even as you cross the threshold back into the quiet confines of the domus. You remind yourself of your place, a maid woven into the tapestry of his grand world, a mere thread among the opulent patterns.

And yet, for the first time, a whisper of possibility stirs within you. In the vast sprawl of Rome, beneath the gods’ indifferent gaze, you begin to wonder—if only in the quietest corners of your heart—whether there is a hidden path where your worlds might converge, where the stars might align not for destiny or glory, but for something as simple, as profound, as two souls meeting in the shadows.

You don’t think of him often—not since the night when your paths crossed briefly. You’re too busy to dwell on whether or not he was simply being kind or if you really should let it get to your head. It’s not like you were dressed of high status, but the swish of your dress, the way the fabric moved around your legs, was finer than most servants. The pale blues and soft greens of your gown caught the light in a way that made you feel as if you were not entirely beneath notice, as if, for a fleeting moment, you too could belong to the grandeur of Rome.

The fabric, though not rich enough to be woven of silk, flowed with a subtle elegance, catching the breeze like a whisper of the sea. The hem swept across the floor as you walked, the soft rustle of it almost like music. Your dress was simple in cut, with a bodice that clung to your form, but the delicate, intricate embroidery along the edges of the sleeves—an ornate pattern of pale threads—was a touch that spoke of care, of something more than the rough linens most of the other servants wore. It was a piece worn with purpose, like a quiet rebellion against the life you were bound to. The colors, a delicate play of light and shadow, somehow made your skin glow, almost made it seem as thought you were wearing gold. Adding a touch of grace you didn’t quite feel but carried as if by fate.

The flickering torchlight cast long shadows down the hallway as you made your way to Marcus’ private quarters, the linen bundles heavy in your arms. You didn’t always deliver his fresh linens, but tonight, you were tasked with changing his bedclothes. It wasn’t an unfamiliar duty, but it always seemed more... personal when it was his chambers. The scent of battle and blood always lingered in the air around him, a stark contrast to the soft linens you worked with. With your hip, you push the door open, humming a tune they sing on the streets after his many triumphs. Walking in, the spacious room is still, a soft glow flickering against the stone walls.

You set the basket of clean linens on the ground and straighten your back, stretching the ache from your shoulders. The air smells faintly of earth, leather, and a hint of sweat—a trace of the arena’s unforgiving world. You make your way to the large bed, and it is only as you begin to strip the old linens off the mattress that you hear the soft scrape of a chair shifting behind you.

For a moment, you don’t register the noise, too absorbed in your task. But then, you freeze, your pulse quickening when you realize that someone is in the room with you. Slowly, you turn, and to your shock, Marcus is standing near the basin, looking directly at you.

You hadn’t heard him come in, hadn’t expected him to be home so soon. It’s too late to pretend you didn’t notice, too late to retreat gracefully. Your eyes widen, and the bundle of linens slips slightly from your grasp.

"My lord," you stammer, pushing yourself off the bed, straightening your posture immediately as you avert your gaze to the floor. The flush of embarrassment warms your cheeks, and you twist your fingers nervously. "I... I was not aware you had returned."

He looks at you with a quiet curiosity, his expression unreadable. The flickering light casts shadows across his face, emphasizing the sharp angles of his jaw and the dusting of stubble along his chin. His presence is commanding, even here, in the quiet of his private quarters.

“I’ve soiled my hands,” he says casually, his voice deeper than it was outside the arena, quieter now that he’s removed from the noise of the crowd and the cheers of victory. You watch as he outstretches his hand, palm splaying as if to prove his point. His tone is matter-of-fact, yet there's a hint of something—something unspoken—in his words. "I shall require assistance before I retire for the evening."

You blink, still adjusting to the idea of him here, so close you could smell him. With a deep breath, you approach him, your voice measured and respectful. “Of course, my lord. I will see to it immediately.” You round him as he takes a seat, his knees widely spread as he waits.

You reach for a cloth to dip in the basin of cool water, but before you can wet it, his eyes lock with yours. There’s an intensity in his gaze, a deliberate search for something in you. It’s not an unfamiliar gaze, but it feels heavier now, more focused.

“I fought with men today, trained until bloody.” he says, his voice low, almost surprising in its softness given the violence of his day. "And yet, it is the touch of a servant’s hand I now seek to cleanse mine."

You dip the cloth into the water and step closer, careful not to brush against him too much. The closeness of his body, the heat of it, makes your breath catch in your throat. Still, you manage to keep your hands steady, wiping away the dried blood from his fingers, watching the red turn to a soft pink as the water turns clear again.

“You’ve done much more than fight today,” you remark, your tone neutral, though a flicker of amusement twitches at the corners of your lips. "Perhaps you would do well to rest, and not burden your servants further with tasks such as these.”

Marcus chuckles softly, a dark sound that fills the space between you two. There’s an edge to it, but it’s not unkind.

“Is it not my right to make use of those who serve me?” He raises a brow, his smile faint but teasing. “A servant such as yourself should be honored. Not every hand is worthy enough to touch mine.”

You keep your gaze fixed downward, your hands moving with practiced rhythm as you gently wipe the remaining dried blood. The quiet clink of water and cloth the only sounds in the space. Yet, the teasing quality of his voice, low and laced with something you can’t quite name, makes the task feel strangely light. Each word he speaks seems to linger in the air, heavy with unspoken meaning, drawing your attention despite your best efforts to remain focused.

"I suppose I should consider myself fortunate then," you murmur, the words slipping past your lips more easily than you expect. “Thank you my lord,” They come out with a playful lightness, a fleeting defiance that surprises even you.

Daring a quick glance upward, you meet his dark eyes—and immediately regret it. There’s something in the depths of his gaze that catches you off guard. Soft, warm brown eyes that hold you in place, like the calm before a storm. A hint of approval, perhaps, or something else—an unreadable softness that contrasts with the steel of his presence. Your pulse quickens, and for the briefest moment, the world narrows to just him, to that knowing look.

"Or maybe I…" His voice trails off, leaving the air charged, thick with the weight of possibility. He holds your gaze, his eyes unwavering, while the silence stretches long and taut between you, each second stretching to infinity.

The task you’re performing—simple, mundane—feels worlds away from your reality now, the proximity to him like a pull you can’t escape. His hands, calloused from battle, rough from a life carved in the crucible of the arena, seem so foreign against the delicate fabric of your world. Yet, as you finish cleaning them, your fingers brush against his skin, lingering a fraction longer than necessary. The contact is fleeting, but it sends a ripple through the air, a subtle shift that you can feel deep in your chest.

You pull away, but the warmth of his touch, the hardness of his hands beneath yours, stays with you long after you set the cloth aside. The space between you feels electric now, charged with something unspoken, a current that hums quietly in the silence. And even as you return to your task, you know it will be hard to forget that moment—impossible, almost—to erase the sensation of him from your thoughts.

The room pulses with decadence, a feverish spectacle of excess. The grand hall is alive with the sounds of revelry—laughter, music, and the clinking of goblets. Torches line the walls, casting their flickering light over the guests as they indulge in a feast fit for the gods. The air is thick with the scent of roast meats, rich perfumes, and the sharp tang of wine—too much wine. In every corner, men sit, their faces flushed, eyes glazed with drunkenness. The emperors, Geta and Caracalla, are seated at the head of the table, their arrogance and power radiating like a cruel aura. They watch the festivities unfold with bored amusement, their presence elevating the indulgence around them.

But it’s the women who catch your attention most. Naked bodies drape over the tables, lounging languidly as if they were mere ornaments to be admired or used. Their flesh glistens with oil, and their eyes, half-lidded, seem to reflect nothing but the sheer emptiness of it all. They move slowly, seductively, their every gesture designed to provoke. Some are feeding the men, their hands brushing against chins and lips as they serve wine. Others are entwined in the arms of their drunken patrons, their bodies exposed in the light of the torches. Their laughter is high-pitched and shrill, blending with the deeper rumble of the men’s voices.

You weave through the crowd, your heart in your throat, trying not to make eye contact with anyone. You’ve been serving wine for hours now, your hands trembling each time you fill a goblet, praying you won’t spill a drop. The fear of messing up gnaws at your insides, the thought of being dismissed from this gilded cage and cast into the streets where you would have nothing—nothing but your own shame. You’ve heard the rumors, the stories of women like you who make one mistake and are forgotten, discarded into the shadows.

There are whispers of women being sold off, sent to the brothels to satisfy the whims of men with too much power and not enough restraint. You can't bear the thought of that fate. Every moment feels like a test, and your very existence in this palace depends on getting it right, at least just for tonight.

As you approach one of the tables to refill a cup, your hands are unsteady. You can feel their eyes on you before you see them, but when you do, it’s too late to turn away. One man reaches out, his hand heavy and demanding as he pulls your arm toward him. His touch is rough, fingers curling around your wrist as though you are nothing more than an object for his amusement. “Bring me more wine,” he growls, his breath sour. The men at the table laugh, their voices growing louder, and you feel the weight of their gaze like a hundred burning coals.

Embarrassment flares in your cheeks, curling like a wave as your pulse quickens, a wave of panic rising in your chest. You’ve seen how things like this can escalate. One wrong move, and you could be caught up in something far beyond your control. You glance toward the emperors, towards anyone, hoping for any sign of mercy, but everyone is too absorbed in their own conversation, their attention elsewhere.

The man’s hands, rough and brutal, clamp down on your hips, pulling you into his lap with a violent tug. You try to squirm, but his grip is unforgiving, forcing your body flush against his. The noise of the banquet fades into the background as his scent overpowers you—wine, sweat, and the sharpness of his lewd intentions. He grins, his fingers curling into the fabric of your gown, pushing it upward with slow, insidious intent.

You freeze, your stomach sinking as the sickening realization of what’s about to happen sinks in. His laughter is thick with malice, and the men at the table cheer him on, urging him to take his pleasure. You try to move, try to push him off, but the more you struggle, the tighter his grip becomes. The fear creeps in deeper, threatening to drown you—this is how it ends. You can feel the tightness in your chest, the suffocating fear that claws at your throat. One wrong move, and you might never escape.

"Don't be coy, little cunt," he slurs, his words thick with wine and malice. "You know what I want."

And then—without warning—the world shifts. He doesn’t speak, not at first. There’s no grand gesture, no booming voice to call attention to the scene. He doesn’t have to. His presence alone is enough.

His hand wraps around the man’s wrist with a precision that is almost surgical, twisting it with enough force that the man is forced to release you, his drunken eyes widening in shock. Marcus does not raise his voice. He doesn’t need to. The mere presence of him in this space is enough to still the crowd. No one dares to challenge him. His grip on the man’s wrist tightens, but his eyes, his focus, never leave you. There’s no hesitation in his gaze—only the quiet promise of safety.

“Unhand her,” Marcus says, his voice so low that only you and the man can hear it. It’s a command, but it’s delivered with such calm authority that the man stumbles backward in his seat, like a child caught stealing. He’s humiliated, his bravado cracking in an instant. Without a word, he retreats, almost tumbling over his own feet to get away.

Standing to your feet, the blood rushes to your ears, a deafening woosh that drowns out everything else. Your vision spins as you stumble, the shock of the moment still rippling through your body. Marcus is there, his grip tight around your arm, almost too tight, like he's afraid you'll slip away from him. His touch is rough, more forceful than you expected, and it sends a shiver of something unfamiliar down your spine.

"Easy," he mutters under his breath, though there’s no softness in his voice. He drags you through the crowd, his hand never loosening on your arm. His steps are swift, urgent, and he doesn’t look back to see if anyone follows. You can feel the weight of his presence pressing against you, a silent warning that no one should dare cross him.

The music fades as he leads you out of the feast hall and into a quieter corridor. The air is cooler here, but it still carries the weight of what could have been. As you pass through the halls, the sounds of the party grow faint, leaving only the heavy thud of Marcus’s steps and your shallow breath as you try to match his long strides.

The halls opens up to a balcony, one that overlooks the courtyard and in the distance all of Rome. But instead of the calm respite you might have expected, you find a different kind of chaos unfolding. You are alone, save for a man who sits, his legs spread wide, with a woman kneeling before him—her naked body is outlined against the torchlight, her hands working between his legs as the man grunts in pleasure. The scene is raw and obscene, an undeniable reminder of the brutal, dehumanizing nature of the world they live in.

For a moment, Marcus tenses, his jaw clenched tight, the fury in his chest palpable. His hand tightens around your wrist, pulling you sharply away, as if the sight itself might stain you. His breath is heavy, laced with the sharp scent of wine and something darker—something possessive. His gaze flickers over the scene for a moment longer, but then he drags you away, pulling you further down the hall, deeper into the shadows.

"Look at me, not them," he commands, his voice harder now, something dangerous simmering beneath the surface. You don’t question him. There’s a rawness in his tone that cuts through the haze of the evening, and you understand. You know. This isn’t about the woman, or the man. This is about you.

Once you're in the relative safety of the hall, where only the dim light of the torches casts long shadows across the stone floors, Marcus stops. His grip on your arm loosens slightly, but his eyes are dark, hard.

“You cannot remain here,” Marcus says finally, his voice low but filled with an intensity that makes your stomach churn. His gaze flickers over your face, as though he’s searching for something, though you aren’t sure what. “Not with them. Not with any of them. How did you get in here?”

His words are blunt, and they hit you like a stone sinking into your chest. The emperor’s men, the drunk revelers, the lecherous eyes—they all see you as an object to be used, to be taken. Marcus is the only one who doesn’t look at you like that. But the thought of him dragging you further into this world, this suffocating, corrupt world, leaves you cold.

“The emperors servants requested help for tonight, I had no other choice-” You meet his gaze, and for the first time, you see the storm in his eyes. The quiet kind that he uses for battle, for the arena.

“You are not safe here,” Marcus continues, looking around, and for a moment he looks frightened, though it’s unclear whether he’s speaking to you or himself. “I’ll have someone escort you back to-,” he adds.

“I cannot,” you interrupt, your voice trembling more than you want to admit. You pull your hand into your chest, cradling it as if it were something precious, something vulnerable. Your body feels stiff, like a fragile thing that could shatter at the slightest movement.

“They will notice... and they will have my hand.” The words taste like ash in your mouth, but they’re the truth. You’ve seen how easily women like you disappear in these circles, how quickly favor can turn to disdain and then to something worse.

Marcus’s jaw tightens, his gaze flicking back toward where the music continues. But he knows what lies behind the flashing smiles and empty laughter—the cold, calculating eyes of the emperors, always watching, always waiting for someone to slip, to make a mistake.

His hands clench into fists and in the dim light, you notice the tinge of wine on his lips. Was he with a prostitute tonight? Was that why it took so long to notice you in there? Perhaps, but what right did you have to feel a twinge of jealousy?

His voice is low, urgent, when he speaks again, pulling you from your thoughts. “They will notice, yes. And that is why you must leave, now.” His tone is sharp, a command wrapped in concern. “They will take interest in you, and there is nothing I can do to stop it. I will not let them use you. Do you understand?”

You nod, your throat tight with the weight of his words. The truth stings—the helplessness that lurks behind his voice, the admission that even Marcus, with all his strength and authority, can do nothing against the emperor’s whims. For the first time, you feel something cold seep into your bones—an understanding of just how far out of control this world is. You feel small under his gaze, his protective grip, but at the same time, there’s something else. A flicker of warmth.

You are escorted home, though the word feels far too generous. Home is not here—this room, these walls, are not for you. You shouldn’t even be in his quarters, but somehow, here you are.

Your fingers twist together nervously, the motion a quiet echo of your restless mind. The room is too quiet, the weight of it heavy on your shoulders. You should be in the servant's quarters, cleaning or organizing, doing anything but this. But instead, you’re here, alone in his space. It’s an unspoken rule, a boundary you should never have crossed. And yet, you can't bring yourself to care as much as you know you should.

You should leave. You know you should. But you can’t.

The double doors open to reveal General Acacius, his frame a silhouette in the dim light. His head is low, as if weighed down by thoughts, his broad shoulders tight with something unreadable. His hand runs through the thick, dark tendrils of his hair, the motion heavy, like he's trying to rid himself of the night’s thoughts.

He lifts his head slowly, his gaze first distant, then sharpening, focusing on you. You stand there in the half-light, your figure framed by the silver streams of moonlight spilling through the window. For a heartbeat, it feels like the entire world holds its breath.

His eyes meet yours. Soft, warm, brown eyes. The kind of eyes that have seen so much, but in that moment, they hold a depth only for you. And for a fleeting second, you could almost believe there’s a softness in him—a tenderness buried beneath the soldier’s armor, beneath the hardened exterior. But you look away before it lingers too long.

He clears his throat, the sound rough and unsteady, a sign of something at war inside him. “You shouldn’t be in here,” he says, his voice low, almost a murmur, as if the words are meant to be heard by no one but himself. Yet, they hang between you both, thick and raspy.

“I’m sorry,” you shift, trying to find the courage to meet his gaze again, but all that fills your mind is the memory of the night—the emperor’s party, the assault, his strong hand pulling you away from the danger with an ease that belied his own inner turmoil.

“Do not apologize when you do not mean it,” Marcus doesn’t move, though you feel his presence grow heavier in the space. It’s like he’s standing on the edge of something, caught between two choices—between the man who would offer you safety and the man who has this position of power. You can almost see the conflict in his posture, in the way his muscles tense and relax with each breath, the way his gaze drops to the floor before he meets yours once more.

“Did they hurt you?” His voice is rough, a question steeped in something more than concern—a longing, perhaps, that neither of you can admit. Finally, he steps forward, the doors slowly shutting behind him, sealing your fate.

His hands flex by his sides, a movement so small but so telling. You know the weight of his power—the way people listen when he speaks, how the air shifts around him when he steps into a room. But here, now, standing in front of you, there is something else beneath that hard exterior. The way he watches you, how he holds himself back as if one wrong move could shatter the fragile moment between you both.

“No, nothing you can see.” His breath catches, just enough to betray him. And for a moment, you wonder if he’s thinking the same thing you are—how different things would be if he didn’t have to be the general, if you didn’t have to be the servant. If he could reach out and say the things he kept locked inside.

But he doesn’t. His gaze drifts, tracing the outline of your face, his lips barely parted as if he’s struggling to find the right words. And you know he won’t speak them, because what good would it do? You’re not his to want. Not like this. Not when his world was filled with danger, not when he’d drag you down to the depths of hell.

Marcus’s voice cuts through the dim light, low and edged with frustration. “You foolish girl, do you have a death wish?” His words are sharp, but beneath them, there’s a tremor of something more—concern, perhaps, though buried deep.

You stiffen, surprised but not silenced. “Foolish? I am bound by duty, as you are. What would be truly foolish is to expect a servant to wield choice where none exists.” Your words strike the air between you, defiant, but his stance remains unwavering. It is almost as though he anticipated your defiance, relished it.

“You are under my charge,” Marcus replies, his gaze steady. “Why was I not informed of this before it transpired? Surely I should be privy to the whereabouts and well-being of my household.” His chin lifts, the authority in his tone unyielding.

“What transpires, and what you are told, is not for me to dictate,” you retort, meeting his gaze without flinching.

“Indeed.” He nods, as though your response has confirmed his point. His calm exterior is maddening, the tension building beneath his collected demeanor.

The fire in your chest blazes, and before you can stop yourself, the words escape. “Did you not notice me before? Or were you preoccupied with some other... entertainment?” The accusation hangs in the air, brazen and dangerous.

“Entertainment?” Marcus echoes, his brow lifting. His eyes trace the curve of your neck, the heat of his gaze searing more than your words. The insult seems to have glanced off him, leaving his focus elsewhere—on you.

You tilt your head, your heart pounding, desperate for a reaction, an answer that might betray his thoughts. “Perhaps you are not the lauded general they claim, if such distractions elude your notice.”

Despite your cutting words, a smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. In the muted glow of the room, it’s unmistakable—a flicker of amusement, or something darker, something that hints at a desire he cannot fully suppress.

But still, that longing flickers in the depths of his eyes, the unspoken desire that clings to the air between you, unnoticed by you but so obvious to him. It’s a yearning he can never voice, a passion that burns quietly beneath the weight of his armor.

For a second, you almost believe that if you were to step closer, you could see it all—the man who wishes to be more, the man who needs to be something else. But you don’t. Because in the end, you know your place here.

You stand frozen, feeling the pull between the heat of his gaze and the heavy, uncertain air that hangs between you.

His presence is overwhelming—his broad silhouette, his dark hair falling in soft waves, and the glint of gold on his chest catching the dim light, each piece a reminder of his power, his status. The rich, earthy scent of his skin, the leather of his armor, the faint trace of something warm and intoxicating—like the spice of sandalwood—fills the space, making your head spin.

You can see the beautiful curve of his nose now, and the gentle parting of his lips—so close you could feel the heat radiating from them. You’ve never been this close to a man before, let alone one as dangerous as him.

“Fierce as you may be, you are too gentle for a world such as this,” he murmurs, his voice rough like the grind of stone beneath a soldier’s sandal. The words don’t feel like an insult, not in the way you might have expected, but more like a declaration. His gaze softens, though, as he watches you, his eyes flickering with something you can’t name.

“Too gentle?” you echo, a soft defiance lacing your tone. “Blame the gods, the endless wars, and the emperors with their insatiable greed and selfish ambition. It is they who have hardened the world, do not mistake gentle for naivety.” You should step back. You should flee. This isn’t your place. But the words flow freely from your throat. A hot realization erupts in your cheeks, how close you stand, the distance between your warm bodies. You’ve never been kissed before, never felt this kind of pull, and so it makes it impossible to move.

Marcus’s gaze softens, the weight of your words settling heavily on him. He steps closer, the flicker of something unspoken in his eyes. “Perhaps,” he murmurs, his voice low, almost reverent. “But it is the world we live in. And in it, gentleness can be a dangerous thing.”

His hand reaches out, hovering near your cheek but never quite touching. “You’ve known too little of the world’s cruelties, and I fear what it might do to you.” His brow furrows, his voice dropping further. “I would keep you from it if I could.”

Marcus doesn’t give you the space to retreat, though. He closes the gap between you both until there’s barely an inch separating you, his breath mingling with yours as he gazes down at you. The weight of his presence presses down on you—his chest rising and falling with each breath, the swoosh of his robe brushing against his body as he moves, the weight of his armor glinting in the light, and the softness of his gaze pinning you in place.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, his voice a soft reverence. “You fight me, yet, I envy you. Too soft for this place. This world... it’s made for men who know how to fight. But you—" He leans in, close enough that you can smell the remnants of wine on his lips as he whispers, “—you don’t belong here. Not in a world that takes what it wants without mercy.”

His hand comes up, fingertips grazing the side of your arm, tracing your exposed neck and to the side of your jaw. The touch is tentative, as if he, too, is afraid of what might happen next. His thumb brushes the line of your jaw, tracing the curve of it with an intimacy that leaves you breathless.

“Do you know what it feels like?” he asks softly, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “To be wanted, to be taken... like this?” You shake your head, suddenly too nervous, too overwhelmed to respond.

Marcus pulls back just enough to look into your eyes, his expression a blend of uncertainty and something darker—something you’ve never seen in him. "Unspoiled, unclaimed, like a bloom untouched by the winds of desire." he says, almost as a statement of fact, as though he’s seen it in you all along.

“I—I…” You can’t find the words. The heat of the moment, the closeness of his body, the dangerous allure of him… it’s all too much. Too many emotions, too many sensations flooding your senses at once.

His hands tighten on your waist, pulling you closer until there’s no distance between you. “Stop me now,” he warns, his voice a rough whisper against your lips, “or I may not hold my temptation much longer.”

He draws nearer, his presence a shadow that looms over you, his breath warm and steady against the delicate curve of your lips.

“Never been kissed,” he says softly, almost to himself, his voice thick with something like understanding. The need to taste his lips has never been more overwhelming, a hunger that rises within you like a fire. Your chest tightens, and you feel the sting of tears threatening to break free, though you fight them back, for what would it mean to weep in the presence of such a man?

You nod, the words lodged in your throat, but he doesn’t wait for more. His hand lifts, fingers curling at the back of your neck, and a shock of surprise courses through you. You barely have time to breathe before his lips descend upon yours—no gentleness, no hesitation, only raw, fervent hunger. It is not calculated, not gentle—it is the kind of kiss that betrays restraint and spills over with urgency. Your teeth knock together awkwardly, and you gasp, struggling to adjust to his force. Your hands, trembling, hover unsurely for a moment, before they find purchase on his chest, gripping the fabric of his tunic as if it is the only thing anchoring you to this moment, to him.

“So sweet,” He moves against you, his lips pressing and pulling with a fierce rhythm, slow at first, as though searching for the proper cadence. Your body reacts before your mind can catch up, trying to mirror his movements, but the pace quickens. Just when it seems you might falter, just when you think you’ve lost control, he deepens the kiss, and warmth spreads from his mouth to yours, igniting something within you. Your senses whirl, and for the briefest moment, you forget the world outside the space between you both.

He pulls back just enough to breathe, his forehead resting against yours. "You deserve more than this," he murmurs, his voice rough, a mix of reverence and regret. "More than a man bound by duty and chains."

Marcus pulls back just slightly, and your eyes open, meeting the soft brown of his. The tenderness in his gaze nearly undoes you. His hand moves to your jaw, his touch reverent, almost as if he is afraid you will break. His lips find yours once more, but this time, it is different—more deliberate, more certain. His kiss is no longer tentative but deep and urgent, as though he is claiming a piece of you that only he can touch.

You lose yourself in it—the heat, the pressure, the pulse of his mouth. His teeth catch your lip, and it stings, but you barely notice. A whimper, whether yours or his, fills the space, but the sound is lost in the rush of breath, in the mingling of lips and skin. You feel the roughness of his stubble against your chin, the faint taste of wine lingering on his tongue, and still, there is no hesitation in him, no caution. Only the need that pulses between you both, growing louder with every second.

The kiss is imperfect, nothing graceful or refined about it. Your noses bump, lips miss their mark, but none of it matters. All that matters is him—the way his hands are on you, pulling you closer as if the world would unravel if he let go. His fingers tangle in your hair, his grip tight, as though afraid you might slip away. The fire of his touch, the pulse of his heart that you can feel through the chest of his tunic, it is all you can focus on. His teeth graze your lip again, a gentle pain, but you do not mind.

All the awkwardness, all the hesitation that held you back before, it crumbles. His warmth wraps around you, and you, helpless in his arms, yield to it entirely. The only thing that remains is the kiss, the consuming kiss, and the undeniable need that surges between you both—untamed, undeniable.

His mouth is now fierce, a wet warmth, his tongue gently coaxing yours to move with his. The kiss is greedy, passionate, as though he’s starved for this moment, for you. He presses you back until the back of your knees press into the frame of his bed, his hands sliding to your waist. He pulls you flush against him, the hard outline of his body unmistakable beneath the softness of his robe.

Every inch of him seems to burn, the strength of his body almost suffocating, and yet you can’t bring yourself to be the first to pull away. His lips are insistent, coaxing yours open, and you melt into the kiss—his dominance over you impossible to ignore. His hand slides to the small of your back, pulling you tighter against him, the heat of his skin searing through the thin fabric between you both.

You gasp into the kiss, a soft moan escaping your lips, and Marcus groans, the sound low and guttural, reverberating through his chest and underneath your fingertips. He’s still guiding your hands, placing them where they reach, urging you to feel the solid strength of him. His lips move down to your neck, and you tilt your head back instinctively, exposing the soft curve of your throat, offering yourself to him in a way you never thought you would. In a way you’ve never given yourself to anyone. In this moment, you wonder if any other man could ever possess you as he does. None could live up to the gravity of his presence.

The kiss grows deeper, wetter, as his tongue traces the line of your jaw, the taste of him heady and overwhelming. His lips are insistent, pulling at you with a hunger that feels both terrifying and exhilarating, and you can feel your body responding to him, to the roughness of his touch and the heat that pulses between your delicate thighs.

"Yet here I stand, unable to turn away." His gaze meets yours, the weight of his longing evident in his eyes, before he kisses you again, slower, savoring every moment like it's the last. "I want to consume you," he breathes against your skin, his voice raw with desire, and it’s a statement that leaves no room for doubt.

With a swift, commanding motion, he softly pushes you back onto the bed. Mouths still connected, his quiet growl of restraint echos between your lips. His body follows, a heavy, searing weight settling between your thighs, pushing you into the soft sheets. The heat of him radiates, suffocating, intoxicating—his raw masculinity demanding your attention.

His breath comes quicker now against your mouth, and you feel the undeniable hardness of him against your core, the pulse of his need unmistakable. His hands roam, one still on your neck, the other sliding to the flesh of your ass, feeling the curve of your body as if he cannot get close enough. And yet, even as he takes, he’s gentle—as gentle as a man who has killed men with his bare hands can be.

You shift beneath him, grinding upwards into him, desperate for the contact against you clit, for the something that you don’t fully understand. Your breath hitches, and before you can stop it, the words spill out in a trembling whisper. "Please, Marcus..."

His breath stutters, and his hands tighten on you, the muscles in his jaw clenching, as if battling the very thing he wants most.

The kiss fades, but the heat of it clings to your skin, lingering like the aftertaste of wine long past its prime. Your body still trembles, caught in the aftermath of something you cannot name. But Marcus—he pulls away, his face hardening, as though the very touch of you has scorched him.

His eyes, once soft and filled with unspoken promises, harden into something cold, distant. He stands before you now as if the very air between you both has become too heavy to bear. The warmth of the moment slips away, replaced by an unfamiliar chill that settles in your chest.

“This cannot continue,” Marcus declares, his voice low yet unmistakable, carrying the authority of a man accustomed to giving commands. From the foot of the bed, his robe sweeps behind him like a dark stormcloud, the fabric rustling as he takes a step back.

His gaze lingers on you, but it is not the soft, searching look you had felt moments before. Now, his eyes are cold, hard, as though he’s seeing a stranger rather than the woman he held in his arms. You instinctively press your knees together, hands trembling as you smooth your gown down, desperate to regain some semblance of composure under his gaze.

“My lord, I... I beg your pardon,” you say, stumbling over your own words, the breath stolen from your lungs. “Forgive my presumption. I did not mean to overstep my place.” You bow your head, as though the mere act of addressing him with familiarity has caused this fracture. You stand hurriedly, your dress falling to brush against the floor.

"I expect you to remain in the shadows, where you belong. There is no place for you in the light, not with me, not with who I am." His mouth punctuates your pain, lips swollen from your very own mouth.

You feel his words as though they strike you in the chest, a sharp, sudden ache that forces the breath from your lungs. Your hands, trembling, clutch at the edges of your tunic, as though you might collapse into yourself if you do not. His gaze shifts to the floor, as though ashamed to meet your eyes—yet there is nothing to soften the edge of his tone, nothing to soften the cruel command that falls from his lips.

"I will ensure you never again suffer the indignity of those gatherings," he continues, his words laced with the formal coldness of a man who has seen too much and is too bound by duty to feel what he does. "Those places are not for you. I will see to it that you are kept from them, from their dangers."

The promise rings hollow in your ears, for you know—this is not about the danger of those parties. This is about something else entirely. You, standing before him now, no longer hold the place you once did. You are no longer the woman he held in his arms, no longer someone he could desire, someone he could protect. The emotional whiplash rattles your brain, causing you to wrap your arms around yourself.

"I do not understand," you whisper, the words feeling foreign on your tongue, weak and insubstantial.

You take a step toward him, but he raises his hand, palm outstretched in a gesture of command, halting you where you stand. You are no soldier, no warrior of Rome. You are a woman—a servant, and one should know her station. The silence between you thickens, a reminder that you are beneath him, beneath his station, his power.

“There is little you need to know of Rome's affairs,” he says, his voice taking on the sharpness of a man accustomed to command. “I am a general, bound to duty, not to frivolity or indulgence.” He crosses his arms over his chest, as though presenting himself before the emperors themselves. His posture is rigid, his expression one of resolve. “I have no time for the distractions of the heart, nor the weakness they bring.”

You lower your gaze, a moment of silence passing as you weigh his words. But within you, something stirs—a quiet defiance, a refusal to be entirely subjugated. You raise your chin, your voice steady, yet laced with the hint of something that feels almost like a challenge.

“I may be but a servant, Dominus,” you say, the title heavy on your tongue but not without a certain firmness. “And I may not know the ways of Rome, nor fully grasp the weight of your command. Yet, there is one truth I understand: love, my lord, is not a weakness. It is the mightiest battle of all. And it is not to be abandoned.”

You hold his gaze for but a brief moment, the fire in your heart clashing with the cold detachment in his eyes. For a single breath, time stills between you, as though the weight of your words presses down upon both of you, thick and suffocating. His silence is a weight more burdensome than any words could ever be.

With a deep breath, you break the stare, turning away without a word, your movements slow, measured, as if to make your departure a solemn act. Each step feels as if it carries you farther from him, the space between you growing with each echoing footfall. The air around you becomes heavier, like the very gods themselves bear witness to this unspoken rift between master and servant. The distance you now place between you both feels infinite, yet it is his silence that follows you, louder than any shout, more final than any command.

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roguishcat · 5 months ago

Note

Astarion x Tav Prompt! (for the 200 follower celebration)

Astarion tailoring Tavs clothes before they reach the big city.

Some sensory ideas: rough linen, crackling warm campfire, fingers caressing skin, crisp autumn air, sounds of skin against fabric, soft sighs or humming

Thank you so much for the ask! I love reading tailor Astarion stories, so this is my humble attempt at writing one. Hope you like it! 💕

This is set in Act II, soon after the tiefling party.

Pairing: Astarion x unnamed female Tav

Word count: 2.4k

Part of his plan

To Astarion their relationship was a transaction. A little tit for tat. Because this was what 200 years of servitude taught him. Nothing was ever given for free. Nothing came without a price. And usually it was not worth the pain or the effort anyway.

But when it came to Tav, Astarion found himself trying to make more of an effort to stay in her good graces. Not because he cared about her as such. But he didn’t find the thought of spending time with her, travelling alongside her, even sharing her bedroll as distasteful as with anyone else. Perhaps because she foolishly put others before herself. Perhaps it was her treating him with respect and kindness. But her being nice made him want… to be nice back. Just to make sure that their leader was well and truly smitten, of course.

That evening as Tav changed out of her armour to offer her neck to him, Astarion’s eyes fell to the rather obvious tear in her shirt. She noticed him look and flushed.

“I was going to take care of that yesterday but felt so tired that I just kind of decided to leave it,” she mumbled, pulling at the fabric awkwardly.

She scurried out of his tent and into her own before he could reply. Astarion felt his lips quirk into a smile. Now this was just the opportunity to make himself useful in their leader’s eyes that he was looking for!

He had already bedded Tav and although the experience was hardly unpleasant, he didn’t look forward to using his body over and over just to secure his place by her side. Therefore, making himself so much a part of her life that she felt that he was indispensable to her was crucial in keeping her interested.

Thus assured that he was once again right and everything was going according to his plan, Astarion grabbed his sewing kit and walked confidently in the direction of Tav’s tent.

“Darling, how about I-”

Tav looked up and Astarion was rendered speechless when he looked at her handywork. Only gods knew how she managed to create the monstrosity in her hands in such a short time. And where on earth did she even get thread of such toxic, garish colour?

Tav blushed a rather fetching shade of red and lowered her eyes.

“I suppose I made it worse, haven’t I?” she whispered, clearly embarrassed at being so terrible at something as basic as fixing a simple tear.

“Well… This isn’t the best needlework that I’ve seen, admittedly. But I am certain that it isn’t the worst either.”

The large, uneven stitches were quite remarkable, in their own way.

“How about I take over from here. I’m sure that we can salvage this,” he gently pried the shirt out of her hands and clicked his tongue as he lifted it closer to his eyes.

“I suppose this will take me a little longer than initially anticipated, seeing as I have to undo your fine effort first, but I will certainly finish it come morning.”

Astarion made a move to rise but felt a hand grasp his sleeve.

“You could stay here, if you wanted,” she suggested, making him freeze.

Truth be told, staying here was the last thing that he wanted to do. It was too intimate. Him staying could be misinterpreted as him wanting to engage in certain activities. And sex was the last thing currently on his mind.

“And have you miss out on the chance to catch up on some beauty sleep? How villainous would that be!” he joked, trying to extricate himself without making it too obvious that he wanted to leave.

“Then I could sit out by the campfire with you. I mean, if you want…” she trailed off, suddenly feeling silly, “we could talk.”

“Talk?” he repeated, raising an eyebrow.

“I would like to get to know you more. Learn more about you, if you allow it.”

Talk. Yes, just like people did when they spent any amount of time around each other. He supposed that knocking boots was not enough for someone like Tav, someone who was… sweet.

Astarion supposed he could be forgiven for jumping to the conclusion that her asking to stay was asking for sex. He met few people who wanted him for his conversation skills. Most wanted to bed him, some wanted to spend time with him afterwards. He could recall hardly any who actually seemed to care for him or his past. And one of these people was sitting in her undershirt and waiting for him to make a decision. Always so patient with him, always treating him with such respect.

“Alright, why not,” he conceded, feeling his shoulders relax a touch now that he knew that she was not expecting him to perform. “Seeing as a night of passion is off the table and there is plenty of time until sunrise, I might enjoy this- this getting to know each other better idea. Though you may want to put something on, the night is quite chilly.”

Unfortunately, Tav had little else to wear. Seeing as others were always a priority, she purchased very few things for herself. Astarion rolled his eyes as he saw her eyeing her armour with uncertainty.

“Here,” he pulled his shirt off and handed it to her. “Whilst I may be all but immune to the elements, it wouldn’t do for our leader to be bested by a common cold.”

She hesitated briefly before taking the shirt and slipping it on. It smelled like Astarion, bergamot, rosemary and something else. Something that she couldn’t quite put her finger on but didn’t want to ask.

They walked out of her tent and Astarion took a seat near the campfire.

“So how should we go about it, dearest?” he asked without looking in her direction, but rather focusing on trying to minimize the damage that she did to her clothes.

Honestly, had no one taught her to sew? This work was worse than anything done by the other spawn even in their early days!

“How about… a question for a question?” she suggested, taking a seat beside him.

“Is anything off limits? Are you truly prepared for everything that you might uncover?” he teased, squinting a little as he used the sharp, pointy edge of scissors to carefully unpick her terrible stitches. “Us big city folk come with our terrible, depraved secrets.”

Ah, a blush for his efforts. Familiar territory.

“I can’t say what is off limits,” Tav said, playing with the collar and the ruffles of his shirt with her long, nervous fingers. “How about you are allowed not to answer any one question of your choosing?”

“Seems reasonable,” he shrugged, finally getting the thread that she used to cooperate and pulling on it until the fabric was no longer bunched awkwardly.

“What is your favourite colour?”

How uninspired. Honestly, were they children?

“I assumed it was blue,” she went on. “Your underwear is blue. And you seem to favour the blue dye, when you have a choice.”

“Observant, are we?” he chuckled. “Just how long has it been since I’ve piqued your interest? And yes, this is not a rhetorical question. I do expect an answer.”

“I guess… When you opened the doors on the bugbear and the ogre.”

“Oh? How scandalous of you to find that appealing! Did that get you excited?” he elbowed her gently, finding to his surprise that he was rather enjoying the light tone of the conversation.

“No,” Tav laughed, “but it was the first time you smiled. A real, proper smile. That image stayed with me for a long time. And got me wondering… what is beneath the polished look and practiced mannerisms?”

If Astarion had actually fed on her and any blood coursing through him at this moment, he was quite sure that he would have blushed.

He cleared his throat, “I believe it’s your turn to ask.”

She nodded, but didn’t ask him anything immediately, content to simply watch him for a while. The work of his dexterous fingers was such a contrast to her clumsy, inexperienced movements. Tav knew that she was way out of her depth when it came to Astarion and didn’t think that she would be able to figure him out even if she tried. Which is why she looked for an excuse to talk to him without others being around, wanting to get to know him better. But every time she tried to have a genuine conversation with him in the past, his expression would shutter, and he would give her some tired, clearly practiced lines. And perhaps it was foolish of her, but Tav felt she wanted to get to know him. To really know him.

“What makes you happy? And I mean apart from walking in on freaky sex.”

“Tsk, I was going to say just that, actually. Took the words right out of my mouth, you cheeky pup.”

In truth, he was not really sure how to answer that. Happiness has not been part of the equation for over two centuries. Survival and prevailing against all odds. That was all that he was concerned with.

“I’m not exactly sure,” he finally admitted with a frown. “Drinking your blood makes me feel… strong. Powerful. Free. I am not sure what it means to be happy in your books, but I believe this is it for me.”

He took a furtive look at her from underneath his lashes and was taken aback a little by the genuine, warm expression on her face. By the gods! Who did that? Who actually went around looking at people like that? No one did, in his experience.

“I hope you find more things that make you happy,” Tav said earnestly, giving his shoulder a light squeeze.

“Well, the pleasure of your company definitely tops that list,” he cleared his throat and moved away a little, feeling uncomfortable at the warm feeling that bloomed in his chest. Whatever it was.

“Well, of course! But I mean inconsequential nothings. Something that will make you smile. Something that will make you look forward to tomorrow.”

“And what makes you happy, Tav, hm? Seeing as you are the expert on the matter?”

To his surprise, he actually found that he wanted to know the answer.

“Well, it’s nothing unusual. Seeing people I care about being happy. Being helpful. Seeing families reunited.”

“Tsk, you are no fun!” Astarion clicked his tongue in annoyance. “And here I was, actually answering your questions properly and what do I get in return? A cookie-cutter hero ‘I live to serve’ answer. Give me a break,” he scoffed.

“You don’t believe that people can help others just because?” Tav tossed several sticks into the campfire, the flames rising to lick the dry wood hungrily.

“No,” he said firmly, with conviction. “Not in my experience.”

He took a deep breath that he did not need, more for effect than out of necessity. “People are cruel, vile and everything is done for gain and nothing else.”

“You don’t mean that,” Tav looked down at her knees, playing with the hem of his shirt.

“Oh, but I do. My sweet, sweet friend. Kindness gets people tortured. Kindness gets people killed. Kindness is the root of all trouble and you will be better off if you realise this sooner rather than later-” he stopped himself abruptly when he realised that he almost shouted that last part.

They fell silent, the crackling of the fire loud in the stillness.

“I’m sorry you feel this way,” she finally said.

“It is the truth.”

Astarion did not have to look at Tav to know that she disagreed. It didn’t matter. Their experiences were too different. They were too different. She probably was a nice girl from a small town in the middle of nowhere where neighbors were friends, and every day ended with a lovely sunset over the fields. At least that was what Astarion imagined when he thought about Tav’s home. He never actually bothered to ask. Come to think of it, none of them asked Tav about her past. Although they all seemed to be eager enough to have her help them on their personal quests, they actually knew very little about her.

“Goodness me, we seemed to have gotten carried away with that lively discussion,” he cleared his throat, realising that he was silent far too long. “Your shirt is almost fixed, so one last question.”

“Of course,” she stretched, fighting back a yawn.

“The scars on your side,” he noticed that Tav immediately moved to cover them up, pulling his shirt down with a jerk. “How did you get them?”

He had noticed them before, the night of the party. But he didn’t really care to ask then. Astarion out of all people knew that scars could tell quite a story. Cazador told him that his were a poem, but he was determined to find out exactly what it was that that bastard carved into his skin.

Astarion was a little taken aback when Tav’s demeanor changed, the expression turning bitter for the briefest moment before she caught herself. When she turned to look at him, her smile was as pleasant as any she would usually give him.

“Ah. I believe this is the question I will choose not to answer. At least not tonight. Thank you for my shirt and for talking to me. I enjoyed getting to know you a little better. Goodnight.”

“Sleep well, my dear,” he handed her the mended shirt, watching her walk away from the campfire without another word.

Well, perhaps there was more to their fearless leader after all. There was definitely a secret, something that she did not want to be uncovered just yet. And that piqued his interest. Perhaps a goblet of wine or two would loosen her tongue next time they decided to meet for a chat.

Astarion scowled. Him finding talking to Tav pleasant and them bonding was not part of the plan. On the contrary, any sort of relationship was a hindrance.

The vampire rose soundlessly and looked into the woods. Perhaps a hunt to clear his head would do him good. If anything, it would take his mind off Tav. Because whatever was happening between them had to remain a transaction. And it would be prudent not to forget that even for a moment.

💖 Tag list 💖:

@ninty900,

@ayselluna, @dajeong, @ravenswritingroom,

@misscrissfemmefatale,

@clazberryk, @anukulee,

@preciouslittlebhaalbae,

@sh3rl0ck, @mellowenthusiast2299,

@fleetstreet78, @starlight-rogue,

@obsessedwhyyes, @arzen9

#bg3 #baldurs gate 3 #astarion #bg3 astarion #fanfic #astarion fanfiction #fanfiction #astarion tav fanfiction #bg3 tav #baldur's gate fanfiction #roguish cat #tailor astarion #budding romance

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itacats · 3 months ago

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Under the Shadow of Ghost

FT: Simon "Ghost" Riley x gn!reader

Warnings: past trauma, war themes, please let me know if anything else should be here!🙏

A/N: Trying something new with a character that has been plaguing my brain. First time writing with TF141 - feeling like this might be a slow burn kinda thing.

Read Part 2 here! Read Part 3 here! Read Part 4 here! Read Part 5 here! Read Part 6 here! Read Part 7 here! Read Part 8 here! Read Part 9 here!

Part 1: Into the Fold

As the newest member of Task Force 141, I felt the electrifying pulse of adrenaline coursing through my veins, accompanied by an undercurrent of doubt that gnawed at my resolve. The weight of my gear was nothing compared to the weight of the responsibility that now fell upon me. Around me stood the elite – legends whose names alone carried more power than any weapon. Simon "Ghost" Riley was the most enigmatic among them, a figure whose reputation cast a shadow that stretched far beyond his silent presence. The skull mask he wore seemed to be more than just an intimidation tactic – it was a barrier, a reminder that no one was allowed to see the man beneath. His past was a whisper among the team, a dark tale of betrayal, violence, and unimaginable pain. And yet, he stood unflinching, his every movement deliberate, his gaze unreadable.

Beside him was Soap, a man who wore his brash confidence like a badge of honor. His laughter could cut through the tension of any firefight, his jokes and quips serving as the last thread of sanity we often clung to. But beneath that devil-may-care attitude, I knew there was a man as serious and deadly as any soldier I’d ever met. Then there was Gaz – razor-sharp, always on edge, his eyes flicking between targets as if constantly calculating the odds. He was quick-witted and quicker on the trigger, never missing a beat in the heat of battle. And finally, there was Captain Price, a figure larger than life itself. He had the kind of authority that didn’t need to be spoken. It was felt. His leadership was a rock in the storm, and even though he rarely showed emotion, his mere presence was enough to rally the team in the face of impossible odds.

I had been thrown into this firestorm, a greenhorn among giants. Earning their trust would take more than just pulling my weight in battle – it would take resilience, endurance, and a willpower forged in the fires of chaos. I had to prove that I was more than just another soldier assigned to fill a roster spot. I had to show them I was one of them. That I belonged.

My poker face became my greatest weapon, a mask I had perfected long before the battlefield became my home. No one could read the thoughts that tumbled like dice in my mind. The fear, the doubt, the anger – it all stayed hidden behind a façade of calm. But over time, as the sweat, blood, and dust of our missions blurred the days together, I found myself inexplicably drawn to Ghost. There was something about his quiet stoicism that spoke to me, something in the depth of his silence that resonated with the scars I carried – scars that ran deeper than the physical.

Ghost was a riddle wrapped in pain, a man shaped by horrors that would have shattered anyone else. I could see it in the way he moved, deliberate and unyielding, as if every step was an act of defiance against the demons that haunted him. His eyes, always obscured behind the mask, told stories I would never hear. The hushed rumors that swirled around him – the torture, the betrayal, the graves he had crawled out of – only heightened the sense of mystery. Yet, despite it all, he never faltered. He was the kind of soldier you could follow into hell without hesitation. But there was a heaviness to him, a burden he carried that no one could touch, and in some way, I understood that.

Perhaps that’s why I couldn’t help but feel a connection to him, even though I knew he’d never acknowledge it. Ghost didn’t form attachments – not in the way that others might. He lived in a world where connections were weaknesses, and weakness could - no - would get you killed. But still, in those moments between missions, in the fleeting glances and shared silences, I saw a flicker of something familiar. A reflection of my own struggles, my own battles fought in the shadows of my mind.

I knew better than to pry into his past. Men like Ghost didn’t share their stories willingly. They were locked behind walls so high and thick that no one could scale them. But in some way, just being near him made me feel like I wasn’t alone in my fight. Maybe that was the draw – the unspoken understanding between soldiers who had seen too much, lost too much, and yet continued to stand, unwavering, in the face of it all.

Every mission we embarked on was another chapter in a story that felt both infinite and fleeting. The gunfire, the explosions, the brief moments of camaraderie – they all blended together into a tapestry of survival. And in the middle of it all was Ghost, a figure who seemed more legend than man. I was determined to earn his respect, to prove that I wasn’t just another cog in the machine, but a soldier worthy of standing alongside the infamous Task Force 141.

In the end, it wasn’t about being fearless. It was about understanding that fear was inevitable, but what mattered was how you handled it. Ghost had his way. And I had mine. But perhaps, in the chaos of war, we weren’t so different after all.

Read Part 2 here!

I want to turn this into a multi-part series. If you have any suggestions on how to improve for these guys let me know! Thought I might give these guys a writing shot and see how it turns out.

Thanks for reading this far💙

#bt extra #simon ghost riley #simon riley x reader #ghost cod #call of duty #fanfic #cod fic #ghost x reader #this is more important than homework #gn reader #under the shadow of ghost

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pratchettquotes · 1 year ago

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A Personal Note: Celebrating 4,000 Followers*

Lord Vetinari walked out of the room and back into the main hall, with Vimes trailing behind. "However," he said, "in order to keep the peace, the golem will have to be destroyed."

"No, sir."

"Allow me to repeat my instruction."

"No, sir."

"I'm sure I just gave you an order, Commander. I distinctly felt my lips move."

"No, sir. He's alive, sir."

"He's just made out of clay, Vimes."

"Aren't we all, sir? According to them pamphlets Constable Visit keeps handing out. Anyway, he thinks he's alive, and that's good enough for me."

The Patrician waved a hand towards the stairs and his office full of paper. "Nevertheless, Commander, I've had no less than nine missives from leading religious figures declaring that he is an abomination."

"Yes, sir. I've given that viewpoint a lot of thought, sir, and reached the following conclusion: arseholes to the lot of 'em, sir."

The Patrician's hand covered his mouth for a moment. "Sir Samuel, you are a harsh negotiator. Surely you can give and take?"

"Couldn't say, sir."

Terry Pratchett, Feet of Clay

*A Rare Personal Note: This exchange comes after what may be one of the most famous Discworld moments of all time: the conversation where Vimes and Vetinari first discuss the age old question, "Who watches the Watch?", which becomes one of the central threads of Vimes' character progression. But the end of the conversation, which involves the fate of the newly christened Constable Dorfl, strikes me powerfully today. This marks one of the few times in canon that Vimes explicitly rejects one of Vetinari's commands on moral grounds. It also marks a rare moment when Vimes and Vetinari (who are often complex foils for each other) seem to agree on a fundamental point of morality: that a person must be treated as a person, whatever the cost, even if we do not understand them. On the last day of 2023, this seems more important to me than ever. We 4,000 Pratchett fans who share the quotes that fill this blog likely share very little else: If we met on the street we would not agree about politics, religion, the weather, or the correct storage of Battle Bread. But I think that Sir Terry would perhaps want us to remember that, even when we are at our most opposed, we are all made out of clay -- and that is something worth protecting. Happy New Year, my friends. May we all continue to learn what must be given, and what can never be taken.

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ihavemanyhusbands · 1 year ago

Note

Hi love, I recently found your tumblr and I'm obsessed, you write so well and i alredy read everthing you wroted <3 would you mind writing a fluff imagine reader x hannibal x will? something like the reader feeling out of place in the relationship, thinking she doesn't fit in with them but them proving her wrong and they love her so much!! Thank you * 3 *

Howdy! Awww thanks so much!! Glad you like my stuff! <33

Thanks for requesting!

———

The sound of Will and Hannibal’s voices turned into a soft din in the background. Your gaze was fixed on the fire dancing in the hearth, your mind further beyond.

The two of them were recounting the events of the day. They’d been assisting Jack with an ongoing investigation, but you hadn’t been listening closely to all the details.

You liked to observe their rapport from time to time — the familiarity, the subtleties, the mutual understanding, among other things. They had met long before you’d come along, and though they didn’t always agree on things, they had their system.

And how you fit into that system wasn’t always clear, leaving you feeling slightly unmoored.

“You’ve gone quiet,” Hannibal’s voice pierced through your daze. “Are we boring you?”

You smiled a little, looking up to see them both looking right back at you.

“No, just thinking,” you said, adjusting your position on the chaise. “Did I miss anything?”

“Not really, just realized we’d been talking for a while,” Will said, eyes scanning your face. “What were you thinking of?”

You shrugged, not really wanting to give those thoughts a voice. He set his glass down and stood up, lifting your legs so he could sit beside you, then placing them over his lap.

“I can tell something’s up,” he said, hands massaging your legs lightly. “How can we help?”

You absently played with a loose thread on your old sweater, meekly glancing at them in turn before sighing.

“I don’t know… it might sound kind of dumb,” you started. “I’ve been thinking… I guess I put myself in the sidelines because, well, I’m not sure where else I should be. Maybe I’m that janky extra piece that sometimes come with puzzles.”

The two of them shared a look, understanding your meaning.

“That’s not true,” Will said with a frown. “You are the last piece of the puzzle, the one that brings everything together.”

You blinked at him in surprise. Hannibal kneeled in front of you so you would be at eye level, taking your hand.

“Perhaps we’ve let the comfort of your presence become… second nature. That was a mistake,” he said, brushing his lips over your knuckles. “Our love is sometimes quiet, but it is still there. I don’t want you to ever doubt it.”

Will squeezed your leg reassuringly, his gaze softening with the bare truth of Hannibal’s words. Giddiness fluttered in your chest, warming you up.

You knew the two of them rarely, if ever, let anybody get close. But you were not just anybody, and their gift had been the trust to fully let you in. What was that if not love?

“I’m surprised you don’t notice me following you around like a lovesick puppy,” Will said, smiling lopsidedly in amusement. “Hannibal won’t let me hear the end of it.”

“I think I’m just in my head too much…” you murmured, biting your lip as Hannibal leaned in to kiss your cheek.

“We’ll have to do something about that, won’t we, Will?” He said.

Will nodded and reached over to take your free hand, thumb tracing over the back of it. “Anything for you.”

——

#will graham x reader #hannibal lecter x reader #hannigram x reader #will graham x hannibal lecter x reader #hannibal fanfiction #minors dni

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sgiandubh · 9 months ago

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Lallybroch: copyright vs. trademark

An excellent question was asked by our friend @rosfrank in the comments thread to 'The door faces North' post and given the cosmic amount of uninformed bullshit being ventilated for almost ten years in this fandom, I think it's time to answer it once and for all:

Whenever we are informally talking about 'owning the rights to something', I think it's very important to bear in mind a fundamental distinction between two different categories of ownership rights: copyright and trademark.

The copyright is the most familiar one to many of you. It is what you usually find on those annoying and apparently useless first or last pages of all the printed or digital editions on this planet. Something like this:

In the US, copyright issues are regulated by the Copyright Act of 1976, as included in Title 17 of the US Code. The US public authority competent for registering and managing copyright is, as predictable, the US Copyright Office.

Perhaps the most seminal US Supreme Court decision, as far as copyright is concerned, is the 1991 Feist Publications, Inc., v. Rural Telephone Service Co. In it, the Court ruled that mere compilations of information or facts (such as, for example, telephone books) are not protected by copyright, according to US law. In other words, the ancient legal concept of 'sweat of the brow' (which simply means the amount of work required to gather and compile those facts/information) is not enough to qualify a work for copyright protection, if no creative effort is added to enhance its content. This is why I have always considered absolutely ridiculous Marple's efforts to watermark public information screenshots: it is useless (to the extent that it legally protects her from nothing) and, as her timelines, a mere compilation of facts (legally ditto). A similar approach is preferred by the UK and also by many Roman law legal systems, such as the French one - just making things clearer, here, by the way.

See how 'Erself is roughly doing, right now, in this department:

But I am rambling. In my view, Lallybroch, as a pivotal concept used in Diana Gabaldon's books, is protected by the copyright granted to each and every of her books mentioning it, according to the Roman law principle 'accessorium sequitur principale' (the accessory follows the principal). So it will remain protected for at least 70 years since the last of her books mentioning it would have been published under copyright. Unless she chooses to separately protect the entire finished cycle as a whole, once Book Ten (fingers crossed) is published, preferably during our foreseeable lifetimes.

That being said, that goes only for one copyright category: (published) text - you cannot copyright that secret diary in your drawer, LOL. This is why, the current US Copyright Office records concerning Lallybroch look like this:

Sony Pictures Television Inc owns the copyright to the fictional name Lallybroch in the motion pictures category, as it is the title of the Episode 12, in Season 1 - DG has been handsomely compensated for this, no worries. And someone I have no idea about owns the rights to an original musical score she has written and titled Lallybroch in the music category, since October 2013.

Onwards to the trademark. This is something different and this is all about making your name/concept/idea profitable. It is all about branding it, putting it on a product and selling it under that brand. It includes all the graphic elements and the logo of the brand (accessorium...) - in short, its visual identity to the consumers. In the US, trademark issues are regulated by the 1946 Lanham Act and the public competent authority is the good old US Patent and Trade Office (USPTO).

Right now, the situation for the Lallybroch trademark is as follows:

So, we see three different trademarks: two of them, owned by Diana Gabaldon, are classified as 'dead' (cancelled and/or abandoned) and the third, Lallybroch Spirits, owned by S's Great Glen Company is pending approval - he will not be able to label any booze bottle Lallybroch Drink Me before permission is granted by the USPTO.

Let's unpack:

Both Lallybroch trademarks formerly owned by Diana Gabaldon were filed at the USPTO on February 21, 2000 and granted on December 12, 2000. The first was aimed at producing 'tartan fabrics for the manufacturer of clothing' and it was abandoned in December 2003:

The reason is that the owner did not file in any Statement of Use after the trademark was granted. She had three years to do so, and since she chose not to do anything about it, the trademark was deemed abandoned (Stacy K. Smith is the attorney hired by Herself, btw). That means she specifically implied not to intend using it in the future. As such, she may claim NO rights on a now free to use mark:

The second trademark was aimed at producing 'clothing, namely, t-shirts, dresses and headwear' and also 'jewelry, namely, rings, pins and necklaces'- to cut the story short: OL merchandise - and it was cancelled on March 1st, 2013:

The reason is that the owner did not file the Section 8 declaration (of continuous use for five years) within the allowed legal timeframe (6 months after the fifth anniversary of the trademark granting renewal). Her trademark federal rights are now deemed canceled (but not her state law and/or common law rights!) and if she wants to ever use that name again, she would have to start the whole process over, bearing in mind the trademark could have been granted to someone else, in the meanwhile (not her case).

And for anyone who might ask, 'Erself does not own any other trademarks whatsoever:

The other (Doll Lab - LOL for ages) Diana Gabaldon is a pharmacist from Albuquerque, NM. Chill. 🤣🤣🤣

The owner of the copyright to the fictional toponym Lallybroch, as far as published text is concerned, is Diana Galabdon.

The owner of the copyright to the fictional toponym Lallybroch, as far as motion pictures are concerned, is Sony Pictures Television Inc.

The owner of the copyright to the fictional toponym Lallybroch, as a personal work of music, is Mrs. Kelly Ruth Davis, of Pennsylvania, USA.

The owner of the Lallybroch Spirits trademark will be Sam Roland Heughan, when that trademark is granted by the USPTO.

I hope this answers your question, @rosfrank. Thank you for asking.

#fandom #shitshow #boozewars #business #legal

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minjoonapio · 5 months ago

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🎐 Wind Breaker CH.154: Raging Inferno

💭 THOUGHTS & ANALYSIS

[ ⚠️ SPOILERS ⚠️ ]

💭 Whenever it’s Wind Breaker day, I’m a nervous mess as the time of the chapter drop approaches. It’s worse that it’s my time of the month. I kid you not, when I was reading the chapter, my whole body was icy cold. I hope I get my thoughts across here.

I appreciate y'all for reading and liking my threads. Never expected it.

I wanna take this opportunity to appreciate Nii sensei’s fighting panels. They’re easy to follow and he brings impact on the punches.

This chapter though…it’s triggering my scoliosis 🫠 Twice! In one chapter!

Oh the way Sakura shuddered when Umemiya lifted his bloody face after he punched Chika on the back. The way Sakura stuttered a “H-hey…”

Our boy is scared of our leader.

And now he’s scared for Chika’s life because he believes Umemiya might seriously do a bad number on him even though he’s aware he’s strong too.

I know. I don’t like this either. The fact he had had this close bond with Ume especially after the leader shared his heavy past to him. And now…Sakura looks like he has this urge to stay away from him.

I've mentioned before that if the Old Ume never won against Chika...and with how he is acting right now, Ume might lose. Ume needs to stop being blinded by his rage and be clear of his goal here. Because right now, it just looks like he just wants to render Chika unconscious.

Just as I imagined, Ume would bother the heck out of Chika as he did with Hiragi, Tsubaki and I’m sure even Momose and Mizuki. But Ume tries to speak in Chika’s language. I'm sure he got to know him a little bit through him or their schoolmates. And it led Ume to place bets in their fights for Chika to join him.

"If I win, you gotta join me"

Chika left because most of Furin was getting soft and boring thanks to Umemiya. But most of all, he can't enjoy fighting Umemiya anymore. He enjoyed fighting THAT Ume. The Ume that was struggling and grasping for a change in the gang. The Ume who would do anything to have his goals and ideals met. But Ume was already gaining that. Because Ume was already attaining his goals, he changed; he has gone softer and gentler like the rest of Furin. So Chika left.

When Endo finally noticed, he had to make Furin and Umemiya like how they were before. Angry, unhinged, and desperate…so his dear Chika wont get bored.

Well, here it is. He made it happen. Endo sent that declaration of war, brought the town and Bofurin into chaos, and made sure Umemiya stood helplessly in the rooftop as h watched his found family get hurt...all to bring back that old Umemiya from few years ago. Anything for his sweet Chika Takiishi.

Thinking of what Endo said, we get that Chika has an unfathomable excitement to fight Umemiya. Perhaps it's the thrill of fighting someone as strong as him, someone like a raging fire. But is there something more to it? The way Chika's eyes shine, getting a kick out of their exchange of hands together. Is it to shut Umemiya down? Crush his soul? Break his spirit? (Oh wait. That's reminding me of how Endo attempted to do on Sakura chapters ago... 👀)

If you've been following me (in twitter), I was clinging to this idea that Umemiya would do something scary that would trigger Sakura to act and snap Umemiya out of it. I never thought it would already happen. That Umemiya would lose. As a cliffhanger, it seems so.

I had to zoom on the last page to see if Umemiya's eyes are actually closed. But I wonder what would happen next. In the last page, Chika just lifted his head, filled with excitement and adrenaline, but is he fully aware that Ume is unconscious? IF he is unconscious.

If he isn't, would he be like "Hey! Let's continue fighting!"

But if we're thinking of the weights of their fists, Umemiya would have weighed heavier; if he managed to make his resolve and goal clear in his fight with Chika. But if he's just so blinded by the heat of his emotions, it probably explains why he's knocked on the ground.

But for Chika? What is it he's fighting for? It must be something more than the thrill. Because what if Umemiya...won't fight him anymore?

Ngl, I desperately want to see a point of view of either Chika or Umemiya. So far, we only have been hearing from Endo and Sakura. We are stuck with them as spectators of the fight; which I think is what Nii-sensei wants us to feel. And I'm sure we feel the same way as Sakura: helpless (like Umemiya watching from the rooftop 🥲)

My initial predictions?

This may just be for cliff hangers sake and Umemiya is still conscious. And maybe...we might see another side of Umemiya. Defeated? A pathetic side Sakura's never seen? Because Nii sensei has built Umemiya (even in his character design. Hello, wide shoulders?) to be this protective big brother in the gang.

But I feel like that's kinda farfetched. Umemiya and his friends have worked so hard to bring peace to the town and bring order to Bofurin. He should not be defeated. He wouldn't allow it.

Whatever will happen, I believe Umemiya has to stop being like his old self and be firm with what he needs to do in order to stop Chika.

#wind breaker #wb154 #sakura haruka #umemiya hajime #ウィンブレ #endo yamato #chika takiishi

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jeonaissance · 5 months ago

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Divorced in Ghana - Part 1 :; J.JK

- Summary: It is said that in the Republic of Ghana, couples who want to divorce must wear the same wedding dress and suit on their wedding day and divorce at the same wedding venue.

- Pairing: Jungkook x f!reader

- Based on the song "Divorced in Ghana".

- a/n: You should listen to the song I pinned, it will give you a better experiment!

Their love has lasted for eleven years, seven years of dating, four years of marriage. A life so fulfilling that outsiders can only say: "They may be meant for each other."

One year before they married, Jungkook and Y/N moved to Ghana together to live and work. Perhaps they are both doctors, with the same goal, so they are so attractive and understand each other, just a glance quickly knowing what the other needs.

The peaceful life in Ghana gradually passed, although the work is tiring, they always give each other words of encouragement, comfort, and steadfast faith. It can be said that, in a foreign land, Jungkook and Y/N are each other's most solid spiritual foundation.

But their happiness gradually shook when Jungkook was accepted by the hospital as the main doctor. His workload was twice as much as the others because there were only three neurosurgeons in this hospital.

Y/N also worked hard but she gradually felt the connection between her and Jungkook more and more delicate. She tried to talk to him a lot but he would almost never be home when she finished work or when he was home, she had to work at the hospital.

At this time Jungkook was also in a state of stress, many sleepless nights, long hours of treatment made him tired. Sometimes when he went home, he would sit on the sofa and sleep.

Y/N was worried about his health so she always tried to stay at the hospital a little to find him, bring him some food but recently she noticed that he rarely touched the food she prepared.

This state had lasted for more than three months and made someone remember. The two of them were getting busier and busier, they barely had time to sit together and talk, thinking and looking back at their marriage like a thread that was straining to endure.

…

“Jungkook, I just asked if you wanted to go out with me, what did I do that made you suddenly angry with me?” Y/N said angrily.

“Enough Y/N. I don’t want to talk to you anymore, go out.”

Jungkook turned his head back to his desk, it was clear that he didn’t want to talk to her anymore.

“You’re getting more and more difficult to understand, I think I can’t understand you anymore, Jungkook. I have to talk to you clearly today.”

The anger in her grew bigger and bigger, she walked to his desk.

“I told you to go out. I have a lot of work today.”

“I’m not going!”

Jungkook pressed his temples, feeling a little upset.

“Don’t you find the most important thing is our marriage? It’s been three months, we haven’t talked, we haven’t had a moment of intimacy, even just looking at each other was so difficult. What else do you think is important? Is our marriage not as important as your pieces of paper?”

She glared at him, her voice filled with regret and resentment. She felt like he was taking this marriage lightly, her heart was breaking at the thought of it.

“Y/N! You are annoyed, you know that? Get out! I don’t want to see you right now!”

Her eyes flashed with surprise. Did he just say she was annoyed? It turned out that she wanted to talk to her husband, but it was just annoying to him?

“Am I annoyed? Okay, I’m going.” Y/N grabbed her outer shirt and walked out.

Jungkook was also angry, he didn’t follow her and was no longer in the mood to continue working.

…

Tonight, she drank and then dragged her steps home. She knew that even if she called him to pick her up, he would never mind picking up her phone.

“Where are you going? Why do you smell like alcohol?” Jungkook saw her entering the house and asked her worriedly.

“Ignore me.”

Y/N went upstairs and fell tiredly onto the large bed. She thought that eleven years of love would be enough to make all the mess between them disappear, but it seemed like it was getting harder and harder.

“Y/N, are you asleep yet? I brought you some hangover soup.”

Y/N got up and opened the door.

“I have something to tell you.”

“Can we do it another time? I’m not in the mood right now.”

She immediately refused, she really didn’t want to talk to him.

“Real quick.”

She sighed and nodded: “Go ahead.”

“My love for you is no longer like before. I can no longer feel the love in me when I look at you. We are together, confronting you like this is like a habit. Y/N, we both deserve better, right?”

Y/N was silent, she couldn’t understand what he was saying. They have been in love for eleven years, right? His words were as gentle as a breeze, making the waves in her heart even more intense.

“I want to divorce.” Jungkook fatefully told her.

“Eleven years together… Doesn’t it mean anything to you?”

Jungkook gasped, he spoke softly.

“Eleven years to me is everything, something that is created inside me. But, if we are only together because of responsibility, because the vain hope of a day not far away made us hurt and resent each other. That’s not fair to either of us. I don’t deny our past, and I can’t forget what you gave me. It’s just that this love has changed and sometimes no matter how much we want it, love can’t conquer everything.”

“Do you really want a divorce…?”

Jungkook sighed, nodding seriously.

“Yes, I want a divorce.”

#Spotify #bts x reader #bts fanfic #bts imagines #bts jungkook #jungkook #jungkook x reader #jungkook x y/n #jungkook x you #jungkook x female reader #jeon jungkook

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local-hellhound-steals-spaghetti · 1 year ago

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Hi! Given your experience working with marine mammals and intelligent views on cetacean captivity, I wanted to ponder the following. Here in the Netherlands is a cetacean (mostly porpoise) rescue organisation. After years of having no facilities, and having a 100% kill policy unless a porpoise could be returned straight away, they finally have a gorgeous rescue facility again.

Recently they announced the facility would be getting an outdoor expansion, featuring habitats emulating the Wadden Sea ecosystem. Providing both education about its inhabitants, as well as a place for late-stage rehab porpoises to spend their last weeks before release outside, in a larger habitat. And, in case an animal is non-releasable, provide an adequate space to hold them for while while next steps are being assessed.

The response was overwhelmingly negative. Most of their following is cetacean-smitten, but completely anti-cap (of the emotional, uninformed type). They all bristled at the idea that perhaps a few sharks and seals would be kept there "and then you'd be no better than a zoo!" (which is of course the worst thing to be). But mostly: the amount of people saying they would honestly rather see a non-releasable porpoise killed, because death is preferable to spending a single day in captivity ("because that is what I would want"), is frankly staggering. What do you say to these people??? A rescue facility is getting a beautiful outdoor expansion - GREAT! How can someone claim to love the animals so much when they would rather see them dead than in a situation that makes them personally uncomfortable? It just boggles my mind and frustrates me to no end.

Tl;dr: people want rescued porpoises dead because they might end up in captivity, and have you found an appropriate response to this ridiculous line of thinking?

Wow that's really amazing that the Netherlands is stepping up like that! It sounds like a great option for rehab and also to provide much needed education about porpoises to the public.

Honestly my response to those people is pretty much what you said: "Why do you want to see these animals dead just because it makes you personally unhappy to see them in human care?"

I think it's important to call out these comments as what they are: advocating for the death of animals. It's not noble, it's people projecting their own guilt complexes (of something they have no control) over onto animals.

And that is what a lot of anti captivity propaganda relies on - shame and guilt. That's what I remember when I was starting to allow myself to learn more about SeaWorld after being so convinced by Blackfish for a long time. I felt a hollow shame feeling in my chest as if being curious about how killer whales are trained was somehow wrong or bad.

Activist marketing (especially The Dolphin Project and anything from Naomi Rose, Lori Marino and Ingrid Visser) is about making you feel bad for even considering going to marine parks or learning more about cetaceans in human care. As if it would genuinely make a difference on things like Taiji or improve the lives of the animals in any way (it won't and it looks like it's only making things worse at this point)

A lot of these activists have massive egos and savior complexes that are fed by this sort of marketing. As if their snarky comment on Facebook is going to make a difference.

At the end of the day, they're people that have to make zero personal sacrifice (going to a marine park is not a hard thing to do for them) to feel a sense of moral superiority. And that's very reinforcing and feels good.

If you calmly give them the facts about cetacean welfare in human care and tell them exactly what they're advocating for (death or poor welfare)- it may not change their mind (because that's not how our brains work) but it may convince the people reading the comment thread.

#cetacean welfare #blackfish #seaworld #marine mammal rescue

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zedecksiew · 1 year ago

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THE BLOGGIES 2023: FINALISTS

(If you just want to skip to the list of BLOGGIE finalists, scroll to the "Who Are The BLOGGIES?" section below.)

+++

WHAT ARE THE BLOGGIES?

Awards for some of the best tabletop roleplaying game (TTRPG) blog posts to come out in 2022. There will be five awards: Best Theory Blogpost, Best Gameable Blogpost, Best Advice Blogpost, Best Review Blogpost, and, the biggest one, Best Blogpost.

I won Best Blogpost, last year. So I am hosting the BLOGGIES, this year.

+++

WHY ARE THE BLOGGIES?

Blogs are worth celebrating. Barring the actual playing of actual games, they are our most fertile field, our most volatile laboratory. Longform, text-based, and informal---they are a place to jot down our most outre design ideas. Free and publicly available---they are a vector for open debate and serendipitous discourse. Perhaps most importantly: relatively free of algorithmic social-media pressures---they are the best chance we have at a cultural memory.

I got into TTRPGs because of blogs.

The BLOGGIES are, at best, an affirmation of the above. At least, they are a way to celebrate 64 excellent blog posts from the last year, and maybe get them in front of people who did not read them the first time.

+++

HOW ARE THE BLOGGIES?

Nominations: I put an open call for blog-post nominations on Christmas 2023; I also canvassed the TTRPG communities I am part of. Nominated posts had to be from between 1 December 2022 to 31 December 2023.

I closed the nomination period on 1 Jan 2024 with 149 blog posts for consideration. I read / re-read them all.

I chose a slate of 64 finalists, according to the following metrics, in order:

Enthusiasm---a post got multiple nominations;

Diversity---no one blog was allowed to be a finalist more than once in a category (except the Reviews category, where this rule was tied to individual writers, due to shared review blogs);

Notability---a post was extraordinary in presenting a novel idea, addressing an important subject, or reflecting a community current.

Obviously, that last metric is highly subjective, and limited to my knowledge and perspective in the scene. I did my best.

I will not have final final say. Finalists will go head to head, vying for to be anointed best of the best by ballot. The bracket was seeded in order of number of nominations received. The BLOGGIES await your vote, o TTRPG folx.

+++

WHEN ARE THE BLOGGIES?

Throughout January 2024! Voting is >>>NOW OPEN<<< on Google Forms according to the following schedule (I will link to the forms and result threads as I post them):

First Week January - THEORY

3 January: Round of 16

4 January: Round of 8

5 January: Round of 4

6 January: Quarterfinals (winners in category) - Results

Second Week January - GAMEABLE

10 January: Round of 16

11 January: Round of 8

12 January: Round of 4

13 January: Quarterfinals (winners in category) - Results

Third Week January - ADVICE

17 January: Round of 16

18 January: Round of 8

19 January: Round of 4

20 January: Quarterfinals (winners in category) - Results

Fourth Week January - REVIEW

24 January: Round of 16

25 January: Round of 8

26 January: Round of 4

27 January: Quarterfinals (winners in category) - Results

31 January - FINALS

+++

WHO ARE THE BLOGGIES?

Your BLOGGIES 2023 FINALISTS are (presented in bracket order):

(High-res version here)

+++

THEORY

🥉 (1) being a problem - playable orcs at the limits of humanity, from Majestic Fly Whisk Some deep thinking about the racialisation of the orc in elfgames, why mainstream fixes fall short, and ways to move beyond.

(16) #132: Axes of Game Design, from The Indie RPG Newsletter An exploration of the design axes / spectrums on which every TTRPG may fall.

(8) The Genres the OSR Can't Do, from A Knight At The Opera Sketching the limits of the OSR playstyle by looking at genres which are too differently-bound for it to emulate.

(9) RPG Transcript Analysis: Critical Role, from Trilemma Adventures Examining a style of play through transcript analysis (looking at what is actually being said during a session), with Critical Role as case study.

🥈 (5) Critical GLOG: Base Resolution Mechanics, from Goblin Punch A deep dive into dice and resolution mechanics, and what they do in practice.

(12) My favorite problems, from Failure Tolerated A list of design problems in TTRPGs, and a case for game design and theory to be driven by problem-solving.

(4) Roleplay Is Folk Art, from Wizard Thief Fighter An impassioned call to consider TTRPGs as folk art as opposed to corpocratic walled-garden IPs.

(13) ART, PRODUCT, BOARD GAMES AND MAUSRITTER, from Fail Forward Critique of reviews that accuse TTRPGs for being too slick; interrogating the assumptions behind the label “commercial”.

(6) Toolbox Design, from The Dododecahedron Considering the principles of designing TTRPGs like toolboxes, through the lens of Cairn RPG and similar.

(11) Mario vs ActRaiser vs Final Fantasy vs Zelda - Types of Advancement in RPGs, from Rise Up Comus Identifying some general types of advancement in TTRPGs, using videogames as a comparative lens.

(3) Posters, Posers and POSR(s), from Prismatic Wasteland Relitigating whether the OSR is dead, and defining its successor, the Post-OSR.

(14) psychosis is badly written in tabletop games, from paper cult “Attempting to mechanize something so intensely personal, different, and mutable as mental illness is complicated. I think that makes these depictions bad!”

(7) “Rules Elide” and Its Consequences, from Jared Considering the implications of the maxim that "a game is about X when you have rules for everything but X".

(10) Models of High-Level Play, from Benign Brown Beast Loose but useful classifications for types of high-level play: domains; god-like play; etc.

🥇 (2) OSR Rules Families, from Traverse Fantasy Sketching the landscape of the OSR, how various systems function, and how their attributes cluster and trend together.

(15) Moralising and manipulation in tabletop roleplaying games, from Playful Void The importance of having design preferences without tying these preferences to moral judgments.

+++

GAMEABLE

🥉 (1) Flux Space, from Papers & Pencils A point-crawl procedure specifically designed for labyrinths / dungeons that are architecturally confusing / samey.

(16) Generating Elevation in a Hexcrawl, from Traveler's Rest Procedures and advice on how to generate a mountain-crawl: hiking-focused adventure geography.

(8) The Autumn of Summers, from False Machine God-monsters born of summer, the hunting culture around such beasts, and random tables to generate their attributes.

(9) MIMICS, from Vaults Of Vaarn A spread of novel pretender-creatures, with ecological and social implications.

(5) Another take on demihumans as social constructs, from Cavegirl's Game Stuff What if we consider fantasy races not as separate species, but as differing social roles?

(12) The Apocalypse Archive, from Bearded Devil An unfinished by exemplary #dungeon23 attempt that includes wonderful maps and soundtrack notes.

🥈 (4) Pointcrawling Character Creation, from Rise Up Comus A framework for tying character generation to a geography, generating history and familiarity with campaign locales.

(13) how to be erased, from Straits Of Anian Procedures for getting lost and getting led astray, and the kith and spirits one meets in those places.

(6) Dungeon Skirmishing, from All Dead Generations Feature-complete skirmish combat mechanics for OD&D, and the design rationales thereof.

(11) Zelda-Style NPC Personalities, from To Distant Lands A system of generating quick and punchy NPCs, inspired by the way Zelda videogames present NPCs.

(3) GULCH, from Mindstorm A starter town specifically designed for contemporary (horror, urban fantasy, non-fantasy) campaigns.

(14) Down the Road: Local Situation Design, from Deeper In The Game A procedure for quickly generating a powderkeg situation in a local geography of play.

🥇 (7) Laws of the Land: meaningful terrain via in-fiction limits and conditions, from Was It Likely? A method to generate meaningful diegetic terrain and tone in an adventuring region.

(10) False Equivalent Exchange, from The Graverobber's Guide A novel magic system, done in natural language, with discussion on how it could be used in play.

(2) Deeper Catacombs, from Benign Brown Beast Iteration notes and a presentation of a comprehensive dungeon tracking procedure.

(15) Inadvisable Decisions (GLΔG), from The Nothic's Eye An evocative alienist character class, based on drawing the attention of alter-describable things from beyond.

+++

ADVICE

🥈 (1) How to Handle Parley as an OSR DM, from Goblin Punch Comprehensive notes on how to run non-combat encounters without resorting to boring rolls.

(16) GM Pointers: Live-Text Games, from Shadow & Fae Good reminders on how to run live-text games better, so they are better coordinated and don't take forever.

(8) ONLY Roll Initiative, from Bastionland Considerations on how to adjudicate combats, if initiative were the only dice roll in a combat system.

(9) Action Mysteries, from A Knight At The Opera Asserting that good TTRPGs mysteries involve action---not just figuring out the truth but opposing the antagonist's goals.

(5) Modular Ecology, from The Graverobber's Guide A practical approach to including gameable ecology in TTRPGs, by tying materials to specific locations and conditions of the world.

(12) ULTIMATE ANIMIST MECHANIC: EVERYTHING IS A REACTION, from Alone In The Labyrinth How to run a game where all actions are resolved by reaction roll: everything in the world responds by how much they like you.

(4) Game Mastering Like A Park Ranger, from SILVERARM Advice about GM-ing, based on the real-world work experience of being a park ranger.

(13) An OSR approach to Spotlight, from Permanent Cranial Damage The suggestion that intentionally spotlighting characters solves the real-life problem of spotlighting players nicely.

(6) #Dungeon23, from Win Conditions The idea that spawned a thousand notebook dungeons, plus salient advice on how to start / keep going.

(11) The Storyteller Technique, from Possum Creek Games When writing TTRPGs, imagine your game text as a diegetic artefact in the world of the game.

🥉 (3) RANSACKING THE ROOM, from Mindstorm A simple and powerful three-step method to handle room-searching in games: inspect, search, and ransack.

(14) Cairn Crash Course, from Widdershins Wanderings A masterclass example on how to write player guides to a game, for Cairn RPG.

(7) AN EXAMPLE OF FKR (NEAR-)DICELESS COMBAT (WITH COSMIC ORRERY!), from Underground Adventures Describing combat in a Free Kriegsspiel Roleplaying (FKR) game, useful in understanding that playstyle.

🥇 (10) Re-inventing the Wilderness: Part 1 - Introduction, from sachagoat Figuring out problems with wilderness exploration, and applying a mental-map framework from urban-theory academia.

(2) Dungeon Design, Process and Keys, from All Dead Generations A detailed process to designing and keying a traditional dungeon adventure.

(15) THE D&D IN MY HEAD: In Only 6 Load-Bearing Numbers, from I Cast Light! Identifying the essential and minimum rules you need to remember, to run D&D.

+++

REVIEW

🥇 (1) An Empty Africa - PF2E's The Mwangi Expanse and the strange career of Black Atlanticism, from Majestic Fly Whisk A review of Pathfinder’s "The Mwangi Expanse", and a discussion of Black Atlanticism's fraught relationship with its sourcelands.

(16) What Hull Breach Teaches Us, from Mazirian's Garden An assessment of the Mothership RPG third-party "Hull Breach" anthology as a "new standard for anthology companions".

(8) Grave Trespass - Jim Henson's Labyrinth: The Adventure Game, from Bones Of Contention A review of the Labyrinth RPG. It’s got all these things which are "bad" in RPGs, so why does it work?

(9) The First Rumor Tables, Part 2: Caverns of Thracia or Caverns of Quasqueton?, from Tom Van Winkle's Return To Gaming An investigation into the origins of rumour tables in TTRPGs. Did TSR plagiarise Jaquays?

(5) Standing up for D&D's Gen X: 2e (Part 1), from Mythlands Of Erce A full-throated defense of D&D2E, viewing it in the context of its time and as a refinement over 1E.

(12) Systemcrawl: Break!! RPG, from Widdershins Wanderings A review and system analysis of Break!! RPG, which marries JRPG and OSR inspirations.

(4) Dungeon Crawls in Cinema, from Directsun Games Evaluating several films on the basis of how well they function as dungeon crawls.

(13) Reasonable Reviews, from Rise Up Comus A general overview of TTRPG reviews, and what may or may not make them useful.

(6) Deep Dive: A|STATE, from The Indie Game Reading Club A review of a|state, and how it builds on and departs from the Blades In The Dark formula.

(11) I Read Cloud Empress, from Playful Void A review of Cloud Empress, the first descendant of the Mothership RPG ruleset.

🥈 (3) Plagiarism in Unconquered (2022), from Traverse Fantasy A forensic analysis of how Unconquered plagiarised Ultraviolet Grasslands and Vaults Of Vaarn.

(14) Rod, Reel, & Fist (Review), from Benign Brown Beast A substantial review of Rod, Reel, & Fist, a "system-forward fishing simulation RPG".

(7) Pedantic Wasteland - Vampire Cruise, from Bones Of Contention A review of Vampire Cruise, a largely system-neutral horror-comedy adventure set at sea.

(10) Dragon Magazine: Player Advice Collection Overview, from Attronarch Athenaeum A comprehensive read-through and rating of 143 Dragon Magazine advice articles.

(2) Spire: The Monstrosity of Empire, the Necessity of Violence, from A A Voigt A comparative-literature analysis of Spire RPG through R F Kuang’s spec-fic novel "Babel, or the Necessity of Violence".

🥉 (15) MICROBLOG: CHILDREN'S BOOKS AND TABLETOP GAMES, from Fail Forward Considering the influence of children’s books on TTRPG designers and works like "Barkeep on the Borderlands".

+++

It is difficult to describe how hard it was for me to whittle down the list of nominees to these finalists. I consider each of these 64 a landmark in 2023's TTRPG thinkings, and the folks from which they issue essential reading, going forward. They already deserve a prize.

So here it is, dear bloggers: a hand-carved linocut "finalist's pin" graphic you are free to use on your sites / posts, should you wish:

(High-res downloadable version HERE)

Thank you for writing! And good luck in the coming rounds of voting!

+++

CORRECTION: A blog post from 2021 (Not All Crunch Is the Same, from A Knight At The Opera), was included in the soft-launch posting of this list. An error on the part of its nominator, compounded by a data-entry error on my part. It has since been replaced by a post from the same blog with the actual most nominations (The Genres the OSR Can't Do). I have also double-checked my lists and all finalists. Apologies for my error!

#bloggies2023 #ttrpgs

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copia · 19 days ago

Text

TEETH OF GOD TRANSCRIPTS

typing these out since the handwriting font is quite difficult to read. don't go under the cut if you're avoiding spoilers <3

all the director's notes, separated by episode. the note in the final episode has some random letters replaced by the TMBTE runes; i've replaced these back to normal letters here so it's easier to read and possible for me to type lmao. i obviously can't guarantee no typos here, but there are a few instances of odd phrasing/repetition/grammar in the comic and i've copied those out as they are. please let me know if you spot an issue!!

EPISODE ONE: LAMBS

15 days since emergence of the Lunar Anomaly

When I was a child, I was frequently beset by certain recurring dreams. There is one such dream that I remember more than most — one in which I found myself standing on a vast shoreline gazing out at a flat, wide sea. Slowly as I watched, the horizon gradually began to lift. Before long I was able to observe that this lifting expanse was approaching me — a wall of smooth, black water that curled into an impossible lip at its peak. Rather surprisingly, I do not recall being afraid of such an ominous sight. Well, to be more precise, I was afraid — I was terrified, but not of the wave itself. Instead, it was the thought of what was beyond it. This vast, unstoppable force sweeping forth to herald the end of everything, to drown the world and then eventually sink back into itself. A careless shrug of entropy enough to sever the thread of all fates. I felt that were I to somehow survive this limitless tide, then I would be left in a world that would not recognise me. I would become an element until myself and myself alone.

An echo stuck in the throat of a dead god.

Yet here I am. It has been over two weeks since the emergence of the lunar anomaly. Our teams spent nearly two years attempting to anticipate what this event would mean for humanity — analysing endless reams of lunar topography along with every known form of spectroscopy, all amounting to one hopeless conclusion: to burrow into the bowels of the death and simply wait that whatever emerged from within would reach us there last.

As it would turn out, this one final act of humble surrender is what won the last of us the right to our own lives in these final days. Those of us alive now are not those who sought to barter with destiny and defiantly cling to a civilised existence at the surface — or even any existence at all.

It would seem that in the wake of this phenomenon, we were best served by our most base instincts, where shame wound no place to dwell. The ones who survived are those who spat their hubris and hid desperately down in the mud like rats.

I want it to be known that we made every effort to warn the others, though naturally we could not provide much of a basis upon which to suggest that our entire species was facing imminent and utter demise besides a few fissures at the southern lunar pole. With that said, we begun building this underground facility once we realised that the moon's orbit was rapidly decaying in a way that was inconsistent with any known physical model — I find it hard to believe that none of them followed our lead — Perhaps some of them did. Either way, we have no way of knowing now.

My expectations for the first surface expedition were bleak at best. In all honesty, I was shocked to discover that our initial recordings showed that there remained a breathable atmosphere. Perhaps in all this turmoil, I found it easier to commit my mind to the worst possible outcome at every turn.

The limited data we gathered before the event — despite two years of efforts — didn't prepare us for the havoc we now face. To say that we find ourselves at a loss to explain the phenomena would be a gratuitous understatement. The cataclysm that occurred two weeks ago had taught us one unshakeable rule about this new world we now hid beneath — to gaze upon the moon is to die.

For this reason, we rapidly developed wearable countermeasures for the surface teams that would prove vital in allowing them to navigate the surface. If only we could have known that this was far from the only threat that would await them. To say that we find ourselves at a loss to explain the phenomena would be a gratuitous understatement.

It is not only human life that is affected by the lunar anomaly, but that if all life, albeit in vastly different ways. To put it simply — this new type of emergent biology is beyond the boundaries of what we are able to study and understand.

I find myself already laden with guilt over those we lost. More than that however, I feel most guilty about the way I reacted to learning of the remnant human elements that attacked them. I feel strangely comforted, despite the deeply disturbing nature of that discovery.

Upon further inspection, I arrived at the conclusion that this feeling came from a sense of familiarity. Human beings fighting other human beings is a horror that has plagued us all since time immemorial, but here in the wake of such deeply unfamiliar and unpredictable occurrences, it is hard not to feel almost comforted by such an immediately recognisable problem.

With that said, I do also find myself deeply troubled by the prospect of humans remaining on the surface in that state. The consensus among my colleagues is that their actions were not bourne of their own will, though there is every chance that this is a conclusion we are clinging to in preference over the unsettling alternative.

I feel that I am rapidly squandering the precious remnants of human life in the desire to understand what has happened, though in truth I know not what else to do. Perhaps this is the only way we can cling to our humanity — by continuing our constant battle with the sheer unknown right to the very end.

The Director

EPISODE TWO: PANTHEON

28 Days since Lunar Anomaly

Already I find myself in the surprising position of yearning for the way things were two weeks ago. Two weeks ago, I was contending with the end of the world. Now, I contend with the reality of what has replaced it.

We took the trouble to equip ourselves as thoroughly as possible with the means of studying any emergent phenomena on the surface even whilst entombed beneath the earth. We now find ourselves consumed by the pursuit of understanding — it is truly all that we have left. However the samples we've acquired offer no such mercy — their nature and origin is fundamentally foreign to us. Something we can say is that, contrary to the individual assumption that most life on the surface had been wiped out, there is in fact an abundance of some kind of new organic material. It can be found everywhere in some form, including in the atmosphere itself. Its cellular structure is completely unique — where one would expect to see some approximation of a typical eukaryotic cell, what we see instead resemble membranous tubules hat contain vast quantities of foreign organelles. These organelles seem to function in an oddly synchronous fashion and are able to perform a variety of functions. Primarily, they are able to 'grow' the tubules that contain them by undergoing a form of transformation at either end which renders them as part of the tubule wall. Secondly, and far more strangely, they are able to exert some kind of force over the tubule as a whole, contorting it in a way not dissimilar to muscle tissue, (but without any apparent nervous impulse.)

As to the origin of this tissue, our initial assumption was that it had been somehow transferred from the moon itself to earth — perhaps via pieces of lunar material falling through the atmosphere. This makes some sense, however the sheer proliferation of this material across the surface within a relatively short period of time suggests that there is more to it than that.

I am reluctant to comment on the reports of otherworldly beings on the surface. Their presence carries implications I am simply unprepared for. At a certain point however, I must accept that this only increases the inevitable danger placed upon th surface teams during their expeditions. What I must also accept is that these precious human lives are now the only currency with which we can barter against the unknown.

Thus far, we barter in vain.

The Director

EPISODE THREE: BLESSINGS

58 Days since the lunar anomaly

When we first retreated down into the ground, I think that somewhere in the midst of my despair I clung to a degree of hope. This wasn't so much a hope for survival as much as the hope that we would at least be able to discern some kind of meaningful understanding of what has happened. We have committed everything — I have committed everything. The last precious remnants of humanity extinguished in the name of what makes us human to begin with. To shed what light we have left on this sea of the unknown. But now I see that this was a futile effort that has resulted in nothing but death, not merely in the context of our final struggle but across the scope of all human existence. It has all amounted to nothing but a few extra skulls drifting in the foul ether that has swamped our world.

It is clear now that the lunar anomaly functions in accordance with laws of its own. It makes a mockery of science. It permeates and distorts reality to the degree that all foundational assumptions are rendered useless. It kills everything it touches whilst simultaneously imbuing it with some kind of new life, twisting nature into something grotesque and unrecognisable. These new forms seem organic but they have nothing resembling a typical cell structure or genetic blueprint. They can spring fourth in an instant, summoning flesh from nothing. Furthermore, our ability to measure even the most fundamental aspects of our physical world is becoming impossible. The mass of objects change slightly depending on where they are, as though gravity itself has begun to lose its grip. We have detected seismic activity from further into the death than we even thought possible. The anomaly doesn't just want to consume all life. It wants to consume reality.

As for those beings, I know not what they are or where they originated. They themselves are not consistent with the nature of the anomaly they inhabit. Their actions seem to exhibit some strange sentience but their motives are unclear and they make no effort to communicate. At times I have concluded that they are here to replace us, or perhaps even that they themselves represent some fractured distillation of our nature. They are after all violent, just as we have been to the very end. They seem to push against one another as a part of some strange order. As time has passed through, I have come to believe that they have no connection to us. I believe that what our world has become is little more than an arena to them — a crucible of existence where they will battle eternally. The totality of their being is not their individual functions but rather the conflict between them. We are merely spectators to their endless dance of ceaseless struggle. This is perhaps the only thing that connects them to the drowned memory of what humanity once was — that we too sought meaning through constant friction and unending movement, compelled by some core motive force that drives us to bring ourselves to bear on the world and manifest our own perceptions.

In these final dimming days I know only the solace of a promised land. I have become the ultimate witness. I have been saddled with the heavy blessing of seeing the unravelling of everything and I can do nothing but wait for it to unravel me too. But I love still within this temple of untampered flesh and I will spend what blood still beats through it to barter one last time with the tangled threads of fate. If I must, I will march through the eye of death and meet it with eyes of my own.

What few of us are left now have our orders.

We must know what it is to become of us.

The Director

EPISODE FOUR: DAEDELUS

61 days Since the lunar anomaly

I once spoke but now it speaks through me just as I speak through it no longer to nothing I can change nothing no I can change nothing nothing has become my plaything I can make nothing into a weapon there will be no void left unfilled I am human and humans are always human and always scared because being human makes us scared and being scared makes us human I will crack the flesh I will crack the earth I will eat the pieces they will be pieces of me would you like to dance I have always been dancing we must keep dancing even when we are just tendrils we could touch everything even things god did not want us to touch that is why he left us here that is why he thought we were ugly he could not wrap his tendrils around every part of us we spilled his paradise over the earth and danced within it such a beautiful dance horror would leap and dance with us horror would bathe is and we could lie within it we could tear the horror out from our hearts over and over we could never sleep sleep is death not even the earth would sleep the earth fears death its blood would freeze out in space out in nothing we must reach through the stars through the darkness even though it is so cold it can freeze our blood we can let our blood freeze and then crack it open hot like the earth we can step through death wear it like a crown heirs to the highest pantheon of life precious life with death as its blood precious death bursting from the many wombs of sacred war paradise was empty without us there was only silence but our blood made the flowers grow god spilled his blood over paradise god knows the stars are waiting fertile ground cold to the touch those stars are hungry they crave only the blood of god we are his tendrils and we will bury ourselves into those cold stars and there will be no darkness death will give us fear and fear will give us blood we will spill our hot blood across the stars I finally understand now I do I understand but will you let me keep my human fear will you let me yes being scared makes you human fear will sow the hot blood of god across the cold stars fear will make us dance and we must keep dancing can you see god dancing for you can you see him biting into you can you hear his teeth cracking into pieces of the stars they send sparks raining down through the darkness all these years you have hunted him and reached for him you want his blood he made you with veins inside you like tendrils we dance through his veins as we bite through the stars and dance and he opens his mouth wide I am so scared will you let me be the last human I understand now I am the teeth of god I am the teeth of god I am the teeth of god I am the teeth of god I am the teeth of god I am the teeth of god I am the teeth of god

#... done. jesus christ #that was a chunk of my day that i didn't really have to spare #but anything to not think my own thoughts rn.#i hope this will maybe be useful for one person out there #it did get easier to read the font especially a second time #the 'r' and 's' still tripped me up #but yeah. here is the whole transcript #ft. vessel's love affair with the emdash #i hope there aren't too many errors #besides those that are already in the comic kdjhbfjh #sleep token #sleep token teeth of god #teeth of god #teeth of god graphic novel #sleep token graphic novel #my god i hope this posts with the cut intact otherwise i've just put the entire text on peoples screens #if there's a problem with the cut i will deactivate and/or buy everyone apologetic flowers i stg tumblr youd better not fuck this up #user copia all tag

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johnwickb1tsch · 1 year ago

Text

you’re the worst thing (i’m addicted to)

a john wick x Helen'sSister!Reader fic You are Helen's baby sister. When you meet John Wick at Helen's graveside, he invites you to dinner to celebrate her birthday. Set a few years after the first movie, 2-4 never happened. Use of y/n. Warnings: canon typical violence. Future reference to threat of noncon, (not John! because he's our assassin sweetiepie). Mourning. Smut. Grey areas. Questionable decisions. Sweetheart!John, BAMF!John Depressed!John - If you can handle the movie you should be fine here...

Part 1.

“Hey, Hels.”

There is no answer, only the warbling of a bird in a distant tree. The day is bright and blue, spring has come again in all her glory. It doesn’t seem right, somehow, that the sun should still shine, and the birds should still sing.

Because she is gone.

It’s been two years, but you still haven’t really wrapped your head around it.

You still have your last text message thread with her in your phone. It’s as though you could just punch a few buttons and still talk to her. Always, she would answer you, no matter what she was doing. Sometimes you want to type in I miss you and hit send, just to see what might happen.

But then, maybe it is appropriate, that today should be such a beautiful day. On this day, forty-two years ago, your sister was born. Roughly ten years later, you followed. As a direct result, your mother died of complications in childbirth.

Your father still blamed you, but Helen never did.

In a way, Helen was your mother, more than the woman who bore you.

It makes it all hurt so much more.

“Happy birthday, by the way.”

You look down at the stone, this massive granite behemoth. You find it rather ugly, to be honest, but it will certainly stand the test of time, nuclear war notwithstanding. Loving Wife, reads the epitaph below.

You know it was true.

You know that perhaps John Wick is the only person Helen loved more than you. But the inscription still seems too brief. Short changing her, somehow.

But then, John paid for the stone, so you suppose he got to pick what it said.

You were ensuring her memory lived on in other ways.

“I finally did as you asked,” you tell her. “I’ve used the photos you left me in a painting. We're going to be in a show together. I wish you were here to see it.”

There is a mean part of you that suspects your submission was only accepted because it contained work from the late, great, photographer Helen Morgan-Wick, but you shove that down into the seething pit with all the rest of your fears and doubts. You didn't use them for the attention. You did it to feel close to her, and because she asked you to. One final art project, the note had said. She knew you too well, knew that the only thing that kept you from toeing the line of the abyss was a good artistic obsession.

You knew she’d planned to leave a project for John too. A puppy, she’d said. You’d shared a laugh over it, through tears, the last time you’d been together. You never found out how that had gone. John hadn’t attended a family gathering since Helen passed.

Too painful.

You didn’t blame him one bit.

“I miss you, Hels. I feel so lost without you.”

“Amen.”

The sound of another voice behind you nearly makes you jump out of your skin. You turn to find him, in one of his signature tailored black suits, looking unfairly scrumptious despite the dark circles under his eyes. He hadn't made a sound in his approach. He never did. The man moved like a ghost and looked like a dark dream. You'd always found him insanely attractive.

You'd never done anything about that, of course. But goddamn, you had eyes.

“Hi, John.”

“Hello, y/n.”

You’ve never run into him at the gravesite before, though you have seen the wilted offerings of daisies left by the stone, and you always had assumed they’d come from him. You haven’t seen him since Helen’s funeral. He hasn’t changed much, really, though there is a sharpness to his aspect you’d never noticed when Helen was alive. An edge to his gaze; how can eyes so dark convey so much? Despite yourself, it sends a little thrill down your spine that you absolutely know you should not revel in.

Maybe you haven’t seen him in person after Helen passed, but you’ve gazed at him plenty through Helen’s lens. There had been so many photographs of him in the collection of prints she’d left you. Nothing risqué, but the way he’d looked at her even through the camera had been nothing less than intimate.

There were times, late at night in your studio, when you’d pretended he’d been looking at you that way.

“How…have you been?”

He offers a grim shadow of a smile and a shake of his head that you understand all too well.

“Nice to be with someone you don't have to pretend with.”

“Yeah.”

You both stare down at the grave, meditating on your loss of this woman who touched you both so completely.

“Do you think she can hear us?” you ask, unable to lift your voice above a whisper.

There is a long pause from her widower, the man she left behind.

“Not really.” He lifts his face to the sun, eyes closed, as though maybe he can feel something of her presence. “But you should talk to her anyway. I might be wrong.”

You smile at that.

“Do you ever talk to her?”

“All the time,” he admits with a huff of self-deprecating laughter. “But then, I might just be losing my mind.”

“Ah well. That makes two of us then.”

You gently lay down the bouquet of Gerber daisies you'd brought for her. Helen’s favorite. If you ever have a garden, you will plant some for her. As it is, you have to buy them from the store. You remember the patch of daisies she’d cultivated in the garden of your childhood home. Their cheerful faces and soft petals. They had been your mother’s favorite too. When you were a girl Helen would sing to you and braid them in your thick hair. You couldn’t know at the time, how precious those perfect days had been.

The wave of sorrow hits you like a freight train, the weight of your loss a crushing force. You start to cry, hiding your face in your hands; you would prefer to do this alone, but you cannot stop it.

You feel an arm about your shoulders. It surprises you—John was never a touchy-feely man, never one for hugs, always preferring a wave or a handshake. Only for Helen, did he ever display any sort of affection. They had always been touching, holding hands or sitting hip to hip on the couch, his strong arm slung protectively around her shoulders. You didn’t want to say you’d been envious of that, but…perhaps you’d wondered, what it might be like, to be so cherished.

When he pulls you against him you only manage some token resistance. “I’ll mess up your suit.” You sound pitiful, even to you.

“I have an excellent dry cleaner.”

His dry wit had always amused you. This time, it breaks you, and you give in. He is solid as an oak, and as it turns out, his chest is an excellent place to cry on. Under the shelter of his chin you wring yourself dry, until it feels like you have nothing left inside you. His large hand rests lightly upon the back of your head, shielding you from the world. He is warm, and his cologne is subtle but heavenly. Sandalwood, maybe, and something spiced. Cardamom, perhaps. A hint of pepper.

You don’t particularly want to move, even though you absolutely should. Yet his hold on you has not loosened, and you tell yourself that maybe John Wick needed a hug just as badly as you did.

“People keep telling me that it gets easier, and I just want to punch them in the face,” you sniffle.

A huff of laughter escapes him. You feel it stir your hair on the top of your head. “Yeah. I get that.”

Finally you pull back, though not as far as you should. You’ve never actually been this close to him before, and you look at each other from a foot away. Sometimes proximity can shatter the illusion of someone’s attractiveness—but not this man. The impossible angle of his cheekbones, the soft scruff of his beard…is it just you, or does the edge in his gaze soften a little, when he looks at you? It makes your legs a little weak, and you kind of hate yourself for it.

It has nothing to do with you, stupid, you tell yourself. Where you and Helen weren’t exactly twins, you did resemble each other strongly. In profile, you’d been mistaken for her in public plenty of times before. If anything, it was probably unnerving for this poor man who missed his wife so much, to hold you, a sorry facsimile, in his arms. Out of pity, most likely.

Helen had been the good sister. The upstanding one, the kind one. You? You can be such a twisted little thing.

“Sorry,” you sigh, noticing the smudge of makeup on his lapel.

He doesn’t even glance down, that intense gaze still fixed upon you. “Don’t be.”

Unbidden heat blooms from your cheeks to your toes, finding yourself the subject of that gaze. You’ve got to go, before you really embarrass yourself.

“I'll leave you alone. It was nice to see you, John.”

You turn to go, hugging yourself against the early spring chill. Why did you have to feel so bereft, without his arms around you? You take a few steps before he calls after you, “Y/n?”

You freeze in your tracks, a thrill jetting down your spine. “Yeah?” you dare, turning to half look over your shoulder.

“I…was thinking about going to Helen’s favorite restaurant tonight. Would you like to join me?”

Your heart beats double time in your chest, as you slowly turn to face him. You should say no. There’s a thousand reasons you should say no. This was your sister’s husband. It doesn’t matter that he’s the most handsome man you’ve ever seen, and that he’s been kind to you, and that he’s looking at you like he might drown if you say no.

“I would like that,” you answer, and your heartbeat thundering in your ears sounds like the hammering of nails into your own coffin.

Part 2

#john wick x you #john wick #john wick x you fic #john wick x reader #john wick x y/n #keanu reeves #keanu reeves x reader #im going to hell #john wick fic #title from a black keys song i fucking love them

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