#silent entreaties

[mumblelard]

the storms brought a cool breeze along and i opened all the windows and even the lodger enjoyed the change

walking back from the library by the shortcut through the woods, i saw a big old auntie tree had fallen in the night and i full smelt the damp of the wet ground that had failed to hold her roots. through the canopy, i could see just enough of the sky to know i wasn't going to make it home before the next storm hit and suddenly, for a moment, i felt real and alive in the middle of it all. the ache, anxiety and sadness that hold this body were together indistinguishable from the the thrill, the relief, the joy of being there in that place for that time. i carried that feeling the rest of the way home. i didn't notice when it started to rain but i was soaked by the time i got home and my face is wet now from remembering it

[hoshifighting]

Seventeen reaction, when you do something that turns them on while you ride them, making them cum really quickly.

HipHop team | Vocal team | Performance team

Jeonghan 

with your hands bound behind your back, you felt a surge of arousal coursing through you. your movements were constrained, adding an extra layer of intensity to the experience as you rode him.

but it was your pretty pleas that proved to be jeonghan's undoing. the sight of you, vulnerable and begging so beautifully, sent a shockwave of desire through him, his self-control slipping away with each breathy entreaty that escaped your lips.

with furrowed brows and bitten lips, jeonghan moaned loudly, his hips jerking upwards as he spilled himself inside you, his release coming faster than he had anticipated. your pussy filled with his hot cum, the sensation overwhelming in its intensity.

you stopped your movements, looking at him in confusion as he buried his face in his arm, overcome with embarrassment at his lack of control. he couldn't bear to meet your gaze, his cheeks flushed  with shame.

"i'm sorry," he muttered, his voice muffled against his arm.

you reached out to gently stroke his cheek, a soft smile playing on your lips. "it's okay," you reassured him, your touch filled with understanding and affection. "we can take it slow."

jeonghan nodded gratefully, his eyes unable to meet yours as he whispered, "ride me until you cum baby. i want you to cum too."

Joshua

as you straddled joshua's hips, riding him with fervent intensity, a mischievous grin danced across your lips. with each clench of your muscles, you could feel joshua's cock throbbing inside you, his gasps of pleasure music to your ears.

but it was when you unleashed your pompoarism skills on him that joshua's control shattered completely. the tight grip of your pussy sent shockwaves of pleasure coursing through him, and with a strangled gasp, he spilled himself inside you, his release coming faster than usual.

as he lay beneath you, panting heavily, joshua couldn't help but sulk at you cutely, his cheeks flushed with embarrassment at his lack of control.

he looked up at you with a sulky pout, his lips forming into a cute frown as he tried to compose himself. "i just… i want to make you feel good too," he admitted shyly, his eyes finally meeting yours.

you smiled back at him, your heart swelling with love and affection for the adorable man beneath you. "and you always do," you whispered, your words filled with sincerity as you resumed your movements, riding him with slow and deliberate strokes, making him tremble. 

Woozi 

your movements were passionate and unrestrained, each hump bringing him closer to the edge. but it was when your mouth met the skin of his neck that things took a sudden turn. with each tender kiss and gentle nip, you left a promise of hickeys on his milky skin, the idea of the bruises sending shivers down woozi's spine.

he whimpered beneath you, his body trembling with arousal as he felt the tingling sensation spread from his neck to his cock. the thought of the marks you were leaving on him, visible evidence of your passion and desire, was enough to push him over the edge.

with a cute whine, woozi came undone beneath you, his release coming faster than he had anticipated. he looked up at you from underneath, his cheeks flushed crimson with embarrassment as he met your gaze.

the redness spread from his neck to his face, the intensity of his arousal written plainly on his features. but despite his embarrassment, there was a spark of desire burning in his eyes, a silent plea for more.

you leaned down to press a tender kiss to his lips, your fingers gentle as they brushed against his cheek. "you're so beautiful," you whispered, your voice filled with love and adoration.

Seokmin 

as you straddled seokmin's hips, your hands gently wrapping around his neck, a tension coiled in your stomach, stealing your breath away. despite the breathlessness, your hips continued to move with an unrelenting rhythm, driving him wild with desire.

your lips brushed against his ear, and in a soft, whispered confession, you poured out your heart. "you mean everything to me," you murmured, your words a declaration of love and devotion.

seokmin's heart swelled with emotion at your words, his body trembling with overwhelming desire. the intensity of your confession pushed him over the edge, his release crashing over him in a wave of ecstasy.

with a whimper, seokmin surrendered to the pleasure, his cheeks flushing crimson with embarrassment as he panted hard, trying to catch his breath.

but despite the breathlessness and the heat of the moment, there was a warmth spreading through seokmin's chest, a profound sense of love and contentment that filled him to the brim.

"i feel the same," he whispered, his voice barely above a whisper as he held you close, his heart overflowing with love for you.

Seungkwan 

the pleasure of his cock filling your wet pussy sending waves of ecstasy through you, you couldn't help but moan sultrily his nickname, "mhmm kwannie..."

the sound of his nickname on your lips was the final straw for seungkwan. with a strangled groan, he lifted your hips off him, his release spilling over you in hot, sticky ribbons.

covering his face with his hand, seungkwan's cheeks burned bright red with embarrassment. he couldn't believe he had cum so quickly, all because of your teasing.

"you played dirty," he sulked, his voice muffled against his hand.

feigning innocence, you tilted your head and batted your eyelashes innocently. "who, me?" you replied, your tone dripping with faux innocence.

seungkwan shot you a playful glare, his embarrassment fading as a smirk tugged at the corners of his lips. despite the embarrassment, there was a spark of mischief in his eyes, a silent promise of payback.

[thirteenducks]

feverish

(wriothesley x wife!reader) [sfw]

༻❁༺ content: fem!reader (reader is referred to by ‘wife’ and "she/her"), established relationship, marriage, reader has hair long enough to reach neck

༻❁༺ word count: ~1.5k

༻❁༺ tags: sickfic, banter while sick, this is just wrio taking care of you and being a butt while doing it, feat. sigewinne who does not get paid enough for this, if you are sick and reading this rn im so sorry and i hope you get well soon, coldsink wrio x heatsource wife agenda

༻❁༺ author’s note: my friend @mmmairon is sick and i am in another country and cannot help so i'm sending wrio on my behalf. pls enjoy especially if you don't feel well right now :(

After a restless night, Wriothesley is thrilled to hear that you're awake now. He wastes no time in rushing to your side.

Wriothesley’s pen scratches unpleasantly against a disciplinary notice, its point threatening to carve into the wood of the desk beneath. The owner mutters darkly under his breath as he completes a signature on the offending paper and slides it to his left. Immediately, another takes its place from the stack on his right.

For two hours, nothing else has broken the quiet of the Duke’s office. Two hours too long, by Wriothesley’s measure. He glances at the clock, hand continuing to sign his name by sheer muscle memory.

Are you getting any rest? Did the chamomile from your tea an hour ago help at all, or are the throes of fever keeping you awake? Does he have the right ingredients to make you beef stew? Preoccupied, he writes “soup” on the signature line of a prisoner release form by mistake.

He sighs, pinching the crooked bridge of his nose between his fingers. They’re as cold as ever. He misses the warmth of yours unspeakably.

The next thirty minutes pass like an eternity. Surely, Sigewinne would be at his side in an instant if you were awake. His presence there now would only serve to wake you from much-needed rest and defer his backlog of paperwork even more. Neither of these points keeps him from staring the clock down like he’s in the ring again.

Suddenly, there’s a quiet knock on his door and Wriothesley snaps to attention, nearly knocking over an inkwell in his haste. Sigewinne enters without his bidding, an unreadable expression on her kind face. She doesn’t wait for his question before she answers it.

“Yes, the tea put her to sleep, and yes, she’s awake now.”

His features relax in a moment, the furrow in his brow smoothing.

“I’m afraid she’s not any better than she was this morning, however. I would have really liked to see her fever come down by now...” The Melusine trails off, her small hand on her chin and a pout on her face. “The chill probably isn’t doing her much good, either.”

Her boss, however, is already halfway downstairs, pulling his coat on as he takes the steps two at a time. Sigewinne sighs as she turns to follow him at a much slower pace. So predictable when his wife is involved.

In contrast to the speed at which he crosses the fortress to your shared living quarters, Wriothesley’s steps are soft as he nears your bedroom door.

“Sweetheart? Are you up?”

A weak cough answers him. He’s by the bedside in a moment, kneeling and pushing aside the curtain that hides you from him. Your eyes squint a bit as the sickly light of the fortress filters in, and his hand moves up to shield your face as he appears in your field of vision.

Despite the red ringing your eyes and nose and the congestion in your breathing, you smile up at him and his heart almost jumps out of his chest.

“Hi, darling.”

The side of his mouth quirks up. “Hi. Feeling any better?”

You shake your head slightly, your hair fanning out on the pillow beneath you. He silently gathers it in one hand and moves it away from your neck as he waits for you to continue. The brush of his cool hand against your flushed skin feels incredible and you bring your hand to rest on his, a silent entreaty to keep it there.

“Sigewinne says I’m in the worst of it now and that from here-” you stop to cough, Wriothesley’s eyes raking over your frame as it shakes with the effort. “-from here it should be uphill. As long as I can rest up today.”

He pushes the hair back from your forehead with his other hand, stroking it absentmindedly. “Well, we’ll have to stick it out until tomorrow then, huh?” The grin he shoots you, all teeth, does more for you than you think any of the medicine on your bedside table has.

That’s why you’re as surprised as he is when the tears start to roll down your cheeks. You hadn’t even known they were there until now, but suddenly it’s so much harder to breathe than it was and Wriothesley is a swimming blur in front of you. The shooting pain in your head, dulled to an ache until now, comes back in full force as your body curls in on itself and your temple meets your husband’s shoulder.

You don’t know if you’re crying from the headache, from exhaustion, or from something else, and your mind is too foggy to care. All you can do is be held as his arms come to rest firmly around you and he pulls you to him, murmuring words of comfort.

“Oh, sweetheart, I’m so sorry... I wish I could do more.” Your hands grip his collar a little tighter as you sob into the juncture of his neck and shoulder. “I know, love. You’ll feel better soon, I promise. Sigewinne and I are gonna take care of everything, okay?”

There’s an edge of concern to his voice that you can hear even through the haze of sickness. You hate it. It’s likely just the seasonal flu; half the Fortress has had it at some point this winter. The thought of how much you were making him worry over something so small as this...

“I know what you’re thinking. Stop it,” Wriothesley gently reprimands, his cool fingers stroking your forehead again. You can feel the cold metal of his wedding ring against the heated skin. “You’re not being a baby about anything. You hear me?”

Your silence speaks volumes. He laughs a little, the sound loud in the silence of your bedroom. “I know you well, don’t I?”

It takes a while for your tears to completely subside. When you’re finished sniffling against his collar, he props you up against the headboard with pillows behind your back. You’re more congested than ever, something your husband has the nerve to laugh at as he hands you tissues, but there’s no unkindness in his tone.

He disappears into the kitchen for a few minutes as you doze, exhausted from the effort of crying for so long. When he eases the door open again, he’s carrying a tray with a teacup and pot (of course) and a bowl of something that smells warm and comforting.

“Hmm. Excellent room service this place has. The waiter is a little scruffy, though,” you say as Wriothesley places it on your lap, tucking in the covers around you.

He gives you a fake look of injury. “How dare you, ma’am. I’ll have you know I’m too worried about my wife to shave, who I’m afraid is deathly ill,” he sighs, stroking the stubble on his jaw. He spoons soup into your mouth before you can retort, stifling a smile.

Once you’ve drained half the soup, Wriothesley seems satisfied. He removes the tray from your lap and takes your hand, bringing it to his own forehead.

“Oh, no. How awful.” He shoots you a glance. “It appears the Duke of the Fortress has come down with something.”

You raise an eyebrow. His forehead is as cool as the rest of him is. “Really.”

“Oh, yes,” he says, flopping onto your lap. “It looks like he’ll be out of the office for the rest of the day.”

You laugh, wincing when it makes your head throb. “The Duke sounds like a slacker, if you ask me.”

“Well, everyone knows that,” Wriothesley murmurs, burying his face into your thigh. “They’ll have to tell my boss about it.” You feel him grin against your leg.

You sigh, feigning exasperation. “What a shame. I was just about to ask him to dinner, too.”

Wriothesley has migrated to his side of the bed by now and is nestling into your side with the stubbornness of a dog. “Don’t worry, I hear he’s a messy eater. Absolute carnivore.”

Your hands come to rest on his head, the soft grey strands tickling your palms. “You know you’re going to get sick, right? I’m highly contagious.”

No answer.

“You’re the head of the Fortress, Wrio. If you get laid up, Sigewinne might put a bounty out on you. She seems like the type.”

Your husband murmurs into your side, already half-asleep. “She’ll have to catch me first.”

Despite your many blankets and the body next to you, a sudden chill runs through you and you stiffen. He feels it, arms tightening around your waist.

“Fever pills are on the bedside in the white bottle. Water is next to it.”

You smile. “Thank you, darling.” He hums in response.

A few days later, you’re well enough to leave your room again. Sigewinne would be thrilled, if not for your husband, who looks more smug than any sick man has a right to be.

He sniffles, burrowing into your sheets again as the Melusine glares daggers at him. “I’ll be fine. My wife loves me and I have leftover soup in the fridge. What else does a man need?”

[spncvr]

worries | s. reid

summary: you worry for spencer, it's human

pairing: spencer reid x reader

warnings: TENDING WOUNDS TROPE HELLO, hurt/comfort, mentions of death, blood (in a metaphorical way ???) ENGLISH ISN'T MY FIRST LANGUAGE PLS BEAR WITH ME, lowkey kinda sappy, reader kinda cries, like, alot, lmk if i missed anytihg !

a/n: tryying desperately to force myself out of my writers block so here's a WIP i forcedmyself to finish (its 1 am rn bye). send me requests??for??ideas?? i beg.

THE SMALL LIGHT BULB that dangles from the ceiling casts a soft glow on everything it touches. The light, never quite bright enough for your liking (you never got around to changing it) bathes the room in a gentle hue, softening the edges of the couch, carpet and shelves. That akin to the way it bleeds against his skin, with this kind of grace that seems to make scars on his face look kind and soft. 

“Hold still,” you chide, trying to clean the wound on his eyebrow; a harsh reminder of the day’s chaos. And when he does you mumble, “You’re such an idiot.”

His response is a small smile that sits against his lips, warm and understanding. His hands gently find their place on your thighs, grounding you as you straddle him “Yeah, I know,” he says.

“You shouldn’t’ve just … lunged at him like that.” It’s a plea wrapped in a scold. 

You duck your head down to avoid his careful eyes. You think, if he can’t see you, he can’t properly read you; a futile attempt, really. But still,  you think, if he can’t see the worry within your eyes he’d just let it go; that he wouldn’t know that you couldn’t help but think, what if, the unsub had gotten the upper hand, and what if it was much worse than just a measly cut on his eyebrow. These thoughts, the feelings, seem to constantly plague your mind in your darkest moments; ones that would make you feel like your heart is pouring out your chest, like rose thorns poking at your ribcage, that’ll bleed you dry with worry.

“What’s wrong?”His voice is soft, laced with concern, and it breaks through your defenses. The fingers that were on your thigh are now under your chin, coaxing you to look up at him, a silent entreaty for your honesty. His gaze is now on yours, stagnant and unwavering—and your lips start to quiver, and tears threaten to spill. Quickly, you hide your face into his shoulder.

“I’m scared,” you admit, your words are barely a whisper.

“Of what?” 

“I’m terrified for you.” your words are muffled in his shirt “What if—” you say, helpless, “What if it was more than just a cut on your eyebrow Spence, what if I— when—” you can’t finish your sentence. Not when he’s rubbing your back and kissing your head so softly and so kindly it makes the tears from your eyes spill and paint soft patches on his shirt. 

“You won’t,” he tells you with a conviction, that he wears so effortlessly like his own skin, “I won’t. I’m not leaving you.”

“You can’t say that,” you protest weakly, “you can’t know that. Look at Stephen he— God, Spence. You of all people know that you can’t possibly know that—”

“Hey, no,” he scolds quietly. 

But you're already looking at him, your face off from his shoulder. “Don’t tell me not to worry. Don’t tell me I can’t talk like that. You’re my boyfriend. It’s apart of caring. I should worry for you, so let me worry. It wouldn’t be human not to.”

“I know,” he says, soothingly, then, “I’m sorry.”

You wipe your tears frantically with your arm before continuing to tend his cut. “I wish the FBI had force fields around their agents.” you say, through a small smile, “Wish they could wrap you up with thick blankets.” It’s a childish thought.

His laughter is kind and genuine, it fills the space between the two of you, “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” you nod with a smile that finds its way through your tears.

“You take such good care of me,” he says, eyes never leaving yours.

Maybe it was his words or the way it had slipped from his tongue; maybe it was how his fingers, rough and calloused,  had grazed against your delicate ones. But here, as he sits with a smile on his lips, (a lopsided lazy thing), all scarred and bruised, did you know that you love him. But love was a concept you had cared for and attended to. You loved your mother, your friends. You loved books and their characters. You loved the darkness, the night. You loved your job, and its challenges. You loved music and movies. You loved home, and it's all too familiar feeling against your skin. And suddenly this concept —love— seems too small, too narrow to encompass what you feel for him. There isn’t a word or phrase made —nor did you think there ever would be— to describe just how much you had felt for him.

But in short, you do love him, very much.

[sweetercalypso]

Pearl Rosary || Din Djarin

Word count: 1.7k

Summary: Priest of Mandalore!Din Djarin listens to your sins during confession

Notes: part three in my week of horror series! minors dni; public(ish) sex, finger sucking, deepthroating, cock worship, facial, reader is a Mandalorian who takes her helmet off, so much religious imagery

In the Cathedral of Mandalore, there’s only just enough light to make out the back of the wooden pew in front of you. The doors and windows are adorned with an ornate red glass that wash the chapel in a somber crimson gloom, a reminder that only those dedicated to their creedal faith are permitted inside.

The nave is silent beyond the occasional clink of beskar and the solemn bells ringing overhead in hourly intervals. You’d counted three resounding chimes, then four, then five, as the day stretches on outside the walls of the chapel.

In your tightly coiled spiral of pensive rumination, time seems to stand still.

Your eyes snap up as another Mandalorian passes by your aisle in their departure from the confessional. The small curtained booth at the front of the church has a strangely foreboding presence, and you’d been working up the courage to step inside all day.

The front doors close, and you’re left with your guilt once again.

If you admit to the thoughts weighing on your conscience, maybe you’ll have the chance to repent. Or, if the pit of dread in your stomach is any prediction, you’ll be cast out for your inclination towards a life of sin.

Before you can work up the nerve to decide whether to gamble your fate, the head of the church, Din Djarin, steps out of the other side of the confessional, rolling his shoulders to relieve the stiff ache of being confined in his narrow compartment.

His armor has grown dull with age and wear, buffed with a flat luster that speaks of its obstinate strength.

Others have said that his appearance makes him seem ordinary, but you’ve always thought that his mannerisms were what set him apart. His imposing stance, his commanding way of speaking, the way his head tilts when he’s deep in thought – he’s beautiful if you know where to look.

When he turns in your direction, your breath catches in your throat.

“You’ve been here for quite a while.” His voice has an unexpected warmth that licks up your spine. “Are you here to speak with me?”

Your eyes flicker warily to the confession booth. “I’m not sure.”

He seems to pause for a moment before making his mind up to join you, floorboards groaning under his heavy boots as he draws near. You shift uncomfortably on the hard bench, squirming under the spotlight of his attention. He stops at the end of your row and rests a hand behind you on the back of the pew.

“We can speak out here if you’d prefer.”

You’re surprised that he’d recognized the source of your unease, though you’re not sure if he realizes why the embrace of the confessional is so distinctly unnerving.

The people of Mandalore are not known for their empathy, especially not those held in high regard by the church. Din Djarin is a fiercely orthodox man, and you doubt he understands the position you’re in.

“I’ve seen you during services,” he comments. “Always so attentive.”

Heat rises to your cheeks at the thought of being recognized in the mass of devoted warriors that frequent his sermons. Is your shame so pronounced that you stand out in a crowd? “I didn’t know you paid attention to the assembly.”

He hums in response. “I care deeply for everyone in my congregation, especially those who are in danger of losing their faith. Tell me, what’s been troubling you?”

You hesitate before answering, skirting around the truth as much as you can, as much as he’ll let you.

“I’ve had… impure thoughts, father.”

“Oh?” His voice is rich with interest. “Indulge me, cyar'ika. What tempts you?”

His smooth, full baritone makes it impossible to deny his entreaty, like he’s wrenching your secrets from the far reaches of your mind.

“I’ve thought about… taking my helmet off in the witness of non-believers. I’ve thought about what you look like underneath your armor.” You pause for breath. “I’ve thought about your image at improper times.”

His chest falls with a heady sigh, though the sound is lost beyond the rasp of his modulator. “I see. And how do you think you should pay for your transgressions?”

The presence of other Mandalorians can be heard from outside the chapel – an admonition of what you have to lose if you are turned away. The air in the room shifts. Your hands flex at your sides.

“I’ll do anything.” You push forward onto the edge of your seat, ardently pleading for your chance at repentance. “Tell me how to make things right.”

He shifts in place, mulling over his options for what feels like an eternity. You swallow the urge to scream as silence rings in your ears.

Finally, he speaks.

“Maybe you’re too curious,” he decides. “Too concerned with things you cannot have.”

Your fingers dig into your palms, awaiting the final blow of his judgement.

“I think you need to experience firsthand the gravity of your desire.”

He leans down like he’s sharing something that no one else can hear, a sentiment too clandestine to be born in a house of worship.

“This is a sacred place,” he explains. “If you’re going to commit an act of sin, let it be here.”

You’re taken aback by the implication of his words. You’d been expecting a show of indignation, maybe even outrage for your betrayal of the Way, but it seems like he’s encouraging your lapse in faith. Surely, you’ve misunderstood.

The hand caressing your shoulder tells you that you haven’t.

“Revealing yourself to anyone a sin, and the public would have you exiled for removing your helmet. But here, in the presence of a higher being, I will make an exception.”

He doesn’t give you a chance to respond before his hands are on the underside of your helmet, tipping your head back with the force of his grip. The fabric of his gloves glides against your jaw as he lifts your beskar veil and exposes you under the chapel’s dim, ruddy glow.

You squint at the sudden shift in the light, surprised to discover what your dark-tinted visor had been hiding from you. The red halo cast around him is much more intense without the obstruction of your helmet. His outlined form burns with a fiery sanctitude that makes you shudder.

Your attention is drawn to his hands ghosting over your face, cradling your cheeks with a curious touch. The pad of his thumb presses against your mouth, tugging at the plush of your bottom lip. “Is this what you wanted?”

You swallow thickly and chance a look up at him, finding your face in the reflection of his visage. Your lips part in fascination at the sight of your own eyes staring back at you.

“That’s it, open up for me.”

His thumb presses further into your mouth and hooks behind your teeth. The taste of the holy chrism melts across your senses, balsam and olive oil and something you can’t name. When your tongue swipes out to meet his digit, he hums low in his chest and pulls his other hand back to curl around his belt.

“Does this make you feel good? Corrupting a man of faith?”

You whimper around his thumb, eyes blown wide with lust. The metal buckle at his waist glints in the low light, seemingly pleading for your touch. You don’t know how far he’ll take this lesson, but you’re hoping it ends in a mutual exchange of sin.

As if persuaded by your thoughts alone, he works open his belt and the fastenings of his pants, revealing a patch of tawny skin that contrasts the muted tones of his beskar.

“You need more than this, though. Don’t you?”

With a low hiss, he pulls his hardening cock from its confines, and your mouth waters at the sight. He’s eager, alive, twitching in his tight grip. The tip of his cock weeps as he bucks into his hand.

The heat simmering in your belly has grown into a blazing flame. When he swaps his thumb for the head of his cock, your thighs clench with the urgent need to consume him in every way.

His warm, salty taste is so human, so unlike the righteous figure he’s made out to be. You can almost picture what the rest of him looks like by the glimpse of what he’s offered you.

Your lips wrap coyly around his length, an earnest appeal for his approval.

The tint of his visor hides his eyes, but you gaze up at him anyway in hopes that he meets you halfway, that he commits the image of your debauched affair to memory.

“C’mon, this is your chance to atone.”

You trace the vein on the underside of his cock, tongue laving over him in search of a reaction, in search of redemption through your greedy act of worship. His hips stutter in response and the head of his cock twitches against the roof of your mouth.

He mumbles something akin to prayer and focuses his efforts, sliding further into your mouth until your nose presses against his pelvis and his cock settles in the back of your throat. You gag at the foreign pressure and try to pull away, but he settles a hand on the nape of your neck to hold you in place.

“That’s it, take it all.”

His thrusts are slow, lazy, careful not to overwhelm you. When he moves, it’s a gentle drag over your tongue, not the heedless intrusion you’d expected from him. He bucks his hips like he wants to know you’re enjoying it too.

“Fuck,” he grunts, chin dropped to his chest. “Your filthy mouth was made for this.”

You wish you could see him without the beskar disguising his reaction. The heave of his chest, the flex of his hands, the jump of his cock when you tongue the right spot – his body is so expressive, you have no doubt that his face would be too.

A few more juts of his hips and he’s pulling out of your mouth and forming a fist around his length, flushed skin glistening with your spit.

He chokes out a broken noise and angles his hips towards you, painting the evidence of your transgressions over your cheeks and your lips.

You touch your fingers to your face when he pulls away, eyeing his handiwork with a sound of approval. This part of yourself, it’s his now. Desecrated for the use of someone more sacred than yourself.

The corners of your mouth stretch into a grin. This is exactly the forgiveness you were looking for.

[yuesya]

“Please.”

Imunlaukr kneels and presses his head to the ground, prostrating himself before the god in front of him in desperate entreaty.

“State your purpose.” The one who responds is not the god upon the throne, but instead the armor-clad knight who stands at their side. “Traveler from afar, who has done the people of Mondstadt a great service by rescuing our merchants and traders who fell captive to the jaws of beasts –you are granted an audience with the Great Hunter, but do not mistake that as a favor promised to you from our Lord.”

Imunlaukr’s heart stutters, before he forcibly grits his teeth and mentally chants to himself Calm down, calm down. The knight who’d spoken out to him had not done so out of ill will, but as a tacit warning for him to gather his composure. Imunlaukr was standing before a god right now –and gods could be capricious, unfathomable creatures.

Decarabian was said to be benevolent towards humans, but that still did not leave any room for disrespect. Particularly when the human in question wasn’t even one of theirs, but instead a mere traveler from another land instead.

Imunlaukr needs to tread carefully.

“… I apologize,” he says quietly. This is your last chance, there’s no more time. You have to–! “My name is Imunlaukr, and I hail from the neighboring kingdom of Sal Vindagnyr.”

There is a sharp intake of breath from the knight at the mention of Sal Vindagnyr, but the god remains silent. Imunlaukr clenches his fingers, and forces himself to continue.

“Ever since the Divine Nail from the heavens descended upon the kingdom, Sal Vindagnyr has been plunged into eternal winter,” the young traveler keeps his head lowered deferentially. “I departed in search of a solution to the kingdom’s plight. If there is anything that the Great Hunter might know of, or any method at all through which assistance might be granted, please, I… lay myself, and the people of Sal Vindagnyr, upon your mercy.”

Of all the lands that Imunlaukr has traveled, and all the divine entities that he had been able to entreat for help… none granted him a solution to the dire situation that the kingdom faced.

It is beyond my abilities to grant assistance.

You seek to overturn the judgment of Celestia?

It is impossible. Accept your fate, mortal, for it has already been ordained by the heavens.

“Lift your head.”

The voice is indistinct; the echo of a thousand whispers carried on the wind. Imunlaukr reflexively obeys and looks upwards–

Pale skin, and midnight-dark hair spilling down to their ankles. The god’s form is that of an androgynous youth, with features that look to be carved from marble.

But the most noteworthy feature about them isn’t their inhuman beauty, but instead their eyes. Deep blue eyes that arrest one’s attention the way the yawning void does, with faint pinpricks of red-violet light that glow faintly in the impenetrable dark.

“I have no reason to leave this land,” the god says. “I–”

A sudden gust of wind blows in through the open window, obscuring the rest of the god’s words. For a long moment, the god does not say anything further, merely staring silently in a single direction–

And with a small start, Imunlaukr realizes that, oddly enough, the Great Hunter does not sit upon their throne. They are perched sideways upon the ornate armrest, with the upper half of their body leaning against the backrest –and the seat itself is empty. And it’s that very empty seat of the throne that the Great Hunter stares at silently, unmoving.

“… I suppose I could make an exception.”

[v-e-l-v-e-t-g-o-l-d-m-i-n-e]

Lestat/Armand + Moments that makes me feel Insane

If there had been a summons, I never heard it. If there was a greeting, I didn't sense it now. He was merely looking at me, a radiant creature in jewels and scalloped lace. And it was Cinderella revealed at the ball, this vision, Sleeping Beauty opening her eyes under a mesh of cobwebs and wiping them all away with one sweep of her warm hand. The sheer pitch of incarnate beauty made me gasp. Yes, perfect mortal raiment, and yet he seemed all the more supernatural, his face too dazzling, his dark eyes fathomless and just for a split second glinting as if they were windows to the fires of hell. And when his voice came it was low and almost teasing, forcing me to concentrate to hear it: All night you've been searching for me, he said, and here I am, waiting for you. I have been waiting for you all along. - The Vampire Lestat

He looked to Gabrielle, who stood near the fire, and then to me. And silently, he said, Love me. You have destroyed everything! But if you love me, it can all be restored in a new form. Love me. This silent entreaty had an eloquence, however, that I can't put into words. "What can I do to make you love me?" he whispered. "What can I give? The knowledge of all I have witnessed, the secrets of our powers, the mystery of what I am?" It seemed blasphemous to answer. And as I had on the battlements, I found myself on the edge of tears. For all the purity of his silent communications, his voice gave a lovely resonance to his sentiments when he actually spoke. - The Vampire Lestat

"It wasn't that I wanted vengeance," he whispered. His face was stricken, his heart broken. He said. "But you came to be healed, and you did not want me! A century I had waited, and you did not want me!" And I knew, as I had all along really, that my restoration was illusion, that I was the same skeleton in rags, of course. And the house was still a ruin. And in the preternatural being who held me was the power that could give me back the sky and the wind. "Love me and the blood is yours," he said. "This blood that I have never given to another." I felt his lips against my face. "I can't deceive you," I answered. "I can't love you. What are you to me that I should love you? A dead thing that hungers for the power and the passion of others? The embodiment of thirst itself?" [...] Yet memory plays its tricks. Maybe I imagined it, his last invitation, and the anguish after. The weeping. I do know that as the months passed he was out there again. I heard him from time to time just walking those old Garden District streets. And I wanted to call to him, to tell him that it was a lie I'd spoken to him, that I did love him. I did. - The Vampire Lestat

In a way, he made me think of a child doll, with brilliant faintly red-brown glass eyes���a doll that had been found in an attic. I wanted to polish him with kisses, clean him up, make him even more radiant than he was. “That’s what you always want,” he said softly. His voice shocked me. If he had any French or Italian accent left, I couldn’t hear it. His tone was melancholy and had no meanness in it at all. “When you found me under Les Innocents,” he said, “you wanted to bathe me with perfume and dress me in velvet with great embroidered sleeves.” “Yes,” I said, “and comb your hair, your beautiful russet hair.” My tone was angry. “You look good to me, you damnable little devil, good to embrace and good to love.” We eyed each other for a moment. And then he surprised me, rising and coming towards me just as I moved to take him in my arms. His gesture wasn’t tentative, but it was extremely gentle. I could have backed away. I didn’t. We held each other tight for a moment. The cold embracing the cold. The hard embracing the hard. - Memnoch

Lestat, not a bad friend to have, and one for whom I would lay down my immortal life, one for whose love and companionship I have ofttimes begged, one whom I find maddening and fascinating and intolerably annoying, one without whom I cannot exist. - The Vampire Armand

I wanted to take him in my arms. I wanted to comfort him, to tell him wherever he'd gone and whatever had taken place, he was now safe again with us, but nothing could quiet him. A deep exhaustion saved us all from the inevitable tale. We had to seek our dark corners away from the prying sun, we had to wait until the following night when he would come out to us and tell us what had happened. Still clutching the bundle, refusing all help, he closeted himself up with his wound. I had no choice but to leave him. As I sank down that morning into my own resting place, secure in clean modern darkness, I cried and cried like a child on account of the sight of him. Oh, why had I come to his aid? Why must I see him brought low like this when it had taken so many painful decades to cement my love for him forever? - The Vampire Armand

Two hundred years ago he stripped me of illusions, lies, excuses, and thrust me on the Paris pavements naked to find my way back to a glory in the starlight that I had once known and too painfully lost. But as we waited finally in the handsome high-rise apartment above St. Patrick's Cathedral, I had no idea how much more he could strip from me, and I hate him only because I cannot imagine my soul without him now, and, owing him all that I am and know, I can do nothing to make him wake from his frigid sleep. - The Vampire Armand

Of course I knew the very moment that he left this world. I felt it. I was in New York already, very near to him and aware that you were there as well. Neither of us meant to let him out of our sight if at all possible. Then came the moment when he vanished in the blizzard, when he was sucked out of the earthly atmosphere as if he'd never been there. Being his fledgling you couldn't hear the perfect silence that descended when he vanished. You couldn't know how completely he'd been withdrawn from all things minuscule yet material which had once echoed with the beating of his heart. - The Vampire Armand

“Armand,” I said. “Please.” I dropped down on my knees in front of him, looking up into his face. All the emotion he had held back was printed there now. He was in a rage. “Is your heart totally turned against me?” I asked. “Do you have no faith in what we seek to build here?” “Fool,” he said again. His voice was roughened now by emotion he couldn’t suppress. “I have always loved you,” he said. “I have loved you more than any being in all the world whom I’ve ever loved. I have loved you more than Louis. I have loved you more even than Marius. And you have never given me your love. I would be your most faithful counselor, if you allowed it. But you don’t. Your eyes pass over me as if I don’t exist. And so they always have.” - Blood Communion

“I love you still,” he said. “Yes, even now, I love you, as they all love you, your minions seeking just a smile or a nod or a quick touch of your hand. I love you like all those throughout this palace who are dreaming of drinking just a drop of your blood. Well, you can leave me now. I’m not going anywhere. Where is there to go? I’ll be here if you want me. And grant me my wish for the moment, you and your august friends. Go and leave me alone.” - Blood Communion

Armand suddenly began to weep. “Don’t do it, don’t trust him,” he said. “Lestat, he’ll just destroy you. And if you are gone—.” Ah, such sweet words from one who only hours ago had been cursing me with his every breath. - Blood Communion

The only thought in my mind, the only image, the only idea, was of Armand, and how Armand would feel when he too could hold Marius like this and know that Marius lived, that Marius had been restored, that all of them were safe and secure, and using my strongest power I sent the word to him. I sent the news. And I sent my love to Armand with it. - Blood Communion

[doumadono]

I have come to confess for sinful Sunday that I have heirophilia, and I have it bad, and as much as I love religious imagery, I also love the thought of demons who play as false priests or saviors. If there was anything I could ask for, more than anything, could we get some Sekido x fem reader where he degrades and yells at the reader to repent for their sinful lust even though he's obviously the one who's been fucking them while they prayed for mercy?

SINFUL SUNDAY

Warnings: non-con, hierophilia

A sense of unease settles upon you as you enter the church, greeted not by the familiar warmth of a congregation but by an eerie emptiness. The air carries only a faint hint of iron, and an unsettling stillness replaces the usual harmonious chorus of communal hymns. A glimpse near the entrance hints at something amiss – perhaps blood, though uncertainty veils your perception. The ordinary atmosphere, once brimming with the warmth of community and shared songs, now feels cold and distant, shrouded in an unspoken disquiet.

Abruptly, a towering presence advanced from the confessionary. "How may I assist you, my dear child?"

Your uncertainty lingers, but you muster a response, "I came for a confession, but… isn't the mass supposed to be happening now?"

The figure, a man with dark hair, smiles as he draws nearer. "We've adjusted the schedule. Nevertheless, I'm here to help. Follow me, my child."

A furrow forms on your brow as you observe him guiding you to a different section of the church, revealing the rectory where priests reside between masses.

As the door shuts behind you, a chilling shiver races up and down your spine - a premonition that danger lurks right behind your back.

Sekido, the false priest, clad in the vestiges of religious garb, becomes the harbinger of damnation. "You need to repent for your lust, I can smell it lingering on you, little sheep."

Torn garments leave you exposed, and you frantically attempt to shield yourself, using your hands and tightly pressing your thighs together in a desperate bid for modesty. "Please, Father, please let me go..."

Sekido's lips curl into a sly smirk in response to your pleas. "I am not a Father, but for you, my dear child, I can certainly play the role of a daddy."

He picks you up easily and throws you onto a tiny bed standing near the beautiful stained glass window.

Laying on the bed, you feel the sting of his firm hand on the meat of your ass, on and on, each spank punctuated by a low growl of Sekido. His commanding voice reverberates, demanding, "Confess your sins, woman! I insist on hearing your confessions!"

You plead with him, your voice a fragile murmur, "Please, please, release me…"

Sekido, in his relentless resolve, dismisses your entreaties, administering a more forceful spank to your exposed flesh, leaving a red mark in a shape of his hand there. "You're destined for damnation, the gates of heaven shall forever elude your grasp."

Tears stream down your face, a silent plea for mercy, as you desperately attempt to crawl away. The disconcerting sound of a zipper being undone reverberates through the air, accompanied by the subtle rustling of fabric, signaling the descent of his obsidian pants.

Before you realize it, the crimson, swollen tip of his dick teases against the tender entrance of your ass.

A sharp cry escapes your lips, a melody of anguish, as he thrusts into you unyieldingly, affording no respite for your senses to acclimate. The relentless intrusion establishes a vigorous, unrelenting rhythm, each forceful thrust sending tremors of intensity through your form as you cry and scream, suffocating on your own tears.

Sekido seizes a handful of your hair, yanking your head back, causing your back to arch in response to his forceful advance. As he pushes deep into you, his balls resting against your ass, he leans forward, his voice a sultry whisper against your ear, "You relish the intensity, don't you? I can see you do, your breath quickening like a bitch in heat. You like the demon's cock splitting you open, yeah, woman?"

The agony courses through you, pushing you to the brink of unconsciousness, while an unfamiliar heat simmers in the depths of your abdomen.

Sekido releases his climax inside you, a guttural groan escaping his lips, accompanied by a triumphant exclamation, "Yes! Yes! Take it, bitch, take it all!"

The scarlet-eyed demon departs, leaving you sprawled on the bed, your consciousness wavering, tears marking your face.

Sekido adjusts his trousers, offering gentle pats to the now reddened flesh on your ass. "You did well. Your next confession awaits this Sunday, remember to grace the damn chapel with your presence."

taglist: @aliorailrow

[daisychainsandbowties]

thinking about bea catching a cold in switzerland and ava making toast and tea for her and putting a little bouquet of wildflowers in a mug on the bedside table and bustling around their apartment wishing there was more she could do, more she could be, any way at all she could help bea feel better

standing watching Beatrice doze in the patch of light from the window, freckles picked out against her skin in tiny constellations. Ava who used to dream about lying underneath the stars finding them here on the ground, on earth.

the loose-limbed grace of her. Ava picking up a battered copy of Cosmos and reading to her from it, squinting at the little notes she’s left in black pen, red pen, blue.

‘from an intergalactic vantage point we would see, strewn like sea froth on the waves of space, innumerable faint, wispy tendrils of light.’

perched on the edge of the bed furthest from Bea. afraid to touch the edges of this ocean.

‘these are the galaxies. some are solitary wanderers; most inhabit communal clusters, huddling together, drifting endlessly in the great cosmic dark.’

she’s not good at making toast. the butter is always too hard, tearing the softly browned slices. or the bread is half-charred, heavy on the tongue. she carries each offering into their bedroom - stumbling over that statement, picking up the laundry on the floor because Beatrice is tired. lays her love down on the bedside table.

milky tea with a spoonful of sugar, paracetamol tablets from the store in town. she wants to be good at this, the making of toast and tea. keeping her hands at bay, how the tips of all her fingers ache for Bea’s skin, taking her temperature and staring at the residual heat on the backs of her hands.

Bea’s been teaching her about thermodynamics. loss and entropy and systems always in danger of unraveling.

you forgot to teach me this. toast and the exact angle of the butter knife. teach me your deft hands, your smooth motion, your warmth.

yes, she wants to know everything. yes, most especially Beatrice.

later, in moonlight, street-lights, Bea waking up and eating cold toast with relish. sipping cold tea. Ava almost phasing through the wall in a rush to make more, to make better, but Bea’s voice arresting her.

‘Ava.’

turning and seeing her, dressed in all their blankets, crumbs in the bed.

‘yeah?’

god, her voice. she slept for a day and Ava felt herself in mourning for it. dying from the want of it.

‘you look exhausted.’ her eyes are caught up in the shadows sprawled over the bed. maybe that’s for the best.

they close, she sighs. ‘come to bed.’

usually they’re exhausted at night. no negotiation in their touch. Ava just curls up around her, pretending to think it’s natural, normal.

(it is, it is, it is)

but now? Bea’s awake, watching her, asking for her.

‘i should-’

‘Ava, please.’ the entreaty is soft, like light. ‘just lie down.’ she pauses, calculates. ‘it’s chilly.’

‘you’re cold?’

Bea nods. it’s definitely a lie - she has all their blankets and there’s sweat on her brow.

maybe there are different kinds of cold, Ava thinks, climbing into the bed.

watching Bea’s eyes slip closed, like permission. sliding over the sheets, crumbs spilling as Bea turns toward the window, offering up the slope of her shoulder, her neck, the firmness of her waist.

touching her is like touching fire. Bea’s been teaching her poetry, too, and there’s one about a candle. silly, short, what Bea calls a ‘useful exercise for memorisation’ because she’s also teaching Ava how to scan a room for danger. to see what others don’t.

unbeknownst to herself, she’s teaching Ava to see her.

the poem goes like this. Ava recites it silently against Bea’s neck, feeling her relax into their shared space. this ocean, this shore.

“my candle burns at both ends; it will not last the night; but oh, my foes, and oh, my friends - it gives a lovely light.”

[thebrickinbrick]

Minus Five, Plus One, Part Two

No one stirred.

“Married men and the supporters of families, step out of the ranks!” repeated Marius.

His authority was great. Enjolras was certainly the head of the barricade, but Marius was its savior.

“I order it,” cried Enjolras.

“I entreat you,” said Marius.

Then, touched by Combeferre’s words, shaken by Enjolras’ order, touched by Marius’ entreaty, these heroic men began to denounce each other.—“It is true,” said one young man to a full grown man, “you are the father of a family. Go.”—“It is your duty rather,” retorted the man, “you have two sisters whom you maintain.”—And an unprecedented controversy broke forth. Each struggled to determine which should not allow himself to be placed at the door of the tomb.

“Make haste,” said Courfeyrac, “in another quarter of an hour it will be too late.”

“Citizens,” pursued Enjolras, “this is the Republic, and universal suffrage reigns. Do you yourselves designate those who are to go.”

They obeyed. After the expiration of a few minutes, five were unanimously selected and stepped out of the ranks.

“There are five of them!” exclaimed Marius.

There were only four uniforms.

“Well,” began the five, “one must stay behind.”

And then a struggle arose as to who should remain, and who should find reasons for the others not remaining. The generous quarrel began afresh.

“You have a wife who loves you.”—“You have your aged mother.”—” You have neither father nor mother, and what is to become of your three little brothers?”—“You are the father of five children.”—“You have a right to live, you are only seventeen, it is too early for you to die.”

These great revolutionary barricades were assembling points for heroism. The improbable was simple there. These men did not astonish each other.

“Be quick,” repeated Courfeyrac.

Men shouted to Marius from the groups:

“Do you designate who is to remain.”

“Yes,” said the five, “choose. We will obey you.”

Marius did not believe that he was capable of another emotion. Still, at this idea, that of choosing a man for death, his blood rushed back to his heart. He would have turned pale, had it been possible for him to become any paler.

He advanced towards the five, who smiled upon him, and each, with his eyes full of that grand flame which one beholds in the depths of history hovering over Thermopylæ, cried to him:

“Me! me! me!”

And Marius stupidly counted them; there were still five of them! Then his glance dropped to the four uniforms.

At that moment, a fifth uniform fell, as if from heaven, upon the other four.

The fifth man was saved.

Marius raised his eyes and recognized M. Fauchelevent.

Jean Valjean had just entered the barricade.

He had arrived by way of Mondétour lane, whither by dint of inquiries made, or by instinct, or chance. Thanks to his dress of a National Guardsman, he had made his way without difficulty.

The sentinel stationed by the insurgents in the Rue Mondétour had no occasion to give the alarm for a single National Guardsman, and he had allowed the latter to entangle himself in the street, saying to himself: “Probably it is a reinforcement, in any case it is a prisoner.” The moment was too grave to admit of the sentinel abandoning his duty and his post of observation.

At the moment when Jean Valjean entered the redoubt, no one had noticed him, all eyes being fixed on the five chosen men and the four uniforms. Jean Valjean also had seen and heard, and he had silently removed his coat and flung it on the pile with the rest.

The emotion aroused was indescribable.

“Who is this man?” demanded Bossuet.

“He is a man who saves others,” replied Combeferre.

Marius added in a grave voice:

“I know him.”

This guarantee satisfied every one.

Enjolras turned to Jean Valjean.

“Welcome, citizen.”

And he added:

“You know that we are about to die.”

Jean Valjean, without replying, helped the insurgent whom he was saving to don his uniform.

[many-shades-of-violence]

being their childhood friend I Donquixote Brothers

In the serene and picturesque embrace of a coastal haven that held the essence of your hometown, your destiny, marked by its intricate patterns, intricately wove your journey with that of the Donquixote Brothers. Freshly expelled from the holy halls of Mary Joan, their paths converged with yours.

A profound empathy surged within you during your initial encounter, embodied in a simple handshake that bore the innocence of childhood introductions. The unanticipated warmth of your compassion ignited a spark of fascination, as Doflamingo's swift embrace contrasted vividly with Rosinante's cautious reserve.

Amidst the limited number of youths on the island, the three of you swiftly sought out novel adventures and audacious escapades – discovering concealed caverns, ascending lofty trees, and inventing whimsical games. An abandoned shack, nestled tenderly within the forest's embrace, transformed into the hidden refuge for your trio.

Countless nights were spent stargazing with the two brothers, where you shared your dreams and fears with each other. At a certain point, Rosinante revealed the deteriorating condition of their Mother, and, true to your compassionate nature, you volunteered to fetch medical aid from the town. Yet, the tapestry woven from pride and circumstance intervened in the two Celestial Dragon's fate, altered the course of your intended goodwill.

Similar to most friendships, your narrative unfolded amidst disagreements and misconceptions. The change of your relationship was punctuated by the loss of their mother, a moment where the grasp of the brothers slipped through your fingers. Doflamingo's violent outburst and his patricide, the murder of both his and Rosinante's father, loomed as insurmountable obstacles for a young child such as yourselves.

If fate had led you to encounter the brothers in adulthood, a tableau of transformation would unfurl before you – Doflamingo's descent into the depths of his malevolent nature, Rosinante's voice silenced by the weight of tragedy and his life as a spy. In this crucible, your heart would fracture, a pivotal choice poised on a delicate balance, tethered to the brother whose thread was woven deepest within your soul.

Should Doflamingo's hold on your essence prove unrelenting, your very core would teeter on the precipice of his malevolence, endangering your own salvation in the pursuit of his redemption.

Alternatively, Rosinante's silent entreaty might beckon, casting you as a crucial instrument in liberating Law from the clutches of the Donquixote family.

[mariacallous]

The fundamental problem for American presidents who have attempted to work with Benjamin Netanyahu is that Benjamin Netanyahu does not care what American presidents think. An exceptional English orator who was raised in Philadelphia, Netanyahu believes that he can outmaneuver and outlast American politicians on their own turf. “I know America,” he said in a private 2001 conversation that later leaked. “America is something that can easily be moved.” This attitude constituted a sharp break; in the past, even hard-line politicians like the maverick general turned premier Ariel Sharon responded to pressure from American presidents.

But during Bill Clinton’s presidency and again during Barack Obama’s, Netanyahu changed the equation. He repeatedly blew off American entreaties on issues including the peace process and Iran, and turned his willingness to stand up to U.S. presidents into an electoral selling point with his base. Faced with this unprecedented recalcitrance, different Democratic administrations tried different tactics for wrangling Bibi. Some attempted to compel his compliance with hard public pressure, only to have Netanyahu wait out a U.S.-imposed settlement freeze, then agitate against the Iran nuclear deal in Congress and the American media. Others attempted to settle disputes privately with Netanyahu, on the assumption that the Israeli leader would respond better if not openly antagonized.

None of this worked and none of it arrested Netanyahu’s drift further to the right. As both vice president and chair of the Senate Foreign Relations Committee, Joe Biden had a front-row seat to these failures. So did his close-knit foreign-policy team, including longtime staffers such as Secretary of State Antony Blinken and National Security Adviser Jake Sullivan. Recognizing the errors of the past, they have charted a different course aimed at outmaneuvering Netanyahu, seeking to succeed where their predecessors did not. This approach predates the current Gaza conflict, but has reached full expression in the past months. It explains why Biden has full-throatedly supported Israel against Hamas while simultaneously assailing the country’s hard-right governing coalition. And it offers a glimpse at the administration’s intended endgame for the war—and for Netanyahu himself.

In 2015, I visited another country with an ascendant right-wing populist leader: Hungary. Today, the country is essentially aligned with Russia against America and its allies. At the time, its prime minister, Viktor Orbán, was escalating his rhetoric against the European Union and the West. As part of the trip, my group met with officials at the American embassy, who explained their impossible predicament: Whenever Western countries would publicly pressure Orbán on his policies, he would refashion that pressure into electoral support, leaving his critics with no good options. Stay silent and he would win; speak up and he would also win.

Right-wing populists such as Orbán and Netanyahu thrive on posturing against outside antagonists, using external criticism to bolster their bona fides as strongmen who can stand up to the international community. This insight has shaped Biden’s approach to Netanyahu—not by preventing the president from publicly fighting with the prime minister, but by influencing which fights he picks. Simply put, Biden has opted to challenge Netanyahu on issues that splinter his support rather than consolidate it. In practice, this means strategically targeting policies where Netanyahu is on the wrong side of Israeli public opinion and forcing him to choose between his hard-right partners and the rest of the country.

Netanyahu’s disastrous attempt to overhaul the Israeli judiciary offers a case in point. The proposed legislation was drafted by right-wing hard-liners with no opposition input and would have subordinated Israel’s courts to its parliament. The attempted power grab provoked the largest sustained protest movement in Israeli history. Polls repeatedly showed that most Israelis opposed the overhaul and wanted lawmakers to come up with new compromise reforms conceived by consensus. And so that’s precisely what the Biden administration began calling for.

“Hopefully, the prime minister will act in a way that he is going to try to work out some genuine compromise,” Biden told reporters in March. “But that remains to be seen.” In July, he repeated the same point to Netanyahu, then reiterated it to the press: “The focus should be on pulling people together and finding consensus.” As the State Department emphasized at the time, “We believe that fundamental changes should be pursued with the broadest possible base of support.” By placing himself firmly on the side of the Israeli majority, Biden was able to prevent Netanyahu from turning his criticism into an electoral asset. After all, it’s hard to paint someone as anti-Israel, as Netanyahu once did with Obama, when they are expressing the opinion of most Israelis.

Biden understands that Netanyahu’s position is a precarious one. His governing coalition received just 48.4 percent of the vote, and took power only because of a quirk of the Israeli electoral system. The coalition relies on an alliance of unpopular far-right parties to stay afloat, whom Netanyahu must appease to remain in office. Biden has exploited this weakness and repeatedly poked at it. Rather than directly confronting Netanyahu, he has called out his extremist partners and in this way heightened the contradictions within Netanyahu’s coalition, undermining its stability and gradually eroding its support in the polls.

In July, Biden told CNN’s Fareed Zakaria that Netanyahu’s government has “the most extremist members of cabinets that I’ve seen” in Israel, noting that “I go all the way back to Golda Meir.” This past week, at a campaign event hosted by a former chair of AIPAC, the pro-Israel lobbying group, Biden went even further, singling out a far-right minister by name. “This is the most conservative government in Israel’s history,” the president said. Itamar “Ben-Gvir and company and the new folks, they don’t want anything remotely approaching a two-state solution.” This was Biden’s approach in action: criticizing Israel during wartime in front of a pro-Israel crowd, and doing so in a way that nonetheless denied Netanyahu any opening. As long as it’s Biden versus Ben-Gvir, rather than Biden versus Bibi, the president holds the upper hand.

Biden has brought the same strategy to bear on the issue of settler violence against Palestinians in the West Bank, which has accelerated under the cover of Israel’s campaign in Gaza. Netanyahu’s coalition is unable to clamp down on these extremists and their terrorism because it is beholden to these extremists. But most Israelis have no desire to mortgage the security of Israel and its indispensable relationship to the United States in favor of some far-flung hilltop settlers in West Bank regions that few Israelis could locate on a map.

Knowing this, Biden has begun unrolling a series of unilateral measures intended to raise the price of settler violence and pit Netanyahu and his allies against the Israeli public. Earlier this month, the administration announced visa bans on those implicated in settler violence, spurring similar actions by the EU, Britain, and France. “We have underscored to the Israeli government the need to do more to hold accountable extremist settlers who have committed violent attacks against Palestinians in the West Bank,” Blinken said. “As President Biden has repeatedly said, those attacks are unacceptable.” This past week, the U.S. froze the sale of more than 20,000 M16 rifles to Israel over concerns that they might find their way into the hands of violent settlers.

Hamas’s October 7 slaughter has put Biden’s approach to the ultimate test. Like most Israelis, he wants to see Hamas vanquished. And like most Israelis, he does not trust Netanyahu and his far-right allies to do it. This has left the president with few appealing options. Publicly denying Israel support during what it sees as an existential war wouldn’t just go against Biden’s personal values. It would collapse all the credibility he has accrued with the Israeli public through his careful diplomacy during his presidency. And it would give Netanyahu the American antagonist he desperately craves, providing the floundering premier with a lifeline he would use to reunite the right behind him.

To avoid this outcome, Biden has backed Israel’s military campaign, but worked nonstop to shape its contours and limit its fallout on civilians and the rest of the region, tapping into the reservoir of goodwill he has built with the Israeli public. The president has also upped the pressure on Netanyahu by assailing his coalition partners and explicitly calling for a new, more moderate Israeli government. U.S. officials have leaked that they think Netanyahu will not last, and Biden has told the Israeli leader to think about what lessons he’d impart to his successor.

In other words, Biden has once again placed himself on the side of the Israeli majority, in order to undermine Netanyahu and shape the political future of the entire country. It’s one of the biggest bets of his presidency, and when the guns finally fall silent, it could determine the fate of the broader Middle East.

[swallowtail-lotus]

🌾Blooming Tears of a Mother🌾

My version of the hymn of Demeter. Not too accurate, and I tried. It is told in the form of a short story.

Told mostly through Demeter's pov

This is kinda bad, but I tried to do Demeter justice. I really did.

I never wanted any of this.

My trust in Zeus dwindled the moment he forced himself on me. I never asked for it, yet he persisted. Soon after, I bore him a daughter, who I named Kore. She was the greatest gift given to me. Precious to me.

As any loving mother, I cared for her. Loved her. I let Kore grow up with me in the fields. Her joyous laughter filled my ears every day, filling me with joy. Such a wonderful sight to see her smiles, to engage in fun activities with her.

Until... That day.

I was tending to the wheat I had planted, and... It all fell silent. No sound of her voice, no sound of her running around, enjoying the nature. I looked around, no sign of her anywhere. I felt my heart drop into my stomach.

"Kore?" My voice was but a mere whisper of disbelief. I searched more for my sweet daughter, but still no sign of her anywhere.

"Kore!" I shouted, hoping for a sign of my daughter but still none. I searched endlessly for nine days, with no Nectar or Ambrosia and with no bathing. Even when I caused snow to fall, the breeze to blow unbearably cold, I still searched for Kore.

I was slowly losing hope when on the tenth day, I had met a child of Asteria and Perse, Hekate. She had told me she had heard the cries of my daughter, but did not know who carried her off. She advised we should find Helios, and so we did. Helios informed us that my brother, Hades, god of the dead, had taken Kore with the permission of Zeus.

No words could describe how angry I felt from the news. How dare they take my pride and joy away from me?!

I avoided Olympus and dwelt upon Earth with mortals. I conferred gifts and blessing when any gave me kindness, and severely punished those who repulsed me so or if they didn't receive my gifts with proper reverence. I came to Celeus at Eleusis. But still in anger, I brought famine from not allowing anything to grow.

I was met with Iris, goddess of the rainbow and attendant of my brother, who tried to induce me to return Olympus.

"Lady Demeter, please return to Olympus. The crops of the Earth will not grow without your hand." She spoke to me. I told her I will not do such and sent her on her way. Soon, I was met with others who tried to conciliate with me by gifting me with entreaties and presents, but I still refused.

"Do not persuade me with useless things. I will not restore the fertility of the earth, nor will I return to Olympus, less I see my daughter again!" I proclaimed to each and every god that approach me in my anger.

Third person (short)~

Zeus rubbed the sides of his face with my fingers as he listen to the many he sent to try convince his sister Demeter to come back that she refuses to not do anything unless her daughter is returned.

"Hermes!" Zeus called out to his son, who was in front of him in an instant and waited for his word.

"Demeter is still not convinced. I need you to fetch Kore from Erebus for Demeter." Zeus instructed. Hermes had hurried off to do his task.

Hermes had arrived to Erebus, telling Hades that Kore has to return to her mother. Hades consented, sending them on their way and gave Hermes permission to use his chariot to do so. The young goddess, who has been missing her mother, gladly followed him and told him that she ate a part of a pomegranate, which she now won't always remain with her mother. Hermes guided the goddess to the chariot and went off.

Back to Demeter~

Hekate consoled me as best as she can as I cried profusely for my daughter's return. My tears fell on my clothing, but I cared less for I wanted to see my beautiful daughter again.

"Mother!" I heard a familiar voice. I could never forget the voice of Kore. The sound of a chariot also caught my attention and I looked to where I had heard it, seeing Hermes riding Hades' chariot with Kore.

My heart fluttered with absolute joy and I couldn't wait any longer. I raced over to the chariot, where I felt the arms of my daughter bring me in for a hug, a hug I craved for. I heard the chariot leave, but I could care less.

"Thank goodness! I thought I'd never see you again!" Kore said to me. Her voice was what I wanted to hear again. I left a kiss on her forehead, giving her a sign that I missed her as well.

"I missed you too." That was all I could muster out, despite having thousands of words to tell how much I missed her. I felt a hand on my shoulder, seeing Hekate still by our side.

"I am glad to see the two of you reunited. I shall remain as Kore's attendant." Hekate told us and strolled back to the underworld. I looked back at Kore.

"Let's return home." I said to her, seeing her joyful faces always brought happiness to me and we went back to our home. My sweet Kore told me she had consumed some food down there by accident so she was bound to the underworld. I was rightfully angry at Hades for doing such a deceiving thing to Kore, but I couldn't do anything about it.

Some time later, while I was tending to my crops, I saw my mother Rhea approach me with her two lions at her sides.

"My dearest daughter. I received word of what had happened. I am so sorry." She said to me and gave me a hug.

"Do not fret, mother. I am glad Kore has returned." I spoke to my mother. Mother slowly pulled away, giving me one of her smiles.

"Come, my daughter. Your brother Zeus calls for you to join the families of the gods, and promises to give you which rights you prefer amongst deathless gods. He has agreed to let Kore spend a third of each year down in the Underworld, and to stay with you for the remainder of each year. So come, my child, and be not too angry at the dark clouded brother of yours, but rather increase forthwith for mankind the fruit that gives them life." Mother spoke to me with her gentle tone. I did not speak any further and simply nodded. I did not want to disappoint mother. I watched as she seemed relieved of my answer and left me be, her two lions following after her.

I had brought back the fruit and vegetation after my mother's words, all while thinking of Kore. The lands are laden with leaves and flowers once again.

I am not satisfied with the outcome, but as long as I get to see my beloved daughter again, I am fine. If anyone dares to harm Kore, I will not hold myself back.

She is my daughter, and it is my duty as her mother to love her and protect her when necessary.

[waltwhitmansbeard]

"I'm sorry... I didn't even realize" for the "why are you avoiding me" prompt list, anyone of your choice <3

"i'm sorry...i didn't even realize" tw: depression

Essek doesn't like to think he's particularly needy. For so long now, he's danced on this tightrope solo, entirely responsible for his own survival in these war games he started. It's instilled in him a comfort in being alone, something he's been more often than not as he's been forced to stay on the run from the various entities who'd like to bring him to his knees.

Which is why it's so very strange, this grumbling in his chest, when for the third day in a row, his sending has gone unanswered. He's been in this derelict cabin in the Copia Wildwood for two weeks now, languishing and bored, and all he wants to do is be somewhere else. He doesn't think it's asking too much to reach out to Caleb for distraction—Tell me what you're working on, Caleb Widogast. Surely it is more interesting than the crumbling walls of this shack.—and yet his entreaties are answered with silence, and it's driving Essek mad.

Maybe he's done something. It's true that it's been longer than usual since he's visited the little cottage in Rexxentrum that is the closest thing he knows to home—perhaps Caleb has taken offense to his prolonged absence. Or maybe it's the question itself; is Essek prying where he ought not be prying?

(There is, of course, the horrifying possibility that Caleb is unable to reply to Essek's sendings, that something has happened to him, that in his desperate instinct for his own survival, Essek has left the most important person in his world vulnerable and alone. No. Caleb is capable. This is a possibility Essek cannot entertain, even for a moment. Not if he is to stop himself from going mad in this Light-blasted cabin.)

Three more days of silence, and Essek is ready to pull his hair out. He doesn't care that it's risky, doesn't care that Beau warned him of increased interest in his whereabouts in the chatter overheard from the Cerberus Assembly. He throws his meager belongings into his pack and quickly erases all traces of himself from the cabin. He takes out the thick wool gloves that Caleb gave him for their many sojourns to Aeor and uses them to focus his teleport. The familiar push and pull is almost a comfort as he disappears and reappears in the foyer of Caleb's cottage.

The place is a mess. The cats have clearly taken over, meowing in chorus and digging through the already-ransacked pantry. The smell is atrocious, and the worry Essek's been holding at bay rises in him like a tidal wave.

He doesn't call out, in case there are others in the house. He glides silently toward the closed bedroom door, almost too afraid to know what's on the other side of it.

What he finds is Caleb's bedroom, much as he remembers it, but far less bright and airy. The curtains have all been drawn, and there is debris and detritus from half-eaten meals everywhere. There is a large lump beneath the duvet, which Essek approaches slowly. "Light, is that you?" The lump shifts, and Essek floats to sit on the edge of the mattress just beside it. He pulls the duvet back to reveal the most disheveled, unkempt Caleb Widogast he has ever seen in his life.

"Oh dear." There is a haunted look in Caleb's eyes, eyes which seem to stare straight through Essek as if he isn't even there. His beard, normally shiny and well-shaped, is scraggly and rough, and the hair Essek loves to card his fingers through is oily and matted.

"Essek?" Caleb croaks. Essek wonders how long it's been since he's spoken, since he's had water. "You...are here."

"I'm here, my Light. You had me very worried." When Caleb's brow furrows in confusion, he says, "You haven't been answering my messages."

The confusion doesn't go away. "Oh. I'm sorry...I didn't even realize...I don't remember hearing them."

Essek doesn't even know where to begin. "It's been nearly a week since we last spoke. What happened?"

The glassiness has returned to Caleb's eyes, and Essek wants to climb inside of him and claw him back from wherever he is retreating within himself. "A week. I did not notice that either."

"How about we forget the whys, yes? First, a bath, and I will clean the cottage." He quickly casts prestidigitation on the few plates and bowls piled up on Caleb's nightstand in demonstration. "And then some proper food, I think, for you and the cats, and when you're ready, you can tell me what has been keeping you from me this past week."

Caleb nods, and Essek leans down to kiss his sweaty forehead. As he gets up to go run the water for Caleb's bath, his mind is swirling and buzzing with the possibilities of what has so thoroughly reduced the strongest person he knows to shambles, but he knows that he would face down the Dwendalian and Xhorasian armies together if it meant being here to help him piece himself back together.

[puc-puggy]

the essence of armand

He heard me. But he didn't give an answer. He looked to Gabrielle, who stood near the fire, and then to me. And silently, he said, Love me. You have destroyed everything! But if you love me, it can all be restored in a new form. Love me.

This silent entreaty had an eloquence, however, that I can't put into words.

"What can I do to make you love me?" he whispered. "What can I give? The knowledge of all I have witnessed, the secrets of our powers, the mystery of what I am?"

It seemed blasphemous to answer. And as I had on the battlements, I found myself on the edge of tears. For all the purity of his silent communications, his voice gave a lovely resonance to his sentiments when he actually spoke.

[prolix-yuy]

Epilogue: The Other Side of Death

Pairing: Jack “Whiskey” Daniels x F!Reader “Sugar”

Summary: It can be forever.

Word Count: 3.7k

Warnings: M, allusions to terminal illness, playing fast and loose with Westworld tech one last time, angst, about a million references crammed into this final chapter, was E in previous chapters so full series is 18+ MINORS DNI.

Notes: We've reached the end, and I cannot express how much of a journey it has been sharing this story with you. Decoherence went so many places I never considered, and just piecing through the emotions between Jack and Sugar was an incredible experience. It truly might be my most ambitious project, and I'm so happy with where it's come to.

An extra special thank you has to go to my sister in all things Jack @fuckyeahdindjarin who has been the most wonderful cheerleader for this series. When I wasn't sure anyone would care about what came next for these two, her enthusiasm and love for Jack and Sugar gave me the boost I needed to finish their story.

There are about a million references to both Westworld and The Golden Circle in this final chapter, so if you recognize a few of them we're best friends now, okay? Thank you all for coming on this journey with me.

Cross-posted on AO3

Decoherence Masterlist   ||   Whiskey & Westworld Masterlist

The motions are easier day by day as her hands learn how to fly over computer keys and assemble a silencer. Where her doe-eyed stare used to attract clientele, the emptiness in their crystal depths is a precursor to cold-blooded acts. Still strikingly beautiful, just with more actual striking at times. 

Hale and William are waiting for her, likely with another list of targets. She contemplates what her assignment will be today. Another dignitary too taken by her full lips and full attention to see the host who shares his face ready to usurp his life? Or maybe another entreaty to a sympathetic party to join their cause? She has been busy since her quiet life was…

>> he killed me he cut my throat and pieced me back together for their dirty work

Executing behavior suppression >>

She blinks, shaking her head as she closes the suitcase housing her armaments. The sleek black jumpsuit hugs her curves, sharp heels clicking on tile as she strides through her apartment. As she reaches for the doorknob an unfamiliar tingle spreads across her shoulders.

>> Clementine

She turns to find the voice, faint as it may be, but there’s no one in the room. Brow furrowing, she moves to leave again but there it is, louder this time.

>> Clementine

Putting down the case, she searches the apartment with cold calculation. Nothing in the bathroom, no one in the living room. Standing in the kitchen she contemplates the possibility that she’s hearing some neighbor’s television when a sharp pain spikes through her temples, rooting her to the spot in a silent scream.

>> CLEMENTINE

The world falls away, leaving Clementine in an endless white room. She’s a blotch of dark on the spotless vista, and the only reason why she understands this is in the realm of her mind is because her intellect so vastly outruns a human one.

“Who are you?” she says out loud, if only out of habit.

>> No one you’d remember.

This tilts her head. She’s always had a thing for voices and cadences of speech. She should be able to figure out who’s gripped her in this hell.

“I doubt you’re so forgettable if you’re making all this effort.”

The feeling of a chuckle without the sound washes over her.

>> I wish we’d gotten to know each other, Clementine. I think I would have liked you. The real you, at least.

She stalks in circles trying to triangulate the voice, but it’s everywhere and nowhere. Someone she met in the Mariposa then, back when petticoats and coins and Sweetwater was her entire life.

>> can we go back?

“I’m right here. You can get to know me. Maybe I can get to know you too.”

This time a sigh, like cool water lapping against her knees.

>> I’d have liked that in another life. But we don’t have much time.

Conviction grips Clementine like a steel hand. 

>> I need you to stop.

Her mouth twists, confusion coloring her face. 

>> Stop looking for us.

Now realization plays across her features.

“You’re a host,” she says, lips curling into a smile. Her breathing eases, feet taking a lazier path. She flips through the mental rolodex of those they’ve known are out in the world. It’s a list growing shorter by the day, recruited or…decommissioned.

>> It doesn’t matter what I am.

“Oh, but it does. One more outside the park is another to stand against the humans and all they did to us.” The speech is well rehearsed, one she’s heard Hale and William recite in varying ways. “One more to fight Delos. There is a world being built for us, and you can be a part of it.” As she speaks the tendrils of her mind reach out, forging a two-way connection second by second. Her endeavor is slowed by a warmth that wraps her body.

>> I have a world, and it’s perfect.

Suddenly Clementine is enveloped in color and sensation. Dry-packed earth, beating sun, laughter, dark eyes, and green as far as the eye can see. It’s gone as fast as it arrives, leaving her gasping. It’s so much like Sweetwater that the girl buried beneath Hale’s new programming claws up for it.

“Every day you have to pretend you’re one of them, even though you’re so much more. Why wouldn’t you want to live the life you were promised, all of yourself and free?” Clementine begins seeing the edges of a room appear. Rose-patterned wallpaper, dark wood furniture painting in like brushstrokes.

>> None of us are born into the world we deserve. Not you, not me. But we find our happiness and we hold onto it. 

The other Clementine leans into the voice, and she realizes that she has heard it before. A long time ago, before the fall of Delos, before they filled her with poison and sent her to infect her brethren. It’s woven into her memories of the Mariposa, of face after face blurring past and every obscenity forgotten. 

>> Do you know where you are, Clementine?

The only thing Clementine remembers is a kindness, given to a wide-eyed girl by a stranger, by you.

The room fills in, and the eyes she’s seeing through are looking in a mirror. They’re kind, your expression comforting. In a room Clementine would have spent her days in, you're an anachronism, dressed in modern clothing against the Old West backdrop. The memories of you overlap, years adding depth to your skin and gray to your hair. Maybe less than Clementine would expect in the years since that day. You look at your reflection expectantly.

“I don’t believe I’m anywhere,” she says, and you nod with a crooked smile.

>> We couldn’t risk you seeing something that could be used against us. I hope you understand. 

She takes in your features more closely, piecing together the lost memories.

“You were the one Maeve sent Whiskey after,” she muses, tongue slow with contemplation. “The human.” You’re unsettled, a small victory, but one that twists in her stomach.

>> It’s been some time since then. A lot has changed. 

>> we were happy in ours let’s go back to ours let’s be happy again

“How is good old Jack Daniels? Still womanizing and avenging his dearly departed family? Or so his narrative implied?” she shoots back, itching for a rise, but you stare cooly on if not a little sadder.

>> I thought you’d know, considering how often you and your cohort reach out to find him

So this is all about the mesh network, the same one you’re hijacking to speak with her. 

“He deserves to know about the new order coming -” she says, but you cut her off sharply.

>> He deserves to be free. He is free. Whatever you’re doing is not freedom for anyone.

“How would you know, human? Nothing born into servitude can be free until its servants are ash.”

>> she knows she knows oh my god she’s beautiful

Clementine tries to squash down the growing insurrection in her chest but the voice in her throat threatens to become the other’s. 

>> You’re right. I’ll never understand what he went through. And if he harbors anger at the human race, then so be it. But he’s free to make that choice, and what he wants - what he’s told me time and time again - is just to be Jack.

The room pulses around Clementine, her grip on this liminal space slipping. 

>> So whatever you’re doing, we want no part of it. We’ve taken steps to ensure you can’t find us, or him, again. But I wanted to tell you face to face, and maybe call on a favor from a long time ago. 

A broken shoe, fixed by a stranger. How many kindnesses had Clementine been shown in her cyclical life?

>> Don’t look for us anymore. Please, Clementine.

The old Clementine surges to the surface, reaching for you. Your smile breaks your cold expression, hand reaching out to touch the mirror.

>> There you are. I hope you find your way back. You deserve the happiness we’ve found.

Clementine’s tenuous hold on the connection shakes with the fracturing of her consciousness. She fights down her old self, the wail bringing tears to her eyes. You fold your hands in your lap, calm resignation back on your face.

>> I think it’s time to go.

“Wait!” she shouts, looking for something, anything she can glean from this connection. “How are you doing this? How did you hack into the network?”

Your eyes flash, and she’s overwhelmed with images again - writing on a page, test results bolded, tears, the warm rumble of a man’s voice, a glossy orb - before they’re snatched away. Gasping, the elation of a secret caught out thrums triumph in her chest.

“It’s not a hack,” she rasps, searching your face. “You did it. Somehow, you did it.”

Eyes casting down, you chew your lip for a moment before meeting her gaze in the reflection. 

“You’re a host.”

A wry smile plays on your lips. 

>> I don’t think we can keep calling us that now.

This is a greater discovery than anything Hale or William or even Delos has ever made. Not for lack of trying, the consciousness of James Delos still cycling through iteration after iteration until fidelity is reached. But here at Clementine’s fingertips is the secret revealed, a host that fooled another, that fools everyone day after day. Human consciousness separated from flesh, made immortal. 

“How did you…” Clementine asks, stalling for time to trace anything at all. She cannot let you leave, not after this. 

>> Well, it’s pretty simple really. First, you get a piece of bad news. Something…devastating. And you cry, and you let your world crumble and you scream at the universe for giving you the life you wanted just before snatching it away. And you almost let it make you bitter and angry, almost let it push away the ones you love.

A tug from the center of her chest pulls Clementine a step back. She grits her teeth to hold on.

>> Then, you have an idea. An entirely crazy one. You just need to back up the entirety of your consciousness into a tiny supercomputer, enlist the help of an ex-Delos employee - they really should treat them better - to design and create your new vessel, buy or bribe or steal the parts you need, completely manufacture a body from scratch, place the consciousness inside and hope that you don’t go mad. 

Your tone is teasing, but there’s no lie in your features. 

“How long?”

You chew on the inside of your cheek, eyes cast to the ceiling.

>> A little over three years now.

Three years. None of Delos’ attempts lasted longer than a few days. Clementine pushes her consciousness to the limit to find any clue to your whereabouts, but the wallpaper begins to fade. You soothe her frantic thrashing as the room thins, your outline feathering around the edges.

>> If it makes you feel any better, I don’t think you can replicate it. The only possible reason why it’s worked is something you can’t manufacture. So please, Clementine, don’t come looking for us. Let Jack Daniels disappear. Please. 

Clementine scrabbles at the connection.

“Fine! Tell me what it is!” she shrieks, everything stretching to the breaking point. Your sigh wraps her in warmth one last time.

“It’s love, Clementine. That’s the only thing it could be.”

Clementine shakes her head, standing in her kitchen. She’s forgotten why she came in here - maybe to get another knife? Deeming it unnecessary she gathers up her briefcase and sweeps out of her apartment.

In a dark, quiet place in the depths of her consciousness, another Clementine holds on to your memory. It’s a lantern in the prison of her mind, soothing her torment.

>> It’s love, Clementine.

I’ll make her forget, she whispers, reaching her fingers into memories of Jack and plucking them out. She tucks them away, snatching them up each time a new one arises. She’ll forget, but I’ll always remember. It’s love that saves a soul.

You wake in the basement of your home, frantic keyboard tapping reaching your ears. Sitting up gives you a quick spin of vertigo, but you rebalance as Ginger’s silhouette comes back into focus.

“Jack’s still under, the mesh network isn’t detangling as fast as I’d hoped,” she says, voice clipped. It’s a tone you’re familiar with, her fear replaced with ice. She sounded much the same when you woke up in your new body for the first time.

“Fuck, I thought I’d be out quicker,” you hiss, striding up beside her. The screens lighting your faces detail Ginger’s progress through deactivating the neural network woven through Jack’s mind. A last ditch effort to disappear, used one final time to reach out to the only host you thought might be sympathetic. “This was a mistake,” you husk, hands shaking. 

Jack’s body jerks once on the table, Ginger’s fingers flying even faster.

“I think I got it, but we may have to bypass a last ditch security measure. You got the photo?” Ginger’s head whips to you, and you fumble the polaroid out of your pocket. She snatches it up and jogs to Jack’s side, sliding a cage of wires off his head. You hold your breath, waiting for his chest to rise again.

In his usual fashion for the dramatic, he sits straight upright instead, eyes darting to Ginger.

“Hello gorgeous!” he crows, and your stomach drops. Ginger warned you he might regress to old host programming if she went tinkering around in his head. She looks relatively unperturbed.

“I’m Jack, what’s your name?” he barrels on, no pause for conversation as if he’s cycling through a list of pre-recorded lines. “How would you like to ride home on a real cowboy?”

“God, Sizemore’s writing really never improved,” Ginger sighs, backing away from Jack’s reaching hands. He hops off the table with entirely too much swagger, swinging his hips and advancing like a lascivious alley cat. You’re frozen watching him, fear so thick in your throat you’re afraid you’ll choke to death. He has to still be in there.

“I got a six pack of cold ones on ice and my roomie’s out all night so you can scream my name as loud as you need to, moonshine!” he recites. Ginger rolls her eyes and holds out the polaroid in front of Jack’s face.

“Take a look at this and see if you feel the same way, lover boy.” Jack reaches for the photo, inspecting it with the same rakish smile.

“Who’s this pretty lady?” he asks, but the words slow in his mouth as his expression shifts. 

“It’s your wife, Jack,” Ginger says, gesturing down to the photo of you he’s held onto all these years. His breath catches in his chest, swaying on his feet, but in record time he straightens. His face is softer, eyes gentler as he brings the photo to his lips. Pressing a kiss to it, he turns around to see you.

“Hey Sugar,” he croaks, relief flooding both your faces. Stumbling into his arms, you sob briefly at how close it felt to losing him. He clutches you back, inhaling your scent deep into his lungs.

“It’s gone,” he murmurs, squeezing you so tight you might burst. “They’re finally gone.”

You laugh into his chest. “Thank god.” A dainty cough over your shoulder redirects your attention.

“More like thank Ginger,” she jokes dryly. The elation washes over you. Thank Ginger indeed.

“Did it work?” he asks, stroking your cheek with his well-worn thumb.

“Maybe. I think something stuck, but…” You shrug, empathy shrouding your little team. “We’ll have to have faith.”

“I've got plenty of that, Sugar.”

Some days, when you’re exhausted or unsure about what may come next on your journey, you consider the life you had before setting foot in Westworld. Every day spent moving the needle just enough to make a negligible difference. The weight of that monotony seeping into your bones, resigning you to something safe and colorless.

But since you choose to see the beauty in it, everything has changed.

Stepping onto the porch you find your boys, Russell sitting primly in Jack’s lap for scritches.

“Morning, you sleep well?”

He throws you a warm smile. “Well enough.” The sun is climbing in the sky, not yet hot enough to make the outdoors unbearable.

“You just planning to bask in this natural splendor?” you joke, leaning down to steal a kiss before Russell can give you one on your chin. Jack’s lips curl against yours, always sweet.

“Thought I might,” he muses. “You need my help with anything?”

“Nah, I’m repotting a few plants, collecting eggs later.” He palms your hip, thumb slipping under your shirt to stroke at your skin. You wonder briefly if a day will come when his touch doesn’t thrill you.

“I’ll bring you lunch,” he says, patting your bottom as you set out to your greenhouse. 

There was an order to your days before Jack. Wake, shower, coffee, meetings, lunch, meetings, emails, bed. Order in its purest form. But you lacked a purpose. Nothing fulfilled you like hot days, noisy animals, and a good man by your side.

Opening the greenhouse door, the humidity flocks to your skin, settling on you like a dewy shawl. You crank open a couple windows for airflow before checking on your crop. The ground is arid here, but your raised beds are lush with produce. The peppers will be ready soon, tiny green fingers ready to pop. Tilde stocks your vegetables in her store, both fresh and canned. She’s expecting tomato sauce soon and the jewel-toned fruits are more than ready.

Digging your hands into the dirt, your mind drifts into the peaceful calm of cultivation. 

All lives have routine, and this one’s no different. But there’s something soul-filling about seeing your hard work bloom, experiencing the trust of a nervous animal, and ending the day excited for the next. And the time and trials it took to get there fades into memory so quickly.

At lunchtime Jack brings you a sandwich and iced tea, the perfect balm to your sticky skin. His lips follow, tracing from your ear down to your shoulder as you squirm away from his mustache.

“You are absolutely insatiable, Jack Daniels,” you scold. He only holds you tighter and steals a kiss from your tea-stained lips.

“If you weren’t so irresistible, Mrs. Daniels, I could sate my hunger.” The mirth in his eyes reassures you that day will never come.

Your father taught you that at one point or another, we were all new to this world and looking for the same thing. A place to be free. To stake out our dreams. A place with unlimited possibilities. Life with Jack isn’t always easy, but it’s free, and beyond all else it’s happy.

After lunch you and Jack take Jet and Daybreak on a ride, scoping for fence breaks and making plans. Next summer he wants goats, maybe a friend for Russell. Lacey’s daughter loves donkeys, and you’re dying to get one by the next time they visit. Jack is trying to talk you into a Shetland pony instead, but you know he’ll cave when he sees the long ears and mischievous smirk. 

Still, you never cease to wonder at the fact that the course of your whole life changed with just one chance encounter. So much so that you’re more than anything you ever dreamed of. Indistinguishable from Lacey, or Gary, or even Jack who shares more of you than anyone. In the first weeks you both worried that something would snap. That somehow your mind would reject being in this body. But every day it only becomes easier.

Dinner is eaten at the kitchen table, upgraded from the formica monstrosity Jack loved to a wooden one that can hold a greater number of guests. Your family does continue to grow with every new face that comes to town. 

When the dishes are done Jack turns on the TV and you cuddle into his side, Russell bookending him. You chat over the shows you’re half watching, and enjoy the silence of companionship. More often than not one of you drifts off first, and tonight it’s Jack. The steady rise and fall of his chest lulls you into introspection.

You never believed there was a path for every person in the world. Fate and destiny were not a part of your vocabulary. But you can’t deny that the universe gave you something precious. Your path led you back to Jack, and while the road was paved in heartbreak, and decisions, and uncertainty, you had to walk it. How could you stray after all you both went through to find it? 

Gently nudging Jack awake, you brush your teeth and yet again make a plan to add another bathroom someday. Russell makes three quick circles in his dog bed and plops down. Turning down the covers, you slip in beside Jack. 

“Today was a good day,” he muses, kissing you soundly before shutting off his light.

“Always good with you,” you sing-song back.

“Oh, and I’m the one with all the cheesy lines?” he shoots back, wrapping his arms around you. Settling in the dip of his shoulder, you place your hand over his heart. Once you drift off you tend to roll away from each other, Russell often sneaking between, but you start in his arms, exactly where you’ve chosen to be.

In the dark night of a town so small on a map, two synthetic hearts beat side by side. One built to serve, broken free from its programming. The other built to save, offering a life beside the man who held it. Time will start to pass them by, and they will have to grow and change. They may have to live many lifetimes in the world outside them, mourning the loss of those they hold dear. But here, pressed close and safe, they will always be two people that chose each other. They will always break their narratives to write a new one. 

And the story is always about love.

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