#so too might their tongues whisper wisdom

[headlesssamurai]

[br0kenangel]

𝐀 𝐅𝐎𝐎𝐋: 𝘈𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘧𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳, 𝘈𝘦𝘨𝘰𝘯 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘮𝘣𝘦𝘳. 𝘑𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘩𝘦 𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘥𝘰.

The door opened without a knock, and in strode your eldest son, Aegon. His expression was one of barely contained fury, his mouth set in a hard line. He wore the black and red of his house, his silver hair shining in the light.

You didn’t rise or greet him formally. Instead, you took a slow sip of your wine, watching him like a cat watches a mouse caught in a trap.

“Mother,” he said, his voice sharp and clipped.

“Aegon,” you replied coolly, setting your goblet down with a faint clink. “Come, sit. You look as if you’ve been chewing on a sour lemon.”

Aegon’s nostrils flared slightly as he sat across from you. His jaw was tight, and his hands were clenched into fists.

“What did he do this time? Has your father’s wisdom left you choking on your own tongue?” you asked, arching an eyebrow.

“It’s not wisdom he’s choking on. He’s a fool if he thinks Rhaenyra’s claim will hold this kingdom together. He’s determined to throw it all to the wolves. And for what? His precious daughter?”

Aegon slammed his hand down on the arm of the chair, the wood creaking under the pressure. “He still insists on keeping Rhaenyra as his heir,” he spat, his voice brimming with frustration. “Despite all the signs—despite the whispers in the court, despite the tension between the lords—he clings to this foolish notion that she will unite the realm.”

You tilted your head, an amused smile tugging at your lips. “Ah, the great dreamer, your father. One might think he’s convinced himself he lives in one of his old songs about gallant knights and wise queens.”

“Dreams,” Aegon spat, his voice dripping with disdain as he stalked toward the window, glaring out at the city below. “Dreams won’t stop the realm from tearing itself apart. His stubbornness is going to ruin us all.”

You arched an eyebrow and tilted your head, a wry smile tugging at your lips. “Tell me, my dear, what’s worse: a king who refuses to see reason or a son who insists on treating every disagreement like a declaration of war?”

“I need to act, Mother,” Aegon growled. “The realm is on the verge of breaking apart, and he’s too blind to see it.”

You leaned forward slightly, resting your chin on your fingers. “And how do you propose to fix this? Drag him from his throne by the scruff of his neck? That would be quite a sight.”

He glared at you, though there was no real malice in his eyes. “This isn’t a jest.”

“Oh, I’m well aware,” you replied smoothly. “But sometimes, my son, the truth is so absurd that the only thing left to do is laugh.”

Aegon’s eyes snapped back to you, sharp as daggers. “I am declaring war,” he said, his tone dangerous. “War on stupidity. Father is leaving our family vulnerable. The lords see weakness, and weakness is blood in the water. They will turn on us the moment Rhaenyra takes the throne.”

You laughed softly, amused by his intensity. “Oh, Aegon. Always so dramatic.” You paused, giving him a pointed look. “You think the lords will rise for her? The only thing these men rise for is power. Offer them that, and they will forget who was promised what. It’s always the same song, my son. Play the right tune, and they will dance to your music.”

Aegon clenched his fists at his sides, the tension rolling off him in waves. “The music won’t matter if Father continues to shield her with his blind loyalty. He treats her like she’s untouchable, like the gods themselves have chosen her to rule.”

“Ah, yes, the gods,” you said dryly, waving a dismissive hand. “A convenient excuse for poor decision-making. If we all did what the gods wanted, we’d be living in rags and begging for scraps. No, Aegon, the gods don’t care for the affairs of men. This game, this fight for the throne—it belongs to us. It always has.”

Aegon paced in front of you, his mind racing. “And yet, here I am, watching as the realm slips through my fingers because my father insists on upholding his dying legacy. Rhaenyra is weakness. She’ll tear the kingdom apart the moment she’s crowned, and he refuses to see it.”

“Your father has always been a romantic at heart,” you said with a sigh. “He’s clinging to the idea that love and family will prevail over politics. A fool’s hope, if ever there was one.”

“Fool,” Aegon muttered under his breath, his frustration clear.

You regarded him with a look that was equal parts admiration and exasperation. “Just as I expected,” you muttered, more to yourself than him.

Aegon furrowed his brow. “What?”

You waved a hand dismissively. “Never mind. I'm just proud of my son. Ruthless, cold, but oh so clever.”

He blinked, unsure if you were complimenting him or insulting him.

You leaned back, your voice turning serious now. “Aegon, you have ambition, that much is clear. And yes, your father’s decision may well lead to war. But wars are not won by anger and frustration. They are won by strategy, by waiting for the right moment to strike.”

“I don’t have time to wait,” Aegon said through gritted teeth. “If we delay, we will lose support. The longer Rhaenyra remains the heir, the more dangerous she becomes.”

You smirked. “Dangerous? Rhaenyra? The woman has more soft edges than the pillows on my bed.”

“She’s dangerous because of the people around her,” Aegon snapped. “Daemon, Corlys, and all those who would see her on the throne. They will turn the realm against us.”

You hummed thoughtfully. “Daemon is certainly a problem. And Corlys…well, his stupidity is only matched by his ego. But you are right. The lords will not stay loyal to Rhaenyra for long if they sense weakness.”

Aegon looked at you, his eyes sharp and determined. “Then we need to act.”

You held up a hand. “Calm yourself, boy. This isn’t a tavern brawl. You must act carefully, deliberately. There’s a difference between being strong and being reckless. Don’t be such a child about it.”

Aegon’s lips tightened into a thin line. “I’m not a child.”

You waved a hand dismissively. “Then stop acting like one, stamping your feet because your father won’t do as you wish. He won’t change his mind, Aegon. He’s too proud and too stubborn, just like you.”

He opened his mouth to argue, but you cut him off. “Listen, Aegon. I raised you to be a ruler, not a brute. You must understand the importance of timing. Your father will not change his mind easily, but he is not your true enemy. The lords, the people—they are the ones you must win over.”

“And what would you have me do, Mother?”

You gave him a small, almost conspiratorial smile. “You show them that you are the only one who can protect them. You play the part of the dutiful son, for now. Let your father continue with his dream. But when the time comes—and it will come—you make sure the realm sees you as the only viable option. The lords are like sheep. They will follow the strongest shepherd.”

Aegon’s eyes narrowed slightly, the wheels in his mind turning. “I can steady it,”

You smiled. “I know. And you will. But you have to be patient. Anger makes for terrible decisions.”

“I have no patience left for Father’s foolishness,” Aegon muttered.

“Then let him be foolish,” you replied coolly. “Let him play his hand. And when the time is right, we’ll play ours.”

“And what if the time never comes?” Aegon asked, his voice low, full of doubt.

You smiled, leaning back once more. “Oh, it will. It always does.”

Aegon stood there for a moment, visibly wrestling with himself, before he let out a long breath and sat down across from you. “You’ve always had more faith in my future than I have.”

“I trained you for this, didn’t I?” you said dryly. “I didn’t raise a fool. Nor did I raise a man who lets his temper dictate his choices. You should know that the moment you act out of rage, you’ve already lost.”

Aegon’s lips twitched, the tension in the room easing slightly. “So, I’m to be the calm one, while everyone else runs around like fools?”

“You are to be the calm storm,” you corrected. “Let them think you’re passive, let them underestimate you. The realm is full of fools, but we are not among them.”

Aegon finally allowed himself a small, grim smile. “You’re far more ruthless than anyone may think, Mother.”

You raised your goblet in a mock toast. “I take that as a compliment.”

He nodded, his resolve clearly strengthening. “I’ll bide my time, then. But when the time comes—”

“When the time comes,” you interrupted smoothly, “you’ll be ready. And the realm will kneel to you, as it should.”

Aegon stood, the weight of your words settling comfortably on his shoulders. “I’ll see to it.”

You watched him head toward the door, then called after him. “Aegon.”

He paused, glancing back at you.

“Don’t be afraid to smile,” you added with a wicked smirk. “It unsettles people when a king looks like he’s already won.”

Aegon chuckled, a rare sound, but one that left the room with more tension released than when he’d entered.

As he left, you leaned back in your chair, sipping your wine and staring out the window again. The game had been in motion for years, and your son had finally learned how to play it.

“Well,” you murmured to yourself, “this should be interesting.”

Part 1 ♡ Part 2 ♡ Part 3 ♡ Part 4 ♡ Part 5

@ 𝒃𝒓𝒐𝒌𝒆𝒏𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒆𝒍 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟒. 𝒅𝒐𝒏'𝒕 𝒄𝒐𝒑𝒚, 𝒓𝒆𝒑𝒐𝒔𝒕 𝒐𝒓 𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒏𝒔𝒍𝒂𝒕𝒆 𝒂𝒏𝒚 𝒐𝒇 𝒎𝒚 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒌𝒔 𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒐𝒓 𝒂𝒏𝒚 𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒘𝒆𝒃𝒔𝒊𝒕𝒆𝒔.

[vaile-elenya]

listen... i have been thinking a lot about this post:

i don't know what it is exactly, but something about a frustrated Elrond almost yelling out, still gently, that he'd live for his love instead of dying for it, is very very touching for me.

last night i might have gotten a bit carried away, and i wrote a little something about that. it's my very first shot at writing a fanfic of my own so please bear with me!

it's under the break and on AO3 if anyone wants to read 🫶🏻

In the twilight of Imladris, as the stars began their nightly vigil, you stood on the balcony of Elrond’s chamber, your heart heavy with frustration and hurt. The air was cool and fragrant with the scent of evening blooms, but tonight, the beauty of the valley seemed distant, overshadowed by the turmoil within.

Elrond stood a few paces away, his serene demeanor a stark contrast to the storm that brewed in your soul. The gentle sound of the Bruinen river, usually a source of comfort, now seemed to mock the tension between you.

“Do you truly hold me in such low regard?” you challenged, your voice trembling with emotion. “Am I of such little consequence to you that you can remain unmoved as I bare my soul?”

Elrond’s eyes widened, a flicker of pain crossing his usually composed features. “You misunderstand me,” he began, his voice steady but tinged with sorrow.

“No, I understand all too well,” you interrupted, your words cutting like a sharpened blade. “You, with your timeless wisdom and boundless patience, have already revealed your true feelings. I ask again: would you be willing to lay down your life for me, for all of us, or does fear restrain you?”

For a moment, there was silence, the air thick with the weight of unspoken truths. Then, as if a dam had broken, Elrond’s composure shattered. His eyes filled with unshed tears, his voice rising in desperation. How could you not see? How could you not know that every moment with you was etched into his very soul? He could no longer hold back the torrent of emotions.

“To die for love is simple!” he nearly screamed, his voice carrying the weight of centuries of longing and regret. “A brief surrender of mortal coil to the embrace of eternity,” he added while the soft moonlight cast shadows upon his features, accentuating the lines of sorrow etched upon his noble visage.

“But to live, to truly live, is so much greater! For you, I would live instead of die,” he looked at you, his gaze piercing through your soul, laying bare his raw emotions. You felt the depth of his admission, each syllable heavy with the burden of his unspoken devotion, and the stars above seemed to shine brighter, as if bearing witness to his words.

“Do you not see the love, as brilliant as the leaves of Laurelin, that shines forth from my eyes each time I cast them upon you?” he asked desperately, on the edge of weeping. Elrond’s voice cracked, his eyes brimming with sorrow. “Are you blinded to it?”

Not awaiting your response, Elrond turned his gaze towards the lofty trees, their branches murmuring in the gentle breeze. As the night deepened, Imladris lay shrouded in a serene glow, its gardens veiled in shadows that swayed gently in the flickering dance of firelight and the soft embrace of starlight. The fading remnants of daylight whispered their farewell, surrendering to the celestial canvas unfurling above, adorned with the sparkling jewels of the heavens. The tranquility of the valley belied the weight of its history, a history that Elrond bore witness to through the ages. Memories of battles fought, kingdoms risen and fallen, and the relentless march of time haunted his thoughts.

Torches blazed brightly, casting dancing shadows upon the ancient stone, their fiery tongues licking at the velvety darkness with a fierce determination as Elrond’s mind drifted back to the tumultuous events of the Second Age, a time of great upheaval and sorrow.

“I have seen the glory of Númenor crumble beneath the weight of its own pride. Powerless I have stood as the Last Alliance marched to the very gates of Mordor, and I have borne witness to evils so immense that even the stoutest of our warriors could not withstand them,” he said, desperation building in his voice; his silvery eyes now shone with something you could not decipher. “I have gazed into the eyes of death countless times, her blades twisting within the depths of my wounded heart. So many of my kin have I lost to the ravages of war, their lives laid to rest in pursuit of a noble yet hopeless cause,” he took a step closer, his face now inches away from your own. “It is not the fear of death that prevents me from yielding to its embrace for you, meleth nîn.”

“You awaken within me the very spirit of endurance that Eru bestowed upon his children,” he paused, his gaze turning towards the fire illuminating the terrace. “A spirit that has waned over the long ages of my dwelling, and yet... your mere existence rekindles it.

“In your presence, I find a light that guides me, a reason to embrace each new dawn. My heart, though burdened with the weight of ages, finds solace and renewal in your faintest smile. To live for you is not a burden but a blessing, a path I would tread willingly, every day anew.”

Elrond’s hands delicately encompassed your face, and you felt the gentle pressure of his fingertips, each point of contact a deliberate caress. There was a steadiness to his touch, a silent reassurance as if he sought to convey a message that words alone could not express.

“For you I would find joy in the simple pleasures that weave the intricate tapestry of our days. Through the darkest of hours, I shall cling onto hope, tending to each seedling of kindness as a gardener tends to his beloved blossoms. For you, I would dive willingly into that terrifying inkwell known as existence, with all its uncertainties and fears.”

“I would live for you.”

[tragedybunny]

A Little More Than a Nibble - Astarion x F!Reader

Astarion wakes you up at camp looking for a late night snack. You both end up with something a little more. (Fluff, Angst)

Yes I'm on the Astarion train. How can you not love him?

This short is set before Astarion's act 2 confession

Something called to you from the dark, stirring you out of sleep. Fragments of the waking world brushed against your consciousness; a dying fire, a far off owl calling, a presence hovering over you. The cold influx of terror lasts only a moment as you realize the presence is not only familiar but expected at this point. “Are you awake darling?” Astarion’s voice exudes the beguiling charm that’s become so familiar to you, familiar enough you’ve started to catch the hint of artifice that lays behind it.

Sleep-heavy eyes drift open to find him kneeling down next to you, red eyes fixed on you. The deep slumber is hard to shake off and your answer is no more than a drowsy whisper. “I am now.”

“Oh apologies my sweet but I was just wondering if…” He lets the words hang for a moment, waiting for your mind to catch up, to finish the implication. Really though it could only be about one of two things since you’re the one in camp that’s been both fucking and feeding him. And with the ungodly hour, you can easily conclude which it is.

“No luck hunting?” He deserves at least a little teasing for waking you like this.

“Actually I was thinking about you and couldn’t get the taste of you off my tongue. Would you mind terribly if I had just a little taste, just a slight nibble?” Perhaps you’ve been too indulgent with him and he’s grown used to getting his way with you, a habit you really should put to an end. If only the mere suggestion of those teeth at your neck didn’t make you quiver with excitement.

Still, it won’t do to placidly let him have his way every time. “You say slight nibble, and I wake up woozy the next morning. I fail to see what I get out of this little arrangement.”

For a moment, you think you see the slightest hint of hurt at your refusal, before he swiftly resumes his flirtatious persona. “Why, you get my gratitude and affection. Both of which are undying, I might remind you.”

It’s not the honeyed words that convince you, it’s the ghost of an emotion, the possibility of vulnerability, that there’s something beneath the mask he shows everyone, even you. Not that you would really refuse, you’re too far gone for that. Life as the daughter of a noble house of Baldur’s Gate primed you for this, to fall for a man so wrong, and dangerous, and not at all anything you should want. Rebellion after years of complicity, years of forced perfection and crafted smiles, of doing everything expected of you. The Illithid ship had given you a terrible burden, but it had also been more freedom than you’d ever known in your life. Freedom that didn’t necessarily come with inbuilt wisdom. Silently, you throw back the covers, beckoning him into the bed roll beside you. With a satisfied smile, he gracefully slides in, body pressed against yours.

The first time you’d let him do this it had been awkward, sloppy almost, a fact explained by the later revelation you were his first. Now familiarity has led to comfort, intimacy of its own sort. Different than just sex, but no less thrilling. An arm around your waist, he buries his head into the crook of your neck, lips brushing up against it in a gentle kiss first that makes you shiver before the bite.

The sharp ice of those teeth piece your skin and drive into the blood flowing in your veins. Then you feel it, the echo of your blood flowing into his veins. It had frightened you the first time but now it sends a wave of bliss through you. An involuntary sigh escapes you and you know if his mouth wasn’t full, he’d be tormenting you for how much you enjoy it. Arms loop around his shoulders, pulling him tighter against you, as though you are begging for more. You are though aren’t you? You can’t get enough of this, of him.

Drifting away, you lose yourself in him, a sweet surrender to an inexorable pull. As promised though, he’s only taken a taste when he lets up, pulling away, and licking any drops from your skin. The control he’s starting to show is impressive, even if it leaves you yearning for the strange connection of his feeding. Knowing that he never lingers after any encounter between the two of you, you unwrap your arms which feel so much heavier now, letting him go. Unexpectedly, he remains, head now resting on your chest, forehead pressed to your cheek. “Not going to eat and run?”

“In such a hurry to be rid of me?” He murmurs, his face hidden so you don’t even have a chance of reading his expression.

You’re not naive, despite what the others might believe. There’s nothing more you expect beyond what already passes between the two of you. Even if you believe you could care for him, he’s not open to you that way. Still, even if the tone is nonchalant, you feel there’s a loneliness behind it he's not quite hiding all the way. “I didn’t say that.” He doesn’t ask directly to stay and you know he won’t, so you pull the covers over the two of you and put your arms back around him and without saying another word.

With a subtle shift, you feel him get near your throat once again before stopping himself. “Perhaps I should go.”

“You don’t have to, I trust you.” Tentatively, you reach a hand up and softly stroke it through his silver hair. First he tenses, and you wait for a reproach for being too tender with him, but none comes. A moment later and you feel the tension release and he relaxes again. Your eyes are heavy, your body desperately craving sleep, but you're afraid there will never be another moment like this, with him so close, and not pushing you away. So you fight to stay conscious, and keep your fingers moving gently as long as he allows it. Sleep comes to claim you again though, and just as the world fades around you, lips brush your collarbone and the arm around your waist holds a little tighter.

The dawn comes, and the camp stirs. When you find the empty space in your bed roll, you tell yourself your heart doesn’t break a little and get ready to get on with your day.

[zeltqz]

stress reliever - k.nanami

fem!reader, boyfriend nanami, established relationship, reader is a buisness gyal, stress from work, mentions of bitchy co-worker rivalry, cunnilingus, overstim wc: 1.2k

Nanami sat on the couch, a pen in his hand doing a wonderful job at scratching his undercut as he scribbled down onto his notepad. The tv played his favourite show in the background. The front door unlocked and you ambled inside, closing the door behind you. 

He put his pen down and watched you slump down on the opposite couch, landing face first into the cushions. 

“Hey, are you okay? What’s the matter?” he asked. 

You sat up and tossed your bag on the couch. There was a pout on your face that he didn’t like seeing, so he opened his arms wide and put his notepad on the coffee table, freeing up space on his lap and gestured for you to come. 

You trudged over towards him and plopped onto his lap sideways, your head resting against his shoulder. He enclosed his arms around you and kissed your forehead. “What’s wrong sweetie?”

You spoke but your words were muffled by your face in his neck. He laughed as your sentence tickled his neck and nudged you once again. “Talk to me.”

“I’m just…stressed,” you replied after a long heavy exhale. He shifted you more on his lap, your legs swinging over to straddle him. Your arms looped around his neck, scratching gently at his baby hairs.

He reached behind his head and grabbed your hand, kissing your knuckles one by one. “Is it that girl from work?” 

“Yes. She might get the promotion before I do. Fucking kiss-ass,” you hissed. Nanami’s laugh fanned breezy against the back of your hand and you mumbled, “it’s not funny.”

He pressed one last kiss to your hand before putting it back around his neck. 

“You’ll get the promotion. You’re better than her.”

“No I’m not,” you mumble.

“You are. Promotions take time. Even if she gets it first it doesn’t take away from you or make her better by default. So don’t feel bad about it.” He states his wisdom but you’re not paying attention, too busy sulking. 

He noted that and sighed. You were placed on your back on the couch and he opens your legs wide enough to slip between them, hovering above you. “Lemme make you feel better.”

You frowned. “How? Are you going to talk to my boss? No offence but that feels like a parent conference meeting—”

He shook his head and leaned down to plant a kiss on your neck. “I can help you in other ways.” He began to unbutton your shirt and once he got the last one, you sat upright to remove your arms from the sleeves. He sat back and watched as you reached behind you, unclasping your bra. 

You hung it over the edge of the couch and settled back into the couch.  Nanami’s sole focused was laying kisses down your body, starting at your neck down your chest. He reaches your tits and you put your hands in his hair, running your hands through them as he sucks your right nipple. He kept sucking passionately until your nipples started to harden in his mouth. 

“Kento, please,” you whispered, wanting more.

He shook his head and moved onto your other tit, removing your hands from his hair and pinning them above you. “Be patient.”

“But I want—” You stopped talking when his teeth grazed your nipple. His tongue licked flat against the pebbled bud, flicking it a couple times, enough times to make you moan softly, the sound slowly driving him crazy. 

Filling that desire, he began kissing down your belly until he reached between your legs, shifting back on the couch to settle against your legs. 

He took your pencil skirt and pulled it down your thighs, throwing it on the floor without care. You lifted your hips up, letting him pull your tights and panties down. He didn’t take them off completely, leaving them hanging off your ankles and lifted your legs up and over his head, your legs dangling on his shoulders. 

You twisted your body, grabbed a cushion and set it at an angle, biting your lip as you looked down at your boyfriend between your legs kissing your thighs. The pain of his fingernails digging into your thighs stung but only added to the pleasurable feeling of his lips getting impossibly closer to your cunt. 

He licked along your flaps, his tongue adding more slick to the wetness already pooling between your legs and sucked. His tongue flicked your clit, alternating between that and sucking, an overwhelming sense of arousal filling your veins. 

Nanami loved eating you out; he loved everything about you. Your taste, the way you squirmed underneath him whenever he sucked too much on your clit, the way your thighs felt in his hands, the way your legs squeezed around his neck and trapping him in place.

He looked up and over the curve of your boob, he saw you biting your lip hard to stop any noises spilling out. His eyebrows creased and he stopped his movements, pulling away. You instantly noticed and looked down at him. “Why’d you stop?” Your voice was soft and disappointed.

“You’re being too quiet.”

“Sorry…” you muttered. 

He bent back down, mumbling it’s okay between kisses to your clit before sucking it back into his mouth. He switched between sucking and licking, successful in making your head go foggy. You let your moans out, not bothering hiding them anymore.

The sensation became too extreme, drowning in bliss as you felt your orgasm bubbling inside you. From the way your legs squeezed around his neck, he knew you were about to cum. He flicked his tongue between your folds and you tried pushing him away, but his arm muscles flexed as he tensed and held you down. 

Your hips snapped up, using all your strength to run away from the feeling of your impending orgasm. “Kento, I’m…!” You moaned, cutting off your words as your vision went white, eyes squeezing tight as you felt yourself gush on his face, almost suffocating him between your legs.

Your limp legs unwrapped from his neck and let them drop onto the couch as he sat up and wiped his mouth. You flushed, embarrassed when you saw how wet his lower face was, lips and chin soaked in your wetness. “...sorry.”

He chuckled, the low and raspy sound stirring in your belly. He hovered on top of you and you held onto the sides of his face, kissing him slowly. He pinned you back into the couch and introduced his tongue into the kiss. The slow way you began suckling on it made his head spin, groaning lowly. 

You could feel more of your taste on his tongue and pulled away laughing. You used the edge of your arm to wipe at his face. “It got everywhere.”

He smiled at you and pecked your lips. “It’s fine. I don’t mind.”

His response slowly made you wetter and he kissed you again, his hand trailing low between your legs, running a single finger through your now drenched folds. He lifted his drenched hands to your eye-line. “Still wet?”

You flushed, embarrassed once more and he slowly pushed you back down onto the couch, about to settle between your legs when you stopped him. “You don’t have to. We’ll be here all day…”

He looked down at the wetness between your legs then back at you. “It’s fine.” He licked another stripe, tasting you once again. “I got all day.”

MAIN MASTERLIST

ok i caved and wrote for nanami 🙄😑 jjk is slowly overtaking my whole brain its crazy...gojo next...

[bubblessunshinehoney]

Hi!! I saw your most recent fic, and I absolutely loved it! I’ve been watching YouTube like crazy and got an idea for Steve Rogers. If you don’t like it I am perfectly understanding of it! I was thinking of something where the reader had her wisdom teeth removed and Steve is there to help, but along the way, he deals with the silliness of it all. It’s okay if you don’t want to, as I said I completely understand! Xx

Truth serum

Hey ! I'm super happy you loved my last fic ! And I absolutely love your idea !! Here's what came from your ask, hope you'll enjoy it !

Love,

Cloudy

TW: none, fluff, nonsense because of anesthesia.

not beta read, english is not my first language, all mistakes are my own.

Don't be shy: reblog, comment, like !!

You felt dizzy, fuzzy and you couldn't focus your eyes. You knew, you were at the dentist, you just had your wisdom teeth removed. You didn’t feel your tongue or your lips, making you sob quietly… well not so quietly, when your super soldier boyfriend was in the corridor, waiting to come and see you.

“Honey?” he whispered not to startle you.

“Weve?” you slurred. 

Your head is rolling from side to side, looking for him, you relax when he takes your hand in his, you intend to smile, but..well only half of your mouth lifts, making Steve smile tenderly. 

“How do you feel, love?”

You groan, trying to pucker your lips.

“ca’t fwel my lups”, another sob, “ow ca i iss ou?”

He takes a moment for him to understand what you’re saying, but when he does, he leans in and kisses you softly, it tickles you, but it’s not like usual and you let another sob out.

“Ca’t fwel! nooo, m’roken” you gasp and open your eyes wide. “Mean i no longe’ yo gurfwiend!”, you cry, fully cry and Steve is taken aback. He knew that anaesthesia could lead to unexpected reactions, but he was not ready for this.

“You’re still my girlfriend, honey, you’re even my fiancé, remember?”

You stop crying and look at him, well you intend to, but you cross eyed and blink. 

“Fiancé?”, you whisper to yourself. “You want to marry me?”, you ask him in disbelief. 

Steve chuckles quietly “Of course i want to marry you, i’m in love with you”

“YOU WOVE ME?”

He rubs your knuckle tenderly and nods, you look at him, shocked. 

“you wove me?”, you whisper-yell.

“I do, I love you sweetie”. 

The nurse comes in to monitor you and you look at her.

“He woves me. he ant mary me. he woves me, nat!”

The nurse looks at Steve and smiles. “Do I look like the black widow?”

He laughs softly, “I think yeah, it must be the red hair.” She laughs with him and you’re sure they’re mocking you.

“It a prank? You no wove me, you wove nat. i’m fool. nobody woves me. i’m alone.”

Steve sits on the bed and holds your hand tightly, “No, baby, absolutely not. I only want you.”

He realises slowly that you might express all your insecurities. The nurse looks at him and gives him a reassuring smile. “She’s all good, just have to wait for the doc before she can go.”

The nurse leaves, but you can’t stop the tears from rolling. Steve realises you are having a panic attack, he starts to draw circles on your wrist and hums your favourite song. It helps a little, but your brain can’t decide if he’s lying or not about the wedding. It’s all fuzzy and you feel dizzy and sleepy. 

“Honey, baby, i love you, i only love you, since the moment i saw you for the first time in the office.” 

You sniffle, nodding.

“I ha trush on you sin you tame out of the ite. A tupid fangurl… sorry, I'm treep. No want to make you fall in love with me. I just…”

He kisses your forehead, shutting you up.

“But steve, yo-”

“No, baby, I know all of that. And you’re not a creep. You’re my love. I had a crush on you too, the first you came to work, I had my eyes on you. See we are both creeps.”

You chuckle and sigh. “Amatin ‘tevie, wanna ave ur baby”, you start to drift off, letting a Captain flushed and hot. “Ant all you baby…wanna mate you a daddy…”

You continue to babble nonsense about making the Captain America the best daddy ever, have all his little ones, being full of him all the time. Steve feels hot more and more, shaking his head, because even with saying such filthy words you were the most adorable woman he ever lays his eyes on. 

Later that day

You’re back home with Steve, sipping a little soup and he keeps looking at you with a new hunger in his eyes. 

“What is it Steve? You keep looking at me weird”.

“You don’t remember?”

You arch a brow… shaking your head “no…what should I remember?”

Steve looks at you dead in the eyes “About making me a daddy and being full of my children?”

You choke on your soup. “No I did not say that ? Did I?”. You hide behind your hands. Steve chuckles tenderly. 

“It’s just we never talk about it and you blurted that out… and i…couldn’t stop thinking about it since then.”

At that moment, you’re both blushing hard. After a long silence, you look at him.

“Marry me first Rogers, then we can work on making you a Daddy.”

The end

[tavyliasin]

Dom!Halsin Drabble - Poking The Bear

I needed a little break and warmup exercise, so I took the request for Dom!Halsin and decided to add to the little piece I did a while ago. So I'm putting them both together in this post, though they're also in the Drabbles work on AO3 as well~ So that's why there's a little split in the middle, which might not be entirely seamless as the first piece wasn't necessarily going to continue. Smut below the cut, with some Enemies-to-Fucking vibes, Dominant Halsin and f!Tav finding just how far she can push the druid...

------------------- Poking the Bear

“Oakfather give me patience, for you are sorely testing mine.” Halsin glared at Tav as she casually bit in to an apple. “What? If they’re not going to look out for their goods, then they’re free for the taking. Isn’t that what nature’s bounty is all about? Shouldn’t fruit be free to all those who are hungry?” She grinned at him, a little of the juice running down her chin. “That is not what it means at all. You can take what you need from the forest, but this is not the forest, and you didn’t even need that.” He turned down a side alley, dragging Tav by the arm with a low growl. “Well? What’s your plan now, oh great Archdruid?” Tav grinned, seeing the opportunity as she stepped in even closer, feeling the heat from his body. “Perhaps it’s time someone taught you some manners.” His eyes flashed gold, plucking the apple from her hands and taking the last bite worth having before tossing the core off to one side. A small movement in the shadows suggested nature would not let it go to waste. “That was mine!” “Was it? Did you not just suggest fruit should be free to all who are hungry?” His voice grew lower, rising to the bait of her challenge. “I didn’t me-” She stopped talking the moment her hands were pinned against the wall, an entirely new hunger rising within her as she squirmed in his grip. “Why do you insist on pushing me so far? I have eyes, Tav. I see the way you look at me. I hear the way your heart is beginning to race, the way your breath is quickening the closer I get to you, I can feel the heat rising in your body…” He leaned down, so close Tav could smell the hint of apple still fresh on his lips. “Then why not try taking what you want?” “Because unlike some people, I do not take what is not mine. Not without permission.” Despite his words, he moved closer, pressing his body against hers. “Consider it granted, druid. If you think you can teach me how to be so boringly well behaved, you’re welcome to try.” He answered only with a growl, taking her lips in a ferocious kiss, the heat of frustration brought to a boil spilling over in a wave of burning lust. It didn’t matter that it was the middle of the day, or an alleyway in the side street of the city. There was no force in all the realms that could compare to the passion unleashed between the two.

--(there was a break between writing that part and the rest)---

“Be careful what you wish for.” Halsin rumbled dangerously against her lips. “Now get on the floor.”

“You’ll have to be a little more specific, if you want me to follow orders I need to know exactly what you expect.” She grinned wickedly. “Clearly I can’t be trusted to interpret the wisdom of the great archdruid’s lectures about nature’s bounty.”

His hands gripped her shoulders, fingers pressing into her shoulders harshly. “Then you are to get down on to the floor, knees in the dirt, and still that liar’s tongue of yours until I give you permission to use it.” The corners of his mouth twitched upwards in a slight and wicked smile, his voice dropping to a barely audible whisper.. “Oakfather preserve you, thief.”

This time Tav began to obey more readily, the pressure on her shoulders a none-too-subtle hint that too much rebellion would not end in her favour. And yet… “The Oakfather has no business here-”

Her voice was cut off by his hand gripping her chin, thumb pressing into her mouth and holding her tongue down as he leaned forward, eyes flashing with magic for just a moment. “No wonder you are so ill-mannered, you are a terrible student. It’s a wonder you even learned to speak at all.”

Tav’s eyes glanced down, watching his fingers make short work of the fastenings on his trousers, pulling aside his underclothes. Her eyes widened at what she saw, questioning her wisdom in pushing her luck so far…and yet…

“Eyes on mine. I did not tell you that you could look away.” His voice remained a low and threatening growl, coloured by the heat of lust even as he tried to hold it back. “When I remove my hand, you are going to take me into your mouth and put that wicked little tongue to far better use. Do you understand?”

She nodded silently, almost tempted to use the moment his hand left to talk back just once more, but he gave her no such opportunity. The druid’s hands gripped the back of her head and pulled her close, pressing against her lips and not allowing her to draw back, but also not forcing himself between them either.

It was almost strange that he would still be considerate. She had pushed him, purposefully, to this point, hoping he would finally let loose. Tav decided her next tactic was clear - break his resolve with a different skill. She took him into her mouth, savouring the slight gasp above her as she began to tease him, taking her time before she would fully devour him.

[kstewdeux]

@inukag-week | InuKag Week 2024 - July 2 | Moonlight

Also on Ao3

“Once upon a time, there was a serene village nestled among rolling hills and ancient forests. I say ancient, yes ancient, as hidden deep within the forest, stood the Well of Ages—a mystical well capable of traversing the fabric of time. The well was a relic of a forgotten era. It’s origins shrouded in mystery.”

”That sounds like our well,” a tiny little voice whispered excitedly and her sister giggled in response. Miroku smiled at the two girls balancing atop his wife’s lap before clearing his throat and continuing his story.

”Over the centuries, the true nature of the Well of Ages was forgotten. All that was known was whatever was dropped into its depths vanished before one’s very eyes,” he barely repressed his snicker when one of his daughters gasped, “The villagers had a healthy respect for it. No one dared crawl inside lest they too disappear from this realm.”

Violet eyes flicked up to the four other occupants of their humble abode. His infant son was cradled in his aun’t arms, a less onery than usual uncle, and a grandmotherly figure busying herself with their dinner.

”Then one day came-“

Inuyasha cleared his throat and sent the monk a pointed look like he genuinely thought his friend might call him a monster for the sake of the story. How on earth was he still so misunderstood after all this time?

”A soldier who carried a mighty sword,” Miroku continued with a theatrical motion and Inuyasha settled with a satisfied nod, “Who swore to protect the well and all it contained. One day, when the solider was taking a rest, a beautiful maiden appeared and woke him asking how did she come to be in this strange place.”

Kagome snickered softly.

“I am the sworn protector of the well and all its contents, said the solider. The girl produced a small glowing orb. This came from the well, she said. Then I will protect it, said the solider,” Miroku hummed to his three children who were hanging on his every word. He made a face and continued with a dark, dramatic gasp. A hand flew to his chest, “But alas! Evil had lay in wait for the moment the well began to offer up its treasure. They stole the poor girl and the well’s treasure. The solider followed and saved her from their evil clutches but more evil came,” he leaned forward and swept his hand over the dirt floor, “They ran.”

”This is boring. I want the spider story,”Kin'u‘s tiny voice complained with a far too dramatic whine, “Or the one about the ugly girl.”

“Oh, there’s a story about an ugly girl?” Sango asked as her eyes flashed, “I don’t think I’ve heard that one monk.”

Miroku laughed nervously and pulled at his collar.

”I assure you dearest that the story of the ugly girl is completely appropriate,” he protested nervously.

”She was captured by a fish,” Kin'u chirped enthusiastically. Sango choked and gave Miroku her most disapproving glare.

”Oh really?”

Miroku’s strained smile faltered before he shook himself and cleared his throat.

”The solider and the maiden ran,” he continued a little louder than he intended, “Far, far away from the magical well. They sought out a beautiful woman whose reputation had spread far and wide. Known for her exceptional skills in combat and her fierce determination. A symbol of strength, courage, and unwavering loyalty. Her people revered her not just for her prowess in battle, but also for her wisdom and compassion.”

Inuyasha muttered a faint ‘kiss ass’ while Sango rolled her eyes but didn’t comment.

”Along the way to find her, the solider and maiden encountered a, um, poet whose weapon was his word,” Miroku offered before shooting a heated smirk at his wife, “Said to slay many with his tongue.”

Sango flushed scarlet.

”And story time is over,” she huffed as she lightly patted her daughter‘s bottoms to signal it was time to get up. As the two girls protested, Inuyasha shook with silent laughter and Kagome flushed scarlet.

”I want to know what happened,” one of the twins whined before turning puppy dog eyes at her father, “Please?”

Sango set her jaw and glared at her husband who had on his most innocent face.

”Only if your father skips to the end,” she ground out - her voice disapproving but her eyes soft enough to undercut the unspoken threat to keep the rest of the story suitable for children. Miroku swallowed and pulled at his collar again.

”Right. The solider, the maiden, the poet and the beautiful warrior fought many battles against evil in all its forms. Together they kept the well’s orb safe and away from evil hands,” Miroku continued, “Until one day, they vanquished the last of the evil. Much to the dismay of her comrades, the orb and the maiden disappeared back into the well from whence they came.”

Two sets of tiny eyes widened.

”She was just gone?” Kin'u whispered in disbelief.

”So it would seem,” Miroku hummed sadly as he raised his eyes to the couple who inspired this portion of the story, “The solider who had grown to love the maiden was absolutely bereft. Seasons changed, years passed, and though others might have lost hope, the solider’s faith in his love's return never wavered. The solider spent his time keeping vigil at the well and walking through the village, reminiscing about their adventures and his hope of a future together. The village people, moved by his unwavering dedication, came to admire his steadfastness.”

Miroku inhaled deeply.

”One fine day, as the sun set in a blaze of color, a soft breeze carrying the scent of the maiden filled the village. The solider rushed to the Well of Ages where the air shimmered. Lo and behold there appeared the maiden. I have come to stay in this realm, she told the solider who loved her so, if you will have me,” he continued before shooting his friend a playful smirk, “He proclaimed her an idiot for thinking he would have it any other way.”

Miroku turned his attention back to his children.

“Their reunion was a testament to enduring love and the power of hope. Proving that true love can withstand any trial. The end.”

“But what happened to the poet and the beautiful woman?” Hisui asked in an almost distraught tone. Miroku’s grin softened.

”Perhaps tomorrow night,” he offered, “Come now. It’s off to bed.”

One of the twins chewed her little lip before narrowing her eyes.

”Is this you guys’ story?” she asked in a knowing tone.

”Very observant Gyokuto. Yes, it is. More or less,” Miroku chuckled.

”I’m gunna tell Shippo you forgot about him,” she humphed pettily as she got to her feet and brushed the dust off her bottom, “He’s gunna be so mad at you.”

”The story was cut short. I would have introduced him,” Miroku protested as everyone who lived with him began preparing for bed and the stragglers started making their exit, “It was simply due to a lack of-“

”I don’t know. I think you really did forget him. You did leave him out when you started introducing us,” Kagome teased playfully. Miroku scoffed.

”I did not forget Shippo. He played an integral part in our victory,” Miroku countered, “I was simply rushed.”

“It’s okay Daddy. Sometimes I forget things too,” the observant twin offered as she placed a tiny hand on her father’s shoulder and nodded with all the wise understanding her tiny brain could muster, “It is part of the human spears and ants.”

Miroku sighed and scratched at the nape of his neck.

”Yes, yes, I suppose it is.”

The little girl abruptly made a face.

”I don’t like ants.”

”Ah, no. It’s the human ex-“

”Human ants sound like the scariest demons ever.”

”No, no no, it’s not-“

[ladyhoneydee]

30 Day Song(fic) Challenge: Day 16

Good evening all! This Song(fic) Challenge prompt was "A song you love to drive to", and to be honest, I knew what I was going to choose from the moment I saw this one. Today's song is "Delicate" by Taylor Swift, which I have associated with driving since the first time I ever listened to the album. The beat in the chorus is just so reminiscent of the dashed line of a passing lane, to me; whenever I play my reputation CD in my car, I always try to see if today will be the day I'm going at just the right speed for the beats to line up with the road.

Utterly Lost and Utterly Found

Game: Twilight Princess, post-canon

Pairing: Zelink

Word Count: 1423

Keywords: hidden romance, secret feelings, sensuality

Tonight. The usual place. He never minces words, and yet the brevity and bluntness stokes within her a greater heat than a thousand florid words from the most sympathetic of suitors might. Still, it’s not an order: merely a fervent suggestion.  One she’ll follow into temptation every time, despite every logical reason her wisdom-addled mind can think up.

Read the fic on Ao3, or under the cut!

She finds the note half-sticking out of a crack between the stones that line her windowsill. It’s dawn, the sun merely a rosy blush on the eastern horizon, which means he must have left it overnight. The pathway along the rooftops is too treacherous for human feet, which means he must have made the trek as a wolf, and safely evaded the gaze of each and every guard. The note was concealed well enough that she may not have ever noticed it if she didn’t know to look; yet in a different location than the usual secret spot, which means he’d cheekily hidden it somewhere new just to teasingly test her.

The paper shudders insistently in the quickening morning breeze, and she snatches it up with a hard-won smile.

She reads it beside the hearth, which she sparks back to life with an absentminded jet of Din’s Fire. The tiny flame, feeding on the bare ashes left from the night before, is just enough to consume the letter with hungry tongues of gold. 

She doesn’t need the evidence to leave this room, and the words have already been burned even more strongly into her than in the fire itself. 

Tonight. The usual place.

He never minces words, and yet the brevity and bluntness stokes within her a greater heat than a thousand florid words from the most sympathetic of suitors might. Still, it’s not an order: merely a fervent suggestion. 

One she’ll follow into temptation every time, despite every logical reason her wisdom-addled mind can think up.

--

The council room is as chaotic as always. Zelda is no judge—her title as Queen is title only, between her disenfranchisement by Hyrule’s surviving, resentful nobility, and her willing abdication of power to the kingdom’s local civilian governments—but she wishes, at times, that she carried a gavel. 

“Order!” she calls, flint and steel in her voice. It sparks the attention of the amassed leaders, who turn back to her position at the head of the long oaken table one by one. 

“The issue on the table is the allocation of funds to the elimination of monsters in the outer provinces,” she reminds the table. “Not the allocation of funds to provide soldiers to replenish the private ranks of noble houses.” Her stare towards Lords Campho and Gerilt is hard, though shy enough of a true glare that none could accuse her of it. “I daresay you should be able to fund it yourselves more easily than the royal coffers can.”

The noblemen and women whisper among themselves. Many do not share her restraint against open aggression, and she meets their angry looks with cool disdain. 

“Similarly,” she begins, turning to the faction of village headsmen, ceremonial figures, matriarchs, and mayors, “it is not our intention to provide soldiers to create standing regional forces. If a province requests military aid, the General will do her best to provide—” she meets eyes with the newly-appointed leader of Hyrule’s military, and is heartened by the older woman’s nearly imperceptible nod, “—but a temporary presence is all we can manage at this time, with our ranks so low.” As they should be, in peacetime. “We hope the majority of these funds would instead be spent on the training and armament of local warriors to their own preferences.”

The civilian leadership mutter among themselves, a much more balanced lot. Some, who undoubtedly desired a strong military presence, send her glares just as heated as the landed gentry. Others nod quietly in satisfaction that one will not be forced upon them. Others, with whom she feels a certain kinship, show no flash of emotion across their faces at her words. 

She is an unpopular leader, to be sure. She is known as a cursed Queen, for the way the invasion of Hyrule struck the day just prior to her coronation; she is derided for her choice to hand the power to decide back to local leadership and to incorporate their rough voices into what remains of the castle’s gilded halls by the nobles; she is resented by all for the slow pace of Hyrule’s restoration, if only as a visible scapegoat for more deeply-held anxieties. 

She has not, and will never, falter beneath the granite weight of their expectations. That strength that holds her up will be enough. 

After all, it must.

--

There is an itch in her, and it spreads and deepens and heightens by the hour. 

Her fingers twitch and spasm, aching to sink into his hair, to glaze his skin with golden touch, to guide his own hands to her body. 

Her legs jitter beneath her desk as she whiles away the afternoon with endless stacks of paperwork and correspondence, threatening to carry her away, even though the cover of darkness that keeps them safe is still hours away. 

Her lips tremble with the restraint needed to keep her from spilling every word of the desire that bubbles within her. Both from him, so he doesn’t run away from feelings sprouted like a thicket of thistles that yearn to cleave to his form, and from the populace of Hyrule, so they don’t run toward with threats and blackmail.

She dare not even think of the anticipation brewing in the very core of her.

To take him as a lover is truly one of the worst choices she could make at this juncture. The people of Hyrule, so culturally modest after generations of carefully cultivated conservatism, would have nothing but scathing words for an unmarried woman caught cavorting, even if that woman were Queen. Perhaps especially if that woman were Queen. The settlements on the outskirts, or of non-hylian origin, might not spare her a second glance, but she simply cannot risk making herself vulnerable like that for at least another half-decade of selfless service and building trust.

And he…well, he would never be afforded another moment’s peace. And that, besides pleasure, is all she desires to give him. 

None of it matters, though, when she wakes to notes on windowsills; when candlelit fantasies flicker through her mind like well-thumbed novels; when they’re chest to chest and nose to nose, and she stares into those twin wishing pools he calls eyes and throws a rupee in despite against her better judgment.

In for a green, in for a silver.

--

When she materializes in the graveyard, hair floating in the spring-scented tendrils of Farore’s Wind, he’s already waiting, leaning against the solitary tree. Without torchlight and the moon above nearly obscured by the scrubbing clouds of late autumn, he’s a mere silhouette in the darkness. Still, her intimate knowledge of the very shape of him assures her of his identity.

Of course, it helps that they are the only two people in all of Hyrule who both know of the graveyard and can make it inside. She can only enter with the use of Farore’s Wind, and no other person—that she’s aware of, at least—can turn into a wolf to scent out the rich earth of a boneyard and dig their way inside. 

It’s morbid to meet here, she knows; couplings would be more appealing in a warm room over a bustling tavern, with a roaring fire in the hearth. But she cannot allow them to be seen, and, truth be told, there is a certain poeticism about their romance, which in itself is rather undead, being carried out in a graveyard. 

At the very least, he doesn’t seem to mind. 

They greet one another in the language of hands and lips. Later, as they lie dew-glistened on the mossy earth, they will talk. He will tell her of the harvest in Ordon which kept him away for so many weeks, of the conditions of the roads and rivers between his home and hers, of himself and his innermost thoughts. She will tell him of her daily struggles and victories and the rebuilding efforts being made in the regions he hasn’t been able to visit, and she will keep her innermost thoughts to herself.

For now, his leather-shucked grip on her hips sets her aflame. Her revenge, a synchronized tugging of his hair and scraping of her teeth across the hollow of his throat, tears a groan from his throat like the crash of a wave. Despite the damp chill of the cemetery and the weight of ghostlike gazes resting on both of their backs from the ones they’ve both lost, they build a warmth between them that spirals higher and higher until they are both utterly lost, and utterly found.

[belespritbooks]

Favorite Quotes: The Sound and The Fury

"The road rose again, to a scene like a painted backdrop. Notched into a cut of red clay crowned with oaks the road appeared to stop short off, like a cut ribbon. Beside it a weathered church lifted its crazy steeple like a painted church, and the whole scene was as flat and without perspective as a painted cardboard set upon the ultimate edge of the flat earth, against the windy sunlight of space and April and a midmorning filled with bells." - page 292

"The preacher had not moved. His arm lay yet across the desk, and he still held that pose while the voice died in sonorous echoes between the walls. It was as different as day and dark from his former tone, with a sad, timbrous quality like an alto horn, sinking into their hearts and speaking there again when it had ceased in fading and cumulate echoes." - page 294

"And the congregation seemed to watch with its own eyes while the voice consumed him, until he was nothing and they were nothing and there was not even a voice but instead their hearts were speaking to one another in chanting measures beyond the need for words..." - page 294

"I give you the mausoleum of all hope and desire; it's rather excruciating-ly apt that you will use it to gain the redact absurdum of all human experience which can fit your individual needs no better than it fitted his or his father's. I give it to you not that you may remember time, but that you might forget it now and then for a moment and not spend all your breath trying to conquer it. Because no battle is ever won he said. They are not even fought. The field only reveals to man his own folly and despair, and victory is an illusion of philosophers and fools." - page 76

"There was something terrible in me sometimes at night I could see it gaining at me I could see it through them grinning at me through their faces it's gone now and I'm sick" - page 112

"And we'd sit in the dry leaves that whispered a little with the slow respiration of our waiting and with the slow breathing of the earth and the windless October..." - page 115

"If it could just be a hell beyond that: the clean flame the two of us more than dead. Then you will have only me then only me then the two of us amid the pointing and the horror beyond the clean flame" - page 116

"... they too partaking of that adult trait of being convinced of anything by an assumption of silent superiority. I suppose that people, using themselves and each other so much by words, are at least consistent in attributing wisdom to a still tongue..." - page 118

"The bird whistled again, invisible, a sound meaningless and profound, inflexionless, ceasing as though cut off with the blow of a knife, and again, and the sense of water swift and peaceful above secret places, felt, not seen not heard." - page 136

[azurezra]

HELP I SUDDENLY REMEMBERED THIS "MEME" FROM 2005 AND WHADDYA KNOW SEARCHING MY DOWNLOADED LJ ARCHIVE FOR "STOP WHISPERING" WORKED

Choose a band/artist and answer only in song TITLES by that band/artist: Radiohead Are you female or male:: I Might Be Wrong; Describe yourself:: Paranoid Android; In Limbo; How do some people feel about you:: Stop Whispering; How do you feel about yourself:: I am a Wicked Child; How Can You Be Sure; Describe your ex girlfriend/boyfriend:: I Can’t; Describe your current girlfriend/boyfriend:: I Will; Describe where you want to be:: Where I End and You Begin; Describe what you want to be:: Fitter Happier; Describe how you live:: Everything in its Right Place; Describe how you love:: Karma Police; Describe your best girl friend:: Let Down; Describe your best guy friend:: Lucky; Describe your life:: Sit Down. Stand Up; Idioteque; The time you like best each day:: The Gloaming; Nice Dream; Morning Bell; Share a few words of wisdom:: 2+2=5; True Love Waits;

W-W-W-WHAT WAS I THINKING FOR SOME OF THOSE!?!? WHAT DID I MEAN BY "KARMA POLICE" OML????? HOW MANY WERE ENTIRELY EARNEST VS TONGUE-IN-CHEEK??? ...some of 'em still resonate tho, haha...... ( ,_,) smdh @ some of the songs i DIDN'T use

i guess iirc i was on a big radiohead kick around then, having like recently downloaded their full discog [for my NEW IPOD orz] maybe. and my friend i stole the meme from had used incubus, so i couldn't use them TOO, pfft. and a lot of my other top bands back then... only had an album or 2 at most, l-lol ;; AHH DUMB MEMORIES ...amazing how they're still on said ipod to this day last synced in 2009 but yeah

[regalitics]

 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐀𝐏𝐈𝐓𝐀𝐋  of  king's  landing  welcomes  gysella  of  house  tully  ,  the  ruling  lady  of  riverrun.  news  borne  by  raven  sends  word  that  they  are  reputed  to  be  confident,  but  with  the  eyes  of  court  watching  their  every  move,  they  might  prove  to  be  obstinate.  when  songs  are  sung,  their  verses  speak  of  a  sun  so  bright  that  can  warm  the  coldest  winters  +  eyes  that  seem  to�� see  beyond  what  is  apparent  +  a  voice  that  refuses  to  go  unheard.  whispers  throughout  the  seven  kingdoms  claim  that  their  allegiance  lies  with  house  tully  and  themselves,  where  they  conspire  to  help  her  husband  secure  his  position  and  keep  her  loved  ones  safe.  but  in  the  end,  fealty  means  little  when  you  play  the  game  of  thrones.

𝙵𝚄𝙻𝙻 𝙽𝙰𝙼𝙴 : gysella tully née karstark . 𝙽𝙸𝙲𝙺𝙽𝙰𝙼𝙴𝚂 : gys , ella . 𝚃𝙸𝚃𝙻𝙴𝚂 : ruling lady consort of riverrun . 𝙴𝙿𝙸𝚃𝙷𝙴𝚃𝚂 : tbd . 𝙰𝙶𝙴 𝙰𝙽𝙳 𝙳𝙾𝙱 : five and thirty , twentieth day of the third moon . 𝙶𝙴𝙽𝙳𝙴𝚁 𝙰𝙽𝙳 𝙿𝚁𝙾𝙽𝙾𝚄𝙽𝚂 : cis woman , she and her . 𝙾𝚁𝙸𝙴𝙽𝚃𝙰𝚃𝙸𝙾𝙽 : heterosexual heteroromantic . 𝚂𝚃𝙰𝚃𝚄𝚂 : married . 𝚁𝙴𝙻𝙸𝙶𝙸𝙾𝙽 : the old gods . 𝙻𝙰𝙽𝙶𝚄𝙰𝙶𝙴𝚂 : westerosi common tongue , the old tongue . 𝙰𝙻𝙻𝙴𝙶𝙸𝙰𝙽𝙲𝙴: house karstark , house tully , the north , the riverlands .

𝙷𝙴𝙸𝙶𝙷𝚃 :  157  cm.  𝚆𝙴𝙸𝙶𝙷𝚃 :  50  kilos.  𝙴𝚈𝙴  𝙲𝙾𝙻𝙾𝚁 :  blueish grey , the hue and shade seems to shift in different lighting .  𝙷𝙰𝙸𝚁  𝙲𝙾𝙻𝙾𝚁 : dark brown .  𝙳𝙸𝚂𝚃𝙸𝙽𝙶𝚄𝙸𝚂𝙷𝙸𝙽𝙶  𝙵𝙴𝙰𝚃𝚄𝚁𝙴𝚂 : karstark blue grey eyes , a strict expression that never seems to falter , hair almost always kept in a neat low bun , a dimple on the left cheek that shows even on her resting face , a faint linear scar on the palm of her right hand.

𝙰𝙲𝚃 𝙸 . — Her mother's pride and her father's joy , Gysella Karstark was born the eldest child of the Ruling Lord of Karhold . Raised amidst the cold and formidable lands of the North , she embodied the ideal image of a noble lady from a tender age : proper , disciplined , and proud .

As the firstborn , Gysella shouldered the responsibility of representing her house with grace and honor . She became her father's trusted confidante and advisor once her age allowed for it ; her keen observation and pragmatic nature earning her a role far beyond mere decorum .

𝙰𝙲𝚃 𝙸𝙸 . — Though proud and sometimes perceived as aloof , she was fiercely loyal to her family and those she held dear , her devotion extending to the lands and people she considered her own . Faith , too , played a crucial role in her life . She often found solace and guidance in the quiet moments spent in the godswood of Karhold , where the whispering leaves and the silent strength of the weirwood trees seemed to echo the wisdom of ages past .

Then , when time came to marry , marry she did not . Gysella had never been one to entertain the suitors who sought her hand in marriage . Each proposal , though often accompanied by promises of alliances and power , seemed to her shallow and frivolous , and some even constricting. At a point , her steadfast nature even led her to believe that perhaps marriage was simply not meant for her , resigned to the idea that she would fulfill her duty to House Karstark in other ways .

𝙰𝙲𝚃 𝙸𝙸𝙸 . — It was during a journey on her father's behalf , that Gysella's life took an unexpected turn . There , she crossed paths with who she would later discover to be none other than the Lord Heir Tully in meeting initially colored by skepticism and a clash of first impressions . Yet , somehow the young Lord managed to gradually thaw the ice of Gysella's reserve . What began as a reluctant acquaintance soon blossomed into something deeper .

In a surprising move that defied convention , she chose to follow her heart . Instead of returning home to Karhold as planned , she sent word to her parents of her intention to marry and journeyed to Riverrun , where she knew her future awaited .

[islandexpedition]

Pocket Protectors, Wilderness Whisperers, and Zombie Slayers: Choosing Your Perfect Survival Kit

Life's a fickle beast, tossing curveballs like a mischievous jester. A dead phone in the city, a rogue downpour in the woods, or maybe even a horde of moaning, shambling neighbors (okay, maybe that last one's more fiction than fact... yet). But fear not, adventurers of all stripes, for the humble survival kit exists! Today, we delve into the fascinating world of pocket-sized preparedness, from the urban warrior's mini kit to the wilderness whisperer's camping pack, and even the tongue-in-cheek arsenal of the zombie slayer. So, tighten your chinstrap, metaphorical or otherwise, and let's find your perfect pocket-sized ally!

The Mini Emergency Kit: Your Urban Knight in Shining Armor

Think of it as a sleek, inconspicuous fortress packed with essentials for those "oh no, not again!" moments. A first-aid kit for paper cuts and scraped knees, a multi-tool for untangling rogue headphone wires, a mini flashlight for navigating dark alleys like urban dungeons, and maybe even a compass for finding your way back from a particularly confusing IKEA maze. This mini emergency kit is your discreet hero, always there for a quick fix or a reassuring reminder that you're not alone in the concrete jungle.

The Camping Survival Kit: Your Wilderness Whisperer

This rugged pack is your seasoned explorer, weathered by campfire smoke and seasoned with the wisdom of countless sunrises. Inside its sturdy shell, you'll find a firestarter and flint for cozy nights under the stars, a water purifier to turn hidden streams into sparkling oases, a multi-tool for crafting makeshift shelters or fixing broken cookware, and maybe even a space blanket for those nights when the stars turn a little too chilly. This camping survival kit is your wilderness wingman, built to handle the unexpected twists of the outdoors, from sudden downpours to misplaced tent poles.

The Zombie Survival Kit (for the Fun of It):

Now, let's venture into the slightly macabre (and hopefully tongue-in-cheek) realm of the zombie survival kit. This kit is your macabre masterpiece, a symphony of tools designed to keep you shuffling along after the world goes silent. Think crowbars and machetes for strategic dismemberment (or opening stubborn paint cans), tactical flashlights for navigating the darkness (or finding dropped contact lenses), and duct tape (because zombies hate both good lighting and sticky situations). You'll also find first-aid geared towards bite wounds and infection (or clumsy kitchen mishaps), and maybe even a water purifier with a built-in zombie-detecting UV light (because nobody wants to drink their reanimated neighbor or a bad cup of coffee).

The Crossover is Real:

Don't underestimate the versatility of these kits! A sturdy first-aid kit works against both paper cuts and zombie nibbles (we're still not ruling out the apocalypse, people). Fire can boil water and roast marshmallows, or melt a horde's faces (metaphorically speaking, of course). And a good multi-tool can fix a broken tent pole or pry open a locked safe full of apocalypse supplies (or that stubborn jar lid).

So, Which One to Choose?

The answer, like a well-placed headshot (if, uh, you're facing zombies), is all about your adventure. If you're a city slicker who values peace of mind on the go, the mini emergency kit is your perfect pocket pal. But if you're a nature enthusiast who craves the thrill of the unknown, the camping survival kit is your wilderness wingman. And if you're a prepper with a sense of humor (and a healthy dose of paranoia), the zombie kit might just be your cup of tea (or rather, your flask of emergency bourbon).

But the Best Kit is the One You Build:

Don't be afraid to customize! Add a bike pump to your mini kit, a solar charger to your camping pack, or a book of survival tips to your zombie arsenal (because even undead hordes appreciate a good read). Remember, the best survival kit is the one that reflects your unique needs, fears, and quirks.

Beyond the Tools: The Mindset of Survival

But survival is about more than just tools. It's about resourcefulness, adaptability, and a healthy dose of optimism. So, pack your kit, choose your adventure, and remember: even the smallest companions can hold the biggest potential for protection. Now get out there and explore, knowing you're prepared for life's little (or big) surprises, zombie or otherwise!

[crrative]

Roman's Spirits - High School AU

And here's a little one shot to get this idea out of my head. I just wanna give Roman an inconvenient autistic symptom because I find it cathartically authentic.

If this somehow becomes a series I'm gonna be so pissed and so excited simultaneously. It's such a cute AU idea but my brain is so heavily discordant that finding the resolve to structure something of it is impossible.

What Roman was most excited for was about to come to fruition. He stood lined up outside his art class, embroidered backpack hanging by the top loop on his fingers, bouncing off his knees and landing again repeatedly as he fidgeted. When the teacher emerged from her office and unlocked the door, he smiled.

"You like the oil?" Remus half-mocked. Roman rolled his eyes.

"Yes. I like how they blend."

"And you wanna feel like a renaissance artist."

"Yes, that too. Stop."

Remus sneered as they walked in and threw his bag beneath the desk. Roman placed his down cordially and glided across the floor to the demonstration desk to tuck himself in with the rest.

Having never used oils, Roman didn't know that spirits were needed for cleaning the brush between colour changes. Given the chemistry involved, perhaps he should've guessed. The teacher set up the pallette and he watched with fervor until she started to explain how oil won't clean off without a proper agent. His face started to drop.

Alcohol didn't smell great in general. This was concentrated spirit without anything scented to stifle the fermented tang.

At first, Roman thought he might be okay. He rationalised, arms crossed and getting antsy, that perhaps he could avoid close quarters.

The jar came out and was opened, and for a second he was alright. However, in his wisdom, his hopes didn't rise. As seconds continue to tick past, the scent started circling the room, reaching Roman at the ten second mark. It was a mild sensation, but it was enough. Roman's lip curled.

Remus watched from the other side with unbridled concentration on every change in Roman's expression.

As the demonstration went on, Roman's senses started to blur. Colours started to blend together and his spacial awareness lowered in sharpness. By the end, he was swaying gently, arms crossed over his stomach as it bubbled to try quelling the discomfort.

The art it produced was so splendid, he couldn't excuse himself just yet. Have you ever wanted something so badly that you're willing to suffer for it?

When given their own jars - shared between two - and sent to their desks, Roman was a little slower than the rest of the class. He'd barely sat himself down by the time everyone else was starting their sketches.

It was in the air, constant and distracting. Roman didn't start right away. His breathing laboured.

"I know you wanna do this, but you gotta leave," Remus whispered beneath the chatter of classmates and clinking of metal against glass. The ambience drowned them out unless you were literally between the two.

Roman shook his head. Whether it was a denial of help or a way to clear up his senses enough to respond was unclear.

A few more minutes passed of Remus starting his own project tentatively. His progress was slow due to distraction, which he thought might end up being a waste of time, until Roman actually gagged. It was skillfully subdued, hidden behind a hand. They stood up swiftly and in sync and rushed out.

"I'll be back," Remus insisted to their teacher, not sticking around for permission or a reaction.

Once out of the classroom, Roman dragged his hand down his dampened face and strapped on the mask. A steel eye and a stiff upper lip worked well enough to disguise how he pressed his tongue against the roof of his mouth. It started to fall apart when they saw the bathroom door and Roman started skipping ahead. Remus ran to keep up.

Thank God his hair was braided already. All he had to do as he collapsed into the nearest stall was claw his chin-length bangs backward.

Regardless, it was ugly, but Remus didn't flinch. He waited patiently for about two minutes as Roman flitted between being 'finished' and then retching again. During the second minute, he took a moment outside to call their dad and ask for a ride home. He also picked up a bottle of water and a can of ginger ale from the nearby vending machine.

Roman was out when he returned.

"Dad's on his way."

Roman let his brother drag him by the upper arm to the front desk, where he sat with his drinks until he returned with their bags.

"Thanks for the half-day," he remarked when he threw himself into the plastic stool beside Roman's arm chair and let his knees fall apart nonchalantly. Roman responded with a long draw of ginger ale, finishing the can just before their father arrived.

"Details," Janus demanded, directed at Remus despite being in the backseat, stone-faced and efficient as he ever was.

"Oil paints and spirits," Remus shrugged.

"Oh, sweetheart," Janus lamented quietly with a reach over to define the curl covering Roman's face. It put a little smile on his face for a second.

Patton was on the doorstep waiting to recieve them when they pulled into the drive. Janus got out, gave him a little kiss on the jaw as he arrived at the car and passed Roman off to him. They entered the house a pitiful sight.

Remus stood with his arms crossed until Janus offered him a note to repay him for the drinks.

"Thanks, dad."

"Inside. Come on."

Roman shut everyone out. Soon as Patton let him go, he escaped up the stairs, tears in his eyes, and locked his door with latch and key. For half an hour, he straightened out his entire room to the very last detail, ending up with a reorganised bookshelf and self-care stocked bedside table. Once finished, he snuck out to the bathroom at the end of the hall.

In order, Roman brushed his teeth, took a cold shower, redid his hair and drew himself a glass of water. He waited for silence in the hallway before braving it. When he arrived, he changed into his red pyjamas. They looked lovely against the creamy checkered bedsheets he'd picked out.

Finally, he could breathe. Sat up with pillows between his back and the headboard, Roman picked up one of his hardback screenplays of Shakespeare and started reading, eyes dull at first.

A knock at the door dragged his attention away just as his mood began to lift. He finished the sip of water he'd been savouring to answer.

"Yes?"

"It's Logan. What happened?"

Cordial as always.

"It's over with. I am fine." His tone struck blunt and hard. Logan shrugged and made his way back downstairs.

"He says he's fine and I have no reason to doubt he won't be if we leave him to soothe himself."

"Good," Janus nodded once, handing him a cup of tea as a reward. "Keep an eye?"

"I will."

Patton reached out and grazed Logan's cheek. "Don't concern yourself too much."

"I won't."

"Has he ever said anything more to us before?"

"Not in all 22 years."

"I didn't think so."

[freydis-freydat]

Two months had felt like the time it took to blink and an eternity all at once, and she hadn’t quite felt the weight of the passage of that time until this exact moment. The totality of the dread, the stone-cold fear of certain death, and the bone-breaking weight of experiencing it all beside those she was so driven to protect did not register to Freydis until she was here, tightly coiled in the arms of the person who made her safest in the suddenly too-wide world. Her intention had been to safeguard the lives of the others, even at the expense of her own, and to make Ormir proud. One of these she knew she had succeeded at, but the other would still need to be seen as she all but collapsed upon herself within his embrace unraveling by the second as he held her component parts together with the faithfulness of Atlas beneath a boundless sky.

I’ve got you.

I’ve got you. At that moment, it was both fact and promise. An oath sworn and kept. But at the heart of those words, there was much more. He had her, yes, and Freydis might argue the weight and pressure of his body was the only fact at present keeping her from becoming entirely unmoored, but there was more to it. I’ve got you. Since the very first step toward Nornwatch Tower, this journey had been a pilgrimage of loss, and the biting sting of waste and calamity spared no one. Returned now with the sage wisdom of Tove’s collective memories, certain rumors about Ormir’s attachment to the king in tandem with stolen glances marked by yearning and softened features Freydis had witnessed the Hand aim at the king made sense. Though she would not mourn his loss on principle, she knew just how that very knife cut and twisted due to her own knowledge that she would never hold or touch Signe again. I’ve got you. For every measure of abandonment, Freydis felt standing alone on the pitch once the battle hand ended, and for every name of a child she had helped rear but would never see again on this side of viel she felt an equal degree of comfort in within Ormir. ,

For a few more moments it was all she could do to stay on her feet. Freydis sobbed loudly into his chest purging herself of weeks of pent-up emotion as well as the relief and joy it brought her to be reunited with him that she was simply too raw to process in any other manner. Her body quaked in her arms, the sobs that escaped her seeming to radiate from her very marrow, but fey-touched as she was, her body was still mortal and it exhausted itself in time. Her tight grasp on his tunic loosened and her fist unfurled into tired, limp hands that rested slack against the span of his back. Freydis swallowed hard, her mouth was dry despite crying enough tears to waterlog his shirt and allow her sorrow to glisten off of her cheeks as she finally lifted her gaze to meet his. 

Even as she walked away victorious from her most challenging of holmgangs her features had never held a fraction of the exhaustion they carried now. Longing to tell him of the fey path and of Tove and everything she held within her now consumed her, but fear of the old Iskaran ways held her tongue. What cruelty it was to stand before the one person in the world she wished to confide in most and to be silenced by the fear she had a hand in upholding for years. And also, in the end, she also knew her own suffering and yearning were meaningless. It was information she carried with her about Munin and the Aetherians that held any real weight and merit. 

“I missed you so much,” she finally croaked, tears threatening to spill over the brim of her tired, shining eyes once more. She could barely speak above a whisper as she confided in him, “I thought of you every day.”

In the darkened belly of his tent, the Huscarl sat and held the radiating pain in his shoulders. He was surprised to feel the sharpness hunger had tapered them into, despite having witnessed how cold had wilted the others. Wound into the sinew were two fist-sized rocks of strained muscle; the gems of nobility Orhan had saddled him with. Another pair of heirlooms that would likely never be bestowed to the King’s surviving child. The small wounds he had smarted, and Hrinthir’s ire gnawed at his strength, just as it did for the other unworthy. He did not wear war gracefully, as he once had.

Grief bloomed from him like a bouquet of arrows. The barbs snagged against his clothing when he dressed in the morning, reliving how he’d combed the mats from Orhan’s hair in silence in the hours before he left. Ormir’s meaningful death had been stolen, and that prodded the wounds further. The gods, clearly, had read through the poetic end he’d scripted for himself at the King’s side, and instead had locked the traitor in a purgatory of hope. It was beyond maddening. When he’d cross the remaining guard in camp, the glimmer of a shieldmaiden’s golden hair sunk the arrowheads in deeper, inching them closer to the softest, vital bits of him. The shrapnel was tangled and irremovable. All could see the penance he bore, he was certain, and all judged him harshly for it. 

In another world, Ormir’s imagination tortured at night, in another world perhaps his vengeful passions wouldn’t have left them so vulnerable. In another world, time wouldn’t have stopped when his heart was broken. He would’ve faced the arduous road of forgiveness, and cut loose from service long before lovesickness could anchor him there for a bitter eternity. There would still be a country of Iskaldrik left standing, and a corner within it to retire to and live happily in when he tired. Death would come gently, when he had grown satisfied and surrounded by people he’d permit himself to love. It was a soft life Arkyn had once wished for them, but ambition had set its hooks deep in Ormir already. The carrion that circled the refugees overhead had picked those fantasies clean. If he didn’t cull hope, he’d be sucking the hollow bones of those ‘what if’s until he starved.

A nearby scream sucked the oxygen from his solitude. Ormir’s body tightened and fear flagged in the cry’s wake, but the Iskaran hesitated. He did not reach for his blades. He’d had enough of running. The rising clamor outside morphed and changed pitch as it rose. The cries were now lifted with laughter. A weak spurt of hope lifted him. Like he was moving through a dream, Ormir clasped his cloak around his pained shoulders and chased the sound out, holding the tremble of anxiety at bay. Through the smoke of the morning, he watched from the sidelines as the camp wound into hysteria. The splintered survivors of the King’s battalion were reunited one clash of blood-caked, beaten bodies at a time. They’d survived. A dull throb echoed in Ormir’s body, but it all felt so very distant from him. Orhan’s pallbearers celebrated their guile at having escaped the High King’s fate. The Hand shrunk in the shadow of their victory. He’d meant to be buried beside him.

After the commotion had lulled, Ormir’s gaze found focus on the armored figure of a woman that cut through the crowd. There was a bleeding tug at his heart, like a nearly-healed scab had been ripped open. He knew her from the ethereal helm of Frigg she wore; the backlit halo of gold encircling her head. It was the same make as the gilded fields she’d sprouted from. For two months, he’d counted his champion’s face among the dead. No matter how harshly he’d scrubbed, Ormir couldn’t rid her dried blood from the beds of his nails.

Now, Freydis’ face was swimming as she crashed into him. The sudden embrace struck the air from his lungs. He felt the pain of his body again and was newly aware that his eyes were burning. She was solid, immediate. A tidal wave of pent emotion broke free and slammed into him, and the man had no choice but to cling to her sincerity like a pillar in a storm. Then Freydis balled her fists in his shirt and sobbed into him, spilling over in reciprocity. Ormir brought her in tightly, fearing that she might dissolve in the mist if he let go. The Huscarl’s right hand, bare of the ring, cradled the back of her golden head. Command over speech was lost between the crush of her and the raw choke of his throat, but he nonetheless heard his own voice cracking on a repeated promise. “I’ve got you.”

[onedaughterofman]

Sin (Papa Emeritus x g/n reader)

Summary: Papa teaches you how sins are meant to be celebrated: on all fours, right in front of him.

Tags: +18, explicit adult content, Papa Emeritus being a manwhore manipulator, rough sex, oral sex, altar sex, overall blasphemy, religious references, religious trauma, some priest kink here. Around 2.4 K words. Reader is gender neutral.

Disclaimer: I wrote this thinking about Terzo but I guess it works with others too. Minors DNI pls.

“Please forgive me, Papa, for I’m afraid to sin.”

The crucifix sits heavy between your clenched hands. One by one, your fingertips stop on the beads, mentally recalling all those ancient prayers to the Lord below. Still, nothing releases the guilt that clings to your ankles and legs, that snakes up until it grabs you by the neck.

Inside the confessional booth, it’s impossible to see Papa Emeritus’ face. He remains silent, deadly so, to the point you begin to wonder if he’s there, if he can hear you.

“This is my first time confessing to you, Papa,” you continue, gathering a deep breath. It feels as if the air contains no oxygen, no richness to it. No matter how much you try to fill your lungs, it’s never enough.

The guilt. It’s all about the guilt, in the end. It consumes you right to the core, making it hard to get up the bed and do your work around the Clergy. Truth is, even if the veil covers your hair like a cold blanket, you have doubted whether or not you belong here. Previous experiences with religion have made you wary, bitter even.

This is supposed to be different, to release you from guilt and resent, from the trauma. This is your freedom now. Something you have to pursue, but it’s so hard when everything weighs so much on your body. A part of you is afraid Papa might be angry. The idea of him yelling and dragging you out of the chapel almost forces you to your feet, ready to bolt. You’ve barely interacted with him during the black mass, accepting the communion with an open mouth and open heart.

For a long moment, Papa states nothing. His voice is a low rumble when he speaks up, words laced with such kindness that it takes you by surprise. “Is that so?” He says, and you feel him leaning closer on the grille that separates both parts of the box. “And why?”

As much as the shame burdens your tongue, the words manage to escape through clenched teeth. “I don’t know,” you confess, the crucifix shaking in your hands. “There’s something I desire, but I’m fearful of it.”

Over the silence of the chapel, his words are too loud. They make you flinch. “Step out of the booth, please.”

Taking shaky steps, you obey. Standing right in front of him, his mere presence causes you to feel so small, so insignificant in the face of the chosen one. “Walk with me,” he instructs, a warm hand lingering in the small of your back, steering you into the dark.

You stop at the grand altar, right in front of the colored glass of the windows. The artwork is beautiful, intricate. Papa points to it, an open hand directing your gaze. “Do you know why we are here, standing in the open? Because there’s nothing shameful about having desires, and wishing to fulfill them.”

Contrary to what you initially believed, his voice is gentle, soft. His gloved hands ghost over your waist, fingers barely grazing your clothes. Yet, the touch delivers electricity down your legs, igniting sparks in your guts.

“Every time you desire something, that’s Lucifer’s voice whispering in your ear. It is only a matter of listening to his guidance, of trusting in his wisdom. There’s nothing wrong with sin, we were born from it, and were liberated from the clutches of tyranny thanks to it," he continues. "Good and evil are nothing but options humanity has. Satan has gifted us knowledge and sight. He gave us freedom to chase and fulfill our deep desires as we see fit. So, I ask again. Why are you so afraid?”

The question is something you have been pondering for years by now. Why are you so afraid of yourself, of your needs and wants? Why do you keep denying yourself, hiding? Is the real you ugly, sick and perverse?

Or is it merely free of preconceptions, of fear of judgment?

Even if there is not an answer inside your mind, you do your best to reply. “I’m ashamed, Papa. I’ve been told my desires are… impure, tainted. I know what I want, but I don’t know if I'm strong enough to get it.”

“It’s okay,” for a long moment, Papa Emeritus stays silent, contemplative. ”There’s a veil on your head, but you’re not wearing the habits. Have you taken your vows?”

“No, Papa. I’m lost.”

“That I can see. I see how lost you are, how much you’re hurting. Tell me, do you want me to make it better? Do you require me to show you how to enjoy a luscious, pleasant life?”

Right now, there’s nothing you desire more. You’re desperate, so thirsty for any kind of relief, willing to do anything to find a place to belong in this world. Breathless, the words escape your mouth like a confession. “Yes, please”

Papa smiles, a spark deep inside his eyes. “Then, let’s do it now. Let’s perform the oaths together. This shall be your communion.”

You hesitate, guilt gripping you by the calves, clutching your arms behind your back. He notes it. “If shame is what anchors your feet, then let me be the one to carry it for you. If you can’t take a full step forward, then take half, for I’ll meet you right in the middle.”

And half a step is what you take. “Oh, Papa,” you say, falling to your knees in front of him, nails clinging to the robes. “Please, instruct me. Be my guide into the darkness.”

“Don’t be afraid,” he says, extending his hand. “I’ll show you the way. Do you trust me?”

Against all reluctance, you do. “Yes,” you whisper, squeezing his hand. His leather glove is warm, soft under your skin. Papa offers you another smile, tighter this time. There’s a glint of something in it, something deep and dark, full of lust. It feels as if you’re making a deal with the Devil himself, as if you’re forfeiting your body and soul to Satan.

Even if that’s the case, what bliss runs inside your veins.

“We’ll silence your doubts together. There’s no better place to do it than here, right in the altar in front of the eyes of the Lord. This will be an offering to him and a lesson for you. Sin is to be celebrated, my dear. We’ll celebrate together as one.”

Escorting you right to the middle of the altar, Papa holds your hand and kisses the back of it. In a gentle but commanding tone, he orders you to take off your clothes. Slowly, button by button, the clothes fall to the floor. The cold air hits your exposed skin, sending shivers up and down your spine.

Papa’s eyes follow the curves of your thighs, the softness of your abdomen and your chest before stopping in your face. His hand cups your cheek, thumb slowly caressing over the bone.

You’re shaking. Either from the cold or the shame, it’s hard to tell. It’s not easy to stand bare and naked in body and soul in front of this man, in the middle of the chapel. Anybody could walk inside and see you, see everything.

Almost as if he could read your mind, Papa speaks up. “There’s no need to feel shame. Is this your first time doing something like this?” He asks, tilting his head.

The answer is yes. You’ve never done anything similar. Old, past experiences can’t compare to this. This is sinful, blasphemous, so dirty. Getting fucked in a church, by a priest… is scandalous.

And so, so exciting.

Nodding, your eyes fall to the floor as the heat of blood rushes to your face and chest. “Don’t worry. The inexperience, that is what makes me tremble,” he confesses, leaning closer until he’s whispering in your ear. “I’ll tell you what to do.”

Papa’s first order is to kneel before him. The wood is unforgiving under your knees, so cold on your feverish skin. Your neck strains when you look up to him, wide eyes burning on his face. From this angle, he almost doesn’t look human. Instead, he’s divine, irresistible in a way that shouldn’t be possible. There’s no doubt he is the chosen one, the one blessed by Satan.

The leather of his glove tastes bitter. Papa’s thumb presses down on your tongue and on your teeth, thick saliva coating the material. Your eyes follow the movement of his other hand, see the way he undoes the buttons of his pants. The outline of his erection is clearly visible, even through the layers of clothing.

“Let’s begin with the rites. You’ll receive your communion now.”

Papa’s skin is so warm. The precum leaking from his dick is salty, a faint aftertaste on your taste buds. His hands are on your head, one on your cheek and another on your hair, to keep you steady as he begins to thrust.

The movement is slow, controlled, but you still feel your gag reflex activate as he hits the back of your throat. Breathing deep through your nose, you focus on his abdomen, on the open robes and the embroidery on the under cassock.

He is big, so heavy on your tongue. Your hands curl on your lap, sharp nails digging on the plush flesh of your thighs as a way to keep you grounded. Papa is gripping your head, thrusting hard and fast, chasing his own pleasure without a care in the world.

The sight of his face as he looks down on you makes you moan, throat vibrating with the sound. He grunts, one of his big hands falling down to your neck and squeezing, not enough to choke, but enough to make you feel it. You gag, tears falling down from the corner of your eyes, getting lost somewhere on your collarbones.

Finally, when his muscles are tense and his mouth is agape, Papa stops. Pulling out, the tip of his cock traces your lips, smearing spit and precum. His fingers grab your chin, tilt your head up so you can look into his eyes. “You’re good, so good”, he praises. “Doesn't it feel satisfying, to indulge in your lascivious desires? Don't you want to get fucked, here in the altar? You’ll enjoy that, si?”

There are no words in your mouth, only his cum. Nodding eagerly, you follow his instructions as he backs away, letting his robes fall behind. “On your fours,” he commands, pointing at the stained glass that adorns the chapel. “I want you to look at the Lord and recite His praise. This is not for us only. This is an offering in His honor. We’re doing it in the name of Satan.”

Breathing deep, you try to recall all those lessons. Imperator’s voice is completely lost somewhere in the mind fog when you feel Papa’s fingers entering you, one at the time. His hand is burning, so hot and rough. A part of you wants to turn around, to see for the first time the bare skin.

It feels sinful, too intimate, wrong even. His tongue clicks in disapproval when you catch a glimpse of what he’s doing, of his fingers going in and out of your body, glistening in his saliva and your excitement. “Recite.”

“Our father…” you start, voice faltering when he hits the right spot. Your spine curves on its own, nails digging on the hard wood of the altar.

“Our father, who art in Hell. Unhallowed, be thy name,” Papa assist, voice deep and commanding. It is enough to prompt you to follow him, pupils focusing on the colored glass.

It’s useless. Your voice dies as he enters you, a loud, deep moan invading your vocal cords. Papa’s hands grip you by the waist, fingers digging hard enough to bruise. In the morning, you'll have plenty of mementos, you'll wear his mark with pride.

His thrusts are relentless, powerful. At some point, Papa presses down on your abdomen, causing you to feel him deeper and deeper, in your guts and even poking at the stomach. You wonder if he can feel himself moving inside you, if he feels as good as you feel right now.

His deep growl in your ear tells you he does. Going faster and faster, Papa thrusts until your arms can’t hold you anymore. Falling to the ground, the wood is a cold relief in your feverish face. Your sharp nails scratch the altar, as he hits it over and over again.

The borders of your vision become dark as you come, legs shaking and toes curling, stomach tight and back arched like a cat. Papa continues, hand pressing down between your shoulder blades, hitting even deeper until his movement becomes erratic and he comes, filling your insides.

For a long moment, he doesn't speak. Gradually, he pulls out, leaving you open and dripping for him. His fingers trace a way down your inner thighs, travel up your spine. “By the grace of Our Lord, you have received the communion of the Unholy Spirit. Hail Satan.”

“Hail Satan,” you breath out, eyes closed and mouth agape. There’s not a trace of strength in your muscles, nothing but bliss.

“And Hail yourself, Sibling. I’ll wait eagerly to celebrate your next confession.”

Without any other word, he stands up. Picking up his discarded robes, Papa begins to walk his way out of the chapel.

“Yes, Papa,” you reply. before he crosses the door. The air is beginning to come back inside your lungs, as the blood cools down. Alone on the altar, you rejoice in the feeling of his blessing trickling down your thighs.

PD: This is my retirement from the Ghost fandom. I'll never be able to write something like this again /hj.

Ask box is open so you can confess your sins, you priest-fuckers.