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novaursa · 22 days

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The Last Dragonslayer (2/2)

- Summary: The conclusion of a journey, for you, one of the many.

- Paring: female!reader/Rhaenyra Targaryen

- Note: For more of my works, visit my blog. The list is pinned to the top.

- Rating: Explicit 18+

- Word count: 7 000+

- Previous part: 1

- Bonus part: 3

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff

The council chamber is cold, the stone walls adorned with banners of House Targaryen, their crimson and black fabric swaying lightly in the draft. The weight of history presses down upon you, the ancient stones whispering secrets of kings and conquerors. You stand at the edge of the chamber, watching Rhaenyra from beneath the hood of your cloak. The lords seated around the table glance at you uneasily, their gazes lingering too long, discomfort plain in their eyes. You are a foreigner, an anomaly, a reminder of tales and nightmares they would rather forget.

Rhaenyra, the Queen, sits at the head of the table, her presence commanding even as shadows darken the skin beneath her eyes. She’s been restless since Daemon left for Harrenhal, pacing the halls of Dragonstone like a caged beast. Now, she listens as her advisors bicker, her expression tight, her gaze distant. They speak of the war, of the blood that’s already been spilled, and the blood that will flow if they do not act.

Alfred Broome, his voice tinged with frustration, slams his fist on the table. “We cannot continue to sit idle, Your Grace. The Greens gain more ground with each passing day! Aemond’s attack on Storm’s End—”

“—was an act of war,” interrupts Lord Celtigar, his tone measured but firm. “They have already crossed the line.”

“And yet we remain here, waiting!” Broome snaps, glaring at the others. “Waiting for what? A miracle? A sign from the gods? Aemond tried to kill Prince Lucerys, and still, we do nothing.”

You watch as Rhaenyra’s knuckles whiten, her fingers digging into the arms of her chair. Her grief is palpable, a dark cloud that has yet to lift since news of Lucerys’ narrow escape reached her. But she remains silent, her eyes flickering with a storm of emotions she refuses to let loose before these men.

It’s then that you decide to speak, your voice low, cutting through the tension like a blade. “Action without strategy is a fool’s errand, Lord Broome. Perhaps you are eager to throw away lives in a show of haste, but the Queen’s duty is to her people, not to your impatience.”

The lords turn to you, their eyes narrowing, some in suspicion, others in outright disdain. You meet their stares unflinchingly, the cold fire of your homeland reflected in your gaze. Your hand rests on the hilt of your sword—a sword older than any of them, a relic of a time when the world was shaped by fire and blood, but not by dragons alone.

Broome sneers, his lip curling. “And what would a foreigner know of our wars? Of our dragons?”

More than you could ever understand, you think, but do not say aloud. Instead, you take a step forward, the shadow of your Banshee—your mount, your companion, and your weapon—seeming to loom behind you, though it remains far from these walls. The lords shift uncomfortably as if sensing its presence. They fear it, as they should.

“I know,” you say, your voice steady, “that Aemond did more than just attack Storm’s End. He was driven away. Chased off by something he did not expect, and that something was me. You may not trust my motives, but understand this: I have chosen to stand with the Queen, to see balance preserved in Westeros. You would do well to heed her wisdom and not let your fear cloud your judgment.”

Rhaenyra’s eyes meet yours across the table, and for a moment, the storm within her clears. There is gratitude there, and something else—something that has lingered between you since the night you arrived at Dragonstone, the night you saved her son. The pull between you is undeniable, a silent promise that neither of you has yet dared to speak aloud. But in her gaze, you see it as clearly as the flames of a dragon’s breath.

Lord Celtigar clears his throat, cutting through the tension. “The Lady Y/N speaks true. We cannot act rashly. The Greens expect us to strike without thought. We must outmaneuver them, not merely meet them on the field of battle.”

The room falls silent, the lords exchanging glances. Broome’s scowl deepens, but he holds his tongue, his eyes flickering to Rhaenyra, who now seems more resolute.

Rhaenyra straightens in her seat, the weight of the crown evident on her shoulders but her voice strong. “We will act, but we will act wisely. The Greens will not find us easy prey. We will not fall into their traps, nor will we be goaded into hasty decisions. Lord Celtigar, begin preparations for the fleet. We’ll strike where they least expect it. And Lord Broome,” she adds, her gaze hardening, “you will ensure that our forces are ready when the time comes.”

Broome stiffens but nods, his anger barely concealed. “As you command, Your Grace.”

The council continues, the lords discussing strategy, but your attention drifts to Rhaenyra. The tension in her shoulders has eased slightly, but the burden she carries is still heavy. You find yourself stepping closer, a silent offering of support that she acknowledges with a slight nod, a flicker of something warm in her eyes as she turns back to the map spread out before her.

Later, when the council disperses, and the lords retreat to their chambers, you linger. The chamber is quiet now, the echo of the lords' voices fading into the stone. Rhaenyra stands by the hearth, staring into the flames, her thoughts far away. You approach her, the weight of your sword still at your side, a constant reminder of who you are and what you represent.

“You were right to keep a level head,” you say softly, your voice breaking the silence. “They do not understand the full scope of what we face.”

She turns to you, the firelight casting her features in a warm glow. For a moment, she looks younger, almost fragile, but then her eyes meet yours, and the steel within her is evident once more. “It is difficult,” she admits, her voice barely above a whisper. “To know when to strike, and when to hold back. But with Daemon gone, I must be even more cautious. I cannot afford to lose another child… or more allies.”

“You won’t,” you reply, your voice firm. “Not while I’m here.”

A small, wry smile tugs at her lips. “I am grateful for that, Y/N. More than you know.”

The air between you shifts, charged with the unspoken words that neither of you dare to voice, not here, not now. But the promise remains, woven into the fabric of your alliance, and something deeper, something personal.

You reach out, your hand brushing against hers—a fleeting touch that sends a jolt through you both. Rhaenyra doesn’t pull away, her fingers curling slightly, as if to hold onto the warmth you offer. For a brief moment, the weight of the crown, the war, the bloodshed all fades, leaving just the two of you standing by the fire, bound by something stronger than duty.

“Stay with me,” she murmurs, her voice soft, vulnerable in a way you’ve never heard before. “Just a little longer.”

You nod, your hand gently clasping hers, the two of you standing side by side as the fire crackles softly in the hearth, the flames a quiet witness to the bond growing between you.

The wind howls through the trees, rustling the leaves and sending a shiver down your spine. The forest is dense, the shadows long as dusk begins to settle over the land. You stand alone in a clearing, your cloak billowing around you like a dark shadow, the hilt of your ancient sword gleaming faintly in the dim light. The ground beneath your feet is soft, the earth freshly disturbed by the recent passage of men and horses—Ser Criston Cole’s forces, on their way to seize Duskendale for the Greens.

The quiet of the forest is broken by the distant sound of hooves, growing louder with each passing moment. You remain still, your gaze fixed on the treeline as they emerge—riders clad in armor, their banners snapping in the wind. At their head rides Ser Criston Cole himself, his face set in a stern mask, followed closely by Ser Gwayne Hightower and several dozen men-at-arms. They slow as they approach, their horses snorting and stamping as they take in your solitary figure.

The men spread out in a semicircle, surrounding you, their weapons at the ready. Ser Criston rides closer, his eyes narrowing as he takes in your appearance. The tales of your deeds have reached his ears, no doubt—whispers of a foreigner with an ancient sword, a beast that haunts the skies, and the power to make even dragons flee. But it’s clear he does not yet understand the full measure of what stands before him.

“Who are you to stand in our path?” Criston’s voice is hard, commanding, as if the answer to his question will determine whether you live or die.

You don’t flinch under his scrutiny, your voice calm as you reply, “I am Y/N. I have come to give you a chance, Ser Criston. Turn back now, and you may yet live to see another day.”

A murmur ripples through the men, some of them exchanging uneasy glances. They’ve heard the tales too, and the sight of you standing alone, unafraid, seems to unsettle them. But Criston is unmoved, his expression hardening as he spurs his horse closer, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword.

“You expect me to turn tail at the sight of a woman?” He sneers, his tone dripping with disdain. “You may have frightened Aemond, but I am no craven boy. I am the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, sworn to protect the true king. Step aside, or I will cut you down where you stand.”

His men shift in their saddles, emboldened by their commander’s bravado. Ser Gwayne smirks, drawing his sword, the blade catching the dying light of the sun. “It would be wise to heed the Commander’s words, foreigner. You are far from home and outnumbered.”

You remain still, your expression unreadable, the forest around you eerily silent. The air grows colder, the breeze carrying the scent of earth and leaves. You speak again, your voice carrying an edge of steel. “This is your final warning, Ser Criston. I am not here to play games, nor am I here to waste lives. Turn back, or face the consequences.”

Criston’s eyes narrow, his patience clearly worn thin. He raises his sword, the motion sharp and decisive. “Enough of this. Men, bring me her head.”

The order is given, and the men begin to close in around you, their horses snorting, the sound of metal clinking as they draw their weapons. You don’t move, your hand resting lightly on the hilt of your sword, the weight of it familiar and comforting.

As the first rider approaches, sword raised high, you draw your blade with a fluid motion, the ancient steel singing as it cuts through the air. The rider barely has time to react before your sword meets his, the force of the blow sending a shockwave up his arm. His eyes widen in surprise, and in that moment of hesitation, you twist your blade, disarming him with a swift, practiced movement.

He falls from his horse with a cry, his weapon clattering to the ground. The other men hesitate, clearly not expecting such a swift and effortless display. But Criston’s voice rings out, cold and commanding. “Press the attack! She’s but one woman!”

But you are not just one woman. You are Y/N, the last of the Dragonslayers. And this is not your first battle.They charge at you, swords flashing in the dim light, but you are ready. Your movements are a blur, each strike precise, each parry executed with lethal grace. One by one, the riders fall, unhorsed by the skill of your blade or the sheer power behind your strikes. The clearing becomes a battlefield, the air filled with the clash of steel and the cries of men.

In the chaos, you catch sight of Ser Gwayne, his face twisted in anger as he drives his horse towards you. You meet his charge head-on, your swords clashing with a force that reverberates through your arms. He grits his teeth, pushing against you with all his strength, but you hold firm, the ancient power of your blade surging through you.

“You should have listened,” you say, your voice low, as you twist your sword, breaking his stance and sending him reeling. He barely manages to stay in the saddle, his eyes wide with shock as he realizes just how outmatched he is.

“You’re a demon!” he spits, his voice trembling as he regains his balance, but the fear is evident in his eyes.

“No,” you reply, your voice cold, “I am justice.”

With a final, powerful strike, you knock him from his horse, sending him crashing to the ground. He groans, trying to rise, but you place the tip of your sword against his throat, pinning him in place. The other men halt, unsure whether to continue their attack or flee.

Ser Criston watches the scene unfold, his face a mask of fury and disbelief. He dismounts, striding towards you, his sword at the ready. “You think you can best me?” he snarls, raising his weapon.

You turn to face him, your blade still poised at Gwayne’s throat. “I don’t think, Ser Criston. I know.”

Criston lunges at you, his strikes fast and furious, but you are faster. Your swords clash, the sound ringing through the clearing like a bell. He fights with the ferocity of a man with everything to lose, but you match him blow for blow, your movements fluid, almost effortless. He’s strong, but strength alone is not enough.

The battle drags on, but with each passing moment, Criston’s strikes become more desperate, more reckless. He overextends on a particularly vicious swing, and you seize the opportunity. You parry his strike, stepping inside his guard and slashing across his chest. He stumbles back, blood blooming across his white cloak, staining it red.

He grits his teeth, refusing to fall, but the wound has taken its toll. You don’t give him a chance to recover, pressing the attack with a series of swift, precise strikes. He barely manages to parry, each blow pushing him further back until he’s on the defensive, his movements slowing.

Finally, with a powerful upward swing, you knock his sword from his hand, sending it flying across the clearing. He falls to his knees, clutching his bleeding chest, his face pale, eyes wide with disbelief.

You stand over him, your sword raised, its tip pointed at his throat. “I warned you,” you say softly, your voice carrying the weight of inevitability.

Criston glares up at you, defiance still burning in his eyes, but there is also fear—fear of the unknown, of the force that now stands over him. “Kill me, then,” he spits. “But know this: you will never defeat one true king, Aegon.”

You lower your sword slightly, considering him for a moment. “I do not need to defeat your king, Ser Criston. I only need to preserve the balance.”

With that, you withdraw your sword, stepping back. Criston’s eyes widen in surprise, but you give him no time to react. You whistle sharply, and from the shadows of the forest, your Banshee emerges, its massive form blotting out the last of the daylight. The men around you recoil in terror as the creature lets out a bone-chilling shriek, the sound reverberating through the clearing like the cry of a thousand tortured souls.

Criston stares up at the creature, his face drained of all color, and for the first time, you see true fear in his eyes.

“Tell your king,” you say, your voice calm but carrying an unmistakable edge, “that Duskendale is under my protection. And the next time we meet, I will not be so merciful.”

With that, you turn and mount your Banshee, the creature’s wings unfurling as it prepares to take flight. The men watch in stunned silence as you ascend into the sky, the wind whipping around you as your mount carries you away from the clearing and into the night.

Below, the soldiers of the Greens stand frozen, their leader humbled, their will to fight shattered. The tale of what happened in that clearing will spread, carried on the winds of fear, and it will be known that the last of the Dragonslayers walks the earth once more.

The great hall of Dragonstone is quiet as you enter, the flickering torchlight casting long shadows on the walls. The air is thick with the scent of salt and smoke, the sea and the dragon forges mingling to create an atmosphere that is both heavy and foreboding. Rhaenyra and her council are gathered around the massive oak table at the center of the chamber, the map of Westeros spread out before them. Their faces are drawn, tense with the weight of decisions yet to be made.

You stride forward, the sound of your boots on the stone floor echoing through the chamber. The lords and advisors turn to you, their expressions a mixture of curiosity and apprehension. You are a mystery to most of them, a shadow in the midst of their struggles, but your presence commands attention.

Rhaenyra looks up from the map, her violet eyes locking onto yours. There is a quiet strength in her gaze, tempered by the grief and burdens she carries. She nods to you, her silent signal for you to speak.

“The Greens will no longer trouble themselves with coastal points, Your Grace,” you begin, your voice steady and clear. “I intercepted Ser Criston Cole’s forces before they could reach Duskendale. They were forced to retreat, and word will spread of their defeat. They will not dare to strike at our shores again, not while I stand with you.”

Murmurs ripple through the council, some lords exchanging glances of relief, others still wary of the enigmatic figure before them. But Rhaenyra’s expression is one of satisfaction, a glimmer of approval in her eyes.

“Well done, Lady Y/N,” she says, her voice carrying the authority of a queen. “You have once again proven your value to our cause.”

You incline your head slightly, acknowledging her words. “It is my duty, Your Grace.”

The council continues for a while longer, discussions of strategy and the next moves in the war filling the chamber. But you notice that Rhaenyra’s attention drifts back to you frequently, her gaze lingering as if she has something more on her mind. Finally, as the meeting draws to a close, she dismisses her advisors with a wave of her hand.

“Lady Y/N,” she calls, her voice softer now, almost hesitant. “A word, if you will.”

You nod, following her as she leads you from the great hall. The corridors of Dragonstone are dimly lit, the stone walls cold and unyielding. Rhaenyra’s pace is slow, measured, as if she is gathering her thoughts. You walk beside her in silence, the only sound the faint echoes of your footsteps.

She leads you to her chambers, a grand room that still manages to feel intimate despite its size. The air is warm here, a stark contrast to the chill of the hallways. A bath is drawn, the steam rising gently from the water, scented with herbs and oils. It’s clear that Rhaenyra sought this moment of respite, a small comfort amidst the storm of war.

She gestures for you to sit by the fire, where a table is set with a decanter of wine and two goblets. “Please, join me,” she says, her voice soft but carrying a hint of something more—curiosity, perhaps, or even a touch of longing.

You take a seat, watching as she pours the wine, the deep red liquid catching the light of the flames. She hands you a goblet, her fingers brushing yours for the briefest of moments. The touch is fleeting, but it lingers in the air between you, unspoken.

“I wanted to speak with you, Y/N,” she begins, taking a sip of her wine as she settles into a chair opposite you. “I realize I know so little about you, despite all you’ve done for me. You’ve proven yourself a loyal ally, but there is much I would like to understand. Who are you, truly?”

You swirl the wine in your goblet, considering her question. There is so much to tell, more than could be shared in one evening, or even in a lifetime. But you see the sincerity in her eyes, the genuine desire to know you, not just as a warrior, but as a person.

“I have seen much, Your Grace,” you say slowly, your voice carrying the weight of centuries. “More than most could ever dream or fear. I have witnessed the rise and fall of empires, the death of loved ones, the shifting tides of history. From the brilliant Yo Ti Empire to the shadowed lands of Asshai, to the great wonders beyond the western seas… I have wandered this world longer than I care to remember.”

Rhaenyra listens intently, her eyes wide, a shiver running down her spine at your words. But it is not fear that grips her—it is something else, something that makes her heart quicken, her breath catch.

“How old are you?” she asks, her voice barely above a whisper, as if she is almost afraid to hear the answer.

You smile faintly, the lines of your face softening as you look into the flames. “Too old, Your Grace. Old enough to have seen the world change many times over. To be bound to a Banshee is a terrible purpose.”

Rhaenyra sits back in her chair, the goblet forgotten in her hand as she takes in the enormity of your words. For a moment, the weight of your age and experience presses down upon her, making her feel small and fleeting in comparison. But then, she realizes something—despite all you have seen, all you have endured, you are here, by her side, choosing to stand with her in this tumultuous time.

She reaches out, her hand resting lightly on yours, her touch warm, grounding. “And yet you have chosen to fight for me, for Westeros. Why?”

You look at her, truly look at her, and see not just a queen burdened by war, but a woman who has suffered, who has loved and lost, and who is determined to protect what remains. “Because, Your Grace, you fight for balance. For the hope that the world might find peace, that the fire of the dragons might warm rather than burn. That is something worth fighting for.”

Rhaenyra’s eyes soften, her heart touched by your words. She gives your hand a gentle squeeze, her gaze never leaving yours. “Thank you, Y/N. For your honesty, and for your loyalty. It means more to me than I can express.”

The room seems warmer now, the tension of the day melting away as the two of you continue to talk. You share stories of your past, tales of lands and people she can only imagine, and she in turn shares her own hopes and fears, her dreams for her children, for her realm.

As the night deepens, the conversation grows more intimate, the barriers between you falling away. The flickering fire casts a soft glow on Rhaenyra’s face, highlighting the beauty and strength that have drawn you to her from the beginning. And though the specter of war still looms over you both, for this moment, in this room, there is only warmth, only connection.

The wine flows, the stories continue, and as the night wears on, the bond between you and the Black Queen deepens, becoming something more than mere alliance, more than duty.

The night deepens as you and Rhaenyra continue to talk, the warmth between you growing with each passing moment. The wine in your goblets has long since dwindled, but neither of you seems to notice, too absorbed in the quiet intimacy of your conversation. The fire crackles softly, casting flickering shadows across the room, but it is the light in Rhaenyra’s eyes that holds your attention.

As the conversation naturally lulls, a silence falls between you—not an awkward one, but rather filled with unspoken words and lingering glances. You notice how Rhaenyra’s gaze occasionally drifts to your lips, how her breath catches slightly when your hands brush. It is a delicate tension, a quiet yearning that neither of you has fully acknowledged until now.

Finally, Rhaenyra breaks the silence, her voice hushed, almost tentative. “Y/N… there is something I have been wanting to do for some time now.”

You raise an eyebrow, intrigued by the shift in her tone. “And what might that be, Your Grace?”

She doesn’t answer immediately, instead leaning in closer, her eyes locked onto yours. The distance between you shrinks until you can feel the warmth of her breath against your skin, your hearts beating in tandem. Then, without another word, she closes the remaining distance, her lips meeting yours in a kiss that is soft yet filled with a deep, unspoken desire.

The kiss is tentative at first, testing, but as you respond, it deepens, becoming more urgent, more passionate. Rhaenyra’s hand finds its way to the back of your neck, pulling you closer, while your own hand rests on her waist, feeling the warmth of her body through the fabric of her dress. The world outside the room fades away, leaving only the two of you, bound together in this moment.

When you finally pull apart, both of you are breathless, your foreheads resting against each other’s as you take in the reality of what just happened. Rhaenyra’s eyes are dark with desire, her voice a mere whisper as she speaks. “Join me… in the bath.”

There is no hesitation in your response, only a quiet nod of agreement. You both rise from your seats, the space between you charged with anticipation. Rhaenyra’s hand slips into yours, leading you toward the bath that still steams softly in the corner of the room. The heat from the water fills the space, creating a cocoon of warmth and intimacy.

Standing beside the bath, you turn to face each other, the moment heavy with significance. Slowly, reverently, you begin to undress one another, your hands moving with a gentle purpose. Rhaenyra’s fingers trace the edges of your cloak, slipping it from your shoulders, while your own hands find the laces of her dress, loosening them with deliberate care. Each piece of clothing falls to the floor with a whisper, leaving you both bared to each other, not just in body, but in soul.

Rhaenyra’s gaze sweeps over you, appreciation and desire evident in her eyes. She reaches out, her hand trembling slightly as she brushes a lock of hair from your face, her touch tender, almost reverent. “You are… beautiful,” she murmurs, her voice thick with emotion.

You smile softly, your own hand coming up to cup her cheek, your thumb brushing against her skin. “As are you, Rhaenyra. You are radiant.”

There is no more need for words as you step into the bath together, the water embracing you both in its warmth. You sink into the water, Rhaenyra following, her body pressing against yours as you both settle into the comfort of the bath. The heat of the water contrasts with the cool air of the room, heightening every sensation.

You share another kiss, this one slower, more languid, as if savoring each moment. Your hands begin to explore one another’s bodies, tracing the curves and lines with a tenderness that belies the passion simmering beneath the surface. You feel the strength in her arms, the softness of her skin, and the way her body trembles under your touch.

Rhaenyra’s breath hitches as your hand moves lower, finding the heat of her womanhood. She mirrors your movement, her fingers slipping between your thighs with a surety that makes you shudder. The contact is electric, sending ripples of pleasure through both of you. The world narrows to the sensation of her touch, the way her breath mingles with yours, the warmth of the water lapping at your bodies.

There is a rhythm to your movements, a dance of desire and affection that grows more intense with each passing second. Rhaenyra’s moans mix with your own, her voice breathy and desperate as she clings to you, her hips moving in time with your hand. The water sloshes gently around you, the only witness to this intimate exchange.

As the pressure builds within you both, the touches grow more urgent, the kisses more fervent. Rhaenyra’s hand tightens on your shoulder, her eyes squeezing shut as she reaches the edge. You follow her soon after, your bodies trembling together as the waves of pleasure crash over you, leaving you both breathless, your hearts pounding in the aftermath.

For a moment, there is only the sound of your breathing, the gentle lap of the water, and the warmth of Rhaenyra’s body pressed against yours. Slowly, the intensity of the moment ebbs away, leaving behind a deep, abiding connection.

Rhaenyra leans her head against your shoulder, her breath warm against your neck. “That was… incredible,” she whispers, her voice still tinged with the aftershocks of pleasure.

You smile, your hand gently stroking her back as you hold her close. “It was,” you agree softly, feeling a profound sense of contentment.

The two of you remain like that for some time, simply holding each other, basking in the warmth of the water and the closeness of your bodies. There is a gentle, unspoken understanding between you now, a bond forged not just by passion but by mutual respect and deepening affection.

As the water begins to cool, Rhaenyra lifts her head, looking into your eyes with a soft smile. “Let’s dry off and rest,” she suggests, her voice gentle. “There is much we still need to talk about… but for now, I just want to be close to you.”

You nod, helping her out of the bath and wrapping yourselves in the towels that were left nearby. As you dry each other off, the touches are more tender, more affectionate, than before. There is no rush, no urgency—only the simple pleasure of being together.

Once dry, you both slip into the bed, the sheets cool against your heated skin. Rhaenyra curls up beside you, her head resting on your chest, her hand lightly tracing patterns on your skin. You hold her close, your own hand gently stroking her hair, the intimacy of the moment filling you both with a deep sense of peace.

“Tell me more about your journeys,” Rhaenyra murmurs, her voice drowsy as sleep begins to tug at her.

“Of course,” you reply softly, your voice soothing as you begin to share more tales of distant lands and ancient times. Rhaenyra listens, her breathing slowing as she drifts off, content in your embrace.

As she falls asleep, you continue to hold her, your own eyes growing heavy with exhaustion. But before you succumb to sleep, you take a moment to appreciate the warmth of her body against yours, the comfort of her presence.

Together, in the quiet of the night, you both find rest, the bond between you stronger than ever before.

The dawn is just breaking over Dragonstone, casting a pale golden light across the harbor. The sea is calm, the waters reflecting the first light of day like molten glass. The ships are ready, their sails furled and waiting for the wind to carry them across the Narrow Sea. Rhaenyra stands on the dock, her expression stern, though her heart is heavy. The decision to send her children away, to safety in Pentos, has not come easily. Aegon and Viserys cling to her skirts, their young faces filled with confusion and fear, while Lucerys stands beside her, trying to put on a brave face for his younger brothers.

Jacaerys, their eldest, stands a short distance away, his jaw set in determination, though there is a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. He is prepared to escort his brothers, to protect them as best he can, but the weight of responsibility is a heavy burden on such young shoulders.

Rhaenyra kneels to embrace her children, whispering words of comfort and love, even as her heart aches with the knowledge that she may not see them again for a long time—if ever. As she stands and turns to Jace, a shadow passes over the group. She looks up, expecting to see a cloud or a bird, but instead, it is you, descending from the sky on your Banshee, the creature’s leathery wings creating a powerful downdraft as it lands gracefully on the docks.

You dismount with practiced ease, your cloak billowing around you as you stride toward the group. The lords and soldiers present step back instinctively, the stories of your deeds still fresh in their minds. Jacaerys stiffens as you approach, sensing that something is about to change.

“Y/N,” Rhaenyra greets you, her voice laced with surprise but also a trace of relief. “You’ve come to see them off?”

You nod, but your gaze is focused on Jacaerys, who meets your eyes with a mixture of respect and defiance. “No, Your Grace,” you say calmly, “I’ve come to take Prince's place.”

Rhaenyra’s brow furrows in confusion, and Jace steps forward, his voice firm but uncertain. “But Mother has tasked me with escorting my brothers. I can’t leave them to face this journey alone.”

“You won’t be leaving them alone, Jace,” you reply, your tone gentle but unyielding. “But your place is here, by your mother’s side. She needs you now more than ever.”

Jace opens his mouth to protest, but you raise a hand, silencing him. “You won’t make it past the Gullet,” you continue, your eyes narrowing slightly as you speak. “On my last flight, I saw ships from the Free Cities approaching fast, likely in league with the Greens. They will be waiting for you, and you will not have the strength to fight them off. But I can.”

The gravity of your words sinks in, and Rhaenyra’s hand instinctively tightens on Jace’s arm. The boy hesitates, torn between his duty to his brothers and the growing realization that you speak the truth.

Rhaenyra’s gaze shifts from her son to you, her eyes searching yours. There is a deep understanding between you, born of the time you have spent together, the shared battles, and the nights spent in quiet conversation. She knows you too well, and she can sense what you are not saying.

“Y/N,” Rhaenyra begins, her voice low and laden with concern. “You intend to go alone, don’t you?”

You nod slowly, the sadness in your eyes betraying what you cannot bring yourself to say outright. “This is something I must do, Rhaenyra. It is time for me to fulfill my calling, to see this through to the end.”

“No,” Rhaenyra says firmly, shaking her head as she steps closer to you. “You are not just an ally, Y/N. You are more than that. You have become… indispensable to me, to us. I cannot let you go, not like this.”

You offer her a sad smile, one that speaks of centuries of experience, of knowing when a path must be walked alone. “I have only ever obeyed one master, Rhaenyra,” you say softly, reaching out to gently cup her cheek. “And that is my calling. This is something I must do, for myself, and for those who have gone before me. My time here is coming to an end, and it is time for me to go home.”

Rhaenyra’s eyes glisten with unshed tears, but she blinks them away, her voice breaking as she speaks. “Will I ever see you again?”

You take a deep breath, your gaze lifting to the sky, where the first stars of evening are beginning to twinkle faintly, though the sun has barely risen. “I will be watching over you every night, Rhaenyra,” you reply, your voice tender and filled with an unspoken promise. “Whenever you look up at the stars, know that I am there, looking at you.”

For a moment, there is only silence between you, the weight of the world hanging in the air. Rhaenyra reaches up, placing her hand over yours where it rests against her cheek, holding on to the warmth of your touch as if she could somehow keep you with her.

“Then promise me,” she whispers, her voice trembling. “Promise me you’ll come back.”

You lean in, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead, your lips lingering there for a heartbeat longer than necessary. “I promise I will do everything in my power to return,” you say, your voice filled with the sincerity of your oath. But there is something unspoken in your words, a truth that both of you know but do not want to acknowledge—that sometimes, not all promises can be kept.

Rhaenyra steps back reluctantly, releasing your hand, her eyes never leaving yours. She nods, accepting your words even as her heart rebels against them. “Go, then,” she says, her voice filled with the strength of a queen but the sorrow of a woman who knows she may be losing someone dear. “But remember that you have a place here, with us, with me. And if you can… come back to it.”

You bow your head slightly in acknowledgment, your expression one of quiet resolve. “Take care of your family, Rhaenyra,” you say, turning to the children, your eyes lingering on Jacaerys for a moment. “And remember what I’ve taught you.”

With that, you mount your Banshee, the creature’s wings stretching out in preparation for flight. You glance back at Rhaenyra one last time, committing her face to memory—the strength in her eyes, the sadness in her smile—before turning your gaze forward, to the horizon where your destiny awaits.

The Banshee’s powerful wings beat the air as you take off, soaring into the sky above Dragonstone. Below, you see Rhaenyra and her children watching, growing smaller and smaller as you climb higher into the sky. The wind rushes past you, carrying with it the scent of the sea and the distant promise of what is to come.

As the island fades into the distance, you feel a sense of peace settle over you. You have made your choice, and it is the right one.

And somewhere below, on the shores of Dragonstone, a queen stands alone, her gaze lifted to the heavens, searching the skies for a glimpse of the one she has come to care for more than she ever thought possible. As the stars begin to emerge, she knows that, wherever you are, you are looking at them too, and perhaps, just perhaps, you will find your way back to her, to the home you have both made together.

But for now, all she can do is wait, and hope, and hold on to the memory of your final kiss, a promise that will echo in her heart for as long as she lives.

Years have passed, and the Red Keep stands tall against the night sky, its ancient stones bathed in the soft glow of moonlight. The castle, once a symbol of unyielding strength, now bears the weight of countless battles, of loss and victory, of the bloodshed that shaped the Seven Kingdoms. Yet, despite the passage of time, one constant remains: the stars, ever-present, watching over the realm with a silent, timeless gaze.

Rhaenyra Targaryen, now older and wearier, stands alone on the balcony of her chambers. The years have etched lines of sorrow and wisdom onto her face, and her once fiery spirit has been tempered by the trials she has endured. Her long silver hair, once a brilliant cascade, now carries strands of white, a testament to the time that has passed and the burdens she has carried. She wraps her cloak tightly around her shoulders, shielding herself from the cool night breeze that whispers through the Red Keep.

Her gaze is fixed on the sky, on the stars that glitter like diamonds against the velvety darkness. The constellations are familiar to her, their patterns etched into her memory from countless nights spent searching them for solace, for answers, for a glimpse of the past. The night is clear, the sky vast and endless, and yet Rhaenyra feels a deep, aching loneliness that even the stars cannot fill.

She lifts her chin slightly, her eyes tracing the paths of the stars as they twinkle serenely above. It has become a ritual of sorts, this nightly vigil, a way to connect with something greater than herself, to find comfort in the constancy of the heavens when everything else has changed.

But tonight, the stars seem more distant than ever.

She remembers those who have been lost to the ravages of time and war—her children, her loved ones, and the countless souls who once stood beside her. She remembers the faces of those who are no longer here, their voices now echoes in her memory. And among those memories, one stands out more vividly than the rest.

It has been years since you left her, years since you took flight from Dragonstone, vowing to protect her children, to do what needed to be done. You had promised to look after them, to see them safely to the other side of the Narrow Sea. And you had promised, in your own way, to return—to find your way back to her, to the place you both shared.

But you never did.

Rhaenyra’s heart tightens at the thought, a pang of sorrow so deep it threatens to overwhelm her. She has long since stopped searching the skies for your return, knowing deep down that you had fulfilled your destiny, whatever it may have been, and that she would never see you again. And yet, on nights like this, when the stars are particularly bright, she can’t help but wonder if somewhere, in some distant part of the world, you are still watching over her, as you had promised.

She leans against the cold stone of the balcony, her hands resting on the worn edges, her gaze unfaltering. The years have taken so much from her, but the memory of you remains, as vivid as the night you shared on Dragonstone, as real as the last kiss you gave her before you took to the skies. It is a memory she holds close, a fragment of warmth in a world that has grown increasingly colder.

The wind picks up slightly, rustling the leaves of the trees far below, carrying with it the faintest scent of the sea. It is a reminder of a time long past, of a love that was as fleeting as it was profound. Rhaenyra closes her eyes for a moment, letting the wind brush against her face, imagining it is your touch, soft and comforting, as it once was.

But when she opens her eyes, the night remains as it was, unchanged, the stars twinkling impassively above. She takes a deep breath, the weight of the years pressing down on her, and yet, there is a certain peace that comes with it. She knows that you are out there, somewhere beyond the reach of mortal hands, and that perhaps, in your own way, you are still watching over her.

Rhaenyra lifts her hand, as if to touch the stars, her fingers stretching out toward the endless sky. It is a futile gesture, and she knows it, but it brings her a small measure of comfort nonetheless. She lets her hand fall back to her side, her gaze lingering on the stars for a moment longer before she turns away, retreating into the warmth of her chambers.

As she closes the balcony doors behind her, shutting out the chill of the night, Rhaenyra takes one last look at the sky. The stars continue to shine, distant and unwavering, and she knows that they will be there long after she is gone, just as they were before she was born. They are a reminder of the constancy of the universe, of the passage of time, and of the fleeting nature of life.

And as she steps back into the familiar confines of her room, she carries with her the memory of you—of the love that once was, of the promises made beneath the stars, and of the bittersweet knowledge that some things are not meant to last forever.

But even in that knowledge, there is a certain beauty, a quiet acceptance. For Rhaenyra knows that, in the end, it is not the length of time that matters, but the depth of the moments shared. And though you are gone, the memory of those moments remains, a light in the darkness, a star in the sky, guiding her even now.

And so, she closes her eyes, allowing herself to rest, knowing that, wherever you are, a part of you is still with her, in the stars above, in the memories you left behind, and in the love that will never fade, no matter how many years pass.

#house of the dragon #hotd #hotd x female reader #hotd rhaenyra #rhaenyra x y/n #rhaenyra x reader #rhaenyra targaryen #rhaenyra x you #hotd x y/n #hotd x reader #hotd x you

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highonakuweeds · 19 days

Text

Who Says Money Can't Buy Happiness?

Sylus/right hand man!reader Part 2

SUMMARY:

You'd been down on your luck for the past few years, scavenging for food no matter how disgusting it was. Anything to keep you alive, right?

That is until you bump into the leader of Onichynus, whose interest piqued due to the odd glow under the skin of your inner wrist, allowing you access to information within a single glance. In exchange for you to be his right hand man, his informant, you'll live under his roof.

ao3

“So, what do you say?” That low honey of a voice echoed in your mind as your jaw clenched, eyes darting around to assess the situation. Your health was as low as your wealth at that moment; you could not spare another day on the streets, else you might fall. Literally.

You glanced at the inside of your wrist, where a small spot in it, right above your pulse, glowed a soft red. Hesitantly, you looked back up at the leader of Onichynus, whose smirk never left him. “I just have to be your… your what— secretary, basically?”

He shrugged, and you envied the nonchalance present in every action he did. “If that’s what you want to call it, then by all means, kitten, yes. My secretary.”

You cringed at the nickname before deeply sighing, shoulders dropping as you lazily brought your right hand up, and the leader of Onichynus eyed your glowing wrist. “Alright then,” you finally said, smiling awkwardly as he grinned, shaking your hand firmly. “But don’t call me kitten.”

Sylus just laughed. “Okay, sweetie.”

“(Name) is just fine.”

“What about (Nickname)?”

You pondered over it, hand still gripping his. It didn’t sound that bad, and no one’s really called you that before. You nodded, shaking his hand once more. “Deal.”

----

If you think that the leader of Onichynus is a mystery, his right hand man is tenfold.

Always in the shadows yet never leaving their master’s side; that’s what others had usually taken note of. To conceal their identity, they wear a dark hood that covers half their face, only revealing a small upturn of their lips if you were truthful or worthy of their master’s attention or a slight frown if they realized you just tried to fool the leader of Onichynus.

In fact, there would be times wherein he would visibly show care about the verdict of his right hand man. Just a simple shake of their head would send you begging and sobbing for mercy. Some had never even seen the light of day ever again.

Who this person actually was, no one knew. There were no discernable features about them except for one thing: a soft glow that despite the many layers of bandages tried to hide never actually shrouded its light on their right wrist. It would flicker and dim, yet in some cases pulse and glimmer. Was it a protocore imbued in their body? Or was it something else?

Many who lived to tell the tale of meeting the leader knew of his two henchmen, kept always close by their side, but not them. Never their right hand man.

You physically cringed and recoiled at the use of the word ‘master’ before removing your gaze at what Tara was reading from her phone. “That sounds so—”

“Cool? Intriguing?” Tara butted in, eyes gleaming at the sudden introduction to a new figure in the N109 Zone. You deadpanned, leaning down to swipe away from the app she was reading it from. She pouted at you before setting her phone down as you spoke. “No,” you countered. “Edgy.”

Tara’s shoulders slumped at your words. “It is not! This may be new information! Not many people talk about the N109 Zone, you know.” As you rolled your eyes at that statement, ready to refute her, she interrupted you before you even opened your mouth. “And besides, people are going crazy over this. See?”

She opened her phone once more to show you the comments of the post she read the excerpt from. Your lips curled in disgust as you read each one.

“dont u think thats lowkey really hot” “wait whys that kinda…” “the hood stays on.” “how come we’ve never seen them before?”

You snorted at the last one. At least they had common sense. “I don’t get the hype. It’s either a myth, or someone just trying to do their job.” You clasped your hands, startling Tara. “Which is what we should be doing right now! Isn’t that right, Tara? Don’t you have a bit of paperwork that you’ve been holding off on?”

She grunted, clearly stunned. “Wait, how’d you know that—”

“I’m off to do mine then! Toodle-loo!” You exclaimed, already halfway to your desk. When your face was finally out of your friend’s vision, you grimaced, a whine coming out of you. Who had the audacity to put that up on social media? You’ll have to ask Sylus to take it down later.

—--

“Okay so,” you started, tapping the inside of your right wrist, a 3D diagram of a tall building appearing. “The auction, as you know, starts in 3 hours. Many of the underground’s elite are joining, and so are some people who got introduced to events like this via the Nest. There will be new faces so I am begging you, please keep your sassiness to yourself for just one day. I know it’ll be hard, but I promise you it’ll be harder if you just have extra nuisances. Oh, and by the way—”

“(Nickname),” his voice snapped you out of your rambling. “I think I’ll be fine.”

You whipped your head at him before scoffing, shrugging as you tapped your wrist again, removing the diagram. “Suit yourself.” As you sat down on the edge of Sylus’ bed (with that, you earned a slight raise of a brow from him, whose back was leaned on the bed’s headrest), you clicked your tongue. “And just so you know, there is a theme to this, so I’d rather you go with cool colors instead of your normal red—”

“Thank you, my right hand man, but I’m afraid I’m sticking with red,” your boss plainly interrupted, irking you. What irritated you even more was the use of your title. You hated being called Sylus’ “right hand man” despite it being true.

You pursed your lips, nodding stiffly. “Right, about that whole ‘right hand man’ thing, there’s this post that’s been blowing up on social media about me, and it’s making me sound way worse than I am. Could you have it taken down?”

Sylus smirked, tilting his head ever so slightly before picking his phone up from the nightstand. After a quick while, he lazily showed you the exact post. “Is it this one?”

A sigh of relief escaped you as you nodded, lips curled up. That is until you realized he was the one that posted it in the first place. Your shoulders slumped as you quickly attacked him, trying to grab the phone from him as he reached it up.

You heard a small grunt coming out of him when his back harshly hit the headboard, but you couldn’t care less. “Take it down!” You exclaimed, kneeling on his thighs to reach higher. Sylus swiftly brought it down, however, grinning when he saw the annoyance drawn all over your face. “And why should I? It gives you good face.”

“But it paints the wrong picture of me!” You whined, stooping down to grab his wrist. A shine of victory sparkled on your face when you did, but he only raised his brows, merely allowing you to do so. He’s going easy on you. “There are people thirsting over me!”

At that, Sylus barked out laughter, ripping his wrist away from your grip. “There are? I haven’t checked the comments yet.”

Suddenly, a wash of horror swept through you, and your efforts to catch the phone doubled. “Wait no, don’t—”

“‘Is this what the dark romance girlies were looking for?’” He read out, the shit-eating grin never leaving his face. He switched his phone to the other hand as you tried to grab it, but to no avail. “‘Why have the leader when you can have the right hand man?’ Okay, ouch.” Sylus sarcastically remarked, and you winced at the comments. “Enough, Sylus!”

“You should be flattered, (Nickname),” he said, causing you to stop in your antics. “It’s annoying. Now, take it down—”

You yelped the moment you felt his free hand on your chest, flipping your positions with ease. Jaw clenched, you glared at him, trying to pry off his hand. “How about this?” Sylus negotiated. “I’ll take the post down,” with that, you exhaled, a weight suddenly lifted from your shoulders. “If you go to the auction with me tonight.”

…what.

You scoffed as you stared at him, brows scrunching up. “I’ve never been to an auction with you before.”

“You have—”

“Not in person! I was always just a little crow pin on your coat.” You argued, sitting up on Sylus’ bed as he got off on top of you, rolling his eyes at your words. “What’s the difference?”

You blinked at him, scoffing incredulously. “‘What’s the difference?’ What’s the difference? The difference is that I actually have to talk to the damn people! And they’re gonna go all crazy because, ‘ooh, the leader of Onichynus has a new woman on his arm’!”

He chuckled at your imagination and anxieties, standing up to go fix himself. “Alright then, the post stays up—”

“Wait!” You stopped, a hand out. Sylus looked at you expectantly, as if he already knew what your answer would be. You felt your eye twitch at his expression, and he just “innocently” smiled at it, though there was barely anything innocent about him. You sighed, posture slouching in defeat. “Fine. I’ll go with you,” you mumbled.

A smile of victory that was supposed to be on your face appeared on your boss’. “Perfect. The dress is already in your closet.”

Your face slowly contorted as you processed his words. ‘The dress’? Just as he was about to enter his bathroom to freshen up, you straightened your back on his bed. “What dress? Were you anticipating this?”

No response came from him except for low laughter, mocking you as you grumbled your way out of his room.

Your boss is going to be the death of you, you swear.

—--

As you walked the long hallway and took a sharp turn to your right to go to your room, you took a deep breath. This is going to be your first time actually showing yourself in public without any disguise, without any cover, ever since you decided to work under Sylus a couple years ago. Sure you knew a bit of social etiquette in terms of formal settings and such, but those were all from books; you never inclined yourself to actually join Sylus in any of them. From what you’ve heard from him, they were usually boring, where the filthy rich conversed whilst participating in illegal activities. And though the filthy rich part caught your attention, the “boring” did not. Nor did the illegal activities. You didn’t give a rat’s ass about what Sylus or people like him did behind the law’s back, but you were still technically a hunter. If word spreads that someone from Linkon City’s handful of heroes is engaging in sketchy weapon trading, then you would be utterly screwed.

You opened the door to your room with a sigh, though whether it was one of relaxation at the sight of your luxurious suite-like room, or one of frustration at how Sylus practically forced you to join him, you weren’t quite sure. Nevertheless, you bee-lined straight towards your walk-in closet, an addition Sylus willingly placed in your contract a week or so after when he realized just how material-oriented you were.

Ah, right, Sylus loved spoiling you.

You could prove that fact by glancing at your wardrobe. It was certainly way bigger than the room you lived in (stolen) before working as Sylus’ right hand man. Lit up with warm pin lights outlining the perimeter on the top and on the bottom, clothes and jewelry alike made the room look like Heaven. And you would constantly ask yourself if this was Heaven, indeed. To your left were the fancier types of clothing, perfectly tailored to fit your measurements, and to the right were the clothes you would wear for day-to-day (designer, of course. Wouldn’t want Sylus’ money to go to waste). In the middle was a glass island with jewelry that cost more than a fortune, and probably more than your life. It gleamed horribly bright due to the mix of metals and gems. Diamonds, rubies, sapphires, emeralds, you could probably name it all. Though you preferred some over others, a little bit of everything didn’t hurt anyone, right? Certainly not Sylus’ wallet.

You would’ve felt bad for buying more than half of what you have in your closet using Sylus’ money, but his closet cost more than yours ever could. And every time you’d borrow his sweet little black card to go shopping, he never said a word, just a single turn of his lips of approval as you skipped your way towards the most expensive shops you knew. And a good chunk of your belongings were gifts from him, too —”as a token of gratitude”, he’d always say (you never believed him)— so you knew that he didn’t care.

Whether you liked the idea of it or not, you had agreed to become his right hand woman —his secretary, even— so you couldn’t really complain when people called you that (despite not knowing who you really are). Plus, the job came with benefits, so might as well suck it up.

One thing caught your eye, though, and that was a box on top of a cushioned chair in the corner of the closet. It was beige with a silver ribbon tied on the top, a deep contrast to the darker palette of your room. Stealthily, you walked towards it, brow raised, before your entire body relaxed when you noticed the familiar handwriting on a simple yet sophisticated card on top of it. Only thing written on it was, “wear this.”

You pursed your lips as you rolled your eyes, opening the box without any hesitation. And to say you were impressed at Sylus’ ability to constantly not follow rules he didn’t want to follow would be an understatement.

You scoffed as you brought the beautiful dress out of its cage. This edgelord decided to gift you with a wondrous deep red silk dress, its sweetheart neckline low enough to entice but not low enough to seduce. It accommodated for its lack of fabric in the higher chest area with puffy sleeves that you assumed were off the shoulder, catching the warm light in smooth lines. You brought it out fully, placing it against yourself and relishing at how it looked in the full-length mirror. Bottom-wise, it covered just about everything except for a rather daring slit that ended somewhere around your high thigh. Who did he think you were, a stripper?

…Well if the money called for it—

You shook your head, carefully draping the dress on the matching chair on the other corner to freshen yourself up. You couldn’t wait to try it on.

—--

You let out an exhale when the last curl fell from the iron, the heat kissing your bare skin. You hissed at it but solved the problem by brushing it away from your neck. Your eyes trailed towards the faint glow on your right wrist, then the golden jewelry on your vanity table, then at yourself. Hesitance was written all over your features, eyes not leaving yours in the mirror as you place a rather glimmery bracelet on to cover your wrist. You always thought the shinier something is, the more the glow would dim. Would camouflage.

What snapped you out of your thoughts were a familiar pair of hands gently grabbing the dainty necklace right in front of you, and clasping it around your neck. Your gaze left your own to lock with his, though his eyes were focused more on your hair (or neck?) than on you.

It wasn’t long after that that he looked back at you with an amused turn of lips. “Are you ready?” His voice reverberated in your head, as it had been a good hour or two without the presence of one, the only thing your ears had been hearing up until his entrance being simple jazz instrumentals from your bedroom.

You glanced at your feet, which were currently bare, before shaking your head. “Give me a minute—”

But before you could even do anything, Sylus knelt down, picking up one red-bottomed stiletto from the pair and slipping it on your foot with ease. To a normal person, that would’ve certainly given them a scary amount of butterflies, having a man on his knees, practically serving you by being the one to put on your shoes for you. However, your boss had done this multiple times in the past. So many times that you’d grown accustomed to it.

“These heels aren’t that bad, (Nickname), why don’t you use them more often?” He commented, placing the other one on your other foot. You snorted, an opposition to your current elegant figure. “I barely go out. What, you want me to wear these when I’m hunting wanderers or just in the house?”

Sylus shrugged, standing up. He placed a hand on his hip as you stood up as well. Despite you wearing a good couple inches worth of heels, he towered over you somehow. “Why not?”

You rolled your eyes, scoffing. “Let’s just go.”

—--

The moment Sylus stepped into the room, everyone’s eyes were on him. Or rather the pretty little thing linked on his arm.

Sylus’ expression remained that of indifference as he practically pranced around, and most people would assume he was showing you off. You’ve known him for long enough, though; you knew he wasn’t trying to. In fact, you assumed it was probably your stance.

Chin held up high, eyes sharply scanning the area through lazily held up eyelids, chest puffed out, shoulders pulled back, and stride confidently pompous. You were a new figure. Sure, your attitude was something the people inside of the building had seen one too many times; your position, however, was not.

Who was this new woman beside Sylus, the leader of Onichynus? And why has she just popped up now, out of the blue?

After a couple beats of silence, whispers erupted all around the two now most important figures of the event. And with that, a small smile ghosted on your lips. One that Sylus noticed.

“Enjoying the attention, I see,” he whispered, quiet enough for only you to hear. “Have I not been giving you enough?”

“Careful there,” you responded through a forced smile, eye twitching. “People might hear you acting like something comparable to a partner. Then I’d have a whole nother problem to deal with”

Sylus just laughed at your statement, unlinking your arms. You glanced at him, confusion clear in your expression. He leaned down, almost as if he was bowing, and you thought that that was exactly what he was about to do… until you noticed a very familiar card slotted between his pointer and middle finger.

Your eyes visibly gleamed at the sight as you gasped. “Really?”

He just shrugged, lips almost forming a pout as he straightened his posture. “Of course, if you don’t want it—”

“Have I ever told you how much I love you, Sylus?” You excitedly said, snatching the black card with the same amount of enthusiasm. He watched you memorize the numbers engraved on it (though he knew you had it burned in your retinas) with a chuckle. “Now, who sounds like a partner between the two of us?”

“Shut up,” you grumbled before changing your entire demeanor. Frankly, it was times like this that slightly intimidated Sylus, how money and wealth could easily change your mood. “I mean, thank you so much! I’ll see you in 30?”

He just nodded, amusement clear on his features. “You’ll see me in 30.”

And with that, you grinned, practically jumping in delight before bee-lining towards a protocore which glowed a beautiful pink, near nude, color. You were drawn to it from the very beginning, but didn’t want Sylus to see just how much you wanted it.

You glanced at the glow of your wrist, which was covered up by black lace gloves to avoid suspicion. It flickered softly underneath its cage, so quickly that the pulses between each flicker of light seemingly disappeared. You braced yourself, crossing your arms tightly to ground you to reality. Whenever you’d find a protocore this powerful, its memories, the things it sees, reels you in so hard, you would faint. Sylus had never seen that part of you before, though your first encounter with him was close.

Well, it happened multiple times after that, too; you weren’t quite sure why. But after a while, it was habitual for you to feel a bit nauseous around Sylus until you would no longer feel it at all.

This protocore’s pull was faint compared to that, but it made you falter in your footing nevertheless. You shook your head, taking a deep breath before calling one of the servers nearby. “15 million for this.”

His brows furrowed deeply. “But ma’am, this is only worth 100,000—”

“Then your pricing is foolish and incompetent. When I say something is worth 15 million, then I will buy it for 15 million. Do not doubt my decisions.”

The server froze in his place, and you could’ve sworn you saw the hair on his skin stand upright at your cold words. It almost put a smile on your otherwise apathetic face.

He bowed immediately, quickly following your orders. “Yes, ma’am.”

You nodded your head mindlessly, already striding to another pull. Suddenly, you felt a hand on your shoulder, cold and… nonhuman. A wanderer maybe? No, this felt different. You felt your body stop in its place, your chest heaving as you tried to gasp for breath. Wait, calm down. You could check what this was with your wrist. But wait, how come nothing was popping up? You— You needed to kill the thing behind you; you needed to—

“Are you okay, miss?” A smooth voice snapped you out of your thoughts, and you whipped your head at it. You glanced at the man’s hand, which was clearly pulled back. Almost genuine concern covered his entire face, his eyes shining with care.

You were quiet for a couple seconds before responding. “I-I’m alright, thank you.”

The man gestured one hand out, palm facing up, as if waiting for you. Reluctantly, you gave your left hand, and he slowly brought it up to his lips and kissed your knuckles. With your hand still quite close to his face, he stared at the intricate lace design of your gloves, and you felt your stomach flip. “I apologize; I did not mean to startle you. My name is Aries. I’m new here.” He admitted, his voice low enough to send your heart racing.

You’ve never felt like this before. And it wasn’t romance you were feeling; it was something much more… forced. You held your guard up high, allowing him to treat you like this for longer. He might be a danger.

So instead, you smiled, eyes locking with his as he stood up properly. “(Name). A pleasure to meet you, Aries. So, what brings you to a place like this?”

Aries sheepishly laughed, clearly nervous about the entire situation. You knew he fancied you, especially with the way his face was beet red. “Ah, my— my uncle encouraged me to go with him, even if I didn’t want to.”

You gasped, eyes lighting up when you finally realized that there was someone just like you here. “Me too!”

He tilted his head, brows scrunching together. “...Your… uncle dragged you here?”

A small stifle of laughter bubbled in your throat before you grinned, shaking your head. “Not my uncle. Just… a friend.”

Sylus’ eyes never left you as you strutted around the auction, most especially when he noticed you conversing with a man he had never seen before. He opened his mouth to ask you a question about him, a bit of basic information perhaps, but he immediately caught his mistake. Right. He was so used to having you by his side that he’d completely forgotten.

“I see you’re eyeing my nephew, Aries.” A man, at least a decade or two older than Sylus, approached him, his voice irritating the leader of Onichynus on the spot. He barely glanced at the shorter male, trying to figure out his name. He usually had you whisper it to him. Ugh, what was his name again? It was French for something… Chaton? Chateau? No, he just called this guy ‘castle’. It was a C- something…

Ah, Ciel.

“Ciel,” Sylus said, boredness crystal clear in his voice. The older man laughed —a forced “rich” one, at that— before responding. “Ah, and here I thought you forgot my name. Yes, I—”

“What do you want?” Ciel flinched at the bluntness of Sylus’ tone, but answered him nevertheless. “So, what’s the deal? Who’s that pretty little minx you brought today? I’ve never seen you bring a plus one to these events before.”

Sylus’ face scrunched up slightly at Ciel’s words in disgust, but his eyes never left the conversing pair. “And why should I tell you?”

Ciel elbowed Sylus as if they were buddies, making the taller man grunt in distaste. “Oh come on, mate! Though she was so cold to everyone when she entered, she seems too bubbly to have been in the N109 Zone for a long while. Where’d you get her from, hmm?” Sylus’ brows raised slightly when Aries accidentally dropped a pen he somehow had (why the hell did he have a pen at an auction?) and you stopped him from getting it, bending down to pick it up. Your front was right in front of Sylus, which in turn meant right in front of Ciel.

He whistled, grinning at the view you just accidentally gave him. “Now I see why you keep her around. Come on, Sy, mind letting a dear old friend borrow her for the night—”

“I’ve given you many chances to back off, mate. Too many as it seems.” Sylus’ grip on Ciel’s shoulder surprised him, and with how he winced and let out a small whimper of pain, it seemed as if Sylus was slowly getting angrier each second. “I’m being generous today, since it’s not ideal for me to get scolded as of the moment. But if you ever lay a finger on her in the future, I will make sure you never see the light of day. If she doesn’t beat me to it, that is. Understood?”

He could feel the atmosphere around them chill with Ciel’s fear as he nodded vigorously. “Y-Yes, Sy—

“Try again.”

“Yes, sir.”

—--

You sucked in a breath as you watched Ciel and Sylus converse. The moment you noticed your boss’ eyes on you, they flickered away, towards his holster. When he glanced at you again, you shook your head slowly, and you almost cracked a grin when he huffed. It was barely noticeable, but you knew that look anywhere.

Aries seemed to be looking at them, too. “Yeesh,” he grimaced. “They are not getting along.”

Your head turned to the man you had just met, and your brows scrunched in confusion. “Who?”

“Oh,” Aries nervously grinned, clearly embarrassed and ashamed. Ah, you knew already. “The one on the left, h-he’s my uncle.”

Ciel has a nephew? How come I never knew that? You faked surprise, mouth turning into an “o”. “Oh, that makes more sense. In that case, I think I’ve heard about your uncle before. He does trade in… firearms, correct?” You didn’t want to disclose your relation with Sylus yet; it might backfire on you in the long run.

Aries’ eyes lit up at the mention of “firearms”. “Yes! His newest model was actually one of his best works if I do say so myself. Though I might be a bit biased if I say that because I made the blueprint—” He cut himself off, hand to his mouth. “I was rambling, wasn’t I?”

You giggled at his reaction before shaking your head, playfully hitting his arm. “No, it’s fine! So you work with Ciel, then?”

“How do you know his name is Ciel?”

“I know some figures. And your uncle’s pretty famous here.” You saved, internally cursing yourself at the slip up. You glanced at Aries to see if he believed you, and with that smile on his face it seemed as if he did. Thank God.

—--

Sylus could feel his jaw tightening when he saw you practically flirting with that man. He knew how you were towards wealthy people; hell, you were like that to him a week or two after your deal with him. You were hitting that man’s arm playfully for his money. Totally.

But Sylus could give you whatever that man could possibly offer tenfold.

Wait, why did he care again? Right, he didn’t.

With Ciel finally gone, grumbling to himself as he left, Sylus was able to scan what exactly the auction was putting up for sale. Huh, just some gaudy protocores. It seems as if they finally ran out of things to sell.

His eyes went back at you, and his brows raised up in slight curiosity when you eye a protocore. Sylus watched as you walked towards it, and almost staggered on your footing. With furrowed brows, he walked towards you. Whether it was from concern or something else, he wasn’t quite sure.

“7 million. Wrap it up.” You demanded, exuding an air of sophistication. The air around you was cold, but that was one of the things Sylus liked about you. “Just 7 million? Do you really want people thinking I’m broke around here?”

You tilted your head slightly, though your eyes never left the protocore. After a while, you shook your head. “And do you really want people thinking you don’t know how to strategize your finances? It’s only worth 7 million at max.”

He just shrugged at you. “Alright, then.”

Once you had the two protocores you needed, you took a deep breath. The tug you felt between the two was too much, and you could not extract information from them now. Plus with how weak you were beginning to feel because of having to keep up socially and physically, Sylus’ pull was getting worse by the second.

“What, tired from spending all my money?” Sylus teased, though even with his words, you could feel the soft heat radiating from his palm on the small of your back, aiding you to the car. You laughed humorlessly, not having any more energy after everything that happened today. “This isn’t even a dent in your wallet. And besides, we’ve been here for a couple hours; my social battery is dead.”

Sylus’ chuckle filled your entire brain, and it may be your exhaustion, but it left your cheeks flushed either way. “Speaking of your social life, who was that… man you were talking to?”

Oh, that left you intrigued. You smirked as he opened the door of the car for you, and you raised a brow. “Why, you jealous?” He scoffed as you sat down, and he closed the door, taking his sweet, sweet time to get to the driver’s seat. “What makes you think I’m jealous?”

You pursed your lips as your boss started the car, tilting your head. “Maybe the fact that you asked?”

He just rolled his eyes at that, lazily removing one hand from the wheel and resting it on your seat to reverse the car. Sylus looked back, giving you a wonderful shot of his side profile. “Well,” oh dear, his voice was close to your ear. Nonchalantly, you turned to look at him. “For your information, I asked because he’s new— I’m going to assume. I hadn’t seen his face until today.”

You huffed, feeling your cheeks flush at his reversing. That’s such a weird thing to get flustered about, you thought to yourself. “Fine, then. His name is Aries, and… I don’t know anything about him.”

At your words, Sylus’ brows knit together in slight confusion and alarm in his face. “What do you mean, ‘you don’t know’? Use your wrist.”

You rolled your eyes at his words, crossing your arms and your legs as he began to drive. “I tried, but I couldn’t. For some reason, there wasn’t any dirt I could pick up on him. Only info I know is because he told me, like how Ciel is his uncle.”

“I knew that.”

“I saw you two speaking. Had a lovely chat?”

He merely grunted as a way of saying, ‘no, what the fuck are you talking about?’ And at that, you giggled. You kept your eyes on the road, though you slowly felt your lids drooping. “Anyway, he seems… intriguing. He works with Ciel in firearms sometimes. Plus, he asked me out.”

… “He asked you out? Where? When?”

“Oh, now you really sound jealous.” You grinned, leaning onto the seat belt so that you could use it as a cradle for your cheek. “I’m not telling you; you’re going to get Mephisto to follow us. He’s cute; I’ll give him a chance. Now,” you over-exaggerated your yawn, stretching slightly in your seat. “If you don’t mind, though I don’t really care if you do, I will sleep. Very tired. Good night.”

Sylus stayed silent for a moment, and just when he was about to respond to you, you were fast asleep the moment he turned to look at you. He shouldn’t be jealous. Er, was this jealousy? Maybe it was overprotection; Sylus was never keen about sharing what was his. And technically, given how you were his right hand woman, you were his. But then again, you going out with someone shouldn’t be his business, especially if said someone could be a valuable asset to Onichynus. But it didn’t make that uneasy feeling at the pit of his stomach settle.

—--

“She’s cute, isn’t she?”

“Uh, yeah, she is. Are- are you sure I have to do this? She seems like a nice gal.”

“Shush! If we strike a deal with Onichynus, the collaboration would give us so many benefits, my boy! And wouldn’t you like to have a pretty little something by your side at the same time?”

“...I don’t know; I thought she and the leader were—”

“She and the leader are nothing. She’s probably just some whore he took pity on. Now, don’t ever doubt this plan again, okay?”

“...”

“Aries.”

“Y-Yes, sir.”

#love and deepspace sylus #sylus #lnds sylus #lads sylus #sylus x reader #reader is not the mc #sylus x you #love and deepspace #lnds

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astralnymphh · 10 months

Text

saturated sanctity

tonguefucking raw in the barn, away from dina's eyes ౨ৎ

. part two 𝜗𝜚

❛you had cunt on your mind, 'n cum on your breath❜

PREVIOUS CHAPTER . NEXT CHAPTER > .ᐟ ♡. summary; a chore so innocent and prosaic, far from featherbedding and near to plucking grain from your scalp– turns for the worst, or the best? i soundly connote, fornication ventured on two bends of eager knees, drinking you from beneath the hood 𐙚 .ᐟ ♡. cw; depictions of infidelity, homewrecking, semi-risky sex, jealousy, bit angsty, tension, guilt, pining, tears are shed, playing around, lusting, clit stim (r, fingers and oral), fingering (r), pussy eating (r), scant nipple stim (r), ass groping, ass slapping, breast groping, swallowing slick, pussy slapping, steamy make-out buildup, dirty talk, needy ellie, smug ellie as usual, dom!ellie, sub!reader (i swear sub!ellie is coming next chapter) domestic acts, bold text is flashback dialogue, petnames; babe, baby, good girl (lmk if i missed anything) .ᐟ ♡. pairing; farm!ellie x farmhand!reader .ᐟ ♡. a/n; ending feels a little lazy but it is what it is. hey i'll pull through on ss3 that's like the smut crux, if u get my jizzst..

✵ masterlist ✵ series masterlist ✵ got too lazy 2 proofread right away ✵ WC; 9.8k+

VOLUME TWO - The skin that flakes/ Under the hood

𝄞

Indulgences have the gall to peck at you.

Pecky and prickly as the oncoming hens do, handwriting–on–the–wall misgivings that throttle you off a steady minute by minute track. Small nuances under light of sun kept doing so this week, numerous things apropos of bawdy suggestions wisped by that reckless pink snake of hers– always mere footsteps from running into Dina, ‘I think it would be, really, reaaally hot if you didn’t wear your p-panties at the table, tonight..’ always brain–caked in a bit of alcohol, hiccuping. Or, even when a cold cuff cocoons the hind of your upper–thigh, an inch below the crease of your butt and done as she passes like a ghost behind you in the kitchen.

A plum bruise should have formed from how often you flicked that forehead of hers. But no, of course no. The only thing that formed each time was a cocky curl into her lips, corkscrewing those fine hazel freckles connate to a whirlpool in water.

Owing to the fact that she lacked sufficient care from you, has her pouting when you deny her. Denied her of that fiendish wish to lie beside each other– even if it be upon that packed sofa, or– of her vehement dreams, reposing within sniffing distance of an ambery lit fireplace, running her work–worn fingertips along your hill of chest, letting the beat beneath your breast verse in her hands a tale to beckon her own in accordance, toasting aflutter with love. She would push a kind pressure to said breast, emboss prints to squishy skin, mold it to her liking, and smirk when your nipple erects and bends under her hardy palm.

On the other hand, woe of denial, she sought Dina in your figment. When she wasn't courting twisted fingers up your billowing skirt, she instead smelt her heart in twisting her from the inside out, which– even more woefully, gave Dina the impression that Ellie had come crawling back on starved knees. Woe is her, to misreckon and take what she thought was hers to safekeep.

Arteries, wrenched and awreck, you felt a toy in contrast to what really stood. Worry.

Worries are the hens, pecking at you.

Will Dina catch you two here? Over there? This night, or the inbound day? Tines of time aren't obligated to tell, ringing of peril whenever they yen a sign to sow.

Thoughts would only continue to foment come light of day.

A lemony sun has risen beyond the hill laden skyline, plucking rays for your wake. Muted orange tones mingle and caper into flaming reds on the crest of your sealed eyelids, caught just as you bid adieu to your cotton sogged dream. For dreams die, at every crossroad.

“Mhh..” the gentlest brush of breath hinders sun washed quietude split, and a set of toes curving down to a stretch. Achy aches ache, as there’s enough ache to go around for farm hands such as you, ugh right?

Disturbing be the sunlight drawing blinding rays on your bleary pupils, attempting to shade out familiar nooks of your room. Ah, there we go, hues of sable dark in unvisited corners and shyly crowding the light, fluid out of the clear glass pane. As the couch is situated opposite of this blaring window, it greets you quite rudely.

The moment colors begin to mature and petrify within your vision, you're already hiking up a foot and rocking your bottom off the quaint sofa, veering a peek to the indent left. Slept like a log, huh? Feet plant weight on plods carrying you towards the wardrobe, grantingly aside the wide pearl–border window, flitting a forearm up to block incoming light.

A huff bloats your cheeks and pouts ducky lips, then grumbling a burden off your shoulders, “Hhhmmmm..” no truer words were spoken.

You lodge fingers in oaken crevices and pull a sundry of drawers from their frame, rubbing cotton on wool as you dig without aim on what you may don, this or that, with which and what, where and when. Blah, yawn, bored, you avert your gaze on lucent glass and scrutinize a pine bough panorama– only for your eyes to spring and espy a sparkle.

A gleam of skin.

And a tuft of copper.

Ellie.

Her torso fit in a white ribbed tank, soaked in hues of gray at the dip cut collar, and handsomely clung to her perky breasts. An arm raises, a graceful length likeness of a canopy above her head, stretching freckled flesh over toned muscles, the grooves– shadowed in a whisper of brown, highlighted celestially, and exposing a small auburn bush beneath her pit. A seen groan escapes her slit gob, brows hefty– she crumples them dear into her eye sockets, ruching the thin skin. Exertion tapered her body akin to clay, and it was undeniably hot, scrunching her face up like that. Ellie then juts her hips forward and casts her head rearward as she stretches, releasing all tension in a swing of her arms down.

Seems like she's tending to the fore yards.

Dew gleams honey, sweat paints skin, and portrays your girls as a ruddy rose in dashing spring. Ruddy, yeah, that solar ball in the sky sure made her skin popping arid of paleness. Naturally, her freckles betone like pepper, bulging on her red face– which scrunches in her gripe of stress.

Her lips part, mouthing an obvious, ‘Fucking hell.’ and baring teeth after, slightly. Lashes interwoven, her eyes stayed squinted, only to widen and dart when a muffled shout rattles the walls.

Right, fuck, Dina needs me.

Just as the drizzly auburn–head jogs from a peeking view and presumably into the house, you reverse and capsize through stacks of cloth until you land your choice– a sundress. Hey, it's hot today, let your butt breathe for a change. You dangle it by the thin straps prior to pleating up the skirt and slinking it over your crown, yanking every seam in place. Ruffles hit a stonecast above your knee, a sensible length.

But one question stands unturned.

Bra, or no bra?

Hmm.

No bra.

A proper chest of cotton cradles your breasts come rain or shine, not like Dina would mind with brine, nor judge off the heart– just freeing the girls. No biggie. The woven material lollops to a fare–thee–well, cozy on the curve, ribbing as it falls in place. Now, you just need something on your feet. Striding forth, waxing a gale, bare steps soften on each oak board's scant gap, sylvan grain texture grazing your toes. Just a few feet ayond the couch is your shoe cubby, small box frames home to varied work boots and scuffed sneakers, and based on today, you choose boots, clasping the hardy backstays in a pinch. You crouch and gripe at the sore sting your knees gave, manning it through and sliding foot by foot plumb to the squishy sole of your boots, tying up the cordy laces.

Guh, these boots are near rugged.

Ignoring the plain–in–sight fray to your boots’ hemp laces, you grasp and wrench the icy knob ‘round till the door grinds a cry open. Stepping under the arch, you brisk thump by thump and cut where the hallway bends, advancing the dining table.

A dyad of ears harks your growing din of solid steps, calling, “There you are, did'ja sleep like a log?” mellifluous notes of Dina's cadence carries, veering your sight on the kitchen– where she be, perching an oaken honeycomb rack to forearm.

That I did.

“Yuup–” you pirouette, spanning the table's border and hiking that very ridge plane into your butt, sighing, “sun was there to greet me, obnoxiously.” leaning into the table, you grouse lightheardedly.

“Oh shit– sorry ‘bout that, swear I'll put up a–”

“Don't worry, it's the one thing that actually wakes me up these days,” you crack a quip, chuckling with an open mouth.

Dina caters a kind tug on her mauve lips prior to whisking her eyes returned, a glossy honey to be. Syrupy knuckles press and crinkle in the hilt of a honey fork, pruning waxy slices and welling gold bubbles, crafting a drippy stream that canals into a glass bowl. Through laden light it gains a gilded life, casting a tiny star on the moist blob– and there you witness, nectar of the gods.

Capricious minds might have swiped a dollop of that sweet, sweet delicacy by now.

Weighing the silence, you tempt thoughts racing around your skull. What chore am I assigned today? Where is the cacophony of babbles and gurgles that follow Dina like a haunting spirit? Where did Ellie go? Ellie, Ellie, Els.

God did she look breathtaking in that tight–

A rush of thuds divert your curious eyes to the creaking stairs, preluding the swell of said babbles and a husky voice, Ellie's voice.

“Dina?” hailed she, echoing halfway down the steps, “I changed his diaper!”

Dina cocks her head in heed, crowing back, “Okay! Just– give ‘im to her!” tone knocking against the hollowed walls, then, she sheers attention to you, “mind feeding him?”

You hum a keen, “Mhm.” void of second qualms and wait on that certain honey–head to appear, hearing the increments of footsteps draw lower and nearer.

The honeylike cowl, stria of fawn auburn drapes soft strands to laze with a purpose on her neck, fashioning that scruffy mullet eyes prize after. Honeykin defines the head that tags after gray, deadbeat converse hop the last few steps and plant still on the oaken floor. For a honey so sinful sought you, and buys a bite of time, to stare.

Her liven pasture eyes catch on you, just a moment, and skip away, reminded of what she intends, “Uh, here.” her forearms unfurl and slink to you, offering JJ up in thankful arms.

You rub in bare flesh to hers, scooping the gurgly baby in a shyer than thankful human cradle, foreheads feckly bumping into each other as you swap, a ghosting of heads. A whaff of her work–spent scent digs into your brain, and you had to admit, it was a tinge sort of lovely. She had the farmyard tang about her, blessed with sweat, a firming physique, a stare that caught you a corpus melting in her esse.

Fairer than the weeks before her touching of you, the bounty it procured was tame, fair is the present. Fairest days, faring a harvest more splendid than dreams carping yonder ebony skies and heavy heads. An unruffled weightlessness many souls find hopes fed in, you found aplenty of in the waking world. With Ellie, you drank laughs, fiddled about the haystacks, snuck apples in your fist– nicking dewey chunks down her gullet in shared kisses, or let her shamelessly tug some of your ass meat in horny hands. Oh, isn't infidelity just the niftiest drug.

Smitten as a kitten, you are.

Carpe diem.

“You’ sleep well?” asked Els in monotone, pitching a paw up to weave through her jumbled locks, splitting strands.

Heaving a breeze, you sigh, “Decent enough, you?” and counter the question, bobbing your stance on bending knees– pray that baby doesn't scream, as always.

“Like a baby,” she asserts, lush of a brag, dropping her hand and poking at the chubby–cheeked fella, who just got a free mention, “not so much this one, yeahh? Did you scream my ear off all night?” cooing.

“Mhm, heard that.” you add.

“Betcha did.”

“Hmm.”

Her eyes peek up, and goddess, it's that look again. Oh yes, the very gaze spilt upon the oaken table that hale spring day, a twinning star. These eyes, ladies and gentle–non–mens’, fondled a plight of husky play sat on the edge of her mucky mind, and it showed vividly in those flourishing pupils that thin her pine–lined eyes. Tilted smirk dotting dimples in her big appley cheeks, cuspid teeth goring a dint in chapped lips crying with dire need of moisture. Sexy– minus the lips maybe.

She knows what effect that look has.

What exactly sits vanward of that hormone tipsy mind, is an excerpt best served in the formula of two tongues tied– for even Ellie herself may strive to compose hunger incarnate at this fledgling hour of daybreak. And yet she cannot. The mere thought of your pussy clots her brain cells. So, how do we fix that?

Play pretend!

“Hey babe,” that auburnette already had her head whipped south towards Dina before you could flit a blink, feet sparking her a brisk carry yon the shabby oak floor. Creak, creak, clonk, foot by foot she departs a sliver of bitterness in your chest.

A demure bitter, a sense you can simply shake off. For now.

“There you are..” spoken so softly from Dina, who still had a rack of flaxen honeycomb in her hold, slanting to an angle, “what took ya so long?” voice curling.

“Wasn't that long,” she emphasized her vowels, “m'here now..”

“Good..”

She was far from there.

“Mhh,” hummed Ellie, pressing her lips into a thin stroke, puckering about to intone a curly, “ohhh, honey– can I have a lick?”

“Mh–mm, that's for the apples.”

“Aww.”

A meshing of lovers. Real love, virgin love, dying love, feigned love, it all wreathes together on the outside– for the sake of earthly vein, tender were those emotions long ago. Hasty do the doves encircle a budding entanglement, and bells chime where dust remains uncollected on wanton hearts. Uncanny, do the crows crawl in their grandeur of an affection died– sprawling sooty wings through tough gravel and mushy mud, rendering them unable to fly again. Unearth that shit, and you're seated for a whole fuckfest, indeed.

So consume what you see with a grain of shit–face nothingness.

Ellie slinks a glide upon Dina, pushing her harsher on the counter's nook and slumping arms to swaddle her torso. She cradled her in the natural bow of her body, projection of her bony hips plated dual plumb dimples in her ass, grinding with a purpose. Denim chafes on denim, bringing a light noise of fabricy licks. The cottony hem of her soiled tank begins to bunch with each rolled hump, proving the friction to be– lustful. Her hands wander her body, not yours, pausing and choking the fat plush of her thighs, losing sunny–ruddy pigment to wanting pressure, then releases, and traces back up.

Pupils of yours aimed so pinpoint on each sweep of her hand, yet, you bore an idle set of gestures. Cupping a waxy rubber bottle in your grasp, brimmed with milk opaque of lily–white and feinting a crisp chill to your fingertips, you park the nozzle to the baby's lips. Giving a squeeze with care, you feed him– idly, idly turned from the scene afore, except for your eyes.

Strain sets a pull on them as you stare.

A bitsy wince of, “Ellie..” dries moistness on her lips, shuddering to an ajar gasp.

“Mhm, like that?” husked with a bass that ripples, so, so deep in her diaphragm, you swore it nearly rattled your ears from where you poise.

A gasp died into, “We can't–”

“But we can..” a frugal answer, meant for one pair of ears only. Only, what a joke. An ill timed joke on Dina.

Had it truly been for one person only, Ellie would not be striking risk right in the butt. Nifty as she is, juggling those risks aimlessly, she stares at you. The crown of her head ruffles up messily on her scruff as it pivots, flushed nose pointed to you, pale lids of supple creases kin to a beach cove as they open, batting reeds of chestnut everlasting. They flap, waiting for you, in the delay of that week–past chance snuffed.

Intimidating, austere demeanor flowering in those buttony pupils– and she eyefucks you with them, even tugging a wink your way. A fucking wink. Her ploy of fondling Dina, so obscenely, clearly dirty, read in gold typeface as ‘Wish this was you.’ loud and proud. Much more so when her digits curl and dig dents in her waist, and her teeth carve marks as she bites her coral lip down, showing you.

She's showing you how she wants to play with you.

Being an unwelcome voyeur, you felt the tail–tug to glance away. And in that fleeting veer, a loud smack resounded and left you surprised on the tips of your boots.

“Uh!” a yelp ejects air from its jailed position in Dina's gullet, forwarding her body with a jounce.

A foul, “Hehe–” trebles a giggle from Ellie, shit–eating grin withal, “so sensitive.. again?” her hand rubbing circles to where she struck ass.

Fuck.

Fuck, because she has uttered those exact words to you before, wetly on the shell of your ear, yesterday. At dead noon eve, stark flat on your bedroom door, a makeout you'd rather not divulge. Though, did Dina hear that thumping racket?

You feel a throb, a throb that drops. It beats from your maddened heart to your aching hole, literally. A web of hot arousal dribbles over the ribbing of your walls, leaking into a sticky splotch on the plateau of your panties. Fern eyes of something unholier–than–the–moan–of–a–devil felt denser working than self–pleasure, it tickled just right.

But it doesn't belong to you, so don't pluck that apple. Ignore that tickle.

“Okay, baby–” Dina gruffs and shoots her shoulders up, nudging Els’ clingy head off, “seriously, I got shit to do.”

“Hmm, suit yourself.” Ellie gave up and wacked her hands up in defense, feigning offense.

You slither that milk–glossy tap gently from purling lips, cooing, “There you go.” as you set the bottle down with a placid thud, spurring a lone finger up to bat slowly upon the baby's nubby nose, how maternalistic of you.

A gait of striking steps softly approaches you. With your head huddled and stance shielded the opposing direction of the two, you couldn't see who that person was. Although, you deemed it safe to assume it may be Ellie, coming to poke at you again.

“Hey, could you help Ellie sweep the barn?” a honeyed voice entrances your focus instead, Dina, of course, “sheep dragged in a whole buncha’ shit, shouldn't take long though.” she notes, casually.

A long droning intervenes “Uhhh, I never volunteered to–”

“You did when you chose to live on this farm with me,” her voice strains, flowing into a breezy chuckle whilst gesturing for you to hand her JJ, “Right, babe?”

“Pshh–”

Bearing aloft, you slink that baby's bum right into her curviform arms, feeling the cottony onesie drag on your forearm as his weight lifts off, bending at the knees scantily.

“Fiiine, I'll muck the– smelly sheep shit for ya’,” her voice bores deeper in exaggeration, becoming a blurry blob moving behind Dina's poise as she slinks forth, “gunna’ need a mask, I think.” and quips, wrapping her lithe arms to a cinch on her waist.

Dina grunts, butting her arms loose before it gets tighter and coasting a few feet yonder, “Barn, please.” reiterated she, flatly.

Tapered as her jaw is, she clenches it further, taking that blow of a refusal to her touch peevingly, teeth to a grind. Jeez, she's quite handsy today.

“Hmmph,” a grunt deadlocks at the fore of her compressed lips, rolling at the neck and cocking aside a signal for you–”c'mon.” she mumbled, clicking her waggish tongue.”

A scoff jumps from you, “M'not a horse.” you squint and trot your feet along, heavy timber steps pittering towards the ajar backdoor, dash of light spilling through.

“What? Didn't say you were.” she headstarts and jerks the door chasmally open, banging against the oaken trim.

“Door!” shouted Dina, now muffled as you enter beneath true light of day.

“Sorry!”

You wince both muck–free feet into a macula of moist earth, feeling your weight sink and squeeze a taint of muddy blob as you hoick off and traipse forth. A kittenly, “I think the only horse here is you– smelling of sheep shit,” comeback lightens the air, giggling, “Peee–yuuu, somebody get me a mask.” and shooing an invisible stench from your nostrils.

“Puuh–lease, as if you don't smell like a hot pile of garbage after your chores,” thrummed out of her gob easily, just so she could smooth in, “Emphasis on the hot.”

“God, you amuse me.” you shake your head low and smile, bloating the inwards of your cheeks ‘till they hugged your nose, two blooming mushrooms.

Her body spirals in a swing of her leg, now walking completely backwards, “Wasn't trying to amuse, m'being serious. U're hot.” she brownnosed, even giving you the fucking eye–up–and–down.

This baser, coy weirdo. Can't go nary a breath without summoning a smile unto you.

Your wandering eyes travel up a stream of fading cumulus clouds, sheer stranding like a veil pierced with astral rays– and you mull mind over answers across those clouds, for how could you reply, origin of wit?

Then, so cross the dumbest, possibly weakest retort, transferring from sky–gaze to mouth.

“Andddddd u're not.” you skip ahead of her with a feign of sass, causing her to whip back around.

“Not what you said last night.”

Okay that's true, but..

You egg her on, splayed palm melding to cold, rusted iron grip of a shovel, “I said a great many things, remind me?” as you tease.

“Gladly.” a hotness more snug than the sun cupped your wrist, pricking your grasp open free of the shovel–hilt and spinning you like a ballerina– knocking shin to shin so you plaster flat on the splintered wood door of that barn. Els hovered close, horridly close, breath fervent to your mid–face, “where should I start, babe?”

You freeze, blizzard of a kindled burn, a smolder trenching roots through your reddening cheeks. That throb, returns. You just couldn't gauge which throbbed more severely– the banging of a mad heart, resounding echoed thwacks against caved ribs, or the chokehold of your beaded clit, squeezing up into your cunt and getting you to chafe moist arousal from your labia, wringing webs across your entrance.

No, not again, not here.

“You should start..” a gulp burdens the words back in your gut, re–rounding with a deflect, “by mucking the stable.” silkenly fallen to a wholly nether topic.

Dumbfounded was the look to darken her visage, bristly brows dropping like sawed trees and cleft of her lips bowing to a frown, unamused, “Seriously?”

“Mhm!” you swerve the shovel handle at her unprovoked, letting her catch it prior to crouching under her barred arms and strolling off towards the sheep stall.

And like a dog, she tailgates hot on your hind. Bark bark bark, yapping ditto to one too, “Why do I gotta shovel shit n’ not you? –Huh?” yet in the most unserious, sportive tone, ever. Dorky smirk lingering in her words, pounding a laser through the thickset back of your skull.

Man, if Ellie was a dog– she'd be a damn Siberian husky. Pining for unending attention and peskily playful, too playful, even.

Each crunch of hay behind you, every little sigh she put forth in bone–dry air, the sum of her laughy scoffs that no way in a verdant pasture heaven wouldn't be expelled without a toothsome smirk. She was the blight of you, your anathema, pockmarking inside your brain imagery of how she looked when you averted your gaze, meanwhile she beheld the rear of your head, cocksure of her annoyance. Oh, and goddess how it never falters to soar her heart high of a heavenly altitude, skirmishing every cloud with her melodious drum of life when even simply laying scrutiny to the hair awry with mess, shrouding your nape in the natural fall of it, bouncing on each step. A love of life that you could give.

That is all her mind bends to, pestering you, so help her goddess, she will enact anything, to make this abominable sin a grounded relationship.

Look upon me, won't you?

You tuck a finger around the tiny hook lock, opening the large sheep stall, “Because–” you pause, cutting past the rails and drawing an arm over to grasp a rickety rake, elevating it over the half–wall, “someone's gotta uncover the shit first.”

Her knee pooches out mildly as she recasts her weight on a wall, twiddling her thumb over every scuffed mark of the shovel, examining its ridges beneath her print. Yet, her eyes stayed absorbed in you, taking the waft of every leg stride, arching of your spine as you stoop down, extension of your hands grasping the rake's shaft– stabbing the crooked tines into a labyrinth of heaping hay, the screaming of metal scraping on concrete, causing her ears to tremble and tighten, alongside a squint. The noise muffles, then awakens as she relaxes her facial muscles, slacking her jaw to speak, “Y'really good at that, y'know..” mumbled, even.

“Mmht–” you smack your tongue moist, dithering your head in puzzled wags, “–I am literally just raking the ground,” humbled you, thinking of her dumbly so, “weirdo.”

“Pshh, yeah, but I bet you'll have this whole stall swept in like a minute tops.” she claims through a fried rasp, vailing her pale lids low as she stares– stares of yearn.

Further squashed upon hilarity, you whack a tuft of hay clean through air, then stake the rake upright to a wooden beam and lean, staring back rich with spite, “And I bet an hour for you, what– just standing there?”

“I don't see any shit yet, m'waitin’ on youu..” her vowel drawls long, smug–fuck expression curling those rosy lips.

“Oh really?” your thumb unlocks from the lot of your clutching digits, breaching the rake with a springy sound as it bludgeons against the oaken column. Ranging your foot forward, you brace the skimp distance from you to her, planting softened steps.

Maraschino cherry of her chubbed cheeks, a puckish smirk reads more and more intently as you approach. Each thwack of sole leather to hardy ground is a pump of excitement for her– reckoning your current passage as a rite of igniting something. Sway of your hips, stopping of your tracks in front of her, she wonders– or hopes, of what you'll do next.

You gave that freckled face a prompt pore–over, recognizing that flare of her brows jerking up slightly when you park optics onto her slit–open ones, inhaling, “Then let me do it.” and splaying your palm up to the ceiling, expecting the shovel plumb in–hand, easily.

“Hmm, nah.”

You furrow a lone brow, “Why not?”

“Cuz’ I got it.” spoken cockily, lips flubbed out and head swung like a whip, winding the crescent strands of burnished hair out of her eyesight.

So cavalier.

If Dina were here, the place’d be fuckin’ primely polished. Be for real.

“Sure,” you blunt your accent, nigh on sarcasm, “what's gotten into you?” pleating your fist to a ball, you slot it between the warm pocket of breast to bicep, crossing your arms.

You.

You– are what's gotten into her. Two horny adults unchaperoned, in the convenience of privacy, sub rosa, a smidgeon apart, lusting with their parts of lechery, staring down at sorely empty hands that could be full of each other's flesh, it doesn't fare well. Emptiness, a sphere of it, sleeping in palms where it is an unwelcome voyeur– snoring, vibrating. Dormant touch never falls short of pulsation, like a magnet, it reaches for her.

Stroking the shovel rod as she does, with those knobby fingers of hers, twining the length, was patently suggestive. Soft rings resonate with each tug of her clewed hand, rubbing up and down, slow and thorough, what the fuck.

And worst–best of all? Eyes. Her sooty, pebble blown pupils thinning the evergreen in her eyes, pierced yours. Forbidding ones.

God, wary of reality or not– admit this, it was definitely hot. Hot, how her ashen lids embrace the snow and veins, a human cadre of gossamery skin. Hot, because they read debaucherous– and could carbonize a bible to cinders with a single glance, sacrilege to poetry, ergo; ‘Fuck me’ eyes. And lastly, hot, as they sat a throne upon a wicked smile, exposing her front teeth lightly, spit line attached top to bottom. In short, breathing you in, made her high off lust.

Asudden, the bow indenting her mouth is backwashed in a swallow, and her eyes disappear beyond the hood of her brow bone, captivating her soul upon a sigh. A sigh she breaks contact for, a sigh she must take, in lieu of composure– when all she perceived of you was a temptation.

A bastion of forced air swells up her cheeks, lukewarm on the gums, pouty of the lips, “Fffffffuck–” mouthed she full of that exhale, shaking her head to a low duck.

“Fuuck, what?” a mimic of her quiet curse befell your lips, curving tone and brow in confusion.

That's when her head perked, an inch, a slanted inch, bedeviled eyes divided by the drop of a short russet strand, mouth pursing to vowel out, “You.” hoarsely.

“Like ‘Fuck you bitch’ or in a ‘I'm gonna fuck you’ typa’ way?” you undulate your head cartoonishly, heightening the emphasis of both those options, cause both appeared likely.

Fluff of her brows crooking weirdly, she gawks with an inlay of temptations, bought, “That is the dumbest fuckin’–” she chuckles dryly, nose facing heavenward as she spins the shovel, going clockwise ‘round you, “–question, I've ever heard.”

Step by step, on beat, you slowly spun with her encirclement, noticing now that you're inclined to back up into the wall as she kitty–corners you, idle mitt pressing finger wads to textured wood, laying spread.The scratch of it smooches your shoulder blades as you smush plane on the wall, calves ghosting wales of wood coarse enough to leave blushy marks, and yet you rely on it to camouflage from her intimidating gaze.

A heartbeat hastens, brimming your throat with a blockage capable of consuming the words before ears could, tethering a timid gasp out instead.

Ellie rasped deep, “Cat got your tongue, hmm? Don't back down ‘n me now..” the heat of her face hovers close, cocking her head laterally to fit perfectly in your headspace, air blown from every syllable fanning your sutured mouth.

The weight her stare threw upon you was, probing, and direful. Every attempted scape–glance was a gut instinct, a reflex when shagged to a set of human bars. Flesh of bone, bone in flesh, arm to arm, what a bloody mess.

You curl your shoulders inwards, pressing folded elbows skin–tight to your ribs, “Dumbest question?” a gulp cuts the sentence, “you didn't even answer.”

“Want me to?”

“Yeah,” in defense, you tested her, “I do.”

“Ohhaha– okay..” Els’ cadence rose to amused laughter, shifting on her feet slightly, “We can fuck.” but she spoke it like you requested of it, although, did you?

Fuck.

A bulbous mass pushed your legs clean apart, trampiling the dress to a tight pull around your thighs. Confounded, you drop sights, sinking your chin in towards your neck and realizing– it was her knee.

Rough denim rustles clemently, a whisper of two fabrics meeting, between your quads. A friction so faint, so hush, begins to purr more acutely when a– ahh, pressure. A carnal pressure is given, given with urge, urging on your barely confined clit.

It stings as she drives her knee in, getting you to clench your insides, to seize up.

A juxtaposition doomed to interblend skin.

You impel up on the wall, heel sloping to rest on the flat trim. It smashed your pussy lips, causing a chafe, ramming fabric inside the rim of your hole, a velvety draw of sleek depressing on the cotton tongue of your panties makes it stay there. Thereupon, her groin grinds a roll, nudging your pussy on top of her knee.

“Remember this, babe?” Ellie gives thrall to the dense steel in her vocals, ticking her head aside more to pass that breath firmly on your ear, “–‘member how good my knee felt? Mhm? ‘So fuckin’ good’, you said?”

A diabolical coo, she's trying to get under your skin figuratively– and literally further.

But it surfaced that memory like a buoy, erecting ayond the navy sea line with its eye–catching signal. In you, it materializes. Last night, came a blanket of umbra, yawning its penumbra in the horizon. Witching hour, obscene–eyed, gloaming your senses and eating away at deceit. Deceived? Yeah, that's how you felt, daylight by day bright, a misinterpreter.

All throughout the day, she would ghost right past you en route to Dina, much like earlier– and love up on her. Spread her taint of arousal between you, her, and you, then her again. Leading on last night, where she stowed her knee, just like now, affirming how mortally she may succumb to madness without your vulnerable phasing unto her, except, in a casual way, short of poetry. On top of that continuous grind she gave on your groin, she marked you with a claim so bold,

So freakish, so outré.

Dirty with her perverted thoughts.

You remember it, hard.

‘You love me just as much as your pussy does, face it.’

Hence, her knee felt as fucking liberating as it did that stone stark night. Your clit throbs with an ache, coiling your womb in moreish begs, more, moree.. please more.

“I remember.” uttered softly, throat shutting on the words as you choke up in sensation.

A cordial chuckle blows summery hot on your ear, “Hehe, good,” and is soaked deeper in with a puckered kiss, popping quietly, “Good girl.”

That made you shiver, in a growing delight. A heat seeping between your folds, has you bearing down on her knee, slopping that raw precum all over the ruined seams of your underwear. In bodily reaction, your cunt shriveled in on itself, squelching a drop on barely–there textile– glossing a wet patch on the knoll of her knee.

Ellie espied that moistness saturating through her jeans and spreading warm on flesh when it seeps, slinking her leg a wimp inch out to gauge the spot, a fucking masterpiece, smack dab on her knee, “Fuck,” she spews, pinning teeth to lip, “for me?” she questions, even with an obvious ass answer staring her in the eyes.

Forget Dina, this felt right– too right.

“For you.”

Her teeth bare vast in a smirk, doubling up her cheeks, “God, I love you.” because finally, fucking finally, she will have her cake and eat it too.

But first, eat the space before you.

And so she does, tucking the wad of her nose squashed in the crevice of your nostril and cheek, brushing of her mildly cracked lips greet yours to part, a balmy ask of entrance. Wagging against, the skin barely hugs with cushy compress, then she nips your bottom lip and wedges her own between, indulging the bump of your cupid's bow to cradle a whisker inside her suckled hold– her humid realm of fog. Buds connected, she felt like butter searing, softness melting, disintegration inside your clasp of a satiny hole, and she was pungent of farmland, muck sweat, everything you could have prest for. Ellie pushes passion in the form of little spit bubbles down your throat– ingesting your voice, your taste, your brain, essence in whole. Taking each other in your own two gullets, bolts of song, and long gaping moans– and even longer pants of make–out exhaustion.

“Mhhh,” she shoves another groan to rattle your teeth, hopping over cloud nine with each moan you reciprocated– like music in a fairytale, a ballad, or of a siren song, splendidly spellbinding, yes? “–fhhck yeshh–” She hums, forwarding a buck of her knee fiendishly.

You yelped, and she liked that, an impish grizzle pushing past the swollen smile and drags saliva across yours.

But.

Those hands once empty, cannot lie powerless to being so. Hers, fly from the wall behind your head and trace down your biceps, buckling unfurled over the bulge of your loose breasts and cup them tender, giving a squeeze that dimples flesh above the neckline of your dress. Not a complaint rose from you, you liked it, yearned hard of it– loved it.

She could tell by the mere movement of your back, arching into her grasp, getting her fingers to squish them even flatter, laughing the kiss to a pause, “Look at you–” she hinds back to look at you, taking your eager rush to follow her lips into regard, “fucking cutie.”

“Don't call me cutie.” you astern.

“Why noott–”

“No.”

A grin enlightens her anyways, “Got it,” and slides her lip back between yours, suckling the plump of your upper, “Mhmm..” hummed so gravelly, so good on your ears, yummy.

This girl will be the first suspect of your murder. Murder of love.. in spring.

Adjourning the freshly–sown kiss with a sloppy smack, you interrupt, “Y'know–” mhhp, a quick peck, “–think I love you too.”

“Think?” she knits her brows together dumb on your featherly melded foreheads, squishing the grooves that form in–between, “could already tell from last night,” her rasp makes it sound of a patent fact, chuckling like an asshole when you whine amid her tease, “hmm–hm, sorry babe.”

“God, you're such a dick,” you bind your head lower and ghost your barren lips over her chin, smiling amongst your dim shadow.

Index and thumb of her hand thaw ripely of your chin, exerting under the bone and beckoning you up with a kind pull, “Would a dick do this–” she twines you to the left, “Mmph,” pasting a kiss beneath one eye, “or this,” twines you to the right, pasting another peck, “or even this?” and lastly, twines you faceward.

Patent of her pattern, you expect a delicate pair of those blood swell, pouty lips to spare something planets away from porny lust– a promise, that none of this was bad. However, hopes are dashed like a racehorse when your chin rears free and a blur of her auburn head plunges out of sight, and under the hood.

“Els’, where are you–”

Oh.

A gale of air spills up the gap of your thighs, sought upon by the whipping of your sundress’ hem up crinkled in her dual grasps, pushed against your hip bones. Knees grind in shallow dust, planting just next to your parked feet with a soft rub between the four, the perfect position, an orgasmic view. Ellie lets a gasp free upon eyeing the fat blotch soaked thoroughly to a glisten, fabric eased in your labia, showing her the shape of it. God, ‘think she saw you clench just now.

She balls the fabric to one hand, dropping her other and husking dry, “There she is– fuck, missed me?” a waggy finger rises to your clit, toying it in meager flicks– almost as to pet it.

A wince cries from you, “Ahh–” and you perk on your toes, inching away from her fingertip now padded in your sodden arousal.

Yet that fucking finger follows, pressing a hiemal print to flatten your bloated clit, clothed labia hugging the willowy knuckle. Cocky chuckle– likeness of her unabashed assholery and spilt through grit teeth, she muses in your clamping pussy lips, “Hehe, yeah? Need my fuckin’ fingers, huh?” and those damned coos, that tender tune, gosh– you can't get enough of it.

But you've had your fill of plaguing rumination.

Dina's away, nay a breath of her lingers here, not a peep of her can disrupt you, disrupt what you feel– how Els’ makes you feel. It's not wrong, if you're not the one suggesting it. It's not immoral, if it was never held in the hands of your intention. It's not your fault, if you let it transpire. Nothing to rue, not your sin, not your wrongdoing.

So you pluck the apple.

An ease of your quads down pricks your clit with the poke of her finger, cushing the delicate flesh, “Mhm– yes, yess.” whined you, nigh on breathless.

“That's right,” thick is her voice– like a coddling of wood thicket, pushing past the devout lips that embed themselves in the chub pliancy of your belly, lain of a smooch to your womb, a quiet one, “thaat's fuckin’ right.” and jerking your clit measured with tease, idly rubbing.

The gentle marrow of that contact with your belly and your clit, sent you aquiver. Your abdomen, shaking lightly against her mouth with a breath in, lading your stomach with a rise, high–strung by that simple kiss. Too sweet, you thought, sweetly toxified of honey, unorthodox to how hoggish she usually strikes as– you expected her usual playfulness.

Softness can be addictive, and her version of soft, definitely was.

“Soo fuckin’ good t'me..” her lips detach only to press back in, multiple times, same exact spot. She wouldn't dare budge, not when it was deemed her duty to kiss you there by some unknown force, or her own accord. Ellie whispers, lugging those honey–drug lips over the pouch of your belly, “need that good fucking pussy n’ my mouth.”

A tilt, a modest slant of your hips projecting your crotch against her collarbone was your ask of entrance, and she gave her answer so fast.

“Hold this,” she cranes the clump of skirt to one of your paws, letting go when you meet fingers over fingers with her and hold your skirt to your ribs. She stops playing with your clit completely, tracing said finger up your groin and under your pantyline, pleating the band in on itself as she journeys it to your knees– letting it freefall from there.

Despite the milk–warm weather lambent to your forehead when settled under the sun, meant zilch to the cooler world inside the barn. Not wintry, but a tangible change sensed in your bare pussy. That's why you fastened your quads to a clench, nearly sucking in your cunt– oh, and the fact that two olive fern eyes are bluntly viewing it. Stage fright, much?

A fried gasp of, “Ohh, shit–” chills it further with exhalation upon discovering the raw truth to your aroused pussy, engorged in size and pinkish in sex irritation. Ellie was drunken in that eyeshot of serumy precum wetting a film between your slit, drawing gluey webs over your hole, barely open for full study. She needs you open, she longs to see, gulping a horny thought audibly before speaking, “spread them pretty legs for me, hmm? C'mon, it's just me–” she assures, donning that calming placidity whilst palming the round of your knees apart to guide you, “–there we go, uh'huh, fuck..” departed of her voice, husky as she studied the open spread of your filthy hole, dripping for her like it fucking knew she was looking at it.

All you could engage was a tunneled stare down of your protruding crotch and her reddish–brown dusted crown, the slump your knees took clung on the flank of her biceps– plowing with an indent in her bare sun–baked skin. Els’ face so sanguine compared to the paler pigment of her fingers, which now push your thighs uncomfortably agape to the extent of bulging fat between her knuckles. Eyes bark, luring under lids so heavy and lashes like a vignette– they bark and say, ‘Keep your fucking legs open.’

Say no less.

Taken in awe, “She's so fucking pretty–” she curses with meaning, a means to make it known, licking up a river between your folds upon seeing that exhilarating view, cupping a glob of slick in her pink muscle.

“Shit..”

Withdrawing her tongue, she swallows the creamy delight, “Prettiest pussy ever, ‘uh'huh, that's right.” Ellie being Ellie, she slaps it, eyeballing the spongy skin recoiling.

“Ah!”

“Yeah..”

Your nude cunt was honeydew heaven in her eyes, gleaming wet like grapefruit, that's why her tongue was already slipping out on open air. Head inching to intimacy, the button of her nose dovetails seamlessly between the tippity top of your folds, and your clit, kissed with a hot spell. That bud, it fit perfectly in the wrapping of her lips, straightaway suctioned further into the gummy pucker of her mouth.

An ache zaps that little bouquet of nerves and coerces you to nearly swoon over it, yelp hitching, “Ha– aah,” and shudder teething, “Ellie..” with a hump of your glutes butting her head back, only stirring that hungry mouth of hers to pop off and swaddle it back in, tongue flicking.

Her nostrils sunk deeper in, airflow turning muffled in your crotch– yet her moans remained, abounding, vibrating on your sensitive pearl, “Mhhhh, mhmm.” rumbling deep under the soft squelching her moving jaw brought to fruition.

Ellie, you fucking god, giving those plumate licks that are barely there, but scarily paired with deftness, getting you to squirm and squeal, “Yess– baby, yess..” That pink muscle snagging under the hood sometimes, smacking that pretty tiny clit of yours around with foams of flavor whisking onto her taste buds, humming in the notes of sex.

“Mhhh, fhhck.” her lips sever an inch, mumbling into your clit, “fuck you and your pretty little hole, god, fuck you.” she curses, cause how dare you let her impulses conquer, returning a trio of digits along your legs and swiftly finding your pussyhole, dilating the lips apart and shoving all three inside. How dare you, engross her ears in your moans echoing akin of a cathedral in her skull, ushering her to fuck you unholy.

“Ellie!” you wail, hoisting on your toes a second and clutching her in those slobbering walls– which only gushed a leak of arousal on her digits, and blocked her from further thrusting slightly, taken aback by the sudden stretch.

Her lips pop off again, slurping up the wet laces strung to her pout from your fattened labia, “Schlp– jesus, you are fucking tight,” the deepness rippled in her voice, groggy from the moist caking her gob, “let me in, don't push me out.. c'mon..” she coos gently, eyeballing the swallow her fingers took past your soaked lips, knuckles disappearing.

“O–ohh,” you tried to mouth ‘okay’, but the word just didn't fit the part.

“Just like that..” Ellie cools a fresh sigh, praising with a proud curl on her face, “Good fuckin’ pussy..”

Letting go, your gut loosens and heightens the sensation of her skinny fingers bottoming soundly inside your vagina, feeling the callouses rub as they curl and tickle your angelsent spot, airing lips find purchase behind her fingers– and a pointy nose bumps your clit pervaded with purpose.

Spry is the moan, moaning over ‘spilled milk’, “Oh my g– uhnn..” woe is you, clawing phantomly at the spring that coils inside your womb, unknowingly providing Ellie's eager mouth with your precum.

The physical reality around you, suddenly only consisted of you, her, the barrier that stills your back, and a void inside you– being filled.

Literally.

And figuratively? Cause jeez, you must give sanctuary to a sin–eating, fleshoid beast inside your bone prison of a body, coming back here for seconds like that.

Might you be the dirty.. dirty dog instead?

Rivers of filth, she pumps those glossy droplets out of you, leathery scars caressing your ribbed canal with each pleasuring undo of your senses, she steals them like they are impartial to your bliss– bliss is all she needed you to feel for her. Fuck the worry, trash the heartache, yank the anxiety out, and soften into a pretty blob atop her fingers.

Her sultry blessing sitting upon those fingers, that's how she deems you– you do well to remember that. Her, willing frame of hips thrusting back down on the friction she gives, burrowing her nose a scent so naturally seducing, a pheromone, fucking elates her own throbbing pussy. Nothing sugary, nothing stomach–churning, just the taint of you. The threading of her jean's crotch was enough of a brute, bullying her egged clit by driving a split in it, flattening the fleshy hood everytime she shifted weight from knee to abdomen, poor her.

“Huhnn– shit,” heaved grizzlier in her carp of stimulation decay, lack thereof rubbing one out herself and watching your delicate skin expand and crease. How could you blame her– her hand looked so right plugging your hole.

You suck your belly in, drawing tense on that thickset motion playing with your g–spot, whimpering, “Els’, please.. I can't..” a well floods in your waterline, searing with tears of crystalline iodine.

You really can't.

That scruffy mullet hides most of her big cranium, but, it was so fucking hot seeing the nominal stroke of her face, blushing strawberries betwixt your butter–spread legs. Her nose bobs north and south, dragging the bulb of cartilage over that nippy rosebud she happily exhales onto, pushing you over the earthly edge born of paltry touching. Ellie cognizes the slick–clear gospel that you were pending climax, manifesting as your needy bear downs into her slopping mouth practically lactating your pussy juices deep in the pit of her stomach, and the swelling of your wooed clit led on by her tongue, growing big and reddish on her nose to where it clasps the tip in a pillowy fashion, dabbing a glob of creamy sap.

A mouthquake splutters wetness mixed with her spit across your inner–thighs abd vibrates your folds, betrothal of her voice waking back up, sourly muted, “She's– suh good.. mhphh– to me..”

“Ellie..” you falter on breath, leavening in pitch.

“Phh–” a frothy sound garbled in your pussy lips, pushing her spit bubbles inside your gaping hole and traveling deeper with her fingering you, “makin’ this pushhy’ mine..” flubbed she, lapping up her cupid's bow of smeared sleek.

Your hole clamps her in as the pang begins to tick its patchy count of time, wearing the glass knot of your womb to a cracking, and troubling the base of her digits.

“Fuck, you wanna’ make this harder?” she sterned to the velvety rim of you locking on her triple shafts, porking webs of your pre–finish to teardrop down your walls as her palm splashes against your loch–sodden slit and mashes your g–spot repeatedly, plush of your labia bouncing in ripples. The noises were abundant, and pornographic, mushy as she fixes so much of your arousal on the pads of her fingers, hormones spiking at the lewd noises, “you hear that baby, ooh, fuck.” foxily ‘ooed’ that foxy–maned girl, beguiled in how your pussy spurts for her.

It wept in slaps, eliciting a palping squelch to bang, bang– bang– pound, brandishing a chilly tempest through and through your bloating labia, quivering as it readies to release. The stuffing was intimate– like a punch inside your spirit, coaxing the fragile glass to a rend, ergo, pushing out every lash of pure lucid squirt.

On the beat of your hole gushing, yelps batting you shut in the plain intensity such an orgasm brought forth, tore Ellie from simply just watching– to drinking every drop. Her voice, dusky in the backdrop of your wails sounded, “Yes– yess, babe fuckk that's it.. mhm, all over my fuckin–” her words wane as her lips clock in, a sudden rush of void fleets with her fingers sheathing out, drawing a long lubricous bunch of webbing only to be nourished in the warmth of her mouth– pursing into your labia and shaking about as you squirt.

Ellie has no shame in getting soiled of you, even the devil himself blushed at the linkness of her mid–face pancaking your lissom skin apart, spewing you wide.

“Ah! Nuh– nonono, t'much, too– uhhnn..” your throat fails you, clumping wads of words that wanted to breach, but her mouth was too good, and it's fucking obvious that she wouldn't stop, not when she can have you like this, bucking onto her flat tongue. Sinfully good, disgusting in the rawest fashion, making your crotch burn with ecstasy more than it already did.

Water upon the push of her mouth, blowing in and slopping noisily at the meat of your pussy lost it's carry to your ears. A biome of shadow, veils your vision and a pressure rains less than tender between your eyes, blurring everything before you, ebbing the grasp of your skirt to an impossible job, hands ashake. All you could gauge above the hood was fiery sweat, hot, steaming– taunting sweat, licking at your forehead.

Her nose headbutts into your vagina, slinking languidly as her head finally smacks off your numb folds, laughing, “Holy fuck– y'taste so good,” the air windy to your soaked entrance, convulsing in front of her barren eye, “shoulda’ let me lick you sooner.”

Huff, and puff, until the binds of your chest blow down, sprouting with an entire current of air, panting more than dramatic as you dwindle down like a bird's plume, “Too.. huh– haah, bad.”

A new kiss is savored to your clit, absorbing the snift her snort gave, “Haha– yeah yeah, n'you liked it, don't lie.”

No lie was home to call. You’ve a truthful virtuality.

You truly did like it, love it, cave obsession over that moment– for now it passes, and not a peck of guilt ran prickly on your arm hairs, saving your gullet free of a stony gulp. No crows died in the revelation of your scandal, only doves, encirclement in a trance chirping nuptials to be had.

I really do love you, Ellie.

Is that so bad?

“I can’t catch my– oof,” you grab sudden air with your fructifying lungs, “–can’t catch my fuckin’ breath.” and the struggle was visible, muscles like puppet strings to your fingers losing proper grasp and billowing the skirt plop on her head.

The rotund shape of it wiggles from the draping hem, continuing to laugh when her wet–handed fingertips poked thin on your ankle, bulging on both sides as she drew your panties back up all the way, slithering under your skirt’s canopy and stretching the band to a snap on your hips, skin tiding, jerking you off warning, which for sure winded the breath back in ya.

“Sheesh, no care for my panties at all?” remarked you of fun wit, gliding your thumb apart to rub the bend of your hip crest.

“You literally ruined them before–”

“And whose fault is that?” you winched from the barn wall and met pupil–to–pupil with her rising figure, revealing how slick–fucked her face really is, glossing with evidence of your cunt.

“Mine..” proudly, guilt was basal to her tone, nonexistent, inching closer to you with a slight wobble swaying on her heels.

You hark the crunch of gravel below, but keep your gaze airborne, Ellie–borne, “Exactly.”

“Cause m'hot?”

“No,” you rock your head, evil smirk deepening the corners of your lips to your gums, “that's a dumb question.”

Her arms begin to slink at fore, elbows chafing her flank, “Wow, stole my line.”

“Still dumb.” you pinch the neckline of her tank, straining it up to wipe her mouth clean.

“Coulda’ just used my hand.” she still does, the dork, purging any excess to the hill of her bent wrist.

You scrunch your nose fakely, “Uck,” and express, mumbling, “Bring a rag next time.”

Her hands then drop, creeping towards your sides, “Didn't think we were gonna–”

“Liar.”

Those strapping hands bend with wrinkles in her knuckles as they plant pleasantly on your hips, fingernails curling with lustier keys, tugging you plane on her body, “You're so fucking cute,” is all she could say, because there was no stem of denial baying for a different answer,

Doing this was always lingering a tail on her thoughts.

“And such a bitch, fuuck– want you so bad,” complained she, pushing the last of her grizzled groans past her blood–swell lips, which now dive in the sweaty nook of your swan neck– bespattering the sensitivity, “–need y’so bad..”

You comb a paw of fingers through her honey–cresten mane, dividing strands apart and giving a fond press to her scalp, whispering upon her pale–rosen ear, “Then have me–”

“I can’t,” her crumbled lips fail to cling, dragging dry beneath your ear, “I fucking can’t.” wearily said, wearing her voice to nothing.

Infidelity.

Wasn't nice at all, on both sidewalks.

A purer bid of tears wet her cheek, drenching into the flesh of your neck as she pushes into you, holding you dear, vast afar from intentions to let go.

“I know..” was a rare comfort, and wasn't one to you right now– for plucking that apple, ripped you of innocence. A blind eye you turn when sensuality is awake. Enrapture chokes your senses, sweeps you in the moment, clouds your memory of those ugly, nasty etceteras– those facets that deplore it. Even now, when Ellie collapses weight onto her ankles, pressing you into that same wall you saw heaven on, touching heartbeats incandescent for each other's total consumption, weeping wet on your bare shoulder– it hurts, aches you to say, “But I don't want to know.”

Clutch of your neckline, she bruises her knuckles tight in it, spiteful almost– gagging on tears that roll the wrong road, “Guh– fucking hell, don't say that..”

“Ellie, it's–”

“Don't.”

“Not your fault.” you flap your fingers up, palm still glued, patting her head.

She doesn't belong to you.

Yet you act like she does.

Pity.

A sniffle is the intake of air you feel before her nose skims off, craning her neck to an angle where she can gaze adjacent to your cheek, for beholding may prove a demise. But she can't forgo this one ask, this dream perched upon her brain, “Babe..” she purrs, dead of cadence.

“Hmm?” a whirl invites your nose to her cheekbone, offering you the picture of her side–profile. Oh, those lashes so dashing, they curl, darken her snow of eye, and trap tears.

Why, it's as if a rainbow overcasts those auburn reeds.

Ellie's capsized tune finds its stream back to that scratchy rasp, silkenly intoning on your earlobe, “Can you sleep with me tonight?” her buds ghost the rim, popping on the syllables.

Is that even possible?

You debate with the figments in your mind, casting doubt over your facial muscles, knitting, “Ellie, you know–”

“I don't.”

“Els.”

Long forked strokes of her fingers run up your jaw, scrolling you to then focus on her face cocooning your entire sight, and a husk enlaces you, “Forget about Dina,” a glimmer summons her lips to curl once again, “just tonight, fucking please?”

Fucking please.

A silence rots in the cordial space sparsely separating you, wrenching her brows with a ravine indenting between them– the serious look you love. And her hold of hands appear to deepen in your cheeks, claiming your skin as one, melting into her prints, squeezing a reply from you.

“Please?”

Odds may dote on you, think about this.

“Okay.”

(couldn't tag everyone who wanted to be)

taglist; @whore4abby @aouiaa @ellieslittlewhore @baumbii @tlougrl @mina-281 @beabeebrie @fleshunger @elliewilliamsisactuallymygf @nicolicht @cosmikoo @xinyaya @sawaagyapong @reinersbigolboobies @brunettedolls-blog @syrenada @fairyysoiree @p4ison1vy @nil-eena @hi2647 @disaster-bi-suki @rarestdoll @narieater @hrtmal @eudaemoniaaaa @ellie-07063 @luvfaeri @carleenaelaine @kissyslut @ellieswh0r3 @beemillss @elsmissingfingers @bugaboodarling @slynxs @maleelee @savannahsdeath @beforeimdeceased @fleshunger @williamellieslilho @mcqueeferson @pretty-prrincess-13 @naomis-daydream @weridcatttyy @gold-dustwomxn @evera-era @criminallydownbad @yohibmbi @ang3licpretty

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ellieswyfe · 1 year

Text

Hood eren tales PT 2

(hood #eren) being ur man ur mann 😜🫶🏾

warnings: oral (m received), fingering, daddy kink, i dunnoo what else this is just pure porn 😭 (MDNII!!)

mood song (GO STREAM DELI 🤍icespicee)

hood eren who even though he spoils you, does not put up with a bad attitude. every time you're mad or upset it puts him ina funk and he just doesn't like it.

hood eren who regardless of your attitude, takes you to your favorite mall with your friends on the weekend, hoping you were just having a shitty week.

hood eren who once more spoils you and your friends, taking you out for hibachi and letting you spend your time hanging around the mall, but he soon regrets this decision when you stop infront of your FAV designer store.

hood eren who makes A LOT of money from selling and has bought you plenty of designer in the past, calmly watches as you and your friends go into the store and end up absolutely RAVING over a pink handbag (https://t.ly/handbag) with the company logo embroidered all over it.

hood eren who as your friends explore the store, watches as you stay by his side begging for him to buy you the bag. (so you can brag later)

hood eren who refuses to buy you the new louie bag, after a week of giving him major side eye and sucking your teeth. he says he doesn't think you deserve it cause of that "nasty ass attitude." "no princess, i'll buy you the bag when you learn some manners." or "daddy said not right now chill."

hood eren who notices how you talk about him to your friends while waking off. he knew that your spoildness got bad but not THIS bad. he’s quick to drive your friends home so he can deal with that attitude.

hood eren who when you get home, comforts you when your eyes get watery and you start with the sniffles but stands strong on his words. "c'mere." he motions you over so he can pick you up and start rubbing you down. he knows just exactly what you need.

hood eren who lets his baby suck him off as an apology. when he pulls it out the tip hits his belly already angry, flushed red, and leaking pre. he lets you start off slow. sucking the tip and kissing his down his shaft. but when he realizes you're stalling, he works his length down your throat admiring your cute whines and occasional gags.

hood eren who throws his head back and moans as you suck the absolute soul outta him “oooh b-baby fuuuuck”, pulling your head down as he thrusts his length into your mouth causing tears to form in your eyes.

hood eren who spurts ropes of cum down ur throat as he finishes in your mouth. then after, pulls you up to kiss you, still tasting the nutty, salty taste of his cum in your mouth, which instantly gets him hard again.(how romantic)

hood eren who pulls off your shorts and slowly peels back your panties to reveal your puffy pussy lips and hard clit. he's so smooth with his work, placing you on the bed and letting you ramble on, that you don't even notice till he eases one of his long thick fingers in your pussy.

hood eren who fingers that creamy pussy enough to have you gushing but not cum. “renn baby please lemme cummm,” you moan out fully resting your body against his chest as his nimble fingers work on pleasuring you. “aht aht ma whats my name? thought it was fuck me?” and “keep them legs open or you wont be cumming atall”

hood eren who shoves his length in your pussy and sets a brutal pace. “ooh pa slow downn i said im sorryy,” you cry. clapping, smacking, and wet sounds echo off the walls and your pretty sure your neighbors hate you by now. “you gone be a good girl nd stop acting up?” eren questions, “yess- daddy i swear i will…” you moan, juices running down your legs and half brain dead now.

hood eren who knows your lying (your definitely gonna up again) but enjoys putting his pretty girl in her place even if she ends up getting what she wants anyways…

hood eren who after he's done tearing up that pussy, buys the special edition louie bag you wanted (it was in his cart the whole time)

______________________________________________

this is my first time writing a semi full smut!? so proud of myself 🥲

LMK FOR A PRT 3…shld i do a few on connie?? 🤭

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thelionandtheeagle · 1 year

Text

On the misconception of Jason attempting to take Tim's life at Titans Tower:

I've seen people be confused about this one, so I figured I'd provide some context/ analysis/ what have you, for anybody who might be interested.

Now, the incident we're talking about occurred in issue 29 of the 2003 Teen Titans book.

There is a lot that could be said about the whole issue, but in the interest of not having this post run on forever, let's just focus on the end to the actual physical altercation between Jason and Tim:

Jason warns Tim of the dangers associated with being Robin. He uses himself as a cautionary tale, making it clear that this isn't about envy; that Jason has no interest in being Robin again himself. That that's not what this is about.

Then he knocks Tim out.

Tim is unconscious for a while and Jason uses this opportunity to very dramatically put the word out there that, yep, he is indeed the real Jason Todd and he's ready to cause trouble.

When Tim comes to again, he is injured, yes, but okay overall. He isn't bleeding out on the floor, close to death. In fact, he's very much able to just sit up and have a normal conversation with people. All in all Tim is fine, and Jason has left.

And, well, that's that. At least from Tim's perspective.

The issue actually concludes with a really interesting page featuring Jason's narration:

Here we see Jason easily concede that Tim is good. No malice, no hate, no ill wishes towards him. And Tim is doing fine. Jason is shown to be in no way surprised that Tim is alive and well, back out in the field. Because he was never out to seriously injure Tim, let alone kill him.

Jason didn't want to take Tim's life at all. He had ample opportunity to do so, but he didn't. One of the reasons the whole confrontation went down the way it did, is because Jason was genuinely excited to meet Tim (see the intro narration of the issue). Aside from delivering the warning discussed above, Jason wanted to see for himself what Tim is capable of, what makes him tick. And he has no problem admitting that Tim is indeed good at what he does.

It's obviously an important incident in their lives, but Tim was never in any real danger here. Getting into brawls is nothing crazy at all in their line of work, and Tim has canonically acknowledged that he holds no ill will towards Jason over the whole thing, e.g. here in issue 8 of the 2011 Red Hood and the Outlaws book:

Summary/ conclusion: Does Jason feel guilty about things he's done to Tim in the past? Yes. Does Tim hold it against him? No. Was their fight at Titans Tower a murder attempt? Not at all.

Thanks for reading! I hope this helps clear some things up for anybody wondering (:

Bonus: Jason talking about Tim in Battle for the Cowl (2009) #2

#I'm not properly Back TM but I did say I was working on this so I figured I'd make it available #don't fillet me #Jaytim #Jason Todd #Tim Drake #meta #my stuff #Finn's Meta Posts

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belladonnasmenagerie · 1 year

Text

KinktoberDay 2:Bo X Innocent!reader

Bulge, corruption kink, spanking

!18 Plus minors don’t interact!

Preview: trying to set up a nice little date Bo can’t help but to fuck you in the gas station basement.

Also I wrote this pretty quickly so sorry for any errors or that sort of stuff lol

Warnings: Okay guys this is a nasty one, spanking, dirty talk, slightly ditzy reader, innocent reader if you find that uncomfortable click away, tit job, cum play, f!oral, m!oral???, reader is on the curvier side

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~🎃~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It started off innocent enough just you running around the house in a nice pink sundress finishing up the chores so you could surprise Bo with a little picnic to relax him. Placing the last plate in the cupboard you started packing up the things for your picnic before making your way to the gas station excited to surprise your boyfriend, who you knew had been working his tale off all morning.

Finally reaching the station, Bo heard the bell from the door ding alerting him to somebody’s presence. With a sigh he wondered who could have stumbled into town as he rolled out from beneath his truck.

“Sorry but we’re closed.” He started getting up from the roller wiping his hands with a rag he had set close to his side.

“Come back in…” he continued until he abruptly stopped at the sight before him

You, looking so cute with that soft smile beaming up at him, looking all innocent, but he knew that was a fucking lie. Looking over your body he could tell the way your breasts busted up over the dress showing your cleavage for anybody to see, your thighs spilling out over the thigh high socks, and don’t get him started over how the dress barley hit your mid thigh.

He felt his pants tightening at the mere sight of you.

“Sorry to interrupt baby, just thought we could go for a picnic.” You said so innocently showing him the basket

He looked at the basket then to you, your eyes showing no Intent that this was some sort of ruse just so he could fuck you raw, no he knew better than that. Your pretty little head wouldn’t think of those ungodly things, too innocent to even imagine what you’re doing to his cock right now.

With a smirk Bo walked up to you grabbing the basket and placing it onto the hood of his truck.

“You know what baby doll, that sounds great but how about you help me with a little chore before that, hm?”

You tilted your head in confusion, Bo cursed himself for the way his cock twitched at the sight.

“But, I did all the chores Bo.”

“I know darlin’ but it’ll be real quick then we can have that nice picnic you planned alright?” He said wrapping his arm around your shoulder

You perked up “Alright, if it’ll be real quick I guess I can help.”

Bo chuckled to himself noting the devilish intent he had “Good girl.”

Making your way to the basement you looked around at the messy area, wondering if it needed to be cleaned a little before leaving.

“Do you need me to clean the room before we go?” You asked not looking at Bo who stood behind you

Clicking the lock on the door Bo made his way behind you, pressing you against him, the bulge from his pants pressing against you making him moan.

“No darlin’ I’m gonna have you clean somethin’ else.”

Turning you around he pushed you to your knees, a gasp escaping your lips at the sudden maneuver not understanding what he wanted until you saw the bulge of his cock right in front of you. Bo gripped his cock above the fabric, slowly pumping the hard member over his jeans.

“Come on babygirl I know you can help me with this, right?”

You nodded scooting closer, his hand leaving his cock, looking up at him your tongue rolled out of your mouth licking against the fabric going up and down over his bulge. Bo groaned at the sight feeling his pre cum leak from the tip.

“Come on, take it out.”

Pulling away you unbuttoned and unzipped his jeans, pulling them down until you saw his hard on in his boxers, A blush lit up your cheeks at the sight of it right in front of you.

“Come on baby, you sucked my cock before I know you can do it again. No need to be so flustered.” He caressed your cheeks to reassure you

Biting your lip you looked back down at his cock, it took everything in Bo not to just say fuck it and have his way with you, not caring about how much you cry and moan for him to slow down. Gently you took his boxers pulling them down till his cock sprung free, tentatively you placed your gentle hands around his cock starting to slowly pump up and down one hand at the base the other near the tip.

A sigh left Bo’s lips loving the feel of his cock being pumped, the sound of his precum slicking with each pump. He couldn’t hold back the low moan that escaped his chest once he felt your tongue give his tip a lick, keeping an eye on you he watched as you looked up at him whilst giving the tip of his cock tiny kitten licks.

“Fuuuuck, you’re going to ruin me baby girl.”

Looking down lower he noticed your voluptuous breasts popping from your dress and smirked catching an idea.

Pulling your hands away, you looked at him confused

“What did I do wrong?” You asked pulling from his tip

He shook his head “Nothing baby, I have another idea. Sit back.”

Doing as your told you leaned back on your haunches, waiting for your next order.

“Bunch up your dress.”

Eyes wide you shook your head “No, Bo that’s too indecent.”

Grabbing your chin he directed your face back to him “It’s only you and me here sweets, you can trust me right?”

Pouting you shook your head yes, starting to pull the dress up.

“Good girl.” He complimented pumping his cock as he watched

Pulling the dress up you stopped above your hips, but Bo nodded

“higher” he ordered

You obeyed pulling it higher until he told you to stop just below your breasts. Turning to the side Bo grabbed a fold out chair placing it right in front of you, sitting himself down on it.

“Come here.”

Scooting closer to him Bo took his cock shoving it under the bunched up dress, before pushing it up between your breasts he let a wad of spit drip onto your cleavage watching as the liquid ran over your breasts into the space between them. Pressing further up Bo groaned feeling your tits press against his aching cock until the tip popped out the top.

“Push them together, open your mouth.”

Moving your hands you squeezed your breasts together the heat in your cheeks rising as you opened your mouth.

“Good girl.”

Pulling his cock down Bo moved it in and out of your breast the wad of spit and pre cum slicking you up nicely. Every time he pushed back up the tip slipped into your mouth, earning him that cute expression he loved so much, Wide eyes with that tint of pink at your cheeks, he wasn’t going to last long with you looking like that.

He groaned watching as he slipped inside your mouth coming out with a pop every time,

“Fuck baby doll, like that, please, fuck! Lick my cock like a good girl.”

Understanding what he wanted you started circling his twitching tip with each thrust he gave.

“Just like that, Christ, I’m not gonna last long with your tits pressing against me like that and your fucking tongue.” He groaned giving a particular thrust

Smirking down at you he started going faster “I’m gonna paint that pretty little face of yours and those big tits with my cum.” He growled hearing the slap of his balls against his fist at the base of his cock.

“Please…Bo.” You murmured out in between each thrust

Bo groaned hearing you beg, throwing his head back he let out a guttural groan slamming his cock up all the way twitching as cum spurted all over your face and breasts.

Heaving a few breathes Bo finally pulled out from your breasts, watching as you looked down at the seed all over your chest feeling it run down your cheeks. Using two fingers you watched as you scooped two finger fulls of the cum off your face before giving it a lick. You couldn’t help but feel your pussy pulse at the taste of his cum, delving your fingers into your mouth sucking his seed off your fingers.

“Holy shit.” Bo moaned breathlessly feeling his cock starting to get hard again.

Looking up at him you removed your fingers

“Sorry Bo, you just taste really good.” You apologized

He just looked down at you, pupils blown wide with lust.

“Get on the bed.” He ordered

Getting up quickly you crawled onto the bed, showing off your ass in the tiny dress, A swift slap made you yelp as the spot reddened in pain.

“Bo..” you scolded glaring at him behind you

Another slap reverberated across your skin making your ass jiggle.

“Hurry up baby, your ass is looking really delicious right now.” He growled letting out a soft chuckle

Pouting you turned around laying on your back, glaring at him with your arms crossed.

“Oh come on y/n, all mad cause I slapped your sexy ass?” He commented crawling onto the bed

You let out a humph sound, turning your head away, Bo smirked at the response.

“Looks like I gotta make it up to you then.”

Crawling lower Bo flipped your dress up revealing your cute underwear, pink with a frilled outline, licking his lips he pressed his tongue against the wet spot at the front of your panties. A gasp left your lips eyes darting down to see Bo between your legs his nose brushing against you, sniffing your essence, groaning from the delicious scent.

“Fuck baby, I thought you were too innocent for stuff like this.” He pulled your panties to the side looking up at you with his devilish eyes as he pushed a finger into your dripping core “but it looks to me like you’re just a little whore.”

You shook your head trying to cover your face in embarrassment “I’m not a whore!” You complained

“Oh yeah? Then you won’t mind me having a quick taste, hm?”

At that he pressed his tongue against your pulsing clit flicking it up and down as his finger pumped inside of you. Your breathing became labored hand darting to Bo’s hair out of instinct the other gripping his sheets. Bo smiled looking up at you between your legs, pumping a little faster into your cunt.

Pulling away from your clit he watched his finger pumping in and out, licking his lips tasting your sweet nectar on them, he looked back at you.

“Think you can take another finger darlin’?”

You refused to look at him making him chuckle, eyes going to your breasts again.

“Pull out your tits and play with them while I finger fuck your tight pussy.”

Your cheeks had to be ten shades of red at this point but none the less you did as told pulling out your breasts from the top of your dress. Bo groaned at the look of your pert nipples, noticing how horny you were.

Looking back down at your pussy he slowly started to push another finger in “mmm I’m going to break you princess” he growled curling both fingers up inside you.

Moving your hand from Bo’s hair both of them got placed upon your breasts fingers tweaking the nipples as Bo sucked at your clit again.

“Bo..” you moaned out feeling your legs shake from pleasure

He felt you gushing around his fingers your liquid running down his palm, his tongue danced around your clit forcing your head to press against the pillow as your hips moved up into his mouth. You felt the vibrations of his laugh as he allowed you to move against him, feeling how your pussy clenched around his fingers that now pistoned inside of you.

“Bo! Please! I’m gunna…”

before you could finish your hips thrusted up into him, thick thighs shaking as you closed around him suffocating him with your thighs.

Chest heaving you undid yourself from around his head laying numb against the sheets, your thighs trembling with the quake of your last orgasm. Pulling his fingers from you Bo crawled up your body, finally catching his eyes you finally realized what happened.

“Oh god! I’m so sorry Bo! I wasn’t thinking I…”

Suddenly his lips crashed into yours his tongue pushing its way into your mouth, closing your eyes you kissed back.

Distracting you his hand gripped his now weeping cock, angling it right up against your hole. A sharp gasp left your lips at the feeling of him shoving his cock inside you, pulling from your lips Bo pressed his forehead against yours.

“Sorry baby, I couldn’t resist fucking you.” He pulled back sitting on his knees and grabbing your hips “couldn’t resist trying to break you.”

Pulling out he slammed his hips back into yours, a moan quivered from your lips as the thought came to you.

This wasn’t going to be quick. He was going to fuck you all night. But for some reason you didn’t mind that, besides secretly you wanted him to ruin you in this tiny dress.

#slasher #slasher x reader #slashers #slasher smut #horror #halloween #bo sinclair #kinktober #house of wax #smut

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quitealotofsodapop · 3 months

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OK!

Now ive seen the first two episodes of S5 and heres my gut reaction:

Wukong address that MK is a stone monkey like him - but he honeslty isn't sure how.

MK is super sleep-deprived from night terrors.

Macaque is living on FFM, covered in baby monkeys as per usual. Is def the more "rip the band-aid off"-sort of guy.

When Macaque worries on who brought back the Brotherhood - Wukong points out that Macaque sort of came back out of nowhere too, eliciting an angry growl from Mac. Hehehe spicy.

The noodle gang rebuild the hut!! Apparently after the mountain got messed up in S4, Wukong tried living in a hut made of his own hair.

Wukong hugs MK!

Pigsy notices that MK is eepy and instructs him to help make some noodle soup. Pigsy reminices about baby-MK, and smiles knowingly when MK immediately falls asleep after eating. Apparently that specific soup recipe is the one MK ate the first night he found him.

Also screenshot spoiler;

Dadsy and bby!MK! As I suspected, MK was a papoose baby.

All the monkey having nightmares before the Ten Kings portal they asses to Hell.

EP 2:

Li Jing's a dick. Nezha is too scared to even speak up to him.

Where's Xiwangmu? Shouldn't she be in charge? Or is it a patriarchal system since Li Jing is the Emperor's son-in-law?

Macaque screams and reaches for Wukong when he sees the circlet!!!

Monkey jail.

Nezha visits the monkeys and info-dumps the tale of the Heavenly Pillars - a story MK actually knows! He makes Wukong "act more like Tang" to tell the story. Tang be the parent that told MK fairytales!

MK points out that a Pillar of Creation was destroyed once - in the mythos it was an angry water god named Gonggong - and that maybe another forced is trying to destroy it.

Monkey prison break via trickery and hair clones.

Sandy's new truck gets KO'd by falling monkeys.

The monkeys are now fugitives.

Li Jing uses the Circle mantra to stall Wukong - and Macaque immediately attacks him!!! Looks like the theory that Macaque attacked Tripitaka for using the circlet might be true!!

Macaque uses a shadow portal to put MK and Wukong inside the gang's (repaired) truck, and rushes at Li Jing to keep him distracted.

Macaque is trapped inside Li Jing's pagoda. :(

The "hooded King" watches the whole thing and laughs. Why do I think this might be Nine-Heads?

Overall, i am cautiously hyper-fixating.

lots of shadowpeach fodder.

I saw a spoiler that says that sadly, Li Jing isn't the main villain. And that they sorta fumble Nezha's relationship with him - Li Jing is the Buck Cluck of lmk dads. Especially since trying to make Li Jing look like a good dad, when he literally tried killing Nezha like twice in the mythos, and Dadsy is right there. Damn filial piety.

#lmk s5 spoilers #lego monkie kid season 5 spoilers #lmk spoilers

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mydarlingbat · 3 months

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Do you know how many times The Batman saved The Joker? If you do not know, then ignore this message pls.

So i actually been ask this question before, but I'll add a few more to the list. I'm just updating the list. Death of the family. Batman unhinged 13 #14 Batman gotham after midnight #6. Legends of the dark knight annual #1. Batman adventures continue #12. Batman the max. Arkham dreams #2. Batman confidential #11. batman ninja turtles 3 # 5. hitman #3. Batman The shadow #4 ( league of justice. Tales from the dark multiverse the death of Superman #1 ) Batman White knight present generations of Joker #6. Batman #353. Batman damned #3. Batman #7. Batman #1. Batman adventures #16. the Batman strikes #9. Batman fun house of evil. Batman death by design. The batman who laughs #1 the Batman who laughs # 2 Batman secrets. Batman cacophony #3. Legends of the dark Knight # 200. Batman legends of the dark Knight # 145. Batman Gotham Knights #73. Batman dredd / die laughing. The Joker mask. Batman Gotham adventures #31. Detective comics annual #5. Batman vs the punisher. Two face year one #2. Batman #544 Batman Arkham unhinged #29 #30 Batman unhinged # 28 Batman 1992 annual. Batman Arkham knight. Batman #649. Batman #719. Batman Europe #2 legends of the dark Knight #195 detective comics #1058 2024 ) catwoman #63. Legend of the dark Knight #16. Batman adventures #1. Batman adventures #3. Batman and catwoman #6. Batman adventures #30. Batman secrets #1. Batman 2016 #48. Batman the white knight #7. The spectre #51. Batman annual #1. Joker switch. Wonder woman #165 #167 elseworlds finest. Batman Gotham after midnight #8 Batman gotham adventures #31 dc super friends. Batman / Harley and ivy #1 Batman #146 Batman #37. The Joker last laugh #6. Batman last knight on earth. Legends of the dark knight #10 2012. Batman and Superman / world finest #11. Batman legends of the dark Knight. #50 batman Odyessy # 6 #2. injustice ground zero #6. Batman ego. Batman deadly duo #1 Joker devils advocate. Action comics. #719. Legends of the dark Knight 2020 #2 . Batman #139 2024. Batman brave and the bold #118. Batman 2016 #123. Batman adventures continue season two #7. Batman and Spiderman crossover. The fortress #1 Batman #16 The Batman animated series ( Christmas with JOKER ) ( the Phantasm ) The Jokers favor ) Harlequinade ) legends of the dark Knight #2 2023. Joker's Millions ) make 'em laugh and that's all I recall. Batman Arkham origins. Batman under the red hood. The dark Knight 2008 ) The Batman vs. Dracula. Batman Ninja. Scooby-Doo & Batman: The Brave and the Bold (2018) Batman telltale series # episode 5 Batman tomorrow the game. Gotham the series. the Batman series 2005 The Bat in the Belfry )( Rumors ) The Clayface of Tragedy (Part 2) The Metal Face of Comedy) Batman #66

I can't say them all, but he saved the Joker 77 times in comics. How many times he attempted to save the Joker 14 times in comics. 92 times i guess. Not including the movies and series, but all together 118 times i can recall. Thank you so much for asking though.

#batjokes #batman #batman and joker #batman x joker #comics #comic books #dc comics #the joker #batmm #dcedit #list #words #edited #saving

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lilmisssammy · 6 months

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The Path Iceberg

This is an Iceberg for The Path- created by myself with editing help from my good friends Samhain, Torr and Gloria. If you don’t know what an iceberg is, it’s a chart to discuss different levels of knowledge for a specific topic, the farther you go down, the more obscure or dark the topics become.

Before you read, I need to state that there are discussions of Rape related to people aged 9 to 19, Death, Potential Triggering content within links, and Spoilers for The Path.

Thank you! And Enjoy!

Before you read, I need to state that there are discussions of Rape related to people aged 9 to 19, Death, Potential Triggering content within links, and Spoilers for The Path.

Thank you! And Enjoy!

Tier 1 - The Sky

The Path is a psychological horror art game created by Tale of Tales, now Song of Songs, in 2009. It follows a modern retelling of Little Red Riding Hood as it's experienced between six sisters, the wolf-loving 9-year-old Robin, the precocious 11-year-old Rose, the tomboy 13-year-old Ginger, the brooding 15-year-old Ruby, the confident 17-year-old Carmen and the responsible 19-year-old Scarlet. Each sister takes turns walking to their grandmother's house, with the only rule being to stay on the path. And the only way to win is by dying. The Path is a walking simulator and is seen as one of the best representations of the fact gaming can be art.

Tale of Tales was a Belgian game development company that ran from 2003 to 2015. It was founded by artists Auriea Harvey and Michaël Samyn in an effort to bring art to an interactive medium. They're known for games like The Endless Forest, Graveyard, Fatale, Sunset, and especially their cult classic The Path. In 2015 they ceased making commercial video games after the release of Sunset, and now work on art projects together under the name Song of Songs. Currently, they’re working on a remake of The Endless Forest, which is currently in its beta stage open for patreons!

Little Red Riding Hood is a fairy tale about a young girl with a red cape who meets a wolf on the way to her grandmother's house. The basic story has Little Red walking through the woods to bring food for her sickly grandmother, where she meets the wolf who wants to eat the food and her. The wolf tricks her into telling him where she's going while she stops to get her grandmother flowers. When she finally gets there, the wolf has eaten her grandmother and tricks her into getting into bed so he can eat her as well. Depending on the version, a hunter may come in and slay the wolf saving the granddaughter and grandmother from his stomach, or the grandmother could be unharmed in the wardrobe.

Auriea Harvey is a digital artist and sculptor currently living and working in Rome. She’s one half of Tale of Tales and is specifically credited for Design, Direction and Character Design on The Path. She was also the author of the post-mortem on The Path which you can see I’ve heavily referenced throughout this whole post. She currently has an art exhibit at the Museum of Moving Image called My Veins are the Wires, My Body is Your Keyboard which features images, models and the ability to play the path!

Michaël Samyn is a graphic designer and digital artist specialising in VR from Belgium, currently living and working in Rome. He’s the other half of Tale of Tales and is specifically credited for Design, Direction and Programming for The Path. His most recent work, apart from actively working on The Endless Forest, is The Viriditas Chapel of Perpetual Adoration, an utterly stunning VR experience you can get on Steam.

Tier 2 - Tip of the Iceberg

The Path as a game is about building your own interpretations of the character's struggles via item reactions and rooms in Grandmother's House. There are generally two main interpretations believed by most who play the game. One is that the game shows each girl's death, Robin being mauled to death by a wolf, Rose drowning after she falls off the boat, Ginger being strangled/electrocuted on the flower fields wires, Ruby getting into a car accident, Carmen being killed and chopped up, and Scarlet being hung by the string seen on her wolf’s claws. However, these are also usually viewed as metaphorical examples of the sisters feeling like they died after extreme traumas. Using the items and images as clues, there is a common consensus of what each sister went through that made her feel like this. Robin's is learning about death and the consequences of actions, Ginger's is getting her first period and being forced to grow up, Ruby's is falling in with the wrong crowd and getting into harmful behaviours, Carmen's is getting taken advantage of while drunk, and Scarlet's is falling under the weight of responsibility placed upon her to look after her family.

Some places reported that the game would be about rape or pedophilia, like this spread in a Dutch gaming magazine. Something that gives credence to the rape interpretation is the basis of Perrault's version of the tale where the wolf tricks the sister to take off her clothes and get into bed together, as well as the uncomfortable positions the sisters appear in after their encounter. Though, this is how Auriea addressed it in the post-mortem- 'Some say blindly that the game is "about rape." And while that could be one of the interpretations -- and I understand it -- for me, those black-out moments after meeting her wolf are the moments of realization. Those are the times when a girl grows. And what happens in Grandmother's House is not a murder but a shedding of childhood and an initiation to womanhood. Each girl is one step closer to her fate.'

The Path may have intended answers that are mostly agreed on, but the format of the game is purposefully set up so there is no wrong or right answer, allowing for more personal or specific interpretations. You may notice I didn't mention Rose in the last section- and that's because there isn't an accepted answer. The most popular ideas are either her blooming spirituality, or dealing with illness, though those are both contested. There are other popular interpretations for each character- Robin having a family member pass, Ginger being a lesbian or trans man in love with her wolf, Ruby's experience with ableism or addiction, Carmen experiencing society's sexualization of teenagers, Scarlet having extreme psychological issues, with Rose's ranging anywhere from the struggle of a gifted child, actually dying or even the creators not having an actual set intention!

Each sister you can play as has their own Live Journal- Robin's is named Kid Red, Rose's Innocent Red, Ginger's Tomboy Red, Ruby's Goth Red, Carmen's Sexy Red, and Scarlets Stern Red. Here the sisters post about their lives and talk to one another and sometimes other people, there seems to be a group of people who didn't know these were fictional characters, and one person talking about the Rio World Cup. Nowadays, this blog project could be seen as an early form of an ARG, considering its interactive nature.

The Company of Wolves is a 1984 gothic horror film about a grandmother warning her granddaughter about straying from the path and never trusting charming men. Multiple stories are told about girls falling for people who are secretly wolves and how it became their downfall. There are similar themes of femininity and sexual awakening, as well as the usage of Charles Perrault's Le Petit Chaperon Rouge at the end of the movie and in the trailers for the game.

If you've played The Path in recent times you may notice that there are various bugs that range from bearable, game-breaking, beautiful or simply funny. The creators have an image folder of beautiful glitches from developing the game and the VK fanclub has compiled some glitches found themselves.

The game is turning 15 this year- and as time goes on the web aspects that hosted information about it are slowly going out of date. There's been an effort to archive images, the character models for the sisters, and object textures.

Jarboe Devereaux is an experimental rock musician probably best known for being an early member of the group Swans, who co-composed the soundtrack for The Path with Kris Force along with lending her voice to some narration in the soundtrack and trailers. A lot of her music is experimental and I honestly recommend listening to it if you want! At the moment she’s working on her next solo album to come out in late 2024, as well as considering a tour in Europe after the album is released!

The Path of Needles or The Path of Pins is a line from one of the earliest versions of Little Red Riding Hood, the wolf asking which path she will travel down, the needles representing maturity while the pins represent childhood. It's said to be based on a French village in which a girl was sent off to become a seamstress for a year, as a sense of sexual maturation. This features heavily in the trailers as well as being part of The Grandmother’s Tale read by Jarboe, with it being referenced to by Ruby in her reaction to the needle.

The Prologue is a short free version of The Path you can find on their website where you play as the mysterious Girl in White. You're unable to interact with items or go to grandmother's house in this version- but you are much more able to explore and find your way back to the path on your own, something you cannot do in the full game.

Izzzyzzz is a YouTuber who makes commentary videos who posts deep dives on things like famous fandom stories, old media and internet legends. In late 2021 they posted a video covering The Path which now sits at 1.4 million views, introducing a good chunk of the modern fan base to the game, as well as causing a surge in new content for the game, with a follow-up video in 2023! Their most recent video is about the game Palworld and it’s plagiarism, as well as having a new line of merch out.

Despite being released in English and Dutch only, The Path very quickly grew a fanbase in Japan and even more so in Russia. Screenshots from Auriea's post-mortem showed Russia was the second biggest purchaser of the game. The European social networking site VK has a fan club of 5.4k members as of writing this- as well as having produced 251 fanfictions on ficbook (for context, Rule of Rose, a game with similar themes and an overlapping fan base has 5 fanfictions on it) Japan's is a lot less archived, but on niconico you can find a lot of fan videos for The Path that is simply not there on the English net.

Though not like how it's used in other games- The Path has an inventory system in which you can collect, store and view items found in the forest. These are deemed "Distractions", and you're able to use these to unlock parts of grandmother's house. There are 30 items you can collect, the bread and wine are already collected which unlock the house and gate respectively, but there is also: A Knife (Unlocking a knife on the kitchen table), a Bullet (Unlocking a deer head), a Feather (Unlocking a Cage with a bird), a Mask (Unlocking the curtains in the kitchen), a Dead Bird (Unlocking a tv), Treasure (Unlocking a stack of money), a Needle (Unlocking pills), a Two-Headed Teddy Bear (Unlocking the bear in grandmother's house), a Boot (Unlocking a table), a Record (Unlocking a stereo), Flowers (unlocking hanging flowers), a Balloon (Unlocking Balloons on the ceiling), a Piano (Unlocking a Cobweb), the Playground Tower (Unlocking a picture frame), a Bunker (Unlocking beer in a fridge), and a Grave (Unlocking a Vase). Each sister then has three special items that unlock secret rooms. For Robin, an Open Grave, Swing and Shopping Cart unlock a crib with a birds-nest, a side staircase and a birthday party. For Rose, a Living Crow, a Skull and a Well, unlocking a long corridor of bathroom stalls, a flooding hallway of doors and a greenhouse. For Ginger, a Twisted Fence, a Climbable Tree and a Shed unlock a hallway, a bedroom and toys under the bed. For Ruby, a Scarecrow, a Wheelchair and a Car unlock a hallway, gymnasium and giant cage. For Carmen, beer, campfire and bath unlock a bush corridor, a basement and a row of fire. And for Scarlet, a cobweb, a clothing line, and a tv unlock a music room, a library and a hall of books.

Tier 3 - Beneath the Surface

Kris Force is an electroacoustic composer, performer and visual artist you'd probably best know from her work as Amber Asylum and with Neurosis. She’s an extremely talented multi-media artist, including such skills as painting, sound and photography. At the moment her most recent release was The Embrace, with Jarboe whom she collaborated with on The Path!

1001 Video Games To Play Before You Die is a spinoff book from 1001 Albums You Must Hear Before You Die, featuring games from 1970 to 2013, with The Path being listed right between Punch-Out for the Wii and EyePet the pet simulator. Listed as being so effective due to its interactivity.

The Girl in White, the mysterious forest girl who brings the sisters back to the path, seems to be tied with two of the sister’s Wolves. Ginger’s, The Girl in Red, and Carmen’s, The Woodsman. The Girl in White has a small tent next to the Woodsman’s area, as well as sharing the same skin colour, hair colour, eye colour and similar-looking boots. With the Girl in Red it’s much the same, the only things being different are the colour of their dresses, and the directions their pigtails point, and is directly named as the Girl in White’s twin. There’s even art of all three together named “The Woodsman’s Daughter” but not saying which one is his daughter.

Fey Wolf, if you aren't familiar, is the name in the files for Scarlet's Wolf, the white-haired pianist found in the theatre. You'd not be faulted for seeing them as either an older woman or a long-haired man, or even a genderless ethereal being. The Fey Wolf was never specifically gendered by the creators, but insights about The Girl In Red Wolf reveal that she is intended to be the only female wolf.

Laura Raines Smith is an extremely prolific animator specialising in modelling and textures and was the main animator in a lot of Tale of Tales games. Some of her Tale of Tales animations can be found here, but she's also worked on games like Borderlands 3, Rage of the Gladiator and NHL 95. Her most recent work from what I can find was the animation and rigging on Saturnalia in 2022!

If you’ve been in the community or if you’ve seen people discuss theories for The Path, you have probably seen the interpretation that Ginger is a lesbian, or transgender. This goes beyond just a shared headcanon, there’s a mountain of evidence for both camps that seems potentially intended. Starting with Ginger being transgender, just out of respect, in this section Ginger will be referred to with gender-neutral pronouns. Their appearance is particularly androgynous compared to their sisters, with a short bob cut and a black shirt and shorts- along with having the gender-neutral name Ginger that doesn’t quite fit the family naming theme that could be seen as a chosen name. Ginger also is associated with things that are seen as more masculine, their favourite video game is an action-adventure called Ico, they enjoy exploring the forest and trying to blow things up or fake crop circles, as well as having “boy” toys under the bed, little army men and dinosaurs. Ginger also notoriously dislikes things that are more “girly” like dressing up pretty, going as far as to make their entire family forget their birthday to avoid it. Their wolf can be seen as a manifestation of that, of all things girly and feminine, literally being only known as a Girl in Red- and the GIR’s obsession with barbed wire could be how they feel their feminity is trapping them. Ginger getting their first period is near-universally considered to be the “proper” interpretation of their route, but people who believe in Ginger being transgender use their overwhelming reaction to their first period being a sign of gender dysphoria, and fear of now believing they will be stuck to becoming a woman. This can be summed up in this image, of Ginger clutching their legs together with what's supposed to be in the middle being completely absent, instead with a drawing of flowers in place and barbed wire across, a clear sign of how they see their period as trapping them into womanhood. For the lesbian side, Ginger never specifically states that she doesn’t like men like Scarlet, but more shows her complete disinterest in them and romance in general. She mentions how she hates that “kissing stuff” and describes Carmen as “Hot, if you’re into that kinda thing.” While that does seem to show Ginger isn’t into romance at all, there are some things. The recurring image of two girls holding hands as a doodle can be found all over the game, and her general identity as a tomboy is sometimes seen in young lesbians yet to have come out, but most of the evidence lies within her wolf and their relationship. They’re clearly close, they have a handshake, and Ginger is more comfortable with affection with her than compared to her own grandmother, with the two girls hugging deeply and the GIR even lifting her into the air. The Wolf Encounter is comparably tamer and almost sweet compared to every other wolf encounter, ending with the Girl in Red grabbing Ginger’s hand and pulling her down to lie together in the sun. The final flashes show an image of the GIR leaning in, almost looking like she’s kissing something. On the GIR’s development blog, their relationship is described as “They are what is missing from each other's lives” as well as describing why Ginger was chosen to have a female wolf as “And the girl most likely to be attracted would be Ginger.” These development notes as well as the general tone of the wolf encounter seem to apply that Ginger and her wolf’s interactions weren’t as antagonistic as the others, almost as if her goal was not to hurt, but to trap her, seemingly to stay in the relationship.

If you’ve lurked on forums about the game for any amount of time, you’ve probably heard the question of “Getting an A” in the game's grading system, and speculation on how it’s possible. Well, I’m sadly here to tell you it’s impossible. Even if you get all of the items, all 144 flowers, successfully succumb to the wolf, and become Grandmother's favourite grandchild, you are unable to get an A. It honestly should not be a surprise- The Path is not supposed to be a normal game that rewards you for your completion, it’s… The Path.

Lisa Falzon is an Illustrator turned tattooer and multimedia artist from Malta. She was originally approached early on in the production to design the box art, though I don’t know if this was ever made or shared, and went on to inspire multiple other aspects of the game, being described as "Awkward Realism." She even drew Ginger when Tale of Tales interviewed her! At the moment she’s working in her own Tattoo shop called Upward Spiral Ink- her tattoos involve amazing detail and beautiful shading, I highly recommend checking it out!

Emriss, Redsbane and Bonedevill are three accounts found commenting and interacting with the sisters' live journals in the comments between 2008 and 2009. Most of Emriss' comments come from 2008, while all of Redsbane and Bonevill's are from 2009. The common through line is interaction with the accounts by the sisters and deactivation. Emriss plays a more neutral role, while Redsbane and Bonedevill lean more antagonistic with them referencing something bad happening to the sisters, Redsbane also seemingly implies the 'Bane' of the 'Red' sisters. With these accounts not archived on the Wayback Machine it's not clear if these were accounts used by the creators to provide interaction, or if they are actual fans playing along.

Ruby’s Leg Brace is probably the most iconic thing about her, with the rarity of video game characters using disability aids, her open usage of one is a welcome sight- but from the beginning of her development it’s not clear if she needs it. In her original plan sheet it’s noted that she may just be using it for show and later her description on the website saying “When asked about her leg brace, Ruby says she’s in pain, but she doesn’t specify where it hurts,” implying she doesn’t need it. Conversely, one of Ruby’s secret items needed is a wheelchair, and the final flashes put an emphasis on her legs and how they’re bent out of shape, seemingly saying she needed the leg brace due to a car crash, or an alternative reading is that Ruby was already disabled before the accident, as she gets violently thrown through a high school gym, as well as being the quickest character in the game, maybe signalling she used to be a school athlete before the onset of a condition or an accident.

Kirin San may be a kind of mysterious figure for non-Japanese fans of The Path, especially if you’ve gone through fanart, seeing a random man or giraffe in a little suit with the red sisters. The truth is, Kirin-San could probably be best described as the Japanese Izzzyzzz, being a big part of how the game became popular over there, with his playthroughs inspiring animatics and leading to a Japanese translation coming in 2010 from Zoo Corporation! This is a weird side note I didn’t know where else to put, but while I was researching this topic I found out that apart from translating games like GTA and Left 4 Dead into English, they also create hentai card games like Pretty Girls Mahjong Solitaire as well as developing medical prescription systems, so that’s hilarious.

144 is described as the essence of the game by the creators, that it represents “a girl's restlessness, the sound of footsteps on dry leaves, the smell of pine trees, dim sunlight through filtering clouds.” The original working title of it was 144, with the original intent to have 144 red riding hoods. This was quickly abandoned due to the scale, but its importance remains, the 144 collectable flowers in the forest are the most obvious example of this, but it's all over the rest of the game. There are 36 items (144 divided by 4 being 36), 18 secret rooms (144 divided by 8 being 18), 3 secret rooms per sister (144 divided by 48 being 3) as well as six sisters (144 divided by 24 being six).

Something talked about in the postmortem but was not mentioned by name in the game is that The Girl in White is quite literally an older version of one of Tale of Tales past characters, The Deaf Mute Girl in The Pretty White Dress from 8. Her models were created based on making them look like the Deaf Mute Girl but at the age of 13. With 8 never coming out; the Girl in White is both the first occurrence of this character and the second time she was in a game.

Tier 4 - Middle of the Iceberg

An interesting detail that 1c changed when they translated the game into Russian is them choosing different names for the main six girls, unlike every other translation which keeps their original. The names are: Robin as Алина/Alina, Rose as Алиса/Alice, Ginger as Ада/Ada, Ruby as Агния/Agnia, Carmen as Алла/Alla and Scarlet as Аврора/Aurora. The translated names are no longer themed around red things, but around the alliterative A’s, probably due to their name puns being lost in translation.

This is an entry that’s probably more well known to people NOT into The Path, in that The Path is featured and shouted out by name in Hetalia. Yeah, Hetalia, that Hetalia the anime about personified countries that once was the second most popular Anime/Manga fandom on Fanfiction dot net, features The Path in both the anime and manga, with Belgium showing off the game as something from their homeland.

Something never mentioned in the games is that each of the sisters was given birthdays. On their livejournals, you can see posts of them celebrating Robin’s, Carmen’s and forgetting Ginger’s, but they aren’t the only ones with birthdays. On their live journal profile descriptions, their birthdays are listed as the 13th of October 2000 for Robin, the 13th of March for Rose, the 13th of September 1996 for Ginger, the 13th of May 1994 for Ruby, the 13th of November 1992 for Carmen, and the 13th of April 1990 for Scarlet. Rose doesn’t have her birth year listed but it’s probably just 1998, due to all of the sisters being spaced by two years. Something interesting is that all of the sisters were born on Friday the 13th, but only Rose would be her actual age as of the game release. Since the game came out on the 18th of March 2009, the actual character ages would be 8 for Robin, 11 for Rose, 12 for Ginger, 14 for Ruby, 16 for Carmen and 18 for Scarlet. Part of me thinks that this is why Rose’s birth year goes unmentioned on live journal, though if she wasn’t born in 1998 she would not fit the profile of being born on Friday the 13th, but it’s possible it was either a mistake or related to another entry on this iceberg.

Only mentioned in one development image and the development blog for Ginger’s Wolf, is the idea that Ginger and Rose were at one point supposed to be twin sisters, both being 13 similar to the Girl in White and her twin The Girl in Red being 13. In the accompanying image found on Flickr, you’re able to see above Rose her age is listed as 11, or as 13 if she was a twin. The thing is- the sister that has age 13 listed above her is very clearly NOT Ginger, it’s Ruby, and it’s Ginger who’s listed as 15. Well, they’re not listed by name, but Tomboy Red and Goth Red are the names used for Ginger and Ruby as seen on Livejournal, and their appearances are nearly identical to those from the final product. Especially weird considering that Ruby was the first character ever made for this game, and she was listed as 15 in that as well!

You probably noticed this if you looked at the image where Rose and Ginger are listed as twins, but they aren’t the only ones with stark differences that go unexplained. The Girl in White is listed as LDMGIAPWD, an acronym for the Little Deaf Mute Girl in a Pretty White Dress, simplified in print as the Girl in White and in fan discussions as the GIW. Another thing you’ll notice is that Scarlet has… A different design. With a long buttoned dress reminiscent of something straight out of a period piece set in an asylum, and a hat with things that look like antennas with flowers. And then it comes to… Rose and Carmen’s original names. Virgin Red and Sexpot Red. We’ll start with Carmen. Sexpot is a more crude way of describing someone who’s sexy, which is what Carmen’s nickname was then changed to. It’s still kind of a touchy issue with fans that Carmen, a minor, uses the name Sexy- but it’s still far more appropriate compared to Sexpot. Sexy gives more of a feeling that it’s self-appointed when compared to Sexpot which is more voyeuristic. And Virgin Red. Virgin has two contexts that are relevant here. Virgin within the context of purity and innocence, related to the Virgin Mary as an example of goodness not seeing bad. And Virgin within the context of never having sexual contact with anyone. Given the fact her name was then changed to Innocent Red and the fact she is ELEVEN- it’s likely that it’s related to that first interpretation, further giving evidence towards the view of Rose’s story being about her relationship to her spirituality.

If you’ve read Rose or Ruby’s live journal you’d find out that on the 2nd of May 2008, Ruby dyed her hair black. That’s not surprising to begin with, you can see her with her hair as black throughout the game (Though sometimes it has a blueish look with some lighting)- a bit weird that it had to be pointed out as dyed due to all of her sister’s also having black hair (You can see Ginger’s black roots), but their live journals give a reason for why. In Ruby’s comment section, she’s asked about her original hair colour, which she replies was Green. It’s not clear if she means her hair was last dyed green, or if she has natural green hair. This seems like a reference to one of her final flashes that’s the same as another but with a green colouring. Anyway- this isn’t what we’re talking about. In the reply of that comment, someone calls her a liar, and says if it really was green, why did she get her sister to lie? What they’re referring to is Rose’s post about it- in which she says that Ruby had made her promise not to tell what her old hair is. There’s still a debate as to what her original hair colour is, and I don’t think we will ever actually get to know.

In 2022 @wammy4 on Twitter began multiple Twitter bots based on the sisters in The Path, posting various things sourced from lines in the game, live journal posts, quotes from grandmother's house and links to the game. It posted multiple times per day, now with so many posts it’s hard to keep track, but as of the fourth of April 2023, none of the accounts other than the creator has posted, due to Musk’s shutdown of free API bots and $100 per month bot subscription.

A staple of fandoms on the internet are Askblogs, where fans can ask characters questions and get a reply, usually with illustrated companions. The Path is no outlier, having a dedicated askblog on VK- with over 800 followers. It’s been active for years and has over 2 thousand different images, and has asks for all of the characters in the game, as well as gender-bent versions. If you can speak Russian I highly recommend checking it out, and even if you can’t, the art is stunning!

The Red sisters aren’t the only ones who have live journals, within the comments you can find Grandmother Red interacting with her grandkids, asking when they’ll next come down to see her. However this livejournal is different from the others given that hers is deactivated, even with the wayback machine- and her livejournal was never linked on the official website next to the others.

Fuco Euda is a Japanese-based surrealist painter focusing on the horrific, sensual and innocent, with girls nearly looking identical as if they were family, or the same girl. She was first referenced all the way back when Ruby was being designed as an artist to look into for inspiration. Her artbook LUCID DREAM is out, with a special bound edition if that’s something you’d be interested in!

Alice Knows Karate is an alt-pop band that takes inspiration from fairytales and J-pop, creating a unique nostalgic sound that feels straight out of a video game. They’ve got various albums you should definitely check out, but what we’re specifically talking about today is their 2018 album Fablewave, with their song ‘The Path’. It was originally posted on the head of the band Keiko’s YouTube channel in 2009, with an updated version coming ten years later. It’s outrageously good, it captures the essence of the game perfectly with amazing lyrics, and I got a bit too attached and it ended up as my number-one song on Spotify in 2023. The rest of Fablewave is also based on other fairytales and fairytale-inspired games, particularly ‘Alice, What Have You Done?’ based on American McGee’s Alice. Their most recent work is Grounded, and they’ve also been featured as the theme song for Penny Larceny: Gig Economy Supervillain!

The Path was supposed to be Tale of Tales' first commercial project, and as so it included advertising, but being Tale of Tales, they did this the most extra way they could. Around where they lived, they made a Tear Off poster, with what I believe is Martha Samyan’s art of Robin. The poster asks the reader to choose the path of pins or the path of needles, while linking to the website. On their blog they provide a blank download of the tear-off poster so you can print it off, to draw on it and place it around you!

The Path was Tale of Tales' first foray into creating commercial games, and because of that, there are various different selections of merch, such as: Signed Posters, USB drives, CDs of the soundtrack, Polaroids, Shirts (via Redbubble) and a sticker. Nearly all of this, save the shirts on Redbubble, are no longer purchasable, being limited items when they came out, and then finally being sold in 2015 as Tale of Tales moved. I am still so mad I never got those Polaroids and am still madly searching for auctions of them.

The Rose Problem is a catch-all term I am using to describe basically ‘What the hell is up with Rose’. It’s no secret that Rose is divisive when it comes to interpretations- so much so that I couldn’t include her in the first interpretation section. So, what is it that makes Rose so difficult? Well, you can barely see her wolf, her house is almost all flooded and she speaks with flowery prose. The reason people seem to view her route as spirituality or disability is because of her continued mention of disconnect from herself. But there have been oceans of other disagreeing ideas, related to her perhaps going through puberty early, her experiencing guilt related to her family, her being potentially molested, or even her literally dying. It’s been put forward by some that Tale of Tales went into Rose not even having an intention in mind, or it shifted from one idea during development and becoming aimless during that period.

Scarlet is known to be the last created sister, Tale of Tales describe the making of her as being the first to be born and last to be made, and because of that, her wolf was the last to be made. The final wolf is named the Fey Wolf- related to the Fae Court. As an Irish person who’s in full belief of the Fae, I don’t see the resemblance. But that wasn’t his final name- maybe it wasn’t his final appearance. His original name, according to a rough floor plan of what Grandmother’s house would look like with the secret rooms was Boy Toy Wolf. That’s… A name change. Especially considering the fact Boy Toy refers to a young man in a sexual relationship, usually with an older woman, and the Fey Wolf is a sort of elderly-looking androgynous thing with a 19-year-old Scarlet who is not into relationships. But because the Fey Wolf’s making has no text, it’s not clear if his appearance or purpose even changed between the name change.

Quest3d was a tool used for making 3D applications, with an intuitive way of programming by using graphs and seeing it in real-time without the need for a compiler. On Mobygames only 8 games were ever listed as created by Quest3d, 6 if you don’t count The Path and The Prologue- with three of them being a Ship Simulator. I say was because it’s pretty much gone. You can’t open their unique file in anything so you’re kinda screwed if you want to do anything with the game files.

The Shrine and the Playground Sign are two interesting objects that you really can’t see in the rest of the game. They both appear along the path but not in the forest, and unlike the crow, you can’t interact with them. Though not immediately clear- the reason why those appear is to signal to the player that the Graveyard and Playground are accessible. That’s probably self-explanatory for the Playground Sign, but for quite a few people the Shrine may come as a surprise, including me before I researched it.

The Path, like everything, has speedrunners. There are two categories- All Girls and Failure%. There have been seven runs altogether, one in all girls and six in failure%. Failure% is reaching grandmother's house without interacting with any wolf, beginning when you gain control and ending when you leave first person in Grandmother's house. Though there are no guides available, the strategy is clear, using Ruby as she’s the quickest. The world record holder as of now is from Krayzar with a one-minute 35 seconds. There's only one speedrun for All Girls, and I’m going to be honest, I don’t think there’s a strategy, at least not one clear from the world record holder Multiwinner who admits that the run they sent in was their first and only attempt. If you want to try this out, go ahead! You’ll have the chance to make history!

In 2020 a zine by the VK fan club for The Path was released- featuring illustrations, comics and stickers, a full collection of all included is linked here. As far as I can tell, this is the only one of its kind! It really is a marvel, and I have said this for like the third time, but if you have a copy of this I would love to buy it from you. I do have to warn you- there is nudity in here of Ruby.

Tier 5 - Bottom of the Iceberg

Tale of Tales references three artists and illustrators that inspired the feeling they were going for The Path, naming them as Lisa Falzon, Fuco Ueda and Ray Caesar. For its first anniversary, three sets of interviews of those artists by the six red sisters. You can find the interviews here, but some highlights are: Carmen asking Lisa if she has a boyfriend followed by Scarlet asking if Lisa is a feminist, Robin asking if Fuco Euda's paintings showed "Good girls or naughty girls", and Ginger just asking if Ray Caesar would ever make a video game.

One of the more confusing things mentioned in the Post Mortem is the fact that Tale of Tales at one time considered creating a mechanic where you would have to dance battle your wolf. No, I am not joking. I just have one question. In a game about exploring your deepest trauma in a wolf-infested forest. Why did you make them dance?

The Path Tribute Project was a group of Vocaloid songs created based on characters in The Path on niconico. The project is from 2014, and due to this and a lack of updating links, I’m unable to find the original organiser of the project and one of the songs, but what I do have, is a Paste Bin of all the found links, the Tumblr blog it was advertised on, and a short compilation of all of the songs reposted on VK!

The canonicity of the grandmother house pages is up to discussion, with Rose, Ginger, Ruby and Carmen all seeming aware they’re in a video game created by these people with Scarlet not making mention of Kris’ involvement with the game. The outlier is Robin, who says not only is Jarboe real in their universe, but that she lives in a black house in their forest- and that she was the one who taught the family the Safe Song. There clearly is not a black house in the forest- the only house is Grandmother’s which is white. Maybe she’s referring to the tent in the Campsite, we never exactly do see the Woodsman go into it, or it could even be the Bunker, as it seemingly has a panel over the door, but neither of those are housey.

Given The Path’s limited characters and interactions, the game’s fanbase has never really been prime with shipping, the most you would see is Ruby and her Wolf along with Ginger and her Wolf. But one pairing stands among them all as the most. Ship to exist. The Woodsman, and the Fey Wolf. There’s a weirdly large amount of fanart for this, despite their status of never interacting or existing near each other, but I suppose what fandoms do best is see two men and decide they should kiss. Should I show examples of this? Yes. Am I going to? No. Just… Take my word for it and understand why I am not showing you a sweaty bald man making out with whatever the Fey Wolf is.

Shamus Young was a game critic and blogger who was an early modder in the Doom Community, and held some infamous views related to parts of The Path. I want to preface this by saying- Shamus Young passed away in 2022 at the age of 50, and out of respect for him and his family, I will be only relaying what he wrote instead of including my opinions. The reason Shamus gained a particular status in the fan community is for his interpretations of Rose and Carmen. Starting with Carmen- he states that he knew girls like Carmen in high school, that would “Find the biggest, strongest, best-looking complete-jerk they could get their hands on, and then endlessly whine about how ‘men are such pigs.’” He then goes on to explain that he believes Carmen was not raped, because despite being drunk she had taken the alcohol without asking, and that it was not rape because “She came on to him.” He does say that it “does not excuse the forester for sharing his beer and hooking up with an (in some states) underage girl-” and then proceeds to say “But I don’t think he’s a rapist.” At the end of the aftermath saying that “Maybe this one bad experience will make her more careful.” Rose’s analysis begins with him prefacing that “I don’t actually want to talk about this one, because it involves stuff I wouldn’t even bring up on my blog.” and then again stating “And I really hope you’ll keep a clinical head on when I bring this up and try to be polite even if you disagree, and furthermore I hope we can keep this discussion civil and remember that this is all open to interpretation.” Before he goes on to explain how Rose’s water motifs are a representation of discovering masturbation- that the reason why her wolf is a Cloudy Male figure is that “She knows she’s attracted to men but she doesn’t know what men look like yet, or how sex works”. As stated at the beginning of this entry and by Shamus himself, I’m keeping this civil and I am not shaming him for his personal interpretations.

There’s quite a bit of Micheal’s Daughter Martha present in the game at various points. Martha made the original pictograms, I believe the poster art was also by her- but the most clear inspiration is Robin herself. As mentioned in her Making of post, Robin’s outfit is based on her, specifically her outfit of her blue hooded cloak and stripey boots. Martha’s actually an artist now too! Martha Samyn is a textile artist and interior architect, with her last exhibit being at Texture Kortrvijk in January! You can actually see the start of her textile art related to The Path, showing off her Ruby-inspired outfit for her doll!

A last-minute change mentioned in the post-mortem was the fact that The Path did not contain any text until the playtest. And when I mean any text, I don’t just mean instructions- until they had people play the games they hadn’t thought to include text for the items, to show what the characters were thinking, because they saw that “Some players had difficulty to let their imagination work.” That’s a wise lesson for you all. Involve Beta testers.

The Path Fangame, titled The Path Fan Project, is a game by Kinder and Doll, a spiritual follow-up to The Path with less of a focus on horror and more on open-world explanation and interaction with the sisters. The graphics are astonishingly pretty, with quite a few new locations like a train, a cave, and a treehouse. The game also involves slight voices, giving the characters voices for the first time! I again urge you to play it, especially since I am unable to because of the age of my computer.

The-Red-Path is a LiveJournal community never officially linked on the website like all the other LiveJournal profiles, with only six members- the six sisters. This account has only three posts, all posted in 2008, between April and August, only one of which I will be bringing up. On the 16th of April Robin asks whose turn it is to visit their grandmother, with Rose mentioning that they’ve all gone down the path already. There's a weird sadness in this post, with the normally boisterous Carmen asking why she couldn’t just go with anyone else.

You have probably heard of the first urban legend about The Path, the ability to get an A, but this one you likely haven’t heard of. There’s a phone present on the road on the other side of the path, calling it will allow you to transport the sister back to the apartment without needing to go to grandmother’s house. The general idea is then, if you go through the wolf encounter, but turn around on the path and walk back to the phone- would you be able to call it and actually return back home without the sister disappearing? There have been testimonies of being able to do it, as well as fanfictions about the concept, and not a lot of checks due to the fact you can’t run after the wolf encounter and your speed is already extremely low. But I am going to come out and say, no, I don’t believe it’s possible. I don’t think the creators would have overlooked that idea, especially since they had a large number of beta testers, but I do really like the idea and I wish it was true.

That’s the end! I have quite a few things I left out, due to it maybe not being interesting or my losing of sources, but I’m glad I could finally do this. In all honesty, The Path changed my life. It’s helped me through a lot in my own journey of healing and accepting trauma, and I will forever be grateful. Happy 15th anniversary!

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