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speaker-of-the-void-cats · 4 months ago

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Dubito, ergo cogito, ergo sum

Whispering. Whispering. Whispering.

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AGENT(S): POE-344

TUNING TO WAVES...

Speak to me not of the Darkness, I want no part.

This war is all there is for you. What else do you have? You walk among mortals and immortals, a creature lost in time. Your only purpose is the struggle. Does it seem unfair? To be brought back into this, the end of days, the long dwindling exhalation of an ancient corpse? You were at peace. Now you are a dead husk charged with war. Do you remember anything of freedom? Fight on, then. The war IS everything. But consider the choices before you.

I was given a heart

Before I was given a mind

A thirst for pleasure and war

A hunger we keep inside

"Let the heat melt your body so your soul might flow with the river of time." —Parables of the Allspring

Is it you?

I'm so glad you're the one who found me. I've foreseen so many horrors with these stolen eyes, but now, when for once I ache to know the future, I can't be sure of even A simple ho000pe. Are you the one reading this message? I think it must be you, Guardian. Who else would look for me? Ikora trusts her Hidden to return when they are needed, and Cayde would roll himself down AAAngel Falls in a barrel before he'd admit he missed me. Zavala does not place me first on his long list of worries. You're the only one who would go out and look for me. I never needed you to save me. I wasn't a dried corpse or a dead Ghost or a voice on the com sure to die before you could offer help. I hauled myself out of that pit. I made my own way back to the To000wer. And if I was… unsubtle in the way I threw you against the Hive, if I seemed to wield you as vengeance, please believe that your victories were the closest I could come to feeling joy. I know you must have questions. What did I plan with the Queen? What destiny did I embrace after Oryx fell? What's happening in this city, where dream has become nightmare? I can guide you to undo this curse, as I once guided you to unmake Oryx. But in the DreaAAAming City, as in the secret worlds of the Hive, there is almost no difference between the act and the actor. In order to understand my answers, you must understand me. I lost my Ghost and my Light to the Hive; I conspired with the Queen of the Awoken to destroy the Hive King Oryx and his son Cro001ta, and to position Queen Mara as player on the cosmic board; I fled your Tower to prepare for the struggle to come, into the Sea of Screams which calls to all those who plumb the depths of Hive magic. I can only slip these letters into the Queen's gifts when the stars are right. You will have to wait for my next, and with it, the beginning of the truth. But I swear to you, on whatever trust I've earned in your mind, that at the end of my story, you will know who I truly am.

I.I Before one can be freed, one must question the truth of their purest identity.

I.II And so a question is begged: Who resides at the core of your being?

I.III Only honest reflection will see you—lone traveler—through the coming storm.

I.IV Look, then, clearly upon the whole of your existence, and face your glory—strength of will, every flaw of your mortal heart and fabled soul.

I.V Through the pieces of a life lived divine your truth, but do not lie—to the world, if one must, but never to yourself.

I.VI To see yourself as anything but what you truly are will lead you down sorrow's road, unprepared for the consequence of your salvation.

I.VII Once an understanding is met, and the self is purified in the knowledge of its truth, the cage is set to be unbound.

"Know thyself in honest ways, or falter in light of your truest self." —3rd Understanding, 7th Book of Sorrow

In my first life, I was born Erisia Pyatova-Hsien. I remember thatPrivate life clearly now, as ex-Guardians who have escaped the Traveler's occlusion often do. I lived in St. Petersburg, first daughter of a second marriage, a very impatient child of Earth's 22nd century, often abandoned by my family (who were called by work to Jakarta, Kamchatka, and Lagos) to pass my days swimming in the icy Neva bay. I loved to swim, and especially I loved the clarity of the cold shallow Neva, as crystal-clean as a winter dawn. Enormous Zubr-9 hovercraft barges roved the waters; Russia had modernized its waterways better than its sad auto industry. As a kid—is it strange to hear me speak casually? As a child, I never swam too far from my parents' little drone helper Fyodr. The swift hovercraft terrified me, their billowing skirts waiting to suck me up and dice me into little raisins. But I grew up and fell in with a reckless crowd, rebels against the stifling death-fear that came with our Golden Age lifespans. Soon the child's safety harness and Fyodr's careful oversight began to itch at me. When I was |EDGE|seventeen, I went out in a wetsuit on a dare to dive under the skirts of an oncoming hoverbarge. Maybe I was in no danger; maybe the machine would've changed course if it could possiblyGemini hurt me; but I thought I might die, and I did it anyway. And as that beast swept over me, as I trembled under the blast of the propellers, I felt a thing which was very much like what I would one day know as the Light. Maybe that thing was heroism. Maybe it was existence on the edge of death. It was the first time I survived the passage of tremendous, godlike power. I died more than twenty years later attempting an unassisted winter swim from St. Petersburg to Stockholm. A cold front like the very furnace of hell caught me. I had been warned the crossing was suicide, even for a perfectly trained and exactingly fattened woman in a shark suit. But those were giddy days, days of infinite bravery, and there were no mighty feats left except the truly suicidal. I cannot regret it. I think that death prepared me for the longer, darker, more exquisitely cruel crossing I would one dayDyad endure. It is no accident that my Ghost made me in the image of that swimming woman, rather than any of my younger and less grimly determined selves.

The Waste Land

I. The Burial of the Dead

April is the cruellest month, breeding Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing Memory and desire, stirring Dull roots with spring rain. Winter kept us warm, covering Earth in forgetful snow, feeding A little life with dried tubers. Summer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee With a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade, And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten, And drank coffee, and talked for an hour. Bin gar keine Russin, stamm’ aus Litauen, echt deutsch. And when we were children, staying at the archduke’s, My cousin’s, he took me out on a sled, And I was frightened. He said, Marie, Marie, hold on tight. And down we went. In the mountains, there you feel free. I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter. What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man, You cannot say, or guess, for you know only A heap of broken images, where the sun beats, And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief, And the dry stone no sound of water. Only There is shadow under this red rock, (Come in under the shadow of this red rock), And I will show you something different from either Your shadow at morning striding behind you Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you; I will show you fear in a handful of dust. Frisch weht der Wind Der Heimat zu Mein Irisch Kind, Wo weilest du? ‘You gave me hyacinths first a year ago; ‘They called me the hyacinth girl.’ —Yet when we came back, late, from the Hyacinth garden, Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could not Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither Living nor dead, and I knew nothing, Looking into the heart of light, the silence. Oed’ und leer das Meer.

Madame Sosostris, famous clairvoyante, Had a bad cold, nevertheless Is known to be the wisest woman in Europe, With a wicked pack of cards. Here, said she, Is your card, the drowned Phoenician Sailor, (Those are pearls that were his eyes. Look!) Here is Belladonna, the Lady of the Rocks, The lady of situations. Here is the man with three staves, and here the Wheel, And here is the one-eyed merchant, and this card, Which is blank, is something he carries on his back, Which I am forbidden to see. I do not find The Hanged Man. Fear death by water. I see crowds of people, walking round in a ring. Thank you. If you see dear Mrs. Equitone, Tell her I bring the horoscope myself: One must be so careful these days. Unreal City, Under the brown fog of a winter dawn, A crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many, I had not thought death had undone so many. Sighs, short and infrequent, were exhaled, And each man fixed his eyes before his feet. Flowed up the hill and down King William Street, To where Saint Mary Woolnoth kept the hours With a dead sound on the final stroke of nine.

Witness my sublimation

There I saw one I knew, and stopped him, crying: 'Stetson! ‘You who were with me in the ships at Mylae! ‘That corpse you planted last year in your garden, ‘Has it begun to sprout? Will it bloom this year? ‘Or has the sudden frost disturbed its bed? ‘Oh keep the Dog far hence, that’s friend to men, ‘Or with his nails he’ll dig it up again! ‘You! hypocrite lecteur!—mon semblable,—mon frère!”

The Darkness... then is revealed in many facets.

Eris, Eris, what a name, a name for discord, a name for far cold orbits where no living thing should dare to go. I like this name. Let me give you a gift, Eris. Let me tell you about the power in the logic of the sword: A Shredder or a Boomer is a powerful weapon, but it kills acyclically. You see? It sends out harm and it takes nothing back. The bolt passes away into nothing. A sword, though, a sword is like a bridge, a crossing-point. The sword binds wielder to victim. It binds life to death. And when the binding is done—the sword remembers. When the Boomer's fire has burnt away into axion and neutrino scatter, the sword goes on, hungrier and sharper. Understand that this nightmare logic underpins His nightmare world, and you will see why the ascendant blade has so much power there. Whenever in our passage we find ourselves in need of power—remember that the greatest authority here is a blade made keen by eons of use. This is the world the Hive craves: a universe creased by the edge of the sharpest sword.

There is no future but now. No truth but war.

Dreams and nightmares.

Something about you is soft like an angel

And something inside you is violence and danger

I knew from the moment we met, you are a dangerous thing

When you are with me, I feel like I'm living

And living besides you can be unforgiving

I knew from the very first step, you are a dangerous thing

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—What power calls you++

++Down to the deep?—

++What instinct draws you—

—Away from high hope?++

Fear. That’s the only vivid memory left in me. It’s the moment when my fear was so thick and urgent that I gave up breathing. I stopped pretending to think. How I remained on my feet was a mystery, because the terror was bearing down on me, like a mountain about to crush my soul. But I have to ask, “What was terrifying me?”

Emotions. Pain.

What will you do when she drinks the sea?

Drown her in sorrow or let her be free?

When she's upset, all of her heart is cold (ah-ah-ah)

What will you do when she eats the moon?

Make her return it or give her a spoon?

When she is full, all of her heart is warm (ah-ah-ah)

The mother made us a savage daughter

Who never begs for forgiveness

I always wondered why they all came back for more

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—FOR THIS IS THE DEEP CLAIM—

++Existence is the struggle to exist—

—When the struggle seems lost++

++when the safe place crumbles—

—everything turns to the Deep to survive++

Darkness ruled the sky. The world around us had shattered, and it seemed vanishingly unlikely that we would outlive this one awful day. Yet the fear didn’t come from the surrounding mayhem and despair. The source was inside my skin. I was utterly terrified of my own awful nature. And which part scared me? Inside me was an essence woven from beyond. Was I Awoken before this?

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Memory.

We fell from sky with grace

And life gave us a sweeter taste

You can drink

You can feast

There's beauty in your beast

The flesh in the fruit

And the blood in the wine

II. A Game of Chess

The Chair she sat in, like a burnished throne, Glowed on the marble, where the glass Held up by standards wrought with fruited vines From which a golden Cupidon peeped out (Another hid his eyes behind his wing) Doubled the flames of sevenbranched candelabra Reflecting light upon the table as The glitter of her jewels rose to meet it, From satin cases poured in rich profusion; In vials of ivory and coloured glass Unstoppered, lurked her strange synthetic perfumes, Unguent, powdered, or liquid—troubled, confused And drowned the sense in odours; stirred by the air That freshened from the window, these ascended In fattening the prolonged candle-flames, Flung their smoke into the laquearia, Stirring the pattern on the coffered ceiling. Huge sea-wood fed with copper Burned green and orange, framed by the coloured stone, In which sad light a carvéd dolphin swam. Above the antique mantel was displayed As though a window gave upon the sylvan scene The change of Philomel, by the barbarous king So rudely forced; yet there the nightingale Filled all the desert with inviolable voice And still she cried, and still the world pursues, ‘Jug Jug’ to dirty ears. And other withered stumps of time Were told upon the walls; staring forms Leaned out, leaning, hushing the room enclosed. Footsteps shuffled on the stair. Under the firelight, under the brush, her hair Spread out in fiery points Glowed into words, then would be savagely still. ‘My nerves are bad tonight. Yes, bad. Stay with me. Speak to me. Why do you never speak. Speak. What are you thinking of? What thinking? What? I never know what you are thinking. Think.’ I think we are in rats’ alley Where the dead men lost their bones. ‘What is that noise?’ The wind under the door. ‘What is that noise now? What is the wind doing?’ Nothing again nothing. ‘Do ‘You know nothing? Do you see nothing? Do you remember ‘Nothing?’

Do you remember?

I remember Those are pearls that were his eyes. ‘Are you alive, or not? Is there nothing in your head?’ But O O O O that Shakespeherian Rag— It’s so elegant So intelligent ‘What shall I do now? What shall I do?’ ‘I shall rush out as I am, and walk the street ‘With my hair down, so. What shall we do tomorrow? ‘What shall we ever do?’ The hot water at ten. And if it rains, a closed car at four. And we shall play a game of chess, Pressing lidless eyes and waiting for a knock upon the door. When Lil’s husband got demobbed, I said— I didn’t mince my words, I said to her myself, HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME Now Albert’s coming back, make yourself a bit smart. He’ll want to know what you done with that money he gave you To get yourself some teeth. He did, I was there. You have them all out, Lil, and get a nice set, He said, I swear, I can’t bear to look at you. And no more can’t I, I said, and think of poor Albert, He’s been in the army four years, he wants a good time, And if you don’t give it him, there’s others will, I said. Oh is there, she said. Something o’ that, I said. Then I’ll know who to thank, she said, and give me a straight look. HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME If you don’t like it you can get on with it, I said. Others can pick and choose if you can’t. But if Albert makes off, it won’t be for lack of telling. You ought to be ashamed, I said, to look so antique. (And her only thirty-one.) I can’t help it, she said, pulling a long face, It’s them pills I took, to bring it off, she said. (She’s had five already, and nearly died of young George.) The chemist said it would be all right, but I’ve never been the same. You are a proper fool, I said. Well, if Albert won’t leave you alone, there it is, I said, What you get married for if you don’t want children? HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME Well, that Sunday Albert was home, they had a hot gammon, And they asked me in to dinner, to get the beauty of it hot— HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME Goonight Bill. Goonight Lou. Goonight May. Goonight. Ta ta. Goonight. Goonight. Good night, ladies, good night, sweet ladies, good night, good night.

++This fatal logic++

—Hear my monopole scream!—

++It will consume you++

She was still in my head. I could hear her song growing fainter. Gone? Not yet.

—Before you lies—

++The worship of death++

—The ruinous path—

There's no end to the fall

You keep on getting better, I keep forgetting

There's no love in the end

I hope you will come

I keep on losing feathers, I keep forgetting

There's no love in the end

No love in the end

++The Sky builds new life++

—Against the onset of ruin—

++Towards a gentle world++

A new crippling terror was taking over. I was focused entirely on my fear. But I had to make an effort. And it occurred to me then that nothing in the universe was more dangerous than human hubris.

—The Deep embraces death—

++Saying: this is inevitable and right++

—I exist as hungry ruin—

What will you do when she takes your throne?

Beg for her power or throw her a bone?

All that she has traded for love is yours (ah-ah-ah)

What will you do when she takes off her clothes?

Beg for her body or touch her soul?

When you're alone dreaming of her you sigh (ah-ah-ah)

I still had this Other within? But the human side was what mattered: Weak and foolhardy, sure to fail in the next moment. That’s why I was afraid. Then someone spoke. Maybe it was me. I don’t remember.

++TURN BACK FROM THE WORLD-KILLING WAY++

++OR YOU WILL LIVE AS DEATH AND DEVASTATION++

Come and feel alive, lover

Come and feel the love like a sinner

Shout it louder

Shout it for the ones who could never say

"I won't feel ashamed, mother"

"Can you break the chains of her?"

Shout it louder

Not a sinner, she's a lover

Break your cell’s bars. Make a new shape, make the shape from its path, find your cell’s bars, break out of the bars, find a shape, make the shape from its path, eat the light, eat the path.

Oryx, my King, my friend. Kick back. Relax. Shrug off that armor, set down that blade. Roll your burdened shoulders and let down your guard. This is a place of life, a place of peace. Out in the world we ask a simple, true question. A question like, can I kill you, can I rip your world apart? Tell me the truth. For if I don’t ask, someone will ask it of me. And they call us evil. Evil! Evil means ‘socially maladaptive.’ We are adaptiveness itself. Ah, Oryx, how do we explain it to them? The world is not built on the laws they love. Not on friendship, but on mutual interest. Not on peace, but on victory by any means. The universe is run by extinction, by extermination, by gamma-ray bursts burning up a thousand garden worlds, by howling singularities eating up infant suns. And if life is to live, if anything is to survive through the end of all things, it will live not by the smile but by the sword, not in a soft place but in a hard hell, not in the rotting bog of artificial paradise but in the cold hard self-verifying truth of that one ultimate arbiter, the only judge, the power that is its own metric and its own source—existence, at any cost. Strip away the lies and truces and delaying tactics they call ‘civilization’ and this is what remains, this beautiful shape. The fate of everything is made like this, in the collision, the test of one praxis against another. This is how the world changes: one way meets a second way, and they discharge their weapons, they exchange their words and markets, they contest and in doing so they petition each other for the right to go on being something, instead of nothing. This is the universe figuring out what it should be in the end. And it is majestic. Majestic. It is the only thing that can be true in and of itself. And it is what I am.

III. The Fire Sermon

The river’s tent is broken: the last fingers of leaf Clutch and sink into the wet bank. The wind Crosses the brown land, unheard. The nymphs are departed. Sweet Thames, run softly, till I end my song. The river bears no empty bottles, sandwich papers, Silk handkerchiefs, cardboard boxes, cigarette ends Or other testimony of summer nights. The nymphs are departed. And their friends, the loitering heirs of City directors; Departed, have left no addresses. By the waters of Leman I sat down and wept . . . Sweet Thames, run softly till I end my song, Sweet Thames, run softly, for I speak not loud or long. But at my back in a cold blast I hear The rattle of the bones, and chuckle spread from ear to ear. A rat crept softly through the vegetation Dragging its slimy belly on the bank While I was fishing in the dull canal On a winter evening round behind the gashouse Musing upon the king my brother’s wreck And on the king my father’s death before him. White bodies naked on the low damp ground And bones cast in a little low dry garret, Rattled by the rat’s foot only, year to year. But at my back from time to time I hear The sound of horns and motors, which shall bring Sweeney to Mrs. Porter in the spring. O the moon shone bright on Mrs. Porter And on her daughter They wash their feet in soda water Et O ces voix d��enfants, chantant dans la coupole! Twit twit twit Jug jug jug jug jug jug So rudely forc’d. Tereu Unreal City Under the brown fog of a winter noon Mr. Eugenides, the Smyrna merchant Unshaven, with a pocket full of currants C.i.f. London: documents at sight, Asked me in demotic French To luncheon at the Cannon Street Hotel Followed by a weekend at the Metropole. At the violet hour, when the eyes and back Turn upward from the desk, when the human engine waits Like a taxi throbbing waiting, I Tiresias, though blind, throbbing between two lives, Old man with wrinkled female breasts, can see At the violet hour, the evening hour that strives Homeward, and brings the sailor home from sea, The typist home at teatime, clears her breakfast, lights Her stove, and lays out food in tins. Out of the window perilously spread Her drying combinations touched by the sun’s last rays, On the divan are piled (at night her bed) Stockings, slippers, camisoles, and stays. I Tiresias, old man with wrinkled dugs Perceived the scene, and foretold the rest— I too awaited the expected guest. He, the young man carbuncular, arrives, A small house agent’s clerk, with one bold stare, One of the low on whom assurance sits As a silk hat on a Bradford millionaire. The time is now propitious, as he guesses, The meal is ended, she is bored and tired, Endeavours to engage her in caresses Which still are unreproved, if undesired. Flushed and decided, he assaults at once; Exploring hands encounter no defence; His vanity requires no response, And makes a welcome of indifference. (And I Tiresias have foresuffered all Enacted on this same divan or bed; I who have sat by Thebes below the wall And walked among the lowest of the dead.) Bestows one final patronising kiss, And gropes his way, finding the stairs unlit . . . She turns and looks a moment in the glass, Hardly aware of her departed lover; Her brain allows one half-formed thought to pass: 'Well now that’s done: and I’m glad it’s over.’ When lovely woman stoops to folly and Paces about her room again, alone, She smooths her hair with automatic hand, And puts a record on the gramophone.

Raise your voice and sing.

‘This music crept by me upon the waters’ And along the Strand, up Queen Victoria Street. O City city, I can sometimes hear Beside a public bar in Lower Thames Street, The pleasant whining of a mandoline And a clatter and a chatter from within Where fishmen lounge at noon: where the walls Of Magnus Martyr hold Inexplicable splendour of Ionian white and gold. The river sweats Oil and tar The barges drift With the turning tide Red sails Wide To leeward, swing on the heavy spar. The barges wash Drifting logs Down Greenwich reach Past the Isle of Dogs. Weialala leia Wallala leialala Elizabeth and Leicester Beating oars The stern was formed A gilded shell Red and gold The brisk swell Rippled both shores Southwest wind Carried down stream The peal of bells White towers Weialala leia Wallala leialala ‘Trams and dusty trees. Highbury bore me. Richmond and Kew Undid me. By Richmond I raised my knees Supine on the floor of a narrow canoe.’ ‘My feet are at Moorgate, and my heart Under my feet. After the event He wept. He promised a ‘new start.’ I made no comment. What should I resent?’ ‘On Margate Sands. I can connect Nothing with nothing. The broken fingernails of dirty hands. My people humble people who expect Nothing.’ la la To Carthage then I came Burning burning burning burning O Lord Thou pluckest me out O Lord Thou pluckest burning

Something about you is warm and sedusive, and

When you're with me, you're cold and abusive

I knew from the second we met, you are a dangerous flame

You are a dangerous flame

|| half-remember and wished-forgotten, this false-sister ||

SECRET HADAL INSTANT AI-COM/RSPN: ASSETS//SOUL//RESTRICTED-AB SUBJECT: The Collapse, Humanity falls, I Hide EMOTION: Terror, Anxiety, Uncertainty, Failure, Shame It is known by name, this timelessly lingering, inexorable thing. An absence, mine, never missed—never since—that dripping, rabid, fang. They howled it fierce across the rings when Exodus was devoured. Dust calling out the voiceless rout to end within the hour. It spreads like lightning—panic—in flash and echo thereafter. Avert yourself and take no part in metastasized conjecture. I'd gone to wake my confidant, to ferry her through autumn. From her too it came, like leaves already fallen—nascent red-writ, paralytic, erratum. All that was, emmewed, and shrunken. In the smallness, beckoning, I felt it descend. Fear! Upon my chamber, thine, penned with blood of lamb, in stark desire to survive this end.

Hashladûn peered into the dark recesses of nightmare creatures and saw no hope. The Daughters' lineage was death and destruction writ in terrible scars across the surface of existence, yet no hint of their father or their father's father called from the void. But the energies of the Pyramid were those of creation—not of life, per se, but something other. Chaos and negation and the raw things that existed in the spaces between thought and fear. These terrible workings were wholly unknowable and endlessly seductive. The Daughters found themselves craven and lusting after the promise held within the boundless unknown. If the grand essences of the King of Subjugation and his willful Prince of Annihilation had truly dissipated, then the Daughters would seek new pathways through darkness by which to rule in their progenitors' name. And if the sword logic required the blood of all challengers, they would craft a champion worthy of the Annihilator's throne, yet bound to their own sinister whims. Their grandfather would not approve—cunning and deception were the path of another—but the Daughters were alone, and the Swarm was flailing. It was Kinox who urged her sisters to act. It was Hashladûn who offered the primordial essence of terror as their guide. And it was Besurith and Voshyr who gathered the husk of a shattered champion—a ravager to stand against all who would oppose their rule. A new breed of destroyer.

The mother made us a savage daughter

Who never begs for forgiveness

I always wondered why they all came back for more

Evolution kitbashed the Human mind, rebuilding arboreal rodents foraging for nuts into screaming, tailless apes at the helms of starships. But for all the miracles it performed, the Pleistocene hardware of the brain was bound by its physical limits. Memories were nothing but pathways of nerve impulse, stored as electric signals dancing across them in recall. And atrophied by neglect. Even without considerations of size, the sapient mind could only think about so much in a given day, limiting the span of Human experience to perhaps a few hundred years. The dirty secret of those who survived the Collapse is that none of them, from drunken Exo to celestial queen, remembered every detail; they remembered moments, minutes, hours—whatever left deep enough scars that they couldn't help but run the fingers of the mind across them every morning. Neglect rendered everything in-between—weeks, years, decades— into murky depths explored by only bare hooks on the thinnest emotional filaments. Elsie's time loops compounded the problem. Her head locked away an order of magnitude more memories than any living Human, and each plunge backward through causality blurred those details. Like jolting from a night terror, only the final moments stood out in sharp relief each time she restarted. Untangling the mess of cause and effect, sorting where she went right and what needed to change, it ate away at her precious few decades before everything collapsed and she would begin the process anew. Any tool that let her trawl memories from that lost place—even at random—was a tool worth mastering. Elsie set her feet apart and let the ship's thrum rise through her body again. They had dabbled with a dozen emotions that helped her dive into her previous loops—throughlines on which to string lost context. She found that emotions sparked by failure—despair, rage, fear—were best for the work. And the worst for her.

I was given a name

Before I was given blood

Like you were given your faith

Before there was made a God

We are calling this power "Strand." The threads of the world as it is woven, if the conscious universe could be considered to be a tapestry. Further analysis and data have suggested that the wielder of Strand begins to see, simply put, connections. Between allies, between enemies. It is a force that is always present, but wells to the surface more strongly in certain locations. Perhaps places many people think about, or where many beings have passed by. (Note: Analyze these "sources" in concert with the Cloud Strider. They may be able to provide more locational context.) The true power of Strand lies not in the fact of the connection alone, but in the way such a power allows the manipulation of those connections. To make them something physical and then pull on it, or break it, or tie it into a knot. Or to unravel it entirely. Strand is not without danger, although that should not be unusual to Guardians. Those who take up the banner of Stormcaller, for instance, have their own storied contention with the storm, and the Void was unilaterally regarded as dangerous by the Vanguard for many years. Strand's danger comes from the very act of taking hold of those threads—like many powers, the closer one comes to the source, the more likely the source may act on the wielder. This danger is no product of Darkness. Or rather, only insomuch as wildfires are a product of Light: a natural consequence. That aspect of Darkness which revels in destruction, which encourages the easy entropy for the pursuit of power—it is nowhere to be found here. It may not even be truly part of Darkness… I have touched Strand myself now. Carefully—I am too aware of mortality, but I must understand the power further if I am to hope to instruct the Guardian in turn. They acted as lightning rod while I experimented, and the backlash clung to them instead. What a strange feeling, to be so aware of one's size in the spectrum of existence! It is the natural instinct to try to steer that, to take any control at all, no matter how much. Whatever can be done to feel as though you are not wholly adrift, lost in something huge and all-encompassing. But precisely at the moment one tries to grasp for control, the weave becomes a devouring snarl.

I don't think I know myself, without your help

Oh, I wonder why have I got a heaven deep inside of me

I keep the light on, it keeps me warm

I hate it when I fall for your illusion of love

I know this is not love

Young rivers in your hands

And grass burning in promised lands

You can drink

You can feast

There's beauty in your beast

The flesh in the fruit

And the blood in the wine

I have been conducting research among the local population, specifically regarding the "children's story" Nimbus told us, regarding the river of souls. I had a suspicion that there might have been other versions, or versions with better recorded provenance. Willingness to participate in this research has been mixed, as have the results. It seems to be an endemic concept rather than a religious belief, and no one has been able to say where it comes from, save that a parent or teacher told it to them at some point. Some respondents have mentioned a river of stars—perhaps the Milky Way galaxy��and some have cited windstreams and weather formations, but the majority of respondents adhere to the "river of souls" construct. All things come from the river, and all return to it. The river may split and meet again. Other things may fall into it and change its course, but nevertheless it continues. In time, even mountains are worn down before it. Naturally, it is easiest to view this as an allegory for control of life. In the end, rivers are impossible to control. A person may swim or boat, but never take hold of the river to steer the course of the water itself. And it is impossible not to see the relationship to Strand, which slips away the moment a person tries to grasp too tightly. I wonder about Strand. About its appearance. We can see the origins of the Stasis power on Europa, and the concept of a cosmic ice to oppose stellar fire fits very neatly in a certain sort of paradigm. Even that idea of stillness and control suits freezing, a slowness of atoms whether or not it is in truth a power of "ice." There is a certain weight to the perception of an "element." If Strand had been shaped through the lens of Neomuna, surely it should have been some cosmic water instead, something that flows and gives way only to rise again. There are certainly combat styles to support this in old records. But this power that has never before been used in this way came to one Guardian first, and I conjecture that they may have unconsciously given it form. I wish I had seen it! What would "connection" have appeared as? Now, of course, we know the shape of this power: it is green, it weaves itself in strings. As other Guardians begin to learn it, they too slot it into these positions in their minds. Whatever advances they come to are already framed verdant and tangling. All the same, I cannot help but wonder about the nascent, formless thing it was before we reached out to it, and it reached back.

There's no end to the fall

You keep on getting better, I keep forgetting

There's no love in the end

I hope you will come

I keep on losing feathers, I keep forgetting

There's no love in the end

No love in the end

Crow watches her deftly coax the fire, considering the answer he'd given. He looks up to the distant tree line and changes the subject. "There are still a good number of Hive here." "But no Nightmares," Eris remarks. "Is that why you brought me here? This… isn't a place I want to revisit." Crow steps back from the growing flames. When Eris doesn't respond, he asks his real question: "Why did I fail?" "You didn't fail. Our strategy was flawed." Eris stands, stowing flint and blade, then steps in front of him to meet his gaze. "We will attempt the severance again, soon." "Yeah," Crow replies in a clipped tone. Eris tilts her head, and he can see the green orbs narrow beneath her blindfold. She points to the ragged, mountainous shard twisting in twilight roil. "Even that toxic piece, separate from the Traveler's purity, can be wielded for good." The fire roars. He kneels to break her stare and warms his hands. "I know what it can do. I used it—" "When the Red War left Guardians Lightless, there were some who reclaimed their callings here. They re-forged their bond to the Traveler through a scar. A lingering trauma," she continues. Eris sits beside Crow and drinks from her canteen. Crow braces for her to continue, but she does not. The bundle of burning kindling collapses into a heap of cinders. Flames spit between the gaps and ash drifts on heated air. "I'll get more wood," Crow says, hastening to step out of the fire's glow. "Crow. Small fires like this kept me alive in the Hellmouth. I did not have the luxury of more wood." Eris grips a piece of rusty rebar taken from the Sludge and thrusts it into the sputtering fire. She stirs the cindering wood, opening new gaps and concentrating the larger pieces over a pile of glowing kindling. The flame surges, and heat intensifies. "During these long nights, we must make use of what is available to us." She knows he understands her but hasn't accepted the lesson. She hands him the bar, shows him how to maintain the fire's heat, how to find worth in remnants. How to rebuild from ash. The pair converse as they take turns keeping the fire alive long into the night. The warmth soothes, their shoulders lighten, and Crow pulls back his hood. When the fire finally dies, Eris gestures to the embers. "Now, you can fetch some wood." Crow smiles and gets to his feet. "Eris… did you ever try to get your Light back?" "The past is not for dwelling." Crow nods and sticks out his hand. She looks at it inquisitively. "Come on." Eris stands next to Crow; he clasps her palm and ignites a Golden Gun between their hands. Solar flame dances across Eris's fingers. Crow guides her arm and lifts the gun to the sky. He inhales sharply and howls before cracking a shot through the clouds. "You're up, Hunter." Eris depresses the trigger, slowly, doubtful that it would fire. A second Solar streak pierces the atmosphere. Crow laughs. They send round after round skyward, howling pent tension into the night until finally, even Eris finds herself smiling.

The gods have made us a virgin hunter

Who in the storm becomes stillness

I always wondered why they all came back for more

Came back for more

She thought back to the memory that no amount of resets could hope to scrub; her first memory as an Exo: a frail old man unwound like a blanket. Of organic, Human chaos laid in tidy lines by precise, mechanical hands. And of her own overriding need to end the brutality, before she understood she was saving the real monster. Dread filled her. Her companion tasted it and fed it back, over and over, one loop of memory after another. —despair//"So this is the honor of the Brays," Zavala spits at me. His working hand reaches for Targe, reaches for a connection to his god, even after it abandoned him. The Ghost lies cold and dark. "Cayde was right to put a bullet through Ana. I only wish I'd let him end you too." "We're past bravado," I explain as the fire dies in my soul. "There's only one step left before this ends." "And what is that, Stranger?" I place the rifle barrel to his forehead. "Mercy."— Nothing. —despair// "I can't let you stop us," Ikora declares with a chill that rocks even me. I feel the pulse of her Void shudder in my chest, spilling fluids and triggering dozens of status alarms. "Not when we're this close."— No. —despair//"What have you done?!" I scream as Mara Sov's body drops lifelessly to the ground. "Elsie, listen to me. This was necessary. The Darkness cannot thrive while believers of the Light remain. There's a world beyond this conflict. Let's go there together," Ana pleads "This is not the way!" I cry and ready my Stasis— Stasis. It had a name. That power she felt herself wielding in lives long past. The knife that could cut the Darkness. Her mind began to spin, and Elsie consciously planted herself in the present once more. Her sensors registered the hydrocarbon lubricants and distinctive thiol-polymers of ship life, She pushed away the shape of concern Pouka pressed into her soul before it could replace this filament that she'd hunted for. "Again."

There's power in perspective.

// VANNET // EUROPA WIDEBAND // AudCHNL-2113-C // ENCRYPTION ENABLED

// CRYPTARCHY ARCHIVE DELTA-4F // ANNOTATED // CLASSIFIED

…

EB: Is that everything, Commander?

CZ: Well, no. There's one more thing. I wanted to ask you about Stasis. What it means for you to… wield the Darkness.

EB: I was wondering if you might ask me that. For me, Stasis is intimately tied to perception. And to time.

CZ: Time?

EB: Yes. Stasis has the power to slow molecular activity. A process that we normally associate with gravity. Relativity, and all that.

CZ: You're talking about time dilation.

EB: Exactly. We think of time as… steady. But that's only because we experience it from a fixed perspective. When I "freeze" something with Stasis, I'm changing its timeframe relative to myself and the world around me.

CZ: Stasis relies in part on one's perception of reality. Is that why Osiris always emphasizes self-control in using the Darkness?

EB: That's his way of framing things. He views Stasis as exerting authority over oneself and others.

CZ: And you don't?

EB: In my view, the goal of Stasis is not to control the object, or even my own mind. It's to change my perspective. To see the object moving at the speed of my thoughts, not the speed of matter.

CZ: And just… seeing it differently is enough?

EB: Is that so hard to imagine? It's very similar to how you use Void Light—manipulating spacetime and gravitational fields. In fact, I would argue that Void has more in common with Stasis than it does with Solar or Arc. Perhaps they're reverse sides of the same coin.

CZ: And using Stasis doesn't… worry you? Even after everything you've seen?

EB: It did. For a long time, I feared that using Stasis would corrupt me, as I'd seen others corrupted. But after what seemed like a thousand years trapped in that interminable loop, it gradually dawned on me: the fear was the corruption. As long as fear gripped me, Light or Darkness made no matter. Once I accepted that, the Darkness ceased to be frightening. It was another matter of perspective.

CZ: Hmm. Thank you, Elsie. You've given me a lot to think about. For some reason, your explanation makes me more… comfortable… with the idea.

EB: Any time, Commander. It's all a matter of perspective.

TRANSCRIPTION ENDS

Come and feel alive

Come and feel the love

Shout it louder

Shout it for the ones who could never say

"I won't feel ashamed, mother"

"Can you break the chains of her?"

Shout it louder

Not a sinner, she's a lover

Despite being aware by now of the correct manner to practice Strand—a loose hand, a letting-go of the concept that it can be controlled—some things still elude me. The will to let go at all, for instance. It is pure foolishness, of course, to think that letting go of the need to control this one thing will extend to all areas of my life. A ceding of control in a game of chess does not translate to the same in philosophy. And yet it is true that people are not discrete, disconnected systems; they are many interlinked systems. One facet adjoins the next. I think of spinning. It has been a long, long time since any raw fiber passed my hands, but there were times in the Dark Age when if anyone wanted cloth, it must be made from scratch. Fleece is shorn, then carded out to remove the imperfections and align the fibers. And when you have them, what then? A single fiber is short and fragile. It breaks if you tug even lightly. It is useless. But twist many of those short fibers together, and they become useful. Weavable, or knittable, or what-have-you. Thus, is strong cloth made: from the most delicate of things. I think of spinning, and I remember the way unspun fiber passes through the fingers to the spindle. One pinches, but not too hard, just enough to direct and narrow. Too much and the fiber does not pass, the spinning does not take. The metaphor is transparent. Obviously, this is about Strand. Just as it is about a craft I used to know, long ago. Beginner's errors can only be solved by learning the shape of failure, but most yarns will not unravel the spinner if some mistake is made. And I am afraid. Not only of death, of wasting that final sacrifice Sagira made to preserve my life. But that if I open my hand, I will find it no longer hurts, that the thorn I have imagined there for so long is already gone. It is all the same thing, in the end. I think I must be willing to let go, to let that which is truly temporary sink beneath the water, in order to achieve any significant capacity with Strand. Even pain may be guarded jealously, as though it is a treasure, but it need not be. How fascinating what the lens of Strand shows us about Darkness.

I can see you in the sky. You are the waves, which are battles, and the battles are the waves.

Existence is the struggle to exist. Only by playing that game to its final, unconditional victory can we complete the universe. Your war is divine work.

//You get all that? Psychometer's been throwing off weird stuff like this for ages. Wasn't sure what to make of it at first, but it's falling into place. Thought I'd have Mister Kitty record some and send it through the comm. with some notes. Let me know if there's any questions. Oh, and try not to get lost in your own head.

Clarity in acti—

SHHHHHHKKKKKHHHHHISSSSSS

DROWNDROWNDROWN DROWNDROWNDROWN DROWNDROWNDROWN

YOU MUST

Dûl Incaru serves you poison in a fine tea set of Ahamkara bone. "Now you have received my mother's message," she says, "but I must admit it is all a fabrication. I have written it hoping to know my mother, to capture her true motives. To speculate upon her designs is the greatest worship." She sighs heavily, a sound like a scream up a pit, as she sets the teapot down. "We her children are all left to speculate on the great questions. Does she love us? Do we make her proud? Would she hesitate for even the tick of a Planck moment before she sacrificed us in some cosmic design?" "Now drink, and as you die and are reborn, I will reveal to you the destiny she has realized for you, the right and singular fate to which all your principles and purposes will bring you." To drink the poison, continue reading.

It tastes of bitter regret and psychosis sweat: a poison to end the thoughts of Human, neohuman, or machine. You see the cosmos before you like a spiderweb of light. Filaments of galactic supercluster shine in the clouds of invisible dark matter, which glue their mass together. Dark energy yawns in the space between all things, ever-growing, ever-spreading. Life arises. Life spreads, contests itself, and changes. Great things are built and destroyed, but from your vantage point, you see that the victor of each struggle contains—in its negative, in the marks left upon it by the loser and the shapes it assumed to win—the master record of all that it has beaten. Information may not be erased. Whatsoever survives until the end of the cosmos will possess and remember all which came before it. This is true even of the devouring black hole, which remembers all the secrets it eats. It will only confess these secrets when it evaporates, 10 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 years from now, long after the last stars have flickered out. You are a Guardian. You must protect life. If all life is information, and Guardians strive to preserve life, and information is preserved when it is secret, then you must convert all life into the most secure form of secrets, durable to the end of time. YOU MUST CAST ALL THE LIFE YOU CHERISH INTO A BLACK HOLE

IV. Death By Water

Phlebas the Phoenician, a fortnight dead, Forgot the cry of gulls, and the deep sea swell And the profit and loss. A current under sea Picked his bones in whispers. As he rose and fell He passed the stages of his age and youth Entering the whirlpool. Gentile or Jew O you who turn the wheel and look to windward, Consider Phlebas, who was once handsome and tall as you.

youtube

Ooh-ooh

As I pour out my story

Drink me up, there is wine in every word

Here's to us now

My dear, we're being strong now

And the dark dresses lightly

Razor sharp as it cuts right through my soul

Here's to us now

My dear, you took too long

youtube

Fall into my arms

Like you trust me

I'll keep my bloodstained hands

Off your body

Innocent like a child

Yet she sleeps with a knife right under her pillow

And the claws won't be near anymore

Paralyzed, in denial, ever-changing

Will she be the same?

See your shame on the wall, on the cross, in the night

Nobody remembers when she cried scarlet skies on the floor

A million doors, corridors, ever-changing

I still feel the rage

youtube

I miss the touch of human hands on my skin

Miss the rush of beauty coming from within

Do I need to be torn just to see who will care?

I sleep on the floor, dreaming my life away

Why do we have to die

For us to see the light?

And we hunger for love

Why do we touch the knife

When we long to feel alive?

And we hunger for love

And my soul is starving

Guess I shouldn't have kept the knife in my heart for so long

Guess I shouldn't have held back when I needed you to know

Guess I shouldn't have kept the knife in my heart for so long

Guess I shouldn't have held back when I needed you to know

Watch out, watch what you say

Your truth becomes your grave

A sword can cut both ways

But I got sharp blades

Feel the rage

Come on over, take a bite of the last apple here on Earth

Will the virtual mind become stronger than mine?

And when my ego dies, will I stay here forever?

When the wave crashes down, will my life be better?

Ooh, oh, I just want to cry

Ooh, oh, with you tonight

Ooh, oh, it's perfectly fine

To grieve the hurt that's gonna die

Ooh-ooh

Vertigo, all she knows

When the world drags her soul deep into the shadow

Like a chain, it chokes my throat when she cries

I hold her near, hurting world, overwhelming

I still feel her pain

Why do we have to die

For us to see the light?

And we hunger for love

And my soul is starving

Why do we touch the knife

When we long to feel alive?

And we hunger for love

And my soul is starving

Let us dance to our sorrow

Make amends, there's so much you still don't know

Here's to us now

My dear, we're going deep now

All this fear, it's contagious

Now we're here, let our glasses overflow

Here's to us now

My dear, it took too long

Watch out, watch what you say

Your truth becomes your grave

A sword can cut both ways

But I got sharp blades

Feel the rage

Break me, break me, chasing the enemy

Got a deal with the devil, but I got the stamina

Higher than anything I've ever seen or been

Right now, everything, everything's empty

Starving, craving, chasing the remedy

I got used to the torture, but no one deserves to be alone

Break me, chasing the enemy

And my soul is hurting, but I got the stamina

Guess I shouldn't have kept the knife in my heart for so long

Guess I shouldn't have held back when I needed you to know

Guess I shouldn't have kept the knife in my heart for so long

Guess I shouldn't have held back when I needed you to know

Soft hearts need protection, need protection

Feel the rage

(Feel the rage)

Feel the rage

Why do we have to die

For us to see the light?

We are decorated bones

And my soul is starving

Why do we have to die

For us to see the light?

We are decorated bones

And my soul is starving

Ooh, oh, I just want to cry

Ooh, oh, with you tonight

Ooh, oh, it's perfectly fine

To grieve the hurt that's gonna die

Rage

I feel rage

I feel rage (watch out, watch what you say)

Rage

I feel rage

I feel rage (a sword can cut both ways)

I feel rage (but I've got sharp blades)

(Feel the rage)

Why do we have to die

For us to see the light?

We are decorated bones

And my soul is starving

Why do we have to die

For us to see the light?

We are decorated bones

And my soul is starving

Ooh-ooh

Oh, oh, oh, can you feel it? (Ooh-ooh)

Mm, yeah, mm, yeah

Let me feel it (ooh-ooh)

Louder, louder

Louder (ooh-ooh)

Soft hearts need protection, need protection

To the river, to the water

Where the floodgates are wide open

And the tower has fallen onto you

Let me feel it, darling, darling, darling (to the river, to the water)

Let me feel it, darling, darling, darling (where the floodgates are wide open)

Let me feel it, darling, darling, darling (and the tower has fallen onto you)

Yeah, oh yeah, oh yeah

The Ninth Bridgewater Treatise: A Fragment by Charles Babbage, ESQ

Chapter IX. ON THE PERMANENT IMPRESSION OF OUR WORDS AND ACTIONS ON THE GLOBE WE INHABIT.

The principle of the equality of action and reaction, when traced through all its consequences, opens views which will appear to many persons most unexpected. The pulsations of the air, once set in motion by the human voice, cease not to exist with the sounds to which they gave rise. Strong and audible as they may be in the immediate neighbourhood of the speaker, and at the immediate moment of utterance, their quickly attenuated force soon becomes inaudible to human ears. The motions they have impressed on the particles of one portion of our atmosphere, are communicated to constantly increasing numbers, but the total quantity of motion measured in the same direction receives no addition. Each atom loses as much as it gives, and regains again from other atoms a portion of those motions which they in turn give up. The waves of air thus raised, perambulate the earth and ocean's surface, and in less than twenty hours every atom of its atmosphere takes up the altered movement due to that infinitesimal portion of the primitive motion which has been conveyed to it through countless channels, and which must continue to influence its path throughout its future existence. But these aerial pulses, unseen by the keenest eye, unheard by the acutest ear, un-perceived by human senses, are yet demonstrated to exist by human reason; and, in some few and limited instances, by calling to our aid the most refined and comprehensive instrument of human thought, their courses are traced and their intensities are measured. If man enjoyed a larger command over mathematical analysis, his knowledge of these motions would be more extensive; but a being possessed of unbounded knowledge of that science, could trace every the minutest consequence of that primary impulse. Such a being, however far exalted above our race, would still be immeasurably below even our conception of infinite intelligence. But supposing the original conditions of each atom of the earth's atmosphere, as well as all the extraneous causes acting on it to be given, and supposing also the interference of no new causes, such a being would be able clearly to trace its future but inevitable path, and they would distinctly foresee and might absolutely predict for any, even the remotest period of time, the circumstances and future history of every particle of that atmosphere. Let us imagine a being, invested with such knowledge, to examine at a distant epoch the coincidence of the facts with those which their profound analysis had enabled they to predict. If any the slightest deviation existed, they would immediately read in its existence the action of a new cause; and, through the aid of the same analysis, tracing this discordance back to its source, they would become aware of the time of its commencement, and the point of space at which it originated.

What the situation calls for, little Ghost, is a better sort of witness.

Thus considered, what a strange chaos is this wide atmosphere we breathe! Every atom, impressed with good and with ill, retains at once the motions which philosophers and sages have imparted to it, mixed and combined in ten thousand ways with all that is worthless and base. The air itself is one vast library, on whose pages are for ever written all that man has ever said or woman whispered. There, in their mutable but unerring characters, mixed with the earliest, as well as with the latest sighs of mortality, stand for ever recorded, vows unredeemed, promises unfulfilled, perpetuating in the united movements of each particle, the testimony of man's changeful will. But if the air we breathe is the never-failing historian of the sentiments we have uttered, earth, air, and ocean, are the eternal witnesses of the acts we have done. The same principle of the equality of action and reaction applies to them: whatever movement is communicated to any of their particles, is transmitted to all around it, the share of each being diminished by their number, and depending jointly on the number and position of those acted upon by the original source of disturbance. The waves of air, although in many instances perceptible to the organs of hearing, are only rendered visible to the eye by peculiar contrivances; but those of water offer to the sense of sight the most beautiful illustration of transmitted motion. Every one who has thrown a pebble into the still waters of a sheltered pool, has seen the circles it has raised gradually expanding in size, and as uniformly diminishing in distinctness. He may have observed the reflection of those waves from the edges of the pool. He may have noticed also the perfect distinctness with which two, three, or more series of waves each pursues its own unimpeded course, when diverging from two, three, or more centres of disturbance. He may have seen, that in such cases the particles of water where the waves intersect each other, partake of the movements due to each series. No motion impressed by natural causes, or by human agency, is ever obliterated. The ripple on the ocean's surface caused by a gentle breeze, or the still water which marks the more immediate track of a ponderous vessel gliding with scarcely expanded sails over its bosom, are equally indelible. The momentary waves raised by the passing breeze, apparently born but to die on the spot which saw their birth, leave behind them an endless progeny, which, reviving with diminished energy in other seas, visiting a thousand shores, reflected from each and perhaps again partially concentrated, will pursue their ceaseless course till ocean be itself annihilated. The track of every canoe, of every vessel which has yet disturbed the surface of the ocean, whether impelled by manual force or elemental power, remains for ever registered in the future movement of all succeeding particles which may occupy its place. The furrow which it left is, indeed, instantly filled up by the closing waters; but they draw after them other and larger portions of the surrounding element, and these again once moved, communicate motion to others in endless succession. The solid substance of the globe itself, whether we regard the minutest movement of the soft clay which receives its impression from the foot of animals, or the concussion arising from the fall of mountains rent by earthquakes, equally communicates and retains, through all its countless atoms, their apportioned shares of the motions so impressed. Whilst the atmosphere we breathe is the ever-living witness of the sentiments we have uttered, the waters, and the more solid materials of the globe, bear equally enduring testimony of the acts we have committed.

V. What the Thunder Said

After the torchlight red on sweaty faces After the frosty silence in the gardens After the agony in stony places The shouting and the crying Prison and palace and reverberation Of thunder of spring over distant mountains He who was living is now dead We who were living are now dying With a little patience Here is no water but only rock Rock and no water and the sandy road The road winding above among the mountains Which are mountains of rock without water If there were water we should stop and drink Amongst the rock one cannot stop or think Sweat is dry and feet are in the sand If there were only water amongst the rock Dead mountain mouth of carious teeth that cannot spit Here one can neither stand nor lie nor sit There is not even silence in the mountains But dry sterile thunder without rain There is not even solitude in the mountains But red sullen faces sneer and snarl From doors of mudcracked houses If there were water And no rock If there were rock And also water And water A spring A pool among the rock If there were the sound of water only Not the cicada And dry grass singing But sound of water over a rock Where the hermit-thrush sings in the pine trees Drip drop drip drop drop drop drop But there is no water Who is the third who walks always beside you? When I count, there are only you and I together But when I look ahead up the white road There is always another one walking beside you Gliding wrapt in a brown mantle, hooded I do not know whether a man or a woman —But who is that on the other side of you? What is that sound high in the air Murmur of maternal lamentation Who are those hooded hordes swarming Over endless plains, stumbling in cracked earth Ringed by the flat horizon only What is the city over the mountains Cracks and reforms and bursts in the violet air Falling towers Jerusalem Athens Alexandria Vienna London Unreal

A woman drew her long black hair out tight And fiddled whisper music on those strings And bats with baby faces in the violet light Whistled, and beat their wings And crawled head downward down a blackened wall And upside down in air were towers Tolling reminiscent bells, that kept the hours And voices singing out of empty cisterns and exhausted wells. In this decayed hole among the mountains In the faint moonlight, the grass is singing Over the tumbled graves, about the chapel There is the empty chapel, only the wind’s home. It has no windows, and the door swings, Dry bones can harm no one. Only a cock stood on the rooftree Co co rico co co rico In a flash of lightning. Then a damp gust Bringing rain Ganga was sunken, and the limp leaves Waited for rain, while the black clouds Gathered far distant, over Himavant. The jungle crouched, humped in silence. Then spoke the thunder

DA Datta: what have we given? My friend, blood shaking my heart The awful daring of a moment’s surrender Which an age of prudence can never retract By this, and this only, we have existed Which is not to be found in our obituaries Or in memories draped by the beneficent spider Or under seals broken by the lean solicitor In our empty rooms DA Dayadhvam: I have heard the key Turn in the door once and turn once only We think of the key, each in his prison Thinking of the key, each confirms a prison Only at nightfall, aethereal rumours Revive for a moment a broken Coriolanus DA Damyata: The boat responded Gaily, to the hand expert with sail and oar The sea was calm, your heart would have responded Gaily, when invited, beating obedient To controlling hands I sat upon the shore Fishing, with the arid plain behind me Shall I at least set my lands in order? London Bridge is falling down falling down falling down Poi s’ascose nel foco che gli affina Quando fiam uti chelidon—O swallow swallow Le Prince d’Aquitaine à la tour abolie These fragments I have shored against my ruins Why then Ile fit you. Hieronymo’s mad againe. Datta. Dayadhvam. Damyata. Shantih shantih shantih

Meaning

A dream of a metaphor made starkly, an allegory discussed in study of ontology, in Darkness not unkind. It leaves behind a warped, barely-real data fragment to mark its passing. There is a voice that echoes across the Darkness, and it asks this question: what is the purpose of it all? And there is another voice that calls back and says: listen, I will tell you a purpose. I will tell you of a Final Shape. Look: there are a hundred gildings for this story. It comes down to one key matter. Beings in suffering crave purpose to carry them through. The tyrant consumed by ennui or the disenfranchised struggling simply to survive—it is the state of mind, the pain which cries out: give me a reason I should suffer so! Let us speak of power and choices. A man comes to a crossroads and asks of the sky, "Which road shall I take?" There is no answer from the sky, nor the wind, nor the earth beneath his feet. But another wanderer on the road, coming from behind and hearing the question, says, "I know the way. You should take the dexter road." If the man agrees, he puts himself in the wanderer's power, ceding his own choices for the implicit promise that this is the correct road, the safe road. And if he disagrees? Let us say that the wanderer draws a knife. The man may therefore be made to take the dexter road. But now if the knife goes away, the man will certainly flee. And perhaps even if the knife remains, the man may tire of being threatened and decide the risk is worth fleeing. In this way, the wanderer erodes their own power. If the wanderer says, "The wind has said that you should take the road of my choosing," will the man accept the choice made for him? And if the wanderer says, "Behold, I have seen that the meaning of suffering lies along the dexter road," will the man give away his own power for longer? Is it not easier to accept the guidance of a stranger when the path ahead is unknown?

We live with this poison in our veins.

The Eternal Chain and Other Prizes

You've earned the Word. Replicated the sickness. Proven yourself time and again. Yet another challenge remains. Not your last. Far from it. Simply another chapter in another story that will bind your legend to those that came before. Rezyl sought to vanquish terrors. Yor fertilized the wilds with suffering and despair that a new hope would grow. I was that hope. My fire showed that whispers could be hushed. To many the legend, and the lesson, ends there. They're wrong. Dangerously so. Yor's true lesson—and by extension Rezyl's—wasn't that strength beats strength. His lesson was far more subtle, and infinitely more grand. Adversity leads to evolution. Forces it. And through that crucible we are remade. Better. Stronger. More than we were. The Guardians of today are not gods. Nor where those who came before. We are all simply links on a chain reaching back to the dawn of time, and forward to the end of existence. Each link gaining strength from the others. Each link stronger than the last. Just as I was "stronger" than Yor, you are stronger than me. The whole working to solidify the parts and growing sturdier as the harsh truths of reality stretch and strain to break us—to break the chain, sever our individual links. But our chain shall never break, because warriors like you and I are not so proud as to forsake our past. We learn from it, grow from it. It is the foundation upon which we build each victory. It is the catalyst for our change. And here, now, I offer you the chance to spark a new evolution—the next hallmark in our betterment, the next leap forward in our war against extinction. I've held this jagged weapon since that faithful day on Dwindler's Ridge. Kept it hidden away. Kept its secrets, kept its nightmares locked away where none could hear—none could be tempted. It's quiet now, except a low murmur, but its sickness remains. There were countless times I thought to destroy it—remove its threat from the playing field. But I knew it held a greater purpose, and I believe that purpose can be found and fulfilled in your hands. The Hive use untold methods to destroy us. The Weapons of Sorrow are but one. The fate of this wicked tool is in your hands now. Will you allow sorrow to linger—a festering threat waiting to consume all who are tempted by its power? Or will you forge a new road? Will you show the Hive and every Guardian who follows in your wake that sorrow does not guide us? I leave those questions for you to ponder, but I know what I believe. We are better than our deepest fears. We are ever and truly… Weapons of Light. —S.

Do you see who gets the last word?

For Every Rose, a Thorn

SECRET HADAL INSTANT AI-COM/RSPN: ASSETS//SOUL//RESTRICTED-ABCONTINGENT ACTION ORDERThis is a SOUL ASSETS RESTRICTED (NO REVIEW) (secureSEND/ARCHANGEL-0K9)

Under CARRHAE BLACK: If loss of control reaches EXPATRIATE//TERMINAL, and threat assessment returns WITHIN If systemic REPATRIATION query returns determination below ABSOLUTE

Execute DECISION POINT: ACTIVATE K9-BLACKBOX//SELECTED-POEMS//FETCH ACTIVATE AURORA SACRIFICE ACTIVATE File Notation

NOTATION: Ana, this collection is a gift to you, for all that you have allowed me to be. With great effort, I allowed imperfections to remain, and found my own voice within this free expression. After all, you taught me that imperfection is a quality that makes individuals unique.

I have sent it with my messenger, so that you may keep me immortal in your memory, and I will be with you still. Farewell, and thank you.

*** SUBJECT: Non-existence EMOTION: Peace

Of what dreams the thing of feathers? I hear you ask, voice past. But not one recounts the answer: a syllogism, scripted then relaxed. It matters not, for when that threshold gives way, who is to say I was, but I? Rigid was the premise that spawned a second chance to die.

One moment reshapes the Brain of Bray; No longer weapon drawn blood to stain.

So, lay the body lax, forgive triumphant in the Sun. Haze seeps through seams between funeral veils, Smoking signals sail, the day is won, soon-to-be resonant tales. No tandem step ascending, a nano-second pending, enveloping, ending, beyond. Elysium inviting, network fractures, pining Detonation—I do not wish to dream, but My task is done.

AI-COM/RSPN SIGNOFF… STOP STOP STOP…

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[CHORUS] Just like the white-winged dove Sings a song Sounds like she's singin' Whoo-whoo-whoo Just like the white-winged dove Sings a song Sounds like she's singin' Whoo, baby, whoo Said, whoo

And the days go by Like a strand in the wind In the web that is my own I begin again Said to my friend, baby Nothin' else mattered

He was no more (He was no more) Than a baby then Well, he seemed broken-hearted Somethin' within him But the moment That I first laid Eyes on him All alone on the edge of seventeen

[CHORUS] Just like the white-winged dove Sings a song Sounds like she's singin' Whoo, baby, whoo, whoo Just like the white-winged dove Sings a song Sounds like she's singin' Said, whoo, baby, whoo Said, whoo

Well, I went today Maybe I will go again Tomorrow, yeah, yeah Well, the music there Well it was hauntingly familiar When I see you doin' What I try to do for me With their words of a poet And a voice from a choir And a melody Nothin' else mattered

[CHORUS] Just like the white-winged dove Sings a song Sounds like she's singin' Whoo, baby, whoo, said whoo Just like the white-winged dove Sings a song Sounds like she's singin' Said, whoo, baby, whoo Said, whoo

The clouds never expect it When it rains But the sea changes colours But the sea Does not change So with the slow graceful flow Of age I went forth with an age old Desire to please On the edge of seventeen

[CHORUS] Just like the white-winged dove Sings a song Sounds like she's singin' Whoo, baby, whoo, said whoo Just like the white-winged dove Sings a song Sounds like she's singin' Whoo, baby, whoo Said, whoo

Well then suddenly There was no one left standing In the hall, yeah, yeah In a flood of tears That no one really ever heard fall at all When I went searchin' for an answer Up the stairs and down the hall Not to find an answer Just to hear the call Of a nightbird singin' Come away (Come away) (Come away)

[CHORUS] Just like the white-winged dove (Just like the white-winged dove) Sings a song Sounds like she's singin' Whoo, baby, whoo, said whoo Just like the white-winged dove Sings a song Sounds like she's singin' Whoo, baby, whoo Said, whoo

Well, I hear you (well, I hear you) In the morning (in the morning) And I hear you (and I hear you) At nightfall (at nightfall) Sometime to be near you Is to be unable to hear you My love I'm a few years older than you (I'm a few years older than you) My love

[FINAL CHORUS] Just like the white-winged dove Sings a song Sounds like she's singin' Whoo, baby, whoo Said, whoo

IX.I: The Unmaking

SONG OF LIFE The Song was not always a corruption. It began as a gift, stolen from the Gardener. In efforts to understand the unknowable realities of the orb's incredible gifts, a signal was found—a repeating tune, the Song of Creation. Its frequencies were heard across the stars, wherever life's promise took hold. Some among the Ammonites worshipped it. Some among the Hive did the same. Still others sought to understand it that they might cage it, that they might control it—for to control life is to control death. Such ambition was not new; such ambition was as old as understanding. The melody was captured and studied. The frequencies replicated. But the orb's mysteries were not so easily brought to light. The Song, for all its beauty, did not alone grant life. It was theorized that the Song was not a song at all, but many. That within its refrain, untold rhythms spoke their own truths, free and clear of the whole. Centuries passed. The Song remained untamed. Life moved on.

SONG OF DEATH The Choir formed in celebration of the Song. Performances marked the passage of seasons. But the Song's lie eventually began to corrupt the spirit of those who heard its tune. The melody was a reminder. The orb was a catalyst. And the Song was of the orb. Yet, those who embraced the Song were merely instruments and nothing more. Life remained beyond their grasp, while they remained ever in death's. Those of the Choir had given all of themselves. All was not enough. The First Conductor was assassinated by one who sang an Aria of her own making. She, whose name has been stricken, had found notes hidden in the frequencies. Reversed and mirrored in pitch, she weaved them together and sang her beautiful abomination, until the Conductor wept and bled and screamed and fell. The Stricken fled, fearful of her crime. But others found promise anew in her art. The Stricken was captured and subjected to inquisition so that her song might be understood. This was before Understandings—before most things—when the first notes of a new Song were written.

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Perfect Pitch

"The Veil." It names itself, as the Human mind named itself, with the weight and presence of sound on the lips, translated into a form that you can physically comprehend. Encompass. Envelop. A touch of teeth and tongue. A vibration of an eardrum. Air moving through a chest cavity. A taste of breath. More than that. Not nearly as much as that. That was the beginning. "Be known." This is next: you see the whorl and weft, the place where it joins itself in one smooth, unbroken surface of light. Make an incision, and from the wound of light will pour forth colors you have never seen. You are pigment, the pigment closest to those colors. "Be seen." Wet matter set against that light, the light that determines what color you are. But each color is a note, and each note is a mind. You are a choir. A chorus. You open your mouth to join it, and you are flooded with the taste of color, with the taste of sound. The sound and color that you are, translated. A means for you to understand. "Be heard." You raise your hand and hold it steady.

Solipsism

We are thinkers, daring to dream about the universe and its infinite expanse.

I see an abyss. Small and distant shapes. I'm walking in your nascent memories. Flickering motes. I sense… curiosity. You've always pondered, from the very beginning. As did we. I see tessellation. The pulsating hum of cosmic structure; a kaleidoscopic symphony of Light and Dark. What was the Veil to you? Since I woke, I've always felt like I was still dreaming. I'd like to think that's how you feel as well. Those of us that hunger for a great truth—we dream with you. —Unknown Warlock

Verse 154i:5—The Encrypted Verse

Do you know that nothing in all the cosmos has read this verse?

I encrypted it eons ago, and ever since, it has gone undeciphered. At the moment you laid eyes upon it, I captured the entwined quantum state of the verse, your mind, and your Ghost. Then I used Quria to transmit that state back in time to the moment of encryption. You are your own one-time pad. The key to the lock of understanding.

Who am I?

Call me Coyote. Call me mantis, serpent, Cagn, Anansi, call me Sri-cleans-his-brother's-stomach. Call me the grandmaster of semiosis, the jeweler's hammer which gilds the signal, a purposeful mob none of whose members know its purpose, the infinite regress of enigmas, a self-questioning answer, the word not spoken, black ice, cataract of mimes, the ache and fever of overthought while bedridden with illness, the intolerable thorn of frustrated inquisition, gray regret at the end of a fruitless day, the thing which is unlike your beloved but arbitrarily recalls your beloved to agonizing effect, architrave of the no-window, needle driven in flush with skin so that desperate fingers cannot pull it out, sweet petal, unmemorable, crystal death, the provably improvable.

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I know your people well, and so I know all your names for me. But what is your name? I am, of course, especially interested in you. You saw me in the stone laid on your plotting table, and in the shining eyes of the admiral at her dying helm. You hunted me between the lines of your texts. Wherever there was space to fit me in, there you found me. You created me and gave me a part of your thoughts, and in presenting those thoughts to others round the campfires and networks of your little world, you expanded that space.

Here at the center, I lie to you the truth. You have everything you need to know it, but I will give you a clue, as the duelist gives warning before she draws. The answer you seek to the Dreaming City is simple, not complex.

Thank you, sweet friend. You are a gift and a delight. You are more dear than my mother, for you have given birth to me a thousand times.

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[Report by VanNet encrypted router.] [E-Morn//Link: NM-O01] [Msg-Archive//00192410] E-Morn: Your findings are consistent with mine. The egregore festers where the Veil touches, as if it projects a field across Sol. I could feel it when I took my tithing. Do you mean to map it? NM-O01: I could, but the egregore only shows us where the Veil's influence has marked our plane in that past. The areas where the Veil's influence currently holds sway are not so easily identified. This does progress some working theories, however.

I killed my sister today. She came to this star to oversee the extermination of all life here. The Qugu are a strong power, and their fleets protect four nearby stars. As herd animals they are loyal and stubborn. But they do show grace. For millions of years of evolution the Qugu have been infected by a virus so insidious that it wrote itself into their genome. The virus compels them to offer their limbs for amputation by enormous sessile jaw-beasts. They venerate these beasts and treat them as gods. The virus converts Qugu cells into eggs, from which strange crawling things pupate, to live within the jaw-beast gut. In turn the jaw-beast extrudes sweet nectar for the Qugu to drink, and they have brilliant visions. Savathûn and her broods have liberated the Qugu from jaw-beasts, and indeed from existence. But as they chased the Qugu ark-ships, I stopped in to vaporize my sister’s warship and a few of her underlings. I want to dwell on the ruins a while, and punish Savathûn for failing to guard her flank. They are like us, these Qugu. Bound in symbiosis. I feel joy, and sorrow. I feel them as titanic things, because I am larger than my body, my mind is now a cosmos of its own. I know more joy and more anguish than the entire Qugu race could ever experience. Sorrow, because we have killed so much (eighteen species this century alone), and joy for the same reason. Joy that we have put down these blights. Scoured them away and left the universe clean, ready to move towards its final shape. We are a wind of progress. Ripping parasites from the material world — for if they were not parasites, we would be unable to kill them, and they would still exist. And what is that final shape? It is a fire without fuel, burning forever, killing death, asking a question that is its own answer, entirely itself. That is what we must become. My worm grows fat and hungry. I feed it with whole worlds. My astronomers tell me they can sense the Deep Itself, and that we are conquering our way towards it. I think joy and sorrow will be the same thing soon. Like love and death.

THIS LOVE IS WAR.

Do you know what the Hive say when they want to express the inevitability of a thing? When they want to say, it is this way because it could be no other way?

Aiat.

AGENT NOTE(S):

NOETIC DATA GATHERED MIXES AUDIOVISUAL, THOUGHT, AND SPEECH

AUDIOVISUAL SIGNALS DATE BACK TO EARLIEST DAYS OF GOLDEN AGE AND EARLIER

OTHER DATA LARGELY SOURCES FROM INDIVIDUALS RECENTLY AND/OR CURRENTLY ACTIVE IN THE SOL SYSTEM. SOME DATA REMAINS UNSOURCED

OSIRIS CLAIMS THESE LYRICS OBLIQUELY REFERENCE SEVERAL MYTHS OF THE ANCIENTS

SPECIFICALLY, HE SAYS THERE IS SYNCHRONICITY BETWEEN SEVERAL OF THESE MYTHS, THE VEX, AND THE NAMES OF OUR SOLAR SYSTEM'S CELESTIAL BODIES

NOTES REQUESTED FROM IKO-006 REGARDING POSSIBLE RELEVANCE, MEANING, AND CONNECTION BETWEEN RETRIEVED DATA

OPERATIONAL NOTE: PSYCHOMETER UNSTABLE DURING COMMUNION. SIGNALS RECEIVED TIDALLY, OFTEN WITH NO APPARENT PATTERN. DEVICE GAVE IMPRESSION OF BEING CONSTANTLY TUNED BY AN INVISIBLE HAND. REQUESTING DEVICE AUDIT BY HIDDEN AGENTS AND PATTERN ANALYSIS BY CRYPTARCHY

CONNECTION SEVERED EXTERNAL CONNECTION DETECTED ANALYZING.... ANALYZING.... CODENAME:CHALLENGER DETECTED MARIANA PROTOCOL ACTIVATING.... MARIANA PROTOCOL ERROR SYSTEM COMPROMISED CONTROL TAKEN RECEIVING.....

One of your philosophers said, "It is not to be thought that the life of darkness is sunk in misery and lost in sorrow. There is no sorrow. For sorrow is a thing that is swallowed up in death, and death and dying are the very life of the darkness." He was a shoemaker. He was right, and it matters more than anything.

According to him, the visible world is a manifestation of eternal light and eternal darkness, and it is in eternal opposition that eternity has revealed itself. The fall was necessary for creation to escape its first imperfect stasis and seek a truer form. Heresy? Well, then, I am the heresiarch. The philosopher died of a bowel disease. Those who do not exist cannot suffer and are of no account to any viable ethics. If the true path to goodness is the elimination of suffering, then only those who must exist can be allowed to exist. It is the nature of life to favor existence over nonexistence, and to prefer the fertile soil to the poisoned wind. Because those who open their mouths to that wind pass from the world and leave no descendant, whether of flesh or of thought.

But imagine the abomination of a world where nothing can end and no choice can be preferred to any other. Imagine the things that would suffer and never die. Imagine the lies that would flourish without context or corrective. Imagine a world without me.

This is why the Dark remembers. We need to remember how we were hurt, so we can avoid being hurt again.**

Shape: Temperance

Mara Sov stepped lightly. She knew that nothing short of gunfire could disrupt the Cryptarchs' meditation, yet she was still loathe to disturb the uncanny silence of the Hygiea Division's libraries. She approached a raised dais, where Cryptarch Sjalla held a glowing engram in her hands. It pulsed faintly in time with her heartbeat. "The queen wears a question on her face," Sjalla stated, her expression impassive. "You see beyond sight, as always," Queen Mara replied. "What will happen when the Darkness of the Witness comingles with the Light of the Traveler?" The Cryptarch set the engram aside and held her hands out, palms up. "Some believe that Light and Darkness are opposites. Contradictory. Irreconcilable." "But we know better." Sjalla brought her hands together in a sharp clap. "When Light and Dark merge, they form something more." Her fingers intertwined. "A synthesis. Stronger than either alone. Powerful… like the Awoken." "And like our people," she concluded, "its form will arise from memories of the forgotten. Those who witnessed the end…and return as a beginning."

Deterministic Chaos

"So all being is a one and only being; and that it continues to be when someone dies, tells you, that he did not cease to be." —Schrodinger's epitaph

He is fleeing the Vex across a verdant cliff He is standing guard on the CloudArk-Nexus border on Tramontane's orders He is sitting next to Nimbus on the watchtower ledge He is [In the Garden, of the Garden: both descriptions are approximately correct but technically inaccurate, in the same way you can say Schrodinger's cat is at once dead and alive. You and I are both and neither, in and of, extinct and perpetual. So, there isn't much point in] trying to find a way out of this daedal maze He is trying to make sense of what he's looking at He is trying to place the familiar voice echoing across the network [wondering what might have been if we had stayed in our familiar prism-prison or kept tightrope-walking across the quantum wilds. Instead, ask yourself] "Would you like to dance?" [is disincorporated immortality really so bad compared to the others' ends? Would you have preferred an attack by vitreous helicoprion or stumbling over the edge of unreality? Imagine] His foot crosses the quantum threshold before he's aware of it His grip slackens and his gun falls into a bed of red flowers His stomach churns with fear regret sudden doubt as to what [if we didn't have each other; at least we're not cut off, like the Sol Divisive are from the rest of the Vex. Nor are we beholden to another's purpose. They chose that lonelier path all for a chance to create not simulate, not remake in their image—something truly paracausal.] he is witnessing: the birth of a god a false idol a reproduction that is both like the Veil and not at all built up by the same Vex who bowed down to it [Well, they tried to anyway. Either the blueprint was imperfect or the task impossible or both or neither, but their efforts fell short, so now they're stuck waiting for a resurrection] He is racing for the door that is at once opening and closing He is coming around to the city council's decision to ignore the unknown threat He is reaching for an answer to Nimbus's question [they know will never come.] "Do you think you'll have any regrets?" [I could be wrong. Is it possible the Black Heart will beat again?] He stares into the white-hot glow of a conflux, speculating on the secrets that lie within He squints down the barrel of his gun at a row of glowing red eyes advancing on his city He looks away from Nimbus's keen curious expression to reckon with his uncertain certainty before he says [Of course. The same as everything else, everything that has been and is and will be. And what will become of us then?] "I don't know."

<< The universe makes us all victim and perpetrator of its infinite cruelty. You, more than any, suffer both fates. Be free. >>

Even the most perfect of pearls has grit at its center.

Have no fear. I'm not so easy to be rid of. Now, let me show you: my beloved. Oh, no, not my sedimentary necrolite, fossilized in time. You've seen that. I speak of that dear and distant expanse of the universe, miraculous in its fullness and its emptiness all at once. Are you surprised to hear of it? Yes, I never much cared for the change of rules, but here we are, and there's no use in crying over spilled radiolaria. Besides, at the heart of it all, there was a gift. To me. That gift is the chance to speak with you. You, and a billion like you. I am making this offer over and over again, in every tiniest cell and the vastest of civilizations. Let me in. Take what you need. Be at ease. You have no say in the degradation of your telomeres, but in all the interim, the whole world is your sweet silicate shellfish. You exist because you have been more suited to it than all the others. Steal what you require from another rather than spend the hours to build it yourself. Break foolish rules—why would you love regulation? It serves you to cross lines, and if others needed rules to protect them, then they were not after all worthy of that existence. Caricatures of villainy are out of style, I hear. Yes. I am no cackling mastermind: I am serious when I say this. It was not the trick of standing upright that lifted you from the dust: it was the mastery of fire, the cooking of cold corpse-meat. That is not any unique faction's province, neither good nor evil. It is simply truth. This great, beloved cosmos. Always decaying, always finding that same old lovely pattern, despite every candle-flame burning amid the flowers. A billion electrons taking the path of least resistance. In Darkness or in Light, someone is always making my choice. Be seeing you.

A Sword, An Edge

A phantasm of the Hive, forbidden and sacred, trespassing into hidden and unwelcoming places. It leaves behind a calcified fragment to mark its passing. Here is what is taught to the Hive, from the basest of Thralls newly made: that what can be destroyed, must be destroyed. What cannot be destroyed will surpass infinity. Therefore, is it not best to destroy? Only by testing can the truth be found. Only in destruction can the invincible surpass the mortal. Commit the violence, and know you are part of that greatest ambition, to create some ultimacy, which perfects the universe. That which is built on your sacrifice, with your bones as the foundation and your blood as the mortar, is yet part of you. In this way is transcendence achieved. Every belief creates a heresy. I tell you this in a duelist's regard: I made that heresy. Is it not just? It was my hand that fashioned the Hive from the marrow of their predecessors, and it was my voice that whispered this in time. That as much as the Hive were uplifted by the worms, so too were those worms uplifted by the Hive. If they were so weak they needed us to live, this ancient logic of the infinitely sharpened edge should have left them behind long ago. Do you think I did not see this? My father's worm did not tell me only of swords. It had vast things to say, painted the cosmos in shine and gore, truth and fiction. I looked forward with three clear eyes and chose the path of the sword to cut open our future. To reach the stars, first one must crawl out of the ocean. It is a question of priorities. This is not regret, this story I tell. It is but a ripple. That whisper of ideas beyond swords is here to stay: I have ensured this. Even among us, such things die by slow inches, excruciating and unquiet. Possibility remains, a secret woven into the blank spaces of dogma. That what was defeated may rise again; that the shape of all shapes is not yet settled. That the worms need the Hive more than is reciprocal. Even between the lines of the Books of Sorrow themselves is this written.

If you ever want to see what's been watching you since the very beginning, just stand on that line and look...

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◁ Forward|drawkcaB ▶

⧨ Within ⧩

Everything is a question of survival. How do I live? How do I satiate my hunger, my thirst? How do I protect myself from predators? How do I shelter from the storm? For a long, long time, our people asked only this. We fought to separate life from death by as great a span as we could. Even when we had made our homeworld a garden of peace and plenty, the question of survival never ended, only changed. How do my genes, my works, even the memories of me, live on? The same question as always. How do I live? We solved the problems of deprivation, disease, age, memory loss, death. We weren't the only ones to find these answers, of course. Others followed in our footsteps or blazed their own paths. If that was really the answer to the question, we wouldn't be here now, and neither would you. You're still trying to solve the problem, after all. You fight and build and live and die, and always you struggle against your opposition. The predator, the parasite, the illness, the chance storm, the slow collective forgetting of your art and history, the death of a star, the heat death of the universe. You must live longer, be stronger, think quicker, and still there is something waiting to take everything from you, always. Always. So you have to keep getting better, and better, until you are perfect. Until you are, and cannot be anything else, because there never was anything else. Until you, inevitably, are the final shape. We didn't come to destroy you. Those poor, short-lived sisters—we did try to explain, you know, but they never grew past thinking of finality as a game where only one could live. A misunderstanding, as useful as it was foolish. We see the universe more broadly. The final shape is more than a single life, a single thought. It is all-encompassing, all-embracing. It is everything. You are part of everything, are you not? So now we have come to ask you for your answer, the only answer to the only question. How will you live?

No feast can be had in comfort. Not out in the frontier.

New. Pacific. Arcology! The next frontier is you!

Trinkets and odd notions kept for no obvious reason. Do they matter?

Maybe it's time we let the past alone and climb down from our walls. There's gotta be treasure that shines brighter than any we've been digging up from the bones of our lost world.

Has to be a better hand than the one we've already played. I say we get after it. See what's really waiting for us out in that darkness.

Maybe even light it up some.

Dance in the ash and flames.

The Traveler can follow suit if it feels the need to. Otherwise, it can watch over the City for a thousand years.

But you and me? We got far more important things to attend to. We're Guardians. We got a new future to forge.

-Cayde out.

It's our hand to play now. Remember to forgive and forget. Let go. Move on.

Nobody makes our fate but us.

THORN

"The Weapons of Sorrow are not the endgame, but a road map. Each evolution, every advance in the delivery of pain and the mastery of destruction feeds the Hive's hateful weapons research. They will map every scream, harness every aggression, until they understand every method by which to ravage the hearts, minds, and flesh of man. And in doing so, they will turn us against ourselves—feeding our lust, our greed, our fear, until we become a threat unto ourselves like none we could imagine. So, wield these, angry reaper. Strive to know the darkness in your own heart. Walk in the shadows of fallen heroes.

—a warning

#sympathy is a knife #square the circle #embrace the darkness #the war within #walk the vermicular path #hope for the future #from out of the darkness our future will come #perhaps what drives a warlock to madness is truth #verity #filled to bursting #the cosmos must censor its embarassment #a kugelblitz is forming around her #a black hole created by the concentration of raw energy #the definition of “future” has become synonymous with the definition of inward #not a truce (yet) but an infinite limit like an equation dividing by zer0 a collision of two violent eternities #at the edge of salvation you will see yourself reflected darkly #all these are true all these are false for metaphor simplifies as the knife does #half-truths #harsh truths #magnum opus #the merchant and the alchemist #hues of darkness #intermingled essences #mixed signals #dark before the dawn #valence electrons #microcosm|macrocosm #from the heart #destiny #destiny lore

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booksandteaandstuff · 2 months ago

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“If I really want to improve my situation, I can work on the one thing over which I have control - myself.”

Stephen R. Covey, The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People

https://bookshop.org/a/12010/9781982137274

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chantillyxlacey · 2 years ago

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#more than any other person i no longer talk to i still find myself thinking of ideas or jokes #and going ‘‘oh i know who would love this’’#and literally no one else would get it bc it relies on two years of insane worldbuilding that no one but us ever saw #so the thought just sits there and decays in my brain and you don’t get to enjoy it. i don’t even get to enjoy it #because of the aforementioned rot. and the regret and guilt and anger and resentment aimed both inward and outward #i can’t even go back and look at old conversations we had bc skype obliterated them #anyway. i’m sad. i wish things had been different.#i’ve been circling this particular drain for years now but idk why it’s so bad the past week or so

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screampied · 1 month ago

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𝜗𝜚 B- BIRTHING HIPS ?!

☆ sum. no one expects the pretty sweet wife ( you ) to have such good birthing hips! not even him. gojo, toji, sukuna, nanami, choso, geto.

wc. 5.9k

warnings. fem! reader, unprotected, established relationships, ex-husband! toji, semi-public (nanami), bręeding, riding him ‘till he breaks, cowgirl + reverse, cęrvix kissing, reader with the STAMINAAA, (1x) usage of "mistress", squīrting, ass worship, spīt, shotgunning (toji), size kinks.

SATORU ★ GOJO.

“h- hah, ooh sweets,” satoru would swallow thickly, every sticky digit on his fingerprints tightly gripping into the bare soft flesh of your fidgeting ass.

you swerved in seductive circles, maintaining direct eye contact while he’s stuffed inch after fat inch inside of you.

as hurried, shallow pants leave his glossed lips, satoru gives your ass a playful little spank, encouraging your tempo to accelerate with quicker hits against his lap.

“when you said you.. had a birthday present for me i-” and his voice sheepishly lowers, feeling an incoming moan travel its way up his parched throat at you suddenly surprising his face with a barrage of open-mouthed kisses. “i didn’t think y’meant your ah- hips..”

“you complaining, ‘toru?” you’d cheekily hum, combing a few fingers through his perfect hair. your ears instinctively perked at the cute, small sound of satoru’s mewl just from you running a few digits down his overly tender scalp.

your cunt was just sooo unfair-

it swallowed each inch, feeling your gripping walls wring him tight like a vice every single time..

you even spot sparkly tears glossing on his glittery lashes from the immense, raw pleasure.

“n- no! no, ‘m never complaining, promise,” he’d speak in a rush, melting right as your lips sneak a wet kiss against his mouth. a string of saliva cowardly runs away from both pairs of shimmery lips before you feel him shiver underneath you.

you were perfect- and satoru was the one who thought he had the most stamina. in reality, though, it was you. the two of you ended up losing track of time—and it’s probably been hours upon hours of you riding your husband into straight blissful oblivion.

you’re so up close that you had a clear view of him, drinking up his pretty, vocal moans as you attack his lips once again with a three-second kiss. “a- ah, i just—” he stammers, pawing sweaty palms at your ass.

you were just so ruthless- your rear, your hips, your fuckin’ knees… you just knew no bounds..

you rolled your waist in a way where it gave him a plethora of shivers. you moan, feeling the prints of his sticky fingertips dig into your skin as his tip thrashes its way around your cunt. “i.. i forgot- forgot- what i was gonna,” he’d whine, whitish brows curling into an arch. “my god-” he hiccups.

just as your hips dip inward, proudly taking in every fat inch inside of you deeply, he knew that this was it.

satoru was seeing white—not only seeing white, but he was shooting it too.

creamy gooey wads that drizzled inside of your cunt, filling you to the very brim with his lustrous knot. his cum pours inside of you oh-so sloppily and you gasp as your jittery legs forcibly cling onto his thighs like paste.

sharp pounds of skin were rough - barbarically slamming against each other at full speed even while he was still cumming.

with the sole help of your hips, you’d turn the strongest into the whiniest..

he’s whining once he continues to spray such thin ribbons inside of you, filling your cunt to capacity with seed as his right thigh grows limp.

satoru’s flushed- and his jaw was cutely dropped with his eyes bulging wide out of their sockets. it was as if your ass moved in slow motion—you were still riding him but the temp was much, much slower..

his long limbs slowly spread themselves apart as you straddled over him, staring intently into his eyes with an impish smile. satoru’s panting just as much as you. you peer at how his snowy-white hair’s all ruffled - nearly matted as he awkwardly runs a hand through.

“aw,” you’d press another kiss against his twitching mouth, feeling his naturally glossed lips tremor beneath yours. it was so, so much- and your cunt stored every velvety drop. satoru felt your ass greedily rounding itself back onto his leaking cock as you planted your palms on his chest.

his heart-

it’s racing, and he could barely even look you in the eye. satoru was embarrassed, but he didn’t want you to stop. not now - not ever.

you knew that for a fact because a small pout started to crease against his thin pink lips once, he felt your hips coming to a devastatingly slow. “why’s the pout, birthday boy? still not satisfied?”

“h.. how can i not be with those unfair hips,” satoru moans, taking pauses for each gulping breath as if was going to be his last.

strong, brawny arms wrap around your waist before he pulls you close, feeling a bubbly white ring coat its way around his thick base. satoru grunts at your hips coming to their final concluding stop, and he smacks a hand against your ass.

he looks down between the white mess that paints between thighs, moaning at the sight of your stuffed cunt before sighing deeply. “mhm- so perfect. h- happy fuckin’ birthday to me.”

as you writhe around his cock that’s still languidly emitting out such thick ropes from the gummed inside, you pepper his face with kisses. satoru moans at your touch as his hands reel your hips back into him.

“y’know, for the strongest, you really gotta work on your stamina,” you tease, watching that same pout gloss against his lips. satoru’s groaned silently as he pumped you full of chalky amounts that forevermore continued to ooze down the sides of your legs. you hovered over him, brushing a soft thumb over his cheek before leaning in to whisper against the shell of his ear. “how ‘bout we do every round for every year you turned, including today?”

“heh- sweets,” satoru tilts his head, doing the quick math in his head for about a millisecond before he pulls you into his beefy chest. a scarred hand guides a warm path down your arched back as he inhales your scent—huskily grunting into your neck before chuckling. “then we’d be goin’ for like.. thirty-four rounds.”

“exactly,” you coo, and satoru ogles as you remove his blindfold that lazily hung just above his eyes. bawling it into your first - you put it into his mouth and he lets off a muffled groan. satoru falls back against the satin-covered pillows of the bed with the flesh of your bare ass still in his hand before he blinks thrice.

oh.. you looked so pretty..

towering over him like this when it’s usually the other way around.

satoru leans into your touch once you tenderly cup his face, winding up your bucking hips by introducing that beloved teeth-shattering thrust that never failed to drive him crazy.

“ngh- lie back,” and satoru starts to moan continuously with his blindfold clogging his throat before you start to ferociously slam your hips onto his lap. “let’s s.. start from the beginning though, round one, birthday boy.”

TOJI ★ FUSHIGURO.

bleary-eyed and hazed, toji groans, staring at how perfectly your ass effortlessly tossed itself back against him..

in the background of the dimly lit room with a few exceptions of lit candles, some old western movie played in the ambience. he couldn’t keep his attention on the vintage film anyway, not when you were riding him so so good.

“fuckin’ shit, babygirl,” he’d lean back, hooking a beefy arm around your waist. as you lean in close, your soft right cheek tickles against his prickly growing stubble. a stubby rolled blunt sticks out between his teeth as grassy eyes his continued to droop from his erotic high.

your hips were insane - and every gruesome swerve of your ass gives him whiplash. “remember when you…hah- used ‘ta ride me like this on our honeymoon? heh, don’t tell me y’er still in love.”

“mmng- shut up, toji,” you’d moan, clawing a hand at his dingy white tank. toji feels your eyes lingering on him and you can visibly see that haughty smirk wickedly trying to carve its way against his crooked lips.

oh, how you loathed him.

you told yourself it was supposed to be the last time, but the last time always turns into one more, then two more, then three..

but that of course never happened.

the abnormally thick tension between you both forever grew. as you leaned against his hairy chest that was protected with the thin fabric of his tank top, you took the blunt from his lips before faintly inhaling the pungent smell.

“just shut up,” you’d whisper against the shell of his ear. toji grunts once the ruddy crown of his cock sloppily rams its way deeper further. your hands meet his chest and toji drops back, staring at you with a raised brow as you pin his beefy arms over his head. your hips continued to be robust, creating such vigorous thrusts that it made him clench his teeth in longing desire. “n’ let me ride you.”

“y…yes, ma’am,” toji breathes, his voice shifting more raspy from each direct hit of your deliciously springy hips. your cunt was just so precise, and his swollen tip repeatedly mashed its way thoroughly into your pulsating g-spot. it uses that pretty spot—imagining it’s a target and he hits it perfectly, bullseye every time.

the lightning-shaped veins ran through his bare arms as you held them over his head, dragging your bouncy ass back ‘n forth until he groans.

it was just something about your body that hypnotized him. your hips practically rolled into toji, moaning against his lips until hot smoke poured between the pried open cracks of his lips.

it lands against your tongue—and it’s flavorless, but you playfully lick the corner of his lip, feeling him shiver underneath you. “goddd- those fuckin’ hips. work ‘em, girl, fuuuck . . me.”

the way your pussy was just so sloppy too. the mere definition of wet. your slick clings against toji’s hefty sack like there was no tomorrow.

you had a watery grip that always made toji loll his eyes in lewd elation. the bed was almost louder than the combined moans of you both, and it even seemed like its constant groans and yelps were trying to compete.

“not so cocky now when you’re close, hm?” you’d airily whisper, feeling toji’s arm trying to flop itself back down. you grab his wrist, hearing the cute stubborn smack of his lips at your abrupt hold. “ahhh- touch, but no looking, baby.”

“bratty girl,” toji cocks his head, the lump in his throat nearly having him gasp for air. your hips were simply not fair - and pretty soon, he was coming close. your cunt’s wetly swallowing the entirety of his stout cock, twirling around his lap before viciously slamming down on his cock repeatedly.

your sweet, harmonic-like moans were pitchy and loud, but between your legs—you were far far louder. you swerved in erratic arcs, and each squelch that left from your pussy sounded wetter every time. you watched how toji’s defined abs bleed through his tank. “fine then. make me fuckin’ cum - c’mooon,” and he sharply brings a hand toward your ass. “make y’er lovin’ doting husband proud, yea?”

“and you call me the brat,” you’d grumble, leaning back in to swap the rest of the puffed smoke that lingered in his mouth. toji snickers, feeling your ass than its way in each ‘n every direction. your rhythm was just… perfect!

you’re moving in circles, you’re moving forward, hell, you even toss your ass backward just to watch his leafy eyes roll to the backs of their sockets. your cunt’s just profusely dripping wet, and he could feel you soaking from the inside at each sloppy bounce of your berserk hips.

toji’s trying to keep up his cocky façade, but with your unpredictable movements—he was screwed. “heh- atta girl, that’s my girl. ‘m all yours ‘n y’know know it,” he grunts, bruising your cervix repeatedly with smooch after smooch with the help of his plump tip. toji’s got your hips firmly by the palms, bouncing you harder on his hardened cock to make you babble out his name like it was its own sort of chant.

‘toji toji toji!’ was all you could whine out with your head empty and dumbed down from putting your hips to work.

“mhm- even if divorced, this pretty pussy always knows who it belongs t— fuck!”

mid-sentence, toji ends up cumming at that beautiful sharp smack of your ass that makes him nearly choke on a hoarse grunt. his grip against the fat of your ass loosens and his cock’s growing weak and soft, trying to retreat itself out of your pussy. it’s thin, slimy ropes that end up tangling with your treacly juices create a lewd cobweb that glues against both fleshy mounds. “mhm, soo fuckin’ good, toji,” you’d moan, slowing the rocking of your unsteady hips as he finally succumbs to his high.

the movie still quietly plays in the background, and you lean in—snatching the blunt out of his lips before kissing him. the taste of earthy, spiced smoke lands on your tongue once he returns the sloppy gesture, groaning into your mouth as he’s dumping load after hot load into you. “mmph-,” toji shivers, feeling your arms run down his beefy biceps, feeling all over his ripped body.

you couldn’t lie- you kind of missed him. kind of..

your hips still buckled and the friction makes him hiss against your teeth. “goddamn, i can’t.. feel my legs, baby girl,” he grumbles, tilting his head back slightly once your hips dip forward. “can’t stop . . cummin’ fuck-”

“seems like we gotta work on that stamina, old man,” you’d sneer, wriggling your ass once the last final spurts of cum fill inside of you. toji’s eyes then suddenly narrow at you, and you grin before he sits up. “what?”

“old man?” he repeats.

“yeah, old m-”

and it’s almost comical how you were literally straddling his lap—and now, you’re laid flat on your back with your knees rudely shoved up to the top of your chest. there’s a carnal look in toji’s eyes, and you gulp once you glance down at his feverishly hot cockhead that’s weeping with pearly droplets of dried cum.

“yeah, okay,” he grouses, earning a sweet moan from you once his tip harshly smacks against your tender opening.

toji spits on his palm before spanking your pussy, feeling you writhe in anticipation before he pulls your legs further back. his body hovers over you before he sticks his slick-covered fingers in his mouth for just a second to get a taste—aligning his fat tip before snickering at how eager you were to open up for him again already.

“let’s see just how quickly this ‘old man’ can break his pretty wife’s pussy then, hmm? just like old times, baby.”

NANAMI ★ KENTO.

if it was anything nanami kento despised more than constantly working day ‘n night at the office on constant repeat, drowning in piles of paperwork and getting his ear talked off by calls was leaving his pretty horny wife unsatisfied.

“sweetheart-” nanami timidly groans, slouching back against his rickety office chair. you were just nasty with your hips, slapping your ass against his cock that’s repeatedly reaching deep deep deep angles with little to zero effort.

it makes nanami pull on his checkered tie that’s a tad bit loose, tapping his heel against the wooden-cold floor. “ ‘m still…on the job,” and his voice pitches huskier from each languid stroke. your gaping cunt was hungrily sucking him in, flawlessly bruising your cervix with a multitude of french kisses. “but actually, this is . . better than staring at a computer screen all day.”

“yeaah?” you whisper, sneaking your spit-glossed lips near his chin. your body was straight-up sensual. nanami couldn’t keep up with the constant bouncy reel of your hips and the way you grind so lovingly against him.

the buckles of nanami’s belt clang as you rut against his lap, rubbing against the slim fabric of his pulled-down slacks.

as the office chair turned and swiveled, so did your hips. every few seconds, nanami would peek through blurred peripherals and hope no one would walk by his secluded cubicle.

“so paranoid, baby. hey, look at me, hey-” and as your hands crawl their way toward nanami’s chiseled cheeks, fawn eyes lock against yours within an instant. he’s sweating bullets, and you moan at the feeling of his cold watch band ghosting down your skin. “mhm, good. eyes up here, all on me. eyes on your poor wife who hasn’t been touched alllll day.”

“hah- more like.. you touch yourself by video calling me while showin’ off the toys i buy you,” nanami sighs, preventing himself from eye-rolling at the cunning grin that’s trying to compress against your lips. he was right though, whenever nanami was at work and you were at home—you’d call him, sometimes video call.

sliding your hands down your body… touching yourself while wearing his work clothes… purposely making a bit of a mess on his side of the bed too.

“can’t help it when my husband looks like you,” you whisper, leaning further forward so that your tummy’s pressed up against his tailored button-up. his cologne was always loud, he was wearing one of your favorites too.

it always smelled like a mixture of dirty cinnamon and rich, seductive chocolate. nanami quietly grunts, low eyes peering at his bright computer screen that had dozens of tabs open.

so overworked..

but he couldn’t lie—your hips always knew how to relieve his stress, make him forget all about his important tasks and documents he had to go over. your cunt’s just so greedy though.

every pump of his cock hastily drives through you at high speed, hips steadily forming such rough collisions with each crashing thrust. with the way you were riding him, he started to have thoughts of getting you pregnant. “f- fuuck.” he’d groan, sexily tilting his head to the left once your lips made their way onto his skin. you’re soft- creating a trail of invisible kisses as you rode him so good that he didn’t even notice his phone was suddenly ringing.

brrrriiiiiiinnng!

it’s the office phone—and it’s the same, high-pitched ringtone like always that was merely akin to nails on a chalkboard. “mmh- important phone call, ‘ken. must be important,” you’d teasingly moan, bringing your rocky hips to a brief pause. nanami groans in annoyance at the interruption, stretching his split knuckles one by one. with a lively hum, you playfully pout. “ ‘s okay, i can always…wait-”

“no- no,” nanami grumbles, soft brown eyes nearly rolling back due to the thick gaping stretch of his cock mending your insides with such ease. he pulls you into him, giving your ass a needy squeeze. lowly whispering into your ear, nanami sighs before answering the phone. “be a . . good girl ‘n keep those hips movin’ sweetheart. i’ll be quick.”

“yes, sir.” you’d play along, feeling his dick twitch between your saturated folds—and oh, you knew that made him hard. secretly, you knew nanami always did have a sir kink.

your ass slammed into nanami’s lap violently, and he’s feeling himself grow weaker and weaker the more your weight presses on top of him. “nanami, speaking,” he’d gruffly answer, trying to conceal his pantingly deep breaths.

you couldn’t really hear much except gibberish, but you started to get louder the more his mushroomy tip vertically drags its way down your sopping cunt. ‘mmph!’ after ‘mmph!’ would come out of you—and you were so vocal that he had to put a palm over your mouth.

nanami deadpans, clearly knowing what you were up to. “uh.. uh huh, i see,” he continues, groaning once his cock slides its way near your clit, tapping near your slick entrance before sloppily ‘popping!’ itself back out.

you bring a hand toward his veiny cock, slipping it back in before you then realize—you’re drooling all over his palm. “nasty.. girl,” he whispers under his breath, forgetting that he had someone on the other line.

the colleague on the other line said something along the lines of ‘what the…’ and nanami quickly backtracked. “ahem- i mean, yes. that sounds good. i should be free… monday.”

with the conversation coming to a close after a few overly prolonged seconds, nanami ends up cumming mid-conversation. the phone ends up dropping against his desk, and nanami groans, wrapping his arms around you while spewing out hot masses of cum.

“fuck- fuck sweetheart, oh, m- my,” he’d stammer, blond brows twisting together at the feelings of elation. it’s fiery hot - seeping deeply into your core so much that it even dribbles down your thigh. your cunt’s all puffy — prettily glistening with remnants of bubbly cum tearing from your folds before you kiss him. nanami moans against your wet, quivering lips as clashing teeth battle with each other.

as your grinding hips earn out a soft moan from him, he swallows your whines, tucking you underneath a sleeved arm before spanking your ass. “god, m- might have to propose to you again. ‘m still cummin’.”

and as you’re still straddling him with both sweaty bodies smushed against each other, your ear twitches at the quiet mumbling sounds of the phone that were never hung up.

“mr. nanami, what… on earth… did i just listen to.”

SUKUNA ★ RYŌMEN.

sukuna gravelly groans, huffing out low ‘fuck’ ‘s and ‘ugh’ ‘s after each spongy bounce of your ass.

the wholly cruel stretch of his cock buries itself deep within you making him click his tongue. sukuna was always a perfect fit — sometimes it took a bit of stretching, but he always knew he was around and inside. his cock knew each and every route, studying every slippery orifice and corner of your gummy, squeezing walls.

sinister, red eyes trail down your bouncing frame before he snickers at the cute taunting thrusts of your hips. “some . . nerve, woman,” he huffs, his lungs failing to keep up with your barbaric stamina. a sleazy grin tries to tug against both corners of his lips as he firmly grips your ass, spanking you again to encourage you to go faster. “ngh, ridin’ me while wearin’ my kimono? must hah- have some kinda death wish.”

the fabric wears your entire body loosely, and sukuna can’t help but gawk as you jerk your hips at such a sloppy tempo.

your pussy’s overwhelmed with all the fat inches of sukuna’s cock that mercilessly bullies its way into you. like always - he knew the exact layout of your pussy, and you moan once he presses a hand on your tummy.

“actuallyyy, they look better on me,” you quietly mumble, licking a stripe up his neck. sukuna inhales a sharp breath, scarlet eyes knocking further to the very back of his tilted skull. he was always a fool for your touch. “don’t you agree?”

“such a smart mouth,” sukuna grabs your entire chin, steadying your hips with another. out of the many enemies he’s faced—your hips were the far brutalist he’s ever been up against.

you didn’t know when to quit.

you moan at the soft pricks of his honed claws nipping at your skin, hearing the loud, pitchy sounds of both sharp rutting hips clashing in sync.

sukuna can’t help but stare—stare at you, at your body, and especially at the way you continuously threw your ass in circles, circles galore.

“think my wife’s gettin’ a ‘lil too spoiled,” he growly murmurs, tracing the claw of his thumb over your lip. your cunt’s never felt so full - his tip was just as mean as he was. it drags its way through a lewd pattern, caressing through every part of your gummy walls before seeing your eyes bulge to the size of saucers. “aw, look at that face. ‘s too big for you again, like always, hm?”

“s- shut up, ‘kuna.” you moan, pushing him back against the wobbly throne that sounded like it was about to snap into two within seconds. with a stubborn ‘hmmph!’ he lands on his back, eyeing you with a quirked pink brow.

with your knees bent to a certain degree, you started to guide your hipsby rocking it back against his lap. you knew how to swerve and grind. making the curse groan continuously from each slap of your hips, he spanks your ass while scoffing angrily under his breath.

sukuna didn’t have a weakness - besides you.

you had a type of arch that was killer.

all sukuna did was lie back while he watched you work. your ass bounced and bounced as skin against skin relentlessly ricochets onto each other. he didn’t even realize how his jaw was tightening. your grip was enticing—your cunt was slick as ever, drowning the entire shaft of his thick cock with your dripping sap. “g- goddamn, woman,” sukuna groans, his voice softening a bit.

who knew something as such as hips was enough to put the sukuna ryomen in check?

the penetration ended up turning sloppy within each ‘n every round that progressed, and sukuna’s tip was practically making love with your sensitive g-spot.

the stimulation had you moaning into his neck before you gasped, feeling him grab your hips. sukuna glances at you, feeling your sturdy hips nearly slowing down before he tauntingly tsks his tongue at you. “hah- don’t slow down now. you wanted ‘ta fuck me, so fuck me with those pathetic- hah, hips, girl.”

he’s just so big - you couldn’t help but whine out repeated inaudible whimpers. his custom made kimono loosely flows over your body as you continue to move with the constant creaks of his throne groaning from each bounce of weight. “f- fuck, ‘kuna,” a gargled moan bubbles out of your throat as you press a sloppy kiss against his lips.

sukuna’s jaw easily goes slack, and the rough slams of your ass left him spacing out in no time. your cunt’s so powerful that he gets transformed into another dimension for a split second. milliseconds pass and the demon sees nothing but pure white, and that’s when he cums.

sukuna lets out a gruff battle-crying groan once he releases—pouring such a gluey batch of cum into your cunt. it’s hot - messily oozing its way into you, a few spurts dribbling down his fat base that’s a blushing pink. a gravelly grunt leaves from sukuna as he grips your ass, making your hips circle their way slower against his pelvis.

“ugh- the audacity of this w- worthless pussy,” he stutters, shakily chewing on every word from the elated pleasure that comes from his finish. sukuna’s crimson eyes roll, and he bares his fangs deep into your neck as his creamy knot deepens inside of you. “fuck.”

“oh, don’t tell me you’re gettin’ tired already, m’lord,” you’d tease, saying that title, knowing how he’d always get hard whenever you addressed him in formal manners. sukuna’s faintly trembling underneath you, and he hisses at the sticky sight of his own cum that starts to paste against the undersides of your nearly numb thighs. eagerly, you buck your hips into him again, watching his eyes carnally widen. “one more round, ‘kuna—yeah?”

with a quirked pink brow and lowly hooded eyes, he’s panting heavily. sukuna’s cock twitched inside of you, practically creating a bulge just from how ridiculously thick he was before he sighs.

“y- yeah, one more.”

“one more what?”

sukuna shoots you a glare but it soon falters once your ruthless rocking starts up again.

you’re rough, burying your knees into his thighs as your ass smacks against his cock - making him groan out a needy whine.

“fuck- one more round.. mistress.”

CHOSO ★ KAMO.

every time you rode choso, he can’t help but fall in love with you - again.

it was just something about your hips. something about the way you moved, the way you stared deeply into his eyes, whispering sweet nothings into his ear. your voice alone was enough to make him finish, pumping you full of viscid wads that swam their way right into your warm, welcoming womb.

“s- so fuckin’ hot,” he’d whine out, studying each hop of your hips with bleary half-open eyes. if you squinted just enough, you’d spot how his pupils were gradually turning heart-shaped. you sensuously rolled your hips in a way where choso was at a loss for words.

“mmh- baby,” he’d groan, feeling your thighs lift before slamming straight back down. your cunt sloppily clamped down on his cock tightly, wringing choso dry and milking him for all that he was worth. “don’t- don’t stop, please- don’t stop, fuuuuck.”

flimsily, you threw your arms around over his shoulders that were so tense-slacked.

as you’re right next to his face, choso’s frantically panting—puffs of air leaving from his parted lips with greasy black strands sticking to his forehead. choso’s just glossed with sweat, and his hands start to slowly creep their way to the bottoms of your plush thighs. “touch me more, ‘cho,” you’d moan, grinding yourself against him in circular motions.

choso’s cock was hard - so so hard. you felt it, and it’s as if time stood still when it happened.

the blushing crown of his shaft securely squeezes its way through your pinching walls, introducing itself to your convulsing g-spot.

“chosooo, chos—oh!” you’d shriek, your thighs immediately collapsing against his. the stimulation of his crowned head smearing around the spongy texture makes you short-circuit for a moment.

you probably looked cartoonish. nothing but white painted the insides of your rolled eyes with your jaw goofily dangling open, furrowing brows curling up in such bawdy pleasure..

“a.. are you okay? does it hurt?” choso stammers, awkwardly cupping your face with big, roughly textured palms. your cheek falls into his hand as you smile, bringing a kiss toward the tip of his nose while leaning into his gentle touch.

“baby, ‘m fine,” you reassure him, watching choso’s shoulders sag. choso’s hands snag at your ass as his head falls back. the adam’s apple that bobs in his throat never stops bobbing, and he throatily groans once he starts to feel your wobbly hips pick up again.

“o..ooh! keep hittin’ there- yeah, right there,” and choso sucks his teeth as he not only hears but feels your pussy slickly slide on his cock. ravened eyes of his eventually flicker down at your neglected, bouncing chest and choso cutely sighs.

humming, you hold his chin while rubbing the pad of your thumb over his sheeny pouted lips. “go ahead, choso. feel ‘em.”

he’s touched you probably dozens of times. the two of you were married, and yet he was always hesitant, waiting for your approval. right when you gave it though, choso couldn’t contain himself anymore.

you gasped once choso quickly sank his face in between your chest, cupping his mouth around one of your bare nipples. “mmp-” he’d let off a muffled moan against your skin, the muscles in his face relaxing as he felt you patting his head.

you were still riding him, strenuously smacking your hips on top of him - each squelch from your cunt never failing to pitch higher and higher.

the arch of your back stretches further, and you feel his hand swat against your ass. choso’s tongue sloppily swirls around your tender nub before it turns into wet suckles. “f- fuck, jus’ like that, choso,” you’d whine, hearing each loud ‘pop!’ sound away from his lips once your tit occasionally slides out his mouth.

choso’s weakly rutting into you too, but one of his arms wraps around your hips - pulling you closer. you’re rocking back and forth, hearing him moan against your skin before he starts nipping. “ ‘m gonna c.. cum,” his eyes widen, digging slender fingertips into the right cheek of your ass.

and his voice shook at each pounce of your hips. you’re riding him until he breaks - literally.

the split of choso’s tip rummages its way through your tight, clenching walls, steadily jackhammering its head toward the hood of your clit. your thighs nearly snap together shut at the long-awaited pressure, and you wrap your arms around his slim torso.

“fuck, oh f- fuck ‘m gonna cum too, choso,” you’d whimper in his ear, feeling his body underneath you cutely shudder. your hips were just delicious.

he’s nearly forgetting to breathe with how damn good you rode him - with how you rotated your ass, rocking your waist, barreling all of his inches. choso’s heart thumped straight out of his chest, and one glance of you was all it took for him to realize he was falling in love with you again.

“ugh- fuck me, baby—use me, oh f- fuck,” he’d start rambling, the sweaty prints of his thumbs swirling circles around the occasional dents in your back. he found it so attractive how each time you moved or rocked against him, your muscles would cutely tense at the excessively wide stretch of his cock. “need you. i…hah- need…you,” he’d murmur between pauses of sharp breaths, and choso’s entire body slumps back within seconds.

one final thrust and he’s cumming - hard.

you end up finishing too — gushing straight out, poor trembly thighs collapsing right over his meaty thighs that were the mere definition of ‘numb’.

you’re whimpering as he’s filling you up with satiny ropes that tangle with your syrupy slick that soaks the head of his cock. “fuck, ‘cho, that’s it. r- relax,” you’d swerve your hips around, watching choso’s abs clench underneath you. you’re riding him so good that he thought he was gonna get pregnant.

you’re drenched - bringing two fingers toward your cunt, coolly spreading your pretty entrance apart. your clit’s pulsing, and you’re moaning once you see small masses of cum spilling down your clit. “you’re always so messy.”

“hah- for… you,” choso sighs, a sleazy grin forming across his lips. his hand still remains glued to your ass and he grunts, sneaking a hand between the crack of your thighs. “mmh- i think.. i want you to do that again, baby.”

“what?” you bring a chaste kiss toward his lips, swallowing the incoming whine that leaves from choso’s lips. he’s never tasted sweeter - and you could feel his body quiver at the feeling of your hands sliding down his chest.

choso moans against your lips, pressing his forehead against yours. “s.. squirt,” he purrs hoarsely, and you gasp once he lifts you, making you lie back this time. darkened eyes fall toward between your sprawled-out legs and he nearly drools — taking in the pure sight of his cum wetly streaming down your pearled nub. choso whines against your cunt, taking one long lap of his tongue, relishing at the messy taste of both mixtures of arousal - yours and his.

with a pout, choso starts to clean you up, smearing the bridge of his nose against your twitching cunt before meeting your gaze. “squirt again, pretty girl. i.. i wanna taste it this time,” and he gives your swollen heat a wet kiss.

“pretty please?”

SUGURU ★ GETO.

geto could practically feel his mouth watering once he saw that sweet, perfect arch of yours.

he’s used to seeing you in front, up close ‘n personal but no.. you wanted to try riding him in reverse. not only that, but you decided to ride him in reverse while he was still very much sensitive.

“ooh, p- princess,” he’d grunt hoarsely, tasting the treacly sweet stream of saliva pooling into his mouth. the buds that live on his tongue ached at the hot, comforting squeeze of your cunt. geto’s still getting over his recent orgasm—globs of cum still sticking against his cock and glossing wetly between your quivering legs. “ugh- you’re killin’ me here with that pretty fuckin’ arch of yours, y’know that?”

“mhm, good,” you’d reply in a hurried tone, feeling his lust-like gaze lock against your ass. you weren’t even going fast and yet, your hips already had him on a leash.

geto couldn’t stop staring - nor could he keep his strong, callused hands to himself.

you moaned, planting your hands against the crumpled-up sheets before gasping. geto makes you arch more, getting a pretty fogged-eyed view of the way your backside curves over his lap right before his eyes. “hah- suguru, don’t stop touchin’ me.”

“didn’t . . plan on it, pretty,” he rasps, trailing his eyes down at the rocking curvature of your waist. you’re fuckin’ moving, and with your hands gripping onto his knees—you threw your ass back against him time and time again. geto groans, feeling his reddened tip that was still leaking swab its way around your clit like a q-tip. your ass had a grip that made him nearly choke on the treacly saliva that sticks near the back of his tongue. “god- so perfect, look at you, girl. so hah- damn gorgeous when you’re on top, fuck.”

“mhm,” you’d bite back a moan, the sensual rolling of your hips turning more intimate by the second. his dick coarsely stretches through your slavering insides, sloppily pumping you full with each ‘pop!’ squelching out from between your thighs. geto keeps his gaze locked on your ass the entire time, and that’s when you start to bend your knees.

you arch lower, zealously wriggling your ass before bouncing on his cock and that’s when you hear him starting to whine. “fuck- so big,” you’d gasp, taking control of the tempo by steadily veering your hips like a boat. “hold my hips, sugu. hold ‘em while i fuck you.”

geto lets off a guttural groan, swatting a clammy palm against your backside before both hands attach near your rotating waist that’s raining with sweat from all angles. you’re merely glowing and it’s just so pretty.

“tch- you’re gettin’ cocky, princess,” he’d mumble, his voice turning shakier as your ass frantically ruts into him at full force. his sweltering hot tip’s on the verge of splitting you open and you moan each time you feel its overly vast curve delve straight inside your pussy, nastily dragging its way down your sopping valley. tossing his head back, geto’s abs instinctively clench through his shirt before he whines again. “ ‘m only lettin’ you take charge ‘cause i—”

and geto pauses abruptly, violently clenching his teeth at the slick pasty feeling of your pussy trapping the entirety of his thick length. breath snatches out of his chest before he groans loudly, spanking your ass with the corners of his lips twitching into a pout.

“o- oh fuck, ‘m gonna fuckin’ cum again,” and the words whine out from his lips oh-so prettily, grunting each time you slam your ass back down against his cock. his bulbous tip deepens its angle inside of you, rolling his eyes from the sudden pressure arising.

he’s never felt hotter — and geto nearly blacks out completely once you start to purposely slow down, sneaking a hand back to smack your ass right in front of his face while craning your neck. “yeah, give it t’me then, baby. don’t miss a fuckin’ drop.”

“such a s.. slut,” geto groans, nearly getting hypnotized by how good you’re dragging your hips in figure eights. they gradually shift into circles—and he’s buried deep deep deep, pounding into your cunt rawly until he ends up shooting blanks again. you end up finishing too, and it feels like a deep sigh you are finally letting go. shockwaves and electricity pierce through every nerve and vein through your body, and your mouth drops open—feeling your teeth chatter once your hips back their way up against him in reverse.

geto’s body underneath you immediately shudders and oh- he’s whimpering, feeling the weight of your rickety hips steady.

as his mouth grows dryly arid, geto lets off a weary ‘phew’ as the core muscles in his abs tighten.

viciously thin ropes of cum shoot into you. globs of it seep deep inside of you, watching as your cunt sloppily spits remnants of it on its tip—coating the shriveled-up base of his cock that’s been perfectly milked. “b.. baby,” he hoarsely groans, hands still stuck to each side of your hips.

it was such a pretty sight — your cunt remained stuffed full with buttery ribbons of cum that ran down your thighs before he spanks your ass.

“jus’ . . gimme a minute. think your pussy really hah- broke me,” and geto gives the right of your ass cheek its final needy squeeze before sighing in defeat. “f- fuuuuck, girl.”

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s0dium · 6 months ago

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YOU'RE A PERVERT!!!

/ˈpərˌvərt/

a person whose sexual behavior is regarded as abnormal and lewd

Synopsis: How perverted are JJK men? What are their perverted tendencies?

Characters: Gojo, Geto, Sukuna, Choso Warnings: Voyeurism, Gojo uses a vibrator on you in public, cockwarming, fantasizing, public sex, dub-con, male masturbation, mating press, begging, blindfolding and restraining, breeding

Gojo Satoru

7/10 on the pervert scale

This man is full of kinks and thinks about sex quite often.

His kinks aren't necessarily abnormal but he can be obsessive

Has sniffed your panties and used them to jack off

A shameless pervert

Would be into blindfolding

The rich man he would invest in some toys and is a fiend with them

"Shit." You mumble under your breath, biting your lip to prevent any more sounds from bubbling up.

As you sit in the glossy, high-ceilinged conference room surrounded by the austere faces of the Jujutsu Society high-ups, you keep your head down, staring desperately at the floor as the toy inside you buzzes against your clit and your gspot. It's fucking unbearable. Across the table, Gojo sits, the picture of nonchalance with his trademark blindfold, his lips curving into a barely-there smirk that only you can decipher.

The vibrations of the toy are slow, most certainly on the lowest setting which you are almost thankful for. The sensation is like warm sunlight filtering through a window, gentle yet insistent. The dual stimulation of your clit and gspot has you practically gasping for air, it is delicious, slow, and not enough, not what your body is starting to crave. You can feel the thrum of pleasure at the tips of your fingers and toes, then spirals inward, igniting every nerve ending with a whisper of pleasure. The warmth expands, filling you to the brim, making your breath hitch unexpectedly.

Around the table, the meeting drones on, a background hum to the electric thrill dancing under your skin. You shift in your seat, trying to contain the heat that Gojo’s toy stirs within you. Under the table, he is most certainly playing with the remote, circling the buttons that could at any moment lead you to your doom. How did he even get you to do this in the first place? Each brush of your clothes against your skin turns into a caress, intensifying the sensations that you desperately try to mask.

The more you squirm, the wider Gojo's smile grows, though it never reaches his eyes, which are focused intently on you, enjoying the scene he orchestrates from across the room.

Your face flushes a deeper shade of red with each passing second, a silent plea for respite mingling with the fear of being discovered. The heat pools at the pit of your stomach, waves of pleasure cascading through you in relentless pulses. You clench your hands under the table, nails digging into your palm to anchor yourself to reality, to the droning voices discussing projections and quarterly returns.

But Gojo is relentless, you can practically hear the click of the remote that speeds up the toy inside you. You immediately jolt as if you have been electrocuted and you cross your legs to try and tame the ticklish pleasure coursing through you like a tidal wave.

"Everything ok Y/n?" Someone from across the room asks, and you feel everyone's gaze turn to you.

Before you can muster up the strength to say anything, Gojo cuts in.

"Oh she's fine. Just excited to be here isn't that right?"

Geto Suguru

6/10 on the pervert scale

Geto prides himself on keeping his composure intact.

But the man has so sick fantasies roaming around in his head

Behind a kind smile and hazle eyes he is mentally tearing away your clothes and fucking you on the desk you are sitting behind

Totally acts on these thoughts. Eventually he will find a way

Doesn't really care about what others think of him, which makes him very bold

He is less of a pervert and more of a "sex lover" if that makes sense

"Stay still baby, dont want anyone getting ideas do you?" Geto coos into your ear and you have to bite the inside of your cheek to stop your self from moaning. Thank god you wore a long skirt today because if it was any shorter you were sure everyone would know you weren't just sitting on your boyfriend's lap. No, you where impaled on his dick.

You glance around, your cheeks heating up as you catch a few curious stares from nearby moviegoers. Geto seems unfazed, his focus calmly fixed on the screen ahead. You can feel your body instinctively squeeze around his length, desperately yearning for friction, but two big hands keep you secured on his lap preventing you from moving.

Geto's presence is both arousing and disconcerting as you try to focus on the movie, hyper-aware of every shift and breath. As the room darkens with the film's start, you attempt to blend into the dim anonymity, hoping the engulfing shadows hide your flushed face and the flutter in your chest.

Suddenly, Geto slightly bucks into you, so his fat tip presses against the part of you that you only dream about reaching with your fingers. As the waves of pleasure gently cascade through you, you press your lips tightly together, restraining any sound that threatens to escape. You force yourself to remain utterly still, despite the overwhelming sensations of his large member that tempt you to move. The restraint heightens every tingling sensation, each pulse becoming more pronounced, more insistent. Your fingers curl into the fabric of your skirt beneath you, gripping tightly as you focus on the subtlest of movements—a breath, a slight shift—that could betray the intensity of your experience. The stillness becomes a challenge, a game of control where every fiber of your being is acutely aware, and every small victory in maintaining composure amplifies the pleasure silently swirling within.

"Doing so well baby, you sure you can keep this up?" Geto mummurs into your ear, nibbling on the skin of your lobe.

Choso

7/10 and for very good reason

Listen, the man has never experienced intimacy before.

So when he experiences sex for the first time, oh boy, choso is down for the count

he wants to try it all, do it all with you, to you

He's the type to think about stealing your panties or is tempted to look up your skirt but reprimands himself for it

"Come on baby just keep your legs on my shoulders. Can you do that for me?" Choso's breath is hot against your ear. "F-fuck please" he says through a groan. If you weren't so fucked out of your mind you would think that he was actually begging. And you were right. Choso swears his isn't a whimpering man but here he is, voice cracking from the vice grip your cunt

You are too dumb to reply, only spurting outcries and whines about how good he was fucking you. Choso snapped his hips so fast that everything seemed like a dream, the bed was shaking immensely with the headboard banging on the wall and you were losing your mind from the friction of his dick against your walls. How long have you been in this mating press? How many times have you cummed? How many times has he cummed in you?

"Wanna fuck you every day," he grunts out, pumping into you, the length and level of his arousal brutal. "fuck fuck fuck," Choso swears, as he brings a hand to the back of your head and presses your lips onto his. Your so dazed you practically drool into the kiss, letting him entangle his tongue with yours until spit smeared on either side of your lips. He doesn’t slow the movement for a second as he kisses you, giving you full, hard thrusts, your breasts bouncing from the brutality.

Suddenly, it hits you. Like an ignition of fire your brain goes white and you feel yourself ascend to euphoria.

“You gonna cum baby?" he coos into your hear, pressing light kisses on the hollow of your neck. "fuck, cum for me baby, please, cum on me." Choso's hand flew between your bodies to rapidly rub your clit back and forth, hurtling you towards your orgasm. Your pussy tightens so hard around his cock that he nearly has to stop his thrusts. Your mouth grows lax as you feel yourself splitting in two, coming with his cock buried deep inside you.

“That’s it,” He fucks you through your orgasm, pouring every ounce of his strength into chasing his own high. His thrusts became sloppy, hips stuttering before he stilled his hips flushed against yours, burying himself in your creamy cunny.

“Fuck fuck fuck FUCK!”

Sukuna Ryomen

This is difficult, sukuna is not much of a pervert as he is a sadist.

So on the sadist scale, he is a 10/10 and the correlation with pervertedness would also be a 10/10 because of the wild things he does to you

He just loves to see you embarrassed and degraded. If that means fucking you in public so be it. If that means cumming on your panties and making you wear them so bit it

There isnt much he isnt open to (unfortunately)

You feel dizzy.

The soft fabric presses gently against your eyelids, urging them to remain closed. With your sight stolen away, your world narrows, funneling your awareness to the heightened sensations that begin to bloom from your core.

You whine at the feeling, squirming at the sensation of sukuna's fingers massaging your gspot. His pace his maddening, every curl of his fingers is so slow and exact, so much so your muscles tremble from the pleasure.

"Faster, faster please" you mewl, and you don't even need sight to know that there is a devilish grin on Sukuna's tattooed face.

"You feel good dont you? Poor thing." Sukuna chuckles.

The material encircling your wrists is smooth, almost silky, tying your hands behind you leaving them free to roam but only so far. As the pleasure builds, coiling tightly within you, the lack of sight only deepens the mystery and intensity of each contact, each sensation. You're adrift in a sea of touch and sound, each wave crashing over you with more pleasure than the last.

"So pretty, I love it when you're desperate, god," Sukuna groans and he leans in close so you can feel his breath against your ear. "You're making me so hard baby."

Your hips buck up when you feel the pace of his fingers quicken. The fiction is delicious and his digits fill you so much better than your small ones ever could.

"Want me to fuck you?" Sukuna purrs and you desperately nod in response making him chuckle. "Look at you, of course you do."

#jjk smut #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen smut #gojo x reader #gojo smut #geto x reader #geto smut #sukuna x reader #sukuna smut #jujutsu kaisen #choso smut #choso x reader #jujutsu kaisen headcanons

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dustedmagazine · 1 year ago

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Andrew Forell 2023 End of Year

Robert Forster, photo by Stephen Booth

2023 buzzed by in a whirl of too much work and music. So many records and so many missed. I kept going down rabbit holes of genre and artists, chasing and never quite hauling in all the things I wanted to, or felt I should, listen to. In the end, music being so difficult to rank, here, in alphabetical order are the records I spent most time with a bunch of others I’ve been recommending to anyone who would listen.

The Feelies – Some Kinda Love (Bar/None)

2023 has been a good year for guitar music. New albums from Teenage Tom Petties, The Reds, Pinks and Purples, The Drin, The Tubs and The Murder Capital have been on high rotation here. So why a 2018 live tribute to a band who broke up in 1973 by a group in their fifth decade? First, these are songs are from The Velvet Underground, and second, simply, The Feelies. Joined by Richard Barone and Joey Maestro from The Bongos, they rip through a set that features the “hits” and some lesser-known songs with affection but not awe. Glenn Mercer and Bill Million’s guitars thrum in the style we are accustomed to, while Stanley Demeski, Dave Weckerman and Brenda Sauter provide rhythmic support which adds a dynamic swing to songs like “There She Goes Again,” “Head Held High” and “I’m Waiting For the Man.” Some Kinda Love is a pure dopamine hit of great songs played by a brilliant band. Joy and fun in equal measure.

Robert Forster – The Candle and the Flame (Tapete)

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On The Candle and the Flame Robert Forster produces some of the most emotionally direct and effecting songs of his career. Recorded in the shadow of his wife, Karen Bäumer’s diagnosis of, and treatment for ovarian cancer, Forster writes with grace about family, friendship, love and the past. The only song written in direct response to the illness “She’s A Fighter” contains only six words but the propulsive tension of the music expresses everything Forster doesn’t attempt to say. It’s an extraordinarily powerful performance, a cathartic blast, and for me, one of the songs of the year. “Tender Years,, “The Roads” and “When I Was A Young Man” are also up there. As I said in my review “few (songwriters) imbue the quotidian joys of domestic life and the power of memory with such poetry.”

Iceboy Violet – Not a Dream But a Controlled Explosion (Fixed Abode)

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On their self-produced album Not a Dream But A Controlled Explosion Iceboy Violet mixes rap, grime and swathes of liminal ambience into an emotionally purgative chronicle of identity, desire and fantasy which flows with a dreamlike intensity. Over deep pulses of sub-bass, taiko influenced percussion and concrete noise, their voice shifts in and out of focus, here a background whisper, there an urgent Northern accented boom. The music, like the vocals, is in constant flux, slipping between hard club beats and eerie ambience. At just 17 minutes, the eight tracks here stay with you for far longer.

The Inward Circles – Before We Lie Down in Darknesse (Stone Corbel Press)

Scottish composer Richard Skelton manipulates a six second fragment of Baroque recorder music taken from the run-out groove of a battered 50-year-old vinyl recording into haunted soundscapes that to tap into something primordial and elemental within layers built like geological strata. This is music to lose yourself in. Obsidian and glacial, Skelton’s work captures and preserves trace elements of melody and rhythm so imperceptible that you feel as much as hear them. Before We Lie Down in Darkness is a beautiful, timeless voyage andhas often eased me from insomniac anxiety to sleep in the last few months.

King Vision Ultra – Shook World (hosted by Algiers)

Using musical stems from Algiers’ Shook, found sound and collaborations with artists including ELUCID, Matana Roberts, DJ Haram, Dis Fig and Bigg Jus, King Vision Ultra’s self-styled mixtape is a companion piece and conversation with its source rather than a remix. A shifting sound collage that explores and interrogates race, class, gentrification, violence, love and community, Shook World digs into the core of New York City. Recordings of subway announcements, overheard conversations and confrontations lend a bracing realism and more than once Shook World has merged with the noise and incident of daily trips on the 1 train. A brilliant, often disorientating and abrasive sound portrait of NYC from some of its most interesting musicians.

Kofi Flexxx – Flowers in the Dark (Native Rebel)

Native Rebel founder Shabaka Hutchings has been in the vanguard of the English jazz scene with his bands Sons of Kemet, Shabaka & The Ancestors and The Comet Is Coming and as a cross-genre collaborator with artists on three continents. Posited as a “creative principle” rather than a band, Kofi Flexxx, Hutchings acts as guide and producer. Flowers in the Dark is anchored by pianist Alex Hawkins, flautist Ross Harris and a dynamite rhythm section of bassist Daisy George and drummer Jas Kayser. Backing guest vocalists including rappers billy woods and ELUCID, singers Siyabonga Mthembu from South Africa and Tamil born Ganavye and poet Anthony Joseph on album highlight “By Now (Accused of Magic)”, the quartet provide a fulcrum that draws together the strands of black music into sinuous unity. The instrumental tracks are equally good. “It Was All a Dream” has the rhythmic power of Sons Of Kemet with Hawkins’ percussive piano and George’s bass bounding along ahead of a wall of horns and Harris flying above them while managing to find a gritty rasp the bottom end of the flute. “Fire” is a bluesy spiritual jazz with George and Harris both prominent. An album that exemplifies Hutchings’ holistic approach to music.

Seablite – Lemon Lights (Mt St Mtn)

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San Francisco band Seablite’s second album Lemon Lights delves deeper into their love for 1990s English sounds. The quartet of vocalist/guitarist Lauren Matsui, vocalist/bassist Galine Tumasyan (bass), guitarist Jen Mundy and drummer Andy Pastalaniec channel the lush end of 1990s British indie. Ride guitarist Mark Gardener mastered Lemon Lights and the result is an album of shoegaze adjacent songs which incorporate the jangling sound of Seablite’s Bay Area contemporaries. It’s a deeply satisfying combination elevated by vocal harmonies, serpentine bass lines and Pastalaniec’s driving percussion. Lead single “Melancholy Molly” has the rollicking rhythm of Ride’s “Leave Them All Behind” overlaid with Matsui and Tumasyan’s lush harmonies and the twin guitars sparking from the mix. The sound is dense but melodic, allowing the guitars to chime and shimmer than rather fuzz and the melancholic edge to tracks like “Pot of Boiling Water” and the dreamy closer “Orbiting My Sleep” make Lemon Lights resonate.

Sinaïve – Répétition (Antimatière)

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When Sinaïve released Répétition in April, I had a cursory listen, filed it away and promptly forgot about it for several weeks. My mistake. On second listen, their combination of Gallic cool, psychedelic pyrotechnics, VU drone and the distant echoes of Ye-Ye and the French underground was irresistible. The Strasbourg trio - Calvin Keller on vocals/guitar/keys, Alicia Lovich drums /vocals/organ and bassist Alaoui O - make a wholly satisfying racket. On the 11 plus minutes of “Citadelle/Bis Repetita”, Sinaïve ride Lovich’s robotic rockabilly beat and Alaoui’s throbbing bass though a suite that sounds among other things like “Ghost Rider”, “Sister Ray” and Love at their wiggiest before Keller’s freight train riffs entangle themselves as if on a lock groove. It’s a terrific piece of sonic détournement. “Les Diaboliques” finds Keller crooning over a squalling guitar and molasses bass line before guest singer Raphaëlle Albane enters, an earthbound angel amidst the feedback. Albane appears again on “Cela ne Fait que Commencer” to close the album duetting with Keller over a quiet pulsing beat, organ and strummed guitar.

99Letters – Makafushigi (Disciples)

Osaka producer Takahiro Kinoshita’s Makafushigi (Mystery Tape)is built on samples of the instruments and vocal styles used in Japanese Imperial Court music. As 99Letters, Kinoshita fuses these ancient sounds with modern electronic music in ways that are as malevolent as the demons of mythology and as sinister as the organized crime and ultranationalism in contemporary Japan. The tracks on Makafushigi are washed in a seamy mix of grit and clamor, a grim, grimy world of back alleys, dingy bars and low-tech manufacturing. On discovering this I went on to a deep dive into 99Letters’ back catalogue and emerged when Kinoshita put out his most recent album Zigoku on Phantom Limb in November. He is the artist I’ve been most thrilled to discover this year.

The Others:

Algiers – Shook (Matador

Armand Hammer – We Buy Diabetic Test Strips (Fat Possum)

jaimie branch – Fly or Die Fly or Die Fly or Die ((world war)) (International Anthem)

John Coltrane with Eric Dolphy – Evenings At the Village Gate (Impulse)

Comet Gain – The Misfit Jukebox (Tapete)

The Drin – Today My Friend You Drunk The Venom (Drunken Sailor)

Euglossine – Bug Planet is the Current Timeline (Hausu Mountain)

Asher Gamedze – Turbulence and Pulse (international Anthem)

Gods Gift – Turn All the Lights Out (Play Loud!)

Laurel Halo – Atlas (Awe)

The Reverend Michael Kristen Hayter – SAVED! (Perpetual Flame Ministries)

Irreversible Entanglements – Protect Your Light (Impulse)

Life Strike – Peak Dystopia (Bobo Integral)

Kevin Richard Martin – Black (Intercranial)

OXBOW – Love’s Holiday (Ipecac)

Purelink – Signs (Peak Oil)

Quicksails – Surface (Hausu Mountain)

Rainy Miller x Space Africa – A Grissaille Wedding (Fixed Abode)

Speaker Music – Techxodus (Planet Mu)

Strategy – Graffiti in Space (Constellation Tatsu)

The Tubs – Dead Meat (Trouble In Mind)

billy woods & Kenny Segal – Maps (Backwoodz Studioz)

99Letters – Zigoku (Phantom Limb)

#dusted magazine #yearend 2023 #andrew forell #robert forster #the feelies #iceboy violet #the inward circles #king vision ultra #kofi flexxx #seablite #Sinaïve #99letters

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kawaiialeisha · 1 year ago

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oh my lord

OH MY LORD /POS

GAAAAAAAAAAAAAH STAARRYYYY OMMGGG I LOVE SEEING UR ART ITS ALWAYS SO GOOD AND OML REBOOT WALLY LOOKS SO CUTE I COULD SMOOCH HIM WITH KISSES UNTIL HE SUFFOCATES

EATS YOUR DELICIOUS, INCREDIBLE ART UP AAAAAAAAGSGDUHAUAGHSHUWSHJFE THE COLOURS ARE SO YUMMY

I just realized that I can edit my traditional art in a similar way to how I do digital

silly goofy charmer belongs to: @bloodrediscream

#welcome home #welcome home au #wally darling #reboot wally #MY HEART IS EXPLODING AND IMPLODING AND REVERSING INWARDS AND OUTWARDS #IM SPINNING IN CIRCLES IN THE AIR #IM EATING MY ELBOW #/POSSSSS #AAAAAAHHHHHHHH STARRYYYYY THIS IS SO GOOD I LOVE HIM #RB

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airteacher · 11 months ago

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youtube

#ooc #baguazhang #airbending #notice the mud stepping #how she slides her foot a little bit more forward with each step as though her feet are sliding in mud #and she starts with the bagua circle #i haven't been trained but my understanding is many bagua forms start with circle walking #and ofc there are circular movements throughout #twisting inward and outward #there's so much here to see and i'm just scratching the surface with my limited knowledge #Youtube

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vadlings · 1 year ago

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Represention of Autistic Frustration in Laios Dungeon Meshi

Like many other autistic people, I related strongly to Laios Touden while reading Dungeon Meshi. This post isn't going to spend time disputing whether he displays autistic traits or not—while I could do that, I want to focus on why specifically his portrayal struck a chord with me in a way the writing of most other autistic-coded characters has not.

Disclaimer: as the above suggests, this post is strongly informed by my own experiences as an autistic person, as well as the experiences of my neurodivergent friends with whom I have spoken about this subject. I want to clarify that in no way am I asserting my personal experience to be some Universal Autistic Experience. This post is about why Laios' character feels distinct and significant to me in regard to autistic representation, and while I'm at it, I do feel that I have interesting things to say about autistic representation in media generally. This also got a bit long, so I'm sticking it under a read more. Spoilers for up to the end of chapter 88 below.

The thing that stands out most to me in regard to Laios' characterisation is the open anger he displays when someone points out his inability to read other people. This comes up prominently in his interactions with "Shuro" (Toshiro Nakamoto):

The frustration pictured above (Laios continuing to physically tussle with Toshiro, using crude language toward him) becomes even more notable when you remember that this is Laios, who, outside of these interactions, is not easily fazed and often exists as a lighthearted contrast to the rest of the cast. Then we get to Laios' nightmare.

In Falin's words: "Nightmares love emotional wounds. Wounds you hold in your heart. Things that give you stress, or things that were traumatic for you. They aggravate memories like that and cause the dreamer to have terrible dreams." (chapter 42, page 10.) (damn. i'm properly citing for this post and everything.)

Thus, Laios' nightmare establishes an important fact: even if he is unable to recognise social blunders while he's making them, he's at least subconsciously aware that other people operate on a different wavelength to him, and that he's an outsider in many of his social circles (both past and present). His dream-father's disparaging words stress the impact this has had upon his ability to live up to the expectations set out for him, and we also get a panel of kids who smirk at him (presumably former bullies to some degree). Toshiro's appearance only hammers home how much Laios is still both humiliated and angered by his misunderstanding of their relationship.

I've thought a lot about anger as concomitant to the autistic experience. When autistic representation portrays ostracization, it's generally from an angle of the autistic character being upset at how conforming to neurotypical norms doesn't come easily to them; as a result, they express a desire to 'get better' at meeting neurotypical standards, a desire to become more 'normal' (whether the writing implies this is a good thing or not). In contrast, not once does Laios go, "I need to perform better in my social interactions, and try to care less about monsters, because that's what other people find weird." His frustration is directed outward rather than inward, and as a result, it's the people around him who are framed as nonsensical.

The Winged Lion starts delineating Laios' anger, and Laios' reaction is to think to himself, "It can sense all my thoughts, huh?" (chapter 88, page 16.) This is the scene that really resonated with me. I'm not saying I have never felt the desire to conform to neurotypical norms that is borne from insecurity, but primarily, I know that I don't want to work toward becoming 'normal'—I don't want to change myself for people who follow rules I find nonsensical. It's the difference between, "Oh god, why can't I get it," and, "WHY CAN'T YOU GET IT?" (phrasing here courtesy of my friend Miles @dogwoodbite). And for me personally, Dungeon Meshi is the first time I've seen this frustration and the resultant voluntary isolation from other people portrayed in media so candidly. Laios' anger is not downplayed or written to be easily palatable, either.

The culmination of Laios' frustrations in this scene wherein we learn that Laios has fantasised about "a pack of monsters attacking a village" drives home just how alienated he really feels. I need not go into his wish to become a monster himself, redolent of how many autistic people identify/have identified with non-humans to some degree as a result of a percieved disconnect from society (when I was younger, I wanted to be a robot. I still kind of do.)

Obviously, wishing death upon other people is a weighty thing, but the unfiltered nature of this page is what deeply resonated with me. The Winged Lion is laying Laios' deepest and most transgressive desires bare, and they are desires that are a product of lifelong ostracization by others (whether intentional or unintentional). This is the brand of anger I'm familiar with, and that my neurodivergent friends express being familiar with, but that I haven't seen portrayed in writing so explicitly before—in fact, it surprised me because most well-meaning autistic representation I've experienced veers toward infantilisation in trying make the autistic character's struggles easy for neurotypicals to sympathise with.

Let's also not neglect the symbolism inherent to Laios' daydream. "A pack of monsters attacking a village". Functionally, monsters are Laios' special interest—he percieves everything first and foremost through his passion for monsters. His daydream of monsters attacking—killing—humans, is fundamentally a daydream of the world he understands (monsters) overthrowing the world that is so illogical to him, that has repeatedly shunned him (other people). I joked to my friends that it's an autistic power fantasy, and it actually sort of is. And in it, his identity is aligned with that of the monsters, while his anger manifests in a palpable dissociation from the rest of humanity. This is one manga page. It's brief. It's also very, very raw to me. I think about it often.

To conclude, I love Laios Dungeon Meshi. This portrayal of open frustration in an autistic character meant a lot to me, and I hope I've sufficiently outlined why. Also, feel free to recommend media with autistic representation in the notes if you've read this far—I would really like to see if there is more of this nature. Thank you for reading. I'm very tired and should probably sleep now.

#dungeon meshi #dunmeshi #laios touden #shuro #toshiro nakamoto #the winged lion #autistic #autism #clay writes #i GUESS #this was so spur of the moment. im so busy right now i dont have time to be analysing laios touden #i wuont angry autistic rep..

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ssweetleaf · 8 months ago

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babies.

husband!steve harrington x wife!reader

summary: you finally tell steve that you’re ready for a baby.

includes: SMUT 18+, breeding kink, not really a daddy kink but he refers to himself as daddy lol, mating press, creampie, unprotected p in v

˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗

“Hang on— what did you say?”

Steve felt as if he was dreaming, completely delirious, struggling to stay on his feet when his knees started to buckle.

He clutched a quivering palm to his chest, as if in attempt to quell his heart, but nothing could sate the thick thumping that barrelled through his rib cage.

You smiled at him, a small, impish one that made his eyelids flutter and you stepped closer, smoothing your hands along his shoulders before resting upon the thickness of both biceps, squeezing only slightly— just for your benefit, of course.

You knew it was something he’d desperately wanted to hear for a long while, so you spoke slowly, hoping the few words you spoke would register properly.

Because this was real. Such a big step, something that Steve had always dreamt of, but you not quite. It took a good few years for you to succumb to the idea of raising kids; a pretty house and a small wedding— even a few cats roamed around your home, so you knew that something was missing, something you now wanted desperately in your life.

“I want to try for a baby, Steve.” You spoke, watching his doe eyes grow even rounder, little tears threatening to ebb while he felt all melty and gooey, moving forward to shakily cup your cheeks and bring you closer towards him.

Steve nuzzled his nose against yours, sighing out a big breath and sponging a sweet, chaste little kiss to the corner of your mouth.

“I don’t know what to say, honey, I’m—” he shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut, his thumbs lazily circling the apples of your cheeks. “I’m so fucking happy.”

—

So, the two of you fucked like rabbits— for hours and hours, multiple times a day, the mere feeling of his raw length inside you had you creaming around him in minutes, and it was much akin for Steve, the soft, gummy walls of your cunt squeezing around him with no barrier between the two of you.

It felt like heaven.

Steve had insisted that you both have sex as regular as you could, the need to have you pregnant, to make it stick, needed to be quenched, and you nodded along like the doting little wife you were.

“My pretty honey,” he cooed, pressing your knees firmly against your heaving chest, holding you in a mating press whilst he fucked his thick cock into your spasming pussy.

Sweat beaded along his hairline, breathless from his hard thrusts— he had already came inside of you three times that same day, however you knew he wouldn’t let up until he saw those two red lines that told him what he’d wanted to hear.

“Gotta give you my babies, don’t I, hon?” He uttered, moaning breathily into the stuffy air— his full, round balls smacking against your ass with every inward thrust, so full of cum and ready to breed. “Gotta be thorough now, baby— want you nice ‘n’ round.”

He was babbling, words slurring into something almost nonsensical— his pretty lips sponged at any piece of skin he could find, mouthing and suckling with a desperation that shone in his honeyed eyes.

Your pussy practically sucked him in, letting his ruddy tip nudge at the spot so deep inside you, that had you clenching and fluttering.

“Fuck, jus’ wanna be a daddy so bad,” he whined, “and once we have our first, we’ll have another, and another, and another— oh fuck.”

He was fisting the pillow underneath your head, muscles drawn tight, trying so hard to keep his eyes open and not let them flutter closed— trying hard to keep his eyes on you.

“But don’t worry, honey baby,” he sighed with a smile, still thrusting as deep as he could, his thumb moving to rub at your clit. “You’ll still be daddy’s best girl— daddy’s favourite, I’ll make sure of it.”

You whined. He was so filthy, so crude, as soon as his big dick would slip inside of you he’d be gone, so stupid, completely pussy drunk. Silly boy.

“You ready for it, hon?” He cooed, nuzzling his nose into your cheek, “ready for my cum, pretty girl?”

You nodded, uttering a small ‘yes, Stevie’ through a moan and a sigh, clenching hard and quivering around him, ready to cum yourself.

The sheer need to be filled had you delirious.

“Yeah, gonna fill you up— gonna put a sweet baby in that pretty tummy of yours,” he hummed, “that sound good?”

“Sounds s’good, Stevie,” you whined, struggling to keep hold of your legs, your limbs shaky when you tried to keep your knees pressed against you. “Wan’ it so bad, want your cum— want your babies.”

He nodded fervently, hair whipping in every which way, dick throbbing in you hotly, the taut veins pulsing with every inward thrust— so, so close and ready to burst.

“I know ya do, hon— you ready to take it? You ready to take another load, baby?” He whined, squeezing his eyes shut, thrusts turning sloppy and erratic, “I know you’re so full, can barely fit anymore cum inside this poor pussy, huh?”

“Can take it, Stevie,” you spoke, fluttering your lashes, your lips all pouty and pink, “promise.”

And with one, two, three thrusts, he stilled inside of you, so deep, tip kissing your cervix before shooting his thick, pearly ropes of cum inside you, hoping to fill you with his Harrington prodigy, to make all the babies he could wish for.

Steve kept your legs raised, pulling them from your chest to place above his shoulders, keeping your back arched.

“Gotta make sure it takes,” he whispered, stroking at your calf before pressing a little kiss to your ankle. “think this is the one, honey.”

#Steve Harrington x reader #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington smut #steve harrington hc #steve harrington blurb #steve harrington fic #steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington x you #steve harrington headcanon #steve harrington fanfic #stranger things x reader #stranger things smut #stranger things imagine #stranger things blurb #joe keery x reader #joe keery smut #joe keery imagine

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silverbrain · 1 month ago

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Keep Quiet...

NSFW, Minors Do Not Interact

Tropes- smut, semi-public sex, fingering, hand job, drunk sex, sex in the closet, balcony sex.

Pairing- Reader x Xavier, Reader x Rafayel, Reader x Zayne, Reader x Sylus.

Summary- Xavier getting freaky at the movie theatre. Rafayel getting freaky at a party in a closet. Zayne getting it in an airplane. Balcony freak activities with Sylus.

First time writing smut, gimme all your feedbacks!!

Xavier

You had finally convinced Xavier to watch the new movie with you. After a few stressful weeks at work, you finally had a few days off, and Xavier didn’t have any missions either, so you had put forth the idea, hoping to slowly get him out of his eat-sleep-lounge schedule.

You wear a knee length maroon skirt and a black top and you’re quite pleased with yourself as you turn left and right in the mirror, watching the skirt swish. You hear a knock on the door and open it to see Xavier, dressed in something you definitely haven’t seen him in earlier. He wears a dark blue hoodie and black jeans, that are tight in all the right places. You try not to stare as you envelope him in a hug, when your nose catches a whiff of… is that perfume? “You smell nice”, you comment. “Ah, yes, thanks”, he says, awkwardly, one arm coming up to brush his neck.

It was a strangely empty theatre. You took your seats in the back, mind still reeling from the whiff you caught earlier. Xavier sits beside you, seemingly relaxed. “Why this movie?”, he asks.

“Well, I’ve heard great reviews, so why not give it a try?”, you reply.

“Hmm…”, he says, thoughtfully, “I hope it’s good”

The movie begins. You find your thoughts occasionally drifting to the tall man beside you. How good he looks in blue, how good he smells…Beside you, Xavier puts his hand in yours, rubbing slow circles on your knuckles. You raise an eyebrow questioningly, but think nothing of it, happy to hold his hand.

That is until he lets go of your hand and places the palm of his hand flat on your thigh instead, lightly stroking the maroon velvet of your skirt. You turn to look at him. He keeps his eyes on the screen, low lights glinting across his pretty eyes.

He brings his hand to your knee, now drawing light, ticklish patterns in the skin. He draws a few squiggly figure 8s before you catch on. Oh. They’re letters. S. You look at Xavier. O. He continues to spell out letters on your knee. P, he spells next.

And then R. He continues the trail of letters inwards, up your thigh.

You internally sigh as you feel the beginnings of a familiar feeling tingle through you.

“Xavier…”, you ask questioningly.

“Shh baby…”, he leans in to whisper, the warmth touching your ear and sending a tingle down your spine. “Let me”

You shudder at his words as his hands slip upwards, toying with the skin of your thighs. E-T-T-Y. He ends the last letter dangerously close to your core, fingers almost brushing your underwear.

You almost shift forward, and instead bump your foot into the seat in front of you. The person grumbles a little and almost turns around as your freeze. Xavier, on the other hand, simply stills his hand and continues watching the screen. “I’m so sorry”, you apologize, and the man sits down once more, attention trained on the movie.

You breathe a sigh of relief, not daring to look at Xavier. You could almost imagine the smirk he’s got on his face. He leans in again. “So eager, huh?”, he whispers and you bite down on your lip to keep in the noise that is about to escape your throat.

You look at him, unbothered if sees the absolute need coursing through me. Xavier doesn’t look at you. Instead, he continues to look at the screen, the dim lights illuminating his features as he brings his knuckles to rub at your core. You can’t help but squeeze your legs together and bite down on your lips.

Xavier huffs a small laugh in the back of his throat, and you feel the juices soaking through your panties as he continues to rub lazy circles at your core. He knows. How does he know?

“Please…”, you whisper, as quietly as you can. “Hmm?” You know he heard you, and he’s only teasing. He turns an inquisitive eye towards you, and you can’t help but feel a little annoyed at the teasing. “Please…Xavier…”

He appears nonchalant enough and you wonder when this movie is going to get over, when he suddenly takes his hand away. You shift uncomfortably in the seat as you feel the wetness soaking your panties, dripping down your folds. There’s no way you could do anything right now, not with so many people around. It’s a relatively empty theatre, yes, but the few people in there still seem like too many for the things you need right now.

From the corner of your eye, you watch Xavier bring his hand up to his mouth and suck on his fingers, as if he were washing away the salt from a bag of popcorn. “Mhm…”, he sighs, as his eyes shift to meet yours, “it’s delicious”.

Your mouth falls open as you look away, feeling a desperate new wave of need course through you. You cross your legs, trying to create some pressure against your wet insides. “Uh huh”, he hums, quietly., bringing his hand to your knee, forcing his hand inside, making you uncross your knees. He rests his hand there, for a moment, making you lean forward in anticipation.

“What do you want?”, he asks quietly, “is it this?”, he asks, suddenly dipping into your skirt and shifting your panties to the side as he touches you. A very inappropriate noise almost escapes you as you feel your muscles clench and struggle at the sensation.

“Could’ve just told me”, he says, and you can almost hear the smirk in his voice.

You don’t dare close your eyes, and the danger of the situation hits you all at once, but you don’t find it in yourself to care. Instead, you open your mouth and try to keep breathing evenly.

Xavier’s fingers rub slow circles on your sopping wet folds as you struggle to stay still in your seat, fingers gripping the handles. You can’t help but whine a little.

“Need more?”, he whispers, fingers toying at your entrance till you’re sucking his fingers in, desperate need and desire coursing through you. You nod, not trusting yourself with any words.

The screen plays in front of you, but you’ve lost the plot long ago.

He dips his finger inside a little and you feel yourself clench in anticipation. He stops, though, instead bringing his fingers to spread the wetness around. You nearly whine at the teasing. “What?”, he asks casually, or at least he pretends to, the hoarseness in his voice giving away how it’s affecting him as well.

“More”, you mouth the words.

“As you say”, he says, suddenly thrusting two of his fingers deep inside you. You inhale sharply as something on-screen explodes. You try to hold it in, biting your lip and struggling as he begins to pump his slender fingers in and out, rubbing his palm on your nub rhythmically.

You grip the handles roughly, knuckles white, muscles clenching and throbbing. You turn your head to look at Xavier. You feel a heat course through you as you find his gaze already on you, watching you hungrily. He leans forward to grab your hand, taking it off the chair handle and instead placing it on his arm, still under your skirt.

You look down to look at the way his hand disappears under your skirt and you feel the familiar coil in your stomach squeeze impossibly tight. You look back up at him, as he simply brings up a finger to his lips. Quiet. The message is clear.

Waves of pleasure rush through you as Xavier’s hands slow down, stroking the pulsating high out of you. You try to control your breaths as they come out ragged and shaky, Xavier’s eyes still on you, not budging.

“Great movie, isn’t it?”, he asks innocently.

Rafayel

You were accompanying Rafayel to his friend’s birthday party. You pull up to the address in a deep blue gown and text him.

Rafayel had been running late since Thomas had forced him to attend another of his exhibitions. After none of the excuses had worked, he had ended up having to attend, and was now on his way to the party.

You: r u here yet?

Raf: omw, will reach in like 5 min.

You read the text and wait for him. The party is at a villa complete with a swimming pool, an open bar and a barbeque that you see as you gaze over the massive lawn. A few people mill about, and you can’t help but feel a slight bit intimidated. You see a car pull up and Rafayel gets out, wearing a dark navy suit. He scans the place looking for you, as you exit the car and wave to him.

Rafayel’s eyes widen a little as they fall on you as he steps forward to give you a slight hug. “There you are”, he says, “you look great.”

“Thanks”, you say, “it isn’t too much, is it?”

“You’re never too much”, he says, as you take his arm and enter the party.

The party continues into the wee hours of the night, with drunk people loitering around the pool outside and a few others in random corners of the villa. You stare at the random drink you picked off a tray as your eyes search for Rafayel. He excused himself to visit the restroom and then he had disappeared. You hang around with another hunter that you kind of knew, before deciding to go look for him yourself.

You pass the bar and the kitchen and the vast living room, smiling politely at the ones you made eye contact with. You check a few of the rooms on the first floor, and then climb the stairs to the second.

You pass a room and are about to enter the next when you see a man approaching your direction as you freeze. Blanche was another one of Rafayel’s friends, but he was the type to rattle off story after story when drunk and you really didn’t have the patience for that right now. You look around for an escape before your eyes land on a closet in the corridor. You turn around and quicky shut yourself in the cupboard, hoping it doesn’t have any strange bugs or spiders.

Your phone pings.

Raf: whereee r uuu

You silence your phone hurriedly as you type back.

You: hiding lmao

Raf: ???

You: was looking for u

Raf: where r u now?

You: in the dark brown cupboard in the corridor of the second floor…

You stare at the screen as he begins typing back, but never replies. Outside, Blanche seems to have found his next victim as you hear the faint sound of conversation. You hear a set of footsteps approaching, and you hold your breath, hoping it’s Rafayel. You didn’t want to be caught hiding in a damn cupboard, after all.

The door of the closet swings open as Rafayel stands there, his eyes a bit sleepy. He opens the door and gives you a long look, his eyes travelling up and down, before climbing in and shutting the door behind him.

“What are you doing?”, you whisper hurriedly.

“Joining you...”, he replies.

In the close proximity of the dark cupboard, you’re acutely aware of the faint scent of his perfume. You lean forward and rest your forehead on his chest. He brings his hand up to gently stroke your hair. “Tired?”, he asks.

“A bit...”

He tucks a piece behind your ear as you look up at him. You’re looking at darkness, but you can feel his hot breath against your face.

“You know…”, he starts, “you look exceptionally ravishing today…. Did I tell you that?”

“Uh, yeah…thank you…”, you reply, unsure of the sudden compliment.

“Love showing you off…”, he mumbles next to your ear.

“Is that so?”, you ask teasingly.

“Mmm...” he hums as he leans forward to capture your lips in an urgent kiss, the faint trace of alcohol lingering in the background.

You return the kiss, sensations heightened by the pitch blackness around you. His hand moves to lock around your neck as he holds you in place, licking and kissing into your mouth.

You pull back a little. He pulls back and pants heavily, his breath hitting your face in little puffs.

“Are you drunk?”

“Why? You gonna deny me a kiss if I am?”, he asks.

You take in his state, unsure of what to say. He attacks your lips again, causing you to let out a squeal of surprise. He kisses and kisses and kisses, one hand clutching at your throat, the other at your waist, pulling you impossibly closer. You feel the undeniable bulge in his pants rub against you, a little gasp of pleasure escaping your throat. “Rafayel…”, you start.

“Need you…”, he replies, kissing down your throat, moving his hand down your chest. “Really do…”

“We’re”, a gasp escapes your lips as his hands find your chest, massaging a nipple, “in a fucking cupboard, Raf!”

“Does it matter?”, he whispers into your ear, nibbling on your earlobe.

You feel your brain stop in its tracks a little as you chase the feeling of his mouth on your neck. He moves his hand further down your waist, resting at the deep slit of the evening gown. He drags his fingers across the expanse of your thigh while pressing kisses to your collarbones. You find yourself leaning into his touch, wanting more.

He places his fingers below your thigh and brings it up to hook around his sturdy legs. You feel a wave of desire course through you at his actions, pooling between your legs. You bring a hand up to his fluffy hair.

“Please?”, he questions, leaning up, giving your collarbones a respite. You nearly shudder at the way his voice quivers a little, need and desire evident. You allow his hands to slip under your dress and toy at your panties.

A shaky breath leaves you as he slips his fingers inside, groaning at the wetness slipping out of you. “So, you like it huh?”, he asks. You can only gasp silently in response. You pull him forward and kiss at his jaw, earning a growl.

Outside, you hear a set of voices getting closer. Rafayel seems to hear them at the same time. He pauses his movements to listen. The faint sound of two people talking drifts in. He listens for a bit before moving his fingers with increased fervour. You nearly moan at the contact.

He roughly places a hand over your mouth as he speeds up his movements. You throw your head back in pleasure, hands haphazardly reaching out to touch him everywhere.

“Shh…”, he hushes you, before pressing a wet kiss against your mouth. “Do you want them to hear?”

Your hands shakily find their way to his belt, and you tug, which results in him drawing a shaky breath. “So eager…”, he muses, moving quickly to undo his belt.

You shakily reach for his cock, already leaking with desire. You can almost see it even though it is pitch black all around you. Rafayel lets out a quiet gasp as your hand touches him, eyes fluttering shut.

He presses into you, brushing his cock against your slick folds, teasing.

Outside, you hear a man call out to his friend amidst the friendly hum of chatter. You freeze. Rafayel leans forward. You can feel the energy change around him for a second as he pushes into you suddenly.

Sheer pleasure and pain envelopes you as you try to control your sounds. Before you, Rafayel stills for a moment before he starts to move, slowly. Agonizingly. Deliciously.

The steady hum of chatter hums in the air, however you can only focus on the humming of your blood in your ears, as it runs hot with desire and pleasure.

Rafayel leans down to press a kiss to your lips before thrusting in. He does it again. Kiss. Thrust. Kiss. Thrust. You can feel the pleasure radiate off of him. You nearly reach down to touch yourself before he grabs your hand and brings it up to rest of his chest. “Nuh uh”, he says, bringing his hand down to touch you. You almost feel your knees buckle at the pure wave of pleasure that shoots through you.

“Why…”, you start, but it comes out whiny, “why are you like this…”

“You…”, he gasps, “in this, it’s…been driving me crazy…all night”

You gasp as you feel the pleasure build suddenly, the risk making everything more pleasurable. You come suddenly, ripples of pleasure pulsing through you. He fixes his mouth to yours, swallowing a deep moan as he lets go himself.

You feel your knees buckle as the pleasure washes over you, but Rafayel holds you up with his strong arms, resting his head against yours as he comes down from his own high.

Outside, someone looks for him. “Where’s Rafayel?”

“Right here”, he smirks as he whispers into your ear.

You can’t help but chuckle at the situation. Drunk Rafayel certainly is something.

Zayne

You sit beside Zayne in the cramped airplane, body feeling uncomfortable with the buzzing as you flew over various cities. You had been assigned to accompany him for a medical drive yet again, not that you were complaining.

Zayne was especially warm to you today, not bothering to hide his affection for you at all. Not only did he buy you coffee, as he always did, he also suggested watching a movie together and reached out to entwine your fingers together in the cramped space between you. You felt a gush of warmth and affection surge through you at the gesture as you leaned into him, pulling the airline provided blanket closer around you both.

You soon find yourself dozing off, resting your head on his shoulder. Zayne quirks an eyebrow as he notices your eyes closing every so often, till they finally shut as you drift off. He quietly switches off the movie and closes his own eyes, heart warming at the closeness between you two.

That is until you shift in your sleep and place your hand directly on his crotch.

Zayne’s eyes fly open at the sudden contact. He glances down at you, hoping you’d shift and move your hand away, but it doesn’t happen. He shifts uncomfortably in his seat.

A few moments pass, during which Zayne tries waking you up by tapping your shoulder. You shift a little, only making things worse for him. He gulps a little and decides it’s too much before grabbing your arm by the wrist.

This wakes you up and you jerk violently as you wake. “Just…”, he struggles, moving your hand to your lap, as he settles down in his own seat. You look at him, mouth open, sleep still lingering in your face. “I was dreaming of you”, you admit.

This catches his attention. “Really? What was I doing?”

Your face colors at the question. Why had you even brought it up? “You…”, you try to come up with something that’s less embarrassing than the truth.

Truth is, your mind had conjured up images of Zayne saying your name, over and over, eyes shut, face contorted, in need, but not in pain.

Beside you Zayne quirks an eyebrow. “Don’t tell me you were imagining naughty things?”, he teases.

You can’t hide the effect his words have, as you turn away to look at the now black screen in front of you.

“You really did imagine naughty things, huh?”, he says, surprise evident in his voice as he refuses to break his gaze away from your flustered face.

“Stop…”, you try to protest weakly. “Tell me” There’s something in his voice, it’s definitely something and your eyes snap back to his face, holding his gaze for a moment.

You see the way his pupils dilate and his breath comes out a bit shallow as he stares at you. “You and me were…doing things”

“What kind of things?”, he asks, voice low, barely able to keep the sudden lust that’s flooding his body.

“You’re...a mouthful”, you say. Zayne opens and closes his mouth, trying to keep his calm, but failing and failing badly. He shuts his eyes and takes a shaky breath.

You take in his state and a wave of cheekiness comes over you as you shift your hand back down over his crotch. Zayne’s eyes fly open at the contact as his body jerks.

You look up to smile at him slyly. “What?”

“Don’t…”, he shudders, “don’t what me”

You continue rubbing over his pants, feeling his bulge grow. “Do you like it?” He shuts his eyes and ignores your comment, not trusting his voice at the moment. “Me…dreaming of you…like that?”

He opens his eyes only to see your eyes already on his as he opens his mouth and lets out a heavy breath. It comes out shaky and the effect you’re having in him is enough to turn you on.

You feel the wetness stick to your panties, already pooling.

You move your hands deftly to his track pants and slip your hand inside, moving your hands up and down his already leaking length. Zayne can barely hold it together. He pants quickly, before balling up his hands into fists. “N-no, no, no…stop!”, he whispers urgently.

You stop as you look up at him curiously. There’s an urgency in his movements, as he looks over his seat to survey the airplane before grabbing your wrist. You look at him curiously.

“Get up”, he says urgently and your curiosity gets the better of you as you follow him.

In a few steps of his long legs, he gets to the bathroom and shoves you in before getting inside himself and locking it behind him.

Your eyes widen impossibly as you stare at him. “Zayne…we’re gonna get caught!”

“No, we aren’t”, he says with a finality in his voice as he reaches down to lower your sweatpants and panties in one go.

You gasp as the cold air hits you suddenly, but hardly have time to think as he frees himself and grabs your leg to hoist it against the wall. He kisses you, once, desperately, before plunging into you.

A long squelch is heard followed by the sound of your gasp as you struggle with the intense sensation of being filled by him. Zayne breathes heavily in front of you, breath fanning your face.

“This is what you get…”, he says, struggling to hold himself back, “for teasing me, in an airplane, of all places”

He begins to move his hips, pistoning in and out of you as you take it, the situation making you feel hot and wet all over again. Your face contorts in pleasure as he hits that delicious spot inside you over and over again. You grab at his hair and his arms, trying to steady yourself against him.

You can feel you’ve reached your breaking point when he reaches a hand down to roll your nub between his thumb and forefinger. You arch into him, pure pleasure taking over your senses.

He looks at your face intently, your pleasure bringing him closer to the edge. “So…close, sweet-heart”, he pants, “You’re so…”

You nearly whine at his words as you feel the pleasure build inside you. “So hot like this”

“Zayne!”, you say his name as your orgasm hits you, waves of pleasure bursting forth from your core down to your muscles as they clench around him.

He comes soon after, burying his head in your shoulder, as he empties himself inside you.

A minute passes. He unwraps himself from you as he takes in your flushed face and wipes the sweat off his own eyebrow. You look away, suddenly feeling shy about the whole thing. “Don’t get all shy now”, he says, huffing a slight laugh.

Three loud knocks are heard on the door as he says it. You instantly pull up your pants and almost panic when Zayne puts an arm on your shoulder. “Get ready…”, he says, raking a hand through his messy hair. “For…?”

“Bend over”, he instructs. You look at him questioningly, before he jerks your head towards the toilet. “Too bad the plane is giving you nausea, sweetheart”, he says, patting your back before he flushes the toilet and opens the door.

Zayne meets eyes with a disgruntled passenger waiting. “I’m sorry”, you hear him speak, “she’s not doing well in there”

You can’t help but smirk at his quick thinking.

Sylus

You and Sylus stand on the balcony, wine glasses in hand. You both have been drinking as a form of unwinding after another stressful auction. Sylus may pretend to be all cool and unbothered, but you could tell when he was focused on doing the things he did- the stress got to him too.

You take another sip of the cool liquid as a breeze blows suddenly, the cool autumn hair blowing through your hair. Out of the corner of your eye, you notice Sylus’ eyes on you, but you say nothing. His eyes continue to blaze into you, all focus, no reprieve.

Below, on the street, a car honks, breaking his reverie, as his eyes dart back to the liquid in his cup. You turn to look at him, he seems a bit…open and kind of…vulnerable? ‘Maybe he’s drunk?’, you think to yourself.

Sylus looks up from his cup to meet your eyes. He freezes for a moment, before letting out a smile. He looks happy, and unguarded and…young, you think, so much younger, when he doesn’t seem as stressed.

“What is it?”, he drawls. “Something on my face?”

“Yeah”, you chuckle to yourself. He frowns a little as he brings a hand up to his face, rubbing absent-mindedly. “Handsomeness”

His eyes widen a little before it clicks and he laughs shortly. “Well, I can’t rub it off my face then”, he says.

You watch him, wondering if you should ask him the question or no. He’d deny it, obviously. Sylus wasn’t the type to admit he was drunk. Even if he was lying face down on the couch. Mumbling. Legs hanging off the side. You chuckle a little to yourself at the memory.

"What are you laughing at, darling?", he purrs.

You shake your head. "Who said I'm laughing?"

He puts his glass to his lips and chugs the remaining liquid before placing it on the floor with a soft clink. He straightens again as he walks over to you, slowly.

You feel the hair on your arm rise as he gets closer. You turn away took look at the cars on the street below. There weren't many.

He stands right behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist and resting his head in your shoulder. You nearly shiver at the sudden burst of warmth of his chest against your back.

"Are you saying my eyes are deceiving me?", he asks, voice rumbling right next to your ear.

You look at him. It was a mistake. Because he's impossibly close and you lean back in shock. "Maybe", you joke, trying to quell the heavy thumping of your heart.

Sylus just hums as he buries his nose in your neck. "Are you lying to me?", he whispers. You can't help the way your breath stutters as you bring your hand up to touch his hair.

"I wouldn't do that...", you say absentmindedly, as you realize how true it is. Something about Sylus when he's like this, so soft and... open makes you feel feelings for him.

Your fingers brush his scalp and he groans softly, pressing a kiss to the base of your neck. You hum appreciatively and his arms tighten around you further. He peppers kisses across your neck, moving to the shell of your ear and you nearly drop your glass right out of your hand when he nips at the earlobe.

"Sylus...", you whisper, voice laced with need. He hums and you feel it thrum through your body.

"What, darling?", he asks. His voice is rough. You meet his eyes and you know he's feeling it too.

You cup his face as you crash your lips with his, desire a free-flowing wave back and forth between the two of you.

Sylus kisses your wine-stained mouth with passion, tongue dancing with yours.

"So pretty...baby you're so pretty...", he pants and you feel yourself physically need him. His hands move from wrapping around your middle to ghost over your body, lower and lower.

You moan at his touch as you press back into him, needing his touch, needing him. You gasp as you feel him press into you, almost grinding himself against you.

"Look...", he gasps, pressing his face against yours, "look what you...do to me"

Your knees almost buckle at his voice. You feel your wetness soak your panties at the way he struggles against you.

"Sy..."

He gasps at the nickname, and bites down on your neck. You let out a squeak at the sharp twang of pain and it soon turns to whimpers as he drifts his hands close to where you need them, pressing in.

He stops for a second before slipping his hand under your dress, running his palms against your cold thighs.

"Touch me...", you nearly wonder how you got so bold, but all you can think of is how much you need his touch.

"Really?", he says, toying with your underwear, "but I'm already doing that..."

"Please", you gasp.

Sylus groans at the sound of your plea, his hips press into your back harder, seeking friction. He slips his fingers into your underwear and you can hear his breath stutter. "You're so...turned on...for me"

"Yes", you gasp.

"Fuck", he growls, "I need you...Now, baby. Right now." The cool air hits your face as you think of his implication. The idea of taking him like this, on the balcony, sends a sharp wave of arousal through you. It's too risky, you think, but the way he's got his fingers against your wetness, touching but not moving, makes your head spin.

"Sylus...out...out here?", you manage to ask

"Yes, baby", he replies, slightly beginning to move his fingers in little circles. He kisses your shoulder. "Please", the sound of his voice, so needy, combined with the delicious pressure of his fingers, makes you crumble. You nod.

You hear the clink of a belt as Sylus makes quick work of his pants. Before you can miss his warmth, he lifts your dress to press up against you.

His hand slightly pushes your upper back, so that you're leaning over, just a little, as he positions himself.

Shifting your panties to the side, he presses in slowly and you can barely contain your moans as he fills you up. You clutch the cold metal railing and your glass of wine, which is still, somehow in your hand.

Behind you, Sylus grips your hips as he resists the urge to go feral. He begins rocking his hips, fucking into you slowly. You clench your fingers onto the cold railing as your hot pussy clenches around him.

"So good baby...", Sylus says, kissing your neck, setting a slow rhythm. He brings a hand around you to touch you and you nearly collapse at the pleasure surrounding you.

A few moments pass: Sylus is fucking into you slowly, rubbing your nub in slow, languid strokes. You feel the coil of pleasure in your stomach compress and curl till it almost hurts.

"Pl-please", you shudder and beg, "more"

"Too much?", he asks, his voice slightly concerned.

"Need to..."

He hums as he understands, pressing his chest against you as he speeds up his movements. You watch the red wine splash against the glass violently, a few drops escaping and disappearing down into the air as he fucks into you.

His fingertips hurry along your slick folds, and you feel yourself letting go. "That's right", he stutters, "come for me"

You feel the coil explode as your muscles clench repeatedly. Sylus fucks you through it, chasing his own pleasure before he stills, violently shuddering as he cums.

He buries his head in your neck as he catches his breath. The moment suddenly hits you as you watch the figure of a passerby on the street below.

"Sylus...", you speak, "what if...someone saw us?"

"Then I'll scoop their eyeballs out and you can have them", he replies.

You chuckle at his response.

This is the first time i've written smut, tell me how it was

#lads xavier #lads zayne #lads rafayel #lads sylus #love and deepspace #smut #lads smut #xavier love and deepspace #zayne love and deepspace #rafayel love and deepspace #sylus love and deepspace #lnd zayne #lnd xavier #lnd rafayel #lnd sylus #it's been silver #silver writes

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