#Archaic Rapture
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I, Slave to the Rose Translation （我、薔薇に淫す）
Every time I draw my sword
Thorns of iron twine 'round my arms
Trailing and cutting through my breast
Blooms a lone flower
My heart frozen in deep crimson
Live on
O rose that shan't fall
To anyone's touch!
Piercing into emptiness
My unwavering will
Stand tall in an abyss of solitude!
Vulgar and beautiful
At last this hatred shall
Send a shiver through my body
And become rapture
Transforming every light in the world
Into a feather of darkness
Let us dry the tears of blood
That steal down our cheeks again tonight
With my soul cloaked in black
I shall awaken
O writhing flower, O nightmare!
Never once tiring
Now, unfurl
Though I have known but one love
Thirsting and never quenched
I long for eternity
I, who even God
Cannot slay
Piercing into emptiness
My unwavering will
Advance to the ends of Hell!
Vulgar and piteous
At last this agony shall
Send a shiver through my body
As I tremble sweetly
And become rapture
Within a smile
I tried to give the lyrics for this one an archaic feel.
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From one of Canada's three major papers
OPINION
Spare me: Prince Harry’s claim of victimhood doesn’t quite fly
PHOEBE MALTZ BOVY
SPECIAL TO THE GLOBE AND MAIL
Copies of Prince Harry's new book Spare at a shop in London, on Jan. 10.CHRIS JACKSON/GETTY IMAGES
348 COMMENTSSHARE
BOOKMARK
Phoebe Maltz Bovy is a contributing columnist for The Globe and Mail.
Some – and I’m among them – argue that rather than being a way to promote social justice, so-called wokeness is about maintaining the status quo. A system of rules and manners that might seem progressive is in fact a cover for material inequality.
One could not design a better example of this than Prince Harry, the world’s premier nepotism baby. In his new memoir, Spare, Harry (he abhors snobbery, so let’s drop the “Prince”), bolstered by therapy, offers himself up as a courageous opponent of stiff-upper-lip upscale Britishness. He’s a modern man, in touch with his feelings. And he’s had it with archaic royal protocol, especially the bit about giving the kingdom to the elder son. Fight the power!
The biggest bombshells coming out of Prince Harry’s memoir, Spare
What Spare seeks to accomplish is to translate the life experience of a Prince who has spent much of his life carousing – a man whose life makes everyday white male privilege seem paltry – into the story of a victim of systemic forces.
When he partied, this was not a prince cavorting. It was a troubled young man finding solace in the bottle, the Ziploc bag.
Apart from the self-medicating, pre-rift Harry was known for having worn a Nazi uniform to a 2005 costume party. Ordinary people have been cancelled for less. But a royal, even a “spare,” is uncancellable. We learn that Prince Charles summonedthe Chief Rabbi of Britain, who told Harry – 20 at the time – what the Holocaust was.
Harry recounts this episode in his usual feelings-speak. The takeaway is not about mankind’s evil depths, but rather about … his own “self-loathing.” And anyway, how contrite did he need to be, given that, in his telling, William and Kate put him up to it?
Indeed, much of the book covers how Harry feels, temperature-wise, while in the army but also in civilian situations. He’s forever either too warm or too cold. (The latter involves a nauseating anecdote about frostbitten nether regions. Harry’s no Gary Shteyngart, and should have left well enough alone.)
He complains that he finds the dining room at Sandringham House “subtropical,” but that the Queen’s corgis objected to open windows (the draft, you see) so footmen would audibly close them. “That loud thump, unavoidable because the windows were so old, always felt like the door of a jail cell being slammed.”
Royalty, for Harry, has been a prison. It’s involved being hounded by paparazzi, and it made his pre-Meghan romantic life a challenge: women were either put off by the lack of privacy, or a little too excited about becoming a princess. That being a royal has also afforded him endless second chances and unfathomable gobs of money eludes him.
The point is not that Harry hasn’t suffered. To lose your mother at 12 is tragic even if you’re a prince. Where things get murky is in Harry’s interpretation of more recent history. Do the grumblings of a second-born royal hold a place in any broader fight for justice? With the exception of the ones specifically about the British tabloid press’s racism against his wife, it’s hard to make that leap. Yes, he moved to California after falling out with his family. But is he right to say he “fled”?
The power that comes with being Prince Harry is his for life, whatever his official role within the Royal Family. Harry claims his father left him “unemployable.” But he canstill do whatever he feels like (such as get a memoir ghostwritten by a fine writer), put a giant “Prince Harry” stamp on it and sell it to rapturous audiences.
The narrative at this point weaves from spring 2020 up to fall 2022. COVID – and the world shutting down – goes unmentioned, except as it affects their travel. A reference to Meghan’s three-bedroom detached property in Toronto as her “little house” offers a subtle reminder of Harry’s perspective. The book is at its strongest when Harry leans into that highly unusual vantage point.
Between the lines, and despite itself, Spare can be a fun, escapist and gossipy read, about a world where homes have 50 bedrooms and young people go on safari with hippos because why not. There’s the thrill of hearing the late Queen Elizabeth referred to as “Granny.” A royal story is worth more than a regular one, a fact that ultimately unites Harry with the tabloid journalists he – understandably – loathes.
On the streetcar home, gripping my copy of Spare, two older women sitting near me discussed the price of cauliflower. Nine dollars. More than these ladies could, uh, spare.
Thanks!
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first there was fire, then there was smoke
a/n: more brainrotting with mittyyyyy (@raptures-finest)
this time about the aftermath of an island where one of their OCs is from :3
oc x canon in the latter half, they/he law
cw for passing mention of// religious trauma, child marriage within the church, crucifixion of the priest in said church
word count: 1.2k
"There have been no survivors found yet, sir."
"Are you sure?" Momonga fixed the mousy cadet relaying his report with an iron gaze, if the poor man could shrink in his shoes even more he would.
"Yes, sir. Our troops searched the entire island but have had no luck. The fires scorched everything to the ground. Nothing but um," he swallowed, "corpses, sir."
"There were rumors of the Hiraishin hanging around neighboring islands in the week prior, it's entirely possible that this was a coordinated attack."
A marine with little more backbone piped up, causing his junior to mirror the salute being shown out of respect. A private conversation glinted in their eyes that didn't escape their superior's notice.
Stand up straight, don't make us look bad. Wear your uniform with pride.
Momonga didn't begrudge his subordinate, he probably appeared even harsher than usual under all the stress lately. His men were halfway to an island in the complete opposite direction when the order from Akainu came in to look into the devastation that happened here.
It was three days before they were ready to set sail in the aftermath of dealing with a large group of wannabe pirates, what they lacked in experience they made up in numbers and collateral to his ship. Another three for them to actually drop anchor, though the dock had been destroyed, and frankly there wasn't much left to investigate.
Things were, and it stung his pride to say, hectic since the defeat of Kaido and Big Mom at Wano, with so many of their forces guarding nobility at the Reverie there was little recourse when Strawhat Luffy returned to menace the open seas and the marines shamefully left scrambling when Eustass "Captain" Kidd continued to cause havoc across the ocean as well.
Safe to say they were short-staffed. And thanks to the work of that damn Revolutionary Army, it seemed more difficult in recent years to recruit (canon fodder) people into their ranks despite how successful marine propaganda had been in the past.
Was it entirely possible that a small but notorious band of pirates raided an unknown town in bumfuck nowhere? Sure, but considering the circumstances - a violent revolt was probably more likely. Plus, from what Momonga had heard about the Hiraishin crew's captain in particular, he didn't sound like the type.
There had been whispers for years through ports of neighboring islands about the practices here; strong but archaic religious beliefs spearheading the community through their church and congregation, teenagers being arranged to marry young and dissuaded from pursuing higher education—most didn't finish primary school, let alone secondary or their O-levels—all in the name of tradition and "God's" plans for everyone.
How many reports had come in from girls attempting to flee unsafe households from this island only to be turned back to their parents because they had the "right" to look after their own child; children that they were forcing to be wed not a week later.
Thinking about it left a bitter taste in the Vice Admiral's mouth.
Company towns weren't technically legal anyway under the purview of the World Government, all things considered this was more an internment camp for people with debt too, but they were willing to let most things slide if it let them continue to vilify what they saw as the under class, "pirates" by any other name.
Of course, Sakazuki would write it off as criminals fighting amongst themselves, their own devilish nature bringing about nothing less than divine destruction. Everyone who lived here had engaged in corrupt practices therefore their downfall was deserved.
At his age, though still doggedly loyal to the system he'd served for decades despite disagreements about how the current Fleet Admiral ran it,
Because where would he be without it, what would it make of him and the acts he had committed over the years if that system was not actually just and impartial,
Momonga was weary about how much of that was actually true.
---
"Hey. Thought I'd find you in here."
Kirin awoke from his nap to find his partner standing in the doorway, arms crossed with the day's newspaper tucked under one arm. He patted the spot next to him after a small kitten stretch for them to come closer.
"C'mere, you haven't paid nearly enough attention to me today, captain."
Law scoffed. He had work to do, files to organize and notations to make on their latest whacky pet project or grill their crew about not attending to their chores correctly but then Kirin flashed that charismatic lopsided grin of his, all ease and hooded eyes.
Well. They had work to do.
"You look tired, darling," once situated in the slight dip on Kirin's side of the bed, Law's fingers found their way onto their lover's scalp and despite the claim, that one word alone felt like it washed away the lead in his bones.
Darling, darling, darling. He could listen to Law call him that forever.
Kirin's arms wound themselves around Law's pretty little waist, making himself comfortable with his face in the junction between Law's neck and shoulder - even though they'd been apart for just a few weeks this time he yearned for their touch, to touch them, even more, "Mmhm, haven't been sleeping too well."
"Any chance this might have anything to do with it?"
Law held up the article reporting on the tragedy that befell that damn company town. It wasn't like Kirin to order an attack on an entire island, usually it was just the swine up top that hung for their crimes. But he trusted his partner's discretion.
They couldn't see what face Kirin made properly because of the angle they were cuddling at but Law was sure it was a grimace. Kirin only turned to hide his face in their shirt with a small noise, his focus shifting to the light patterns traced with his nails on Law's back.
Two weeks weren't nearly enough to organize a formal revolt.
A mutiny rung in by a black dog's howl and the reaper at people's doors.
It was barely enough to get the innocents and their families away, some kicking and screaming once they knew of the town's fate but were protected by those who vouched for them. Whoever was left was intentional, some would even say they deserved it.
Kirin and his crew would take the blame for it so long as it meant whoever needed to die, did.
Dissatisfied with their man's non-answer about something that clearly bothered him, Law proceeded to read off the paper aloud, "They said the priest was found crucified in his church, reporters speculated his husband must be devastated."
"'S how the Lord intended him to go. He was devoted to a god that sanctified child marriage."
Kirin's response was muffled but immediate. So this was personal.
"Yeah, what's that say about the man who burned down an entire town?" Law moved so Kirin would have to face them, brushing wavy curls behind his ear so they could see the inevitable adorable pout in full.
"I get on my knees for better people."
Laughter like windchimes, two captains kissed in the dark comfort of each other's company.
#cebwrites#one piece#trafalgar law#one piece law#op law#op kirin#lawrin#momonga#shoutout to the gif here being one#of TWO#useable momonga gifs that i could find#we love contrasting killing corrupt bureaucracy and priests#with gay ppl making out in this house#love wins <3
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SATURDAY MAY 21ST, 2011
(Title Drop From Red Sky)
12:00 AM
OH GOD THE RAPTURE IS BURNING
I'M ON FIRE
I'M ON FIRE
OH MY GOD
OH MY GOD IT BURNS
OH
oh oh..
oh.
12:01 AM
Sorry, I'm not on fire. My eyes were just adapting to the bright light from outside the window. It's a sheer red out there.
What the fuck?
12:02 AM
I’m outside now.
Barefeet, shorts, don’t care. Just wanna know what the fuck’s causing all the ruckus.
I can hear firetrucks. Something's on fire out there.
That's why the sky is red.
That's all this was.
See! What'd I tell you, journal? Rapture. Bah! Just another scare.
…
Loud voices from back inside. That'll be my parents.
12:06 AM
I didn't find them. Actually, I didn't find anyone. I'm standing here in the kitchen, and there's no more voices. The lights were on, though, so someone must have come downstairs.
12:10 AM
I checked. I checked if mum was out back, having a smoke. I thought I heard noises.
She wasn't out there.
But something was. Out in the back garden.
It was bigger than an animal, or any animal I'd expect in England.
For a moment I thought it was Adam, crawling around on the grass. It looked as skinny as him. And the smell…
I shut the door when I saw eyes reflecting light, looking my way.
And then I went back up to my bedroom.
I.. need to calm down.
I need to get back in my headspace. Nothing is happening. It could be pranks, it could be my own anxious mistaken eyesight.
I'm scared of spiders and dogs. Of course I'm going to be scared.
I need.. to put this journal down. I'm fooling myself.
I need. To.
Watch some porn.
2:00 AM
Okay. Fuck.
Now I do need to write.
I’ve been hiding in the bathroom for a really long time now. I can’t just sit here and do nothing while that thing crawls around my house.
My fucking leg's bleeding.
Getting freaked, calm down Jordan. Fooling myself. Jordan Dooling myself.
Retrace my steps.
Porn was lovely. Chatted with Bones on AIM. Heard walking around in the kitchen, figured it was mum or dad or Adam. Someone getting back from having a look at the fires. So I went downstairs, I wanted to clear this all up.
It wasn't my family.
It was the thing from the garden. It's a crawling crawly thing, it's a person with bright eyes. It, he, scratched me.
Wasn't too bad. I was already running, it only grazed me.
Because. This is just some person in our house.
This is ridiculous. This is utterly ridiculous. I’m gonna deal with it.
2:10 AM
I made it back to my room, at least. I was able to sucker the fucker in the back, I hit it with my elbows as hard as I could.
It’s not a person, I think I can say that much, maybe it’s a kind of mothman but without the wings or some shit, okay there’s something uncanny about no just shut the fuck up
2:22 AM
Door’s barricaded. I think. Got chairs and a desk up against it. I don’t hear it trying to break in or anything.
Is this Rapture?
It’s a goddamn animal that I simply do not know, probably the feral animal that inspired that story “The Rake.” I always thought that was a bit of a weird name, but then again I also liked that about it. Its claws definitely resemble rakes. And I seem to recall there being some other, more archaic definition of “Rake.”
So relax.
2:27 AM
It’s just like killing a spider.
Just like killing a I’ve never killed a spider before.
Where are mum and dad?
2:32 AM
It’s gone. o_o
I’ve checked everywhere, the house is silent and the front door is open.
Closing that fucker right away. Barricading it too. And the back door. In fact, I think I’m just gonna make sure everything’s tip-top and then I’ll.. see if the internet will offer any consolati explanation.
3:04 AM
I wonder if anyone will see my Facebook status as just an ironic comment.
“THE FUCKING RAKE JUST ATTACKED ME, THE SKY IS RED AND I AM SCARED.”
Eh, hopefully not.
3:30 AM
MOTHERFUCKING COCKROACH THAT THING’S THE SIZE OF MY HEAD
crawling on the wall in the corner of my FUCKING room
and this is JUST a FUCKING cockroach
I can DEAL WITH THIS
Fuck my fears. Okay? Fuck. My. Fears. It’s just you and me, cockroach. You’re going down.
3:33 AM
God, I’m tired. Starting to fall asleep.
sllee pn.ow
9:42 AM
I woke up feeling something licking my hand. Thought it was Oscar, so I petted it. It ran off, then I remembered I haven’t seen Oscar since I was in America last August.
Can’t see out the window, it’s like a beige curtain on the outside or something.
Well here I am, writing in my little diary again. Journal. Thing. I just saw a spider the size of my foot. I think it had two heads. Might have been sleep paralysis.
The weirdness did not go away overnight. This is the day of Rapture. This is.. coincidence or not. This is something I just want to write through. Writing has helped me through worse feelings than fear.
10:18 AM
I’ve been speaking with my friends over the internet. Spoke to Danny, Fentzy, and Anna. They’re three of the people I speak to the most anymore. I don’t think every country’s getting this thing, because Danny and Anna thought I was joking, and Fentzy mentioned a Rapture but I think she was joking.
I don’t know if this “End Of The World As We Know It” gig is true or not, religious shit or what-have-you, but I do know that something strange is going on in England. And I don’t know what’s gonna happen to me. But I feel oddly okay now. I feel lucid.
10:31 AM
My stomach is aching. I’m so hungry. I’m going to look around the house.
10:35 AM
IN THE KITCHEN
10:37 AM
WHERE IS IT WHERE’D IT GO WHERE IS IT WHERE’D IT GO
10:38 AM
I think it’s gone. I have no idea what that thing was. I remember some bits of orange. It looked like some kind of.. spidercat. Eight cat-legs, six cat-eyes. Big tail. FDIJFIFDFDJ
10:40 AM
MY ROOM MY ROOM ITS MOUTH OPENS THE WRONG WAY
10:45 AM
Okay. I shut the door on it, I’ve barricaded my door again. I hear it chirping its demonic meows, its eight legs kneading against the wall. I can’t keep being unprepared like this. I can't! What if this is all that the thing from last night was? Just a cat. A monster cat. I can protect myself from that.
I need a weapon.
10:48 AM
EAT SHIT AND DIE
10:50 AM
BACK DEVIL BIRDS
10:51 AM
Okay. Okay. I ran into my room, I grabbed the nearest blunt object I could find, and I caved in that fucker’s skull. Its legs were still crawling around without a head, so I smashed them again and again until they stopped. I didn’t mean to be so barbaric. I don’t know what came over me. Maybe this really is Rapture. Maybe it’s affecting my mind.
I can see out my window now.
10:52 AM
MY BLUNT OBJECT WAS A HUMAN ARM
Fuck this shit, fuck this shit, fuck this shit oh my god.
CLUTCHING TIGER STRIPES
That is, the Guitar Hero controller. The.
..who am I talking to.
10:53 AM
Sorry, Tiger Stripes. Looks like you’re gonna be shredding a different type of lick today. Looks like we’re really going Through the Fire and Flames.
11:10 AM
I spent the past twenty minutes on the internet.
I have a thread. On TVTropes. They’ve been giving me so much help throughout the past several months. Today, we discussed my options. A lot of the people on there thought I was joking, so they just suggested praying and aiming for the head. One person even suggested the double-tap. I’ll keep it in mind. There were a couple of people who I could tell knew I was serious. They suggested going to my nearest store, stocking up on food. Staying away from my family. They didn’t need to tell me that last one. I’ve made a habit of it by now.
I told Fentzy, in case I didn’t make it out of this, that I loved her. She thought I was joking.
11:11 AM
I grabbed Tiger Stripes, put on my trilby, my black blazer, my purple scarf, and I began unbarricading the front door. As I stepped out into Rapture, I made my 11:11 wish.
I wished my heart would stop beating. I dunno.
11:12 AM
My neighbourhood is deserted. The cars are all either gone or broken beyond repair. I can hear screaming and sounds I can’t recognize off in the far distance. The sky is a brighter red. The sun is not right.
I’m holding my guitar close to my chest.
This neighbourhood’s got at least seven cats.
11:13 AM
I’m out of the neighbourhood.
11:15 AM
I’ve made it up to the high street. There are no cars. Off in the distance, I think I can see something moving. Something huge.
..it’s humanoid. I’m running to Tesco now.
11:18 AM
What was that roar I heard just now?
11:20 AM
Tesco what ZOMBIES MOTHERFUCKING ZOMBIES EVERYWHERE ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME
11:25 AM
They don’t seem too bothered that I’m here. They look undead, might not be zombies, definitely look gross, but they’re kinda just bumbling about.
I think it’s time to stock up on food.
12:23 PM
I’m on my way back now. I’ve got tons of soda, tons of crisps, quite a lot of Pot Noodles, and a LOT of sausage rolls. Bring it on, motherFUCKER
12:27 PM
hiding in an alleyway.
NO
12:33 PM
OH GOD IT GOT A POT NOODLE
12:38 PM
Did I lose it? Where is it?
12:40 PM
Okay, I’ve been hiding out behind this house for a while. I think it’s safe.
12:42 PM
Wait why am I even going back to my house? That’s not exactly a safe place. I’ll knock on this house’s door here.
12:45 PM
It seems deserted. There’s a basement, but I’m not going in there; I locked the door instead. This place has a big-ass computer, fast internet. The kitchen’s full of food, too.
12:50 PM
Looking out the window now. I can’t see the fuckers anymore.
They're big. Like twenty feet tall, and way wider and longer. They’re humanoid.. but they have no legs. It’s just a torso with arms and a head. No face. Their skin is beige. One of the fuckers was chasing me.
I’m pretty sure I recognize them from something on the internet. Like the Rake. Trying not to think about that fact.
Just. Eating. Regaining myself.
12:52 PM
what hang on. why do I hear music.
That's. Mastodon's "The Czar." Absolutely, that's what that is.
Where's it coming from?
12:53 PM
It’s coming from the basement. I’m going to check it out.
Opening the basement door, it's a much longer staircase than I remotely expected.
Down into.. darkness...
12:57 PM
God, am I not at the bottom yet?
1:00 PM
The top of the staircase is right behind me. I’ve been going down for six minutes, though! What the hell?
Fuck it. Okay. Won't follow the music. Will just let it play.
1:01 PM
..this isn’t the house.
1:03 PM
This is a bunker. I’m in a bomb shelter. This doesn’t make any sense. I’m keeping Tiger Stripes close.
There’s a big door here, a steel door. I can’t budge it.
1:05 PM
“The Czar” has ended. I never did like that song all that much.Too much repetition.
1:06 PM
I got fed up and whacked the door with Tiger Stripes, just once, and it just fell apart, burst into a dozen pieces.
Behind it is a huge.. maze? I can see nothing but flat colours marking the walls.
It’s cold here.
The walls extend as high as I can look.
1:11 PM
MOTHERFU
Okay. Hi. Right. Was just walking on, trying dead-ends, and the floor caved in under me. Now I’m.. somewhere.
I don't.. feel hurt, beyond the shock. I don't think I fell that far.
But wow, that's a lot of shock.
I see no walls around me down here. Above me is a hole in.. reality??? Where I fell down??? And there's nothing out there around me. I wouldn't even call it "pure black." It's not even the absence of light. It's the absence of…
Maybe I don't know what it is. Maybe I'm on a patch of grass in an endless void of nothingness.
Is this Rapture, then? Is this where my family went?
Why don't I feel scared? I feel tense with the walking I'm having to do, but right now it all feels like a dream. It feels like, if I keep walking, I'm going to learn something.
There is an artificial light in the floor shining up, lighting the grass.
1:14 PM
I stepped on the light and fell even further. Down the rabbit hole, I guess. I don’t..
I landed on a rug on a hard floor, walls around me again. A big empty building.
That landing did hurt more.
1:18 PM
Oh god, finally, a couch. I’m gonna.. I’m gonna have a lie-down. I’m exhausted.
4:01 PM
Fuck.
I’m still here.
I'm not back in my bed at home, dreaming the whole thing. I'm still on a couch.
..I hear voices.
4:03 PM
After some looking, I traced the faint voices to behind a set of double doors some rooms away. As soon as I opened the doors, the voices stopped. Gave me some deja vu.
This is a cafeteria. It’s completely deserted.
There are vending machines. I could do with a drink.
Some kind of juice.
4:13 PM
Checked out another door, took me to a room filled with file cabinets. Pretty big ones, too. I wonder what’s inRJwedfgfEaI
..body parts. Body parts were in that cabinet. No blood, but they were still squishy and taut.
There are a lot of file cabinets. I could get lost in here.
4:20 PM
THE CEILING IS A GIANT FILE CABINET WHERE THE FUCK AM I
4:27 PM
Okay. I swear, this is the way I came.
I literally just came from this way.
So why is there suddenly a file cabinet blocking the path?
4:40 PM
RAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTURE
SMILE, YOU ARE BEING LISTENED TO :)
4:50 PM
I lost my journal. Turns out it was in the first file cabinet I opened.
I’m fucking lost.
4:57 PM
Footsteps ahead. Who’s there?
4:59 PM
FUCK WHAT IS THAT OH MY GOD WHAT WHAT IS THAT THING FUCK FUCK NO LET GOfdffjdsj
5:00 PM 5:00 PM 5:00 PM 5:00 PM 5:00 PM 5:00 PM 5:00 PM 5:00 PM
RAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTURE
WORLD ENFLAMED IN FEAR :)
5:01 PM
I got my journal back. That thing’s covered in red hair. That.. that thing. That grabbed my journal. It’s just a mass, a writhing mass of red hair. It’s taller than me, oh my god, it’s tall. It ran away.
5:03 PM
MOTHERFUC
I fell through the floor. Again. I’m
wait, what? Now I’m back in that.. couch room. Fuck it, I’m going back to sleep. Not worth it. No thank you.
5:45 PM
WHAT THE WHO’S THERE huh. No one’s here.
..the TV’s on now. Jesus’ face is on. Goodie, the Jesus Springer Show. Fuck it, I get it, it’s Rapture and shit.
I’m looking around.
I opened the door and through it is exactly the same room. Look, there’s the TV, right there. Behind me is the same room. Ahead is the same room.
The building's layout has changed. Right. Okay.
..back behind me, there’s now a door. In the floor. Dare I open it?
5:47 PM
I fall
down
the streets all around me
stacked vertical
falling horizontal
I see myself reflected everywhere, in every window, in every brick. Faces staring at me, and they’re all me.
Trilbies scattering down paths, scarves dissolving down doors, Guitar Hero controllers being scrutinized by whatever beings hide behind my coloured shadows.
5:48 PM
There’s something solid forming in the air.
Is that Tiger Stripes? Can’t be, it’s black, mine’s white.
I see it, but I’m not the only one. A man without a face, being led down the prison block to his cold cell, fills the room, is reflected everywhere, and is fully aware of everything in here. Does he see me?
5:49 PM
I see seven secret sentences written on the walls. I hear the laughter of seven brothers. I feel seven temples prepare for the end. There's a Tower fit for a newborn, the Knights prepare as Rapture is coming. The Harlot and the Beast begin their game of cat and mouse. It’s all as was arbitrarily transcribed in some predictable prophecy long ago, told again and again (do it again) until it's finally told by someone who can tell it different. But that book closes, and the only memory I have of all of this lies on the page I just wrote.
5:50 PM
A concert of the comatose shudders as Elsie Carr sings.
"The capital messiah behind me
who speaks in atonal chords with no key
looks like a room - a dream - a wordless breath,
follows me home - he's the wight hand of Death."
5:51 PM
I AM AWAKE, I am lucid. I am okay.
I see… trees. But I’m in a car. I’m in the backseat of a hearse. We’re driving through a forest. “The Man Who Wasn't There” is playing on the radio. Sunsetters. The sky is a darker red. Who’s driving?
..it’s a giant cockroach, as big as me, with Jesus Christ’s smiling head.
For fuck’s sake. For fuck's…
..fucking fuck.
He looked at me for a second, looked back to the road, then looked back a second time, his smile faltering.
"Who are you?” He asked it.
I don’t think I know the answer to that question anymore.
He’s turned back to the road.
“Doesn’t matter, not in the grand scheme of things. Rapture is coming, and you’re coming along for the ride.”
Now all is silent.
The doors are locked.
5:56 PM
I’m going to confess: I’m scared. I am, I really am. I have no idea what’s going on. I guess the world really is ending. I guess I’m going to Hell. I guess the Christians were right.
I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. To dad and to mum and to my brothers and to everyone I’ve ever let down, and to myself. I never seemed to grasp that life doesn’t make sense. I never seemed to get the hang of anything, and it's because there's evidently nothing to get the hang of, except for wastes of time. And now that I know this is it, I can’t help but feel frustrated that in trying to open up all I can feel is self-pity.
For fuck’s sake, Jordan.
Here’s to that sixteen-year-old without a clue.
Take me away, cockroach hearse driver. Before I get second thoughts.
6:00 PM
RAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTURE
IS COMING. C:
6:30 PM
Everything.
Everything.
Everything.
In its right place.
In its right place.
In its right place.
(New journal. I won't tell you every time this happens.)
6:34 PM
I found this journal here on the roadside. All the previous pages have been torn out. Works for me! I can’t find my old journal, though. I think I left it in that car. I think Cockroach Jesus has got it.
I got the door open, by the way. Turns out I just wasn’t pushing hard enough. So I just dived out.
Don’t think he noticed.
..wait, I left Tiger Stripes in the hearse didn’t I
6:36 PM
Walking along the road. I can still hear Sunsetters playing.
6:40 PM
Oh god, it's the hearse coming back for me RUN
6:43 PM
I’m hiding behind a tree. I went as deep into the forest as I thought I had to. Branches hurt. I don’t know if I’m still being chased or not.
6:44 PM
RAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERWAJIJFJF
RUN
6:50 PM
MOTHERFUCKER GOT OUT OF THE HEARSE AND IS STILL CHASING ME
6:53 PM
Oh god, I’m getting tired of running. REALLY tired. I’m waiting here, behind this tree. Catching my breath.
Is he still there?
7:00 PM
I’m at the roadside. Made it to the roadside. …oh, hello, empty hearse.
7:01 PM
Uh.. I think we’ve hit a problem. I don’t know how to drive.
…fuck it, that’ll just make it more fun.
7:02 PM
I just hit someone oh my god I’m so sorry oh never mind it was just Cockroach Jesus see ya
7:15 PM
I’m surprised that I haven’t crashed yet. I’m also surprised that this forest is still going. This place is huge. And the road rarely turns; I’ve just been driving straight all this time.
7:19 PM
I turned the radio on, expecting more Sunsetters. I got Genesis. And, of all things, I got Genesis's first album. The one album that sucks. Fucking Christians.
7:29 PM
Hello, light at the end of the forest. Where are we noh my god.
A small town. Filled with naked green people? They’re all staring at me.
..I’m.. I’m gonna get out of the car. Tentatively.
7:38 PM
The townsfolk are really nice. They took me in, took me to a restaurant, and are getting me some food. .w.;;
7:40 PM
The waitress’ fingers were little trees.
7:43 PM
This sausage roll is delicious, but the drink goes right through me. Brb!
7:45 PM
Keep running.
7:46 PM
Okay, I thought about it, and I have no idea why the hell I wrote “brb” on
hang on
who wrote that?
7:47 PM
The townsfolk are all staring at me again.
I’m going to take my own journal’s advice.
I’m going to get out of here.
I’m going to take this sausage roll with me, and then I’m going to get out of here.
Where’s my car?
7:50 PM
All the townspeople are gathered in their little buildings. They’re all standing at the windows, staring at me.
7:51 PM
Seriously, where is my car, this place is giving me the creeps.
7:52 PM
There are some people on the roofs. They’re all staring at me.
The sky is turNING BLACK
FUCK FUCK OW WHAT IS HAPPENING TO MY FEET JUMP JUMP
SMASHED WINDOW
MOVE
CAR
DRIVE
8:00 PM
Okay. I think I’ve driven far enough. I think I’m safe. That.. is not an easy thing to describe. It felt like the ground was drilling upwards into my feet, so I jumped, I smashed a window open, I fucking found my hearse, and I drove off into the sunset.
..well, it’s not a sunset. It’s just.. dark red.
8:15 PM
I finally hit clear of the forest.
..the open sky is scattered with giant.. bats? Flying around in the red skies. Cawing.
Hasn’t Rapture ended yet? It’s well past six o’ clock! That's when it was said to end!
Wait. The guy who announced the end of the world lives in Florida. It doesn’t get six there until.. another three hours!
Long night...
8:35 PM
I’ve been driving for miles. Not a town nor a soul in sight. Occasionally, I’ll see a crashed car or a dead body, but I don’t stop. Y’know, I don’t think I’ve even seen a road sign in forever.
8:42 PM
Road sign ahead.
“Hell, 20 miles.
Ashford, 40 miles.
Sunbury, 43 miles.”
8:56 PM
Hell’s coming up in a couple minutes. Everything looks fine so far, considering.
9:99 PM
That’s what the car’s clock says. I think I’m in Hell now. ….oh, “999,” “666,” very clever.
Funny. I don’t see any town nearOH DEAR GOD THERE’S A TARANTULA ON THE DASHBOARD RUN GET THE FUCK OUT OF THE CAR THE DOOR’S LOCKED OH GOD Well, it’s just sitting there. On the dashboard. Is it aliOHGOD IT TURNED AROUND OHHHH GOD I CAN SEE ITS EYES IT’S SO CREEPY OH MY GOD GOD GOD GOD GOD FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK TURN AROUND AGAIN PLEASEThank you.
..uh.. what’s your name?
..it said “Ben.”
Well, uh.. hi, Ben. Wanna sit in the passenger seat for me?
Thank you.
The clock still says 9:99 PM.
Ben, you know where we are?
..”Hell.” Gee, thanks for that.
I’m sure a couple of minutes have passed. Still says 9:99 PM.
Say, Ben. Your voice sounds awfully familiar. You sound like a childhood friend.
..he says he is a childhood friend. o___o I asked him how he became a bug, but he didn’t speak.
…how’d you become a bug?
There we go, he responds to my writing it. ..for some reason.
He says it came with the Rapture.
But the Rapture won’t start ‘til 11!
…okay, he corrected himself. It came with the day of Rapture.
Right, that makes sense. ..how the fuck did you get to England?
..you don’t know either? Huh.
Small world.
Clock’s still 9:99 PM.
We’ve hit a town. Is this Ashford? No, this is still Hell. Right. Y’know, besides the whole tarantula thing, Hell ain’t that bEAR BEAR BEAR BEAR BEAR BEAR BEAR BEAR DRIVE DRIVE DRIVE OHHH GOD WE’RE OUT OF GAS MAKE A RUN FOR IT BEN
BEN? BEN?! …Ben’s being torn apart by the bear. Oh god, it’s tearing every limb apart. Ooh, the inside of the car is covered in tarantula blood. Oh god, that’s gruesome. …I should probably run.
The clocks around the town all say 9:99 PM.
I stopped inside a library.
The bear seems to be… transforming into a giant man.
I’m going to call it the Eldritch Bear. Probably not to its face. ..faces?
The clocks are still frozen at 9:99 PM.
The Eldritch Bear is chargING AT THE LIBRARY OH FUCK
GLASS EVERYWHERE OH GOD IT’S IN MY LEG OW
THE ELDRITCH BEAR IS STOMPING I CAN FEEL IT STOMPING OH GOD I CAN’T LOOK
10:02 PM
I was saved.
No, not like “Rapture” saved. I mean some guy came along and saved my ass. Like a deus ex machina.
He was a man in a red jacket. Pale skin. Buzzcut and creepy green eyes. I looked up from where I was lying, and the Eldritch Bear was gone. Instead, the creepy man was there.
The clock says something not stupid now. Rapture is in an hour.
I’d best start walking if I want to make it back home. ..after I get the glass out of my leg.
10:08 PM
Leg still hurts, but I’m out of Hell! Now I’m just walking along the road.
Is it too much to hope for hitchhikers?
10:12 PM
I can’t believe it. A car came along. A car. They let me on and now we’re driving.
Fuck yeah, hope!
10:19 PM
I got to know the other survivors. There’s Chuck Berry, Rodney Dangerfield, Bill Maher, and Sandra Bullock. …so, it's a bunch of adults with code names. They said they're with the government.
They don’t know how all this shit started happening, but they know about the Florida guy too-- Harold Camping is his name!-- and so they're also bracing themselves for 11.
10:21 PM
We’re passing through Ashford now. Sunbury’s next. My home is next.
God, there are so many zombies out there.
10:24 PM
OH DEAR FUCK
10:26 PM
IT JUST HIT ME WITH A POT NOODLE
10:31 PM
FUCKING NO SANDRA
10:35 PM
Oh my gidding goddamn god.
10:36 PM
It was a Big One. Colossal head-and-torso, those things. It was a motherfucking.. one of those. It stepped into the road in front of us and stared us right in the eyes with its lack thereof. The others fled the car immediately, so I did too. And it chased me. Sandra.. distracted it for me. >_< So I could get away. Now I’m hiding out in a butcher shop.
10:39 PM
I think it’s gone. Let me check.
Yes, it’s gone.
10:40 PM
THAT BUTCHER SHOP WAS FILLED WITH HUMAN HEADS
10:43 PM
SUNBURY, I made it. I made it. Okay, I’m close to home now.
If this all gonna end, like, actually end, then I want to die at the only place in England I know.
10:48 PM
My time’s running out. Fuck. I’m not nearly close enough. I’m gonna start running.
10:55 PM
Oh god, it hurts to run, my leg.
10:58 PM
And with my dying breath, I heave a sigh of relief that at least I didn’t die without fucking Sandra Bullock.
10:59 PM
…..fuck, okay, that was such a cheap lie.
11:00 PM
RAPTURERAPTURERAPTURERAPTUREOUCH
Fuck, that hurt.
..wait, what?
Tiger Stripes! TIGER STRIPES! YOU CAME BACK TO ME! :D And hit me in the head! Please don’t do that ever again, ohhh my favourite X-Plorer, I missed youuuuuuu, ahahaha!
11:01 PM
..but.. where’d you fall from? The sky?
..the sky is still red. and nice and empty.
I’m getting close to home.
11:09 PM
Okay, I’ve made it to my neighbourhood. We’re pretty much home free, Tiger Stripes.
I think we can take this part slowly.
11:10 PM
Y’know, for a total Rapture, End-Of-The-World scenario, this isn’t half-bad. If I can keep up this luck, and see some more incredible sights, I could get used to this. With time.
11:11 PM
Okay, I know it’s actually 23:11 and all, but I’m gonna make a wish anyway: I wish I had a girlfriend.
Could you imagine that? The world might end with me remainingOh hey, my house is around the corner.
House is close, house is close, soon can sleep and forget for a while oh house is close
Just gotta step around the corner and up to the front door, turn the knob and open the dFUCKING RAKE
DOOR SLAMMED SHUT
SO THAT WAS DEFINITELY NOT A SPIDERCAT AND WAS DEFINITELY A RAKE-Y THING.
HEART REFUSES TO SHUT THE FUCK UP
I can hear it snarling and slashing the furniture in there
Crawling on all fours, pale and hairless and rubbing up on the walls and couches
Face totally stupid
I’m not gonna be kicked out of my own house like this
I am going to get in there and doooooo something
It’s just you and me, Rake.
ohgod Tiger Stripes? Give me strength. >_o
11:17 PM
HAHA
okay fuck gotta board up this window asap
11:48 PM
All the deeds are done.
I’m in bed.
Journal, I don’t know how to say this, but Tiger Stripes must be made of something way tougher than plastic. I sneaked inside, kicked over a flower vase, the Rake turns and sees me, I look into its deadlights or whatever the fuck, the Rake freaking growls up a storm and I get unsteady, and it pounces at me and I just..
I guess it was that kind of primal response? A fast swing of a blunt object, in this case a guitar controller.
Crunch.
That part was unmistakable.
There was a definite crunch.
At first I thought it was the sound of Tiger Stripes breaking in half, but.. well, it didn’t. Instead, I pretty much just blinked and then next thing I know I’m standing over a dead Rake with a mangled spine. And I’m outside my house, I’d ran outside to get closer, I dunno, 'cause see I smacked the Rake so hard that it soared out the living room window!
All I could think to do was laugh.
How in the name of the ever sweet goddess of science did I do that? Riddle me this, journal!
..either way, I’m keeping that freaking guitar.
(Attached to the end of that day’s journal, and in fact to the end of every remaining log here, is a piece of paper with someone else’s handwriting written on it. These were all presumably written much later. This piece of paper reads: "I don't sleep anymore; there's too much work to do. I sit here in my grand library, going over the records of the apocalypse, in search of the patterns and the sense. In such seeking, and much keeping, there is a part of salvation. And this world needs saving, no doubt about that.
This log of Jordan's caught my attention for the words he thinks he dreamt. As he fell through the streets of that other world, he wrote down the rhythm that we all came to know. He never realized, as he never had the chance to read that journal again, but if he had realized, would it have changed anything?
I doubt it.
I similarly doubt we ever figured out exactly why some of the first monsters seemed to have come straight from the internet, but the only time I properly met the Tour Guide– the two of us electing to have coffee and talk about our experiences– I recall her offering an interesting theory on the matter. She said that maybe the apocalypse began with concepts we had created so that it could have a base from which to expand and develop newer monsters and scenarios– many of which, of course, shared significant similarities with manmade ideas– but that either way it needed to start with a base. This theory, of course, assumes that the apocalypse and the figures behind it, or the concepts, or who knows what, basically this assumes that all the bad things have a point to them. Plus the theory sounds an awful lot like the progression of the Camper, but that’s a digression for later.”)
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If not already posted…this is from one of the Canadian papers…Globe and Mail.
OPINION
Spare me: Prince Harry’s claim of victimhood doesn’t quite fly
PHOEBE MALTZ BOVY
Some – and I’m among them – argue that rather than being a way to promote social justice, so-called wokeness is about maintaining the status quo. A system of rules and manners that might seem progressive is in fact a cover for material inequality.
One could not design a better example of this than Prince Harry, the world’s premier
nepotism baby
. In his new memoir, Spare, Harry (he abhors snobbery, so let’s drop the “Prince”), bolstered by therapy, offers himself up as a courageous opponent of stiff-upper-lip upscale Britishness. He’s a modern man, in touch with his feelings. And he’s had it with archaic royal protocol, especially the bit about giving the kingdom to the elder son. Fight the power!
What Spare seeks to accomplish is to translate the life experience of a Prince who has spent much of his life carousing – a man whose life makes everyday white male privilege seem paltry – into the story of a victim of systemic forces.
When he partied, this was not a prince cavorting. It was a troubled young man finding solace in the bottle, the Ziploc bag.
Apart from the self-medicating, pre-rift Harry was known for having worn a Nazi uniform to a 2005 costume party. Ordinary people have been cancelled for less. But a royal, even a “spare,” is uncancellable. We learn that Prince Charles summonedthe Chief Rabbi of Britain, who told Harry – 20 at the time – what the Holocaust was.
Harry recounts this episode in his usual feelings-speak. The takeaway is not about mankind’s evil depths, but rather about … his own “self-loathing.” And anyway, how contrite did he need to be, given that, in his telling, William and Kate put him up to it?
Indeed, much of the book covers how Harry feels, temperature-wise, while in the army but also in civilian situations. He’s forever either too warm or too cold. (The latter involves a nauseating anecdote about frostbitten nether regions. Harry’s no
Gary Shteyngart
, and should have left well enough alone.)
He complains that he finds the dining room at Sandringham House “subtropical,” but that the Queen’s corgis objected to open windows (the draft, you see) so footmen would audibly close them. “That loud thump, unavoidable because the windows were so old, always felt like the door of a jail cell being slammed.”
Royalty, for Harry, has been a prison. It’s involved being hounded by paparazzi, and it made his pre-Meghan romantic life a challenge: women were either put off by the lack of privacy, or a little too excited about becoming a princess. That being a royal has also afforded him endless second chances and unfathomable gobs of money eludes him.
The point is not that Harry hasn’t suffered. To lose your mother at 12 is tragic even if you’re a prince. Where things get murky is in Harry’s interpretation of more recent history. Do the grumblings of a second-born royal hold a place in any broader fight for justice? With the exception of the ones specifically about the British tabloid press’s racism against his wife, it’s hard to make that leap. Yes, he moved to California after falling out with his family. But is he right to say he “fled”?
The power that comes with being Prince Harry is his for life, whatever his official role within the Royal Family. Harry claims his father left him “unemployable.” But he canstill do whatever he feels like (such as get a memoir
ghostwritten
by a fine writer), put a giant “Prince Harry” stamp on it and sell it to rapturous audiences.
The narrative at this point weaves from spring 2020 up to fall 2022. COVID – and the world shutting down – goes unmentioned, except as it affects their travel. A reference to Meghan’s
three-bedroom detached
property in Toronto as her “little house” offers a subtle reminder of Harry’s perspective. The book is at its strongest when Harry leans into that highly unusual vantage point.
Between the lines, and despite itself, Spare can be a fun, escapist and gossipy read, about a world where homes have 50 bedrooms and young people go on safari with hippos because why not. There’s the thrill of hearing the late Queen Elizabeth referred to as “Granny.” A royal story is worth more than a regular one, a fact that ultimately unites Harry with the tabloid journalists he – understandably – loathes.
On the streetcar home, gripping my copy of Spare, two older women sitting near me discussed the price of cauliflower. Nine dollars. More than these ladies could, uh, spare
Great article! Thank you❤️
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Into the Timeless Woods I Go, by Erik Rittenberry
The lonelier the place, the better it pleased me: its silence, its aura, its peculiar conformation, its enclosedness.
John Fowles
Woke up this morning with an
agonizing urge
to be an absolute nobody
in a world gone mad
with everybody trying
to be a “somebody.”
To be unknown and unseen
like a distant star in an
undiscovered galaxy, a dandelion
loafing beneath the sun
in some deserted pasture,
to be an anonymous
breeze that rustles the
ferns of an ancient
forest at the edge
of the world.
Ah, yes…
To be far away, adrift and alone,
sauntering in a leafy alcove,
"where Nature moves, and
Rapture warms the Mind."
To get out there beyond the
perimeter
of this barbed wire civilization,
far removed from worldly
titles and deadlines and the
delusional drudgery and
pandemonium of endless
ambition.
To be barbarically alive, to savor
the pure lifeblood of our primitive
marrow, to cleanse myself
of the filth of steel-and-asphalt
reality, to resuscitate the inner
archaic spirit, to unite the conscious
with the shadow and allow
grace to devour what’s left
of my iridescent heart.
Into the timeless woods I go
where the moonlight illuminates
the infinite peace of things.
I go to the woods to dance barefoot
like a demented shaman in the muck
of the meadows. I go to the woods
as an antidote to modernity,
to wander at ease among
the wild geraniums and thickets,
unearthing the primordial
savage within.
I go to the woods, in the words
of Thoreau, “to live deliberately,
to front only the essential facts of life,
and see if I could not learn what
it had to teach, and not, when
I came to die, discover that
I had not lived.”
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The Inescapable Library - Chapter 1
On AO3
Rating T - 1,183 words - Teen Titans - Starfire Ficlet
Summary: Post The Kiss, Crowley is an emotional wreck but when he discovers that Muriel is clearing out Aziraphale's bookshop he is determined to find out where the books are going. He finds himself trapped in Aziraphale's Inescapable Library subject to the most dangerous thing imaginable, an angel with good intentions.
Story:
How many times had Crowley heard a drunk at a bar slosh over to some long suffering woman and say, “When did you fall from heaven?”
Crowley had fallen. He’d felt the rush of divine grace as it turned to sharp knives on his skin. He remembered the feeling of God’s wraith. She’d wanted him to suffer, to hurt, to lose. A gravity like he’d never experienced slammed into his body. The force of it was too strong for even his wings to fight against. He’d rocketed down, down, down. Away, away, away.
He’d landed somewhere that never existed before. A new place that was made just for him. Hell. The answer to a question he should never have asked.
No one tried to pick him up in bars. Not with cheesy one-liners about heaven anyway. If someone ever had then he would have told them the truth about when he fell about the windburn so strong in his memory that he felt it even now. He wanted to see the beauty in falling. The attraction of the devilish that humans seemed to operate under.
He wanted to spend his eternity saying cheesy one-liners to Aziraphale.
Aziraphale’s betrayal had been worse than the fall. Worse then the gravity. Worse then the ripping away of all things divine and familiar. Hell was a place made just for Crowley and it could hold no competition for the tortures of his own mind.
He had kissed Aziraphale. He had done it because he loved him. And because he hated him in the way that you can only hate something precious. And because he was scared that they would never seen each other again. Not as friends anyway. He had stopped the apocalypse the first time round, but this one he hadn’t even seen coming.
It was a quiet apocalypse with socks on its feet. No plagues besetting your homeland. No horseman jangling their stirrups all the way to prophecy. No. This apocalypse was like wool socks on a country floor in winter. It felt like the whole world was still with sunlight and frost as the rapture slid through unnoticed. Crowley walked into his last conversation with Aziraphale thinking it was Christmas morning only to discover that the world had ended while he wasn’t even looking.
So, he kissed. Then he left. Then he got in his car. Crowley drove for a long time with no destination. The only place he wanted to be was away. But where do you go to isolate from God and her archangels. All existence and non-existence matter and anti-matter were made of her being, were dominion to the job Aziraphale chose over him. Crowley wished for the archaic punishment of being torn sunder from God. He wanted to be broken open. Broken apart. He already was.
He drove and he thought. Days passed without delineation. He drove to Tadfield and circled aimlessly for a while. When he found no solace or purpose, he drove onward. He drove through rolling hills, sprawling cities. Braying sheep blocked his path. Fragile humans admired the Bentley. All was as it ever had been. The world didn’t even seem to know that it had ended. It carried on with the same shuddering enthusiasm that had compelled it through the millennia. Crowley drove back to London.
He pulled into the carpark for his old flat. The Bentley’s engine cut out with a whine. The plants wilted in the back seat. Everything he loved in the world was now in this one parking space. That was a madness that defied comprehension. To discover that his love was so small.
He decided that he would go back to the bookshop. He wasn’t sure what he would do there. Maybe he would burn it down on purpose. Maybe he would sit quietly somewhere and read his favorite volume. All he knew was that if everywhere in the universe was going to be miserable, then he would like to be miserable somewhere familiar.
When he got to the shop, there were moving trucks out front. Great yellow beasts with stupid slogans, being filled to the brim with Aziraphale’s books. A rage took Crowley over as he charged into the shop to track down what fiend would destroy the archangel’s home.
There was no being in the entire building but the cheerful, nervous angel. Marjorie? No, Muriel. They were no longer in their officer costume. They wore a white cable knit jumper and beige tweed pants. They looked almost human.
They waved to Crowley, pleased to see a familiar face regardless of the familiar rage that darkened it.
“Hey, you,” They said.
“It’s only been a few days,” Crowley’s voice was accusatory. “How have you sorted out pretending to be human?”
Muriel held a clipboard close to them. “It’s been months, Mr. Crowley.”
That couldn’t be right.
“It is, though.”
“I didn’t say anything,” Crowley defended himself.
Their eyes were dripping with pity and Crowley hated it.
“You can’t take his books.”
Muriel’s smile was sympathetic. She reached out a hand to touch his forearm. “Archangel Aziraphale has given orders for the books to be moved.”
“Bollocks.”
Muriel had learned the trick to lying. All you had to do was tell yourself that you were doing it for the right reasons. A month, a year, a millennia ago—Muriel had been a normal angel. A being who told the truth and expected honesty and kindness in return. Perhaps Earth had changed them. They did more in a single minute on Earth then they would have during a century in Heaven.
Mortal life was rich with experience. There was so much of it that humans complained about the type of experience they were subject to. “Oh, that hurts.” and “No, not that movie, it’s sad.” Humans wanted everything to feel good. They had no idea what a miracle it was to feel at all.
Muriel could admit that they became jealous of the humans. It gave new context to the war between the angels. They understood—just a little bit—why they were mad at God. She had cheated them of rich full lives. She had made them to serve and that is what they did.
Today, Muriel’s service was to lie.
“I wish I could tell you more, Mr. Crowley.” The next part was the tough bit. She had to make it sound natural. “But I have strict instructions not to let you know where these books are going.”
“His instructions?” Crowley condemned them.
Muriel had him on the line. Now all she had to do was reel him in. “That’s not any of your concern anymore.” She could see him struggle, flopping around against the force of her deception. “These trucks are leaving at 8 pm tonight and there’s nothing you can do to stop it.”
Crowley smirked. “I guess I’ll just give up then.”
Crowley sauntered out of the bookstore. He was so preoccupied by the plan forming in his mind that he didn’t notice Muriel’s eyes follow him out. They had to warn The Library to expect him.
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I think that I shall never know Why I am thus, and I am so.
Around me, other girls inspire In men the rush and roar of fire, The sweet transparency of glass, The tenderness of April grass, The durability of granite; But me- I don't know how to plan it.
The lads I've met in Cupid's deadlock Were- shall we say?- born out of wedlock. They broke my heart, they stilled my song, And said they had to run along, Explaining, so to sop my tears, First came their parents or careers. But ever does experience Deny me wisdom, calm, and sense! Though she's a fool who seeks to capture The twenty-first fine, careless rapture, I must go on, till ends my rope, Who from my birth was cursed with hope. A heart in half is chaste, archaic; But mine resembles a mosaic- The thing's become ridiculous! Why am I so? Why am I thus?
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Once, Eternatus came to Paldea.
The people of the sky there had never seen anything like it; the way it winded through the spires of the mountains and the way it flew to the Great Crater. Area Zero, the impact site of something here, long, long ago. Triangles etched into the skin of the soil. Shimmering white Light that erupted from the ground. Such power found here that its manifestations came in millions of blooming emanations.
Eternatus nodded. So then it reached a talon deep within, and it grasped something in its centre, so pulling it outward. It would keep this in its jaw, you see, next to its milk teeth where it might hold it beyond repoach. Great claws erupted forward and Light screamed out of the Crater, showering Paldea in the ecstasy of creation.
Life begets life, o' reader mine. Then it turned, as a woman, clambering up the side of the rock to meet it and learn its intents, came to seek audience. Six white eyes gazed at her, and in her soul, a primal fear bloomed. When Eternatus looks at you, you feel as if you might vanish if it looks away.
" O' FRACTURE MINE, " It said, and its voice was a rapture of rupture, as the light of wildfires shone through it. Eternatus teaches but it will not be taught, " I GIFT YOU THIS, IN AMITY, SO WE MIGHT MEET AGAIN. YOU WILL WATCH IT AND ENSURE ITS ENGENDERMENT, AND ONE DAY I WILL RETURN FOR IT. I BID YOU THIS, AND NO MORE. NOW GO FORTH FROM THIS PLACE, BECAUSE MY VOICE IS CAUSING TWO SEPARATE NUMBERS TO BECOME EQUAL, AND I WOULD NOT HAVE YOU MADE MATHEMATICS. "
Then, lumbering forward from the soil beneath the WORM's raiment there came a towering Ursaluna, and it looked upon her with confusion and attachment alike.
" IT IS YOURS, IN RIGHT. I LEAVE YOU IN PEACE. "
Then Eternatus swept into the sky, and dove into the Crater.
Silent reverence steals her voice, unable to comprehend the creature before her- really, she's tried, but everything about it just made her mind hurt, and when it spoke it was like a booming echo in her mind...
..And then she's gifted a very confused bear, and it's off again, diving right down into the crater and causing her to sputter.
WHY DID IT GO DOWN THERE?! SHOULD SHE CHASE IT?!
She looks at the crater, then to Ursaluna, reaching out as it dumped a very archaic looking black ball in her hand, heavy in its weight and decorated with silver painted symbols.
"But I... Your... You're definitely an Ursaluna, I thought they were extinct..." She hums, rolling the ball in her hand and playing with the tab. "Well... If something that eldritch blessed me with you, I better heed it."
She moves to jump up on its back, running her fingers through its fur and giving a soft hum of delight as the proceed away from the Zero gate finally.
"Girl? Boy? ....Girl, definitely girl- Hello, Stella!"
#rikas inbox: lets chat!#primordialfell#:: catch records#?!?!??!?! DAMN THANKS AHA#What the worm doin' tho
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the light keeper’s daughter | jhs (m)
A/N: written as fulfillment for the july house games at @bangtansorciere
❂ To The Lighthouse
⁂ Hosted by: Professor Bee @inkedtae through @bangtansorciere
AU Type: Trident’s Tides (soulmates)
Themes: God/Goddess (goddess reader); Secret Relationship
Kinks: clit biting; pain kink; size kink; masturbation; degradation; overstimulation; dirty talk; cum play; panty sniffing
↝ Creative Content Contributor: @jamaisjoons for this incredible banner. its literally so stunning ;~;
↝ Pairing: Lighthouse Keeper!Hoseok x Goddess of Light!Reader (oc; female)
↝ Genre: soulmate au; secret relationship au; gods/goddess au; mentions of an arranged marriage; heavy angst; smut; romance; pining
↝ Rating: NC-17 | 18+
↝ Summary: For years, you’ve kept your relationship with Hoseok a secret. As the daughter of the God of Light, you are destined to marry anyone who slays the beast in the Gloaming Isles in your honor. When that day finally comes, you go to Hoseok to tell him your relationship must end and you are set to be married. One last time, Hoseok reminds you no one will love you as eternally, as enduringly, as he.
↝ Warnings: explicit sex; explicit language; pregnancy; unprotected sex; creampie; masturbation; clit biting; oral sex (f receiving); pain kink; size kink; overstimulation; light degradation; a brief handjob; impreg kink; dirty talk; cum play; panty sniffing; crying; biting; marking; scratching; brief mentions of blood
↝ Word Count: 14.7K
↝ special thank you to @softyoongiionly and @kithtaehyung for reading through this and being amazing betas! if there are any mistakes left over they are absolutely my own and the fact that 98% of this was written while sprinting owo
Looking at Hoseok, you think, is exactly like being struck by lightning. Which is to say, every time, all the time, looking at Hoseok means you feel him everywhere, all over and all at once.
Inside the lighthouse, there is no escaping him.
Pressing your back against the rough concrete of the small light room, you tilt your head to the side as the totality of Hoseok’s warmth, ardor, and fidelity blossoms over you. He flowers deep in the nodes of your lungs, your breath constricted as you take him in, studying the curve of his lips, the slope of his nose, the way he wears the night as though he is the stars.
In the distance, waves rush to the shore, kissing the land with the same enthusiasm you wish to be kissing him, only to pull away from land; the water shy, anxious of the earth’s response to its affections. Over and over, the sea rolls like thunder. Every now and then, the light that spins overhead refracts downward, illuminating the blood that has rushed to his cheeks. Flushed, his lips part as he processes the words you have just told him, all red and red and red with understanding.
As though he is burning, as though you are not burning for him, your hands clinging tightly to your skirts as you hold your knees against your chest. It should be utterly unfair, you think, for him to appear so beautiful, so exquisite, even as he remains painfully stricken by your words. The searing ache in your chest germinates alongside your love, mind racing with the apologies he deserves. Your bones tremble with the force of remaining still, prepared to reach out and hold his face and tell him it was a lie. You want to smile for him, want to tease him, want to say you’d been terribly silly and that such jokes are best kept for nights when the sky is not clouded, not cold, and instead warmed by your shared rapture.
How you would like to give him all the kindest, all the softest, words in the world.
‘It can’t be true.’
He’s said this twice, the disbelief in his voice only just winning out against the grief. Hoseok repeats it again, taking a step towards you, eyes cast down to where you have slunk in shame and sadness. Hands limp at his sides, his fingers quake, torn between balling his hands into fists or running through his hair, their resting place for his worry. Deciding on neither, he simply stands tall and stoic, appearing so small in the light that cascades around the room.
You’d glow for him if you could, if you felt like you deserved to illuminate any part of him at all.
Looking away from his woefully dejected expression, you turn your attention to the small gap in the wall beside you. A window once blocked the wind - stained glass, exquisite. It shattered during a storm, on a night when he pressed himself so deep inside you traces of his essence lingered on your tongue. He was deep enough it hurt, rolling into you with enthusiastic vigor. Tonight, the breeze smells of low tide, acrid in the back of your nose and sour, just like your mood.
‘We knew this would happen,’ is your quiet reply.
A weak and pathetic excuse, you hate the words even as you say them. Shameful, you think with a grimace, to have pretended that you could have a happy ending, that convincing your father would have been simple. The lies you told yourself and Hoseok, the platitudes that fell from your lips to comfort him, turn on your now, betrayals stacked against you that weigh heavily your judgement. You’ve been childish, so childish, to assume you could have ever been happy.
Hoseok shakes his head, refusing to accept your answer. All fury and rage, he comes to stand before you and lowers to his knees, demanding you look at him. His presence is a live wire, the heat and energy from his skin is vital, a pull against yours that makes you regard him once more, confronted by his enduring beauty. Flooding your vision, he is all you see, all you can fathom, your world beginning and ending with his pleading eyes.
‘But it’s been years,’ he argues, the high pitched tone of his voice wavering and taught with emotion. He’s older than you, physically, but at this moment he has never been so young, so small, so gloriously human. ‘Centuries even. It’s unfair to you.’
A huff of breath rushes through your nose, your scoff ripe with bitterness. ‘Someone finally slayed the Sydral, as archaic as this ritual actually is. My father said I should have always expected it.’
‘And so now…’ Hoseok’s voice drifts, falling back onto his knees crestfallen. The corner of his lips drop into the beginnings of a deep frown, all manner and will to fight rapidly dissipating.
‘I have to marry them,’ you nod, answering his unspoken question.
For a long while, you hold his gaze, allowing yourself to get lost in the umber of his irises and missing the mirth that usually ignites their sparkle. It is just his breath that cascades over your skin, just the waves that rush beyond the light room, just the world that seems to turn onward, without you, time passing without either of you truly acknowledging it. In this silence, you see your history, your every moment spent with him: the day you met; the day he could not help himself any longer and kissed you soundly, without restraint; the first moment you told him you loved him; the first moment he said he needed you; the plastic ring he won at the pier arcade - extraordinary in all its ugliness - and the gentle, reverent, way he slid it over your finger, calling it a promise of fidelity.
In Hoseok, you see it all.
Similarly, he drowns in you, the pink of his cheeks deepening to rose with each passing breath. Posture falling slack, the strap of his ride suspender slips from his shoulder, the collar of his linen shirt loosening with the lack of restraint. A sliver of his collarbone becomes exposed, golden and rich, a tantalizing patch of skin you would caress and kiss if only the circumstances had been different. You wonder idly what he remembers of you, what he sees in your own dispirited expression. You wonder if he remembers the way he loved you, the way he loved you beyond your light and into your darkness.
You wonder if he remembers the way he ate your shadows - with his whole mouth, with fervor, with pride. You wonder if he remembers the way you devoured him just the same.
‘This is ridiculous,’ he announces, finally. Turning to look out the window, he regards the sky solemnly, the curve of his profile imposing in its majesty. Eyes narrowed, it is the harshest he has ever looked, devoid of forgiveness. ‘It’s supposed to be me.’
Swiftly, you shake your head, adamant in your disagreement. You reach for him, leaning forward to rest your hand against his chest, against his heart where it thunders in his sternum. Warmth from his skin radiates into your blood, taking root between your joints. Hoseok worms his way into pieces of your spirit long left abandoned, and you swallow thickly, wondering if such affection as this is normal, if it’s always this way.
‘I’d never have let you.’ Your dispute is biting, sharp enough Hoseok turns his eyes back to you, jaw clenched and tight with silent fury. ‘You’re human. It would have killed you. And then where would I be?’
‘You’d be sitting where I am,’ he argues, emphatic.
Reaching for your hand where it rests, he covers it with his own, lifting it slightly to twine his fingers with yours. Unable to help himself, he inches closer, running his thumb over your knuckles and sending shivers along your nerves. Like always, his touch is a wildfire, the electric kinetic energy needed to set you aglow. Your mind swims with him the same way your body becomes whelmed by his devotion, but he does not let himself become distracted.
‘Do you even understand?’ Voice little more than a whisper, Hoseok’s gaze is penetrating, a bite to his veneration that demands your complete attention. Tilting his head to the side, he continues. ‘You think I wouldn’t die for you?’
You squeeze his hand with tenacity, acknowledging his sentiment, but he does not see all the things you have witnessed. He does not know the true menace of the Sydral, does not know its tricks, its many heads, its speed, its cunning; Hoseok would die for you, and death would find him quickly.
Instead, you offer him a small smile, one that is so fragile and close to breaking. Hoseok’s intensity burns within your chest, transforming his softness into the valor of a man that leaves you breathless. Salvaging your own strength, you lower your gaze to the white collar of his shirt, to the soft linen and the expanse of his throat where he swallows. This you can regard with pleasure, can regard without fearing you may shatter.
And so you smile, finding the will to fight him once more. ‘The problem,’ you begin, hoping the earnestness of your smile is enough to cool the rage that boils in his throat, ‘is that I know you would. And I would live my life alone, married to him while knowing you are gone. Would you really condemn me to such misery? My darling, I would die to keep you safe.’
This feels like anguish; this feels like dying, you think to yourself, growing ever more despondent the longer you feel Hoseok pleading with the emptiness that lurks behind your eyes. You can’t bear to face him, not when the tightness in your throat becomes a threat, tears lingering on the precipice of spilling. Every time his gaze meets yours it is brutal in its honesty, violent in the way your love and lust tumbles so completely into grief.
‘How long?’ he manages, breathing life to the very question you’d been hoping to avoid.
Your future is still so far away, distant enough it makes this moment, and every moment to follow, heavy with the pain of imagination. Still, you’ve never been able to deny him anything.
Once more, you turn to view the window, regarding it with a vacant expression as though you are regarding time itself. ‘You know this is the last time I can see you.’
‘I know,’ he bites out, unwilling to let you dodge the answer. ‘I mean how long until...you’re not mine anymore.’
‘That’s...not possible,’ you offer gently, casting him a solemn, detached grin. ‘I am always going to be yours. Even when I’m in his bed, even when I’m thousands of miles away, even in death, I am yours.’
Hoseok pulls you against him, compelling your complete attention. Eyes wide, you study his face - the resolution of his passion fierce enough to be an earthquake against your sternum, a collision of meeting worlds. His arm winds itself around your waist while he still clutches your hand, the strength of his grip stinging against your knuckles. You tremble against his powerful frame, inhaling the deep scent of cedar and ambergris that always clings to him, the salt of the ocean that lingers on his skin, the dust that has saturated his shirt from the lighthouse, and you; your vanilla and lemon, the brightness of your own natural scent that emanates from your light and always seems to find him, not unlike rays of the sun.
Your mouth waters at this closeness, his own eyes darkened to a rich black as he studies you seriously. You’ve wounded him - worse, you’ve denied him - and he presses the tips of his fingers into the soft muscles of your back, ensuring you cannot leave him. Not until he is ready to let you go.
‘You know what I mean,’ he breathes, words lowered to a hiss. If he were a vengeful sort of man, he would be full of venom. Instead, there is only remorse in his insistence.
Closing your eyes, you sigh. ‘Months, most likely. Tomorrow the rituals begin - the seven days feast, the Fate Tying, the Blood Gathering.’
When you look at him again, your lower lip begins to quake. Saying the words makes it all feel immediate, tangible, as though your father stands in the dark corners of the light room casting his judgements. You almost feel him there, his presence always so sinister for a man blessed to command the light; he resides in the silent places, giving birth to shadows, prepared to pull you from bliss at a moment's notice.
‘All this pomp and circumstance from eras bygone,’ you continue, grounding yourself in the firmness of Hoseok’s arms and chest. The bones of his knees press into your thighs; your hand caught between your twin heartbeats; you immerse yourself in the pain of this connection and remind yourself it hurts because he was always meant to be yours. ‘It’s been centuries since a goddess has been married off, and yet somehow I’m the first for such a sentence. The wedding won’t be for at least five months.’
‘Then we have time.’ Hope saturates his words, his hold on you growing ever more unyielding. ‘You can still come to me, we can still see each other,’ he explains quickly, speaking in a rush. ‘No one will have to know.’
Biting your lips, you raise your hand to the soft strands of his hair, carding your fingers through it. All silk and satin, you relish the texture as his desperation soaks into your pores.
‘I wish that could be true.’ Even as you speak, you focus on his hair, committing these small details to memory. The curve of his bang in the center of his forehead, the deep amber and dark sienna and all the golden highlights that come to life in the daylight, the way all of him, every piece, is soft enough to break you. Yes, you focus on it all. ‘All the Old Gods will be gathering in Teylim. There will be more eyes on me than ever before. Ladies coming to fuss over my hair, my clothes, the oils I wear; men worshiping Daeus like he’s some kind of king when, really, he’s just lucky enough to be half of a god. I won’t be able to get away.’
Hoseok’s eyes roam your face, wild and storming, waiting for you to amend your answer. When you do not speak, his brow furrows and he exhales, a small whimper released from the center of his breaking heart. ‘So this is it, then? This is really it?’
‘I’m so sorry,’ you whisper, moving your hand from his hair to cup his cheek.
He presses himself into your touch, turning just slightly to kiss delicately at your palm. The sweetness of his tenderness splinters the last of your courage, the tears you’ve so valiantly held back starting to burn as they spill over to your cheeks.
‘I wish it could be different,’ you plead - with everyone and no one at all. ‘I wish for it everyday. Hoseok, I can’t -’ Distraught, you choke on your own words, and Hoseok pulls you firmly against him, resting your head against his shoulder. ‘I can’t breathe without you. I don’t know how I’m supposed to do this.’
Hoseok says nothing at all as you dampen his shirt, tears spilling into the linen as you struggle not to collapse against him completely. When you are finally alone, you will succumb to the sorrow that has learned to occupy every chamber of your heart. When you are finally alone, you will eat the spirit of rage with teeth and fangs, and you will let the darkness have you, refusing to let the light erupt from your skin. But for now, you let the tears arrive of their own accord, aware that you are suddenly too sad to even weep, tears dripping into his shirt as means to remain a part of him.
Against you, Hoseok’s breath becomes uneven, his own shoulders shuddering as he minds his own heroism, fighting back his own tears. He quivers against you, his stuttering breath exhaled through his nose as he maintains his composure. The light room becomes almost too quiet, the blood rushing your ears drowning out the sound of the sea, narrowing your focus to just the shared heat between your bodies. You inch closer, removing any space that could exist between you, extinguishing any oxygen that would dare to separate you from him. What you would give for a thunderstorm, any sound at all to give life to the end of love, to the start of the war of loving.
Unable to stomach the quiet any longer, your mind seems to become unhinged. All the tiny, miserable little thoughts Hoseok’s love kept locked away worm their way past your lips, erupting to life as though your heartbreak has given them permission to persecute you.
‘I wish you never found me,’ you mumble, almost incoherent. Your tongue fumbles with the words, caught between weeping and speaking, making a mess of so much more than just his shirt. ‘I wish you never saw me. I could love you like that, on my own, from a distance. I could be strong enough to move through life not knowing you, loving only the idea of you. You’re so much more than anything my mind could have fabricated out of childish desire. The reality of you is heaven. And now, I’m hurting you. I should die for such a transgression.’
‘Don’t say that.’ Hoseok pulls, easing you back and lifting both his hands to cup your face. Briefly you mourn the loss of his fingers and knuckles so rough against yours, but cradled between his palms, your skin tingles, making a festival out of this contact and celebrating the nuance of his fingerprints. He looks down into you, deep enough you feel him taking root in the center of your belly. You love him most when he looks like this - fierce and unforgiving - and you cannot help the way your body responds, aroused simply by the passion of him. ‘Don’t you dare wish that,’ he commands, voice thick. ‘The day we met was the day my life started.’
‘But...’ you struggle to find the words, drifting off with the implication that, now, his life is surely ending.
‘I don’t want to know who I would be without you.’ Hoseok takes his time as he speaks, an art you cannot comprehend.
Behind his eyes, his mind races, words living and dying before they can reach his tongue. He has so much to say, so many more promises to make, so many more words of affirmation he’d like to give you. You see them all, recognize them all - for they mirror yours, are born from your own likeness; you know them all so well, you feel as though you could reach out and touch them.
‘I can’t fathom it, I won’t even consider it.’ Shaking his head, he denies this completely, holding onto your stare with a fixation that borders on zealous. ‘You came to me, and it felt like I could breathe. You came to me, and I felt like myself. Loving you makes me better, loving you is partly why I am alive.’
It’s difficult to swallow around the lump in your throat, its size and prowess growing ever larger in the wake of his words. In the oncoming quiet, you wish he hadn’t said it, wish he hadn’t reminded you of the way you the oncoming storm of his presence before you met him. One look at him and you had seen it all, a life designed by the Fates - marriage, children, hope, happiness. In death he’d have joined you in Teylim, youthful, young, yours. With eternity before you, you’d bask in the rapture and the joyful silliness that comes with forever.
He felt it, too, saw it in your eyes. On your fourth meeting, he held you against him and promised you his life.
‘I will put my child in your belly,’ he announced, deliberate in the way he enunciated his words. You waited for the shock of such an exclamation to overtake you, but it never came. ‘I can’t explain it,’ he chuckled, amused by his own enthusiasm, ‘but I’m certain of it. I see my unborn children in your eyes. I think this is what the elders mean when they say there is always a plan, and you will always know it the moment you find it. I’m so certain my whole life is tied to yours.’
The memory burns within your mind, a scorch of greed mixing immediately with longing. You wish the fire of it would incinerate it to ash, that it would vanish altogether before the Fate Tying. You can handle all of these frivolous little rituals, sure of yourself and your own strength, but the Fate Tying means to unmake you. At just the thought, your stomach begins to sink.
You will sit, hands clasped on your amber throne with the sunlight seeking your hair, your cheeks, your lips; Daeus will smile, wrapped in oak and evergreen, in the earth that flourishes beneath your light; and you will weep, watching as the Moirai unstitch your soul from Hoseok’s, peeling it apart inch by horrible inch, to thread it with the ugliness of Daeus’ strands. You will wonder, mouth dry and eyes wet, why the Moirai would bother making a man for you, would bother weaving your spirits together, only to unravel the work they had done, the love you had found.
The movement of Hoseok’s gentle caress, pads of his thumbs running across the bones of your cheeks, returns you to the present moment. Once more he whimpers, doing his best to keep you grounded with him, unwilling to lose you before he absolutely must. Digging your nails into his shoulder as you grab fistfuls of his shirt, you wallow with him, knowing that, just like him, you don’t know who you would have become without him.
‘What do we do?’ you manage, reduced to a more pathetic version of yourself as you plead with him. Anyone else, and you’d be ashamed to appear so weak. ‘How do I do this?’
‘I don’t know,’ is all he can provide. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Promise me -’ You cut yourself off, not entirely certain where the idea comes from, what part of you would willingly propose such a request, the meaning of what you had intended to say catching up to your mind the moment you heard your own voice. Hoseok waits patiently, and you lower your gaze to the curvature of his lips, wanting to kiss and kiss and kiss him, knowing your next words will scar you both. ‘Promise me you’ll find someone else. Promise me you’ll be happy.’
Without any hesitation, he scoffs, dismissing the idea altogether. ‘Don’t ask me to tell a lie.’
‘I can’t, Hoseok.’ Now, it is your turn to hold his face, cupping his cheeks with veneration. Mind reeling, you envision it, certain you could take it. You are certain you would die for less. ‘I can’t do this if I spend my life knowing you’ll be unhappy. I can’t do this knowing you’re alone.’
Slowly, gently, Hoseok lets the tip of his nose press against yours, rubbing it back and forth, back and forth. Breath a deluge down and over your lips and skin, he somehow finds it within himself to smile, empty of all amusement.
‘It’s so unfair of you to expect that I could be happy with anyone but you,’ he chastises. ‘I’d rather be alone, utterly and completely, than to be lonely with someone. They deserve better than someone who is with them out of loyalty to another person - a promise kept to the person they truly love.’
His rejection and refusal of your plea inspires a thrill in the pit of your stomach, all manner of possessive pleasure coursing through your veins. How easily he turns you into a selfish woman, how quickly his promises of fidelity make you lose all sight of strength and future vision. What sort of man is Hoseok that he should have such dominion over you, you think to yourself. But then, you know. You know as you have always known: Hoseok is your man, your lover, your soul.
Stroking his cheeks with your thumbs, just as he had done, reverently, adoringly, you bite your lip and feel your exhale shake. ‘So what will you do?’
‘I’ll do as I’ve always done,’ he shrugs, as though the very thought is not a bruise within his ribs. ‘I’ll keep the lighthouse. Every night, I’ll let the beacon burn, and keep the light on. Even on clear days, I will let the light shine.’ Hoseok smiles as he says this, the first real smile he has managed since he saw you on the shore this evening, waiting, just like always. ‘When you’re up there, perhaps you will see the light.’
He shifts his gaze to the roof of the light house, looking up and beyond, past the clouds, up to the seat of the gods. Furrowing his brow, he hardens his jaw just slightly, eyes turning dark as he demands your father witness him.
When he looks at you again, he is a changed man - a boy trapped in the throes of love, and a man on the verge of letting himself perish.
‘Maybe up there,’ he murmurs, ‘you will see my light and know that I’m burning for you, just as I’ve always been. I’ll continue to love you. I’ll be good, I’ll be pious, and maybe when I die we will meet in Teylim and even in death I’ll watch you, staying close to your light like a bird in flight.’
‘Hoseok.’ The quiver of your bottom lip disrupts the cadence of his name, besmirching it to little more than a sob.
Sucking air through his teeth, Hoseok leans forward, pressing his forehead against yours as his eyes fall shut. At such close proximity, you study the almost feminine length of his eyelashes, the pores of his skin, and wonder who or what god or demon you could barter with to stay inside him forever.
‘You’re supposed to be mine,’ he whimpers, the sadness welling up in him like a mountain. ‘You are mine, but…I will always be yours. Even when they untie us, I’ll be yours. They can’t thread me with anyone else. I don’t think my soul will allow it.’
Unable to sustain it any longer, your desire for him rises to a swell, erupting beside your sorrow - just as fervent, and even more unyielding. His words are a comfort, an echo you will revisit over and over when you have long departed, but your skin has learned how to ache for his touch, learned how to anticipate the way he moves over you like water, and you need it. You need him.
The rest of your pitiful existence looms out before you, days and months and centuries passing without Hoseok to hold you and keep you, and you despise the very notion of it. You rebuke it, refusing to let yourself continue on without knowing how it feels to have him. Tonight, you do not want him as your lover.
Tonight, you want him as your husband.
‘Kiss me,’ you announce, guiding his forehead away from yours, skin prickling with the lack of his warmth. ‘Kiss me like it’s our wedding. I -’ The tightness of your voice steals your breath, words hot and heavy in your mouth as you say them. ‘I want to know what a marriage bed truly feels like. I want to know what our marriage bed would be like.’
Mad with an unbearable passion, no longer contained, Hoseok heeds your words and lets his tongue wander over the seam of your lips. You cling to him, clutching what you can of his shape, his body, and you sigh in woeful euphoria, granting him unspoken entry to the recesses of your mouth - but he does not enter. Your lover has always been disobedient, reckless in the evening when your skin and your lips and your heart are presented to him, and tonight he is no different. Tonight, he scorns the hour, taking his time as he traces over your cupid’s bow with his tongue, rendering the turn of the earth meaningless. The heat of his breath tickles your skin, a cascade in which you luxuriate, and your eyes, blurred by the urgency of your desire, lose all sense of your surroundings until there is only Hoseok.
Hoseok - on you, around you, all over you, the rain and the wind all at once.
Only when he has had his fill of your lips does he press the whole of his mouth against yours, sucking languidly at your bottom lip. Skin growing tight, you keen into his kiss, consumed by greed. Slowly, he moves his hands down and down, letting his fingers trace indeterminate lines over your cheeks, your jaw, your bones until they rest at your neck. With his palm over your pulse, he holds you still, his touch a fever, his touch the sun, radiating deep into the caverns of your heart.
Filled with him, you think. Absolutely alive with him, Hoseok lets his palm cradle the tether of your life until you are certain he is the oxygen made to sustain your mortal form. You, living and breathing, are little more than remnants of departed touches, composed entirely of his affections, his affirmations, his adoration.
So, too, do you kiss at him, battling against him for any semblance of permanence, demanding that you be remembered. Feeling you writhe against him, insistent in your need for closeness, he hums in pleasure, a musical sound that traverses your synapsis with unhurried ease. Gooseflesh raises on your arms, either by a passing breeze or the way Hoseok leans in, harder, rougher, all manner of dominance in the way he so desperately seeks to have you, and you shiver, delighted by the peak in your senses; delighted, fundamentally, that you will commit every moment of this last evening to bodily memory.
Willing to be devoured, you surrender to him, feeling arousal leak from between your folds as though his savagery has given it permission to spill over. It soaks into your underwear where you briefly mourn the fact that it will not coat your thighs, not yet, and that Hoseok must wait to see how easily you could paint yourself in your wanting. Like always, he anticipates you and ardent your longing; perceptive and always acutely aware of the way you have grown wanton. depraved by the strength of his kisses alone.
Hoseok eases his hand to the back of your neck, determination apparent in his grip, and guides you forward to rest in his lap. Letting your legs settle on either side of his thighs, you straddle him, unwilling to break any contact he has with you, your skin, you, your hands on him. You come together like a cataclysm, the burgeoning tip of his erection firm and stubborn where it presses against your core, assertive and tantalizing even beneath the fabric of his trousers.
It’s lewd the way you crave him deep inside you, jaw dropping as your mouth opens wide to gasp in delight. Hoseok wastes no time in letting his tongue glide against yours, explorative and eager, utterly deliberate in his stroking. Slowly, the tips of his fingers move from your neck to your hairline, ever deeper and ever more intrusive. A low chuckle rumbles in his throat as he runs his tongue over yours, grazing the roof of your mouth before he forms a fist in your hair and tilts your head back, swift and aggressive.
All at once he pulls away, face hovering just centimeters above yours and gaze hooded as he explores your lustful expression. A flush creeps into your cheeks, the control he has over the flow of your blood is always surprising even if it is to be expected. Hoseok seems pleased, evident in the familiar way his eyes have become blackened by the force of his yearning and the smile that has worked its way into the corner of his lips, a secret for only you to discover. He takes a pause, disregarding his haste, to regard you: your parted lips, your heated cheeks - a fire that has spread itself over your chests and breasts.
‘You are a vision of sin,’ he murmurs, cocking his head to the side and tightening his grip in your hair. ‘What would all the gods say?’
Your own nails scratch tenderly into his scalp, gripping his hair to mirror his hold on you. Futile, you know. The strength in Hoseok is silent, a gift that makes him appear merely pretty until the seat of his power is fully revealed, a fortitude you could never mimic.
You swallow, preparing to speak, and watch the way Hoseok studies the movement of your throat. ‘They would call me a harlot.’
His gaze returns to yours, an otherwise thoughtful look turned menacing by the terror of his passion. ‘And are you?’
Tongue heavy in your mouth, you struggle with the few words you can manage. ‘They will make me out to be,’ you begin slowly, poignantly, ‘and it will be your fault. You’ve made me a slut.’
You hold onto the word - draping yourself over the “s”, tapping your tongue against the “t” - ensuring it lingers in your mouth long enough for him to taste it. It’s his fault, really, that you will be judged and scorned and shamed for coming to your new husband wholly impure, the construct of your virginity eradicated by Hoseok’s insatiable appetite. It’s his fault, you think, that you want him this much. That you love him this much. Your tongue caresses the word slut like it's your dearest companion, familiar with its shape and texture, and you lean upward, hoping to put it in his mouth.
If he is half of your soul, then he should learn how it tastes to be utterly reprehensible.
But he dodges the trajectory of your desires, moves away from your lips and your face entirely, diving down to your chest where he lets his teeth traverse the expanse of your sternum. Lifting his hand from your pulse, he trades one beat of your blood for another, fisting his hand in the collar of your dress to pull it down and expose the thin bit of flesh covering your heart. It thunders in your ears, your body a storm of his making, and you tremble as he positions himself to ravage your very spirit.
His teeth leave scars upon your nerves, eternal echoes within your pores that have you rolling your hips downward in encouragement. Again, you feel him, his cock against your core, enough to have you whimpering as though you are small and fragile, not the maker of your undoing. As punishment for your impertinence, Hoseok takes aim and bites down harshly at the slender bone of your clavicle.
‘Hoseok!’
‘I know you, Sparrow.’ The husk of his breath is an avalanche into the marrow of your bones, the memory of his teeth still reverberating into your lungs. ‘You always like it when it hurts.’
Your skin still stings, yet he is relentless. You quake in his hold as he bites at the bone once again, teeth inlaid perfectly where they had been before. Your skin bends beneath the force, ecstatic hiss descending into a low moan, giving away the truth of how well he truly knows you. The pain grounds you in the moment, allows you, too, to ignore the passage of time, the ebb and flow of the waves as though the tides have halted altogether. You are prettiest when you are red and purple, black and blue by the marks he leaves in his wake, and not once, not even when he breaks your skin to bleeding does he tarnish your light.
In his arms, you are illuminated, glowing with the same intensity as the lighthouse beacon. He’s called you the heavenly sky for the way you glow under his affections, your inability to control your power when he makes you feel so impossibly good turning you into an evening star. You often forget you are blessed with a holy gift, the goddess of light as though your title has any meaning beyond providing you a seat at the table in Teylim. You often forget this is who you really are, someone happy, someone made of magic - a light kindled only under joy.
‘I will make you ache for me,’ he breathes, pushing the collar of your dress lower and lower, threatening to expose your nipple. ‘I want you alight, burning for me. Only me.’
Hoseok kisses deftly at the supple softness of your breast, diligent and greedy. His breath comes ragged, thick in the center of his lungs where he struggles around the insurmountable longing that puts force in his handling of your body. Working his tongue over the skin, he licks the stars out of the constellations of your pores, tasting the dust, the salt, the sea. Your hands run through his hair, messing the thick strands to a state of perilous disorder in your eagerness to move downward to the comforting solidarity of his shoulders.
Grinding your hips into his lap, the tip of his clothed erection slides along your slit, and you release a whimpered exclamation as the cloth of your underwear slips between your folds. Biting your lip, you breathe deep, Hoseok’s own groan of dissatisfaction vibrates into your chest. You feel him deep in your throat, his voice alongside yours, his desire matching yours in intensity.
Hand leaving your neck in favor of your waist, his grip tightens, fingertips pressing deep circles into the muscles of your back. Thrusting upward, he teases you, laughing darkly to himself with a rough nip to your breast. The motion sends your underwear deeper into your cunt, a pressure to your clit as erotic as it is cruel. It sends a shiver down your spine, inspiring tremors in your nerves that have you clenching your walls around nothing at all, seeking the bulbous head of his cock in need.
Pleased with himself, he raises himself from your chest to work at the buttons of your dress. Your nails dig into his shoulders, your own rolling back to present you breasts to him like a preening cat. Hungry, he takes the bait, slipping a palm under your dress to cup your breast. He presses against your nipple, a small wine tumbling from your throat to mingle with his whispered expletive. Rolling your nipple between his knuckle, he regards you momentarily, studying your dazed expression. Against him, you are an earthquake unto yourself, a cosmic shift of longing ravaging your blood, and you are pleased by it, offering him a smile of gluttony.
Abruptly, he releases your breast, hands falling to your hips as he raises to his knees, keeping you against him. Hoseok pushes your hips roughly against his, cock a threatening force against your core as he guides your bodies down to the floor, careful to keep the shift in position painless. Once more, he thrusts at you, and you feel yourself becoming soaked, juices no longer dripping into your underwear but instead crawling slowly down to your ass. The concrete of the floor is chilled, cold enough your back and hips arch indelicately in retreat, causing you to carelessly meet his thrust.
‘Fuck,’ he mutters, returning his hands to your front as he sits back on his knees.
Hoseok avoids the buttons over your breasts, choosing instead to undo the buttons just beneath. Continuing onward, he takes his time unwrapping you, hungry for the pieces of your body he will mark as his. The heart of his lips parts on a silent exclamation, mouth falling open as he unveils more of your ample flesh. The light from your skin mixes with the lighthouse beacon, casting shadows of desire in his eyes, rendering him beastly. With his eyes only, he devours you; your body, the fruit of his immense craving.
Leaving your breasts covered, Hoseok exposes your hips, your stomach, your thighs. Your hardened nipples strain against the fabric, begging for release the same way your core clenches once again around nothing at all, swallowing more of your underwear in an effort to lure him deep inside you. He meant it this way, all too aware your sensitive nipples will tease you to a point of aching the longer they rub against your dress.
The sea breeze cools your skin, so much of you exposed you feel as though you have been submerged in wind and sky. Chewing the inside of your cheek, you mourn momentarily that it is not Hoseok that covers you, not yet. Still, you enjoy being naked for him like this - naked, vulnerable, safe, and his. You open your legs further, letting the wind kiss at the wetness of your cunt, your answering grin borderline salacious. How glorious to give everything and hide nothing from him. How glorious to let yourself be worshipped, his eyes starved for the pleasure of your sex. All this joy, and yet your frustration runs over, an overflow occurring with little thought.
‘It’s not fair,’ you whine, raising your arms to reach for him. ‘Let me undress you.’
Sitting up, you press your hands flat against his chest, becoming attuned with the ample hills and valleys of his muscles. Hoseok sits still and proud, lips reddened and wet from kissing you. Your light ignites the flush that dapples the tips of his ears, skin flushed by lust and longing. Throat running dry, you swallow thickly, committing his unrivaled beauty to memory. You refuse to forget a single moment of this, unwilling to relinquish a single detail of him.
Slowly, you ease the suspenders from his shoulders, humming in approval at the way the loose linen of his shirt relaxes in its newfound freedom, offering you more of his neck and collarbones. As your fingers work earnestly at his buttons, Hoseok takes his time admiring you, a piercing look both penetrative and heartsick. His hand comes to cover yours, unable to help himself, and he holds it tightly, raising it to his lips. His eyes remain locked on yours as he kisses the pads of your fingers, one by one, before slipping your index and middle finger into his mouth. Your lips part on a sigh that fades just as quickly as it came, feeling his tongue swirl over the digits with purpose.
And much the same way you did not expect his touch, so too are you caught off guard when he moves your fingers from his mouth and guides it down your stomach. Lower and lower, he guides your hand between your bodies where he slips it beneath your underwear. Your breath hitches, skin wet from his saliva and clit throbbing at the prospect of tangible contact, your own hand an ominous presence resting upon your mound.
‘Touch yourself,’ he commands.
Hoseok is so often the picture of tenderness in the way he makes love to you, always gentle and always mired in the totality of his affections. Occasionally, he is sharp and, occasionally, he is in control - only on days when he is starved, only on days when he is completely ravenous. Tonight, there is no room for argument. Tonight, he makes himself an unrelenting devil, unafraid to exert dominance.
‘Eventually we will remember little of how we undress,’ he explains, pressing your fingers over your mound, dangerously close to your clit. ‘Right now, I need to see the way you will touch yourself for me when I’m no longer around. I want to see it. I want to memorize it. Touch yourself for me.’
Removing his hand from yours, he nudges softly at your shoulder, and you obey immediately. Leaning back on your right elbow, you keep your hand in place as he grabs the band of your underwear and pulls it down. Lifting your hips, your tongue licks at your bottom lip where the skin has become dry and chapped, struggling to catch your breath as your desire becomes oppressive. Falling back on your tailbone, you spread your legs wider still, proud and impish as you slide your fingers down your slip, separating your folds to display your core.
But he sees nothing as he lifts your underwear to his nose, fisting his hands in the fabric and pressing it against his face. Hoseok breathes in deep,eyes rolling back slightly in the effort of keeping his eyes open, a growl rumbling in his chest like a warning. Exhaling into the cloth, he laughs to himself, a high pitched, small sound of amused embarrassment before he falls completely silent once more. And then, he breathes in again, just as deep, just as fervent, lips kissing at the wet patch you have created.
‘I’m keeping these.’ Easing your underwear away from his nose, he crumples the garment and buries it in the pocket of his trousers. Cocking an eyebrow in pleasure, he takes in your exposed cunt, licking his lips. ‘I’ll fuck myself with them, imagining it’s you and your wet pussy.’
‘Pervert,’ you tease, jutting your chin forward in mock derision.
‘Whore.’ Inspired by your nakedness, he begins to undress, gaze heated and focused on your wet cunt. ‘I told you to touch yourself.’
Your fingers easily breach the barrier of your folds upon their release, wet with Hoseok’s spit and your walls slick and dripping with your juices. Years ago, you would have been ashamed of being so soaked, a damp patch expanding in the concrete beneath you in visible proof. But you no longer care, not when Hoseok’s expression of thirst is so incorrigible.
You fuck yourself with your hand, fighting the urge to tilt your head back in relief - small as it is. In the heat of your lonely nights, you find it tragic your fingers never reach as deep as Hoseok’s slender digits; yours are too slim, knuckles not nearly as rough or pronounced. And when your mind drifts dangerously to thoughts of girth, your eyes drop swiftly to the pronounced shape of Hoseok’s straining cock. Swallowing the weep of appreciation that builds in your chest, your teeth chew at your bottom lip, clinging in anticipation.
Pressing the base of your palm against the hood of your clit, you whimper. Mild and meek as it is, your fingers bring a temporary relief, this satisfaction fleeting, and it will not be long before you are begging him to fill you.
‘You’re dripping,’ he comments, interrupting your thoughts and removing his shirt in one swift motion. ‘Are you sure you’re not the princess of water? If I kiss your cunt I might drown.’
‘I’m in love with you.’
While not truly a detailed explanation, the words carry the weight of your whole chest, erupting with little thought. Your mind offers the only logical explanation for your wetness it can manage while your body grapples with the implication of Hoseok’s mouth upon your core.
‘Say it again,’ he orders, hands tugging harshly at the zip of his trousers.
A slow smile spreads over your lips, head cocking to the side as you admire his eager expression. ‘I’m in love with you.’
‘Again.’
‘I’m in love with you.’
This time, you say it with venom, as though you want it to hurt and hope that it will leave scars in its wake. Hoseok tugs his trousers down his thighs, rising to his knees, appearing regal and godly. Freed from its cloth restraints, his cock springs upward to rest against his stomach, and he smirks, chest and neck flushed as your focus shifts immediately to the purpled bulbous head.
Without hesitation, you remove yourself from your folds, the ache at your core only minutely grieving the loss of your small hand. Instead, you reach for him, fingers slick with your juices as you grasp the base of his cock with a gentle squeeze. He’s heavy in your hand, rigid in the solid way that makes your walls clench and drip once more, mirroring the way your mouth waters. Slowly, you move your hand up and down the shaft, letting your thumb rub over the leaking tip with care.
Hoseok’s breath hitches, his hips thrusting slightly into your hand as you pleasure him. His own hands clutch at his discarded clothes, doing his best to exercise his dwindling patience, and you repeat motion, admiring the smoothness of the skin in contrast to the veins of his shaft.
‘I always wonder how you will fit inside me,’ you comment, moving your hand back down and studying the way your fingers do not meet your thumb. ‘You’re so thick.’
He rolls his shoulders back in the aftermath of your praise, inhaling sharply through his teeth. Hoseok is always free with his praises, showering you in worship and stating it is his duty to devote himself to the goddess in his favor. Always, he does this, and always he seeks nothing in return. But you have always sensed, as attuned to him as you are, that praise from you sets his soul afire. One word of praise from you and you are certain he could eat the god of Daeus entirely, rendering him completely human.
‘You were made for me,’ he explains, voice taught and words strained. Unable to hold back, he fucks your fist, seeking relief. ‘You will always stretch to accommodate me, just like your life was meant to. Just like your belly was meant to, stretching with my children.’ His gaze is penetrative, deeply serious for such an obscene state of being. ‘You were meant to take all of me. My true home is inside you.’
Your grip loosens slightly at his admission, lips curling into a small pout. ‘I so desperately wanted to give you a child.’
A choked sound rumbles through his chest, and his hand reaches yours, pulling it from his cock to wind your fingers together. With his free hand, he nudges at your shoulder, easing you back to the ground with a darkness in his eyes that has your throat running dry. Automatically, your legs spread wide, offering him space to settle between them. The tip of his cock rubs carelessly against your slit, and your focus fades, mind emptying with the single desire to have him inside you taking root.
‘Promise me you won’t give him children,’ he commands, words thick with purpose.
He walks his hand languidly down your body, grazing over your chest, your covered breasts, to the flat of your stomach. Beneath him, you tremble, the tectonic plates of your spine shifting beneath his touch. Splaying his hand over your stomach, he eyes your skin with parted lips and a furrowed brow. Hoseok wars with himself, his thoughts tangible behind the darkness of his irises, expression swimming with strife.
‘Promise me,’ he repeats. ‘I don’t think I could survive the thought of someone else's baby growing inside you.’
Raising your hand from the floor, you card your fingers through his hair while you squeeze your joined hands, determined to win his attention.
‘I promise,’ is your soft whisper. ‘I shall bear no other child than yours.’
Invigorated by your promise, he returns his gaze to yours and maintains it as he works his way down your body with his tongue, kissing everywhere his hands have been. Without warning, he buries his face between your legs to bite gently at your clit, this contact a thunderclap in your spirit. Back arching off the floor, your voice shatters around his name, teeth chewing over the syllables as tears prick at the corner of your eyes. Your bones hum with the stimulation, very existence stinging and resonating, while he sucks your clit into his mouth, soothing the pain into a deep, soul burning pleasure. He swirls his tongue around it, mouth greedy and impatient, the fullness of his lips a heaven unrivaled by Teylim, and your hand tightened in his hair, body writhing in passion.
Hoseok releases your clit with a wet pop before he kisses his way down to your folds, thrusting the flat of his tongue between them, impatient and hungry. Mindlessly, your legs spread wider, small gasps escaping from your chest as your lungs take in the scent of your sex and your hips roll upward, feeling your juices mix ceremoniously with his saliva. Consumed by the sheer power of your need, you feel yourself howl like a moonless wolf, rolling your hips against Hoseok’s face in erratic motions, inspired by the promise of your orgasm.
But Hoseok releases your joined hands, moving it quickly to your hips where he holds you still, growling against your cunt.
‘You shall not wander from me,’ he says, moving his lips against your slit as he presses you into the ground. ‘Keep still and let me feast on you.’
Once more, he thrusts the full length of his tongue between your walls, sucking eagerly at the juices spilling into his open mouth. He’s velvet and silk against your core, sturdy and solid while still gliding against all the places you have needed him most, and your voice careens off the ceiling, loud enough to drown out the ocean waves. Scratching your nails down the soft skin of your thighs, you fight back the desire to thrust against his face, wishing you could fuck his mouth and press yourself against the tip of his nose. All of it, every thrust of his tongue and every roll of your hips you suppress has you moaning, voice high pitched and growing erratic.
The feel of his tongue inside you inspires the deep desire for something larger, something thicker. Your orgasm is a threat in the center of your belly, spine tingling and tightening as each press of his tongue against your walls tames the beast of your racing heart. Hoseok buries himself between your legs with a diligence that borders on hysteria, holding you down and indulging in your
Still, his tongue only just hits the place inside your core that needs him most. You want him hard against your cervix. You want him deep enough to leave bruises on your softest pieces.
Tonight, you want the thick girth of his cock to splinter your bones. Tonight, you want his cock pressed against your cervix, a bruise you will carry for the rest of your life. Tonight, you want his cum so deep inside you it burns.
Tonight, you want him to love you and you want it to hurt.
‘Hoseok,’ you whimper. ‘Please, I -’
Hoseok thrusts two fingers into your cunt beside his tongue, silencing you with the rough skin of his knuckles spreading your walls even wider. The contrast between his fingers and tongue elevates your hips from the floor with force, disregarding the strength of his hand. You are beastly beneath his ministrations, finding yourself caught in a wild hour and feeling as though you have abstained from him too long. He forces your hips back down with the palm of his hand, groaning against you loudly enough you feel his voice reverberate up to your tongue, and you cry out, distraught.
Having left the top of your dress buttoned, your nipples strain against the cloth, sensitive and sending electric ripples down your arms, your shoulders - all along your nerves. Another breeze moves through the lighthouse, and it kisses at the sheen of sweat that has broken along your hairline.
Desperately, you want him. Desperately, you need him. But still it’s not enough.
‘God,’ you keen, ‘I need to cum.’
Hoseok hums in understanding, the vibration of it moving deep inside you once more.
‘Oh,’ you whine, so small and so close to breaking.
Hoseok’s tongue leaves your cunt, only his fingers remaining, and he moves his mouth to your clit where he sucks at the swollen nub deftly. Again, your hand scratches down your thighs, harsh enough to draw blood. Red and angry, the sting of these scores against your flesh makes you smile, a manic and monstrous expression you hope your father, Daeus, and all the gods can see. Frustrated and feeling the coil of your orgasm tighten, your other hand slaps into the ground, gripping at the linen of Hoseok’s shirt. You dig your nails into it, pretending it is him, his skin, his cock, anything substantial to torture him as he tortures you.
Against your cunt, you feel Hoseok begin to laugh, wearing the smirk of the devil as he sucks diligently at your clit.
His name begins in your mouth and dies on an exhale, eyes open wide as you stare up at the ceiling. Vision glazed and vacant, your body trembles as your orgasm lingers dangerously on the precipice of your nerves, skin growing hot and bordering on a point of pain. You hear yourself crying, you feel yourself pressing harder and harder against Hoseok’s eager mouth, and you struggle to discern if the rush in your ears is your blood as it moves swiftly to find him or the ocean that works swiftly to keep your coupling secret.
And then, without any warning at all, Hoseok once more latches his teeth to your clit.
Your orgasm takes you by surprise, a wave of heat in your blood and skin, your juice cascading into Hoseok’s waiting mouth. This orgasm is an eruption, a shockwave in your soul that leaves you trembling while his relentless motions of tongue and hand milk you to completion. The tears you have held back begin to spill, soaking your cheeks as you soak his lips, a great wave over you that leaves you breathless.
‘Come up here,’ you gasp. ‘Come up here and kiss me.’
Slowly pulling his lips and fingers from your cunt, you hiss as he eases his way up your body. Using the tip of his tongue, he traces the shape of your parted lips with careful strokes, still messy and dripping with your slick juices. At your core, his cock presses, the contact sending tremors up your spine and causing a whine of pain to splinter in your throat. Granted permission by the sound alone, Hoseok delves his tongue inside your mouth and demands you taste yourself - you, your cum; him, his breath, his spit, his flavor; all of it, mixed together. Your walls clench as you kiss him, devouring him, as your folds seek to lure his cock inside you.
Gasping against his mouth, you feel his tip press roughly against your core, your walls still sensitive but your body and spirit eager for his fullness. Hoseok pulls away from your lips to whine a low expletive, his resolve shaking and unstable, close to shattering by the force of his desire. His lips part on his sighs, breath slow and shallow, and still shimmering with you. Already, he had devoured you, drunk his fill and yet he still appears starved. As he lingers above you, Hoseok rolls his cock against your walls once more, a challenge, a reminder that he is exhausted by the prospect of not having his fill of you.
Moving your hands to his shoulders, you press your fingers into the soft skin of his back and muscles, letting them wander down and down until you grip the rounded flesh of his ass There, your grip tightens, threatening to push him inside you lest he waste any more time.
‘Hoseok,’ you breathe. ‘I need you to fuck me.’
‘You want me to fuck you?’ he mumbles, running his tongue over your jaw before biting at your chin. ‘Tell me how badly.’
‘Please,’ you whimper, rolling your hips up against his cock, a warning against the tip. ‘I need you so badly it hurts.’
Wordlessly, Hoseok thrusts himself inside you to the hilt, balls pressing against you with a loud slap. You feel him shake inside you, body shivering with the sudden heat enveloping his cock. Hoseok’s moan is a deluge, an ecstatic exclamation howled victoriously into the juncture of your neck and shoulders, and you smile blankly at the ceiling, mind empty of all things that are not the feel of Hoseok against and inside you.
His stillness is a tease you cannot endure, and so you clench yourself around him, his teeth biting at your skin as you release and repeat, urging him to move. The feel of his mouth at your skin, the feel of his heaviness pressed so roughly inside you, as your cunt leaking over him, back down into the floor where it coats your ass in its stickiness. Still, you pay little attention to anything other than his immense girth as it stretches you, your walls strained to accommodate him like always.
Feeling you drip over and under him, he pulls out and thrusts back in, a knock at the door of your cervix and the sudden feel of him so deep as you groaning his name. He challenges you, repeating the motion as your bodies slide back along the floor with the force of his thrusts, the piercing sensation stealing your very breath. You are gasping as you clutch him, breasts moving against the fabric and nipples aching with the sensation, letting him push your body to its limits.
‘Tell me you love me,’ he grits out, an echo of your earlier promises.
‘I love you,’ you choke, the words incomprehensible.
‘Say it again,’ he hisses, executing a piercing thrust that has you gasping for breath, nails digging into his skin for purchase.
Squeezing your eyes closed, your hands move to the wings of his shoulder blades and you cling to him, a flightless bird. ‘I love you.’
When you hear yourself say it, you realize you are crying, your voice a sob of affirmation around tears of grief. It should be impossible to love someone this much, with the devastating whole of your existence.
‘Tell me you love me,’ you plead, barely able to speak around the way Hoseok punishes your cervix, a punishment for abandoning him.
‘I love you.’ Equally affected, his voice warbles over the words. Face buried in the crook of your neck, he presses the words over and over into your pulse.
‘I love you, I love you.’
Slowing his pace, Hoseok accentuates his proclamations with brutal thrusts against your cervix. Slow as his thrusts may be, they are full of power and force, a pain against your walls and muscles ensuring you will never be free of him. Tears falling freely, your breath is as sharp as his thrusts, a burn in your lungs as you struggle to contain the cosmic feeling of love you hold inside.
‘I know you like it when it hurts,’ he grits out, thrusts relentless.
All you can manage is a nod, a moan, the dig of your nails into his skin, the acknowledgement that you would prefer it if he shattered you. You would prefer it if he left nothing behind of you at all.
‘I know you like it when I stretch you, when you can’t walk for days.’
‘I do,’ you nod weakly, legs automatically spreading wider - until your hips hurt, until you are certain your bones will bruise from the way you have spread yourself open just for him.
Hoseok moans as a harmonic response to yours, the sack of his balls slapping diligently at your ass. You cling to him, holding him against you in despair, the vice grip of your hands matched only by the grip of your walls. Pleasure ripples through your synapses, an overload to your very synapses, little else registering in your mind apart from the places Hoseok penetrates within your core.
‘Do you want me to cum inside you?’
The pleading nature of his tone does not go unmissed, his own anguish evident in the way his hand cups your breast and his nails scratch at the flesh, wishing for entry.
‘Yes.’
‘What if I get you pregnant?’ he muses, though he remains completely sincere. What if I fuck my baby into you? What will they do?’
‘I hope you do.’ It takes all your strength to speak without losing your breath. Once more your orgasm has started to build gloriously around the pain of taking him against your cervix, and you need him to know that you mean it. ‘I don’t care if they scorn me.’
‘I’ll do it,’ he bites out - not a threat, but a promise. ‘I’ll knock you up, fuck my baby into you. They’ll have to watch you grow someone else’s child. What a sight, huh? Bet Daeus would love to see you deliver another man’s baby.’
‘Do it.’
You see yourself, heavy and round with his child, glowing brilliantly like a constellation unto yourself. Carrying your offspring, you would be a supernova, the cradle of the very universe and you would celebrate it with every word breaking over laughter. Daeus would snarl at you, a sneer reserved for your growing belly; your father would find himself in a rage so beautiful and blinding, you think darkness would befall the earth, this winter sudden and unforgiving. The other gods would ignore you, this you are confident of and would take with pride. You’d tease them with it, finding yourself immensely confident in the power of being pregnant with Hoseok’s child.
You’d carry his child as though this were your real pilgrimage within Teylim, your true purpose.
And Hoseok, you know, would be your chosen king, god of the sun because he deserves it.
He deserves you.
‘Yeah?’ he moans, hips picking up pace as he begins to chase his own high. Still, he loses none of the strength in his motions, seemingly motivated by your affirmation of desire.
‘Get me pregnant,’ you plead, biting your lip with shame at this impossible ask. A fool’s errand, a childish plea to change the way of things. ‘Make me stay with you,’ is your final whisper.
Together, you both fall silent as he fucks you with vigor, silent and awestruck by the violence of your coupling. With each thrust, your voices become a symphony of your union. Gripping him tightly, you hope it reaches the gods, your father, all of Teylim. You hope they see the way Hoseok fucks you, absolutely unforgiving. You hope they see the way you make a mess of yourself for him, that you have already decided on a husband and he is no god, no hero, but a man who loves you as though you are the whole of the sky.
Hoseok trembles against you, and you sense his orgasm approaching in the way he gasps against your skin, thrusting harder and faster and, somehow, harder into your core. You are burning with the ache of containing him, but your own orgasm is cosmic, making its steady approach with each brutal thrust. Hoseok wanted to live inside you, wanted to give you a child, wanted to watch you swell with him alone - and it is these thoughts that send you over the edge, the universe apart from Hoseok melting into a white. In this orgasm, there is no air, no sea, no sky - only Hoseok; his breath, his smile as you cum around him, his ecstatic laughter.
You imagine yourself pregnant, learning to contain a sun inside your womb. You imagine him laughing, hands and lips at your belly. You imagine him happy. You imagine him happy, and your orgasm moves over you with the strength of a lunar tide, the same way your tears move over your cheeks, torn between sobs of bliss and sobs of grief for a life you will not have.
Hoseok continues to thrust into you with purpose, the last of your orgasm leaving you in shockwaves as the motions of his hips overstimulate your walls. It hurts to contain him, not nearly as much as it hurts to leave him, and you dig your nails into his skin, demanding all you can from him with enthusiasm. The world is tilted on its axis as he cums inside you, wave after wave of seed spilling into your core as you stroke tenderly at the hair at the base of his neck. Teeth chattering, you mumble his name, shivering as he spills himself inside you, and you pray, woefully, that he kept his word and left you with a piece of him.
‘Mine,’ he says, stilling inside you as the last of his orgasm quakes his mortal form.
As his cock begins to soften inside you, the hand at your breast moves gently to the buttons. Your skin burns with the heat of the saliva he dripped against your neck, and he presses his cheek against your neck as he unbuttons the last of your dress. Exposed, now, to the sea breeze, your back arches slightly as the wind and his breath moves over your nipples. His hand cups your breast, too tender for the way he fucked you, and you are certain he is imagining your breasts full of milk, your body heavy, his wish granted, too.
Pulling his cock free, you both grimace at the feeling, and he removes his hand from your breast to instead smear the cum from your core that leaks from between your walls over your folds. He strokes the tips of his fingers against your slit, the stimulation making you hiss and writhe beneath him in retreat, before you are crying out his name, his fingers dipping inside to scoop his cum from your center. As he pulls his hand free, his studies his fingers carefully, smirking not unlike the devil, before he guides them over your breasts and lets it drip.
And then, without warning, he begins to write his name along your breasts.
‘I am sanctifying you,’ he explains. ‘Anyone who pulls down your clothes will find me. I have already laid claim to your temple.’
Your smile is composed entirely of sadness, a hope that has made a home of despair evident in your expression. Holding his hand in yours, you guide his soaked fingers between the valley of your breasts to your stomach, where you hold him still.
‘With any luck it will be visible here,’ you offer, hoping he cannot hear how remorse has consumed you.
Hoseok frowns. ‘My biggest fear is that you do become pregnant and that I cannot see my baby grow in you. That I won’t be able to raise our family with you.’
Furrowing your brow, you tilt your head to the side in consideration, battling the new found grief that consumes you. ‘Did you not mean it?’
‘I meant every word,’ he promises, moving his hand from your stomach to cup your cheeks. ‘I’d put twins inside you if I had any control. But you are mine, our family is mine. I curse the gods for taking it from me.’ Hoseok falls silent, and you press your cheek into his hand, turning to kiss his mount of venus in encouragement. ‘The day I met you I saw my life with you,’ he continues, so quiet, and so unlike your Hoseok. ‘You are half of my soul.’
Abruptly, Hoseok lifts himself up and pulls away from you. As he rises to a stand, he is still warmed by your touch, the glow from your magic still draped over his muscles, turning him amber and yellow. He’s incandescent, as much as a god of light as you, more regal and more royal than any man who was lucky enough to slay a beast in your name. Running a hand through his hair, he regards you with dark eyes - embers burning in his rises of lust and longing, devotion and despair. He says nothing at all as he moves, naked and vulnerable, to the back corner of the room where he gathers his tools.
‘What are you doing?’ you hum. Reaching your hand out, you curl onto your side, writhing in the pillow of your discarded clothes, beckoning him back to you. ‘Come back to me. It’s cold without you.’
He says nothing at all as he roots around, pulling out a thick screwdriver and hammer.
‘He will give you rings,’ he says, more to himself than to you.
The words come softly, barely a whisper that cuts through the air. Settling in front of the fog bell on his knees, he begins to hammer the end of the screwdriver into the metal, carving and carving.
‘He will give you flowers,’ he grits out bitterly, ‘and will see your smiles in the morning. He will bring you food and nectar, and he will watch you glow your brightest. He will watch you glow each time you remember my hands on you, my lips on you. In bed, he will watch you glow, thinking it’s him, letting his own ego grow so immense he will get off on his own power rather than you. But he won’t know, not like I do. Not like we do.’
Sitting up, you don’t bother to cover your naked body, the breeze from the sea cooling your dampened skin. Licking your lips, you watch as his muscles strain with his pound of the hammer. Brow narrowed, jaw set, and hands gripping his tools with confidence, he marks the metal with a certainty born from a man learning to combat loneliness.
‘He won’t know,’ he continues, words a grunt of demand and dominion. ‘No one will know that each time he touches you, you are comparing him to me. You will be remembering me. I want you to remember me. I want you to think of me, I want you to look for the light from this beacon, and I want you to outshine the anguish. I am destined to look for you the way so many people look for the North Star. My every storm is guided by you. So don’t you dare forget.’
The fog light spins overhead, clouds passing by and changing the refraction just enough to see the shimmer against his cheeks. Hoseok weeps as he carves, jaw unflinching, and hands steady with determination. A lump rises in the center of your throat, chest tight with the pain that comes from loving someone too much, entirely too much. Gasping for air, you move towards him, wanting his body pressed tightly against yours in comfort.
On instinct, you give him light - more light, so much light. From beneath your skin, you become torchlight, neon, candle flame; wrapping yourself around his back and shoulders, you rest your head on his shoulder and cling to him, becoming sunlight and firewood, banishing the darkness from his mind and mouth, a lamp unto his feet to lead him home. Pressing your lips at the juncture of his neck and shoulder, you feel him tremble beneath you, mindlessly leaning into you for more, endlessly more.
As you turn to watch his hands, your own tears soak the corner of your eyes.
‘Hoseok,’ you breathe, regarding his craftsmanship.
‘He can’t give you light like I can,’ he murmurs, suddenly so small and so young, weakened suddenly by the ever looming distance between you. ‘He can give you all the falsehoods of husbandry, but he can’t give you light. He can’t give it back. He is not your equal like I am.’
Beneath the careful, diligent work of his hammer and screw, your name begins to take shape, just beneath his. The markings are deep, thick scratches unlikely to erode in any substantial length of time. Wind and sea will not wipe your names away, nor snow nor sand. Not even heaven, you think, could cause your names to smear.
When he finishes, the bronze bell glimmers beneath your light, your names encased in a heart he artfully crafted. You imagine it in a wedding band - silver, and not gold. Gold, you think, is too soft and too malleable. The gods prefer it, a sign of eternal wealth and glory, but gold bends. Gold is too impermanent, value placed in all the wrong places. You would give Hoseok platinum, would give him silver, would give him bronze. If you had the power to move the earth, you would give him iron and steel, anything equally as enduring as the way you will be immortalized in ardor.
‘I can’t believe this is all I will have of you.’ Hoseok stares at your names, at the jagged lines he carved into the bell, mourning. Shoulders slumped and hands folded neatly in his lap, he laments quietly to himself as though in prayer. ‘At the end of all this, this is all I have. Your name and a memory.’
Raising your hand to his chin, you turn his face to yours, biting your lip as he cries freely, tears staining the softness of his cheeks with salt.
‘No one will have me, not like you.’ ‘He can take me, he can take my light, he can take my name, but he will never have my heart. All of me belongs to you. I am yours. Swear to me that you are mine.’
The hammer and screwdriver fall to the ground at his knees, a loud clank so disruptive for the quiet paradise you have built at the top of the lighthouse. Enveloping you in his arms, he buries his face in your neck, lips at the center of your throat - a place he has been so often this night you are determined to call it his home - tugging your hair back to make space for him.
‘I’m yours,’ he swears passionately. ‘Not a single person will have me the way I’ve given myself to you. In a thousand summers, not a single one will pass in which I’m not yours.’
The conviction in his words undoes you, your eyes wide as you stare up at the ceiling, at the base of the light, feeling as though there is no difference between the moon and the sun, not anymore. For you, they are interchangeable, each burning in an hour of love; which is to say, there will be no hour that passes in which you do not love him, no hour passing in which your light does not belong to him and his does not belong to you.
‘I wish I could stay like this.’ These affectionate speeches tumble from your lips, your mind empty of misgivings, wishing to be as honest as you are naked. ‘I wish I could stay this way, forever touching you.’
‘Time is meaningless,’ he muses, detached and distant, even as you hold him. ‘For me, this is the end of my life. There will be nothing else after this. For me, it will always be this way. My arms will always be around you.’
For him, you are glad. For him, you are relieved that there shall be no other moment than this.
SEVEN MONTHS LATER
The seaside feels like the edge of destruction after so long away from it, gravity pressing at your bones. From where you stand, the unchanging nature of the earth makes a mockery of your nerves, the past beating against your sternum like a second heart.
You are poised and still, relearning the way the earth is unforgiving compared to the heavens. Too long have you been removed from such a tangible feeling of living, such a tangible reminder that you, too, are made of flesh and blood and all the things that break so easily, just like ocean foam. Your toes bury themselves into the rocky shore, rooting yourself like a tether as a promise that you will not run away, that you will not leave - not again. As though it senses your presence, the sea rages beneath a cloudless sky, the sun’s rays reflecting off the water, illuminated without any need of you.
The lighthouse looms along the hilltop, and you worry your bottom lip as you study its eternal guardianship. All these unchangeable things, loyal without you, and yet you stand here, begging for acceptance. You can hear Hoseok’s words like an echo, words not yet spoken but you anticipate them, the lump in your throat sinister in its tenacity.
How dare you, he will shout, and the tears on his cheeks will be your parting gift. How dare you haunt me here when I did not expect you, when I had already worked so hard to give you up.
Promises in the dead of night are easy to make when the daylight has yet to take anything from you. The earth remains unchanged but you are evidence of the passage of time, and you are certain Hoseok will have warred with himself so completely your memory of him is little more than a ghost of a man who died the moment he woke to find you missing.
He used to be able to sense you here. Back when things were new and things were simple, back even at the end, he would sense your presence along the water and come running, a smile already at his cheeks in welcome. Stroking your naked hip with the tips of his fingers, he told you all about his skin would tingle when you were close, a static on his tongue that told him something too important to be contained by the earth was waiting for him. Even before he knew you, before he knew it was you, he felt it, as though he had been made just to know you, to find you.
It used to be the same for you, a pull to the shore and a lightness of being that always made you stand here, in this place, waiting. Weeks passed before either of you had any idea you were near one another, before you’d even introduced yourself, and now it is the same. Your body combats the change in gravity with strength, though you realize too much has changed in you for the weight to feel the same.
The hair at the back of your neck stands on end, rising in anticipation as the air becomes thick and heavy. You feel him approaching, a magnetic pull against your back that has your posture shifting, pulling you to your full height regardless how heavy all of you feels. Still, he doesn’t close the distance, and your lips part around a sigh, silently asking him to reach for you, to touch you.
But he won’t.
Not when he thinks you are the same as you were. Not when he thinks this is all just a memory.
Closing your eyes, you turn to face him, feeling tears burn against the lids. Hoseok makes no movement towards you, and, unable to hold back any longer, you open your eyes once more, weeping at the sight of him. Chewing at the inside of your cheek, you study the way he looks at you, the way his gaze traverses your form with a pained expression, the knot in his brow visible even from a distance. He’s far from you, far enough you cannot touch him, but he, too, remains unchanged - still beautiful, still glorious, still the sun king himself, and you choke back a bitter cry at the way it seems only you are the one who was allowed to change.
‘Hello,’ you try, offering a weak and unsteady smile.
Hoseok says nothing as he closes the distance, eyes trained at your middle, focused enough you feel him move inside you. He lets himself get close, close enough your skin calls out to his eagerly, begging him to touch you. You can smell him on the wind, the same musk, the same ambergris, the same dust that you remember, and your hands twitch at your sides, straining to reach out to him.
‘What is this?’ he manages, not looking you in the face.
‘I -’ A small cry cuts you off, and you press your hand to your lips, forcing yourself to keep your composure.
Hearing the anguish in your voice, he raises his gaze to yours and you see the way he mirrors your pain, confused and bewildered.
‘Tell me what this is,’ he whispers, fierce and demanding.
‘It’s exactly how it looks,’ you explain, feeling terribly pathetic.
It’s so simple, you know. Absolutely obvious. Your pregnant belly sticks out far enough now it leaves a distance between you, a gap where your child grows the only thing that separates you.
‘Did you come here to mock me?’ he spits, leaning forward with venom.
‘No!’ you exclaim, holding your hand up in surrender. ‘I…’ you drift off, uncertain where to begin. You decide, perhaps, it’s best to begin with the truth. ‘The baby is yours.’
Hoseok’s expression shatters, a thousand different feelings breaking over his face before he settles on disbelief and quiet rage.
‘Why would you show me this?’ he pleads, sounding so small. ‘Have I not suffered enough? You knew I wished for this and now you tease me with it?’
‘I’m not here to show you anything, Hoseok, and certainly not to cause you pain.’ It’s shocking how tired you are becoming, putting in the effort of not reaching for him, not weeping for him, not rushing to an end you both deserve. ‘They...rejected me,’ is all you manage in the end.
Hoseok sucks his bottom lip between his teeth, eyes watering as he lowers his focus to your belly once more. ‘They stopped the wedding?’
He speaks so softly you almost do not hear him over the rolling tide, and now, you cannot be contained. In one swift motion, you reach for his hand twining your fingers together. Your hold on him is unrelenting, not allowing him a single escape. Feeling his palm against yours is all the motivation you need, a resurgence of energy you have been missing for months.
When you continue to remain silent, he narrows his brow and persists. ‘Are you unmarried?’
‘They were going to go through with,’ you explain quickly, not allowing him any room for interjection. ‘They were going to make me marry him. Daeus even said he’d give the child to a human family, make it go through a Hero’s Journey to join us back in Teylim. Gods, the fight I put up to stop that from happening. The Fate Tying went poorly,’ you finish with a sardonic grin.
Gently, you tug Hoseok against you, forcing his stomach to bump against yours. His heated breath cascades over your skin, and you sigh in pleasure.
‘The child is completely human, my love,’ you whisper, eyes searching his face. ‘The Moirai refused to untie us.’ Incredulous, you laugh, looking out over the grassy hill in wonder. ‘The old crones are always right.’
The weight of your explanation steals Hoseok’s breath, and he falls against you, clinging to you as he sobs into your shoulder. Holding him close, you remember the last time you were in this position, your tears soaking into the fabric of his shirt, your hands clutching him, unwilling to be removed. As though sensing the great wave of his emotion, the child in your belly stirs abruptly, pressing against your womb to get his attention.
You jump slightly at the feel of it, and Hoseok looks down, laughing, incandescent in his joy. He brings his hand to your belly, touching softly at where your child had just been, and he sniffles, looking to you and back down, cheeks reflecting the light you suddenly cannot contain.
‘It’s a girl,’ you state, always wondering how he would react to knowing he’d have a daughter. ‘Our daughter kept me with you.’
Falling to his knees, he holds your belly in his hands and presses his forehead against its peak, too overcome with emotion to utter a word. Instead, he simply breathes deeply, wrought with bliss. Lowering a hand to the crown of his head, you thread your fingers through your hair and think that this, this precise moment, is what it means to be a goddess.
This is what it means to truly be sanctified.
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Bark at the Moon
Summary: Walter always comes to you when he needs a hard release. Tonight he seems to need it more than ever.
Pairing: Werewolf!Walter Marshall x Female Reader
Word count: 2K (WTF it was supposed to be a drabble)
Warnings: 18+, sex, lycanthropy, supernatural themes, no strings attached, vaginal fingering, oral performed on female, primal play (slight biting and scratching), cockwarming, slight denial, angst, fluff and romance.
*No permission is given for reposting my work, copying it, ideas or parts it and claiming it as your own
A/N: Not me naming my AUs after Ozzy Osbourne songs/albums. Following my post from October I am trying to follow up. This one-shot is also inspired by A Company of Wolves and @fishcustardandclintbarton moodboard. Many thanks to my beta and muse and dear friend @agniavateira for all the help.
Please reblog and comment if you enjoyed 🖤
Title: Bark at the Moon
Muddy Timberlands dragged across the worn doormat as the large detective sought to rid himself of the dirt caking his soles. Black and soft, the dark mane of curls hung loosely above his forehead, a pale blue sheen cascading over each ringlet that concealed his face while he kicked his feet like an unruly child.
An instinct within pressed you to reach a wandering hand and entwine your fingers between those healthy locks. But ironically, touching Walter screamed ‘taboo,’ as if he wasn't going to finish wet and messy inside you anyway.
Otherwise, he wouldn't have been here.
"Rough evening?" you murmured, taking a long whiff of air. Traces of coffee drifted from his breath, mingling with the brisk November chill that wafted over your face.
It's not that you didn't enjoy his company; it's just that Walter left you with nothing but bitemarks, bruises, and dirty sheets. A foreigner to this country even after all these years, Walter was much like the salty rocks from the islands that bred him: hardened and crude, yet smooth at the edge where the water licked the stone. Some evenings he wouldn't even speak; the moment his boots made it past the doorway, all civilised manners flew out the window, luring the beast to wander. Shredding your outfit, he’d fuck you to tears, shaking you the way a canine carnivore stuns its prey and then unload himself into you until you ached and begged him to stop.
Once stripped off his uniform, the sullen cop was no different than the deviants he shoved behind iron bars. Little did it matter, you loved him enough for the two of you, and though you knew you were a toy to pass the time, he always crawled back to you with that deprived agonised sparkle staining his gaze.
After what seemed like an endless battle between his shoes and the bristly rug, he finally paused and slowly lifted his chin. Marine-blue irises peered below thick brows, and a red rim of weariness perfected his customary scowl.
"Yeah," he drawled with indifference, "got any beer?"
Observing him for a moment, you studied the sharp ridges of his furrowed brow and nodded, turning to let him in. Despite his heavy frame, he followed with lithe stillness, stepping into your house without making a sound while you advanced to the kitchen.
Whatever happened tonight must have left another dent in the coarse material that made this man. You often mused on the things he must have seen and found out it’s better not to ask.
You reached for the fridge when his arm wrapped around your waist by surprise and snatched you back, hauling you flushed against his broad chest. Briefly, he nuzzled your nape, his parted lips huffing hot against your skin. His breath carried the pained melody of a sad longing animal, an ache so great it seeped through the pores of your skin and infected you with his grief.
You weren’t afraid of the beast but felt sorry for it.
“I need to feel you,” Walter rasped, a timbre of plea in his baritone. Palm swiping greedily at your breast and his cock hard and hungry, he ground his hips at the cleft of your ass. Like the black, shaggy dog that he was, he sniffed the air and then rubbed himself further against your jeans, seducing the wanton animal within you to come out of its hiding.
“You want me too, I can smell it, I can smell your cunt.”
Where was the lie?
With a guttural growl, he turned you to face him, skilful hands already making tatters of your clothes and his fangs nipping your throat. Caged in his grasp, you hissed and shuddered out of fear and lust. A part of you was always frightened that one night Walter will pierce an artery by mistake at the heat of the moment whilst another, more archaic urge, called for the sweet passion that was your Thanatos.
Succumbing to both urges, you forced his cable-knit sweater off, exposing his muscular, beefy torso and splaying your hands down his flexing pecs to feel the soft, dark fur that covered his chest and belly. Everything about Walter was large and charged with virility, twisting your moral compass and making any argument weak in his presence. Staring at the bulge in his trousers, you gnawed your bottom lip, giving to the pang of hunger that shot through your clenching core while your wicked fingers began to fumble with the clasp of his belt.
With a low roar rumbling in his chest, he scrutinised you as if this was a trial, his eyes flashing, anticipating you to reach and grab his large cock.
“Fuck…” his sonorous voice caressed your ears. He quickly slid his hand down your trousers, grabbing a handful of your ass before gliding his fingers to feel between your engorged petals.
A tempest of moans unfurled from your clenching throats once you squeezed his shaft in your palm, choking around the veins adorning the meaty girth.
“You are always so wet for me, always so ready,” he uttered and licked your cheek.
“Walter, please!”
At your plea, his fingers slipped deep inside your burning cavern. Back and forth, he probed your little slit, spreading thick wetness across your mound and further up your virginal ass to taunt you.
Before you met Walter you vowed that you’ll never be into that kind of debauchery. But whenever the bulbous crown of his cock accidentally teased your puckered hole, the only thing you could muster to think of was how much you wanted him to fill every empty inch within you.
Long, nimble fingers dug deep, parting your sealed walls asunder in an endeavour to find the small heap of pleasure that regressed you to savagery. You were nothing but an instrument of pleasure, gyrating to the melody he composed by the rhythm of his thrusts, following every note. He made you shudder, made the earth below split in half and all the while, he held back and watched. A sick mist of curiosity hovered over the frigid ocean that was his glance, mindful of how logic and reason drained from your face, leaving you utterly incoherent and primal.
Just as he was.
He crooned at your whimpers and nodded at the desperation dripping from your gaze. Hips swaying, you wriggled against his hand in a frustrated attempt to reach for the tendrils of ecstasy that loomed inches from your grasp.
“You want to come, love?” he asked, almost patronising. His brow lifted, and his eyes flared with what you could only describe as pity.
“Yes! Please! Please make me come!”
His fingers tore from your sleek with a sudden haul, leaving you a trembling, outraged mess. Yet you had no time to curse him for denying your pleasure. Moving faster than your thoughts, Walter stripped your trousers and slammed you rear onto the counter. Kneeling between your spread legs, his strong hands gripped your thighs and dragged your cunt into his bearded jaw.
“Fuck!”
His mouth wrapped around you in a lover’s embrace, his silky tongue plunging between your lips to savour the honeyed nectar that dripped from your tightening core. Thoroughly devouring your cunt, Walter hummed. Raw, unfiltered, and unbound, he laved every inch within as if he was dining at Olympus and feasting on ambrosia for the first time. Arching back, you dared to entangle your fingers in his curls and ride his bristly face until you succumbed to the furious, quaking bliss that spasmed within your womb and consumed you into rapturous euphoria.
Engulfed in a veil of blissful darkness, you continued wailing, heaving, and slumping on the counter. Puny jitters of aftershock trod upon your throbbing flesh while Walter finished his feast with languid laps of his tongue.
Once you blinked your eyes open, Walter stood straight between your legs, now fully naked, peering at you quietly. His eyes were aglow with all the conundrums he could never speak. Still hazy from your ecstasy, you stared back with awe, drinking each taut bulging muscle and worshipping the feral, beastlike entity that he was. Not even the scars on his body could steal away his unspoken pride.
Reaching a hand for his imposing cock, he crept closer and glared straight into your soul as he pressed himself into your tight little entrance. A loud groan thundered through your kitchen as he pushed in, erupting into the most melodic war cry which never failed to astound you once he penetrated you. Still clenched from your orgasm, you gritted your teeth and whimpered in pain, not quite ready to have all of him at once. Yet Walter wasn’t keen on stopping and continued delving deeper and deeper, despite your nails tearing fresh new trails of blood down his shoulders.
“Wait!” you pleaded, yelping when he suddenly bottomed out inside you.
An arduous gasp tore from his lips, and his forehead dropped on your shoulder. Stilling inside you, he breathed in the mien of a wild creature, trying to regain his composure for a brief moment as he timed his assault. Fingers etched below your thighs, he pulled you up with ease and carried you through the apartment whilst still buried inside you.
Confused by his actions, you hung your arms around his thick neck and clung to his body, welcoming the soft brush of his hide against your naked breasts.
Soon, you found yourself on your bed with him seated beneath you while your legs enveloped his wide waist. Nestled between your cinching walls, his cock throbbed full of rage, desperate for the unbridled friction that Walter forbade as he refused to move. Milking every drop of his self-control, he vigorously fought to dominate his desire.
With his shaft pulsating hot and buried completely within your womb, your previous orgasm felt like a distant dream and a fresh new need soon awoke, begging your body to writhe on top of him and take what you were promised by force. But Walter was in no rush to unmake any part of you just yet. Securing one arm around the small of your back while the other held your jaw, he made you stare directly into his eyes.
Bare more than ever, he allowed you to glimpse through the cracks that creased his beautiful blue eyes, showing you the pure terror harbouring the heart of darkness that lived within him.
Perhaps, a part of him desired you to break and cast him away from you, to say ‘nevermore.’
Mercy softened your face instead.
Enamoured and embroiled with curiosity, you allowed yourself to roam freely, gliding both your eyes and fingertips to descend the delectable plains of his body. Tender and careful, you stroked a soothing touch over the elevated scar tissue the way one pets a wounded creature, your gentle caress painting over the large claw mark that marked him years ago and left him cursed.
Walter followed the movement of your hand. His chest sinking with a low roar, his cock twitched and swelled inside your protesting canal while he remained immobilised and kept himself sheltered in the warmth of your sanctuary.
“Last night,” he finally spoke, his voice soft yet drenched with hesitation while his eyes dropped to stare into nothing for a shy moment. “Last night, when I turned... I… killed someone…”
Your heart clenched in anguish along with the seams of your cunt. All the hurt that flowed in Walter’s blood now mingled into yours, ascending your body from the spot where you were coupled.
What you wanted most of all was not to run. No. You desired to suck the poison tainting his veins and swallow it instead, unable to bring yourself to do anything but love him more than you did earlier.
Spreading your legs further to each side of his hips, you moved closer and wrapped your arms around him. Nails biting into his muscular back you clutched him tightly, making a firm statement of your unwillingness to spite him for his actions.
Because, even a beast needs to be protected and cared for.
* Disclaimer: I don’t own Night Hunter/Nomis or Walter Marshall
* Dividers by @firefly-graphics
#henry cavill#henry cavill x reader#walter marshall#Werewolf!Henry Cavill#night hunter#walter marshall x reader
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Based off of the drabble prompts here!
Break Me—Write an angsty drabble. [Kirk/Spock, TOS—pre relationship, City on the Edge of Forever]
——
The furnace burned out hours ago, and Spock was shivering in their apartment—the flop, as Jim had called it— as he sat and worked with a surgical precision on the transistor panels of the crude motherboard that was laying across the second bed.
Spock’s eyes didn’t raise to the door as he heard it open, Full footsteps entered the room, along with the cloying smell of feminine perfume mingled with pine and musk. He didn’t need to ask to know where Kirk had been.
Kirk froze in the doorway. “I didn’t think you’d be awake.”
“We have an unknown deadline that draws closer the longer we remain in this century. If we do not find the singularity—“ he tried to keep his shuddering to a minimum.
“If you’re going to try and burn the midnight oil, you might actually want to burn something.” Kirk’s footfalls grew closer as he made his way to the furnace, grabbing a log and tossing it into their wood-stove “It’s chilly in here.”
“We must conserve resources.”
He huffed as he lit the furnace, his face in a raptures, golden glow that glinted off his eyes as they turned to look at him. “Spock, if I have to drag you half-frozen to a hospital in the middle of Earth’s 20th century, I think we’d be looking at bigger problems than resource conservation. Besides, I’m sure Edith would be more than willing to lend us some supplies if it meant not freezing for the night.” His features softened in the fire. Spock had never recalled a time he’d seen him so relaxed. A Vulcan should have felt nothing. A friend should have been grateful. Neither described the twist in his abdomen as he moved on to the next coupling of wires on his board. “I’d make it up to her.”
“What if Doctor McCoy arrives tomorrow?”
“I’ll deal with that tomorrow, then.”
“She cannot take precedence over the ship, Jim.”
“I don’t need you to remind me of my priorities!”
“I would not if I saw no reason—“ A shudder ripped through him in violent waves against his spine, and by the wide eyed shock in Kirk’s face, he hadn’t succeeded in concealing this one.
Warm hands that smelled like her brushed against his cheek. “You’re freezing.”
There were a dozen things Spock should have said as Kirk pulled him away from his work and led him towards the bed. A hundred more when Kirk began pulling off their clothes, bundling them together beneath the blankets as any man trained in survival would. A thousand as he felt skin, heat, and a heart that didn’t beat for him radiating against his back. And against all logic, he sank against arms that weren’t meant to hold him and felt that voice he’d follow anywhere drone against him as the room filled with idle chatter about survival tactics and 20th century economics and Edith Keeler—
And for the first time since they had arrived in this archaic century, Spock could understand why Kirk wanted to hold onto an illusion a little longer.
#spirk#tos spirk#star trek tos#star trek drabbles#spirk drabble#drabble prompts#bri writes#bri’s writing#ghostyfic#ghostywrites#ghostofasimov#city on the edge of forever
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Loving all this smutty goodness and Jazz breeding Prowl up! Would you ever be interested in a cum inflation Jazz/Prowl scenario?
Prowl kept his helm bowed as the stud stroked his node and rim. It was to his benefit to be wet. There was no point in begging, Sideways was never going to listen and he would enjoy it way too much. Though Prowl imagined Sideways was after the inheritance hanging in the wings as Prowl and Barricade’s puritanical and misogynistic grandprogenitor lingered stubbornly on his death berth. Barricade may have been in the wind but that changed very little. As the contributive mech in that coupling, he alone owned all their property, even what had originally been in Barricade’s designation. Praxus was archaic a state as they came.
The stud knew how to touch and behind Prowl’s seal he felt his valve lubricate. Prowl refused to moan as much as he refused to beg, he had his pride. His cheekplates flushed as his spark hammered in its chamber. Though his processor recoiled for what was happening, the stud knew his job and a simmering arousal suffused Prowl’s frame. He hated it. No, Prowl loathed that his logical processor could not silence the primitive impulses of his frame. To his chagrin, Prowl frame grew so hot he could not stop his fans from engaging. Had his denta not been clenched, he would have been panting.
“Don’t be so delicate!” Sideways snarled at the silent stud. “Get your spike out and frag his aft. I want to see his gestation tank full before I leave.”
There was no apology, not even a grunt of agreement from the mech standing behind him. Prowl felt servos nudge his thighs further apart. He felt digits spreading his folds, pulling the seal between them taught and he braced for pain. Something thick, the tip of a spike settled between Prowl’s valve folds there was a pause and Prowl’s spark quivered. Servos closed around his hips and a fraction of a nanoklik later, Prowl felt his external seal rupture and the crown of the stud’s spike lodged in Prowl’s internals. He gasped, optics glowing bright. It was the stretch more than the breech of the seal that hurt. The stud reached between his legs and rubbed Prowl’s node. Tension Prowl had not known had coiled in him ebbed against his will and the stud took hold of his hip again and slowly sank more of his spike into Prowl’s fitfully flexing valve. He could hardly ventilate. It felt so big. Whether he was lubricate through some self-preservation coding or due to the stimulation of long dormant sensors, Prowl did not know.
He reached the internal seal and the stud’s servo found Prowl’s node again and he rubbed and rubbed until Prowl gasped with shock as he overloaded. The gasped warped into a high whine as the stud breached his internal seal and the stud just kept going. The segments of his casing split and flexed, his lining rippled over the spike that had taken his virginity as if it were a welcome thing.
His frame felt disconnected from his processor. Prowl vented heavily, behind his bumper his nozzles stiffened. Whatever he might have wished, Prowl could no control the responses of his frame. The stud was good at his work and Prowl moaned and trembled under him as his valve opened around the stud’s spike. It was eerie, the stud did not grunt or moan, his ventilations were all but silent compared to Prowl’s panting. As the tip of the stud’s spike ground against the gel seal of his internal duct as it stimulated his ceiling node, Prowl felt his folds strain against something too large. The stud’s knot.
“Uh,” Prowl tossed his helm back as the knot popped passed his rim and inflated at the same time as the stud’s tip broke through the gel seal and docked in his duck. It was happening, he was being bred and even as Prowl’s processor rebelled, his frame shuddered with another weak overload. A servo wrapped around Prowl’s chevron and raised his helm. Prowl’s glazed optics struggled to focus. Sideways had a camera. He was filming this.
“Even the most puritanical receptive bitch breaks on a knot,” Sideways jeered. “You’re going to make me a mint.
“Get slagged,” Prowl growled.
“Flood his tank,” Sideways ordered. He kept the camera trained on Prowl’s face as he felt the studs transfluids spray into his gestational tank. Sideways backed up slowly, and then circled. “That’s good... Feeling full, Prowl? Well you’re going to feel packed. I paid good shanix to get you the best stud. He’s going to keep you packed.”
There was no relief when the stud withdrew. Sideways stepped behind him and cackled as he filmed Prowl’s debauched array. Prowl was nauseated when Sideways stuck his digits inside of him. For a moment, Prowl was afraid he was going to take a turn, but the stud return and when his spike slid effortlessly back to the root within Prowl, it was a relief. It was not Sideways. He groaned when the stud filled his tank for the four time. His belly was bloated with transfluids and it ached. When he wondered if the stud was going to frag him until something raptured, one of the slavers appeared.
“That’s time,” the mech declared. “Hmm... welts aren’t ideal for receptivity but his tank inflated beautifully.”
“You are disturbed,” Prowl growled.
“You’ll find it can take them a few breedings before they accept their function,” the slaver spoke to Prowl. Prowl would accept nothing. He was an investigator. He was not a breeder, no amount of rapes would change his processor.
“I want to make sure he’s bred and stays bred,” Sideways said. “The little stud got it in him?”
“Jazz is the our blue ribbon stud,” the slaver replied and Prowl tensed. There was no way. No way. “No dam he’s mounted has come away with an open spark and forge.”
There was no way... Jazz was not an uncommon designation, right? There was no way that the mech who had just bred him was the mech Punch and Ricochet had been looking for for the last fifteen vorns.
#valveplug#maccadams#tf prowl#tf jazz#tw rape#breeding au#nonconsensual breeding#underground surrogacy/spermbank#yes this is weird#anon fic ask#anon asks ficlet#immoral monday
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𝙿𝚁𝙰𝚈𝙴𝚁𝚂 𝚃𝙾 𝙿𝙴𝚁𝚂𝙴𝙿𝙷𝙾𝙽𝙴
summary : she came to this world undone
pairings : miya osamu x reader
caution warnings : smut, choking, exhibitionism, light food play, oral (female receiving), masturbation (male receiving)
word count : 1.5k
The Japanese Sago Palm, Weeping Fig Tree, Oyster plant, Monstera Deliciosa, Philodendron and Madagascar Dragon tree nestled in the corner of your balcony to feed from the nutrients of a tantalizing mid-afternoon sun. Basking in the heat of a new day as the leaves began to slowly unravel and vainly displayed their viridian leaves for all to admire. The bumble bees gliding across a tangerine atmosphere filled with glittering imprints of concupiscence—luxuriating on the oversized jade fingers of oblivescence as two mortals come together.
You were thankful that Osamu convinced you to rent this silver minka that resided on secluded river banks of the village you lingered eternities in. You were thankful for your abandoned home that gave you security from enticing glares at merlot evenings, because your flesh and impish decadence were only for him to witness. Only Osamu could strip you of the prodigality illusions that infected your apricot brain and bring you back into explicit, rose bronze realities with the flick of his tongue. And in these moments, he brought you down and watched you fall.
You stood bare center under an incalescent sun as deic rings laved over your skin to baptize you in resplendent refined. Pushed into the corner of domesticated forests, you were kept hidden from the neck down from your lucent greenery that coalesced together. Rebirthed leaves of halcyon exhaustion ghosted over your flesh, the sensation reminding you of amative fingers soaked in hypnotic lust piercing and probing against your skin and bones. Between salt stained palms, you cradled a ripe pomegranate that was split halfway down the middle in vertical slices (the smell of the verendus underworld falling in love as a lone goddess begins to blossom). Osamu sat prettily on his knees before you, his eyes coaxed in decadence as the tip of his cherry stain tongue brushed against his thin upper lip, phagomania a sin he couldn’t shed as there have been many a nights his molars scraped then devour your flesh.
Without warning, you tore the pomegranate apart, watching it’s sticky fluids coarse down your body like wine and blood. It seeped, soaked and stained as it dribbled slowly down your skin, the juice tickling your opalescent nerves as it carved cramoisy rivers into you. Osamu waited, his breath thick on your skin as he was a reverie of glossy, sempiternal raptures, his calloused hands secured at the back of your thigh (holding you a little too tight as his hand printed bruises of his obsession into you) while the tip of his tongue rested against your thigh to patiently wait.
You squeezed the pomegranate again, watching the seeds burst then die between your fingertips as it’s juices slipped down your frame. The crimson nectar dripping onto Osamu’s pale skin before falling into puddles beneath your feet; your beloved plants even splashed with diluted jam of a karmic fruit. You observed Osamu’s stares, watching face mold from pleads and desperations to euphoria as warm liquid collected on his tongue. His mauved pupils dilated in foils of pleasure as the hibiscus petals from the far corner of your balcony began to wither and tangle then adhere to the nectar that coaxed his skin. His tongue runs long laps against you, licking the ambrosia and salt from your skin in slow strides until his slime has pierced and embedded into you.
With the other pomegranate slice nestled into your heavenized palm, (the hardened skin of the fruit begins to patronize you, referring to you as a stranger ‘cause you’ll never be deific and archaic) you brushed it against your shoulder and squeezed hard. The juices gushing down like rapid rivers down your arm and blessing you with prelude eros. The warmth cascading down your arm and onto dainty fingertips, dribbling down like harsh rainfall before Osamu caught the nectar with his open mouth, his moans low and triumphant as it reverberated then quaked dramatically.
The rivulets of rich ambrosia hit the back of his throat, slowly drowning in crimson euphorias of a forbidden fruit. The taste seared his tongue with sour obscurities as the taste emitted silver salivas to pool in the caverns of his mouth. The tip of his tongue resting against your middle fingertip, collecting the juices of bruised fruit that endured your volatile violence. Taking your finger into his mouth, he lathed up the rivers of pomegranate nectar as his merlot stained hands met with his hardened cock. His hand rested at his base before tugging it upwards on his shaft, repeating again and again till he found the rhythm that felt of raptures beneath a midnight sun. Osamu moans as your finger pushes down his throat, slipping farther and farther till it rests in his esophagus.
Platinum peach blanketed over them, the addictive smell of rustic fruit and haze of euphoria was how icons evacuated from nude followers that tear on their hangnails to search for abysmal virgins to love. Quite literally, Osamu swayed you to create hell on earth with him because no other immoral nymph can make him feel subversive; no other nymph can split the soil like you could. You stood in the remnants of his deteriorating gleam, watched him scarred and felt his madness. He wouldn’t have it any other way, it was you, it had always been you.
You slipped your fingers out of his mouth as you weakly cusped dying pomegranates in your hands then squeezed the remaining juices. Your fingers dipping into the husk of the fruit that it’s seeds began to spill and adorn your body; some of them falling into the soil of your beloved plants and wondering if you’ll grow cataclysmic garden of Eden that could set the world in a disarray of achroous chemicals and apprehensive knowledge. Sharp inhales and hallowed chests, you steadied your balance with the heave of your heels as you grasped tighter onto the shell of the fruit—Osamu allowing his tongue to lick up your slick and elixirs from your love.
His tongue circled around your clit, tasting the tang that he craved on a diurnal paradise. Flicking the tip of his tongue around your bud, drowning in your soft moans before he plants the surface of his wet muscles against it to add more friction. You watched his jaw slack as he traced long laps across your love, carding your sticky fingers through his hair before gently caressing the contour of his cheekbones and resting against the sides of his face. Your thumbs swaying softly across the layer of skin beneath his eyes, encouraging him to drink you like fountains, as if he can seek immortality in your love. From the corner of your eyes, you could see the insects gnawing at the midnight wine seeds resting in the pots of your plants; followed by Osamu’s pacened hands around his hardened member.
In this moment, you were thankful for the house Osamu convinced you to rent with him as it provided sanctity and seclusion. You were thankful for it’s tall wooden columns that provided shelter, allowing the home to mold into the personal safe haven of floral pleasure that you two shared. You were thankful of how empty the riverbank was and how you can see only green from either side. You thanked your plants as you reached your climax, allowing them to hide your ecstasy as you melted against Osamu’s tongue.
His tongue gathered every juice flowing from you as you seized, your hips shaking in violent rhythms as your high lingered from your love and spread—down your thighs and traveling high into your spine. As you unraveled into rivulets of raptures, Osamu kept his tongue on your clit, swirling your raspberry jam bud in slow clockwise circles. You focused your breathing on the calm, feeling your lungs inflate with aether as you fought the aftershocks of instability and slight exhaustion. Osamu still kept his tongue on your clit even after your orgasm called down, hoping he would rebuild you up to seek another high. His tongue swirling to drink your elixirs whole as they dripped from your love love and bled into the crimson nectar of forbidden fruit.
You felt a burning heat coax your lower calf and ankles, making you sticky with a thick liquid that oozed down your leg slowly; followed by droplets hitting the top of your foot and toes. You peaked down at Osamu whose eyes were half lidded, flesh dusted in a wet peach blush that contrasted with his pale complexion. His eyes dilated from the ecstasy of his release as he stared at your naked frame, his tongue continuing to brush your clit as you grasped his face too tightly with shaken hands. The last thing he hears is your growing moans as they echo into the sky as the remaining nectar from your fingertips carve ancient rivers of wine down his face. Before he closes his eyes to seep further into this pleasure, he witnessed the husk of pomegranates laying lonely in the pots of your plants being devoured by insects.
#miya osamu#after;⛓;dark#haikyuu#haikyuu!!#haikyuu imagines#haikyuu scenarios#haikyuu smut#hq osamu#hq scenarios#hq imagines#hq x reader
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WHY DOES THE MIND DO SUCH THINGS? TURN ON US, REND US, DIG THE CLAWS IN.
IF YOU GET HUNGRY ENOUGH, THEY SAY, YOU START EATING YOUR OWN HEART.
MAYBE IT’S MUCH THE SAME.
Is it death that truly makes a place haunted, or is it our memories, our mourning, the bitter-soft nostalgia engulfed by terror at the vast unknown that lies beyond death? The Castilo de Cervantes is not a place built for hauntings, its regal grandeur and archaic opulence transcending the short-lived glory of its masters. But what is history if not the preservation of people, monuments, dynasties who achieved immortality through commemoration? Inside the box — perhaps even the Mausoleum situated at the boundary of earth and underworld — Caesar is both alive and dead. You feel his presence amongst you in between the crevices and shadows of every silence and headless feast. A silhouette eked out from remembrance, sentimentality smothered and better left for dead.
For some of you, the black card on your bedside table remains untouched since you first cracked its seal. A darkened stain upon your periphery, like fragments and hairline fractures of the mounting dread leading your epics to their inevitable damnation. Threat. Warning. Omen. Provocation. The word blackmail feels gauche, at this point, graceless. The blade you slipped between Julian’s ribs had pressed against your blood-slick palm with the same feeling: a brutal sense of vulgarity. A savageness stripped of poetics and tragedy, exposed to bare bone, white and horrifying.
The 20th of June falls on a Sunday, at the dawn of the Summer Solstice. The date itself holds more than merely coincidence — it is the advent of FORS FORTUNA. An Ancient Roman celebration of good fortune, prosperity and divine blessing. But fate, as all of you know better than any other living or dead, is much like her estranged cousin, justice. FORTUNA CAECA EST. Fortune is blind, indifferent to those blessed or damned by her fatal touch.
On the first evening of the Solstice, Julian marked the beginning of your fortnight of hedonistic festivities and chaos with the Opening Games: a contest of luck, daring and revelation. In the beginning, the game had been an amusement of his own invention — esoteric, quixotic, characteristically dangerous and exhilarating. AUT VERITAS AUT MORT. Either truth, dare or death. You indulged in his abandon, his wanton brilliance and arbitrary designations of triumph and vanquishment. You marvelled at it, hanging upon the thread of every twist and scandalous conceit, tangling yourselves within lies and laughter, carousing amidst the amphetamine haze of rapture. It was both drinking game and gambler’s wildest dream, an opportunity to dig beneath skin and surface to unravel the secrets and primal instincts lying dormant within all of you.
In the later years, the game became a way for Julian to make you dance upon his strings. Sowing seeds of inglorious discontent, tossing the golden apple inscribed with ruin into the pantheon. Dares escalated into death-defying acts or displays of public crucifixion. Truth spiralled into the abyss of scandals bordering on taboo, the hint of steel and guillotine on the edge of each prying interrogation. To deny his game was to admit cowardice — and beyond that, the game itself was an unburdening of shame, of rage and earthly sin. In purgatory, all were free from judgement and consequence, the shackles of virtue and propriety came undone. The truth is, you welcomed it. You hungered for it. The thrill, the danger, the threat of ecstasy and annihilation.
— ⟡ —
SUNDAY, 20 JUNE 2021 — 8:00PM.
The scene is set: the circular arena of the fire pit, raised from the blazing flames like the tiers of the Colosseum. A cornucopia of forbidden delights and props arranged in a tableaux beside the fire. The players: the fifteen of you gathered around the fire like a delphic offering. Tonight, however, there is no need to divine premonition from pythian fumes. ALVAREZ speaks:
“Thank you all for gathering here this evening. As the dearest friends and companions of the late Master de Cervantes, this as much a home to you now as it was to him. I know that he would have brought him great joy to see you all here, reunited in his name and memory.
“I have requested your presence tonight because the De Cervantes’ family attorney has informed us of a recent addition to Julian’s last will and testament. It was undiscovered all these years as Mrs De Cervantes ordered his quarters to be left untouched, and the custodians of the Castilo have seen to it that her wishes were honoured. In our preparations for your arrival, this was found in his chambers addressed to you all. It was to be Master De Cervantes’ parting gift to you upon the eve of your graduation.”
An antique chest sits amongst the cornucopia of champagne and charcuterie delights, gilt filigree converging in swirling fleur de lis around the lock carved into its heart.
“I leave you to read Master De Cervantes’ letter for yourselves.”
ALVAREZ dips his head in an austere bow and exits.
NIKHIL, closest to the black envelope with the snarling ram sealed along its center, reaches for the apparent final words of your dead, beloved Caesar. He reads:
My dearest friends,
How do I begin to express the grief and guilt that I bear in my heart? It strikes misery to the very pit of my soul to think that we will part ways so far removed from the warmth, friendship and affection that we held for each other all these years.
I have been a monster — a brute. Perhaps even a tyrant.
You will never know how completely and utterly I regret the things that transpired between us. Those crimes and sins — of which many were orchestrated by my own hand — I shall carry with me forever. I do not beg your forgiveness — not because of any lingering remnants of pride or self-regard, but because I know such an endeavour would be forfeit. There is no punishment I could suffer that would rectify my transgressions or exonerate me in your eyes.
All I have left is my memories of our time together. The moments which shall live forever in my mind, a blessed haunting that I embrace as if in both heaven and in hell.
Yours in eternity,
Julian
— ⟡ —
OOC : GAMEPLAY
The timestamp for the game is SUNDAY, 20TH JUNE 2021.
ACT I, SCENE II will last for five days in-game and will run from SUNDAY 20TH JUNE - FRIDAY 25TH JUNE.
The first EVENT of the plot drop will take place via our interactive discord game today. Post-event threads can be written as either threads on the dashboard or via Discord. The rules and guidelines of play for the interactive game will be posted in the #gameplay channel via a Google Doc for ease of access.
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Vision of Rapture of the Saints and the Last Trump
“Behold, I shew you a mystery; we shall not all sleep, but we shall all be changed.
In a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trump: For the trumpet shall sound, and the dead shall be raised incorruptible, and we shall be changed” -1 Corinthians 15:51-52 (KJV)
Few days ago, this October 2021, I had a night vision which really shook me and gave me lots to ponder on about events of the last days.
In my dream, my eyes where opened to see celestial beings in form of angels, flying from one corner of heaven to another.
While some of them were in clusters, a few were flying all alone.
Their raiment was glittering white; glowing like the star.
It seemed like flakes of pure white snow with tints and sparks of fluorescent blue. It was so amazing and incredible to behold.
They flew so fast in flashes that can’t be compared to the speed of light or the speed of a fast moving jet.
The whole thing was so beautiful and awesome and the sky was exceeding bright.
I was only able to gaze at them in amazement but I couldn’t fly with them even if I wanted to.
When I woke up, I knew the Lord was trying to tell me about events of the last days like the rapture of the church and the second coming of Jesus Christ.
That night vision birthed this write-up.
I never planned to write on something like this since there are trending topics to write about but I believe the Lord gave me the vision and wants me to do something with it.
There are several prophetic declarations of the varying dispensations in the Bible.
Most of these prophecies have been fulfilled but some are yet to be fulfilled.
For instance, the birth of Jesus was foretold in Isaiah 9:6 - For unto us a child is born, unto us a son is given.
This was fulfilled when Mary gave birth to Jesus in Matthew 1:23
Noah warned the people in the old testament about the coming flood but they mocked him till the waters came and submerged all the unbelieving people- Genesis 7:23
In these last days, the church age, there are two main events to be witnessed by believers and unbelievers respectively: The rapture and the great tribulation.
In 1 Corinthians 15:52, the word trump is an archaic English term that refers to trumpet.
The last trump is used as a figure to represent the “final call” that brings about the end of the church age.
This trumpet is different from those described in the Book of Revelation 8:6. These ones shall be used during the great tribulation.
When the archangel sounds the last trump, all the saints who died in years past and the ones alive shall be ‘caught up' to meet the Lord in the air. This is the rapture.
The word rapture is derived from the Greek word harpazo which means to carry off; grasp hastily; snatch up or to seize -Dake’s Annotated Reference Bible
At the second coming of Chrst, in the First Advent, Christ shall not come physically to the Earth.
He will only appear in the sky to take the saints away. This is called rapture.
The Second Advent is when He shall appear physically on Earth the second time with the saints in the millennial reign to judge the unbelievers -Revelation 19:19
Even though the word rapture doesn’t appear in the Bible, the same way you cannot find the word Bible in the Scriptures, it is going to happen all the same.
This is the most important event the church is waiting for.
To be counted among the saints to meet the Lord in the sky, you must repent and turn away from all your sins.
Ask Jesus to come into your heart and be your Lord and Saviour.
He has promised in John 3:16 to give eternal life to all those who believe in Him.
One day, everything shall come to a standstill on earth.
It will be the time of the great tribulation when all those who missed the rapture shall face the wrath and damnation of the man of sin, the antichrist.
God is calling you today to forsake your life of sin and turn over a new leaf.
In the end, it wouldn’t be about wealth accumulated; the number of academic degrees; number of houses, wives, husbands or children; it will only be about where you and I shall spend eternity.
“For the Lord himself shall descend from heaven with a shout, with the voice of the archangel, and with the trump of God: And the dead in Christ shall rise first.
Then we which are alive and remain shall be caught up together with them in the clouds, to meet the Lord in the air: And so shall we ever be with the Lord” - 1 Thessalonians 4:16-17 (KJV)
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