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doormatty3 · 6 months

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Sinner's Salvation: Chapter 2 (Ed Warren x Reader)

Masterlist Ao3

Summary:

[Ed Warren x Female Reader] [Ed Warren x You] You don't believe in the supernatural and superstition. Witchcraft and demonic occurrences are nothing but quackery to you. But when the room starts spinning, days start blurring into each other and shadows start dancing in every corner you wonder what is wrong with you. No doctor can tell you more about your condition - each and every one is insisting that you are fine and perfectly healthy. Seeking alternative help, you stumble across Ed and Lorraine Warren. They promise to help you, rid you of the demon that has taken hold of you - to drive it out. But you didn’t know what you signed up for and what an exorcism by Ed Warren entails. OR: Ed shows you how well he can possess your body - and your cunt

Wordcount: 12055

Chapter: 2/2 (Chapter 1)

Warnings: 18+, fingering, facefucking, unprotected sex, cream pie, breeding, dubious consent, spanking, improper use of catholic rituals, church sex, rough oral sex

A/N: Well, that’s my ticket to hell for defiling church stuff - if my soul can be saved I’d happily let Patrick Wilson exorcise me

Previous Chapter

CHAPTER 2

A weight settles in your chest as you gaze upon the imposing facade of the Warrens’ house. It feels surreal, as if the reality of being here now is a fragile dream.

In the glow of a well-lit yard, your attention is drawn to a chicken coop, complete with a nestled henhouse and a bustling assembly of a dozen or so chickens. The surroundings reveal a sizable and inviting house, adorned with the quaint charm of a small chapel adjacent to the garden.

After a moment’s hesitation, you press the doorbell, the sound resonating through the stillness. A few heartbeats later, Lorraine swings the door open, a beacon of warmth and smiles. A radiant figure framed by the doorway, her eyes alight with a newfound calmness that seems to have settled since the lecture. The weight of the outside world appears to have dissipated, replaced by a sense of ease that only home can bring. Her long brown hair cascades freely around her shoulders, a tangible reflection of the comfort found within these walls.

“Hey there! You made it,” Lorraine exclaims, her voice filled with genuine enthusiasm.

“Yeah, it’s... it’s really something,” you reply, still taking in the grandeur of the place as you try to calm your nerves.

Lorraine chuckles, seeing right through you: “Well, come on in, Ed’s waiting inside! I’ve got some fresh tea ready in the kitchen.”

The creaking wooden floor beneath your feet echoes when you step over the threshold. The air carries a timeless quality, and the scent of well-maintained woodwork envelops you, adding to the charm of the old house.

Glancing around, you observe the meticulous care evident in every nook and cranny. The cleanliness of the space speaks of dedicated upkeep, preserving the essence of the dwelling. The walls are adorned with a collection of pictures and paintings.

Upon closer inspection, you discover that the signature on each painting reads Ed Warren.

Lorraine notices your intrigued gaze and smiles, “Ed loves to capture moments and emotions on canvas.”

The images and brushstrokes weave a narrative of the Warrens’ interests, adding depth to the character of the house. Each stroke of the brush tells a story, and within the confines of those well-kept walls, and you can’t help but imagine Ed sitting in his studio, painting for hours. Would his brow furrow in concentration as his big hands paint such delicate things?

Lorraine leads you into the kitchen and you sense Ed’s gaze on you before you actually see him. Turning around, you find him seated at the kitchen table, a newspaper in one hand and a coffee mug in the other. His gaze is studying you intensely, magnified by the large glasses that obscure his eyes.

His eyes, perceptive and playful, travel down the length of your body before meeting your eyes again, a playful smirk gracing his full lips. The gesture leaves you flustered and shortly rendered breathless.

The room seems to grow warmer as you become acutely aware that Lorraine is watching your interaction, her keen eyes capturing the nuances of the unfolding situation.

Lorraine, her face still reflecting worry, chimes in: “We’ve been looking forward to having you here. Is everything all right? You seem a bit off.”

You attempt a reassuring smile: “Just a headache, nothing major. Must be the change in weather.”

But even as the words leave your lips, you sense they see through the facade.

“Well, we can't have our guest in distress. Perhaps a cup of tea will help ease that headache. Come, sit down”, Ed, ever perceptive, raises an eyebrow.

He rises from his seat with a deliberate grace, pulling a chair out with a courteous gesture. As you lower yourself into the seat, he subtly guides it in, his hands lingering on your shoulders for a moment longer than necessary. Through the thick fabric of your sweater, you feel the warmth of his touch.

“Make yourself comfortable, ” Ed says with a smile and a wink before walking away and sitting down opposite you, next to Lorraine.

Lorraine, with a caring demeanour, inquires further: “Have you experienced anything unusual lately? Dreams, strange occurrences, perhaps?”

You hesitate before answering: “Actually, there have been some strange dreams, and a few odd happenings. That’s partly why I took you up on your offer.”

Ed nods knowingly: “The supernatural has a way of making its presence known. We’re here to help, and we appreciate your trust in us.”

You delve into the details, your words weaving a tapestry of the dream’s vivid imagery.

“I..thought I was awake. I was sitting at my computer when I heard the sound of the front door opening. Given the day I had, I dismissed it as just another product of my imagination. However, curiosity got the better of me, and when I investigated, I saw that the door was open. I grabbed a knife from the kitchen and started to search the rooms. There was someone in the living room, I pleaded for them to leave, but... the figure charged at me. Without conscious thought, I stabbed the stranger. I was so disgusted and horrified by what I had done but… “

Lorraine listens intently, her eyes reflecting empathy. “Go on,” she encourages.

“But I reached for the knife lodged in the stranger's stomach and pulled it out. And I stabbed them again. And again. And I couldn’t stop. It was only when I removed the hood that I realised it was me, but not really me.”

As you recount the vivid dream that haunts your thoughts, tears well in your eyes and a heavy silence settles over the kitchen. Ed and Lorraine exchange a glance, their expressions turning serious, mirroring the gravity of your revelation.

Ed leans back, contemplating your words: “Dreams often manifest our internal struggles, the battle between conflicting emotions or aspects of our psyche. This self-inflicted act might be a symbolic attempt to confront and overcome a challenging part of yourself.”

Lorraine, her expression empathetic, adds: “They can be a mirror to our subconscious, reflecting what we might not be fully aware of during waking hours. Understanding their symbolism can be a key to unravelling the mysteries within. What emotions did you experience during the dream?”

You take a moment to gather your thoughts: “It was surreal, a mix of fear and confusion and just uncontrollable frenzy. It was as if I wasn’t myself. I feel - feel- so guilty…”

“It isn’t only the dreams, right?”, Lorraine looks at you as if she sees through you, “It’s also the headaches and the feeling of another presence?”

Lorraine's inquiry hangs in the air, and as she mentions the possibility of a lingering presence, a sudden surge of pain grips your head. Shadows dance in your vision, an unsettling display that feels akin to a lightning strike. Instinctively, you close your eyes, attempting to shield yourself from the overwhelming sensations.

Concerned murmurs from Lorraine and Ed surround you, their worry palpable. Ed, quick to respond, rises and kneels before you. His hand rests on your thigh, warmth seeping through, a comforting touch amid the storm within.

Despite the pain, there’s an unexpected allure in the strength of Ed’s presence. His voice, deep and reassuring, coaxes you to open your eyes. As you comply, the pain begins to recede, replaced by a sense of calm emanating from his reassuring presence. The room, once flickering with shadows, gradually steadies.

Ed, still kneeling, his gaze steady, asks gently: “Can you tell us more about this presence? Understanding its nature might be the key to understand these distressing episodes.”

Lorraine, her concern etched on her features, leans in: “We’ve encountered various entities in our work, and understanding their nature is crucial. Can you describe the feeling accompanying this presence? Any specific details or sensations?”

You take a deep breath, attempting to articulate the ineffable: “It’s like a heaviness in the air, a feeling of being watched even when I’m alone. Sometimes, there are fleeting glimpses of shadows, shapes that vanish when I try to focus on them. It’s been escalating, and with each occurrence, this headache intensifies.”

“It sounds like you're attuned to something beyond the ordinary. These manifestations might be a manifestation of psychic sensitivity, and we're here to help you navigate through it”, Ed’s hand still remains on your thigh, a grounding force.

As Ed’s hand gently leaves your leg, the warmth and reassurance it provided dissipated, leaving an emptiness that resonated within you. Rising from his previous position, Ed chooses a spot next to you.

Lorraine, sensing the shift in dynamics, delicately broached the subject, her concern evident in the furrow of her brow.

“Are you feeling alright?”, she inquires, her voice carrying a blend of empathy and curiosity.

You brush off the significance of Ed’s withdrawal with a nonchalant response: “It’s nothing, I'm fine.” Though the unspoken weight lingers in the air.

Undeterred, Lorraine leanes in, her eyes reflecting a genuine care. “We're here to help; you don’t have to face this alone”, she reassures, her words a lifeline in the sea of unspoken emotions.

As Ed subtly adjusts his position, and your thighs make contact in a dance of unspoken connection. In response, you press against him, not just to maintain the touch but to signify a shared sense of comfort and solace.

Turning your gaze towards Lorraine, you confess: “Perhaps you can offer a different kind of help, one that conventional medicine couldn't provide.”

“I wonder what is wrong with me”, you say, your voice carrying the weight of countless bewildering moments, “every day the room starts to spin, days become an indistinct blur, and shadows dance in every corner.”

Ed leans forward, his concern etched on his face. “That sounds disconcerting, to say the least. Have the doctors given any insights into these symptoms?”, he asks, his inquiry a testament to a genuine desire to understand.

A wistful smile flickers across your face as you respond: “Unfortunately, no doctor has been able to shed light on my condition. It’s baffling; they all insist I’m fine, perfectly healthy, while I feel like I'm unravelling.”

The frustration in your voice is palpable, a poignant reminder of the gaping disparity between the reassurances of the medical professionals and the persistent enigma of your symptoms.

Lorraine, sensing the gravity of the situation, speaks softly: “It must be incredibly challenging. But remember, we’re here for you, even if the answers elude conventional medicine.”

The sincerity in her words weaves a thread of comfort into the room, a fragile but genuine support in the face of the mysterious ordeal you're enduring. And for the first time since your headaches started you feel heard and seen.

Lorraine’s gaze holds a mix of understanding and curiosity as she asks: “Is that why you attended our lecture at the university? Searching for answers beyond what conventional medicine could offer?”

A subtle nod confirms Lorraine’s intuition.

As the ache in your head rekindles, Ed’s intuitive response is instant – a gentle press of his thigh against yours. A wave of warmth engulfs you, not just from the unexpected intimacy but from the acknowledgment of shared moments in this intricate dance of connection.

Turning your gaze to Lorraine, you find her eyes locked onto the point where your limbs connect. There’s a flicker of something in her expression, perhaps recognition or empathy, but certainly not discomfort.

“You may have encountered an inhuman spirit that gained possession of you”, Lorraine tells you gently.

Lorraine's revelation about a potential inhuman spirit leaves you perplexed, prompting Ed to provide clarification. His gaze, tinged with a grave seriousness, meets yours as he explains: “An inhuman spirit is something that has never walked the Earth in human form. It's something demonic.”

The weight of his words settles in the air, and a shiver runs down your spine as the gravity of the situation becomes palpable.

With a knot of uncertainty in your stomach, you ask: “What does that mean for me? What should I do?”

Ed's expression remains solemn, his response measured: “We need to investigate further, understand the nature of this entity. It means we’re facing a force that’s not bound by human constraints. Our priority is to help you, to confront and neutralise this inhuman spirit.”

“You’re not alone in this. We've encountered and triumphed over such entities before. Our combined efforts will guide us through this challenge”, Lorraine adds reassuringly.

Ed’s hand returns to your thigh, a gesture of comfort in the face of the unfolding supernatural challenge. The warmth of his touch, coupled with the gravity of the situation, evokes a subtle blush on your cheeks.

His gaze meets Lorraine’s, his hand a grounding presence on your leg as he proposes: “Lorraine, perhaps we should take her to the chapel.”

There’s a subtle acknowledgment in their shared look, an unspoken understanding that transcends the immediate situation.

You catch Lorraine’s eyes briefly flickering down to where Ed’s hand rests on your thigh. It is a short moment, but it doesn't escape your notice. Her agreement, when it comes, carries both assurance and determination.

A fleeting thought crosses your mind, wondering why Lorraine doesn't address the proximity and the tactile comfort Ed provides. It’s a realisation that, under different circumstances, such closeness might prompt a discussion. Yet, amidst the urgency of the supernatural situation, unspoken boundaries seem to blur, and you find yourself navigating a realm where the paranormal takes precedence over the ordinary.

_____

Approaching the small chapel nestled discreetly within the verdant grounds of the Warrens' estate, you find yourself captivated by its unassuming exterior. The façade, adorned with ivy and weathered by the passage of time, hints at the hidden sanctuary within. As you step through the entrance, a hushed awe envelops you.

The door, worn with the touch of countless hands seeking solace, opens into a world of quiet grandeur. The interior, a harmonious blend of history and reverence, embraces you with its inviting warmth. Your gaze is immediately drawn to the mesmerizing stained glass windows that adorn the chapel's walls. Each pane is a work of art, depicting scenes of profound spirituality with meticulous craftsmanship.

“Quite a sight, huh?” Ed remarks, his eyes reflecting the appreciation of someone intimately familiar with the mysteries of the divine.

Lorraine, her presence exuding a calm serenity, adds: “The colours in those windows are said to carry the essence of prayers and hopes over the years.”

The soft, diffused light that filters through these intricate creations casts enchanting patterns on the polished wooden pews below. As you move deeper into the chapel, you become aware of the ethereal dance of colors that paint the space. The sunlight, filtered through the kaleidoscope of stained glass, plays upon the floor, creating an ever-shifting mosaic that seems to breathe with life.

The wooden pews bear witness to the passage of time and whisper stories of shared prayers and quiet contemplation.

“Imagine the tales these pews could tell”, Ed says, running his hand along the polished surface, “Joys, sorrows, and moments of quiet reflection—each one etched into the wood.”

The flickering candles, arranged with deliberate care, add another layer to the sacred tableau. The flames dance in harmony, casting a soft, golden glow that kisses the air with a tranquil warmth. Their rhythmic dance is a silent hymn, echoing the sacred stillness that envelops the chapel.

“These candles”, Lorraine observes, “they’ve witnessed the power of faith. Lighting a candle is like sending a silent prayer into the universe.”

The air itself seems imbued with reverence, carrying the intertwined scents of aged wood and the lingering fragrance of consecrated incense.

You marvel at the intricate details that the chapel holds. The walls, adorned with religious artefacts and delicate carvings, hold a silent narrative of faith and devotion.

“This place is a testament to the enduring power of belief”, Ed comments, his eyes scanning the adorned walls, “Every detail speaks of the profound connection between the human spirit and the divine.”

The ceiling, an architectural marvel, arches gracefully overhead, creating a sense of sacred space that transcends the confines of the physical realm.

In this intimate haven, the union of soft light, vibrant colours, and evocative scents creates a sanctuary where your soul finds reprieve.

“It’s a place where the heart finds peace”, Lorraine says softly, her eyes reflecting the wisdom of a life devoted to the mystical, “A refuge for the weary soul, a haven for those seeking a moment of serenity in the tumult of life.”

Ed and Lorraine share a knowing glance, and with a gentle nod, they invite you to join them as they make their way towards the altar. The polished wooden floor echoes with a soft whisper as you follow in their footsteps.

As you approach the altar, the atmosphere seems to shift. The open space surrounding it exudes a sense of sacred gravity. The stained glass windows cast their intricate patterns of light on the altar, creating a celestial backdrop for the ornate religious artifacts that grace the sacred space.

Ed gestures toward a beautifully crafted lectern, its intricate carvings catching the flickering candlelight.

“This is a place where many have stood to share words of solace and wisdom”, he notes, his eyes reflecting a deep respect for the sanctity of the spot.

Lorraine, with a gentle smile, approaches a small arrangement of flowers near the altar: “Sometimes, a simple offering of nature speaks volumes in this sacred space. It’s a reminder of the beauty that exists even in moments of reflection and prayer.”

The altar, adorned with sacred symbols and with candles, becomes a focal point where the convergence of faith and tranquillity is palpable. It's as if the very air around it carries the whispers of countless prayers and the energy of contemplative moments.

“We find solace in these quiet moments”, Ed says, his voice a low murmur that resonates with reverence, “It's a place to connect with something beyond ourselves, to find answers or simply to be in the presence of something greater.”

With a subtle gesture, Lorraine invites you to stand beside them, facing the open space near the altar. The three of you share a moment of silent contemplation, enveloped in the sacred stillness of the chapel. The colors from the stained glass dance on the floor, the candles flicker in harmony, and the air carries the essence of aged wood and incense.

“It’s a sanctuary”, Lorraine whispers, breaking the silence, “A place where the soul can find peace and where the mysteries of the heart can unfold.”

Ed nods in agreement: “Sometimes, in the quiet of this chapel, people discover answers within themselves. It's a journey of the soul, a communion with the divine that transcends words.”

The timeless serenity of the chapel lingers as Ed and Lorraine turn to you, their expressions a blend of reassurance and understanding. Ed’s eyes reflect a genuine warmth, while Lorraine’s serene gaze seems to hold a depth of insight into the unseen.

“Are you ready?”, Ed asks, his voice carrying a comforting weight.

You meet their gazes and, with a nod, convey your readiness to partake in whatever profound experience they have in store. There’s an unspoken trust that bridges the ordinary and the extraordinary, connecting your presence in the chapel to something larger than the moment.

“Good”, Ed says, his voice a steady guide and his eyes locked on yours, “Kneel.”

You swallow dryly, shortly wondering if you understood him correctly. Ed, sensing your confusion just raises one eyebrow, a silent prompt urging you to comply with the task.

With a deep breath, you lower yourself to your knees on the polished chapel floor. The cool surface beneath you grounds you in the physicality of the chapel even as the atmosphere vibrates with unseen currents.

“Now”, Ed continues, his tone carrying a sense of purpose, “close your eyes and let the stillness of this place envelop you. Focus on your breath, on the quiet rhythm of your heartbeat.”

As you comply, the air around you seems to thicken with an almost palpable energy. The flickering candles cast a warm glow through closed eyelids, creating an inner landscape where the boundaries between the material world and the mystical blur.

Lorraine’s voice joins the symphony of the chapel’s sacred silence: “Imagine a connection between your heart and the energy of this place. Feel the threads of the unseen weaving through the fabric of your being.”

Ed’s voice follows, a soothing guide through this meditative journey: “In this sacred space, let your thoughts flow. Allow the chapel to become a vessel, a conduit for the energies that seek to guide and comfort.”

As you delve deeper into the meditative state, a profound sense of tranquility envelops you. The chapel, once a physical space, now feels like a bridge to the spiritual, a conduit for energies that transcend the ordinary.

“Open yourself to any sensations or insights that may come”, Lorraine encourages, her words a gentle prompting.

In the quiet of the chapel, with closed eyes and a receptive heart, you become attuned to the subtle shifts in the environment. The colors behind your eyelids seem to dance in response to energies unseen, and the air carries a charge that resonates with the sacredness of the moment.

As you open your eyes, the vibrant colors of the stained glass windows and the flickering candles greet you with renewed clarity.

“Pray the Pater Noster”, Ed instructs, his voice carrying a weight that transcends the confines of the chapel.

You take a deep breath before you start speaking, in an attempt to collect yourself. It occurs to you that you cannot recall the last time you had to recite the Lord's Prayer and you try your hardest to recall the correct wording from your memory.

As you commence the prayer, your voice resounds in the sacred halls of the chapel: “Our Father, Who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy Name; Thy kingdom come…thy.”

The unfamiliarity of the setting causes the recitation to stumble, and you find it challenging to regain the rhythm.

“Start again, focus on the words. Let the prayer guide your thoughts”, Ed, patient yet resolute, interjects.

You take a steadying breath and begin anew, the rhythm of the prayer echoing in the chapel’s confines. The flickering candles and the colored hues from the stained glass seem to respond to the spiritual endeavor.

“Our Father, Who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy Name; Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven.”

Completing the initial lines, you prepare to resume, but cast your gaze towards Ed.

You notice how his broad silhouette is bathed in the chapel’s ambient light, casting a soft glow on him and accentuating the contours of his features. A breath catches in your throat as you observe the ethereal quality that surrounds him. Mesmerized, you find yourself marveling at how the light plays upon his brown hair, creating an almost transcendent aura.

You open your mouth again to continue praying: “Give us this day our… Give us this day our”

The distraction broke your concentration and your words tumble once again, and Ed intervenes once more.

“Concentrate. Let the prayer flow through you”, he encourages, his voice a calming presence amid the challenge.

As you attempt the Pater Noster once more, the words still elude you, stumbling over your lips like an unfamiliar language. There’s a growing impatience in the air, and you sense Ed’s frustration.

“Start again”, Lorraine interjects, her tone tinged with impatience and a hint of anger at your perceived inability to concentrate. The pressure intensifies, and the chapel, once a sanctuary, becomes a stage for the inner struggle between the earthly and the supernatural.

“Our Father, Who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy Name; Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, thy…”

The failure to recite the prayer triggers a sudden escalation in tension. Without warning, Lorraine steps forward, her frustration boiling over. A sharp, echoing slap reverberates through the chapel as her hand connects with your face.

Stunned silence hangs in the air, the lingering sound of the slap contrasting sharply with the sacred stillness of the chapel. The unexpected act leaves a mark, both physically and metaphorically, in the unfolding drama of supernatural confrontation.

Stunned and cradling your cheek, you feel a wave of fear washing over you. The unexpected slap has left you speechless, grappling with the sudden turn of events.

Lorraine’s voice, now cold and impatient, cuts through the chapel's stillness: “Ed, it seems she has never been properly educated in the way of the Lord.”

The frustration in the chapel intensifies, and Ed’s resolve hardens.

“I’m gonna give you a proper lesson”, he declares, and Lorraine, in agreement, adds an air of authority to the unfolding scene.

Ed instructs you to get up, his demeanour leaving little room for hesitation. The chapel, once a sanctuary, now feels charged with an unsettling tension.

Ed's voice, though firm, holds an edge of frustration.

“This lesson is necessary”, he asserts.

Lorraine, her impatience palpable, adds: “We were hoping for cooperation, not resistance.”

He guides you up to the altar and positions you with a subtle push.

As you bend over the altar, the cold surface presses against your hands, and the weight of the situation becomes tangible. The shift from the warmth and camaraderie earlier to this stern lesson feels disorienting, leaving you questioning the motives behind this abrupt turn.

Despite the overwhelming tension and unease, a fleeting and disconcerting thought crosses your mind. In the midst of this unexpected turn of events, you find yourself reflecting on how, under different circumstances, you might have appreciated being in a situation with someone like Ed.

The complexities of the situation—his firm demeanor, the unexpected discipline, and the palpable energy in the chapel—leave you grappling not only with the supernatural but with a disconcerting undercurrent of conflicting emotions. The boundaries between the earthly and the metaphysical blur in this unsettling chapter of your encounter with the Warrens.

Surprised you let out a gasp when Ed hooks his fingers into the waistband of your pants and just pulls them down, leaving you in your panties.

“What-?”, confusion taints your voice as you attempt to push yourself up, palms pressing against the smooth surface of the altar. Before you can fully rise, Ed’s strong grip seizes your neck, compelling you back down and firmly holding you in place.

Panic flickers in your mind, a whirlwind of thoughts racing to make sense of this unexpected turn. The cool surface beneath your trembling hands becomes a stark reminder of your vulnerability. Images of the chapel, once a haven, now feel tinged with an unsettling uncertainty. The rhythmic prayer that once echoed in the sacred space is replaced by a disquieting silence.

As you struggle to process the abrupt change, the grip on your neck tightens forcing you to lay completely flat.

Ed bows down, and you feel the warmth of his breath against your ear. Goosebumps rise on your arms as his proximity sends a shiver down your spine. The unexpected closeness heightens the intensity of the moment, leaving you momentarily breathless.

“Let this be a lesson to know your prayers”, Ed’s voice, low and commanding, echoes in the hallowed space.

As Ed speaks, you catch a familiar scent—his cologne, a subtle and intoxicating fragrance that lingers in the air. The scent envelops you, and for a moment, you're intoxicated by its familiarity. Somehow the combination of his nearness, commanding voice, and the alluring aroma arouses you. That whole scenario should not be that hot, you figure, but you can’t help feeling that way so you accept your fate and stop struggling.

Ed pulls back and loosens the grip on your neck, sensing your lack of resistance. As you catch your breath, you instinctively glance toward Lorraine, anticipating disapproval or concern in her eyes. To your surprise, her gaze meets yours, and you find something unexpected—approval and support.

Lorraine opens her mouth, breaking the charged silence, and says: “Start again.”

Her voice, though calm, carries a directive force that commands your attention.

“Our Father, Who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy Name”, you start, but panic begins to set in your bones as you speak. Your head starts pounding again, the weight of the situation pressing down on you.

Unable to ignore the rising distress, you stop mid-prayer and say: “Look, can I just go, please?”

In the charged silence that follows, you sense the disappointment radiating off Ed behind you before you hear the sound of his disapproval, a quiet clinking of the tongue.

Your heart pounds in your ears as you wait, the seconds stretching into an uneasy silence.

Just as you muster the courage to say something again, you feel Ed’s big palm connecting with your ass. The unexpected impact resonates through the stillness of the chapel.

Surprised you let out a loud yelp as you feel your ass burning from the slap. You cannot believe that Ed just spanked you for messing up the Pater Noster. Arousal pools low in your belly as you feel the warmth radiating of him behind you.

You notice Ed’s strong hand caressing over the just-hit place to soothe the pain. Part of you wants to say something, but you are completely overwhelmed by the unusual sequence of events.

“Start again”, Lorraine’s voice sounds clear through the chapel, and your head snaps up to look at her form. Lorraine looks at you expectantly, her gaze carrying an unspoken command. Overwhelmed and reluctant to face the potential repercussions, you submit.

“Our Father, Who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy Name; Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven”, you gulp nervously before continuing, “Give us this day our daily bread and forgive us our trespasses…as… as”

As the words falter once more, Ed’s hand makes contact with your ass once again and you cannot fully surpress the whine that escapes your mouth. This time it feels like his fingers linger longer on the globes of your behind leaving a hot trace that makes you squirm involuntarily.

“Again”, Ed’s order cuts through your thoughts, his voice sounding more gravely and deeper as it resonates through the chapel and his hand still ghosts over your ass.

That should not be that hot you think, trying to rationalize the conflicting emotions. But you cannot ignore the warmth and dominance that Ed radiates behind you. You cannot ignore the way his hand softly kneeds the skin of your ass while he waits for you to continue.

The entire situation strikes you as bizarre, and you find yourself questioning the authenticity of the footage they showed at the university. No one explicitly mentioned an exorcism, but the proximity and personal nature of Ed’s actions leave you wondering about the true nature of the spiritual encounter.

Under any other circumstances you’d be very willing - downright happy - to fall to your knees for him, but here in a chapel that just feels wrong and out of place. And not to mention that he is married and Lorraine is watching you.

Ed withdraws the hand on your ass and steps back a bit, only keeping control over you by his other hand on your back. He denies you any further physical contact and a plaintive whine espaces you, yearning for more touch as you lie bent over the altar in the dimly lit chapel.

Your senses are dulled and shrouded by a curtain of pleasure as your head and mind are in a blissful silence.

Lorraine says something to Ed but her words become distant echos, lost amid the overwhelming sensations. You watch through a haze as she steps forward towards her husband, handing him a big, leather clad bible. Mesmerised you marvel at the way his arm and back flexes when takes the book.

In a tense moment, Lorraine’s voice cuts through the sacred air and you hear the words but cannot make sense of them: “Ed, it's time she learns her place. Give her ten, one for every commandment.”

He steps back behind you, and you feel him—the warmth and dominance his body radiates. And you let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding in.

“I want you to count and thank the Lord”, Eds deep and gravely voice sounds behind you as his hand caresses the skin of your ass.

Before you have time to properly process the words the cool leather of the Bibles makes contact with you ass. The force of the hit catches you off guard, a surprising jolt that resonates through your being. This was definitely the hardest he had hit you so far you think as you catch your breath.

Ed’s hand digs into you hip sharply and you remember his command from before: “One. Thank you, Lord”.

He makes a pleased low hum in his throat and smoothes over the hot skin before hitting you again.

“Shit… I mean: Two. Thank you, Lord.”

Ed continues to bring the bible down on your ass and you can’t help but imagine how he looks right now. You wonder if his carefully groomed hair has fallen out of place, becoming slightly tousled with single strands brushing his forehead. You wonder if he had to roll the sleeves of his arms up, fuck you’d do a lot of things to see the way his muscles tense whenever he brings the leather-bound book down.

Shamefully you admit to yourself that it turns you on immensely, arousal pools low in your belly and with every hit you feel yourself getting wetter.

After the sixth time Ed spanked you with the bible, you cannot help but squirm involved when his hand caresses the hot, raw and burning skin of your ass.

But rather than pulling away from his touch you lean into it, desperate for friction.

You hear Ed chuckle silently as his long fingers continue to stroke over your skin, causing goosebumps to form all over your body. When his hand ventures lower you suck in a breath and stop moving.

Painfully slow Ed lets his fingers wander lower until he reaches your clothed pussy. You are pretty sure that he can feel how wet you are, that you must have drenched the thin material of your panties.

It almost feels like humiliation to you when his hand ghosts over your pussy for a second before he drags one long, thick finger through your slit. The whine, you were not able to suppress sounds loud in the chapel walls as you push back against Ed, desperate to feel his hand on your cunt again.

“Maybe she's even further gone than we thought”, Ed's voice is rough and stained with something that you cannot place when he speaks to Lorraine, “she really seems to enjoy her lesson too much…”

A wave of humiliation surges through you, shame crashing through your veins and igniting a bright blush on your cheeks. Each word from Ed feels like he’s cast a spotlight on you, exposing your vulnerabilities to Lorraine.

But Ed interrupts any chance for you to dwell on your feelings, his hand tracing a path over your skin and returning to your cunt. He drags his finger roughly through your clothed slit, tracing the shape of your pussy before applying pressure to your clit.

You feel a hot throb inside you, spreading all through your veins as you involuntarily buck your hips into his hand and moan quietly before biting your lip to avoid making any more sound.

Ed leans in, bending over you, so his warmth is enveloping your back and the subtle pressure of his presence against your skin sends a wave of arousal through your veins. His hot breath grazes your ear as he speaks roughly: “Don’t you, slut?”

Your only response is to push back against him and whine as you hide your head in your hands. Contrary to your previous thoughts that he was completely unaffected you feel his hard cock straining against his pants on your raw ass. But the contact is only short lived because Ed pulls back from you.

“Try to cleanse her, Ed”, you hear Lorraine’s voice through the aroused haze that swirls around your mind.

Before you can wonder what exactly she means, Ed’s fingers have hooked on the waistband of your underwear, ripping the flimsy material off, making you gasp. The cold air of the chapel hits your wet cunt but instead of cooling you down it riles you up even more since you remember where you are - a holy place.

But there is nothing holy about you bending over the altar with your cunt and ass bare and yet it feels absolutely divine when you feel Ed’s fingers on your cunt without a barrier for the first time.

You feel the palm of his hand against your ass as he forms a V with his middle- and forefinger to enclose the other sides of your cunt. Ed rests his hand there for a moment, making your stomach flutter in anticipation before he closes them slowly and pulling back to the edge of your cunt.

Your clit throbs and you squirm on the altar, desperate for Ed to continue.

A strangled moan escapes your lips when he pushes his thick fingers between the lips of your pussy and spreads them, effectively opening you up. You are pretty sure that he can not only feel but also see your wetness glistening in the dim light of the chapel.

Ed’s thumb brushes against your neglected clit and you groan loudly as electricity shoots through you, making you arch your back into his hand.

All the desperate sounds you make and the way you buck against him does not make him go faster and you really want to curse him out - you want to be filled by him, you want his fingers and his cock. So when he finally pushes his middle finger in your cunt a loud moan along with a please escapes you.

The haze in your mind thickens, rendering you blissfully obvious to your surroundings. The only reality matters right now is Ed. His presence dominates your consciousness, eclipsing everything else, as if the world beyond him and his hands on you has faded into insignificance.

“So good for us, sweetheart. You’re doing so good, taking what I give you so well”, Ed rasps behind you, his voice strained with satisfaction and barely constrained self restraint.

He curls his fingers inside you and starts shallowly and slowly thrusting before he adds a second finger.

You whine at the stretch of his long fingers when he pushes them all the way inside your pussy and grinds his palm against your clit.

Ed’s fingertips graze over the sweet spot on the wall of your cunt and your knees buckle under you as a wave of pleasure washes over you. With a dark chuckle he repeats this motion again and again while his palm steadily rubs your clit.

The distant echoes of Lorraine’s footsteps lingers off the edges of the fog in your mind as she approaches her husband. Yet, your concentration remained unwaveringly fixed on Ed and his long, thick fingers that are buried in your wet cunt.

A subtle jump courses through you as you feel something small with delicate round beads on your clit. Ed rubs it around the nub and you feel every cool and smooth ridge touching you as his fingers continue to thrust and rub deep inside your pussy.

“Shit Ed, please”, the words escape as a desperate plea, your voice raw.

Your cunt throbs and pulses to the rhythm of his hands on you and inside you as wave after wave of pleasure slowly builds up your orgasm.

“Be good and cum all over my fingers and Lorrain’s rosary. Let us cleanse you”, Ed’s warm breath against your sensitive skin sends shivers down your spine.

When the wave of pleasure shatters and courses through you, you cum for him with a loud moan that echoes off the chapel walls. Your back arches into Ed, who keeps finger-fucking you through your high, your hips grinding frantically against his hand, desperate for him.

Your breathing is ragged and loud when you come down from your high and your senses slowly come back to life, your cunt still tingling with the warm aftermath of your intense orgasm.

“Good girl, you did so well”, Ed praises you and pulls his fingers out with a wet noise before wiping them against your inner thigh.

Ed presses himself against you from behind, his closeness is palpable as the warmth of his body surrounds you and you feel the hard outline of his dick on your ass again. Instinctively you press back against his bulge, making him groan and suck in a breath.

He digs his fingers into the soft skin of your hip, a hidden warning for you to behave when he dangles the rosary in front of you. A belated realisation dawns in your mind - this is Lorraine’s rosary, this is what you felt dragging around your clit and wet cunt just minutes before.

A pang of shame courses through you as your eyes catch the sight of the rosary beads glistening with your wetness in the chapel’s light.

“Clean them”, Ed commands, his voice a low murmur that echoes through the church, laden with a mixture of authority and desire.

Without a hint of resistance, you comply with Ed’s command, opening your mouth and letting him guide the beads between your lips. Your tongue traces a path along the wet rosary beads as you taste yourself on them. The whole act feels positively sinful and you can’t help but feel more aroused, involuntarily you clench around nothing.

When you accidentally lock eyes with Lorraine, you freeze for a short moment. You had almost forgotten that it was not only Ed and you in the chapel but that his wife was also there. Your entire focus had been consumed by Ed and his commands and presence.

But contrary to what you would have expected Lorraine does not look angry, her emotions are unreadable but undeniably intense as she cocks an eyebrow, prompting you to continue your work.

A blush of humiliation sears through you and the burning sensation in your cheeks intensifies as you start cleaning the rosary beads again under Lorraine’s watchful gaze.

“Ed”, Lorraine starts, her eyes still locked on yours, “I don’t think it worked. Something still grips her.”

Ed withdraws, but he trails his hands and the rosary over your back, making sure to touch as much as possible before he straightens. Still bent over the altar, your legs wobble and feel unsure, making it impossible for you to get up. Yet, you don’t want to leave.

There is only one thing that you are currently sure of wanting and that is Ed.

“I think you’re right, hon”, Ed’s gravelly voice acknowledges, heavy with desire.

Lorraine walks over to her husband and you turn your head to look at them. As they stand together in the muted ambiance of the chapel, you catch glimpses of their exchange. She leans into Ed’s direction and speaks to him, her hushed words elude you.

Uncertain of the decisions the Warrens’ made in their whispered exchange you find yourself indifferent when Ed seizes your hair and pulls you to your feet from the position over the altar. He places his other hand on your hip, gripping in firmly to stabilise you as his thumb traces calming circles on your skin.

After a few moments you find your footing and Ed’s hold on your hair eases, allowing you to turn around and face him.

Purely on instinct, you suck your bottom lip between your teeth, an unconscious response as your gaze locks onto Ed. He embodies what you imagined - but the reality is so much better.

His short hair is slightly dishevelled and frames his face. A lone strand has fallen onto his forehead, resting there. A subtle blush tinges his neck, visible where the top buttons of his dress shirt are undone, exposing a glimpse of his chest. The soft blue of his eyes is almost entirely engulfed by blackness, revealing the depth of his desire.

Your attention descends to his arms, where you notice he’s pushed up the sleeves of his shirt, unveiling toned forearms.

His gaze locks onto yours and you notice the hunger and intensity burning in his eyes. Ed’s hands, strong and confident, cradle your face, their warmth seeping into your skin. As his lips descend, the initial softness gives way to a fervent kiss that depends, exploring the contours of your mouth with a tender yet insistent dance.

The kiss deepens and you instinctively wrap your arms around Ed, drawing him closer. Your hands find their places, one resting at the small of his lower back, while the other rests on his shoulder. You feel a canvas of strength beneath your fingertips, his muscles firm and well-defined. He pushes his clothed erection into your bare cunt, grinding against you. You whine into the kiss when the rough fabric of his pants scrapes over your clit.

As you part, you are breathless, overwhelmed by the sheer intensity of Ed’s kiss and in a quiet and almost intimate gesture, your fingers trail over to gently push back the strand of hair that had fallen onto Ed’s face.

Ed’s face lights up with a radiant, toothy smile that seems to melt away any of your worries. In that moment, the intensity gives way to a genuine warmth that spreads through your veins.

When he leans in again, he places a kiss on your nose, causing a subtle fluttering in your chest to blend with a quiet contentment.

“Ed”, Lorraine’s voice cuts through the intimacy with a sharp edge, “Remember why we are here.”

His gaze shifts, the warmth fading as the reminder settles in.

“We can’t lose sight of our purpose”, he says, his tone carrying acknowledgement.

Despite Lorraine’s reminder Ed pulls you in one more for another linger kiss. The intensity of it feels like it has a direct line to your cunt. Pleasure that had been simmering is once again ignited into a full fire.

As the kiss concludes, Ed speaks again: “We should get back to work”.

Ed steps back from you, his words carrying a command that intertwines his authority and desire.

“Kneel again, be good for us”, he instructs, the request echoing through the chapel’s sacred space.

Without a hint of hesitation, you step out of your pants and sink to your knees, a swift and obedient response to Ed’s command. Your reaction is just automatic, there is no coherent thought in your mind as you follow his orders.

The coldness of the stone floor beneath your bare knees serves as a start reminder of the reality and you wince as the cold spreads through you.

Looking up to Ed through your lowered lashes, you see him visibly swallowing, his Adam’s apple bobbing upon having you on your knees before him. While you want to reach out and take his cock from his pants, free him of his prison, you don’t dare, sensing that it would displease him and Lorraine.

“We will try something different now”, Lorraine declares with a gentle voice, prompting your eyes to snap from Ed to her. In her hand she holds the rosary once again, and a blush raises to your cheeks as your clit throbs in remembrance of what Ed did to you with it.

Lorraine continues: “Take him wholly and accept him into your mouth. That he may drive the evil out”

You divert your attention from Lorraine back to Ed. His eyes meet yours, and in that moment, he winks at you playfully before reaching down to grab the hem of your shirt. In one fluid motion he pulls it off you, leaving you kneeling naked in the chapel.

His gaze lingers on you, a slow and deliberate appraisal as he looks you up and down, taking in every nuance of your form, making you squirm under the intensity.

Mesmerised, you watch as his hands find the front of his pants, unzipping them and pulling them down so his cock and balls are exposed. His dick obscenely framed by his pants and underwear that is pushed mid thigh as well as his shirt that has the last few buttons undone. He is big, slightly curved, with a protruding vein on the underside and the head is already glistening with a drop of pre-cum. Your mouth waters at the sight of him and you lick your lips in anticipation.

Ed steps up to you, burying his fingers in your hair and pulls your head against his exposed cock, rubbing against your face. So you open your mouth and flick your tongue towards his dick to lick the drop of pre-cum away.

Both Ed and you let out a groan simultaneously - you at the salty, musky taste of him that settles in your mouth and him at the feeling of your tongue on his hard cock.

When you open your mouth again he slides the head of his dick in, it’s heavy on your tongue as he just looks at you in wonder. You keep your eyes trailed on his and watch him swallow heavily before pushing himself deeper into your mouth with in a single, swift stroke.

The sound of surprise is muffled by the cock in your mouth that already feels too deep.

Ed tightens his grip on your head and he pushes his dick further in until the head hits the back of your throat.

Almost instantly, tear well up in your eyes, an involuntary response to the deep intrusion of his cock. Your hand instinctively finds his muscular thighs as you attempt to push him away or prompt a retreat.

Despite your efforts, Ed’s strength prevails, the grip on your head and hair remains firm and unyielding.

“Be a good girl and take it”, Ed’s commanding voice cuts through the air, his words heavy with desire as he groans above you.

You swallow around his cock and try to breathe through your nose but it doesn’t feel enough. Drool starts to collect in the corner of your mouth and around his dick before it drips down.

For a few seconds, Ed just holds your head in place with his cock buried to the hilt in your throat and balls pressed against your chin. Black spots start appearing in the corners of your vision and soon they morph into shadows that encroach your field of view as you struggle to breath.

Mercifully he pulls you off his cock ending your struggle.

You greedily inhale, the sudden rush of oxygen burning in your lungs, eliciting a cough. As you gasp for air your tear-stained eyes fixate on Ed.

The chapel light embraces him, casting a radiant glow that accentuates the contours of his form. Ed’s chest rises and falls with the rhythm of his laboured breaths, the play of light illuminates his muscular form. Dishevelled strands of brown hair frame his face, catching the light in a cascade of radiant highlights. Each lock seemed to shimmer with its own luminescence, creating an almost halo-like effect.

As he continues to stroke his hard cock the light also casts shadows on his hand as if intensifying the nuances of each movement.

“It’s no use, hon”, Ed says to Lorraine without averting his gaze from you, still stroking his cock.

Your eyes flicker over to Lorraine. She appears completely composed and unbothered by the recent interaction between you and her husband. With a calm nod she signals her agreement to Ed’s statement.

He exerts a gentle but firm pull with his hand that is still entangled in your hair as he guides you up from your kneeling position until you are standing. In a swift motion, Ed brings you into a tight hug, bringing you flush against him, his erect dick pushing against your stomach.

With that hand in your hair, Ed gently tilts your head upwards, locking eyes with you before bringing his mouth down to capture your lips in a searing kiss. Arousal pumps through your veins when you return it with the same fervour and grind your hips against his cock.

You part, both breathless and Ed steps back from the embrace, creating a sligh distance to gaze at you. His eyes are clouded by pleasure and linger on your breasts.

Under the scrutiny of his gaze you swallow dryly and feel your nipples involuntarily harden.

Ed’s hand, once entwined in your hair, delicately withdraws and he speaks with a raspy tenderness: “You’re something else, you know?”

He strokes along your cheek, a featherlight touch of his long fingers against your heated skin before he cups your chin.

“I think we’re gonna have to try something different”, he says to Lorraine as he runs his thumb over your lower lip, keeping his gaze firmly on you.

You can’t suppress a moan when he places his hands on your bare waist and drags his palms up until he reaches your breasts, cupping them. Ed gives them a slow, leisurely, appreciative squeeze and lifts them slightly, feeling their weight before stroking his thumb over your nipples. A jolt of electricity courses through you at his soft ministrations and you feel his cock throbbing.

The intense connection breaks abruptly when you feel a small, warm hand on your bare shoulder, causing you to jump slightly.

“Jesus”, the exclamation slips from your lips.

Ed cocks an eyebrow and a subtle amusement etches into his features, as his lip twitches: “That is indeed what you need. But don’t worry, we will take care of it - of you.”

With those words, he steps away, leaving you with Lorraine who’s hand tugs at your shoulder again, prompting you to turn and face her. She looks at you with a faint smile, her head tilted slightly to the one side. She motions for you to follow with a graceful gesture of her hand, leading you back to the altar.

“He’ll be right back, dear. He is just getting what is necessary for us to help you”, Lorraine speaks in a gentle, quiet and soothing tone while rubbing small circles over your bare arm as you stand there.

Ed’s heavy footsteps resonate in the quiet of the chapel when he returns only minutes later. The candles placed in the chapel that surrounded him flicker in response, their flames dancing. The play of light and shadows creates an ethereal aura around him.

As he strides back towards the altar purposefully you see his cock bobbing with each of his step, the head coated in presumed glistens in the light. You notice that he has completely unbuttoned his shirt by now, the two halves falling open to reveal his strong chest.

A look of fierce determination is etched across Ed’s face as he carries a small leather bundle under his arm.

“Get on the altar”, he declares, his voice a low rumble that reverberates in the quiet of the chapel. The flickering of candles cast dynamic shadows on his face, enhancing his determined expression.

The edge in Ed’s voice sends a surge of arousal through your veins.

Without clear instructions, you instinctively use your hand to push yourself to sit on the altar. A hiss escapes your lips as he cold stone makes contact with your bare skin,

You hear Ed hum in approval as he notices your compliance. Placing the bundle on the altar next to you, your curiosity piques, and you watch intently, wondering what he brought with him.

He hands Lorraine the big leather-bound Bible - the same one he used to spank you earlier. The memory makes you squirm lightly as you recall how it all felt, feeling yourself getting wetter again.

She takes the book from Ed’s hands and tenderly touches his cheek. The delicate gesture lasts a few moments before Lorraine removes her palm from his face, and as if in silent agreement, Ed returns his attention to the bundle on the altar.

Ed unrolls the bundle with a practised motion of his hands, and your eyes remain glued to the mesmerising movement. Watching his hands, you marvel at their appeal. They are undeniably handsome - strong, adorned with veins that trace a map of strength and boasting long, thick fingers. You clench around nothing when you remember how perfect they felt inside you.

As Ed unveils the contents, a myriad of items come into view, each carrying its own significance. Various crosses, some made of metal and some of wood but all different in size, catch the ambient light of the chapel. Candles, meticulously arranged, follow suit. A lighter is poised beside them.

Transparent bottles filled with clear liquid stand out. You can only speculate, but the faint scent in the air and the placement of the bottles hint at the possibility of holy water.

Furrowing your brow, you watch his hands move with purpose as he arranges these items in a precise order. The answer as to why he needs these items eludes you for now.

Finally, Ed shifts his attention to you, stepping in front of you. Almost on instinct you open your legs and he positions himself between them.

Your attention remains fixed on Ed as the rhythmic clicking of the lighter echose in the background. The ambient sound suggests that Lorraine must be lighting the candles.

But that soon fades again, you cannot concentrate on anything other than the handsome man in front of you.

You tangle your fingers in his short hair to tuck him down and kiss you. When your lips meet you let out a soft moan that is swallowed by him. He returns the kiss with fervour and grips the back of your head with one hand. He uses the other hand to rub the head of his cock against your cunt.

You buck against him in response to finally feeling him there and moan into the kiss again. Ed rubs himself against you, massaging your clit with the smooth head of his dick and coating it in your wetness.

He keeps up with this slow, steady and careful rhythm - and it’s driving you mad. Each thrust causes a small spark of pleasant sensation to course through you.

When Ed breaks the kiss to nod at Lorraine you whine at the loss of contact. Currently, you don’t care about her, the only thing you care about is him and his big cock.

Through the blissful haze in your mind you hear Ed speak: “My Lord, you are all powerful, you are God, you are our Father”.

The words puzzle you but every thought is banished from your mind when you feel the warm, bulbous head of his cock entering your cunt. Slowly but steadily he fills you until he is nearly completely buried in you.

He grabs hold of your hair, tugging it backwards as you groan, the pain almost forcing more pleasure upon you, making you look at him.

Ecce crucem domini, fugite partes adversae

Goosebumps erupt all over your skin as Ed begins to speak in Latin, the words resonating within the sacred surroundings.

What?

Before you can fully grasp the significance of the Latin words, Ed seals your lips with another kiss, momentarily grounding you in the sensation of his touch. He begins sliding in and out of your pussy before he breaks the kiss and gently pushes you down until you lay flat on the altar. The stone is cold beneath you.

Exsurgat Deus et dissipentur inimici ejus: et fugiant qui oderunt eum a facie ejus

Lorraine's voice, though quiet, possesses a commanding presence as it weaves through the chapel. Each word is delivered with a deliberate cadence, the measured tones resonating in the hallowed silence. There's a certain grace in the way she speaks, a calm assurance that adds an ethereal quality to the unfolding ritual. Her words, like tendrils of incense, linger in the air, filling the sacred space with a sense of purpose and reverence.

But you don’t have time to think about that because Ed starts thrusting inside you, emphasising each sentence with a stroke of his hips. He pulls out until only the head is inside you before pushing in again and stretching your walls to accommodate him. You whimper beneath him whenever he fills you completely.

Sicut deficit fumus defíciant; sicut fluit cera a facie ígnis, sic pereant peccatores a facie Dei

Ed's hand is back to rub your clit in circles following the rhythm of his cock. You moan loudly as a slow sensation starts in your clit, growing more intense with each thrust of his dick and every movement of his fingers.

Princeps gloriosissime coelestis milítiae, sancte Míchael Archangele, defende nos in proelio

He gives his hips an extra hard push when he is fully sheathed inside your wet cunt and you feel his balls slapping against you. Waves of heavy and delightful pleasure and sensation course wash through you as you fail to comprehend what they do to you.

Et colluctatione, quae nobis est adversus principes et potestates, adversus mundi rectores tenebrarum harum, contra spiritualia nequitiae, in coelestibus

The pressure inside you rises as Ed keeps fucking you and rubbing circles around your clit. You feel yourself tightening as pure and unfiltered pleasure courses through your veins. His dick seems to hit all the right places inside you, the wide shaft stretching you deliciously and the sensations radiating from your clit, making you balance on the edge of an orgasm.

Veni in auxilium hominum; quos Deus creavit inexterminabiles, et ad imaginem similitudinis suae fecit, et a tyrannide diaboli emit pretio magno

Ed uses your body like a drum, everything he does vibrating through you like a steady beat as you feel the prickling sensation of need pulling at you, filling your veins.

You watch him through hooded eyes and you clench around his cock upon his sight. His brow is furrowed in determination as the muscles in his chest and arms ripple with every thrust.

You feel the pleasure cresting, the wave of sensations stacking higher and higher, but just then, just when you’re about to reach your peak, something wet and cold hits you.

Exorcizamos te, omnis immunde spiritus, omnis satanic potestas, omnis infernalis adversarii, omnis legio, omnis congregatio et secta diabolica, in nomine et virtute Domini nostri Jesu

The unexpected sensation interrupts the rising tide of intensity, making you hiss. You smell a faint scent of holy water lingering in the air.

Turning your head slightly, you search for Lorraine, attempting to make sense of what just happened. You see her standing near you, the bible open as he holds a veil of what you guess is holy water.

Christi, eradicare et effugare a Dei Ecclesia, ab animabus ad imaginem Dei conditis ac pretioso divini Agni sanguine redemptis

Lorraine continues to sprinkle holy water onto you, the rhythmic pattern synchronised with the cadence of her words and Ed’s smooth thrusts.

The holy water feels cold on your overheated skin, a stark contrast that intensifies the sensory experience. The dichotomy of warmth and cold adds a layer of complexity to the unfolding ritual, leaving you caught in a paradox of sensations.

Non ultra audeas, serpens callidissime, decipere humanum genus, Dei Ecclesiam persequi, ac Dei electos excutere et cribrare sicut triticum

As your attention remains captivated by Lorraine, you're caught off guard by Ed's discreet move. Unseen, he seizes a burning candle, and the sudden cascade of hot wax onto your stomach elicits a sharp gasp from your lips. The contrasting elements of the cold water and the hot wax introduce a surprising twist, the unexpected sensation intertwining with the ambiance of the chapel.

The candlelight flickers, casting dancing shadows on Ed's face as he continues to drizzle the wax. Each drop leaves a transient mark on your skin, tainting it red.

Imperat tibi Deus altissimus, Imperat tibi Deus Pater; imperat tibi Deus Filius; imperat tibi Deus Spiritus Sanctus

The tension inside you breaks and waves crash and cascade over you as you cum almost unexpectedly. You clamp down around Ed's cock, clenching your cunt and bucking your hips. You arch your back when the orgasm courses through your body, riding out every single way as he continues to massage your clit and drive his hard dick into you.

Your scream echoes off the chapel walls, the sound resonating in the sacred silence, marking a moment of raw intensity. The juxtaposition of pleasure and the unexpected pain manifests in the resonance of your cry, creating a haunting echo that lingers in the hallowed atmosphere.

Vade satana, inventor et magister omnis fallaciae, hostis humanae salutis

Part of you is sure that you will go mad with all the sensations filling your mind, tending to overwhelm you.

Ed’s fingers playing with your clit, rubbing patterns you don’t understand.

His cock fills you up and hitting that spot makes your nerves sing so beautifully.

The mix of holy water and candle wax that assaults every fibre of your being, keeping you finely balanced between pain and pleasure.

You’re grateful you don’t have to stand because you feel your knees buckle under the onslaught.

Lorraine and Ed work in perfect harmony, alternating between hot and cold in such a way that you don’t know what will come next.

Da locum Christo, in quo nihil invenisti de operibus tuis

Every touch on your clit makes it throb, sending wave after wave of pleasure through your body and building up to your next orgasm. As Ed continues to slam into your cunt with a force that would drive you up the altar had he not been holding you down.

Whenever another drop of the cold holy water or the hot candle wax hits your bare skin you moan loudly at the sensation - you may as well be screaming you would not be able to discern it.

Da locum Ecclesia Uni, Sanctae, Catholicae, et Apostolicae, quam Christus ipse acquisivit sanguine suo

Ed buries his cock to the hilt, rotating his hips as if he could push it even further inside, making you arch your back against him.

“Beg for forgiveness”, his voice is deep and laced with arousal as he fucks into you in short, hard, deep stabs, “Beg for forgiveness from our God. Beg that He may allow us to cleanse you from your evil by my seed.”

“Please - please”, you start to beg desperately just as Ed had asked from you, “Please, Ed, please.”

Nos eriperes de potestate diaboli

You stammer incoherent words and sentences, the intensity rendering your attempts at communication fractured and disoriented. The echoes of your disjointed utterances sound throughout the chapel, as Ed quickens his pace again, hitting that spot deep inside you.

Ab omni hoste visibili et invisibili et ubique in hoc saeculo liberetur

Lorraine’s words grow louder, ascending to a crescendo that reverberates through the chapel. The rhythmic cadence of her speech becomes a pulsating backdrop as you come again, the explosive pleasure hitting you all at once. Your vision goes black and you shudder against Ed violently.

With a loud groan Ed comes inside you as your cunt contracts around him, your high having him brought to the peak too. You feel his dick twitching and pulsing as he keeps his hips flush against yours.

The waves of your orgasm keep washing over you as he keeps pumping you full of his cum.

Slowly your vision and senses return to you and Ed slides his slowly softening cock out of your cunt with a satisfied sigh.

You feel a drizzle of his sticky cum oozing from your pussy and dripping down on the altar.

Your eyes meet Ed's, and he graces you with a wide, warm smile that transforms his dishevelled appearance into a moment of genuine warmth as he tucks his dick into his pants.

Ed looks thoroughly fucked out, a layer of sweat covering his bare chest that glistens whenever he moves in the dim light. His hair points in all directions, some strands sticking to his forehead. Yet, in this vulnerable state, you find him more attractive than ever.

“I think that did it”, Ed remarks to Lorraine, his voice carrying a note of satisfaction. As the surroundings gradually come back into focus, you look at Lorraine.

In contrast to you or Ed, she has maintained her composed demeanour, her clothes and hair still neatly in place.

She nods at his words as a subtle acknowledgment, then her gaze shifts from Ed to you and back at him.

“I’ll head back to the house, hon. You both should join me when you’ve cleaned yourselves up.”

Before she leaves, Lorraine steps over to you, her touch gentle as she cradles your face in the palm of her hand.

“You did well”, she says softly, warmth evident in her voice.

With that, she turns to leave, her steps echoing through the silent air as she heads towards the exits leaving you alone in the chapel with Ed, who in the meantime picked up your discarded clothes.

Ed places the clothes next to you on the altar and with a tender gesture he smooths your sweaty hair out of your forehead before leaning in and kissing you in a lingering, sweet kiss.

He starts picking the dried wax from your skin with a careful touch, his fingers tracing over the sore skin softly.

“You did so good”, he murmurs, his words carrying a mixture of pride and tenderness.

As continues to remove the wax he whispers words of affirmation, telling you what a good girl you are, how strong you are and that he is proud of you.

When he reaches your cunt he gives you a cheeky wink before gathering the cum that dripped out of your puffy cunt on his fingers and pushing it back in. You moan when you feel his thick fingers in your sore pussy: “Shit, Ed!”

“I know, sweetheart. Just cleaning you up… And wouldn’t want to waste my cum, right? It has to go where it belongs”, Ed slushes you softly and pumps his fingers into you a few times before he pulls back, satisfied with his work.

Ed helps you down from the altar, his arms enveloping you in a tight hug. You sigh softly, when the warmth he radiates seeps into your bare skin. As you hug, you feel the steady rhythm of his heart beating against your chest. Softly, you stroke his shoulders and back, letting your hands wander over his broad frame.

“Thank you”, you mumble, “for helping.”

You really are grateful for them to try their unorthodox methods on you. Judging by the soreness that inhabits your whole body, you enjoyed it immensely and even if it didn’t help, you’d be more than happy to return for a second session.

He parts from you with a soft kiss to your forehead: “Not for that, sweetheart. It was my pleasure… Just say the word, I’d be more than willing to help you again”.

Blushing at his words, you meet his toothy grin that reflects the genuine warmth when he hands you your clothes. His touch is gentle as he helps you to dress again. Wanting to return the favour, you take the initiative to button up Ed’s shirt.

His voice is soft when he thanks you before he grabs all the things on the altar and stores them in the leather bundle again.

Ed leads you out of the chapel with a hand on your back and you appreciate the soft gesture as you walk away from the stone altar. He opens the door for you and motions you outside with a gentle gesture of his hand before stepping next to you again.

Blinking against the light, you notice that while it is a bit darker than before, it is still brighter than in the chapel. The first thing that strikes you is that the shifting of light does not trigger your headaches - you are blissfully pain free.

#patrick wilson #patrick wilson x reader #the conjuring #insidious #patrick wilson smut #ed warren #fanfiction #ed warren x reader #ed warren smut #lorraine warren #aquaman #the conjuring fanfiction #the conjuring smut #ed warren fanfiction

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sirenjose · 11 months

Text

Analysis of the Prospector, Norton Campbell

This is a repost of my Norton Analysis.

Let’s start with where I think Norton was born.

Looking at his last name, Campbell is a surname that originated from the Scottish Gaelic word “Cam”, which meant “crooked”, and “Beul”, which meant “mouth”. It was used by Scottish people during the Victorian period, which is around the right time that Identity V takes place in. If Norton were from Scotland, that could fit with how the name “Norton” means “North Settlement” (considering Scotland is north of England, which is where Oletus Manor is).

Further adding to this idea, Scotland is a coal-rich area, with Lanarkshire having a heavy concentration of collieries (coal mines) back in those days. Ayrshire, Fifeshire, and Stirlingshire are next in order of the number of collieries. Due to Lanarkshire being Scotland’s most populous county, this could be a good guess as to where Norton’s from.

There is also the theory that Norton is from Mexico, based on his S-Tier Soul Catcher being Day of the Dead themed, his provoke emote, Tune (as Season 18 Essence 2 is designed after a Spanish wedding and Spanish costumes), and potentially his connections to the story “The Transition of Juan Romero” (something I’ll discuss more later).

Norton’s provoke emote is a gesture that means “Come and fight me” (info courtesy of @andrewkreiiss, which I’m going to just copy right here so I don’t mess anything up). First is him pointing at someone, that's just like pointing at the person he is addressing, it's something rude to do. Then the second gesture is Norton touching his cheek, this gesture means "come and punch me here on the cheek", it's just him mocking the other person inviting them to come and fight him, showing that he isn't afraid of them. Then the third one is him like thrusting his upper half with his chin, that's something men do when they wanna pick a fight with someone and they wanna look "intimidating". His whole emote is just him confidently picking a fight with someone and mocking them.

(As for Norton’s dance, it’s apparently actually a Columbian dance called “Mapale”.)

As to “The Transition of Juan Romero”, it’s a story by Lovecraft that involves an explosion at a mine called the “Norton” mine.

In the story, the narrator is a man of English origin, an ex-soldier with a penchant for the occult, wearing a ring he acquired in India. After an unhappy experience in India, he abandons his previous career and becomes a laborer at the Norton Mine. He’s living with a man named Juan Romero, who’s part of a group of Mexicans drawn from the nearby lands (to work in the mine), though likely not Mexican himself as he is apparently light-/fair-skinned.

Romero was born into extreme poverty and is the only surviving child of an epidemic that spread around (where he originally lived). He was found in a cabin with the relatively recent remains of his parents not far away from the hut. There was also an unusual looking crack in the rock near the corpse(s) apparently. After Romero is found, an avalanche buries the hut and cracks in the rock (making any clues on his background disappear). Also, apparently Romero doesn’t remember the names of his family or anything else. He was then picked up by a Mexican cattle thief, given a name, and raised by him.

When Romero sees the ring the narrator wears, he becomes really interested, as it seemingly awoke some memory in Romero’s mind (at this point, Romero becomes really adoring of the narrator, likely because the guy’s ring allowed him to get some clue about his parents).

Human error with dynamite causes a cave near the bottom of the mountain to blow up and cause a cave in. Neither Romero or the narrator were involved in the accident, and there were no casualties, but a deep crack was created. The mine foreman orders a survey, but everyone was too scared, so work stopped for the night because a storm was coming.

On the night of the explosion, Romero is asleep when he hears a drum beating an eerie rhythm. Romero seems to get excited or anticipated something because of it. The 2 head towards the mine, as if drawn against their will due to the rhythm (and the narrator’s ring begins glowing at some point as well). Romero reaches the abyss first, and runs off into the darkness, screaming “Huitzilopochtli” (which relates to the mention of Aztecs earlier with Romero in the story). The narrator peers into the abyss, and sees something (something too horrible for him to tell) before falling unconscious. The narrator wakes up the next morning, back in his bunk, but he also finds Romero’s dead body on the table. Everyone also says neither of the 2 left their cabin that night, and the chasm had vanished as well, along with the narrator’s ring.

So, about the important bits from this. There’s obviously the name of the mine, plus the fact a mine, mine workers, and an explosion caused by misuse of dynamite is involved. There’s how the Mexican and Aztec (Huitzilopochtli is the Aztec sun and war god) bits relate to Norton’s S-tier Soul Catcher, which has a Day of the Dead theme. Regarding the Cthulhu elements, we don’t know what entity was involved, but it’s obvious something was going on. Whatever it was, it may connect to the eye in Golden Cave and the meteorite (both of which I’ll discuss later).

As to my guess regarding when he was born, I assume it was around 1870. First off, we know Norton used dynamite according to his deductions, and dynamite wasn’t invented until 1867. Besides this, I’m in part basing my guess off of when Emma’s game was. We know her game was in 1898 by using when she was born, which we know due to Freddy’s deduction 6 (she was born on December 21st, 1876), and her canon age according to the official artbook, which is 22. Next, based on info from Time of Reunion that implies Norton was apart of the final game, that would mean his game took place at least by 1898 if not later. Since Norton is confirmed to be 28, 1870 is a good guess based on the info I listed, since if Norton was born in 1870, he’d be 28 the year Emma was 22 and had her game in 1898.

If Norton was born in 1870, that would mean he would’ve grown up under the recent Elementary Education Act of 1870 (or if he was born in Scotland, the Education (Scotland) Act 1872 would be the equivalent in this case, which funnily enough helped come about due to someone by the name of George Campbell). This law made education for children between the ages of 5 and 13 mandatory, and ensured each distract had a sufficient number of public schools. It didn’t make education free, but in cases of poverty help was given so they could attend. The education was basic, focusing on teaching children reading, writing, and arithmetic, so some poor children supplemented their education by reading the daily papers and other cheap publications.

The fact Norton is described as “full of curiosity” and “likes learning”, with the list of 13 mines, and how he likes “ore evaluation” (+ how he was able to become a geological prospector with his magnets) shows he did at least get a basic education. The BDuck x IDV quiz describes him this way if you get Norton as your final result, while Norton’s deduction 3 in other versions describes him as “diligent” and “studious”.

Speaking of this, it also describes Norton with “desire to act at MAX” or “highest level of execution. This means he’s the type of person to put all his effort into whatever he does. He never goes halfway with something. This thing also describes Norton with “believes action speaks louder than words”. This fits all his tweets as well as his background (which I discuss later, but it relates to how everyone avoids him, as well as how they mock him from trying to get out of poverty. The only way to prove to them that he’d succeed was with action rather than words), and why he’s so quiet.

I mentioned that poor children did receive help to attend public school. We know he was poor based on Norton’s father, who was a miner. We know this due to Benny (who I’ll get into shortly) stating he was a friend of Norton’s father, and Benny is a miner. Miners were part of the lowest class and social status, and typically lived in poverty.

As we’re talking about Norton’s father, let me talk about his parents a little more.

They’re never brought up except by Benny who calls himself a friend of Norton’s father. As such, the implication is that they died, likely when Norton was relatively young. His parents being dead can be backed up by Norton’s Ronald of Ness skin from Golden Rose Theater and Sparrow from Teahouse Tales. In Golden Rose Theater, Ronald’s father takes the blame for causing Lachesis’ death and dies from a “severe cold illness” shortly after being imprisoned. In Teahouse Tales, Lady 13 is Sparrow’s adopted mother. She’s betrayed and murdered by Flying Guillotine.

An interesting note, in both examples, Norton only has 1 parental figure. We know Norton knew his father to some extent based on Benny’s comment. Therefore, I wonder if that could mean Norton’s mother either died very young (like in childbirth) or she left Norton and his father at some point (like Martha Remington did to Leo and Emma).

Based on Benny having to tell Norton that he was a friend or coworker of his father, this makes me think Norton never worked with his father, otherwise he would’ve already known this. In which case, it’s possible this could imply his parents died before Norton turned 12 years old. I say this due to the Mines Regulation Act of 1860 which prevented children under the age of 12 from working in the mines. Also there’s how when a boy turns 12 and enters a coal pit, he’s attached to his father or some other man until he works long enough to become an actual miner. However, this law wasn’t always well-enforced, and there were provisions that allowed children between the age of 10 and 12 to work in the mines under certain conditions, so it’s still possible.

Considering Norton’s 2nd letter (which I’ll discuss later), he mentions how he’s been working for “20 years”. Since Norton is 28, this could mean he lost his parents and became a miner at 8 years old.

Either way, after losing both his parents, Norton ends up becoming an orphan at a young age and has to work to provide for himself. Due to who his father was and how poor they were, Norton likely became a coal miner, especially as coal was the primary source of energy at this time. As a rule, the sons of miners follow the occupation of their fathers, and begin to work when they reach twelve years of age.

Miners were expected to work at least a daily twelve-hour shift (though hours a miner had to work varied from mine to mine) on weekdays, reduced hours on Saturday and Sunday being the day of rest, with few breaks. They walked miles from their housing to the mines, and further still as they had to go down the mine shafts to where the ore/coal was being mined (mines got really deep in the 2nd half of the 19th century). Underground roadways were usually narrow, uneven, and low as owners didn’t want to increase their costs by making them bigger. All in all, it was incredibly cramped, and such conditions made accidents and injuries a common occurrence.

They also worked in complete darkness except for the candles or lighting they had to buy themselves.

Working in the mines was very dangerous & unhealthy and most miners who survived the physical dangers inherent in the working environment even succumbed to mine-related respiratory diseases such as silicosis in later life. Accidents were common, but compensation after an accident was very low. To make matters worse, mine owners didn’t care about the health and safety of their workers.

Beatings were also common. Sometimes for not being quick enough, sometimes for complaining, or sometimes simply just for making a mistake.

As to a number of hazards and risks miners had to face every time they went into the mines that could cause their death:

falling down a mine shaft on the way down to the coal face

falling out of the ‘bucket’ bringing you up after a shift

being hit by a ball of dug coal falling down a mine shaft as it was lifted up

flooding/drowning in the mine

collapsing roofs, shafts, and equipment/crushed to death

killed by explosions (fire damp)

suffocation by poisonous gas

being run over by a tram carrying dug coal in the mine itself

fires

ropes and chain breakages

trapped after a collapse

Additionally, underground mines were hot and damp. The air was musty and infested with coal which had the potential hazard of being flammable. This gas, also mixed with methane, had serious health effects, including: numbness, violent headaches, partial deafness, risk of choking on the thick dust, and black lung disease.

This would explain why Norton breathes so harshly in game. His lungs have likely been damaged from working so long and hard in the mines.

Regarding some statistics about the percentages of deaths from various methods according to 1 study:

Percentages of deaths caused by explosions from fire damp: 23-57%

Percentages of deaths caused by falls of roofs and sides: 40-77%

Percentages of deaths caused by misc. causes: 35-66%

As to the highest and lowest percentages of deaths for each method in this study:

Deaths by explosions: In 1878, the percentage of deaths was 41.6%. In 1884, it was 6.9%.

Deaths by falls of roof and sides, which was almost always higher than explosions: In 1881, the percentage of deaths was 47%, while in 1878, it was 33%.

Deaths by other causes: In 1878, it was 59%.

Finally, as to statistics regarding how many deaths occurred:

Between 1875-1885: 12.3k deaths, with at least 1k deaths per year.

Number of people employed in 1850, about 200,000 people employed, deaths exceeded 1k a year.

In 1877, when the number of people was employed was double that in 1850 (400,000), the deaths were a little over 1.2k a year

Safety lamps were invented eventually, which helped prevent explosions caused by the presence of methane in the pits. The flames of the lamp also helped notify miners of the invisible presence of flammable gases by burning brighter and with a tinge of blue when these flammable gases were present.

Despite how dangerous and risky it was to work in the mines, the wages were quite low. Mine owners even continued to refuse a wage increase for miners over the years.

Miners were paid by the amount and quality of the coal they produced, rather than simply by the hour. Of course this gave owners and managers plenty of ways to reduce how much they paid miners, such as claiming coal was of poor quality or rigging their scales, or by fining miners if there was too much “slack” (the smaller pieces).

The average wage of coal miners in the 1880s was somewhere between 3s (s = shillings) and 5s per day, with around 4s being closer to the normal, and 5 only if you were lucky. 4 shillings was about $1.20. Generally though wages varied greatly in different districts.

Rent was either free or around 2s a week in a colliery village, which were settlements built by the owners of coal mines to house their workers. These homes were cramped, very basic, lacked adequate sanitation, and had poor drainage. Furniture was sparse and the low wages made it difficult to afford more than the basics. During bad weather, these homes suffered especially in damp weather due to poor construction, and puddles sometimes formed on the floor. Speaking of water, sometimes it was necessary to walk long distances to find water for cooking and cleaning, as not every colliery provided water for its homes. Collieries also provided a company store, which was normally a miners’ only option for buying groceries, mining tools, and other goods. As the only store in town, companies didn’t have to worry about competition, thus they typically charged exorbitant prices compared to what people in cities paid for the same items. In some cases, miners were compelled to use the company store by mine officials. Sometimes, miners were paid instead with something that could only be used at the company store.

As to potential costs of some other expenses:

Food: about 11s a week

Soap, starch, blue, and soda: 6p a week

1 pound of candles for coal pit: about 1s

1 pound of blasting powder: 1s

Fuel (coal and wood): 2s a week

Paraffin oil (for lamp and stove) and other sundries: 1 and a half shillings a week

Clothes, gloves, and shoes: no more than maybe 2s a week

Insurance (medical attendance, weekly doctor fee): between half a shilling and 1s a week

Sharpening work tools: half a shilling

Shovels: 2 shillings

Then there’s how even if a miner wanted to work harder and longer to earn more (up to a point, as there was a limit on hours they could work and how much they could produce), this meant they’d have to pay more for sharpening, oil, powder, and tools.

It was typical for miners to have their cost of living be about the same as their wages. Many ended up in deficit after all their expenses, which isn’t even mentioning how many suffered from malnutrition. If you were one of the lucky to have some left over, it was usually very little. Maybe no more than about 1s, which was all one would have for tools (like picks and shovels) contingencies, savings, or amusements.

This was just 1 estimate. As for another, you can read this link to get another idea regarding how much money a miner had (it’s the story of an American miner around the 1890s and 1900s): https://ehistory.osu.edu/exhibitions/gildedage/content/MinersStory. In other cases, a miner may receive a deceptively high basic wage, but a system of fines could quickly reduce their pay, and then there’s how they had to buy their own materials (like candles and stoppages for dust or gas).

Miners worked not because they wanted to, not because they wanted to be a miner, but because they had to in order to live, even though the wages were so low it was common to be in debt most of the time, especially if you got sick or hurt in an accident. Even after 15 years, a miner wasn’t much better than when they started. For the most part, miners don't want money for luxuries. They just want enough for a clean shirt or enough to keep them at school until they get a reasonable education.

Asking for a raise in wages also didn’t work. There were attempts to form unions and demand a raise from mine owners. Their demands were refused each time, at which point these men went on strike and refused to work until their demands were met. Owners retaliated by dismissing all the men involved, requiring workers to disclaim any association with the unions, recruiting strike-breakers, and eventually dissolved the union. Even when the owners had to dismiss the entire workforce, they were easily able to replace everyone. And when miners were dismissed, this also usually meant evicting the miners from their homes, as most men lived in housing (colliery villages) that the mine owner owned.

To summarize, Norton is very poor. Wages were low, and expenses (rent, food, tools, clothes, etc…) normally ended up using most of what he earned. Conditions were dangerous, with so many hazards that he was at risk of dying nearly every day, and owners treated their miners no better than slaves. Norton wants money to get out of poverty and to change his fate. He wanted to change his situation so he didn’t have to worry if he had enough money for food or if he’d live to see tomorrow.

This is backed up by a Famitsu article on his backstory (I’ll give the entire article later). The beginning of this article says:

“Norton Campbell in the eyes of others was always someone hard to deal with, whose emotions were as changeable as the weather. But all knew that he worked tirelessly to break free of his impoverished fate, and this intimidated them”.

Norton’s 2nd deduction proves that Norton was hardworking. He worked longer and harder than any of the other miners, meaning he probably worked the maximum hours allowed at the mine.

Deduction 2: Diligence

The more effort, the more rewards?

Work Record: Norton Campbell is always the first to go down into the mines and the last to leave it.

Despite his effort, as I mentioned earlier, things didn’t change much from when he had started. His fate still seemed to be to die poor, potentially to one of the hazards he faced every day, or due to some illness like many other miners did. He was getting desperate. So, he decided to try something different. This where Norton’s 1st deduction comes in. Norton decides to try to find gold, but he doesn’t know where to start looking. Therefore, he decides to ask the older miners due to all of their experience (as they’ve worked much longer than him and most other miners). To convince them to talk to him (since many only care about themselves and wouldn’t share knowledge about gold, which they could use themselves), as well as to have an excuse to be at hospice (as he might not be allowed there otherwise), he helps take care of the old miners.

Deduction 1: Kindness

Is that an Olive Branch you just threw, or...

A Good Deed: Norton, a miner, always visited the hospice and cared for the homeless old miners.

His 1st deduction mentions “throwing an olive branch”, which means to make peace or reconcile. In other words, this is a phrase that’s used when 2 people or groups who have fallen out attempt to forgive and get together again. This could potentially connect back to the Famitsu article. Remember how it said people were intimidated by how hard Norton worked to change his fate? What if those people included the old miners? What if they didn’t like him and/or basically have a bad relationship with him? What if that’s why Norton has to “act friendly” and do something nice like taking care of them just to convince them to talk to him and answer his question? Normally, these people wouldn’t want to talk to or help Norton out at all. Therefore, that could be why Norton has to offer an “olive branch”. Maybe Norton didn’t like them either, especially if they were avoiding him for being “intimidated” or did something else bad to him due to their negative feelings of him. That could be why Norton may only be “acting” friendly or why he also has to make peace with them (due to not liking them in return for their negative feelings and treatment of him).

Due to the environment he grew up in, especially after losing his parents and being all alone, he became a loner, quiet, and unsociable. He didn’t have any friends or anyone to care about him, and he didn’t have much time for anything beyond work. The fact he had to grow up and mature quickly worsened matters. From being a miner all his life, constantly seeing the ugly sides of people (especially the mine owners who treated him like a slave) and learning not to trust anyone but himself (so he never gets betrayed), he grew up in a world that taught him survival of the fittest. That’s why he tends to not let anyone get close to him, why he avoids forming relationships, and why he primarily cares about himself over others. It was the only way that let him live. But to change his fate, he has to stay on people’s good sides, especially the mine owners, but also with the people that don’t like him.

It’s because of this, plus how hard Norton works, that he receives so many recommendation letters from his employers in his deduction 3. The reason none of them could “keep him for long” was because Norton sought a wide variety of skills and as much experience as he could get. This was because more skills and experience would make him a more valuable worker, which would hopefully increase his pay and thus work towards his goal of changing his fate, but the other reason is, as I mentioned earlier, Norton is a curious person who enjoys learning.

Deduction 3: Efficiency

We need more trials.

A Stack of Recommendation Letters: It can be seen that every one of Norton’s previous employers appreciated his hard work and expressed their regret at being unable to keep him for long.

(Note: in other versions, it adds that Norton is “diligent” and “studious”)

In any case, what’s important to note from Norton helping the old miners is that this is when he meets Benny. He is another old, homeless miner mentioned in Norton’s 1st letter who claims to be a friend of Norton’s father. Benny is the one who ends up having the knowledge Norton wants and gives him a list of 13 mines.

The 13th mine is crossed out though.

Deduction 4: Persistence

People won’t be unlucky forever, right?

1-Page Note: There are 13 items listed. The first 12 appear to be names of places, and the last one is crossed out.

I think the reason is because Benny planned to betray Norton later because he wanted all the gold for himself. He just needed Norton’s help to actually get to and find the gold. Benny was in hospice, meaning he was weak, old, and dying. He didn’t have the strength to do all this on his own, thus why he needed someone young and strong like Norton. Especially since Norton was the one known to work extremely long and hard and was complimented by a lot of his employers. Of course Benny would want that person to be the one to help him out.

The 13th mine is Golden Cave. We know it has gold based on its backstory (and on the gold that we can see in the Golden Cave map at the bottom of the mine).

Golden Cave Backstory

No one knows who first found the gold.

Believing that there was wealth and riches to be found here, people rushed to this barren mountain.

After one miner after another found gold dust in the mountain stream, the owner of the mountain, Count Barriere, ordered the road to the mountain to be closed.

As soon as possible, a mining site was built in the mountain and a wooden shaft was erected.

Digging into the ground, they proceeded downward.

They were digging hundreds of meters deep until the cave-in accident

Benny had to know about the gold either from hearing the rumors or because he previously worked at Golden Cave. Due to how he says “I'm dreaming of returning to the mines day and night, looking for that sparkling gold ore”, we know he was obsessed with finding gold, backed up by how badly he wants to leave hospice, which he calls a “cesspit” and “waiting to die” in other versions. He attempted to convince Norton to help him and work with him by saying he was a friend of Norton’s father.

Norton’s 1st Birthday Letter (Pascal’s translation)

A letter that was not sent in time

To Norton:

You brat!

Why did you leave without even so much as a goodbye, and stop visiting me?

Staying in this cesspit is just like waiting to die; I can’t take it anymore.

Day and night I dream of returning to that mine and finding that glittering golden motherlode–

You wouldn’t!

You wouldn’t, right?

You wouldn’t go first, alone, right?

If so, then you really are such a, such a…

Don’t abandon me, I beg of you.

Just what kind of heart lies hidden behind that face of yours; sometimes gloomy, at other times glittering with a brilliant smile?

Even an old man… You wouldn’t deceive an old miner who spent half his life toiling in the coal mines, would you?

Norton, my good boy, for your father’s sake.

Don’t abandon his old partner.

No!

No… Norton, damn it, you piece of fool’s gold.

Iron Chisel Benny

Benny also describes Norton as sometimes “gloomy” and other times smiling (which fits with how the Famitsu article describes Norton). As discussed before, Norton was gloomy over his current life and his inability to change it despite how long and hard he worked. He had to act “friendly” as part of getting on his employers’ good sides and attempting to earn more, but also from having to offer an “olive branch” to the old miners. The old miners likely were the ones “intimidated” by how hard Norton worked to change his fate and likely had other negative feelings of him or treated him badly (thus why Norton would need to throw an “olive branch” to get them to talk to him about gold mines).

Further evidence Benny likely planned to betray Norton comes from Norton’s Gold Digger and Ronald of Ness skins. I think Marshall from Season 10 Essence 1’s backstory parallels Benny, while for Ronald Benny should parallel Scrooge. With Marshall, he’s mentioned to be the reason for keeping Gold Digger from finding gold based on Gold Digger’s description in other versions.

Gold Digger

"The golden valley, the golden river, the wind blowing through my ears, the sweet smell of gold ore…this is what I dream of day after day! Seduced by Marshall, the simple gold prospector lost his chance to take advantage of the gold mines, and has been impoverished ever since."

With Scrooge, he was the reason Norton’s father got accused for Lachesis’ death after Scrooge faked Lachesis’ death to cheat her insurance policy due to his greed and desire for money.

Speaking of Benny planning to betray Norton, I think it’s possible Benny may have been involved in the death of Norton’s parents. I already discussed how Benny parallels Scrooge who contributed to the death of Ronald’s father. Besides Scrooge and Golden Rose Theater, there’s also Teahouse Tales and Norton’s Sparrow skin. During Teahouse Tales, Lady Thirteen, Sparrow’s adopted mother, is assassinated by Flying Guillotine. Both Scrooge and Flying Guillotine were the coworkers of Norton’s parental figures and essentially betray this parental figure, causing Norton to be all alone afterwards.

Besides Scrooge and Flying Guillotine, there’s Marshall from Season 10 Essence 1. I already said Marshall kept Norton as Gold Digger from looking for gold, but Marshall in that essence also killed anyone that actually attempted to find the gold. The reason for this was because there was no real gold. It was just fool’s gold, but they wanted people to think there was gold around, as they had built a town and casino which is how they earned most of their money. If people discovered the gold was fake, they’d lose all the money they were earning from the miners that came to the town, attending the casino, or buying the dynamite from Western Baron.

Norton takes the list without bringing Benny with him. As I said before, I believe Benny wanted all the gold for himself and planned to betray Norton in the end (this could be backed up by Benny’s obviously not great personality based on the letter, which depicts Benny as foul-mouthed, emotional, obsessed, petulant, selfish, etc…). It’s possible Norton suspected Benny might betray him and thus why he didn’t bring Benny along. There’s also what I said earlier about the olive branch and how Norton didn’t like all of these people because of how they potentially treated him and their negative feelings of him (due to being “intimidated” by how hard he worked).

Finally, the last reason Norton couldn’t bring Benny along even if he wanted to comes from Benny’s age and current condition. Hospice is care that focuses on comfort and quality of life for people who are terminally ill or dying. Benny was old and didn’t have the strength or health to mine anything anymore. Norton knew it was more effort than it was worth to bring Benny along, especially as once they were at the mine Norton would still have to do all the work himself. Norton likely knew Benny was close to death. It’s even implied by how Norton’s 1st letter is called an “Unsent Letter” or “a letter that was not sent in time”. The reason it never got sent is because Benny died before he could send it.

Anyways, Norton sets out to each of the 13 mines Benny gave him in the hopes of finding gold.

As we know from Norton’s deduction 5, we know he had no luck at any of these 12 mines. There’s a chance Benny only gave him these 12 mines to hide which one actually might have gold in it.

Deduction 5: Patience

Next time…

Diary: Tomorrow, I will go to the last place recorded by the old man. If there’s still nothing, then I hope he...

After going to 12 different mines and finding nothing, Norton’s desperation is growing, so he directs his frustration at Benny. Norton is patient and persistent, but it’s taken him so long to go through each mine. He’s losing hope. Unfortunately, the last mine he has to check is mine number 13, and this number lives up to its unlucky reputation.

The 13th mine is Golden Cave. This mine is different, and not just because of the gold inside. It was struck by a meteorite (the “unidentified object”), resulting in the mine becoming unstable.

Deduction 6: Courage

The more dangers, the more opportunities.

A Geological Report: Part of the tunnel had been blocked by an unidentified object. One small mistake could cause the inner structure of the mine to collapse.

After an amount of time, Norton’s desperation grows. Despite the blockage and instability of the mine, Norton decides to try to use dynamite to be able to search deeper inside the mine. The dynamite was likely to remove the “blockage” preventing them from going deeper into the mine. But it’s illegal to steal dynamite, so he recruits several other miners to help him and accomplish this without being caught. Norton isn’t the only one who wants to find gold and get out of poverty, which is why he managed to get others to help him out.

Deduction 7: Alert

You need to be more cautious.

News: Due to the use of gunpowder and detonators, the era of simple rock drilling is coming to an end.

Deduction 8: Share

You need more helpers.

Mining Precautions: Theft of explosives is illegal and will be reported to the police once discovered.

Unfortunately, as is warned in deduction 6, the mine collapses as a result of the explosion from the dynamite. We know not all of the miners caught in the accident were killed, based on the miner from Hastur’s 2nd letter who states “the nightmare from the mine and the explosion which took my legs and eyes”, but it’s likely a number of the others did die.

Deduction 9: Wisdom

Smart people know when to hold on and when to let go.

An Accident Report: An explosion collapsed a mine on the outskirts of the city. It’s suspected that the miners had mishandled the explosives, and the police expressed that there’s little chance for anyone to survive.

Norton was lucky enough to survive the accident, but the explosion left him severely burned and scarred. He was also left trapped in the mine for some time before he could be rescued. It was probably only for a couple days, if anything because I don’t think the police or other officials would care to keep looking for survivors after too much time. Fortunately, there commonly is water in mines, so he wouldn’t have died of thirst, and he wouldn’t have reached the point where starvation would’ve become an issue (aka, I don’t think he needed to resort to cannibalism. Even if he were that hungry, I think he was in a different section of the mine from the other miners that were trapped after the accident, since if he were with them, there’s a good chance he would’ve died with them. It makes sense considering mines in the latter half of the 19th century were required to have 2 shafts, and were also divided into different section. So even if he wanted to, he wouldn’t have been near any of the other miners to cannibalize).

Deduction 10: Luck

That’s only because the rest are just unlucky.

1-Page Case: Moderate 1burns to the face. Suspected to have been caused by direct exposure to excessive temperatures.

Regarding more specifics about Norton’s potential injuries, let me give a real life example of someone else who was in similar circumstances to Norton (from the link I gave earlier). After one accident led to an explosion and being trapped, the person was horribly burned over their whole body, while his coworkers died. This person, besides his burns, also had several broken limbs and internal injuries. He had to lay in bed for 14 weeks and couldn’t work for 7 more weeks after he got out of bed. He earned no money when he was hurt and had to have his expenses paid by his family to manage.

Going back to the accident, Norton is quite smart and should’ve been aware of the risks. Part of it was likely due to him having gotten used to the risks, as he’s had to deal with them all his life. But I wonder if the other part is if maybe he didn’t know about this report about the mine being unstable after being hit by a meteorite. The owner of this mine is Count Barriere, the same person who owns Moonlit River Park and contributed to/helped cause the Hullabaloo tragedy.

Moonlit River Park

Moonlit River Park was once a popular local attraction. Hosted by Count Barrier, the majestic city walls and roller coaster tracks across the Moon River were built in the Moon River area. The Moon River runs from south to north, passes through the track, flows in and out from under the city walls, which also creates a unique scene of this theme park, with the Moon River as the boundary line, and an approximately symmetrical pattern. In the early days of operation, this roller coaster track brought a steady stream of tourists to the Moon River. With the increase in income, Count Barrier has successively added haunted houses and merry-go-rounds, and signed a contract with the traveling circus called "Hullaballo", introducing malformed shows and circus performances. The bustling tourists made the Moon River Park famous, and the residents of the towns in the distance also came here.

Good revenues made Count Barrier decide to hold a grand event. Moon River Park will be open all night, closing the door. The closed park will allow people to temporarily be free from the uninteresting long night of curfew. The price is too high to stop the enthusiastic guests, and the tickets are sold out quickly. Laughter, fine wine, music, and tangy food aromas come as no surprise, this event will become a topic for the residents throughout the year. But no one expected that a crazy circus employee would turn the joyous carnival night into a nightmare. People cried and screamed, trying to escape the horrible figure wielding a chainsaw, but the locked gates and high walls cut off all the ways out. The only survivor was a young lady who jumped into the Moon River at the beginning of the chaos and escaped from the park under the wall following the current. People no longer talk about Moon River Park, it has become a secret that nearby residents cannot tell. It is said that even if these words are only spoken gently, a miserable cry will sound in the ear.

We know from Golden Cave’s backstory combined with the line for the map from in game and from the Little Girl’s comment about Golden Cave during the Time of Reunion event, that he apparently was desperately looking for something.

Despite that not a single piece of gold was ever found, Count Barriere still got what he wanted with this land.

I’ve also already discussed how bad mine owners typically were back in these days, what with treating miners as slaves, willing to dismiss and replace their entire workforce if they complained or asked for a raise in wages, not caring about health and safety just so they could save money, and so on. Especially with how Barriere is connected to and willing to help cause a massacre, I don’t think he would’ve cared enough to warn his workers about the mine being unstable. Maybe some of the miners that worked there when the meteorite first struck might know, but it’s been some time since then, and Norton, who is rather new to this mine, would definitely not have been told, either by Benny or Barriere. There’s a chance the 13th mine was crossed of due to Benny being aware that mine was dangerous, but I still don’t think it was the only reason, not with how obsessed he was with finding gold.

In which case, if Norton didn’t know about the mine being unstable, that could have contributed to his willingness to risk using dynamite in the mine.

While Norton was trapped in the mine, he never did find the gold. I believe the other miners trapped in a different part of the mine separate from where Norton was were with the gold. This comes from how, when Golden Cave was released, near the gold is where the ghouls could be found. These ghouls were likely the very miners that died in the accident, and are probably the very reason no one can get close to the gold now.

To be more specific, these ghouls are most likely to be “wendigos”. These monsters from folklore are affiliated with cannibalism, as any human who cannibalized to survive were said to turn into a wendigo. These creatures have an endless craving for human flesh, and whenever they ate another person, they supposedly grew in proportion to the meals they ate so they could never be full. They were cursed to wander, eternally seeking to sate their hunger until nothing was left and they starved to death. Wendigos are also associated with murder, greed, and gluttony. Some have even said that people overpowered by their greed could turn into wendigos. Regarding descriptions of wendigos, the most common include glowing eyes, long yellow fangs, long tongues, claws, tall (10-15 feet sometimes), were thin and emaciated (as a result of constantly starving), skin stretched so tight you could see their bones, sunken eyes, and looked skeletal with ashen and decaying skin.

To back up this idea, there’s how the word “starving” actually appears on the map for Golden Cave. This relates to how I was just explaining wendigos are associated with “starvation”.

Norton on the other hand ended up where the meteorite was. While he was trapped, Norton took a chunk of the meteorite with him. This is what he used to make his magnets, which are called “meteorite magnets”, and the rod in his nose.

The Famitsu article even specifically states this is what happened. But that’s not the only thing it says. It also mentions that his magnets, the things made from the meteorite, “disturbed his brain” or that the accident “tangled him up inside”. This is important because it says right before this that “his personality became all the more extreme” after the accident, “at times gloomy and depressed, while at other times explosively hot tempered and avaricious”.

Famitsu Article (Prospector Profile)

Norton Campbell in the eyes of others was always someone hard to deal with, whose emotions were as changeable as the weather. But all knew that he worked tirelessly to break free of his impoverished fate, and this intimidated them. When he fortunately survived a terrible mining accident, nobody came to hear out his experiences during the time. All they did was give him a few token words of comfort, and then they gave him a wide, wide berth. Norton himself never once brought up the terrible experience again, only silently polishing the large chunk of magnetic ore he received in the accident into a tool for prospecting metals.

Eventually he gave up manual labor, and became a prospector. But his personality became all the more extreme, at times gloomy and depressed, while at times explosively hot tempered and avaricious. Rumor has it that the magnets disturbed his brain, or that that terrible mining incident tangled him up inside. But one thing never changed. He always sought out chances to change his fate. When the invitation to the Manor appeared before him, those incredible sums of wealth looked to him like his next stepping stone! Come on, how could a ‘game’ be any darker than that mining incident?

I think part of the reason Norton became “more extreme”, according to both the character relations page and the famitsu article, was because of the meteorite at Golden Cave.

Famitsu Article

But his personality became all the more extreme, at times gloomy and depressed, while at times explosively hot tempered and avaricious.

The meteorite seems to have an effect similar to the one described in the Season 19 Essence 1 design notes. Specifically, it says something is influencing the participants at the manor and drawing out their inner “ugliness and desires”, until it arouses the “evil” hidden in them. Similar to this, there was a fern from the 1st anniversary package that was labeled with “Know Thyself”. Ferns are all throughout the backstory trailers and skins for Season 18 Essence 3 (Source of Evil) and Season 19 Essence 1 (Hollow), which is why I’m saying this fern and its label relates to this same info from the design notes. We also know that Barriere wanted something besides the gold from Golden Cave, and he did get it. It’s possible he was after the meteorite, which might be the thing influencing the people at the manor, based on how Golden Cave is on the same mountain that Oletus Manor is, the mountain Barriere is stated to own in Golden Cave’s backstory.

We know this is the same mountain Oletus Manor is on because, in Golden Cave’s backstory it says, after gold dust was found, Barriere “ordered the road to the mountain to be closed”. This matches up with the “pallets” Bane is stated to have found in his deduction 2 that “blocked the road” (on the mountain to Oletus Manor).

Bane’s Deduction 2: Remove Obstacles

Someone has blocked the road with pallets. What are they trying to do?

This is still a peaceful forest, despite these unsightly pallets. They'll get caught in the antlers.

So, if Barriere managed to get the meteorite, which is possible considering we know after the accident Norton was trapped with it, and if Norton was rescued that means the way to the meteorite was also clear. So if Barriere owned the mountain Oletus Manor was on, and he could’ve occupied the manor after the tragedy that killed the DeRoss couple before Baron DeRoss becomes owner, maybe the meteorite was moved there. It’s also possible that the meteorite simply being in Golden Cave, which isn’t far from the manor, that was still close enough to affect everyone in the manor without being moved.

In any case, the point I’m trying to make is the meteorite may have the very effect described in the Season 19 Essence 1 design notes, which draws out a person’s “inner ugliness and desires” and arouses the “evil” hidden in them. In which case, that would affect and enhance Norton’s desperation and “desire” to change his fate and find gold. As a result, that’s why he was more willing to do something risky like use dynamite.

After he’s rescued from the mine, it takes a long time for him to recover. Based on that 1 example, Norton may have broken several bones after the collapse which, combined with being burned over most of his body, it likely took him several months to fully recover (similar to the man from the example I gave). This would have cost him greatly, probably using up a lot of what savings he had. As he’s recovering, he attempts to talk to people about “his experiences”, but everyone just kept avoiding him. From the Famitsu article, it says they “All they did was give him a few token words of comfort, and then they gave him a wide, wide berth”. As a result, Norton becomes quiet and even more unsociable than he was before, and apparently “never once brought up the terrible experience again”.

Norton was traumatized by the mine accident, and as we see from his biography on the character relations page: “he changed his profession and became a geological surveyor to make a better living and to get away from the darkness of the mines”. The Famitsu article mentions something similar, about him becoming a prospector instead after the accident.

Famitsu Article

Eventually he gave up manual labor, and became a prospector.

His dislikes also prove this, as he is listed as having a dislike of “dark and enclosed environments”.

This means Norton acquired a fear of the dark (nyctophobia) and confined spaces (claustrophobia) after his experience of the mine accident and his time being trapped until he was rescued. Obviously, he doesn’t want to go down into the mines anymore, but he especially doesn’t want to go anywhere near Golden Cave. Part of his trauma also likely comes from knowing and seeing how he hurt and killed people. Besides that, I wonder if more of his trauma comes from encountering any ghouls in Golden Cave or even something to do with either the meteorite or the large eye down in Golden Cave.

Speaking of the eye, there’s 1 theory that the eye belongs to Gla’aki.

He is a “Great Old One” that came to earth with (imprisoned in) a meteorite from space. When the meteor landed, Gla’aki was freed. The depression where the meteorite fell became a lake, and Gla’aki lived at the bottom of the lake. He has countless metal spikes on his body (like a hedgehog) that he uses when he turns a human into one of his followers by piercing them with one of these spikes and injecting them with fluids that allow him control the person and their thoughts. Gradually, this person essentially turns into a living corpse or undead puppet (a process apparently called “The Green Decay”), and after a long enough time, if they are exposed to sunlight, they will turn to dust. Gla’aki’s followers can help this happen by holding down a person if they try to resist. New followers act almost just like a normal person (eating and drinking and working during the day with no problems), and they are independent and intelligent to some extent, but the older they get, the more zombie-like they become. Gla’aki is also apparently a telepathic creature, as he uses radio waves or a “magnetic force” generated by his brain to control a person.

Interesting coincidence, but the author of the story about Gla’aki was a man by the name of Ramsey Campbell.

The meteorite Gla’aki came from was said to have left a depression that became a lake. This can relate to Golden Cave as Golden Cave and Lakeside, which has a lake, are connected.

First, there’s the similar green lights (fireflies most likely) in both locations.

Then there’s how one of the exit gates in Lakeside leads to Golden Cave (it probably even connects with the exit gate on the bottom (3rd) level of Golden Cave).

Also, there’s all the green in Lakeside, including in the sky, connects with all the green in Golden Cave, including the eyeball in the mine and the little green fire things. (All the green makes me think of Gla’aki’s “green decay”).

The fact that there’s a mine near Lakeside Village comes from Fiona’s 1st letter (with the “mountain” it mentions relating to how the Golden Cave is located in a mountain owned by Count Barriere, based on the background for Golden Cave).

I’ve already explained that this “narrow mountain path” is the one that leads to Oletus Manor, the one referenced in Bane’s deduction 2.

This mine is also what the disciples call their “sanctuary”, the one according to Fiona’s 1st letter that the remains of their offerings are thrown into for the “last part of the ceremony”. Yidhra’s 1st letter confirms the sanctuary is the mine.

Considering what I said earlier about the ghouls and them potentially being wendigos, I wonder if all the food thrown into Golden Cave is going to them (and thus what if the remains of their sacrifices and the last part of their ceremony could be for Gla’aki?).

Going back to Norton after the accident, despite everything, Norton hasn’t given up on “changing his fate” and getting out of poverty. Maybe part of the reason is because he didn’t want the deaths of the miners at Golden Cave to go to waste. He couldn’t give up yet.

Famitsu Article

But one thing never changed. He always sought out chances to change his fate. When the invitation to the Manor appeared before him, those incredible sums of wealth looked to him like his next stepping stone!

After the accident, Norton became a geological prospector, which is how he is attempting to earn money rather than returning to being a miner and having to go back down into any mines. A prospector is someone who searches for mineral deposits, while geophysics applies physics to investigate and define objects or materials in the earth’s subsurface without direct contact.

Specifically, with his magnets, Norton is performing magnetic prospection.

The magnetic field of the Earth magnetizes rocks to a variable degree which is determined by their magnetic susceptibility, intensity, and magnetizing force.

A magnetic survey is one of the exploration tools used for measuring localized changes in the Earth’s magnetic field, caused by sedimentary rocks or mineral ore bodies. The magnetic properties of mineral ore bodies and igneous rocks allow them to be easily identified and mapped, via magnetic surveys. This survey involves mapping changes in the magnetic field to determine the shape, size, and location of such ore bodies. In other words, with this method, you examine magnetic anomalies in the field to find various minerals.

Magnetometers is a tool used when performing magnetic surveys to measure the strength and direction of the magnetic field in the vicinity of the instrument. This method can be used, not just to find magnetic deposits, but also to map archaeological structures or find things like iron artifacts (which explains some things like Norton’s small furnace accessory).

To go back to what magnetic susceptibility is, it is a measure of the ability of a substance to be magnetized in the presence of an external magnetic field. In principle, magnetic susceptibility measurement is based on the amount and type of magnetic minerals within the rocks. In cases of positive magnetic susceptibility, the material within the rock can be ferromagnetic, antiferromagnetic, or paramagnetic. The material is said to be diamagnetic if the magnetic susceptibility is negative. Depending on what the magnetic susceptibility is, you can identify what kind of mineral is nearby.

Based on the Famitsu article, Norton’s magnets apparently serve to help him perform this method. With everything involved and required for this, Norton is definitely quite smart and potentially ahead of his time. It fits considering Norton is “full of curiosity” and loves learning. He may not have been able to get or afford much of an education, but obviously he’s gotten to where he is by himself, likely by reading and studying on his own. Not to mention, I think while this is definitely an alternate way for him to earn money, I also think he’s doing it because he enjoys it more than being a miner. From his birthday info, we know he likes “ore evaluation”, “ore excavation”, and “ore collecting”, while the character relations page states he likes “precious metals” and “natural gems”.

Norton Campbell

Birthday: March 19

Occupation: Prospector

Hobbi(es): Ore Collecting

Good at: Ore Appraisal, Ore Excavation

Dislike(s): Dark & Closed Environments

Like(s): Precious Metals, Natural Gems

Moving on, the next thing that happens is Norton’s 2nd birthday letter.

According to the character relations page’s summary, someone has asked Norton to assassinate some woman at Oletus Manor, a woman Norton considers to potentially be “arrogant”. Based on the Time of Reunion event, it’s possible this woman may be Melly (who is shown with him in the animation videos and during the in-game event). This relates to how 1 of Norton’s dislikes is “arrogant rich people” according to the character relations page. Arrogant rich people like the mine owners who served as his employers. The 2nd half of the letter talks a lot about why he dislikes the rich, but especially when he says “The poor find it difficult to lead a comfortable life, while all the rich need to do is wave their banknotes around”.

It’s because of this job that Norton heads to Oletus manor.

But there’s something else about this letter that I want to discuss. In this letter, Norton is talking to himself. This letter really gets into how Norton has 2 sides. We’ve already seen this brought up by the Famtisu article and how he switches between 2 extremes: gloomy and depressed, and then hot-tempered and avaricious. This same article talked about how Norton’s brain is getting screwed up by the meteorite and how it’s influencing him, and I’ve explained earlier that the meteorite’s influence is to draw out a person’s inner “ugliness and desires”, until it arouses the “evil” hidden in them. We’ve already heard from Benny that Norton had a “polarized façade” even before the mine accident, but that was only because he had to act friendly to get the info he needed. He’s always been gloomy based on what Benny says, and the reason for that is because of his current “fate” and life (of hardship and poverty). But it’s not until after the mine accident and meteorite that I think Norton actually developed 2 sides. The “gloomy” side should be Norton’s real personality, while the greedy side is the one being influenced by the meteorite like the Famitsu article says.

The fact the character relations page describes Norton as “thrifty” rather than greedy helps prove Norton’s greedy side is not the real Norton, and is the one influenced by the meteorite.

This greedy side is the one in the letter trying to convince Norton to take the job and kill the woman so he can get all the money being offered. The fact this side of Norton is working so hard to convince Norton shows that Norton doesn’t want to kill the woman.

Norton having 2 sides also fits with how I mentioned the name Campbell means “crooked mouth”. This matches with how in official art and in-game half of Norton’s facial expression is smiling, while the other isn’t (something closer to a frown or unhappy).

From all this, especially the letter, it’s possible that Norton (at least due to the meteorite’s influence) has either dissociative identity disorder (aka split personality disorder) or bipolar disorder. Bipolar disorder is a mental disorder that causes unusual shifts in mood, energy, activity levels, concentration, and a person’s ability to carry out day-to-day tasks. People with this have periods of unusually intense emotions, changes in sleep patterns, activity levels, and uncharacteristic behavior – often without recognizing their likely harmful or undesirable effects (mood episodes). Moods range from very “up”, elated, irritable, or energized behavior (known as manic episodes) to very “down”, sad, indifferent, or hopeless periods (known as depressive episodes).

Besides his personality, this letter also goes a bit into Norton’s life (at least from the perspective of the greedy side):

Over the last 20 years, I lived like a rat in the gutter. I spent days under the ground in the dark just so I could earn a minimal living. Scars from the blasts crawled all over my face like maggots. The constant scorn and ridicule... I endured it every time just so I'd get a chance to climb up the ladder.

It's ridiculous how much effort I put into this—anyway, I've finally managed to crawl out from the rat hole. I no longer have to pick and pull on the disgusting ash. Those who did nothing but laugh at me deserve to stay underground and be stepped on like maggots forever.

It confirms he earned very little and had a “minimal living”, or as the letter puts it “like a rat in the gutter”. Due to being a miner, he spent most of his days “under the ground in the dark”. He also mentions the “constant scorn and ridicule” that he had to “endure” every day just so he’d “get a chance to climb up the ladder”, which refers to Norton’s desire to change his fate and get out of poverty. This plus how he talks about “those who did nothing but laugh at me” is similar to the Famitsu article talking about people being “intimated” by how hard he worked. These things should go with the mention of having to offer an “olive branch” when he was acting friendly by caring for the old miners to get info about gold mines. This should prove that, the reason Norton had to offer an “olive branch” aka make peace or reconcile is because the very people he had to act friendly too, including these old miners, were the same ones Norton is saying gave him “constant scorn and ridicule” and “did nothing but laugh at me”. They laughed at how hard he worked because they didn’t understand why he did it. They laughed at his dream to get out of poverty, likely because they knew it would be essentially impossible for him to do. They thought he was just wasting his time and tiring himself out for nothing. This also explains why Norton didn’t think twice about leaving Benny behind. None of these people had ever treated him nicely or actually cared about him. They’d only ever treated him badly. So he decided not to care about them, to emotionally distance himself from all their insults so he wouldn’t be hurt by them.

Last thing about the letter is the very last part: “Such a simple ‘game’, such a generous employer. Clear an obstacle and you'll get a load of money. Isn't this much simpler than what you used to do?”. This parallels exactly what the Famitsu article said: “When the invitation to the Manor appeared before him, those incredible sums of wealth looked to him like his next stepping stone! Come on, how could a ‘game’ be any darker than that mining incident?”. What I find interesting is how both essentially state how they don’t think this “game” could be any harder than what he used to do or darker than the mine accident. He’s already always risking his life and has already been through a traumatizing experience. Any game, even a game that could include killing other people or potentially dying himself, doesn’t faze him at all. His life is already worse than anything this game could put him through.

I don’t think Norton at this point is even afraid of dying. This is proven by how Norton literally smiles when he gets downed in game. Part of it comes from his guilt from the mine accident. He made a huge mistake that cost some people their lives, and left him with lasting scars, both mental and physical. The other part comes from just how hard his life has been. That and the fact he’s had to face the risk of dying every day he works as a miner. This is nothing new for him.

#idv #identity v #identity v norton #idv norton #idv prospector #identity v prospector #norton campbell #idv norton campbell #identity v norton campbell #sirenjose analyses and theories

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ceolforthesoul · 2 months

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The Soy Boys swap classic covers for their very own anthems for lovers

Helloooo lovely people and fáilte go dtí Ceol for the Soul - The podcast that puts the warm and fuzzy feelings received from live music into words. For those of you who are new here, my name is Aisling — a singer-songwriter from the West of Ireland currently living in Groningen, a city in the north of the Netherlands. I am constantly in awe of artists succesfully managing to pierce my heart and bring me with them into their whimsical inner worlds while performing live. Ceol for the Soul is a space where I attempt to transfer the essence of the musical experiences I encounter to you through reviews, interviews and opinion pieces.

As usual, before I begin the episode - I invite you to pause this here for now and rejoin me after you have listened to a song from this week’s spotlight artist… The Soy Boys! This is the first time I get to introduce one of Groningen’s local gems to the podcast — and what a gezellig group to guide you into the city’s vibrant music scene.

A new side to the once-cover band was unveiled at a sunkissed Noorderzon performance last August. With a Spotify release of two original songs a few months later, The Soy Boys revealed the unexplored musical destinations they wanted to reach. So go ahead and follow the path they have begun to pave by listening to one or both of their released tracks --- which I hope stop you in your tracks to dance your heart out.....

What struck you most about The Soy Boy’s sound? Did your mind wander to any unexpected places while listening? Can you imagine the electricity produced by these songs while being played live?

This liveness and the band's continued discovery of sounds can be envisioned while I reflect on The Soy Boy’s most recent concert...

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A band’s name that matched countless stickers painted on my student house walls appeared on the Instagram story of Simplon, a popular music venue in the city. Every Thursday Simplon UP gives its stage to UP and-coming artists in Groningen — the 14th of March was The Soy Boy’s turn. There was no doubt that I wanted to go and support Wout, the band’s lead singer who I’ve gotten to sing alongside myself several times over the years. His bandmates whose friendship outside that label is evident are guitarist Tom Horowtiz, drummer David Hübner and bassist Luuk van Keeken. This was the first time I got to experience a Soy Boy set full of originals and the band's evolved identity was quite literally written all over the performance.

The Soy Boys swapped classic covers for their very own anthems for lovers. For forty-five attentive minutes, we were transported into the minds and lives of the band like never before with no emotions being spared. Arriving to an already captivated crowd at the end of their first song reflected the soulful and sentimental atmosphere that lasted the entire night. The second song 'Lucky" was a charming and warm welcome --- I felt exactly like its title for being able to catch it. Tom’s rising guitar riffs amplified the meaning of Wout’s words as he sang “Tomorrow’s gonna be a bit better, it doesn’t have to be this hard” — the first glimpse into the playful call-and-answer conversations that Tom and Wout would have between voice and guitar throughout the show.

This joyful chatter thrived in ‘New Shoes’, one of the grooviest numbers of the night - letting loose and surrendering to the move and flow of the absorbed audience was the only option. Then David abandoned his drumsticks for a guitar and brought the band (Tom especially) to an incredible bluegrass-inspired melody. The Soy Boys' commitment to experimentation and having fun with the endless musical capabilities that can reveal their hearts was bleeding through every note.

Aiste, The Soy Boy's manager blessed us with the lyrics of ‘Bright & Blue’, “We used to think dreaming too big was too small” and many more of her heartfelt lines floated longingly beside Wout’s soothing synth. The words of someone close to The Soy Boys radiating through the band captured a deeply personal feeling that the lyrics of a stranger could not.

'Everything a Little Bit’ was a well-chosen way to wind down the evening while simultaneously winding it up with the heightened energy this song created. A very impressive extended ‘looooooveeeeeee’ from 'Only a Weekend Though' closed the set and encapsulated the overarching theme of the night. The Soy Boys' breakthrough into original material has put all of their hearts on the sleeves of their colourful shirts.

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mxvladdy · 4 years

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Diavolo- True Form

Whoooooooo weeeee! ‘Pologies for the wait on these longer posts. I’ve been hit with a one two punch of house emergencies and sudden costly ass repairs, so my creative juices have been rightly squashed as of late.

Plus side I got my drawing tablet and drafting table back so I can neaten up my blog lay out now (yay!)

Anyway this one was a challenge in the best possible ways. I really like Diavolo because of how little we know about him so it gave me some wiggle room. Or at least what I know of him- im only on like chapter 23 of the stories. Idk if I did him justice as this is angsty af but I sure had a blast writing it!

Hope ya like! Next up: Beelzebub

Trigger warning: Mention of blood, and swearing.

Diavolo-

He'll never show you, so don't ask. His true form is god-like in its own right and such knowledge, such truly raw demonic power in its natural form is not for your mortal eyes.

No matter what your lineage, it would break you. And despite his roles and being the literal devil, he doesn’t want you suffering.

Sometimes when he thinks you wouldn't notice he relaxes his hold on reality, just a fraction. He wants to relieve some of the tension that is always building just below the surface. Like closing your eyes when you have a tension headache. The mental energy he has to exert to keep face is enormous. Regular glamour doesn’t work nearly as well as his own, or Barbato’s magic.

But you see hints during your downtime spent in his company. A ripple in his reflection on the window pane. Unexplainable shadows dancing across his exposed skin. Too many teeth in his mouth when he laughs. Sometimes when you stare into his eyes you see something indescribable staring back behind them. His usually warm and inviting gaze darkening. A barest flicker, a hulking bestial thing kept locked behind in his golden gaze. It's enough to freeze the blood in your veins.

On certain nights when you can slip away from the brothers you stay in his room. Lying awake, you watch his magic wane and shift as he slumbers. Sometimes you see runes, or at times letters. You are tempted to write them down and ask Solomon. But something stops you each time.

The worst images are the faces. Unknown souls trapped beneath his flesh clawing to be freed. Silent screams fading back into his body as he dreams. Your fragile fingers trace the patterns they leave as you wait for the next day wrapped in his embrace.

Only once have you seen more of his form then he would ever wish. The depths of his strength and mental fortitude were unknown to you so the slip up took you both by surprise. He masks the error well, but the sudden shift in energy in the room couldn’t be suppressed .

You are suddenly so aware of the oppressive weight of gravity on your frame. Your bones grinding together under the force of his aura. You panic, desperate by the need to breathe, but are unable to draw even the smallest bit of oxygen as it is robbed from the room. Time and reality wrapped too, distorting in ways only you thought only Barbatos could do. You knew in that moment the sudden dread of death, how mortally was but a rusty shackle tethering you down.

He collects himself, dispelling the energy and locking his glamour down tight to protect you. But that split second of fury felt like an eternity to you as you sink to the floor. You hiccup a shaky sob and shiver. Your fragile human mind bowing under the strain of what it cannot comprehend. Scolding hot tears fall from your cheeks, before splashing crimson the stone below you.

You didn't approach him again for over a month. No matter how strong you are, some things were better off unseen.

Mini Fic

He didn’t know. For once in his ancient pitiful existence, he had been unaware of his surroundings. It had been for just a moment, one tiny crack in his veneer. The foolishness of Mammon and Belphegor’s actions finally poked the right nerve. He wouldn’t hurt them, for Lucifer’s sake. That prideful demon would never forgive him if he did. But he could scare them. A quick look at his true self; a flash of the deepest bowels of hell. Enough to give them a reminder of their positions and standing in his court. He had expected their whimpers of fear, could taste the acidic tinge of it exuding from their pores. What he didn’t expect though was your blood curdling screams alongside.

Ironically, he would have to thank the second eldest later. His fast thinking is the only thing that saved you from complete damnation. His body shielded yours, taking the brunt of the stronger daemons hellish might for you. What little magic Mammon still had left used to protect you. Though, while your vision was blocked, you could still feel his oppressive presence. It racked your mortal flesh. Diavolo knew what affects his power had on humans. He spent years breaking and consuming damned souls with zeal after all.

The brothers had run from him after that, screaming for Simone. Barbatos following close behind, a look of consternation on his usually impassive face. You had been so limp in Mammon's arms. Diavolo could do nothing, shocked by his own weak will and realization that he might have ruined everything. You had been whisked away so quickly by his faithful servant and the brothers that he hadn’t had a chance to look you over himself. But the brief moment he saw will haunt him for years to come. Your eyes red from the sudden haemolacria, the blood staining your clothes and face. Your fingers digging away at your soft skin, black and purple blotches staining what he could see. Mouth opened wide on a silent scream. He knew what you must have seen. The souls of the damned trapped under his glamour breaking free to latch on to your unmarred soul trying to drag you back with them.

Against his butler's advice he stands at your door now days later trying to see you. He couldn’t sit around and just hear updates second hand. The brothers had been keeping guard most days in a valiant attempt to keep him away. But he could only be waylaid for so long before he used his rank against them.

He had arranged a full council meeting. Every one of the brothers knowing full well it was to get them out of his way. Yet, the order was absolute. This time none of the brothers could reject it. Barbatos would keep them in that room for eternity if he so wished for it. He hated using his age and power against them, but he saw no other way to get to you.

It was foolish now, standing as he was in front of your door. A part of him hoping you would turn the knob and let him in. Let him comfort you for once, instead of the asinine distractions the brothers offered. He could help too. Hells, he wanted to. He wanted to be closer to you. Power discrepancy be damned. The other part of him knowing it was for the best that you didn’t. Your guardian and tormentor all in one. He listens to your muffled sobs for a moment fighting with his feet to stay cemented to the floor instead of heading back in defeat.

"When my father was still around he took me down to the deepest depths of the kingdom. Where the worst of the traitors and sinners are imprisoned." His deep baritone rumbles through your door during a break in your crying. "It’s a place few seldom go; even now I have yet to return. Back then he told me ‘there will never be a human soul that is undeserving of punishment. Even the ones destined for the celestial realm are tethered to sin.’ At that time I believed him. The things I saw in your realm... " The prince chuckles wearily.

He remembers the ever present scowl on the old King's face. His dark eyes looking out at the sea of damned souls he controlled. Even as a young daemon, fresh into his wings and still sharpening his horns to impress others he could tell how much his father detested his position. How it had warped him, turning him bitter and cold, even to his mate and only child.

Diavolo never wanted to be like that. Not to the ones he supposedly cared for at the very least. "I think that is why he hated the other realms so much.” He continued. “Humans, for their ability to choose which realm they would eventually end up in after they pass. That even the worst sinners could find redemption enough at the last moment to get to the pearly gates. While daemons, no matter how well they served, or the duties they did for the good of their own would never be seen as equals to our celestial counterparts or yours. That this existence is all we'll ever be destined to have. Nightmares and monsters, stories to tell little human children to keep them in line.” He pauses, collecting himself. “I believed wholeheartedly that every human deserved the punishments only my kind could dowel out. But, in this past year I have spent with you, I find myself changing. You are so undeserving of such torment. Somehow you are understanding and forgiving beyond measure to us. You handle our ill tempers with such grace. For daemons such as us, it is staggering, and humbling. I regret that I have hurt you so deeply and have broken your trust. I swear it as the head of this realm I would never intentionally do so." He looks at the door handle willing it to open. " I am so sorry."

Your crying picks up again. Huge heaving sobs that rattle your chest. Great Father, he just keeps making it worse. Clearing his head Diavolo turns.

Rejection of this nature was new to him. No one had ever dared to ignore him, especially such as this. The royal in him- his father's blood- seethed that he would even stoop so low as to grovel to a short lived thing like yourself. Even deeper yet, it demanded another taste of your essences. You little soul kept safe behind your rib cage. He wanted it added to his collection, kept tucked away deep within his maws.

It was sick; it was wrong. He chokes on the idea. The intrusive thought burrowing deep. How deplorable was he? Perhaps the angels were right to keep him out of heaven.

You didn't show to class the following day, or the days after. Unsurprising to him and the seven of the inner council. He figured the other day wouldn’t change anything. But it was utter agony to him. These days trapped in his office only getting short and curt updates on your health from Lucifer. It had been a special kind of torment.

Today he sat once again at his desk staring at some godforsaken bitching of a royal cousin. He knew this whelp. Some backwater thrice removed eons ago. Yet he was demanding an audience? The gall. The ink of their eligible handwriting makes him cross eyed. Would this day ever cease? He looks to his hourglass, the sands within seemingly frozen in time.

"My Lord, perhaps you should take a moment to stretch your legs?" Barbatos moved from his corner. Gloved hand coming to rest on top of the same three lines he had been reading for the past two hours. "This work could wait another evening I’m certain ."

"Did I do the right thing my friend?" Diavolo doesn't even bother answering the question his servant posed. They both knew he wouldn't. "This program. Our human exchange students. Solomon is one thing, but-"

"Your will and path is absolute." Barbatos states. "There are no mistakes within you, merely stumblings onto different paths."

With a gentle push Barbatos moves the hulking demon out of his way to collect and organize the scrolls and letters scattered about the large desk. "You made the right choice bringing them here. Look at what they have done. They are entertainment to you are they not?"

The prince rose knocking his desk aside and descended on his butler. His true form out in all its unholy glory now. His highly condensed magic distorting the study as if he was a black hole. The axis of the room shifts. His priceless collection of books and toys disintegrating from the cold radiation he emits.

It was all for show really. There was nothing he could do to an ancient being such as Barbatos. So he lashed out, throwing a tantrum in the security of his office. The hopeless agitation he felt fueling the flames of his rage. His butler had only added holy water to his already festering wounds.

Barbatos had been by his side for time in memoriam. The crafty bastard had helped raise him. Had shaped him into the ruler he was today. If anyone could break and remold him it would be his oldest companion.

The dark haired daemon waited for the waves of agitation to dry up. Moving only when the prince was in his more presentable demonic form. Large barrel chest heaving as he reined himself in. “Are you back to your senses?” He asks coolly, already categorizing the items to replace and furniture to be mended.

"I had not meant for it to go like this." Diavolo croaks into his hands collapsing back on what remained of his desk. Building a bridge between realms, yes. That noble idea was the greater purpose of this program, but the rest of it. The classes, and dances. The parties where he threw his newest toys about to see how they would react to things other mortals worshiped? That had been for his own curiosity and amusement. Lesser beings navigating a foreign world blind to the dangers that were right under their very nose. Bring a mortal with no magic into his realm? Deep down he knew this was an inevitability. Especially with the freedoms he granted them. He just didn’t think he would get so attached.

“No one believes that you would hurt them on purpose.” His butler cuts off his downward spiral. “It would ruin the program. That is what you are so stressed about, right?” Barbatos eyes him skeptically. Diavolo, himself, and Lucifer had spent many sleepless weeks constructing and negotiating this program. If the Arch Angels heard a mortal was hurt down here it could very well end this little escapade. But the look in the prince’s eyes told a different story.

A warm glow emanated from his cheeks and he was unable to meet the old daemon’s gaze. Ah. "Or perhaps things have changed?" Barbatos smiles coyly up from beneath his bangs. "You are your mother's son after all. Neither of you were ever able to stem your bleeding hearts for long." Diavolo squawked indignantly but didn’t argue. Instead he merely turns a darker shade of red and curses under his breath.

He skipped out on court that evening. Not that he cared much. The other nobles would no doubt use the time to gossip about his whereabouts and uncouth behavior of late. Truth be told, he was avoiding the brothers more than anything else. They had made it expressly clear (some more then others) how they felt about him currently. He wouldn't doubt that Belphegor had a few more brothers on his side now.

Instead he stood at your door once more with a tea tray in hand. He had bumped into Simone on the way. The angel had come to bring you dinner and to check up on the last of your wounds. Celestial magic worked miracles on those who have been touched by the darker arts. Diavolo was grateful for his talents. And, by some miracle, Simone had made it abundantly clear he was not going to bring this to the higher ups on his end either.

Upon seeing the prince slinking up the house's stairwell the other man had simply smiled and offered him the tray. “I suddenly got a message from Luke. Could you perhaps drop this by our friend’s door?” Diavolo had accepted without preamble, large hands dwarfing the platter of little tea cakes and sandwiches. The young cherubs work no doubt. His cooking was a fine treat, and a great incentive to at least open the door.

“Hello again.” He knocks twice. “I just wanted to check in on you. I know I am the last person you wish to see but I was hoping to talk?” Silence greets him. Were you awake? He breathes deeply and focuses on picking up your vitals. You were up, your heart thumping steady somewhere in the room. That was good. “I also have dinner for you. Simone had an urgent matter to attend to so he- for better or worse- entrusted this to me.”

Diavolo searches hopelessly for something else to say. He couldn’t just leave the food and go. He needed to see you. “I don’t plan on staying long today. I understand when I am not wanted, but I cannot help myself but be worried for you. Perhaps this is just me contritioning, because I know I caused this. The amount of times I have been called a ‘ass’ by Solomon over this have been staggering.” He rambles. After another bout of silence from your end he coincides. “I see- I will leave the food by the door and let you rest.” Defeated he puts the food down and turns to leave.

The door clicks open slowly. One bloodshot eye peeking through the crack. “Oh mio piccolo mortale.” He loses his grip on your shared tongue at a loss. You looked- you must have been in the hall longer then he or the brothers had known. Such damage couldn’t be done in a few moments. Your skin was healing as nicely as Lucifer had said, but the deep purple scarring still remained on the surface. The burn pattern of it all was random. Twisting wounds that reflected an oily sheen from the light of the hallway. “I-.”

“I know-” You cut him off with a raised hand. “and I feel as though I owe you an apology too.” Your voice was so weak and shaky. A mockery of your normally strong and jovial tone. Hearing you laugh at school had brightened the dreary halls. He hadn’t realized it until you weren't there.

“You owe me nothing.” Diavolo says in earnest. He watches you contemplate your next words before throwing whatever you were going to say away.

“Would you like to come in?” Your eyes drop to the tray. “Luke always makes more than I can eat.”

“I don’t think that would be wise.” He backs out. All his plans crashing and burning around his feet. His actions had been irreparable.

“Perhaps not,” You open the door wider taking the tray and heading to your side table, leaving him no room to argue. “But then again, being a lamb among such wolves as yourself and the brothers isn’t smart either.” You meant it as a joke but he couldn’t even muster a chuckle. It was true. Gods. “Dia-” You approach him again but falter at the last second.

As much as you wanted to be close to him again the memories were still so fresh in your mind. The cold hell fire of his magic ensnaring you, searing your skin. The whispered words of sinners long since past still echoing in your head, all in languages you’ve never heard before. The worst though had to be the screaming. Lost souls begging for help. Some sounded so familiar…You shutter involuntarily.

You wanted to hate him for this. Curse him for putting you through this pain. But how much could you blame him? Or any of them? They were daemons. Whether he meant to hurt you or not, it truly had only been a matter of time before it happened. It would be hypocritical of you to fear or hate him forever over this. Six of the seven brothers have threatened your life before, and you have forgiven them. Hell, one of them actually killed you. What’s more was that Diavolo’s wrath hadn’t even been directed at you.

Wrong place at the right time; seemed to be your forte. “Please, come in.” You repeat again firmer than before mustering up either courage or sheer human stupidity to order him in. You couldn’t tell the difference anymore. “We need to talk.”

He enters, following at your heel like a lost puppy. All air of princedom gone as you clicked the door shut. Diavolo fiddles with his hands, old habits from childhood coming with his nerves. He didn’t know what to expect anymore. Yelling? Some kind of beratement? A plea to go home and never look back? He would let you.

You pass by him, giving him a large berth of space to get to your seat. “Tea?”

Diavolo jerks his head to you. He had forgotten momentarily the plate of food he had used to get access to you. You smile sheepishly pushing it and a plate of sweets towards him with your unbandaged knuckles. He doesn’t move till your hand retracts back to your lap. You jerk your head to the open seat waiting for him. You weren’t going to take no for an answer.

“I- thank you.” The daemon sits making himself as small as possible in the straight back chair. He takes the porcelain and drinks mindlessly. The scalding hot tea doing little to help the tightness of his throat, but it did thaw some of the ice in his mind.

“Are-how…” He fumbles so unsure of what to do next. “I see you’ve been keeping up with your school work.” Diavolo closes his eyes, wincing internally at his words. That’s what he comes up with? Idiotic.

You smile anyway, eyeing the massive pile of books and paperwork spewn about your bed. “Yeah. I’ve taken to doing my school work with Levi in his room. Mammon and Beel are nice enough to drop it off to the teachers when they are due.” He nods. He knew this of course. But it was nice to hear it from you. But yet, you don’t meet his eyes. Far too afraid to see what hid behind them.

The thought of being dragged back into those dark depths again makes your pulse quicken. You instead stare at your nail beds, finding them more interesting. They were purple now. The nails stained black by the contact with his magic. “Will- will that go away?” He asks. Demonic curses or taints were nigh impossible to remove fully. Disgustingly, he hoped they didn’t. Then your nails would match his. The darker depths of his soul coo at the idea, happy that in a small way every daemon would know your his. Not as good as a pact, but as close as he could get to being a part of your little mortal life.

“I’m not sure.” You reply honestly bringing your hands up to place them on the table. “Simone and Solomon have done what they could. But, it is as good as it’s going to get for now. They say it could fade with time.” You look up at him, eyes gazing to the left of his face. “Luke thinks I should see a stronger angel.” Diavolo winces, the thought stung, and terrified him. “I told him no.”

That surprised him. This was your chance. The celestial realm had been skeptical from the beginning. If they knew, it would be a perfect caveat for them to step in. “Why?” Finally you look at him. The fear was still there. Hesitation evident in your eyes. Yet you forced yourself to look at him, fighting through your trepidation.

“Did you mean what you said earlier? About your father and what you think of me?”

“Of course.” He replies without hesitation reaching for your cold hands. You flinch but don’t move away. It felt-nice. His warmth chasing away the perpetual chill that covered your fingertips. Idly you stroke his strong hands with your thumbs.

“Then, I think we can work on this privately.” Slowly but surely you felt like you could fix this. Not for the program, but for yourself.

#obey me #obey me diavolo #obey me headcanons #gods have mercy I wanna smooch him so bad

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voiceswithoutlips · 3 years

Text

Fallen - Chapter One

— pairing: OT7 x Reader (F) — genre: Fantasy AU, Vampire AU, Soulmate AU, Fluff, Eventual Smut, ANGST , Poly!BTS — word count: 2.8k — Rating: M — warnings: minor character death, slight gore — beta: Thank you so much @taegularities and @unoriginal-username15432 for all you feedback <3

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— chapter summary:

The people you killed, they haunted your dreams. They would say to you, “What you do always comes back to you, there is no escape from this miserable life.” It was true, there was no escape. In your world there was only darkness, sorrow, fear, hate and death, always death.

— A/N: It is I, your idiotic author. Welcome to my blog <3

Ch. 2

The sound of rain was like a roaring beast. It was almost midnight and the roads were lonely. You stood there in an alley facing a madman, uh, mad-vampire. His eyes were glowing red; he was wearing a dirty grey cloak on his rag like cloth. His brown hair had gotten messy when he’d run away from you but there he was, still as a dead body, waiting for you to attack. There were thick walls on both sides of the alley and behind him was a dead end. He was trapped.

“Lockham, why don’t you come back with me? That way I won’t have to kill you,” you suggested to the psycho killer vampire who stood a mere ten feet away from you. There was no way for him to run so maybe he would attack. You weighed your options - fight? That would’ve been nice; at least your body would’ve gotten some exercise.

He laughed. “You think you can win? Destiny is waiting for you Hunter,” he said in an impressive voice. Another one of those ‘destiny’ believers. Apparently the Goddess had a plan for us all, not that you had much faith in it. Gods don't care about who kills whom or who eats what, they’re more concerned about their own entertainment. You’d never put much faith in any higher power, God or not, nobody gave a shit.

“You’ve killed people Lockham, you’ve been a very naughty vampire and now it’s time for your punishment,”you said as a teacher would say to a naughty kid. He took a step back.

“Who are you to punish me?” he mocked, showing you his blood covered teeth. He was just having a meal when you found him and then you two had a nice chase. You were glad that he ran, you wanted to stretch out your legs anyway.

“Exactly, I’m no one,” you said and took a step forward; he took a step back simultaneously and vanished. What? Vanished? How? You walked forward to investigate and sighed. How careless of you. There was a hole, he fell into the sewer. He must have used cloaking so that it would look like he vanished. The only thing he forgot was to close the hole. You shook your head, you hated wet places! You jumped down and landed lightly on your feet, without making a sound, perfect.

You were getting bored of chasing him, it was almost dawn and you needed your beauty sleep. You took a deep breath and pulled out your silver dagger. It was your favorite weapon. Silver was deadly to vampires. It was very pretty with a finely carved snake on the handle with emeralds where the eyes should be; a gift from someone you had known a long time ago. You closed your eyes and let your mind wander through the tunnels. Just like your immunity to silver, your telepathy was stronger than centuries old vampires and you could perform magic. You were a half-witch after all.

You found him running through the tunnels. As soon as your mind touched him, he froze. You were inside his mind now. Reading someone’s mind was nothing like watching a movie or reading a book. It was like waking up from a dream, you don’t remember what you saw or heard but the thing that you remember is the feeling, the essence of the dream. Every being has a certain essence, unique to them. Like walls that you can’t see or touch, but you know they’re there. You could clearly see the tunnel before you, but it was like a distant memory, you were no longer there.

You were in a room, an old room with cobwebs and dust. It smelled of something rotten, like a thousand dead rats. There were worn out clothes hanging from the ceiling - correction, there was no ceiling, just clothes hanging midair and swaying with the wind, except there was no wind. At one corner sat two rusty iron chairs. The window with broken glass showed a full moon.

There was an old cupboard on the wall with the yellow wallpaper. It was white as if someone had carved it from bone. There were noises coming from the cupboard, screeching, screaming, the cry of a baby, the soothing voice of a mother, someone’s last words. A shudder ran through your body. I will never ever do this again, you promised yourself.

You heard a creak from behind and you swiftly turned back. There he was, sitting in a corner, the little boy. He held a tattered grey cloak in his hands. His body was folded at impossible angles. He was white as a sheet, there was no blood in his body. He was thin with brittle bones. Dull brown eyes in a sunken face held unimaginable terror.

He looked up at you. “I’m tired, I want to sleep,” he whispered and quickly stole a glance at the cupboard.

“Then why don’t you sleep?” you whispered back, clearly not wanting to wake anything in there. Yeah, getting into someone’s mind was a nice thing, you could get full control over them... but there was a catch. If something went wrong in that mind or if you failed to escape in time, then you’d be trapped there forever, or die. You were pretty sure that you didn’t want to be trapped in this mind, not here.

“They don’t let me sleep, they keep me awake so that I could bring more and more food for them,” he replied, pointing a finger at the cupboard. Slowly, you understood what he was saying. ‘One without a soul feeds on other’s souls,’ the thought crossed your mind, not a good one.

“What if you don’t bring them food?” You already knew the answer but you asked anyway, maybe just to confirm it.

“I’ll go mad,” he whispered back with horrified eyes.

“Come to me, I’ll help you sleep.” The words left your lips, the real ones which were still attached to your face. Lockham turned back and slowly walked towards you. You could hear his heavy footsteps in the tunnel. At last he took the last turn and there he stood right in front of you. His eyes were blank. It was like there was no soul in his body, no life. You had him entirely under your control. If you told him to do ballet, he would dance like a professional, but you weren't a sadist. Life had already tortured him enough.

“Come forward,” you said softly, the sooner it ended the better. He walked forward and your silver dagger slashed through his throat, severing his spine, killing him in a second. Blood splashed and soaked his body. It was a merciful death, you had seen worse. There are worse things than death in this world. Death was just an easy escape.

You stood there for a moment, looking at him, wishing that the outcome would’ve been different. Were you feeling sorry for him? No, you were feeling sorry for yourself. You were a fifty year old vampire and in all your years as a hunter you’d killed hundreds of criminals, but you had never been able to save one.

People knew and people talked. Some said that you were cursed; you were the representative of death, the spawn of darkness. As a result, the council only gave you high profile cases, criminals that were too far gone to be saved. It was always death. The people you killed, they haunted your dreams. They would say to you, “What you do always comes back to you, there is no escape from this miserable life.” It was true, there was no escape. In your world there was only darkness, sorrow, fear, hate and death, always death.

You pulled out your cell phone and called the police. They would take care of the body. You bent down to leave a tracker near it, so they would find it easily. Lockham’s eyes were wide open, and you closed them. “At least one of us is at peace,” you whispered.

“You’re home!!” little Lilly exclaimed happily as you walked through the door. Your family was sitting in the dining room, having supper. You were the firstborn, the eldest of your father’s children. Your father was the Duke of Serafino, the City of Snake; one of the two warrior cities in the Vampire Kingdom. He was a nice man with brown eyes and hair, fair complexion, nicely built but a little short.

Your stepmother was a beauty; she had blue eyes, fair complexion, sharp features and hair spun like gold. Her children took after her, all cream and gold. They all hated you, except for the little one, Lilly.

“Yay, I’m home,” you said sarcastically. It was hard not to be nice to the little girl who looked at you with wonder in her eyes; she was so full of life. To no one’s wonder you had blood on your clothes and your darling step mother eyed it with a look in her eyes that said filthy. For you, it was like an invitation. You were planning to have supper in your room just like any other day, but you sat down at the end of the table. Your father was seated at his normal seat which belonged to the head of the family. The chair right across from him was the place for his wife, but that was your mother’s place and now it belonged to you.

Your mother had died in childbirth, you had her amber eyes and olive skin. Her name was Katina. People told you that she’d been a beauty; you had some of her pictures and sometimes you would feel her close beside you. It was a weird feeling, but not bad, not at all. You weren't a person who put her feelings on display, heck you hadn’t even cried in like twenty years! The only permanent feeling you had left was emptiness. You felt numb, like a shell, nothing inside, no love, no hope, not even sorrow after all these years. It felt like you were dead and it was true, your heart was dead.

“I would like some blood sausages Charles and don’t forget the wine,” you said cheerfully to the butler. He was a nice guy, always talked politely. You suspected that he was in love with the cook, Ms. Glen; it would be nice to have some love in this house which felt like living in a coffin.

“How was your day, Y/N?” Lilly asked, her cheerful eyes trained on you. You wondered for how long this child would be allowed to keep her innocence? When you’d been her age ...you shied away from that thought. Thoughts bring back memories and your memories were like old corpses, one would never want to dig them. Instead you took a bite of your sausage - man, they were delicious.

“It was almost nice, Bunny. I played who-can-catch-me with a friend and I won!!” Bunny was the nickname you had given her because she was never still. Everyone paused for a moment; it was really weird and funny at the same moment. You loved how all the eyes drifted to you and back to Lilly. She was beaming because you had won the game. You gave her a small smile.

“Oh that’s wonderful!! Where is your friend now?” Curious little kid, everyone paused again, including you this time.

“You see, we were playing on a bet. He lost the bet so he had to …go to another city.” You were very good at lying, but her beaming eyes and pure innocence made it hard. It was impossible to lie to that child.

“When would he come back?” she asked, and you sighed. Your plate was half empty and the looks everyone were giving you just killed the hunger inside. You stood up with the wine glass in my hand.

“Chew your food, Bunny,” you replied and left the room.

Your room was a mixture of blue and gold. The wallpapers were straight lines of different shades of blue. The furniture was of mahogany wood with fine carvings. The round rug was golden on the edge and blue in the middle, it looked like a pool of water. All the linen was blue and gold as well. Your bed was round and big with golden bedposts and curtains. You had a balcony of your own with a little fountain with a sculpture of a mother and her child. You had spent a lot of time taking care of the blue roses in your garden.

The front wall was covered with your music collection. You found peace in music, it was the only time when you could just forget everything and float. You quickly changed and crawled under the sheets, picking up the remote from the side table and pressing the play button. It was Mozart’s duo. What an amazing symphony! It helped you drift back to your happy memories.

Unlike your half brothers and sisters, you were raised in Tiria. It was a small town on the edge of Serafino. You were raised by the Countess of Tiria, a very kind woman. She had grace, beauty, and wealth but no children. She showered you with love and pretty gifts. You had excellent teachers for your education. You learned everything from crochet to fencing.

The manor there was old and beautiful. It had a beautiful garden and a whole forest around it. You would often go into the forest, just to explore it. Those were the happiest days of your life. Until your tenth birthday - the day the Countess died.

Just like the symphony, your thoughts turned darker. You’d been happy that day; the maids had told you that you were going to have a big birthday party. The Earl had been there for two weeks now. Your innocent mind had thought that he was there for your birthday. That morning you were out in the gardens, picking up some red roses for the Countess, it was something you did every day. You would just run into her room to put them on her side table, she loved that. You held the bunch of roses in your tiny hands, running through the house to her room. You were wearing a very pretty white dress with laces and pink ribbons. Your bare feet softly met the stone floor as you ran to her room and pushed the door, happily calling to her.

The Countess was there, lying on the floor in a pool of blood. There were bruises on her body and a sword, stabbed right through her heart. The handle of the sword was in the hands of the Earl. He twisted the blade with a cruel smile in his eyes. Then you screamed. The flowers falling from your hands, red roses into red blood - they were the same color. Your pretty white dress was now red. You backed away still screaming, leaving little red footprints on the floor. The maids came running to you and held you tight as you screamed and screamed. You don’t remember for how long you were screaming or what happened later.

You drifted off to sleep.

It was a beautiful forest. The trees were so thick that sunlight barely touched the ground and everything was covered in moss. You were standing there in front of a giant wolf. It wasn’t a werewolf, it smelled like a regular one but just giant, like a direwolf. It was growling at you, baring his teeth. You had no weapons with you, you double checked. You looked around for an escape, you could kill him with your teeth but they weren’t as sharp as they’d used to be. You looked at your nails, they were fragile. Heck! You were human!!

“Y/N, wake up!!” the wolf suddenly spoke in a girly voice. It didn’t make sense, really.

“Are you a girl?” you asked the wolf who was ready to kill you. Talking to an animal, guess you had finally lost your sanity.

“Y/N!!” Someone was shaking you, trying to wake you up without much success. Then you realized you were sleeping under a bunch of blankets and pillows. It was three in the morning; you could tell by the smell of the air. You peeked at the person who had dared to disturbed you. It was Lily.

“What is it, Bunny?” you asked sleepily. It was good she had practice understanding you while you sleep talked, if it was anyone else, they would’ve thought you were talking gibberish.

“I had a bad dream,” she said with a puppy face. You knew what she wanted; she wanted to sleep with you.

“Me too,” you replied and ran your tongue over your teeth, yup, still vampire. “Come here you,” you said, grabbing her and stuffing her under the pile of blankets and pillows. You loved a warm cozy place to sleep. You held her like a teddy bear and dozed off again. She was so soft in your arms and she held tight onto you. Protecting someone was a good feeling. You went back to sleep as if you had never woken up.

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lavendermilkandhoney · 3 years

Text

1/22 The Fool - V

In Game

The Fool is everyone – including you and me. Each step he takes on his journey feels like stepping into a brave new world. Ultimately, the journey will change him. But as the card shows, he’s a trustworthy lad whose tireless hope drives him toward his goal.

Location

You can find The Fool graffiti right outside V's apartment in Little China. The graffiti is on the right side of the entrance door.

Misty’s Reading (Arasaka Ending) - Upright

“Symbolizes the start of a journey, the announcement of something new. It’s the inner child - curious of the world, but also naive and reckless.”

Dialogues

Misty : The Fool is you and Silverhand. You’ve traveled a long road together, discovered your potential. Your destination is the World, the final arcanum. Both of you waged a war on the world, so there are two possibilities - declare victory or make peace.

V : Could lose the war too.

Misty : Yes - unfortunately, that’s true.

In Tarot

UPRIGHT: Beginnings, innocence, spontaneity, a free spirit

REVERSED: Holding back, recklessness, risk-taking

The Fool is numbered 0 – the number of unlimited potential – and so does not have a specific place in the sequence of the Tarot cards. The Fool can be placed either at the beginning of the Major Arcana or at the end. The Major Arcana is often considered the Fool’s journey through life and as such, he is ever present and therefore needs no number.

On the Fool Tarot card, a young man stands on the edge of a cliff, without a care in the world, as he sets out on a new adventure. He is gazing upwards toward the sky (and the Universe) and is seemingly unaware that he is about to skip off a precipice into the unknown. Over his shoulder rests a modest knapsack containing everything he needs – which isn’t much (let’s say he’s a minimalist). The white rose in his left hand represents his purity and innocence. And at his feet is a small white dog, representing loyalty and protection, that encourages him to charge forward and learn the lessons he came to learn. The mountains behind the Fool symbolise the challenges yet to come. They are forever present, but the Fool doesn’t care about them right now; he’s more focused on starting his expedition.

UPRIGHT

The Fool is a card of new beginnings, opportunity and potential. Just like the young man, you are at the outset of your journey, standing at the cliff‘s edge, and about to take your first step into the unknown. Even though you don’t know exactly where you are going, you are being called to commit yourself and follow your heart, no matter how crazy this leap of faith might seem to you. Now is a time when you need to trust where the Universe is taking you.

As you undertake this new journey, the Fool encourages you to have an open, curious mind and a sense of excitement. Throw caution to the wind and be ready to embrace the unknown, leaving behind any fear, worry or anxiety about what may or may not happen. This is about new experiences, personal growth, development, and adventure.

The time is NOW! Take that leap of faith, even if you do not feel 100% ready or equipped for what is coming (who knows what it could be?!). Seriously, what are you waiting for? Do you think you need to have everything mapped out before you can begin? No way! Not with the Fool. He ventures out on his journey with just his essential belongings – and now he invites you to do the same. You don’t need to wait for someone to give you the green light or hold off until you have all the skills, tools and resources you think you might need. You are ready! If you’ve been watching for a sign, this is it!

This is a time of great potential and opportunity for you right now. The world is your oyster, and anything can happen. Use your creative mind with a dash of spontaneity to make the most of this magical time and bring forth your new ideas in powerful ways.

The Fool is your invitation to relax, play, and have fun. Treat life like one big experiment and feel yourself in the flow of whatever comes your way. This card asks you to embrace your beautiful, carefree spirit, allowing yourself to connect to the energy that surrounds you and flows through you. Tap into your fullest potential by stepping into a place of wonderment, curiosity and intrigue. Live life as though you were a child once again. Laugh more, dance, and let your heart go free.

This is an excellent card to meditate on if you are struggling with dread, worry or self-doubt in your life. The Fool is your guide, as someone who is daring and carefree. He is the embodiment of who you really are – your free spirit, your inner child, and your playful soul. Any time you experience fear, remember the essence of the Fool as he encourages you to acknowledge that fear and do it anyway! You never know what the future holds, but like the Fool, you must step into the unknown, trusting that the Universe will catch you and escort you along the way. Take a chance and see what happens.

REVERSED

The Fool reversed suggests that you have conceived of a new project but aren’t ready to ‘birth’ it into the world just yet. You may worry that you are not fit or that you don’t have all the tools, skills and resources you need to make this project a success. Or perhaps you have a sense that the timing isn’t right. Something is holding you back, and you are preventing yourself from moving forward. You may choose to keep this new opportunity to yourself for now, or you might be ‘parking’ it until a better time.

You may fear the unknown, wondering, ‘What am I getting myself into?’ As a result, you have come to a standstill, worried about taking any action where you don’t know the outcome. This often boils down to the need to control everything. Balance this out with knowing that the Universe has your back and you can take this step forward, even if you are unsure of exactly what will happen next.

On the flipside, the reversed Fool can show that you are taking too many risks and acting recklessly. In your attempt to live ‘in the moment’ and be spontaneous and adventurous, you may do so in total disregard of the consequences of your actions and engaging in activities that put both yourself and others at risk. Look at the bigger picture and consider how you can keep the free spirit of the Fool without harming others.

In light of the playful and fun energy of the upright Fool, the reversal suggests you are exploring this spirit on a more personal and quiet level. For example, instead of letting down your hair and dancing up on stage, you are dancing in your bedroom like no-one is watching. Look at how you can bring more play into your daily life, even if you start out by doing it in private.

---

Thank you so much @cybervesna for the polish traduction from the official guide book and its associations with the characters!

#cyberpunk2077 #v #tarot #thefool #cyberpunk 2077 #cyberpunk 2077 tarot

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goldenarcana · 4 years

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HEART OF THORNS /// VAMPIREFEMALE!MC X NADIA /// THE ARCANA 🔮♠️ /// PART ONE OF TWO

REQUEST: Vampire!MC x Nadia. The only way to keep you dead and unrisen for your murderous crimes is so your lover keeps you locked away in a coffin, a beautiful rose (the symbol of love) placed atop of it. This idea actually came from @afsaneh-jaan Tumblr, requested by a loyal follower. Beware of heavy angst, depression and a sprinkle of smut. 8554 words. Two parts.

NADIA SATRINAVA had felt a part of herself withering away from the very second she stepped into the bathing room, her reflection groundbreaking but unsurprising all the same. The smell of coppery blood coursed deep within the air of the ancient palace, a part of her becoming so used to the smell of dark, harrowing magic that she somehow had lost the power to even react to the ghostly scent. Yet then again these days Nadia could hardly stomach a simple conversation. She had made sure of that.

And still there was that large part of her - the part that she refused to let go of and still clung on to with the tighter fist - that screamed out into the void that she couldn't care less. That all those months together were somehow worth it - somehow making her run forward to something meaningful that she couldn't give up on and pushing her back to experience that crashing hurt again.

And again.

A shiver ran across the span of her ribcage as she felt her memories filtering back to reality, begging to push her over the edge as she gripped the marble counter, her bloodshot scarlet eyes wide as she took in her reflection. Oh Nadia, a voice from the past seemed to consume her thoughts like a broken tape-recorder, what have you done to yourself? The voice was cruel with a twist of crestfallen honesty; a hint of humanity amoung the sharpest of thorns. Tremors instantly shot through Nadia's body at the reminder of who she was tied to, of how they threatened to shatter and break her all over again. Each rise of the sun and fall of the moon signaled this pattern: a pattern of fighting the remaining piece of what was left, of an immortal death that somehow could never be replaced. Not in the shattered pieces of Nadia's heart; never there. Would she ever be whole again?

Let me out, the voice filled her thoughts again, loud as the crashing waves upon the furious oceans in Prakra and yet calm as the quiet of the bathing room. I'm waiting. How is it that she sounded so youthful, so innocent - when she knew they were anything but? Sobs raked through the countess, her britle pink curls tickling the nape of her neck as she furiously dragged her hand through the hair, doing anything and everything to distract herself to giving in. Hot tears jolted down her face as she doubled over, resisting the urge to run down the palace and reverse the hell she put to rest. Please. The plea broke her heart, stabbing her in the ribs and taking her soul. I will be good.

Good. A word that should never have found a way to their vocabulary. She was doing everything to resist the urge, to ignore ignore ignore.

Nadia hugged her arms around her abdomen, realizing then how skinny she had become in comparison to all those months together. Her usually angular face was sharper than swords, her cheeks hollow and undereyes bruised violently in the crevice to fill a ghastly violet. Her arms were the ghosts of sticks and her stomach was thin. Even standing for this long - however long time would allow that voice to consume her - was taxing to no end. But above all the hurt, above all the physical trauma these last two months had pushed upon her, nothing felt heavier than her heart - strangling in her chest.

It was all too much - day in and day out of living in a world where they seized to exist. Where Nadia would have to continually act as if those days, those weeks and months with them were just a fantasy of her ever-ending imagination. Where even Vesuvia was paying the price for all the death her vampire mate had caused, the losses of women, men and children hanging so far into the air that it choked Nadia with every breath. She had failed them. Failed her subjects. Failed the act of duty and promise to honor. She had no power. Had no power to keep going. An eternal star was blinking out - threatening to darken. But in every reality, in every world - there was absolutely no way that she could hate her. That although she had shot her down a hole of whisking away to Death, draining her will to keep moving forward and taking her once unbreakable spirit, she. Could. Not. Hate. Her.

And that broke her.

Noddy.

And that word - that nickname - was her undoing. Her breaking point. She shattered.

Nadia screamed, anguish filling the air and rippling out of her until her voice was hoarse and the crashing waves of that voice turned to ice, frozen in her conscious as it seemed to snap to the remaining tethers of the countess's sanity. Nadia cried out - her voice breaking as the bathing room was filled with her screams.

"Just get out of my head!" She fell to the pristine creme white tiles of the floor, hugging her thighs to her face as she rocked back and forth, back and forth until the empty contents of her gut rose to her throat. "GO AWAY!" Sobs tore through her throat, her mind everywhere but where it was supposed to be. Her heart was racing, a painful gallop matching her anguished thoughts. She allowed her head to gently hit the wall beside her, resting there as she cried silently.

"Please." She pleaded, her tone barely above a whisper, nearly inaudible. Every syllable and word ached low in her throat. "Just go away."

Liar. Stupid, naive liar. She knew, they knew, the entire world knew she wanted anything but that.

And with that - under the stress of the her panic attack and the undying entity in both her heart and thoughts, Nadia succumbed to the endless black engulfing her.

~♡~

/// ONE YEAR AGO \\\

THE PALACE of Vesuvia was bustling with an uncomparable energy, the essence of blissful magic coating the air along with the electricity that came with the excited occupants of the kingdom. Their hearts danced and sung - your senses filled with the mortality enveloping you on the dancefloor. Your own unbeating pulse was practically screaming, the blood lust hugging painfully around your throat as you danced and mingled with anybody who dared to step in the face of danger. Some sneered at your invite to get entangled in an elegant waltz, others more than ecstatic to move darefully with you to a twisted beat.

You had heard of how life changing Vesuvia's balls and parties had been when Count Lucio was alive, but you had never imagined in your three hundred years of life for it to be quite like this.

The young man that was dancing against you wistfully guided his hands into your vibrant hair, coming so close to you that you could feel his pulse hammering against the inside of his throat. Handsome, bold and...delicious. It took every fiber of your immortal being not to take a bite, despite the strong demand to do so. You were stunning - the picture of beauty. It was both a blessing and a curse. Gorgeous on the outside, but the monster lurking beneath would only show its fangs when provoked. And you wondered, wondered while the blonde-haired man brought his hand to rest low against your skilled hips, if anyone could see the twinge of monster hiding beneath your skin. Even in the eyes of an angel.

His parted lips rose to kiss your unbeating neck, and you smirked, hand rising to rest on his hammering heart. Your throat tightened with insatiable hunger, your face draining as you willed everything inside of you to calm. You had to feed. It had been days of travel with only animal blood and even the squirrel you found before the party wasn't enough to quench your relentless thirst. Suddenly the heartbeats around you became so loud they drowned out the music hammering through the ballroom. You would go mad.

Bringing your hand to slide underneath his tight white shirt, the man trailed his mouth to rest above the cut of your scarlet red dress, your cleavage bouncing with the exotic beat of the music.

And like that, you slipped away from his arms, swaying your lips in a dare as you looked over your shoulder to give him a seductive wink - daring him to run the chase. His mouth was formed in a smirk, following you through the mounds of dancing bodies before you both found your way to a secluded broom closet.

Taking his arm, you pushed him to the wall, your mind screaming insults at you as you realized he had fallen into your trap.

Your eyes connected with his as he pulled you to his chest, placing kisses all around your neck as you balled your hands in his back. His touch was annoying, easily predictable. As they all were in the last three centuries.

"Oh sweetheart," You laughed coldly, seeking interest as he stopped kissing you only to lift his head up to level yours, an eyebrow lifting in question. Your hand trailed from his arm all the way up to his chest - just above the heart. Leaning in close to his neck, you felt your white fangs extract as you whispered, "you just found a demon."

And with a swift bite, you bit into his neck, blood spuring out from the deep puncture as you sucked, using your power to mask his screams in the broom closet. He thrashed helplessly underneath you - sinking lower to the ground until you took three gulps of his blood and chose to step away, blood leaking from your mouth as you faced his terror-striken face. Already power thrummed through your veins, silencing the guilt twisting deeply in your gut.

Taking his face, you looked him straight in the emerald eyes and focused your power upon wiping this moment, his face going blank in the process. Your eyes trailed to the blood soaking the white collar of his shirt, lucky enough that his long honeyed hair covered the bite on his neck.

"You will not remember any of our encounter. If anyone asks about the blood on your shirt you will say a friend spilled wine on you." Going over the words twice, you released him of your power, turning around quickly in the closet and evacuating the small space, leaving the Vesuvian behind you.

Monster, your mind screamed at you, pain kicking at your entire being. You wiped any suspicious remainder of blood off of your mouth as you stepped back into the spacious ballroom, the fast-paced song suddenly very enticing. You walked with stride towards the refreshments, not letting the lump in your throat control you.

It got impossible each feeding, and you were terrified of the day you went a step too far. What if you killed them? A shiver ran down your spine as you grabbed a heavy glass of sparking white wine, taking the liquid in your throat to mask the thick substance of blood. Multiple ongoers eyed you, but you shook your head at each invitation, completely out of it despite the clarity in your enhanced senses.

It wasn't until you heard a satin voice glide in your direction when you were back from spacing out.

"I heard that it takes a bold female to pull off red." Your heart dropped, head rising to meet with a pair of warm scarlet eyes. Stunning.

Her hair was tied in a deep pink ponytail, tipped with a flaming magenta. Her body was magnificent, enveloped in a flaming pink dress that fell to the floor and showed off a generous amount of her curves and tightened around her breasts. Her caramel skin shone under the crystalline lights of the chandelier. Her face was sharp, angular. She was the most stunning creature you had ever seen - and your heart constricted when realizing who you were in the presence of.

Countess Nadia Satrinava. The empress of Vesuvia. Even her calm aura radiated power.

You bowed, the wine glass in your hand on the tips of your cupids bow as you rised again, smirking at her with your red-tinted lips. Nadia kept her eyes on you, a sensual tug of her lips making your insides melt. Breathtaking. Utterly breathtaking.

"Of course someone as stunning as the Countess of Vesuvia herself would know of boldness." You remarked, a blush staining her cheeks as she stepped forward. Her eyes held your gaze, power eminating from the flaming red orbs.

An elegant tone floated through the ballroom, a song you could immediately identify as the French waltz. One of your favorites.

Intensity burned in the countess's eyes, all for you. "You know of my name, and what of yours?"

How many men and women would die to be in your position now? More than you could count. Even the people around you gathering to dance couldn't tear their eyes off your interactions with the countess.

"Y/N." You whispered smoothly, and you could of sworn you saw stars in Nadia's eyes as the word bounced off your tongue.

"Lovely." She whispered, as if she couldn't contain the comment. She moved forward another step, dangerously close. You held in a breath. The monster beneath seemed to be calm. Only for her. "And I wouldn't suppose you know how to dance the French waltz, Y/N?" The smile that tugged at your lips was unstoppable.

Placing down the drained wine glass, you stepped forward and took Nadia's manicured hand in your own, feeling your belly go warm and sparks electrifying through your joint hands. It was like magic.

"It would be my pleasure, countess." So Nadia guided you to the dance floor, hand clasped in yours as the people stepped out of your way to form a circle around of you - everybody in pairs.

You and Nadia got in position, your figure standing proudly against hers, Nadia's hand resting lowly on your lip as the other clasped your hand, both sets of feet perfectly placed. Perfectly in sync. With when the song turned on again, you guided her, holding her gaze through it all.

Above every sound, her heartbeat was the loudest in the room.

And it was that night when you vowed that Nadia Satrinava would be yours.

~♡~

/// PRESENT DAY \\\

THE FIRST THING Nadia heard as she awoken was the hushed voices of the people outside the door of her room she could automatically decipher from instant memory, her companions through it all: Doctor Julian Devorak, her favorite magician Asra and her servant and loyal friend, Portia Devorak. They seemed to be in debate, each voice tumbling over a level of a whisper and sometimes their tones becoming otherworldly. Nadia was too weak to care of eavesdropping on it at all, but couldn't even stop her own ears from absorbing tidbits of the conversation.

"She is growing weaker, Ilya. I can hardly get her out of bed..." Portia. Her tone sounded broken, as if she failed. Nadia's heart stumbled at that.

"Which is why we should simply..." Asra'a voice cut off, as if the most anticipated point of the conversation wasn't allowed to be heard. Even if it involved her.

"Are you dense? Her mental health is invaluable and considering how much having it here already affects her, that would be catastrophic." Julian quickly denounced whatever idea Asra had suggested. Nadia's heart stopped at the final word of his sentence.

Her throat felt like sandpaper, the metallic taste of her mouth causing her to wince. The events of what happened earlier in the bathroom rippled through her. She could hardly stop herself from checking through her mind. A part of her went to relief when she couldn't detect her there.

"I've healed many people, have even consoled those who lost their significant other." Nadia's ears perked when hearing the doctor. "But as insane as it sounds, at this point, I am convinced that Noddy could die of a broken heart if she doesn't start caring for herself."

Water. She needed the water now. The pounding in her chest was getting to be too much. Eyes flying through her vibrantly colored room, her eyes met with a glass of water on her nightstand. Unfortunately enough she made the mistake of sitting up too quickly, the squeak of the bed resulted in the trio to go silent as Death, and in seconds the three adults were heading through the door of her room.

Nadia gently sipped on the liquid as she faced a smiling Asra, his smile comforting. Her friends made her feel just a twinge of happiness in the midst of painful defeat. Just a twinge. Once she felt that she was rehydrated and ready to sit up, she masked her face into calm although she felt anything but powerful. The role of countess was beyond foreign to her since her lover's downfall. She placed the glass on the wooden nightstand, the trio watching her every movement from different points of the room. It was Portia who spoke first.

"How are you feeling, Your Majesty?" Her stormy grey eyes were hopeful, but unexpecting. Nadia loathed the feeling of letting her down.

Which is why she hesitated to even answer honestly. Asra has been on edge above Y/N constantly filling her head. Vampiric magic was something he's been studying since her mate's death, and to no avail to fix the ghostly presence. It was almost as if she was another counterpart with Lucio. However these were her friends...and Nadia's voice came out emotionless.

"I'm so...tired." Even the Doctor's face crumpled for moments before he composed himself. "And weak. I feel so, so weak."

Portia looked like she could weep for her ruler right then and there.

But Asra stepped forward, placing a hand on Nadia's frail shoulder and giving her a hope-filled glance. One Nadia refused to decipher, for the sadness in her just would not allow it. The depression consuming her mind could not allow it. All of the shattered pieces of her heart and soul just wouldn't allow it.

"Would you like a nap before you visit the coffin again? If you want me to I could make you tea?" A simple shake of the head from Nadia had Asra nodding, solemn.

"I do wish for a bath." Was all Nadia mentioned. Portia was instantly smiling and on her feet, excited to be able to do something for her countess.

"And Portia?" Nadia called behind her as the youngest Devorak headed for her bathing room. Portia paused, wispes of her messy bun falling from the updo as she paused abruptly.

"Yes, Majesty?"

"I'd like to wear black today." As she always did on these sorrowful days.

"Of course." And Portia was gone.

Silence filled the room, roaring ever louder even as Julian and Asra looked to one another. Something was in the air between them, and Nadia was so close to dismissing them for her nap before Asra excused himself.

"If you'll excuse me Noddy, I have research to do in the library." Nadia simply nodded. And with a final smile, Asra was gone in seconds, the click of the door leaving only Julian.

Their conversation from earlier filled her ears, the same line echoing over and over again. I am convinced that Noddy could die of a broken heart if she doesn't start caring for herself.

And she was left feeling...nothing. Bored acceptance. And that perhaps scared her the most of all.

"Doctor?" She asked, hands playing with the swirling pink and purple duvet, refusing to meet his eyes.

"Nadia?"

"Do you truly believe-" She stopped herself, looking to his eyes and seeing nothing but despair. Worry. Not as a doctor, but as a friend. "That I will die?" There. There it was. Hanging in between them, so loudly in the air that she no longer felt choked down by the words.

Julian was silent, losing her glance as Nadia truly felt the weight of her entire existence slipping through the cracks. She could almost hear the tick-tock of the clock tugging on the threads of her life. Without her, without the love of her life - she almost couldn't bare the thought of waking up tomorrow to go on like this. Not when her vampire mate was gone from this world, body held down in a coffin only for her soul to be sent to the Devil - it was all Nadia's fault.

She almost broke down then and there.

The dip of the mattress as the oldest Devorak sibiling sat beside her was enough of a distraction to ignore the lump in her throat, her red eyes meeting his grey.

"Do I think you will die? Yes. But only if you keep torturing yourself like this. You give yourself away every single day and it breaks all of our hearts. But not as much as it breaks your own. You aren't eating, you don't sleep unless you're absolutely forced under. You don't go outside anymore." Sunlight from beyond the window pressed against the drapes concealing it, the reminder of the darkness Nadia chose to live in. Julian took her hand as a tear exited her eyes. Not romantically, but the touch of a friend. Of the doctor she wrongly accused long ago. "We love you. You brought Vesuvia the greatest of joy as their ruler. But for two months ever since Y/N died," Julian paused at that, seeing the stream of tears pouring down Nadia's face at the name. "your kingdom has been shooting into depression. And you conceal yourself from anything that makes you happy, Noddy. You don't smile. Or laugh. Sometimes I hardly ever see you breathe." A plea. His words were a plea.

"She is gone. She killed and slaughtered. You did the right thing." Nadia shook her head, denial coloring her. The words she was dying to say - the words that refused to come out since that night all those months ago, slipped from the cracks.

"I killed her." A whisper. And in those three words, there was a hurricane of emotion. Saying it to Julian...it felt horrifying. Like stabbing open her throat and ripping away her heart.

Julian shook his head, eyes glassed over.

"Look at me." He said, his voice undeniably stern. Nadia's head lifted at that, eyes sitting on the audern haired man through blurred vision.

"You saved us. And I know that it was one of - if not the most painful choices of your life. I believe that you loved her. More than life. But I also believe that she changed. And in that, I want you to go forward. To never stop. You need to let go. At one point...I wanted to stop. I had to let go." He looked down, a distant look in his eyes. Intrigue flickered in the countess.

"And what made you keep going?"

"The things and people I couldn't lose."

~♡~

/// EIGHT MONTHS AGO \\\

YOU HAD NEVER felt this way about anyone before. Not in your three hundred years of life, not when romanticism was the least of your concerns. You had never fallen in love, and even if you ever had, never this fast.

You knew it was impossible to compare considering the few short-lived flings you have had in the last few centuries, but none of them ever came close to what you and Nadia possessed.

It took two months. Two months to let your hair back and expand your arms. Two months to get to know beauty herself, to understand that the compassion and intelligence that drove Nadia Satrinava was enough to make you fall unconditionally in love with her. Of course the attraction had been there since the beginning, but the mental state of your relationship was all the more secure.

Telling her of your immortal existence was surprisingly as easy as breathing. And what surprised you beyond that was how quick Nadia was to accept you that night. She had taken your face in her hands and kissed you with the intensity of fire...and you sure as hell allowed yourself to burn.

However you both had danced around those three little words, often implying it but never allowing such a powerful sentence to be said aloud. Tonight...you had other plans. A romantic gesture that took weeks of planning, weeks of coordination. It of course wouldn't be your first date, you had private dinners many times beforehand, even horse-riding sessions with the countess were always a treat. But you wanted more. More beyond the usualities that took place. You wanted to give Nadia everything...your everything because she deserved that and more.

The moon was full as you stood upon Nadia's balcony, stars of promise blinking at you with wishful eyes. Tonight. You would tell her tonight. You fiddled around with the velvet box in your oversized trench coat, the box mere ounces where mentally it felt like the weight equivalent to bricks. Would she say yes? Were you going too fast? Mating presents were a custom to offering your lover...but in two months? Damn it all to hell, you considered running back to your room then and there, but-

A hand traveling up the length of your side from behind, the trench coat preening upwards as a caramel hand squeezed at your curves. A bold move from the countess, considering you moved to lean against her front, Nadia pressing you further into the bars of the balcony as placing a ghost of a kiss to your cheek, her other hand circling around your collarbone.

The arch of your back was completely unintentional. You gave a dark chuckle and whispered seductively, "Hello, my dream."

Your insides turned to molten, head spinning as you suddenly remembered why you were here. Spellbounded by the pink-haired female behind you, you turned around, facing your countess and nearly forgetting to breathe as you took her in.

Nadia's hair was down, curled at the ends and parted to the side, free and flowing with the light breeze.. You had never seen it down and instantly fell in love with this woman all over again. It was insanity how easily she could undo you. How a simple change of hairstyle was leaving you reeling. But what she was wearing....oh dear gods.

A passionate red nightgown hugged her shimmering body, stopping inches below from her core and the neckline so V-lined that you could nearly see the entirety of her breasts. An angel. A gift sent to you from whatever gods and myths promised to exist from the birth of this magnificent creature.

You had realized that you had been staring so long when you met Nadia's scarlet eyes, glazed over with pure desire and endless admiration. Your hands trembling as you moved forward, you clutched the strap of her nightgown and heard Nadia's sharp intake of breath at your cold fingers, eyes closing slightly as you trailed them over her hardened nipples. "Y/N." She groaned, the sound so stimulating you swear your knees nearly turned to liquid.

But you focused on - slowly, ever so slowly - guiding your fingers to go lower, dancing over her upper chest and lower to meet her abdomen.

"You are so beautiful, my lovely empress." You whispered seductively, moving closer so your mouth was pressing kisses to her neck at the same moment you reached the end of her nightgown. You were going to go insane just standing upon such beauty, mad even. Your tongue licked over the column of her neck, Nadia's moan so low in her throat that a part of you screamed to make it even louder.

"Y/N, kiss me." She begged, her hand going to rest over the small of your back, pulling you closer as your lips met in a tangle of groans and delight.

Kissing Nadia was like chasing the stars, endless and exciting - going towards something that you wanted your entire life. It wasn't until your back pressed even harder into the balcony when you felt her hand travel underneath your cocktail dress, rubbing you through your silken panties. You moaned at the impact, the carnal instinct in your immortal mind reeling.

"Oh, fuck," You breathed as you threw your head back, eyes closing and truly moaning when her fingers pulled your underwear to the side, two slim fingers instantly inserted inside of you.

Nadia's fingers curved into your wetness, making you bark curses as you saw stars gather behind your eyes. Nadia began sucking on the sensitive spot of your neck, releasing only when a bruised love bite was left in it's wake.

"I have wanted to do this," She growled in your ear, making you question who truly was the vampire here. "Since I saw you in that tight red dress the night we met." You groaned as she added another finger, your hands flying to dig into her narrow waist as you grinded against her, her teeth biting into your shoulder.

"You're so wet." She groaned, and you instantly wished to wrap your hands around her pretty little neck-

It wasn't until you were reminded of the obsidian ring in your pocket when you moved away from Nadia, her expression crestfallen. Instant guilt settled in your stomach as you gave her a small smile, moving forward to place both hands upon her cheeks.

"Nadia Satrinava, do you know how much you mean to me?" The words caused the entirety of her red orbs to soften, her lips slowly meeting yours in a small, passionate kiss. When you drew away, Nadia's wide-mouthed smile made your eyes dance. Her hands rested upon your hips.

"I love you." She whispered, and the words - you swore - were your salvation. Your stomach jumped and suddenly tears were in your eyes, the world frozen as her fingers shot up to wipe away the salty tears. "Y/N L/N, I love you."

It all snapped into place then. All those years of living in the darkness and watching Death make it's rounds. All of the failure and misconceptions. The good and the bad, the fangs and even stomaching the blood. It was to come to this woman - and to experience this moment. To defend the countess of Vesuvia and love her unconditionally.

And nothing, nothing, made more sense than this.

"And I love you, Nadia." You said with perfect clarity, and her heart quickened, hammering in your love's chest at the confession. "Be mine." You said out of pure desperation, placing feather-like kisses along the length of her nose as she laughed out of joy. "I understand that this all went down in mere months," A kiss on her lips, continuing just above a sharp pink eyebrow. "But I want to spend every waking moment with you." Another kiss to her hairline. "I want to wake up beside you as the birds sing." A kiss to her temple. "I want to rule beside you as Vesuvia's other countess, powerful beside power itself." A kiss to her palm. "I want to experience the joy of being a parent with you, Noddy." A kiss to each finger on her left hand. Tears ran down the countess's face, a smile of gratitude blooming upon her cheeks. "I want to make love to you every night and every morning." Nadia's eyes glazed at that comment. "Please my love, be my wife. Be my mate."

Finally, you stepped back, fingers trembling as you picked up the royal blue velveted box, opening it and presenting a obsidian ring, crafted all the way back two hundred years. The diamond was pure black, stunning and shining underneath the moonlight against the golden band. Nadia's eyes were filled of tears, a hand covering her mouth as she took in the jewel.

Her answer came in mere seconds, every lingering heartbeat snapping to pure happiness. "Yes. Yes I would be honored." And you stormed forward, the obsidian ring sliding onto the countess's middle finger with the perfect glide. A perfect fit.

And you weren't sure how you got entangled on the balcony then - both yours and Nadia's hands ripping at each other's clothing as you laid her down on the blanketed ground, the world hanging on a balance as you tore the silky nightgown off your mate, her body completely exposed underneath, causing you to growl. Her curves looked absolutely delicious, her eyes painted black and lids hooded by her eyelashes as she looked at you with fiery desire. The only thing on her bare body was that beautiful obsidian ring.

Suddenly you became wetter at the vision, throwing off the trench coat and damning clothes to hell as you threw off the remainder of your clothing, Nadia's eyes widening on your exposed body. And for moments you sat on your knees above her, both of you drinking one another in with hungry eyes.

It was the beautiful expedition of her body that enticed you - that although you were just inches away from such a powerful woman, her heart was your favorite feature. And for once it was not the life force tethered to her body, but instead how Nadia's heartbeat sung to you.

Your favorite song.

"You are so gorgeous." She breathed, her heart hammering in her chest. And what she did next...oh gods. She spread her legs for you, exposing herself completely to you. "Come show me what you can do, vampire."

And underneath the stars of that fateful night, you made love to your countess.

END OF PART ONE! CONTINUE TO PART TWO

#nadia x reader #countess nadia #the arcana nadia #smut #angst #sadness #depression #female!mc #female x female #vampire #vampire!mc #long reads

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tomasorban · 5 years

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Sophia: The Gnostic Goddess

Below is more background on the Judaic and Kemetic forms of Wisdom (openly revered as a goddess in Egypt, more symbolically female in Judaea) that contributed so much to the syncretic Gnostic cosmologies

Khokhmah, Isis, and Sophia

The ancient Hebrew name for Wisdom is Khokhmah, a feminine noun. In Jewish scripture, it was Khokhmah who personified the female Divine. She is understood as an emanation of God, yet she resonates with the Hebrew Goddess who is otherwise assailed in the Bible, especially Asherah, she of the sacred Tree. Proverbs 3:18 calls up an image of Khokhmah that originates in the oldest core of Jewish culture: “She is a Tree of Life to all who lay hold of her.” In the same book, Khokhmah sings, “The one who finds me, finds life.” Like the goddess Asherah, regarded as the partner of Yahweh by the ancient Hebrews, Khokhmah is linked to the pillar. “My throne was in the pillar of cloud,” she declares in Ben Sirach (24:4). In Proverbs 9:1 she builds a house of seven pillars. Asphodel Long’s book A Chariot Drawn by Lions offers profound insights into the survival of the Hebrew Goddess. She points out that Wisdom is another form of the Shekhinah, the divine Presence. Both are “expressed in light and glory,” both involved in creation, enthroned in heaven, intermediaries between god and the world, ascending and descending, and winged. The Book of Wisdom of Solomon, written by Alexandrian Jews in the Hellenistic era, renames Khokhmah as Sophia, the Greek word for Wisdom. In this text, as Long points out, Sophia “takes over the powers and function of God” and the creation story is told using the word “she.” The ancient author is careful to qualify this audacity by describing Wisdom as God's breath and emanation, but still praises her at length in her own right as “holy” and “all-powerful”:

For in her there is a spirit that is intelligent, holy, unique, manifold, subtle; mobile, clear, unpolluted, distinct, invulnerable, loving the good, keen, irresistible, Beneficent, human, steadfast, sure, free from anxiety, all-powerful, overseeing all and penetrating through all spirits that are intelligent and pure and most subtle. For wisdom is more mobile than any motion; because of her pureness she pervades and penetrates all things. [Long, 46-7]

Another beautiful passage likens Wisdom to “a flame of stars through the night.” [Allegro, 171] The praise-names in the Book of Wisdom of Solomon resonate deeply with those in the goddess litanies of India. The most celebrated of these is the Sri Lalitaa Sahasranama, an invocation of Goddess under a thousand names, including Intelligence, Holy, Unique, Multiformed, Subtle, Pure, Beyond All Danger, Loving the Good, Beneficence, Steady, Without Anxiety, Great Power, and All-Pervasive. Long’s illuminating exegesis of the Alexandrian Wisdom litany brings forward the little-known fact that the Greek name monogenes (“unique, singly born”) began as a title of female divinities. It originates in a Kemetic title of Neit, Hathor and Isis: “self-born, self-produced,” and later appears in Orphic hymns to Demeter, Persephone and Athena. Christians subsequently applied it to Yeshua of Nazareth who was cast as the “only-begotten son” of god. [Long, 49] In late antiquity other titles arose in the Judaic tradition: Shekhinah (Divine Presence) and Matronit (the Mother). Kabbalists redefined Khokhmah as a masculine power, and assigned Binah (Understanding) to the feminine sphere. Torah became to some extent a personification of Wisdom, and Jews in many countries invited Shabbat to enter their homes as the bride of god and the essence of peace and joy. There is not room here to enter the Egyptian Stream of Wisdom, but what follows can only be understood in the light of the veneration of Auset, known in Hellenistic culture as Isis. This goddess had come to be worshipped beyond the borders of Egypt, first in west Asia and north Africa, then in Europe. Isis aretalogies (praise-songs based on the affirmation “I am”) emphasize creative Wisdom as one of her divine qualities:

I am Isis, mistress of every land I laid down laws for humanity and ordained things that no one may change... I divided the earth from the heavens I made manifest the paths of the stars I prescribed the course of the sun and moon I found out the labors of the sea I made justice mighty... —Aretalogy of Isis from Cyme, circa 200 CE [Drinker, 114]

A syncretic ferment of Egyptian, Greek and Hebrew traditions occurred in Alexandria and the eastern Mediterranean during the Roman empire. Jewish writers appear to have initiated a Greek series of Oracula Sibillina which begin to appear around 150 BCE. Philo Judaeus of Alexandria identified Sophia as Mother of the divine Logos and as Isis, mother of Horus. But Philo followed Biblical tradition in according primacy to the father-god as creator, treating the divine mother—Sophia — as his attribute or emanation. Nevertheless, he described this god as the husband of Wisdom. [Long, 46, 162; Patai, 98]

The pagan priest Plutarch agreed that Isis was the same as Sophia, creator of all. [Allegro, 157] Pagan mystery religions equated Isis with Demeter, Kybele, Juno Caelestis, Bona Dea, Tyche and other Mediterranean goddesses, mixing their attributes and titles. Isis was sculptured wearing the mural crown of the Asian goddess Tyche and holding the cornucopia of the Italian Fortuna and Terra Mater. (These statuettes have been found in distant Kazakhstan and Pakistan.) Multitudes of molded figurines of Isis seated on the basket of the Eleusinian Mysteries were mass-produced for home altars within Egypt itself. Most of these Hellenized terracotta statuettes shrink the horned solar crown of the ancient Kemetic goddess and flank it with ears of wheat, assimilating her to Demeter in a historical double rebound. The Knot of Isis that was for millennia tied around her belly moves up to her breast in a tied Grecian shawl. Other terracottas show Isis Baubo with skirts pulled up around her hips and legs opened wide. Still others look to the headwaters of the Nile, as the goddess Besit, linked to the BaTwa peoples, socalled "pygmies," or perhaps to other little people (“dwarves”). In the midst of this syncretism, many Isis terracottas retain the Egyptian convention showing her suckling her son (now represented as a sketchy afterthought). She also appears as Isis Bubastis -- Ermouthis to the Greeks -- with the lower part of her body in the form of a snake. This form of Isis has turned up as far east as Iraq. Some Egyptian Jews engaged in ecstatic forms of worship. Philo wrote that the Therapeutae (“healers”) became “transported by divine enthusiasm.” They danced and sang hymns in harmonies and antiphonies, women with women and men with men. Then, says Philo, they feasted and drank wine, and at last all joined together in one assembly:

Perfectly beautiful are their motions, perfectly beautiful their discourse; grave and solemn are these carollers; and the final aim of their motions, their discourse, and their choral dances is piety. [Drinker, 159-160]

The Therapeutae were among the Jewish sects in which women “conducted the Sabbath services and provided influential commentaries on the scriptures.” [Long, 38] Philo described their practice as a form of spiritual healing, which in fact gave this community its name:

Inasmuch as they profess to the art of healing better than that current in towns, which cures only the bodies, they treat also souls oppressed by grievous and well-nigh intolerable diseases. [Contemplative Life, in Allegro, 109]

The biggest community of Therapeutae lived near the Mareotic lake in northern Egypt. Their huts had little prayer alcoves, and they gathered in a central building for communal meals. Like Philo, they seem to have syncretized Isis with Wisdom and called upon her for healing: “She was reckoned to cure the sick and to bring the dead to life, and she bore the title 'Mother of God.'“ This was an ancient name of Neit, Isis, and other Kemetic goddesses. The Torah uses the word “hovering,” as with beating wings, to describe the divine Presence that Talmudic writers had begun to call the Shekhinah. Her image resonates with the ancient veneration of doves as sacred to Canaanite, Syrian, and Cypriot goddesses. Christians adopted this imagery, picturing the Holy Spirit as a winged radiance and a hovering dove. She flutters above Mary in innumerable scenes of the Annunciation, and above the consecrated chalice and bread. As for Khokhmah, she remained a presence within the Hebrew Scriptures. Thousands of years after her praises were embedded in the Book of Proverbs, medieval christian mystics were attracted to this female image of Wisdom. Hildegarde of Bingen knew her as Sophia, Scientia Dei, and Sapientia of the seven pillars. One of her manuscripts even shows her wearing the mural crown of the ancient goddess of Asia Minor. Hildegarde’s profoundly animistic poetry sings the praises of Life endowed with Wisdom, as a goddess in all but name:

I am that supreme and fiery force that sends forth all living sparks. Death hath no part in me, yet I bestow death, wherefore I am girt about with Wisdom as with wings. I am that living and fiery essence of the divine substance that glows in the beauty of the fields, and in the shining water, and in the burning sun and the moon and the stars, and in the force of the invisible wind, the breath of all living things, I breathe in the green grass and the flowers, and in the living waters...

[Book of Divine Works, circa 1167, in Partnow, The Quotable Woman, 48]

#sophia #gnostic #gnosticism #metaphysics #esoteric #goddess #divine feminine #kabbalah #isis #egypt #ancient #history

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commorritestreettrash · 4 years

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Rough Night In Commorragh

@lordsofmedrengard You know what I do have another ficlet! I wrote this before I got on tumblr, when Taffy was still being developed as a character, but it’s still damn good.

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Part 1: The Best Part of Waking Up

One eye opened a crack and took stock of the situation around me. Snoring, mostly naked kin, not unexpected. Didn’t look like my living space, which was good, since it smelled like cleanup would be quite the task. Pretty sure the clothes dangling from the fan are mine, though. Lucky they wound up somewhere easy to find!

Oh, Khaine, my head hurts. Should not have taken Adrenalight for that fight. Then again, it was fun, easy to get hold of, and the side-effects weren’t much of a problem in the arena. Plus, I won. Okay, poor life decisions rationalized, what’s next? I groggily pawed around at my left thigh (christ, can’t feel a thing, it’s gone numb). Should be a pouch there, all manner of delightful concoctions, one of them’s sure to make aching skull feel better.

“Hrnnngha?” The grunt came from somewhere underneath my shoulders. Shit, that’s not my thigh. One to the left maybe? Ah, there we go, not as numb as I thought. The pouch!! Aaaand fan-fucking-tastic. Empty. At least, empty of the trance-inducing narcotics I had been looking for. I’ve never tried taking a dose of Psychon for a hangover, but I doubt it would end well. Okay, some charming piece of shit talked me into sharing my stash, if I’d taken that much I’d be waking up in a rejuvenation pod, not a pleasantly bloody pile of sleepy Eldar.

Ups-a-daisy, girl- fuck, my scalp!! OW!. Damnit, my gloriously (yet inconveniently) long hair’s caught in the armor of some dead-asleep warrior. But, upon further consideration, my hair is absolved of guilt, since, glory of glories, he’s got my half-full narcotic needle stuck in his arm!

A series of mixed grunts rises from those around and underneath me as I crawl over and and yank the needle from his limp arm, jamming it into my own and sighing as I depressed the plunger, a tingle of euphoria through my poor, dazed skull. I glanced down at the hair tangled through his armor, tugging to get it free.

Wait, is this tied on?!

Damn, it is. Looks like I got kinky* last night. Huh, this guy must have been pretty smooth. Should probably leave my contact.

*Translator’s note: The Dark Eldar lexicon has 1,227 words that can be approximately translated to English as “kinky”, each of which has subtly-different-yet-critically-significant connotations. The rune used here is one of the milder forms, and is best read as “activities outside of my normal range”, rather than “particularly extreme”.

I flipped him over and found a spot on his chest mostly free of tattoos. As full as narcotics as he was, I don’t think he even noticed. I grabbed a knife from my hip and pursed my lips slightly while I went to work.

Of course I had a knife handy when my pants (okay, black fiendleather panty-thing) were currently dangling from a ceiling fan. Why would I disarm myself just to having sex?? Aside from being boring, acting like you’re sure that your partner won’t kill you mid-sex-act implies a lot of emotional commitment, and I’m not ready for that.

Anyway, I dug the tip of my knife through flesh, scarring a message, feeling the trickle of pain into my soul as I did so:

“Srry bout scars- c me outside the Pit? Ask 4 Tamephela, <3!”

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Part 2: Danse Macabre

The gloom of Commorragh settled around my shoulders as I stepped out the door of wherever it was I had wound up after the previous night’s debauchery. Buncha marks around it, what are they?

Ah, I recognize the sigils. Hellion gangsign, the Gutrip Claws, specifically. Not a huge gang, but they had a reputation for seriously fucking up people that started shit at their parties. Good for business when you run a string of drug-dens.

My head twinged a bit, a reminder of just how enticing those drug-dens could be. Ought to get home. Where the hell is my bike?

A quick glance around showed no sign of it. Damnit. Why weren’t things ever easy? Well, aside from living in a city of complete bastards. No matter- I kept track of my shit. I checked the tracking-screen built into my dagger’s handle- aaaand groaned. Loudly.

Why did I leave the fucking thing on a roof half a click away and a hundred meters up? ...Probably because somebody dared you to climb down the wall, dumbass. Ah well. There’s more than one way to get airborne in Low Commorragh.

I slipped into a low, loping stalk and set out. A bit of work later and I had turned up what I was looking for.

The hellion was gliding down the street confidently, but his eyes darted crazily across those who walked the streets beneath him- a sure sign of too many drugs. Or possibly a gambit meant to lure me in- but no, the faint wrinkles around exposed pectorals suggested the Thirst was getting to him.

Prey.

Could go after him with my agoniser- but nah, whipping that around would invite someone to steal it. Plus, if I just kill the little shit, his friends- or at least, co-gang-members’ll probably come up behind me in an alley at some point to have a few sharp words. So that’s out- let’s put on a performance instead, make ‘em think twice.

Think. Plan. Wait for the moment- move.

Dash up the wall. Feel it’s sharp protrusions rip a long gash in my left palm. Spring off in a lightning fast arc. Cast my left arm before me, sending a long arc of blinding blood into his eyes. His mouth opens in a warcry, but my hand is already at my pistol. I feel a surge of terrible glee as I send a splinter right down his open mouth into the back of his throat a moment before I strike the ground, rolling.

He descends upon me, howling, his glaive out, dropping towards my head as he shoots forward. A smile, as I feel his pain begin with a burning along his throat- no need to move quite yet.

His howl turns into a horrible, hacking cough as the splinter-toxins I selected take hold. Blood first, then his partially-liquified stomach, pour out of his mouth, his glaive falling from his grip as he feels the acids of his own digestive tract start to burn up his vital organs.

Leap forward once more, the ecstatic electricity of his suffering galvanizing my legs, and land in front of him upon his skyboard. As his essence bursts out of him, wrap a leg around him, setting the skyboard spinning, and extend one arm- a bloody mockery of a dance, sending showers of his internal fluids spraying across the street and onto onlookers.

Slow, as I feel his pain slow and his death begin. Bring the skyboard to a slow, final twirl. Hold him close, bend him forwards, and share a kiss as the last of his lungs spews forth, coating my face in sweet-smelling blood and gore. How beautiful, the light fading from his eyes, the exquisite agony as he feels his torso collapse in upon itself.

End the performance- cast him over my shoulder, a sprinkle of blood from my palm following him, his ejection sending the skyboard into a graceful, tumbling flip. Sketch a bow, bringing myself to a halt.

A human slave on the end of a chain looks on in wide-eyed horror- the light musk of his terror adds a delightful bit of ambience. The kinsfolk on the street grin wildly, and begin a short round of applause- excluding, I note, a couple with similar tattoos to the fresh corpse. Them, I can feel their surprise, anger- and yes, just a hint of fear. Good. They’ll think twice about trying for revenge.

I love it when I can send just the message I want!

#writing #violence #ficlet

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atlas-of-a-human-soul · 5 years

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Broken Wings, pt.9 (AU)

09: Just gonna stand there and watch me burn?

Summary: Back in her original body, she must find a way to break the curse.

Warnings: angst, fluff

Word Count: ~ 2000

Broken Wings (Angel AU - G.D.) Masterlist

Lost in space and time. That's how she felt as her mind drifted with clear instructions to focus on Y/N and the first time she had seen Grayson. It felt like someone is probing her brain, picking it apart for information she could hardly collect and present in exchange for her life. It tore through her, pushing her to relive each of her past lives within seconds – not having long enough to truly find a footing and realize what's happening, but long enough to feel the hurt of every single death she'd been put to with Grayson's lips atop hers.

''Focus on a heart-shaped ring I have made for you. It will lead you home.“

Grayson's words reminded her how to find her way, shaking her head furiously to get the overwhelming pain away from her thoughts. She had to find an anchor in something, Grayson being the obvious choice. And just like that, the darkness fades, light taking its place.

Blinding light forces her to close her eyes, holding out her arm to protect her vision. But when she opens her eyes, she's no longer blinded nor is she riddled by thousands of lifetimes – just this one.

Her hands are a little paler and smaller than usual, the heart-shaped ring on her right middle finger drawing her attention first as if it was a magnet – something she looked at every day, something very dear to her heart.

But that's not her ring. Those are not her hands.

''What the?“ She breathes out, her hands resting on her long Y/H/C hair, much longer than she remembers it to be. And that's when she realized the truth – she's no longer Caroline.

''Y/N?“ His voice draws her attention without any effort, her eyes settling on the angelic man she had loved since the beginning of time. And he's shirtless. Very much shirtless.

''Y-yeah?“ She stutters, unable to peel her eyes from his incredible physique.

Every single inch of his skin is marked with perfection, each line accentuating an ab she’d like to drag the tip of her tongue over. His arms are huge, veins visible and curving around his muscles like snakes that give his arms the power to kill. His shoulder is distinctly pointy and sharp, his collarbone just calling for her to tap her fingertips along the curve. His neck is strong and inviting, awaiting love bites along the prominent vein on the left.

But nothing could compare to the flawlessness of his face. With a jawline that can cut you, a slight stubble lining it and framing his lips, cute nose to boop and brown eyes that turn hazel under the sunlight downing in his desire for her…well, Caroline finally understood the arrogant eyebrow raise and the cocky smirk he bestowed upon her and Y/N was surely a lucky lady if she got a piece of him, even for a moment before her death.

Looking like that, Grayson had every right to be confident. She loved the way he held himself upright and with dignity, light and untainted by unimaginable sorrow.

“You look a little lost there. Are you alright?” The kindness, softness in his voice had served like a tender kiss, caressing her soul.

“Yeah. I’m good. Great even.” She replied all too enthusiastically. She couldn’t believe this plan worked.

“You know I have to leave now. But I promise to return to you, my love.” Grayson stepped closer, his arms open as he wanted to embrace her.

It finally dawned on her – this is the exact moment she needs to convince him to bring her along.

“You have to take me with you.” Caroline blurted out, noticing just how different her voice is in this body, wondering if this is the kind of voice Grayson truly loves, not her raspy one.

“What? Love, I can’t. You know I can’t. This is…upstairs business. I’ve told you that.” Grayson’s eyebrows furrowed and his eyes narrowed ever so slightly as Y/N, his dear Y/N, gripped her hair like a madwoman.

“What do I tell you if you refuse?” Caroline asked, melting with a faint smile upon Grayson’s sweet lips.

“The truth. I’ll know something’s off anyways.” He stated, confusing her further.

“How? You said my soul is how you know it’s me. Wouldn’t that mean my soul being back in the original body wouldn’t change that?” She frowned, biting her lower lips softly.

“Every death marked your soul, changing your light. It started white – the essence so bright I could hardly look straight into your soul. It’s more colorful now. It shows you’ve lived many lives. So, tell me the truth.”

Caroline wondered if this Grayson could tell her essence isn’t as bright anymore. She wondered if that lessened her worth in her Grayson’s eyes. Had her colors changed his love for her over the years as well?

“If you don’t…I’ll die. Thousands upon thousands of times.” She bit her lower lip again, sensing him looking deeper into her eyes than any man had ever delved. He’s searching her eyes for the truth, a plausible reason behind the madness he believes had taken her – but all he sees is her essence, the colors dancing around it – colors he’d never seen before.

“I’m not Y/N. My name is Caroline and I’ve come from the future…You’ll be the cause for the angel’s fall on Earth and the reason for my demise for your lips are the door to death from the moment you go up there without me. It’s an endless cycle and we have to try and break it. Or at least stop it.” Caroline insisted, her panic easily reaching Grayson who believed every word she spoke but couldn’t resonate it inside his head. It was too much, even for him.

“Humans aren’t allowed in heaven, Y/N…Caroline.” He corrected himself, taking in a deep breath to clear his chaotic mind.

“So what then? Just gonna stand there and watch me burn? Because that’s what happened to Y/N. She burned to death when you laid your lips upon hers after the fall. She died each time, sometimes by burning, sometimes drowning, sometimes more subtle ways…but she dies each time. I.DIE.” She emphasized, placing her hand on his chest before she stopped. For a moment she saw an opportunity present itself, for her to taste the lips of doom she avoided since she met this beautiful man in her own time. She had an opportunity to feel what each of her predecessors have without it killing her. The curse still hadn’t taken its place.

Without a second thought, she placed a hand at the back of his neck, pulling him closer until her lips touched upon his. Grayson’s breathing quickened as did hers. His head was angled slightly to the side as his lips pressed harder and harder to hers. She was surprised to find his lips parted, craving the touch of her lips upon his as well. Their breaths mingled. Her heart fluttered inside her chest. At first, it was a delicate butterfly of a kiss, like he’s afraid she’s but a dream he conjured in his mind. Like a stronger touch might break her. When she doesn’t move away but gives into his touch, Grayson smiles into the kiss before allowing his arms to encircle her.

He drew her to him so there was no distance left between them, their lips finding each other in a kiss that stopped their minds from working. This kiss was desperate, passionate, one meant to compensate for all the pain she suffered because he loved her. He dedicated his life to being with her from the moment of that first kiss, for he knew that if he lost her he would lose himself. Barely able to separate, Caroline is the first to step back, gasping for air. Grayson groans lowly at the loss of contact, his hands stopping her from moving too far. They’re both out of breath, their lips swollen and spread into two entirely different smiles.

But when she blinks her eyes open, she finds she's no longer on Earth.

''Shh.“ Grayson warns her to remain quiet, showing her the line before and after them, every angel making their choice. Ethan stood behind them, eyes wide as he tapped Cameron's shoulder to look at his brother's actions.

However, the next time Caroline blinks, she founds herself alone. Looking down, she can see a countless amount of angels in their fall, each screaming in their mutual terror of what's to come – of losing the only home they've ever known.

''You were wrong to come here.“ She hears a voice, but she's all alone. ''Humans can't see me. Don't even bother, Y/N.“ The voice addresses her, only to change its mind. ''Or should I say Caroline?“

''Was I wrong? You cursed me to eternal damnation and ignorance and you question why I'd come here?“ She retorted, quite frankly pissed off. She wanted more time with this Grayson – the innocent, loving, happy Grayson who didn't carry the guilt of her numerous deaths on his shoulders. She wanted more than a kiss – she wanted a lifetime.

''It's not your punishment. It's his. That's why you forget your lives. I've spared you the pain.“

Caroline chuckles, shaking her head as her hand covers her mouth to hide just how much of an angry chuckle this is.

''Spared me? I'VE BEEN LOSING MY MIND THIS WHOLE TIME! I haven't been spared. I've been torn from the one soul I'm meant to be with. My other half. I'm tortured, a slave to a curse without a way to break it.“ She tries to collect herself, hoping not to get something worse in return. She's angry, burning up, but she can't let her emotions take over.

''And you think you're soulmates? What of Amara? Or Kendra? Or even Hailey? They've all chosen Ethan. How would you choose someone else if Grayson is your soulmate?“ She found herself challenged, learning there was more than one version of her that fell for the handsome demon. She wasn't surprised...A part of Caroline wanted Ethan just as bad as they did. But Grayson was her endgame.

''True love is imperfect. It's not always about who you feel connected with. Sometimes timing, people, surroundings get involved and people meant to be together don't get the luxury of loving each other. But if he wasn't the one, what did they die of then? Are you telling me neither of them succumbed to their feelings for Grayson in the end?“ Caroline smirked, feeling as if she's made progress. Crossing her arms she felt nearly victorious.

''If I break the curse, you'll die and never return. Grayson would still live an eternity on Earth, alone. It will drive him mad as time passes...the day he can't remember your face anymore is the day he'll be a lost soul. He'll choose Lucifer and the scale will tip to the bad side. It will bring about an Apocalypse. Sure you want that ending to your love story?“

Caroline closed her eyes feeling as if her head might explode. This information...the way everything would go...it was too much. She loved Grayson more than anything and she had nothing to lose, but was their happiness, a single lifetime worth millions of lives?

''What if you let him be with Y/N? When he falls, the curse doesn't exist. Make his fate tied to her soul and the last beat of her heart would be his as well.“ Caroline tried, getting a dry chuckle as her response.

''I'M TRYING?!“ She screamed in frustration, spinning in circles as she looked for some way out.

''You've banned all the angels after Grayson even though they never had a chance to make a choice. What if you let them come home? Let them all choose again and grant them access to heaven. When I'm dead, Grayson could return to grace.“ Caroline felt herself on edge, tears filling her eyes as she ran out of options for a way to make things better.

''I have a better idea.“ She heard the voice say just as a white light blasted straight at her.

Tags: @dancerwriter @peacedolantwins @heeydolan @accalialionheart @graydolan12 @xalayx @fallinginlove-16 @deeteeeeevee @heyits-claire @riverdalesserpent @dolandolll

#grayson dolan #ethan dolan #dolan twins #grayson dolan x reader #grayson dolan soulmate au #grayson dolan angel au #ethan dolan demon au #ethan dolan angel au #grayson dolan series #grayson dolan fanfic #grayson dolan fanfiction #grayson dolan fic #grayson dolan fluff #grayson dolan angst #soulmate au #broken wings

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hugotontheonbiquiffinarians · 5 years

Text

Arthur & The Myth of Sisyphus

(Arthur/staircase juxtaposed to Sisyphus/rock)

As disclaimer, this may be a generalised statement/inductive analysis, not unique to his diegesis. Will probably be too verbose for some to read, but writing is organic as breathing for me and if I don’t discuss my beautiful clown husband at length, I might very well be caught with a bruised and desiccated lung lol (as you can probably tell, academia is hæmorrhaging into my casual diction)

I’m typing this, more or less, to illustrate my (possibly exhausted) perspective on how significant the staircase is to Arthur’s narrative. Specifically focusing on how it relates to Sisyphus and his eternal struggle to push a cumbersome stone uphill. (Says this all the while knowing I’ll lose said focus by the end of this, oops) That being said, this also just might be some cathartic release in the form of diluted research.

All things considered, with an economy that appears to teeter just so on the verge of instability, most, if not all, may resonate with the impending sense of futility that accompanies society’s defective concept and subsequent flawed execution of ‘adulthood’, including, but not limited to: excessive demands imposed by draconian academia, 9-5 corporate mandates exercised to excess; in addition to parenthood (if applicable). All for the sake of feeding continued survival in a universe where life is erroneously scrutinised under myopic scope of legality. Summarily, we can all embrace solidarity in our respective sharing of adversity, attended by a seemingly endless, merciless journey towards acceptance.

Arthur is my most current muse within the fictional realm (irreplaceable, to boot) so this character study might be more gratuitous than enlightening, but, in essence, I often like to conceive him as a resounding echo that’s effectively sound in giving voice to the voiceless; whispered and indistinct though it may be. However, it could be said that the power of his presence resides, not in the delicate, understated nuance of his vocal tone, but rather the elegant and passionate language of dance pronounced by his feet. Namely, the Sisyphean task of climbing that emblematic staircase.

Whether suffering a daily, if not arduous, ascent one derelict step at a time, or dancing a rhythmic descent to liberation, Arthur’s soles bespeak of a soul that’s been tormented relentlessly throughout the near 40 year span of his existence. Heels throbbing with Weltschmerz, the resulting ache of his travails would often appear as little more than a numbing nuisance to be rubbed away upon a less whimsical return as the prodigal son. In this way, the audience might compare Penny’s impact in Arthur’s life to that of the onerous stone that plagues Sisyphus. Despite being an absent force to her son’s oppressive intimacy with these formidable steps, there is something to be said for the manner in which concern is essentially a wisp in the void when her child’s health utters a silent plea, a murmured urgency, for attention.

Perhaps, we could all agree that a fraction of Artie’s extroverted anger towards Thomas was only partially misdirected. As a means to demonstrate the implied difficulty Arthur expresses for emotional release, especially so for repressed anger, it would have been interesting to witness a scenario in which he doesn’t heed Penny’s request whilst hiding behind a closed door. Given the egocentric brush that paints a broad stroke to her demeanour, would he be vindicated in raising his voice a few decibels ? If for no other reason than to dispel frustration by virtue of necessity. Of course, this isn’t to undermine the fact that Arthur displays potential signs of regressive behaviour (not exclusive to his circumstance but nevertheless germane). A hapless symptom of afflicted childhood incited by an inflamed basis of Nature v. Nurture.

With nearly all sense of identity drifting aimlessly as unanswered queries, there could be reason yet as to why Arthur adopts his Carnival and Joker personas. Beyond factors of aspiration and affinity alone. As someone (myself) who could be classified with mild alexithymia, all the while being fairly averse to labels, the concept of employing alter egos solely to assist in self-expression may not be uncommon, if not muted in translation. In a way that isn’t explicitly stated, we could infer that Arthur enforcing a purpose to evoke genuine smiles and laughter is a means to compensate for those of which he was deprived during his formative years. Speaking as an armchair psychologist, there could be evidenced an intimation of placebo effect for the presence of Pseudobulbar Affect. While this syndrome affects the nervous system and is hence more physiological than psychological, the nature of its infliction could be considered as a bridge between the two.

Certain conditions, of which remain unknown, from his childhood may have contributed to the development of this condition, emphasising a noted relation to thinking patterns. My theory is that any measure of neurosis is directly proportional to the degree of physical complications that may manifest. Arthur is a fairly sensitive man. A rough sketch of this attribute can be observed even whilst Arthur is gallivanting as Joker. In fact, one could even venture to say that his identity is actualised in this form. Cliché ? Yes. But, no less pertinent. Furthermore, a deduction might be made in which Carnival alludes to being a medium that balances the dichotomy between Arthur/Joker.

Yes, these may be points that have been proposed ad nauseam 😶 You also may be wondering: Exactly what role does Sisyphus play in this ?

Ultimately, I’ve come to the conclusion (hagiography) that Arthur, while emotionally sensitive, hardly translates that sensitivity to his visceral being. Revisiting the first bathroom scene, maybe one could see the gloomy reflections of Atlas and Sisyphus reflected in one burdened man, lost in soulful dance. Summarily, he could never strike me as one to admit defeat. To succumb to the siren’s lure of quietus. As illustrated by every Joker rendition before him, Arthur Fleck is no different in how his philosophy materialises. Blending the colours of absurdism and nihilism. While the assertion seems contradictory, considering Arthur’s initial intent to commit suicide on live television, I do believe his animus was strictly encouraged by his comedic inspiration, opposed to an active desire.

Fundamentally, this leads me to my final point (although, admittedly, this isn’t the end, I could literally talk to death about this man, and I will). The contrast of comic styles between Arthur and Murray. This might be the understated controversy of discourse, and my perspective on the matter may be unpopular, if even acknowledged, but just to clear the air, the following assumption isn’t meant to excuse him or his actions. Rather, to offer perspective. If you observe carefully, you might notice that there’s no distinct disparity between Murray and Arthur’s sense of humour. Given the era and its dogged appeals to censorship, Murray’s delivery could be regarded as nothing short of condensed and disguised. As our dear Artie reiterates, comedy is indeed subjective, but, as a matter of course, the brand that either presents isn’t particularly risible given context.

As an audience, we only know Murray on a superficial level. We know he’s a comedian. By the end of the film’s duration, we might have dismissed him as the stock bully. His humour was cruel, callow and sadistic when dispensed towards a man who deemed him a pillar of admiration. However, similar could be said for Arthur’s execution. Consistently morbid and sardonic, these elements of comedy that provoke laughter for Arthur comprise a vague semblance to Murray’s comedic anatomy, despite how patently trite and puerile the latter’s jesting was, when delivered to our undeserving victim.

Arthur was thoroughly justified in his feelings of despondency and disenchantment. Yet, objectively speaking, depending on either side of contention, one’s perception may be determined by whether or not his sensitivity was merely exaggerated when juxtaposed to a comedian who was, more or less, just doing his job; albeit questionably. Unprofessionally. We couldn’t know exactly what Murray was thinking or precisely why he invited Arthur on his show. Surely, public humiliation wasn’t his prime agenda. Curiously enough, I seemed to detect an air of indifference expressed by him when Arthur confessed (*insert delusional gif*). As if it was to be expected.

Ipso facto, with how the sequence pans out, there may have been the possibility of Murray personally investigating the subway murders and considering Arthur a suspect, consequently aiming to extract his confession (a reach, I know ! ) but, maybe not...

Not when the theory of Arthur contriving delusions, having been situated in Arkham the entire time, chimes as possible reasoning.

That, in itself, is a paradox...

...Will we ever ?

#arthur fleck #joker #joker 2019

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manjuhitorie · 5 years

Video

Muro Festival, is a rock festival! Which invites newcomers, upcoming artists, veteran come-on-ers, and all hard song enthusiasts alike to celebrate. Named after Muro Kiyoto, who is the manager of a Shibuya concert venue. As an avid enforcer of music events he’s esteemed by many in the scene, so the event draws in people who are driven by the fuel of that pass. At least bands will comment “Muro fest is an adhesive (Arukara)” or “The number one trait of Murofes is that the performing bands have awesome strong connections even on the side, and that the essence of that friendship engulfs it (Wasure).“ or “Even if Murofest was hosted at a small park or a in the middle of the street or in Muro’s house or even in a public toilet, I would perform. I love Murofest (Mizuno Gii).”

Anyway the performances are full of power! Full of summer heat! Full of maudlinism to soar like Muninn! Full of a favorite: there’s Hitorie’s dead pan heartfelt bassist, ygarshy!

And you were able to watch it on a niconico livestream but...

IT’S ENDED NOW

I will preserve this post as a report.... Doubling as a source for various trivia.... I’m considering maybe if a fan makes a purchase of a Wasureranneyo album, or something of similar sentiment, and DM’s me a screenshot, I could share the recording... Even if you see this in a billion lightyears from now. Because sharing is caring, all around yeah!!!

You have to get niconico premium to watch it, which is only 540 yen. Nothing compared to the fest’s ticket fee of 10,000 yen (Plus airfare fee for us overseers). You can use foreign debit cards, or even Paypal… ! Much of the performances were locked up, only for Premium members originally even for those who were able to watch real-time, so there’s no regrets in seizing the now. Thumbs up. Live shows enhance a whole different essence, so more than listening to a J-rock playlist on Spotify I’d recommend taking a dive into this while you can!!

Not only can you upfront witness the air around their electric pickguards warp to their technique, you can see them hop and whomp and throwmp around! What chords they clench with their teeth, what lines they unleash from the pit of their lungs, what parts the band will huddle together for and what songs mean the world to them! Also the crowds reactions, I move when I see them move, in polysemy. If there’s any niche J-rock band names you’ve maybe been curious about, or just want to find some new indie J-rock, the artist line-up is here! LAMP ON TERREN: wowawawa’s best buddy ‘Dai-chan’ is in there… *Waves hand* TERREN were once scheduled for a joint live with perfect timing, so they brought a birthday cake for wowaka and they got friendly with Rie... or so they thought.. The next day SND was ready to beat the shit out of them on stage. But they’re all friendly now (I think)))) Arukara: They master the standard rock setup with wads of distortion, wah effects, while sometimes make instrumental songs with violin etc. even! They do podcasts! And they reinforce cats a lot. I recommend Chigirero. majiko: Village Man’s Store: Who are the band with bright red suits, bright firey songs, and bright red lips who kissed Shinoda that one time - In seriousness I could recommend them though, they’re sweet with only a little taste of the sleazy! KAKASHI are rejoiced by quite a few Hitorie fans I know. There’s CIVILIAN: A three-piece whom all graduated from the Tokyo School of Music Shibuya, the bonds roam, who also hosts Nanou HoehoeP, another past utaite like majiko. LEGO BIG MORL: Sukippara ni Sake: Who are swanky with Kachāshī-like dances to the stretches of never making a boring song. And so so many more! J-rock band names start to make more less sense the more I’m in here! Wahoo! A band named Hitorie performed two years ago, and there’s LEGO BIG MORL this year, which is hoisted up by the same manager as Hitorie, Mika Arara! The members separately will some participate in cooking shows(), some each do acoustic shows on their own accord, each ego-search, and their stoic songs together are bound to at least make your foot tap from their flavored textures. For this sake I’m eyeing up the band’s particularly memorable whiz named Hiroki Tanaka. Hiroki is not most notable for his #My ygarshy hashtag, but for the sake of this he is. Under the tag is either Hiroki posting a picture of him together with ygarshy or him commenting #My ygarshy on pictures ygarshy of himself with others. Or the “What? Are you a couple?” on ygarshy’s “It’s our 9th year anniversary” photo of him with SND… yg “Sorry.” In general ygarshy and Hiroki are friendly, they drink and vent together time to time.Also Hiroki and Shibata Takahiro, the character who comes in soon, have a unit called Takahiroki. Which is the two of them fused to make flurry, with only an acoustic guitar and a mic as their weapons even! Their concerts tend to break the norms of the non-flamboyant J-rock scene, as they screw around with their power with no real point, just a joint to a jollity! Where as many J-rock shows will use screens of music visualizers to engross, Takahiroki will use the crowd by galvanizing them raise their signature rainbow towels or make explosive call-outs towards the flames of reality. Where many will use subdued dance to party, Takahiroki will chit-chat about food and females as they swing their limbs like spinning amusement park rides or dress as bartenders and drink . Though all rock shows are have their unique tricks and spirit, it’s nice to see it super shaken up also… I introduce these two for good reason! It’s background for what’s feautured in the niconico livestream! The band Wasureranneyo! That Shibata is on vocals and guitar, that Hiroki is on main guitar, our ygarshy is on bass, and Takayuki Tomita is on drums! Tomita is from a band called THE LOVE NINGEN, whom I’m not sure how came into relation with Shibata, but Wasurerannee yo is constantly borrowing members to fill it’s blanks due to . ygarshy has been consistent for more than half a year now! Hiroki also bounces in whenever he can an ex. Wasurerannee yo member once filled in for Love Ningen. They themselves most likely meet at festivals like this! Where similar bands get together under a sonic medium and spend the crepuscle ball. But I’m going back to ygarshy! Him! His performance is a spotlight!

the important part THE SHOW highlights

Wasureraneeyo start at 1:27:28, end at 1:58:39. You can manually copy-paste, and it’s a whole 30 minutes action-packed. There's about 48 hours before a the single watch instance will expire, but it's possible to close the window and come back anytime between then.

The first 5+ minutes are rehearsal, they’re muted to give the live-goers an extra extra incentive. It’s still worth a peak to see how musicians will stroll as they test. They played their theme song and also a cover of Alexandros’ Wataridori there’s nothing worth hearing anyway right (*wails).

The rest is 100% worth the buck! ●Shibata starts off by whimpering over an urge he needs to burst out, he needs everybody to cheer him on. When he Says “Miyamoto - Ryou!”, you have to shout “You can do it!” Note: Miyamoto and Ryou are a comedian duo, who just days ago were revealed to the victims of a corrupted corporation, who was holding absolute control over them. People have cheering for them to win better circumstances in the case. Yet the apologies and the press conferences have been fantasy football battles.... Ugh... It's a riot for sure though! Official news reports are here or here or etc. ●He gets everyone to wiggle their arms 90° angles above their heads “like we’ve gone crazy!” and shout a nonsensical “Yossoi hoi hoi!” chant! With the heat as the beat! yga just plays bass! ●He makes noise for his mom, multiple times throughout! His T-shirt even has his mom on it! Specifically a picture of 2 year old himself being embraced by his mother printed on it, with the word “Mother” metallically written on the back… Source from his past diary entry of him expressing his maternal love. I can’t believe this ygarshy no wonder you can’t help but smile a lot during these shows. ●He complains about the shitty time he “went out drinking when he two cute girls walked through the door in, ‘Oh, oh, oh!’ he thought, only for them to start chit-chatting about how small their boyfriend’s dicks are! What kind of damnation is this bullshit!” ●The lyrics are about that stuff anyway!! ●There’s also a special appearance from Kanata Takehiro, the vocalist of LEGO BIG MORL. Shibata bitches at him mid-solo because “Fuck you! All the girls are staring at you now damn it!” *He is actually popular in the band due to being good and cooking and math and being an overall goofball behind the gallantries. The original of Odore Hikikomori features Hiroki and Sekihan, of Happy Head NANIYORI also he was in the niconico scene a long time ago, both dressed in clothes that you may find very unlikely but 100% plausible. ●ygarshy smiles and then recalibrates his hair over his eyes to look like a dark souls boss faceless again. He holds his bass with the neck upwards, he’s reviving his high school orchestra club bass playing sensibility. Virtuoso. The high tempo of Wasureraneeyo’s songs is definitely on par with Hitorie’s, Rie's irregular metres, swapping, interchanging and 456 metres are monstrous, but the sheer volume of tutti and strumming in Wasure’s punk songs seems to be something else as well…! yganbare!! ●Also don’t worry about those missed minutes because Shibata crowd-surfs again. This time with cash in his hand a mission! Saying “I’m glad to be here! Take me to the cute beer darling!”, as he is driven by the hands of the compliantly ecstatic crowd towards a staff member waiting in the middle of the crowd, holding up your average beer! Shibata trades the cash for the cup, he orders everyone to gather under him, “I can’t stand up if you’re pushing my ass! Oh now I can thank you”, and at last he gains the support to stand up! On top of a crowd for God's sake he rises. To glug the beer like a food chain top predator of the wild. Then to slide back to stage while crying for his mom again.

●Hiroki physically shoves ygarshy around while they have the stage to themselves. Ahh how the tables turn, the kicker to the pushee. ●In his black robes ygarshy is just such a trance to witness play throughout… It’s really great in motion and as a whole I love dirty rock concerts. Music has to be heard, my lumberous lumpy text can’t convey those sound waves… So give it a watch if you may have free time to do so! Only if you can please! Source for comments and some info: https://skream.jp/feature/2019/06/muro_festival_2019.php More photos and videos can be found on their official twitter! Photos by Suzuki Kouhei woah...

#Watching the scene change from day to night was cool I want to go #The other bands are interesting enough they all deserve to be highlighted but my favoritism keeps me sticking here #ヒトリエ #ygarshy #hitorie

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beloved-judged · 5 years

Text

Inner/Outer

This probably only applies to me, so... I guess keep that in mind.

I think the strangest thing about this process, the pathless path, is the dynamic between inner and outer changes.

Early on, I realized that there were, in essence, two ways to go about sacrifice. We appear to be free to tell the spirit that our sacrifices, offerings, and relationship is to be limited to that which happens outside ourselves: we’ll go this far, but no further. Offer up food, but no more. Pursue a relationship at arms’ length. Limit the domain of change to only the things we ask to change and no more. Ignore the prompt of the spirit except for when that prompt is inside whatever we consider to be the domain of the spirit (during ceremonies, while at temple, etc.)

There’s a dude on youtube who I watch sometimes who appears to have the full monty, in terms of initiation, but whose relationship with the lwa is directly mercenary. He talks a lot about “controlling” the spirit and about being very carefully specific with it so that it doesn’t mess you up, but honestly when I hear him talk, I simply hear... well, an exercise in futility, and quite possibly an insult to the spirit.

If I had to label anything Bizango, it would be that approach: it’s transactional. It’s mercenary. There’s no love in it, or very little. It’s very... aggressive and angry and all about what he gets out of the relationship, with loads of time spent talking about how dangerous the spirit is, and how it’s all about death and power and harm. It’s all about subduing his enemies and punishing anyone he doesn’t like. He may just be showing off for the camera, as a performance of his power, strength, and arcane or mystic force. I have no way of knowing.

This may just be my lack of experience speaking, but when I listen to him talk, I feel... a sense of disgust.

I recognize (or at least I have been told) that vodou is morally neutral by the standards of the Christianity of my childhood, but honestly my experience has been so much about virtue and light and love and healing and mutual relationship that it’s hard for me to recognize what he’s talking about.

I have no illusions that, being associated as closely with humanity as the spirit appears to be, that there is not another side to vodou. Survival takes what it takes, and my life has had some of that. You can’t get through life without being made aware (I hope) that the world is not always a place that wants to facilitate your well being or survival, and on occasion you just gotta get in there and get dirty.

I just find his approach bizarre, because I hear nothing mutual in it. No acknowledgment of the spirit as having a consciousness outside poorly leashed aggression, rage, and hate. The absolute refusal to change--a demand to heaven that it comply, without an apparent sense of the awesome arrogance of that demand and the grace of the spirit which permits it.

I’m told the spirit eats what we give it, in the sense that we reflect our relationship to the spirit. My understanding of that phrase is that if we approach the spirit with nothing but our rage, hate, aggression, loathing, and disgust, that is how the spirit approaches us (presumably because that’s how we’ve signaled we want to be approached.)

This isn’t to say that the spirit won’t approach us how it needs to, but rather that... well, I wouldn’t want to eat that as a consistent diet. Bon dieu save me from that. I have enough of my own darkness without asking for the spirit to reflect it back at me. I do not wish to compound my chains, but to cast them off.

We also appear to be free to give the spirit something else. One of the earliest choices I made when I started on this path as an adult, a few years ago, was not to keep the spirit at arm’s length: I wanted to be the sacrifice. It felt fitting, like something I was born to do, a fit of the soul that echoes through the body like a jubilant ‘yes’ which began in the pregnant silence before my physical life began, and will not end while I exist.

It feels like I was born to burn, not to be destroyed, but to live by burning away all that which is not spirit: my hate. My jealousy. My rage. My agony. All things burning away.

Oddly, while I remember my pain and its causes, increasingly I can see through it. Pain is a cycle, it contains a reactive cycle. It’s stupefying, blinding, intimately personal, and we are caught up reacting to it in a way that feels so natural. Pain compels us, rules us, and even when we sense the cycle happening, we seem unable to stop.

Those painful events happened. I remember being harmed and its after-effects, but I believe, under the tutelage of the spirit, that I will revisit these sources of pain, but that rather than dragging me under, I will be lead to see through them.

The price of intimacy with the spirit, at least what I understand so far, has been that burning process, which hurts, but in a different way than simple pain. It has been the spirit telling me no as no became necessary. It has been giving up who I thought I was, and the desires I thought I had.

I am... surprisingly content to be aligned, to give things up. I’m sure I’ll balk again, and I have balked before, but I am surprised to find that as I give things up, they are replaced. I was worried, at first, about giving up my individuality, my hard fought survival and the qualities that went with it, or giving up the things that made me, me.

Surrendering freely, without constraint, to the spirit seemed a kind of self-annihilating madness: the capstone of something many experiences in my life taught me to expect. A kind of ultimate masochism--to hurtle into extinction of the mind, body, and soul.

While I have given a lot of things up, that which has replaced them has been infinitely more satisfying. The control that I sought by tensing up, by trying to manage, by trying to be someone I was not, the control that everything in my environment taught me was necessary is...

What did I want?

Success. Respect. Love. Adoration. The gratification of my will and ego. Adulation.

I hate to say it, but those are cheap prizes. We are hurtling toward the eventual transition from physical life to whatever lies afterward for us, and no one will remember us long past our death.

This used to bother me as a thought a lot more than it currently does. And maybe it will bother me again as death comes closer, but I suspect the dead man (a borrowed but so wonderful phrase) will dance me away from living with a smile, when the time comes. I won’t go alone.

But if I serve whatever purpose the spirit has in putting me here on this earth, I don’t really have to worry about that. I will have done my duty, the duty I was permitted to incarnate for.

That’s essentially the best legacy I could hope for, somewhere in the invisible accounting of god, which fortunately for me supersedes any incarnate accounts of my life (good lord, do people miss a lot!)

I’m sure I’ll forget this from time to time, life being as distracting as it is, but I wanted to capture this musing while it was on me, and so far, the spirit hasn’t said no.

I burn. I dance. I serve, and I know that I am lucky. Whatever rank I do or do not attain, whatever incarnate acknowledgment of power I do or don’t have... look, I am permitted to be here, among the bodied, in this strange and lovely reality.

My pride might need a reminder from time to time, but incarnation alone makes me lucky. And someday, perhaps, I will have the authority to look at people and ask them to come and join the dance with me, as I often long to do.

I long to look people in the eye and invite them to join the dance, the fire, the reel of time which dashes us, drunk with life, against the stately music of the stars. The inside and the outside, the changing house of death, the spark of god in your souls joining in the divine crucible.

Would you believe it? I’m sane by the accounting of twenty years of therapists, because it merits saying when I start feeling mystical. I do not speak of these things. People get a little panicked, and who can blame them.

But here I am, and here you are, and the spirit knows what will happen next.

#lwa #vodou #it got weird and I don't care

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cutemoniic · 5 years

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Freeing Experience (pt.2)

You step outside, fresh grass under your feet, and you're carrying a body: the one of a girl, still lifeless, flowing light blonde hair covering the head thrown around your shoulders like a sack of disgraced potatoes: a small revenge for her graceful, innocent beauty that seared into your eyelids.

You wouldn't be able to lie if you said that what Wrath found you didn't suit your tastes: an angelic beauty, opposed to the powerful monstrosity you wanted him to get you. But you forgot to specify, and assumed that all angels that could have been grabbed could have been just uncanny valleys of ugly, so you simply thank him, and go on your merry way a few days later, the body in your hands freezing after a close experience with ice to keep it intact. Away from the house, in a safe place. You want a fair fight, and you guess that this is the closest thing you will obtain for that. But you can't help the disappointed sigh escaping your lips, and the adrenaline tingling at your joints.

You're ready. Maybe, you always have been, and simply stalled the inevitable.

When you reach your destination -- a large, large patch of burned down grass and dirt in the middle of nowhere -- you let the body drop without an hint of grace nor mercy. It splays on the ground with bright eyes wide open, soft lips slighty apart and in a strange angle, with open arms and curled legs that you fix with your feet and less than proper care.

The rest of the process is simple. It's like decanting the content of a jar in another one, careful not to let it spill: so your fingers move accordingly, brushing at your lips -- and with the slightest of hesitations, you softly blow on them.

She tastes like death, even in soul, but you're more interested in the slight tug at your essence. With a distant, ear-shattering scream, you sense the pit in your stomach growing into an hole when the sole force of your breath detaches the murk from your soul. It flies, the horrible aftertaste of it passing your mouth forcing you to dry heave and almost drop the disgusting glob of dark murk in the palm of your hand. It doesn't, fortunately, and you grab one of her shoulders to force the essence into her mouth.

It hesitates, clearly uncompatible.

It's just for a small moment. Then it moves down her throat.

Minutes pass, as you pace and wait for the soul to latch properly to the dead body. It will work.

You knew that you were good with decant. You have the final proof when new eyelids bat, and when she lifts herself up on her elbows. A small, girlish groan with a detestable girly voice erupts from her mouth, pearly teeth showing in all their pure beauty, and a flash of black hate deletes everything else from your memory.

Then, she finally starts screaming.

You expected that. Her eyes, limpid, clear and innocent, fills with dark sludge to the brim -- it pours down her face in dirty, sticky tears as she whrithes on the ground in agony, the strain of the new body forced to adapt her too much to stand still and simply accept it. Her nails pop off due to the overflow, her nose and throat become clogged as well, and you'd be lying if you were to say, later, that you didn't enjoyed her noises of choking and gagging on her own product. Her every orifice is trying to reject the substance, but it keeps spreading over her... it engulfs her completely, in a matter of mere minutes. It consumes the wings, her torso, her legs and tunic, leaving steaming holes in the soft fabric.

You stand there, hands folded over your stomach, and watch her slowly stop struggling -- simply trembling, for a long, long while. When she has regained enough energies to slowly roll on her back and on her elbow, she looks at you.

''Hello. I can finally look at your face,'' you calmly greet her, a smirk on your lips.

''What did you do,'' she rasps out, demanding an answer with a snark that doesn't suit your tastes. You raise your eyebrows and don't speak to her for a while, delighted to see her choke on black, murky words dripping down her chin.

''What did you do?'' She asks better this time, panic in her voice. ''This body is... y--you did... why?''

''Because you deserve to suffer,'' you reply, tone soft like a pillow. ''And I'm pretty pleased with your state right now.''

There's something wrong approaching you in the back of your mind that you cannot quite pinpoint, until it hits: something has been opened, and you sway on your feet and rear back until you can rest your bare back against a tree. You squeeze your eyes shut, cold sweat beading at the edge of your hairline and down your neck.

There was just pain and suffering. A contract being signed in a dirty pub. Darkness. Him. The struggle. Roars and blood being spilled. Bars. Bare knees and hands moving on the ground and the memory of no words being spoken, other than simple ones and a cheerful, innocent tone that got broken too soon. Too quickly. He looks at you in a way that makes you despise being alive. She roars inside of you and you choke on tears of murk. You break into a sprint and wreck your throat with sobs as malignant, cackling demons pursue you. He places a scalpel on a tray and the world goes black and red and white and then you die. And you die. And you die. Behind a tapestry everyone is suffering, so you decide to help them. Mismatched eyes watching from behind bars. Scraping your nails on hard rock to reach for some natural salt minerals. The smell of cooked meat filling the room. A lot of soft voices, thanking you for the meal and your bravery, lulling you to sleep in your bad days, fixing you on something soft as you come back from the death. The slow, laughabe pace of the guards as they try and fail to chase you. Wails from inside you. You die. And you die. And you die. The pavement is warm and you have gravel stuck in your back and legs. The form of your dagger is permanently stamped in your palm. The vague image of a warm living room, a TV show running in the background as terror overtakes you. I have to go back there, I don't want to -- an empty stomach growls and you only see black until it's filled. There's blood on your hands and a corpse in front of you and it tastes heavenly and you're so sorry but you were so hungry and they looked so tasty and you want more and the smell of food wrecks you still and your head is rolling on the pavement and he's looking at you in disgust disgust disgust and you have disappointed him again but you want to get out and you die and you die and you die and there's a soft haunting music in your mind that you cannot pinpoint and he picks the food from your sprawled body and tsks and tells you to do better next time and then he cuts you down after you talk because he's your father right and he'll never hurt you but he does and you're bleeding and you run and drag yourself on the warm stones and there's the fire the fire the fire the FIRE THE FIRE ---

You dry heave. Slowly come back to your senses and find yourself covered in sweat, and slumped against the hard tree, who has dug into your back like a particulary fierce lover. Your breath is skyrocketing into a panic attack, and you drag sticky hands down your face.

Calm down. Calm down...

And you do.

The sensation, after you command your body to cease manifestations of deep distress, obeys you. The sweat is still present, but your panic is swallowed as a numbing sensation spreads across your chest.

Which, you figure, it's better than still panicking. You're in awe at how... controlled you can feel, at how quickly you return to reality from the sea of memories swimming in your brain.

Something sinks into the corner of your lips, and tears away. For a split moment, you think that it's part of a memory. Then you feel the murk sticking to your open wound and material and blood starting to gush out, a sickly face closing on you again, and you react with a set of reflexes that leaves you speechless.

Your combact training, without you never remembering one, come in natural, fluent moves of your trained, fit body. The water-like dance you can pursue while holding your dagger leaves you mesmerized, puzzled at your new knowledge. And when in doubt, you enter His office unannounced.

He doesn't need to lift his gaze from the paperwork he's buried nose deep in. He knows that it's you, and the fragrant sound of papers being shifted stops for a moment to allow you to speak.

''How... how do I know what to do while I fight? I never had this training before. What did you do to me...?''

This question seems to puzzle him: crimson hues leave the trail of written thoughts for a moment, fix themselves on your small figure (and the shiver they give off is always the same, no matter how calm he is) and doesn't miss a beat to clarify the situation.

''What I implanted in your body was not simply your essence: along with it, I morphed you as a warrior. You lacked certaint knowledge, and I inserted what you didn't had into your core. You have experience because I deemed you fit to be one of my underlings.''

You probably offered him a break from his work that he wanted to take (or so you hope), and you see him slowly lifting himself up from the marvellous, soft chair he was resting in -- and with slow, methodical steps, he strides in front of you.

''But the knowledge I inserted in you is minor, simply the basics of defending and ending a life, when needed. But the motions, the other techniques... I did not touched them. So they must reside in your new body.''

A shiver ripples down your spine for a moment, his hand slipping out from the elaborate golden sleeve in an inviting motion.

''Give me your hand.''

This is the most intimate you've ever been with him from what you remember. Shy and insecure, you extend your hand out -- and there's something that warns you about placing the bundle of nerves that your appendix became into his care. Because his presence strikes defined chords in you, and his hands are slender and gelid.

The sensation proves right when he tries to wrap cold fingers around your wrist, and it's instinctive for you to abnormally tense up and react quicker than your mind intends to, sliding your warmth from his numbing coldness and jump behind a few steps, putting a safe distance between you two. Your breath is uneven, erratic, shock easily overcoming you. Your hand is itching to reach into your chest and pluck out a dagger, to bristle the skin with the smooth blade. Even your own creator's one.

He, in a staggering contrast, does not bat a lash. Slowly, unphazedly so, he retracts his hand inside his sleeve again and crosses them behind his back.

''This is what I meant.''

A pause.

''Your reflexes. Little of this belongs to you as an essence, but rather to the body you own. It's a simple concept that, I am sure, you'll have grasped after my explation.''

The time that he decided to dedicate to you is over, you understand the verbal dismissal he meant and quickly scutter out of the room to find some peace of mind.

You launch the dagger into her melting skin, and slash. And hack. And tear, the substance clinging to the blade. You scream when she slips away, and tears at the skin of your arm with her sharp, jade teeth.

''It's mine,'' she says, between chews. ''It's my body.''

She swallows, calmly, and you feel the exposed gum and teeth grow sensible to the cold air and to your crescent panic.

''I'll just hhhhhh--ave to eat you, little child.''

Calm down, you will to yourself again. And you do, a cold sensation of awareness spreading across your limbs.

You don't really wanna be eaten. Not now that you're so close to success.

She gets to your arm again, but the edge of your dagger is swiftly stuck between her teeth. You twist it and tear most of them out, panting and turning her with a knee to her stomach. Black murk is stuck everywhere, and it takes you a while to recognize that it's coming from you, rather than her.

What's happening?, you ask, vomiting a mouthful of sludge on the ground. When she attacks again, you simply stick your dagger out --

And when she dodges, drawling out a groaned growl, you twist your body and arm to split her apart with an even cut. The sludge parts and returns together, a deep, red gash underneath that is barely being covered.

Blade meets bone in another assault. It screeches against it, and you release your hold on her gurgling body before grasping at it again, and facing her directly.

''Leave,'' you hiss, chest rumbling. ''Leave right now. Go away. Go to Heaven or to rot back into the ground, for all I care. Come near me again -- and I will dissolve you in acid. You fucking... fucking monster.''

''No,'' she rasps out. ''My body...''

Anger rushes out of an unknown place inside your stomach. You coil like a springlock ready to burst, right in her face.

''IT'S MY BODY! YOU LOST IT!''

She draws back, stunned. All she can manage to hiss its ''thievling,'' before she scutters away in the secure refuge of the woods, glowering ambers that are her eyes following you for a moment before they disappear into the leafage. You feel her presence disappear off your property.

Something tells you that she will not attack you again.

There's crimson blood on the ground, and you feel dizzy. You walk back to the house mostly unscathed, covering your mouth with your hand and scraping at the blood on your exposed teeth. Despite the panicky situation, you feel calm and collected -- if not a bit surprised at how quick the whole ordeal was. Your teeth feel numb, too.

But there’s this new sensation... calmness, an endless one. You don’t rush home, instead sporting a relaxed pace despite the minor injuries and the whole situation that just happened.

This one is gonna be a bitch to heal, you're sure...

But, at least, you’re in control now.

#;;Narrating #gore ;;#cannibalism ;;#death mention ;;

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chvvva · 6 years

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Promenade - Day 18th: Galdoune

Read on AO3

Julia/President (under a read more due to possibly triggering content, underage, galdoune fuckery and general ickiness)

At exactly fifteen years old, Number Six only had eyes for himself and one other man, most often reflected in the mirror of his thoughts.

He also had a terrifying, paralyzing sensation.

It’s hard to tell if love is running out of time until it does. Until it’s late. Until there’s no more water under the bridge.

---

Anticipation made the air shallow and strange, except Number Six had forgotten what excitement felt like. He could hear the frantic beat of his own heart, see his stoic reflection in the window, and despite his best efforts he couldn’t neglect the feeling in his viscerae. A special sort of promise.

The carriage ride was mostly spent in pensiveness, in-between the occasional bumps from the road’s unevenness and the unkind, distant coos of night birds. The sky overhead looked too blue to even show a hint of sunset pinks and reds - a calm sky, it was utterly impossible to have rain that night - so serene was the vast expanse, reaching over the hills and the beautiful lands that surrounded Paris like a golden ring.

When the palace came into view, it glinted like a jewel under the last rays of the sun, but Number Six wasn’t looking outside.

They hastily passed across the gardens, and the President paid no mind to any of it, like he already knew down to every last details the conformation and compositions of roses - like he was at home. Home was a difficult concept as matters stood.

So, naturally, Number Six stole glances. He counted the times the President’s forefinger tapped on his cane. He held himself as becomingly as possible, even though the only ones in the carriage were the President and him.

He tried to remember the last time they had shared the intimacy of traveling together.

With the answer, a blush.

-Act I-

“Wouldn’t you let me finish your glass, dear.” The President’s voice always sounded like the order had already been carried out. A ghost hand reached out and pulled the young boy’s wrist, and with it the glass, towards the man, who downed the remains.

Number Six followed his Adam’s apple’s motion. “Is it good, sir?”

“Delectable. I know it seems unfair now, you must believe me. At your age, many things do look sweeter than they are… But it is unbecoming of you to drink alcohol.”

That sense of finality didn’t sink with the same bitterness in Number six’s stomach. Rather, it felt as though the President’s intent was to make him smile.

“Indeed, I’ve read that the pleasures of wine might often uproot the seed of innocence.”

The corner of the man’s lips slid upwards, like an old fox recognizing the trap it’s about to fall into. Number Six- he felt truly, infinitely happy.

Heat rolled off Number Six’s body, as something impatient and mildly ravenous sizzled underneath his moon-pale skin.

No matter what age he turned, he would never grow patient enough to say exactly how many chandeliers bathed the room in light. He was sure the President could say, and only in a matter of instants. And it wouldn’t matter if that ended up being untrue.

Number Six would take the President’s understanding, wise words over anything else, were they laced with poison, foulness or anything in between.

As he looked around, Number Six became aware that the prevailing color in the garments worn by most guests was a boring black. Pleased, Number Six felt himself smirk; a smile so sly it puffed up his rosewater cheeks, sharp and authentic like a wolf’s canine.

“I’d love to dance…”

It was a demand, never as shy as it seems. A thousand little flames were hovering over the ballroom and it wasn’t midnight yet. In Number Six’s wicked eyes, was the President’s mirror image, as he nodded.

“Your grace and skills are a sight to behold. Everyone would be honored. Unfortunately, it’s not possible.”

Number Six’s porcelain lips pulled down into a tiny frown which couldn’t be less sincere. He made himself closer to the railing, observing the vast chessboard floors. Both creamy and dark, like the essence of soul and desire. It looked so fit to be Number Six’s spiderweb of choice. “Why not?”

“You shall have a partner in order to dance,” the President explained calmly, ever so patient.

Number Six blinked as though the President had just confronted him with a difficult conundrum. His eyebrows pulled down, towards the centre of his small, oval face, and his features appeared no less fair, if only a little disgusted. Then, seemingly reaching a conclusion, he shrugged. “I don’t want to dance with anyone.”

It wasn’t midnight yet. He would only be fifteen for a few more minutes.

“I knew you would understand, Number Six...”

-Act II-

Number Six had rarely stepped outside his manor, buried somewhere in a landscape that would appear on the front of a postcard. First of all, everything he needed was brought to him on a silver plate, and he didn’t have any tangible motive to explore the world of those unlike him. Seeing it, maybe, would have meant it existed.

Secondly, those occasions which involved his departure from the manor meant, one way or the other, that he would see the President. As much as Number Six treasured that dearly, he had been told about the President’s busy schedule time and time again, until around the age of ten he realised that making himself essential to the President was much, much more rewarding than borrowing time.

Balls and parties let Number Six witness the opulence of Galdoune and its consequences; many guests were not only honorary members, but also collaborators, commercial partners, and ministers, the likes of which one would find revolting and unsuitable to share such a feast with- and yet, just like the Tower of Babel had torn people apart, the language of money brought them together.

Number Six knew they had no worth. Galdoune certainly wouldn’t support itself on such a pitiful lot, much less concern itself with making them join the organization officially. The Senate only needed to ensure their loyalty. Petting them like good dogs, feeding them what they needed to keep their business afloat - Galdoune was the very sustainment source of half the global market and growing. There were no honest or dishonest people in that room, only people who had chosen the profitable road. Number Six watched the whole crowd from above, drumming his fingers on his chin idly - Who owned this place? Why were exactly six hundred people gathered here and what was the event’s actual function? Who was the real organizer of this ball, beside an empty name on invitation cards?

They knew nothing and yet, arrogantly, they deemed themselves superior to the rest of the people. Sickening.

Number Six sighed, his hand toppling forward like dead weight. The President had excused himself to speak with some smartly dressed fellows. A Rutherford, someone big. Unsavory people, these Americans. Unconcerned with Galdoune’s elegance and history, even knowledge was wasted on them.

“Once you’ve done what you have to, wait for me,” had been the President’s words. Other than that, he was free to act on his own.

The boy found the closest staircase and skipped down the steps. He took a moment to take in the general state of the feast. By the opposite wall was a troupe of violins and cellos, more handsomely paid than any other musician in the world. Were the audience attuned with finer music, they would have known they were only there as a distraction, much like the wine, the floors and the dirty money they so craved.

“Hello. I saw you up there. You looked bored.”

Number Six turned to the clear voice. It belonged to a young gangling boy, his hair dark and pinned to his head by touches of gel. Short pants, much like his own; except Number Six wore all white, a blouse that fit him like a delicate petal, wide around his tiny shoulders. The unidentified boy was patently the unfortunate spawn of some CEO who thought dressing up their son as his apprentice would have given them more credibility.

Not receiving a reaction, he held out his hand. “I’m Isak.”

His accent told Number Six something about his origins. He accepted Isak’s hand and gave it a bashful squeeze. It worked, because the boy - who couldn’t be more than a few years younger - held himself more confidently, dominatingly, and smiled. Number Six smiled back.

“Were you… I mean, I think you saw me too,” Isak explained. “There aren’t many guys my age here. Much less cute girls.”

“Aren’t there?”

“You’re the first I’ve met, actually.”

French wasn’t Isak’s forte, and judging by the cross around his neck neither was saying no to his parents. Number Six suggested they sit next to a tall window, from which they could see the expanse of the gardens, a season past blooming. Moonlight pooled on the crown of Number Six’s fair hair and dripped down his collarbones.

There was such a big moon! Number Six thought to himself, as Isak kept on talking, that it looked like a crooked grin. If it only were lower, its cold touch might reach the edge of the world, and Isak would be too self-absorbed to notice.

“Oh. My father is coming over here,” Isak remarked, at which Number Six leant into him, shoulder to shoulder.

“Is that your father?”

“Don’t worry about being ceremonious. He’s a bit of an asshole.”

It felt like Isak was telling him to watch out from some sort of danger.

Number Six tilted his head slightly, his eyes open wide like a beast’s fauces. A man in his forties approached their chairs from their left, and Number Six found that he looked nothing like an aficionado of the global trade of heroin. The silver chain protruding from the top pocket on his suit piece probably held up a pocket watch, which didn’t work as a pocket watch. The young boy smiled amiably, though the man was looking down at his son.

“Didn’t you make a friend? My, my. I would hope you behaved like a proper gentleman.”

“Isak is lovely,” ensured Number Six, adding a little sigh for good measure. “Are you enjoying the evening in good company, sir?”

“Most certainly. I reckon Isak did, as well.” Since the musicians took a break, it was easier to hear the man’s neat, husky voice, and to recognize the interest behind it. “If you’ll allow me,” he said, his right hand outstretched.

Number Six allowed him to place a delicate kiss on his fingers, his knees bending a little in a polite bow when their contact faded. In his peripheral vision, Isak knit his eyebrows and his forehead wrinkled in an ugly way.

“Isak, we have to go now. Pardon us.”

The boy, luckily, didn’t put up too much resistance. He trailed after the man with a frown, like a dog pulled harshly by a leash, though his father didn’t put a finger on him. Not in a room full of strangers, no. Number Six figured different methods were involved.

Once he was fairly sure neither of them would see him if they turned back, Number Six’s gaze finally met the President’s. Both their expressions were carefully arranged so it wouldn’t occur to anyone that they were looking at each other, and yet Number Six felt scanned to his core, deep down to the underside of his skin, the bottom of his eye-sockets. It’s surprising that he didn’t start giggling.

-Act III-

After seeking to waste time, growing comfortable with the music and all the rest came natural.

He tackled the steps of every dance he knew in his mind, and that was about the most entertaining thing he could find. So Number Six decided to play his own game.

He ignored the main entrance to the room, a huge arch which led to an equally grand staircase, and took one of the secondary corridors which was likely used by servants on occasion. He met several smaller doors on the way, but didn’t change his route until the violins became so distant they could pass for a fabrication of his imaginative mind. Behind that particular door seemed to be a service lounge. One sofa, a small fireplace. No windows.

The target didn’t disappoint.

Number Six simply waited for the door to creak open. The poorly lit room encased the sharp sound of his voice, articulating nothing but cruelty; the kind of cruelty you would find in an adult.

“Didn’t mommy tell you to run when you see a pretty face?”

The child seemed even unable to blink. He lifted his hands, frozen in place. He didn’t understand- No, he knew nothing. Poor dear.

Then Number Six’s fingers worked the gun like second nature, fast and unwavering, pointing it straight at the door. He liked how the small jewel fit him. Manicured nails, thin wrists. The mouth of the gun breathed out after vomiting the bullet, but the sound of it hitting flesh and bone was more interesting.

-Act IV-

If Number Six were able to perceive embarrassment or even demonstrate it on an empirical level, he certainly would have blushed due to the awkwardness of that moment.

The President had opened the door and evaluated the outcome of the mission before making his way inside and really regarding Number Six with pale blue orbs whose sole purpose seemed to be to dissect any little movement he made.

Of course: Isak’s bloody face was unrecognizable and there was no way the President would find that dead little fool nice to look at. His death had no grace at all.

No, it wasn’t the President’s type.

Without a real and tangible reason, Number Six had been tinkering with the poor child’s brain, after appropriately playing with his mind. Mind, brain, grey matter- Was there even a difference, or were all these terms just the result of someone’s distraction, of people’s mania to discern concept after concept? It drove Number Six crazy. Isak had died the exact second the bullet had pierced the front of his scalp, and so had his brain activity ceased, and so had his train of thought - whatever idiotic thought had flashed through his mind in his last seconds - been broken. All of these at the same time, not a fraction of second between them, and so wasn’t the mind simply a shapeless mass not unlike jelly? Something that could be touched, poked, crushed in one’s hand?

Galdoune was renowned for the freedom granted to its scientist, and Number Six had been testing a theory.

Still, the President hadn’t looked too happy even after Number Six, the perfect child he was, explained everything in great detail.

“Your reasonings are very complex and philosophically challenging, Six,” the President commented. He sat on the little sofa next to the fireplace, giving his back to the two corpses in the room. His attention was only on Number Six. “I will provide you with books on the matter of brain science which you will be free to peruse.”

“It is not only the brain, President,” the boy observed. “The heart as well, is but an organ. Yet in almost every language it means something so different. To have heart , and to learn by heart , and to break a heart .”

“You’ll have the opportunity to research this field and satisfy your curiosity, if you so desire.”

The President pat his knee and Number Six didn’t miss a beat, confiding in his permission to get closer. He sat on the man’s leg gingerly, giving the gun in his lap a small squeeze.

His heart felt like it could start waltzing away, out of his chest, and he wondered if Isak’s heart would come away that easily.

-Epilogue-

Once he sat in the carriage, Number Six had no choice but to check himself and every inch of his clothes for smears of blood. He found none.

The President was smoking a cigarette, one of those expensive brands Number Six couldn’t touch. “I brought you along because I knew you could do the job, but you far surpassed my expectations. I appreciate a job well done.”

Time flew by smoothly as they drove away from the estate early in the morning, while a veil of fog and starless darkness covered their tracks. Number Six had completed his mission most excellently, so nothing needed to be concealed. That inconvenient CEO of a swedish oil refinery and his son were waiting to be found lifeless, with their eye-sockets empty, as the President had instructed, and it could happen any minute now; but Number Six was already far, his clothes unmarred and with the President’s appraising words lodged in his chest.

“It was an easy one, sir.”

“Easy? I see. Your experience and versatility make you valuable to Galdoune, do not forget that.”

There was a pleasant and calm atmosphere permeated by cigarette smoke, a complicity of gazes and the occasional brushing of their knees. Home was a difficult concept, but Number Six knew what he associated it with. And nothing in the world could compare.

He would do anything for Galdoune.

Then the President’s gloved hand was on his knee, just holding it delicately, without force or a hint of rush. Sometimes, he thought the President could read his thoughts, as if they were written neatly on his forehead or his scalp were split open.

“Dear thing. You must feel incredibly tired, Six. You can rest until we get to our destination.”

He longed for the scratchy kiss of the President’s jawline on his hand, but he didn’t dare. He stayed put in his seat, allowing himself the smallest sound of denial and the dangerous proximity of their shoulders, which the shallow sway of the carriage closed from time to time.

“No! No need. The adrenaline rush from earlier hasn’t faded away yet. Shooting is quite stimulating. I’m not tired... ”

“Mmh, wouldn’t it be awful if you exhausted yourself. On your birthday, moreover. We will have more time, later, to do whatever you want to do. You've been such a good boy,” the President’s thumb drew a slow circle on Number Six’s knee. His voice had multiple shades, at times as low and persuasive as Number Six could imagine it. “Now close your eyes. I will be here.”

And then, just as if the President himself had poured an overflowing tiredness into him, each of Number Six’s limbs felt lead-heavy, and he slowly let himself lean into the President’s side, like a sinking stone accepting the sea’s gentle flow.

He did not sleep, but he did not stay awake. And without sleep came no dreams.

#vkcshippingmonth2018 #julia/president #julia michael borje #president of galdoune #my scribbles

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