#The Gift of Immortality-Season ONE
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The Gift of Immortality
DRAGON BALL STORY: Insert Reader
GENDER-NEUTRAL READER ✕ DRAGON BALL CHARACTERS
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PREVIOUS CHAPTER: 003 | FATE'S GAMBLE
FIRST CHAPTER: Prologue - BIRTH | 1
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WARNINGS: Mentions of
SWEARING, BLOOD, and VIOLENCE!!!
004 | Epiphany
❝The only way to make sense out of change is to plunge into it, move with it, and join the dance.❞
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I launched myself forward, fists poised to strike, closing the distance between us; my movements were fluid and deliberate. A barrage of punches and jabs rained down upon him, each blow fueled by a mixture of desperation and resolve. Goku remained on the defensive, his movements a blur of speed and agility as he deftly evaded my attacks.
Undeterred, I pressed on, relentless in my pursuit of victory. Jab, hook, rear hook—I threw everything I had at him, testing the limits of his defenses. And then, I seized the opportunity to change tactics. With a swift pivot, I transformed my rear hook into an uppercut, channeling a portion of my strength into the blow. Goku barely managed to dodge, his surprise evident in the flicker of his expression.
He was quick to recover, his resilience a testament to his skill and strength. Goku surged forward with an offensive attitude, delivering a two-handed strike aimed at my chest, striving to turn the tide of the battle in his favor. Yet, in a display of agility and flexibility borne of millennia of training. I gracefully evaded his strike; I dropped to the ground.
With a quick maneuver, I arched my back, planting my hands firmly on the arena floor as I brought my legs to my chest. I unleashed a brisk counterattack; my legs were blurred as they shot upward, sending Goku reeling backward. The crowd burst into cheers, their excitement echoing through the arena as I delivered the first blow of the match. With a deft kick-up, I regained my footing, and my muscles coiled like a spring as I took a defensive stance.
Despite the thrill of battle, a fleeting moment of introspection invaded my mind, a reminder to temper my strength. My survival instincts are screaming for me to go all out and end this swiftly, but that would destroy the purpose of determining my opponent's power, along with trying to hide my true potential from my enemy who is watching me.
I have to restrain myself as much as I despise it; going to my full power now would be unfair. He needs to make a move—
A sharp blow landed squarely in my gut, knocking the wind from my lungs and jolting me out of my reverie. Goku closed the distance between us and reminded me of the consequences of hesitation in battle. I stumbled backward, my hand instinctively clutching at the source of pain.
Never mind. Fuck...
My body would recover, my senses on high alert as Goku unleashed a relentless barrage of strikes. Each punch and kick came with lightning precision, leaving little room for evasion or defense. Despite the onslaught, I managed to avoid his attacks, albeit with effort. Yet, I couldn't help but let a few blows land, a deliberate decision to show vulnerability that would cause Junior to underestimate me.
With each hit, I gritted my teeth, suppressing the urge to retaliate with full force. Despite my efforts to conceal my true strength, Goku sensed something was wrong. His brow furrowed in confusion as he realized I was holding back, and he struggled to keep pace with my elusive maneuvers. As Goku pressed on, his attacks growing more ferocious with each passing moment, I dodged his punches, and my hand caught one of his fists with effortless ease, guiding it harmlessly past me.
At the same time, my left leg subtly positioned itself behind Goku's, ready to execute the next move. With a fluid and swift motion, I pivoted his body, using the leverage of my grounded stance to exert force through my right arm, throwing a blow of strength to guide his momentum, using his force against him to throw him off balance.
Goku stumbled, his body crashing to the ground with a resounding thud. Wasting no time, I launched into a follow-up attack, my clenched fist aimed squarely at his defenseless face. Despite his best efforts to block, the force of my blow landed with brutal accuracy, sending him slamming to the ground once more, the force of the blow driving the wind from his lungs.
Even with the restraint I exercised, the pain was palpable, etched across his features as he struggled to regain his footing; I took a step back, allowing Goku a moment to recover. The crowd erupted into cheers as they watched the intense exchange unfold.
"Come on, show me what you got," I urged, my voice carrying a hint of nonchalance, a silent invitation to continue the battle. With a grunt of effort, Goku rose to his feet, his gaze locked on mine with a steely determination. I knew he was holding back, just as I was, each of us biding our time, waiting for the opportune moment to strike.
His movements were measured as he studied me with a keen eye; I could feel the weight of his scrutiny, his mind dissecting my every move with precision. I seized the moment, launching myself forward with a fierce resolve, my fist prepared to strike.
But before my fist could connect, an unseen force collided with my face, sending shockwaves of pain reverberating through my skull. Confusion mingled with pain as I realized Goku had struck me from a distance, his arm outstretched in a display of unseen power as he stood at the same spot.
What the hell was that? How had he managed to strike me from this distance? That move…
The shock of his counterattack reverberated through my senses; before I could unravel the mystery, Goku charged at me with renewed vigor. Instinct kicked in, my body moving on autopilot as we clashed in a flurry of blows. Our arms locked in a fierce struggle, the air thick with the sound of grunts and the clash of fists.
In a split second, my feet lashed out, connecting with his chin, his chin snapping upward as he stumbled backward. Then, a memory struck me, a fragment of my training with King Piccolo resurfacing from the depths of my subconscious.
Drawing upon that reservoir of knowledge, I unleashed a wave of energy, propelling it towards Goku with all the force I could muster. His chest buckled under the onslaught, a testament to the raw power of my attack. But amidst the chaos of battle, a nagging question lingered.
How did he know that shockwave technique? That technique was from King Piccolo… Is there a connection between him and King Piccolo? Is that why Junior mentioned him getting in his way?
As we continued to trade blows, the answers eluded me, shrouded in the haze of uncertainty. Hours felt like mere moments as we danced on the precipice of combat with our fists and kicks, neither of us willing to yield an inch.
With a final clash, we both leaped back, a temporary ceasefire in our relentless battle. Goku's smile, tinged with respect and amazement, his eyes sparkled with a glint of admiration. His words, though unexpected, carried a weight of sincerity that caught me off guard.
"Have you been holding back this much? I'm impressed," he remarked, his tone genuine. "Can we put this on timeout for a sec?"
His sudden request for a timeout raised an eyebrow of confusion, but I remained vigilant, unsure of what he had in store. And then, with a seemingly innocuous remark, he proceeded to strip off his top garments and the shirt underneath his Gi top.
The sight of Goku struggling to remove his shirt as his garments fell to the ground with a heavy thud, revealing his sculpted muscles and toned physique, a wave of confusion washed over me. But it was the weight of his discarded attire that caught my attention. Each piece, from his shirt to his wristbands, bore a substantial heft, hinting it wasn't normal clothes.
Confusion gnawed at me as I observed a group of fighters approach him, their familiarity with Goku evident in their companionship, offering assistance in setting aside his cumbersome attire. Their conversation drifted to the peculiar weight of his clothing; the garment weighed an extraordinary amount of 250 pounds.
I couldn't help but marvel at the sheer strength and endurance required to carry such a load into battle. A newfound respect bloomed within me for the man standing before me. To carry such a load in combat spoke volumes of Goku's dedication and determination. However, I pushed aside any semblance of sentiment, bracing myself for the battle and the revelation of even more surprises lurking beneath his seemingly carefree exterior.
As Goku's comrades retreated, leaving him to don his Gi top once more, I seized the opportunity to press the attack. With lightning-fast reflexes, I launched myself forward, intent on landing a decisive blow. But in a sudden twist of strategy, I dropped to the floor, sweeping his legs out from under him with calculated precision.
Goku's surprise was palpable as he crashed to the ground, his balance shattered. But before he could recover, I was already on my feet, unleashing a barrage of attacks aimed at his chest. Despite his agility, he managed to evade my strikes, rolling away with practiced ease.
In the heat of battle, I found myself consumed by the thrill of combat, momentarily forgetting my purpose. But as the fight raged on, a realization dawned upon me: I was here to gauge Goku's strength, to test his limits. His speed was unparalleled, his movements fluid and unpredictable.
Landing a hit seemed like an impossible feat as he effortlessly dodged and weaved through my attacks. With each evasive maneuver, I was expending more of my ki energy, straining to keep pace with his relentless assault.
But just as I began to falter, Goku seized the opportunity to strike. Catching my punch, his movements mirrored the tactic I had used against him. With precision and finesse, he manipulated my body, leveraging his grounded stance to redirect my momentum against me.
I crashed to the ground with a jolt, the impact reverberating through my bones. But even as pain flared through my limbs, instinct propelled me into action, executing an Imanari Roll, a technique ingrained in muscle memory from centuries of training. My body rolled as I latched onto Goku's leg, my legs entwined around his as I brought him crashing down to the ground beside me.
A collective roar erupted from the crowd, their cheers reverberating through the arena like thunder. But even as I regained the offensive, Goku seized hold of my leg, and with his strength, he hurled me skyward, the ground receding beneath me in a dizzying blur, my body soaring high above the battlefield.
As I hung suspended in the air, a sense of awe washed over me at the sight of Goku harnessing his ki energy, a bright orb forming between his cupped hands and bringing it to his side; the brilliance of his ki radiated with an intensity that left me breathless.
He can use ki manipulation?
Time seemed to slow as I grappled with the realization that I was facing not just a skilled fighter, but a person who could utilize ki energy. The implications sent a shiver down my spine, a surge of anxiety mixing with the awe that gripped my mind. If Goku had such capabilities, it meant that others could as well in this continent.
The government with its resources and relentless pursuit to capture me could easily enlist others with similar abilities to track me down. They would be stronger, verve, and faster to keep up with me, and with the Somnus drug, they could inject me if I let down my guard or slip up. Just the thought of facing adversaries with similar powers by those who sought to exploit my immortality caused that thrill of this battle to vanish, replaced by sheer dread.
I hovered in the air; the wind whipped around me, carrying the scent of ozone and tension. Before I could react, Goku appeared behind me with a mighty yell, accompanied by a blinding beam of light hurtling toward me.
"...me–HA!"
His voice sent a jolt of fear coursing through my veins as I braced myself for the onslaught. Instinct took over as I reached out, my hand connecting with the searing energy of the attack. Memories of King Piccolo's training flooded my mind, guiding my movements with a sense of urgency born from fear, a survival mechanism honed through years of misfortune.
With a steady hand, I redirected the beam, guiding it with precision back toward Goku. A look of bewilderment crossed Goku's face, his eyes wide with disbelief as his own attack barreled towards him. In a loud blast, he was sent hurtling back toward the ground, the force of his impact sending shockwaves rippling through the arena.
As the dust settled, I glanced down at my hand, which was trembling, the faint remnants of burn marks fading away as if they had never been; I struggled to steady my racing heart. With a shaky breath, I lowered myself to the ground, but before I could hit the earth, I instinctively levitated, hovering just above the ground before landing with a soft thud.
My eyes darted to Goku's prone form, his body battered and bruised, evidence of the blast of his attack and fall; fear gnawed at my insides, the possibility of having taken a life when I had reminded myself not to kill during this tournament.
"ONE!" The announcer's voice pierced through the haze of my thoughts, signaling the countdown to victory; however, my attention was fixated on Goku, his body broken yet miraculously still breathing.
"TWO!" Beads of sweat gathered on my brow, mingling with the remnants of dust and smoke that lingered in the air, my hands still trembling with the weight of what could have been.
At least he was alive and breathing.
"THREE!" The countdown continued, the sound of the crowd's cheers blending into a cacophony of noise that reverberated through the arena and in my ears.
"FOUR!" The realization that someone like Goku, skilled in ki manipulation, posed a threat that transcended mere physical prowess. With each passing moment, the fear threatened to overwhelm me, a suffocating weight upon my chest.
"FIVE!" I wouldn't be safe anymore if the government discovered these types of people, who could be on the same level as me, capturing me more easily than before I had learned ki energy.
"SIX!" Goku lay motionless on the ground, his body twitching with the effort to rouse himself from the brink of unconsciousness. For a fleeting moment, my thoughts drifted to the mission at hand. To assess his strength and skill, to determine if he could defeat Junior.
"SEVEN!" But as the count continued, my focus narrowed, my attention zeroing in on the fallen fighter before me. He needed to get up. I couldn't afford to face Junior, not yet.
“EIGHT!”
Get up…
“NINE!”
Get up!
“TEN!”
And with that final count, the round drew to a close, declaring me the victor of Match 2. A surge of conflicting emotions washed over me, a mixture of defeat and dissatisfaction. While any regular person would revel in the glory of victory, I couldn't shake the sense of defeat that lingered in the air, a bitter taste of resignation.
A battle won, yet another step closer to the inevitable conflict with Junior. Goku wasn't the one I had been seeking who could end the reign of terror that would take over us all. But there were others; other fighters who might possess the power to tip the scales in my favor.
With a disdainful scoff, I turned away, the sound of rushing footsteps and Goku's comrades converging around him in a flurry of concern. He was no longer my concern. If he still drew breath, it mattered little whether bones were broken or wounds inflicted.
As I walked away, my gaze drifted upwards, drawn to the towering figure of Junior, perched upon the roof of the tournament building. His smug smirk taunted me from afar, igniting fury within my chest. Oh, how I longed to wipe that shit-eating grin off his face. Turning my attention elsewhere, I passed by a figure that gave me pause.
It was a tall and very muscular bald man; having a large scar on the right side of his chest that crossed his collarbone and ran down to his abdomen. His outfit consists of a green baggy toga-like top. A pair of baggy green pants, red-and-green wristbands, black boots with yellow covers, and a red sash.
But the third eye on his forehead caught my attention, its piercing gaze boring into my soul. But before either of us could speak, a voice shattered the stillness, pulling me back to the present, and turned around. It was Goku; who stood behind me, his smile genuine despite the strain evident in his voice.
"You put up quite a fight back there. That move you pulled, caught me by surprise. Looking forward to a rematch, and this time, let's go all out!"
His eagerness was palpable, infectious even, but I couldn't help but smirk behind my facemask, amused by his obliviousness to my true identity and the depths of my power; I highly doubted he ever would find out about me.
"Sure, if you can find me," I replied, my tone laced with a hint of cockiness that went unnoticed by Goku. His grin widened, his eyes alight with excitement like a child promised a reward for good behavior.
But as the announcer's voice boomed through the arena, heralding the start of the next match, my focus shifted to the upcoming fight between Krillin and Junior. I chose to remain rooted in place, a silent observer to study Junior's skills and abilities. Despite my outward calm, a sense of worry gnawed at the edges of my consciousness.
What if Junior was worse than King Piccolo?
I felt compelled to warn Krillin of the threat that he would face. But before I could intercede, Goku stepped forward, his demeanor shifting from jovial to solemn in an instant. He approached the short, noseless man clad in an orange gi, his black eyes brimming with curiosity.
"Krillin, your opponent for the next match is no ordinary warrior," Goku cautioned, his voice tinged with a gravity that belied his usual cheerfulness.
Krillin arched an eyebrow, intrigued by his friend's cryptic warning. "How so?" he inquired, a hint of uncertainty creeping into his voice.
"Trust me, keep your guard up," Goku replied. As their conversation unfolded, my suspicions grew. Goku's words hinted at a deeper connection between him, Junior, and perhaps even King Piccolo. It was a puzzle I couldn't solve, each piece adding to the mystery of his character.
With a silent nod of acknowledgment, Krillin walked away from us, his resolve determined despite the ominous energy emanating from Junior. Standing alongside Goku, I maintained my stoic facade, arms crossed as the two fighters entered the ring.
Their exchange of words was lost in the roar of the crowd, but the tension hung heavy in the air. As Krillin assumed a defensive stance and Junior stood motionless, his energy, thick with malice, enveloped the arena like a suffocating shroud.
A sudden tug at my core drew my attention to Krillin, his ki energy surging with unexpected power. Disbelief flickered across my features as I realized he, too, possessed the ability to harness his inner power. The realization was both intriguing and unsettling.
How many people know about ki? First Goku, then this guy?!
This brethren of the seven dwarfs', noseless, bald guy!?
Damn, I haven't been keeping up with society, and I guess this is normal to people nowadays, or maybe at least in this continent.
Even Junior, his smug grin fading, seemed to recognize the gravity of Krillin's energy. With a burst of light, Krillin unleashed a torrent of ki energy, two beams of light hurtling toward his opponent with a fierce shout. Yet, Junior remained unfazed, effortlessly evading the assault by soaring into the air.
But Krillin was not deterred. With a quick shift in strategy, Krillin redirected his beams, following Junior's movements. Junior retaliated with his own eye beams, shattering Krillin's attack, the resulting explosions sending shockwaves rippling through the air.
To my astonishment, Krillin closed the distance with lightning speed, his fist connecting squarely with Junior's face, sending Junior hurtling backward in a whirlwind of motion. Goku's exclamation of awe echoed through the air, a sentiment I couldn't help but share.
As the fight continued, Krillin landed on the ground, his movements fluid and controlled. Junior—undeterred by the blow, landed on the ground and faced his opponent. My focus remained as Krillin surged forward; Junior dodged and parried his flurry of punches, bringing them perilously close to the edge of the ring.
With a leap, they soared into the air, the arena below shrinking to a mere speck beneath them. Junior's powerful kick sent Krillin hurtling toward the ground, eliciting cries of concern from Goku.
My heart raced as I watched, my mind torn between fear for Krillin's safety and admiration for his resilience. But just as it seemed he would meet his end in a bone-crushing fall, Krillin halted mid-air, defying the laws of physics that left me in awe.
Regardless, it was more alarming that these fighters possessed abilities far beyond the realm of human comprehension. If the government were to harness such power, capturing me would be child's play.
Krillin hovered and landed in the center of the arena, wiping blood from his lips; a hush fell over the crowd.
"I think I speak for the entire audience how unbelievable that was. Just amazing!" The announcer's voice cut through the silence like a knife, his words a reverent homage to the spectacle that had unfolded before us. Through the members of the crowd, I strained to catch the exchange between Krillin and Junior.
"I must admit you surprised me. Your moves and techniques are adequate for such a limited mind. I congratulate you. Forgive my bias, I see now that I can afford to show you a little of my real power."
Junior's smug grin spoke volumes, his words dripping with arrogance and disdain. I could taste the bitterness of his ego as Krillin met his gaze with a steely resolve.
"Real power? Okay, let's see it," Krillin challenged him with a chuckle. Yet, deep down, I knew the danger from Junior's facade. His cunning, like that of a sly fox, that Junior's display of power would be nothing short of catastrophic.
My gaze narrowed, a feeling of apprehension coursing through me as Junior's ki energy surged, his form expanding. His aura, once a mere echo of his father's malice, now swelled with a power that sent ripples of unease and irritation cascading through my being.
His energy is different from King Piccolo's centuries ago. This is not good.
The crowd erupted into cheers once more, the tension thick enough to slice through with a blade. With a menacing grin, Junior extended his arm, his limb elongated, catching everyone off guard, including Krillin. He ensnared Krillin in his grasp before delivering a devastating blow that sent the fighter hurtling toward the unforgiving walls of the arena.
Yet, in a display of resilience, Krillin rebounded with astonishing speed, launching himself back into the fray. Caught off guard, Junior found himself on the defensive, gracefully evading Krillin's onslaught before striking back with a vicious kick. His foot connected with Krillin's torso with bone-crushing force, sending the hapless warrior soaring into the heavens once more.
As the battle raged on, I strained to keep up with the flurry of movements, my senses tingling with anticipation. But Krillin unleashed a surprise attack, a burst of ki energy illuminating the sky. As Krillin unleashed a blinding burst of ki energy, I dared to hope for a turning point in the fight. But my sanguinity was short-lived, shattered by Goku's frantic warning.
"Behind you, Krillin! It's a trap!"
Junior's trap was set, his hands clasped together as he unleashed a devastating blow from above. Krillin plummeted to the earth below, the impact shattering the arena floor with a sickening thud. I could almost feel the repercussions of his bones shattering.
The arena fell into a hushed silence, the once raucous crowd now eerily muted as all eyes turned to the fallen figure of Krillin. Despite the stillness that enveloped the arena, I could sense the faint pulse of his energy, a fragile thread that tethered him to consciousness.
As Junior descended to the ground, his malevolent chuckle resonated through the air. Behind the mask that obscured my face, I clenched my teeth in frustration, my gaze locked on the scene unfolding before me.
A flicker of movement caught my eye.
A twitch, barely perceptible, signaled Krillin's gradual return to consciousness. And then, with a low groan of anguish, he stirred, defying the odds stacked against him, his resilience catching Junior and myself by surprise. Slowly, laboriously, Krillin rose to his feet. Junior's facade of superiority momentarily shattered by the unexpected turn of events.
"Krillin is back on his feet, brace yourselves for this fight is not over yet," the announcer's voice boomed, punctuated by the roar of the crowd. Despite his valiant effort, Krillin's strength waned, his body betraying the toll of the battle.
I watched as Krillin decided to stand down, his body battered and bruised, but his spirit unbroken. In a display of sportsmanship and respect, the decision to concede the match was made, with the announcer declaring Junior the victor.
I felt a rush of wind as Goku raced to Krillin's side, a silent gesture of solidarity and support. As I stood amidst the jubilant throng, my gaze shifted to Junior; his frustration oozed in the air. I watched in silent contemplation as he retreated from the arena, his aura crackling with untamed energy. It was clear that he wouldn't rest until his thirst for power was quenched, and the world trembled beneath his feet.
With the announcement of the upcoming match ringing in my ears, I decided to depart; I made my way toward the tournament building. It was time to strategize. With Junior's formidable power fresh in my mind, I knew I had to remember the containment wave technique. Lost in thought, I was suddenly jolted back to reality by a voice behind me.
"You poor soul, you must leave."
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Finished: May 12, 2024
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PREVIOUS CHAPTER: 003 | FATE'S GAMBLE
NEXT CHAPTER: 005 | CATALYST
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Link to the book [Wattpad]:
The Gift of Immortality
DRAGON BALL STORY: Insert Reader
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#by_theunkn0wn-0#The Gift of Immortality#dragon ball x reader#dragon ball characters x reader#reader insert#x reader#x y/n#x gender neutral y/n#x gender neutral reader#x gn reader#x gn y/n#gender neutral y/n#gender neutral reader#gender neutral mc#gn reader#fanfiction#The Gift of Immortality-Season ONE#I apologize if there is any bad grammar or misspelled words#piccolo#piccolo jr#son goku#goku#krillin
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When I started to crochet my dad would always ask me when I'd do something for him. I crocheted a clover and days he sent a photo of it in his car, under the rearview mirror. I literally cried. What about reader finding where James Potter keeps all the things she crocheted for him? Even her first works that are a bit crooked and not perfect as the others. You could gift that man a stick and he'd keep it forever and I love him for it
You’re cradling a crocheted blue and purple jellyfish in your hands as you search for your boyfriend.
James is on the off season right now so you beeline for your bedroom immediately, knowing you’ll find him playing video games.
His headphones are on and barking orders to Sirius and Remus.
You wait till you see him set down his controller to interrupt him.
“Jamie, I have something for you.” He knocks one of his earphones off, turning to you with a soft smile.
“A charm?” He hears the tinkle of the key ring you’ve attached to the jellyfish as you begin opening your palm.
“Mhm, this one’s the best yet I think.” James disagrees with you that you’ve only just gotten good at crochet. He adores every single charm and piece you’ve gifted him and he thinks them all perfect and precious.
You brandish the jellyfish with a giddy smile, bouncing on your toes when James laughs and accepts the jellyfish as though it were sculpted ceramics.
“It’s an immortal one,” you admit shyly. “They regenerate and theoretically they can life forever.”
James’ eyes light up, “You’ve given me a pair, sweetheart.” You feel your body heat, warmth coursing through you and you hope James can’t tell that you’re flustered.
“Well yeah, for me and you.” He pulls you into his lap by your waist, crushing his nose to your collarbone.
“You’re fucking adorable.” His lips press into the hot skin of your chest, your eyes closing as you stroke the back of James’ head.
“We can live together forever.” You say and James chuckles, together forever doesn’t seem like long enough.
#jamespotter#james potter#james potter one shot#james potter fanfiction#james potter drabble#james potter imagine#james potter blurb#james potter fluff#james potter fanfic#james potter fic#james potter x black reader#james potter x reader#james potter x you#james potter x yn#james potter x y/n
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Merlin Holiday Fic Recs (winter, xmas, yule, etc):
A Blizzard in Camelot by asilentherald
A Broken Leg, But A Whole Heart by every1isgay
A Gift for a King by A_Diamond
a gift for you, my love, this cold winter's day by merthurmagic025
A Midwinter Visit by lawgoddess
A Royal Christmas by flowersheep
A Very Merry Christmas by diversefandomer
all ye faithful by schweet_heart
Between Battles by daroh
blow cold the season by schweet_heart
Can I Be Him? by arthurpendragonz
Cold Spell by mornmeril
for years or for hours by rubyboys
For You To Keep by PunkPinkPower
Furs and Flannels by asilentherald
The Gift at Yule by Clea2011
How to Clothe a Stubborn Manservant by orphan_account [gen]
In Winter Enjoy by Black_Crystal_Dragon
King's Consort by sorcererinslytherin
Kiss Me Under the Mistletoe by vintagelilacs
the knight of wands by theythinktheyknow
Long Winter Nights by TyalanganD
Longing Floats Around You by seapotato
The Longest Night by Tayathestrange
Make A Wish by Tayathestrange
May I Have This Dance? by CreamyXD
Maybe We Were Coming All Along by sassafrasx
Melted Ice and Thermal Hearts by howshouldipresume
Merlin's Yule Gift. by rotrude
Merlin Loves Yuletide by RatFuckingQueer_67
Mistletoe by swiftonthedownside
Never a Day Off by archaeologist_d [gen]
No Matter How Far Away You Roam by lady_ragnell
Not so Silent a Night by archaeologist_d
On the Importance of Hot Beverages (And Other Methods of Keeping Warm) by A_Diamond
One of Us Is Lying by sinivalkoista [gen]
Possessed by Light by glim
Sacred Fire by cellist
Something Immortal by loser_angel
Sweet Dreams of Mistletoe by katherynefromphilly
That Shall Achieve The Sword by astolat [gen]
The Thaw by RurouniHime
Tis the Season by archaeologist_d [gen]
Too Cold To Be Mucking Out Stables by Catnip_3 [gen]
Until Morning Light by myashke
What nonsense! by xancredible [gen]
with(out) you to hold by endoftheline7
The Yuletide Hunt by fifty_fifty
Happy Holidays! please feel free to add on more fics that you believe deserve recognition!
#merthur#bbc merlin#fic rec#fic recs#fic rec list#merlin bbc#merlin#merlin fanfic#merlin x arthur#bbc merthur#merlin and arthur#bbcmerlin
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"Eternal Damnation."
PM! dazai x fem! immortal reader
a/n: apolgies for my absence. i was planning to write but everytime i could something piled up 🙁. thank u to @cherylpoptarts for the sudden reqs which piqued my interest immensely. ill work on my pending requests another time. enjoy the angst.
summary: you, an ability user who is able to automatically heal has been alive for centuries, constantly avoiding death. in the midst of it all, you hire an assassination, not for anyone, but yourself.
content warnings: suicide, mercy killing, insanity, assisted suicide, angst, small oneshot/long drabble, pm! dazai, (i hate this sm)
Lukewarm.
A temperature that was not too cold or hot; tepid. Little enthusiasm or indifference.
Similar to the freezing snow cooling down your neck into your back during Japanese winters. Catching snowflakes in the heat of your palm did not melt the bitter cold engulfing your being. Lukewarm was your companion throughout the tedious years of this beautiful thing we call 'living'. Lukewarm is the only comfort you know of.
There was a cut that always bled, never fully healed, the scab that you reckon to always pick off. Lukewarm water would wash over your scabbed wounds, into your eyes, and swallow you whole. You'd watch your loved ones become engulfed in a scorching heat, the bubbling fire scraping and tearing over old, bitter skin.
You'd run your fingers over the freshly new skin and everlastingly massaged joints. You never became old. You never felt hurt. You never were hurt—for long of course. For healing was your salvation, your ability, your gift—your curse.
"Winter is over soon,"
you muttered softly, the melancholic rebirth of nature prospecting over the misty blankets of snow surrounding you. Spring. The season when flower seedlings, trapped beneath infertile soil, reawaken and sprout; revelling in rich petals and leaves, calmly drifting in the cool breeze. You've seen it one too many times; 134—to be exact.
"And that's your reason?"
Your eyelids never falter your solemn, sad look. Continue to stuff your hands deep in your pockets to escape the cooling air, huffing out as you also fidget with the origami you've been toying with. "I'm not sure what you mean," you reply, eyes gazing over to the melting body of water, a local river as you stand over its bridge. For it was a beautiful sight, nature did this annual thing called grow—rebirth, if you may. And as many others hated the cold breeze that nature gifted, somehow, you basked in it. —"You want me to kill you because winter's over soon."
...
Right, you forgot the predicament you were in. Merciful. Yearning. Bright. Though the man beside you excluded the exact opposite of those adjectives, you cannot help but feel this funny thing called desperation—besides, you've heard it all, no 'youngest mafia executive' is truly evil. To you, he is only just a boy, a foolish boy. "I have lots of riches. You can even take my house, it's not dirty money."
"I see,"
A harsh breeze of wind swiftly picked up the origami that you were crafting from your hands, reaching out to grab the piece—a cold hand catches it and holds the folded paper in front of you, extending his hand. "you forget that you can't approach mafiosos on the street pleading for suicide, y'know? That sort of desperation is seen as dirty."
On the surface level, his words seemed like an insult; it was utterly offensive to refer to a person's actions as filthy. However, there wasn't any hint of insult in his voice—he even seemed amused. He, was a young man wrapped around in a beige scarf and black trenchcoat engulfing his entire body; he, was practically swimming in it. He, had brown wavy locks that framed his face. He, for some odd reason, was covered in bandages. —not the gauze you'd find wrapping around wounds, one similar to a mummy. And he, who looked like he lacked self-care, though you would be able to take in his pleasant features.
"Am I pleading?—" You snatch the origami away from his hand, "It's more like a deal. Consider it a paid assassination." the brunette merely scoffs, light air huffing out of his lips as he stuffs his hand back into his pocket. "Our conduct doesn't consist of mercy killing or assisted suicide," the man chuckles, peering along the barely frozen body of water. "nor unarranged business deals. But I'd like to know one thing,"
You lift your gaze meeting his in curiosity, taking in the soft features of his face, yet he brimmed with impurity. The slopes of his cheeks were so slim, and that followed through his lanky frame - a face that didn't seem boyish at all. Merciful. Yearning. Bright. He screamed an antonym of those words —Cruel. Repulsed. Dark.
"Why is it you want to die?" he asks, watching intricately as you brush your thumb continually over the origami you were making: a crafted swan. The brunette seemed rather impressed, watching - your skills seem exactly like traditional art of origamis: something he'd see in an old painting or lost crafts book. Swans - which symbolised eternal love, you seemed anything but loving. Maybe, it had just been eternal. An eternity without love.
"My journey started with helping others live. But once you start taking the breath of living for granted, it becomes the very reason you wish to die. I. suppose I've met my limit with that. With living." you reminisce the past, the melancholic nights under blankets under the same winter—the spring, autumn, or summer. In the blessing of longevity, there was a problem; for what you've gained, there was also lost. Death of others—an eternity without love was your reality. Your resentful condemnation.
"I understand."
At this moment, the mafioso didn't seem so cruel; it was almost sympathetic, you'd think as he gazes over the river. "I've never understood the purpose of living if that makes you feel any better."
...
"You're not very good at comforting, are you?" an unexpected chuckle escaped his lips, "I'd at least expect an immortal to be a nihilist." you remotely scoff at his revelation. "Stupid. There's a reason why I want to die, I understand the meaning of living." the brunette rolls his eyes and clicks his tongue. "Well, I don't understand the meaning of living hence why I want to die."
You chuckle, "For a mafioso, you are sassy."
"For a beauty, you are quite rude." He smiles indifferently.
It's almost funny, actually. How casual that conversation was.
Engulfed in the flames of this beautiful thing we call living, you finally obtain that sweet release of death the moment you intertwine fingers with a young mafioso—one who reeked of death.
The flames that engulfed you were lukewarm, but he was different. He was warm, almost scorching. Scorching an angelic heat that cascaded into the palms of your hand all the way to your shoulders and neck. The feeling was deftly abstract, and you basked in it; the way he'd hold you so close, run bandaged hands over the slope of your cheeks, whisper untangible nothings near the shell of your ear.
"Death is the absence of life, the desire I've been longing to taste since adolescence."
Mist and smoke fill around the room, almost making you feel dizzy. There were a lot of turbulent emotions circulating through your brain. First, you were relieved. You've been insensitive to death for a while, the times you did cry for someone—it was out of relief. The sweet relief that that one person would not have to suffer. You suppose it was the same for yourself. You would meet your demise in the arms of a fallen angel. Fall into the fiery pits of hell, or be welcomed by heaven's gate through a smoky embrace of whiskey and canned crab.
"I'm a bit envious of you, actually," Dazai murmurs, his thumb which was once connected to a trigger, soothingly rubbing your skin. "you'll meet this desire before me." you often wonder, what was the man's infatuation with death? He was in the mafia from a young age, he must've been associated with all forms of death. Ranging from a loved one withering away, to open guts and blood-stained lips. The absence of life can be seen through the empty carcass of one's body, the glint of vitality in their eyes disappearing.
Dazai Osamu was unique. In fact, he never had that glint in his eyes. His carcass was handsome, he was the product of love and passion. However, the eyes—his eyes, which were the window of the soul, were a dark void, abyssal, vantablack. He was unreadable. The brunette's experiences, his beliefs, his spiritual grounding. Dazai Osamu yearned for death, but for what he learned as just a boy, he did not meet death—but became it.
You had a connection. The special origami of a swan—meaning eternal love. He wanted eternal, you wanted love. In the end, none of you were happy. And so, he'll give you peace, and you'll give him understanding. The carcass you're going to become is much different from a being he merely murdered. Dazai moves a hand from interlocking with yours, to cup both of your cheeks. Warm and rosy cheeks.
"I'm sorry,"
He had fluttered his eyes shut and leaned his forehead on your temple. Despite the burning fire ignited by the candle of his flesh alone, his warm and shallow breaths gave you a balmy breather from this feeling called lukewarm.
Crack.
Lukewarm.
"I see you got what you wanted, huh?"
You stood atop a bridge from frozen water with a black scarf snuggled tightly around your neck.
A brunette man averted his gaze to you with a confused stare. The gape of which was rather familiar, one that excluded a slight glint of vitality, but other than that, abyssal. "I'm sorry, do I know you?"
He adjusted the bandage on his finger, in which you assumed he cut his finger on something. "Nope. But I made an extra origami, do you want one?"
Silence. "..Sure."
The mysterious man picked up the crafted paper with suspicion. His gaze softens as he sees a professionally crafted swan. "I feel like we've met before—actually, I'm sure of it."
"Not too sure about that."
chocsra™
#chocsra#bsd#bungou stray dogs#bsd x reader#spotify#dazai#dazai bsd#dazai osamu#dazai x reader#dazai x you#dazai x y/n#dazai x fem reader#angst#bsd angst#bsd x reader angst#Spotify#dazai osamu x reader#osamu dazai#osamu dazai x reader#pm dazai x reader#pm! dazai#pm dazai#dark era dazai#dazai angst#bsd pm
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Dire Crowley: The Serpent and the “gift” of the Forbidden Fruit
I’ve been seeing a lot of interesting comparisons about Crowley’s repeated mention of apple trees in his new vignette to the “forbidden fruit” from Biblical lore. I had a bit of a lightbulb moment the more I thought about it! Σ੧(❛□❛✿) My take on the idea is certainly far from perfect haha, there’s a lot of gaps in the technicalities of it all, but I do think there is a connection between Crowley, the serpent, and the Forbidden Fruit 👀
Apples have been a repeated (although subtle) motif of Crowley’s for quite some time. The courtyard at NRC is riddled with apple trees, his vacation shirt depicts them as well, and it’s been heavily implied long before his vignette that he is the one who takes care of these trees. Additionally, the ever-so ominous opening animation depicts quick flashes of a bitten apple on the ground, much like the scene in Snow White when she takes a bite of the Poisoned Apple and falls into a death-like sleep.
In Crowley’s new vignette, it first begins with him making a whole speech about how the apple trees in the courtyard thrive no matter the hardships and seasons, and how they’ve grown before he knew it- much like his students! The students are oblivious to what he actually means by this, repeatedly mocking him and messing up what fruit he’s talking about because they didn’t pay attention to his speech. But later, the vignette ends with the ominous Dire Crowley theme playing (same one as in the opening prologue), as he says “because you are all…my precious, precious apple trees.” His story begins and ends with apples! 🍎
The opening animation depicting the apple feels very symbolic- I don’t think it’s a representation of Book 5, aka the Pomefiore book at all! Neige and the themes of an apple’s temptation played a surprisingly meager role in that book, and he was given apple juice instead of an actual apple. And in the opening animation, there’s shots of a book, spilled ink, the bitten apple, the spindle, and Crowley sitting in Pomefiore’s (a replica of the Evil Queen’s) throne.
For a long time now, we have believed Crowley sitting in this throne meant his ties to the Evil Queen, like him being twisted from her crow. Which I am not discounting that idea by the way! 👀 But what if…this scene is meant to hint that Crowley is taking on the symbolic ROLE of the Evil Queen herself- and also the serpent from the Bible? The novel gives more details of his whip weaving and constricting like a snake, as if it were alive…
Because when thinking about the story of Snow White- she is an innocent maiden who is tempted by a fruit that is dyed with beauty and promise of good, while underneath it lies a creation that will harm her IF she eats it. Despite the dwarves warning Snow White to never take anything from strangers, the Evil Queen disguised in her crone form tempts her with the apple, and her biting the apple puts her in a death-like sleep. Isn’t this just a loose retelling/allusion to what happened with Eve and the serpent, and how the serpent reassured her the Forbidden Fruit from the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil wouldn’t harm her, despite God strictly forbidding her and Adam from eating it?
Side note, I’d like to mention how Crowley keeps saying how “kind,” how “magnanimous,” how “generous” he is. And in Twisted Wonderland, the Evil Queen is now called the FAIREST Queen
Apples symbolize knowledge, fertility, love, wisdom, and immortality (soon I will specifically talk about the apple symbolism in general for Crowley)! Serpents/snakes symbolize can symbolize evil, mischief, trickery, but there’s also a lot of potential positive associations in them as well. They can symbolize rebirth, wisdom, and fertility. This is post that goes more into a bit more detail about the snake imagery at NRC but the edges of the Dark Mirror and NRC logo depict the caudeceus- two serpents together that also represent negotiation/diplomacy and eloquence.
And going back to the novel description of Crowley’s binding Whip of Love, Lian mentioned that Crowley’s Whip of Love literally binds the students together in his vignette much like these threads do on the spinning wheel with the Diasomnia characters in the Book 7 trailer animation🤔 And I feel like when looking at all these images of the spinning wheel together, there is threads and thorns “weaving” and “binding,” much like Crowley’s whip of love. And in the novel, Grim also mistakes Crowley’s whip for a “string” 👀
So after ALL of this ANDJSJJD, the long story short is that I believe Crowley is the serpent, which the Evil Queen also plays a similar role of. I made a much more detailed analysis here going through every Book, but I feel like Crowley is secretly guiding the Overblots to happen. There is always a weakness each Overblotter has that Crowley manages to exploit. Even though I think Crowley’s potential end-game plans are meant for the good of everyone, there’s a lot of bad things and suffering that must be caused for even the possibility of a happy ending. In the Bible, the Serpent was said to be the most “subtle”, aka the most cunning of God’s creations, convinced Eve that the Forbidden Fruit would not kill her and Adam if they ate the fruit unlike what God claimed, and said that Eve would have the knowledge of everything.
And going back to the vignette, Crowley seems to almost lament how naive and sometimes foolish his students can be. They certainly have much to learn under him. They completely missed and disregarded his speech about the apple trees and their growth, and then the NPC students and Grim call him weak and try to taunt him- but then he comments on how they know so very little before whipping them into shape 🤣
Additionally, in that same vignette, he says that hard work and experience is what makes life so much sweeter instead of doing what just comes easy to you- apparently he even pops into Special Lessons all the time to purposefully frighten the students and get them to work harder! 🤣 And another a new voiceline also reveals he does not intervene with the student’s shenanigans because he wants them to grow as individuals and have their own autonomy. It’s as if Crowley desires his students to have freedom in every sense of the word- but not to have everything just given to them on a silver platter.
And if Crowley is indeed involved with causing the Overblots as I think he is, then it even furthers this idea. The students never actually died despite their magestone being tainted and Overblotting. They were certainly forced to realize the deeper pains and issues inside them, but they didn’t die. What Crowley is doing is not because he wants to hurt them, but for the growth they experience afterwards! Directly confronting these horrible things is what triggered a change in many, and we even get to see the core reasons at how they led to their Overblots.
What the Serpent essentially did was the same- it technically never lied, much like how Crowley is always telling half-truths. Adam and Eve discovered shame and fear, but they technically gained a lot more freedom and knowledge of everything, both good and evil, once cast out of Eden for how they disobeyed God.
What’s interesting to me is that this philosophy Crowley has directly contradicts Malleus’ philosophy when he Overblots in Book 7. Malleus practically quotes Revelation 21:4 of the Bible, saying he will create a world without pain, sorrow, and loss. Practically orchestrating everyone’s individual “Garden of Eden” in their dreams. And as we see in the peeks of Idia’s and Sebek’s dream, everything is so ideal that everything changes. As we see in Idia’s dream specifically, we presume that the “original” Ortho is alive and well, and has grown up and is attending RSA.
AND this is where Lilia becomes so fascinating in this book. Lilia’s dream is full of hardships- his life as a General, the hardships of war, the loss of Levan and Meleanor, the cruelty he received outside Briar Valley. But ALL of this was a necessary part of Lilia’s journey in adopting and raising Malleus. It was a harsh journey, but his life became so much sweeter by the end of it, where he even bursts into tears from how happy he is to have hatched Malleus. Earlier in the dream, we see him complain how he’d probably be responsible for babysitting Levan and Meleanor’s kid- but now he’s begging Malleus to hatch, saying he’ll do anything as long as Malleus can live, even sacrifice his own magic and lifespan to do so. (Credit to Otome Ayui on YouTube for the translations!)
I think it’s interesting how the events of Lilia’s dream is essentially Crowley’s philosophy. That pain and hard work is necessary to achieve one’s true potential- an idea that Malleus is not emotionally ready to comprehend yet. I wonder if Crowley will play a role in Book 7 to lure everyone out from their “Gardens of Eden” that Malleus has created? 🤔 Because now that I’m thinking about it more, the whole Garden of Eden think represents the loss of innocence and bliss in exchange for the knowledge of death and hardship- Twisted Wonderland starts with us essentially having schoolboy squabbles, and now in Book 7 we have witnessed literal war and the death of loved ones! Is it because we as the player took Crowley’s hand (or someone’s) in the opening on the game, slowly leading us down this story? 🤔
Birds are not the sort to coddle their young forever. Eventually, the fledgling gets pushed out the nest by their own parent to learn how to fly- this is Crowley’s “tough love” and the results of his forbidden fruits. Even if the fall is frightening, seemingly cruel and potentially deadly, fledglings learn how to use their own wings regardless! Crowley is giving that push to help his students fly, even if they can’t ever understand his admittedly tough yet well-meaning motives.
But if Crowley is the serpent AND the nurturer of the Forbidden Fruit, who IS the Eve, and who/what is the Forbidden Apple? 🤔 After all, the role of the serpent relates to temptation- there must be someone he has to tempt in the first place.
This is where I get stuck, in all honesty! 🤣 There is so much about Crowley that we don’t know about yet, that his odd connections to apple trees are unknown. The apple symbolism aspects are quite interesting, especially for the Levan theory, so I will hopefully cover that tomorrow 🤔 But the literal concept of what the “forbidden fruit” could be is unknown to me.
…But I would like to add that the likely reason why the Forbidden Fruit became commonly known as an apple (the original text makes no mention of an apple at all) is because of either a misunderstanding or a pun of the Latin text. “Mâlum” is the Latin noun for Apple, and “Mālum” is the Latin noun which means Evil- and is derived from the adjective “malus.”
Evil…Meleanor…Maleficent…Maleficia…Mālum…Malus…MALLEUS???
…Isn’t it interesting that in the first part of his vignette, Crowley speaks of how an adolescent apple tree suddenly grew without him realizing despite its hardships…a speech where Malleus conveniently wasn’t invited to and never got to hear how proud Crowley was for his apple tree? And in Glorious Masquerade, Crowley speaks of being the one to “nurture” Malleus into the great and powerful mage he is today. Just like the apple trees Crowley frets over so much? 🤔🍎 I suppose in “original sin” terms of the forbidden fruit, Meleanor did “bless” Malleus to be a malevolent star to humankind???
And…another new voiceline has Crowley being concerned that Yuu seems to know no fear when they ask him about the extent of his powers. Yuu being seen as an almost naive figure that Crowley is worried about…Malleus and mâlum…I’m not sure anymore 😭🤣 Because it can go both ways as well!
I feel like I went all over the place with this theory! 😭 My brain is still trying to process everything that happened with Crowley today…I hope the general idea of what I’m trying to say made sense though! 😭 Everything I said is just a loose interpretation ^_^ I’d love to hear everyone’s thoughts, as I felt like I kept confusing myself trying to figure this out 🤣🤣 I @moonlightequin1 made notes on a super interesting theory of Grim and Yuu being the Forbidden Fruit!! It makes me think of the headcanon/theory that if Crowley was Levan, he “gifted” Yuu to Malleus. Like a forbidden fruit of knowledge for Malleus?
#twisted wonderland#twst#dire crowley#twst theory#twst dire crowley#twst Crowley#twst spoilers#twst jp spoilers#twst malleus draconia#kallistopost#twst Lilia
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Wow, I had no idea about the origin story of Rudolph the Red-Nose Reindeer! If you aren't familiar with it either, read below:
As the holiday season of 1938 came to Chicago, Bob May wasn’t feeling much comfort or joy. A 34-year-old ad writer for Montgomery Ward, May was exhausted and nearly broke. His wife, Evelyn, was bedridden, on the losing end of a two-year battle with cancer. This left Bob to look after their four-year old-daughter, Barbara.
One night, Barbara asked her father, “Why isn’t my mommy like everybody else’s mommy?” As he struggled to answer his daughter’s question, Bob remembered the pain of his own childhood. A small, sickly boy, he was constantly picked on and called names. But he wanted to give his daughter hope, and show her that being different was nothing to be ashamed of. More than that, he wanted her to know that he loved her and would always take care of her. So he began to spin a tale about a reindeer with a bright red nose who found a special place on Santa’s team. Barbara loved the story so much that she made her father tell it every night before bedtime. As he did, it grew more elaborate. Because he couldn’t afford to buy his daughter a gift for Christmas, Bob decided to turn the story into a homemade picture book.
In early December, Bob’s wife died. Though he was heartbroken, he kept working on the book for his daughter. A few days before Christmas, he reluctantly attended a company party at Montgomery Ward. His co-workers encouraged him to share the story he’d written. After he read it, there was a standing ovation. Everyone wanted copies of their own. Montgomery Ward bought the rights to the book from their debt-ridden employee. Over the next six years, at Christmas, they gave away six million copies of Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer to shoppers. Every major publishing house in the country was making offers to obtain the book. In an incredible display of good will, the head of the department store returned all rights to Bob May. Four years later, Rudolph had made him into a millionaire.
Now remarried with a growing family, May felt blessed by his good fortune. But there was more to come. His brother-in-law, a successful songwriter named Johnny Marks, set the uplifting story to music. The song was pitched to artists from Bing Crosby on down. They all passed. Finally, Marks approached Gene Autry. The cowboy star had scored a holiday hit with “Here Comes Santa Claus” a few years before. Like the others, Autry wasn’t impressed with the song about the misfit reindeer. Marks begged him to give it a second listen. Autry played it for his wife, Ina. She was so touched by the line “They wouldn’t let poor Rudolph play in any reindeer games” that she insisted her husband record the tune.
Within a few years, it had become the second best-selling Christmas song ever, right behind “White Christmas.” Since then, Rudolph has come to life in TV specials, cartoons, movies, toys, games, coloring books, greeting cards and even a Ringling Bros. circus act. The little red-nosed reindeer dreamed up by Bob May and immortalized in song by Johnny Marks has come to symbolize Christmas as much as Santa Claus, evergreen trees and presents. As the last line of the song says, “He’ll go down in history.”
@awesome moments
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Recap of IWTV Screening and Conversation at 92stY
(Please dont repost/reupload my pics or vids from here or IG anywhere else. Sharing/linkinh is ok. Thanks!)
I started the day with a fang gang meetup hosted by Black Girl Talks Fangs. The restaurant was cute and the food great. I'm not a big wine drinker but got a blood red Chateau in honor of the occasion. After, we headed over to the event space.
In my experience attending different events there, the actors typically come in just before the event starts or a few minutes into the screening.
In this case- it was both.
Eric strolled up super casual and had a convo with myself and a few other fans asking if we had read the books and what we were looking forward to. He gave a parting message that the season is amazing and he is not just saying that because he is part of it. I believe him. He was super personable and down to earth.
Delainey arrived next and again kind and generous with her time. She has a very chill energy. Her outfit was more casual this day but I thought chic and the face card never declines. Her makeup artist does her right! And can we talk about that sleek ass ponytail
She complimented my cosplay and said she thinks my beret might be the screen accurate one!
She asked to touch it and said mine was softer!
She also said Carol Cutshall gifted her the beret so she owns Claudia's.
I put this cosplay together in 3 weeks which is barely enough time. Thankfully I had the idea knocking around since October when we first saw this fit in the trailer that dropped at NYCC 23.
Myself and a few fans waited till about 15 minutes into the start of the screening before we gave up on waiting for Jam Reiderson.
While running to the screening I nearly literally ran into Rolin. I asked for a quick pic which he obliged.
The episode was amazing. Very much on par of season 1 so far. Can't wait to see the full thing. Delainey fit into Claudia seamlessly.
The panel itself was great as well. I have a few vids in my IWTV highlight on IG and a few others in an upcoming youtube video I will make AFTER the episode drops. There are some spoiler bits plus 92Y is dropping the full panel too after the ep airs.
Highlights include watching Jam Reiderson literally communicate telepathically- what was the fun on set story?!
Sam slapping Jacobs' lower inner thigh in front of god (Rolin) and everyone.
Working together is like putting on an old glove. An old sock?! Lol what. 'Is that dirty?'
Assad trauma dumping on main. "Armands lost...like me." "I'm intimidated by the cast" Sir please!
Assad also being spicy saying he thinks Armands memory of Lestat is pretty accurate. Drag him king😄
Delainey and Jacob gushing about how they immediately bonded and established their father/daughter/sibling vibes.
Eric calling Jam puppies and Jacob saying "I'm a grown man a parent"lol Sir you are a baby girl as evidenced by
Rolin saying that's a book and this is a show. To me that said was book lovers have the book and you always will but this is a new thing that respects the source but isn't tied down to every single detail.
Then Sam saying there are contradictions even within the series. Please lets talk about it.
And I love this new narrative everyone is spinning, even Sam, who seemed to be in the Lestat is right and Louis is lying boat last press go round. Now everyone is saying there is no right and wrong or truth and lies-the story is told by different people with different perspectives and that's all. Which yes! that's ALWAYS how I saw it! Just because Lestat became the main character and most favored doesn't mean he is infallible.
Jacob and that plushie. Who would have imagined he'd love it so much. Another fan was coming with their Lestat. I don't know if they had intentions of giving it to Sam but sadly they didn't make it.
After the panel I went back to the spot and aimed to get Jacobs signature on my Street of Immortality print which I managed.
I would have loved to get Sam's to but I also wanted to give other fans the chance to get photos and autos. I was already so lucky.
They signed for a loooong time. So long I thought our side wouldnt have a chance or only a few people would. Turns out fans were conducting mini interviews with them lol Someone needs to collect all the questions and answers.
Also they are the smallest cast you've ever seem. Pocketbsized. Everyone one of them is so unassuming.
Overall I had a super good time. The audience vibes were immaculate. The person beside me during the screening/panel was losing their shit then apologizing. But honestly I was here for it lol
Also you could 100% tell it was an audience full of the online fandom.
I ended the night checking out the Time Square ad. It was awesome to see our vamps represented. Hopefully we get a ton of new fans from all the amazing marketing this year.
#vampchella#iwtv#amc iwtv#amc iwtv s2 premiere#amc iwtv x 92sty#92st y#amc iwtv 92st y screening#IWTV 92stY screening and conversation#nyc#jacob anderson#delainey hayles#assad zaman#sam reid#rolin jones#eric bogosian#iwtv cast#iwtv cast and crew
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Give of Yourself (fox!Tartaglia/f!Reader)
check out the full version of the header art by @lemonemlyn!
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AO3 LINK
fox!Tartaglia/f!Reader
6,989 Words - NSFW
(mating bites, knotting, breeding, mild dirty talk, reader is referred to a handful of times as "pretty")
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The first time you meet him is in the depths of the woods, the snow up to your knees as you hunch over your traps and deftly retrieve what’s going to be your dinner for the next few days.
At first you don’t even hear him. He doesn’t make a sound until he’s within arm’s reach, his boot crunching against the snow in a movement that you now know was intentional. After some time, you’d realize he’d never let you hear him there if he didn’t explicitly want you to know. The sound makes you drop the limp hare in the snow, the ones slung over your shoulder falling as well with the speed that you draw your weapon.
But it’s unnecessary. At the time, you’d assumed him unarmed, so your guard lowered slightly. He simply had a smile on his face and both hands raised in surrender, and a polite question on his lips. “Could I share your dinner this evening?”
Simple, polite, and almost forgotten when you catch sight of the soft auburn-colored appendage swishing behind him, the long triangles perched atop his head.
Tartaglia, he told you his name was, at least for the moment. When you inquire a little further, he just says that different situations require different names, but all of them are inherently correct. So, Tartaglia is his name, and he isn’t offended in the slightest when you ask if he’s a fox envoy from Inazuma.
“I’m Snezhnayan, like you. How could that be what I am?” Tartaglia carries your hares over his shoulder, following along in your footsteps in the snow but somehow looming over from behind you. It’s a bit unsettling, but he’s been nothing but cordial during this short interaction, so you chalk it up to your own uneasiness of people.
“I am no fox envoy,” Tartaglia says with finality. “But I am a Fox.”
“What’s the difference?” You ask as your cabin comes into view. A small, one-roomed thing with sturdy stone walls and a thatched roof just installed this last summer.
Tartaglia laughs a little, following your lead in stomping the packed-in snow from the bottoms of your boots. You rest them by the door when you enter your home, swapping for shoes that are softer, more comfortable. There are none for him, but he doesn’t seem to mind. In fact, the cold doesn’t bother him at all.
“Fox envoys are fox envoys, and a Fox is a Fox. You’re thinking too hard about it.” Tartaglia says this as if he were explaining that the sky is blue, and snow is cold, and there’s one extra hare strung on your line than what you remember lifting from your traps. You eye it curiously, but say nothing of the strange gift.
Taking them from him to begin preparing, you ask, “Well, are foxes some divine being? Are you immortal?”
“Foxes are Foxes, and I live as long as a Fox usually does.” Tartaglia watches patiently as you work, not offering to help, but you wouldn’t have accepted it anyway. He’s a guest, and you’d rather he just answer your questions. It’s been far too long since you’ve spoken with another person since the snows kept you in place for the season.
One rabbit is finished as you mull over his answers. Then, with more questions, you speak. “You’re not very good at answering questions, you know.”
“You’re just not asking the right questions.” While you work, he wanders your home, looking over your shelves and belongings, but never touching. Occasionally, his fingers will flex in his gloves like he’d love to pick up a trinket or book, but he’s remarkably respectful. “Try again.”
You hum, setting aside more bits and pieces of your prey, some to eat and some to preserve. “How long do foxes live?”
“As long as they like.”
“And how long do you like, since you’re a fox?”
A smile spreads on his face over his shoulder, and you try not to return it too widely at the prospect of playing this little game with him. Each question he answers dutifully, and you try your best to wheedle him into a corner where you can get the results you want. With careful maneuvering, by the time you’ve started roasting the rabbit and the fat is dripping and hissing in the fire, you’ve learned a handful of things about your guest.
Tartaglia is a Fox. Not a fox, but a Fox. There’s a distinction in how he says it, one that you eventually pick up on. Where he comes from are the forests around Morepesok, the ones you also call home, and he’s only now shown his face because he was bored. When you ask if Foxes can even get bored, he laughs as if it’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard.
Tartaglia tells you he likes you, and asks if it would be out of line to return and pass the time in your presence. You say yes, of course, because you’ve never met a Fox before and he seems like a rather charming kind.
The next time you see him, he’s across the river as you squat near the edge and check your cages. They’re all empty, meaning you’ll be eating salt-cured hare again tonight. As you look up, he’s already made it to your side without a sound. It’s not nearly as unsettling as you expected.
“Rabbit again, it seems,” you gripe, getting to your feet and dusting the snow from your pants. Tartaglia doesn’t seem terribly put off, instead giving you a shrug. His tail sweeps lazily from side to side, the tip leaving a single large crescent in the snow behind him. Clutched in his hand are the back legs of another hare, fresh enough that you won’t need to subsist off salted and dried meat for dinner.
On the way back to your cabin, you pose more questions for him. “Do you have human ears, too?”
“Why would I?” And you glance up as he follows along next to you. There are no human ears beneath the ginger locks of his hair. Just the two soft appendages at the top that swivel as if he were listening to everything around the two of you. “I’m not human, what use would I have for human ears?”
“Are Fox ears better? Why would humans need human ears, then?”
“Because humans are humans.” Tartaglia says simply, stepping over a log across the path and holding out a hand for you to brace on to follow after him. He does it naturally, as if it were second-nature to assist you with something so trivial. He doesn’t let your hand go until you’re safely on the other side.
“And Foxes are Foxes?” You ask, and his mouth curls in a little smile, like he’s proud of you for such a thing.
“Now you’re getting it!”
The third time he appears before you is a week after the second. It would be a lie to say you don’t recognize him immediately. The shade of his fur is the same as always, though it covers the slim and lithe body of a fox - a Fox, he would correct you - and you would recognize the shade of his eyes everywhere.
Snow reflects so much light, yet none of it seems to catch in his gaze.
Tartaglia follows after you, unperturbed by the fish hanging off your line as you carry it back home. Without asking, you know he plans to stay for dinner, and it’s a surprisingly quiet evening as he curls up on the warmed stones of your fireplace and pointedly remains underfoot as you try to cook. Even a nudge with your toes doesn’t move him, and you have to step over and around Tartaglia to ensure the fish is ready to eat.
“Can you change back?” You ask, sitting on the floor next to him. There’s a plate nearby with his food, but he hasn’t touched it yet. Instead he sprawls on his back with his stomach being warmed by the fire. It takes all your willpower not to reach out and pet him.
He might find it undignified, but he doesn’t seem particularly worried about being dignified. Only that you understand that he’s a Fox, not a fox.
Tartaglia tilts his head to look at you, and somehow you know he’s saying yes. So, you continue with, “Will you? I like how you look normally.”
He doesn’t respond. In fact, his eyes simply close and he looks impossibly smug as he waits for you to take your own utensils to be cleaned before he wolfs down his food. With an annoyed sound when you return, you take his empty plate to clean that, too. In the beginning, you wondered if he did these things on purpose. Now you know for certain that he does.
Tartaglia appears to you as himself only a few days later.
“Is this more to your liking?” Tartaglia gives you cheek with a little smile, ducking his head beneath the top of the door frame as he enters your home without knocking. You can’t bring yourself to mind much at all - he is always welcome.
Glancing up from the clothes you’re mending, you look him up and down pointedly before nodding once. “Yes, I prefer this much more.”
“I thought you’d prefer the other. I’ve been told I make a very handsome Fox.”
“By whom?” You ask, scrunching your nose at him. “Other foxes? They’re biased.”
“And so are you,” Tartaglia points out, moving to sit down on the same stones he’d sprawled across only a few nights before. “This form is more human, so you would prefer it. Both are correct.”
“Like your names,” you agree, and he gives you that little smile that makes your stomach twist uncomfortably. Even so, you undeniably enjoy seeing it.
On his next visit, Tartaglia brings you a gift.
It’s a little thing, just barely fitting into the palm of your hand. It’s a small dome made of metal, the golden latticework interspersed with little squares of blue and red. Upon opening it, you find that it’s a music box, one that plays a tune you’ve never heard before, yet makes you nostalgic. Almost instinctively, you want to hum it, and Tartaglia hums with you as if guiding you along the notes.
The music box becomes your most prized possession. There’s little use for pretty trinkets this far out in the wilderness, yet every night before you sleep, you wind it up and drift off to the sound. When he sees it displayed on your mantle, Tartaglia seems to beam with an unknown, positive emotion.
It is not the only gift he brings, but it is your favorite.
Once, after dinner and before you turned in for the evening, Tartaglia gets to his feet and holds a hand out for you, ears forward and alert, tail moving with lazy interest. “Play it again and dance with me?”
Your movements are clumsy, but like he guided you with the music, he nudges you along with the dance. Tartaglia’s dexterity keeps you from stepping on his toes, but you learn soon enough how to match his steps to the music. He does not let you falter.
At your waist his hand curls, the other lacing with your fingers, and you can’t help but notice how impossibly warm he is. Like a furnace pressed to your front, you feel as if you’re burning alive as he hums to the music with half-lidded eyes and looks down at you with that same unfamiliar expression.
From this close, he smells like snow and the sun and pine needles. As if he’d dashed through the underbrush and picked up the scent of the forests around you. It’s almost enough to make you melt into him, his very presence becoming familiar and adored. You wonder if perhaps it’s in his nature to make himself endearing, to worm his way into your life and make space so easily.
It’s not as if you’ve made it difficult.
Winter turns to Spring, and Spring creeps close enough to Summer that the snow begins to melt and you feel more comfortable making trips into the village. On your first, Tartaglia muses upon the idea of going with you, but then backs out after a moment of consideration.
“Foxes aren’t welcome. Not in Morepesok,” Tartaglia explains, and you can’t help but be a little put-off after having hoped he would spend the day with you in the village.
But you understand. It’s an insulated town, and the unknown and unusual are frightening to them. Perhaps that’s why he never showed up to you until now? It’s hard to get an answer out of him pertaining to his reasoning, not with how expertly he’s able to weave your questions into something confusing and nonsensical.
Without his company, you see no reason to linger long. Once, you might have spent hours in the village socializing, getting used to the feeling of people. But this last Winter has been filled neatly with Tartaglia’s presence, and you haven’t felt lonely - not once.
With that in mind, you gather up all your gratitude and return to your home with a pull-cart of supplies and a single frivolity on top. Tartaglia is waiting for you, and he hasn’t bothered to hide the way he’s paced circles around your cabin, prints of boots and paws that intertwine with one another.
When you present him with your gift, he holds the stuffed toy in his hands, turning it this way and that. “More trinkets for your shelves?” Tartaglia asks, and you can’t help but laugh at him the same way he laughs at you. Only when it leaves your chest do you realize it’s laced with fondness.
“No, it’s for you. A gift. I’m sorry it isn’t fancy, my kind of life doesn’t leave much room for that.”
Tartaglia is silent for a long, long time.
After he’s taken his gift and disappeared on you for nearly a week, he returns once more when you’re settled into the snow next to a hole cut through the ice, bundled up in your furs with a fishing pole poised and waiting for a bite. Initially, you expect him to take a space across from you, but then you’re startled when he reaches down to pluck the pole from your hands and jam the handle into the snow.
Before you can protest, worried that you’ll miss a bite, his hands now reach for your cloak to untuck it from around you. You’re left bereft and cold, an argument poised on your lips about how you don’t have natural immunity like he seems to have.
Ultimately, you’re silenced by the way he sidles up behind you, bracketing your body with his legs, the heat rolling off him seeping immediately through your layers. Your forgotten cloak sits in the snow as furs of russet and auburn settle around the two of you comfortably. All thoughts of fishing for your dinner are lost as a dreamy sort of haze settles over you.
“Isn’t this better?” Tartaglia sounds a bit smug as he speaks over your shoulder, his cheek brushing against your temple. “The fur of a Fox is much warmer than anything else.”
“These are yours?” You ask, your hand tentatively running along the softness, strands plush against your fingers.
Something rumbles behind you, right up against your spine, beneath Tartaglia’s sternum. “Yes, and now they’re yours. You’ll keep them safe for me, won’t you?”
Of course, you will. You’ve never held on to something this sumptuous in your life. Absently you continue stroking them, the rumbling at your back lulling you into a trance the likes of which you’ve never felt before. It’s so enthralling that you don’t notice the tip of your fishing pole nudging, or the way he reaches out to pick the rod up and pull in your catch.
Once the fish is writhing on the surface do you snap back to reality and set to work killing it and stringing it up to take home with you. Tartaglia resets your line, then those long arms wind around your middle to pull you back into the warmth of his furs. The cycle repeats, you’ve never felt this secure in your life. Having to pull away to return once the sun starts to sink feels like the greatest torture.
Tartaglia leaves the furs with you, reminding you of your promise to keep them safe and to wear them when you’re in the trees. You do not see him in the form of a fox again.
At night, you find yourself inexplicably drawn to sleeping with them, keeping the thickness wrapped around you snug enough that your blankets are unnecessary now. Inadvertently, Tartaglia keeps you warm as you’re encompassed in the scent and heat of him. You’re not quite sure how he’d react if he knew that you were so taken with this, with him.
Secretly, you hope he’d give you that sweet smile that crinkles the corner of his eyes, and gather you up into his arms so you’d never be cold again. Having his fur is as close as you think you’ll get.
One morning, you sleep in late. Your food stores are plentiful with the comparatively warmer months, there’s enough wood chopped, you have only small chores to do that won’t take much time at all. So, you roll over on your side and snuggle into Tartaglia’s furs with a pleased little smile and a dreamy sigh. Somehow, they still smell like him, even after a handful of weeks.
The bed dips, first at your back, then at your front, and as you turn your head to look upward, you see Tartaglia hovering over you, looking curiously at your sleepy expression. Only his quiet breaths and yours fill the silence, the fire having long burnt out through the evening and morning. The dull blue of his eyes travels from your face to the warmth you’re wrapped in, something shifting, turning a little darker.
Against your cheeks, you can feel his breath shake as he exhales, then inhales, then says, “You accept, then?”
You’re not sure what he’s referring to, but you’re sleepy enough that you simply smile and nod. In truth, there aren’t many things that you wouldn’t do if he asked it of you. So accepting something blindly isn’t so frightening when it comes to Tartaglia.
“Wonderful,” Tartaglia murmurs, leaning closer, lips brushing against your cheek and nearly searing your skin. “You look so perfect like this, pretty Mate.”
Mate. The word makes your eyes crack open again, staring over his shoulder at the ceiling as his lips press more firmly against your cheek with purpose. Pine and snow fill your lungs as you inhale, then let it all go. You’ve realized with Tartaglia that perhaps questioning everything is the incorrect route.
If you watch with patience, you’ll learn what you want to know.
Shifting his weight to prop on one hand, his knee pressed into the bed near your lower back, Tartaglia’s other hand lifts to curl around the edge of the furs, pulling it down to get a better look at your face. “You don’t even know what you did. Do you?”
It’s not something he needs an answer to. You’re well aware that he knows you’re confused, yet still trusting all the same. Being cradled in the most precious part of his being feels as if it empties you of thought and refills you with affection that overflows. Tartaglia smiles, your heart flutters.
“Every step was perfect,” he muses, letting go of the furs to cup your cheek, thumb smoothing beneath your eye in a soft arch. Over his shoulder, the gentle sway of his tail catches your eye, back and forth like a metronome that soothes you. “You let me in your den. You accepted the prey I brought you.”
Lips brush against your cheek once more, his hand on the opposite keeping you steady as he speaks his words into you. “You expressed approval of my appearance. The music box was a courting gift; you accepted that. We danced and played together. You returned with a gift of your own.”
Letting go of your cheek, his fingers reach down to tug at the furs a little more, showing more of your face, your neck, your shoulders. Steadily he tugs it free until he can slip beneath it with you, sharing the warmth of his body until you feel smothered and safe.
“I gave you my form - my fur. It’s the way of Mates, you know. The exchange of what makes us who we are.” The curl of his body slots behind your own, pulling you back against his chest until every inch of you is tight against him, no space left for anything more than complete understanding.
A thought tickles at his previous words, and your voice feels weak and jumbled as you murmur, “I have nothing to give you in return.”
“I know. It doesn’t make our bond worth any less,” Tartaglia answers, face nuzzling into your neck, the feel of something sharp over where your pulse pounds the strongest. “You’ll give me yourself. I’ll mark you, and you’ll be mine, and that’ll be enough.”
Again, the drag of sharpness that could only be his teeth. Sharp pointed canines that you’ve seen enough to no longer be completely intrigued by. The slide of his hands around your waist as he squeezes you tight, one palm pressed to your stomach. “And I will be yours. I’ll care for you, protect you. Keep you safe and happy and full of my kits.”
Your thoughts feel muddled, but they’re still your own. No matter how comfortable you feel, how pliant you are beneath his hands, the words still bring you pause. Of course being his Mate would entail that, it should have been obvious when he first mentioned it. And yet, it doesn’t scare you as much as it might have before.
You fully expect him to do something. Anything. For him to bite you, or paw at you, or do anything except what he does now. Tartaglia’s body cradles yours and his hand strokes over your stomach and he inhales deeply at your neck as if he can’t bother breathing if it isn’t laced with your scent.
The movements almost lull you back to sleep. Your eyes have trouble staying open, and the strange weightlessness of unconsciousness makes your sink further into him. As a last resort, because you cannot simply let things lie, you ask, “Won’t you do it?”
“No,” he answers simply, not elaborating until you’re starting to prickle with impatience. For once, he has mercy on you. “You haven’t given me yourself, yet.”
“How?” Your question is only met with the slow spread of a smile against your shoulder. You think you might know.
Tartaglia’s grip falters a little, allowing him to move his hands to your hips to nudge you onto your stomach. With careful hands, he coaxes you to lift them, higher and higher until you’re propped on your knees, chest to the furs you’ve gathered subconsciously to cushion yourself for what you must intrinsically know is coming.
Those hands on your body squeeze, fingers pressing into your skin as if to test the give, and he hums appreciatively. “Good for grabbing, like I suspected.”
Tartaglia has seen you in many states. Bundled up in all your layers, only your eyes peeking over the edge of your scarf. In warm, casual clothing as you cook dinner. In your bedclothes when you’ve just woken and he politely demands breakfast. But there have been very few instances where he’s touched you.
A hand in yours as he helps you over fallen trees or across ice that the wind has blown mirror-smooth. The brushing of fingers as he passes you whatever prey he’s offering on a given day, the memories heavier now that you know what his intent has always been. His chest pressed to your back as he wrapped you in his furs - himself - for the first time.
But this is different. This squeezing and pawing at your hips, your thighs, your backside… There is no innocence about this. Tartaglia appraises you with purpose now, as if he were taking stock of a deeply sought after prize, something hard won and treasured. If he hadn’t so openly said it, you’d know just by the way he appreciates your form that you are very much his.
And he is yours, and you want to see him while he explores you. Wiggling a bit, you tell him so, and his hand slides up your spine to push between your shoulder blades, a firm denial. Mercifully, he clarifies enough that you relax into it. “Not this time. Humans have their preferences for mating, and I’ll go along with those happily. I see the merit in it. But if I’m going to take you as mine, we’ll do it my way.”
Like an animal, you want to murmur, but you know it wouldn’t be quite right. Tartaglia is not just some animal, but you’ve always been aware of something beneath the surface that speaks of a more primal way of doing things. Natural would be the word he likely used, but no matter how you add it up, the sum remains the same.
You don’t struggle against the press of his hand, and he squeezes your hip once more in approval. Sliding back down your spine, he nudges your lower back into a deeper arch before those long fingers hook into your pants and underwear. “Nothing would make me happier than to give you everything you want. As often as you want, in as many different positions. After you give yourself to me like this.”
“Yes,” you hiss, almost impatient with the methodical way he’s picking you apart, thrumming at your nerves while barely doing anything at all. It’s the implications that your mind is supplying in the spaces between, and you know he’s doing it on purpose.
The frigid air meets your backside, your thighs, the wetness of your cunt as he tugs your clothes down enough to bunch around your knees. It’s all he needs right now, and you’re just glad he isn’t wasting time by trying to reveal more of you. Those same hands touch your skin now, squeezing in all the same places, his palms burning hot against you. A pathetic little sound falls from your lips, and he freezes.
You can feel him smiling.
As his fingers spread you open, you don’t have the wherewithal to even be embarrassed at the vulnerability of it all. Tartaglia looks at you shamelessly, a little rumble leaving his chest as he thumbs over your clit with little warning. Your hips jolt, only for a moment, and then you’re pushing yourself back against his circling finger for more.
It feels as if you’re demanding it from him, but also that you’re offering yourself as some sort of… toy for him to play with. The mere suggestion of it has you reeling; that you would willingly put yourself in his hands for his amusement. But that’s what all this is for, isn’t it? You can’t help asking that of yourself, knowing that it’s the truth.
Tartaglia wants you to give yourself to him in the only way you really can. An even trade for the offering that still wraps around you now. The exchange for having him at your side always, giving you all those things he promised. Protection, happiness, safety… The feeling of his cock nudging against you, hot and weighty, the chill of something smearing across your skin.
“Look at you, all ready for me,” Tartaglia breathes, nails scraping against your skin as he pushes closer, nestling against your cunt until his tip brushes your clit, his pulse thrumming against you just as surely as yours races against him. “Knew you’d be perfect. I knew it. I watched you, you know.”
And that makes you stiffen. You’d suspected, of course, but-
“Ever since you came here–” two years ago– “I watched, I waited. The forests are wild, uncontrollable, imperfect. But you’re… different.”
Tartaglia rocks against you, a minute sliding of his cock against your oversensitive cunt. He lets you feel every inch of him before ever giving you a taste. “Humans are delicate. Fragile, really. Wrapped up in your layers, I thought you looked cute. But every day that passed, I grew more sure that you’d look even more divine with my furs wrapped around you…”
And he leans down, pressing his lips to your neck, just over your pulse once more. You can feel the heaviness of his breath as he murmurs, “And how you’d look with my mark right here.”
Goosebumps prickle along your skin at the open threat of his teeth pressing into your skin. Not hard, never breaking, but little indents left as he pulls away, surely. Perhaps it’s your own mind tricking you, addled with both desire and the man above you, but you have a distinct need to have those marks on you permanently.
So, you bite down on your lip and whine a little plea, unsure of what you’re really asking for, only knowing that you want it desperately. More than you’ve ever wanted anything. The entirety of your life feels like it’s been boiled down to this single moment, the pinprick in time where it’s just you and the Fox above you, behind you, surrounding you completely.
Tartaglia withdraws, just enough to give you the full drag of him against your folds before the head pushes against your entrance. Never before have you taken someone with such little resistance, but never before has anyone worked you into such a state with so little effort. Tartaglia has barely touched you beyond squeezes and gropes for his own gratification, yet you can feel a rivulet of your own arousal roll down the inside of your thigh.
And you can hear the squelch of his entry, your cunt being pushed open to make way for him to seat fully inside you. Your mouth falls open in a silent sound as Tartaglia eases you open in one smooth move, the sharp angle of his hip bones pressing into your backside. The pressure only increases when he leans over you again, one hand braced on the bed, the other smoothing over your stomach, fingers pressing in just beneath your belly button.
“Right here. Can you feel me?” Tartaglia’s voice is almost a purr as he coaxes you into responding with a nudge of his hips forward. Your mouth shuts with a click of your teeth, face twisting in pleasure as you’re swept up in the sensation of having him inside, of nearly being rearranged to make room for him to take you.
Each move is torturously slow, and you’re reminded of his words, of the implication. You moved into this cottage two years before he approached you, and it’s been half a year since then. Two and a half years of persistence points to a lifetime of patience. Because of his nature, you assumed he’d take you quick and harsh.
And yet he pulls out and pushes in at an agonizing pace, your mind latching on to the sensation of being filled and emptied. Tartaglia fucks you like he has all the time in the world to do so, like he wants to spend that time memorizing every trembling inch of your pussy before marking it as his own. Like… he wants to torture you for not letting him do this sooner.
You would have let him. Gods, the first time he smiled at you - for real, not the wide and false thing he defaults to - you would have graciously done anything he asked. Including this frustrating slow paced fuck. Or is it mating? You’re not sure, and you don’t really have the faculties to ask such a question in the precise way required to get a real answer.
Fisting the sheets, you push back against him as he pulls out, trying to get at least one sharp thrust in to satiate yourself. Tartaglia doesn’t stop you, doesn't prevent you from doing it, but only once. Only when you rock forward and off does he stop you with a hand on your backside, palm pushing into the flesh and fingers squeezing in quiet warning.
Next time, you recall him saying. This one is for him, for his enjoyment. You don’t move, sucking in a shaking breath to fill your lungs, and his grip lessens to pat your ass in encouragement. “Smart; you remembered. Just relax. Just feel. Can you do that for me, just a little longer?”
You make a sound of agreement, but he doesn’t accept it as readily as you thought. Another tap to your backside, a little bit harder this time. Perhaps his patience isn’t as infinite as you thought. “Say it out loud. Say that you’re happy staying right here, feeling my cock.”
Tartaglia doesn’t sink back into you. Your entrance is stretched wide around his tip, your cunt clenching around nothing and begging for him to give you anything at all. Weary with your own desperation, you cave for him. “I-I’m happy just feeling your cock–”
“Your Mate’s cock,” he amends his original request, nudging forward, giving you a little as compensation so far.
You want more, even if he buries inside and never moves again. “I’m happy staying here and feeling my M-Mate’s cock.”
Something that felt so frustrating before now feels euphoric as he slides all the way in once more, nudging against places inside that you’re not sure have ever been touched like this. All it took was a moment of realignment to take you from annoyance to appreciation for the slow, slow roll of his hips.
This is fine. This is enough. If you close your eyes and focus only on that slow dragging, on bearing down and tightening around him further, then you find yourself inching closer and closer to the release you need. A little groan of surprise leaves him as you do this, then a little chuckle as he quickly realizes what you’re trying to do.
You expect him to tease you, to demand that you hold off and you’re not allowed to finish while he does this. It would be cruel, but you’d do it, only because he’d made so many pretty promises about what comes next. And yet, he slides a hand around you, breath hot against your ear. His fingers find your clit again as his cock goes still inside. “Since you’ve been so good…”
Tartaglia doesn’t move himself an inch as he plays with your clit, stroking it between two fingers, drawing circles with the pad of his middle digit, pressing hard to give you a little jolt of pain before soothing it away with soft touches. You’re not certain what it is he’s getting out of this until you tense particularly hard and his cock twitches inside you.
The closer you get to orgasm, the more you tense and flex around him. Tartaglia doesn’t need to fuck you to get his own pleasure, you realize, and that only spirals you higher toward the very apex of it all.
Through the haze you feel his mouth on your neck, sucking against the little marks he’d left not so long ago. The pressure will leave bruises, and you almost think that’s the extent of it. A mark that will be left to show he’d been here with you, that you were his until it faded and he’d surely put another in its place.
Tilting your head, you give him all the access he’d like. You’d be proud to leave whatever mark he gives, even though you’re isolated enough out here that you’ll likely not see another person until it starts to fade. But you’ll see it, you’ll feel it. Just as surely as you feel him throbbing in your cunt, as surely as his teeth dragging along your skin before sinking in.
As surely as the pain of his bite mixes with the exquisite agony of your drawn out release, the two striking at the same time and mingling so thoroughly that there’s no hope of pulling one from the other. They’re the same thing now, both overwhelming and leaving you just as delirious as you’d been when he arrived.
Something else burns at you, too. Between your mind reeling and your muscles tensing as if you’d experienced electro directly from the source, you realize he’s moving now. Quick, shallow, sharp little thrusts, something pushing at you that you don’t recognize. If you weren’t so thoroughly ruined, you’d panic, but instead you sprawl beneath him and let his hands hold your hips to keep you from going completely boneless.
The bluntness pushes you open, slowly but surely with each thrust until the stretch making you nearly squeal as he forces it inside. Only when you accept it does he finally dig his nails in and mouth against your neck, moaning against your skin with each shot of his release. Involuntarily, his hips jerk forward as the waves roll over him, his body pushing yours into the bed as he loses his strength to keep you aloft for his use.
Your neck stings, your pulse runs hardest in your cunt that’s stuffed full of his cock. Mindlessly, your fingers reach for the red fur sprawled around the two of you, pulling it closer. Its owner is at your back, but you have a single-minded need to be completely wrapped up by him. Everything feels muddled, as if you’d had a bit too much firewater to drink and were in the throes of your cups.
Tartaglia’s tongue rolls against the stinging marks, and you wonder if he’s tasting your blood or if he’d even gone that deep. It felt that way, as if he’d pierced you clean through. Perhaps his mark will last far longer than you expected.
A sharp hiss leaves you as you shimmy a bit to get more comfortable, and his length doesn’t dislodge from you. In fact, you feel as if he’s locked inside, something keeping you from pulling free. Another shift, a whimper as you realize that’s exactly what’s happened, and he finds quiet glee in your confusion.
“Did you think I was lying? I told you that I would breed you, Mate.” His hand sprawls over your stomach, possessive as if something were already growing there. “Hush now, my knot will go down soon and you can ask all your questions.”
“Can’t I ask them now?” You ask, annoyed at how thick your voice feels from exhaustion. Against your neck he nuzzles, lips brushing over the tender spot where he’d bitten you. Verbally, he doesn’t answer, but you suspect that he’d just reiterate his desire for you to wait.
And so, you relax beneath him, letting his weight settle over you comfortably. The furs tickle against your nose as you inhale their scent, as potent as the moment he’d first wrapped them around you. A thought meanders through your mind about what you might smell like to him, and whether he pines for it in the same way that you do.
Tartaglia doesn’t seem the pining type. At least, that’s what you thought before all of… this. Apparently, he’d been doing so for quite some time, far before you even had laid eyes on him.
With a little roll, he pulls you to lay on your side, his body spooned against your back once more, just as before, the thickness of his tail curled over your hip. The movement slips him free of you, and you don’t quite have words to articulate the disappointment that settles in your chest from the loss. You feel unlike yourself, but somehow more in-tune with who you are, as well.
Sensing your confusion, Tartaglia answers questions that you hadn’t had time to formulate. You’re his Mate, he tells you. He’s put his mark on your neck permanently, claiming you for himself in the eyes of all others. When your fingers raise to your neck to feel, he brushes your hand away. “Don’t touch it, you’ll irritate it more.”
“I just want to feel it-”
“There’s nothing to feel. It’s the shape of my teeth, and it’ll scar over,” he chides you, squeezing your hand. “Just trust me when I say that it suits you.”
You suppose you’ll be the judge of that later. In the meantime, you sigh a bit petulantly and relax in his hold, trying not to drift off to sleep. To combat yourself, you needle him further. “Why didn’t you say anything before? About your… feelings.”
“I have been.” Tartaglia almost sounds affronted, like you’ve put this entire thing up to be judged for validity. “We went through every step of the mating process. It’s not my fault you didn’t ask about any of it.”
“How was I supposed to know!”
“By asking,” Tartaglia answers simply, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. You want to spin around and smack him, your hand pushing against the bed to give you leverage to do just that, but he cuts you off at the pass by wrapping those furs around you so tightly that you’re certain you’ll turn into a Fox yourself.
And then he laughs at you, light and weightless, rasping a bit at the edges in a way his polite ones never do. If not from his smile, then just by the angle of his ears, Tartaglia is happy. As happy as you’ve ever seen him. You’ll be annoyed with him later, you think, when you’ve had your fill of his elated expression and grow tired of seeing him so jovial.
That moment doesn’t come.
#mind the a/n for content tags#tartaglia#childe#genshin impact#genshin#fic#fanfic#fanfiction#reader insert#x reader#f!reader#afab!reader#tartaglia x reader#childe x reader#tartaglia/reader#childe/reader#reader-insert#nsft#mdni
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sweet christmas
godbur’s very first christmas
➸ note; i wrote this in probably a total of an hour and i am very proud of that but i do worry that it isn’t very good although i am sure it’s fine, i just fear i rushed it, anyways!! enjoy your godbur fix !
➸ pairing; god!wilbur x gn!reader // godbur x gn!reader
➸ summary; after telling wilbur of the wonders of christmas, he decides to give you the best holiday season you could ever imagine
➸ warning; cheesy nicknames, allusions to past childhood trauma, maybe swearing?
➸ age-rating; 14+
➸ wordcount; 1.7k
main masterlist
wilbur was hands down one of your favorite people to live with, yes the trail to get to this point was nothing but rocky, but you were quite content with how things turned out.
your life felt more serene and peaceful as an immortal than it did when you were mortal. getting to wake up in his arms, get smothered in kisses and love; then go about your days together, assisting him in whatever matters he may need it in. it felt domestic, and sweet; and god, was he caring. he loved looking out for you, caring for you and treating you with such love and kindness.
he loved to hold you and sway you, cook for you and love on you. you were his pride and joy.
not too long ago, you went on a rant about a lot of things from the mortal realm, explaining them in such detail that it completely captured wil's attention, although one subject sunk in the most; christmas.
he thought the mere idea was beautiful, a gift giving holiday with snowy weather and fun activities? count him in. he wanted nothing more than to treat you to anything and everything, spoiling you to an extent you didn't know was possible.
i think it stuck most for him once you told him of the Christmases you had as a child. of course, they weren't all bad but you had plenty of Christmases that you would have loved to go without. years that it just couldn't bring you joy, or years where it broke you down.
so, he made it his mission to give you the best Christmas he can. a whole month was blocked out for you, starting in what he called November and ending in late December. although there's no true concept of time in his world, he copied the human form of time a while ago, just to give you a better sense of things. to make you feel at home (although he was home, there were bits that you missed from time to time).
he had yet to tell you, keeping it a surprise while he made a little basket of Christmas things.
when you opened it, you almost questioned him on where he found everything but then realized that wouldn't go anywhere. he's a god, with powers you can't even fathom. there's nothing out of the way with him.
it was filled with snacks and a cookie cookbook, a soft blanket, one of his sweaters and various other things (he did go a bit candle crazy, but he knew you loved them and hell, he did too).
after that, then the festivities began. he started off with a Christmas movie and some warm s'mores, both of you sharing as you tucked yourself against his side.
"love," he paused, looking down at you as he lifted your chin, getting your gaze to meet his.
"yes?" he smiles at the softness of your voice before wiping chocolate from the corner of your mouth with the pad of his thumb. you frown gently up at him, and he places a gentle kiss to your lips.
"that's it," he hums, placing a few more soft kisses to your cheeks and temple.
"that didn't warrant a 'love'," you huff, kissing his cheek before resting back beside him on the couch. you squeak when he pulls you into his lap, "willllllll," you whine, looking up at him with the best pissed look you can give before you begin to giggle at him.
"everything warrants a 'love', baby," he tilts your head back, hand resting on the front of your throat as he kisses all over your face; showering you in all the love he can possibly muster.
"hmmm.. I disagree," you rest your hands on his thighs, to ground yourself somehow, as his hands move down to rub over your stomach, fingers gently tracing shapes on your skin; underneath your sweater.
"disagree all you want, I'm right, little one," wil's lips curl up into a smirk as you groan at his words, head leaned back against his shoulder.
"why do you *always* have to be right?" you huff, crossing your arms over your chest as he pulls you closer, maneuvering you so your legs are draped over his lap.
"I'm a god, remember? *your* god, darling," his smirk then morphs back into a smile as he kisses underneath your chin.
"don't wear it out," you nuzzle your nose up against his neck, your arms now around him as he pulls you closer; your attention now back on the movie, but his still on you.
his next activity, which took place a few days later; was cookie baking. thankfully, he chose a recipe and some premade dough; just in case. you figured the premade stuff was gonna get its use pretty quickly.
"baby, can you pass me the sugar?" he inquired, hand reaching out mindlessly as he reread the recipe for the trillionth time, ensuring that he was processing the material properly and wouldn't fuck this up for you.
you didn't really care if the cookies turned out perfectly, or at all. you just enjoyed the time you could spend with him, and the sweet moments he created with you.
you handed him the sugar, watching him grab the bag with ease (despite it being several pounds in one hand). you then swiftly moved over to stand beside him, gazing up at him as he measured out the ingredients. he placed all the dry ingredients in a bowl, but didn't bother to stir it yet as he moved to pick you up and place you on the counter. he handed you the bowl and a whisk.
"can you stir this for me, little love?" he crooned, and you nodded, stirring while he went over to the fridge to gather the rest of the ingredients (all at once, mind you).
you had to keep yourself from laughing at the sight, his arms filled with all of the ingredients all stacked up and pressed under his chin.
"wil, be careful," you mumbled, smiling softly to him as he nodded his head to you.
"I'm fine! I've got this!" he attempted at reassurance, but it came out squeaky rather than firm.
you shook your head, giggling to yourself as you set down the bowl beside you and swung your legs on the edge of the counter. he placed all of the wet ingredients down on the counter, rather clumsily before he began that mixture.
surprisingly, the cookies turned out well. and you both danced together in the kitchen while they baked, only to cuddle up in front of another Christmas movie when they were done.
various activities had occurred during the two months he blocked out, baking, games, cuddles, ice skating and show angel making in the garden. he planned everything and there wasn't a moment you didn't enjoy. you loved every second of it, and he enjoyed every giggle and smile you had to offer.
Christmas morning rolled around quickly, the both of you having spent Christmas Eve with a small dinner, cookies and a movie. and of course, wil had you open one of your gifts before bed. it was a little Christmas ornament he had sculpted from some clay and then painted. a star, with golden paint and beautiful cursive words spelling 'my star' on the back, with the year underneath. you'd be lying if you said you didn't cry, because you did and could barely mumble out a thank you.
just like every kid on Christmas, you woke up early. beyond excited and just bouncing with excitement.
you shook Wil gently beside you, his sleeping form peacefully tucked in bed beside you.
"wil, wil! it's Christmas!" you giggled, shaking him a bit more as he hummed, eyes daring to flutter open and gaze up at you.
"mm, just a few more minutes? you can wait, little love," he pulls you gently against his chest, sleepy, sloppy kisses placed on your cheek. you squirm, giggling at his kisses before whining gently.
"but it's Christmas!!"
he chuckles, holding you closer as you tuck yourself against him, "but Christmas morning cuddles are the best, mm?"
"maybe," you shrug, settling into him for just a bit longer.
a smirk crawls up on his lips before he sighs, pulling back to look down at you, smirk morphing to a smile before he leans down to kiss you.
you look up at him, eyes trying to close again, despite your tiredness setting in, you're determined to stay awake, "can we watch the disney christmas special? like the parade?"
"you truly underestimate my powers as a god, baby," his joyful expression stays held on his face as he kisses your nose and helps you out of bed.
he holds out his hand for you, stepping towards the bedroom door as he wiggles his fingers at you. you wrap your hand around his index finger, tugging softly as he chuckles and leads you down the stairs and into the living area. the tree lit up, creating a dim lighting atmosphere that casts beautiful shadows and a warm light over the room.
you both sit down, beginning to exchange gifts and thank one another for each one. not too long passes and he's shooing you onto the couch as he cleans up and throws a quick breakfast in the oven before joining you on the couch, pulling you onto his lap and pressing sweet kisses to your face. he's quiet and quick with turning on the Christmas morning special for you, fingers circling over the skin of your stomach.
"you can nap, y'know?" he hums against the shell of your ear, kissing the skin behind it.
"don't wanna miss the parade," you whine, yawning and curling in against him.
"who's to say you can't rewatch it if you miss it?"
you shrug, nodding before dozing off. he moved his hand to sift through your hair, sleep taking you peacefully as he admires the room around him. the quaint quiet surrounding him, the warmth and love that he feels for you. how sweet, and gentle the holiday was. even if you're asleep only three hours after waking up.
you both know there’s many more christmases to come.
taglist; @lcvejoy @lillylvjy @ella-fella-bo-bella @lotusanonymouse @willgoldszn @whos-nicooo @zebonos @charlieisverybored @haunted-headset @witheredroseanon (lmk if you wanna be added)
#god!wilbur#godbur#god!wilbur x gn!reader#godbur x gn!reader#wilbur soot x reader#wilbur soot x you#wilbur soot x y/n#wilbur x gn!reader#wilbur x you#wilbur x y/n#wilbur x reader#wilbur soot x gn!reader#wilbur soot imagine#wilbur fanfiction#wilbur imagine#wilbur soot#wilbur#dsmp wilbur#christmas fic#godbur christmas#connor christmas
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A story of witch
Happy Valentine day !
As a gift, here a looooooooong Morpheus x female reader.
Careful, some spoilers here, from the comics and so maybe from season 2.
Time had a different hold on witches.
A certain influence, because contrary to common beliefs, nothing escaped time and nothing was perfectly eternal, but it slipped over them as long as they decided, and had enough magic to repel its effects.
Y/N had already been walking on Earth for several centuries when she met Morpheus.
She had heard many legends about the Endless. Rumors. Lots of warnings, especially regarding Dream, who was described as a changeable, dangerous, angry and resentful being.
Her many sisters whispered to each other that becoming his lover was as much a gift as a curse. He would offer you the whole world on a platter, he would do everything to please you, and then one day, without warning, you would no longer suit him, you would do something wrong according to him, the feelings would no longer be as strong, and then misfortune would strike you.
The king would always find a way to blame you for this new emotional failure. Then you risked Hell, endless nightmares, eternal sleep.
Too much hassle for little benefit.
Y/N didn’t think about any of that when she met Morpheus. Neither to the wonders he could offer her, nor to the torments he risked inflicting on her.
For a witch, some might have thought that she was young, still naive, far too in love with her books and grimoires, fascinated by stories, and therefore vulnerable to the charms of the dreams master.
She didn't think she would fall in love. Neither did he. The mourning of his marriage and his child were still recent, for a being such as him. Y/N had barely been born when this tragedy had happened.
The subject was not brought up, like none of his former lovers. Morpheus did not forget, he never forgot, but when a new relationship began, he did not look back to compare with the previous ones.
No doubt it was a mistake on his part, who then never learned from his mistakes.
Y/N hadn’t had as many relationships as him. Witches have the luxury of immortality, and they knew the consequences of it. Bonding with mortals wasn't a good idea, even less so with their peers. Too risky. Too dangerous.
Attempting to see the future in dreams could have been described with the same words. Y/N was taking the risk of being punished by two Endless, Destiny and Dream.
But Destiny never interfered in anything, and Dream was intrigued by the little witch, asking her not to repeat her experiments, but welcoming her into his domain.
As they walked in his garden, the inhabitants of the Dreaming knew before them what was going to happen.
"Your flowers are beautiful. Everything is beautiful here."
“Would you like to see my library ?”
"Oh, I'd love to ! But you must have a lot to do, I don't want to bother you more than necessary."
"You don't bother me, mikri magissa. You are welcome here."
It took a while for Y/N to realize that they were getting closer. The courting of the king of stories was subtle, ethereal like him, full of poems and tenderness while doing without many words far too heavy with meaning, and at the same time far too limited to convey all the ardor of their love.
Because they loved each other, there was no doubt about it.
The end of their story came quickly, although to a mortal three centuries seemed like a lot. At the same time, those who knew Morpheus well could testify that this was quite a long time for a relationship with him. But as always with his relationships, there had to be an end.
“I’m just saying he’s not wrong.”
"You don't know what you're talking about, o mágos mou. This man is insane and I'm not lonely."
“However, I have felt you far from me for some time now. Perhaps forever.”
"Don't I love you more than anything ? Haven't I shown you my love on many occasions ?"
"I don't know. It's difficult for me to know with you, immutable and yet so variable. Sometimes you give so much, too much, and sometimes not enough, if it's not nothing. There is no middle ground with you. Probably not with me either. It's possible that I'll ask you impossible things."
“Nothing is impossible for me.”
“Yet you refuse to speak, to really speak. You flee this kind of discussion, as you fled the friendship of this man.”
“Don’t push me, Agápe μου.”
Y/N left the Dreaming that night knowing she wasn’t coming back. Morpheus' indifference to her departure could have been seen as fortunate, but it hurt her deeply. He didn't try to catch her, he didn't try to punish her either.
Even though it seemed obvious after several weeks that he would not pursue her, neither in her dreams nor in the Waking, Y/N took precautions to prevent their paths from crossing again. Using several spells, rituals, amulets and ancient seals, she ensured that her mind was cut off from the realm of her former lover.
This protection proved very useful when the sleeping sickness arrived.
Like the rest of the world, Y/N didn't immediately understand what was happening. She knew Dream enough to know that he would never neglect his work like that, that he would not abandon his position unless forced to do so, and that despite all the cruelty and resentment he was capable of, he would never do such a thing to the dreamers.
Something had happened, but she didn't know what.
Too afraid of what he could do to her if she went into the Dreaming, or what could happen to her sleep without the protections, Y/N didn't try to find out. It wasn't her business anyway, since they were no longer together and the fate of humanity wasn't part of her responsibilities.
Time continued to pass, and she still tried to help mortals when she could, with potions and incantations to help them sleep, or on the contrary wake up, ensuring that their nights were not entirely nightmares.
But this was difficult, because she was not the master of dreams.
Without knowing it, she came very close to Morpheus the day her steps led her near a mansion with dark, gloomy energies, which she did not wish to approach too closely. However, there was something, abandoned under a tree near the property, which attracted her with strong force.
The body of a raven. A raven different from the others, a dream. Jessamy. Someone had shot her and she lay there, lifeless, far from her creator, far from her home.
Y/N took the poor thing with her. Necromancy being prohibited, it was not good to anger Death, and the existence of dreams being a complex thing, she did the only thing in her power, to offer a decent burial to the little emissary whom she had loved very much and who had often helped her control Morpheus' moods.
When collective sleep returned to normal, there were no signs. Nothing that made it possible to understand what had happened. Curious by nature, the witch repeated to herself that she should not try to understand. The rumors would spread quickly.
She heard about Burgess. Whispers recounted the long confinement of the maker of nightmares, who had taken revenge before setting off in search of his stolen instruments in order to rebuild his kingdom. Twice he went to the Underworld, he faced a Vortex, he fell in love.
Nothing really new, just the same story over and over again.
Y/N didn’t want to know any of this, but the choice wasn’t hers. One of her sisters came to visit without being invited, and to ask her advice.
“I don’t see how I can help you, big sister.”
"You have experienced what I am experiencing. Tell me how to escape from Oneiros, because I no longer wish to see him and he does not seem ready to accept it."
The rumors had not mentioned the fact that Morpheus had fallen in love with a witch again. Older than Y/N, more powerful, crueler too, because Thessaly had little interest in things of the heart.
" … I repeat, I'm not sure I can help you. Make sure you don't inspire him with any more feelings and you'll be free."
"Sweet little sister, he still loves you and yet he left you alone. I'm asking for this."
"He doesn't love me. He didn't love me for a long time when I left."
"We argued often and each time my wing of the castle was razed and then rebuilt under his orders. There is no trace of his former companions left in all of the Dreaming. None, except you. He did not touch your room. He denied me access to it. He recreated it with everything else after his return. Can you tell me that doesn't mean anything ?"
Y/N didn’t respond. She didn't know what to answer, she didn't know about all this. Her eldest whispered that she was almost jealous. Many times she had wondered if she had gotten his attention because of their similarities, because she reminded him of his lost love.
It might be a good idea for her younger sister to discuss it with the Lord of Dreams.
"Or not. That would allow me to slip away without him probably noticing, but I can't wish harm on one of ours. I'll find a way."
This time, Y/N closed herself off to the whispers, not wanting to know if Thessaly had found this way.
Part of her wished the best for the lord of stories, who had suffered far too much in the last century despite all his wrongs, and who did not deserve to receive another injury. Another part didn't like knowing the older witch was with Dream.
She was afraid for her sister, and she was afraid for Morpheus, whose fickle heart was more fragile than he wanted to admit. The consequences were likely to be terrible for everyone.
Filled with memories, Y/N wanted to visit Jessamy’s grave. A powerful spell had hidden it from the eyes of the world, to prevent it from being desecrated, and she wondered if she had not made a mistake in doing so, for it was possible that Morpheus had never known where his faithful emissary rested.
But the magic of ravens was special, these beings knew things, and she shouldn't have been surprised to find one of them on the tree that protected the location.
"Good morning." she said politely, making new flowers appear near the grave.
"Hi. Do we know each other ? I feel like I know you."
"I don't think we've ever met. You're Dream's new raven."
"Yeah, Matthew. I don't know why I'm here. I'm sort of drawn to it, and Lucienne told me to follow my instincts for this sort of thing, but I don't understand. Are you the one calling me ?"
“I think it’s more your predecessor that you are feeling.”
"Jessamy ? Oh… The boss thought her body was destroyed or something. Were you the one who buried her ? That's nice of you. You don't look really surprised to see a talking raven. I feel like I'm supposed to know you. You seem important."
"Not really, no."
"The boss could tell me but he's busy at the moment. He's accompanying his sister on a quest. Good, it's keeping him busy. It's been raining too much since his break up, it's been days. Merv told me that it was almost always like that, frankly it's painful to watch. The time with this Nada, the time with his ex-wife, the time with another witch… I don't know what he has with witches. I didn't like her at all, she was mean."
“It rained in the Dreaming when I left ?” Y/N couldn’t help but ask, surprised by the news.
Before that day, she had always believed that her departure had had no impact. A total, cold indifference, showing that she no longer mattered. But Thessaly had talked about her room, and Matthew had talked about the rain, and Y/N didn't know what to think at all now.
She had left Morpheus because of his inability to communicate, the distance he put between himself and the whole world. His grand declarations of love always seemed hollow, lacking something.
Maybe he had changed. He would never have allowed his emissary to speak as Matthew did, who was moving around on his tree asking a thousand questions about the relationship between his boss and Y/N. He even allowed himself to order her to leave, because he really didn't need Dream falling into depression again by seeing her through his eyes.
"He's got enough problems, he… Oh. Oh, no. I feel it, he's there. Shit, shit, shit. I have to go !"
Years without any news and within moments Y/N hearing about her former lover almost every day. Until someone came to her door and she found herself face to face with Morpheus.
He seemed embarrassed. He had always been awkward in the waking world, out of place, because dreams hardly survived in reality. But there was something else. He would never have bothered to knock before. He would have come into her house to say what he had to say, demanding that she listen to him, and agree with him at the end.
Without saying anything, he observed her as if he were seeing her for the first time, turning his gaze towards her bedroom, the door of which was surrounded by several symbols used to repel dreams and nightmares. Y/N expected this to make him angry. He had already not liked her touching his domain when they first met.
"I thought you followed my sister into the sunless lands…" he whispered, looking down. "I no longer felt your presence in the Dreaming. I didn't think you were running away from me. It didn't seem to me that I gave you reasons to run away."
“I wasn’t sure you’d be happy to see me again.”
"I have waited a long time for the day when I would have the joy of seeing your sweet face again. It never came, but I am the one responsible for it. You were right about Hob Gadling, You were right about many things but I didn't listen, and I lost you. It was one of my greatest regrets."
“Why are you talking like that ?” Y/N asked as she approached, their hands almost touching.
"Mikri magissa, so much has happened. I am at a crossroads, with a big decision to make. I admit to being afraid, and you give me courage."
“Maybe I can help you ?”
"Even if you could, I wouldn't ask you. The search for my little sister is dangerous, a lot of blood has been shed since we left in search of our brother and I couldn't bear to see it happen to you. I had agreed to help her to see someone again, without understanding that it was you I secretly wanted to see, and now I must find a way to console my sister, disappointed by my lack of investment. But the only way we have left is one that I dare not name."
Y/N had briefly met Morpheus' family, including Destruction and Delirium.
The prodigal had spoken to her little before his retirement, but he had seemed tired, reaching the limits of his functions and no longer seeing the point of remaining with all the inventions of mortals and immortals which fulfilled his role perfectly without he needs to intervene. His siblings did not understand his decision.
One of the most affected by his departure had been Delirum, very close to his brother, who would have given anything for a family reunion.
"If this means your downfall, I can't believe Delirium would ask such a thing of you." Y/N said indignantly, not daring to come any closer. “There must be something else.”
"I don't think my younger sister is aware of what she's asking of me, nor do I think it's possible for me to go any other way without putting someone else in danger. I just came to see you, and thank you for what you did for Jessamy, and for the dreamers during my absence. I hadn't seen all these acts of kindness. But maybe it's you who didn't want to see me again. Not with my behavior. Oh, mágos mou… I so wanted to be better for you, but I could only change by going through all these trials, and for that I had to lose you."
It felt like goodbye, and Y/N didn’t like it. By definition, the Endless had no end, at least not while there was life in the universe.
Without thinking, she placed her hand on Dream's cheek. He usually hated it, being touched, especially without permission, but he closed his eyes with a happy sigh, pressing his skin against hers.
Asking him if he was okay seemed stupid, but the question left her lips, and when his eyes opened again, they had a strange glow. He muttered that no one had asked him that question since his release. It was almost years ago. In truth, no one had asked him that question, even before he was captured.
Like he said, it could be because he had changed, and he didn't really deserve to be asked if he was okay before. And now that he was making an effort, that he was understanding, that he was improving, it was too late.
"I'll find a way. I'll talk to your sister."
“Delirium has always loved you.” he sighed. "My whole family, I think. I never noticed that our relationship is the only one that Desire hasn't tried to sabotage. But maybe they knew that I would sabotage it on my own."
“Let me talk to her.”
Much to Morpheus' surprise, his younger sister listened to Y/N. She even seemed to become Delight again for a moment, as the witch promised to find Destruction, even if it would take time. She just had to be patient, but also accept that it was possible that their brother didn't want to be found.
It was his decision to leave, as it was her decision to change, and Dream's decision to stay the same. But if she asked him to continue their quest, horrible things could happen, and she might lose another member of her family.
"… Okay. But you promise to look ?"
“I swear on our mother’s first ledger.”
"Several people have died trying to help us, Delirium… It's not safe to…"
"Oh, shut up. You'll be with her to protect her, you didn't care about the others. You're probably happy that Y/N came back. I'm happy too, she's nice, you two were good together. If you find our brother, then everything will be perfect."
Several spells, formulas and sacrifices were necessary to find the trail of the Prodigal, or Destruction took pity on them by inviting them to join him, but they talked, and as Y/N had predicted, he did not wish to return, but he entrusted them with a dog to give to his little sister.
Before disappearing between the stars, he took his big brother by the hand, walking together near the cliff, and whispering something to him.
"What did he say ?" Y/N couldn’t help but ask.
"He told me not to make the same mistakes and to think about myself for once. Not about my position, not about my kingdom, about nothing but me, and about you. O mágos mou, it's been a long time, but if you…"
The kiss cut him off in the middle of his question, time seemed to stop, and it was as if they had never left each other.
#sandman#the sandman#dream of the endless#morpheus#dream of the endless x reader#dream of the endless imagine#dream of the endless fanfiction#morpheus x reader
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The Gift of Immortality
DRAGON BALL STORY: Insert Reader
GENDER-NEUTRAL READER × DRAGON BALL CHARACTERS
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PREVIOUS CHAPTER: 001 | HOPE
FIRST CHAPTER: Prologue — BIRTH | 1
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WARNINGS: Mentions of SWEARING!!!
002 |Betrayals Reawakening
❝The past is just the past. There's no inherent value in getting over it or catching up to it.❞
•◉◓☆◓◉•
"Damn it, shit—I'm cutting it close," I muttered to myself, my heart pounding in sync with each stride. The pavement blurred beneath my feet, racing toward the tournament grounds. As I drew closer, the air crackled with the distant sounds of fireworks, their colorful explosions painting the sky above into a canvas of vibrant hues against the azure backdrop.
Slowing my pace as I arrived, I paused to take in the scene before me. Laughter mingled with the hiss of rockets, the joyful cries of children adding to the festive atmosphere. Amidst the sea of faces, fighters and spectators intermingled, their voices weaving a tapestry of excitement.
For a moment, I allowed myself to bask in the serenity of the moment, a rare breather from the chaos of my thoughts. But just as quickly, a sharp voice shattered the tranquility, jolting me back to reality, my muscles tensing.
"The preliminary round is about to commence. All contestants, please proceed to the fighting arena immediately."
Just in time.
Stepping inside, the din of conversation and exertion enveloped me. I scanned the room, taking note of the diverse array of fighters, each with their unique presence. Some engaged in rigorous warm-ups, while others exchanged banter with fellow competitors. I kept my head low, pulling my hood tighter to shield my face from prying eyes, and focused on the plan I had set.
The plan was simple yet layered with complexities. I had taken precautions, preparing a disguise to veil my identity in obscurity against those who might recognize me. I assumed the tournament would be recorded on live camera.
First, to obscure my identity, ensuring that neither the government nor remnants of BioThera could trace me here.
Second, to strategically bow out if I found myself advancing to the final rounds, avoiding the spotlight that winning would only draw unwanted attention, being on social media, whereas losing would allow me to slip away unnoticed, a mere footnote in the tournament's history.
Third, in the aftermath, I would return to my base and hide, allowing time to blur the memory of my presence here. No autographs, no accolades, just a silent retreat back into the shadows. It was simple; however, not so simple when it came for me to reclaim a sense of my pride back, how to enjoy a tournament.
A yearning to rediscover the joy of combat, stripped of the primal instincts that had driven me for so long. I craved the thrill of battle, the rush of adrenaline untainted by fear or survival.
Those shit loads of hunters.
With each step, I pushed back the memories that threatened to engulf me, focusing instead on the rhythm of my breath and the steady beat of my heart. I would fight, not out of necessity, but out of choice. Though the instinct to survive still whispered in the recesses of my mind, I vowed to temper it with restraint.
To fight not with the intent to maim or kill but to reclaim a sense of happiness long forgotten. Memories of Jiro, my lost love and companion, stirred within me, a reminder of the joy we once shared in the heat of battle.
Just like in the old days I have fought. Even just a speck of that feeling is enough for me to be satisfied.
As I took a step forward, my gut twisted in knots, a leaden weight settling upon my chest, constricting my breath, halting my movements like an invisible forcefield. A strange energy, dense and palpable, suffocating me with its intensity. It was an energy beyond mere human capabilities, tinged with an unsettling familiarity that sent chills down my spine.
What sort of energy is this?
The powerful energy permeated the air around me, tinged with a hint of danger that pricked my senses, setting them on edge. Frozen in place, I struggled to comprehend the source of this ominous presence. My heart is hammering against my ribs like a caged beast, beads of sweat forming on my brow, a lump lodging itself in my throat.
With each passing moment, I felt compelled to reduce my own ki as if instinctively seeking refuge from whatever was behind me. But anxiety held me rooted to the spot.
Move, damn it! Move!
My mind screamed, urging me to break free from the paralysis that gripped me. A chill swept down my spine, sensing being watched, boring into the back of my skull. Summoning every ounce of willpower, I forced myself to turn, casting a wary glance over my shoulder. Among the crowd of contenders, one figure stood out in the crowd, like a sore thumb.
Tall and imposing, with skin the color of emerald adorned with patches of light pink and delicate black lines going across them on his arms. His attire was wearing a white turban with a dark purplish-blue Gi, and a white cape that billowed behind him. He had pointy orange shoes and a red Obi belt.
My eyes scanned his solid facial structure, pronounced cheekbones, a rounder chin, and a straight nose, noticing his long, pointy, green ears. But it was his gaze, those piercing black eyes that bore into mine with unsettling intensity, that stirred a long-buried memory within me.
He seems... familiar.
Memories of a bygone era flooded my mind, accompanied by the chilling echo of a voice that was all too familiar.
|My weapon must be strong, and able to take a fatal hit and walk it off as if it were nothing. If you ever disobey me or allow any of my plans to fail...you will experience a fate worse than any death you have ever encountered.
You will wish you were never immortal.|
King Piccolo's words reverberated through my consciousness, and with dawning horror, I realized the truth of the being that stood before me. A surge of panic threatened to overwhelm me as I grappled with the reality of facing the demon.
King Piccolo?
But before I could succumb to the suffocating fear, a booming announcement jolted me back to the present. "Attention, participants! Sorry to keep you waiting, but we will now begin the preliminary round. Please gather around the center of the room."
With a sharp intake of breath, I tore my gaze away from the demon king, a facade of composure masking the emotions and feelings raging within. As the crowd of fighters converged at the center of the room, I would follow suit, my senses alert to every movement and chatter around me. An elderly man took his place on a raised platform, his voice resonating through the air with a clarity that belied his age.
"I thank you all for your support of the martial arts society," he began, his words a prelude to the imminent competition. My attention wavered, thoughts swirling like a storm in my mind, drowning out the elder's speech. My thoughts were consumed by the unexpected presence of King Piccolo, questions swirled within me, each one a dagger of uncertainty.
He looks so different, fairly younger, and short from his immense height when I last saw him, but that doesn't matter. How had he escaped his prison? Did some idiot free him? And why, of all places, did he come here? Has he come for me? For revenge for my betrayal?
The thought gnawed at me, festering in the depths of my mind. Yet, even as I pondered his motives, a deeper fear took root. One question loomed: Did he recognize me even with my disguise?
The very idea sent a jolt of fear coursing through my veins, my heart pounding in rhythm with my rising anxiety. In the chaos of my thoughts, I felt his gaze upon me, an unseen weight that threatened to crush me beneath its scrutiny.
Calm down, [First Name]. Calm down, think about this.
I reminded myself, forcing a facade of calm, but beneath the veneer of control, a squall raged, a maelstrom of fear and panic soon enough with anger and frustration. A combustible concoction of emotions threatening to spill over.
I could end this now.
I entertained the notion of striking him down then and there, but reason prevailed, and the risks in hand. I would reveal myself and cause collateral damage, inviting unwanted attention, such as the government or authorities.
So, I bided my time, keeping my ki level low in a desperate bid to evade detection. As I grappled with my options, a sense of resignation settled over me. Escape seemed tempting, but the specter of King Piccolo's wrath was a grim reminder of the consequences.
If I left, there was a possibility he would kill everyone here. This only added to more guilt than I already had and toiled my emotional state.
I am in a fucked up situation here.
My plan, once so simple, now lay in ruins at my feet as the weight of my predicament bore down upon me; I could only curse the cruel irony of fate, mocking me at every turn, not getting my aspirations.
"It is time for the lottery! Participants will be paired. According to the numbers drawn!"
A hush fell over the crowd, broken only by the shuffling of feet as a man stepped forward, clutching a small box, his movements deliberate as he made his way toward us. As the participants formed a line, I joined them, I cursed under my breath, my fists clenched in frustration.
What the hell am I supposed to do now? How long has he been out there? Has he been training? He could be stronger, and smarter, and I'm just walking into this blind!
I got to the front of the line, and my hand reached into the box, fingers trembling as I fumbled for a card. With bated breath, I withdrew the slip of paper, my heart pounding in my chest. I unfolded the paper, revealing the number sixty-two.
Eyes scanning the board, I located my spot in Block Four of the second half; my gaze lingered, wondering what King Piccolo's number would be. I could almost feel his eyes on me, a silent threat hanging in the air.
Would he recognize me? Or is he suspicious of me? Maybe he already knows it's me. Is that why I can feel him staring at me?
The announcer's voice pierced the silence once more, announcing the commencement of the preliminaries. I exhaled a quiet sigh, deciding to bide my time; I settled into the sidelines, eyes flickering across the arena, content to watch the battles unfold before my turn arrived.
Observing the podium, my gaze fell upon the two contenders standing tall. One, a towering figure with a rich, dark complexion, exuded strength and determination. While the other, with a lighter, pale skin tone, well-built physique, and spiky black hair, emanated an aura of focused tranquility.
A hush fell over the arena as they exchanged words along with a bow, a customary gesture of respect. With a call from the referee, the duel commenced. The first fighter assumed his stance; the other remained motionless.
It was then that I noticed it, a subtle yet undeniable aura emanating from the second combatant. A palpable sense of power, tempered by an eerie calmness. Curiosity gripped me as I watched, my mind spinning with possibilities.
Maybe... maybe I can find someone to defeat King Piccolo?
Before I could delve deeper into the notion, a sudden flurry of action shattered the stillness. The second contestant, swift as a phantom, caught his adversary off guard. Panic gripped the first fighter, his frantic search for his unseen assailant ending in a devastating blow that sent him crashing to the ground, consciousness slipping away.
"Number One has fainted... Number Two is the winner!"
The crowd erupted into a chorus of cheers and murmurs, their excitement mirroring my astonishment at the victor's prowess. His speed was unparalleled, defying human limits, leaving me awestruck, and igniting a glimmer of hope within me. My eyes flitted to the tournament board. Only eight would advance to the next stage, and among them, perhaps lay the key to my salvation.
I resolved to scrutinize each contender, searching for the one whose strength and skill might rival that of King Piccolo. It was a gamble, a desperate bid to get out of my situation. But as the cheers of the crowd washed over me, I dared to believe that perhaps, just perhaps, I could get what I wanted.
Just a way out.
Time seemed to blur as I faced one opponent after another, each presenting a unique challenge. They tested my restraint as I held back my strength. I found myself momentarily immersed in the thrill of battle, only to be abruptly reminded of King Piccolo's looming presence.
I sensed his gaze upon me, analyzing my every move, probing for weaknesses. And in turn, I found myself studying him, gauging the depth of his power and the extent of his skills. He was still brutal as ever.
As the rounds progressed, the arena thinned, each defeat marking the departure of yet another competitor. With a call from the referee, it was my turn to take the stage once more. The final bout to determine who would ascend to the ranks of the top eight fighters.
"Number Fifty-nine and Sixty-two, step forward!"
With measured steps, I approached the center of the arena, locking eyes with my opponent. It was a light-skinned woman, she was a vision of strength and grace, her slender frame exuding an air of confidence.
Her long black hair flowed behind her, tied in a neat ponytail, framing her striking features. Clad in a vibrant blue cheongsam, she stood poised and ready, her black eyes focused and unwavering.
As the referee signaled the start of the match, I lunged forward, fists clenched in anticipation. My strikes met with swift blocks and dodge, her movements fluid and calculated. But I was determined, pressing on with a relentless barrage of attacks.
With an estimated maneuver, I aimed a sidekick at her abdomen, eliciting a sharp grunt of pain. As I followed up with a roundhouse kick, she caught my leg, refusing to yield an inch.
Thinking on my feet, I shifted my weight, wrapping my other leg around her neck. With a twist of my body, I sent us both hurtling towards the edge of the ring. Gravity became my ally as we tumbled, my hands finding purchase on the arena floor just as I executed a perfect flip, using my momentum to launch her out of bounds.
As she crashed to the ground outside the ring, I landed gracefully on my hands and knees, adrenaline coursing through my veins.
As the referee's booming voice echoed through the arena, announcing my victory, a chorus of cheers erupted from the remaining fighters. I made my way down from the podium and I approached the woman I had just faced, rubbing her head with a grimace.
She could have cracked her skull, and even worse, she would have snapped her neck if she landed wrong.
"Are you alright? I'm sorry if I caused any damage to you," I offered, my words laced with genuine concern. The possibility of killing someone in this tournament if I didn't fix my survival instincts weighed heavily on my mind. The woman, still rubbing her head, waved off my concern with a dismissive gesture, though I could sense her frustration lingering beneath the surface.
"No–No, it's okay. I'm fine, uh..."
She muttered, her tone a mixture of annoyance and pain. I watched as she stormed away, her clenched fists betraying her frustration. Her abrupt departure left me standing there, grappling with the aftermath of the match.
At least she's not dead.
"You're still the same human as before," a deep voice interrupted my thoughts, drawing my attention to King Piccolo himself. His voice was laden with authority and a hint of amusement.
My heart skipped a beat at the sound of his voice, a reminder of a past I had long tried to forget. Ignoring the weight of his words, I maintained a facade of indifference, refusing to acknowledge the connection between us. I was silent, but his words cut through the air like a knife.
"Your kindness will be your downfall in the future, [First Name]," he warned, his tone dripping with disdain. The mention of my name sent a jolt of fear coursing through me.
He knew it was me, that bastard. Fuck, why did I believe that he couldn't recognize me with my disguise. He's smart enough to figure it out.
"And your arrogance led to your downfall when I joined you," I retorted, my voice steady despite the emotions raging within me, but his next words caught me off guard.
"I still haven't forgotten about what you did to my father," he declared, his tone tinged with bitterness. The revelation left me speechless, my mind racing to piece together the dilemma.
"Father...?" I murmured, but before I could press further, a new voice echoed through the arena, drawing our attention to the next round of fighters. As King Piccolo retreated towards the arena entrance, leaving me to grapple with the revelation.
Did King Piccolo have a child?! When—how?— who?—what?
With a sense of unease gnawing at my gut, I followed the small group toward the entrance, keeping a wary eye on King Piccolo—or perhaps, his son. I joined the group of quarter-finalists, and I couldn't shake the nagging sense of dread that gnawed at my insides.
My gaze settled on the announcer, a striking figure with blonde hair, a distinguished mustache, and sunglasses perched atop his nose. His attire, a sharp navy-blue/black business suit wearing a pink shirt and a vibrant red necktie, he cleared his throat, adjusting his shades.
"Once again, we shall draw lots to determine the pairings for the next round," his voice reverberated through the auditorium, crisp and definitive. "Only two participants per match, no more. And a friendly reminder: check your costumes before entering the ring."
The mention of attire struck a nerve within me, a silent irritation at the thought of the notion of King Piccolo's presence being reduced to a mere costume rankled me, though I kept my emotions veiled.
How oblivious can people be? Unless this tournament had some peculiar individuals who wore costumes as normal.
I pondered silently as the blonde announcer produced a modest brown box, urging us to draw our lots. I lingered until the end of the line, drawing my lot to reveal the number.
"Four," I muttered under my breath, taking note of the number etched on the card before the names were jotted down. Scanning the roster for the upcoming quarterfinals, my curiosity was piqued by the peculiar matchups.
Match 1: Mercenary Tao vs. Tien
Match 2: Goku vs. Anonymous (a name I had chosen to conceal my identity)
Match 3: Junior vs. Krillin
Match 4: Hero vs. Yamcha.
My brow furrowed as I read the name 'Junior.' "Pardon me, but who is Junior?" queried a bald man, his confusion mirroring my own. The announcer's gesture toward King Piccolo's son revealed the depth of his ignorance, igniting a spark of empathy within me for those who remained oblivious to the true nature of this formidable being.
But who names themselves Junior? What? Did King Piccolo not care? Of course, he doesn't care; that's how he is. Why am I even acting surprised?
"Then whose Anonymous?"
The voice, a melodic blend of curiosity and youth, cut through the air. I turned my gaze towards the speaker, a competitor from the first round of Block One.
He stood tall and imposing, his skin aglow with a sun-kissed hue that seemed to dance in the shafts of sunlight filtering through the entrance and with spiky black hair framing his features.
He was Goku, my next opponent for the Second Match of the tournament.
"They would be the one named Anonymous," the announcer's words echoed through the hall, drawing attention to my masked figure. I felt the weight of the man's gaze upon me, his black eyes alight with a spark of excitement, perhaps virtue. A pang of unease rippled through me, urging me to avert my eyes, to shield myself from his scrutiny.
As the anticipation built for the commencement of the first match, the other competitors filtered out to the arena. Yet, Junior, King Piccolo's son, remained behind. I could sense his gaze burning into my back, a silent threat creeping under the surface of my composed facade.
Beneath the exterior of my composure, anxiety, and irritation simmered a volatile blend of fear and anger. Fear that this monstrous legacy had found its way here, but his son I did not know King Piccolo had. Anger at myself for daring to hope, for venturing out of hiding only to be stuck in a situation, and faith mocking me.
Why do I always have false hope?
The bitter taste of disappointment lingered on my tongue, a harsh reminder of the folly of false hope. In the tense silence that hung between us, my heart hammered against my ribs, with each beat echoing the uncertainty of what comes next.
I braced myself, waiting for an attack, for a confrontation, but none came. Every nerve screamed for escape, for release from the suffocating grip of fear. But as seconds stretched into eternity, Junior remained motionless, a silent sentinel watching from the sidelines.
Will there be anyone to actually end him without doing it myself?
Risk of getting attention from authorities, alerting the government? Or letting my hands dribble by the blood of innocents that he may kill, knowing I could have stopped him?
But I was simply a selfish and cold-hearted person, just wanting to survive.
Or was I?
•◉◒☆◒◉•
Finished: March 22, 2024
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PREVIOUS CHAPTER: 001 | HOPE
NEXT CHAPTER: 003 | FATE'S GAMBLE
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Link to the book [Wattpad]:
The Gift of Immortality
DRAGON BALL STORY: Insert Reader
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#by_theunkn0wn-0#The Gift of Immortality#dragon ball x reader#dragon ball characters x reader#reader instert#x reader#x y/n#x gender neutral y/n#x gender neutral reader#x gn reader#x gn y/n#gender neutral y/n#gender neutral reader#gender neutral mc#gn reader#fanfiction#The Gift of Immortality-Season ONE#I apologize if there is any bad grammar or misspelled words#piccolo jr#piccolo
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My theory of Hazbin Hotel's main plot.
[This may just be a hot take or me whimsically spitballing headcanon, but I have thought about this and, while I don't have all the puzzle's pieces, I think I have enough to make out a decent picture. So bear with me as I unload the insanity that has been in my head since entering the Hellaverse.]
Starting things off, I think the main villain/antagonist of HH's plot is the obvious elephant in the room...Roo aka The Root of ALL Evil.
According to Vivziepop, Roo is a "looming threat in the distance", possibly hinting toward her being a future antagonist and she mentioned that there is no character that she is more excited to get into than Roo, but, she also mentioned that it's "gonna be a long time". So likely we won't see her properly till season three but get hints throughout season two and teased at the end. I will make no claim that "defeating" Roo solves everything in the universe because that's nonsense. There is no good without evil. So you can't just off Roo who's been there since the beginning. And I mean THE beginning. I'm talking the creation of EVERYTHING.
"Angels that worshiped good and shielded all from evil."
Evil exists at the start before Lucifer does anything, this is a fact. So where am I going with this? Let's continue down the line. To the one driving my train of thought...Lilith.
For someone who didn't eat the fruit of the knowledge of good and evil, Lilith was very aware of certain things and had independent free will. But humanity didn't get this autonomy till after the fruit fiasco, so what happened? Why did Lilith have magic main character self-awareness? Well, let's think about this...Why was there such a tree in Eden in the first place? The Angels are making this a paradise and keeping evil out of Earth. So why place a tree in there that would fuck it all up? This was why they didn't want Lucifer making shit because they were worried his ideas would be too risky and bad could happen. So again, why was this tree here? What if...The Angels didn't make it.
I propose, as her name so implies, that Roo sprouted the tree up without the Angels knowing in the hopes the fruit would be eaten and allow evil to taint the world. Lilith might have gotten a hint of what the tree granted and what simple veil that clouded her eyes was lifted enough to make her reject Adam and flee the garden. It's even said that "together" she and Lucifer share the gift of free will with Eve, but Lilith seems to take this stand back and watch approach when Lucifer gives her the fruit, almost like she's uncertain what eating it will do so she keeps her distance. This again, also hints that Lilith has had free will from the start and didn't eat the fruit because it was only when Eve ate the fruit did evil finally break the seal to enter Earth.
"As punishment for their reckless act, Heaven cast Lucifer and his love into the dark pit he had created."
Now here's where it gets a bit more headcanony because this line could mean nothing or everything. Lucifer and Lilith are banished to the newly made Hell. I repeat...Heaven cast Lucifer and Lilith into Hell. Nowhere does it say she died. So...We have the first human woman who didn't eat the fruit and never died. By technically, Lilith still has her immortality. She's the oldest human alive. It's also stated Lucifer shares his power with her (and Charlie), which makes sense if she's just some dull human. So, now imbued with this mix of angel/demon rizz, Lilith becomes even more OP and Hell's mary sue Queen that dominates like the bad boss bitch she is.
"Lilith thrived, empowering demonkind with her voice and her songs. And as the numbers of Hell grew, so did its power."
Lilith as a character has a surprisingly decent amount of info to work with considering we only saw her for the smallest moment. So here's some goodies I've collected from the wiki that are of note.
{According to Vivziepop, Lilith is the "big, slowburn mystery" of the show, adding that we are going to slowly start getting answers over the course of the "next couple seasons", and that season two gives some more pieces to it.}
{When asked about what Lilith was like, Faustisse described Lilith as graceful, regal, and politically charged. Lilith is someone who is exceptionally equanimous. This was implied in "Overture" as in the "Story of Hell" book she is depicted helping Hell thrive over the years using her voice and her songs.}
{When asked about Lilith and Lucifer's dynamic, Faustisse believed their relationship could be summed up with the phrase, "Behind every man is a greater woman", and that they love each other very much. They describe Lilith and Lucifer as "passionate, cheesy lovers". They are of the opinion that Lilith "wears the pants" in her family, but they think both Lilith and Lucifer are switches within their intimate life.}
{When asked about Lilith's powers, Faustisse declined to answer, citing possible spoilers for the main series. They did, however, state that they did not think Lilith had wings like Charlie and Lucifer, although saw no reason why she wouldn't be able to manifest them if she wished. According to Faustisse, Lilith can change the shape of her horns, but it's unlikely this will be shown in practice in the series as it would apparently be difficult to show that kind of constant change over consecutive scenes.}
{When asked if the Eden family have some connection to the royal family as well, Vivziepop declined to answer one way or the other.}
{Due to her origins as a former human, it is likewise unclear if Lilith is connected to the Sinners, who are deceased humans and became demons after death; as Lilith was alive when she was banished to Hell, her transition between human and demon is ambiguous.}
{Faustisse has suggested that she is somewhat good with children}
{Lilith disappeared seven years prior to the series for reasons unknown, never responding to any of her daughter's attempts to call her. Curiously, she was missing the same amount of years as Alastor.
Lilith was later revealed to be in Heaven in "The Show Must Go On". Although the exact reasons remain unknown, it was heavily alluded to that she had made a deal with Adam at some point.}
You might look at all this and be like "Lynn, you dummy, we know all this. This is just random stuff". Oh, I think not. Because in just these bits we get so much. Let's begin with the character setup for diving into my main theory.
I think Lilith does love her family. She has a loving and amazing husband in Lucifer and in Charlotte (aka Charlie) the most adorable and kindhearted daughter any mother could ask for. As Queen, she took charge and made Hell less of a pit to wallow and suffer in, and more like a new home to begin anew. So then...What happened? Why would she suddenly leave and cut all communications? Here is where we dig into the meat of it all. My theory of why Lilith left.
Remember how I said Lilith didn't eat the fruit and still had free will then pounded that over and over into you? Well, going on what I said about her getting "a hint of what the tree granted", Roo could've infected Lilith and gifted her awareness while in Eden. Now in Hell where Roo is arguably stronger due to all the sin and sickness that permeates the realm, her influence on Lilith would increase. Lilith, being the big brain that she is, probably felt something was amiss when she got pregnant. Nine months is a long time to plan things out, and maybe doing a few concerts to warn others of impending danger subtlety might've worked...but only for so long. She needed something. A safety. And that safety was her family. Lucifer likely could've been useful but his depression was beginning to take hold with each failure and the worsening sinners as years passed. So...plan B...Charlie. She would instill in her daughter everything she knew and give her a "destiny".
"But Lilith's hope remained. And her dream passed down to their precious daughter, the Princess of Hell."
With Charlie, Lilith instilled that the people were important. But never explained in what way. As she continued to prepare her daughter, Lilith would come to understand this reason. Power. Roo thrives on the tainted evil that seeps from the sinners. So just as she finishes schooling Charlie, she sets up another backup plan to still Roo's intake long enough for her daughter to figure out a way of her own...And this is where Adam comes in.
"Adam is dead. Your deal is done and I'm in charge now. Your brat is threatening the very foundation of Heaven. And if you want to stay here, you're going down there, and stopping that bitch. You understand me…Lilith?"
Feeling Roo's corruptive influence getting worse because sinners just keep coming, Lilith contacts Adam. Now Adam is still salty but hears his first wife out as she caters to his ego. But Adam is wiser after millennia and knows she's not being innocent here. He bluntly gets her to just spill the beans to which she does, she needs out of Hell. Adam grabs this opportunity and says he can sneak her into Heaven but it'll cost her. He knows how much her precious people mean to her so, vindictively, he says he'll take her in if he can go into Hell and kill demons. Little does he know he's playing into her trap. She "reluctantly" agrees so long as no Hellborn are harmed, only sinners. Adam is all for it, even makes a cover story to tell Sera later how killing sinners in Hell will keep Heaven safe, and Lilith then goes about doing the hardest thing she's ever done. She tells Lucifer of some details of this new Heavenly Extermination thing and that she'll have to go away for a long time, promising to return but unsure when. Heartbroken, Lucifer watches as his love leaves him, their daughter, and their kingdom.
"Hey, mom. I know I keep calling and you must be busy... Really busy... But, um, the interview didn't go well, and... I don't know if I'm ever going to make a difference. I don't know what I'm doing. I could really use some advice, mom. I... I think dad was right about me... Ahah, oof. Eh, anyway... I'll stop talking before this gets long. Love you, bye..."
"Don't worry, Mom. I'll make you proud."
Vaggie: Did you hear from your mom?
*Charlie shakes her head in dismay.*
Vaggie: Oof… how long has it been now?
Charlie: Not that long, only…seven….years, off doing something important, I'm sure! But, this kingdom was something she really cared about. Something I care about.
This is what I think it's all been leading to. Lilith having made Charlie into someone for the people and wanting to save souls in a, as funny as it is, maintaining the very balance that got fucked up way back in the garden sort of redeeming way. Restoring order by allowing the good to go where it should've gone in the first place and keeping Roo weak. Maybe Lilith can even get her own redemption, being partially responsible for allowing Roo into our world in the first place. The only added weight I have left to give to my silly little "infected Lilith" idea is how she looks at season one's ending.
She looks pissed and upset, which we can say for a few reasons like how Lute just straight-up calls Charlie a bitch to her face. Like, dude, dick move. But, with Adam dead and seemingly no progress from Charlie (that she knows of), Lute is forcing her to go back to Hell where Roo's influence can grip her once more. I'm not entirely sure just what that could mean but for the sake of the Alastor/Lilith theory fans, let's say when Roo is strong she can puppet Lilith into infecting others via demonic deals. She might have done this countless times with mixed results, only to have full success in Alastor. But Mr deer is a bit too successful a test subject and thus gets his powers leashed. Now we have Alastor trying to force his way out of this mixed-up double-power deal by roping in Charlie, the one kink in this chain that could cause everything to break if forced too much.
It would explain his latching onto Charlie and seeking a deal since the very first time they met. She's a means to an end. The key to unlocking his proverbial collar. It even explains his out-of-nowhere instant disdain for Lucifer. Of course he'd be hostel to the husband of the bitch that metaphorically screwed him and poses a threat to his current plan of using his daughter for his own means.
Well, this was a long as fuck rambling. I hope even a shred of this made sense. Now to sit back and wait for season two to come along and either be like "I got something right" or "Wow I was dead wrong on so many levels". I wonder how long that will take?
"In an interview posted on February 2, 2024, Vivziepop thought that the production of season two might take about one-and-a-half to two years, roughly the same production time season one had."
Oh...um...Looks like we have some time. So, we can expect the new episodes to land in late 2025 at the earliest. *sets up chair* I can wait.
#op random#hazbin hotel#hellaverse#hazbin hotel lore theory/headcanon#hazbin hotel charlie#hazbin hotel alastor#hazbin hotel adam#hazbin hotel lucifer#hazbin hotel lilith#hazbin hotel roo#roo hazbin hotel#lilith hazbin hotel#lucifer hazbin hotel#adam hazbin hotel#alastor hazbin hotel#charlie hazbin hotel
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Moving Pieces
Season 4, Episode 2
💀 Call of Cthulhu: Haunted Hijinx Masterpost 💀
Call of Cthulhu Season Four Masterpost (Coming Soon)
Warning: This campaign is an edited version of a Call of Cthulhu scenario from the Tales of the Crescent City book. While a lot has been changed, there IS spoilers for it throughout these posts.
The boys are going through a normal one.
Can you tell I recently played Betrayal for the first time,
Art Credit:
@inkdemonapologist : sketching + inking
@inkyvendingmachine : concept + colouring
Joey wakes up to Sammy bursting into his office and demanding an explanation of why he didn’t come home last night. Bendy happily lets Sammy know that Joey tried to do a dream spell, which just sets him off more. They go back and forth some, Joey confirming that yes, he did that, but he was just trying to see what the general feel of Y was right now… and he doesn’t seem to be like Moonlight had been before. It seems like he’s just… doing his thing, discussing possible options with some dream-version of his sister, and not that he’s specifically scheming or anything.
While they’re doing their usual arguing dance, Sammy is suddenly interrupted by Prophet… urging him not to submit to the call of the yellow king. This is when they both notice that Sammy had actually been going for the ink faucet in Joey's office???
Joey takes this opportunity to turn the argument around on Sammy, asking if Prophet isn’t going for the ink, then why is he being called towards it? IS THE INK GOING BAD?? DID SOMEONE MESS WITH IT AGAIN!?!??
Bendy clarifies that the ink isn’t tainted, but it does seem to be resonating with something nearby… and that Sammy is sensitive to it. Sammy calls Prophet out to confirm this, as well as confirming it’s def yellow king stuff, before fading again. With that as solved as it could be, Sammy heads to Music to catch Jack up on these developments, while Joey goes and info dumps all the same info on Henry. During this he kinda talks himself thru realizing that maybe Y’s sister is not as dead as they expected… since they don’t really know what sorts of immortal properties come from making yourself an ink body.
Joey goes back to his office and gets in contact with Peter to make sure he’s still alive, gives him a command to check in at the end of day and immediately hangs up as Peter is trying to complete a response. Sammy and Jack try to find Norman to get him up to speed, but find he's called out for the day. And of course, he gave some outlandish excuse, so nobody really knows why he’s staying home. Joey calls Norman and, surprisingly, he actually picks up?? Norman admits part of the reason he’s staying home is because he’s noticed some weird shit is happening again. Joey gives him an update, which is cut off by him asking, “So when’s the trip to New Orleans? That’s where it started, right?”
That’s… a good point.
Joey hangs up on Norman and calls Grace Fowler. He plays off the reasoning as wanting to thank her for the holiday gift, and catch up with her daughter Estelle, who’s also interested in catching up with him.
Especially because between an odd dream Estelle had, where her father showed up and told her to both be careful and stay away from New York, and that night of yellow mist, she thinks Joey’s calling because there’s something weird happening. Joey confirms this, he’s not gonna lie to a child that he likes, and manages to learn from her that a strange man had also been asking her about odd happenings recently. Joey asks if he looks like how he remembers Avedon, and Estelle is extremely impressed that he’s exactly right.
So maybe this is why Norman is waiting at home for a call…
Joey promises to send her a present and tells her to keep up the good detective work, along with reinforcing not to worry her mother and stay safe and all that stuff. (the present is going to be a very good quality notebook that he gets Henry’s help to doodle Bendys and Friends on the page margins throughout it, and an engraved pen to go with it.)
Their strongest lead, at least as far as Sammy's concerned, is that weird performance of Sammy's old improv last night -- so with half a day of work done, Jack, Sammy and Susie head out to one of the clubs they remember some of that band from the charity event tends to frequent. They manage to easily get in, being recognized from their speakeasy days and Jack and Susie being their usual charming, talkative selves. People probably tried to talk to Sammy too, but he’s just interested in chatting with the Jumps after their set. Until then, they get to grab some drinks, sit back and actually enjoy the music for a while. It’s actually… kind of nice? No terrible haunted songs being played, no ink spread throughout the city gnawing in the back of Sammy’s head, no gun fire.
When they do get to talk with the band after the show, it’s immediately apparent that the clarinetist from the charity event is not there. That’s… interesting, since Prophet’s prophecy mentioned a “black wood” and Jack has noted that could be slang for a clarinet instead of a forest… Jack does remember some of these fine folks though, and starts off the conversation, only for Sammy to interject during a lull and ask where they got the music from the other night.
Everyone laughs and agrees that Sammy is still Sammy - A whole hecking gunshot weird cultist nonsense goes down and Sam’s here asking about where they sourced their music. Well, to answer that question, yes it came from a guest they were playing with that night, and yes it was the guy playing a mean reed. His name is Alan Leroy, and they’ve got a lot of nice things to say about him that can also be taken in an extremely concerning way, like how he can make sounds come out of his instrument they’ve never heard before.
Yay! That’s exactly the kind of descriptions of musicians we love to hear about!!!
Jack manages to get the information for where Alan lives, along with some of his friends. Sammy is content with this and attempts to head to the door (in entirely the wrong direction) while Jack winds down the conversation… finding out that also they haven’t been able to contact Al since the other night. He’s probably at home??? But he seemed so shaken up by that guy yelling nonsense at him…
Jack and Susie catch up to Sammy to lead him to the right door, but when Sammy opens it, it… IS the right door? Susie thinks so at least, but it seems odd to Jack, who thinks that they definitely entered through a different door, and Sammy isn’t sure what to think. Things like this haven't been reliable for him for an exceedingly long time, and he can't tell if this door is any different. Something might really be wrong if Prophet’s navigational skills are working with him and not against him…………
But outside, everything seems chill. Normal… Susie even thinks this is the same door, but Jack is very sure they were not on this block earlier. And when he turns to head back to the car, he notices a certain unmoving, pale face in a different car passing down the road. And it’s looking right at him.
Joey and Henry do a tour to check in with people after work, starting with Peter. He’s gotten in contact with his old paper and confirms the weird mist was down in NOLA. He also talked with the police and got confirmation that the shot was fired by some gangster named Johnny Nero, and some places they could look into to find out more about him.
Oh and also there was this weird guy. Peter saw him across the street during lunch, unnaturally pale, dark suit… but he didn’t get to see much more before he just up and vanished. Just a wee bit odd fella, that’s all.
Neither Joey nor Henry are feeling good about this info.
Maybe it’s time to install the buddy system again.
Joey also ends up just calling Norman instead of stopping by, from Peter’s phone of course, and updating him on what’s been going on, as well as asking him if HE knows what’s Avedon up to. Norman says he hasn’t been able to get ahold of him, but it’s good to know he’s out and about.
The other three meet up with them at Peter’s place late that night and updates are had all around. We keep splitting up so you’re gonna hear that sentence a lot this season I feel. This is what happens when our DM has given us multiple NPCs we enjoy so we keep forcing her to take them along with us. c:
Anyways, between all these comparisons, Joey is starting to think that maybe their previous experiences in Carcosa-like situations in NOLA is perhaps giving them a different view of events than say, Susie, who’s very sure that the door they left out of was the same they went in. With this information in hand and a pretty good inkling that apparently things are moving around and there’s a weird pale guy following them, the boys decide they want to go and try to talk with that Alan guy tonight.
Arriving at a pretty nice house in a pretty nice neighborhood, the boys all shuffle out of their new fancy red Mercedes to go wake Mr. Leroy up in the middle of the night. Instead they get his… butler? Who is not too happy about our middle of the night bothering. After some standard Joeying Up, he admits that Alan hasn’t been home for a few days, but also that’s not unusual. He can give us some information of friends Al usually stays with and stuff, and Joey hands over a number to be called if he returns home soon. (A number for a second phone line he got installed over the last year. It goes directly to his office and is listed under an alias, specifically for situations like this where maybe he doesn’t want to lead every gangster and cultist back to JDS right away.)
While Joey is doing his Joey thing, the others start hearing a lady around the side of the house chatting excitedly. Perhaps in a conversation with a beloved? But it seems to be just one side of it… like, WEIRDLY seems to be just one side of a conversation.
The group heads out from the house, around the corner and finds… the car isn’t there. However, there is another Mercedes up the street. Almost the same exact car, just parked somewhere different and now a stunning new colour!
It’s brown.
(well i guess they were out of blue ones.)
After closer inspection, they confirm that it is indeed their car. This is just a wee bit disorienting, and while four boys puzzle over this, Henry tiredly notices that apparently a lady has wandered up to him in the meanwhile. She takes his arm and starts talking about how she’s looking forward to when he gets his own ship, and when they sail away to spend their life together.
Henry just mumbles back “I’m married..?”
Jack and Sammy recognize her as the lady they heard earlier. Joey feels like he’s on the edge of remembering something about her, but none of them actually know who she is so. Uh.
TIME TO LEAVE.
Everyone awkwardly shuffles into the car, since it seems about as safe as anything else around them now, and drive off as the lady continues to monologue and wave Henry into the distance.
Joey asks Jack to drive directly away from the water, and watches the car as they move out of the mist.
It’s still brown.
(also Joey is still taking the middle seat as he usually does, he’s just leaning over Sammy to stare out the window.)
While they could head out to the other addresses in the middle of the night, it’s starting to feel not very safe to be split up and looking for clues with these sorts of changes happening. They pull over and Henry makes a phone call to Linda, telling her he’s not heading home tonight since it feels like eldritch nonsense may or may not be following them, and they’re gonna stay in the studio tonight. He also sees… a familiar pale face in a black suit… reflected in the glass of the phone booth… but of course, when he turns, it’s gone. The group makes their way to Norman’s, wanting to check on him and Susie in case they’re actually getting Carcosa’d.
When they get there though, Norman and Susie seem to be perfectly fine, and don’t understand why Joey is insisting on them looking at the car. It seems to Norman a very odd midnight activity, to have him look at their new paint job.
Susie’s confused. Paint job? It’s always been brown.
Welp. That seems to confirm the suspicions. Whatever’s going on, it seems only those who touched Carcosa in some way have been able to tell that things are different. Anyone else is seeing these changes as if that reality had been true from the start. Susie isn’t pleased about being kicked out of the Oddly Affected Club (or the Oddly Unaffected Club?), but it is nice to have someone they can get reality checks from. Joey states they’re gonna go back to the studio for the night, but Norman declines the invitation. He’s still waiting for a call.
Alrighty, good luck with that.
The group gets back to the studio and starts pulling some cots out of storage, Jack sits down with Lurks and chats some, while Joey goes and starts to prepare a dream spell. When Henry questions him on this, he talks about wanting to try and reach out to Fowler?? Like… up until now, they had been running with the idea that Fowler wasn’t able to be communicated with at all. But if he reached out to his family through their dreams… then maybe Joey can reach out to him in his?
Henry offers to help, because he’s actually had dreams and communication with Fowler in the past, and they both have a sort of understanding with each other. Joey can’t deny that it’d probably work better than him trying on his own, so he sets up the spell for Henry.
And Henry finds himself in a very misty dream. There’s really nothing to see, except three lit corridors going off in different directions… Henry calls out to Fowler, and sort of hears someone in the distance call back? So instead of walking into any of the lit areas, he follows the voice into the fog, and calls out once again, letting Fowler know it’s Henry…
And suddenly, from all around, a very loud booming voice shakes Henry to the core, telling him to get his family out of New York, before it’s too late.
Henry sits up from Joey’s lap and immediately goes for the phone, saying he’s sorry, he didn’t get much information but he needs to call Linda. Telling Joey what he heard as he dials, a freshly awoken Linda gets an exceedingly serious sounding Henry telling her to get the kids packed up and get out of New York ASAP. of course, her first question is about whether or not he’s coming too.
“No.”
“How do you know you’re going to be safe then?”
“I’m not.”
JOEY SNATCHES THE PHONE FROM HENRY,
and gives her an actual explanation of the situation. Something’s following them, tied to Henry, they’re trying to get it untied from them but the longer Linda and the kids stay in New York the more likely they might also get wrapped up in it which will be worse for everyone, Henry included. He’s not doing any dumb sacrificial bullshit, and Joey promises he will do everything in his power to keep Henry safe.
She knows he wouldn’t let anything happen to Henry if he could prevent it.
With that all actually said, Joey hands Henry the phone back, and he’s able to apologize for being dramatic instead of informative. With a soft I love you exchange, Henry hangs up.
And he goes and gives Joey a hug.
[Next Episode] (not yet released)
#call of cthulhu: haunted hijinx#joey drew#henry stein#jack fain#sammy lawrence#peter sunstram#norman polk#susie campbell#the prophet#they're all here in the text also yes i promise i am going easier on the thumbnails this time round#look it's not fully fully coloured
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Bloodweave Fic Recs (12/23/23)
I come bearing gifts 🎁
First fic rec list here!
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Start the Day by Anonymous (G, 500+ w || Slice of Life, Idiots in Love) A soft, sleepy sort of morning routine.
Small Traditions by Velwyn (G, 2k+ w || Fluff, Established Relationship, Post-Canon) It's the first snowfall of the season in Waterdeep and Gale is insistent he and Astarion brave the cold to meet up with his mother and Tara.
Gravity series by Kivea (T, 19k+ w || Slice of Life, Humor, Developing Relationship) A series of shorter, light hearted fics intended to glimpse at the downtime between the companions as they seem to gravitate to each other and couple up from Gale's view, feeling as though as Wyll and Karlach grow close, and Lae’zel and Shadowheart, he and Astarion are left together with no one but each other for company.
in the margins by theamazingbard (M, 1k+ w || Canon-Typical Violence, Established Relationship) Gale, with all the wisdom he claims to have, has gotten himself skewered by a dirty blade. The scent of his blood is so familiar at this point, yet it has never turned Astarion's stomach as it did then.
Don't Feed Me, I Will Come Back by Binary_Sunset (M, 2k+ w WIP || Alternate Universe - Urban Fantasy, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Fluff and Angst, Goats) Gale finds a starving, half-crazed vampire in the woods.
Gale's Year of Rest and Relaxation by sapphala (M, 2k+ w WIP || Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Grooming and Abuse, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms) A modern AU where Gale and Astarion find pain and then solace and then violence in each other (in that order).
different hunger by little_bugger (M 4k+ w || Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood Drinking) After an impossibly long three days, most choose the privacy of their tents over a group dinner. It doesn't escape Astarion what effect this seems to have on Gale. However, the effect Gale has on him escapes Astarion entirely.
The Robberwing by trashmaven (M, 4k+ w WIP || Angst, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Pre-Canon, Suicidal Thoughts, Chronic Illness, Slow Burn) Gale goes to Baldur’s Gate in a desperate attempt to find a cure for his condition, but after a chance encounter with a pale elf, the orb becomes the least of his problems.
With This Ring by AuroraBiggsWrites (M, 4k+ w || Post-Canon, 1st Person) Gale works on a special project for Astarion.
Ask My Glass of Wine For Guidance by Caelanmiriel (M, 5k+ w || Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Academic Misconduct, Abuse of Power) Gale sits in the back of the taxi, fiddling with the wires of his headphones and bouncing his leg up and down, and tells himself that he does not feel sick. It’s just a party.
Bring me home in a blinding dream by Perching_Owl (M, 5k+ w || Whump, Suicidal Thoughts, Established Relationship) Gale is not doing well after he goes back to Waterdeep.
The Fourth Ring by Vamillepudding (M, 19k+ w WIP || Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Hurt/Comfort) Astarion is near the docks when he feels Cazador's compulsion on him snap. He doesn't think twice. He just takes the next available ship out of Baldur's Gate. Its destination: The City of Splendors. Waterdeep.
mortal bonds, immortal regret(s) by Sinister_Queer (E, 4k+ w || Epilogue, Ascended!Astarion, God!Gale, Manipulation, Unhealthy Relationships) The God of Ambition and the Vampire Ascendant attend a party. Gale has spent six months alone and Astarion is not afraid anymore. An arrangement is made.
Strigil by ZiGraves (E, 5k+ w || Soft Gale, Hand jobs) Gale is having some difficulties with stains on both skin and clothing. Astarion has a solution.
Disobedience by mossfloss1 (E, 19k+ w || First Time, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Enemies to Lovers) Good old-fashioned rumination on choice and compulsion. Gale and Astarion shake off their metaphorical shackles.
Stay Though My Arms Shake by Lunarwench (E, 34k+ w WIP || Slow Burn, Friends to Lovers, Domestic Fluff, Post-Canon) Two months after the brain falls, Baldur's Gate has picked up most of the pieces. The band of heroes that saved Faerûn has been there through most of it, helping the city back on its feet. But now it's time to move on. Old lives to get back to, families to return to. Gale is going back to his tower, back to Tara and the blessed quiet. Alone. Or, at least, that was the plan.
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Percy Jackson EP4 spoilers/book spoilers
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Annabeth has endured broken promises her whole life.
Her dad used to see her as a gift, then treated her like a problem. She believed her mom would help her if she asked, but then Athena allowed monsters to chase her. Luke promised her a family, but will go on to join Kronos.
Then there’s Percy, who she once heard say he never thought they could be friends, but is the one person that keeps his promises to her.
He said they’d leave the monument together when she tried to sacrifice herself - and they’ll. He told her he’d pick her over his father - he did so when he took her place as bait this ep. He’ll do it again a thousand times over - returning from Calypso’s island, refusing immortality, falling into Tartarus, giving it his all to go to college in New Rome with her.
All this because he knows she’s worth his loyalty.
Annabeth, who has been forced to rely only on herself from such an early age, will finally have the safety of someone that keeps their promises and that she knows is worth giving up her pride for.
That’s what she did this whole episode and season. She said asking for help was admitting they were not capable of completing the quest, but was determined to ask her mom for help if it meant saving Percy. She took him to her mom’s temple despite their parents’ rivalry. She refused Alecto’s offer to help the quest she waited for her whole life because it would mean betraying Percy.
She’ll take a knife meant for Percy because she felt he was in danger. She’ll search for him nonstop for months when he’s taken away from her.
Loyalty and pride. Flaws and qualities. Percy and Annabeth.
#annabeth chase#percy Jackson#rumblings#meta#percy jackson and the olympians#percy series#percy Jackson series#pjo tv show#pjo series#heroes of Olympus#spoiled#PJO spoilers#hoo spoilers#percabeth#percabeth my beloved#PJO meta#the brainrot is real
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this is ABSOLUTELY jordan with jerry.
(for those unaware: jerry is a baby slime that jordan captainsparklez found in one of his minecraft letsplays a LONG time ago. baby slimes in minecraft are less than a block tall, have half a heart of health, and are in fact so small that they can't even hurt the player by jumping up and squishing them like bigger slimes do, thus making them utterly and completely harmless. after jerry hopped in front of jordan and took an arrow for him, jordan decided to take him as soon as the sun rose. when he got back, jerry the slime was gone. every series jordan has made after that one has either featured a reincarnation of jerry or had some sort of homage to jerry in it. i think about this extremely frequently. wow that got long)
anyways, in every season of mianite jerry has been there at some point and he has always been some sort of gift (either from the wizards (s1) or the gods (s2)). i saw the tweet above and i went okay. Jerry could be a perfectly normal baby slime who nobody fucks with simply because Jordan will literally summon all the powers of Heaven and Hell for revenge if they ever touch his boy. that makes sense. but what if jerry was secretly super powerful and nobody knows because he's so unassuming, kind of like the immortal snail that instakills you if you touch it?
the scenario i'm imagining is this: someone breaks into jordan's house in the middle of the night to get cheese or something. probably tom. he's being super quiet and super sneaky. he has an invisibility potion on and everything. everything is going great until he turns to leave when Suddenly,
jordan, from somewhere out of sight: GET HIM, JERRY!
jerry the baby slime (small) (baby) (pretty damn harmless) drops in from the ceiling and starts hopping slowly but ominously towards tom.
now, you see, at this point tom is like "is he serious?" which is a great question to ask because he knows (or thinks he knows) that jerry cant do shit. he knows that this is definitely a distraction and that jordan is about to wreck his shit. however, he Also knows that if he does anything at all to jerry then jordan will have a great reason to have it out for him for the rest of eternity.
jerry is still approaching.
tom double checks all the exits just to make sure, walks forwards, gently nudges jerry aside with his foot so that he can get the fuck out of there, and Instantly Fucking Dies.
he did not account for the possibility that jerry is partially made up of a very strong, very fast acting poison that kills everyone upon contact (except jordan obviously), which makes sense because that's fucking wild and no sane person would consider that while raiding their friend's house for bread at 3am.
(also nobody except for jordan has ever touched jerry before so how would they know?)
the worst part is that this sounds exactly like the type of thing tom would make up to explain dying after breaking into jordan's house, so he can't even go to anyone to bitch about it. when questioned about the incident, jordan just gives whoever asked a Look that says "you actually believe that Jerry the baby goddamn Slime killed Tom?? Jerry, who couldn't hurt a baby chicken if he wanted to??? Fucking Jerry?????" and they go "yeah ok" and drop it.
thank you for coming to my ted talk. i might write a oneshot about this.
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