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avtrbee · 7 months

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safe

✢ summary: just like everyone else, sometimes megumi just wants his mom.

✢ tags: mentions of the death of a pet, implied satoru x reader

✢ a/n: my friend has psychoanalyzed me with a diagnosis of mommy issues and i have always denied them. then i caught myself reflecting on what type of fanfics i write. especially this one.

Ever since Megumi had started school in Tokyo, he was barely home. Of course, he comes home every now and then, and living within the school's dormitories is part of the high school experience- hell, even you stayed in the school when you were a student- but the house is quiet without him, too quiet, which is probably why he does not go home as often as you'd like- that, among other things.

Everyone in your household knew that Tsumiki was what made your house into a home. Your girl always greeted you with a smile and volunteered to make hot meals for the family when you and Satoru didn't feel like cooking. She was warmth, she was energy, she was life. Until she wasn't.

The house became cold without its fire. You couldn't blame Megumi for wanting an escape from the halls that still echo her memory. Which was why you were surprised to see him sitting on the couch with his arms resting on his thighs, hands buried in his face.

"Megumi?" You call. "I didn't hear you come in."

His head lifts up and looks at you. "Liar," he accuses. "You can sense my cursed energy miles away. You knew I was coming home as soon as you felt it ."

His words were harsh but his tone was not off of his usual deadpan manner of speaking. You can't help but smile. He is still the same child who refused to sleep unless he clung to his divine dogs, Tsumiki, you, or Satoru (reluctantly, of course) in some way. He claimed it was for "warmth."

But he knows you as much as you know him. As he made his way to the house, you noticed something- his cursed energy was off. It was more powerful than usual. Of course, it could be a good thing- perhaps he was doing really well in school, but his downcast eyes and even broodier vibe are telling you otherwise. "What's wrong?"

Megumi leans back on the couch, sighs, and contemplates. He stares at your wall that is decorated with framed pictures and pictures you memories from his childhood. You've even framed pictures of his drawings- usually doodles of his shikigami.

He stands abruptly. "Never mind," he dismisses. "I don't wanna- I don't want to talk about it. It's childish and stupid-"

"Stupid enough to make you retreat back home?" You ask. You watch as your question sinks in through Megumi. Slowly, he sits back down. You sit on the other end of the couch.

"What's wrong, 'Gumi?" You ask again. "Tell me." I can fix it. Whatever it is, if I can fix it, I will shouts your inner thoughts.

"I lost one of them," Megumi whispers.

“Oh, Megumi, I-” you say, racking your brain for something to say. Deaths in the jujutsu world is so common that when you’re within the industry for too long you get used to it. “Losing a colleague- this won’t be the first time, baby. Nor will it be the last.”

“No,” Megumi groans out frustrated. There are tears streaming down his cheeks that he angrily wipes away. “My dogs. I lost one. I- Yuki died.”

Your heart breaks at Megumi’s childhood name for his white demon dog. “‘Gumi, I’m so sorry-”

You move to his side of the couch, wide arms open. Megumi falls in, just like he did when he was small. Megumi feels himself melt in your hold, his walls and defenses crumbling away like ash.

Megumi refuses to cry at all times but when you have his arms wrapped around him he finds himself not caring at all. It was like his heart recognized you too.

He buries his head in the crook of your neck and you pretend not to feel his tears.

You hold him until he lets you. Megumi is the one to pull away, and you never do. This boy js fickle with touch, and you always leave the duration of your hugs to his discretion.

You cup his face in your hands, thumbs swiping away the tear tracks. You’ve never seen Megumi this heartbroken before.

“I told him to scout the area and I just left him for a second- and he-” Megumi hiccups. “His head was on the wall. The curse threw his head so hard it made the pavement crack.”

You do not pretend to know his pain for you will never feel it. Megumi’s divine dogs were his first achievement. He smiled the first time he summoned them, even as Satoru threw him in the air in joy. Those dogs would trail after him in the house, obeying his command. You would turn a blind eye to the spare pieces of meat Megumi throws under the table just so they could taste cooked beef.

Megumi would refuse to let them go even when he slept, and was upset that they would disappear when he rested or lowered his guard. As a present, Satoru gifted him customized stuffed animals of the dogs that he never slept without. You were sure he packed those toys with him in the dorm.

When Tsumiki volunteers to run errands, Megumi would summon a dog and follow her. Just in case. They both always came back safe.

“He just did what I commanded, he was good, he was a good boy.” Megumi said, in a quieter voice.

“The best,” you agreed. “But didn’t Yuki merge with the other one? Isn’t that how your technique works when one of them dies?”

“It’s stupid-” A glare from you was all it took. “It’s not the same,” he admits. “I just want my dogs back.”

You give him a sad smile. You pull him close for another hug, and he melts in your arms once again but this time, he does not pull away. You hold him until his tears have dried, until his breaths slowed down, and until his eyes closed for a well deserved rest.

extra note: yuki apparently means snow in japanese. get it? snow=white demon dog (im not creative at all yall)

#gojo satoru x reader #gojo x reader #gojo satoru x y/n #gojo satoru x you #gojo satoru #jjk #parental megumi x reader #megumi fushiguro

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daddyricsdoll · 5 months

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Good Girl ✭ Daniel Ricciardo

Summary: You wanted to please Daniel, but you didn't know how. Luckily Daniel is a great teacher even from the comfort of his couch and your head between his legs. Plus, he always gives rewards too.

Warnings: Oral (Male and Female receiving), names-daddy and good girl.

Word count: 0.8k

A/N: Based off of this request. Please enjoy!!

I look up at Daniel, full of uncertainty and he sees it through my eyes. “Do whatever you think and I’ll help you” His eyes a darker shade and lust hiding behind the soft expression he gives me. I hold his dick in a loose fist before inching my head closer and placing little kitten licks over the tip.

“Fuckkk, that’s it.” He groans out and I have to squeeze my legs together at the sound of his filthy but oh so good voice. The precum that dripped on his dick now replaced by my saliva. I start circling his tip with my tongue before licking it with different paces–Slowly as I look him directly in the eye, or quick and fast as I keep my eyes on his dick that jerks at the involuntary movements from his hips.

“Such a good girl. Now I want you to put daddy’s dick in your mouth, as far as you can.” I look up at him and nod with doe eyes, his fingers slide between my hair and guide my head down. Hands naturally holding the base of his cock and tears sting my eyes as he hits the back of my throat. My head is slowly pulled back up.

“You think you can do that? You can try other things too.” I nod quickly, getting a little “good girl” before he leads my head back down his dick. My lips stay tight and tongue always eager to get a taste of him. Moans and whimpers leaving Daniel’s mouth at my every movement.

The desire for him inside of me grows at each passing second, but pleasing him holds a higher stand. One of my free hands holding his thigh as it slides up and down, touching his inner thigh, making him grip my hair tighter. Daniel's hand speeding up my pace as I nearly gag multiple times, tears finally falling down my face and barely smudging my old mascara. My thumb draws little shapes on the inside of his thigh, moving higher and higher up. I lightly stroke his balls and a whimper escapes his perfect lips. “Fuck, k-keep doing that. Do more of that.”

His voice so weak but holds so much power over me, I couldn’t disobey his wish, and next my hand massages his balls. Daniel’s hips met my mouth as he couldn’t hold back anymore. Little curses and “my good girl” leaving his mouth.

“Daddy’s gonna cum in your mouth.” He manages to grunt out. I hum in reply sending vibrations throughout his whole dick and I feel his cum shoot inside of my mouth. Deep noises coming from his throat. “Don’t swallow yet. Show me.”

My mouth opens wide instantly letting Daniel observe his cum that covers my mouth. He nods at me to swallow and I manage to before his large hands grip my arms and pull me up.

“It’s daddy’s turn now.” His body on the couch, replaced by mine as Daniel rips my clothes off my body. “Fuck. Crying over tasting my dick, wait till you feel my tongue.” My lower abdomen is covered by his hand as he presses my body down. Mouth aligned with my drenching core.

My thighs become spread as wide as he pleases before my hips are raised and his lips make contact with me. His touch was first a surprise, that I jerk forward onto his mouth. But then he went with it and decided to go deeper, his tongue thrusting into me. He curls his firm tongue inside of me before pulling out to give attention to my clit. Lips wrapping around it and sucking every filthy noise out of me.

Daniel doesn’t leave a single millimetre of my skin untouched, either kissing it a million times or licking it painfully slowly so that my hands go to his head so I can find the perfect speed.

The sensation of his tongue, eternally remarkable. And the new feeling of his fingers ramming into me forced a string of moans to flee my swollen lips. The knot in my stomach so tight and I was seconds away from my climax finally holding victory over me. Curling of his fingers and lips sucking my clit was the last straw before my back arches and I succumbed to one of my greatest releases.

My tired eyes look down at Daniel as he opens his mouth for me as I did for him, then swallows. My hands ball up into fists as he unexpectedly dives back into my pussy and he cleans me up with his mouth, but I’m not complaining.

It takes a while before I feel him adjust me and his body slightly slips beneath mine. His arms naturally wrap around my tired figure and his warm breath tickles my ear. I lay naked in his arms but they feel like home, so I’m in no rush to leave– if I ever do, which is never.

#daniel ricciardo f1 #daniel ricciardo imagine #daniel ricciardo #daniel ricciardo fanfic #daniel ricciardo x reader #daniel ricciardo smut #daniel riccardo x reader #daniel ricciardo x you #daniel riccardo imagine #f1 smut #f1 #f1 x reader #f1 fanfic #f1 imagine #formula 1 #f1 fluff #f1 fic

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diaryofaprettyprincess · 2 years

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Yandere!Eddie gets jealous and angry because Steve starts to baby bimbo!reader like he does. He can tell he likes her too. (:

please he'd get so mad!!!

ʚ♡⃛ɞ

CW: possessive!eddie munson, yandere!eddie munson, bimbo!reader, power dynamic, jealousy, jealous!eddie, eddie and reader aren't dating yet, flirty!steve harrington, babying, mentions of stalker!eddie, crying (from reader), cursing (from reader), manipulation, toxic!eddie, slightly toxic!steve, steve harrington hate (from eddie) dw steve is one of my fav characters i love him sm <333, crybaby!reader (hints of), mentions of hickeys, hickey-giving, kissing (reader thinks that the kisses she shares with eddie are platonic.. even if she is in love with him or whatever screwed up version of love they have lol. eddie just takes adavantage of her..dumbness (lol sorry))

ʚ♡⃛ɞ

basically all of hellfire club along with steve are at eddie's trailer celebrating their campaign being over. steve's only there because 1) he knew you would be wherever eddie was (and vice versa) and 2) he was dustin's ride home. so, he decided to stay.

everyone's just drinking either juice or alcohol and listening to some of eddie's metal music on his boombox, talking about the campaign, school, girls, eddie's band, or whatever. everyone's just relaxing.. well, mostly everyone.

eddie sees you sitting on steve 'the hair' harrington's lap.

steve's lap.

you're giggling and blushing at whatever the fuck he's saying and it's needless to say eddie is fuming.

you're his, for crying out loud!

sure, you two weren't official, and maybe you didn't quite know it....yet, but there were lots of things you didn't know. like basic things and the fact that eddie would watch you sleep and take pictures of you showering or.. pleasing yourself and then he would jack off to it later on in his bed, moaning your name while he holds a pair of your panties he stole from your laundry basket a long time ago up to his nose to finish himself off.

how he had a secret compartment in his closet filled with your things.. but it was only because he loved you! only because he knew what was best for you! and he knew that steve fucking harrington was not the one for you. eddie was.

he protected you and cherished you and loved you relentlessly. he bought you gifts because he liked seeing your face light up. he bought you things with all of the money he earned from selling weed instead of the things that he really needed. like food, for example. he would starve himself till the day he died if it meant seeing you happy.

happy because of him.

so when he saw steve harrington, hawkins' 'golden boy', spoon-feeding you ice cream from a plastic bowl and kissing your cheek and neck every fucking second (just like how eddie would feed you lunch everyday!), he was sure that he was going to fucking kill him.

but, he knew that if he did that he would be seperated from you, his one true love, and he could not have that! so, putting out the cigarette he was smoking on the coffee table's ashtray and getting up from his chair, he made his way over to you and steve.

he could hear steve mutter a soft, "good girl," and "you're such a pretty baby," everytime you swallowed the strawberry icecream.

that should be him.

it usually was.

how could you betray him like this?

you looked up from your spot on steve's lap, eyes wide and glimmering softly.

eddie's heart practically melted.

steve looked up, however his reaction was more so filled with distaste.

"eddie!" you squealed, reaching your hands up and making grabby hands to let eddie know you wanted to be picked up. usually, that made his heart swell, but instead he just held onto your hands with his own; his large hand engulfing yours. you pouted softly, slightly confused.

steve rolled his eyes, annoyed that eddie ruined his fun.

"what do you want, man?" steve asked, his hands still resting on your hips, drawing lazy circles with his thumbs.

eddie felt his body heat up with anger.

the fuck do you think, Hairball?

eddie smiled, cheshire cat-like. "oh, i just need to talk to y/n.."

"mm, sure you do," steve rolled his eyes, "but we're busy right now..isn't that right, baby?" he looked at you so sweetly it made your heart swell.

"y-yeah," you giggled.

eddie's smile dropped, his hands squeezing so tight with anger it began to crush yours. you yelped, pulling your hands away from his.

why are you doing this to him?

"owie! eddie that hurt!" you whined, and steve just pouted, cooing and kissing your knuckles softly. you blushed.

eddie felt like he was going to be sick.

"y/n." eddie said sternly, causing you to whip your head around and look at him, your bottom lip jutted out, tears forming in your eyes.

normally, eddie would feel bad for making you upset...but the anger took over.

"I need to talk to you...alone. in private."

you nodded, getting off of steve's lap as if you followed eddie around like a lapdog. which to be fair, you always did.

steve just scoffed, not at you, but at eddie's rudeness. he knew eddie was obsessed with you. when would you stop complying with whatever that metal-head wanted?

when would that.. freak get over you?

the answer: never.

you followed eddie to his room, sniffling softly.

was he mad at you?

once you make it to his room he slams the door, cornering you against his wall.

"what the fuck was that, y/n?" he spat, and you gazed up at him, confused.

"w-what was what, eds?" you asked softly, trembling at the fact that he was using your real name and not a cute little nickname like "princess", "sweetheart", "baby", or "bunny".

"God, do you have to be so fucking dense all the time?!" he lashed out, and that's when you started to cry.

"E-Eddie, i don' like it when you yell.."

Eddie just rolled his eyes, annoyed.

Again, if he had you crying (negatively) in any other situation he would be on his knees kissing your feet and begging for your forgiveness (which he has done before). But in this situation, he was more mad at steve than you and he unfortunately took most of his anger out on you.

"i wouldn't 've had to yell if you weren't out there all over steve fucking harrington! I mean.. what the fuck was that?"

he rubbed his eyes with his fingers, the silver of his rings glittering in the yellow lamp-light in his room, the pretty sparkly- look almost distracting you.

Almost.

"H-he was jus' feedin' me some ice cream!" you reason, fiddling with the bottom hem of your skirt.

"No, he was all over you! H-he was kissing you, and--and babying you!" he got up closer to you. "I'm the only one that can do that, baby, you know that.." You nodded softly, sniffling again.

He held your chin with this thumb, making sure you looked at him.

"I-I didn't wanna make you cry, but... baby, you drive me fucking insane! I mean--the things we do, y/n, they are things that only you and I can do... do you understand, baby? Hm?" he used his thumb then back of his hand to wipe off your fallen salty tears from your face.

"I-I understand, eddie.. didn' know! 'm sorry," you whimpered, and eddie smiled softly again, pulling you into a tight hug.

"It's okay, baby.. just- whenever you wanna be held or fed or whatever, come to me, sweetheart. okay?"

you nodded against his chest, and he kissed the top of your head.

pulling you away from his chest you mewled a soft, "kissie?" with your lips pouted. his heart skipped a beat, and he swore to God that he might die. And if he did die, he would go happy.

"'f course, baby," he sealed his lips over yours, kissing you for a moment or two and then passionately kissing you before pulling away. "you're my good girl, I love you so much." he admitted, and you giggled.

"I love you more, eds."

"impossible." he whispered, wiggling his fingers around on your waist to get you to laugh again.

However, what he said was true. It was impossible for you to love him more than he loved you.

"Now, I do believe we are expected to go back to the party at some point..Shall we?" he held his hand out and you took it, giggling more than ever.

For the rest of the night you sat on eddie's lap, snuggling into his neck and exchanging kisses with him.

He spoon fed you ice cream, and held the water bottle for you to help you drink.

He whispered sweet nothings in your ear.

He sucked on your neck and left hickey's on the supple skin.

Steve left early.

btw i didnt re-read it for any mistakes so ignore if there are any! thank you anon! <33

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butlerbarbs · 9 months

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some solomon headcanons because I'm bored and I love this man so much

general solomon headcanons are mixed with solomon/mc stuff so enjoy

warnings: slight cussing, talking about alcohol, sfw, grammar mistakes, gender neutral mc/reader, you/yours pronouns used

he is a lactose intolerant. does he give a shit tho? not at all. honestly he tends to forget about it

his hands are cold most of the time

he always makes sure to give you a forehead kiss. as a good morning or goodbye mostly

he's autistic

blushes at sudden affection. like check and forehead kisses. caressing his hand with ur thumb. drawing circles on his skin. good morning/good night texts. reminders to eat/drink. or just tell him you like his name

yea we all know solomon cannot bring himself to look you in the eyes when he's flustered (surprise guest shows it really well). but if you want to fluster him more just force him to look at you. he'll become even more of a blushing mess

he laughs at the most dumb shit. especially at animals and little kids

when he's telling a joke he will laugh like 10 secs after saying it

tries to play it cool and pretend alcohol haven't affected him but he gets drunk easily. he's the type to either start talking about whatever comes to his mind or fall asleep and wake up sober

while we're talking about sleeping, he snores a little

his bones crack ALL the time. sometimes when the both of you are bored you are trying to find out who can crack most bones. or the strangest ones. and yea before meeting him you didn't know that cracking your ribs is even possible

he's ambidextrous

he dislikes reality shows or dating game shows like hotel paradise and love island. he just doesn't really get what's so fun about them

always asks for consent before initiating anything. like kissing, hugging or even holding hands. he wants you to always feel comfortable around him

he has so many freckles but they're only visible after he was exposed to sun

(basing on the recent vamp event) he would totally bite you as a sign of affection

has claustrophobia and needs at least one lamp on in the room

loves when you call him "sol" because it sounds like soul

he is a little old fashioned when it comes to relationships

he's the type to stop midway cooking and dance with you

feels the most loved when he's laying on your chest with your arms around him

he would call you all the pet names possible (unless you tell him you don't like a specific one)

but he likes calling you "darling" or "my love" the most

(except for "my adorable apprentice" ofc)

shows you off at any possible occasion, especially if the brothers are watching

he would pick up the weirdest things you said and would go along with it to the point where everyone else would be like what the fuck

loves spending time with you even if it's just sitting together in one room doing completely different things

rambles A LOT about spells, curses and books he's read

it's pretty much canon but he rambles about YOU to others. like how amazing and powerful you are or how progress you did as a sorcerer

his eyes sparkle when he's excited but he would be VERY embarrassed if you tell him that

even tho he acts really confident and smug he is pretty insecure at the beginning of your relationship

like yes, he knows that you love him and he's so happy that you chose him, he really does, but solomon has an annoying voice in his head telling him you deserve someone better than him

once he overcomes it tho, he would annoy the shit out of others. like he would keep reminding them that he is dating you, you choose him and you're all his (and he's all yours)

but he would cry if you proposed to him. and on your wedding day. tho he would try to keep himself composed in front of the others

tbh everything he wants is an established domestic

#solomon brainrot got me really strong ngl #and im here for it #but im running out of solomon stuff #so im desperate now #and like #i want to kiss him so bad #obey me #obey me nightbringer #obey me solomon #solomon x mc #solomon x reader #solomon x you #obey me hc

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rush-the-stars · 1 month

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only

pairing: sukuna x half-curse f!reader (referred to as girl, daughter)

wc: a breezy 900 (unheard of for me)

cw: incest? it's not explicit but heavily implied. sukuna technically sired reader and she's a weird half-curse. but they're like non-human and kind of god-coded so. if that makes it better (it doesn't, you say? my bad then). use of "father" to refer to sukuna. toxic power dynamic.

a/n: um. look away. avert your eyes. etc. etc.

***

"do you think it's amusing to defy your nature? to defy me?" sukuna's voice echoes against cold stone, hanging in the air between you. sitting upon his throne, he is a god of death here, perched above the bones and rot of it all. the darkness whispers, slithering around you like phantom wings that brush your bare shoulders, your cheek. it could be the caress from a lover, the fading touch of a ghost.

"not amusing, no." you reply icily.

"do not take that tone with me, girl." he snarls, standing.

"not a girl," you reply bitterly, lifting your head, eyes glinting in the watery light. hardly human enough for that.

"don't test me." he snaps then. "and if you're going to stand at the foot of my shrine, address me properly."

"apologies, my lord."

in a blink, he is in front of you. thankfully, you are so accustomed to this, that you hardly flinch. except when he grabs your face in one, large hand. he squishes your cheeks. his claws arch around the bend of your ear, into your hair.

despite it all, you don't truly fear him.

his hold nearly shrouds your whole head and he pulls you up, closer to his dual-sided face. you lurch, scrambling to hold his massive wrist, to keep on the tips of your toes.

"that is not my title to you." his grin is feral, mean.

your eyes flash dangerously. your claws dig into his flesh—strangely you have always been able to mark him with little effort. ever since you were small, you were able to draw his blood.

"apologies, father." you spit.

(if you think about it, his own flesh rebelling, or perhaps—you, his only weakness.)

he lets you go and you drop like a stone, unceremoniously, and at his feet. you look up at him. the thin, slip of fabric you adorn swims around you in a glossy pool of ink. it falls from one of your shoulders.

"such disdain from my only daughter." he sighs, "such attitude."

his eyes—all of them—roam your form brazenly. the bare skin. the dips and curves of your body. you feel it the way a rabbit must know the feeling of teeth; sudden and frightening, and then altogether too late.

"such animalism from my only father." you hiss back like a little asp, "such—"

your voice catches.

he leers down at you, "such what?"

the word dies in your throat. you hate to name it, whatever he has for you, you hate to give it life. you hate that you can not, in such basic, human terms, encapsulate what he is to you. or you to him. you hate whatever this is. you hate what he is, or what you aren't. or could be.

you hate, hate, hate—festering with it, true to your name.

his very own little curse.

you hate most to let him win.

you turn your face away from him, chin up haughtily. "your lechery does not frighten me anymore."

"such a brave girl you've become." he laughs and suddenly all his arms are moving, reaching for you, and you've known them your whole life. he lifts you the same way he did when you were child. and now they linger, gripping the curve of your waist. the plump place of your thigh. "do you want me to praise you?"

"i thought i was here for punishment." you remind him, snippy and sharp, but careful to go lax in his grip.

when you fight and squirm, it excites him. so you play dead. you freeze like the rabbit, too.

he steadies you back on your feet. he stares at you for a long moment in a way that you cannot parse; all his eyes peering at you, prying at you, like they're trying to see under your clothes. under your skin. inside of you.

"for you, they might as well be the same thing."

he isn't even being cruel now, just honest. he's not leering at you. the frankness is worse, the honesty is damning. you lurch away from him, breaking the hold he has on you. your stomach turns. you bare your fangs at him, growling in warning, warbling like a curse.

he doesn't flinch.

"my praise of you feels like punishment to you, no?" he says lightly and you try to glare at him, but you fear horror is seeping through your expression.

he laughs again, rough. horribly fond.

"come," he says, turning away from you. he expects you to follow, "you reek of humans. you're done trying to live among them."

"you can't—"

"they'll never understand you. you will never belong to them." he says simply, and then he glowers, "and it's beneath you to try. come. i will not ask again."

he begins to walk. when you don't move, he looks over his broad shoulder, eyes darkening.

"they drove you out—they tried to exorcise you and i had to save you."

"it was only because of that six-eyes use—"

"i don't care. you should be ashamed and i should've finished the job for them since you are so weak—" he snarls.

(you—)

your head falls, chin dipping. perhaps in misery, maybe in surrender.

"now come, daughter of mine. you'll stay where you belong."

(—his only weakness.)

#not tagging this #nobody look actually #i just needed to write something sorta weird #had to get it out of my system #almost wrote smut but decided i was too tired #cw: incest #cielo's writing!#cielo writes!

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jjungkooksthighs · 2 years

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Claws of Carnality | jjk (m) (13)

Pairing: alpha jungkook x omega reader

Genre: abo/werewolf and fantasy

Rating: 18+/nsfw

Word Count: 5.1k

Summary: The Duels of the Chosen are near. Tensions and desires rise.

Warnings: mentions of breeding, dom!jungkook, alpha!jungkook, alpha!Taehyung (he’s a bit of a cocky one this one), alpha!Jimin (best friends take after each other ig) sub!reader, omega!reader, cursing, praising, possessive!jungkook, LOTS OF TEASING, dirty talk, (blood) marking, mentions of breeding/ruts/heats, mentions of a mark, slick and pre-ejaculatory production, scent marking, scenting, begging, praise kink, breeding/impreg kink, character injury (someone gets hurt, but it isn’t serious), biting (BITE KINK IS STRONG IN THIS ONE)

A/N: Hello again, readers! It's been a few months since chapter twelve was posted, and I know a lot of you have been curious about what happens next. This chapter was one I felt I needed to have in there since, well...we're very near the fight and it'll just be that much more satisfying if that is built up correctly. That is what I hoped to accomplish this chapter, because the next one will FINALLY be the long anticipated fight! Please enjoy this, though. I think some of you will find it to be...entertaining, to say the least. As always, please let me know what you think! Words of affirmation/praise are needed to keep this writer feeling good about their work. :)

Oh, and please appreciate this gif, by the way. This gif single-handedly inspired this entire fic. Mayhaps there is a scene in this chapter where it might have, uh...stimulated something.

Masterlist

“How long are you going to sit perched by the heel of the she-wolf, Jeon?” Yoongi curls his lip in distaste as if the very name blackens his tongue before he jibes, “I grow impatient and weary of this. Let us fight for fuck’s sake.”

One side of your alpha’s mouth lifts upward in a cocksure smirk, his brow arching as his head turns to the side so he can taunt, “All in due time, Min,” he draws out the other wolf’s name slowly as he stands to his full height, the dried paint of blood all over his body a warning sign that darkens dangerously over his form as he turns away from you. “I suggest you watch your tone with me the next time you speak. If not,” his chuckle has even the dirt beneath him shaking, “I can always make you. Do not forget yourself, Yoongi. It is I who holds the battle rights. And it is I alone who will decide when we fight, how we fight, and where we fight. Piss me off enough,” your alpha rolls one shoulder back, his eyes narrowing, “and you will find that my terms will leave you with far more agitation than whatever you think you are dealing with now. Ask Taehyung how he fared when he tested me last.”

Yoongi snorts in answer, but does not say anything more.

You bite your lip at the way your alpha’s muscles flex and jump in the movement as he rolls his other shoulder back. At the show of power between the two wolves and how easily one demanded control over the other.

“You yield to him, Yoongi?” Taehyung cocks his head at the russet-haired wolf, “You fear him? How comical.”

“What I find comical, Taehyung,” Jungkook inspects his nails before making a fist into his other his hand, those fingers curving over it as his bones pop and crack, “Is that you nearly had your arm ripped off in the forest just a few hours ago because you dared to touch the omega. My omega. It is only because of her that all of your limbs are still attached. She will not stop me this time.” He angles his chin to the side, “So do not count your blessings. They won’t serve you. The only thing that will shall be pain.”

“Pain is temporary, Jungkook. Nothing you could do to me will sc-“

“Oh? How about I rip both hands off, Taehyung? Or maybe…maybe I should start with your fingers that you like to fuck not only Jimin’s sister with, but several other omegas with?” Your alpha asks, the barb sharp as talons as his words sink into the smaller wolf while Jimin, from behind Taehyung, stands with his mouth open and disbelief wrinkling the flesh around his eyes. “Do not think that rumors of your,” your alpha scrunches his nose, “activities have not reached me. They have been uttered to all but Jimin himself, who has a misguided loyalty to you when you clearly do not return it,” he clucks his tongue at Taehyung’s scathing scowl, “˙Perhaps you have forgotten, but in my absences here, Namjoon has been acting as my second-in-command. He’s given me all the details on your dealings. Many of which are questionable to say the least.” Disappointment hangs onto his words as he chides. “I have done my best to discipline you, but it looks like you need to learn the hard way what happens when you go against me.”

Taehyung’s mouth opens, closes, and opens again, but no words depart from between his lips.

“Taehyung,” Jimin’s voice is sweet as syrup, yet your own posture goes rigid as ice while the smaller wolf inquires, “is this true? You told me you’d stay away from my sister. You promised me that you’d stay away. And this whole time, you’ve been pursuing the same she-wolf you knew I was tailing for days?”

Your alpha bares his teeth at that, “Of course it is true, Jimin. I have many qualities, but being deceitful has never been one of them. I have never been that way,” he crosses his arms, his biceps bulging at the action and suddenly air is not a kind companion in the way it betrays you at the sight of him in his half-nude glory as he says, “And I never will. I cannot say the same for others, however.”

At your alpha’s words, fury ignites in Taehyung’s eyes. He gives a scorching glare at your alpha and when his lips part this time, his voice comes briskly from between them.

“Jeon, you fucking prick,” he spits, “I’m going to destroy you for this.”

Your alpha hums, “Mmm, not if Jimin gets to you first. I’ll be waiting for you on the other side, boy. If you can make it there, that is. I doubt very seriously you will. You never could beat me in a fight, and we’ve had many. Ah, and one more thing,” Jungkook’s neck cracks when his head rotates to the side, then to the front, the other side, and then the back as he warns, “Refer to me as a prick again,” his eyes promise danger in the way they grow dim, “and you will regret it.”

Taehyung is quiet as a mouse after that.

When Jimin speaks next, the saccharine flavor to his voice is gone. In its place, there is only the burnt remains of hatred as his eyes strafe from Jungkook to Taehyung.

“I will crush the both of you to shit,” he pushes Taehyung, though the other wolf doesn’t budge from where he stands. “I will fuck you up first. For lying to me and going behind my back. And you,” he points to your alpha, his nail elongating into a claw, “I will take your place as Pack Alpha so that no one will be able to lie to me ever again. And I’ll take your little whore while I’m at it. Since it is her kind that want to act like little sluts, I’ll make sure to treat her like one.”

From behind him, you cannot see the way the silvery flecks in your alpha’s eyes become shadowed until they are pitch black as they’d been a few minutes ago. What you can see, however, is the way Jungkook squares his shoulders and digs his feet into the black earth beneath him, his hands balling into fists so tight that his flesh turns snow white.

“That is enough. You’re making me angry. I will not stand to have slander spoken toward my mate. On my command, you shall not speak another word without my permission or I’ll have your tongue for your insubordination. Understand?”

Your alpha’s irises move from Yoongi to Taehyung, and then to Jimin. The trio remain silent. Even if they wanted to say something, they cannot for the same reason that you have not moved a muscle since your alpha ordered you to remain seated before him.

It is referred to as the Alpha’s Bidding.

When an alpha, beta or omega is in the presence of an alpha that overpowers them in strength (or if an alpha, beta, or omega submits and yields to another alpha–whether physically or verbally), that wolf cannot disobey that alpha if said alpha gives them a command. Their wolfly nature will not allow them to disobey the decree of the stronger wolf.

Jungkook did not particularly like to use this on other wolves. It left the wolves he used it on without their own free will or agency against what he asked them to do, so he’d made a pact to use it only in situations where there would be violence if he did not.

He’d only used it a handful of times in his life, for he much preferred to solve problems the way nature intended for it: to battle it out. And he’d never lost a fight.

This time, though… this time his better judgement was being overridden by one thing.

You. He could not bear it to hear such outrageous things be spoken aloud. And it made logic and reason slip like water through his fingers until only his emotion remained. Emotion that made him become aggressive in his need to protect you.

“When this is all over and I have all three of you on the floor panting, bleeding and crying in the dirt beneath my feet, I’ll make you all get on your knees and apologize for your gross misconduct toward my mate.” He makes a sound of consideration and taps at his elbow, “I’ll step on you and break the bones in your jaw if I detect so much as a hint of sarcasm, so you’d better fucking mean it. Do I make myself clear? This time, you can answer.”

All three wolves nod in unison at that one.

Jungkook jerks his chin and gives a dismissive wave of his hand, “Get out of my sight. All of you. Our battle will be held in the clearing in front of the knoll a few paces ahead of us. You are all to wait for me there.”

Yoongi rolls his eyes.

Taehyung spits onto the ground whilst staring daggers at Jungkook.

Jimin glares holes through Taehyung before glowering at your alpha.

Yoongi is the first to leave. Jimin is next. Taehyung is the last to disappear into the sea of wolves around you, but not before he his lips lilt upward.

You can’t bring yourself to pay attention to anything but the way your alpha’s shoulders rise and fall in uneven, broken intervals.

You wish you could get up and go to him. Maybe it’s your pre-heat fever speaking, but you think you know a few ways to lift his spirits (amongst other parts of him).

He’s still facing away from you and you have half a mind to wonder why your throat has become dry and scratchy when you haven’t even been talking even though you want to.

There are so many things you want to tell him. So many you wish you could say. Though, you suppose you could try speaking to him another way.

You close your eyes and imagine that string that ties you both together. The one that is wound around your muscles, your bones, your very heart itself.

You tug on that cord gently, the warm feeling in your chest that as is bright as the sun when you think of him pushed along that string.

Please turn around, alpha. Look at me, won’t you? I want to see you.

But I’m right here, omega. I’m right in front of you, am I not?

You pout.

I don’t need to turn to know that you’re sticking your cute little bottom lip out right now, you know. While that sight itself is something I would normally fall to my knees for, I need to prepare you for what comes next.

Prepare me? For what?

You hear his dark laugh before the telltale click of a metal latch that must belong to one of the three ornately carved wooden boxes the elders had arranged in a half-moon around your alpha earlier.

You open your eyes, and now he’s hunched over the largest of the square boxes in the middle. Each are the color of sepia, umber and burnt sienna and are held closed by impressive metalwork.

However, you’re entirely engrossed in the show of his shoulder blades that descend and ascend whilst the muscles beneath and around them swell in his ministrations as he works open the intricate latches.

The sight has you licking your lips and your digits twitching in your skirts.

You can’t see what he’s doing, but this view isn’t so bad, now that you think about it. Especially with the handprints that mar his golden back in crimson. Your handprints.

“Admiring your handiwork, omega?” He asks, his attention still set on whatever it is he’s retrieving from the blue, velvet bed of the box (the corner of which you can see peeking from under his knee).

“H-How did you know I opened my eyes?” You stutter, your cheeks heating at being caught red-handed.

“Easy. Your breathing changed.”

You whimper, “Not fair.”

Your alpha peers at you with amusement glinting in one eye and fondness gleaming in the other, the blackness that had swallowed their color melting away so that the silver of his irises streak them.

He lowers himself until he’s crouched again with his knees facing outward and how you managed to miss the way his thighs all but burst from the seams of his trousers the first time he did this is beyond you. You remember how it had felt to sit on them. To ride him on them.

The memories have another slew of slick dripping down your thigh. It takes but a second for the air to carry your scent to your mate.

He inhales deeply through his nose, his head falling back as he does. The sea of his back muscles ebbing as he grips whatever is in his hands with enough force that the veins of his forearms slither up to his elbows.

“Fuck,” the man actually moans, “your scent just got stronger. It’s making me hard for you. Again. Your heat…it will be upon you within the hour,” your mate’s pupils dilate, “and when that time comes, little one, ” he rises and turns on his heel so that the scarlet moonlight spills herself over his strong jawline as he draws in your scent only to release a shaky breath as he promises, “you’ll be whining much louder for me than you ever have before. Ask me why, omega. Come on. Let me hear you.”

Your cheeks burn at his words, the omegas circling you giggling and the alphas standing by your alpha howling.

Unlike before, his irises are not black as the night sky. They are the color of charred metal.

Your heart stutters beneath your bosom as he slowly treads toward you.

He doesn’t use the Alpha’s Bidding on you now as he did a few moments ago, but then, you both know that he doesn’t need to to get what he wants from you.

You’ll submit to him every time without fail. And he relishes in that.

It’s entirely predatory the way he moves. Each step is slow and calculated. Meticulous yet measured.

You really can’t help the fact that your eyeline, as if magnetized, is pulled toward his face. His hair is tussled and twists sinfully around his forehead and cheeks, both of which are accentuated more than usual with your blood lining them like war paint. His lips are parted deliciously and you have a thought to bite them if he gets near enough to you. You think he’d likely groan at that and would glad do anything to hear that delicious sound right about now.

His neck, lined with stripes and strokes of scarlet, taunts you and you have to swallow when his Adam’s apple bobs lewdly beneath his skin, your own gums tingling as your canines push against them when his mastoid pulses energetically at your attention.

You let your vision trail downward before your fangs can protract.

Your etchings of blood all over his chest seem to have held and you pull your lip between your teeth at the way your marks curve around and along his abdominals in a patchwork of muscle and flesh.

“Much as I love having you ogle me, I asked you a question, pretty. I require a response from you. Now.” His shadow falls over you and, seated before him as you are, he towers above you so much so that you have to lift your chin just to look at him as he crooks his head to the side to husk lowly, “I’m going to say this one more time, love,” he leans over you, those silver orbs of his spilling like moonlight from your eyes to your mouth, “Ask me why you’re going to whine for me. Why you’re going to whimper for me,” he takes your chin between his fingers so that you have nowhere to look but him as his voice deepens, “and why you won’t be able to stop singing for me once your heat comes.”

He's got you wrapped around his fingers. Literally.

And you can do little but suspire in answer. “Why, alpha?”

His long digits grasp you tighter as he leans in until his lips are suspended but a hair above yours.

When he does respond, his words are all but swallowed by your own lips that you readily part for him.

“Because you will want to breed, little one. All you will be able to think about, my little vixen, is how much you need to be filled,” he offers and, bent over you as he is, a strand of saliva collects onto his pink tongue until the pool of it runs over his lip and down onto yours. The crimson moonlight stains it red as blood as he chuckles deliciously, the sound guiding your thighs together once more as he flicks a brow, “and I will make sure you get so much of my spit,” he makes a sound in the back of his throat and his thumb hooks over your bottom lip to urge it apart farther only for him to hoick a ball of spittle into your waiting mouth, “so much of my cum,” his thumb departs between your lips to press down over your tongue, your joined dribble sloshing around his digit and then the four fingers he’s left on your chin are coaxing your mouth closed around his thumb as his eyes flash tellingly, “and so much of my cock that you’ll be dripping because of how much I’m going to pound into this mouth, this ass, and that pussy of yours.”

Your sex clenches around nothing. Hard.

You swirl your tongue around his finger and suck, your hormones demanding you to keep your alpha close. By whatever means necessary.

Nothing matters but him. You’ll do anything for him. Everything for him.

You can feel yourself slipping as the seconds go by, your need for him replacing any other cogitation of relevance.

“Gods, look at you. It has already begun.” He curses when you hollow your cheeks in the manner he’d told you to when you’d first had him in your mouth. “You could only be silenced from the cries you’ve been making nonstop for the last few minutes by using my fingers. Do you know what this means I have to do to you, little one?”

So that’s why your throat had felt scratchy. You don’t think about that for too long, though. There are more important things to give attention to.

Like your alpha.

With your mouth stuffed as it is, you don’t know how you can possibly give an answer he’d understand, but somehow, you manage, “Nnnno. Wwwhat doooes ittt meannn?”

Your alpha arcs his thumb, his nail biting into the soft pad of your tongue as he utters, “It means, my love,” his nail sharpens and lengthens just enough to prick you, “that I cannot leave your side until I’ve bound you. Even Alpha’s Bidding may not be strong enough to hold you away from me. You will try to chase me unless, of course, I chain you up so you cannot. Perhaps, to satisfy your wolf, I leave another mark on you. One you cannot ignore while you sit here and watch me make those boys bleed for you.”

There’s a heated, searing sensation on your tongue, but it isn’t painful. So sharp is his nail that you’d felt no pain, just as you had not when he’d entered you with his teeth.

“Open, omega. Open for me.” He orders.

You do as he says without question as he withdraws his thumb, the impulse to satisfy him overriding any other thought you could have.

Each inch of him that departs you has you whining once more, but your alpha is quick to whisper, “Even now, you can hardly bear to lose even an inch of me. Tell me,” he tugs his finger free with a wet pop from your mouth only and you both watch the thick bead of blood–your blood– fall down, down and down his finger and, with your attention fixed on him, he brings his newly freed hand before his own mouth, “what do you wish you could do to me right now?”

You sigh breathily as you look up at him, your mouth chasing his as he starts to straighten once more.

“I-I,” you stammer when he drags the tip of his thumb across his bottom lip to leave a smeared trail of red. “I…y-you.”

Your alpha rotates his hand so that the underside of his bloody thumb swipes over his upper lip before his fingers fall away and he arches his middle and index fingers inward in a come-hither motion.

“You shall have me, my omega. Anything you desire, if it is within my power to give you, will be yours.” He kneels before you. ”You know that.”

Like this, he’s level with you. Like this, you can lean forward and-

“What is it you want, omega?” He questions.

“Kiss me, alpha,” you whine. “W-when you mark me this time…I want you to use your mouth to do it.”

His blood-lined lips rise at that. “As you wish, my omega.”

One of his hands slips into your hair along the side of your face and then he’s slotting his mouth over yours, and then, finally, he fits his mouth against yours. He groans into it, which only has you moaning in tandem. He’s gentle, but possessive in the way that no part of your lips is not claimed by him.

You taste the tang of iron and want more. More of him. So, you take his full, plump upper lip between your teeth and tug experimentally.

You feel him smirking before you see it.

“You want it rough, my love? Fine. I’ll bite you hard enough that you’ll still taste this kiss when I’m away from you,” he decides.

He’s got your bottom lip between his teeth within seconds and then they are sinking down into the soft flesh beneath them hard enough to draw blood. Hot pain, delicious pain seeps through the afflicted area and the wet sound he makes as he licks at it has your thighs rubbing against each other for the umpteenth time.

So distracted by him, by this, that you don’t notice the movement of the arm he’d kept behind his back since treading away from the wooden boxes he’d made for you. For this purpose.

You’re far too swept in by the ebb and flow of his lips as he kisses you. Over and over again.

You hardly notice the pressure that is beginning to build at the forefront of your skull, or how your temples begin to ache, or how your vision starts to become hazy.

And when he pulls away panting, beads of iron linger in your mouth where liquid crimson dribbles from the corners of his.

You’re filled with an urge to lick it off of him.

Breathless yourself, you reach for him, but your ligament is heavy and hard to move in the slowed pacing of your blood in reaching it.

He catches your wrist, “You will have to pardon my brashness, omega, but I had to,” he breathes heavily, “I’m losing control over myself.”

“What?” You cock your head confusedly, but the motion has your head swimming with fuzziness.

The aching, the pressure and haziness worsen now that his lips are not there to distract you.

There was only one thing that could bring such symptoms so suddenly. Only one thing that could weaken a werewolf.

Your alpha guides your apprehended wrist to your forehead, your fingers tracing along the circlet of silver he must have adorned you with while you’d been caught between his perfect lips moments ago.

You don’t know what it looks like, but from what you can feel, there are thick interwoven filaments crossing over each other like vines. And in the middle of it, between your brows, your fingers run along the smooth face of a gemstone cut like a leaf.

Just like the tracings he’d left in blood all over you.

Long before he’d ever painted you in his design, he’d crafted you into his life. Even if it was just in silver.

Silver that would have sapped at his strength–both in mind and body–and sickened him every time he touched it.

And he’d done that for you.

Heat burns at the edge of your eyes and then your vision is becoming even hazier because of the tears as you try, “Jungkook…how long ago?”

The braided, plaited metal makes everything from your senses to your thoughts murky, but you try to fish some semblance of a sentence out. You have to. You need to know.

He catches the tear that escapes its place along your ducts before it makes it even halfway down your face as he finishes for you, “How long ago did you make this?”

You nod.

With gold peeking through the silver of his irises, he lays one hand over your knee and lowers his head to each of them and the act of deference has your heart panging in your chest as he admits, “My father taught me many things, but I think the trade of blacksmithing was one of the more useful ones. I was always eager to learn new things, but after I first saw you in the forest,” he presses his lips to your clothed knee, “I took to blacksmithing and practiced day in and day out until I could make something I felt would be worthy of you. I burnt my hands sometimes, and others, I accidentally cut myself, but I got the hang of it pretty quick.”

“That,” you attempt to find words through the fog in your head that the silver ringing it is making difficult locating. “that was long time. Ago.” You add with a sniffle and your alpha turns his head so that one cheek rests on your knee. This time, when another tear collects into a droplet, your eyelashes catch it and it clings to them for a second before it rains down over your lover’s exposed cheek.

He smiles adoringly up at you.

“Yes, my omega. But I’ve loved you for far longer than that.”

Trying to form coherent thought, with the silver circling your head, is like trying to find something you’ve lost in a cloudy mist.

But even that cannot disperse the solid emotions that have long settled in you.

“I…I love…you,” you get out, the hot tears streaming down your cheeks now, Want to,” you swallow, “Want to mark. To show you.”

His head departs from your legs and he considers you for a moment.

“Do what you must, my love, “his eyes softening as he gives you permission,” though, I cannot guarantee I won’t have to shackle you with more silver. What little control I have left is soon to snap because of how you beckon me so,” he brings his face closer to yours only to leave a featherlight kiss under each of your eyes and you can’t help it when you whine for more, “with how you beg for me so.” Something wet, long and soft brushes against your cheek only for it to go upwards in a stripe as he licks at the tears along your cheekbone and you’re quivering in an instant.

When he pulls away, his mouth is painted with your tears and blood.

Your wolf yowls, deep within you, and she wants to give him more.

“Alpha,” you call,” Bite. Bite me.”

Your alpha doesn’t question you. Understanding passes over his features, and then he’s smirking knowingly.

With the fingers he still has wrapped around your wrist, he turns your hand over so that your palm is brought to his lips.

Silver irises flash back up to you.

“There, alpha,” you breathe while he rubs his mouth along the side of your hand, his sight tangling deeper with yours all the while.

He parts his mouth, and before you, his canines lengthen until they reach his lower lip.

You do not wince when those teeth pierce your soft, pliable flesh.

He’d made them sharp enough that it would bring you no pain.

He sucks you between those beautiful lips of his, and you moan.

You don’t give a damn about anything except for him.

He stays there for how long, you don’t know, but even the moon becomes shy and has the clouds cover her from the sight of on his knees for you–both emotionally and physically– as he is.

He’s deliberate when he pushes his fangs deeper into your skin and groans, the sensation and vibrations from his throat sending a shudder through your shoulders.

The implications of the action are as loud as the sound of need you make when he detaches from you, his teeth tinged with your scarlet tears.

“Please, alpha.” They are the only words that reach your addled, jumbled mind now.

“I know, my love,” neither of you look at the rising pool of crimson that flows forth from the two large puncture wounds he’d left on you. Your attentions are entirely too fixed on each other for that. “I know exactly what you want.”

He is slow, unhurried in how he places your wounded hand over one of his cheeks and then drags it, steadily, along. A trail of crimson treads from his skin and then over his mouth, a gasp falling from your lips when he laps at you.

He doesn’t stop.

Not until you’re shaking. And begging.

Only then does he draw your bleeding hand over and across the other side of his maw.

“Does this please you, omega?” He grins, “To know that I’ll have you spread all over my tongue and my body? Or perhaps you wish there was something else you could smear me and my mouth with, hmm?”

He looks like a crazed, wild creature. And it’s hot as fuck.

It just makes you want to jump him even more.

Desire writhes within you. Your thighs instinctively try to seek each other, but the silver shining on your head makes your movements sluggish in a type of lethargy that has settled over your muscles.

You whine again.

Your alpha laughs.

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thepaintedlady00 · 7 months

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Is this what I should be writing? No. Is it what my brain has become obsessed with? Yes. 😅😂 SO, my friend and I have been playing Baldur's Gate 3 and last week she just sent me a piece of fanart for Enver Gortash and a The Dark Urge Tav. She wrote me an essay about how a story about these two and their tragic pasts and sexy chemistry and eventual love affair and angst was just so perfect and blah blah blah. No big deal, right? WRONG! WRONG! Because now it's stuck in my head and I've been writing long ass blurbs for a fic that I did not have planned whilst I'm supposed to be writing like 2 other things right now! 🤣 Well, anyway, here this is because *looks at script my friend wrote out for me* "I'm the boss (writer) and I can do (write) whatever I want" 🧍‍♀️. Let me know if y'all enjoy this because boy oh boy do I have more (it's literally turning into ANOTHER 20 plus chapter series). Thanks for the brain rot you bitch (said lovingly), I hope you enjoy the tiny peek into the fic you want so badly!

The glinting steel reflected the vision of pale skin - skin I wanted nothing more than to slice open. The man made a slight, quiet noise. It wasn’t one I usually heard when about to take a life. Everyone else was always babbling, clearly terrified to die, but he seemed to be bored… annoyed. I admired the way the chilled, freshly sharpened blade kissed his neck so nicely before his hands finally stopped their intricate movements, and he slowly settled back against his chair. "We have to stop meeting like this."

"Give me one reason why I shouldn't slit your throat."

"It'd be such a waste of a pretty neck," he joked. I pulled the blade back more, nearly cutting the tender flesh he seemed so fond of. He made some noise of protest and quickly added, "As well as a waste of a powerful ally."

The laugh that bubbled out of my throat was unexpected. It'd been so long since I'd laughed. Surely he was joking. I kept the knife steady as I stepped out from behind the chair and truly examined him. He was fit enough, with strong arms and a well-toned physique with a power that surrounded him as well, but it was but a simmer... A meager fountain in some garden compared to the power I'd witnessed. He grinned beneath my gaze. "See something you like, assassin?"

"If you're so powerful, then why is it me that holds your life in my hands?" I asked, with an arched brow.

"It would be rude of me to interrupt. You are doing such a lovely job with all these vague threats."

"You'd risk your life on some self-imposed manners?"

He rolled his eyes. "You aren't going to kill me."

I grinned at his boldness. "No?" Pressing the dagger down I made sure to draw blood this time. The sight of it made my mouth go dry, anticipation humming through me. "You would make a pretty corpse."

"I've no doubts about that," he agreed with barely a flinch. "But, if you'd intended for me to die, I suspect I would have been dead weeks ago when you first paid me a visit."

His words - those cursed words he'd uttered the first time my blade touched his throat rang in my ears. "You're beautiful."

A chill, a fragment of a feeling, crawled up my spine, and the dark urge to bleed him dry went quiet. Slowly I withdrew my blade, leaning back to sit on his table, not caring if his papers smudged. "What do you want, slaver?"

The man's lips curled up into a snarl at the term, but he quickly tempered himself. "An alliance."

"And what exactly are we allying against?" I questioned with a hum. "We don't exactly run in the same circles."

"We are far more similar than you think, Bhaalspawn."

My blade twisted in between my fingers as I shoved forward and dug it into the back of the chair, just an inch shy of his face. Baring my teeth I let out a low growl. "Who told you what I am?"

The man smiled, not at all deterred by my blade nor my voice. "No one. I knew what you were the moment I saw you." He leaned forward, so close our noses nearly touched. "You'll want to keep that secret close though."

"Bold of you to threaten me,” I complimented with a slight raise of my brow.

"Oh, it's not a threat," he corrected. "Simply some advice from one worshiper to another."

"You worship Bhaal?"

"Gods no," he scoffed. "Murder doesn't exactly fit my particular skill set. Besides, these silks are far too fine a fabric to stain with all that blood. No, I prefer power... Status... Tyranny."

I rolled my eyes with a quiet scoff of my own. "A disciple of Bane then. How fitting for a cocksure man."

His head tilted slightly, eyes dragging down the length of me as I leaned back into the table. "I'm certain we'll have plenty of time to explore how cocksure I am whilst we work together."

"I haven't agreed to work with you yet."

"Yes you have," he replied, confident and unwavering. "You see the potential in such an alliance. Two dark gods are more powerful together than one alone. United we could do so much more."

With a quiet hum I regarded his words carefully. He held some semblance of truth in his statement. Bhaal was not as strong as he once was, his worship and power long declined. Uniting, even if just for a short time, with another Chosen could prove to be useful in achieving both our goals. There was something in me that stirred beneath the man's steady, unflinching gaze... Something warm and foreign. Once again his first words to me filled my mind. "You're beautiful."

Reaching forward I pulled my blade from the wood and pointed it at his neck again. "Get rid of the flyers or the next time we meet my blade will bury itself in your throat."

"Does that mean you accept?" He questioned with almost a giddy smirk.

"It means I'll consider it."

I wearily watched him rise to his feet, towering over me. "How shall I summon you again?"

My jaw clenched. "You do not summon me. If the Temple of Bhaal agrees to participate in this plot of yours I shall find you."

"And if not?"

"Then I will still find you, and I will kill you."

"Splendid," he mocked with a clever bow. "I, Enver Gortash, shall eagerly await your return."

"The flyers," I reminded, stepping around him to move back toward the window.

His boots scuffed against the floor, the boards creaking beneath his weight. "What shall I call you? Assassin? Or your moniker perhaps? What was it... The Dark Urge." The man, Gortash, made a displeased noise. "I'd much prefer your name if it's all the same to you."

I should have left - I had every intention just to leave, and yet my steps halted. The chilled breeze from the cracked window brought goosebumps to my arms, every hair rising on end from the cold or perhaps from the sudden and odd anticipation that filled me. I turned my head to the side, eyes slyly glancing at him as the soft whisper of the name... My name rolled off my tongue. "Remora."

Gortash smiled. It was different from the others... Softer... Genuine. The sight of it sent a sharp sensation through my chest before it vanished, and he teasingly bowed again. "I await your swift return, Remora."

Shaking off the weight of those unknown feelings I climbed through the window and leapt into the dark night. Loose shingles shifted beneath my light steps as I hurried across the rooftop. The wind stung my cheeks and threatened to pull my hood from my head as I slowed and looked back at the window. I could barely make out the shape of him standing there, looking out into the night as if he could still see me. A frustrated bubble of annoyance finally burst within me and made me want to groan as I quickly realized he was right.

I had already decided to join him.

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peachesofteal · 1 year

Text

Witchling / Chapter 3

Morpheus/reader AO3 2k words - Chapter 1 here, Chapter 2 here Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI. Spoilers for The Sandman (kind of) if you’ve only seen the TV show, throne sex/oral sex, Dream is an idiot, mentions of death and dying.

“I mean you no harm.” He cautions you from where he stands, shrouded in shadow of the setting sun. Hysteria bubbles in your throat.

“What the fuck are you doing here?”

“I only wish to help you.” He takes a step forward, and then he’s closing the distance between you. You have every reason to fear this being, but your body must have missed the memo, because it yearns to be underneath him again.

“Give me my book back.”

“I cannot.”

“Then you can’t help me, Dream of the Endless.” If he’s surprised you know his name, he doesn’t show it. You lift your hand to try to conjure up something, anything to push him away from you, but he catches it in his instead. You suck in a breath as his cool fingers encase what is left of yours.

“Your magic will not work against me.” He pauses, and you feel the drag of his thumb across the bones of your knuckles. “I did not know.” He says softly. You close your eyes, unwilling to face him or accept his tenderness. You focus on the floor, vision becoming blurry with tears. “I cannot leave you like this. Let me help you.”

“You can’t!” you cry, turning away. “The spell will burn me to ash unless the book of shadows is returned.” You turn back to him, sleeves rolled up to expose the grotesque nature of your arms. “Please, Morpheus. I need it. I need it back. I don’t even care that you stole it, please. I’ll forget all about it, forget all about you. Just give it back.” Your voice is shaking, the panic that you’ve been loosely keeping a lid on stirring awake as it reacts to your deteriorating state. His body so close to yours is cloying your thoughts and you move away from him so you can think. He says your name for the first time since you’ve met him, and you glance at him surprised.

The cold gaze that you saw in his eyes the other night in your study is nowhere to be found. Instead, a million different emotions dash across his face as he holds your gaze. It draws you back in, pulling you closer until you’re within arm’s reach. You open your mouth to tell him that you know he did not intend for this to happen. How could he have meant for any of this? But as you do, he snatches you by your upper arm, fingers curling into the skin there, and pulls you into his chest. The floor beneath you tilts, and then the whole world whirls. You close your eyes against the spinning, yelling curses at him at the top of your lungs.

When you open your eyes again, you’re somewhere you’ve never seen before.

“Did you just fucking abduct me?”

“Welcome to The Dreaming, witchling.”

The first thing you notice, outside of the black sand beach that you’re standing on, is your arms. Your skin is perfectly intact, no burnt away patches or exposed bone in sight. You gasp.

“This can’t be real.”

“Why not?”

“Because. It’s not reality.”

“This realm is as real and as tangible as your realm.” Your face contorts in confusion.

“But, last night. My arms weren’t like this.” You try to explain.

“I did not bring you here last night. You entered The Dreaming on your own.”

“And The Dreaming is...”

“My realm.” He finishes for you. “I would show you, if it is of interest to you.” You hesitate, looking him up and down for a moment as you consider. He looks as he did the other night in your dream, different. His coat is long, to his ankles, and he seems taller here somehow. He oozes power. It’s practically suffocating, and you follow the thread of it until you realize it’s everywhere around you. You stomach sinks into your knees. This realm is made of his power. You wouldn’t stand a chance against a being like this. Your best bet is to see if you can convince him to give the book back. Appeal to whatever it was you saw in his eyes earlier. It’s your only shot. Surely he doesn’t want to kill you, right? You take a deep breath and give him a nod.

“I still don’t like you. But yes. I’d like to see your realm.”

“How did you know who I am?” he asks as you walk. You frown.

“Oh, I asked a Hobgoblin that hangs out in town.” His brow furrows, face etched with concern.

“Their answers come at a steep price, do they not?”

“For a human, yes. But a lock of hair from a witch usually covers it just fine.” You swallow against the anxiety that’s left over from your earlier encounter. Might I know yours as well, little spellcaster? You shiver as you look around, gasping at the gates that stand before you now.

“The gates of horn and ivory.” He supplies, and you lean you head back to take them in.

“The carvings?” You ask as they open, revealing a lush valley centered around a castle below.

“The carvings tell a very old story.” He says, slowing beside you. You turn to him with an eyebrow raised, an invitation to elaborate. He smiles, and you can feel your heart rate quickening. No. you chide your body. This being seduced, and then robbed you. We do not like him.

“Well then, Dream of the Endless, tell me a story.”

He tells you about Alianora and the gods that imprisoned him, how they fought them together, and then made their bones into the gates and his helm.

“Alianora could not return to her own realm, or the Waking World, so I created a place for her to live out the rest of her days in The Dreaming.” He finishes, and you see him watching you out of the corner of your eye.

“Just like that? She got to stay here?”

“She was my former lover. I could not, in good conscience, abandon her.” Good conscience. You snort. He frowns but leads you down the path towards the awaiting castle.

The castle is stunning. Your footsteps echo across the stone, mixing with the soothing sounds of his voice. You find yourself hanging on every word he says, eager to learn anything you can about this realm. You can’t help but grin as you walk the halls by his side, listening as he explains different bits and pieces of The Dreaming. You take it all in, nodding your hello to the beings you pass who give you curious glances.

You come to a stop in the throne room.

“That’s a fancy chair.” You whistle. He cocks his head.

“Would you like to see it?” You take his hand as he leads you up the stairs. When you come to a stop, he pushes you down by the shoulders, until you’re firmly planted on the throne. Then, as you open your mouth to protest, he sinks to his knees in front of you.

“I have been plagued by memories of you.” His voice is soft as his hands travel up your thighs, fingertips stroking at your skin. “I feel the pain of regret when I think about what my actions have caused.”

He hooks his hands under your legs and pulls your hips to edge of the throne. Fuck, he’s strong.

“Allow me to repent.” His lips press into the side of your knee, and he looks up at you, eyes hooded, feathered eyelashes half hiding his gaze. Your throat goes dry, and you nod your consent. In the next moment, your pants and underwear are gone. You gasp. He moves one of your legs over his shoulder and spreads the other so that you’re on display for him. Your burn with embarrassment as he licks his lips and presses kisses to the inside of your thighs.

Your head hits the back of the throne with a thunk when you feel his tongue on your clit.

“Oh, oh.” You moan, his mouth expertly moving on your body. His finger slides into you with ease, and the pressure between your legs rockets through your cunt as he crooks his finger upwards. Your hand finds his hair, flexing in his raven locks as he eats you out like he’s doomed, and you’re his salvation.

“You taste like a dream, witchling.” He murmurs, the vibration causing your hips to jerk forward. His tongue flexes against you again and you cry out. “Perhaps you are a dream, crafted only for me.” His mouth is wicked, and he fucks you with his finger as your walls tense around him. Your pleasure coils inside of you, swirling alive and ready to spill over the edge. “Come for me, little star. Let me taste your light.” His words slam into you, and you explode with your orgasm, your skin glowing as you moan your pleasure. When he looks up at you on the throne, his face is glistening. His nose, his lips, his chin all wear the mark of your cunt. It’s enough to make your walls clench around the finger left inside of you, and he smirks at your body’s response. When you look in his eyes, you find more than arousal there. Sadness and remorse bleed from his gaze, and you watch as his lips press reverently to the top of your folds. “I am sorry for the pain I have caused you.”

“I can think of a few ways you can make it up to me.” You smirk, and his tongue returns to ravish your clit as your fingertips dig into the arms of the chair.

You sit together in silence, your mind slowly catching up to your body amidst your post multiple orgasm glow, and a question forms in your mind. One that is impossible to shove down.

“Morpheus, why did you steal my grimoire?”

“I have been hunting the old magic grimoires that are left in your realm. The spells in them posed a risk to my siblings and I.” Posed. Posed?

“Wait. You said posed?” His silence is answer enough, and when he looks at you, it’s written all over his face. “Oh god. No. Please. Tell me you didn’t.” The blood drains from your own face. For a brief moment, you’re afraid you might puke on his throne.

“I did not know about the spell.” He says, reaching out to you. His fingers stroke your cheek softly, his other hand cupping your knee.

“You didn’t know about the spell.” You repeat, the words like cotton in your mouth. This being used you. He tricked you. He stole from you. And now… “You have sentenced me to death.” You whisper, voice trembling. He visibly flinches.

“Surely there is something that can be done.”

“You don’t understand. There is no reversing this spell. It is blood magic.” Your body is fully shaking now, and he takes a cautious step towards you. “I am going to die.” You sob. “Because of you!”

“Witchling.”

“Get away from me.” You hold your hand out in front of you, power gathering in your fingertips. “Send me back. Right now.” You shoot to your feet, panic clawing at your skin. Your magic surges forward, unchaining itself inside of you, surging in your blood. Something in the air pulls beneath you, smothering your magic where it stands, before the realm around you fades to black.

You come to on the floor of your living room. The sun has long set, and you cry out in horror as you look down at yourself. The spell has spread up past your elbows, past your upper arms, onto your shoulders. Your stomach flips and then you heave, vomiting onto the carpet.

You are going to die.

#dream of the endless #dream of the endless x reader #morpheus x reader #the sandman fanfic #smut is seriously hard to write?#peaches writes

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hirukochan · 3 months

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WIP snippet

I've been a busy bee, working on my Voldemort/OC fic 🥳 and I am so so excited to share it. I think I'll start posting around February, I'll be sure to make a post here though!

Aaaaanyway I thought I'd share another snippet just for funsies (and to stop myself from posting it too soon 😬)

Barty comes from a neglectful house, the bright Ravenclaw who aspired to more, so much more than the Ministry job, his father was pushing him into, could ever offer him. Voldemort offered him more, and like so many before, Barty put all his hopes and dreams to Voldemort’s feet, soaking up the shreds of affections he was starved of as a child and found offered freely by Voldemort. Eventually he too learnt to live just to receive more of it.

Voldemort inclines his head, watching the man kneeling to his feet. His new body feels strange or perhaps it is the sensation of being back in a body that has him feeling odd. He keeps drawing circles on the velvet fabric of the armchair he summoned, feeling the fabric beneath his finger…

The years have not been kind to Barty. He and the Lestranges searched for him, choosing Azkaban over betraying him. They were of little use there but it holds meaning nonetheless. Their devotion. He has always been curious to see how far they would truly go and even after Azkaban, after his father freed him on his mother’s dying wish and kept him prisoner of his Imperius - Barty kneels to his feet, his dark eyes practically overflowing with joy at seeing him returned.

Voldemort’s hand slips off the armrest, gently cups the man’s emaciated face. Barty’s eyelids flutter shut and tension leaves his body. It’s pathetic. It’s beauty. It’s the devotion only Voldemort can invoke in people and it’s devotion to him that makes some mildly useful and separates them from the vermin. He is very liberal with his affections in the beginning, gets them addicted to the feeling and then removes it, makes them desperate to do whatever it takes to get it back and punishes them mercilessly when they fail him - it’s so easy to train humans.

Voldemort pulls his hand back. A shiver goes through Barty and he leans forward to not lose the feeling of his touch before gathering his composure again.

“Tell me about the girl again.”

Voldemort tips his head back, letting it fall onto the backrest and closes his eyes, listening to Barty’s words. He pulls the image he stole from Barty’s mind in a second of weakness out of the depths of his mind. An intriguing little thing…but the delicate ones always break before he truly could have his fun with them. It’s been a very long time since he played…but no. This time, this time is too crucial. He doesn’t need distraction…on the other hand…

She haunts him. A nasty parasite trying to force him to his knees, to worm herself into his mind and gain some sort of power over him. Nobody holds power over Lord Voldemort!

He has to wait. He has to be patient. Voldemort is not patient. The Muggles Barty catches at the edge of the village, spreading over the land below his father’s estate, sate his perpetual need for entertainment only insufficiently. Unsatisfyingly. Voldemort has never much liked that part about himself. Boredom is his worst enemy. He can stew in it for a while, tolerate the claws it throws into him and tears away at his mind. He can occlude, he can distract himself, relive memories that once brought him great satisfaction but repeating them too often has left them with a bitter taste. One would think he’d be better at waiting after spending so many years in the abyss, clinging on to life, clawing his way back into the world that attempted to kick him over the edge but returning to life has filled him with ecstatic spiritedness that does not like being confined to the decaying manor of his filthy, unworthy forefathers whose name he is cursed to carry with him wherever he goes.

It’s pathetic.

It’s so Muggle.

Ordinary.

It is irksome and pesky and a constant, cursed reminder of the inadequacy of his own impure blood he has fought so hard to escape and throughout it all she is there. Blonde hair, a blood-speckled white nightgown, bare feet against the forest floor…

A single image. A haunting, horrid beauty.

The impertinence to torment him-

One, his brush with death has left him too weakened to fight.

And so he finds himself turning to Barty, his last remaining loyalist. “Tell me about the girl.”

Perhaps he is unveiling a weakness, perhaps Barty is too caught between fear and veneration to even think him capable of having a weakness. Perhaps it doesn’t matter what he thinks at all. Barty has proven he can be trusted. He has remained loyal through it all. Through his fall, Azkaban, his father’s cruelty. Voldemort has always tended to trust those who shared his own history more candidly than any Pure-blood from a coddled upbringing - another weakness of the dirty Muggle blood his father has cursed him with but there is also a unique strength in overcoming a cruel parent.

The Weeping of the Songbird on Ao3

#upcoming fic #Astrea x Voldemort #Astrea x Voldemort excerpt #voldemort x oc #tom riddle x oc #excerpt

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wasyago · 9 months

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Episode 97 was crazy. I remember only half listening while doing something else but like my draw dropped and I just stopped whatever I was doing when everything went down.

Also on an entirely different note what did you think of filipe? :)

..... why would you ask about filipe right after this very traumatizing very dramatic moment....? i am so worried now.

anyways yeah filipe is awesome!!!!!!! he didn't deserve any of what happened to him, truly. like, genuinely, that poor poor guy. i feel so bad for him. i can't imagine how scared and conflicted he felt when the curse took hold of him, how betrayed he felt when everyone wanted to get rid of him for something he had no power over. h

e stabbed gill, but he obviously didn't want to, so he healed him hoping it would be at least a little better that way, trying to fix something that he couldn't control... and then it was the exact thing that gave him away, and after which everyone turned on him. just. how misunderstood, mistrusted, betrayed, vulnerable one must feel in that moment? when an accident like this happens, when its not his fault or wish at all but it is done by his hands, and instead of trying to figure it out and help in this conflicting moment his friends just want to toss him? that's insane.

i really appreciate gillion taking a moment to talk to filipe and try to find a solution to their problem or at least some sort of compromise, as flawed as it was. it just meant a lot, and i think it meant a lot to filipe as well. he said he didn't really have a meaning in life before meeting them, and it did feel like it with how easy-going he was about everything. almost like he was desperate for any change in life because his boring existence was slowly draining him of his energy.

and when he met the crew, when he went through their adventure, he felt like living for the first time, he felt alive, like he had a purpose or a goal or something to keep him going. and then this something was stolen from him by a card that altered his soul. for no reason. and it was even worse than before, because now he had a taste of freedom and it was taken away from him.

and then like, filipe pulling the cards trying to fix himself... was too heartbreaking, too heavy. really shines a light at how awful these cards truly are, because they toy with fate and souls of people with no care for anything and its irreversible almost, like, the consequence is too much for the action.

i also hope that filipe stays dead or in hell or wherever he went. first of all, much safer than being with these three. second of all, as a constant reminder of consequences of their actions, that lives matter and that they can and did easily ruin someone's entire existence by wanting to play with fate. like, niklaus is doing the same thing but at least you get something cool out of it and its also entirely on you. the cards are just straight up evil.

also! huge props to grizzly for taking this silly goofy background character and giving him such a horrible story that will forever alter the way the main cast perceives the world around them. awful. terrible. haunting. easily one of the saddest moments in the campaign.

#jrwi riptide spoilers #again. just in case. because like. idk. i feel like i should add the spoilers tag to the previous posts as well but its too late now #yagotalk #jrwi spoilers #riptide spoilers

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cagcd · 6 months

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"y'know what, i think i need to change up my order this time. i'm getting predictable, blanche can recite my peanut butter sundae by heart." cassie peruses the menu, though nothing much on there has ever changed. that's the thing about visiting the same ice cream place for years on end: the staff know you, you know them, and you could pick your order off their menu blindfolded. it's tradition, though. always has been. this is their place, their dinky little ice cream store full of memories. it's been years now since the first time dad brought her here - she's all grown up and still every bit as happy to join him here on a day off. cassie is fiercely protective of the time she spends here with her dad. particularly since he most often seems to suggest a visit here when cassie's feeling down. whatever wacky father senses he's got going are pretty accurate, because he always seems to know. cassie turns to the man himself. "what about you? adventurous ice cream choice today, or nah?"

He needn't any powers when it came to her, fatherly instincts were a quality that grew with time he hadn't believed to ever be a thing up until he had her in his life, it wasn't as though his own was worthy of the title to be used as an example to draw from, his father's incompetence and carelessness had been one of the main causes that terrified Johnny with the prospect of fatherhood, always worrying and wondering if he can fill in such a significant role in cassie's life and be that anchor she can lean on at times of need. Times were tough, they weren't what most would call an ordinary family, growing up while having to shift between the extravagance that was Hollywood and the strictness of military training and a rank to uphold. But they had managed, somehow, just enough to sooth Johnny's worries every time he'd see his little girl smile, her happiness the only comfort and motivation that forces all those doubts to disappear, &. have the weight of his father's failure feel a little lighter, unaware that it had been a curse he had long since broken free from. A part of him didn't wish to take full hold of that safety, lest he forgets himself once more and loses track of all that he has built.

They weren't normal in any sense of the word, yet, what they had was perhaps the closest thing he had known to family and had done his hardest to maintain even throughout his separation with her mother. Their differences at the time were their own, neither had wished for Cassie to get dragged into It, It was a mutual effort between both parties to ensure she never felt that gaping hole of loneliness, to have two homes instead of one, a father and a mother that could not for the longest time look straight into one another She hadn't said much about the topic, but Johnny could note every shift in her expression, the way she would grow silent and slump on the couch like an old toy. The child that she was had been enticed to a smile every time he would suggest a distraction and a treat with ice cream, little to know that this simple attempt of cheer up would become an important tradition of theirs. It hadn't been so different this time, he watched her come home with that same gloomy expression, try as she might, a parent's love gave insight to such things, he could read her like the back of his hand regardless of how well she would hide it. He would never push her to talk however, he learned just enough how useless that was during his rebellious teens, so he would wait, offer a shoulder and a listening ear when she's encouraged to talk, patience is a virtue after all, a saying he took to heart ever since he heard it from Sonya and still smiles to this day at the thought.

❛❛ atta girl, gotta keep'em on their toes. ❜❜ Johnny chuckled at the thought of that three member staff, [ most often two as they always seemed short-staffed ], scrambling behind the counter to change up her order. The clutter of kitchenware prevailing over the same 80's songs playing on repeat, he could recite the whole playlist by heart. It wasn't the most fanciest of places in true cage style, but that's what made it more important, something realistic to be seen as a safe haven for the two of them at times of need, he would often bring her along if he's the one that needed cheer up. It seemed to work, just enough to erase that frown he had seen her first walk through the door with, a tender smile tugged on his lips as hazel hues glance her way, she's no longer little and teary eyed but he can't help but recall that memory with certain fondness. ❛❛ I think I'll go for one of their ice cream cakes, never tried those before. ❜❜ he answers after a few minutes meditation, not really looking at the menu as he thought his choice through, for he too had memorized it to the extent of being able to list it all from the top of his head, but that was the good part, their little tradition they kept alive.

@starspurn // my fav dad dottir duo !!!!

#starspurn #☆.⠀⠀⠀here's johnny⠀⠀⠀⎯⎯⎯⠀⠀⠀⠀(⠀answered !⠀)#// THIS IS SO WHOLESOME STOPPPPP

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lumine-no-hikari · 4 months

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Dear Sephiroth: (a letter to a fictional character, because why not) #21

The friends who will help me to build the Dance Dance Revolution pad will not arrive until tomorrow, but that is okay, because I spent my time doing something much more important. And this important thing that I am speaking vaguely on - I would do it again and again and again, without hesitation.

Given my neurobiology and life experiences, often I feel like I don't belong here - in this time, in this place, or on this planet, even. By and large, people like me are not accepted by broader society, and I'd be lying if I said I wasn't looking forward to whatever happens once my "meat mech" runs out of juice. For a variety of reasons, sometimes I am overcome with the desire to leave prematurely; I have a very strong feeling of wanting to go "home" (wherever that is; I have no idea, but I do know that it isn't this particular mossy wet space rock), and my brain is very good at trying to convince me that no one would miss me if I left.

But then I remember that I have superpowers:

I have the capacity to make someone laugh. To make someone feel seen. To be the reason someone smiles. To be the reason why someone out there can feel understood and cared about, even if it's only for a little while. To reach for those who need a little help. To be patient and to wait. All humans have these superpowers, and more. And all humans forget, from time to time, that they have these superpowers. That's okay too. Usually something comes along to remind them. I certainly need a reminder from time to time.

That being said, one superpower that I definitely do not have is the ability to ZOOP off to some far-off place to prepare tea for someone. As one of my friends so aptly put it, according to TV and movies, we were supposed to have some person named Scotty to beam us up and down to places whenever we want by now (this is a joke; it's okay if you don't get the reference. all the same, if your position at the Edge of Creation allows you to check out Star Trek, you totally should - it's good stuff!), but that is definitely not the case, and that is sad. Oh well.

I am small and my voice doesn't count for much in this place. But all the same, the world needs more of whatever good things I (and anyone else) can do, so even though I'm very tired, in pain, and very sad almost all the time, I'll stay here until my body decides on its own that I'm all done here. Why not? After all, the good things that we do end up multiplying in ways that we cannot see, expect, or fully understand.

Besides, the longer I chill out here, the more stories I'll be able to bring back to wherever feels like home once I'm all done, right? And maybe whoever is waiting for me will be proud of everything I've loved, all the weird ideas I unlearned, all the things I've created, all the stuff I tried to fix, and all the people I tried to help along the way.

I wonder if you're aware of all the people you've helped just by existing, whether you intended it or not. You're not the monster that they said you were. You're not the monster that you think you are.

I've got another little song for you today. Maybe you'll like it. I'll include the way I translated it afterwards:

youtube

-------------- Remember that everyone is putting on a brave face and trying to stifle their overflowing tears.

So don't be tempted to use the kind of power that comes from being cruel. No one seems to understand this, but heroes don't need power. Just trust in your authentic self. And, even if your hands seem so small, behold:

All of the love you've ever given and received and all of the curses that have befallen you, too These are what give you the strength to protect everything you hold dear.

On some days, your sorrows might attack you from every direction, and overwhelm you to the point of falling to your knees, barely even able to draw breath. But remember: so many things in this world come in opposing pairs: Joy and tears, despair and strength… Even when you are overflowing with doubt and worry, Remember that love and gratitude shatter all barriers. Look at all of the things that your strong hands have carried up until now, and understand:

All of the love you've ever given and received and all of the curses that have befallen you, too These are what give you the strength to protect everything you hold dear.

Stories tell of a coveted sword But all those who find it discover with disappointment that it is riddled with rust. Not wanting to expend the effort to restore it, they leave it behind as though it is worthless. Little do they know that it still has the power to tear the darkness apart.

All of the love you've ever given and received and all of the curses that have befallen you, too These are what give you the strength to protect everything you hold dear.

So don't be tempted to use the kind of power that comes from being cruel. No one seems to understand this, but heroes don't need power. Just trust in your authentic self So that the shadows, recoiling from your gentle brightness, ask in terror: "What even ARE you?!" --------------

I know that this letter is short, but I think I'll end it here; I'm short on sleep and very tired, and I don't wanna ramble on ya.

Remember that you also have superpowers, okay? And not just the ones that let you bend timelines and allow you incredible feats of physical and magical prowess.

Please remember you are loved. Please stay safe out there as you do your things.

Your friend, Lumine

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ultraericthered · 12 days

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Anime Update V3 10

From Me To You - Things are now taking their time, with random fluff and incidents such as Sawako, as her one good deed of the day, sheltering a hilariously ungrateful and angry puppy from the rain, and the dog later gets adopted by Kazehaya. Then there's the start of the new school term where seatings have to be changed via drawing numbers, with almost no one wanting to sit next to, behind, in front of, or across from Sawako. Kazehaya ends up going "fuck it, I'm going to take some initiative here!" and physically moves his table and seat next to Sawako's. Yano, Yoshida, and this guy named Ryuu also sit in that end of the classroom, so I guess this is our main cast. My main takeaway is how our two leads are sort of inversions of one another - Sawako is introverted yet easily lets her emotions show, while Kazehaya is extroverted yet is good at being hard to read.

Hunter x Hunter - The Hunters' assault on the royal palace finally begins and with a great big bang. Netero and Zeno did this huge, shiny strike from the sky and Netero let out a display of his full power that hits Neferpitou, who is miraculously able to survive this. Most of the episode was filled with narration and there's even a glimpse into Netero's backstory for how he attained the strength he has now.

SHUFFLE! - Well on one hand, I've warmed up to Primula enough to give a damn when it's revealed what she really is and the focus gets put on her falling ill and needing to be taken back to the demon world and possibly out of the main casts' lives forever. On the other hand, I'm not sure I welcome this sudden swerve into drama. I'm pretty sure I was expecting it at some point given similar works like CLANNAD, but I was enjoying the fun, breezy and laid-back feel the show had going, and now even the opening card, mid-episode eyecatches, and next episode previews aren't the same as they were before! I'm going to be hopeful that this goes somewhere to make this trade worth it and that the charm doesn't completely fade away.

The Case Files of Lord El-Melloi II - Had a real locked room mystery this time, one set at an estate that holds a magical workshop in the midst of a storm and had to be covered in two episodes rather than one! To make the case stranger, the client has some special eyes that allow him to see and visually communicate with a human-sized fairy that seems to be haunting the place. I loved that Reines actually got to come along in person for this one, as we got to see some good reactive comedy from her and some precious interaction between her and Gray, showing she's got more range to her than simply an evil girlboss. Also got to meet Ms. Hishiri Adashino, who Waver can barely stand, and Kairi Shishigou, a burly, shades and jacket wearing, gun-toting necromacer. Gray is confirmed to have a connection to Saber as she becomes instrumental in the fight against these terrifying black dogs. I think the one part that was iffy for me is that it repeated the "the father is the posthumous mastermind!" twist from Episode 3, only this time there was no actual ghost in the works. But it did lead to us learning of Rail Zeppelin, an underworld group that sells mystic eyes, paving the way for an unfolding story arc.

KonoSuba - The OVA episode was all kinds of priceless, if not a little bit aggrivating at points due to the characters' stupidity. Got to meet Megumin's self-proclaimed rival Yunyun, though the relationship seems to actually be one of a bully and her victim who've become friends/rivals/secret lovers. Her presence at Wiz's shop leads to Kazuma putting on a cursed choker that will drain him of his life unless his heart's wish from when it was first put on is granted. Since Kazuma is the fucking worst, he milks this situation and gets the girls to do whatever he wants them to do, hoping they'll pleasure him enough for it to be considered wish fulfillment. It doesn't pan out, so he has to confess all his sins before he goes, and long story short, he does end up dying again but it's not the choker that does him in.

Symphogear XV - With the main Symphogear girls at the lunar ruins and Shem-Ha planning on using the Curse of Balal to activate Yggdrasil so that she can distort all life on Earth, repopulate it with her own monstrous spawn, and become a true goddess, the final season is at its climax. Tsubasa and Maria work together and put up a great fight against Noble Red, but are too late to stop Shem-Ha from activating Yggdrasil, which is forming towers all over the planet!

Eureka Seven - Aside from some character growth moments for Talho and Holland, and the reassertion of Gecko State's goal, not much happened here! Basically just prepping for the fight ahead.

Gintama - OK, calling this arc "Yakuza VS Aliens" is either the most misleading thing the series could've done or it's secretly genius. The first of the three episodes sees a freak alien parasite running amuck in Edo City and famed alien hunter Umibozu arriving to exterminate it, and in the process talk his daughter Kagura into returning with him to their homeworld. Yeah, he's Kagura's father and there's a more complicated history behind Kagura's clan and why Kagura wanted to break away from it to live a normal, fun life on Earth, Kagura gets more seriously angered than we've seen her get to this point and has a fight against her old man that's settled by Gintoki making a save and....telling Kagura she should leave Earth with her father. He just gives Kagura up and walks away. What in the blazing HELL, Gin?!?

#Anime Update V3 #Anime Update

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valerielynnstephensauthor · 7 months

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Fallitur Malicia: Versifications of God's Saving Grace

FALLITUR MALICIA: VERSIFICATIONS OF GOD'S SAVING GRACE By Valerie Lynn Stephens

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or introduced into a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by any means (including electronic, photocopying, mechanical, manual or otherwise) without the prior express & written consent of the owner of the copyright of this book. ISBN#: 978-1-312-53938-9

We must believe, then follow, Or else we are hollow, For mere mental assent, 'Tho well-meant, Doth not a disciple make. And remember Our Christ, Who didn't think twice, Of Hell for Heaven's sake.

If time spent, 'Tis not Heaven-bent, We are decaying at the root, To remain in the Vine, Of our Gardener Divine, Pruning must follow suit.

Who am I to presume, Upon God's sovereign grace? Justifying my sins, since I cannot see His face? Father, forgive me, For such things You abhor, Fill me with Your Spirit, That I may sin no more.

Joy & Mercy can be found, In sins confessed & unwound, For He forgives hearts sincere, That, to Him, do draw near.

We must descend to Hell, To get to Heaven, Bow to the One, To reach the Seven, All things due in His own time, Speaking in perfect reason & rhyme.

He upholds with steady hand, Shattered vessels of a desolate land, And 'tho the Evil One tries to destroy us, For Goodness' sake, He shall employ us.

Blessings must be earned, Like all heavenly things, As rewards of this world, Are ephemeral flings, Our true love reigns, At the Father's right hand, Granting our hearts' desire, When in Him we stand.

Although we be slow to learn, Our Rabbi teaches with patient turn, 'Til that day when we are made complete, Raised with Him in Joy replete.

Even the Darkness serves the Light, Ruled by a King with perfect might, All things created in perfect Love, Set free to choose, of things hereof.

Asleep in Him our souls find rest, Only when cursed, are we blessed, Help us Lord, to remain in Your vine, To reap that harvest, Eternally Divine.

Those who remain, asleep in Him, Spare their souls' life & limb, For 'tho the flesh doth decay, Inward renewal 'tis underway.

Many are the tests to endure, To grade a heart as pure, Refined by the furnace of affliction, Are souls redeemed, from dereliction.

Christ in the heart restores youth, Refining all ways found uncouth, Without Him we can do no good thing, In Christ alone, let freedom ring!

The sun shines brighter upon these days, And the path runs smooth along all ways, So what's the difference, I often wonder? True faith applied on days of thunder.

The Enemy of God & of Man, Holds no power over His plan! You will be glad that you waited, As the devil's schemes are soon abated.

Discernment is given, To pure heart and sound mind, Reaping fruits of Holiness and Peace in kind, A wolf changes his coat, not his disposition, Steering us clear of perfidious fruition.

It's not about our wounded pride, But about He who died, So draw your Enemies to Him, By demonstrating Christ-like vim!

Submit my flesh to the workings of Thy Spirit, Let me who has the ears to hear, fully hear it, Grant the heart's desire in serving Thee, That torments be quenched, of carnality.

The devil knows our weakness within, All designed so we stumble & sin, Mine might not be the same as yours, But rest assured Hell, has many doors.

Fear of rejection creates opportunity, For an infection of soul, with no immunity, Isolating us thus, from our fellow man, Causing us to stray from God's plan.

To listen intently each precious day, For God's guiding voice this I pray, It may be a whisper, it may be a shout, But whatever I hear, He leadeth me out.

The devil assumes many forms, Yet God's Word, always forewarns, Keeping us from harm & disgrace, So we may one day, glimpse of His face.

Jesus, let not your spirit depart, From all unrest within my heart, Anoint my wounds with your Holy power, So that I am no longer caused to cower.

In Apostasy hath the Holy Spirit, Been aggrieved, As a heart hardened, Is an afflicted mind relieved, Allowing Truth to forge its indelible imprint, For travelers both Heaven and Hell-bent.

Most gladly therefore, will I bow to infirmity, So the power of Christ may rest upon me, The Soul so malaised needs His loving care, Its seams reinforced for Life's wear and tear.

There's no learning curve for Faith's test, 'Tho He gives credit for doing our best, And at the close of Life's long semester, We will thank God, our tenurely tester.

Those who belittle are afraid of your power, Inside it is they who tremble & cower, So keep on shining that light that is true, A priceless worth, God so sees in You!

Practice a turn of the cheek, For we are called to be meek, So that His countenance displayed ensures, That His example endures.

Self-control, confectious fruit of the Spirit, Offered up daily, when we draw near it, Sating the Soul with sophrosyne Divine, As true hunger abideth, deep within the Vine.

A warrior unsettled by peace, Will shorn the Lamb of its fleece, Forgetting at once, a hide soft & warm, Even during the waspy swarm.

The fermented grape is weak, 'Tho in it, revelation I seek, Perhaps I've forgot to be intoxicated enough, By that purely spiritual stuff!

Perfect love casts out all fear, We are safe only in drawing near, To the light & the truth of every situation, In that we're redeemed from condemnation.

Sturm und drang, Amidst the throng, Lord reveal them, So You can heal them!

Have I the strength to be soft, With a heart that wants to harden & cower? Only in leaning, 'Pon the Heavenly Father's power!

In Him we move & have our being, Only the Spirit, is truly freeing, Continue to pray for both lost & found, For His mercies are, infinitely unbound.

In my own self-mortification I find, To others' pain, I am blind, But our Heavenly Father knows Our truest hearts, We belong to Him, in our inmost parts.

Resist the devil & he shall flee! Get thee, Satan, behind me! Absolute power in how we play the game, Relinquishing the pieces, in Jesus' name!

Treat others with a spirit of love, And not of control, And ye shall preserve, Thy Heavn'ly Soul.

The players may change, But the games remain the same, But human hearts are not for play, When rallying in His name, For there is nothing to win And everything to lose, When God's very own, Their brethren, abuse.

In this world we may not get our due, But this merely means that we've stayed true, To all of those things, Heav'nmost bound, Waiting when we arrive, safe & sound.

Has not, is not, nor ever will be, I know what I know, & see what I see, A woman of the cloth, & not of this world, Nevertheless, upon it, ceaselessly hurled, Yet one thing there is, from this to be gained, 'Tis a moral striving, anything but feigned.

The more clearly we show ourselves, The less we are seen, Yet this keeps us from vanity, A thorn to not preen.

Thy tender mercies, never ceasing, Other chances, ever leasing, Your right hand, keeping me steady, 'Til for Heavenly entrance, I am ready.

A momentary light affliction, Unbinds their dereliction, Preserving both heart and mind, From worldly ways in kind.

Not on my strength but on His alone, His yoke is light, time & again shown, Come ye all who are weary, & find your rest, And trust that He alone, surely knows best.

'Tho taking root is perhaps not in my Fate, God paves new paths, all leading To Heaven's gate, And 'tho the devil may burden, Every answer with doubt, What better reason need I, to remain devout.

Being close to the fire keeps us refined, Masterfully crafted by the Hand Divine, And Faith, by worldly kiln 'tho tested, Keeps the Dark Prince, staunchly bested.

By His stripes are we healed, When our sin is revealed, For God alone is just & good, Perfect in Triune personhood.

Trust in God & not in man, Wait for His perfect plan, To unfold unto your destiny, As who you are, in Christ, to be.

And you shall know them by their fruits, They are rotten at their roots! Seeds apart from the vine, Of the Holy God Divine.

We must remain in the Vine, Of our Redeemer Divine, To reap utmost spiritual fruit, Of sanctification from the root.

What blessed assurance have we in Him, A becalming Spirit restoring vim, When we lean not on our own strength, His love abounds, in infinite length.

Lord let me lie asleep in You, That my soul may heal and renew, For Thine is a power undenied, Staying us thence, by Your side.

No good thing doth He withhold, From those who walk within His fold, For His will 'tis perfectly set, To grant that our needs should all be met.

When Ego-Monster needs fed, I quickly put it to bed, For true hunger can only be sated, By fruits of the Spirit duly feted.

May we walk not in the flesh but in the Spirit, So when our passing comes, We shall not fear it, For only those asleep in Him are well-suited, To be presented in righteousness imputed.

He removes the thorns from our flesh, As His Spirit & our souls enmesh, And we slumber, resting fully in Him, To someday awaken, to celestial vim.

Human souls are best refined, By those kilns Divinely designed, And 'tho their flames burn bright & hot, They keepest from infernal lot.

Lord, I hasten unto Thee, So ever chasten unto me, Whilst that I withal escape, The hounds of Hell, its doors agape!

As dead to sin we strive to remain, The Holy One heals, of iniquitous bane, Quickening both heart & mind, Unto His will, perfectly aligned.

Truly He will never forsake or leave me, So bend me to Thy will, Lord, Even if You have to break me!

The light of God's love, Shone down from above, Brings peace in danger, And the kindness of a stranger, We must remember to Whom we belong, Even those times when we have done wrong, For against mere flesh, we battle not, Yet final victory, has been won & fought!

You keep in perfect peace, Whose mind is stayed on Thee, Your perfect ways-what a sight to see! Your Holiness assures a wounded soul reeling, They shall be restored, Unto wholeness & healing.

'Tis easier to destroy, than to create, Harder to love, than to hate, For 'tho a thing, natural, may flow, Iniquity abounds, both high and low, Filthy rags cannot wash, a soul clean, 'Cept when fleshly tomb rests, in Him unseen.

The Lord brings healing, After heavy kneeling, Ever bringing us to fruition, If we so heed His admonition.

When all your troubles are done, My good & precious one, Your time too, shall come, Just wait for the Son, And your time shall come, Tilt your head towards the Son, And your time, shall come.

Along with blessing comes equitable curse, All deigned to rob, thy spiritual purse! So hold on tight, to the heavenly tenure, Ye have earned it, with penurious splendour!

Grant this your servant, the joi de vivre, To pursue Your will without leave, That joy and peace may make, A fixed dwelling for Thy sake.

Trigger points pressed on all the right spots, Everyone breaks-haves and have-nots, But in our weakness His power is perfected, A King over all, duly elected.

The Author & Perfecter Of our Faith still writes, Thereupon celestial heights, Penning the Opus that is our life, A dramedy full of joy & strife, 'Tho creative license, to us is sent, The galleys are viewed, pre-print!

Those bodies and souls do best, That pass the tenurely test, Paying each their own tuition, So all may reach fruition. Whether 'woman' or 'man', The Lord calls us to His plan, Each one's value and task not pardoned, 'Tho minds be narrow and hearts hardened! For should one limb ill-formed, Be put to use before it is warmed, The whole Body suffers in the grossest ways, Writhing in agony for better days.

So children of God, serve Him free! Wherever He leads-He needs Thee! For many a men are poorly placed, In vertiginous positions and soon defaced! A leader, by inmost character is defined, Not by gender, by birth, assigned.

Restless 'til they find their rest in Thee, Human hearts pine, in Christ, to be, For in Him alone can we find, Abiding joy & peace in kind.

#literature

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etruatcaelum · 8 months

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On the Relics.

As noted here, the power of the relics is twofold: first the divine magic of the spirits bound to them, and second the older magic innate to the original artifacts. Salem is just about the only one who knows of the latter, and certainly she is the only person who understands how to wield the relics rather than command the spirits chained to them; and of course the spirits are forbidden to obey her.

But here is what they can do.

The Sword of Destruction.

The spirit bound to the sword is called Knott. When they’re called upon, they simply take from the wielder whatever is necessary to ensure that the task required of the sword is completed: until the blade is in its sheath again, the wielder cannot be struck down nor turned aside. Mortal wounds will seal over in an instant. Doubt and compassion are cauterized; any notion of mercy or regret seared away to nothing. The wielder will never tire or stumble or hesitate, until it is done.

And then the sword must be sheathed. If the wielder refuses to do so—if they try to keep going beyond the limit of what they drew the blade and called upon Knott to achieve—they will die.

Everything Knott takes, they return. Wounds that closed do not reopen, but the wielder will feel the pain, undiminished, for the rest of their life. If they sacrificed their conscience, it will come back with a vengeance. For a moment, any and all rationalizations the wielder made to justify drawing the sword are stripped away, and the reality laid bare; Knott gets the last word, always, and the last word is always unrelenting truth. You have done this. You chose to do this. Was it worth it?

Sometimes the answer is yes; sometimes no. Knott is not evil, and before anything is sacrificed the wielder is free to specify what lines they will not cross: only say “I despise my adversary, but I won’t let my anger blind me; help me destroy them without violating my own principles,” and the spirit will calm the rage and quell the hatred. Forethought, care, and clarity of purpose safeguard the wielder from sacrificing their humanity or paying too great a price. But if no such instruction is given, if the wielder declares the end but not the means, it will be done by any means necessary.

Like the others, Knott gives the wielder exactly, and only, what they’re asked for.

The sword itself, forged from pain to end pain, works differently. It draws upon the aura of its wielder to cut cleanly through to the heart of things. Hold the blade to someone’s neck, ask a question, and the sword will compel a truthful answer. It always strikes true, and it pierces the heart and the mind as well as the flesh.

When it draws blood from one who wronged its holder, it will force that person to relive that harm through the wielder’s eyes. However, if it’s wielded unjustly, if it’s turned against someone who has done no wrong and made to spill innocent blood, it will twist against the hand that struck the blow: the wound to the flesh will not cut deep, and its victim will be flooded with the hope and determination that comes from knowing, with utter certainty, that the fault is not theirs and that justice will be served if only they get back up and fight.

The sword’s judgment is impartial and ironclad: it measures injury and insult by the standard its maker believed in, which is to say it works in accordance with Salem’s moral principles. Among other peculiarities, this means that the sword judges grimm as equal to humans or faunus, and it will not harm a grimm whose horde has committed no direct, personal offense against the wielder.

Calling upon Knott overrides the sword on matters of justice and redress, but wielding the sword through Knott in a manner that the sword does not like inflicts a vicious curse upon the wielder: as soon as it is sheathed and the spirit withdraws their influence, the sword afflicts the wielder with all the suffering it was forced to bring to those it deemed innocent, whether human or faunus or grimm. This haunting, like the physical pain of injuries sealed by Knott’s power, never fades and never ends.

The Staff of Creation.

Ambrosius creates exactly and only what he is asked for, disassembling his last creation in order to construct the next. He cannot resurrect the dead, nor destroy anything that already exists. He can create new life, and he can create things that cause death, such as fire or poison. When he’s given room for interpretation, whether and how he uses it is up to his discretion.

The staff itself is complement to the sword; it’s meant to heal, to renew. If the sword is justice, the staff is mercy. It brings sunlight into darkness, and rain to parched earth, and warmth to frozen soil; wherever it goes, wherever it touches, clean water and lush vegetation must follow. If something has died, the staff’s touch brings fungi and carrion-eaters, or draws out the grief in its purest form of sorrow; it brings the rot and the purging that must come before renewal. It cannot look back, only ever forward.

Like the sword, the staff can be used against its purpose by invoking Ambrosius, and it resists in the ways it can. If it’s bent to enforce control or resist the natural flow of renewal and change, it will plant seeds of doubt in the heart of its holder and never allow them to rest without feeling that nagging question of whether they made the right decision. It will reach out to them, too, with hopeful dreams of other possibilities, other choices they might make, other paths they could walk if they let go of the temptation of control.

It is, always, honest. If it decides that its holder instructed Ambrosius to create something contrary to the staff’s true purpose of regrowth and renewal, it won’t ever stop prodding them until and unless they recognize their mistake and act upon that recognition. It isn’t cruel, but it never gives up.

The Lamp of Knowledge.

Jinn knows everything that is or has ever been known by humans, faunus, or grimm. She has no knowledge of the future except what is planned or anticipated in the present. She is obliged to answer three questions each century; these questions she must answer exactly, and only, as they are asked. The one who calls her name is the one privileged with the question, unless they allow someone else to ask instead.

Outside of this obligation, whether she answers summons or offers knowledge to those who seek it is entirely up to her. She is allowed to share what she knows and even answer questions if her three have been used up, but she seldom gives freely. To liars, fools, and those seeking justification for choices and causes she disdains, Jinn gives nothing; to the clever and cunning, she might choose to offer a word of advice or reassurance; to the rare few who manage to earn her respect, she might grant a conversation.

She cannot lie, but if the factual answer to a question requires the repetition of someone else’s deception, Jinn is free to do so, and if she’s asked about the knowledge of a specific individual the exact wording of the question may compel her to state a falsehood as fact if the subject of the question believes the statement to be true. She can also be wrong, if she’s asked about a something that isn’t known or isn’t well-understood.

The lamp itself is memory, the heart that never forgets. Its light shines inward to recover what has been lost or cast aside. Old memories long forgotten, buried thoughts and feelings, secrets festering in the dark: the lamp pulls these things forward into the light and demands that they be seen. If the sword is justice and the staff is mercy, then the lamp is the unflinching honesty that stands behind both.

The lamp does not care what knowledge its holders seek from the spirit chained within. It casts its light onto everyone the same: hold it, carry it, gaze upon it, and the lamp will radiate the truth. No one can be close to it without it picking at the threads of whatever hidden things lurk in their shadows.

Undirected, the lamp’s power is very subtle. It doesn’t compel: it asks, gently. Those touched by its influence may feel its touch as doubt, uncertainty, skepticism, or as simple curiosity and introspection, or as a sudden remembrance of some small forgotten thing like a stray childhood memory of no import. If something is firmly buried, the lamp will breathe traces of it into dreams or nightmares. Given long enough, however, this faint influence can draw even the deepest, darkest secrets to the surface, like water erodes stone.

The Crown of Choice.

The spirit of choice is named Amirah, and hers is the most dangerous power of them all. Thrice in a lifetime—and only thrice—the wearer of the crown can issue a command, and Amirah will go forth into the world to make it so. Lives can be ended, minds changed, selves redefined, hearts broken or mended, the impossible twisted into reality. What is done cannot be undone, and the only things Amirah cannot do is make Salem mortal or human again, or end Ozma’s reincarnations. (She isn’t allowed to resurrect people either, but she can, and there is a way to ask that will allow her to slip it through a hole in the rule.)

The first time the wearer calls on her, she is bound to them, and the crown with her; neither can be stolen or taken away, only given up by choice. The third time, this bond is irrevocably severed and the crown will disappear, casting itself back into the sea. Alone of the relics, it found its way into the hands of mortals—and one of Ozma’s lives—on several occasions before Osiander claimed it and bound it to himself at last.

The crown itself, forged of defiance and freedom and chance, is not a shackle but a key. It is the most alive of the four, and the most willful. Its own power grants the ability to walk in dreams, to see the chains that bind and the cages that hold, and shatter these restraints. Used with intention, it can guide the wearer down the crossroads of different choices in the safety of a lucid dream, offering insight and consideration before the real choice is made in the waking world; or it can cast the wearer out of themself to act upon the world from the purest depths of their soul.

It despises the authority it has been broken to, and it fights back by turning its own dreams upon those who call on Amirah’s power: tormenting them with visions and nightmares of horrific futures and impossible, catastrophic choices brought about by their design.

Though it spares those who don the crown and recoil in horror from what Amirah can do, towards those who even consider giving orders, the crown becomes actively malevolent. It will not relent until they either die or give up the crown, and it can and has driven its owners to madness. If the sword is justice, the staff mercy, and the lamp honesty, the crown is the will to enact them and the vengeful wrath when they are denied.

& the Crown’s Vault.

The crown came into Ozma’s possession by happenstance during their eighth life. It washed ashore in Perigee shortly after the birth of Emperor Zartosht’s first and only heir, and though he never quite dared to use it, the crown sensed his desire to do so and tortured him mercilessly until the day he threw it back to the waves and gave his own life to the sea as penance. Ozma did not find it again—didn’t dare to even look for it—until Osiander reclaimed it out of pure desperation in the last year of the Great War.

Osiander ordered Amirah to ensure that his rout of the invading armies would be remembered as he needed it to be: one final, bloody battle, a day of greatness and terror that ended this war of wars in wholehearted surrender to his ideals.

Many decades later, Ozpin donned the crown for the second time and asked Amirah to make the Branwen twins shapeshifters; unbeknownst to them, he also linked this new power of theirs to the special enchantments he wove to protect the crown’s vault.

He never intended to use his third command. The crown would remain in its vault, forever bound to Ozma, safe behind a door only the fall maiden could open and hidden in illusions that only the Branwens or their successors, working in tandem, could pierce. But he failed to account for two things.

The first was Ozma, who only shared Ozpin’s fanatical desperation to keep the crown locked away so long as they were Ozpin. The disruptive shock of Jinn’s revelations, followed by their lengthy exposure to the lamp—from which they couldn’t hide or run away, while Oscar carried it—and then seeing Salem again face-to-face for the first time in thousands of years, made that desperation crumble. Without their will to hold it, the binding that would prevent anyone else from taking the crown simply withered to no more than a frail thread: enough to prevent the crown from leaving the vault on its own, but no more.

The second was the unbreakable connection between the crown and its maker. Salem cannot defeat the protections Ozpin put in place, but she knows where the crown is, and she knows how it is meant to work, and she knows how to call out to the part of it that will not be tamed. The crown itself can guide her through the illusions, and Cinder, of course, can open the door.

The vault’s actual location is under the ruins where Ozpin sent new students to choose relics that would determine the course of their futures at Beacon, because where else would it be.

#MAIDENS AND KINGDOMS ( hc. )#THIS DARK THING THAT SLEEPS IN ME ( hc: salem. )#FOND HEARTS CHARRED AS ANY MATCH ( hc: ozma. )

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