#*into the lore pile this goes*

[sunset-peril]

Okay, I dunno if you've thought of a scene where Rhoam really & truly apologizes to Zelda for everything.

However, & I am so sorry for any possible future changes this may cause, but I just saw this as a remarkably fitting thing for him to do.

It's something I just made up.

The act of Iðrandikrjúpa or kneeling penance. A Hyrulean custom adapted from a tradition of Hebran origin is the act of sitting on one's knees, bowing your head & holding out the hand with the palm up. And, originally, in the hand would be offered some sort of item that acts to represent their relationship. Often, something that both treasured.

This is an expression of deep humility & apology. A sort of show of prostration in an endeavor to demonstrate ultimate contrition. The Hebran equivalent to the Sheikan Dogeza when used to express deep apology.

The lowered position & bowed head shows submission & contrition. (Note that looking up or lifting the head during this time is seen as a sign of being ingenuine. And looking the one that you are apologizing to in the eye is considered even more so & is even  thought to be a sign of challenge.)

The extension of the hand palm up is a sign of one's desire for penance.

If the one being apologized to places their hand in the prostrator's, it is a signal of willingness to hear them out. Those with genuine regret will then proceed to either lay their forehead upon their hand or kiss it. Many who are truly wrecked with grief for their actions will also likely begin crying.

But it is the offered item that is the clearest tell of one's genuineness. Because it is saying, "I am unworthy for what I have done to you & I offer it to you as a show that I understand this."

Though, in the case of a parent having behaved unforgivably towards one's child, it is instead seen as more sincere to offer something that they consider symbolic of their role as their parent. This sends the message that they acknowledge that they are unworthy of that sacred role. For that is what parenthood is seen as in Hebra: a sacred honor. For, to raise a child is to raise the future.

To breach that is seen as one of the greatest dishonors you can commit. No one hates a deadbeat or abusive parent quite so vitriolically as a Hebran. They are also known for their senses & recognition of accountability.

However, acknowledgment of one’s own actions, especially to the one that it was perpetrated against, is seen as a show of willingness to change.

However, it is also seen as well within the victim’s right to deny it. If they were to yell, scream, spit upon them, slap the offered hand away, or even strike them about the face. Anything short of outright beating or killing them is considered their right.

At the same time, the victim could also take the symbol from them, they could tell them to speak, or in truly rare cases, they could simply roll the prostrator’s hand back up around the symbol as a sign that whatever was done has already been forgiven.

But, placing the hand upon the prostrator’s own is a show of willingness to both forgive as well as understand & listen. It takes a very mature person to do such, especially when they’ve been hurt to such an extent that this act of prostration is seen as necessary in the first place.

Especially if it was the perpetrator's own choice to do so.

Anyway, upon receiving such a signal, the perpetrator is allowed to speak, but is expected to keep their head down while doing so.

Within Hyrulean society, heads of the family or those in positions of power will often use a symbol of said position in that hand, as though offering it. As if to say that they are unworthy of that position. Those who wear some sort of hat or headdress as part of said position will also remove it & clutch it to one’s stomach.

In the case of a king who has emotionally abused his daughter, true self-contrition would be shown in the producing of the abovementioned item symbolic of his position as her father (such as a gift she gave him long ago that he treasures or something he took from her) then removing his crown & placing it at her feet.

This isn't something to be performed in front of a large audience, but more so an inner circle. Particularly, before those aware of the transgression in question & who aren't likely to just automatically forgive the perpetrator.

It is also not something that is performed often.

Again, I'm sorry. I was just reading your Trial of the Zora Armor & I got into it because I know it's all for Zel's sake & I just thought how could Rhoam demonstrate how truly repentant he is? How could he show her that he loves her more than anything & hated what he was doing without it feeling fake?

My mind went, "by owning up to his behavior & humbling himself in a way that she can't reason herself into thinking that it was untrue."

Once more, apologies.

So sorry to answer this a few days later, I wanted to make sure I had all the possible brain cells (and undivided time) for you!

I actually have not! I knew one would be necessary, but I never came up with an apology of that true magnitude.

Ooo! Ooo! The item in Rhoam's hand could be the little Guardian trinket from Age of Calamity (if I remember correctly, he does present it palm up to her in the Temple of Time, but not while bowing) in that realm of things! I don't know if that specific trinket could work in BotW (if they were able to have this moment before everything fell apart, I haven't mapped that much detail on it), but perhaps Original Terrako could work!

No, no it's all good! The fact that you came up for something so cool and precious while reading something of mine. It makes my night! I definitely would love to integrate this into the AoC timeline of HFS regardless of whether I can fit it (in some way) into the BotW timeline of things :3

It's wonderful!!

[apotelesmaa]

I think if someone showed rui fnaf he wouldn’t really enjoy it because the lore is messy and lacks whimsy but he would be enraptured by the concept of AI mascots and have to be talked down from making Freddy Fazbear in real life

[jellyfish-grave]

Thank you, brain, for not being able to remember a single date (birthdays) but being able to fake entire human figures in the corner of my eyes.

[t4tdanvis]

dante, travis, vylad, and aphmau qpr makes zero sense outside of my rewrite and that is a tragedy

[ostaramoon]

lovebird  ➹ dean winchester

【 pairing 】 dean x angel!reader / cupid!reader 【 summary 】 you’re a cupid, you can’t help the natural call to make two beings fall in love. even if it means bringing critters into the bunker when no ones looking.  【 cw 】 fluff, spn lore on cupids is bland so yes i’m adding to it, grumpy x sunshine trope 【 wordcount 】 1.3k

the bunker had been under a quiet hum for quite some time now, sam in the library organizing and filing while dean sat in the war room looking for cases. the older winchester had nearly forgotten about the little angel cas left in their care a few weeks ago. a cupid, to be precise. 

at first he absolutely refused, claimed they weren’t a daycare for heaven’s flight crew. but cas, being a busy man, simply left the brothers standing in the bunker with a smiley little cherub. unlike most angels dean has met, you were sickeningly sweet, incredibly helpless at times, and though he would never admit it— adorable, too. 

you tried to be helpful, like quietly stepping in to do the chores sam and dean argued over. but it’s not like you really knew what you were doing. like the time dean tiredly shuffled into the kitchen one morning, opening the cupboard to find bacon, milk, and eggs stashed in there. when he started on an angry roll of name calling, it was your tear filled eyes and pouty lips that made him shut up quick. that afternoon was spent teaching you what food goes in the fridge. 

or the time you tried to fix up the impala, completely unaware that spray paint doesn’t cover up scratches. when dean strolled into the garage, expecting to take a sweet sunday joy ride just to find his baby had been vandalised, his shouts damn near shook the entire bunker. when he found you with paint stained fingertips and that pathetic wobbly lip, his anger dissipated. you settled on a promise to never under any circumstances ever touch baby again. 

now, as he sits before the glow of sam’s laptop, the quiet begins to feel entirely unsettling. he leaves his spot, heading for the library. when he doesn’t see you taking on your usual little helper tasks with sam his brows furrow. 

“have you seen the little bird?” 

sam looks up from his pile of books and paper, “no,” he shrugs, “i thought she was with you.”

that damn cupid is up to something, he thinks to himself. 

with a sigh dean turns, setting off to sweep the bunker. the kitchen is quiet, empty. at least the food is safe he assures himself. heading down stairs into the hall of bedrooms he finds your room empty as well. as he heads towards the dungeon, the last place he’d expect you as you once described it as dark and spooky, a muffled giggle stops him in his tracks. 

he waits, listening, as he hears it again coming from sam’s bedroom. he quietly approaches the door, gently pushing it open to find you kneeling on the ground with your back to the door. 

“what the hell are you doing, lovebird?” he crosses the room, standing over you and what he can now see to be a pair of brown fluffy rabbits. 

startled, you look up at him with wide eyes, “nothing.” you smile. his heart does that stupid little flutter that seems to only happen when you smile at him like that. all sweet with a pinch of mischief. 

“right,” his brows knit together as he points at the rabbits, “this is nothing?” 

a little humph leaves your lips as you rise to your feet, crossing your arms and looking up at dean with a determined scowl across your face, “i’m matchmaking, if you must know. these two have been hopping around outside for days and i could practically smell how much they need each other.” 

he looks between you and the critters a few times, “yeah, no, we’re not doing this. no rabbits— no animals of any kind allowed in the bunker.”

 his heart pangs as you jut out your bottom lip, eyes growing glossy. damn this pathetically cute little thing. his hands instinctively cup your face, “hey, hey, lovebird. no crying, remember?” his voice gruff, barely masking his annoyance.

you sniffle, biting your cheek to stop the tears brimming your lashes. you can’t always help the crying, cupids are naturally empathetic creatures with no qualms about showing their emotions. dean thumbs your cheeks, giving a light squeeze to one side. 

“but i’m a cupid!” you cry out, “i can’t help wanting to help them fall in love.” 

“rabbits don’t fall in love!” he drops his hands from your face, trying to find his words despite the absurdity of yours. “they mate, like the saying, ‘mate like rabbits’ there's no love happening here.” 

you stare up at him, wiping stray tears as some terrible thought makes your face turn sour. “so, like you?” your voice reflects the absolute devastation you feel at the realization. 

“oh what now?” dean groans.

“they’re like you! mating with no love.” you whimper. it’s no secret dean moves about women with everything except love. it was one of the first things you noticed about him, a spider's web of potential love stories that never takes because he’s swatting them away before anything divine can happen. you could have easily fixed this, but something about dean getting sweet with another woman makes your heart feel heavy. besides, dean asked you specifically not to matchmake with humans while you were on earth. so, the itch to use your skills was killing you and a perfectly innocent set of rabbits happened to be right outside the bunker. 

dean shoots you an incredulous look before shaking his head, “alright, i’m gunna pretend you didn’t just say that, little bird. we’re getting these things out. now.” he brushes past you, reaching for the rabbits far too slowly and aggressively, making them scurry off in opposite directions. 

“great!” you shout, “you scared them! now they’ll never even mate!” you drop to your knees, cooing gently at the fluff hiding underneath the bed. 

dean paces behind you, eyes squeezed shut as he musters up all the patience in the world, “hold on,” he stops abruptly, tilting his head to you, “why are you in sam’s room?” 

a shy smile finds your lips at you meet his quizzical gaze, “sam doesn’t say no nearly as often as you do. i thought if he saw how cute the bunnies are, he’d be on my side and i’d get to keep them and their love babies.” 

as much as dean would love to think your words fill him with nothing but anger and annoyance, your innocently sharp manipulation is rather fascinating. you were right, sam doesn’t like to say no and he was more fond of having pets than his older brother is, but dean would have put an end to this little scheme one way or another. 

as you lie half under the bed now, reaching for one of the rabbits, dean notices the little black droppings peppering the room. sam’s room.

“actually, lovebird,” he smirks, “why don’t we leave those two alone for a bit, see if your matchmaking skills really can work on the wildlife.” 

your excitement at his words makes you scramble off of the ground, peering up at him with a hopeful smile, “really? you think it’ll work?” 

“mhm,” he grins, stealing your hand in his, “let’s give ‘em some space, i’ll watch that reality show you love and let you tell me which ones are fated souls and all that cupid stuff you talk about.” 

➹

you sat with your legs crossed on the couch, dean beside you with a beer in hand and an amused grin as you raddled off all the little quirks that are tell-tale signs of a cupid’s work. on the other side of the bunker there's a clunk of commotion that startles you, but dean hardly reacts, his grin morphing into a satisfied smirk. 

“what was that?” you grab dean’s arm, shuffling closer to him.

“give it a sec.” he responds cooly. within seconds sam is stomping into the room, bewildered and clearly annoyed. 

“why,” he huffs, “are there rabbits shitting all over my room?” 

“oh no.” you whimper, sinking deeper into the couch, hiding your head under dean’s arm. 

“the little angel brought you a gift, sammy,” the older winchester let’s out an uncontrollable laugh, watching his frazzled brother with pure amusement, “don’t you just love it?” 

y'all i am not used to writing without angst or an emotional overtone so pls lmk if this sucks lol

[genericpuff]

LORE | REKINDLED EPISODE 54 - BETWEEN YOU AND ME

Previous episode | Next episode

phew Episode 54 is finally here! I know it was only delayed by a week, but I swear it feels like it's been an eternity.

This episode was admittedly... really hard to get through. Not for any outstanding reason, just due to a lot of sudden IRL stuff that sort of piled up on my plate at the last minute and caught up to me. I feel bad for not doing more to avoid that plate from spilling over which resulted in this episode being delayed another week but I've been trying not to beat myself up for it too much. Thank you all so much for your patience and kind words while I worked through this hurdle. The good news is, I have an appointment booked this month for an ADHD assessment, so if all goes well, I'll hopefully be able to get on some medication soon to help manage the ADHD-side of my ND brain. It's been very unmanageable this past month and has led to a lot of careless mistakes and subsequent stress, anxiety, and depression that's been making it harder for me to have fun doing what I do, so I'm hoping things will go well on that front and at the very least take the edge off a little.

Anyways, that's enough personal dumping from me but I figured I owe y'all at least an update of how things are going on my end. Thank you so much for reading and for your patience through the delay <3 And of course, a huge thank you as always to @banshriek for being my creative other half in this project. As hard as it turned out to be to get through an otherwise very simple episode, it would have been even harder still to do it alone and so having them in my corner has been an absolute blessing to help carry the weight of it all and hold me accountable to boot. Now that the work is done, it feels great to see it finished, and has one of my favorite panel redraws that I've been looking forward to for ages in it (the scene of Persephone sitting on the rooftop!)

now ima go treat myself to some shitty bar food and play the rest of Dawntrail LOL

[rizsu]

food for thought, except it’s unwanted jujutsu kaisen : fem-reader.

have you ever wondered about a scenario so much that you must ask? well that’s exactly the last thing they’d wish to answer.

+ love ‘su: gojo, geto, itadori + ‘live, laugh, love’ hater final boss ( sukuna )

gojo satoru ﾉ refuses to answer.

“do you ever think about how it’d be if we never met?”

“ha— no. don’t even go there.”

satoru stops you there. he doesn’t wish to hear another word from you— especially if it extends your former question. he thinks about it— daily, in fact. it's a scenario that crosses his mind whenever he finds himself drunk on the temporary love he receives from you.

you’ve sung the lyric ‘i’ll love you until there’s no more left’ almost every week for him, silently begging that he gets the concept of genuine love through his head.

“why not? imagine if my friends didn’t make that bet where i either hit on you or pay for the night.” you reminisced, remembering the very night you lost the last touch of shame.

he hums, drumming his fingers on your thigh.

“bet or not, we’d still be fated to meet. next question!”

“anddd what makes you so confident?” you threw another question at him. this time, it's lighthearted.

“mind you, i’m the second coming of an angel. i predetermined this since three years ago.”

glances were exchanged, an expression of a grinning fool met the expression of a glaring responsible person who’s the said fool’s other romantic half.

you should've been familiar with satoru’s ways. it’s your fault for expecting a deep-dive conversation with satoru. not quite his cup of tea!

geto suguru ﾉ expects it and tries to escape.

suguru's home was no new, unexplored area to you. you knew his home's blueprint like the back of your hand. if needed, you'd walk through his home blindfolded and still end up in the room you want to be in.

this isn't a good thing to suguru. there are days where the feeling of confusion as to who he is piles up on him, leading him to isolate himself.. until he forgets there's a spare key of his isolation cube in your hold so now the plan goes awry.

that is exactly what’s happening. after he sent the text ‘k bye’ and silenced his notifications, he felt an impending doom. the reason was unknown by then but he should've guessed it was you.

you marched into his home, readying yourself with suguru-loneliness-begone techniques and, of course, the question that's been wandering your mind since you woke up from a dream.

“babe, what if—”

“fuck,” he curses under his breath, too exhausted to put a hand over your mouth.

“what if we were the last persons on earth? would you recreate humanity with me or kill yourself?”

there it is: your special ‘what if’ questions that know no bounds when it comes to absurdity.

“when would that ever happen? please, stop this,” he groans, pleading with his eyes for you to stop.

“that's the thing— you never know! so, what option is it?”

“i'd kill myself a long time ago if possible.”

“so it's the second one?”

“i'm... not cut out to be a good father.”

“i hate an indecisive bitch, my goodness,” it's your turn to complain, a little let down at his grey answers.

suguru's equally offended. you're the one who jumped him with such a question— who even thinks about that?!

“(y/n), baby, has it ever crossed your mind that your thinking skills aren't quite normal?”

“are you calling me stupid?!”

itadori yuuji ﾉ just as stupid.

it's mango season— yuuji's most anticipated season of the year. mangoes are to yuuji what your lipbalm is to you. a necessity, a survival item, a lifesaver, an important part of his lore, something he worships.

peeling mangoes and slicing them to equal pieces has never brought him such satisfaction before. it immediately brightens his mood. this must be how his grandfather felt whenever he took a walk around the neighbourhood.

now you appear, yuuji's second most anticipated person. you to yuuji is what mangoes are to him. this causes yuuji's current happiness level to reach its peak today. such a great level of happiness can defeat any evil being with just being in its area.

“say, yuu,” you begin, stabbing one of the mangoe slices with a fork.

he nods, signalling that he's listening but still focused on his current activity. a true mulit-tasker.

“if one of your limbs happen to detach from your body, do you feel the pain or does the pain go with it?”

he stops, allowing the question to sink in. he's never been asked such a.. divine question before. what's the answer? does the pain go with the limb or does it stay?

“oh... i gotta ask nobara this, she'd know,” he suggests, placing the knife down. a question that'll haunt him if he doesn't act quick for the answer.

“yes, yes!!” you encourage his actions, mindlessly enjoying the mango slices. mangoes are truly a blessing.

sukuna ryomen ﾉ no. nice try, though! A+ for effort.

“ryo, have you ever wondered if—”

“no, i never.”

“you didn't even let—”

“i haven't learnt since two-thousand years ago.”

“you old fuck, let me finish—”

“it's truly been a while since i've wondered.”

“DAMN, BITCH!”

you threw the remote at him, ultimately fed up with him cutting you off before the peak of the sentence. it could've been the question of the year and he'd still dodge it.

sukuna invited himself over since he ran out of entertainment options and you're always there for him. unfortunately, you do not find him as entertainin. he's annoying, arrogant, and attractive so it cancels out the negatives about him.

of course, sukuna caught the remote. his athletic capabilities are its prime despite him being dormant for centuries. it'd be a white lie to say he's not interested in your question, however it is way more benefitting to push your buttons.

he throws the remote back onto your bed, drying his hands with your hand-towel before making his merry way to you.

“your bed's small.”

“well no shit. it's for ME.”

“you mad? you look mad.” his hand holds your chin, turning your head side-to-side to observe your expression.

you rolled your eyes, “i don't get mad that easily.”

“is this how people felt when i told them an obvious lie? i should repent.”

[a-dauntless-daffodil]

is it gay to collect lots of lore on your new girlfriend, make it into a binder, and then hide it under your shared bed where she will absolutely never find it???

Vaggie: "Charlie? Uh, quick cleaning question."

Charlie: "Hmmmm yeah??"

Vaggie: "So I was looking under the bed-"

Charlie: "Under the b-" (LEAPS across the room) "-NO WAIT LEMME DO THA-"

Vaggie: "-and there's this binder, with my name on it."

Charlie: "AHH!!"

Vaggie: "In your handwriting?"

Charlie: "AAHHHH!!!!"

Vaggie: "It's about the size and thickness of a telephone book-"

Charlie: "AAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH....!!!!"

Vaggie: "Babe. Do I wanna know."

Charlie: "IT'S NOTHING CREEPY OR WEIRD I SWEAR!!!!!"

Vaggie: "... that honestly just makes it weirder. What's even left?"

Charlie: "Normal stuff! Just, normal everyday Vaggie-related observations! In alphabetical order. And. Cross filed by category and sub grouping, for quick reference."

Vaggie: "..."

Vaggie: "You've made a reference book on me."

Charlie: "Okay, now when you say it like THAT it sounds WEIRD!"

Vaggie: "Any, uh, particular reason you're doing this?"

Charlie: "My brain likes knowing things about you. I mean, I like knowing things about you."

Vaggie: "What... kinda things?"

Charlie: "Can I see the binder? Thanks." (pages through) "Ah-hem. Things Vaggie doesn't like! Not having wings, back pain, back pain from not having wings anymore, people being rude to me, not stabbing people who're being maybe a bit rude even though she really wants to, leaving her spear at home on dates so she doesn't stab people with it, stuff being messy even though she tries to hide how grumpy it makes her when I don't fold the towels up again, guitarists, swords, angels, any mention of heaven-"

Vaggie: (sweating) "H-how 'bout some examples from another category, sweetie?"

Charlie: "Right! Ummm- okay. Things Vaggie likes! High places! Backrubs- especially after she's slept wrong again because we cuddled the wrong way during the night oops- the way her hair looks now it's growing out long! Long gloves and thigh high stockings! Cleaning! Doing stuff together- like tidying up our room! Buying me binders so I can keep my notes together instead of stacking them piles in our room! Threatening people! Threatening people specifically with-"

Charlie: (growling) "Her. Spear."

Vaggie: "What?"

Charlie: "Nothing!" (goes back to smiling) "Holding hands!- with me. Snuggling!- with me. Kisses!- again specifically with me. Staring up at the light of heaven from high places-!"

Vaggie: "And you."

Charlie: "-and me! ...And me?"

Vaggie: "I like staring at you, too."

Charlie: "....."

Charlie: "Can you- hold on just ONE moment I- I need to make a note and, for that I need a glitter pen..."

Vaggie: "You're writing all this down in glitter pen?"

Charlie: "I want it to be cute! Like you!!!"

Vaggie: "And I kinda wanna kiss you."

Charlie: "You- because of the, weird non-creepy binder thing??"

Vaggie: "Yep."

Charlie: "....Noted!!!" (snaps binder SHUT) "I can totally make the actual notes later though, you know, if you want to do the kissing thing right now inste- Mmf!"

[rubiehart]

INTRODUCING BOOKWORM!READER…

she’s much like pope’s dynamic with the pogues, just has much more natural authority over the group, pretty comparable to john b. she makes most of the rational decisions and keeps her non-thinking friends out of a lot of trouble.

that doesn’t meant she shy’s away though, she’s always up for an adventure, she knows the rules so she knows how to bend them without getting caught, whether that be the law or the school dress code.

presumably has some kind of religious trauma from catholic schools she went to before landing up in kildare, or her parents are pretty by the book catholics so she’s always got an inkling of belief in the back of her mind, the reason why she has such good knowledge of random bible quotes down to the verse and even pope is like, what?

every time the pogues inevitably get caught for some kind of delinquent crime, shoupe’s pulling her to the side and advising her to stay away from ‘these kinds of kids’ because they’ll only drag her down with them, little to his knowledge she’d hatched the whole plan, jj’d just fucked up his simple job of being a distraction.

one of those people who’s just good at random shit, like you go into her room and you find a pair of pointe shoes in her closet and she’s just like oh yeah i did ballet for two years and never mentions it again. she just has never ending mom lore.

adding onto random shit in her room, there’s piles upon piles of every shoe you could think of: sneakers, boots, flats, heels, stilettos, the list goes on.

an absolute academic weapon, duh. it really does come naturally to her, so realistically she doesn’t spend too much time with her head in her books, something pope is eternally envious of. infact, the whole reason she’s even a part of the pogues is because of their academic rivalry all throughout middle school.

but that’s a story for another day…

[signedkoko]

can you do

asmo x fem! reader x fizz reader feels like a third party

In fact, I love your writing, keep doing what you are doing <3

Asmodeus X Reader X Fizzarolli [Comfort]

In which you are in a lovely relationship with the two, but can't help feeling left out from time to time.

They were both so caring and lovely

Of course, you were as well, you were mainly the one who took care of your house and made it more of a home, kept everything cozy

Because both of them worked so much, it meant you were able to spend time on your hobbies- as a job or not

Combined, you were all more than wealthy, so why make you work if you didn't have much you were excited for?

As much as you enjoyed being home, there were some perks you always envied

The two of them were superstars- or, well, Fizz was, Asmodeus had the title of a sin so that kept him in fame as well

But you never really did much to put you in a spotlight

That in itself was fine, the fame they shared came with enough creeps

Except more than once media ignored your existance in the relationship

Piles upon piles of articles about Fizz and Asmodeus being together, the public announcement at Mammon's pageant, even billboards and trending tags on social media

It was like everyone knew they were together, and left you out of the picture because, as one article put it, you were 'more or less a nobody'

Eventually, any dinners or events you went out to become a flurry of attention from others towards them both

To the point where others yelled at you for being in the way of a shot or assuming you were just another paparazzi

It was eating at you, and they knew it, but they weren't sure how to change that

Eventually, Asmodeus and Fizz agree that until everyone slaps your name along theirs, they would just have to show you off

Suddenly Fizz is asking you to help him in his acts to get some eyes on you, and giving you a nice kiss right in front of the crowd to thank you for your assistance

Asmodeus is having you plus one him to events he usually goes to alone, especially red carpets, and keeps his arm around your waist at all times

Honestly, it's a lot for you, but they only do it until it works

Eventually titles change to something along the lines of...

" Clown pageant star Fizzarolli shows off partner to live audience: Everything you need to know! "

" Lust ring leader Asmodeus appears on the red carpet with sinners: who are they?!? "

Much better

Author's Note - I may or may have not added LORE so I hope you still enjoy!!

[fuctacles]

Witch Hunt

for @steddie-spooktober "witch" & @stevieweek "i don't know about this one..." prompt which i've altered quite a bit but used it twice so it kind of evens out, right???

E | 2568 | transfem!Steve (goes by Eve), witch!Steve, demon!Eddie, medieval fantasy, some arson and murder boyfriend vibes, magical srs, possible continuation, im sorry for all the lore | Ao3 more spooktober: "would you please stop trying to scare them?"

Eddie hated his job. Not only the human realm was much colder than Hell, but also, the Deal didn't always work. The success rate has been increasing each time, but it still pissed him off when nothing happened after he's been freezing his balls off for hours. He was starting to think all his fur was just decorative. 

When he had arrived at Heimdall's, the guy threw him a skimpy tunic that barely covered his privates. 

"Is this the only one you have? You can see my whole dick and balls in it," Eddie had complained, but beggars can't be choosers and all that. 

He wraps the fabric tighter around himself when the next gust of air moves clouds away from the moon, making the pile of debris in the clearing visible. Time passes and Eddie waits impatiently, tapping his hooves against the ground, and idly picking stray grass blades from his tail. It seems like the pile moves a couple of times, but it's just the wind disturbing it. 

A distant clock tower strikes midnight, and finally, the ash pile moves and keeps on moving, until a hand emerges. Eddie straightens up, his tail twitching in interest. 

The ashes start breathing, the charred remains get knocked down and a coughing fit raises a dark cloud into the air. She'll be spitting soot for hours, but at least she's up now, another success for the statistics. 

He decides to take pity on the poor girl and steps away from the fence he's been perched on, making room for his wings. With two good swats, the dirt is gone, leaving a slightly dirty, very naked woman in the middle of a charred circle. 

He raises his eyebrows. 

"These fucking perverts burnt you naked?"

She finally notices his presence, her red-rimmed eyes blinking rapidly to clear her vision, and stands up on shaky legs, still low on energy after her resurrection, barely maintaining her balance. Suddenly, Eddie doesn't seem to matter anymore, as her hands fly to her chest. 

"What...?" she murmurs to herself.

Eddie tilts his head, watching the human with curiosity. Usually, the arrival of a demon gets a bigger fanfare, he's almost insulted, but he waits patiently. He already did for so long, and now he has something pretty to lay his eyes on for once. Witches usually came with ugly meat sacks, even after their resurrection. 

"Where the fuck is my dick?!"

Ah, yes, that would explain it. The naked thing, too.

"Do you want it back?" Eddie asks because he's a demon with manners. 

"No!" she protests immediately, eyes snapping up to him from observing her crotch. "No," she adds softer. "I like it like that." Her hand reaches down to inspect her new parts, so Eddie takes it upon himself to swat it away with his tail.

"Hey!" 

He tsks, his long tongue slipping out to flick in a warning. 

"Let's not put any more dirt in your holes, okay?" he berates her. Regretfully, he shrugs off the tunic he's been wearing and throws it at the girl. "For your modesty, m'lady." 

She glowers at him but slips it over her head anyway. What was small for the demon, doesn't do much more for a human, especially not one with the curves that she has. She wrinkles her nose. 

"Is there even a point? You can see my whole—"

Eddie slaps her hand preemptively. 

"Hey! I wasn't even touching it!" 

"Your hand was too close."

"No, it wasn't!" 

Eddie rolls his eyes. 

"Let's clean you up and then you can touch it all you want. You have a river in this ditch?" he asks, nose twitching in the air. He turns at the same time the witch points her hand. 

"To the left of the village." 

Eddie's eyes stray to the cluster of houses she seems determined not to look at.

"Do you have anyone left there?" he asks curiously.

"Not anymore," she scoffs, taking off towards the river. 

Eddie has to follow her, he can't risk losing a witch, but an urge flares inside of him that he has to let loose. He claps his hands together and starts rubbing, sparks flying until a fire forms in his palm. He bounces it from one hand to another and nuzzles it with his finger, always happy to work with the little guys. When he feels the witch is watching him, he refocuses and whispers to it:

"Go, little one. Do your worst."

The flame flies off his palm, aided by a push from Eddie's phantom wings. 

She doesn't ask, only eyes him curiously, but he pushes gently on her back to prompt her into walking along his side. 

"It's gonna take a while," he says without any other explanation. 

The walk isn't long, and soon she's handing over the tunic and dipping into the lazily flowing water, dark like ink but glittering with the reflection of stars above. The night sky is probably the only thing Eddie misses in the Underworld. 

He sits on the plush grass, observing as the witch dunks under the surface and rubs her skin until it turns pink. It still contrasts with the water like it's made of the finest porcelain. 

"I guess you're clean enough to explore now," he says as her movements slow down like she's already contemplating it. She must be, he can taste her curiosity from his spot on the river bank.

"You're gonna sit there and watch?" she glowers at him.

"Of course," he answers matter-of-factly. "I'm a demon."

She huffs, but this time it sounds more amused. Her hand travels down her body.

"What's your name, witch?" Eddie asks, resting his chin on his hand. 

"Stev—" she hesitates. 

"Eve?" he picks up curiously. That would be hilarious. 

She kind of nods, kind of shakes her head. 

"I was Steven, then I went by Stevonne, but..."

"That's okay, take your time," Eddie reassures her. "This is your Rebirth, you can pick any name you like."

She hums, and he can see her hand making slow, circling movements under the water. 

"I like Eve," she admits.

"Yeah?" Eddie perks up with a smile. "You can call me Eddie. It's nice to make your acquaintance, Eve."

She smiles and opens her mouth to say something, but her attention is pulled somewhere above Eddie's shoulder. The water starts glowing orange. 

"Looks like the little guy is having fun," he hums, not looking around. The glow of fire looks better on Eve's skin anyway. 

The river carries distant cries for help, a reminder that it's not just a big, pretty bonfire. 

"Don't worry, he'll get them all," he says.

"I'm not worried," she assures quickly. 

Eve's fixated on the fire consuming her village, her eyes full of awe and the reflection of flames. She's glowing in the now orange water and she looks gorgeous reflecting Eddie's carnage like that. She'll look breathtaking among hellfire. 

"Maybe we could spare some," he wonders out loud with a lazy smile. She looks back at him. "So we can hunt them down later. The way they hunt my new favorite witch."

She smiles, mean and thrilled. He'll have to fight fang and claw to keep her.

"Maybe we could." 

They look at each other for a long while, until his eyes dip. 

"You done?" Eddie looks pointedly at her stilled hand. She sighs with frustration. 

"It's way different from this angle," she complains. 

Eddie laughs out loud, the sound echoed by the collapsing church that used to tower over the townsfolk. 

"Need a hand?" he offers, rolling his eyes when she eyes his claws with distrust. He flicks out his tongue instead. "Need a tongue?" 

Eve's totally on board for that, clambering out of the water, her hazelnut hair dripping over her curves. The wet shine on her skin reflects the dancing flames and Eddie would be in love if he knew how to.

"Weren't you appalled that I was watching you just seconds ago?" he laughs at her, a little bit mean, but he already knows she can take it. 

"Turns out I like that," she shrugs without shame, making Eddie's smile grow. The sight of his sharp teeth doesn't deter her either. In an instant, he has a lap full of a human, or at least as much of one there was left in Eve. He has her tits right in his face and he wouldn't be a demon if he didn't give them a taste, licking the river water off her skin. She sighs, fingers tangling in his unruly mane of hair, seeking purchase in his horns. He groans when she grabs them, and wraps his arms around her, pressing into her skin so he can flip them around, and lay her down in the bed of grass. 

Her yelp turns into a delighted laugh and Eddie trembles with the sound. They don't make witches like that anymore. Free and open to the joys of life, ready to frolic and mingle with the things Unknown. Christianity made it so hard for demons and fae to get laid. 

He presses hot kisses down her torso, spends extra time sucking around her navel, then nibbling around her mound, hiking her thighs higher and higher, nosing at the crease there, inhaling her scent, until he gets to his destination. It takes two, three expert licks for Eve to lock her legs around him and scream into the night. 

Eddie gently laps up around her hole, her juices too precious to let fall on the grass below. Her breath hitches and she trembles but doesn't move away. 

"Do you want more?" he asks, black eyes searching for an answer. 

Her eyes are still full of fire.

"Yes."

So he gives her one more, then three, until he loses count and his tongue is numb and Eve's but a puddle of human-shaped limbs underneath him. When he laps at her entrance, drunk himself on her smell and taste, she spreads her legs invitingly, eyes blown and impossibly wide, sparkling with flames. 

They stare into each other's dark eyes as he slithers his tongue inside. He rubs against her walls, searching for her face for a reaction, but she's too out of it for anything more than an involuntary twitch of muscles. However, when he moves away, she seems disappointed. He crawls up her body to properly look at her face, but before he can say anything, she lurches forward.

Kissing is not something he's used to in such circumstances, but he indulges anyway, letting her tongue inspect the sharp points of his teeth, and maneuver his hand on her breast. He squeezes, laps, and sucks, letting himself get lost in this new dance. 

"You know," he says when she breaks away to restore oxygen. "I don't do that outside of sealing a deal," he admits.

Eve blinks at him owlishly. 

"You don't kiss just for fun? Aren't you a demon?"

Eddie barks out a laugh. 

"I guess kissing is too tame for our tastes." 

"What's your taste?" she asks, curiosity radiating off of her in hot waves. 

He hums, caressing her side.

"Insane witches, apparently."

"What do you do with them?" she presses on, her leg moving dangerously high up his body, the coarse hair of his thighs not enough to deter her.

"Well, personally..." Eddie likes to play with his food, a habit he couldn't shake since his childhood, so he rolls away from Eve to lie on his side instead. To placate her, he starts playing with the hair that grow low on her belly. "I collect the resurrected witches and show them around. You'll get a tour of Hell and any other realms you wish to see, and then I'll help you settle wherever you feel like."

With every word, the pout on her face only grows. 

"You're not keeping me?" she asks, playing up the whine in her voice, but he knows there are genuine feelings behind it. 

"Witches aren't meant to be tied down," he explains apologetically. "They're free spirits abusing the laws of reality." He reaches for her hand to press a kiss against her fingers. "It's a power best wielded in solitude."

She pries her hand away and sits up.

"Why would I want the power if I can't share it? Don't witches have like... familiars? Or something?"

Eddie frowns.

"A witch of your power doesn't need one. They're meant to amplify and aid spells, and you're pretty much on the same level as a common demon."

"Are you a common demon?"

"Yes," he nods. 

"So we can't make a deal?" she presses on. 

His frown deepens. 

"Why would you want a deal with someone equal in power? Deals are made between a master and a servant."

"But is it not possible? Can't I have an equal by my side? A partner in crime?"

Maybe he should backtrack on her being his favorite. She's asking too many questions, ones he's not used to from a freshly reborn witch. He sighs. 

"Technically you can, but it's an exclusive deal. You're tied for eternity, you belong to each other. It's not a common practice," he says, playing off what he's been told and overheard. "Master-servant contracts have an expiration date and are easier to break. I'm not sure a deal like that could even be broken."

Eve wraps her hands around her knees, processing the information. 

"So I could tie a demon, or an equally powerful being, to myself for all eternity?" 

Somehow, Eddie doesn't like the idea of Eve making a deal like that with a random demon. He nods, though.

"Yes."

"Let's say I'd want to do that with you, right now. How would that look?" she asks curiously. 

He thinks about it, imagines it, and it pains him deep into his core. 

"A simple deal is sealed with a kiss or a blood pact. A deal between equals requires an intercourse."

"Huh."

The idea doesn't seem appalling to her, which doesn't surprise him at this point. He can feel her eyes sliding down his body.

"You're not going to find my dick like that," he says with amusement. 

She huffs but doesn't budge, searching his gaze instead. 

"Wouldn't you want to make me yours? And you mine?"

Eddie considers it. 

"I never thought about it before," he admits. "Is that something you'd want?"

She lays back on the grass with a sigh. 

"I'm just tired of being alone. Of nobody staying. You're the nicest person I've met in years, and you're not even human." He laughs at that, and she turns towards him with a smile. "You burnt a village for me." She frowns. "Unless you do that for all the witches."

Eddie quickly shakes his head. Too quickly.

"Only the most mistreated ones," he admits. 

"Is it a pity thing, then?"

"No," he protests again. "I wanted to do something nice for you."

Eve smiles. 

"Thank you."

He smiles back, and when he leans down, she meets him for a lazy kiss. 

"Would you make me yours?" she asks when they part and the offer sounds alarmingly tempting. 

"You should meet other demons before making a commitment like that," he says, and she rolls her eyes. Then, his ears twitch as he finds the perfect distraction for them both. 

"You ready to hunt?" he smiles down at her, wide and dangerous. "Someone escaped the fire."

ko-fi

[theladycarpathia]

Happiness, love, cohabitation (Clipboards and couches notwithstanding)

a.k.a. Tommy's still smitten by Clipboard Buck. (sequel to To Do List: Me (Buck's Tasklist)

“I hope you’re ready for this,” Eddie says under his breath, just as the moving truck pulls in.

“Ready for what?” Tommy asks, shielding his eyes against the sun. “Happiness? Love? Cohabitation?”

Eddie just gives him a look. Perhaps there’s a reason that he’s the only person from the 118 that volunteered to help today. Hen and Howie were conveniently otherwise engaged. Cowards.

“You know exactly what I’m talking about,” he says darkly, nodding at the gleam of Buck’s truck down the road. It sounds ridiculous but Tommy’s stomach still dips a little at the mere suggestion of Buck.

“Evan’s moving in today,” Tommy says, choosing to ignore every single thinly veiled, ominous word out of Eddie’s mouth. “I swear to you, I have no idea.”

“Yes, you do,” Eddie says, as Buck pulls in, the flatbed still somehow piled high despite the large truck filled with Buck’s belongings. It hadn’t made a lot of sense for Tommy to move into Buck’s loft so it had been an easy decision. Tommy lives close enough to the 118 that it’s not that much more of a commute for Buck. “But you’re being a dick about it.”

“I told you,” Tommy says easily, as Buck climbs out, balancing a box on his knee as he shuts the door. “I’m happy.” Eddie just shakes his head.

“We’ll see how long that lasts,” he promises, as Buck bounds over.

“Hi,” Tommy says and Buck beams back, beautiful and soft.

“Hi,” Buck returns, almost looking uncertain. Tommy’s had to face a few wobbly moments in the past few weeks. But he gathers that the past few times Buck’s moved in with someone it hasn’t gone very well.

“It’s not until Eddie pointedly clears his throat that Tommy realizes they’re just standing in the drive, with the removal men waiting patiently.

“Sorry we were a bit late,” Buck apologizes, looking as flustered as Tommy feels. They’re still in the ‘honeymoon stage’ as Hen likes to quip. Which is bull, because Tommy knows that when it’s the right person that it never just goes away. Hen and Karen for starters, are not exempt. “There was some trouble getting the furniture down the stairwell. I don’t remember it being so difficult to move in…”

“That’s because it was flat packed, Buck,” Eddie says and rolls his shoulders. “Where do we start?”

And then - alright, so Tommy had been expecting it, he had - Buck reaches into the cardboard box and pulls out a clipboard.

The look that Eddie gives him is very nearly worth it.

“I fucking told you,” Eddie says, tipping back the bottle of water until it’s empty. “God, I just knew it.”

“So you did,” Tommy says and Eddie crumples up the bottle.

“Are you telling me that you don’t see it?” he demands, tossing the bottle towards the recycling. “Are you seriously telling me that Clipboard Buck is just…Buck to you?”

Tommy’s been hearing about Clipboard Buck for nearly as long as he’s been dating Buck. Like Maurice, the jinx and the heist, it’s one of those things that seems to just pass into the 118 lore. Clipboard Buck is like a unicorn that occasionally appears before vanishing once more. If unicorns wore frowns and clicked their pens if you forgot to follow his exacting instructions.

The thing is that Tommy doesn’t mind. Everyone has their quirks. Howard smacks his gum, Hen frequently forgets to turn off her mothering, Eddie veers to the over dramatic. It’s just one of those things you learn to live with for someone you love.

“It’s endearing,” he says defensively, while Eddie snorts. “Besides, you just have to know how to use it.”

Eddie pauses, mouth open, before he wrinkles his nose. It didn’t take him long to think of the implications.

To be fair, it hadn’t taken Tommy all that long either the first time he’d seen Buck with a clipboard.

“Actually,” Eddie says, grabbing a few new bottles of water from the fridge. “I really don’t want to know.”

“Want to know what?” Buck asks, appearing in the doorway. It’s been hard work - it’s a beautifully sunny Los Angeles day and even with Buck’s loft, there’s still an astounding amount of stuff that needs to be moved in and arranged. Tommy’s - now theirs - bedroom has a significant pile of boxes lined up against the far wall.

Absolutely nothing obstructing the bed. Tommy had been very clear about that.

“What you do with that clipboard,” Eddie says bluntly and ducks out. Tommy reaches out to grab hold of Buck’s waist and pull him closer, deftly removing the clipboard from his grasp.

“This isn’t unpacking,” Buck says against Tommy’s bottom lip. Tommy slides a hand down the curve of Buck’s rear and isn’t surprised that Buck doesn’t take a whole lot of persuading to lean in. They’re pressed together, chests down to knees, and Tommy is pretty sure that Eddie handing out water to the removal guys can at least buy them a few minutes.

“We deserve a break,” Tommy insists and kisses him.

And yeah, a break turns into a few minutes of making out like horny teenagers against the kitchen island but sometimes you take what you have to to get through the day.

“This is going to make it very difficult to move the bookcase,” Buck sighs, letting Tommy kiss along his jaw.

“How’s the list?” Tommy asks, because that’s another, unforeseen advantage of Buck’s clipboard. Aside from the very memorable occasions where Buck writes out every awesomely filthy want in his head (to be ticked off meticulously) it also gives them an end goal for when everyone else goes home.

“Getting there,” Buck says, sliding a hand around Tommy’s neck. “A few more boxes, some bigger items. Are you sure all this stuff is going to fit?” Tommy shrugs. He hadn’t worried about it too much. He’s got the space and they’re both off tomorrow. Tonight they can christen the bed and unpack Buck’s essentials and tomorrow they can make a start on combining their lives.

“We’ll manage,” Tommy soothes. He can hear noises outside and they don’t have long but he wants to keep Buck here for just a moment longer. He smells faintly of sweat and lemon shower gel and Tommy wants to just keep breathing it in.

But when they emerge from the kitchen - the back of Buck’s hair rather obviously ruffled - they encounter an obstacle in the living room. Literally.

“We’ll have to shift that,” Tommy notes, because there’s not quite enough space for his couch, Buck’s couch, and the armchair. “It’s not exactly going to…Buck?”

Because Buck is staring, wide-eyed at the collection of furniture currently crowding Tommy’s front room.

“You have a couch,” Buck says and Tommy blinks.

“Yes,” he says. “Most people do.”

“I have a couch,” Buck says and Tommy is completely lost. He’s learned a lot of things about Buck by now - the jealousy (the incident with Sal was a good indicator,) the insecurities, the abandonment issues, and the obvious Clipboard Tyrant tendencies. Not one of them has been a deal breaker, despite Buck’s concerns.

But this is new.

“Still not seeing the problem here, Evan,” Tommy says. Eddie passes by the open doorway, hands now empty of water bottles. He sticks his head through, and briefly makes a confused face at Tommy behind Buck’s back.

“My previous couches came with girlfriends,” Buck explains and Eddie hurriedly disappears again.

“Did this couch come with a girlfriend?” Tommy asks, eying the blue three-seater that’s been wedged up against the wall.

“Look, I never had a couch because I lived in a frat house and then with Abby. And then couch one was chosen by Ali, who left me. Couch two had to go when Taylor moved in and then she moved out and I didn’t have a couch. And then my mom bought me a couch but Cameron had her baby on it and Couch four had to go to Goodwill because it was chosen by Natalia the Death Doula.”

“I see,” Tommy says, although he really doesn’t. But there’s not a lot of point in trying to decipher Buck when he babbles like this. “So. You bought this couch. By yourself?”

“No girlfriends,” Buck says and gestures to the couch in question. “Statistically, I don’t have the best luck with couches. Or girlfriends. If I get rid of this couch, I’m starting the cycle all over again. I know Hen told me to stop counting but if I buckle on this it’s very not Buck 5.0.”

Not one word of that made sense to Tommy. But he knows when Buck is spiraling and for some reason right now, Buck is spiraling.

“Evan,” Tommy says and rests his hands on either side of Buck’s face. He strokes his thumbs over Buck’s cheeks until he stops talking. “It’s fine. We can keep your couch. Mine can go downstairs or we can move the armchair. You don’t need to get rid of it.”

“I don’t?” Buck asks, looking dumbfounded.

“No,” Tommy says firmly. He still doesn’t quite understand it but the thing is that he doesn’t need to to soothe Buck. Buck’s worried about something and he can fix it. That’s all there is. “We’ll sort it out tomorrow. Your couch looks nice up here.”

“Okay,” Buck mumbles and then slumps against Tommy. “Thanks.”

“Of course,” Tommy says and presses a kiss against the port-wine stain of Buck’s birthmark.

They stay like that for a while, wrapped around each other, Buck tucking his head in the curve of Tommy’s neck.

“I knew there might be complications moving in together, I just didn’t expect something like that,” Tommy says frankly when Buck finally lifts his head up.

“I’ll explain later,” Buck says, looking a little sheepish now that the moment of panic is over. “We should get the rest of the stuff in. Where’s Eddie?”

“Run away like a chicken,” Tommy says. “Does he know about the couch theory?”

“He knows,” Buck says darkly. Okay, maybe this is another part of the 118 lore - and Tommy needs to remember to ask later about the Buck labeling system. What was Buck 1.0? Does he even want to know?

When they emerge out into the sunshine again, the removal men and Eddie are sitting on the grass out front, drinking water.

“All good?” Eddie asks and Buck offers him a hand.

“Good,” he says, pulling Eddie up. “Are we nearly done?”

“You tell me,” Eddie says, putting his hands on his hips and looking at Tommy. It’s very much saying ‘You asked for this.’

But all Tommy can think as Buck hurries back inside for his clipboard is that yes, he absolutely did.

[alpaca-clouds]

How to Play Wicked Grace - The Rules

Alright. As promised, I will finally go into trying to fully construct how to play Wicked Grace. I spent this week overthinking this game and annoying pretty much everyone I know with my ramblings about this game. I went so far mainly about what the full deck looks like, and about the card values within it. And let me quickly update the list of cards, as I changed around some of the card names to fit better with the established lore.

So, let me quickly for once list up the cards. In my analysis the Wicked Grace card game is a card game with a deck of 4 suits, each of them featuring 15 cards, making the deck 60 cards in total. The suits are Serpents (also called Drakes), Angels (also called Spirits), Knights (also called Blades) and Songs.

Other than with a Poker Deck, the cards are not mainly the same in every suite, but unique to every suite, as rather than focusing on numbers, they are focusing on mythological and magical themes. The cards are:

Serpents:

Serpent of Temerity

Serpent of Mercy

Serpent of Avarice

Serpent of Empathy

Serpent of Deceit

Serpent of Insight

Serpent of Insight

Serpent of Sadness

Serpent of Loyality

Serpent of Decay

Serpent of Night

Serpent of Snummer

Serpent-Entwined Dagger

Serpent of the Forgotten

Serpent of Judgement

Serpent of the Lotus

Angels:

Angel of Temerity

Angel of Mercy

Angel of Cupidity

Angel of Charity

Angel of Treachery

Angel of Truth

Angel of Pride

Angel of Fortitude

Angel of Death

Angel of Day

Angel of Spring

Angel-Drawn Bow

Angel of the Fade

Angel of Declarations

Angel of Hearts

Knights:

Knight of Temerity

Knight of Mercy

Knight of Greed

Knight of Compassion

Knight of Duplicity

Knight of Wisdom

Knight of Anger

Knight of Bravery

Knight of Life

Knight of the Dawn

Knight of Winter

Knight-Wielded Shield

Knight of Ages

Knight of Sacrifice

Knight of Roses

Songs:

Song of Temerity

Song of Mercy

Song of Gluttony

Song of Relief

Song of Lies

Song of Sincerity

Song of Dispair

Song of Hope

Song of Rebirth

Song of Twilight

Song of Autumn

Song-Praised Staff

Song of Fires

Song of Ascension

Song of Lilies

Other than suits, the cards have themes. I am going to assume that primarily the cards usually are considered to have three different themes: Emotions/Spirits, Cycles of Nature, and Higher Powers. I am going to assume the Flower Cards are going to be considered Jokers, and can be counted to each theme as wanted.

However, within each theme, there is also always cards that are very closely related in the Cycles of Nature and the Higher Powers, while among the Emotion themes at least the positive and negative emotions can be grouped together. Just keep that in mind, as I go into the further rules! 😊

I reckon that the game given that it seems to have 60 cards could be played with up to 12 people, though in that case I am going to assume the rules would need to be adjusted given that you definitely can swap out cards. It might however be – we see that in the scenes – that in those cases there might just be a way of exchanging cards between the players.

How to Play

However, assuming we have six or less players, I do reckon that the game usually goes like this:

The deck is shuffled.

Everyone receives five cards.

Every player can switch cards, putting cards from their own hand onto the table and either drawing from the deck, or taking cards from the pile of cards discarded by other players before. (I am going to assume, that the cards are always face down and that playing them face up, as you can see it some people do in the game, is considered cheating.)

Every player gets a chance to switch out cards in the same order (probably clockwise or counter clockwise).

Once a person places a bet, everyone else can either go along or forfeit.

After the bet is placed, everyone has one chance to swap cards one more time – after that last swap deciding on whether to hold the bet or not.

After everyone has either gone in or dropped out, the cards of everyone in are compared and the person with the highest rated hand gets to take the betted money (or whatever everyone is betting on).

I am assuming this will then be repeated until nobody has anything left to bet with. As it often is with such gambling!

Now, the final question is: Who wins?

Winning Hands

Firstly, the table I am using above can be found in GoogleDocs. You can use it, if you want to.

Now, it does seem reasonable to assume, that generally speaking some of the rules of Poker apply. We know that much from the dialogue. To be exact we know:

Having two of the same suit is a pair, and gives points.

Having three of the same is a triple and gives points.

From this I am going to assume that having four or five of the same suit also gives points.

If two people have the same number of cards o the same suit, the person who manages to get cards not just of a suit, but also of the same “theme” will win a tie.

It also seems to be reasonable to assume that each card has an individual point value, so the higher valued cards will with a tie also win out over lower valued cards.

Additionally, the dialogues in Inquisition imply heavily, that the suits also have different values – however, we have no idea how those values go. My personal hunch would be Serpents < Knights < Angels < Songs, just based on mythology, but it is just a hunch.

We also know, that there have to be some sort of combinations like in Hanafuda, where certain combinations of three or more cards have also their own values.

So, generally I will assume that the following combinations will give you points:

Five cards of the same suit will have the highest value.

Followed by four cards of the same suit.

Followed by a triplet and a pair.

Followed by just a triplet.

Followed by two pairs.

Followed by one pair.

Again: you will get more points, if they are from the same theme.

Also, I am going to assume that if you collect:

All four seasons

All four cycles of life

All four times of day

All four aspects of Rule

All four weapons

All four concepts

That is going to be also worth some sort of points. However, I am not fully sure whether those are worth more than five of the same suit. Mathematically they should be (it is a lot harder to get four specific cards out of 60 than any five out of twelve from the same set of 60), but we also know that not always to gambling rules follow math.

However, we also know that there are special combinations (again, like Hanafuda) that have specific point values). The one we know is this hand from Isabela:

“I have three angels: fortitude, truth, and charity, and the knight of dawn. I win!”

So, I am going to call this combination “The Brave Knight at Dawn”, because those kinds of combinations usually are going to have some sort of name. I am also going to assume that it needs the knight of dawn and the angel of fortitude, but will do with any other two positive emotion angels.

I am also going to assume one other thing: I am thinking that these combinations might actually differ depending on where in Thedas you are. Because in games where there are more storytelling heavy combinations, this is a thing that happens a lot in real life: There are combinations that makes sense in a very specific context, but not in others. And if you really wanna have fun, given that in most DA games the characters come from different backgrounds, you totally could write a story of a fun game of Wicked Grace, that ends up being a big ass argument about which combinations are legal and which are not. I would find that hilarious!

Some ideas about combinations:

The Coronation: The Knight of Roses, the Song of Ascension, and the Angels of Day and of Hearts

The Last Betrayal: The Serpent-Entwined Dagger, the Serpent of Judgement, the Angel of Treachery and the Song of Twilight

The First Day of Spring: Angels of Day and Spring, Songs of Lilies and Hopes

Execution of the Innocent: Serpent of Judgement, Angel of Death, Angel-Drawn Bow, and Song of Dispair

The Age of Dragons: The Serpent of the Forgotten, the Song of Fires, the Angel of Pride, and the Knight of Rage

I hope you get what I am trying to get at. As I said, technically we just know that some sort of those combinations exist. And given we only know one of them that exists in canon, we can pretty much come up with whatever. :P

But yeah, I am going to assume these are generally speaking the rules of how this game is played.

And I am also going to assume that there are at least five other games played with the same sort of deck. I might at some point think about those as well – but not today. For today, I will just leave it at this, and hope I helped someone to clear this out for some sort of fanfic.

You will excuse me? I definitely have to write a fic about how Spite learns to play this game xD

Thank you again @carabas, because without your write up, I could not have managed this. Also thanks to Salem, Benji, and Kay (who are all not on tumblr for some reason), who spent the last week listening to me ramble about this for about six hours total, and helped clearing out the finer details.

[bamboozledbird]

IGNITE: A Teen Wolf S1 AU (Reader's Version) // Prev. / Chapter 6

Characters: Stiles Stilinski, fem!reader, ofc, omc Pairing: Eventual Stiles x Reader, but man are we talking slow burn Word Count: 6k Warnings: Canon typical gore/violence, parental death (rip to your fake mom), depictions of depression (apathy, dissociation, 'numb little bug' vibes) Tags: Canon has been lovingly scrapped for parts, author is a chaotic bi and it shows, prolific overuse of the em dash, the slowest of burns i fear

Summary: You can always smell ash long after the fire is gone. Perhaps, that’s why you still can’t breathe without choking on the past. It’s been four years since your mom died. Four years since she burned alive. Four years since you didn’t. You survived, but they must have buried your heart with her because most days you feel like a shadow, some horrifically sad creature caught halfway between a ghost and a lamb for slaughter. 

You can’t scrub the bitter smell of hospital from your memories, not even with denial. Maybe, that’s why death and disease follows Stiles wherever he goes now. It’s been eight years since his mom died. Eight years since he didn’t. Eight years since he decided that he wouldn’t let anyone he loved die ever again. He survived, but Beacon Hills’ bloody underbelly is making it pretty damn hard for him to keep his promise.

Time never stops turning. The grief never dissipates. Children soldier on—but in a town where all the monsters under the bed are real, and old family secrets rattle in every closet, how long can two fragile, breakable humans survive?

Maybe, the real question is: How long will they want to?

Chapter Summary: You go full Charlie Kelly and start to put all the pieces together. Stiles knows more than he lets on, but for some reason you trust him anyway. 

A/N: check me out on ao3 (dork_knight) for the full lore version!

Taglist: @eaterof-concrete, @m30wk1ttycat

You played and replayed the video at least a hundred times, over and over again, examining every poorly shot, grainy frame until your eyes burned. You were frantic—a rabbit, picking her den apart, ripping her fur out, searching for all the minute flaws and misplaced straw; a girl, chewing her cheek bloody, tearing at her tights, desperately looking for some kind of explanation that wouldn’t completely shatter her fragile grasp on reality. 

It would be one thing if it was just the video. You could easily rationalize the video away; you’d seen enough fan-made edits of Buffy and Twilight to know that amateur editors were hardly amateurs anymore—but it wasn’t just the video. It was the video, and the gutted video clerk, and the mangled bus driver, and the severed woman with wolf fibers found her butchered corpse—all interconnected by one very furry, clawed, fanged… thing. 

Rolling onto your back, you scrubbed at your eyes, fingers cruel and violent in their attempt to scour away images of blood, and death, and monsters. There had to be an explanation. A rational explanation. Your gaze reflexively drifted towards the charm bundle on your windowsill, propped up against a few of your favorite novels.

The books were old, spines creased and splitting at the corners from little fingers and a lot of love. They were your mom’s before they were yours; you read them together under the covers whenever it rained. For a long time, you kept them hidden away under your bed with all the other things that might crumble your brittle will, but the yellowing pages steeped in memories didn’t seem so haunting anymore. You were already halfway through the stack, consuming the faded ink like a fiend in the night. It was odd; there wasn’t much that had changed since now and then. Really, only one thing. It made sense, you supposed after some thought. Your childhood favorites: Nancy Drew, Sherlock Holmes, the Hercule Poirot novels, they were exactly the kind of thing a sheriff’s son would appreciate.

The largest book in the pile was your complete collection of Sherlock Holmes. You chewed on your lip, eyes tracing the elegant swoops and swirls illuminated on the spine. Words curled along your brainstem in time with the loops, breaking through the buzzing in your mind with quiet British flourish: When you have eliminated all which is impossible, then whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.

Your nose scrunched, bottom lip trapped between your teeth. Surely, you hadn’t eliminated all logical explanations yet. Surely. 

The metallic embellishments glinted at you, taunting you with their unmistakable presence and insistent reminder of your evening’s unavoidable ending. There was only one place to go for the improbable, after all; you just had to get past your pride and everything you believed to be true. 

Before you could finish putting on your shoes, your dad found his way into your room. He lingered on the border of the black cherry floor. His stance was awkward, unsure of his footing, and you froze with your shoelace in hand. After a moment of stilted silence, he cleared his throat and loosened his tie from its chafing Windsor knot, “I just wanted to let you know I’ll be out later than usual.”

Nodding, you tied your laces into neat bows and pulled the wrinkles in your tights straight, “Parent Teacher Conferences, right?”

“Mhm,” he paused and attempted a smile. The edges were stiff, as if his mouth had forgotten the movement, at least when directed at you, “Should I be worried?”

It was his attempt at a joke; you knew that. You still felt a flutter of anxiety. Despite Stiles’s reassurances, you weren't so cavalier about breaking the rules. “All A’s,” you finally said, quietly to your feet. 

Your dad gave you a real smile; smaller than his previous attempt at playfulness, but this one was your favorite. He was proud. It’d been a long time since he’d looked at you with anything other than grief and unease. “That’s my girl.” He rapped his knuckles against your door frame and said, “There’s takeout money on the table. Don’t stay out too long; there’s a—”

“Curfew, I know.” You slung your bag over your shoulder and fiddled with the strap, “I’ll be back soon.”

He didn’t ask you where you were going. He never did. You weren't sure what that said about your relationship, but you didn’t want to think about it any longer than you had to. There were far more pressing things to dwell on.

Maggie was in her kitchen when you opened the door to her house. It was cozy, small; she'd inherited it from her mother when she passed years ago. There were still signs of her 70s nostalgia all over every room. The shag carpet was horrendous, but you kind of liked the color. The muted green almost looked like a bed of moss, like something out of a fairytale.  You had your own key; you’d had one since you were old enough to be a latchkey kid—even though you were never really on your own for long. There was always someone around to help you with your homework, bake you brownies without getting shell in the batter, read you stories about far away places and imaginary worlds. You’d had a wonderful childhood until it ended; some people weren’t that lucky. You knew that you were fortunate to have twelve years of Rockwellian bliss; it was more than a lot of people got. Knowing, however, still didn’t make the after any easier. 

“Want a scone?” Maggie’s head was buried in the oven, steam curling around her shoulders. She emerged with a tray of browned lumps in pink oven-mitted hands, “They're slightly burnt, but it’s not my fault. My timer betrayed me.”

You didn’t reply. You chewed on your lip and studied the plants hanging from the ceiling. The Angelica was in full bloom, little clusters of white fuzzy fireworks. The roots were supposed to ward off evil. You would’ve scoffed at the thought a week ago. Now, there was a lingering ‘what if’ you couldn’t shake. 

You sighed quietly, the exhaustion rattling through your chest, and trailed your gaze to the next plant. Skullcaps were your favorite, not because they were supposed to induce visions, obviously; you liked the blossoms. The fluted periwinkle petals certainly looked magical. You picked a flower from the lowest stem and rolled it between your fingers, “You really believe in this shit, right?” You looked up from your hands and studied Maggie’s face carefully, “It’s not all a scam?”

The anticipated gasp carried through the kitchen, followed by the clang of a plonked baking sheet, “I resent the very implication.”

“I’m serious.” You stared at Maggie’s back, watching for any tell-tale signs of tension or rigidity, “Do you really believe that witches are real and wolfsbane can kill werewolves?”

“I will not be abused in my own home,” there was a lilt in Maggie’s voice, a flippancy that usually made your lips twitch into a smile, but Maggie's hand trembled and sent the scone on the edge of her spatula to the floor. Maggie dropped to her knees and scooped the crumbling pieces into a pile with desperate hands, oddly frantic for something as silly as a dropped pastry. 

You squatted next to her and rested your hands over Maggie’s until they stilled. “Mags,” you were quiet, gentle in your sweeping, but Maggie didn’t seem soothed by the clean floor. 

Maggie’s chin lifted, but her eyes zeroed in on the tip of your nose instead of your eyes. “Babe.”

You gripped your knees, clinging to the caps with ragged nails and flexed knuckles, like your bones were the only solid thing left in the room. “Can you be serious for once in your life, please.” Your tongue went heavy, adhering to the floor of your mouth, effectively sealing everything else you couldn’t bring yourself to say: Please, I think I’m losing my mind, and I don’t know how much longer I can white-knuckle it.  

Maggie turned towards the counter carelessly, and her pinky brushed against the cookie sheet. She let out a sharp hiss through her teeth and shook her hand in the air. “Why does it matter?” Her words were muffled through the blistering finger in her mouth, “People buy what they want to buy.”

Your empathy was thinning and so was your patience. Your teeth gnashed, and you winced when your tongue got in the way. “I don’t give a shit about your delusional customers. You know what I mean.”

“See, ‘delusional,’” Maggie stuffed a scone into her mouth even though it was still steaming. Her eyes watered as she struggled to swallow the wad of blueberry and oatmeal lodged against the roof of her mouth. “Why are we even talking about this?” she said thickly, throat clogged with congealed crumbs and something skittish in her eyes. She bent over the sink and turned the water to cold; you weren't entirely sure if she was soothing the burns on her tongue or simply avoiding eye contact.

“There’s something happening here,” your voice trembled, much to your disdain, and you were further horrified by the stinging in your tear ducts, “and I don’t know what to do.”

Maggie’s head whipped towards you, wetting her hair and splattering her lenses with water droplets that dripped onto her nose, “You don’t have to do anything. That’s not your job.” She clutched your shoulders with desperate fingers, digging into your scapulae until it hurt, “Your job is to go to school, get good grades, and live happily ever after.”

You shook off her hands and wiped your nose against your shoulder, “Why won’t you just give me a straight answer?” 

“Well, I am bi–”

“Maggie,” you struggled for words until there was only one left on your tongue, “please.”

A blank expression fell over her face, and then Maggie seemed to sink through the floor even though she was still standing. “Did you read the book?”

You could barely hear her. Your nose shriveled towards your brows, “What book?”

Her eyes shined with something; you couldn’t quite define it. There was a glimmer of remorse, but you couldn’t make out the rest. “‘Beacon Hills’ Bloodlines’.”

For a moment, you were too confused to be frustrated, “Not really.”

Confusion became bewilderment when Maggie left the kitchen without a word. She returned with a thick book; though, book wasn’t quite accurate. It was really a stack of pulp parchment barely held together with a piece of threaded twine. It looked older than the Bloodline’s journal; you could see a few pages sticking out from the others, and the spine was in desperate need of re-stitching. You reluctantly took the pages from Maggie’s hands after she shook it in your face a couple times. 

Maggie was quiet when she finally spoke, “Read the journal.” She nodded towards the new book, “That too.”

You frowned at the cover and held it out in front of you like it was contaminated. “Why are you being so weird about this? Just tell me.”

Maggie looked at you, and the most peculiar sensation rolled down your spine. Maggie's eyes were so present, like a shotgun blast, like a meteor shower. Her voice wasn’t even close to loud, but it was just as piercing as her stare, “I made a promise; I have to keep at least part of it.”

Your forehead creased, “Wha...that’s even weirder. Are you fuckin’ Gandalf? Just say it.” 

“Trust me,” Maggie’s gaze shifted to the floor, and you almost melted with relief, “there are some things that you’re better off not knowing.”

“Great. Thanks, Obi-Wan,” you rolled your eyes and crammed the bound parchment into your bag, “I’ll figure it out myself.”

A cool hand cupped your cheek before you could leave. You grudgingly met Maggie’s gaze, adjusting your grip on the strap of your bag.  

Maggie held onto your shoulders, a breath away from shaking you. “Promise me, you won’t do anything stupid.”

You grimaced, “I–” A flash in Maggie’s eyes dried all the words on your tongue.

“Promise.”

“Promise,” you mumbled.

Maggie finally let you leave, and your feet felt heavier than they did when you walked into Maggie’s apartment. Your bag was heavier, so perhaps it wasn’t all an illusion. The guilt, however, was certainly playing a part in your sagging shoulders. You chewed on a thumbnail and slipped into the comfort of denial. It didn’t count as a broken promise if you didn’t really know what you were promising.

Your dad was still gone when you got home, and you were relieved. Solitude was your only comfort with all this dread chilling your blood. You weren't good with the unpredictable, not anymore. You tried to study it, the way you did with dead languages and theoretical physics, but the methodology wasn't clear. You just wished, for once, you were as scary as people believed. 

There was one thing you could do—or rather two. One was on your desk, and the other was at the bottom of your bag. 

You started with the journal, and your hair quickly became a nuisance. Every time you bowed your head to get a better look at the messy scrawl, wispy strands obscured your vision. You tied your hair back and nibbled on your lip, struggling to determine if a smudged loop was an ‘a’ or an ‘o.’ They didn’t have computers in the 1800s, you knew that, but it wouldn’t have killed Maggie’s great-great-great-grandmother to quill with a little less ink. Neat cursive was hardly as taxing as cholera. 

The pain at the base of your skull was unbearable by the time you made it through half of the entries. Your impatience was rapidly fraying, with yourself and with the lack of insight. Maybe, this was all an elaborate stall—or maybe Maggie really didn’t know anything. 

You flopped back against your pillows and starfished your limbs across your bed until all your joints and muscles unkinked. “Fuck me.” Your eyes flicked down your legs, and you glowered at the journal. It was goading you, opened to the middle and sprawled across your thighs, staring at you and all your incompetence. 

Your thumbs dug a trench in your skull as you tried to rub the throbbing out of your temples.

One more page. You could read one more page. 

You flipped the page, careful with the crumbling corner. The parchment was cluttered with names and arrows; there were a few illustrations too, sketched portraits of the people memorialized on paper. It was inked chaos, but only one word stood out to you. In a large curling script, Hale was spread all over the complicated family tree. You gnawed on your lip and bent your head closer to the small description at the top of the page: The Hale pack founded Beacon Hills in 1856, saving the town from desolation with their wealth. The pack has several branches, extending across the state. They continue to be a prevalent force in their world. 

The bloodlines were difficult to follow with all the different branches and untimely deaths. As far as you could tell, the line was documented all the way to 2002. There were a few different sets of handwriting; the style changed every few decades or so, and you flipped to the end of the family line just to check for Maggie’s chicken scratch. You didn’t find her handwriting, but you did notice something familiar on the last line. Derek Hale. 

You knew, of course, that Derek would likely be included, but your breath hitched when your finger traced over the notation inscribed next to almost every single one of his family members’ names: Deceased: Arson. Laura Hale was still alive on the tree, and the thought of documenting her death—of giving her an end date —it stole all the air from your lungs. 

Your eyes burned, and you quickly flipped back to the start of the Hale bloodline. A few dozen county death records later, the burning in your corneas was due to the strain of one too many computer searches. Still painful, but you much preferred blue light sting to the threat of tears. You focused on it, on the ache; it was so much quieter than all the thoughts fighting you for their turn. They were so loud, a million ravenous locusts buzzing, feasting on your ear canal. You couldn’t make out what they were saying, what they were trying to tell you—what they wanted you to believe. 

Derek Hale couldn’t be a werewolf because that would mean werewolves were real, and if werewolves were real, how many other monsters were lurking in the dark? How many creatures from Maggie’s stories were waiting for someone to separate from the herd, biding their time until they could sink their teeth into human flesh?

There was only so much you could find online and in Maggie’s books. Certain secrets had yet to be written. 

It was disturbingly easy to find out where Stiles lived. The receptionist at the Sheriff’s station was all too happy to give you his address when you gave her your name. You finally stumbled upon the one perk of being an infamous, pathetic half-orphan: blind faith. 

His house was smaller than yours, and you were jealous. All the empty space just made the silence worse, you found. You could see a few spots where the paint was peeling when you got closer, and you smiled at the shoddy patch work. You wondered who tried to fix it. You hoped it was Stiles; you could see the paint in his hair, maybe smeared across his cheek from an ill-advised attempt to scratch his nose. It was adorable. 

You knocked on the door and clutched Maggie’s books tighter to your chest. You’d expected Stiles to answer the door, but he didn’t. You didn’t know why it hadn’t occurred to you that someone else would be home until Sheriff Stilinski opened the door, but you felt stupid for not thinking of it sooner. The Sheriff looked just as surprised to see you; at least, he had an actual reason. 

“Oh.” You blinked and devolved into a monosyllabic moron, “Hi.” 

Obviously, you knew Stiles was Sheriff Stilinski’s son, but for some reason the idea of them occupying the same place at the same time was dumbfounding. YOur mind couldn’t make sense of it. There was the Sheriff in one box, with all your grief, all your pain, and then there was Stiles. You didn’t fully know what was in his box, but you knew it was good. 

“Hey, kid,” Sheriff Stilinski smiled through his confusion, “you okay? Did something—”

“I’mheretoseeStiles,” all your words were smooshed together in one big exhale. 

The Sheriff looked even more confused for a moment, and then he gave you a little conspiratorial grin. “He’s up in his room. Go ahead.” 

You nodded absently and followed him inside. You stopped thinking about the hefty pile of books in your arms when you noticed the slight limp in Sheriff Stilinski’s step. “Are you okay?” 

The Sheriff followed your gaze and waved his hand, “It’s nothing. Barely a scratch.” 

You hesitated at the foot of the stairs, looking for blood or something equally horrific. He had no reason to lie to you, but you’d gotten used to the worst case scenario. “You sure?”

The wrinkles at the corners of his eyes deepened with his smile, “You sound like my son.”

You mouth ticked up slightly, “That’s not an answer.”

Sheriff Stilinski had a nice laugh, you thought. You grinned as his head shook with another rumbling chuckle. “Now you really sound like my son. I hope he hasn’t driven crazy too.”

“Eh,” you shrugged a little and smiled, “he’s alright.” Your voice dropped a little, like you were telling a secret, “More than, actually. He’s…good.”

The Sheriff looked surprised briefly, a spasm of disbelief, and then all the muscles in his face seemed to melt with fondness. “He is,” his voice was a bit gravelly when he spoke, like it got lodged halfway up his throat. He loved his son; it was obvious. You wondered if your dad ever looked like that when talked about you. You wondered if he even talked about you at all. 

“Not a lot of people are,” you said quietly, looking down at your sneakers. The white wasn’t even white anymore. They were graying from years of stepping on your own feet, kicking car doors closed, tripping over asphalt. You weren't the kind of girl who could keep shoes clean; that was one thing about you that hadn’t changed. Sometimes, it felt like everything else had, and none of it was for the better. 

Sheriff Stilinski waited until you looked up, and then he smiled at you, almost as fondly as before. “You are.”

You were overwhelmed with feeling, so close to an emotion you couldn’t name, but you knew you’d felt it before. Once upon a time, when parents were parents, and children were children. 

The Sheriff rested his hand on your shoulder and squeezed. You were tipping into tearful, and you’d never been so grateful to hear Stiles’s voice. 

“Dad, who’s—” Stiles stopped at the top of the stairs and stared at the two of you. His jaw dangled, and it didn’t snap shut until his dad snorted. Stiles’s eye twitched, and you could see the reboot loading behind his eyes. You wholly understood the sentiment.

His brain regained function, and apparently all he could come up with was, “Hey.”

You grinned to yourself, a small secret smile at his predicament, and your hand cocked in a little wave, “Hey.”

Sheriff Stilinski cleared his throat, “I’ll—I’m going to get something to eat.” Neither of you looked at him; you were too busy playing a strange staring contest with equally stupid looks on your faces.  

Stiles recovered from his stupor once you were alone. His face settled into something bitter, stony at all the edges, irritation tucked into the creases. It was hardly the face you expected to see when you finally paid him a surprise visit. 

Your brow curved, and you tried not to shrink in on yourself. “You look pissed.”

Stiles snorted and drummed his fingers against the railing, “Yeah, well, you’re in a perpetual state of pissiness, so we’ve all got problems.” You must have crumpled this time, at least a little bit, because his scowl thawed and his hands fell limply by his sides. “Sorry. That’s not—displaced aggression, it’s my sweet spot.”

You shrugged and smiled slightly, a little stiff, a lot amused, “You’re not exactly wrong.”

“Still.” 

You played another game of eye-contact chicken, and Stiles scratched the back of his rapidly flushing neck. Your hair, still damp from the light drizzle, fell in front of your face as you tilted your head towards the stairs, “So, you gonna invite me up, or…”

He nodded a little too quickly and definitely too fervently, “Yeah, sorry. I’m just—”

“Pissed?” you smirked and adjusted your grip on your books, trekking up the stairs. Stiles narrowed his eyes at you, but he was smiling. He had a nice smile; it was big, loose—unrestrained in a way a lot of people were afraid to be. It was the kind of smile you couldn’t help but return.

Stiles let out a profound sigh and shook his head, “It’s all Scott’s fault.” You shot him a dubious look as he pushed his bedroom door open for you. He shrugged, “If I only tell it with carefully selected parts of the story, it’s all his fault.”

Your mouth twitched. Your smile was small, but it peeled back a good deal of the person you thought you should be. So much so, there was a little you peeking underneath. “We can pretend it is. Just for today.”

Stiles’s throat bobbed with his swallow, and when he smiled back at you, slowly, fleetingly, but ever-so sweetly, you finally realized you were awkwardly standing in the middle of his room. Like an idiot. 

His room was exactly what you expected, and that was…you didn’t realize that you knew him well enough to expect plaid bedding and posters of cringey emo bands that were heavily featured on most of your playlists. 

His desk was cluttered with various books and papers, stacked with no apparent rhyme or reason. You recognized the bestiary he bought from Curio Killed the Cat; the burgundy and gold binding was striking against all his monochrome textbooks. There were a few papers poking out from the aged pages, printouts of something furry and familiar. Before you could get a better look, Stiles bustled past you, doing a quick but rather poor job of hiding his dirty laundry under his bed and behind his closet door. 

Stiles was slightly out of breath when he finished, dropping onto the foot of his bed, “So…you stalkin’ me now?” 

You rested your hip against his desk and hummed, “Seemed only fair.” 

“Well,” his face split into a bright, infuriating grin, “I am flattered.”

“Shut up.” His grin widened, and you rolled your eyes, glaring at your bowed reflection in a chrome lamp on the edge of his desk. It was in grave need of a good dusting, along with most of the room. “You’re literally my only option.”

“So, you’re sayin’ I’m the one.” Stiles’s smirk was audible, and you sputtered. 

Your ears were unnaturally hot, and so was the back of your neck. You meant to groan, wanted him to know just how unamusing you found him, but your throat failed you. Your complaint came out airy, huffy, and it trembled against your soft palate. Truthfully, it sounded awfully similar to a whine; you scowled at the sound and squeezed your books tighter to your chest, “I’m leaving. Right now. I’ve reached my maximum capacity for bullshit.” 

Long fingers circled around your wrist before you could go too far. They were blistering against your cool skin, but a shiver shuddered through your arm all the way to your skull. 

“Don’t go,” Stiles hummed softly, close enough to warm the shell of your ear. “I owe you one, remember?” 

You braved a look at him through your lashes, and he was smiling at you again; this one was nervous. He had forgotten, it seemed, to let go of your wrist until now. Stiles sat back down on his bed, and you absently brushed your fingers over the lingering sensation of his fingertips. 

“Right,” you looked around the room and chewed on your bottom lip, “so…what was that whole thing with Derek Hale?”

Stiles paused. You could feel him watching you, studying you like one of his puzzles. “He needed a ride.”

You set your books on his desk, and Stiles nodded towards the chair in front of him. You hesitated before sitting down, feeling a bit like you were giving up the battlefield high ground, “You’re like…friends, then?”

“Absolutely not.” If the emphatic denial wasn’t enough to convince you, the violent shake of his head was telling enough. “Kind of wish he was dead, actually. It would solve so many problems.”

“So you don’t actually know him that well,” you murmured, sinking into the chair with all your hopes and plans. 

Stiles’s neck craned as he studied your face, “Why?” You just looked at him, keeping your face impassive, and his eyes went a little buggy. “I know he looks dreamy, but that would be nothing but a nightmare for everyone involved. Trust me.”

Your face twisted, lips curling around the unsavory taste in your mouth. “I don’t—what was wrong with him yesterday?”

Stiles didn’t look entirely convinced, but skepticism did look a lot like concern. “Stomach bug.”

You rolled your eyes. It would’ve made you laugh under any other circumstance, but you didn’t feel much like laughing now. You’d been a tick away from the edge ever since you realized that Lydia had been this close to being butchered by that thing. 

Your fingers curled into tight fists, knuckles straining, “I’m not an idiot, okay. I know there’s something weird going on.” You looked up from your lap with sharp eyes, but if he looked a little closer, he’d see the desperation underneath, “And I know you know something about it.”

Stiles swallowed hard and twisted his fingers together, “I’m actually known for knowing nothing about anything. Ever.” 

He flinched when you stood up abruptly. The chair rolled back into his desk and sent a few pencils to the floor. You glared at them, like they did it on purpose just to spite you, and your glower drifted towards the glint of citrine and garnet on the corner of his desk. “This.” You picked up the bestiary and tried to shake it in front of his face, but it was too heavy to do your frustration justice, “Why did you buy this?”

His eyes, miraculously, grew rounder, “I told you. D—”

“N’ D, I know, but I looked into it. This is real; it’s transcribed from a real Ancient Greek text.”

“...I like authenticity.” Stiles shrugged towards his fidgeting hands, “I take my craft seriously.”

Scoffing, you dropped the book on top of his bed, “So you’re saying you believe the whole mountain lion theory?” 

“Well, obviously no—”

“Then what do you believe?” Your chest seethed with quick shallow breaths as you paced from one side of his room to the other, “Because I was looking through this genealogy line, and the Hales have been here before Beacon Hills was even Beacon Hills, and there’s a pattern of—hold on.” 

You snatched Maggie’s journal off of his desk and flipped it open to the Hale family tree, bookmarked with the thick stack of county death reports you’d printed out. “Look, there’s a series of premature, violent deaths in their line directly after a series of animal attacks on the town, and then all of it just stopped a few generations before Derek’s mom became the head of the pa—”

You didn’t know when Stiles stood up, but he was in front of you now, stopping you in your tracks. He brushed his fingers through his short crop of hair and shook his head, “Hold on, okay. Take a breath—”

You didn’t hear him, not really. Truthfully, you didn’t even notice that he’d started talking. You shoved the pages closer to his face, and all your words rushed past your lips in one carved out breath, “And then it all started again after Laura Hale was killed, and she was found with wolf fibers on her body—”

Stiles’s brows flew towards his hairline, “How do you kno—”

“She became the head of the family after Talia died, right?” Your hair was as wild as your eyes after a series of urgent tugging, and you prayed to all the mythical gods in every game you’d ever played that you sounded saner than you looked. They might actually exist, after all. Who's to say that Selûne didn't exist in a world where werewolves did? “‘Cause she’s the oldest living, fully conscious relative, and then immediately after she's killed, the animal attacks start up again, like she was keeping something in-check.”

“Slow down.” Stiles gripped your shoulders. You were closer than either of you realized until you looked up and your noses were almost touching. He swallowed thickly and let go of you after a moment, taking a step back, “A couple of days ago you thought this was all bullshit.”

You chewed on your lip and your indecision, looking for something in his face. You didn’t know what, but you were pretty sure you found it when his mouth furrowed into a concerned frown. It was for you, you realized, not because of you. That was…a rarity in your life as of late. You didn’t hate it. 

Sighing, you pulled your phone out of your jacket pocket and opened the video from Lydia’s phone. “A couple of days ago I hadn't seen this,” you mumbled, shoving the phone into his hand.

Stiles looked at you for a moment longer and then pressed play. His face was unreadable, save for the small flinch when the beast shattered the store window, and you hated it. “Where did you get this?” Stiles finally said quietly. His voice was low and infected with something dire. 

You rifled through your papers, something to keep your hands busy and your eyes off of the dark look on Stiles’s face, “Someone sent it to Lydia—it was a blocked number, so don’t ask who.”

“Did she—”

“I deleted it before she could.” 

Neither of you needed to say it; you both knew Lydia was clinging to sanity by the skin of her perfect teeth. She couldn’t see the proof that the monster under her bed was real. Not yet. Maybe not ever. 

“Good.” Stiles rubbed a hand over his face, looking so much older than sixteen, and he flickered his gaze to your face, “You can’t show this to anyone. You know that, right?”

“Besides Scott,” you retorted dryly.

Stiles almost smiled. There was a ghost of one hiding in the corners of his mouth, but it faded before it could materialize. “Believe me, he really doesn’t need any more proof. Delete it.” 

He sighed at your scowl and tried again, “Please delete it.”

You shook your head and grabbed your phone from his hands, “Not until you tell me what you know.”

“I don’t know anything.” Stiles held up his hands and took a careful step towards you, “Really. I know as much as you do.”

You stared at him. You weren't sure if you were a good judge of character. You’d like to think you were, but it wasn’t like you spent a lot of time around other people. Even before you got trapped in your head, you really only had one friend, and you used to think you’d be friends with her for the rest of your lives. Maybe longer. 

You’d been wrong before. You didn’t want to be wrong again.

Stiles reached for your hand, and you let him lace your fingers together. “I know how you feel. It sucks, and it’s kind of exciting, but mostly freakin’ terrifying—and all you need to know is that it’s going to be okay. Okay?”

Your chin jerked in a rigid little nod. You softened slightly when he squeezed your hand. He wasn’t telling you everything; you were almost 100% certain of that, but you were also pretty sure he wasn’t lying. That was enough for you. For now. 

“The file room,” you said quietly.

Stiles’s lips drew together into a little pucker, “What?”

“The evidence room with all the files,” you looked up at him, and the ember of hope was stoked in your eyes, “there’s probably more there.”

He bit down on his cheek, “I don’t know—”

You folded her arms over her chest, chin lifting in defiance, “You promised.”

Stiles sighed and ran his hand over his head. His smile was a little affectionate thing. He sighed and shook his head, “I promised.”

“Well, alright then.” Your shoulders relaxed, and you sat back down in his desk chair, “Middle of the night break-in, it’s a date.”

[kianaisspiraling]

*inhales*

WILD LIFE WILD LIFE WILDLIFEWILDLIFEWIL—

Okay okay so so far I've only watched Grian's pov but I'm gonna be binging soooo many others right after this.

First off- Skizz, Mumbo and Grian is just. Such an unexpected and silly group, I love them. Skizz, loyal to the bone. Grian, loyal but can switch sides if needed; won't betray you first. And Mumbo; the least loyal guy on the server, goes completely bonkers the moment he turns red

They also all just like. Carry themselves so seriously? But will very quickly devolve into being incredibly silly? So so silly. They will NOT last long, they're gonna fall apart faster than the Southlands for sure with the cheating allegations Mumbo is throwing at Grian, but it'll be hilarious :)

Grian: apologizing for knowing the wild cards beforehand

Me: smiles and adds it to the pile of Watcher Grian lore

Moving on from them:

*inhales again*

MISSING DOG FOUND-?!?

AND WE GOT TREEBARK BACK!!!!!! :D

The sheer happiness I felt when I saw Ren back oh my void, we missed you buddy. Martyn immediately pairing up with Ren whenever they are on the same server has my heart. They're theatre kids your honor. Can't wait to see Ren pull out his guitar <3

We also have TEAM CRINGE-FAIL-?! Lizzie, Scar, Jimmy all on the same team-? That's amazing. It would be hilarious if THIS is the season Tim wins. SURELY having such a high concentration of loser (affectionate) energy will circle around to make them clutch. Surely. It's their moment.

Smth smth, Lizzie and Scar were the only two people alone last season. Smth smth, Lizzie died first and Scar last. Smth smth, Scar reaches out an unconditional hand to Lizzie, offering her an ally because he knows what it's like to be without. Smth smth, Lizzie accepts because she knows waiting for allies leads to none. They're friends now :)

I also heard Scar brought the reputation points back?? If that's true then oml we're so close to getting a Third Life parody. So so close, especially with Scar falling off a cliff and dying while singing, claiming that everything that touches the light is his. It is SUCH a good season for us folks that never left the desert. Bonus points if Grian ends up with Scar after the Sub-One Club inevitably crumbles.

We've ALSO got the op, terrifying duo of Gem and Joel. They are going to be SO unhinged. They will be the chaos group this season, mark my words. They will inevitably fuck shit up and I am WAITING for it. Manifesting Gem or Joel win >:)

And over here we've got three of the divorce quartet (Scott, Pearl, and Cleo) allied with the local supportive dad (Impluse). Ladies, gentlemen, and everyone outside or in between, we once again have the girls, the gays, and ImpulseSV. Gaslight, gatekeep, girlboss, girldad <3

The three of them just reminiscing on Double Life while Impulse stays quiet, internally remembering his little life in the suburbs with Bdubs as they stirred the pot and watched drama unfold. He DOES NOT have anything to add to this conversation on messy divorce.

Also apparently Scott canonically believes that HE'S the reason Jimmy broke the canary curse and Scar won in secret life?? Because he stopped them from allying together last season or something?? That's just wonderful to me. I don't think he's entirely wrong either, they would've destroyed each other SO quickly

Now, getting on to BigB and whatever he's got going on. Something DEFINITELY happened to him in that hole last season, because he is getting increasingly cryptic. OF COURSE he would live in the Pale Garden with the Creaking. Where else would he go??

I absolutely love everyone making BigB a Creaking hybrid, but hear me out: BigB has ALSO been made a watcher by the fandom in previous seasons because of things like the Nosy Neighbors in Limited Life and his Whole Thing in Secret Life, right? You know what the Watchers are often compared to? Biblically accurate angels. You know what the Creaking has been compared to? Weeping Angels. BigB is a Weeping Angel.

(Maybe Weeping Angels are a type of Watcher. they're closely related to the Creaking; perhaps they made it?)

(I have not watched Doctor Who, though I'd like to. All I know is that Weeping Angels are VERY Watcher-core to me <3)

Finally we have a classic trio of Etho, Bdubs, and Tango. They're taming horses, they're non-stop bickering, they DO NOT share, it's every man for themselves. Tango is third wheeling Ethubs so much rn. They get on each other's nerves. They're besties, after all they keep putting themselves together no matter how much they bicker. Team BET ily <3

Love that Etho IMMEDIATELY tries to ally with the local Watcher for inside information, but Grian refuses to give it to him. It was worth a shot, buddy. I adore every second of screen time in which Grian and Etho interact. They are SUCH a good duo for me. One Stick Wither and Etho's Dishwasher, you will forever be famous <3

Anyhow, I think that covers everything I have to say for now, having watched one pov and scrolled Tumblr for a while. I cannot WAIT for this season, as there's a lot of stuff from previous seasons coming back, with Renchanting, the divorce quartet, Scar bringing back reputation points, and more. I can't wait to see this unfold :D

[guttergirlcore]

Could we get part 03 of that pls🙏 I stan one (1) Cregan Stark who loves cockwarming (to ease his pain too okay Lord Stark🩵🩵🩵 absolute my favorite part) but does he have his new gorgeous beloved wife ride him or does he f*ck her🤔 also when is she gonna drop the lore about being treated terribly by her Lannister fam and would dearest Cregan comfort her?

Our Cregan is a man of many interests & talents <3

A Den of Lions & Wolves: Part III

Cregan Stark x Lannister! Reader

SERIES MASTERLIST

SYNOPSIS // Your husband, Lord Cregan Stark, the Wolf of Winterfell, has returned to you. With his return, Cregan shows an unexpected gentleness in your conversations--a gentleness that reminds you just how deep your desire for companionship goes.

WARNINGS // HotD universe, smut, aftercare fluff, Lannister!reader, AFAB she/her reader, mentions of familial trauma/emotional abuse, angst, possessive behavior, Cregan being a big [kinda scary] softie <3

>>READ RESPONSIBLY<<

Divider by @firefly-graphics

Word count: 1.8k

"You're not done, little wolf." Cregan chuckled humorlessly, his throbbing member still embedded within you.

His hands found the bottom of your ass, effortlessly lifting you up as he crossed the room to the large basin tub at the far side. Your back met the cool stone wall alongside it as Cregan hungrily devoured your mouth.

His strong, wet tongue swirled and pushed against yours, the sensation making you grow wetter by the second.

Cregan pulled back, his long brown hair coming undone from his bun. A thin, silvery trail of saliva connected his plump mouth to yours.

"You will draw me a bath and join me, yes?"

"Yes, husband," you obediently confirm.

Cregan gently allows your feet to touch the floor, slowly slipping from your warmth. You couldn't help but let out a soft moan from the sensation.

As you gained your balance again, Cregan slowly released you, and you knelt down to the tub, pouring several buckets of hearth-warmed water into the basin.

Behind you, you could hear the light thud of Cregan's pants hitting the floor along with his heavy boots. Once unburdened by clothing, he climbed in, sinking down into the warm embrace of the water. Simultaneously, he let out a groan of relief that had you quivering at the knees.

Once he was settled, he looked up at you expectantly. "Remove your gown and sit on my cock," he instructed, getting straight to the point.

You did as you were told, standing and pulling the thin material over your head. You dropped it to a pile on the floor and stepped gingerly into the water, one foot on each side of Cregan's hips. The red head of his cock peeked above the water's surface, ready to split you in two.

Slowly you lowered yourself down until you could feel his tip prod at your dripping entrance. Growing tired of your delay, Cregan's large hands grabbed your waist and shoved you down hard, burying every inch of himself within you. You yelped in surprise.

"Fuuck--such a tight, delicious cunt," Cregan moaned out, rocking his hips slightly.

Your face heated at his comment, and you shyly looked away from him. He grabbed your chin in a nearly bruising grip and turned you back to face him.

"You will look at me as I breed you."

You throbbed on top of him as his fingers dug into your hips, lifting you, and then pushing you back down on his length. The water provided even more lubricant between the two of your bodies, allowing you to fit his massive size more comfortably.

He eased you into a steady rhythm, his thick cock hitting that sweet spot inside of you over and over. Once your pleasure mounted, he leaned back against the back of the tub, watching you pleasure yourself on his cock.

"Cregan! Gods--!" You moaned, bouncing up and down of your own volition now.

Cregan darkly chuckled. "I am your god, my love. You pray to me now. Your mercy comes from me."

Leaning forward, Cregan pressed his warm mouth to your nipple, making goosebumps erupt all over your body. His full lips pressed against the flesh of your chest, his tongue rolling and swirling over the swell of your breast. His other hand kneaded into the flesh of your ass, massaging and grabbing in what was sure to leave fresh marks in the morn.

The feeling of his hard cock prodding you relentlessly and his wet tongue swirling and sucking your sensitive nipples was all too much to bear. Without much warning, your first orgasm of the night washed over you, and you pressed your body tightly against Cregan's, allowing him to take over and thrust more fully inside of you.

He slowed his pace, delivering long, deep thrusts that made you sink your nails into the hard muscles of his back, biting back sobs of pleasure. When your orgasm was had, you sagged against his hard body, panting and glowing with sweat.

"I'm close behind you, my love. Stay with me," Cregan groaned, the water splashing over the sides of the basin.

Utterly exhausted from your first orgasm, you allowed Cregan to use your cunt as he needed. He pumped in and out of you harder now, more desperate for his own release. You whimpered against his ear, overstimulated but still craving more.

With his right hand, he grabbed a fistful of your hair and pulled you back, forcing you to look at him, just as he'd instructed.

"That's right, darling, right here," he moaned loudly.

His thrusts grew sloppier, throwing more water over and causing you to throw your hands out to the sides of the basin for stability. With one brutal thrust into your deepest spot, Cregan threw his head back, emptying his full balls into your needy cunt.

"Ahhh--fuck! Mmm, that's it, take every drop, my love," Cregan shouted in ecstasy, his wet hair sticking to his beautiful face.

The sensation of his hot cum shooting into your womb forced you over the edge once more, and you found yourself bearing down on his still-pulsing cock for your second orgasm of the night.

Your moans came out high-pitched and hurried as you rocked against him, his hands stroking up and down your stomach.

"That's it, baby. Gods, you're beautiful. Taking my load so well." His voice was dripping with sex, and it made the rolling waves of your orgasm all the more intense.

Once again, you collapsed against his chest after your pleasure was through, panting heavily and sighing with complete satisfaction.

As gently as he could, Cregan lifted you from his spent cock, setting you back down in his lap. After you both had caught your breath, you plucked the sudsy sponge from the tub's ledge and swiped it across your husband's broad chest.

Coming down from both of your highs, you and your new husband spent the night caressing and scrubbing, cleansing and holding each other until the water had well gone cold.

After your eventful bath, neither of you bothered to get dressed. You simply lay in bed bare together, as husband and wife.

"You are a wonder," Cregan whispered into your hair, his fingers tracing shapes over your back as you lay atop his chest.

"You may be the only one that thinks as such," you chuckled, absentmindedly.

"Oh, I doubt that greatly. From the way the handmaidens speak of you, it's clear they are quite enamored with you. As am I, my lady.''

Your heart ached at his words. All your life, you'd only ever wanted to be adored.

"I am wondering why you are so quick to discredit others' good word for you." Cregan quietly spoke into the room.

Where should I begin, you thought. You weren't even entirely sure if you were ready to share this with your new husband. He had been quite kind to you and giving in more than a few ways. Didn't he deserve to be given back to?

With considerable effort, you responded, "I suppose I don't have to tell you that I've never fit in within my own house. Though I was born of Lannister blood, they have never treated me as such."

Cregan nodded his head, silently encouraging you to go on.

"I can't recall many memories of youth, but I can remember how cruel my father could be when he wanted. Sometimes, I think he was even cruel when he hadn't wanted to be. It was his way."

"Just before my father offered me to you, he took me aside and told me I'd been useless all my life--a dark stain on the ancestral tapestry of House Lannister. That this union was his chance to prove to himself that my birth hadn't been for naught. My father promised me no riches or respect for my compliance. No, he promised me something far greater than that--his complete and utter absence from my life. I feared you would reject me, and I'd be stuck beneath the crushing weight of his boot forevermore. I could hardly stand the thought."

Cregan's soothing circles on your back stilled. It felt as if every muscle in his body had gone rigid.

The air in the room seemed suddenly sucked out, it was nearly suffocating.

"It is a good thing your father promised you his absence."

"Why is that?" You asked your husband, picking your head up to look at him.

His eyes shone nearly amber in the candles' ambient glow.

"Because if I see him again, I may kill him for what he's done to you."

Your heart seems to take several quick stutters. How could this man who you've known for less than two weeks care so deeply for you when your own father and mother hadn't in all your life?

"I suppose that is very good, then." You chuckled nervously, unsure of how to respond to the intensity you'd come to know as characteristic of Lord Stark.

"I've always been rather unremarkable, so I suppose I understand my parents' disinterest in me."

A long moment of silence permeated the room and you wondered if Lord Stark had drifted off to sleep during your tale. Just as you were about to resign yourself to sleep as well, Cregan's voice sounded again, his chest rumbling underneath you with his words.

"You would dare to consider yourself plain?"

Bathed in the pale light of the high moon, Cregan's eyes shined bright and you were once again reminded of the bone-chilling gaze of a wolf. You felt embarrassed, somehow.

"It pains me that you think yourself deserving of the Lannisters' taunts. That you would justify their deplorable treatment of you with self-depreciation." Cregan's voice rose with each sentence until it rang out with the highest conviction.

"Hear me in this. I did not idly accept Therion Lannister's offer on a whim. You are the single most magnificent creature I have and will evermore lay eyes on. You are my wife, Lady Stark of Winterfell, and soon, with the grace of the gods, the mother of my children. You have no more ties to the Lannisters than I do to the desolate days before I was blessed with the gift of knowing you."

Your eyes shined with tears welling beneath the surface. In all your life, you'd dreamed of someone who might someday speak to you with an ounce of kindness that Lord Stark had just commanded.

"The next time you speak against yourself, I will consider it a personal affront to House Stark, and you won't like to know what a man will do when his House is insulted, do you understand me?"

You quickly nod your head in understanding.

"We may not know each other well, my lady, but I plan on rectifying that very soon. I want to know you, Y/N. And what's more, I want you to know yourself."

Stunned into silence, you nuzzled your face against Cregan's chest, inhaling his warm, woodsy scent. His fingers combed through the hair at your temples gently as the two of you drifted off to a peaceful sleep together.